#I never even knew before. I just thought my memory was strangely bad.

[erwinsvow]

𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

summary: lying to rafe is never a good idea.

author's note: eeee! back to writing for my man <3 this can be seen as a sequel to suit the mood of my soul as it follows the plot a little bit but not really, as there's no direct mentions of pogue!reader in this! i just wanted to write a little about what rafe would be like if he find out you lied/what he would do... :) inspired by @princessbrunette for the dad/kid trope she writes about and this one!

now spinning: prisoner by the weeknd & lana

word count: 3.8k

warnings/tags: smut! rafe is a lil scary in this one but it's okay <3, gripping/bruising, face slapping as punishment, daddy/dad usage for rafe and reader is called kid a lot.

“So, what’d you do the other night?” Rafe asks you the question quietly, and he sounds different than usual.

You haven’t really noticed the change yet though, so you act like you always do around him—a little dumber, not as vigilant, and using your brain less overall.

That’s the best part of being with Rafe. He makes all the decisions for you, he figures out what to do and when to do it, and you really don’t have to think around him. At first you were confused, if not a little worried. Did he think you were stupid?

But then you realize this is how he is—so overpoweringly, overwhelmingly dominant that you have no choice but to succumb.

So you go on, unthinking, saying what comes to mind. 

“I was with you, Rafey, did you forget already?” It comes out with a laugh, making yourself comfortable against his chest.

He’d just come over less than an hour ago, after dinner with his family, he had said. He always spent the night after doing anything with his family, because they made him angry and you made him feel better. At least, that’s what he always said.

So it’s easy to attribute his difference in demeanor, the strangeness surrounding your normally nice boyfriend, to a bad dinner with his family. He must have been more upset than you thought.

“Hm,” he says, slowly, curtly. “Is that right?”

“Yes, Rafey, dinner and the ice cream? Remember it melted all over your hand?” Your face flushes even thinking about it—because immediately following that incident, you had licked his hands clean. 

“Yeah, I remember. You have a good memory, kid.” 

You beam at his praise for a second, leaning your head up to stare at your pretty boyfriend for a second. But he doesn’t look down at you the way he normally does. He doesn’t look at all, instead his gaze is still fixed on the television, which is still playing one of your silly rom-coms quietly in the background. 

“Rafe?” it comes out like a whisper, but he ignores you, his grip on your arm tightening while he continues to stare off, not at you.

“Try to remember something else for me, kid. Night before last, what’d you do?” 

You freeze under his touch. Your entire body goes rigid, eyes wide, lips parting. You want to speak, but nothing comes out.

Then, Rafe looks down at you. 

“Can’t remember now? Should I refresh your memory?”

You don’t need him to refresh anything. On the night before last, Sarah had asked you for help with something in the Tannyhill library. You had gone to help, because this was more than just Rafe’s sister, she was your friend too, but when you got there, you were confused. Sarah was there, but so were all the Pogues you had seen around town, seen with her before. 

They were all digging through the shelves, looking for something in the library, and Sarah called you over because everyone in the Cameron house was aware of the fact that you knew this library like the back of your hand. Months of babysitting Wheezie and not having anything to do had led to this very situation. Until you became Rafe’s, that is, because ever since then, you haven’t had to spend another moment alone. 

So then you helped them search for whatever it was they were looking for, and when your phone went off with a message from Rafe, at Sarah’s urging, you lied and said you were at home with your parents.

The Pogues found it eventually, after almost two hours of combing through shelves and trying your best to organize them the way they were. You went home, texted Rafe goodnight, and thought that was that.

It wasn’t a lie, you tried to convince yourself. It was a fib, really, because you just didn’t want him to worry even more when he had so much going on. And it’s not like you knew what Sarah was even up to, she said it was just a little project. 

You didn’t realize what kind of project until now.

“Um, Rafe-” you start, really quiet.

You falter when you get a better look at the expression on his face. It’s the first time you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that look—anger, disappointment, frustration.

Your eyes get watery, immediately. It’s just a natural reaction. 

“You think some tears are gonna get you out of this?” he questions, and you feel your breathing getting heavy, your cheeks getting wet.

You shake your head quickly. You don’t want him to think you’re crying for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry-” comes out before you can stop it, and you try to use the sleeves of your hoodie—Rafe’s hoodie—to wipe the tears away, thinking it’ll be better if he can’t see them any longer, but he grabs your wrist before you can.

You’re pinned in place, his hand gripping you and holding you down, the weight of his body on yours. It’s all you can do to look up Rafe with your wide, wet eyes and hope he listens to you. 

He’s never been mad at you before, so he doesn’t know how to react. You’ve always been perfect to him, for him, and he’s never had to do anything more than take your cheeks in his hand and lock eyes to make you realize you’re doing something wrong.

He didn’t think you could be capable of doing something to hurt him, to get in the way of everything he’s planning, not when you’re so compliant and docile and perfect all the other times. 

You have a collection of pretty dresses and skirts, ranging in lengths and sizes, and you always wear the right thing. Modest, longer dresses that stop above your knee and start just under the necklace you never take off—the necklace with his initial on it—when you’re invited to dinner at Tannyhill with his family.

Shorter, small skirts when he takes you to the club or the bonfire. Short enough that people are staring, not short enough to give anyone a view of what belongs to him.

In his bedroom, it’s just his clothes—shirts to sleep in, hoodies when you’re reading a book on his bed while he finishes his game at the desk, nothing more than one of your tanks and a pair of his boxers when you’re getting antsy and horny waiting for him to get back to bed when he’s on an important phone call. 

He’s never had to tell you any of that—you just do it, you just know it. He doesn’t have to tell you to go wait on his bed for him without complaining. He doesn’t have to tell you he doesn’t like when his friends are seeing parts of you they aren’t supposed to. But most important of all, he didn’t have to tell you to stay away from those dirty Pogues and his annoying sister. You were just supposed to know.

“You’re sorry?” he questions, and you know he’s mocking you. Rafe’s gone quiet, which you’re not used to because Rafe never gets mad at you. You didn’t even think it was possible.

He lets go of your wrist, which flails next to your side. His grip is replaced quickly as he squeezes your cheeks together, fingers pressing hard against your jaw.

“You’re sorry, really, is that all? You lied to me. You think that’s okay?”

Your breathing gets hard and fast under his touch. Your eyes get watery again, trying to say something but it’s silenced between Rafe’s fingers keeping your mouth shut.

You shake your head as hard as you can. You just want to explain yourself—it seemed so harmless when you were doing it. You didn’t want to worry him. You didn’t realize what you were doing. You’d never do it again if Rafe will forgive you.

Then you get scared, eyes wide and blank while your boyfriend stares at you, looking so upset and angry you wish you could reverse time and take it all bank. You worry that he won’t forgive you, that he’ll end things and leave you alone, and the thought itself is so frightening you start sobbing and shaking.

Rafe’s hand leaves your face because he gets surprised at your reaction—he thought you’d be telling him something he really, really doesn’t want to hear, but true to your perfect form, you say exactly what he does want to hear. 

“I’m so sorry Rafe, I’m so sorry, they asked me for help but I would have never done it if-if I knew it would hurt you or make you upset, I-I didn’t know-” It all comes out in a ramble, hurt coating your words and tears streaming down in rivulets down your pretty face.

He’s worried he might have gone too far, scared you too much, but you jump back in his arms the second he’s let go of you, face pressed against his chest and his shirt getting wet. 

“I’m so sorry, please don’t break up with me, I’ll never do it again, I’ll never even talk to them again, I swear, I promise-” 

It’s instinctual, Rafe wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. He wonders how he did this—changed the sweet, pretty girl he met on a trip with Wheezie to the library into the girl in his arms now—utterly dependent, crying because of him but not making a single move to defend yourself.

Instead you believe everything he says and you’re sobbing because you don’t want him to leave you. He wonders again, thinking about if he should regret what he’s done to you. 

He doesn’t.

“Shh,” he comforts, and you lean into him further. “S’okay, it’s okay.” He rubs your arms soothingly, ignoring the red down further on the limb, which is inevitably a bruise forming. “I’m not gonna leave you.”

When the words leave his mouth, you melt against his chest like butter, and he grips you tight.

“I’m sorry, kid, I am, but I have to make sure that-that, you don’t do something that could mess up everything I’m working on right now.” You mewl a noise of protest, but he quiets you down again. “Even if it’s an accident, baby, even by accident. You don’t know the things I’m trying to protect you from. I can’t let you get hurt like that, so when you lie to me about something like this, it just upsets me, because I’m working hard for you—for us, and you see that, don’t you?” 

He feels you nod your head slowly.

“I’m so sorry, Rafe,” and he lets out a heavy breath. You cling to his every word, wondering how you could have been so, so stupid, as to lie to your boyfriend. 

“It’s okay, kid,” his hand moves to your back, rubbing circles on the soft skin, hand tucked under his hoodie and above the waistband of his shorts that you’re wearing.

“Do you forgive me?” you ask, lifting your head a few inches to look up at Rafe, wet eyelashes floating up to reveal red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

He looks down, wondering just how much he’s messed you up.

“Of course I do.” Rafe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You let out a sigh of relief, too soon. “But you have to promise me a couple things, hm?”

“Anything, anything-” it spills out of your mouth, like you can’t get it out fast enough, looking back up at your boyfriend with big eyes, trying to use your hands against his chest to lift yourself up. 

“Promise me you’ll never talk to those Pogues again.”

“I promise.”

“And that you’ll never, ever lie to me again.”

“I promise, Rafe.”

“Good girl.”

He does that thing again, the thing that has you melting in his hands and allowing him to call all the shots. He reaches out to take the back of your head in his hand, leaning you in for a kiss, and you let him do it, just like you let him do everything. 

Rafe kisses you hard, his tongue in your mouth and trails of spit around your lips. When he lets go, you feel him bit down on your bottom lip, and you yelp against his mouth, but it’s silenced because he pulls you into another kiss.

You’re breathless by the end of it, crawling into his lap because you don’t want it to end, craving a lot more than just a kiss and the press of his hard dick against your clothed pussy. 

When he pulls away, you make another noise of displeasure.

“Really?” he questions, and you know it can’t be good. “Do you really think you deserve this dick now? After that shit you just pulled?” He holds you in place on his lap, stopping your grinding motion with his firm hand. Your face heats up immediately, because you know that you don’t. 

“‘M’sorry, dad,” your murmur against the soft skin of his neck. “You already forgave me…”

“Not getting out of this that easily, kid,” and he pulls you by the hair, making your shoulders tense up as you moan again in discomfort. “I think you need to decide your punishment, hm? You’ll get this dick once you get punished.”

You want to scream in annoyance, because Rafe always knows what he’s doing, and right now he’s doing it on purpose. You can feel his hard-on, and if he let you do what you wanted, you’d fall apart in minutes, but he won’t, because he never does.

So you don’t say a thing, because you can’t ever be a brat to Rafe, not for anything longer than five minutes, and you crawl down, off the bed, sitting on your knees on the ground while Rafe adjusts himself to face you from the bed. He looks down at you, perfectly in place, nose still a little red from crying. 

“So, how many?” he questions, watching you stare up at him with big eyes.

“Five,” you start, until you see how Rafe’s looking at you. “T-ten, sorry, ten.” 

“Good girl,” he says, stroking the side of your face with his hand. “Five on each side, hm? That’s what you meant to say, right?”

“Yes, dad,” you murmur back, in a daze at the feeling of Rafe’s hand on your skin.

The first slap, on your right cheek, is light, lighter than you’re used to. It was barely a tap, and you think quickly, while staring at your boyfriend’s face expectantly, if not a little dumbly, that it was nice of him. The next three are harder, and the final one stings. You’re sure it’s red where his hand was, a part of you even hopes it left a mark.

“Five left,” he says quietly, maybe more to himself than to you. You nod, a little too eagerly. “Yeah, kid, you like this? I knew you would. Little freak,” Rafe breathes out. You cling to each word like it’s praise. “Ready for the other side? Yeah?” You nod again.

He’s harder on the other side, maybe because he realized you can handle it. You’ve gotten much harder slaps than these before, but Rafe forgets sometimes, so he always starts gentle. On the ninth one, your eyes get watery. On the tenth, the tears roll down again. Rafe takes his thumb and wipes it across your cheek, like it’ll soothe the sting. 

You go to unbuckle his belt immediately after, thinking you should make him feel good first, as a part of your punishment, but he stops your hands before you get far, taking you by the shoulders and lifting you up into his lap again.

“What’re you doing?” you question quietly.

“I should ask you that.”

“Y-you said I don’t deserve it yet, so I was gonna make you feel good-”

“I didn’t say that, kid,” he says, pressing his big hand against your neck. 

“Yes, you-” he looks at you sharply, and you shut up mid-sentence. 

“No, I said you’ll get it once you’ve been punished. Punishment’s over, hm?” His hand slips underneath your hoodie—his hoodie—and he starts to lift it up. Your hands go up, helping him ease it off. Once it’s discarded on the floor, you lean in for another hard kiss, hands around his neck and legs wrapped around his waist. 

“Easy, easy,” he says, pulling away for a second. “Have to breathe, remember?”

You shake your head and whine, pushing your lips together again. Rafe moves you quickly, your back thudding against the bed and him hovering over you.

You scramble to get rid of your shorts—his shorts—but Rafe’s hands come up and stop yours before you can. Locking eyes with you, he takes them off himself, until you’re fully exposed and lying naked against his pillow.

Another kiss, another whine. You pull the front of Rafe’s shirt.

“Take it off, please,” you whimper, because you just want to get him naked and get on with it, but the tantalizingly slow pace he’s setting is killing you. 

“Really gonna tell me what to do right now? When I’m being so nice?” Your head shakes but you don’t know if you mean it. “Okay. If that’s how you wanna be, okay.”

He flips you over in one motion—your stomach hitting the sheets before you can process it. You don’t hear anything except the rustle of his hands on his belt, the clink of the metal falling, and a groan from Rafe.

And then you feel him—feel what you’ve been begging for this entire time, the nudge of his tip against your folds. Your whole body tenses and your walls clench in anticipation, but Rafe doesn’t move. 

“Rafe—!” the whine leaves before you can think about it. Rafe’s hand reaches out to grab you by your hair, pulling your head up, his mouth against your ear. You feel your nipples harden and pebble in the air, every part of your body craving something, some touch, some movement.

“Y’know, I thought you were gonna be such a good girl,” he starts, and you feel your walls flutter. “But you’re acting like such a slut today. But it’s okay, I’m gonna give you what you want. Then you’ll be good as gold, won’t ya?” You let a whine at the thought, before Rafe lets go and drops you back onto the bed.

In one thrust, Rafe pushes himself in, and your entire body tenses up at the feeling. The stretch of your walls hurts, no matter how used to him you get, and your bones feel like putty. You can hardly hold yourself up, when Rafe starts fucking you at the brutal pace he’s set. 

The stinging of your face disappears from your mind completely while Rafe batters your pussy, his hands on your back, pushing down while you arch up. Your cheek rustles against the pillow. Nothing comes out of your mouth except whines and moans, and the occasional cry when he goes even harder.

“Just needed this dick, huh, kid?” he chokes out, pressing your face into the pillow and watching his dick slide in and out of your pussy—coated in your cream, leaking down and making a mess of his sheets. “Ain’t that right? I asked you a question.”

He grabs your hair again, lifting you just enough so you can speak. 

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes-”

“That’s what I thought-” and he pushes your head down again. “J’needed to be set straight, hm? You won’t ever lie to me again—” Your voice is a mess of garbles and whines, not making any sense but wanting to agree with Rafe so badly. 

Rafe’s fucking you like he hates you, and you don’t have it in you to stop and make sure he doesn’t actually hate you, because the only thing you can think about is making sure he doesn’t stop.

“Or maybe you will,” he starts, in between thrusts. “Just wanna get fucked like this, don’t you? Wasn’t enough for you to get it gentle, right, kid? You’re my little slut-” 

Rafe’s hitting that part of you that makes you see stars—unrelenting, over and over again, but it’s all of those things together—the feel of your nipples rubbing against the bed, how full you feel inside, and especially the words he’s saying—that push you over the edge. You fall apart crying, body shaking, letting out a muffled dad, dad, dad against his pillow. 

He doesn’t stop there, though, riding you through it and then pulling out, just long enough to flip you back over. 

You’re sensitive all over, your walls clenching around nothing while you stare up at Rafe, and then back down to where the two of you were connected. He grips your cheeks again, pushing himself in and staring at your fucked-out face.

He’s way too close to still be fucking you—especially raw, like this—but it’s not until you start speaking that it’s a big problem. You sound all jumbled up since he’s holding your face way too tight, and when he loosens his grip, words fall out of your mouth and he realizes what you’re saying.

“Want it inside, dad, please, please, please, fill me up—” And he finishes, leaning over you and filling your pussy up, just like you asked for. He doesn’t stop for what feels like hours but could only be minutes—you mewl at the feeling and gasp when he pulls out, cum leaking out of your hole and spoiling the sheets even further.

Rafe’s breathless, collapsing beside you and in a much better mood, because he doesn’t complain when you fall against his chest and press your face into his neck. 

He lets you sit like that for a little bit, catching your breath and letting your heart rate return to normal. 

“We made a mess,” you comment, still feeling gushes of his cum spilling out of you. 

“We’ll get it in a minute.” 

He can practically hear your thoughts, buzzing through your little head at a mile a minute, wondering what to say, how he feels, if he's still upset, probably wanting water and a shower too.

You move a little, just to get more comfortable, when Rafe grabs your face again. The side of your jaw is red from where he keeps grabbing you. It’ll leave a bruise tomorrow. He doesn’t care because he’s not planning to let you out of his sight for the foreseeable future.

“Don’t lie to me again, kid. Got it?”

“Yes, Rafe,” you breathe out. "I got it."

“Good. Now let's finish this stupid movie." Rafe lets go of your face, and wraps his arm around you. 

[puffcap-factory]

As night will find its day (Diluc x Reader)

Diluc x fem!reader; angst, established relationship, reader lost her memory ohno!, a little bit of comfort at the end but mostly angst (esp. on Diluc’s end) What if after an argument with Diluc, you fell into the abyss during your expedition not long after, and you went back to the surface after 6 months, but without your memory of him.

This story is based on the drabble I made (here). I used it as an introduction for this story as I prefer to post a completed version in one post, so some of you who had read the previous post can skip the first part if you like!

Words: 4.2k

Notes: Okay I clearly went overboard, I never thought I would write this long but I got carried away. At one point I really felt bad for Diluc and I even asked myself why. I've also set the reader into female because I felt like it somewhat refers a bit (if you squint hard enought tho... ) to the other Diluc fic I made. But of course, each story is separate and you can always enjoy each one separately.

So, is it really connected? is it not? who knows! haHaHA

As always, please enjoy the angst!

•~•~•~•

Where is this place…?

Your steps were heavy, each step sinking into the ground as you trudged along the ground. The rustling grass and the rich scent of soil tugged at something familiar inside you, whispering of a place you once knew. Perhaps, you had found your way back to your own world, after all?

With each step, you moved forward little by little, limping slightly, as you took your time to absorb the surroundings after being thrown out of a rift near the shores of Liyue. Your clothes were ragged after what had seemed like endless battles you had fought to survive in the abyss, and your body felt numb with exhaustion. Yet, in this moment of weariness, there was a bittersweet comfort in the familiar earth beneath your feet.

“I’m back…”

You mumbled, your voice barely audible. Your mind was like a blank canvas as your feet carried you aimlessly, trying to dig deep into the recesses of your memory. But, everything before the darkness in the abyss remained elusive. Everything was hazy, as if someone had locked your memory before your fall into the abyss in a box, with its key just out of reach. 

Hours slipped by as you wandered, until you finally found yourself at the foot of a small hill. The wind brought a gentle breeze, tousling your hair, and you reached up to brush it from your face. Before you lay a field of grapevines, their leaves rustling softly in the wind. At the top of the hill, nestled among the vineyards, stood a mansion, and you were strangely pulled towards into it.

You slowly stepped forward onto the pathway leading to the mansion, when a man suddenly appeared in front of you, his face etched with shock as if he had just seen a ghost. His mouth fell open, and his arms hung limply at his sides as he tried to process the sight before him. There was a pause before he decided to speak.

“…y/n...?”

You looked up into his face, noticing his red hair pulled back into a ponytail. What a pretty sight, you thought, before realizing that he had called your name.

Y/n… Right, that’s my name. At least I remember that.

The man rushed to you, pulling you into a gentle hug, supporting you as you struggled to stand. You could feel his uneven breaths, hear the panic in his attempts to calm himself. His hand trembled against your back, offering support as he whispered fragmented apologies into your ear. Despite your confusion, there was a strange comfort in his embrace, a feeling of safety that allowed the fatigue to finally seize you. 

He then pulled back slightly, his brows furrowed with worry as he noticed your dazed state. Despite the profound care you felt from his gaze, his face was a void in your memory. You tried to rake through your mind, but strangely found nothing. He lifted a trembling hand to your face, gently caressing your cheek, wishing at least you would somehow respond to his silent wail – call his name, anything. 

You opened your mouth, and with the last of your strength, you finally asked.

“Who are you…?”

•~•~•~•

It had been almost half a year since you disappeared. Diluc had been restless, pacing back and forth at the guild, exhausting every resource and contact in his search for you. He had poured all his energy into finding you, but every lead ended in nothing.

Then, on that day you finally reappeared, relief washed over him at seeing you alive, but the first words you said to him had shattered him.

You had not recognized him, nor the place you should be familiar with.

How? Why?  How could this happen? Is this even possible? Where does your memory stretch back to? This should be temporary, right…?

I haven’t lost you… have I?

Thousands of questions rushed through Diluc's mind, each one more painful than the last. He speculated endlessly, his thoughts spinning with countless what-ifs. However, the worst-case scenario, the thought he wouldn’t even dare to admit, scared him to the core. Recalling the moment he had held you in his arms and saw you looking at him as if he were a stranger, his heart sank deeper than it ever had before.

However, Diluc was quick with his action as to gather the servants to explain the situation after you were rested. While he acknowledged the possibility of memory loss, he instructed them to prioritize your care until you healed and not to push you. “Treat her like any guest with respect,” he had said, though uttering the word "guest" pained him deeply.

Diluc entered his bedroom to check on you, as he did every day. He sat next to the bed and gently lifted the cloth from your forehead to change it. His gaze lingered on your face, which seemed to be peacefully sleeping. Everything was still—the evening sun filtered through the window, casting a soft light around you, making you appear almost angelic, in contrast to the fear and anxiety gnawing at Diluc's mind.

He gently caressed your cheek, feeling the warmth of your skin against his, as if trying to salvage any dear moment with you. But then, his mind wandered back to when he had let his anger overtake him, leading to this outcome.

The time, when you two were shouting at each other, and the look on your face, hurt by his words...

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the flashbacks from flooding his mind. A storm of regret built inside him, reminding him of his past actions.

He exhaled deeply and stood up, finding it difficult to tear his gaze from you. As he looked at you one last time, he silently prayed for you to wake up soon, longing for a chance to make things right... if that was even possible in the first place.

•~•~•~•

A few days later, one afternoon, Diluc returned from his own expedition from the guild. As soon as he entered, Adelinde rushed to him.

"Master Diluc, she's awake. She has been since early morning," she said, her voice filled with both relief and worry.

Diluc's heart quickly raced with anticipation hearing what Adelinde had said. But dread crept in when she added, "But… she doesn’t seem to recognize me—or this place."

So, his suspicion was true.

"Where is she now?" he asked.

"At the garden table, in the backyard," Adelinde responded.

Without wasting a moment, he rushed into the backyard. He found you seated at the table, your back facing him as you were seemingly admiring the landscape beyond. Diluc carefully approached you from the side, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone tile. Hearing the sound, you turned your head to see him coming towards you.

"Good afternoon," Diluc greeted, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Oh... good afternoon," you replied as he took a seat opposite you, facing the landscape. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked, searching your face for any hint of recognition.

"I’m feeling… pretty well," you said hesitantly, clearly still confused. "The maid told me you rescued me when I fell unconscious. So... thank you."

“Don’t mention it, I did what I have to do,” he answered. You smiled weakly at him in response as he paused, contemplating his words whether to ask you about your past recollections. But you spoke first. 

"To be honest, I barely remember anything about where I came from, in case you’re wondering. Everything is foggy… All I remember is a constant struggle for survival in the abyss, before I came to this place, I... I—" You paused, trying to gather your thoughts. "I feel afraid... of all this…uncertainty."

His worst fear was confirmed, and his heart shattered upon hearing what you just said. Seeing the confusion and fear in your eyes, imagining what you must have endured in the abyss, suffocated him. Yet, he tried his best to maintain his calm exterior.

"...But," you continued, momentarily bringing him back from his thoughts.

He looked up, meeting your eyes.

"There is something calming about this place... I feel somewhat... safe."

Upon hearing your words, there was a mixture of relief and sorrow washing over Diluc. One part was relieved that you felt safe, but he couldn’t deny the ache he felt in his heart, reminding him the painful reality that all the memories he once shared with you might now only reside within him. It took every ounce of strength not to crumble in front of you.

Yet, he reached out, his hand gently resting on yours. "You are safe here," he whispered, his voice weighted with thousands of emotions swirling inside him. 

You looked at him rather curiously at first, taking in his genuine words, then gave a warm smile. “Thank you, I really do owe you.”

“No, you don’t owe me anything. Don’t worry about it,” he responded, shaking his head. “If you want to know about the city, I’d be glad to show you around. There are lots of good people there.”

Your face began to lit up at his offer, a smile widening across your face. “Really…? That would be great!”

Ah, how he had dearly missed that sight…

•~•~•~•

It had been almost three weeks since you began your stay at the Dawn Winery. Diluc had been treating you very well, helping you adjust to daily life, sometimes accompanying you to Mondstadt whenever he had spare time. Of course, the people who had apparently known you from before, already heard the story, as Diluc had already warned them not to scare you by overwhelming you with questions. You eventually learned that you were someone who had originally come from this very city. The people were warm and welcoming despite your inexistence of your past memories, much to your appreciation. 

Today, you found yourself seated in the winery gardens, reading a book that Lisa, the librarian, had lent you. The title read ‘History of Mondstadt’ — Lisa had recommended a lighter book for you to read, but you had insisted on this one, determined to fill in the gaps in your memory. After all, you didn’t want to burden Diluc for too long; he had done more than enough for you, and you planned to live independently as soon as you were ready.

As you flipped through the middle pages, Adelinde called out to you.

“My lady, it’s lunchtime,” she gently called from the main door.

“Ah, coming!” You closed the book and went inside. The manor was quieter than usual, as Diluc had been out for work since the day before, so you found yourself eating alone at the table.

“Please, enjoy, and if you need anything, just call me, alright?” Adelinde said with a slight bow before returning to her duties.

You nodded in thanks, taking a moment to observe your food and your surroundings. There was always a strange tug on your memory about this place that you couldn’t quite explain, but the manor felt serene, as if your body was oddly accustomed to it. After enjoying your meal, you decided to roam around the house, indulging to your curiosities.

As you wandered, you noticed that Diluc’s office door was slightly open. You had never seen what was inside, but you knew you shouldn't pry—you wanted to respect his privacy, especially given how well he had treated you. But the glimpse of the room inside seemed to call to you, and your feet unconsciously brought you closer.

Slowly, you stepped inside, taking your time to observe the room. The room was unlit, but the sunlight casting through the window made it seem almost… ethereal. You saw wooden carved cabinets containing files and books, all sorted neatly, and another cabinet holding some antiques. His desk was not the tidiest, with documents sprawled across the surface. You noticed a paper on the floor near his seat, so you carefully picked it up. As you placed it on the desk, you noticed a slightly open drawer, and one item inside particularly drew your attention. The sunlight reflected on a metallic object, making it hard to miss.

You hesitated, knowing you were already prying more than you should. But your curiosity got the better of you, and you decided to take a peek. You opened the drawer a bit more and saw that the glowing item was a golden pocket watch. Intrigued, you picked it up, examining its intricate carvings closely. Carefully, you opened it, and a bittersweet melody began to play, revealing a tiny music box inside. The melody seemed to stir something deep within you, an emotion you couldn’t quite place, as if you’ve heard it somewhere before… from a place buried deep inside your forgotten memories. Your eyes, however, were drawn to the upper part of the watch, where a small photo was wedged.

The photo was small but clear, showing two people laughing lovingly. One of them was unmistakably Diluc, and the other... you let out a silent gasp. The other person standing next to him looked just like you. Your brows furrowed as you tried to process this revelation. The sight of the familiar face in the photo, sent a rush of conflicting emotions through you. 

…Is this really… me? Why do I look so happy and close here? Who was I…?

You took a deep breath to quickly reassess yourself, realizing that up until now, there had been small things you found rather peculiar: the way the maids sometimes stumbled over their words, as if hiding something; the stock of female outfits in the manor that strangely suited your taste; the food, everything seemed to be in place to your liking. You had brushed these off before as mere coincidences, but now, seeing the photo, it all strangely began to make sense.

You stood silent at the room, observing the photo with the melody still playing on your hand. Questions rushed through your mind, and fear—of possibly having forgotten something important—slowly crept in. 

To your surprise, the partially open door swung wider, revealing Adelinde’s rather shocked face, which quickly relaxed upon seeing you. You panickedly closed the pocket watch, abruptly cutting the music.  “Ah, um—I…” you scrambled to explain, but she slowly approached you, gently taking your hand that held the pocket watch, and placed her other hand reassuringly on top.

“You see, I’ve known Master from his young age. He tends to keep his most cherished belongings hidden,” she smiled gently. “To think that you could find it…”

“I- I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to. Please don’t tell him,” you pleaded.

“No, don’t worry about that,” she paused, glancing at the pocket watch. “I’m the one who accidentally left the door open after cleaning the floor. I should be in the wrong.”

You were about to protest, but she continued calmly. “Master Diluc had warned us, the servants, not to tell you about your past status, given your situation, as he did not want to pressure you.”

You went silent, thinking back to how he had always been considerate and careful around you. If you were really someone that important to him—to think of what had been going through his mind all this time… words felt stuck in your throat.

“He isn’t the most expressive person, but he has been prioritizing your well-being above all else. He just wanted you to feel safe,” Adelinde added.

You took your time to process the information. It left you with one burning question. “…Then… who was I to him?”

Adelinde looked into your eyes. Though she kept her warm smile, her eyes masked a depth of emotion. “I believe that is a question Master himself should answer.” She paused before continuing. “I have desserts ready for you. Shall we?”

You nodded, placing the pocket watch back in the drawer, and instinctively followed her to the pantry. But your thoughts were tangled, processing all the information about your possible connection with Diluc. Everything in your mind was jumbled. You couldn’t find any memories to piece it all together, and you had even told him that you considered moving out at one point... but now, you felt like you couldn’t just leave now, not when you felt something tugging at your depths of your heart.

•~•~•~•

Diluc sighed as he headed back from his expedition, walking along the dirt path leading back to the winery.  As much as he had wished to spend more time with you, some urgent tasks couldn’t be left unattended.

During the time of his absence, he desperately hoped that you might magically regain your memory, but he had seen the joy you found in the city, the spark of curiosity and happiness that had returned to your eyes. He couldn't bear the thought of selfishly forcing you to stay with him, tethered by a past you couldn’t remember. It felt unfair to you. To you now, he was just someone else—a kind stranger, perhaps.

The painful truth was, as much as he dreaded it, that sooner or later, he would have to part ways with you, letting you live your own free life. Although the thought of losing you all over again tore him deeply, he would always prioritize your well-being. What it matters now is that you are safe and sound, he thought repeatedly, as if to convince himself more than anything.

As he passed the sign for the winery, Diluc spotted you seated under a big tree, reading a book. You were quite far from him, too engrossed in your book to even notice him, but he recognized that the spot you had chosen instantly. It was your favorite place to spend time outside, a place where you had often had picnics with him in the past. A small, wistful smile curved the edge of his lips as he reminisced. Back then, he would simply walk up to you, and you would welcome him with a warm embrace. But now, the fear of facing the painful reality kept him rooted in place, unable bring himself to you. With a heavy heart, he turned towards the manor, leaving you to your peaceful solitude under the tree.

Even though you had lost your memory, Diluc noticed that some things about you hadn't changed. Somehow, without realizing it, you still found yourself to your favorite places and sometimes performed small, mundane actions that felt like déjà vu to him. These familiar gestures gave him a bittersweet sense of comfort, a reassurance that, despite everything, you were still… you.

That night, Diluc found himself seated in his office, the golden pocket watch in his hand as he stared at the picture inside. The gentle melody played, filling the room with its bittersweet tune. He was lost in thought, the memories of better times flooding his mind. The joy in your eyes, the warmth of your embrace—all now felt like distant memories of a past life.

A knock on the door, already slightly open, pulled him back to reality. “Yes?” he called out, hastily composing himself and halting the melody as he closed the watch.

You hesitantly peeked into the room, the soft tune having drawn you in as you passed by. “I’m sorry, I heard the music, and...”

He looked at you, a mix of surprise and apprehension in his eyes. “It’s alright. Please, come in.”

You stepped inside, glancing around the room before your gaze settled on him. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just... the melody sounded familiar.”

Diluc’s heart tightened at your words. He had hoped for a spark of recognition, a flicker of memory, but he knew better than to expect miracles. “It’s a keepsake,” he explained, his voice soft. “Something very dear to me.”

You nodded, sensing the weight of his words. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “There’s so much I don’t remember, and it’s been hard. But... I’ve felt strangely at home here. As if I belong.”

His eyes softened, and he motioned for you to sit. “I’m glad you feel that way,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “This place... it holds many memories.”

You took a seat, your curiosity and confusion evident in your eyes. "Adelinde mentioned that you didn’t want to overwhelm me with my past, and I really appreciate that. But I need to know...," you paused, your knuckles curling on top of your knees. "…Who was I to you?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with emotion. Diluc looked at you, his heart torn between the desire to protect you and the need to share the truth. “You were... you are someone very important to me,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion as he glanced to the side, trying to maintain his composure.

You fell silent, feeling a tightness in your chest and a lump in your throat. “…I—I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say,” you managed, your voice trembling. You couldn’t place where exactly it came from, but sadness washed over you, as the weight of forgotten memories pressing down on you, giving you the feeling as if you really had lost something very, very dear.

Diluc immediately turned back to you, realizing he had made you feel worse. He cleared his throat and blinked rapidly, feeling his own tears forming in his eyes. “Don’t apologize. It was never your fault to begin with.” He rose, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “Oh, and I’ve talked to a landlord in Mondstadt. He said tomorrow—”

He tried to shift the topic to lighten the mood, but his words faltered as he noticed you still seated, head hung low, with tears silently dripping onto your clenched fists. His heart ached at the sight of you crying, his emotions threatening to spill over as his breathing grew ragged. He slowly went to your side and knelt beside you, his hand gently placed on your shoulder, as his gaze filled with deep concern.

Diluc’s grip on your shoulder tightened slightly as words seemed to fail him, too fragile to contain the depth of his emotions. Instead, he moved closer, enveloping you in a gentle embrace.

You let your emotions spill over, leaning into his arms and crying on his shoulder. The warmth of his embrace was strangely familiar and comforting. Diluc, on the other hand, sensing the futility of words, sought to soothe you as his hand traced slow, calming circles on your back. He looked up, his gaze unfocused and distant, as he felt a single tear stroke down his cheek.

 •~•~•~•

The sun streamed through the curtains, filling the living room with a warm, golden light as you descended the stairs. Diluc stood near the main exit door, waiting for you. Today was the day he had arranged for you to meet the landlord in Mondstadt. You had spent the night wide awake, drowning in your thoughts about the previous night.

As you reached the bottom, your eyes met his in a silent exchange. Diluc, composed as ever — befitting the master of the winery, but you noticed a fleeting softness in his gaze. Your steps slowed as you approached him, uncertainty weighing heavily on your heart.

You stopped at the edge of the stairs, gripping the rail and fidgeting with your hands. “Diluc, I…”

He turned his head towards you, his expression gentle. “What is it?” he asked softly, stepping closer, his voice filled with concern.

“…would you… have wished for me to stay rather than moving out?” you asked reluctantly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Diluc’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by your question. He took a deep breath, his composure wavering for a moment. “If I were to be honest,” he began, his voice low and earnest, “I would wish for you to stay. But more than anything, I want you to find happiness and a sense of belonging, whether that’s here or in Mondstadt.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, again — as his words stirred a mix of emotions within you. The thought of leaving this place, leaving him, somewhat felt like abandoning a part of yourself, and you couldn't shake the desire to understand your past and your connection to him anymore.

Diluc reached out, gently taking your hands in his. “Your presence here has brought a light to this place, to my life,” he admitted, his eyes searching yours. “But I won't hold you back. The choice is yours, and I will support whatever you decide.”

Tears welled in your eyes, the weight of his words and the depth of his feelings finally enveloping you. For a moment, the world outside seemed distant, as if the only thing that mattered was the fragile bond that tethered you together, slowly finding its way back.

“Then…,” you began, your voice trembling, “I would like to stay a little longer. To understand more, to remember…”

Diluc’s expression softened, relief and gratitude shining in his eyes. “As long as you need,” he said, pulling you into a warm embrace.

In that moment, you felt a sense of peace, anxiety exiting your heart. You knew well that the journey ahead was uncertain, but for now, you were exactly where you needed to be.

“You’re always welcome here.”

•~•~•~•

Taglist: @coffeeisbehindyou @sandramalikstyles-blog @rebeccawinters @mis-disaster @definitelyatari @vintag3u @synqiri @distinguished-jeseter-things @eroxotckv

[bl3upi3]

A Night to Remember | Monkey D. Luffy

Part 1

Summary: After a year, fate brings you back to Luffy. He's mad at you, but not for long.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut, p in v unprotected, mean Luffy ? quicky kinda rushed ? blowjob (I'm bad with warnings)

A/N: Finally posting part 2, sorry for the waiting but I didn’t feel like writing during school. But yeah here we are with a really bad part 2 English is not my first language so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. (My requests are open if wanted)

Luffy couldn't go a single night without dreaming about you, even though it had been months since your first encounter. You seemed like a haunting presence, always on his mind.

Your memory clung to him like a persistent specter, visiting his thoughts each night without fail. No matter how many adventures he embarked upon, your image remained a constant presence, an enigmatic ghost that he couldn't shake.

One evening, you and your adventurous crew found yourselves at a bustling waterfront bar. Just as was your customary style, you confidently ordered a round of drinks, setting a lively and infectious tone for the evening. The crew gathered around a large wooden table, laughter and chatter filling the air as you shared stories of your recent exploits. 

However, fate had other plans in store for you. A moment later, you excused yourself from the table and headed towards the restroom. As you walked through the bustling bar, you couldn't help but notice a pair of familiar faces at the bar itself—a fiery orange-haired girl and a boy with vivid green hair, deep in conversation.

Continuing on your path, you soon arrived at a secluded booth where a lone boy sat, his head lowered, a distinctive straw hat atop his head. And then, like a lightning bolt, it hit you.

 As you approached the booth, a strange sense of déjà vu washed over you. The boy with the straw hat remained unaware of your presence, his attention focused on the worn map spread out before him. His face was partly obscured, but his unmistakable trademark hat confirmed your suspicions.

It was Luffy.

Your heart raced as you stood there, grappling with a whirlwind of emotions. A year had passed since your first encounter, and you had often wondered if you'd cross paths with him again. Now, here he was, mere inches away, seemingly oblivious to your presence.

You reached out and gently took the straw hat from his head, placing it on your own. The boy lifted his head to gaze at you. He raised his head to look at you, but didn't say a word. It was almost surreal.

You couldn't believe your eyes. After all this time, you had reunited with him when you thought it might never happen.

"Monkey D Luffy," you whispered, tracing your fingers gently along his face, taking in all his distinct features.

His eyes squinted as he tried to make sense of the situation. Then, it hit him like a tidal wave—the face he could never forget, the face that had haunted his days and nights.

He stared at you, disappointment and disbelief mingling in his expression, shaking his head. He couldn't fathom how, after you had left him, you were now standing before him once more.

“Y/N," Luffy muttered your name, his voice laced with bitterness and hurt. 

Luffy's gaze remained locked onto yours, his eyes a turbulent mix of anger and confusion. The once warm and inviting spark that had ignited between you two was now a smoldering ember of resentment.

"I didn't expect to see you again," Luffy said coldly, his voice lacking the usual enthusiasm. "Especially not here."

You could sense the bitterness in Luffy's words, and your heart sank. The reunion wasn't at all what you had hoped for. You knew you had a lot of explaining to do, but it seemed that Luffy's emotions were too raw for a calm conversation. You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to mend what had been broken.

"Luffy," you began, your voice filled with sincerity, "I know this is unexpected, and I understand if you're angry. But please, let me explain."

You pulled up a chair and sat down across from him, the straw hat still resting on your head. The bar's lively atmosphere seemed to dim around you as you focused on Luffy.

"I never wanted to disappear from your life like I did," you continued, your gaze unwavering. "After that day we met, I had to leave for reasons I couldn't control. It tore me apart, Luffy. I never stopped thinking about you, dreaming about you. You've been a constant presence in my thoughts."

Luffy's anger seemed to waver as he listened to your words. His brows furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"I've been searching for you, Luffy," you confessed. "I've traveled across islands and oceans, hoping to find you again. And now, fate has brought us back together."

Luffy's expression softened slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, still regarding you with a mix of emotions.

"I don't expect you to forgive me right away," you continued. "But please know that I never wanted to hurt you. I care about you more than I can express. I want to make things right, to be a part of your adventures again, if you'll have me."

A heavy silence hung between you, broken only by the distant echoes of laughter and music from the bustling bar. Luffy remained silent, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of contemplation. But then, without a word, he stood up, his hand reaching for the hat perched on your head.

Startled, you rose abruptly, calling out his name. "Luffy!" you exclaimed, rushing to your feet and following him as he walked toward a dimly lit corridor.

He paused in the middle of the corridor, his back to the door, which he pushed open as you drew closer. You couldn't decipher his emotions, but you followed him into the room. He stopped, towering over you, his face mere inches from yours.

"Talk to me," you whispered, your voice filled with yearning, your eyes locked onto his, searching for a glimmer of understanding "Please…"

Luffy's gaze shifted to the neckline of your top, and his lips parted just enough for him to inhale sharply. Before you could react, however, he closed the distance, kissing you passionately. Your hands moved automatically, wrapping themselves firmly around his broad shoulders while his arms snaked around your waist. He held you as if you would disappear any second.

Your lips moved against his as your heart pounded fiercely within your chest, unable to resist him. You felt his tongue slowly slip between your lips, and you groaned softly as you lost yourself in the passion  of the kiss, allowing him to guide you. 

Finally, you both came to a stop, panting heavily. For several moments, neither of you said a word. You looked up to meet his piercing stare,  and it sent chills throughout your body as memories flashed in your head—of that night. All the feelings of longing, love, desperation, and desire rushed back like an avalanche, threatening to crush you underneath its weight. You struggled to remain composed, yet Luffy didn't seem to be affected one bit by the intensity of your emotions. 

"You want to make it up to me ?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes burned, pleading you to agree.

 You nodded in reply, knowing full well that whatever he offered, you would follow regardless. ""Tell me how." You breathed shakily, your fingers lightly grazing the side of his face. 

 Luffy gazed into your eyes, his gaze unreadable. "Get on your knees" he demanded.

Despite your reluctance, your feet immediately obeyed his instructions, and you knelt at his feet.  He grabbed hold of your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes met. His hand lingered on your cheek, brushing a strand of hair away from your eye.

 Your eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly as your breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. Your hands went to the waistband of his shorts, slowly pushing them downwards until they fell to the floor. Your fingertips grazed over his skin, feeling the warmth emanating from beneath.  Luffy's cheeks grew redder with each passing moment, his eyes darkening even further as you stroked his lower half. He tried to keep his seriousness but you knew he wouldn't last  long; soon, he'd be overwhelmed by your touch.

His eyes flickered shut, his breathing growing ragged as  your fingers made their way slowly towards his member.  With your fingers wrapped around his length,  you began to pump slowly, savoring the sensation of his arousal pulsating under your touch.  Luffy moaned quietly , his head falling back as he released a shaky breath. 

The sounds he made caused a pool of heat to form between your legs as you continued to play with him. You were becoming aroused with each pass of your hand. But it wasn't enough you needed to taste him. You ran your tongue along the tip of his cock, earning another low moan from the raven haired man. You took the shaft into your mouth, sucking gently as you continued to pump him.

"Fuck Y/N," Luffy panted.  As he spoke, he gripped your hair tightly. "Keep going."

You complied. You licked his length once more before moving your mouth up and down his erection in small laps, occasionally sucking on his tip and making small noises of pleasure.

Luffy's grip tightened even more. “God, Y/N,” he groaned. “If you keep this up, I'M GONNA COME!”

You smirked and resumed pumping him harder. He was getting close.  You moved your mouth faster and faster, working him harder with every stroke. Finally, your eyes widened when you felt his seed spurting from his tip, filling your mouth.  You swallowed the sticky liquid greedily, swallowing everything, relishing in the feel of him. He growled lowly and pulled you roughly to your feet, placing your front against a table and pressing his chest against your back. 

"Promise me you will never leave again" he whispered against your ear as his hands roamed down your body, caressing and stroking every inch. His words, spoken so tenderly, struck you deeply.

"Promise me," he repeated more forcefully. His breathing quickened, his erection throbbing painfully against your ass. "Never abandon me again."

"I promise," you replied softly before turning you head to kiss him as you lifted your skirt , eager to feel him touching you again.  You let go of the kiss when you felt his knee between your thighs, forcing you to  bend forward. He positioned himself,  his hardness already poking through your folds, and entered you with one swift movement.

 He pressed his lips against your shoulder and buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a shuddery sigh. His hands were tangled in your hair as he thrust in and out of you, keeping his pace slow and gentle . His movements were controlled and precise, and you loved it.

You were surprised by his improvement and wondered if he had been with another woman. But the thought didn't last long as he began to move faster, his hips slamming against you in short bursts.

 You clutched the edge of the table, your teeth gritted as you felt your walls tighten around him, causing him to moan loudly against your neck. His pace increased gradually, and you found yourself moaning in response.

You gasped when he hit the spot inside you that had been waiting for months.  Your nails dug into the wood of the table as you squeezed your legs together, your whole body trembling as your climax started to build up. You threw your head back on his shoulder as your orgasm consumed you, taking control of you completely, leaving you vulnerable and weak.

You felt him tense as he released inside you, his hands gripping your hips tightly  as he emptied himself into you.

It took a few moments for your mind to catch up with your senses, and you turned to meet Luffy's intense gaze. His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of concern and affection evident in his expression.

"I'm so-" he began, but you hushed him with a tender kiss, not allowing him to finish his sentence.

"I was angry," he confessed in a soft murmur, his lips still lightly brushing against yours.

"You had every right to be," you reassured him as you reached up to lovingly caress his face.

Luffy chuckled warmly as he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, his arms remaining securely wrapped around you. You closed your eyes, relishing the closeness and the warmth of the moment. The tension that had gripped both of you just moments ago had dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of connection.

"I can be a real idiot sometimes," Luffy admitted, his voice tinged with remorse. He affectionately nuzzled your cheek, planting gentle kisses along your jawline. "But I promise, I'll make it up to you."

A genuine, loving smile crossed your face, easing the turmoil in Luffy's heart. "It's all my fault; I should have never left you," you replied, your voice laced with guilt and remorse. "You don't have to be perfect, Luffy. I love you, flaws and all."

Taken aback by your heartfelt words, Luffy's face lit up with a wide, joyful grin. "You love me?!"

You nodded, a warm smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "With all my heart, Luffy," you confessed, your eyes reflecting the depth of your emotions.

A/N: Hope you liked it, so sorry again for the waiting. I feel like this part is really bad and messy but still hope you enjoyed it a little. I will probably make a part 3 just to finish this collection. Anyways, don’t hesitate to give other ideas, my requests are open :)

[hoseoksluna]

CRANBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and... hyeonwol)

genre: heavy smut, angst

word count: 18.4k

summary: the final breaking of the curse hurts, but pain brings fruit.

pinterest board: cranberries / taglist: join

warnings: physical violence, fight, daddy issues, alcohol consumption, smoking, thigh humping, female masturbation, use of a vibrator, squirting, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), raw sex, conception, fears of infertility, finger sucking

note: THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE BERRIES SERIES WHAT. i can't breathe, i can't speak. i wrote the moment i woke up and it's now 4pm. ran out of cigs. :( i was so emotional as i was in this world with them and i love them. so much. i'm so excited for you to read this. i had iffy feelings about this series in the beginning, but that has changed. i love every chapter, every detail, every moment. and i think i did a good job. so, enjoy this. i poured my entire heart into this. my issues, personal experiences, everything. it means a lot to me. i love you, guys. i'm happy to give this to you after two long weeks! HAPPY READING.

side note: please, do check out the pinterest board. i'll add pics of every place oc and hobi have been. <3 SPAM MY INBOX. I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

The sleep lines are paused shooting stars across his back. The dips and definition pools of refreshment for those dimmed lights and when you cross over the threshold with Hobi right behind you, with his finger hooked over the waistband of your ivory mini skirt, your own fingers gain feeling. Much to your dismay, they remember the sharpness of those lines, the stickiness of his sweat as his body boiled during any weather he slept through. 

He must have been on the brink of awakening, for you didn’t wait long before he answered the door. His gray curtains are pulled in and Jungkook walks over them, invites in the light of the early afternoon. In your peripheral vision, you recognize that the easel, which holds the painting in all its glory, is right there on your left side, and you strain your eyes to remain fixed on his bare back, even as wrong as that is. Hobi’s word of advice regarding thinking twice before you look at the artwork are pink blossoms that begin to grow in your ribs, spreading down to your stomach—because whether you like it or not, the place you find yourself to be in used to be one of absolute safety. 

It used to be your home, once upon a time. 

Cold, cold home that only ever reached tepidity at best. It’s all you ever knew—as the home you grew up in with your parents invariably had the same temperature. The same energy, too, charged with silence, ignorance and very little care that seldom carried love. 

Which brings a certain thought to the front of your head, just as Jungkook is bathed in light, arms extended as if he bore wings. 

He never loved you. 

Because if he did, then his home and the memories that are rushing in would feel the way Hobi feels. 

And like Hobi carried the false beauty in his heart, in his life—in the form of the poetry book—you carried the false perception of safety. If Hobi wasn’t here, if the stability of his antique stature wasn’t a wall doused in rain-kissed humidity that you now feel your body gravitating towards, and even if his finger wasn’t hooked behind your skirt, you wouldn’t feel safe. 

But on the other hand, softness coats Jungkook. Strange, strange softness that you haven’t seen in ages. Since the first days of your relationship, the first dates, the first kisses and touches, for everything you did with Jungkook was different each time, never the same until his life story shared with his childhood best friend ended on bad terms and the guy moved across the sea. It’s what triggered his mental issues that in the long run ended your story with him. 

As it seems, Jungkook has been trying to write a sequel that was never meant to exist. 

He bends over his coffee table and it is only now that you notice the clutter of crumpled tissues that he now picks up. Bile scratches your throat as needles prick it because it dawns on you fairly quickly what those issues served him for. A blanket is strewn over the backrest of his leather couch and a singular, flat pillow is propped against the armrest. He slept on it during the night; had a perfect view of the painting right across from him. And if your mind serves you well, he sent that picture in the middle of the night, in which he deliberately showed you that creating the message sexually thrilled him. 

It’s not hard to pinpoint that he fist-fucked himself while looking at the painting. And by the number of tissues that he hides in his palms and throws away in the bin in the kitchen, it’s evident his gratification process took a long, long time. 

You anticipate the bile pouring out of your throat again, but… it never comes. Oddly, it’s second-hand embarrassment that you sense swirling in the cranberry lumps of your bloodstream, its fumes drooping your pink blossoms, your veins thick and ghastly on your wrists. And while you should feel disgusted, for some reason you don’t. 

The discovery added magnitude to the star of his softness, weightiness and substance. It made it more real, bigger. It envelops him, confusing your mind because the only way it allows you to remember him is through the pain he caused you, using the expression of his fury. He broke your heart. Degraded you. Handled you harshly. Threw away your vape. Made you lose the respect you had for him, the worship you carried in the back of your heart. This can’t be the same person, kissed by a good night’s sleep. 

You don’t recognize him and you feel so out of place, standing in the middle of an obscure, amorphous dream that you’re trying to remember. A bizarre, uncanny feeling. You wish to run—as it lessens your form into that milky blue aura of smallness, but not in the way you like. Your body pleads to stand behind Hobi and clutch the back of his shirt in your fists while he steps in and makes order. But the energy around is too light, too gentle for a fight. 

Which is why you’re not sure if it’s a good idea that Hobi should unfurl his plan here. 

Hobi looks down at you as Jungkook answers his phone in the kitchen. You didn’t hear a thing due to the way you were lost in your thoughts and your confusion deepens as you regard the crooked furrow of his brow and the pinpricks of his pupils. Hobi wraps his arm low on your waist, tugging you flush to his side, kissing the plane of your head, lingering there for a second more as he inhales the natural scent of your hair. One you didn’t wash today, for he kept you busy. You fear he can smell your puke on you from earlier, despite the fact you almost sprayed the entirety of your vanilla perfume on yourself that you carry in your purse before you and him left together. You grow insecure, lessening furthermore. 

“Do I stink?” you ask, hushedly, gazing up at him with intention, willing him to answer you truthfully. Hobi smiles down at you, tenderly, pleased with the hint of familiarity and normalcy in the middle of the battlefield. Inhaling your scent and touching you diminished the intensity of the bloodthirst in his eyes and you’re glad for it. You hope that he perceives the elephant in the room and doesn’t strike first, but knowing how smart he is, you trust that he will, if he hasn’t already. 

Hobi doesn’t answer you. His smile falls as briskly as it appeared and his head swivels in the direction of the kitchen, features tight and startling. Your heart ceases its beat for a second before it speeds up, thumping painfully against your ribcage. What did Jungkook say over the phone? You weren’t paying attention. 

He lets go of you and stomps over to the kitchen. His back faces you, bringing your consciousness into present time, shudders with long staccatos of breaths. He’s fuming. Concern crawls up your back, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

“So, that’s what you do? You traumatize my girlfriend while you have someone else on the side?” Hobi says, brusquely, placing his fists on his hips. “Does she know you paint degrading pictures of your ex in your spare time?” 

A beat of silence. Your breath hitches in your throat.

Your blood freezes over and you don’t know how your legs take you over to Hobi, weak and tingling as they are. You can’t feel anything. Can’t feel your fingers as they hook over his back pocket, your inner child’s deepest wish infiltrating through reality. 

Jungkook worries his bottom lip, his phone still held over his ear, and he exhales, shortly through his nose, dropping his gaze. “I’ll call you back.” 

He throws the phone over the kitchen island, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he so often does, staring Hobi down. 

There’s no doubt she heard it. Hobi said it loud enough. 

Good. 

Good of Hobi to take the ruination by its legs and launch it back at its creator. You change your mind by the shift of the energy, having foolishly forgotten the girl personification of the storm that you saw by Jungkook’s side in the museum. She has no idea how preoccupied he’s been with you, chasing you down ever since he laid his eyes on you after nearly a month. And you pity her. She doesn’t deserve this kind of unfair treatment, no matter the hostility she showed you and the fraction of the same emotion you felt towards her in return. 

Jungkook had it coming, that’s what you’re sure of now—sowing the seeds of his downfall in your orchard. What he didn’t know was that by staying around, hurting not just you, but another vulnerable person at the same time, he would also reap its poisonous growth. You hope his hands are red and burning, pulling out the weeds and poison ivy. 

He leans against the kitchen counter, the muscle of his pierced brow quivering with the onrush of anger. You find it so pathetic that you almost dryly snicker, backed by the continuous, fatherly act of Hobi standing up for you—your antique wall, the architecture of the old, Mediterranean times. 

Strong and unwilling to break under pressure. 

“My personal life is none of your business—”

“And mine is?” Hobi interrupts him, leaning forward due to the influence of his own anger and the sight is horrifying. If you were in Jungkook’s place, you’d be trembling like a sissy. Hobi laughs, scornfully, doing it for you and your heart rejoices. “You stalked my wife, touched her, painted that shitty—”

Wife.

“I didn’t stalk her,” Jungkook says, awfully calmly, as if he were bored, despite the tremor of his pierced brow that divulges the true face of his feelings. “Wife?” He laughs, humorlessly, and you bunch your fists, letting go of your private, personal link to Hobi. Even though you swore you wouldn’t raise them again when facing him, it’s all you want to do now for the way he mocked something so meaningful to you. Raise them and use them until they bruise. 

The concern that hung over your back fades into a discomposure that slices over your skin with a blunt knife. Over and over, maddened by the incessant rampage to cause you pain, incited by his mockery. Won’t let up until blood pours out.  

“Don’t talk over me, I wasn’t finished,” Hobi scolds and your second-hand embarrassment for the opponent doubles, abating your discomposure just like that. 

The knife is lifted in the air, paused. 

Jungkook’s jaw begins to tremble, disliking the easiness to Hobi’s overpowering tendencies, the way his stern words force him to become that aforementioned sissy that you’d be in his place. You think it suits him right. 

“You shamed my—” Hobi points to his heart, like Jungkook did last night when he bared his feelings for you and your throat dries, unbelief peculiarly setting your discomposure free at the rightful turning of tables. “Wife for moving on with her life, for becoming the person she needed to become without you controlling her. Sent her a picture of your dick while you were at it, belittling her, using sex to lure her back to you as if she wasn’t smart, as if she wasn’t mine. You did all that and you think you’re gonna come out of this unscathed? Let your girlfriend see what you’ve done. What, you were going to hide that painting under your bed like a little bitch?” 

It’s Hobi who laughs now, the sound full of that same mockery Jungkook used to inflict pain. You wrap a hand around his arm, coming over to stand side by side with him, sliding your hand down to his, needing it and not being afraid of it. Not to his palm, but over the back of his hand, slipping your fingers through his. And together you clench that singular fist, stronger. 

You thought all your life that you were stupid. Your own Father bashed you for it every chance he had; you, yourself, hated your being for it with all your might. Thought it was the root of the curse over your life, made strong by your bad decisions, bad actions, bad footfalls. Learning that Hobi doesn’t regard you as such cuts that majority of your life away from you. He binds up your wounds, cleaning them. And the fact he put two and two together apropos the meaning of the painting, the reason behind the punishment, using your recitation of the bizarre poem is a kiss to make the boo-boo better. 

You weep, silently. Your love for Hobi trickles out of your tear ducts, doesn’t touch your makeup, doesn’t steal the attention of the two males away from each other. It dips into your ribcage through your chest, sprucing them until they can breathe again and fill your lungs with sweetened, poetic air, with a will to live on, reminding you that you have a future ahead of you that is beautiful and bereft of the curse and all you’ve ever known. 

And you wash that breath, purposefully, over the bare skin of Hobi’s warmth. Remind him, too, as you press your lips over it. He squeezes yours and his united fist, hearing you. 

Lifting your gaze, Jungkook crosses his arms over his chest, devoid of those sleep lines. His biceps bulge, but it does nothing to you. Hobi’s fixing of your dignity, heart and life has taken care of that, all via that sonnet of his that he spat in Jungkook’s face, one that contorts in envy upon seeing your intertwined hand with Hobi’s. He nibbles on his bottom lip, eyes wetting, but the following words he says sting as if his face never wore those softened emotions. And the discomposure returns in the form of a colossal spider on your back. A slimy, heavy, breathing spider. 

You cringe, tensing your muscles, nuzzling your body deeper into Hobi’s arm. It only menaces your vivaciousness, but the fluff on your body stands on end, nonetheless. 

“She came here to look at the painting. I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he mutters, crossing his leg. Double protection. He’s stuck in a peril—feels vulnerable and threatened, just like Hobi said. “She likes being spanked, being punished. That’s why she’s here.” 

It takes two seconds for Hobi to release your hand and slap him like the little bitch he is. A fatherly discipline, that hard swoop of the back of his hand, a new line indenting his carmine face, one belonging to the ring on Hobi’s middle finger. Absolutely humiliating, that act you are a witness to—but you don’t feel a slither of pity for him. The joy from your heart springs to your eyes and you feel yourself blinking unorthodoxly—more briskly, serenely, femininely. 

The spider jumps off your back, afraid of Hobi. You sigh in relief, willing strength into your knees as they signify their giving out on you, boneless as they are. 

And Jungkook is afraid, too, once he recuperates from the hit, straightening, but not facing the king. His mouth rounds as if he were on the verge of crying, and maybe he is. He focuses on stalling the natural flow of his emotions, his pride forbidding him from being weak, even as he’s getting hit like a teenage boy. 

But Hobi makes him look at him. He grabs his face, repeating the motion of last night; squeezing his cheeks until his knuckles turn white, although this time Jungkook doesn’t moan in pain. He scrambles the last of that pride of his, threading it into the stiflement of his reaction. 

“Are you that dumb that you forgot about what I told you that would happen if I heard those words come out of your mouth again?” he seethes in his face. Jungkook sucks in quick breaths, a caged animal, furious. “You degraded her again. You’re asking for it at this point.” He slaps him again, harder this time, still with the back of his hand. Doesn’t give him time to shake it off. Grabs him in the same way. “I’ll let you know that those words you read in that little message? That probably made your dick hard? Those were my words, boy. I came here to break that painting, but I changed my mind. I want your girlfriend to see the work of your hands.” 

Hobi told him the true story while he omitted the detail he could’ve used to inflict further pain on him. He could’ve said that he told you to write that message after he was done fucking your trauma out of you. He could’ve rubbed that in his face and you wouldn’t mind. 

But he didn’t. 

He respects you. Protects your dignity. Doesn’t need to flaunt his private life with you; isn’t insecure to do something like that. And along with joy, he installs something within you that you lacked all your life. 

A respect, a high regard and an expensive love for yourself. 

You stand straighter, all of a sudden. 

Jungkook looks at you. A rawness of pain daubs his even softer eyes, but you recognize that it’s all pretense, a manipulation technique that you see right through. You lift your chin higher, interlocking your hands behind your back. A powerful, feminine stance. His eyes descend to your pride in the middle of your breasts, drench as he mumbles something your way that you can’t comprehend due to the way Hobi squeezes his cheeks harder, that moan of pain slipping through, at last. 

You smile, sensing the end of this chapter. You can see the door to it, wide open, Hobi standing by it, gripping the doorknob. And he shuts it with his following words. 

“Don’t even look at her. It’s over. The little game you’re playing? You lost,” Hobi says and lets him go. Jungkook grumbles, baring his teeth, his hand shaking as he lifts it to his jaw as if to rub away the pain, but he changes his mind at the last minute. Doesn’t want to show his weakness. His hand falls, flaccidly, to the side. Throws Hobi’s way a dirty look that makes you laugh. 

“It’s over,” you intone along, lips stretched in a glinting grin, the crown of your victory. You’re the queen to your king. Jungkook gazes at you with a puppy’s sadness, for a mere second before Hobi pushes his head away from your direction with a poke of his fingers. His inhales are sharp and thunderous and you think he’d be a perfect match to his companion, that is if he were a good guy, deserving of her. 

“Did you even see the painting?” he hushes out, head still turned towards the windows, and the redness on his face inflames in vibrancy, darkening. Why he thinks he needs to keep fighting, in spite of the way Hobi overthrew him, is beyond you. His head slowly swivels back to face you and tears cloud his eyes. It inspires no pity in you, no curiosity to look behind you at the painting. “I made the background an imitation of Monet’s waterlilies. The green ones, the ones you’ve always liked. Does that mean nothing to you? Can’t you see that I still care—” 

“No,” you interrupt him and you bask in it, inhale the power. Your pink blossoms grow in abundance, becoming a collection of beauty and strength that will live on forever, never to wither. “I didn’t look at the painting and I refuse to because I don’t care.” 

You open your mouth to continue, but he outruns you. 

“So, you lied to me? Why are you here, then?” 

The wheels seem to whirr in his brain, at last. 

“My husband and I came here to make one thing clear,” you explain and you flick your eyes to Hobi just in time to catch him smiling at you, fondly, his loving pride bursting through his own pools. “It’s over. You’re not gonna bother me anymore; you’re not gonna text me, call me. In fact—” You pull out your phone out of your front pocket and unlock it, tapping on Jungkook’s contact and blocking him, deleting the number right away. “You can’t anymore.” You smile, satisfied with your decision. “I live a happy life without you and it’s going to stay that way.”

Jungkook’s posture slouches and he wrinkles his brows, mouth agape, downturned. “Husband? What the fuck is this?” 

You only lift your hand in the air, for Hobi to take, dismissing him once and for all. “Let’s go.” 

You take a step back as Hobi rushes to you in a comical, endearing way, a huge smile engraving crinkles by his glimmering, pearlescent eyes. He takes your hand and when you look at Jungkook one last time to say goodbye to him, he whimpers like a wounded animal. 

Your heart constricts, not touched by pity, but by discomfort. It’s time to leave; you don’t want to be here anymore.  

Hobi leads you towards the door and you follow him, but Jungkook’s final words halt your footsteps. Hobi’s too. 

“I can be like him and better when he drops you. Don’t forget that.” 

You frown at him, your mouth pressed in a tight line. “There’s no when to me and you. I never want to see you again. Goodbye, Jungkook.” 

He mewls, the final kick to his bruised body and you leave. 

You leave his life for good. 

The air of the afternoon’s breath is floral. You thought the clouds would’ve smothered the last remains of the summer, but it is still, most strangely, in full bloom. You feel hot in Hobi’s linen shirt and the sun is scorching hot, balmy and paradisiacal on your bare thighs, though you wish you hadn’t worn your Nike’s. Your toes are asking for some sand, for the pecks of sea waves and the entanglement of seaweed around them like tropical adornment of toe rings. 

You met the girl, the personification of storm, behind the door to his apartment. She was about to rack her knuckles on the wood like you did, but Hobi opened the door for her. Her breath hitched in her throat, hard and heavy like the wind during that storm she resembles so much, and you felt bad for her. So much that you told her to leave him, unabashedly and plainly, and didn’t stick around to hear her response. 

But you did hear muffled sounds of vocal violence and you prayed, for the first time in your life, to someone in the sky, who has always been a witness to your curse and never did a thing about it, to guide her to break that painting in two. 

Not for your healing, not at all. But for the curse to be unleashed on him, turned to him and fixed on him.

You’re not ashamed to carry such evil in your heart. You know, full well, that it will dull overtime. Your mother would’ve rebuked you, told you to forgive your enemies and wish them well, but bricking up your heart for him to feel safe is something she would never understand. Because if she did, she wouldn’t share the same home with your Father. And if she did, you would’ve never ended up with a guy like Jungkook that was the raw epitome of him. 

It’s a good thing she’ll never learn of your secret. She never met Jungkook but she looks at his face every day, and you’re not so sure if the idea of introducing Hobi to her is pleasant. You sense the time you find yourself to be in is meant to be a solitary one, spent in a bubble with your husband, and there’s nothing you want more. 

You and Hobi, alone. 

For a little while before a little creature comes along. 

The mountain peak is awaiting—you feel it profoundly in your bones. 

Hobi opens the door to his car for you, places a hand on the edge of his vehicle so you don’t hurt your head as you sit down—like he did on your first date. But he doesn’t close the door and walk over to the driver’s seat. No, he straddles you. Pushes your seat back a little in order for you to have a perfect and comfortable view of him. You sputter out your giggles, felicitously confused by his actions, and when he props his hands by your head, his smile quivering in effort to not laugh along with you, your giggles rise in volume. 

And then his gaze deepens on you, lessening the pitch. Seriousness shrouds the energy, your little giggles ringing, faintly, and you press your thighs together between his legs. 

“I’m not fucking you here,” you whisper, the sound full of humor, your eyes feignedly widened, but Hobi is deep in thought, his imaginary wings furling and unfurling in the spaciousness of his car. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, steeped in that earnest, warm and lightweight solemnity. It feels like home. That question, too. 

You relax, your expression of joy fading into a comfortable silence and you take a moment to focus on what you’re feeling right now. 

A graze of the pink blossoms on the inside of your ribs. Relief, a wave sloshing over them. Freedom, the sunlight that heats up that body of water. Joy—a full rainbow of joy after a century-long rainfall. 

And you tell him. 

“I feel free. Happy. I feel happy, Hobi.” 

He smiles, fondly, that blush rolling over his cheeks like it always does. And you love him, irrevocably. You love him, you love him, you love him. 

He did this, your God. It’s the creation of his clean hands. 

And as he kisses the tip of your nose, you thank him with the same earnestness he brought in. 

And you mean it. You would’ve died, had he not found you. You would’ve died, had you not taken him to that museum. You think about what your life would’ve looked like if you never suggested that place, but your mind stumbles upon a dead end. You can’t—there’s nothingness up ahead. 

It was meant to happen this way. Along with the pain, the tears, the scars. If it never ached this much, it wouldn’t matter; it wouldn’t have the gravity, the substance, the meaning. It would’ve been plain and it wouldn’t change your life so devastatingly, so beautifully. 

You wouldn’t have wings and neither would he. 

You kiss him right back on that slender nose of his and much to your surprise, he gives his voice over to your heart. 

“I love you,” he confesses, the pearls in his eyes wetting, and he cradles your face. Your heart stops and then beats differently—in a way you never heard it sing before. “Is it too soon to say that?” 

Another surprise comes. A tear trickles down your cheek, a happy, elated, small rivulet that cleanses the last, difficult events that just ended. Down your cheek that stretches and aches, blissfully, as you smile up at him. 

“Is it too soon to say that I love you, too?” 

The song melts into another poetic stanza and Hobi kisses you. But he smiles as well, so the kiss is full of clashing of teeth and sudden hunger to express the fulfillment of that love. You and him try and try again until your lips mold into his and the hard kiss, filled with passion, respect and devotion, splits the curse in two. 

Now the residue, the smithereens only need to be fucked out of you.  

Hobi will do a good job, no doubt. 

“Let’s celebrate.” 

Hobi was eyeing a bottle of soju in a market nearby his house, but settled eventually for a bottle of spirits that he’s now popping open and drinking right from the lip of the tall, glass container. He’s sat on the ground of your bedroom, back propped against your bed, the bottle between his outstretched legs as he watches you strip out of the combination of yours and his clothes. A blackberry vape might be in your hand, the fume curling around the curds of cranberries that your blood still consists of, but a pack of cigarettes lies crooked on your bedding.

You told Hobi you needed something stronger after that happened. And he brushed a wisp of your hair away from your face and said he’d willingly have a cigarette with you as he still felt adrenaline coursing through his smooth bloodstream. Bought a pack of gold Davidoff’s for you, the ones you shared with him that you used to smoke until…

You haven’t voiced your panic, though. Not in the market, not in the car, not right now as you’re standing in front of your closet, searching for a lounging outfit to wear, similarly like Hobi did back at his house a few hours ago. Jungkook forbade you from smoking. Hated the sight of it. Hated it even more when you switched to vapes. And as you recollect his anger whenever he saw you with it, you can’t believe you let him do it. Can’t believe you stopped smoking just to please him. 

And you can’t believe Hobi bought you a pack. With his own money, by his own will. To please you. 

You should be feeling happy right now, but the panic… it stands behind you, the silhouette of Jungkook’s form, waiting for you to take that cigarette between your fingers and place it between your lips, daring you, taunting you, waiting for the right moment to strike, to rebuke, to untether its anger. It’s what keeps you planted on your feet, whisking your eyes up and down along the corner of your closet, where your comfortable clothes are neatly folded. 

You’re afraid to turn around. Afraid to see Jungkook there—

“Come here.” 

Hobi’s voice. Not Jungkook’s. 

“I need to get dressed,” you say, softly, staring down a pink wisp of your sleep shorts. 

You hear the sloshing of alcohol in the bottle. Hobi must be taking another sip. 

“You don’t, really.” 

You laugh through your nose. 

“I don’t want to get pregnant here.” 

Hobi lets out the same sound, making a smile curl on your mouth. “Come here, pup.” 

It’s the gentleness sunk within his intonation that is a force of the same nature that turns your body around. Hobi is staring at you as if he were looking up at an angel—those pearlescent eyes of his bright and swimming, but not prematurely under the influence of the alcohol. They’re swimming with love. 

You used to be an angel. Now you’re you. 

And Jungkook isn’t standing there; Jungkook is gone. 

You walk over to him with ease, the panic dispersing and flying out your wide open window, your rosy curtains guiding it out. You sit on his outstretched thighs and as your bum plops down, you take off his green beanie. Run your fingers through his hair, fluffing them. Cradle his face to your naked bosom as you inhale him, tracing patterns on his scalp. 

Hobi begins to purr and you melt, becoming a liquid form of you, making his hands shine in the ever undying stark sunlight as he wraps his arms around your torso, tightly. 

You’re not going anywhere, the act says. 

This is what deserves to be painted, you muse. 

Listening to him emit that sound, your heart notices the absence of Luna and it craves her, awfully missing her. And the more you receive it through your ears and it settles within the chambers of your softened muscle, you realize that you’re holding her in the form of a human. 

He’s so much like her. You recollect the way he tilted his head into your touch, join it to the memory of how she did it when you petted her head for the first time. And you test him—withdraw to pat his cheek and he does it. Leans into your touch, lingering there as you cup him. 

He’s a God and a kitty. And you love him. 

Hobi reaches for the bottle of vodka. Takes a sip as he locks his gaze with yours. Your hand slackens at the sight, dropping to the crook between his neck and his firm shoulder, and you can’t hold it. Like your limb, your eyes descend to the way his mouth is wrapped around the rim of the bottle, to the bottle of his throat as he swallows and doesn’t make a face. Lift back up to catch a glint bouncing off his wet lips and abruptly, you want a taste of that heady sting of your own. 

He can read you, and fairly well—because he drinks again, but this time he doesn’t swallow. No, he pushes your head to his in one swift, brazen motion. Parts your lips by tugging your chin down with only his thumb while he cups your cheek and, sitting up so he can once again take advantage of the size difference, he pours the pungent liquid beyond the arc of your mouth. Remains there, a breath away. It seems as though he wants to feel you swallow, wants to inhale that sharp scent of the alcohol; wants to sense in his bones that principle of him giving it to you in a profound, private way. 

And you swallow it, fixing your attention on the burn coursing down your throat, softened by his saliva. This—this was your first drink, a safe occurrence, watched over by your Father. The ones you had before in your past life didn’t have a sliver of the magnitude that you feel suffusing your lungs. This is your first life with him. 

“That was so hot.” 

You agree with him, liquid heat pooling low in your core, and you need that cigarette. And his dick impaling you as you take that deep, heavy drag that you haven’t inhaled in months. 

And most peculiarly, there’s no panic, nor fear, as you snatch that pack of cigarettes from your bedding behind his head and look for the little flap that will help you open it. Hobi lifts his hand from your cheek, though, and steals it from you—finding the flap with ease and opening it as if he spent the last decade faithfully smoking. 

Your panties are ruined, just like that. 

Drenched when he pops the butt of the cigarette between his wet lips, rummaging in his pocket for the pink lighter that he got you along with the pack. 

Soaking when he lights it up for you, blows the first smoke into your mouth, pecks you softly, and places the butt between your lips. 

But he doesn’t place his hand back on your face—he keeps his thumb and forefinger on the body of the cigarette, the burning tip facing him, holding it for you as you take a drag. The thick smoke billows around his palm, milky blue in the golden light, and as soon as its heaviness caresses your lungs and you exhale it into the air, he returns the cigarette back to its original place. Puffs it one more time before he lets you have it, coughing a little, blowing the fume onto your bare breasts, lips opened halfway in a tiny circle. The warmth tickles and your body naturally curls forward in reaction, your arms pushing your breasts together. Hobi makes a sound that is a godly synthesis of a coo and a moan, uttered from his weakening grin, eyes gliding over your squished breasts. 

Eyes that never darken when regarding your nakedness; eyes that remain full of that celestial, sea-kissed light. 

Do they have the ocean in heaven? He must know, for he’d been formed by it. 

And you want to be stuffed full in it. 

Hobi must like the sight he sees because he takes a finger and drives it down the right side of your body. From your clavicle, down to your breast, your stiffened nipple that he stops at, pinching it, heightening the pressure until you squeak, the pool bursting in your core. At that sound, he continues on his path down your stomach and you let him feel the contraction of your muscles there as your body reacts to his touch. He ends his venture at the waistband of your panties and he tugs it towards himself, peeking inside. 

“Someone’s wet,” he comments and you cough, embarrassingly, caught off guard, as you take a drag of your cigarette, not expecting him to say that. Hobi smirks and the growing moistness on that fabric becomes uncomfortable. He rubs your back, helping your lungs to quiet down, the waistband snapping back making you jump—and incredibly horny. 

He steals the lung burner and you love it, your obsession with it construed by his apparent need to smoke in this heavily sexually-charged situation. You wonder if he’s holding himself back from breeding you right here and there. 

He could, if you wanted him to do it here—all things are settled, after all. But you don’t. You don’t want to reach the peak in your bedroom, where Jungkook has been so many times. 

You want it to happen at a place, where his footfalls never ventured. 

“Someone’s wet from watching their man smoke,” you flirt, looking at him through your lashes, hips instinctually drawing closer to his crotch and beginning their dance. Back and forth, the rhythm of the sea. 

“Don’t do that or I’ll fuck you,” he threatens, flicking his eyes to the rising peak of the cigarette ash and he bores them into yours with a challenge. “Be a good pup and get me an ashtray, please.” 

Please? 

Yes, Daddy. 

Ashtray? No. 

That would mean going to the kitchen and flipping it upside down in search of it. You stand up to your feet, your wetness flowing down your inner thighs with the movement, and you fetch the empty glass from your bedside table, lonesome and dust-scattered. You can’t really remember the last time you put it there. 

Sitting back down, you straddle his thigh as you hold the glass for him to flick the ash there. And once he does, you start to move back to your original position, but he stops you. 

“Stay here,” he says, enveloping an arm around your waist. “Ride it. Make a mess for me.” 

You don’t hesitate to do so, your body begs you for a release, weakened yet enlivened by his command. But the question of why he doesn’t want to fuck you bothers you and you decide to voice it out, willfully. Unafraid, safe, comfortable. 

You roll your hips forward on his thigh, which he flexes for you. The curves of his toned muscles hit the right spot and you throw your head back, using his throat for support, mewling little sounds that make him bite his lip, abandon his cigarette, let it fall into the cup that he forces away from your grip and sets it down. The smoke still billows out, twirling around your form, magnificently. 

“Why don’t you wanna fuck me?” 

Hobi sucks in a breath, leaning his head back against the mattress, hands following the movement of your hips. Drunk not on the alcohol, but on you. 

“Because I’ve been nonstop fucking you and I don’t want your little pussy to be sore,” he says, truthfully, adding vigor to your dance with his words, even if he doesn’t realize it. “Which is why I want you to use me like this when you need me.” He breathes, raggedly, and you’re dazed. “And because—” He fists the front of your panties, squeezing the fabric between your folds, stimulating your clit with the pressure. “The next time I fuck you, we’re making a baby.” You cry out, your pleasure heightened, and, meeting your thrust, he slides the knuckles of his fingers down to your clit, letting you ride them, letting himself feel the swollenness, softness and wetness of your flesh. He moans along with you—the feeling divine. “You said you didn’t want it here. Tell me where.” 

You can’t. Your orgasm quickens as do your grinding motions and you can’t see, you can’t speak, you squeeze your eyes shut—

“No, pup.” He stretches the fabric towards himself, essentially moving his hand away, and pushing your stomach back, your hips rolled forward, pussy throbbing and dripping in the air. You pant, gripping his hair at the crown of his head, eyes flung open, yet lidded. Terribly, terribly lidded. Sultry, dreamy, mesmeric. Despite the fact he ripped your orgasm away. “You don’t come unless you tell me where.” 

He holds you in place, immobilizing you. You try to grind on him again, but to no avail. You expect him to click his tongue at your brattiness, but he doesn’t. 

He does something else entirely. 

“Take your time. I know. That was really intense.”

It’s a stark contrast to the restraint he has you in—your slowly sobering brain makes a note of that, only to dip back into the stupefying pool of your arousal. 

And you whine, electrified by the pleasure that comes from all directions, that pushes forcibly against your neediness, heightening it. 

You can’t take your time. You can’t tell him right now. You need to come. 

“I can’t, Hobi.” Your breath shudders. “I can’t—”

“Breathe,” he rasps and you can see the way your neediness affects him, his chest heaving with almost identical staccatos, as though he was zapped with the delight he gets from it. His pupils are so dilated as his eyes melt into yours, a black pearl, but still enveloped by light. Cheeks flushed, mouth wet. The scent of patchouli, cigarettes and vodka, the remote corner of heaven. 

You try to breathe, fluidly, as you take it in and Hobi helps you. Breathes with you, steadies the cadence of your recuperation. Doesn’t stop until he’s assured that your lungs are calm. And as a reward, he lets your panties slap back against your pussy, coaxing a moan out of you. 

Doesn’t remove his hand from your hip, though. 

A quid pro quo. 

All right. 

“I don’t want to get pregnant here. Not in Seoul, not in Korea,” you start, your lungs in a perfect rhythm. Hobi’s eyes enlarge as he listens, fingers spreading over your bum, just holding you there, squeezing the flesh every once in a while. The gesture soothes you, blesses you with tenderness that helps you continue with your words. “I want you to take me overseas, where I’ve never been.” 

He hums, nodding, thinking for a mere moment, his eyes distracted on your belly button. And when he lifts them, he smiles. “Any particular place in mind?” 

The country slips off your tongue, naturally, on its own, and you think that’s the one. Your heart spoke it, so it must be the place. You haven’t given much thought prior to it, just knew you didn’t want to conceive a child on this soil that remembers nothing but your pain and anguish. You held this within the chambers of your heart before you met Hobi—and way before you met Jungkook. And you figure that in the process it acknowledged itself with Hobi, studied his face, learned the ins and outs of his heart in such a short time, it riddled out the place, where the curse is meant to be broken in. 

Once and for all. 

“Turkey.” 

You’ve seen the videos. Seen the dramas. The pictures. It met you and kept meeting you throughout your life, but you never gave much meaning to it. And now you perceive why. 

You reckon that’s how life works. And it feels nice—to get to know life, to get to know its mercifulness. 

“That’s a beautiful place, pup,” he whispers, taking his hands off of your body and cradling your face, pulling you closer and kissing you, lingering there for two, three, four seconds more. Your heart jumps, delighted to be validated, and you feel like weeping happily. 

“You’ve been there before?” you ask, the wetness of your eyes gracing it with a glint that very seldom finds your usually saddened pools. 

This is it. 

This is it. 

“I’ve had business meetings with Turkish companies that do their job well. Good people, good atmosphere.” Hobi smiles, reminiscing on something private and his cheeks warm. 

You wish, intimately, that he would tell you everything. 

“Will you tell me about them when we get there?” 

Hobi nods, pecking your chin. “Yes, and then I’ll fill you up.” 

You grin as he lingers there beneath you, eyes so bright and big, becoming crinkly at the corners once he reciprocates the grin. He kisses the front column of your next, tasting the layer of sweat that has enveloped it during your oh so evident neediness and you dip your head in your pool of arousal all over again—as soon as he withdraws and slaps your thigh, signaling you to hump his thigh. 

You can’t wait to get knocked up. Hope time passes quickly, transforms into a substance that lifts you up and carries you all the way to Turkey, mercifully, kindly. 

It’s this notion that you focus on as your hips begin to roll forwards and backwards on his thigh, but this time, as Hobi watches you with intention, he pulls your drenched panties to your side, his hand coming over to your bum and doing the same thing there, so the fabric doesn’t get in the way. 

You kiss him for it, hungrily, licking over his tongue, and he moans into your mouth, the sound traveling down your body until it roots in your clit, where it spreads and drums a hymn for your feminine titillation. 

And the feeling is divine—the sparks of pleasure that shoot up your core while your bare pussy rubs against the fabric of his pants, darkening it ever so quickly with your wetness. The feeling that he enjoys it, even more so when he voices it out. 

“This is what it does to me,” he murmurs so terribly close to your puffed lips, grasping your hand and leading it to the place between his outstretched legs that he speaks of. He presses it against his painfully hard imprint and your fingers automatically wrap around it as much as they can, as if they recognize it’s their own toy. “To see you get turned on like this. To watch you use me because of it. I’m crazy for you—”

His phone rings in his pocket and your heart stops—as do your motions. 

And you fear, rottenly, that it’s Jungkook who’s calling him. That he somehow found his number and is back at it again, clutching the curse like a sword in his hand. Ready to ruin, ready to devastate. 

The feeling paralyzes you enough that it dries up your pool of arousal and you can’t blink, you can’t breathe, you can’t move. Your mouth parts, but no breaths come out. 

At the sliver of freedom and joy—

“Jung Hoseok speaking,” Hobi answers the phone, the device slender and way bigger than his monumental hand, gazing into your eyes. Unblinking, too. 

He listens to the other side spilling information in and once you catch his mouth flattening, those dimples gouging something unpleasant onto the smooth surface above his top lip and the brightness in his eyes dimming ever so slightly, the cranberries of your blood crumble, uncomfortably, beneath the skin of your forearms. 

You pull your hand away from his crotch, slipping out of his grasp. He stops you before you get up on your feet, holding your strayed hand as he listens some more. 

It can’t be Jungkook. 

Hobi wouldn’t listen to a word he said and that phone would’ve long been flung across the room, if it were him. 

You sigh a breath of relief, your body relaxing and slouching. You run a hand through your hair, gripping it at the back of your head to will some feeling into your muscles—as there’s nothing to fear. 

It’s over. 

It’s fucking over. 

No ruination. No devastation. No impending curse about to absorb your life. 

Nothing. 

“I understand what you’re saying and I appreciate your work and thought, but allow me to remind you that it’s Sunday and I don’t work on Sundays, neither do my employees—”

Oh, the big bad boss. 

The person on the other side interrupts him and Hobi scrunches his brows, mouth parting at the disrespect. Then, a smirk crawls over his mouth and he rolls his eyes, directing that smile towards you as the brightness in his eyes blossoms back. Playfully, he rolls his eyes again now that he knows he’s got your attention—and silently, he mimics the words the other person is saying, mocking them. 

You laugh, softly, your relief expanding in you and shifting you back into your comfort zone. Hobi’s eyes widen and, using his intertwined hand with yours, he presses his index finger to his lips to signal to you to be quiet. 

And he shouldn’t have done that. 

He refreshes your pool. 

And he seems to be aware of it by the way his countenance grows serious. It does something to you—the way he’s listening, working essentially, while being attentive to your feelings and state of mind. It’s attractive, the splitting of his attention. And you don’t have to rock your hips first—he encourages you to do it by curtly nodding his head at your hips, untwining from your hand and guiding your pelvis to dance again. 

Not for him. 

For you. 

And the pleasure is much bigger this time around. 

You can’t stifle your noises. 

“That sounds absolutely great,” he says, quickly, in order to camouflage the volume of your delight as you hump his thigh faster, more vigorously, your breasts bouncing and slapping against each other. Hobi watches them with a deep furrow of his brows and his bottom lip caged between his teeth. Tortured, absolutely tortured. 

It only urges you on—and you find yourself in a vapor of horniness. 

“Yes, Da—”

He clamps your mouth shut with his hand, your moan caught in his palm. That act alone drives you prematurely to the peak of your orgasm and you know, you know, that if your clit rubs against his toned, clothed thigh just once, you’ll be coming all over him. 

But Hobi manhandles you, pushes you down, gently, onto the floor. 

You’d think he was angry with you, hadn’t he smiled at you—and your vapor thickens, your hormones fucking with your brain. Hovering above you, he grips your throat, merely holds you there without any pressure, and he kisses the tip of your nose. 

He fucking kisses the tip of your nose. 

Your pool leaks onto the floor. 

“Be quiet,” he mouths and does it again, more prominently, to make sure you understand what he’s voicelessly saying to you. “Yes, I have about five employees in that department who would be willing to work on that. Very diligent and dedicated. One of the best people I’ve ever had under me.” 

He cringes, realizing the wrong string of words he used in that silence, and you burst out into laughter—one he has to silence by clamping your mouth shut again, looking away to focus on a fixed point somewhere in your bedroom while smiling himself. 

And you get his attention right back at you when you lick his palm. You expected him to be repulsed by it, but his eyes enlarge and his mouth falls agape as strange feelings wash over him. Then, he ruts against nothing and plunges two of his fingers, index and middle, into your mouth. 

Your slick is warm as it trickles down your flesh and onto the floor; your body hot all over from the situation, the secrecy, his dominance and his fingers alone. His eyes deepen when they slide over your full mouth and you can see, even through your thick vapor, the way he’s swallowing down his growls. He strokes your tongue, barely, softly, plunging them further until he hits the spot that makes you gag. It sobers him quite rapidly, the sound. Swearing—still voicelessly—he starts to pull out his fingers, but you wrap your hands around his wrist, keeping him there as you suck on those long, slender digits, focusing on not making a sound. 

His eyes lid, heavily, at your diligence. 

“Three months, you said?” He tugs his fingers out, that anger evident, but not towards you—towards the other person. And he lets it out by ripping your panties away from your body in a blink of an eye. “Can we make that two?” He caresses the silky skin of your mound with his knuckles, without venturing downwards, and you shudder, needing him there. “Rub your clit,” he mouths and you gasp, even though you don’t know why. You’re so overwhelmed by the respect he emanates, horny and sensitive that any word he’d throw your way would make you react this way. You feel like a schoolgirl; small, submissive, breedable. And you want to please him, make him proud, do as he says. But you don’t share the same hastiness as him—because before you can get to the end of your thought process, he takes your hand and places it on your pussy. 

He must be getting the same thrill out of it. 

You rub your clit, obeying him, and watching him watch the work of your fingers as you twirl them on that swollen, little flesh—it’s nothing you ever experienced before. Your pleasure quickens, as hasty as Hobi to get you to your peak, and you have to lift your fingers in order to not come quick, your lungs heaving, your mouth letting out short breaths that make him absolutely feral. 

“Oh, pup,” he mouths, the wrinkles on his forehead divulging the depth of his torment and pleasure from the sight. “Good job. So good. Yes.” He nods, encouraging you—and you almost come right then and there, but you lift your fingers just in time. Fists clenched, you throw your head back, frustrated but pleasured just the same. And you can’t take it anymore. 

Neither can he. 

He runs his hand down the middle of your body, stopping at your thigh, wrapping your leg around his torso. 

“If you can’t make that work in two months, then we have nothing to talk about,” he bites, panting, but he hides it well, his voice untouched by it. Firmness and respect coats it, strengthens it, gives a new instrument to the hymn of your clit. “I have things to do and places to be outside of Korea and I can’t afford to be held back by three months. I’m sure I can find business partners who’d be able to make everything work in just one—”

Seething, he leans over, grabbing your vibrator. He turns up the intensity, the sound growing louder and louder and you shriek, soundlessly. 

You’re going to explode if he uses that on your tortured clit—

“Apologizes for the noise.” Hobi spits on your clit, the long string of his saliva plopping onto your flesh, making you quiver and moan, quietly. “There’s construction work outside. I guess you’re not the only one working on a Sunday.” 

The bitterness, the snide comment—you feel like screaming, in the most delicious, exhilarating way. And you do, when Hobi places the vibrator down on your needy clit. 

He moves it, rapidly, from side to side while he’s still talking on the phone, but his words are a blur that you fail to understand, your whole being fixed and concentrated on the adrenaline blended with fireworks of intense pleasure that create an orchestra of passion. His imaginary wings unfurl and beat in the air, opulent and dusky black. His eyes never falter their hypnosis as they bore into yours, coaxing your orgasm out of you, while his mouth keeps silently telling you to be quiet, praising you to motivate you. 

And you do explode. 

In his face when he explains something you can’t comprehend. 

And you come again when he takes a deep breath, stopping short in the middle of his sentence, shocked, zestful, wet and ecstatic. You sprinkle his chin and his neck, ruin, most beautifully, his polo shirt and devastate, even more so, his pants. 

And he’s grinning, so awfully pleased. 

Lifts the vibrator. Doesn’t turn it off. 

“I’m sorry. I’m getting an important call from a family member, who comes first on days such as these. Please, don’t hesitate to contact my secretary and make an appointment with me. We will discuss further on the matter. Have a nice day.” 

And he’s smart. 

Ending the call, he turns off the vibrator and tosses both things sideways. Props both arms beside each of your shoulders. And the flush that was stifled during the entirety of the work phone call now peeks through the surface, the petals of roses licking across his skin. Your own flush promenades hand in hand with him in this close proximity, your golden aura, gained from your exquisite orgasm, bathing you in holiness. 

And you still can’t speak, tongue-tied. 

He sweeps away your flyaways matted to your glistening forehead, brushing his knuckles down your face. And when he reaches your jaw, he cups your chin and kisses you, tenderly. Gives you a hundred more. Little, hungry, yet pure kisses. 

“What did we just do?” He laughs, softly, in disbelief, shaking his head. You laugh along with him, your still lingering and heightened vapor causing you to nearly levitate underneath him. 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, more slowly. Your nectar gets smeared on your cheek from his with each voracious movement of his mouth, his head. And it’s an element that makes this become real for you. That helps you fathom that you just experienced an adventurous event that wasn’t a part of the curse—that was good, through and through. 

And it’s yours. 

No one else’s. 

And he makes it even better when he shares the details of his phone call with you. Lifting you up and carrying you into the shower, he tells you of the way the “motherfucker” tried to keep him from breeding you for three months. Was cocky enough to promise him he won’t find a better business partner to work on a project that Hobi’s been passionate about for weeks—a way to get older children better education in schools in terms of things that aren’t normally taught: surviving skills, basic medical skills, cooking skills and life skills regarding various of things that they will need during and after high school. His organization also offers a form of preschool and elementary babysitting, therapy, library, game activities, singing, dancing, language learning—anything to keep those kids busy and away from their phones. It’s a place of rest, a place of safety and comfort and Hobi works hard to maintain that. 

The guy offered his premises and means of educational materials, even though Hobi makes do just fine—but it wouldn’t be available for at least three months. He explained that he needed them for the semester, wanted to elevate his ways, which is why he sent out a word. 

He told you all this while washing you clean in the steamy, hot shower. And it wasn’t until a week later that you found out the guy truly wasn’t able to make it happen sooner, but upon talking with him in person, Hobi was so satisfied with him and his work ethic, that he was willing to risk it. What he didn’t tell him over the phone was that he specializes in a group of orphaned children, homeless, and those who live in children’s homes. And Hobi’s mind was blown, his heart moved and softened, enough to shake his hand and start working on this renewed, expanded project. He put the kids that weren’t his first—and you fell in love with him deeper than you ever had before. 

And it wasn’t until spring came about and the first heat waves of the sun caressed your skin that he booked the flight, paid for a luxurious hotel resort in Antalya, paid for your mani, pedi, your Shein order and shopping sprees in malls, where he found you the simple dress he was apparently going to marry you in, and held your hand the entire way there. It took half a year to fulfill his longing and his biggest dream—and half a year to break your curse. You spent it visiting him in the office to bring him snacks, eye patches and face masks, distracted him with quick fucks, strip-teases, blow jobs underneath the table while he kept his suit on, smeared makeup and lipstick on his face and collar whenever you were in the mood to make out with him. 

It took such a long time, but you didn’t mind at all—because at night, you and him would pretend. Hobi didn’t want you to get on birth control; cared enough for your well-being by not wanting to confuse your body for a few months. Settled for the play of pretending—for condoms and nutting inside, going through the motion that there’s no latex preventing his longing from erupting. And during the day, you got to know him on a more meaningful, profound level. 

He loves to dance. Has danced with you in the living room on multiple occasions. Slow dancing, bachata, lambada. He wasn’t shy; enjoyed every minute of it and you watched him shine like the heart-shaped sunlight he is. You found the core of him, like a seed within a cherry, when you had your arms locked behind the nape of his neck and he led your hips into the rhythm of the sensual song. 

He loves children because he was loved right as a child himself. Wants to pass that on. Wants the kids to know that love exists, no matter what they’ve done. You broke down when he shared that with you and wished a place, like his organization provides, existed in your forlorn girlhood. 

Maybe you wouldn’t have been so broken. So prone to bad decisions, imbecility. So liable to the poisonous kisses of curses, to their tempting touches and their manipulative sounds of sweet nothing. 

Hobi had given you a promise ring right after he told you that there was to be a long waiting period for the baby. And when the time came and spring opened their buds of flowers, Hobi proposed to you. A grandiose diamond ring on your finger; plane tickets and more wons that you ever held in your hand, safely tucked in a white envelope. That’s how he announced it to you. And he didn’t get on his knee on the beach, where you glued your heart together. 

Not in Seoul, not on the island of Jeju. 

He proved his devotion to you and his irrevocable love for you amidst the surrounding mountains in Juwangsan national park by the Yongchu waterfall, five hours away from Seoul. Scraped his leisure pants because for a while you were paralyzed before you burst into tears and started running around, your first reaction of shock dispersing and turning into a holy euphoria you never experienced before. He laughed as did many people who were witness to the engagement, his hands that still held the ring box shaking as the audience clapped and cried along with you. Your white, linen dress billowed in the warm, spring-breathed wind, but you didn’t care much for it—because when you gained feeling in your muscles and your hunger to kiss him overpowered you, you stole and drew all of his patchouli-filled breath. 

You made it yours as he became yours, too, eternally. 

And when you gave him your yes, the mountains glorified yours and his love, exalted your unified souls, worshiped your hearts that beat for one another. Sang the praises of your unborn child.

You inhaled it, with gratitude and great importance, and it swirled within you even as you continued on your hike. Even as you visited the Daejeonsa Temple, where you spent the most time, dwelling in that thankfulness. You took in the beauty of the greenery, fresh air and mountains differently, more thoroughly and tremendously because you sensed they were there for you. Flaunted their earnest opulence and fervency for your happiness, for they knew you were looking back. 

Life gained feeling, too.

And Hobi wouldn’t stop fondling your ring while he held your hand. 

It’s what he does now as he presses the hotel room card against the device by the doorknob, a half month later. And it’s not lightness that is intertwined in his shoulders, but immense heaviness. Your flight was delayed by two hours and you waited another two hours for your luggage. Hobi didn't have to say a thing—it was written all over his countenance and figure, the weight of his perturbation. From his solemn look, tense features, lack of speech to his slouched shoulders, slightly shaking hands and deep breaths. 

You don’t want to poke the beast, but you do want to pet it—make it feel better. Because despite the misfortunes, you don’t consider them setbacks or ruination. You are here, with him, engaged and about to get filled with his baby. No troubles can take that away from you and they can try as hard as they want. 

You are about to carry his berry baby, conceived from the orchard he built in you, in the middle of Antalya, Turkey. 

Nothing could be better than this. 

Thinking about it, it paints a smile on your face. Hobi plants your suitcases on your king-sized bed, paying very little attention to the swan, made out of towels, sitting prettily in the middle of it, surrounded by rose petals, the ones that live beneath his skin so joyously and most comfortably. Feeling pity for him, because you know why he feels the way he does, you take his arms and slink through them, hugging his torso from behind, nuzzling your face in his oversized shirt-clad back that he wore for the first time in your presence. 

Hobi? Oversized clothes? Strangely, it works, even though you’re so used to his suits, his well-fitted classic clothes that accentuate his buff figure. 

He sighs, running his hands down your sides like he always does. You kiss his spine, without fear as you chose to wear zero makeup for the flight, but then he clasps your hands in his—right there in the center of his chest—and you swoon, tender and in love, appreciating the gesture, even though he’s done it many times before. 

It’ll never get old. 

“I can’t breathe in this room,” he murmurs, sighing a little louder this time around, and you furrow your brows, a wisp of worry curling in your gut. 

You’re about to let go and open the balcony doors to let some fresh air in, but Hobi acts faster. He swivels halfway, takes one step back with you, and turns on the air conditioning. Waits a little bit, stares at a fixed point on the ceiling—only to discover that it’s not working. 

Hobi punches the wall, startling you. 

“Hobi?” you call out his name, the wisp fading into a strong wind that moves your organs to and fro. 

He pinches his forehead, seething, and your instinct is to put a stop to it. You take his hands, notice they’re trembling, and the wind is knocked out of you. 

Trembling hands… What are they portraying? Anger? Anxiety? 

You sit him down on the bed, coming to stand in between his legs, and you cradle his face. Even the muscles in it quiver. Feebly, but they’re there. Pity constricts your heart. 

“What’s going on?” you ask, searching for his eyes, and when he meets you halfway, there’s unbelief that paints a murky landscape across his darkened pools. The brightness is dimmed. Your heart laments it. 

“Everything is going to shit. I wanted this to be perfect for you, but the air conditioning isn’t working. We waited for hours at the airport—”

You kiss his forehead, silencing him, and you linger there, even as you reassure him. “I’m so happy to be here with you that I couldn’t even give two shits about that.” 

The unbelief deepens and you figure he expected you to be as disappointed and as cranky as him. He doesn’t understand that the time you’d been graced with, the absence of your ex and the opportunity to be in a place your heart had quietly dreamed of conquers any obstacles that have tried to get in your way. 

You can’t be shaken. 

Not anymore. 

“We’re not at the airport anymore, we’re here. You can make a call to the reception and they will send a guy to fix it. It’s already perfect because I’m about to hear your English, first of all. And second of all, you’re gonna—” Your tone lowers to a whisper, “—breed me. Do unspeakable things to me here. Are we gonna fuck in the ocean? Oh, my god. I want that so bad. We can go to the beach at sunset with very few people around and you can nut in me. We’ll have a sea baby.”

This time, his sigh is dusted with relief and he slides your thighs over his, making you sit on his lap. The brightness in his eyes begins to flicker, shining through the murkiness, making its way back, and you’re happy to see it—relieved just the same. Though, you note something else, something new appearing in those pools. 

The moon. Night-caressed pearls. The waves of the turbulent, passionate sea at midnight as they wash out that terrible landscape. 

The same moon he carved into your thigh on your first date. The same moon that you hope will be lining your skin once he smothers you in his longing. 

“I’m so grateful to have you. I’m so grateful to have you as my wife. No one compares to you,” Hobi says, the moonlit pearls in his eyes wet as he’s overcome with emotion. He rests his head on your bosom, hugging you tight. “I love you, pup.” 

You bury your face in his silkily soft hair, reveling in the fresh undercut he got for this baby-making vacation. He purrs, happily, like a kitten, when you gently scrape your long acrylics upon that gritty surface. 

“I love you, too.” 

It’s time for dinner by the time you both come out of the shower, sharing one humongous towel. You push him down onto the bed and massage his back, helping him unwind on a deeper level—until his body is light and soaring, his eyes drowsy and lidded. Arm shading the lower half of his face, he studies the way you make love to your body by lathering it in shea butter lotion, then dressing it in a skin-tight, pale green, sleeveless dress with a slit in the back, its hem almost reaching your ankles. You put on some Aretha Franklin and open your clear makeup bag, reciprocating the eye contact in the mirror in front of the bed as you squirt foundation on your flushed cheeks. 

You didn’t realize he was watching you. 

“No panties, no bra?” he asks, his tongue dry as he licks his lips, still naked, glistening in the sundown from your lotion. Your eyes wander to his lower regions and find him hard. 

You smile, tapping in your foundation with your beauty blender. 

“I made the mistake of accidentally ordering extra small instead of small, so it’s tight on my body,” you explain your lack of underwear, your mouth ends quivering as he just keeps looking at you with bottomless devotion. “So I don’t want any panty lines or straps.” 

“I think that’s no mistake,” he says, his hand gripping his shaft for a moment before it relaxes, concealing his weakness for you. “I’m gonna rip it off of you with ease once your belly’s full. And I’m gonna make it fuller.” 

You bite your lip, blending your concealer, feral. “Careful, or no dinner for you.” 

Hobi chuckles, his body twitching, and you sink your teeth deeper into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Why?” 

Cream bronzer—you suck in your cheeks, making him suck in a breath. “If you keep talking, we’re skipping dinner and I’ll force you to make good on that promise.” 

He scoffs, the sound full of humor. “There’s no forcing when it comes to you.” 

You put on cream blush for nothing as your own natural blush resurfaces under that layer of makeup. “Your game will never not get to me, Hobi.” 

He hums in response, a tinge of embarrassment coloring that sound, and you coo, finishing your make-up with a thin eyeliner, mascara, brows and a brown lipstick. You brush out your hair, letting it cascade down your back. Put on some gold hoop earrings. Spray on your perfume. Crawl over Hobi’s lap to show yourself to him. 

“What do you think?” 

He fails to cup himself now that he’s turned on his back, with how long he is, and you pry his hand away, kissing his palm, marking it with that brown shade. 

“Beautiful,” he breathes out and your smile aches. “I’m gonna fight anyone who looks at you tonight.” 

You laugh, softly, leaning over to plant that same mark in the middle of his chest—just like he marked you all those months ago. “No need to fight for me. Are you gonna get dressed?” 

His shyness comes through, his flush reaching his neck and collarbones, and you salivate. 

“I’m hard,” he says, nearly pathetically, and you coo, endeared by him. Grasp him with your left hand, purposefully, and his eyes flick to your ring, moaning. “Oh, pup.” 

“What are we gonna do with you? I just put on my lipstick,” you whine, pouting feignedly, and Hobi whimpers, enveloping your hand with his fist, leading you to fuck him in a fast rhythm, the left over lotion on your palm making it slick and easy. 

“Just lick my tip and stroke me like that,” he croaks out and you feel your folds soak with your nectar. You were fine with him marinating your makeup, but this is better. “You don’t have to suck it. Just lick it with that tongue of yours, pup.” 

You swear, moaning, darting out your tongue and kitten licking the ridge of his head like he asked, twisting your wrist as much as he lets you in the deathly grasp he has over your hand. 

“That’s it, baby. You know how to do it. You’re my smart girl. My smart wife,” he praises, throwing his head back as he takes the pleasure you give him, going as far as hollowing out your cheeks on that sensitive part of him, despite the fact he told you that you didn’t have to. He groans, deeply, lifting his shoulders from the bed and gripping your hair, his hand trembling all over again. “Fuck, you make it so hard for me not to fuck your mouth.” 

You moan around him and he pulls you away from his cock and smashes his mouth against yours, kissing you so devastatingly ravagedly that you can’t breathe and you grow slack in his hold, sinking onto your knees on the floor. 

He holds your face as he lets you go, your foundation and lipstick smeared all over his chin, lips and cupid’s bow. You gasp at the sight, gulping. 

“I’m sorry, pup. You’re gonna have to redo your makeup. I couldn’t help it. You’re just so good,” he apologizes and you can see it on his face, how serious he is about it. “You deserve to be kissed like that. Hm, you’re such a good pup for me.”

You mewl, missing his lips already, and you quicken your pace around him. He lets you, matching you, and his sounds rise in volume. 

“I’m gonna come so quick for you, just because you look so good like this.” 

You hiccup, squeezing him. “Like what?” 

He hums, licking his lips, tasting your girlishness, and he grins, lopsidedly. “So pretty on your knees for your husband with your makeup ruined, knowing he did it because you sucked him so well.” 

The third person. You die—you die a beautiful death. 

“Oh, fuck, Daddy.” 

“Yeah, baby. I know. So good. Like always with you.” 

And you come back to life. 

You moan, giving him your all through your motions, sucking him, licking him, going even as far as taking his balls into your mouth, spreading your noises all over them, divulging how much you love that part of him. And he warns you before he comes. Doesn’t want to ruin your dress. And you watch as he spurts his cum all over his stomach while you milk it out of him—bedazzled, in love, fucked out and absolutely mesmerized.

And you rub his cum into his skin in the way you’ve noticed he likes to do on yours. Dig a grave for all the negative things he had to go through because of you and for you. You didn’t do that all those months ago, focused as you were on forgetting. But now that you’re healed from it and so is he, you dig that grave deep. Throw in his rightful anger, your ex, the painting. Sweep the soil back over it. And never look at it again. 

He thanks you for taking care of him. Tells you that it was all because of how beautiful you are. Cleans the little you left behind of his own nectar while you fix your makeup. Dresses himself in black pants and a shirt that makes you laugh so hard that your stomach hurts. 

A black and white shirt with a pattern of condoms. 

“What?” he asks, but laughs along with you. “We’re saying goodbye to condoms once and for all, pup.” 

You blush, terribly. He leaves the top buttons undone, letting all eyes see the way you marked him with your brown lipstick. 

And he gets stared down at dinner. Cares very little, as smitten as he is with you—can’t lay his eyes off you as you walk, even as you eat and drink your Turkish tea, as you sway your body to the live, foreign music while your cigarette smoke dances along with you. Can’t stop touching you either—has to have his hand on you under all circumstances. On your forearm, the back of your hand, your knee or your thigh under the table. 

Your belly, after all that food. 

“I’m gonna marry you,” he says after a long moment of balmy silence. The spring wind, drifting from the palm trees, chilly ever so faintly, brushes your hair away from your face, caressing so coolly your freshly washed body, and you’re obsessed with the feeling. With his reminder that he’s gonna marry you. With him. With the fact you’re here with him.

There’s no other place you’d rather be. 

“I know,” you intone, shyly, grinning, so terribly happy that its sparks detonate on your face, your thumb mindlessly playing with your ring. “I feel at home here.” 

He seems to be touched by that. But you didn’t understand the gravity of his words. 

Not until later. 

Two strong cocktails in, the night falls. The musicians gather their instruments to leave, but Hobi, with a mind of his own, pulls you up to your feet to dance with you to the song of that balmy, restful silence. And the ardent dance, filled with twirls and sways, catches the eye of one of the musicians. An elderly man, with ebony hair, mustache and tender wetness in his eyes, picks up his decades-loved violin from its case and starts playing a song unheard by the night. A song made, intimately and privately, from his own gentle, but kindled heart for you and Hobi. The fervid song, tied with the fire of a passion shared between a husband and wife, moves you to tears and once the man sees them, he weeps along with you. 

With your face pressed against Hobi’s, he barely leads you in the dance as you still ever so slightly to listen to that expression of love and marriage, paying your full attention to it. And if there ever were any forgotten crumbs of cranberries in your blood, the man’s mastery and Hobi’s touch smooth it out, completely. Order it, wordlessly, to swim out of your tear ducts. 

The man ends the song and you and Hobi clap for him, bowing in all respect and sincerity. He sends you a heartfelt kiss and a thumbs up Hobi’s way, pointing at his shirt and you wave him goodbye, laughing. 

No need for words. 

All was said. 

And Hobi senses it, a changed man. Because when you walk up to your hotel room and he sets you down on the bed—he doesn’t rip your dress away from you like he promised he would. No, he takes his time, revealing your skin little by little, kissing and licking every inch that opens for him. He’s that embodied passion and he unravels himself on your body, sucking on your perked nipple as he holds the rim of your dress beneath your breasts. Sighing, humming. Circling the tip of his tongue around that sensitive trigger. Your moans echo around the spaciousness of the room and he answers each and every one of them with his own. 

“Do you want it now? On your first night here?” he asks, pools whisked to yours, grazing your nub with his teeth. You cry out, spreading your legs as far as the tightness of your dress lets you while Hobi’s body compresses them down with his weight. 

You want it every night, every day until you have to return back to Korea. Want to be so full of his nectar that you’ll still feel it, even at home. 

“I want us to try every day,” you say, stroking his hair, shuddering as he rolls his tongue up and down on that nipple of yours, nuzzling his face in your breast as he sucks it. Makes your brain malfunction a little bit. “Do you think they sell pregnancy tests in that little shop? I should’ve brought some from home.”

Hobi grows serious, popping your nub free. His puffy lips search for yours, enveloping them in a deep kiss. And he spreads tiny kisses on your cheek and jaw as he responds. “We can say fuck it and take that test when we get home.” 

The same seriousness closes down upon you. “What if we fail? What if there’s something wrong with me that I don’t know about?” 

He cradles your face, his thumb fondling your skin, your black eyelashes, sturdier than they usually are due to your mascara. “You’re young, you’re healthy. You have nothing to worry about. I’m older. What if my swimmers are blind, hm?” 

Your eyes wet at the thought, but a sweet reminder seizes you—the softness you saw wrapping around him when he told you about the renewal of his work project, the amount of poor children without parents or homes that have won over his heart. And your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue. 

“There’s always the children from your work. We can adopt. As many as we want.” 

Hobi looks into your eyes, deeply, for a long time. And you don’t catch the drenching of his pools, nor the tender glint, the wetness of the pearls. No, you catch a single rivulet trickling down on each of his cheeks, plopping down onto your chest. The hard sucking in of his breath due to that softness swathing him all over again. The tremble of his lip. The petting of his hand over your hair as he exudes gratefulness. 

“I love you, you know that?” he whimpers and you burst, your own tears dripping down the sides of your face as you take him in. The raw, compassionate and humane version of him that only few, selected people are allowed to see. You, his mom, his dad, his sister and… little Luna. And you sob, your whole body warm from the amount of love that boils in you for him. “You’re my good little pup. I love you so much.” 

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice broken owing to the intensity of your feelings. Hobi kisses your neck and your hand brushes down his back, scattered with myriads of condoms. Try to feel for his wings. Want them as sensitive as his heart. “Your swimmers aren’t blind. They have 20/20 vision.” 

Your little joke causes him to chuckle, adorably, and he makes that sound travel down your throat as soon as he kisses you again. Slowly, carefully—as if engraving the shape and the feel of your lips deeply into his brain, into his system that he will give to you. You want more of him, the intangible things as well as the tangible ones. All of him, all that put his being together; all that helps him get up in the morning and lay his head down at night. 

And it invigorates you, the knowledge that you will get just that—once he fills you up with his nectar and his swimmers find you, perfectly. Yours and his berry baby will grow amidst the orchard he will continue to take care of; and you will have him. 

Eternally. 

Beyond death. Beyond the end of time. 

You will have him—and you will have a little him as well. 

“I want you,” you whisper onto his lips, perking up your breasts for him by squishing them together and he sees you, sees what you’re doing and he licks your nipple again, both of them at the same time in fact, torturously slowly, humming. “And I want a little you.” 

Lifting his head to kiss you, nastily, he groans. The smack of yours and his mouth, the ridding of your dress—still slow, still sensual. He studies your body for a moment, shuddering, full of longing for him and his nectar, ready for him with the way it’s glistening in sweat and arousal. And he sighs, differently this time. 

The sound is coated with as much longing as your body is. 

You love being looked at by him; love the knowledge that he’s looking at something that’s his. Always been his to transform, make new, clean and heal. Always been his to love. 

And he kisses his pathway down your tummy as if he thought about the same thing, his hands following every inch of your skin, fondling the places he kissed, licked and sucked. Not hard enough to create a mark, but lovingly enough to moisten you even more, to make your heart swell—and something else, too. 

He stops at your navel. Squishes the lower belly fat, biting it as he coos—and you can feel how much he loves that part of you; always has. Because of that, there’s no insecurity tightening your lungs or worrying your brain. Only balminess, the sound of cicadas, the dance of the palm trees as the wind blows through it, the faraway sea sloshing upon shore and his noises caked with yearning—for you, for the baby. 

“Our baby is going to live right here,” he says, as if he was coming to terms with it, now that he’s about to make it happen, and you soften, running your hand through the tufts of his windswept hair. “It’s going to grow and feel our love. Feel how much I love him or her. How much you do.” 

You nod, a liquified softness. “Do you want a boy or a girl?” 

He gazes at you through his lashes and butterflies zap your stomach. “I want a baby that looks like you.” 

Your heart, too. 

“So, a girl?” 

He rubs his face in your tummy, breathing evenly against it. “Even a boy can have your features. Your hair. Your hands.” He takes it, the one closest to him, and drifts his fingers through yours. “I want to hold their hand and know I’m holding yours. And I want to give them the love I have for you.” 

A film flashes through your mind. A little boy, sitting on a sofa next to resting Hobi, watching TV while his Daddy absentmindedly plays with his small fingers, kissing them, biting them playfully to make him growl in that adorable way. The same little boy growing into a young man, having been watered by the love Hobi has for you and the new, fatherly love he gained for him. One that does not cease even as he’s older. 

A boy, a man loved by his Father—ceaselessly. 

Something you never had, but your child will. 

You don’t realize you’re crying until Hobi wipes your tears away. Your heart thumps so rapidly against your chest that you believe it could poke through the flesh. 

And you fall for him, all over again. 

“That’s the most beautiful thing you ever said to me,” you whisper, high on your heightened feelings for him, high on him. “Besides, ‘will you marry me?’”

Hobi smiles. Moves you so your head reclines on the pillows, knocking towel swan off the bed, making you giggle. And he sits on his legs, clutching your waist, thumb rubbing circles on your tummy, squished and overspilling in your position as you wrap your own legs around him. 

Comfortable, safe, elated. 

“Two days from now, I want you to wear that dress I bought you,” he says, his smile blossoming wider and your lips mimic the same movement for some reason, despite the fact your brows furrow in confusion. 

“What dress?” 

He slides his hands up your highs. “The white one. The one I told you I was gonna marry you in.” 

A soft gasp leaves your lips and a mist of tears thicken in your waterline, understanding what he’s saying. “Are we—?” 

“Yes, pup.” A stream, not a rivulet, cascades down his cheeks and you break, you break beautifully and happily. “We’re getting married in two days. I prepared everything. Your parents and mine are flying in. I paid for their plane tickets. A small wedding with the closest. My sister slapped me when I offered to pay for hers—”

An alarm rings loudly in your sternum and you don’t think before you voice it out. Hasty in a way you don’t like, but it’s due to a certain fear that you feel expanding throughout your body. 

“What did my Dad say?” 

Hobi’s smile doesn’t fade and it spurs a fragment of ease to shoot down your form. 

“Your Dad gave me his blessing.” 

A brand new shrub begins to grow in your orchard. The final one. A shrub of goji berries, healing, beneficial to your Father complex, the very means that will treat your scar caused from it, rejuvenate the skin that bears his ignorance, lack of love, care and attention. 

And you can’t breathe.

Hobi lays the front of his body against yours, propping his chin against your chest, holding the side of your face in his hand, tracing your shock and unbelief with his thumb. 

“He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me, but once he heard that I mean well with you and that I make good money at my job—actually, once he heard that I work with children, his whole demeanor changed—”

“He loves children,” you blurt out, your vision unfocusing. “He just doesn’t love me because I grew up. It’s some kind of block in his body, I don’t know.” 

Hobi pauses for a moment, thinking about your words, his thumb now tracing your lost eyes—your eyelids, your eyelashes. 

Your Father played with you when you were a little girl. Took you on walks around the city. Bought you McDonalds. Taught you how to count money when you were struggling, unsure if you had enough from the paper Wons he gave you. But once the sadness of your girlhood absorbed your life, his presence in it shifted and moved away. 

And never returned. 

“He does love you, he just doesn’t know how to express it. That’s what I sensed,” he whispers, his hand descending to your neck, and you wonder if he feels the twigs of those goji berries underneath that skin—that quickly they grow. “If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have listened to a word I said. He wouldn’t have asked me if there’s anything I needed from him in terms of the wedding. And he wasn’t mad about the fact that it would be non-traditional and in Turkey, though your mom insisted she’d wear a hanbok anyways.” 

You’re so overwhelmed that you can’t speak, the notion that your Father always knew you strayed away from your heritage and preferred the West sneaking into your heart. He accepted it; and he accepted Hobi. 

You reach within yourself, pluck a goji berry and feed it to the emptiness that lived within you for too long. And you do it again and again—until there’s no hollowness that eats at your insides. 

You’re whole.

“Thank you for telling me,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles down his cheek and Hobi leans into your touch like he always does. “That healed me. I can’t wait to marry you.” 

Hobi mirrors your softness and kisses you with it. And it’s now that the dip of the scar in your skin replenishes—through each and every moment of his mouth against yours and through his shifting to the place between your legs once you coyly ask for him there. He eats you as if he were starving, and it has great meaning to you—the fact it’s someone you love that is consuming you and not your emptiness anymore. Your feet slide across the pattern of the condoms on his back and it quickens your orgasm in the middle of his sucking and finger-fucking, all owing to the fact that Hobi made order in your life; healed your Father’s complex and now is preparing you to impregnate you, only to marry you two days later. 

You come so hard that you don’t sprinkle him, but drench him whole, your nectar painting him in glimmering light that becomes holy in the moonlight that streaks through the balcony. 

He heaves, ferally, kissing your clit over and over again—so hard that he’s essentially sucking it and you cry out in overstimulation. 

“Taught you how to squirt, didn’t I?” he growls, hovering above you as the drops of your nectar pitter-patter on your chest and within your shyness due to his words, you’re ready for him. 

He did teach you that. Since the fateful day of his work phone call, before and during which you edged yourself so painfully that when he pleasured you with your vibrator, you exploded just the same, you aren’t able to have dry orgasms. He has triggered something within you, using his businessman voice and respect, that rains for him and it has changed your sexuality once and for all.

“You did,” you try because of your shyness, your hands instinctively popping the button of his pants open, and Hobi hums, wiping his face clean and pushing his soaked fingers inside your mouth. 

You didn’t expect it and the loud moan that slips out of your throat comes as a surprise to you. Hobi’s length twitches beneath your hands and twitches again when you suck on his fingers, just as loudly. 

“I love it when you squirt for me, but pray to God, pup, that you don’t squirt around my dick because I’m not pulling out, you hear me?” he rasps, his voice deep and solemn, causing your walls to clench tightly and your heat to reach a boiling temperature. Your hand, mindlessly, slinks to your pussy to rub your clit and he tips his head, noticing it. “Move your hand.” You do, your heart bouncing in your ribcage. Hobi begins to thumb your clit and you writhe your body against the mattress, following each circle with your hips, the pleasure faint but so good. “Do you think you can hold your orgasms for me once I fuck you, hm?” 

You whimper, regarding the idea impossible, knowing how well he does it. Impossible and rapturous. “No.” 

He chuckles. Stops his circles. Lets you use his thumb. “I’ll make you, then. I can stop anytime.” 

You roll your eyes back, his dominance-tinged words better than the stimulation of your clit. “Can you?” you bite back, playfully, your shyness vanishing. 

Hobi bites his lip, intoxicated by your new confidence. Pins your hands above your head, leaning his weight on them. Brushes his lips against yours. “Don’t go bratty on me now. Don’t do it to the baby.” 

You choke out a curse and Hobi digs his half-moons into your forearms. The moonlight anoints them, purifying the atmosphere. 

“I’ll be good for the baby,” you whisper, curling your hips to feel more of his manhood, eager for it. “And good for you.”

Hobi growls, kissing the skin beneath your jawline just once. “A good what?” 

You know what he wants you to say and your eagerness lengthens. “A good pup.” 

Shifting so he can hold both of your wrists in his singular fist, he glides the tip of his cock along your feminine flesh—up and down, up and down. 

“That’s it. A good Mommy for the baby and a good pup for me.” 

He buries himself in your heat and it’s the breaking of the curse upon your life, for the intention is there. The final installment to your healing of your Father’s complex because you’re not a little girl anymore, walking in the withering forest of your saddened girlhood. 

You’re a tender woman and you’re being made love to. 

There’s respect to the languid and dionysian movements of his love, no matter the hardness he uses. A breath is choked out of you and he inhales it, letting your hands free to cradle your neck, pressing his forehead against yours as he moans. Your mouth is parted and Hobi plays with your tongue without closing down his lips on yours, which causes you to mark your nails down his lats. Goosebumps decorate his skin at the feeling and he speeds up, beckoning out your whiny noises as you take it. 

His cock, the healing, the respect, the love. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, consuming your noises as soon as he kisses you. Doesn’t stop ramming into you. “I love you, my pup. You’re my life.” 

You cry out and he rips the coil of your orgasm by filling you to the hilt and lingering there, stimulating your clit by giving you fast, little strokes that makes his mound rub against it. And the orgasm overtakes you, your whole body limp and delighted as the heavenly pressure courses down every nerve ending, spreading that healing, respect and love, sealing it there. 

“God, that was beautiful,” Hobi comments, stunned by the explosion of your pleasure, and he begins to give you long, hard strokes that empty out your brain and try to push out your sudden guilt for coming when he wanted you to hold back your orgasm. 

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“No, pup,” he groans, the muscles around his eyes tightening as he pants. “You’re good. Just keep coming for me. I was only kidding, pup.” 

He takes your nipple in his mouth, his back strong and monumental and you sink your nails into it, marking him with the same half-moons, blushing, joyful. Hobi returns to your neck, your jaw and lips and you whine at the principle of him returning. 

The feeling of it is so enormous that you come again. 

“Yes, pup, that’s it. Come for your Daddy. So pretty, yes. I’m so close. I’m right there with you. Gonna make you a Mommy.” 

The words that are true, at last. Not a pretense. 

And then he’s fast, fucking you into the bed. Changing his mind at the last minute and lifting your hips into the air, slamming into you so hard that you have to hold onto his forearms, scattering your half-moons there and you take it all, ravenous, yet tender as you are. The squelching noises, his growls melting into soft mewls as you squeeze around him and it’s him who can’t take it. 

Who can’t take the distance. 

Who places your hips back down and eats your mouth, plunging his tongue inside while keeping up his rhythm. Never once faltering, nor wavering. He kneads your breast, sucks on your lip, bites it. Holds you by your throat, pushing his thumb inside your parted mouth and you have a feeling, amidst the haziness of your mind, that’s your trigger. One of them, at least. 

“Suck on it.” 

You clamp down on his length, obeying. Your orgasm inches closer, your fourth one of the night. 

“Good pup,” he husks, closing his eyes for a split second, slowing down, rolling motions. “Are you ready to become a Mommy for our baby? Daddy’s so close.” 

The sound that leaves you is of such a desperate kind that he grunts, delighting in it. Buries himself inside you to the hilt, stopping there, giving you tiny strokes that scramble your brain, plays with the haziness. Your arousal and your yearning is so raging and feverish that the pain of his tip osculating your cervix feels divine. And all you can think about is how it’s going to widen over time for yours and his baby. 

“Yes, yes, please. I want it. Give it to me, please, please, please,” you beg, your lungs and your pulse quickening, muscles taut and Hobi moans in a way you’ve never heard him before. 

The longing at its peak, sensitive, delicate and frail—yet he still remains as strong and monumental as he is. His Achilles’ heel has been struck and he begins to twitch inside you. 

“Oh my God, pup, I’m coming so hard for you.” Long strokes, whimpers. “Are you gonna take it like the good little wife you are?” The ultimate hard thrust—the blooming of his longing, your agreement, and it’s happening. He comes. “Fuck, fuck, yes. It’s all yours. It’s all yours, pup.”

He paints you anew with the warmth of his nectar, fucking it deeply into you. And the title you utter is not one construed out of your lack, but it’s a crowning of his new role. 

“Daddy.”

The final breaking of the curse. 

The conclusion. 

He continues to ram into you, softly, his thumb finding your clit—and it’s over. 

Everything. 

You step into a new life with him while you’re still connected and he keeps coming for you, his swimmers antsy and desirous to find your egg. And crossing the threshold, you come—devastatingly intensely, your body trembling and his mirroring the same shakes while he gives you the last of his all and a kiss that lasts a lifetime. 

A clean slate, a clean heart, a clean body. 

A clean life.

An orchard, brimming with fullness and ripeness. 

Ready for your berry baby. 

He looks at you for a long time, then, grinning so widely that you can sense the entirety of his joyful heart in it. His eyes wet and his smile softens as the gravity of what just happened washes over him. You feel the same process collapsing over you, splendidly, and you think that you and him must have become one. 

“We did it,” he whispers, a tear pouring down his cheek and another one following. 

You nod, your cheeks stained with the same tears. “We did it.” 

And the newness of your life and being feels natural—just as though it has been there the whole time. 

On the day of your wedding, bright early in the morning—after Hobi woke you up with his sensual The Weeknd playlist and ate you out so calamitously that you had to give it back to him by riding him into oblivion—you sit down for breakfast and discover something about him that almost makes you call it off. 

Hobi put strawberry jam on his butter toast with scrambled eggs. 

The Turkish sun envelops him bewitchingly, makes his tanned skin glow in its light as he enjoys, provocatively, every bite of his strange breakfast, focusing all of his attention on it. His eyes never leave it and his mouth smacks so loudly that it as irks you as it makes you laugh. 

Your unbelief towards that combination is so strong that it took you some time before you could speak up. 

“What the fuck, Hobi?” 

His eyes flick in your direction, innocently, cheeks full and squirrel-like, layered in sweat. His hands hold a half of the toast, despite the fact you and him just sat down. Does he really enjoy it that much? He inhaled it. 

“What?” he asks, mouth full, and you chuckle. 

“Jam and eggs?” 

He swallows, making a sound that divulges just how much he loved that bite. “Pup, it’s so good.” 

You widen your eyes. “I’m not marrying you today,” you say, but you don’t mean it. You’d marry him even if he forced that abnormal toast down your throat. 

He’s not one bit perplexed by your sentence. Stares you down as he runs his tongue over his teeth, mouth closed. “Be quiet.” 

Heat comes apart in your body and you blush, squeezing your thighs together under the table.

“How could a combination of eggs and jam be good?” you ask, standing your ground, despite your feelings. 

Hobi smiles. “One time I accidentally put sugar instead of salt on my scrambled eggs and it changed my life forever.” 

Your eyes might pop out of your sockets. “What?” 

He laughs, extends his hand towards your face. The sweetened, yet buttery smell of the toast hits your nostrils and your repulsion towards it dissolves. “Try it.” 

You don’t trust it, though. “I’d rather die.” 

He tightens his lips. “Be quiet and take a bite.” 

Taken aback, your instincts win and you don’t realize your head is leaning towards the toast until your teeth sink into the crunchy tastiness. You take a small bite and thoroughly chew, the mixture of sweetness and a little bit of saltiness, wrapped around the crispiness of the toast and the slight mushiness of the eggs creating something metaphysical in your mouth. 

Hobi watches you with a proud, lopsided grin. Knows you like it before you say it. 

“What the fuck?” 

He bursts into laughter and lets you have it, places it on your plate before devouring his second one, your liking for it elevating his. 

And you devour it just the same. 

“Life changing, isn’t it?” he intones, smacking his mouth in all the pleasure of the world. “Expect this kind of breakfast every morning when we get home. After I eat out your little pussy.” 

You choke on it and hide your feverish face in your hands, your stomach doing somersaults. “Oh my God, Hobi.” 

He laughs again, tenderly, and the sound travels all the way to Cappadocia, where he marries you at sundown. 

On the rooftop of a cave hotel, overlooking an immeasurable amount of kaleidoscopic hot air balloons that magnetically travel to the heat of the orange sun, the mountains and volcanic peaks darkened by its overpowering magnificence. It encourages the sleepy walk of camels and tightens the hearts of the witnesses below and the hearts of your parents, parents in law and Hobi’s sister. 

The simple dress Hobi bought you ripples in the compassionate late afternoon wind. Silky, pearlescent like his eyes in a certain light, caressing your tanned skin. So very akin to the one you wore on your first date with him, but longer, sleek, homeric in its significance.

And he matches you, all white, in his tuxedo, a stark contrast against his bronze skin and black hair, a wispy strand softly being blown sideways from his forehead by the wind. He holds his tears back in the same way he holds your hand—with all his might. And you do the same. 

You share your vows. 

He shares his, intertwined with the first poem you recited for him. 

“I’ll carry your heart with me ‘til my last day on this Earth and I will fear no fate because you are my fate.” 

Through your tears, you can see the way he’s stifling his habit of saying your pet name. And when he catches your quivering smile, he breaks into more tears. 

And when you proclaim that you do take him as your husband and when he proclaims that he takes you as his wife, your tears conjoin as do your souls in a kiss that makes the mountains quake. The heat of the Turkish sun perpetuates the act of love. 

The audience cheers. 

Your Father weeps.

And you believe no sadness, no ruination will ever come close to you again. 

You and Hobi celebrate. Dance throughout the night to foreign, passionate music that your heart seems to know. Fly in a hot air balloon, where he gets drunk and kisses you until your lips get numb. 

Almost throws up all the dark liquor he drank once he sees how high from the ground he is. 

And you can’t stop laughing. 

Not as he takes you to the Valley of Love the next day to look at penis-shaped rock formations that nature apparently formed out of the blue. 

Not as you give birth nine months later and he makes his sound effects as you push out his child. 

A baby boy that has your hair, your hands, your mouth and your chin—and a whole lot of Hobi’s pearlescent eyes and slender nose. A delectable, heavenly concoction. 

And certainly not as you take the five-year old boy to the Yongchu waterfall, where his Father proposed to you, and he starts sputtering out uncontrollable giggles when Hobi tells him that you ran around when he popped the question and precisely, with utmost detail, shows him how. 

On your way back, when little Hyeonwol’s legs hurt and drowsiness weighs him down, he surveys the mountain peak, transfixed by it. You and Hobi notice it at the same time and share a look that could never be described through any poetry, through any beauty of words, not even the ordinary kind. 

And it’s automatic, a silent, collective and simultaneous decision to break Hyeonwol’s spell by kissing each of his cheek. 

The dream came true. 

All dreams have, even those undreamed. 

And you believe that even as you grow old with Hobi, you’ll never stop laughing. 

You’ll never stop eating strawberry jam toasts with scrambled eggs with him. 

With Hyeonwol, too. 

And you'll never stop feeding the berry boy the fruits from the orchard that Hobi continues to take care of within you.

HYEONWOL — HYE-ON-WOL 

賢월

Meaning: worthy moon 

This name is given to a worthy person who is as precious as the moon. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one | READ part two | READ part three | READ part four | READ part five

[aster-oid]

To the stranger I knew too well

Summary: When your recurrent dreams about a puppet become out of hand, a reality check feels like the only way to get back to normalcy. Fate proves you wrong.

Pairing: Wanderer & gn!reader (post Irminsul), the relationship is heavily implied to be platonic

Content warnings: Reader is gender neutral, mentions of blood and murders but I don't go into details, slight angst, Wanderer is bad with feelings, platonic content

Word count: 7.2k | Soulmate AU

Comments: A special thank to my beta @ladyfocalors for always brainrotting with me about Genshin characters. We'll platonify the Genshin soulmate AU one work at the time /lh

It took you years to understand that your frequent lucid dreams about an Inazuman electricity-wielder leader were actually the memories of your soulmate.

To your parents' defense, every normal individual would have dismissed the idea. While your soulmate wearing an extravagant hat wasn’t impossible, your tales about a place shrouded in darkness and an Electro-user without a Vision sounded like a child's fantasy. There was no such thing in Teyvat.

You quickly got the reputation of an imaginative kid. Adults liked to ask you about your dreams.

"What a smart child you are!", they cooed once you finished recalling your visions. "You could write a storybook!"

Your younger self would shoot them the dirtiest glare they could muster. Unfortunately, adding that the protagonist was a puppet made hundreds of years ago was not the convincing argument you thought it was. To the layperson, your visions were nonsensical dreams.

But you knew what you saw. It felt real. Terribly, shockingly real. Most often that not, you woke up from these flashes with the taste of iron in your mouth, static filling your sight, your muscles locked into place. You were trapped in your own unresponsive body. Even your breath was stuck in your throat. But the worst part of your awakenings was the sticky feeling on your hands. No matter how many times you scrubbed, it lingered on your skin. You didn't know what it was at that time, just that it made you feel gross and that it would sometimes reappear if you washed your hands hard enough.

You learnt what blood was before you knew how to spell the color red. 

When one is repeatedly told that they're wrong, they will come to believe it. You were no exception. As the years passed by, you pushed those fantasies in the back of your mind. The adults in your life must have been right. You were just a strange kid with gruesome dreams, that was all.

Despite knowing that they were figments of your vivid imagination, the sights of snow-covered plains and bloody massacres haunted you well into adulthood. They had grown more complex. Details you didn’t notice as a child seemed obvious now that you had more experience. You could also recall conversations better. That’s how you learnt the name of the body you inhabited. Well, it was more correct to say you learnt multiple names for them. Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche, the Balladeer... It was like you could never make up your mind.

The puppet you temporarily inhabited was as elusive as the wind: no fixed name to call them and no face to match. They fled mirrors when they saw one, preventing you from seeing their appearance. The only thing you knew about them was their title: number Sixth of the Fatui Harbinger. A seat that was left vacant for centuries according to every Fatuus you asked.

Your constant daydreaming was annoying but manageable until you started having visions about Kunikuzushi taking over Sumeru. You saw them getting experimented on to become one with a robot, wincing in pain at the hands of a masked doctor, rambling about their birth-given right to access godhood, taunting a blonde traveler; a chain of events that could only make sense in a dream. The problem was that your reverie was affecting your daily life. You couldn’t go through a day without getting assailed by memories that weren’t yours. You had to stop halfway through any task, discussing became hard and sleep rarely came to you.

There was little you could do as you didn’t know what had worsened your visions. You were hoping it would go away by itself.

That was until a particularly haunting dream. As usual, you were but a spectator seeing through the Balladeer’s eyes. You saw a hand -their hand- reach for a chess piece, leaning forward as much as they could. Your blood went cold. They were about to fall over the edge of the platform! Your gaze darted everywhere. There was nothing on the distant ground that would break their fall. For the first time in your life, you realized that they could die. Scaramouche, the one you had observed for decades, could die.

You were the only one to realize how far they were leaning. They only had eyes for the violet pawn in front of them, begging and begging with a shaky voice. It had never sounded so frail, so raw with hurt and panic.

"Please, anything but the Gnosis!" 

It’s not worth it! you tried to scream. Stop! You didn't know why this Gnosis was so important to them but it was nothing dying for. Alas, no matter how hard you tried to move your mouth, the body refused to answer to you. You were nothing but a witness of a tragic scene, a powerless ghost with a bleeding heart. Your throat was thick with emotions you were not allowed to express.

Your dream ended in a snap, quite literally. A tearing sound erupted from behind you before you were sent falling down, pain flaring in your back. You bit down a scream as the world turned to blurry shades of blue and fluttering black bangs. The increasing speed made your eyes water and your body burn. You clenched your teeth. The fall was inevitable. Maybe it made you a coward but you couldn't bear to see it. You didn’t want to see Kunikuzushi die. Muttering an apology to the stranger in your dreams, you squeezed your teary eyes shut. 

The last thing you heard was a wet crushing sound, a mix between eggshells broken under the palm of your hand and a fruit being squashed. Your body jolted in your bed and you gagged, fighting the urge to throw up. You had never felt this sick. Not even when you dreamt of unfair massacres.

You sank to the floor, furiously wiping away the tears beading in the corner of your eyes. You couldn't do it anymore. You had to confront your dreaming problem. There was only one solution: if your brain was so adamant on obsessing over an imaginary character, you had to show it the harsh reality, to remind yourself that Kabukimono never existed.

Your trip to Sumeru was the most spontaneous project you ever planned. You were strolling through the busy streets of Sumeru city the very next day with barely enough money to get back to your nation. You had packed the bare minimum in your suitcase to carry it easily, meaning you wouldn’t be able to stay for more than just a few days.

That was, if you found a room for the night. You had no time to check what the usual prices were in the capital before leaving. Now that you were scouring the streets with your meager funds, unable to find a hotel within your budget, you were bitterly regretting your lack of foresight. You sighed. You supposed that the saying was right. Slow and steady wins the race.

As if it had felt your determination dwindling, the crushing sound echoed in your mind in response. You bit your lip, bile rising in your throat. You hadn't been able to forget about your last dream. It looped in your head like a broken record. Even if impulsively leaving your country was one of your worst ideas ever, the quicker you settled your daydream problem the sooner you'd be back to your normal life. 

Your weary steps lead you to an indoor bazaar. The smell of fried food filled your nostrils, making your stomach growl. You winced. The small homemade sandwich you had earlier couldn't compete with the appeal of street food. Unfortunately you needed to save your funds for a room. You let your gaze wander in the crowded marketplace, trying to distract yourself from the appetizing smell. Colorful stalls were full of fresh fruits, potted flowers and intricate trinkets. If you stood on your toes, you could even see a small theater representation in the farthest part of the bazaar. It was a lively place that perfectly encapsulated Sumeru’s charm.

You were about to turn back when your eyes stopped on a blue silhouette near a candy stand. You didn't know how you missed them earlier. In the brown and green crowd, their traditional clothing and their ornamented Inazuman hat stuck out like a sore thumb. They were in deep discussion with the merchant. Turquoise fabric trailed behind them, floating in the wind.

Without a second thought, you cut through the crowd, never leaving the stranger from your sight. Your heart leaped in your chest when they left the small stall. 

"Hey, you with the hat! Stop!" you yelled. To your dismay, the Inazuman did not even slow down. They must have been too far to hear you. Breaking into a sprint, you called again. "Hat guy!" 

You breached the distance in a few seconds. Just as you were about to grab their shoulder, they turned around. A cold hand snatched your wrist, making you wince. When you looked at its owner, you were greeted with a deep scowl and narrowed indigo eyes. 

"Don't." The man’s low voice warned you, his tone full of unspoken threats. You swallowed uncomfortably as your confidence melted away. He managed to be intimidating in spite petite stature and youthful appearance.

As he glared daggers at you, you were hit by a feeling you couldn’t quite place. You pressed your lips together, studying his messy black mullet and his glowing Anemo Vision. The word popped up in your head. Familiar. The stranger felt familiar.

Wiping the feeling of déjà-vu from your mind, you retreated your hand. "Sorry, I was just trying to get your attention." 

"Well, now you have it," he huffed. Annoyance was written on his face. He crossed his arms. "What do you want?" 

A good question, but not one you had an answer to. Running after the man was a spur of the moment decision.

Self-awareness striked you like a thunderbolt. Why were you even doing this? Your goal was to cure your daydreaming, not to throw yourself headfirst into the rabbit hole nor to annoy a stranger with the tales of an imaginary character.

He clicked his tongue. "Hurry. I don't have all day." 

You huffed. It was true that you were taking too much time to gather your thoughts but he didn’t have to be rude about it. 

"I'm looking for someone,” you said tentatively. It was the closest you could get from the truth without annoying him. Considering his foul mood, the stranger would have walked away if you told him you were looking for the lack of existence of Kunikuzushi, the Sixth Harbinger, the person who tried to become an Archon, someone that only existed in your mind.

The man didn't answer, encouraging you to continue with a movement on the head. His black bangs flew in the light breeze. Now that you had a clearer view of his face, the man seemed more bored than irritated. He wanted the conversation to be over with but he still had the patience to hear you out. This realization gave you the courage you needed to talk again. 

"Their clothes are quite similar to yours, but they're red and black. They also have a hat. A huge one." You opened your arms in emphasis.

He scrunched his brows together, looking at you like you were an idiot. "Right. Because the length of their hat is the most important detail you could give me," he deadpanned. 

You fight the urge to sigh. "I wasn't done. I don't know much about them, but they're linked to the Fatui." The stranger's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was back to glaring at you, his face closed. Unsettled by this sudden tension, you quickly added. "Probably. I'm still not sure about that." There was no Sixth Fatui Harbinger, after all. Your brain had made it up. 

"Of course." His voice was drier than earlier. What little interest he had in your discussion had melted at the mention of the Fatui. You scrunched your brows. You swore you could read another emotion than ire in his eyes, even if you didn’t know what. "Anything else I should know about that... Friend of yours?"

You racked your brain for more details. There was a lot to say about the person in your dream. Their lack of heart, their coup attempt in Sumeru, their bloody killings, the experimentations they underwent... Nothing you could talk about in public without looking crazy, in sum. The only thing you could still mention was... 

"Their name is Scaramouche."

The man went rigid. "What did you say?" he gawked, his eyes wide with shock.

"Scaramouche. I think that's their name?" Truthfully, they were given so many names that it probably wasn't their real one. But it was the one that came up most in your dreams. 

As if it caught onto the tense atmosphere, the wind abruptly stopped blowing. You barely noticed it, focused on the horror shining in the man's eyes. He couldn't believe what you had just said. His piercing eyes analyzed every inch of you with a newfound distrust. 

“Nobody should be able to-” He interrupted himself with a gasp. Recognition flashed across his face. "Wait. You...!"

His face went from surprise to disgust in the blink of an eye. You had barely the time to react before he pulled his hat down over his head, his scowl peeking from behind the rim.

"Of course fate would string something like this..." He let out a bitter laugh. "Has it ever made anything easy for me?"

You watched as crossed his arms, lifting his head to glare at you as if you had purposely wronged him. You tried to appease him by apologizing. "Sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Despite your question, you knew you had done nothing worth this cold attitude. You didn’t know why he was overreacting, why he was looking at you like dirt under his soles.  It’s as if he was personally offended by your description of the Balladeer. You blinked as pieces fell into place. An Inazuman with a strange hat and dark hair, just like the one you were looking for. Could it be…?

"Is that you? Are you Scaram—" 

The man turned around before you could finish your sentence, the blue fabric tied to his hat smacking you in the face. You yelped in pain.

"Don’t use this name." You couldn't see what kind of expression he was making but his flat tone told you enough.

You were standing in front of the protagonist of your dreams.

Reality shattered around you. There were only two reasons for your dreams to be visions of the past. You either were a seer —which was unlikely considering you had no elemental affinity— or you were using your soulmate link. Realization sank in. You had a soulmate. Everything finally clicked together: why you had Scaramouche's memories, why he recognized you, why you never stopped having those dreams… It was because the universe had deemed you a perfect fit.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears. You were not an anomaly without a soulmate, like you were led to believe. You just didn't pay attention to the signs.

"Wait a minute," you gasped. No matter how happy you were about your discovery, it came a lot of terrible implications. "Does it mean that everything is real? The Fatui, the taking over Sumeru part, everything ?" 

Kunikuzushi immediately clammed up. Not even bothering to look at you, he said without a trace of emotion. "This conversation is over."

Strong wind currents flared all around you with him acting as the epicenter of the small storm he invoked. You stared at him with wide eyes. He was getting away! 

"Please!"

You grabbed his sleeve and tugged hard, adrenaline pumping through your veins. The man gave you the dirtiest glare from above his shoulder as the miniature hurricane intensified. But you didn't let him go. You sank your nails deeper into his arm.

"Listen to me!” you said through gritted teeth. “I'm not gonna pretend I know everything about you because that's not true. I only know glimpses of you. Parts of your past that don't make any sense." 

You closed your eyes as the memories flooded your mind. The Gnosis, the laboratory, the crushing sound as he fell down... You didn't understand what those events meant to him. What kind of story they told. It was like you were in front of an incomplete puzzle where all edge pieces went missing. It was impossible to get the big picture no matter how many combinations you tried.

That didn’t mean the little bits of memories you had taught you nothing about him.

"You were hurt. That much is certain."

Your words only rekindled the fire of his ire. He bared his teeth at you. “Huh?! Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?” He stabbed your chest with his finger, forcing you to take a step back. “Seeing glimpses of my past doesn’t give you the right to assume things about me, you worm.”

"But it’s not an assumption. You lived a very long and lonely life. A bloody one too.” You briefly wondered if contrary to you, he had grown accustomed to seeing his hands covered in crimson. You let out a shaky exhale. “But you cannot talk about your life to anyone. No one would believe you if you talked about the Sixth Harbinger of the Fatui or what you were doing centuries ago."

You had the experience to back yourself up. You still weren't sure what the Fatui thing was all about but if you could barely believe it after seeing his memories firsthand, no one else could.

"See, you’re just assuming things again out of pity," Scaramouche snapped. He tore himself from your grasp, sneering. "Guess what? I don't need you to feel sorry about me."

You shook your head. "I wasn't about to."

You were never going to forget the feeling of blood on your hands, the crackling of electricity as you saw someone charred alive, the coolness of a cadaver against your skin. You couldn't bring yourself to feel sorry for this man. It wasn't what someone like him sought. 

Pity was for those forced to live under the ruling of unfairness, not able to object to its cruel laws. Forgiveness was for those that were mothered by this tyrant and dedicated their life to preach its teachings. For now, the Balladeer deserved none of them.

When you opened your eyes, Scaramouche had tipped his hat down, obscuring his expression. His grip on his crossed arms was so tight you thought he was going to break his fingers. 

"You don't understand. You can't understand."

His voice was lower than earlier, almost like a growl. 

It wasn't enough to scare you.

"You're right," you admitted. "I cannot understand you. But I really want to." 

Maybe it was because you knew him on a deeper level than a stranger, but something had changed. You were starting to notice it. The hurt he masked behind a veil of fury. Until his words, you thought he was just an eternally angry man, bitter at the world and at his fate. Now, you wondered if he was just someone who lived through too much. Someone who was ready to beg and kill himself for a glimpse of a better future.

He snorted, disbelief written across his face. “A human like you, understanding someone like me? Don’t make me laugh.” He leaned towards you. You fought the urge to take a step back, withholding his stare with all of the courage you could summon. His mouth contorted into a twisted smile. “You’ve seen what I am capable of. Not only are you fundamentally unable to relate to a fraction of my existence, you’re also unable to withstand it. Understanding me will only bring you trouble.”

“You already do.” Scaramouche didn't utter a word, turning his back to you. You didn't let it get to you, instead squeezing your hand against your chest. "I spent my life stuck with visions I couldn't control. Seeing your memories at random moments robbed me from precious moments with the people I love. From enjoying a normal life, one where I don’t have to fear falling asleep."

Your hands were shaking. Whether from anger or sorrow, you didn’t know. Scaramouche was the one assuming things. You may only be a human, one similar to thousands that have come before you, but you knew how it felt to be misunderstood. How it felt not to belong. Nobody had believed you for decades, nor understood why you were so uncomfortable when it came to sleeping. Even your friends couldn’t wrap their heads about your constant worry of getting lost in the daydreaming. You might as well have been from a different species.

You took a deep exhale. Your anger faded away as quickly as it came. "I feel close to you, no matter how strange it sounds. You've always been a small part of me.” Determination seeped through your tone. “So I won't be able to move on as long as I don't know what's going on with my soulmate."

Soulmate. The word rolled strangely on your tongue. It was the first time you were saying it out loud.

Scaramouche gagged at your word choice. "I'm not looking for a lover." Disgust laced his voice. Seems like you were not the only one who felt weird about the whole situation. 

You shook his concern with a wave of the hand. "Me neither. I'm looking for an explanation. A timeline in a chronological order, if possible." 

Your attempt at a joke fell flat as silence fell between the two of us. Your face shifted into a frown. Had you been too insistent? 

"It's alright if you find the situation strange," you said, trying to save the conversation. "I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that you saw glimpses of my life. This is quite embarrassing...."

You didn't have the most exciting life but there were private moments you wanted nobody to see. Especially not your soulmate. 

He shot you an uninterested look, examining the dirt beneath his nails. "I could not care less about your mundane life."

You blinked. You didn't expect him to get interested in your life as much as you were in his, but was that supposed to be comforting? Unsure how to respond, your face contorted into a polite smile.

None of you said a word after that. You didn't dare move either. Weariness taking over you, you watched as the back of his hair fluttered in the breeze, joining the hypnotizing dance of the blue ribbons. The sound of animated conversations and the ringing of distant bells filled the otherwise tense silence.

You were about to leave when Scaramouche let out the heaviest sigh known to mankind. He finally turned to you, uttering a single word. 

"Wanderer."

Whatever you were expecting him to say, it wasn't that. "Come again?" 

He rolled his eyes but repeated it anyway. "Wanderer. That’s my name. Not Scaramouche or whatever name you heard in my memories." 

You felt your entire face lit up. You could recognize an olive branch when you saw one. "I won't call you anything else, I promise!"

He sighed at your sudden excitement, shaking his head. You were starting to recognize when he was truly irritated and when he was acting annoyed by habit. This time, the look in his eyes didn't match his bored pout. It was not soft by any means, but he did not glare daggers at you anymore.

"I still don’t think someone like you can handle the tale of centuries of existence.” He clicked his tongue. “That being said, I suppose it would be entertaining to see you try. Come to the entrance of Sumeru city in two hours."

Your eyes widened. You thought that you wouldn’t get more than his name, and now he gave you the opportunity to explain his life ? You had half the mind to pinch yourself awake.

"Don't be late Wanderer!" 

He scoffed, readjusting the position of his ginormous hat. “If I were, you'd scream my name in the streets of Sumeru until you get ahold of me. No thanks."

"I wouldn't do that!"

"Oh, really?" A smug smirk took place on his lips. He cleared his throat before taking a high-pitched voice. " 'Hey, you with the hat, stop right there ! I really want to talk to you! Stop, I say !' "

You gasped in shock. "So you actually heard me! Do you not stop when someone calls you?"

"I do. I just don't typically talk to pipsqueaks."

His grin deepened at seeing your offended expression. He even let out a short laugh. You playfully punched the cheeky bastard on the shoulder, not putting much force in the blow. 

Wanderer didn't budge. He instead grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from him. His eyebrows were pinched together in irritation. "Don’t think you can punch me and get out unscathed, kid."

Despite his words, his grasp on you was light, as if he was careful not to hurt you. It was easy to slip from his hold. He was entertaining you, you realized. Considering how harsh he had been when you first had tried to touch him, a light scold was nothing. 

Mimicking a fighting stance, you started shifting your weight from left to right.

"You're the one who's gonna bite the dust! I can knock out someone with a single blow!" You punched the air to demonstrate, a smile blooming on your face. "I can take anyone in a fight!" 

Wanderer pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated by your playful attitude. "Celestia above, not another Childe..."

You pouted at his words. "Are you calling me a child again? I'll let you know that I'm a fully-fledged adult!" You may not be as old as the immortal puppet but you were no kid by human standards. You were only teasing Wanderer because you needed something light after your heavy talk. He couldn’t base his whole perception of you on a speech stemming from your sleep-deprived self…

He clicked his tongue in his mouth before looking at you directly in the eyes. "You talk big for someone I've seen fall in the stairs several times."

Horror washed over you. Every little embarrassing moment you lived flooded your mind. The fact that Wanderer had seen some of them sent warmth pooling in your cheeks. 

"You said you didn't care about my life!" you said, absolutely mortified. 

"It doesn't mean watching you was not mildly entertaining. Why would I focus on boring Fatui politics talk when I could be the witness to the mess of your teenage years?” Your expression was decomposing by the second, to his delight. "I especially liked it when—"

You cut him off with a nervous laugh. "Alright, alright, I get it. Aren't you busy?" 

His gaze fell into a small pouch at his sides. "I do, actually. Buer must be looking for me."

"Buer? Who's that?" You didn't remember hearing this name in his memories.

"The Dendro Archon," he said like it was the most obvious thing on Teyvat. 

"...Right. Of course.”

Maybe you were a bit too optimistic about his ability to open up to you.

Wanderer couldn't believe himself. Three betrayals should have been enough to teach him that closeness only brought pain. Whether because of misunderstandings, lies or the unpredictable and unescapable scythe of Death, the ending was always the same: he was fated to end up hurt. Alone. Cursing himself for loving too much.

He snorted. He knew all of that and yet here he was, wrapping his job up before his meeting with you. How pathetic.

Part of him was not surprised about this new twist of events. Fate liked to throw him in the most ironic situations. He was currently going on errands for Buer, the same Archon he had tried to supplant her months ago and who took him prisoner. Randomly meeting his soulmate in the middle of the streets was not the most unexpected thing to have happened to him. Far from it. At that point, he was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.

When Wanderer entered the sanctuary of Surasthana, the Archon was sitting on her swing, humming to herself. The melancholic tune didn’t sound familiar but the lyrics in old Sumerian sang the tale of a love long gone. If he rolled his eyes at the song choice, he was polite enough to wait until the end of the song before clearing his throat.

Buer perked up, finally noticing him. She jumped from the swing and greeted him with a small wave.

"Hat guy!" He cocked an eyebrow at the oh so creative sobriquet, making her giggle. "I’m glad to see you. I was starting to think that you had forgotten about me."

"As if my memory would get faulty. I was held up by someone." Holding his hat to pin it into place, he sat on the lush grass. Reunions with Buer always took a while. He might as well make himself comfortable. 

Familiar curious green eyes landed on him. "Was it a friend from the Akademiya?"

He rolled his eyes. "I had never seen them before."

He had expected this flow of questions. Buer was very invested in his relationships with other people– well, rather his lack of. She had made him participate in social events like the Interdarshan championship to socialize. She even enrolled him in the Akademiya. Her argument was that it would help him understand humanity better, as well as himself. 

The results were arguably mixed. Wanderer admittedly tolerated people a bit better than before. They were predictable creatures but they could be entertaining. Sometimes. On the other hand, he had not grown close to anyone since he started attending classes. Sure, some students followed him around, gushing about the mysterious “hat guy” and throwing a birthday party for him, but he would not call them friends. They were classmates at most. It was for the best: it didn’t matter if Buer claimed he was progressing regarding socialization, talking to him was an experience he wished on no one.

She didn’t seem to agree with him. Excitement and pride shone in her eyes. "Every stranger is a friend in potentiality. That is what makes new meetings so exciting: you might be talking to your new favorite person in Teyvat," she beamed, taking place near him. 

"If you say so." 

Friendship was a human concept. Something he could neither fully understand or get. Melodramatic speeches and lengthy explanations meant nothing to him. That is why Wanderer didn’t try to counter her argument. There was no point in talking about something he knew nothing about.

What he did know was that Buer was wrong. You were no stranger to him.

His gaze fell to his hands. The first time he had seen your memories, Scaramouche had thought he was defective. He had never been able to dream until then. His creator didn’t see the interest in allowing him to do so. The only reason he knew what dreams were was because Niwa liked to recount his when they worked together in the forge. 

One second he was lying down in the laboratory of the Fatui, the other he was in a small bed. Piles of toys were scattered around him, decorating what seemed to be a child’s bedroom. Why on Teyvat was he here? Scaramouche tried to move his arm but it did not move an inch. He cursed under his breath. For some reason, his body refused to listen to him. If it was Il Dottore’s scheme, the man was dead.

Without a warning, his head turned. He was greeted by the reflection of a small child in the mirror of the wardrobe. You.

His mind had been pure madness when he had come back to his senses. He had the time to zap five machines before the Doctor arrived, complaining that his research was being destroyed. The Tsaritsa, the stars, fate itself... He had cursed everything he could think of for giving him a soulmate. There was no other reason behind his sudden ability to “dream”. Fate had decided to intertwine your destinies together. The thought only made him more angry.

He couldn't be mad at the child you were, though. You were barely five. No matter how much of an unfeeling person he was, Scaramouche was not about to hold the situation against someone as young as you. A small part of him, one he had tried to bury for centuries, had even ached to hold your chubby hands in his when he had seen you reach for your reflection.

With the impossibility of breaking a soulmate bond, the Fatui Harbinger had been forced to watch you as you grew. He learnt about your favorite color, the school subject you liked best, the names of your childhood friends, the color of your bedroom, all the details of your ordinary life. He was a spectator to mundane moments, to victories and horrific failures alike.

You had transformed from a kid with shining eyes to a determined adult before his eyes.

If Buer was right and that all friends started as strangers, it meant that you would never be able to grow close to him. You already knew him.

Wanderer plucked a few strands of grass, watching how they fell to the ground. No, hoping for you two to be friends was wishful thinking. You had seen the atrocities he had done as a Fatui Harbinger. Once he filled the gap in your knowledge, you would not want anything to do with him. His erasure from existence didn’t excuse the actions of his past life.

He would not blame you. He deserved your hate. At the end of the day you were another name on the endless list of his victims. Because of your soulmate link, you had lived your entire life plagued by visions you didn't understand, othered because of things out of your control. You were the proof that Wanderer brought suffering just by existing. That he wasn't a fundamentally good person, like the one Buer and Traveler insisted he was. You had every right to loathe him.

That was why he accepted your offer. If he explained everything to you, if he confirmed that every "dream" of yours was true, you would move on. You would forgive Fate for giving you such an unloving person as a soulmate. Maybe you would even want to settle down with someone else... At the end of the day, you'd be free from the chain of destiny. So would he.

The world would let him do a good thing, for a change. 

"While it's true that talking it out will appease both of your minds, you shouldn't only see them as a way to atone for the sins of your past life," Buer intervened. 

Wanderer gave her an unimpressed look, throwing away the rest of the grass strands. "One day, you will have to answer for all of those breaches of privacy before the General Mahamatra."

"Talking about your thoughts with someone else can help you sort them out and gain new insight. I felt like you could benefit from it."

Her growing smile told him that she didn't feel sorry for reading his mind without his consent. He huffed. She was lucky he had grown accustomed to this habit of hers.

She hummed as she stepped in front of him. "Agreeing to a meeting to ease your guilty conscience is not a bad thing in itself. The problem is that you’re assuming that they can only hate you."

“What other reaction could they have?” The answer appeared in his mind before he finished his sentence. “Pity?” Pronouncing the word made his insides hurl. Wanderer would rather feel your wrath than your pity. The former didn’t feel as disgusting as the other;

Buer shook her head. “That’s not it either. It’s alright if you don’t yet understand Wanderer, you will see in due time.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. He preferred it when she used complex metaphors. At least he had the opportunity to understand what was going on in her mind, contrary to when she used vague words of wisdom like a drowsy prophet.

"If I can give you one more piece of advice, you should give this relationship a chance." Seeing his scowl of disgust, she explained herself. "I'm not telling you to pursue a romance with them. Just don't assume that tonight is the only time you meet. Keep your mind and your heart open."

Despite her smile, she had a serious look in her eyes. It was the face of wisdom in all of its assured glory. Wanderer closed his eyes. It was easy for him to forget she was not a young child, like the one he took care of all those centuries ago. 

"There is a reason why they're your soulmate," Buer said. "Don't you want to discover why?" 

"Someone like them has nothing in common with me." 

Your memories told the tale of a simple life. In an ideal world, a normal person like you wouldn't have been paired up with him. How it happened in this one was a mystery. If he was inclined to pity others, Wanderer would feel bad for you. Being his soulmate only brought you experiences that you couldn’t talk about to anyone.

“You cannot talk about your life to anyone. No one would believe you if you talked about the Sixth Harbinger of the Fatui or what you were doing centuries ago.” Their hands shook as they lifted their head to meet his gaze. He stilled. He had expected to read loneliness and fire in their eyes. He only found the glow of loneliness. It was the same he had seen in your reflection all those years ago.

Wanderer hid his face behind his hand. He supposed he was wrong. He could see a few ressemblances between you and him. That didn’t necessarily mean you would become friends.

"Don't expect too much from this meeting. I only plan on retelling my story, not on learning more about them."

Gentle hands covered his, pulling them away from his face before lightly squeezing them.

“You don’t need to. You already know them better than anyone else.” Buer's voice was as soft as her expression.

He opened his mouth but no snarky counter-argument came to his mind. From what little insight Wanderer had gained on friendship over the course of his life, sharing experiences with a potential friend wasn’t enough. You also had to learn about the other person's personality, their taste, the little things they did… Such a process was too much work for a relationship that would eventually decay. But the man already knew you, more intimately than any person ever would.

If to be friends was to learn about someone, he had become yours a long time ago.

Wanderer fought the urge to shield his face behind his hat. It would be as good as admitting to Buer her words had struck a chord. No way he would embarrass himself like that.

“You're not going to give up, are you?" he sighed.

“While I do hope you will form a bond with them, I will not hold it against you if it doesn’t happen.” She took some time to think, trying to come up with a convincing imagery. “Fate is a tricky concept. It steers you in a specific direction but it cannot force you to follow it. No matter what, you can always make your own way.”

He let the words sink in as he laid down on the cool grass. From the Sanctuary, he could hear the entire city’s hustle and bustle. The sound of the streets mixed with the chirping of the birds and the rustle of the wind through the branches.

He felt Buer sitting next to him. Her voice interrupted his quiet reverie, sounding cheekier than usual.

"Don't I deserve something in return for my good advice?"

Her eyes were focused on the small pouch hanging at his side.  He had forgotten about it, their conversation had distracted him. Wanderer shook his head in defeat. The Archon didn’t need to use her mind-reading powers to know about the actions of her subjects. 

“If you want to be paid for giving lectures, you should think about becoming a teacher at the Akademiya.”

“I would deprive someone from the joy of educating young minds.”

His lips curled into a grin. “Right. Poor them.”

Feeling her gaze on him, he relented. He unclipped the package from his belt and gave it to her, not bothering to sit back up. Buer tried to open it carefully. It was so full that in spite of her efforts, morsels of candied Ajilenakh nuts spilled on the ground.

Wanderer frowned at the sight of the mess. Something churned inside him. If he had known it would be wasted, he wouldn’t have bought so much food.

“Be more careful,” he chastised her. “It’s expensive.”

Buer shot him a perplexed look. He scoffed in response, averting his gaze. 

"I didn't buy them. The merchant gave free samples to bystanders and he couldn't take no for an answer."

Another white lie from him. He had noticed that Buer didn't have much candy left and since he had to go to the Bazaar anyway, he had decided to buy some. He watched as she inspected a piece of candy, rolling it between her fingers. He didn't get why she was head over heels for those disgustingly sweet nuts but he had to keep her in good spirits. Otherwise, she might decide to lock him back in his cell. That and seeing her smile so much sent warmth running in his chest. 

Her eyes crinkled, amused. "A free sample? How nice," she said, popping one of the delicacies in her mouth. He supposed there was no fooling the Archon of Knowledge. She pointed at him. "Your friend hasn't had the opportunity to try food from Sumeru, have they? You could bring them to Lambad’s and keep some of the Ajilenakh nuts to snack on."

“We have other things to do than distract ourselves with culinary tourism.”

“It’s not a distraction! See it as a bonding experience that will allow you to grow closer.”

He arched a brow, unimpressed. “As if I needed something like this to become their friend.”

He stopped after his own sentence. He blinked, not believing what he had just said.

Wanderer didn't know how he ended up in this situation. Truly. He was never one to let Fate decide for him. He defied it at each opportunity, fighting with all he had. This shouldn't have been any different. He was a traveler, an outcast, an outsider. He had no use for a soulmate– a lover. Especially not a human one, one that would be gone in a blink of his immortal life. 

He had no use for a lover, but he supposed that if he had to befriend a single person in the world, it may as well be you.

If you liked this work, please reblog and leave a comment or an ask!

[majeoeje]

Start over

Megumi x reader (male implied reader)

I wished we were two other people more times than everytime you had forgotten about me

"You have really pretty lashes"

Megumi has heard you uttered these words countless of times before, at first he didn't harbor a lot of opinion on this, but now it serves as a painful reminder that he had to start over with you once again. But even now he can't comprehend how to respond other than a simple thank you

"You're Fushiguro right?"

"That's correct"

here we go again, he thought

"It's nice to meet you, i hope we can get along" you gave a lazy smile before entering your shared dorm room, all beat up from your previous fight as if it was just another day.. well you pretend that it was everytime because what else can you do? You once had told him

"Yeah...it's nice to meet you too" he told you. As if he was in a same play for who knows how many times

Megumi had lost count on how many times you had introduced yourself to him, he knew everything about you. Yet you're here asking about his name once again. Your cursed technique is the one to blame for this strange dynamic

That being said, your curse technique transfers memories into curse energy and a technique which grant their wielder the power to imbue a weapon of their choice with curse energy and a guarantee that it would cut anything as if it wasn't there

A cheap cost to pay for power, some would say. But he always watches the fear in your eyes everytime it has to come down to it, afraid you might use it too much to the point you'll forget how to breath.

Afraid...yes you were always afraid. Afraid that your life would succumb to nothing but blank pages of nothing. To the point you'd write every last detail of your day until late at night so that at least your days could amount to something. Even if it were as simple as you went outside and train like how you usually do.

"I'm kind of hungry, you got anything to eat?" You said perking up your head from the non-fiction book you curiously skimmed up from Megumi's bookshelve trying to gather information from the stranger in front of you

"Gojo-sensei dropped some apples earlier, suit yourself" he said pointing to a basket from the corner of his desk remembering how the unusual white haired man hasn't change over the years

"Well don't mind me" you say, picking one up before looking for a something on your side of the room

You didn't have to go through a lot before Megumi tapped you on the shoulder making you face him

"Looking for this?" He pointed to a small knife on his hand

"Oh thanks a lo-"

you didn't even finished your sentence before he took the apple from your hand

"Your hand's fractured, Miss shoko said you shouldn't try to move it a lot in the mean time"

He said, pulling a nearby chair before he started to peel the apple for you. Just how you liked it.. a prefrence that has never changed no matter how many times you've erased your memories

"Aye you did it in one peel, impressive" you commented "How'd you know that i like my apples peeled?"

"You made me do it for you for months when you broke 7 bones on your body" he said handing you the peeled fresh fruit

"Eh, really? Tell me about it" you rested your hand on your desk as you sat comfortably on your chair as if you were getting ready to catch up to an old friend after not meeting them for years. And despite how bad he think his storytelling abilities was, Megumi couldn't disappoint that glimmer in your eyes, never.

"That day you saved me from a first grade curse" he started, as you bit into your freshly peeled apple

"you used up your curse technique to the point you forgot how to wield your weapon"

Megumi was not one to run his mouth, he preferred to listen most of the times. But in times like this, he feels the need to encapture every detail about that period of time as much as possible. And in turn, you'd listen to his voice, tuning in his gentle tone. Perhaps you got distracted at some point but that is surely not your fault

"We must've been pretty close" you grinned, hearing him finished his story

"We were"

You were practically attached to the hip from middle school, so it'd be a lie to say you weren't. But on the darkest pit of his heart he still wished you two was so much more even after knowing you like the back of his hand. How you'd swing your weapon in such way as if you were a dancer, how you'd give a lame excuse on how you peeled too much orange or apples just to get him to eat , how you purposely talk to him to keep him out just to watch a horror movie program in the middle of the night, how you'd play your music loud enough to cause hearing problems when he's not at the dorm, how he knew that you were just assigned a roomate to exploit your Curse technique, how disconnected you truly are from the world, how you'd laugh, how you'd cry, how your skin would make him shiver everytime it touches his

There was never enough of you for him really. Yet he'd wished for the impossible everytime

"So..what's your curse technique?" You asked and he would always answer

Just what was one more start?

[becasworldsstuff]

Can i please request a romantic Simon Basset x OC/reader fic? Simon being completely in love with her since they were young, but since his father told him to go away, they separated. They met again.

-> Pairings: Simon basset x reader

-> warnings: none

Simon basset and miss l/n had always been friends, thing caused by her bubbly nature that could outshine the sun even in an August day. She was the only one with whom he could talk without stuttering, he felt at ease and nothing could really make him sad if she was near him. Her presence as a reminder that not all in life was sad and angry at him, that not everyone was disappointed in him, on the contrary she never made him feel bad about himself.

When the old duke of Hastings sent his son away due to the problems he was causing to his own mental health, the two were separated, nothing in means of letters or visits between the two for years if not the memories captured together and the burning sensations in the part of their body that the other touched, or the single pink flower dried out inside Skmon's favorite book that she gifted him as a reminder of the beauty hidden behind fragilness. Both the young hearts were left shattered thinking they would never see each other ever again.

But in his drawer were piled up letters written in his best calligraphy and on the best paper money could buy, for his best friend and little piece of heaven, who had been his own safe place in the mess his childhood had been.

It was her who motivated him enough to return to his old house when the man died, and he found her on the steps of his big place, with glimmering eyes and the brightest smile that ever existed. He stopped in front of her with his mouth that had gone dry, she had grown into the most exquisite young lady he had ever seen or imagined to lay eyes on, his eyes widened and his hands were begging for something to grasp onto to not loose balance while she watched him, she took one step forward and his heart skipped a beat. Even if he only realized now he could pinpoint her as the only woman in his life to which he could ever truly love, but he stayed silent, catching up with her like old times, not stuttering like when they were just little kids playing in the garden not caring about duties.

The days passed and the season started, now miss l/n obviously came from a very wealthy family and her kindness and beauty were known upon the society, but this was her first season, and her older brother and father refused to give away such a perfect girl to anyone so, when they catched up with the Duke longing stares they decided to talk to him, a man of honor, well bred, wealthy. Simon never in his life thought that he deserved for his dreams to become reality but he knew he was a duke and her best solution to this world of strange couples, so he was the one to go talk to her father, asking him her hand in marriage and bowing down on one knee with watering eyes as he proclaimed his love to her:

" never had I ever experienced such strong emotions nor strange feelings, my stomach flutters and my troath goes dry as if I was denying myself with water for you, you make my heart stop and the dream of seeing you walk down the aisle to me has been my favorite image for my life. So please accept my undying love for you because I cannot breathe if I'm not near you, neither I can eat or drink or sleep away from you, you are my sun and my moon and every single star in the sky, my whole body was created to match yours and my core only exists to love you and adore you, you make me burn like I was in a fire that cannot die. So please do me the honor and let me make you the duchess of Hastings "

Her response was awaited from the ball room that had just seen him pacing in front of the doors before barging in and stopping the dance that was occurring at the time, she held her breath and nodded slowly while forcing herself to blink as I'd to make herself realize that that moment was true.

[babyleostuff]

fight for my life | xu minghao

warnings | anxiety, depression and real life

author's note | this is very much self indulgent and i just want to say to every person that is struggling as well - i'm so proud of you and know that your life is always worth fighting for

Breath in. Breath out.

It never helped, but you did it anyway. There were seemingly hundreds of ways to calm your racing heartbeat, so why did nothing help then? 

There was nothing pretty about anxiety and depression - your greasy hair, eyebags, the unwashed t-shirt which you were wearing for the past week and dishes laying in your sink, waiting to be put in the dishwasher, proved the point that you were not okay. 

All you wanted was to slowly fade away, from the pain, from the disappointment - from everything that made you so miserable, because how were you supposed to be happy, when you didn’t even find comfort in that one place which always made sure you were feeling even a bit better. 

Minghao’s arms, even though they held you as they had done a million times before, felt strange, the usual warmth of his body feeling distant, his lips pressed against your forehead were merely an insignificant touch and the fabric of his hoodie icky against your own skin.

“I’m here,” a quiet voice that you knew so well - that used to sing you to sleep, laugh at your jokes and tease you with no end, whispered into your ear, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“No matter what’s going in that pretty head of yours, I’m staying with you,” he whispered again, combing through your tangled hair. 

“Is he even real?” You thought to yourself. Because what have you done to deserve such an amazon human being, to be able to call him your boyfriend, your safe space and your best friend. Most people would leave the second they saw any symptoms of depression, but he didn’t. 

He stayed. 

“I’m sorry,” your own voice quivered, as you reached for his hand, trying to find a way to ground yourself, to get back to reality. 

The reality of your beautiful apartment, where you were laying on the sofa that you were fighting so much about before actually buying it (Minghao didn’t really like the colour, but he eventually gave in to your begging), the lit candles that stood on every surface possible, because it always calmed Minghao down, his paintings hung on the wall and pictures of him and the boys framed, never failing to make your heart feel a bit warmer. 

You knew how many good, no - great memories this house held, yet you couldn’t get yourself to focus on any of them. You knew how life worked, that it was like a sine wave, constantly going up and down. 

It just seemed that your down was bigger than usual. 

“You don’t even realise how strong you are, my love. How brave you are for fighting,” he held your body closer to his own. “You’re brave for fighting for your life,” Minghao whispered, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. 

Maybe he was right, you weren’t sure. Because, what kind of a fight was that? You were laying in your bed all day, not being able to focus on anything more than your daunting thoughts, that seemed to destroy every single precious thing. 

“No matter how bad you think it is,” his calm voice broke the silence once again. “It is going to be alright,” he stroked your cheek with his thumb, his eyes holding nothing but love and admiration for you. Because to him, you were the most courageous person he knew and he was so proud of you. 

Mingaho could spend an eternity laying with you on that damn couch, holding you, stroking your hair, whispering into your ear - just for you to find your happiness again and see your beautiful smile on your face. Even the smallest one. 

“Trust me, eventually it will get better.” 

And that was what you were holding onto. 

taglist (if you want to be added, check my masterlist): @weird-bookworm @sea-moon-star

[gatorbites-imagines]

Jason Vorhees with Male Childhood best friend (preferably POC). They meet each other again after decades only for them to try and kill each other because they don't recognize each other. But make them have a happy ending because happy = : D

Jason Voorhees x male reader

Headcanons

I always try to keep my stories open so anyone can imagine the reader as whatever race or appearance they have, unless I state otherwise (like when I make the reader taller, etc), so I didn’t change much in this to make the reader POC, so I hope that’s okay ^^

I headcanon that Jason is nonverbal so there’s mentions of signing in this. I may have gone a little further than childhood best friends, but I hope that’s okay anyways :)

-          You and Jason met at Camp Crystal Lake when you were children. You had always been a little strange, liking to be alone and spend time reading and alike than going out and causing messes like other kids.

-          This caused you to be quite isolated during camp, and you spent most of your time indoors, sitting near the cabins or up against trees, or sitting in the lunch area with Pamela Voorhees who worked at the camp to watch over her son Jason.

-          Pamela liked you because you were polite and never once made rude comments or gestures at Jason, so she tried to help build a relationship between you and her son.

-          Jason was still bullied by the other kids, which was the only time you really ever talked with the others kids as you always ran in to defend him, or push over the kids who were trying to hurt Jason.

 -          As time at camp passed you started holding Jason’s hand and you two would walk together everywhere, be it sitting together as you read out loud for him, or you going with Jason down to the lake to look at the bugs and other creatures that swam around.

-          You two got quite close and you started having a childhood crush on the other boy, who was starting to have a crush on you too because of how kind you were to him.

-          One day Jason brings you some flowers he’s picked and signed to you with the few signs you knew that he liked you, and he was very much expecting you to be disgusted because you were both boys and because of his appearance.

-          So when you blushed and told him you liked him too, he was over the moon. You were still just kids at the time so you being boyfriends didn’t really mean anything. You kept up holding hands and spending time together like before, and only Pamela knew you were “dating”.

-          She thought you two were so sweet together, so she never said anything about it.

 -          The day they threw Jason into the lake was one of your worst memories. Some of the older kids had knocked you down and were holding you down as they beat on you, others going to throw Jason into the lake.

-          When Jason didn’t come up from the water you started yelling and screaming, which finally caught the attention of the camp leaders and Pamela, the older woman coming running. When she saw you being held down, covered in bruises and beaten bloody, so yelled at the bullies and sent them off to take care of you.

-          But you were too busy sobbing about Jason, pointing at the lake and telling her what they had did and that he hadn’t come out.

-          You could never remember the noises Pamela made when she believed her son had died, and you left camp that evening as the bullying so was bad and the apparent death lead to the camps closing that year and the next few years.

-          You never looked back to the camp, and as the years passed the memories of Jason became another faint memory, though you did think of the sweet boy who had brought you flowers and who was bullied just for being himself.

 -          When you heard about the killings at Camp Crystal Lake, you couldn’t have cared much since it was just a place of your past and the home of one of your worst memories.

-          But some of your coworkers or classmates knew of your past there, having heard the story of you going there when it closed down somehow, so they pressured you to go with them to explore the area.

-          You found it idiotic to go where multiple murders had happened, but you had planned on going for a little bit and sneaking away and leaving when they weren’t looking.

-          Your coworkers or classmates acted like it was some kind of ghost hunt, too busy ooing and aahing at the buildings and the lake itself, so you could easily slip away into the woods. But as you snuck away you got far enough away to not be able to hear the sounds of your coworkers or classmates being killed.

-          You ended up getting lost in the forest, cursing softly under your breath as you stomped through the undergrowth and away from where you assumed the people you had came with were too busy acting like actual murders were just a cryptid story.

-          When you got caught in a trap you immediately cursed louder, your legs being tied together and sending you falling to the leaf covered ground. You were lucky you always carried a pocket knife so you got to work freeing your legs, too busy to notice the footsteps nearing you.

 -          You had just gotten your legs free and rolled to the side just in time for a machete to slash the ground where you had just been. Your heart leapt into your throat as you snapped your eyes up to see the large hockey masked giant, covered in blood and wielding the machete he had just tried to kill you with.

-          Instead of running like other victims, to Jasons surprise you immediately went into fight mode and somehow got the machete away from him, using your pocketknife to fight him off.

-          Your fighting continued, ending with you both on the floor with you pressed down against the wet forest floor with Jasons hulking frame above you with his large hands wrapped around your throat and squeezing, trying to choke you to death.

-          You choked and wheezed, clawing at his hands and arms to try and free yourself as you had lost your knife somewhere during the fight. How great that you would die in the exact same forest as Jason.

-          At some point you wheezed that you wouldn’t die here like Jason did, to which Jason immediately loosened his hands in confusion as you knew his name. Using his surprise you nail him right in the face, making him stumble just enough to be able to flip yourself around and struggle to your feet, still weak from almost being suffocated to death.

-          You raise shaky fists Infront of yourself as Jason slowly gets to his feet, but he doesn’t come at you again like before, instead he slowly tilts his head and looks at you more deeply, letting his eyes run all over your face and body as if trying to place you.

 -          When he suddenly twitches and straightens up you tighten your muscles and get ready to fight more, even though you feel like your okay to pass out.

-          That’s when Jason lifts his large, scarred hands and starts signing, moving faster than your way out of training brain can keep up with. That along with the horrible headache you were sporting made it impossible to understand him.

-          Seeing your struggle he slows his signing down, and uses a special sign he had made up to refer to you instead of having to sign your name. That was a sign you could recognize as only Jason used that when you were children, so you look at the killer with confusion.

-          When he signs it again and then signs his own name, you wheeze out a confused “Jason?” to which he happily nods. You are sure you must be dreaming or hallucinating, as you give a confused chuckle, the adrenaline in your body finally plummeting and making you pass out.

-          Jason lurches forwards and catches you, cradling you softly in his arms as if you are a fragile flower. He knows it’s a bad idea to bring you back to his own home, so he takes you to the tree you two always sat at as children and lays you down after checking to make sure you aren’t too banged up.

-          He quickly goes to clean himself up as much as he can with what he has, and goes out of his way to pick the same flowers he gave you as children to bring back to you.

 -          When you wake up alive and not dead, you lay in confusion for a while still feeling quite bad after almost being choked to death, and the shock that goes through your body as you notice Jason’s shape sitting in front of you immediately snaps you awake.

-          You try to back up only to hit the tree, which makes you finally realize where you are. That’s when Jason holds out the flowers to you, almost shyly, and it reminds you so much of that time he gave them to you as kids.

-          You can only stare at him in confusion for a while, the soft flicker of affection flaring up in your heart as if being revived from all those years ago.

-          When you don’t react or accept the flowers, Jason seems to curl in on himself a little, the hand holding the flowers lowering and he seems almost ashamed or regretful. So when you push yourself up and wrap your arms around you almost carefully, he makes a soft noise but soon returns the hug.

-          He hugs you very carefully, as if scared he will hurt you or break you in some way, but he holds you so dearly. He makes soft noises as if to tell you how much he’s missed you since you were the only one his age that ever treated him kindly.

-          You both just keep sitting there and holding each other, and at some point your position changes to you sitting in his lap and leaning against his chest as you arms are still around each other. You haven’t asked how he’s still alive or why he does what he does, but that doesn’t matter right now, you can always ask him that later.

-          All that matters is that he’s still alive and seems to still care about you in some way. So, you sit, watching the moonlight dance across the lake and the beautiful stars, held close to the chest of the man who was once your best friend. He was much larger and much more dangerous than before, but he still felt just like the Jason you remembered.

[youre-a-total--poser]

Need Her Back (Request)

Warnings: slight mention of blood loss to do a shooting and coma. Anymore let me know. Age: 12 Word Count: 2,956 Requests: Closed Summary: Read the request and it will explain everything Requested by: Wattpad user Date: 09/12/2023 paring: Natasha and Bucky (Eventually) A/N: Thank you for your request I hope that you like it. ---⧗---

Masterlist

James Barnes wanted nothing more than to forget his past but, unfortunately, there were two constant reminders of it.

During his time as a HYDRA soldier, he had a thing with one of the Widows at the Red Room and that widow was Natalia Alianovna Romanova.

To them, they made plans to escape and have a life together but reality wasn't like that. One thing led to another then Natalia at 16 years old, days before she was meant to go through the Red Room's graduation ceremony ended up pregnant and James never came back for her.

Nine months later Natalia gave birth to a healthy baby girl and named her Y/N. When Natalia saw her baby for the first time she knew that she had to do whatever it took to protect her and that's what she did.

It took Natalia a few years to plan and organise the perfect escape plan and thankfully it worked. Getting out of the Red Room was her main goal she didn't exactly think about what was next.

Being out in the harsh Russian winter with a toddler wasn't ideal but it was the better option.

Thankfully the young mother and her child only had to deal with the cold weather for a few days since a SHEILD agent who was sent to kill the widow made a different call and let her live most likely because he saw the young girl and he didn't want to take her mother away from her. He had a child the same age and would hate it if he lost his mother or father.

---⧗---

Months passed and Natalia got a job working with SHEILD, thanks to the man who saved her and her child otherwise known as Clint Barton, as one of their agents. She even changed her identity as a way of taking control of her life for the first time ever. She now goes by Natasha Romanoff.

When Natasha went away on missions you stayed with Clint's wife Laura and their son Cooper then after the Avengers Initiative was formed and the Stark Tower was changed to the Avengers Tower you stayed there if there was someone available to babysit you.

As the years went by Natasha was glad that she got to watch you grow in a safe place and nothing bad would happen to you she wanted nothing to change but it did something or someone changed everything.

---⧗---

Natasha had just gotten back from a long mission and you and her were sitting on the couch giggling about what you got up to when she was away when suddenly Steve and a strange man walked in.

When Natasha saw who was with Steve she stood up quickly and stared at the man in disbelief. You had never seen this man in your life but going by your mom's reaction she did.

"James?" Natasha asked confused about how the man who she thought was dead if now alive and a few feet in front of her.

When Bucky looked at Natasha in that quick second all the memories came back to him. He wanted to say so much to her but most importantly apologise for leaving her but he didn't know what to say

"Hello, Natalia." was all that he managed to say.

Natasha couldn't believe that after all those years that's all he could say to her but before she could respond she felt a touch on her arm.

"Mama?" You said looking up at your mom and then over at the man.

Bucky managed to get a good look at you and there was something familiar about you that he couldn't quite work out.

"Who's this?" Bucky asked taking a step closer to you and Natasha.

"My daughter." She replied giving you a smile and stroking your hair.

"What," Bucky mumbled to himself suddenly realising why you looked so familiar.

There was a picture of Natasha when she was younger in her file back in the Red Room that Bucky saw and the young girl standing a few feet away from him is the spitting image except that back then Natasha had short blue hair whereas you had long brown hair with a tint of orange.

Natasha placed her hands on your arms. "I need you to stay in your room for a little while okay." She moved you around slightly so you had your back towards Steve and the man then she put her hand on your back to lead you out of the room.

As you and Natasha were walking away Bucky quickly did the maths in his head. He knew that by the age of 16, the widows in the Red Room got sterilised so they couldn't have kids and it would have been 12 years since he last saw Natasha meaning that for the child to be Natasha's biological child you would have to be 12 years old.

"Wait how old are you?" Bucky called out.

"Don't answer him," Natasha said to you trying to hurry you out of the room.

"How old are you kid?" Bucky shouted.

You turned around to Bucky and shouted back "12. Now what is going on?"

"She's 12?" Bucky asked looking over at Natasha for clarification.

Natasha didn't respond but she did have a look on her face that she knew something everyone else didn't.

"Is this my daughter?" Bucky asked.

"No, my dad was a soldier he abandoned us before I was born then he died." You turned around to face your mom "That's what you told me."

"Is this my daughter?" Bucky asked again.

Natasha tucked your hair behind your ears and gently cupped your face. "Yes." She said quietly.

You turned your head to see what Bucky's reaction would be and it definitely wasn't what you were expecting he looked disappointed like he hoped the answer to his question would have been no he's not the father.

"I'm sorry I… I can't. I… just can't." He said then practically ran out of the room then Steve followed after him.

You looked up at your mom but she didn't say anything she just put her arms around you and hugged you tightly.

---⧗---

Natasha tried to get Bucky to spend time with you but every time he refused. It got to the point where whenever you walked into a room and Bucky was there he would leave to avoid having to talk to you. You then eventually stopped trying and convinced yourself that it was something that you did that caused him to want nothing to do with you.

Later that night Natasha told you that she had to go on a mission and like always you tried to stop her from going but deep down you knew that's not how it worked and she needed to go.

Nearly two weeks went by and you were getting worried. It wasn't a new thing for Natasha to be gone for weeks even months at a time but this time it was different she hadn't called to say that she was okay not even once.

It was nearly the end of week three and still nothing. The whole time you were waiting in the hangar for the QuinJet to land or your phone to ring but none of them were happening.

Just as you were about to give up and call it a night you heard the QuinJet land. You stood up and waited for your mom to walk through the doors but instead, at least four SHEILD agents were rushing into the room pushing a gurney. You couldn't make out who was lying on it till you got a glimpse of the red hair.

You couldn't be entirely sure that it was your mom that was until you reached the med bay and everyone was standing for you and that's how you knew for sure that it was your mom.

The agents pushed the gurney through a set of doors and as you went to follow them a pair of arms wrapped around you preventing you from following. No amount of squirming did any good the person who was holding you was much too strong for you to get out of their grip.

You waited and waited and paced back in forward waiting to hear any news about your mom. The wait time was so long that you ended up falling asleep on the chairs.

You got woken up by the sound of someone softly saying your name and gently shaking you.

When you opened your eyes Clint was kneeling in front of you.

"Your mom's out of surgery," Clint said.

You stood up and you followed him into the recovery room he stopped you at the door and put his hands on your shoulders.

"Listen, Y/N, before you go in there I want you to know that your mom has a tube in her throat. It might look a bit scary but it's just there to help her breathe. Okay?"

You nodded your head and Clint opened the door for you. When you walked inside the room Natasha was lying on the bed unconscious and like Clint said there was the tube in her mouth but also there were a lot of other wires attached to her. Some on her chest, some on her arm and even on her finger.

You walked over closer to her and you went to touch her but you instantly pulled your hand away.

"What happened to her?" You asked. The tears forming in your eyes.

"Let me explain." Her doctor said walking over. "During the mission, your mom got shot and due to the blood loss, she's now in a coma. Obviously, there's a lot more to it but I won't go into details."

"When will she wake up?" You asked.

"Well, we don't know for now we just have to wait for her to wake up on her own."

You placed your hand on your mom's arm on a spot that wasn't covered in wires and you started to shake her arm.

"Mama please wake up. Please mama wake up right now." You said as the tears streamed down your face. "Mama, wake up I need you. Please don't leave me alone." At this point, you were practically screaming.

The other Avengers heard you and ran inside to see what was happening.

Steve then wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you away from the bed just in case you accidentally hurt Natasha or caused a wire to fall out.

"Let me go." You screamed squirming about hoping that Steve would release you. When he let you go you ran out of the recovery room and straight to your mom's bedroom.

---⧗--- After that moment you completely shut down and spend most of your either in the recovery room by your mom's side or in her bedroom.

You even stopped speaking to nearly everyone and you had stopped doing basic things like taking showers, brushing your teeth and even eating. The only person who could really get through to you was Steve. He's been a father figure to you the whole time you've known him but not even he could make it all better.

No matter how hard everyone tried no one could get through to you. Nothing that they said or did cheered you up and they couldn't wake up the one person who would make you happy and become that happy carefree little girl that they all missed deeply.

There was only one other person who hadn't tried to cheer you up and that was Bucky. It took a lot of convincing but Steve managed to get him to go talk to you.

Bucky made his way to the May Bay and looked through the window into the recovery room where Natasha was when he saw that it was empty he walked inside the room.

He sat down on the chair beside her bed and gently took her hand. "I'm so sorry Natalia. I never should have left you in that place. If I knew that you were pregnant I would have come back for you and helped to raise the baby but honestly, I.." He got cut off by the door opening and you walking into the room.

"Sorry." You mumbled looking down at the ground.

Bucky sighed slightly and stood up "Look, I know that you probably don't want to hear this but just because your mom is in a coma doesn't mean that you should shut down completely she would want you to carry on with life."

You didn't say anything you just kept looking down at the ground.

Bucky walked over to you and put his hand on your shoulder. "Don't forget no matter what your mom will always love you and you need to continue to make her proud every day.

You didn't expect those words to be your breaking point but before you knew tears started falling down your face. "I miss my mom I just want her to come back."

When Bucky saw you crying even though it probably would have made both you and him uncomfortable he wrapped his arms around you and held you tightly. You didn't know that a hug from your father was one of the things that you were craving badly but as soon as he hugged you it caused you to cry harder.

After a few minutes of nonstop crying you finally settled down but Bucky kept hugging you. He knew that you needed this more than anything. Then suddenly you heard a voice.

"Finally." The voice said.

You looked over and saw that your mom had her eyes open and she was looking over at you and Bucky and she was smiling.

"Mama!" you gasped rushing over to her and hugging her very gently.

"I guess someone has missed me." she chuckled wrapping her arm around you.

"So much."

Bucky started to feel like he'd overstayed his welcome and turned around making his way to the door and he sneaked out of the room without anyone noticing.

---⧗---

It only took a couple of days then Natasha was up and back on her feet again.

She wanted to jump straight back into work and training but everyone had to keep reminding her that she was still recovering and that she had to take it easy.

She went round thanking everyone for taking care of her daughter but there was still one person that she had to speak to.

Bucky was in the kitchen making coffee and thankfully that was the first place that Natasha tried.

"I'm making coffee do you want one?" Bucky asked.

"Yeah, thanks," Natasha responded.

He got a cup poured the coffee and handed it to her. He gave her a slight smile picked up his coffee and walked off.

"James wait," she said.

He stopped and turned around to look at her.

"I heard what you said to me when I was in the coma and I forgive you."

Bucky's eyes widened in surprise as he processed Natasha's words. He set his coffee down on the counter and walked back towards her, his expression a mix of hope and relief.

"Natalia, I… I didn't expect you to forgive me so easily," Bucky admitted.

"You wouldn't have left if there wasn't a reasonable explanation I know that now and especially if you had known about the baby."

Bucky's voice trembled as he spoke, his eyes filled with pain. "they threatened to kill you if I didn't leave. I didn't have any other choice. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

Natasha reached out and took his hand in hers. "You're never going to lose me."

Suddenly Bucky did something that Natasha wasn't expecting.

He moved in closer to her, placed his hand on her cheek and kissed her.

Natasha was surprised at first but she didn't move or push him away instead she kissed him back.

Bucky then pulled away when he realised what he had just done. "I'm so sorry," he said looking embarrassed he was certain that Natasha didn't have those feelings for him anymore.

Natasha just chuckled and shook her head. "Don't be sorry." She put her hand on the back of his head and pushed him in close to her then kissed him again.

You then walked into the kitchen and saw them both kissing and they quickly pulled away from each other when they heard footsteps approaching

"That's so gross people eat in here you both know?" you said looking disgusted at them.

Natasha chuckled at your comment and walked over to you. "I'm sorry baby." then she hugged you. "It won't happen again."

"So are you two together now?" You asked looking up at your mother and then over at your father.

Natasha and Bucky exchanged a glance before Natasha replied, "Well we don't know yet sweetheart but you'll be the first to know. Okay?"

You nodded your head at your mom's response and didn't bring it up again till they came to you about it.

After weeks of waiting to hear a response from their parents, they finally came to you and told you that they had made the decision that they were going to get back together.

You couldn't believe it when they told you. You wanted to know your father so badly and now he was here in your life and even better back with your mom.

Now that Bucky was in life you finally got the chance to spend time with him and tell him everything about yourself something that you wanted from the moment that you found out he was your father.

[soulessjourney]

Stranger In The Shadows

Paring: Azriel x Reader (Rhysand's sister)

Word count: 1.9k

Summary: It's been almost two years since Y/N disappeared without a trace during one of her missions. Now, she suddenly reappears just outside of Velaris with no memory and a strange darkness enveloping her mind. What secrets does she now hold after her mysterious disappearance? What lies within that abyss of darkness that consumes her?

Warnings: mentions of violence, abuse, blood, injuries

Authors note:

Please bear with me as this is my first time using this website. I'm looking forward to sharing my thoughts that often keep me awake until the wee hours of the night. I thought a great way to kick off my time here is to start a series, so you can all get a glimpse of what's happening in my sleep-deprived mind.

Two years have passed. Today marks the second anniversary of your disappearance. Rhysand had dispatched you on a mission to an outpost camp due to rumors of a disturbance not far from there. However, you hadn't even reached the camp before vanishing into thin air. The Inner Circle had scoured the area for any sign of your presence, but for those two long years, they found nothing.

Arizel paced in his room, his shadows curling around him as a source of comfort. Day after day, he searched for any trace of you, only to return empty-handed each time. The Inner Circle had grown concerned about his obsession with finding you. Who could blame the male? You were his mate, the love of his life, and you had simply vanished. In his eyes, no one seemed to care, leading to countless conflicts, especially between him, Cassian, and Rhysand. Something about tonight felt different. His shadows were more alert than usual, and he had a gut feeling that something was about to happen. It was hard to determine if that feeling was good or bad.

You were the polar opposite of Azriel. You possessed a bright and caring personality, always quick to forgive. You placed others above yourself, doing everything in your power to make everyone feel welcome. Sometimes, he swore you were more related to Feyre than Rhysand, given how openly you wore your heart on your sleeve. Azriel was known for his cold demeanor and blunt comments, and you often teased that he was a perfect match for the shadows, which would lead to him moping or pouting from across the room. You never failed to bring a smile to his face; just your presence alone would make him smile like a fool.

The two of you discovered that you were mates while Rhysand was trapped under the mountain. Azriel had spent the night in your room after hearing your cries for your brother. He felt the bond snap into place the moment he heard you cling to him for dear life, begging him to stay with you. You were terrified of losing Azriel, just as you had lost Rhysand, and you felt as if you would die if Azriel went missing. Azriel subsequently confronted you about the mating bond, which you confirmed, as you had known about it before that night. Since then, the two of you have been inseparable, doing everything in your power to bring your brother back.

The day you disappeared had been complete and utter hell for Azriel. He had felt nothing through the bond, no disturbance, nothing. It was only after a few days that he realized something was wrong because no one had heard a single thing from you. That golden thread connecting the two of you had slackened, and his head felt so empty. Rhysand had tried to excuse it as you putting up walls to focus on the mission, but even Rhys knew that wasn't something you did on missions like these. You always kept your mind open to communication or hearing anything from Rhysand or Azriel. Azriel knew Rhys didn't want to admit how terrified he was of losing you, nor did he want to believe that you could simply disappear without anyone knowing. Constant fights between Azriel and Rhysand ensued, often with Cassian stepping in between them to prevent them from harming each other.

Your disappearance tore the Inner Circle apart. The cries of Mor and Feyre broke his heart when Amren told them that it was time to accept the possibility that you had died. As cold and neutral as Amren was, Azriel knew she was hurting. The bond you shared with Amren was honestly amusing. She saw you as nothing more than a little sister, way too invested in her work, and doting on her activities. Mor, on the other hand, was someone you were inseparable from. Mor knew everything about you, even things that he didn't know, and things he believed should have remained between you and Mor. Azriel saw how broken Mor was upon hearing the news of your disappearance, which only added to the pain for him and his friends.

Azriel stopped pacing the room when he felt a disturbance in the townhouse, something foreign had filled the location. Standing in the darkness of the room, he waited for any sounds of unknown footsteps, but nothing came. Azriel refused to go back to the home you two shared since the last time he was there; he almost burned the place to the ground after his last fight with Rhysand. Feyre had opened their home to him to keep a close eye on Azriel and Rhysand to prevent them from trying to kill each other whenever you were brought up in conversations.

A soft knock landed on the door, catching his attention. Moving towards the door, he opened it and looked down at a wide-eyed Feyre. Stepping aside, she entered his room and glanced around, as if checking to make sure nothing was destroyed again. "Azriel, we need to talk," she said quietly, her words almost too hushed to hear. As she turned back toward him, she motioned for him to sit in the corner chair.

Complying, Azriel sat down, ready for another discussion about his disappearance earlier. "If it's about my disappearance today, you all know the reasoning, and I don't think a lecture is needed," he grumbled, keeping his eyes away from Feyre. The lack of response prompted him to snap his eyes back to her. There was something off about her, something in her eyes that looked as if she was holding back tears or the urge to scream and break something.

Wiping her hands on her gown, she let out a shaky breath and looked at the broken male before her. "Rhysand wanted to talk to you, but after the incident last night, I thought it would be best if I talked to you," she said, her voice nervously quiet. "We received word about an unknown figure seen just east of Velaris. Rhysand and Cassian decided to investigate to give you the time you needed. They found a body there."

Azriel held his breath as she spoke. There had to be a reason they were telling him this. Could it be someone who knew your whereabouts? Someone who had seen you? After noticing the way he clung to her words, Feyre felt tears welling up in her eyes. "We found her, Azriel. We found Y/N," she sobbed, letting tears roll down her cheeks. They had found you. You were back. You had come home.

Standing quickly, the chair slammed back against the wall before Feyre stopped him. "Azriel, I can take you to her, but I have to warn you. She does not look well. She was almost unrecognizable when the boys found her. She is severely injured, and Rhysand mentioned that something felt off about her. Azriel, she may not be the same Y/N we once knew, and you need to prepare yourself for what could happen once she wakes up," she whispered, her gaze fixed on him.

Her words haunted his mind as he followed Feyre to a room tucked away at the far end of the hall, where the Inner Circle stood pacing outside the door. Just as they arrived, the door swung open, revealing Madja with Rhysand standing behind her. Azriel stepped into the room, his eyes widening at the sight before him. There you lay, blankets pulled to your shoulders as you slept. You looked so peaceful, almost lifeless. Azriel watched your chest, holding his breath, waiting for any sign of your breathing. When he saw the rise and fall of your chest, he let out a relieved sigh before Madja began talking.

"It's a miracle that she's alive. The injuries she sustained would have killed an Illyrian warrior. There are clear traces that someone healed her wounds after she had received them. Her wings are broken in a few locations, and she will be lucky if they heal correctly for her to fly again. The girl was kept on the brink of death, and she survived," Madja whispered, amazed that you had survived the obvious torture you had endured.

As Azriel stepped forward, his shadows shot around him, protecting him from getting too close to you. It was strange; his shadows had always loved surrounding you, but this time they seemed almost terrified of being near you. He felt something, something dark that clouded your mind and was nothing but a mass of darkness threatening to break free at any moment. You were a Shadow singer like him, and it was almost funny to him that fate had brought you two together. What worried him most was that there was no sign of your shadows, but he could feel the same power he held coursing through you. What had happened to you during these past few years? Why did you feel so foreign? Why were his shadows so terrified of you?

Azriel felt something inside of him break at the sight of you and your mangled wings. He knew how much you loved flying, and it would be devastating if you were unable to do so. Flying had always been therapeutic for you, a way to escape and feel the wind in your hair, to be free from responsibilities. He cherished the nights when the two of you would just soar, sharing laughter as you gazed upon the breathtaking view of the city. It was a special bond they shared, one that never failed to bring a smile to your face. Rhysand placed a comforting hand on Azriel's shoulder as he stood closer to his brother. "It'll be okay, brother. She's home now. You're by her side, and she's going to be well cared for," he said, letting his gaze rest on you.

Rhysand could only hope his words would provide some comfort to Azriel. He, too, worried that his sister might not be the same person she once was. He feared that the radiant smile she wore might no longer light up the rooms as it used to. He was terrified that you would be a mere shell of your former self, or that you would no longer know how to function. Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention as he saw you stir slightly before your eyes snapped open, and a loud scream tore through the room.

Azriel and Rhysand stepped back, shielding Madja with their bodies. Something about you appeared almost animalistic and foreign. Your eyes held no light in them, only a burning rage as darkness enveloped your body. "Y/N?" Azriel called out. Something in the room came to a halt, as if time itself had frozen. The room fell silent, and the two boys were too scared to breathe, their eyes wide with fear. Your head snapped towards them.

Something flickered in your eyes, perhaps recognition? They softened, as if you were begging for help. But in an instant, the look vanished. Instead, anger and fear filled your eyes as you pushed yourself to the edge of the bed, distancing yourself from them. Your breathing quickened as Azriel attempted another step towards you. With a snarl, you made him stop, and shadows clung to your body, as if protecting you from them. "Who are you?" you spat, keeping your eyes fixed on both of them.

Did you truly not remember who they were? They exchanged glances and then looked back at you, their faces creased with concern. In your eyes, they were strangers, and strangers you were prepared to defend yourself against.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed the first part of this series, I can't wait to begin this journey with all of you!

[crookedt44th]

JR.2 HOME AGAIN | LMH

PAIRINGS ➳ lee minho x gender-neutral reader (cora)

GENRE ➳ friends to lovers ◦ slow burn ◦ heavy angst ◦ horror ◦ psychological thriller ◦ fantasy ◦ slight humor ◦ ghosts ◦ will add more later!

WARNINGS ➳ mental issues (derealization) ◦ memory loss ◦ inappropriate language ◦ suggestive themes, but no smut ◦ death ◦ gore(?) ◦ smoking ◦ lots of drug and alcohol use ◦ cruel society ◦ adult life crisis ◦ bad life decisions ◦ religious themes ◦ class struggles ◦ hallucinations ◦ will add more later!

WC ➳ 2,000+

STATUS ➳ Ongoing.

ABOUT ➳ After dropping out of college, Cora returns home to their small town of Stormvillie with the hopes of reconnecting with their friends they left behind and resuming their carefree previous life. However, things have changed since then. Their friends have grown up and changed, and home seems different now. The wind is getting colder and the leaves are falling. As the night gets darker, strange things are happening.

And there's something in the woods.

NIGHT IN THE WOODS SERIES

CHARACTERS AND THEIR STORIES

PREVIOUS JOURNAL

Change - Alex G started playing ...

How are you today?

I saw your friend’s band play

A little show last night

It’s not my thing, they were alright

"So you're saying that this August, you're moving off to college? Leaving this town behind? For college?" Minho made sure he understood what I said by saying it again. "Cora, please answer. Are you actually leaving us?" His tone hardens as he continues to look at me as if I had done something really wrong.

"Yeah, I am leaving in August for college in a city that isn't that far from here." I tried not to look annoyed with him. While it makes sense that he was upset, I wasn't about to cut off our communication.

"Why? I mean, good for you, but why there? You promised me that you'd be with me forever, but now you're leaving-"

"All right, Minho, you're getting too ahead of yourself. I'm leaving for college, not leaving you. Don't you think you're exaggerating?" I fiddled with my fingers and muttered, looking down, not even realizing that what I had said was harsh.

"Exaggerating?" He scoffed and became slightly irate, but before continuing, he took a long breath. "Cora, I don't think you're getting what I'm saying. You're right—I'm getting too worked up about this—but I'm actually worried about losing you."

I firmly closed my eyes, trying not to say anything that I would later regret. I remained silent for a minute to gather my thoughts before turning to Minho and spoke

"Listen, Minho. I promise to never leave you, and just because I'm moving away to attend college does not mean we'll stop talking. I just wanted to chase my dreams."

"To be honest, it's not really that."

I scowled at what he said and cocked my head to face him, who was turning away from me.

"Then what is it, Minho? Can't you just tell me?"

"I have to leave. I'm sorry." He hastily got up and fled the cafe before I could say anything further. I sat alone at the cafe, refraining from running to him. Could I chase after him? Or give him his space? Am I being too harsh?

It was all I thought about when I walked home. What does he mean? What is it that he couldn’t tell me? Even when I ranted to Jisung about it, he looked like he knew something. Shit, even Chan does. I feel a little left out, so confused, worried if I didn’t pay enough attention to Minho.

I wasn’t that dumb to not notice he has been trying to cut ties with me after our conversation. Even his parents and sister didn’t know what was going on with him when I visited his place, and told me that he has been wandering off somewhere a lot now other than his home. I took it as a hint that I should stop bothering him.

August came by so fast, I was ready to leave this town and still have not heard from him. He wasn’t there to bid me a goodbye before I hopped on the train.

Am I really leaving everything behind?

You were in my dream last week

I’d like to hear what you think

We passed by her house driving fast

The sun was shining on the grass

September 22, 8:46 p.m.

"How are you today?" He eventually broke the long silence. When I glanced back at him, he was still roasting the marshmallow, which was starting to become brown. His reddish-brown hair continued to fall over his face, nearly covering his eyes.

"Today, I felt a little happier." As I saw him place the marshmallow on top of the chocolate with the cracker beneath it, I finally responded.

"I'm glad," he grinned. "I can say I feel the same way."

I can't deny that I was a little awkward and perplexed sitting next to a guy who had been avoiding me for a while, even if I was smiling too. But I can’t just act like I wasn’t doing the same thing he did to me to Chan and Jisung.

“How was college?”

"Oh, it was okay. Not bad at all." I fiddled in my seat, not feeling the college talk. I did ask him something else even though I wasn't sure if it was proper to suddenly change the subject. "What about you, though? You work too, like everyone else these days."

Minho hummed, took another marshmallow to roast, and passed me the S'mores he had just created. "Yes, I work. I mean, everyone has to work for a living, right?" He laughed. "I work at my mom's coffee shop now; you should stop by sometimes."

"Oh, that's cool. I guess I should." I stuttered briefly, hoping he didn't notice, and then took a bite of my s'mores. The s'mores didn't taste very nice, though, because I could still taste the bitterness from my previous drink. Once more, I turned to face my right and watched him finishing his own and brushing the crumbs off his jeans. He clasped his hands and was about to speak until my name was called out.

"Cora!" When I turned to see where it was coming from, I saw Jisung sprinting up the hill to find me. I abruptly got up and raised my hand to grab his attention.

“Over here!”

"Hey, what's up?" When Jisung spotted me, his smile gradually disappeared when he noticed Minho sitting next to me. "Minho?" The uneasy feeling was beginning to return. I continued to glance at them, clearing my throat to break the ice.

Minho looked at me again after checking his watch and getting up from his seat. "Looks like I gotta go now," he said. "See you around?"

"Oh, uh, yeah." I scratched my head and nodded.

I moaned aloud as Jisung and I watched him go, disappearing into a crowd of people.

"Dude, you guys finally talked?"

"Well, until you fucking came, I guess, a little bit."

"My bad, dude." Jisung gestured with his hands. "You missed the fucking crazy fight, that's all I wanted to tell you."

"No way. Who?" I let out a gasp. Nothing like the good old days when Jisung and I would rush to witness a fight in high school, rooting for whoever was in the fight.

"I dunno, sh*t. Some two blondes." He hiccuped and squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh my god, it's getting to me."

"Dude, should we go home or—"

"Nooo! Let's drink more, kiddo!! We need to celebrate more now that you're home again!" He replied, cupping my face before grabbing my wrist and pulling me back into the crowd. After failing to find anything when reaching for the ice cooler once more, Jisung spotted another one that was sitting next to the lake. He handed you a beer and instantly began chugging his own. Totally forgot he’s a heavy drinker.

I straight away felt like puking after downing mine, but I chose to ignore the urge to do so. I recognized another song that had begun to play. "Dude, this song fucks!" I shouted for Jisung to hear me. Agreeing with you, he laughed heartily and made his way through the mob while dancing. I attempted to log on, but my headache was getting closer.

When I searched for Jisung, I realized that everything was becoming hazy and that I had already lost him. Some kids accidentally bumped into me as I was trying to take another sip of my beer, which caused the beer to spill on my shirt. I let out a long sigh and rubbed my eyes like a child, and suddenly I laughed at the memory of my dad's drinking days. I opened my eyes to see Minho talking to the most beautiful girl while he was leaning against the tree. I stopped laughing. Oh, he has a girlfriend.

I stood there and thought. Yeah, no. That's chill, dude. Yeah, absolutely fine. Like this is okay. No like–

The girl began laughing at something, perhaps one of his jokes, and she gave him a friendly shoulder jab as he laughed too.

Maybe I should have stayed.

I averted my gaze as I felt incredibly exposed. I raced to the lake and puked as soon as I felt like I was truly about to pass out, leaving my stomach throbbing and my mouth full of the worst taste. This is really horrible.

"Cora—holy shit" Dude, not that voice again. I laughed at Minho's worried expression as he helped me stand up from the ground, but I pushed him away. I kept slapping his shoulder while giggling at nothing in particular, and he continued to support my arm to keep me balanced.

"Cora, I think you should go home."

"You think you are so cool and," I hiccupped, "chaaarming. Every girl always thinks, woohooo cute boys! I'd love a cute boy in my life!"

Minho sighed and scowled as he made an attempt to get you out of there. "All right, let's just leave and talk," he said.

"You're a cute boy, too." I grasp his warm hands and ram my head into his shoulder. Minho froze at what you said, unable to comprehend the situation. My friends Jisung, Vanna, and Chan approached, shocked by what happened. "But I fucking hate cute boys!!"

"And it's not my fault that I'm a mess—I was and still am! I'm sorry, but I just wanted to pursue my own dreams, maybe become the best artist, musician, or both. And you never supported me!" I hit the elder boy's shoulder angrily, yelling at him over and over like a whiny kid.

Minho stopped your punches, "Listen, I'm sorry, I was going to apologize to you-"

"You were right; I should not have left you. You guys. I promised we'd stick together, but I fucking ruined it because I'm selfish and do my own thing instead."

“No, Cora, that’s not true.” Minho offered an explanation, but you interrupted him once more.

"I lied. Everything went so terribly wrong in college that I chose to fucking drop out because it was so awfuuuul. I locked myself in the dorm and failed all of my classes. Pizza, pizza, pizza, and pizza was all I ate. All these rich college students whose parents have paid for their tuition, and all they do is write trash and have sex with strangers every day. I'm not successful, but they are! Not to mention that stupid statue, that is meant to honor the founder but all I see are shapes, staring at me every day. So many different shapes. Nothing will ever work out for me; I'm a complete waste!" I shouted every word I could while covering Minho's neck with my fucked-out, red face.

“We never had a chance here, but I can’t go anywhere else.”

“...”

“I’m home again.”

“...”

I couldn't lift my head to look at him and see what his reaction was to what I had said since my head was pounding so much. To see whether he feels bad at all. Minho's silence, however, suggests otherwise.

"Woo!" Jisung shouted, encouraging my beautiful drunken speech from behind.

"Jisung, please stop." Chan gives him a look and then turns to face me, grabbing my arm. "Come on, you've probably had enough alcohol for tonight."

"Dude, I feel so sick." Then, before I could even attempt to reach the lake, I felt myself about to pass out once more and puked onto Minho's shirt. Again.

"Not again, Jesus fuck." Minho let out a groan.

"Just let's get you home, little one. Sorry, Minho; we will get you a new shirt this time." When Chan pulled me away from the boy and helped me in walking to Vanna's car, Minho was left standing and much more perplexed. Everyone was talking and spreading rumors. Great, another talk of the town. Again. Like the good old times.

You made me stop and leave the car

You pulled my sleeve, but not too hard

Remember when you took too much?

I didn’t mind being your crutch

"I will fucking kill you if you puke in this car.” Driving, Vanna issued a warning. I feel so numb, so broken, and so exposed. Being in the same car as someone who used to be my friend. A friendship that I completely screwed up.

"Sorry, I dunno what's going on with me." I muttered.

"You got your ass drunk after, what? Three cans of nasty beer?"

"Remember when we used to be best friends?" I mumbled once more, finding it more difficult to talk. Especially when I was so fatigued. "And I called you Nanaaa, and you used to call me Cocooo."

“When we were 8 years old?” Vanna gave me a quick glance before focusing on the road. “No, I don’t.”

"Do you remember when we used to go to that park every day and play on the swings there? We found this adorable little kitten under the playground, and we both kept her."

"Yeah, Moon, she died." Vanna replied with apathy.

I made a small sound as I was experiencing terrible pain throughout my entire body, including my head and stomach. "Why are you so mean to me?" I was trying really hard not to throw up when I felt like I was about to again.

"Oh my god, Vanna, I'm going to throw up. Tell your mama I'm sorry for puking in her caaar." I exhaled and put my head on the window.

"Oh my god."

"Whaa?"

"My Mom passed away."

I remained silent as I took in what she had just said. Shit.

"Oh."

"Oh? How the hell do you not remember that, Cora? She died from cancer. Senior year."

I didn't say anything, tears gathering in my eyes.

"Oh, college didn't work out for you? Well, I'm fucking sorry that it wasn't exactly what you wanted. That's too bad; I would have killed for that. I'd do anything, even if it meant kicking you out of this car to go to college."

I turned to peek out the window and sniffed.

"You left me for that insufferable piece of shit who acts like the world revolves around him. When my mother passed away, Cora, I had absolutely no friends and nobody to turn to. And you know that. But no, instead, you cared more about your other friends than me.”

I sobbed.

"Whatever, we're here."

I sobbed even more.

"Oh god, let me get you in." Vanna dragged me inside the home after getting out of her car and putting my arm around her shoulder. She eventually made it to my bed and carefully placed my body down, making sure I was comfortably tucked in. She places the trash can close by in case I throw up again.

"I'm sorry, I'm really a mess." Before I fell asleep, I mumbled my last few words.

With a sigh, Vanna placed her hands on her hips. "Dude, don't worry, it wasn't your fault."

She looked around my room and couldn't remember when she had been here before, but even though a lot had changed since then, it still felt quite familiar. There were a few cameras and a large number of pictures scattered on the floor. Big, small, vintage, digital. Her gaze fell on a picture, and she stooped to retrieve it. It was an old Polaroid of Vanna and me just before we started middle school, when we were around 13. Vanna had a heart drawn on her face with the words "BFF" written underneath.

"Life goes on, y'know." Gazing at the old Polaroid, where things were so simple, makes Vanna sad. "Sometimes, things aren't always supposed to go where you want them to.”

I loved you then

It’s not the same

I don’t like how things change

NEXT JOURNAL

AUTHOR'S NOTE ➳ sorry if it's a little too short! next journal will be a little longer i promise :) cora is very dense thats just how they r LOL and itll also become a little scary soon i promise

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[siriuslysirius05]

Not His Son

Look, Tom knew that Bradley —Rooster, these days— wasn’t his son. Hell, he wasn’t even Maverick’s, a fact Bradley made very, very clear when he left that night. Ice remembers it like it was yesterday; Bradley had received a letter from USNA telling him that his application was, for whatever reason, pulled successfully. He’d approached Maverick with the subject, quickly blowing up at his godfather/adopted father once the truth was revealed. Pete Mitchell had pulled Bradley Bradshaw’s Naval Academy application. He left in a fury, shouting awful things that Tom knew Maverick dreamed about every night.

“You aren’t my dad. You never were. I hate you. I wish you died instead!”

Tom also thought of those words often. They were sharp thorns in his heart, haunted his every breath. Bradley was right, they weren’t his parents. And while they might have raised him, Iceman and Maverick were nothing but a heavy, burdened memory Bradley despised.

That didn’t mean they stopped caring. Especially now that Ice was a three star admiral, and Bradley was a full-fledged naval aviator. Hell, he was attending TOPGUN (at Ice’s secret referral). He was a grown man, an independent and strong man. He didn’t need Maverick, he didn’t need Iceman.

It didn’t stop Ice from keeping an eye on him, though. With his admiral status, Ice had the files of every single naval flight officer at his fingertips. Most of the time, Tom used the files to recommend squadrons and put together missions, but…

He still worried about the kid.

In actuality, it wasn’t all that often that Tom checked on Bradley. Every few months, and he usually didn’t tell Maverick the updates with the knowledge that his husband —they’d gotten married without Bradley there, but they did send an invite that went unanswered— would be hurt knowing Bradley was doing well without him. And that wasn’t narcissism or anything on Pete’s part; Bradley was, in all ways but blood, Pete’s kid. He always would be, even if the only surviving Bradshaw never spoke with him again.

It was Bradley’s second week at TOPGUN, and he was doing well. Top of his class, in fact. It brought both joy and a strange feeling to Ice’s chest.

He’d passed Bradley in the hallways of the air base several times in the past weeks, and every time he gave the man a warm smile. One of the other admirals on base, a two star by the callsign of Cyclone, teased him about the sudden appearance and disappearance of warmth on his face every time he was in the same general area as his kid.

Not his kid.

Today was a particularly bad day for Tom. His husband was stationed overseas and had been for the last month and a half, and Ice was missing him dearly. Plus, Ice had nightmares about Hop31 (better known as ‘the accident’ around Maverick, who flinched anytime ‘hop’ and ‘31’ were in the same sentence) and Goose’s death the night before.

Seeing Bradley strutting through base, a funky-pattern Hawaiian shirt on and wearing a pair of aviators, his 70s-pornstache perfectly groomed, was just salt in the wound. His (not) son was a spitting image of Nick Bradshaw, identical even in the walk. Goose always loved to strut and peacock about, showing off whatever shirt he had on.

Tom had tried to approach Bradley, just to say something. Hi. I miss you. Pete misses you. Anything, just to hear the young man’s voice. Would he sound like Goose? Bradley was raised in California, so he didn’t have the southern twang that Goose had, but maybe…

Bradley glared at Ice when he got near, turning and walking away. His friends, who Ice recognized as Natasha ‘Phoenix’ Trace and Reuben ‘Payback’ Fitch, looked confused as they snapped to attention. Tom sighed, smiling sadly at the kids before turning to walk the other direction.

Later that day, Ice was watching the skies. His mind overlayed memories of Hop31, how *well* it was going, with the planes flying overhead. He knew who was up there right now. He knew that the F/A-18 that just barreled through the sky was none other than Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw. Pride and guilt filled his chest, and he was suddenly overcome with emotion. Emotion he didn’t deserve to feel, because Bradley was not his son.

He turned away from the window, eyes wet.

((Story based on the short sketchy drawing I did in an hour or so…the uniform is probably very inaccurate just bear with me please))

[ynsvnte]

Strange — Kim Seonwoo

Genre: break up, lost of interests, angst wc: 659 warnings: Crying, hugging pairing: ex!sunoo x fem!reader

Synopsis: You and sunoo relationship falls off. You never thought this would happen since your guys long history with each other.

Sing along at Lispenard St. (Series Masterlist)

“W-what..?” You were speechless, or more like acting. You weren’t surprised at all actually, you were expecting this sooner or later. You and sunoo have been dating for around maybe 2 years and within 2 years your relationship has quickly fallen apart. Yeah at first you had that honeymoon phase. Which quickly died down within the next year. You don't know how you managed to still be in this relationship with him. He never did anything wrong. He was a nice guy, treating you right, but he lost feelings?

“Can you repeat that?” You asked him. Sunoo nodded.

“I want to break up…” You didn’t cry, not like you wanted to anyway. You don’t know about Sunoo. Does he want you to cry? Beg him to not leave you?

“Oh…” that’s all you said. Sunoo just stared at you. His face was expressionless. Not showing a sign of any kind of emotion. You wanted to ask why..but you already knew the answer to that. “I don’t feel a connection between us anymore…” your 2 year relationship down the drain. You aren’t sad.

“Okay…” you said while nodded. Luckily you didn’t live together so there wasn’t much of a problem. “It’s okay, don't worry…” you told him. Which made Sunoo nod. “You aren’t sad?” Sunoo asked, there it is, the question you’ve been longing for. You shook your head, “Why would I be, I think we’ve both noticed how we didn’t act the way we used to..” Which is true, that’s why you are here today. At Sunoo’s house, probably the last time you’ll step foot inside of here too. “Yn..it’s not that you were a bad person…I loved you. A lot ever since I met you had me attached to you. I liked everything about you. I still do. Just platonically this time.” You weren’t sad but wanted to cry. Why? You didn’t have feelings for him anymore. It had to be his words. He was always good with words. You held your tears making sure they weren’t going to fall. Don’t wanna embarrass yourself in front of your ex. “Yeah..same goes for you. I still like you but of course plantically. I still remember when I first saw you. Love at first sight.” You were facing the ground now. You look up to see sunoo crying. Why was he crying? He initiated the break up.

“Thank you…” Sunoo mumbled. And…now you're crying..seeing sunoo sad makes you sad even if you're not together anymore. He still had the same effects on you, but not about how you feel about him. “Thank you so much yn…for being my first ever girlfriend..I’ll always love..” you sniff your nose before speaking. “You too sunoo..thank you for being there for me. Thank you for the memories. The memories we made together. I’m glad I met you.” Now it’s just two exes in a living room crying to each other while saying words about how they appreciate each other.

“Hug..?” Sunoo asked you. “Yeah..” you said softly, your throat felt dry. As you go up to sunoo for a hug. He pulls you into a hug not letting you go. Sadly this is the last time something like this will happen. Sunoo will move on and find someone new to grow old with, and not you. You’ll just watch afar. And hope it was you. Yeah you still like him…there’s no denial. But you will never tell anyone. You are crying into his arms. While he pats your back. You let go, wiping your tears until sunoo replaces your hands with his. He wipes your tears.

“Don’t cry please..” he pleaded. You just nodded. You pull away from his hands.

“Thank you..” you say one last time before walking away from him and opening the door. You look back to see sunoo staring at you. You look down, smiling sadly, and walk out, closing the door behind you.

Author’s notes: wrote this whole at a party 😁 not the best angst but not the worse. Promise Niki’s is going to be just fluff to make up for the last 2 being just angst anyways if you have feedback it’ll be very much appreciated!!

© ynsvnte copyright 2024

[sofasoap]

Beach Walk

Pairing : Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x F!reader

Summary: You can plan all you want, but half of the time they will never work out. Sequel to Under the lemon tree  and On a date

Part of the Memory in a Fragrance series

Warning : T-M rating. Fluff.

Series masterlist

Master list

Kyle Garrick is a planner. AND Kyle GAZ Garrick is a METICULOUS planner. 

This is why he is the best of the best. The record holder. Being mentored by the legendary Captain Johnathan Price. 

But his experiences and planning never prepared him for this question.

“... What is that bulge in your pants Kyle?”

Shit.

“You want to propose to her?” Price cocked an eyebrow, surprise evident on his face. 

Gaz nodded his head, shyly. “I thought it’s about time..” Looking down at his cup of tea. “I just want a bit of an opinion on how you guys did it..”

“Well, that I can give you a bit of advice on. First you need to get a ring…” “Soap. You blurted your proposal out of the blue. You didn’t even have a ring picked out. You didn’t even plan for anything.” Simon interjected. 

Soap shot Simon a look. “But it still got the job done, right?” 

“Can’t argue with that.” Simon grumbled. 

“Yours isn’t that much better.” Soap countered. “All you did was slam the ring box on the table and asked my sister to marry you.”

“Got the job done, right?” Throwing Soap’s argument right back at him, Simon smirked. 

Shaking his head, not getting any help from his two teammates, he turned towards his captain. 

Before he could open his mouth and ask, he heard a voice chiming in. 

“Don’t bother asking him. He wasn’t any better than Sergeant Soap.”  Chameleon laughed, moving from the door towards Price’s desk, she put his cup of tea down onto his desk. 

“Thanks love.” Price grumbled, “At least I had a ring picked out.” 

“That you did.” She leaned down and gave her husband a kiss on the head before turning back to Gaz. 

“Last I heard she had been wanting to go to the beach.” she hinted. “She always says you do the best picnic dates. So,” pointing to Gaz, “don’t screw this up.”

Your eyes brightened up when Gaz suggested a weekend getaway and picnic by the seaside. 

“I haven’t been to the beach in a few years!” you smiled, “We used to spend a few days there, after the mountain camping trip, where I met you.” you noted shyly. “But I haven't been there much since I moved away from home to study, and started working.. OH I am so excited!”

And now his plan has fallen apart. Running through plan A to Z. Nothing in those scenarios helps to answer the question you just asked him.

“Um.” He flustered. Think of something Kyle. THINK. “Just rubbish I found on the beach.” 

Pointing towards the bin a few metres away, “The rubbish bin is over there.” 

“Uh, it’s recyclable. Don’t want to throw it into general waste.” You pointed towards the bin right beside it, “Recycle bin is over there.” 

Fuck. That didn’t work. “ uh, It was an interesting shape of rubbish, I want to take it home and put it on my shelf.” He knew it was a bad idea to keep the ring box in his pants. But he didn’t want to leave it in the car or in the picnic basket where you can accidentally spot it or some random stranger or possible thieves to steal it. So the best option? Keeping it in his pocket while the two of you stroll down the beach.

“Kyle, you need to tidy up your study, you have too many things that you need to put away in there!!” you quipped.  “Come on, show me what it is. I want to see how interesting it is..” your hand reaches for his pocket, ready to take out the box he is hiding in there.

‘No. Nonono. No. Um. NO.” he grabbed your hand with a fast reflex, stopping you before you could reach it. 

“Kyle Garrick, what are you hiding from me?” your lips turn down into a frown. “You've been acting all strange for the last few weeks after you suggested the trip.” looking down at the ground, you started to kick sand around,“ you didn’t want to go swim in the sea, or even go near the water.” you looked back up into his eyes, eyes glittering with tears, “did you change your mind? Something is bothering you?” Did you change your mind about us? The hidden undertone and disappointment is evident within your voice.

His mouth went dry with the strong salty sea breeze blowing past, carrying a whiff of your citrus perfume that you love so much and the slight coconut scent sunscreen you insisted on applying.

“Don’t think you are in the UK and you won’t get sunburnt.” You chidded and started blabbering about facts on skin cancer etc as you smear on layers and layers of sunscreen onto his body. 

Now that sunscreen is making his hand sticky and slippery as he sweats with nervousness. Making him look more guilty. He couldn’t really explain to you he was scared to go into water before so his pants wouldn’t get wet and make the ring box more evident, or in that slim possible chance that the ring get washed away and disappear into the sea???

Taking a big gulp, he whispered,“Well, technically I am hiding something from you..” 

You look like you were about to burst into tears, he hastily kneeled down on one knee.

Plans be damned. For once in his life he will just wing it. 

“I.. I had all these things planned out.” he took a deep breath as he launch into his impromptu speech, “step by step, down to the tiniest details.” he did a nervous chuckle as you clench his hand tight, “ But, like the previous two times, you came crashing into my life,throwing me off unexpectedly,  giving me surprises after surprises.” he can feel himself trembling as he takes out the box from the pocket, where he has been hiding the ring.

“My darling, my first and only love. The beautiful girl with innocent eyes and the sweetest temper who had captured my heart.” You gasped out loud as you realise what is he about to do.

“I have been in love with you since the first time we ever met as a child. Right under that lemon tree.” his voice wavering, trying hard not to break down with high emotion.

“You have always been in the back of my mind. All those years. And I am so glad fate gave us another chance. Finding each other again. Although I failed to recognise you at first at our second meeting,” letting out a small chuckle.

“Can I be that lucky person, to spend the rest of my life with you? To be that person you see when you open your eyes first thing in the morning, and for you to give me goodnight kisses before I go to sleep at night, to remind me how fortunate and thankful that I have you. My forever love."

You couldn’t even let out a coherent response, just nodding your head furiously as you throw yourself at Kyle, arms around him tight as you start to cry, with happiness.

Both of you sank down into the sandy beach, with Gaz in relief everything worked out at the end, and with you finally find out why he is acting all weird for weeks.

And all of sudden both of you hear people clapping and whistling, shouting out congratulating words.

You buried your face into his neck, in embarrassment. 

“Oh gosh…”

“Oh dear.. Didn’t expect to have audiences gathering…” Gaz chuckled nervously. “Sorry, that was not part of my plan either..”

You let out a little sobbing laugh, “Always a planner.” ‘

“I sure am. But it didn't quite work out this time round.” pulling away from you slightly, he moved his hand to cup your face, “but I am glad it all worked out at the end. I love you, my darling.Thank you for everything.”

“I love you too Kyle.” Leaning into his forehead. “Now we have the rest of our lives to look forward to.” 

“So,I heard you had to wing it at the end aye?”

“Shut up Soap. At least I did have plans beforehand. It half worked.”

“Sure. Whatever you say…” 

partly based on how my friend's husband proposed to her. he kept refusing to go into the ocean because he had the rings in his pocket.....

Tag list :

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[doggone-devil]

How (Not) to Summon a Demon: Chapter 5

Chapter 5 is here! After this, we're gonna start getting into some actual plot! I'm excited hehe Pairing: Alastor x fem!Reader No warnings today~ :3

As you step into your car, you shouldn’t be surprised when Alastor voices his recognition of the neighborhood. He notes how the streets have surely changed along with new houses, but some of the buildings were around when he was alive. He continues to make comments, telling you about how things use to be as you drive him around. It’s fascinating to hear, learning something new about your hometown. You feel like you’re getting to connect to the city better than most, having your very own historic tour guide.

Now that was a funny thought. Alastor becoming a tour guide. He would make a killing with how much he actually knew about New Orleans and its rich background.

“It’s such a shame,” Alastor states. You glance at him quickly before returning your eyes to the road.

“What is?”

“The thrill of the night, my dear. Such a wonderful experience of which you nor anyone born after my time will have.”

“What do you mean?”

Alastor shifts in the seat, facing you a bit more instead of looking out the window. “In the 1920s, alcohol was highly illegal. We had to sneak about into speakeasies just to get a taste of the night life.” You can tell he’s reminiscing and you start to feel bad for him. Dying so young, not able to live a full life, made room for regrets. No doubt he missed his era, the people he once new. Here you were, practically dangling his old life right in front of him and forcing him to see it’s no longer the same. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. Alastor looks at you with wide eyes, his smile almost gone if not for the very corners of his lips still slightly upturned.

“For what, my dear?”

“For,” you pause, taking a breath. How were you already about to cry? “For bringing up old memories. Reminding you of what you lost. I can’t image what that must feel like.” You manage another quick glance at him and he seems almost shocked.

He faces forward, quiet for a minute. “You’re quite the strange mortal, indeed,” he says, the smile back to stretching across his features. You frown.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Smile,” you answer. “You’re always smiling, even when I know you don’t want to.”

“What makes you think I don’t want to smile?” Alastor asks, slight offense in his tone. “My dear, you’re never fully dressed without one, as I always say!”

“Ok,” you shake your head, “but it’s not healthy to hold in other expressions. You should let them out. Frown, pout.” You make a face at him, exaggerating your bottom lip into a deep crease. Alastor coughs on a laugh, trying to bite it down.

“And be naked? Certainly not,” he states. You give up on the topic, changing it back to the city.

“So how does it feel, anyways? Being back?”

“New and yet somehow, still the same,” he says, looking out the window. “I’m not alive, like you, just taking on a physical enough form that’s tethered purely by our contract. I can’t feel the world like you are doing now.”

“I would love to say I understand, but I don’t.”

“Suppose you wouldn’t,” Alastor chuckles. “Being dead is very different than being alive, after all.”

“Did it hurt?” You didn’t mean to ask the question but it had been tugging at you in the back of your mind ever since the reality of demons and Hell became a thing for you. You put the car in neutral, parked in a random car lot. You don’t know when you two arrived there, but it was convenient as you could now fully face Alastor without having to pay attention to driving.

“It’s been so long, it’s hard to remember,” he speaks slowly. “From what I do know, no, it didn’t hurt. The fall did, though.” He shakes his head, body perking up as he looks around the car now. “Where are we, my dear?”

“Uh. Good question.” You look around to get your bearings. “Oh! Jackson Ave. There’s a nice place around the corner I like to eat at, actually.”

“Good thing I can eat cause I’m starved!” Alastor is already stepping out of the car. You go to open your door to get out, but Alastor tuts at you. “That won’t be allowed with me around, darling! Why, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t do this much?” Now, you blushed and couldn’t stop it.

“You’d be the only one.” You let him help you out of the car. “Shame to say it, but chivalry is dead.” You don’t miss the sound of a record scratch, the sudden noise piercing your ears and making you wince.

“Darling, as long as I exist, whether in life or afterlife, chivalry will never die. Now, come along! Take me to this highly praised establishment you seem fond of!”

“I wouldn’t call it highly praised,” you giggle, taking his offered arm as the two of you begin walking down the street. “But it is nice. I go here sometimes with Veronica.”

“Veronica,” Alastor repeats the name. “She’s the one we spoke to earlier, correct? Your roommate.”

“Yours now, too, but yes, that’s her.” You take the lead and move towards a short, rectangular building. It looks like it’s made of glass, a neon open sign hanging in one of the doors. You excitedly begin to drag Alastor inside, not noticing the way your hand grasps his when you let go of his arm. Once inside, you eagerly turn to see his expression and it nearly makes you giggle.

Alastor takes in the space around him and his eyes widen, smile strained.

“So? Whatcha think, old timer?” you ask and cover your mouth to hide your laugh when his eyes get even bigger, looking down at you.

“Firstly, never call me that again,” he says, lips tight. “Secondly, what is this place?”

“Welcome to Subway, what can I get started for you?” A worker speaks up before you do, smiling friendly as they wait for your order. You move closer to the counter, Alastor in tow.

“Hi! This is actually my friend’s first time so we might be a minute, I’m sorry,” you apologize. The worker seems thrilled, nodding their head.

“Of course! We’re excited to have you!” They must see Alastor’s clear confusion as they point to the menu above them. “As you can see, we have all sorts of subs such as the classic Philly cheesesteak but of course, we have loads of ingredients for you to make your own personalized sub if preferred.” Alastor glances down at you, still lost. You shake your head with a smile and start your order first.

“I’ll have a pizza sub, toasted and on Italian Herb please,” you say with ease. It’s a favorite of yours to get most of the time you come, able to enjoy both the convenience of a sub but the pleasure of a pizza. The worker starts your first, allowing you a chance to ask Alastor what he likes. “So, you a meat or veggie person?”

“Meat,” he answers quickly, his smile almost sinister. You slowly nod, eying the choices.

“Chicken or beef?”

“Beef.” He seems excited for a second, asking, “Do they have venison?”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” you say, never hearing of someone eating venison with a sub, but then again, Alastor was from a different time. Maybe that was normal.

“A shame,” he hums, looking with you at the ingredients. The worker has yours done when they come back to get Alastor’s order. He still doesn’t know what to get so you decide to order for him, getting him a simple steak and cheese from the menu. You move down to checkout, pulling your phone out to pay, but Alastor is already placing the appropriate cash amount into the worker’s hand.

“Hey,” you protest but he stops you.

“Chivalry is alive and well,” he says and you roll your eyes. You two take your subs and walk over to an empty table. Alastor pulls out your chair before you can touch it and waits till you’ve seated before pushing it forward. You feel weird, being treated kindly like this. It makes your head spin as you remind yourself Alastor is a demon. Demons were suppose to be blood-thirsty, evil creatures hellbent on corruption and torture. Alastor was the furthest thing from those monsters you watched in horror movies. He was courteous, polite, and well mannered. It was enough to make your heart flutter which you did not like. Stupid heart.

Ignoring any more of those thoughts that tried to crawl through, you instead focused on eating, watching the way Alastor's expressions changed with every bite. The two of you finish up and leave. The warm air outside feels nice and you find yourself stretching, a yawn forcing itself out.

"Tired, my dear?" Alastor asks next to you. You check your phone. Since when did time start flying by so much?

"Yeah, getting there," you admit, "but I can still show you around?"

"Another time. For now, let's get you back home. Without adequate rest, how are you to come up with a wish?" he asks, offering his arm. Ah. The wish. Right. You take his arm and begin walking back to your car.

You hadn't thought of the wish, yet. Not because you didn't want to, really. You just couldn't seem to come up with anything and so far, you were enjoying Alastor's company. Sure Veronica was your friend and you loved spending time with her, but that time was becoming rare and few between as her work increased. She also seemed to be going to Josie's a bit more and that left you alone in the apartment, no one but yourself to be entertained by. Since Alastor appeared, you've not had a quiet moment and for that, you were surprisingly thankful. Did you really want to hurry and make that wish?

"Darling? You alright?" Your heart fluttered again, hearing Alastor call  your name. It shouldn't flutter, it shouldn't be feeling anything regardless of how sweet his voice seemed to be when talking to you. He was a demon. You were just another soul for him to collect and nothing more. You shake your head, clearing any more stupid thoughts.

"Yeah, guess I'm just more tired than I realized," you answer, realizing you're already parked in your driveway. You must have autopilot here, as scary as that was. Turning the ignition off, you manage to exit the car before Alastor had a chance to get the door for you. You don't wait for him to join you as you unlock the front door and step in. He closes it behind you and you set your keys down, kicking off your shoes.

"I'm going to go ahead and go to bed. I'll, um, see you in the morning." You pause at your bedroom door, lingering for just a bit. You're tempted to say something more but swallow it down, closing your bedroom door.

You fall onto your bed with a sigh. It was frustrating, your heart. You'd just met the man - the demon, you remind yourself. You had summoned him, entered into a contract where your soul was the price. You couldn't allow yourself to do this all over again, to become attached to something you can't have. Surely you learned your lesson the last time your heart went through this.

Great.

Now you were thinking of him.

You roll over onto your side, not bothering with the blanket as you tuck your hands under your head. It had been a few years since you thought of him, the sight of his face unwelcomed as memories dragged forward. Pink skies, the smell of vanilla, and soft touches flood your mind, making your skin grow hot. You hate it. You don't want to remember, to be reminded of the pain that came after the charm. That's all he had been. Artificial charm laced with deceit and you had fallen for it. Stupid, stupid girl.

Fed up with your own head, you close your eyes and let the tired ache in your body consume you.

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