#and then when they DO have some description of the book. half the time its in the worlds loopiest font in white text

[boycritter]

I HATE YOU BOOK INSTAGRAM

[slutla]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you say anything.

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

Will you ever recover from this? Can you?

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

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

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

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

And fuck—now it’s in his head.

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

Something he won’t be able to take back.

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[whipped-for-kpop-fics]

Life's A Beach - K.MG

🌊Who: Kim Mingyu (Seventeen) x female reader 🌊What: Smut, some fluff I guess? Strangers to lovers. Lifeguard Mingyu!!! 🌊Wordcount: 7.3k 🌊Warnings: Profanity. Quick joke about burying a body on the beach. Slight drowning, it’s not graphic and it’s very quick all in all. Passing mention of panic. Probably excessive use of “baby”. Semi-public sex, oral (female receiving), fingering, big dick Mingyu, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms(f), messy Mingyu, choking, a single solitary spank, mentions of bruising. 

Summary: You don’t like the beach, but you do like the handsome lifeguard who works there. As it turns out, he likes you too and is more than willing to risk his job to have you.

Minors do NOT interact, which means reblogging and/or commenting on this story. I WILL block any account that interacts without an age indicator in their bio.

-2024 Masterlist-

A/N- Happy birthday to my beanie @ourdawnishotterthanourday , I know I said this was to prepare for a Christmas gift but I lied hehe oops. Hope you like it, my love 💗

Thank you @okiedokrie for the very last minute beta! 💕

A few weeks ago, your best friend managed to succeed in convincing you to go to the beach after some very effective emotional manipulation in the form of puppy eyes and pouting at you. She had promised you’d enjoy yourself and admittedly, you did, but not because of the beach itself. Still, she used your enjoyment to convince you to return a few days later, and then another few more and soon enough the two of you seem to spend more time at the beach than your homes in your free time.

Now, the reason for your interest in attending the sand and seas despite liking neither of those things is pretty simple. The eye candy. One particular hunk of a man with a sweet smile, in particular.

You have no idea what his name is, you’ve never spoken to him nor been in close proximity but that doesn’t deter you from setting up in that same spot under the parasol for a few hours every few days at roughly the same time just to watch Mr Hunky Lifeguard do his rounds strolling topless up and down the sand and helping where he can. 

It’s sweet, the way he’ll help anyone who asks, even with matters you’re very certain are not a part of his job description. Judging impromptu sandcastle contests between kids. Blowing up beach balls. Helping older folk set up their beach chairs and parasols. 

You can’t help but wonder if he’d help you apply sunscreen. His warm hands slipping over your thighs, working up and up and-

“Hey!” The voice of your best friend breaks you from your fantasies as she skips over happily, hands cupped and before she’s even close enough, you already know what’s in her hands. “Check this out!” She drops onto her knees at your side to proudly show you…a little crab. So not another shell to add to the pile gathering on the sand to your right as you assumed. 

“A crab,” 

“Yes,” 

“I thought you were looking for shells to decorate your castle with?” You both look over at the half-finished and admittedly, rather grand, sandcastle a little to the side, safely out of the way from any passerby. 

“Every castle needs a King, don’t you think he’ll look crabulous on his throne?” You look back at your best friend to find her grinning at you, proud of her joke. 

“Go find shells.” You deadpan, she just giggles and gets up to return to the rockpool where she had found the crab to return it to its home.

Thoroughly distracted from your fantasies of the hot lifeguard, you have honestly forgotten about it and also happened to have lost track of him. Last you saw him, he was up on the deck of the watch tower, peering over the beach through binoculars yet now, he’s nowhere to be seen.

With a disappointed sigh, you decide to just relax, leaning back against the bags you’ve piled up to create an impromptu backrest and go back to reading your book. 

It’s not even ten minutes later when a figure blocks your light and casts a shadow over your pages. You immediately assume it’s your friend from the way the figure lingers and lift your head with every intention of accepting whatever funky patterned rock or shell she’s found this time, yet it’s not her who you spot, but Mr Hunky Lifeguard himself. 

“Hi,” he greets, hands on his hips and smiling at you in that bright friendly way you’ve noticed him smiling at everyone else. 

You take the moment with him so close to quickly rake your hidden gaze over his exposed, sunkissed, toned torso and arms. Praise be to whoever invented dark sunglasses. “Hello.”

“Family day out?” He questions, motioning to the pile of plastic beach toys by the sandcastle on your right, causing you to look over and only then realise how it must look; that you’re here with your child, not your grown ass adult of a best friend. 

“Not exactly,” You huff a laugh and lean aside a little to peer around him. “My best friend.” You declare upon spotting said person and pointing to her. To your surprise, she’s squatting with another lifeguard, this one wearing the same red shorts though he’s got a white sleeveless t-shirt on, and rummaging through the sand with your friend. 

“Oh,” The man in front of you lets out a surprised little laugh when he looks over too. “I’ve never seen Vernon interact like that with a stranger. Unless they know each other?” 

“Not that I’m aware of,” You shrug and look back up at the tall man in time to see his body angle back around to give you his full attention. You briefly wonder who exactly is looking over this section of the beach when both lifeguards are currently distracted on the sand. 

“Huh, okay. I’m Mingyu,” He takes a step closer to lean over and offers his hand to you. Your gaze catches on the chain around his neck and the way it swings as he leans over. You want to reach out and grab it, yank him down and defile the beach together. 

But that would get you arrested and you really don’t want that. So you lean up onto your knees to accept his hand to shake and tell him your name in return. 

“Mm, pretty,” He hums, looking at you over the top of his dark sunglasses with a lopsided little smile. It feels flirty as fuck, but you don’t want to make assumptions that this beautiful man is interested in you. 

“Oh, thank you.” You smile a little and take your hand back yet remain on your knees, feet tucked comfortably under you as he straightens up. You can’t help but think about the fact that if he was a few feet closer, you’d be face height with his dick and within reaching distance. 

“You must really like the beach.” 

“Huh?” You blink away the fantasy of slobbering all over Mingyu’s cock and seeing how pretty he looks when he cums down your throat, or maybe on your face, that’d be nice too. 

“I said you must really like the beach, I’ve seen you here almost every day for almost a month now.” 

“You noticed me?” You mutter in shock. 

“Uhm-” Mingyu rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, his confident stance melting away as his shoulders curve in and make him appear smaller. Embarrassed. Cute. “I-It’s my job. To notice things. People. You know. To ma-make sure people are safe.” 

“I see.” You hum and tilt your head a little without even noticing, amused and endeared by him. 

As if he isn’t already attractive enough just by existing, talking to him and realising he’s got this cute shy side definitely draws you in further.

“Y-yep!” He laughs awkwardly and straightens to his full height again while putting his hands on his hips again. “Well, I should get back to it. Nice to meet you!” And then he rushes off before you can even respond, leaving you watching him scuttle off and almost trip over a stray sandal in the sand making you snicker. 

Mingyu flails to right himself and then immediately looks over at you to see if you noticed. Realising that you had definitely seen him almost faceplant the sand, he gives an awkward embarrassed little wave before turning and rushing off, quickly putting his face in his palms as he goes.

And just like that, the beach gets that much more interesting.

It’s a handful of days before you return to the beach, you had been busy with work, unfortunately, so you simply hadn’t had the time or energy to take the trip.

“I’m gonna dig a giant fucking hole today.” Your best friend declares as you both put down your items in your usual spot and start to set up. 

“To bury me? Work killed me, babe.” You retort dramatically.

“Please don’t bury bodies on the beach.” The voice makes you jump over and to your surprise, a dripping wet Mingyu is standing a little behind you. “Hi,” 

“Hi,” You reply dumbly, doing your utmost to not oogle his shimmering chest, or the flex of his bicep as he lifts a hand to run his fingers through his wet hair to stop the salty water dripping over his face. You’re once again very glad for tinted sunglasses. 

“You’re wet,” Your best friend comments, making you both look at her where she’s standing and looking between you both over the top of her sunglasses, where you’re very certain she’s lowered them down her nose just to give you both this very pointed look. 

“I was teaching a kid to swim, of course I’m wet.” Mingyu chuckles, motioning over his shoulder with his thumb in the direction of the sea behind him.

“Wasn’t talking to you.” Your best friend gives you a final look before pushing her sunglasses back up into place. “I’ll leave you to set up, I have places to be.” With that, she turns and walks off in the direction of the snack carts and shacks further down the beach leaving you and Mingyu alone. 

You appreciate that, the alone time with the attractive man, but what you don’t appreciate is having to set up on your own. “She could’ve at least opened the parasol first.” You mutter to yourself, looking at the giant umbrella in disdain. 

“I can help!” Mingyu offers, bounding forward before you can even answer, to pick up the umbrella from the sand, biceps flexing as he moves. “Where do you want it?” 

“Right here,” You reply without thought. He hums in understanding, even if he doesn’t truly understand because you were definitely thinking about where you want him to rail you when you answered, not where you want the parasol set up. 

Still, Mingyu sets the parasol up and it is in the right place so you find no reason to correct yourself and instead thank him and get to work setting up the mat. 

To your pleased surprise, Mingyu sticks around to help you finish setting up everything, making friendly conversation as he goes and smiling brighter every time he makes you laugh. 

You wish he would keep you company for longer but his walkie-talkie crackles to life and announces that he’s needed so he leaves you with a smile and waves at you when he looks over his shoulder after jogging a little away. 

It makes you feel all warm inside, how he seems to be genuinely interested in being near you, you just hope it doesn’t take another three weeks before he decides to make a move if he plans to. You’re not confident enough yourself to make that move, you’d be utterly mortified if you’ve read this all wrong and he’s just being a genuinely nice guy who goes above and beyond for his job. 

So you just settle down with a new book and hold that hope next to that sun shining in your chest.

“This is perhaps the dumbest idea we’ve had and gone through with.” Your best friend comments as the two of you stand ankle-deep in the sea with the rented surfboards ready for your lesson with one of the two men who run the surf supply shack.

“You signed us up,” You point out, both of you watching the man in question as he removes his t-shirt on the shore to toss at his co-worker who rolls his eyes. 

You know the co-worker personally but more because he somehow knows your best friend. His name is Joshua and he, according to your bestie, had purposely set up this lesson with his co-worker, Seungcheol, because Joshua owes her for something or other. Honestly, you long ago stopped trying to keep track of the shenanigans of your bestie. Wisely too.

“Sorry about that, Shua had to tell me something.” Seungcheol apologises as he walks over to join you two, sans surfboard of his own, confusing you but you don’t point it out.

“Sounds ominous.” You declare.

“No,” He chuckles and motions to your best friend who points at herself with wide eyes, sunglasses propped on Joshua’s head so they don’t get lost to sea, while yours are with your belongings. “Shua said you have really bad balance so I should probably hold onto you.” 

“Terrible balance.” Your best friend agrees seriously without missing a beat, even if you know she’s lying at least a little. 

It takes everything in you to not burst into laughter. Clearly, Joshua is very aware that your bestie has been thirsting over his co-worker since she first saw him. Admittedly, you have been too but most of your attention has been on The Hunky Lifeguard now officially known as Mingyu.

“Okay, so is it okay if I hold onto you to help?” Seungcheol checks, expression giving away that he truly has no idea that this is some kind of a set-up and is genuinely just concerned for his student’s safety.

“Full consent to touch me however you want.” Your best friend agrees, making Seungcheol smile, entirely missing the depravity hiding in her words. 

You have to look away to take a few breaths to calm yourself before you break, and happen to notice Mingyu up on the watchtower deck, looking through his binoculars. You can’t be certain but it looks like he’s got them pointed in your direction. You don’t want to be delusional so convince yourself that even if he is, he’s not focused on you specifically. 

Spoiler, he definitely is.

“Alright,” Seungcheol claps his hands together, making you jump a little and turn back to him and catch his adorable gummy smile. “Let’s get this lesson started, shall we ladies?”

Honestly, the lesson with Seungcheol goes a lot better than expected, he takes it very seriously and pays careful attention to you both. You hadn’t expected to get anywhere close to standing on the board in the water but with his careful guidance even with his hands hovering around your friend to aid her oh so terrible balance if need be, you get your feet under you. 

After a few more tries, you manage to get almost entirely upright while Seungcheol and your friend cheer you on supportively. 

And then you make a giant fucking mistake. 

Before you’re even upright, you lift your head just enough to peer around naturally and notice Mingyu in all his topless, red short glory jogging along the beach looking like everything out of a Baywatch themed porno with his pecs bouncing with fucking every step. And as if that’s not bad enough, the man clearly is packing something very special in his shorts because you notice that bouncing too. 

Next thing you know, you’re toppling into the water so suddenly that you inhale in shock a second before you hit the sea’s surface, allowing salty water to pour into your open mouth and trickle into your lungs. 

It’s barely a second that you’re under the water before a strong arm is around your waist and heaving you up into the air while you sputter, panic starting to seize your body. 

“Move!” You hear as you’re laid down on the sand by the strong arms, though the voice is coming from elsewhere.

“I can handle this, Gyu,” This voice is right over you, the owner of the arms and you vaguely register it as Seungcheol, but you’re too busy coughing up seawater to open your eyes or give him or the other any attention.

“I’ve got it, Cheol.” Mingyu assures. 

There’s a heavy sigh and then those strong hands leave your body and you feel Seungcheol back away while other hands touch you gently, helping to remain on your side. 

“That’s it, you’re okay, I’ve got you.” Mingyu’s voice is soft and soothing where he’s hovering over you in concern, one hand rubbing over your arm and the other pushing your hair back. 

Luckily, the whole ordeal only lasts a handful of minutes and then you’re okay, breath stuttered and throat a little sore but fine otherwise. 

When you roll onto your back and open your eyes, you find Mingyu right there, leaning over you and backlit by the sun he’s purposely blocking from shining right in your eyes. Like your own personal guardian angel. Or something more poetic. 

You can be given a break from being unable to wax poetry about this beautiful specimen of humanity before you, considering what you’re going through. And no, not the just inhaling seawater thing. 

But the whole, he’s leaning over you topless with that damn silver chain dangling inches from your face, thing. Just a little closer and you could bite it. 

You wonder if he’d find that weird. Probably. You still want to do it though.

“Hey,” He gives you a tender kind of smile when you lift your eyes from his chain to meet his relieved, soft gaze. “You okay?” You just nod, pretty sure you’d say something highly inappropriate if you open your mouth.

“I dunno, I think she might need you to watch over her, Mr Lifeguard.” Your best friend speaks up. You peer at her from the corner of your eyes and find her standing beside Seungcheol with a little smirk on her face as she looks between you and Mingyu. “Maybe you should take her up to the watchtower and keep a close eye on her, just in case.” 

“She doesn’t need that,” Seungcheol points out simply, definitely unaware that your friend is trying to set up a situation for you and the man you’ve been thirsting over for weeks.

“No, no, she’s right.” Mingyu argues quickly as he shakes his head and turns to you to help you sit up and then get to your feet to stand with him. “I should definitely keep a close eye on her, she almost drowned, Cheol-” 

“She’s fine,” Seungcheol’s mutter is neither heard nor considered as Mingyu continues to talk over him as if the man said nothing. 

“So I’ll take her to the watch tower for a while until she’s feeling all better, sounds okay?” He looks at you. You just nod.

“Make her feel all better, Mr Lifeguard.” Your bestie encourages with a nod and thumbs up. 

Mingyu returns it and you’re not certain he actually gets what your friend is insinuating but you don’t really care. Whether he understands or not, you’re getting alone time with Mingyu and that’s all that matters. Bless your bestie for always trying to get you laid.

As you walk up the stairs to the watchtower, Mingyu walks a few steps behind you, a hand on your lower back gently, the same place it has been since the two of you started to walk across the sand. It’s still there when he opens the door and you two enter the building. 

“Hey,” Vernon, the lifeguard your bestie apparently befriended the other day, greets looking over from where he’s sitting at the control desk facing the large windows that oversee the beach. “Oh,” He mutters, eyes widening a little as he looks between you and Mingyu, clearly taking in the sight of the tall man’s hand on your back. “You know, I think I’m going to go get some air for a bit.” 

“Okay,” Mingyu agrees, giving Vernon a grateful look as the shorter man vacates the building without even grabbing his walkie-talkie from the desk. 

At Mingyu’s gentle nudge, you move further into the building allowing him to shut the door.

“I’ll grab you a towel.” He declares, moving over to the cupboards while you decide to check out the view from the window. 

From here you can see the entire section of the beach, especially when you pick up the binoculars Vernon left on the desk and peer through them. It’s pretty interesting, being able to watch over everyone like that and see everything while they no doubt don’t even consider the eyes on them from above. 

“Can they see us?” You wonder, lowering the binoculars to look at Mingyu as he approaches with a towel in hand. 

“I mean sure, if they try hard enough at other times of day but the sun is in the right position to just reflect on the glass at the moment. So right now, no, nobody can see us.” He informs, stopping perhaps a little closer than necessary. Paired with the information that nobody would even see if he fucked you right against the window, well heat flares in your stomach.

“Have you tested that?” 

“Mm, a few times.” 

“How?” 

Mingyu tilts his head a little at you and as you haven’t accepted the towel, too focused on the conversation, he puts it down on the desk and gently takes the binoculars from your hands to also put down. “What do you mean, how? By looking up from outside.” 

“Right.” You hum and turn your head to look back out of the window.

“What were you expecting?” He chuckles lowly. You feel him move a little closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. “Hm?” You shrug. “Tell me,” 

“Just…you know.” You shrug again and although you can barely feel it through the wet material of the rash guard on your torso, the gentle press of his fingers on your back makes you shiver a little. 

“You should get out of this and dry off.” He suggests while running his hand up the length of your back and around your neck to the zipper in the middle of your throat. 

“I might need some help getting it off.” You reply. “Things being wet makes things harder.” 

“Oh, I know.” You’re very certain that you’re both talking in double entendre now and look at him over your shoulder as you turn your back to him a little more to give him better access.

For a weighted moment, nothing happens, just heavy eye contact as if you’re both waiting for the other to take a step backwards and prove your suspicions of the rising tension between you to be false. 

Yet you both stay in place.

You feel a slight tug against your neck, barely noticeable but it makes your body burn a little hotter as he slowly tugs down the zipper to your clavicle before stopping.

“Face me.” He mutters, adjusting his own stance to fully face you. You immediately comply and turn so you’re face to face, all without him removing his grip on the pull of your zipper. 

Then he’s back to dragging the zip down, over your breasts where his knuckles brush a little making your breath catch before his hand moves on to finish the path to open the zip all the way to where it stops at your belly button.

Mingyu only then breaks eye contact to look down at the glimpse of skin he can see now with the zipper open. “This is a one piece?” He checks, noticing how the material of the rashguard vanishes into your shorts. You hum in confirmation and then he’s lowering to his knees in front of you to tuck his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. 

He glances up at you, checking that this is okay and when you nod, he gives you a little smile before turning his full attention back down to watch the shorts move down your thighs with the help of his hands.

“Can you-” He starts once you’ve stepped out of the shorts and he’s tossed them aside, but when he looks up at you, you’re already working on pulling the front of your rash guard open, revealing your chest little by little, covered only by the little bikini you bought specifically to wear with the rashguard. “That.” Mingyu swallows thickly, watching more skin get revealed until you start to struggle to get the wet material down your shoulders. 

Without a word, Mingyu gets up onto his knees as tall as he can without getting up to reach out and grip the material to ease it over your shoulders and down your arms. 

“You’re beautiful,” He murmurs, hands bunching the wet material by your hips as he stops to take in all the exposed skin only a few feet from his face.

“So’re you,” You reply shyly. He smiles up at you then leans forward to press a featherlight kiss to your stomach. 

“This okay?” He asked in between kisses on your skin, each growing more daring than the last.

“Y-yeah,” You agree, feeling breathless already and nothing has happened yet. The tension is just so thick between you that it fills your lungs and takes up space usually reserved for oxygen. 

For a moment, you worry that if you’re this breathless already with just a couple of kisses to your stomach, you will not survive actually being fucked by this beautiful man. But then his lips are suddenly on the crease of your thigh, right at the edge of the rash guard and moving inwards and you can no longer worry about the future state of your lungs. 

Mingyu quickly tugs the rashguard off of you entirely and tosses it aside carelessly once you’ve stepped out of it, leaving you in just the skimpy little bikini that leaves very little to the imagination. “Fuck,” He breathes out, leaning back to take you in from head to toe then back again. “So fucking beautiful, baby.” 

“Mingyu,” Your voice is a soft little plea as you reach towards him, for what exactly, you’re not sure, you just want something and hope he gets the hint. He does and tilts forward to lean his cheek against your palm for a second, then plants a kiss there, tender despite the heavy moment.

“Lean back, baby,” He encourages, leading you by your hips to turn and take a step back until the edge of the desk is digging into the meat of your ass. 

You grip the desk edge on either side of you as he hitches one of your legs up onto his shoulder then leans as his free hand tugs aside the seat of your panties to allow him to get straight to work dragging his tongue up your pussy. 

The noise Mingyu lets out overpowers your own, he sounds like he’s tasted the fucking nectar of the gods or something equally as divine. Hearing him so immediately into eating your pussy only makes you more aroused and attracted to him in general. 

You have heard of men eating pussy like a man starved before but you had never experienced it until now. Mingyu truly gives it his all, holds you open and drags his tongue and lips over you with desperation and an intensity that has your legs shaking and a constant stream of moans spilling from your mouth almost in time with the grunts and needy moans vibrating through his lips against you.

“Gyu,” You breathe out, tangling the fingers of one hand in his hair and encouraging him to stay on your clit. He groans at the slight tug on his scalp and redoubles his efforts, sucking and licking at your clit hungrily. 

Your eyes are closed, entirely absorbed in the toe-curling sensations this man is giving you in spades, but when his hand touches yours on his head, you open your eyes to peer at him curiously. He’s looking at you, eyes so blown with arousal that you’re very certain you leak over his chin even more. 

Mingyu doesn’t stop suckling your clit between his lips in a steady pattern that has you so fucking close to a beautiful climax. It won’t be long until you fall over the edge into bliss. 

He removes your hand from his head and directs it between your thighs to make you curl your fingers around the seat of your bikini bottoms to hold them aside and away from his face. 

Then those same fingers that had just curled your own are prodding at your entrance. He hesitates though, staring up at you for permission until you rapidly nod and then he’s plunging two right into you, made easy from how fucking wet you are.

Just like that, an orgasm hits you so suddenly and powerfully that you don’t manage to do anything, no warning, no sound from your mouth as it rushes through your body, making your eyes roll back and back arch.

Mingyu feels you clamp down around his fingers and groans deeply as his own eyes threaten to roll back despite not being close to orgasm himself. Just knowing you’re cumming because of him, because of his mouth, on his fingers, it drives him insane and makes his cock throb.

Diligently, Mingyu works you through the pleasure pulsing through you, slowing down when your hips start to twitch and then reluctantly detaching his mouth from your clit when you nudge his head with a slightly shaky hand. 

Though he doesn’t go far and instead pushes your thigh a little further open to give his head more space to get next to his hand between your thighs and noisily slurp up every single drop that spills from your pussy. He even goes as far as to lick up the line that dribbled down his hand to his wrist.

“Gyu,” The call of his name makes him lift his head to look at you with wide eyes, looking so innocent despite his mouth and chin being soaked in your juices, all the way down to his throat. The sight and reminder of how hard he just made you cum has you unintentionally squeezing around the fingers still buried to the knuckles within you. 

He groans, tilting forward and opening his mouth ready to make you see stars all over again but you quickly put your hand to his head, palm to his forehead to hold him back. “Lemme eat your pussy, baby, prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. Most delicious pussy ever. Could eat you forever. Let me. Please?” He’s got a slight slur to his words as he speaks, voice pitched higher than normal as he begs in a tone verging on a whine. 

“D-don’t you want to fuck me?” You ask, words a slight pant still, too soon from the intense orgasm to have your breath back but you don’t care. He can steal all the breath from your lungs so long as he makes you cum like that. 

“Fuck you?” He repeats dumbly. You nod and then it’s like a switch has been flipped. All of the innocent pussy-drunk expression and voice vanishes in an instant as his eyes turn heavy-lidded and his lips turn up into a smirk. “Yeah? Want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” His fingers in you start to move, making you jolt a little in surprise and reach down to try and remove them. “No no no, you gotta take my fingers first, baby. Need to show me you can take them before I give you my cock, okay? This is such a pretty pussy, I don’t want to ruin it by giving you my cock before you’re ready.” 

You can’t really say anything in response, both from his words and the way he’s skillfully moving those two fingers in you, slow but pressing in all the right ways to stretch you out and drag all ability to form anything but pathetic moans from your parted lips. 

“That’s it, good, just take it. You can take it for me, right, baby?” You nod quickly at his words. “Can you take another finger?” Another nod so he pulls his fingers out most of the way to work a third in beside them. “That’s my girl, fuck.” He breathes out, watching the way your pussy opens around his fingers as he carefully feeds the digits into you. 

It doesn’t take much longer for Mingyu to pull his fingers out of you and get up to his feet. You barely have time to react before he has your hips in his hands and spins you to face the window. The sun is right in your face like this, lessened in power by the window yet still an annoyance so you lean over all the way down onto your elbows and rest your forehead on your forearms.

“Oh,” Mingyu breathes out, watching you bend over the desk and stops his task of shoving down his swimming shorts to free his leaking cock. “Fucking perfect.” He approves and gives you a quick spank to watch your asscheek wobble with the impact. 

He hadn’t expected the moan that tumbles from your lips and pauses for a moment as he considers spanking you until your ass is raw and there are imprints of his hands left on your skin like a claim. 

But then his cock twitches desperately and he gets back to work shoving his shorts down enough and taking his thick, heavy cock into his hand to run his hand up and down the length, spreading precum over his heated skin while his free hand tugs your bikini bottoms aside.

A breathless curse spills from his lips when he aligns his cock with your dripping hole, he wants to bury himself to the hilt in your warmth right away but he’s very aware that frankly put, he has a giant cock, so he needs to take it slow to not hurt you.

As soon as the head pops into you, you’re moaning and trying to push back for more. Mingyu has to take a firm hold of your ass cheek and push you forward against the edge of the desk to stop you moving too fast. If you keep it up, he will fuck into you without hesitation and he’s already trembling with the effort of holding back.

Little does he know, you want him to fucking ruin you. You want him to fuck you so hard and deep that you can’t take a step for the next few days without thinking of his cock splitting you open.

But you don’t have the brain power to make your tongue move to form that specific string of syllables so you’re forced to just remain pinned to the desk as he feeds you inch by thick inch of his cock at an almost agonisingly slow pace.

But the time his hips are pressed up against your ass, he’s shaking with his eyes squeezed tightly closed and both hands gripping your hips so tightly you just know there will be bruises in the shape of his fingers afterwards. Bruises you’ll wear proudly. 

“Fuck, baby, this fucking pussy,” He groans as you pulsate around his throbbing length. 

He needs a moment, needs more than one really, with how fucking close he is already to filling you with his cum but you press back against him as best as you can considering his grip. It’s barely any movement but he gets the hint, you really don’t want him to wait anymore and fuck, neither does he.

Mingyu slowly pulls his hips back, sliding half of his length out of you before sliding back in in the same slow, careful manner. He’s testing the waters, the give of your pussy and his own resolve, really. And all three give so fucking easily that the next time he pulls out, it's all the way until only his tip is tucked up safely inside of you before he thrusts forward harshly making you cry out and scramble to brace a palm against the window above your head blindly. 

“That’s it, hold on, baby,” He encourages with a heavy exhale as he adjusts his footing and hold on you before he starts to fuck you like a man possessed. 

It’s hard and fast and so fucking deep that he’s hitting places within you that you didn’t even fucking know exist before his cock found them. Or maybe they’re special places his cock is carving out and no one will ever be able to access them again. No one will make your mind blank and eyes roll back so far that all you see is the mental image of Mingyu’s giant cock wrecking your pussy in the best of ways.

You’re being loud, both of you, moaning and whining with every drag of his cock through your rapidly tightening walls. But neither of you cares, neither of you has the presence of mind to consider anything but the way it feels to fuck and be fucked like this. 

At this point, you’re so close to another incredible orgasm that you wouldn’t even care if the door opened, you probably wouldn’t even notice and honestly, neither would Mingyu. 

And when Mingyu tilts forward enough to wind a strong arm under your waist to press his palm against the flat of your chest to pull you up until your back is against his bare, sweat-dappled chest, you almost scream in pleasure at the new somehow deeper spot he’s grinding into.

There’s a little part of Mingyu that’s still aware that you’re in public and his place of work even if he’s not consciously aware of it, and that part of him is the reason his hand flies up from your chest to your throat and squeezes in the exact fucking way to cut off your airflow.

It’s the last nudge you need to hurtle into the single most mind-shattering, nirvana-inducing orgasm of your fucking life. At least so far because once you’re more coherent, you’ll definitely think about how much you want him to fuck you again in all sorts of ways.

A choked, cut off moan spills from Mingyu’s mouth as you clamp down around his cock so tightly as your pussy absolutely gushes around him that it sends him over too. His hand on your hip quickly moves, sliding around over your lower stomach to wrap his arm around your waist and hold you tight as he ruts into you and fills you with his cum. 

It feels fucking endless, the length of your orgasm and how much it takes out of you even though it truly doesn’t last that long. It’s just an all-encompassing feeling that feels like utter bliss, a neverending pulse of pleasure, pure fucking serenity.

“You okay?” Mingyu manages to breathe out once his cock has stopped twitching as your throbbing walls milk him for every drop of cum in his body. His chest is heaving against your back, matching the deep rise and fall of your own chest, even if he had released the pressure on your throat as soon as his cock had started to empty in you. 

You can’t respond yet, you’re not quite back on planet Earth making Mingyu chuckle a little, fond of you already, and cocky at his own abilities to fuck you so dumb like this. 

Carefully, he draws his hips back to slide out of you with a wince and hears the splatter of cum hitting the wooden boards. But that’s a problem for after he’s looked after you.

Mingyu is so fucking gentle as he grabs the towel from the desk and uses it to clean between your thighs as best as he can without removing his arm from around you to keep you propped up. 

Then he manoeuvres you onto the wooden chair on your right before getting to his knees to spread your legs wide once he’s between them with his knees pressed to the floorboards. For a few seconds, he just stares dumbly at the sight of his cum leaking out of your swollen pussy and he almost leans in to clean you up with his mouth but you’re already so out of it that he figures he better not. He’ll save that for next time. 

Fuck, he really fucking hopes there’s a next time.

You come back to reality when Mingyu is doing his best to slide your shorts back up your legs. 

“Hey, beautiful,” He greets you when he notices you moving slightly and looks up to see you blinking down at him. “How you feeling?” 

“Like I had the life fucked out of me.” You reply, giving him a sated, borderline dopey smile that makes him laugh. You reach out to him and he happily leans up to let you run your hands over his shoulders and to his neck so that you can tug him in and kiss him. 

He sighs in contentment as your lips move together slowly like you have all the time in the world. Like there’s nothing that either of you would rather be doing than this right here. 

“Should’ve kissed you earlier,” He murmurs when you both naturally pull apart for air and he rests his forehead against yours. “Sorry, got carried away.” 

“There’s no need to apologise, seriously, that was…” You trail off and just giggle instead, fingers playing with his hair near his nape. 

“It was.” He agrees with a chuckle and leans back to look at you. “Could we maybe do that again?” 

“Now?” You baulk.

“No, not now.” He giggles. “I really can’t do that again now, I think I’ll pass out if I try to do anything like that now.” He assures, squeezing your thighs a little where his hands lay. “But another day in the future, when we’ve both recovered.” 

“That sounds much more reasonable to me.” 

“Reasonable, huh?” He teases and nips at your cheek playfully making you giggle. “And what about a date? Does that sound reasonable to you?” 

“No.” Mingyu’s face drops so fast as he looks at you. He looks pretty heartbroken, honestly. “I didn’t mean no as in no to the date!” You rush to assure, cupping his cheeks and brushing your thumbs soothingly over his skin. 

He pouts and pushes into your hold. “Then what do you mean?” 

“Just that it doesn’t sound reasonable but very nice and something I would definitely love to do.” 

“Oh.” He turns into your palm to try and hide the cute happy little smile that lifts his mouth and exposes his teeth, but you feel it. He presses a kiss to your palm before facing you again, no longer hiding his smile. “Good, good, I’m glad you’d love to. I’d love to as well. Maybe after my shift ends we can get lunch? Well, we’d have to take Vernon too and I guess your friend but they can entertain each other at another table.” 

You giggle and nod in agreement. “Sounds perfect to me.” 

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Taglist; @variety-is-the-joy-of-life

[beaucate]

WITHERING PETALS.

SYNOPSIS. you weren’t normally as sensitive as withering petals, but balancing school and a personal life seemed harder said than done. . . (poly!marauders x reader) response to this request.

WARNINGS. angst. hurt/comfort. muggleborn!reader. reader is mentioned to be of a different house but not specified. reader described as fem but not specified. leg injuries. jealousy. ooc!sirius? Idk I made him a bit whiny here lol

A/N. Sorry this took so long :( life is always so busy and I’m forever grateful! But had to slow down since my creative juices kind of ran out for a moment. I put this through a website similar to grammarly to correct any mistakes and enhance descriptions; tell me if you like it!!

“No, darling. Quidditch has taken its toll on me this week.”

“Can’t do, angel. I love you, but I would rather not spend my weekend on studies.”

You didn’t even bother with asking Remus, knowing that the approaching of the full moon in a week would make you selfish to do so.

The skin of your nails was sore from the constant pulling and fidgeting; you weren’t normally so agitated. But you felt so helpless, as if nothing could possibly stick to your head — as if you were eleven again and seeing spells for the first time, knocking your thoughts unconscious.

They were blameless though, at least in your books. How could you possibly point an accusing finger at them for wanting to be alone? Even if it came at your own expense. But you couldn’t help but detect the sting that placed a home at your heart.

Blinking once, twice, your eyes grazed over the words on the thick book, fingers tracing each syllable with a mouthing of your lips. The atmosphere within the library was as heavy as the documents splattered carelessly over the table, and you wanted to scratch your head red at the sight.

“Are you alright?”

You jumped at the sudden calling, turning around to stare at a blond boy who’s gaze was heavy on you.

Dillon Abbott.

A male Hufflepuff who shared little to no classes with you, you only ever recognised him from his broom clashing against James’ from the quidditch games.

You nodded with a solemn smile, and you almost let the glazing of tears overwhelm your reddened cheeks. “Just a tad bit tired, is it obvious?”

He mimicked the tightness of your lips with amusement, eyes wandering over your tired features. Your hair was unkempt, strings and coils pointing to different directions despite the hair tie clenching them together. Two days worth of mascara clumped up beneath your eyes in a dotted manner, and your lips were plump and dehydrated.

And yet, Dillon could not stop staring.

“Beautiful as ever though, need some help?” He furrowed his brows as he read over the text near you, and you inwardly cringed at the proximity to which he’s near you.

You didn’t hear the cracks of the old wooden floors, nor the scent of herbs and chocolate that hadn’t registered through your nose yet.

And Remus found himself furious.

Days ago was when he’d last seen you. When any of the boys have if he were to be serious. They’d missed you, so dearly it ached their heart.

Sirius was the first to notice.

He’d woken up late as he normally does, and normally he’d be greeted with a sappy smile, and reddened cheeks that heated even further when he’d place a sloppy skin on the soft skin. But three days ago the sky seemed to be as dull as their dorm, and he’d pouted the whole 30 minutes it took him to get up from his bed.

“‘Anyone seen my darling girl? I’ve missed her face all day.” He grunted his way through the hall, a puckered lip and crinkled nose that had lily questioning if he were half dog.

No one bothered to answer the Black’s pleas, not even the whine that was present in his voice was enough to raise the other two boys’ awareness.

Sirius kept huffing till the next day, only seeing glimpses of you to which you dismissed him quickly of. He stood below the stands, watching as James’ jaw clenched and unclenched as he slammed a foot among the metal poles.

James was the second to notice.

His glasses were fogged up from the heat that has stretched itself on the apples of his cheeks, and so he deluded himself into that being the reason he could not see you when his match had started. The boy looked around, and the team stripped in yellow had taken advantage of his curiosity and slammed onto him with the tip of their brooms — splintering his ankle.

And yet, he held hope that he simply didn’t recognise you that day. It wasn’t until they’d tied with their opponents, a tick of his jaw present and eyes wandering aimlessly, did he take full notice of the stadium; your absence loud.

No teasing smile awaiting him, or cherry painted nails in his support to poke his ribs amusingly.

Sirius planted a hand on James’ back, squeezing it with a pitiful look. “Didn’t think we’d lose to the puffs, Merlin.”

James rolled his shoulder, shaking his head, a tantrum willed tone tracing his voice, “is she mad?” He huffed, casting a spell on his bruised ankle, “haven’t spotted her all week, and now she’s missed the game. Don’t think we’ve done anything to warrant that.”

The long haired boy scoffed, “she’s been studying her arse off for that test. She’s real smart, don’t know why I can’t get a hold of her.”

Remus furrowed his brows, watching them walk into the common room with misery carpeted on the lines of their faces. James’ eyes were welled up, and he’d harshly rubbed at his cheeks to gain awareness — refusing to succumb to tears. While Sirius’s bottom lips were puckered, though the tension planted in his fists was evident of his concern.

Remus stood up suddenly, grasping the wrinkled paper from the coffee table before leaving to where he knew you’d stayed. And that’s when he found himself glaring at the boy whose face inched too close to the rose coloured dangling earring he’d gifted you on your birthday.

Your jaw was clenched, and your glare was prominent as it landed on the three boys.

Remus had caused a scene, of course he did. He got the three of you kicked out after his voice aggravated beyond means. The librarian had sent a sharp glare at the three of you, dismissing you out of the library with a snarky remark that left your cheeks as bright as the gryffindor flag. Her pointed finger toward the door made your chest feel heavy with embarrassment, but you didn’t say anything as the boys silently filed out, Remus giving you one last, apologetic glance before turning towards the door.

The common room was silent except for the heavy breathing of the group of you, filtering out the sound of the cackling fire.

Sirius’ brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He caught your eye for a moment before looking away, lips curling into a soft, unsure smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Once the door closed behind them, you slowly turned back to the table, your fingers lightly brushing over the map Remus had thrown carelessly onto the table.

You patted down the small portion of matted hair straying from your ponytail, a tired sigh slipping from your lips. The common room felt oppressive now, as if you hadn’t belonged there and the silhouette reflecting off the fire was highlighted onto the deep aches of your face, as if it had noticed that your discomfort was trying to swallow you whole.

There deep silence only bothered you for a temporary second, and then it was the sting. The hot, uncomfortable feeling of humiliation that rose across your chest, and how you felt as if you were caught doing something you shouldn’t have —despite their pitiful gazes saying otherwise.

There was so much unspoken tension, and it was beginning to eat away at your insides.

They cared. You could feel it when they were near you—the way they watched over you, the small twinge of James’ eyebrows when your legs shook from exhaustion. But when they pulled away, when they’d gotten distracted by quidditch or their own issues, it felt like you were just... left there, even if their intentions were as pure as daylight.

The desperation clung onto your throat like a mantra begging for its freedom; You wanted to call them back, to beg for their presence, to remind them that you still needed them—but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Something held you back, a small, nagging voice in your head telling you that maybe, just maybe, they needed to learn how to see you. Really see you. Not just as someone to check in on when it was convenient or when they noticed your absence.

“Merlin,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your eyes with your thumbs and palms resting on your flushed cheeks. This was unfair, you knew that. It had to be. But it didn’t make the ache in your chest go away. The loneliness that was felt when you were surrounded by them, or worse, when you were ignored by them.

The couch dipped, and this time you didn’t even need to crane your neck to know who it was. The familiar scent of wood of gel made your stomach flip, though it was more from frustration than anything else.

"Hey," James' voice cut through the silence, soft and unsure. He wasn’t quite sure if he should approach you— he hadn’t exactly been the most present lately. "Do you want to talk, lovey?"

You didn’t respond at first. Didn’t exactly know what to say. Instead, you leaned back into the soft pillows, crossing your arms over your chest in a quiet challenge. You weren’t angry at any of them, it was selfish to do, but you were tired — so terribly tired.

James lingered for a beat before moving closer in an awkward manner. The concern that was drawn on his face was unmistakable. His hand hovered near the edge your knitted sweater, his eyes searching your face for any sign of your thoughts.

"Listen, we’ve been stupid," James started, and you could hear the guilt that trickled in his voice. “We’ve been so wrapped up in ourselves-”

“we didn’t even stop to check on you. We shouldn’t have left you hanging like that.” Sirius interrupted, kneeling before you. His hands were rough, dry lines etching his palms, and yet; he grazed your bare knees with a softness that had your heart fluttering.

Your eyes flicked briefly to Remus’ observing eye, then back down to your lap. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” James countered, now so close to you, head lightly pushed down so that your eyes were at level. “It’s really not. And I... I don’t want you to feel like you’re carrying all of this on your own.”

Remus’ voice called from the chair he sat on, his usual sharp tone present, yet was laced with an undeniable gentleness. “James is right. We’re sorry. I’m sorry. We should’ve noticed sooner.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Not this genuine, earnest apology. You felt the knot in your chest loosen just a little, though it didn’t completely untangle from the fragile touch of your bones. Their behaviour still nagged on until it hurt, but his words were a buffer, a reminder that they did care — even if they hadn’t always shown it.

“Don’t apologize,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You didn’t want to feel this vulnerable, as if you were a burden, when you knew they would go to the ends of the earth if it meant being back your smile. “I’ve been... I’ve been difficult, too.”

"Don’t ever think that," Sirius said, his hands cupping your chin tenderly, thumb caressing your hot skin. His eyes softened as they met yours, voice taking on that deep, sincere tone you rarely heard from him. "You’re not difficult, love. You’re… important. And we should’ve made more of an effort to show you that. To make sure you’re okay. You deserve more than... than this."

There was a pregnant silence that followed, the tension slowly melting between the four of you as they each found their way to be near you. Remus, who had followed after the others, leaned against the hand of the couch, palms grasping yours, and his eyes dark with concern, though there was a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips.

“We’ve been idiots, and we’ll to make it right,” Remus said gently, his words a soft promise. “But we’re here now, and forever and ever, and we’ll stay as long as you need us.”

It was the first time in days that you felt like you could breathe again. You didn’t feel so alone, and you could feel your lips tugging upwards when James’ frames made contact with your fluttering lashes, lips leaving a wet tinge on your brows. “You can start by brushing my hair.”

[lefteagleblizzard]

ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: you test Joel Miller's patience one too many times, desperate to prove yourself and when a reckless act nearly gets you killed, he shows you exactly what happens when you push a man like him too far. You wanted his respect. Instead, you get his full attention under the weight of his fury, pressed face-first against a crumbling wall, held down as he fucks you raw.

Tags: Set in The Last of Us Part I. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Angst. Enemies/friends to lovers. Age Gap. Protective Joel Miller. Feral Joel Miller. Some descriptions of violence. Some gore elements but not too much. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Brat tamer Joel Miller. Reckless bottom male reader. Size difference. Anal sex.

This was written with game Joel in mind, since I personally prefer the video game way more than the TV show in general.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 5000

The streets were waterlogged veins, slick with runoff and filth. Buildings leaned like they were exhaling their last breath, brick bloated and peeling from twenty years of rain and collapse. The air hung heavy of mildew, rusted rebar, and the sour stink of stagnant floodwater. Somewhere far off, a car alarm wailed half-heartedly. Closer, nothing but the lap of murky water against concrete.

An hotel loomed up out of the sludge. Hotel Grand, half its letters rusted off the vertical sign still clinging to the brick like a parasite. Green slime clung to the lower floor. Water had swallowed the lobby up to the waist.

The glass doors were shattered. The awning collapsed on one side. Beyond the lobby, darkness pooled like oil, lit only by the glow bleeding through the grime-streaked windows.

You swam through what used to be a valet lane, breaking the surface with a breathless sigh and shaking water from your silenced sidearm. Ellie rode a warped wooden slab, her hands gripping the edges, sneakers dripping. Joel swam with one hand, the other pushing her along, grimacing every time debris scratched his arms or bumped his ribs.

He grunted as he hauled himself up the marble steps into the flooded lobby.

The water inside was of the same green tone, thick with floating filth. Soggy furniture broke the surface like dead whales, mold clawed its way up the walls in dark veins.

You walked in front of the concierge desk. Ellie followed, boots squelching. Her eyes scanned the ruin, then her face lit up. She ducked behind the desk, poked her head up and cleared her throat theatrically “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, grinning. “Do you have a reservation?”

You grinned, adjusting your wet hair and holstering your gun . “Yeah. Name’s Badass.’ Suite, preferably. Got a thing for soaking tubs.”

She snorted, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Sorry, sir, we’re all booked. But if you’d like to wait on hold for fifteen years—”

Joel groaned from the base of the stairs, racking a round into his revolver. “Both of you, enough.”

“Party pooper,” Ellie mumbled.

You leaned down and offered her a hand up onto the higher ledge. She took it without question. Joel watched the exchange, jaw set, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on your hand a little too long.

You explored the edges of the flooded floor carefully, boots sloshing through what felt more like soup than water. Moss-covered tables leaned sideways. Chairs floated lazily past. Old room service carts lay overturned and rusted, linens eaten by rot.

Dozens and rapid splashes came from outside, in the water.

You froze, just like Joel.

Looking up from where you were, a section of upper flooring had collapsed over the years, exposing the next level up, a sharp edge jutting down like a broken tooth.

You backed up, boots hitting dry tile as you started to run.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare—” Joel’s voice tore through the lobby, low, furious, but you were already mid-air when he barked those words, fingers scraping the jagged edge of collapsed floor and making it possible to pull yourself up, ribs burning.

You pressed yourself flat to the floor just as the front doors slammed open below. Water sloshed and footsteps thundered as some bandits stormed inside

Five of them all armed with rifles, bats and crowbars. A few had makeshift armor strapped on with duct tape and salvaged plate.

The floor beneath your elbows was warped and soft with rot, carpet peeled back to reveal splinters fattened by mold, soaked deep with twenty years of decay. Every deliberate crawl scraped damp grit along your knees, but you couldn’t afford any noises. One creak too sharp and they’d be on you.

You positioned yourself right at the edge of the collapsed floor, the ragged drop-off giving you a broken bird’s eye view of the lobby below, Joel was crouched near an overturned table with Ellie at his side, his revolver steady but his jaw clenched tight.

You spotted the first enemy slinking through the murk. Shoulders hunched, rifle out. His boots sloshed through the knee-high floodwater, one step at a time, muzzle twitching with every sound.

You watched Joel stiffen. He turned, caught Ellie’s sleeve and tugged her further into cover.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled. Pulled your sidearm into position, the familiar weight of the gun settled against your palm, heavy from the custom suppressor bolted to the front. Your gloves soaked from the earlier swim and your breath drew in to further steady your hands.

Thwick.

The shot barely made a sound, but the result was instant.

The man’s head snapped back, a spray of dark red painting the mold-ridden pillar behind him before his body crumpled like a marionette with its strings sliced. The splash he made landing into the floodwater was much louder.

The others whipped around, they spotted the body and your next shot lined up.

Thwick.

The second man dropped like a bag of bricks, blood painting a slick trail across the surface of the water.

You pulled back immediately when one of them had seen the muzzle glint. The crack of a gunshot exploded past your ear and whined off the half-collapsed frame beside your head, splinters lancing across your cheek. You flattened, crawling fast across the broken space toward another patch of shadow.

“Second floor! Flank left, I got him—!”

He didn’t finish. Joel rose up behind the bastard the second his attention was on you, thick bicep wrapping around the man’s throat before he could even cry out.

His forearm flexed, bicep crushing upward. You barely heard the crunch produced by the man’s neck.

Joel didn’t flinch, he just lowered the body carefully into the water without a splash.

The others moved in, furious now, stumbling forward with rage-blind sloppiness. Ellie ducked low and lobbed a brick square in the temple of one of the two bandits, stunning him long enough for Joel to stomp forward and grab him by the throat.

You shifted to a better angle and took out the last man flanking the east wall, catching him in the shoulder first, off aim, but the second shot took him in the eye, dropping him clean.

Your cheek pressed into the warm, dust-caked floor. The reek of wet carpet and decaying upholstery crowded your nose.

Below, Joel kept his revolver at the ready, his back to a soaked pillar, scanning each flickering corner of the flooded lobby while Ellie stayed close, her knife in-hand, hunched and alert.

You exhaled slowly, hand reaching for your sidearm still warm from the string of shots you’d just landed. The silencer was hot. Burned your fingertips a little as you twisted it off to check the threading. Everything is fine and clean.

The tape you’d used to hold the makeshift suppressor firm was wet, but hadn’t loosened. You dragged a cloth across the grooves to clear the grime before pushing it back into place and clicked it securely, eyes still on the ruined lobby below. Then the mag came out, only two rounds left. You yanked a fresh one from your chest rig and slapped it in with a soft thunk.

“Holy shit. That was sick!” Ellie’s voice was clear and loud as she grinned up at you, her voice pitching higher with excitement. “Dude, you’ve gotta teach me how to shoot like that!”

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. “You got it, kid.”

“Ellie. Quiet.” Joel’s voice came in low, harsh and unforgiving.

Ellie deflated immediately, her shoulders tensing and mouth snapping shut like she’d just been caught mid-crime. Her brows twitched, but she didn’t talk back. Not when Joel was in that tone.

“There’s still more of ‘em,” he said, before his gaze cut upward straight to you, his hand flexing against the grip of his revolver like he was imagining something far less helpful in it.

“You stupid son of a bitch. You think you’re smarter than the rest of us?”

Joel’s voice cracked across the room like a rifle shot. He stood with his fist clenched at his side, shoulders squared and heaving with fury, eyes burning into you like twin wildfires. His jaw was tight, barely keeping the rest of what he wanted to say behind clenched teeth.

You stood your ground, chin tilted up, voice clipped and biting, trying to mask the dull sting behind your ribs with a poorly disguised air of confidence.

“I had the high ground.” It came out too fast and defensive. The words rang with more pride than sense, tone laced with a bratty sharpness, an edge carved out of disappointment.

You had hoped that Joel might’ve seen the good in what you did. That he’d look past the recklessness and see you not as some liability he had to babysit, but someone capable he could count on.

But the look on his face said otherwise. He saw a mistake, a near-loss.

Joel’s boot scraped the floor as he took a step closer, voice rising. “You had no goddamn idea how many were comin’,” he snapped, eyes wild. “Could’ve been a dozen more. Could’ve circled. You get your dumbass pinned up there, I’m supposed to leave Ellie to come scrape your corpse off the goddamn floor?!”

The air between you went cold from the way he said corpse, like he already saw it happen. Your throat felt dry.

Ellie stayed crouched off to the side, eyes darting between you like she’d seen this play out before.

Your voice was smaller now, but no less certain, heat still burning in your chest, jaw tight and fingers twitching from the adrenaline that hadn’t fully left your body.

“I was covering you—” you started, trying to force it out with calm, like maybe if you sounded sure enough, it would change the way he was looking at you.

“I don’t need cover from someone who don’t know when to sit the fuck down and follow orders.” His words cut sharper than any clicker bite ever could.

Your breath caught mid-chest, your teeth clenching to keep the sting from showing.

You stood there, wounded and unwilling to admit it. You wanted to impress him, earn something more than that constant, irritated scowl. You wanted his respect and attention so badly it made your hands shake.

A purposely long and loud sigh left your lips. “Fine,” you muttered, voice low, rising to your feet with the groan of old floorboards under you.

You caught Ellie’s glance, sympathetic but silent. Smart kid.

“I’ll see if there’s a way to get you guys up. Maybe I’ll find you a muzzle up here while I’m at it.”

As your eyes swept the half-collapsed upper floor, something caught your attention near the far corner of the room. Stashed behind a warped vending machine, just visible through the grime-coated glass of a shattered divider, was a folded set of portable stairs. Rusted aluminum propped diagonally on one leg.

Perfect.

You crept toward it, keeping low. The moment your fingers wrapped around the cold, corroded metal, you felt how stubborn it was, heavier than expected, the rust biting through your gloves like sandpaper.

A wet, slapping rhythm echoed behind you. Bare feet moving too fast. The sound of a body flinging itself across tile, uncaring of its own survival.

The kind of noise that made your spine stiffen before your brain could even register the threat. A guttural, snarled growl that raised every hair on your neck.

You turned but not in time.

A Runner bursted out of a side corridor and it hit you hard, shoulder first, with so much force that your feet left the ground.

Your body smashed sideways into the window to your left, the cracked glass from the neighboring hotel room gave instantly under your weight, shattering in a rush of splinters and light. A mix of glass and old rainwater exploded outward as your back slammed into the floor inside, the wind tore from your lungs.

The runner’s limbs scraped violently along the ground as it scrambled after you. Instinctively, you jammed your arm under its jaw, keeping it barely away from your neck as its head twisted, trying to sink teeth into your skin, screaming rage straight into your ears.

Your free hand scraped and grabbed something sharp and cold. A shard of glass from the shattered window that you immediately slashed straight across the side of its face, cheek to temple.

Red blood sprayed and the infected reeled back, screeching until it went still. One final spasm and then nothing.

You crawled out from under it, elbows dragging you across the other side of the room floor, breath heaving, heart trying to punch a hole through your ribs.

You staggered to the far wall, collapsed against it, eyes wide, gasping. The glass was still in your hand, palms and legs trembling.

You blinked sweat from your eyes and looked for your gun half-hidden beneath a broken shelf.

The second you grabbed it, voices echoed in the hallway. The remaining bandits were coming.

You ran fast. One room to the next. Shattered doors and tilted furniture, boots pounding across buckling floorboards. No time to think or stop.

Gun tight in your grip, trigger finger itching as the bandit came into view through the gnarled remains of a splintered wardrobe.

One shot and the silenced round punched clean through his temple. He dropped without a word, limbs scattering, weapon clattering to the soaked floor.

You caught the second one mid-rotation when he realized his buddy’s death. Two rounds in quick succession to the chest and to the neck. A third bandit appeared through the jagged crack in a doorway, a hatchet swinging wide.

You pulled the trigger once but it was now empty. As fast as possible you ducked, shoulder rolling under the wide arc of the blade, grabbing the man’s arm and ramming your elbow into his ribs with all the force you could muster, a technique you learned after observing Joel for so long.

He grunted, faltered and you plunged the butt of your gun into his skull twice before he dropped to the ground.

But then a body crashed into you from the side. The impact slammed you against the wall so hard your vision burst with white. The sound that left your chest wasn’t even human, more wheezing than scream, your shoulder bouncing off rotting wood.

You dropped your gun involuntarily, it skidded across the floor and out of reach as the bandit pressed his forearm into your neck.

“Fucking stay down,” he hissed, his breath hot and sour in your face, his fist drove into your stomach once, twice, three times.

Then came a hand to your throat, a tight pressure applied almost immediately. His fingers clamped down like steel, cutting off your supply of air. You clawed at his arms, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve, but it did nothing.

You couldn’t even hear yourself anymore. Your vision had stopped making sense a while ago. Everything was dull around the edges, your lungs screamed, throat crushed under the force that didn’t loosen no matter how hard your legs kicked or how your nails dug at the man’s arm.

Your vision had already started to darken at the edges, oxygen choking off, but the pressure on your throat vanished in an instant.

A crack of impact tore through the room, the man’s head jerked sideways violently. There was a sick, muted thump beneath it, the sound of something soft giving way.

Your knees hit the floor, followed by your palms, sucking in air so violently it burned like fire down your throat.

The bandit staggered, half his jaw hanging loose, the side of his face caved in where Joel’s baseball bat had connected as blood poured down his chest like paint.

Joel swung again, a vicious, two-handed strike that caught the man square in the face. The bat shattered, splinters raining down as the bandit reeled back, blood gushing from his shattered nose.

You stayed on your hands and knees, gasping for breath, the world tilting sideways as you watched Joel step forward, chest heaving.

He dropped the broken bat without a word and lunged. His hands gripped the man’s jacket, yanking him forward, slamming him down onto the ground with a sickening thud, one knee pinning the man’s shoulder, the other digging into his chest and bringing his fists down over and over again.

Blood splattered up Joel’s sleeves as his fists kept slamming down. Each hit was fueled by something deep and wild. Joel’s face twisted, lips curled back in a snarl, his teeth gritted. His fists kept flying, blood spattering across his forearms, painting the broken tile beneath them red.

The bandit was limp by the third punch, his face already unrecognizable, knuckles cracking against wet meat. Blood smeared Joel’s knuckles, dripped down his wrists.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, half-slumped against the wall, ears ringing and knees buckling, but it felt like the bones in your legs were no longer yours. Joel’s labored breaths were ragged, shoulder brushing brick, his posture hunched and brutal in the aftermath of the kill.

You turned your head away, cheek dragging over the soot-smeared concrete wall, a cold smear left behind from the sweat on your skin.

Your vision swam, too many colors, none of them real. The edges of your sight bloomed in watery halos that faded in and out. The blood rushing in your ears didn’t stop and your lungs still weren’t moving like they were supposed to. Each inhale felt like trying to suck air through a collapsed straw, the burn still flaring where that bastard’s grip had nearly crushed your windpipe.

You didn’t remember deciding to move. Your feet did it for you, more stumble than stride, shoulders scraping the wall as your boots found uneven purchase on the ruined hallway floor. Your left hand hovered, ready to catch the wall if your knees finally gave out, the other still trembled at your side.

You made it to the first door. Hinges long gone. Just a splintered frame and a half-hanging panel of rotted wood that you shouldered through like a drunk man. The room inside was a snapshot of nature reclaiming disaster, walls overtaken by thick curtains of ivy, damp moss blanketing what used to be wallpaper, the floor cracked wide enough in places to let thin tendrils of green poke through.

The air was damp and fungal, your boots left tracks in the damp dust. Motes danced in the shafts of light leaking through shattered slats of the blinds. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle, the old mattress stained and gray with mold. The once-white sheets had rotted into stiff brown paper.

It didn’t matter at the moment, you collapsed onto it. The mattress sank with a groan. You could feel the damp creep instantly through your pants. You let your body drop sideways first, knees angled, back hunched, then slowly, as breath permitted, you adjusted your weight until you were upright, sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows braced to your knees, face buried in your palms.

The panting came back hard. You could hear the rasp of your own breath echoing in your hands. Every muscle in your back screamed in protest when you shifted, thighs trembling, ankles sore. Your ribs creaked when you inhaled too hard, your throat pulsed with angry red heat.

And in that stillness, one thought pushed through the haze like a flare: Where the fuck was Ellie?

You hadn’t seen or heard her.

Joel must’ve made her stay back. Probably barked it at her, harsh and firm, with that tone he saved for things that could end in blood and she would’ve listened. Because she trusted him.

God, you wanted him to really see you as someone who was capable, strong. Maybe not the strongest, not always the smartest, but brave. You wanted him to notice. But instead, you just saw that damn scowl and disappointment.

Your hands dropped from your face, fingertips brushing your thighs, legs screaming in protest the second you tried to push up. Knees quivering, calves unsteady, muscles like dead cords trying to pull you into a standing position and barely succeeding. You reached for the wall, both palms out like you were bracing for a blow, each footstep more a suggestion than a choice. When you finally got upright, you leaned into the nearest support beam hard, cheek pressing to the cool surface, one hand rising to your neck.

The door banged open behind you with the slam of wet wood on tile, your spine going stiff before your brain even caught up. You didn’t need to look to know it was Joel.

You could smell the blood and sweat and rain-soaked shirt, the copper tang of violence riding the heat radiating off his skin.

Whatever humanity had been left in them back in the lobby was gone now. His gaze burned through you like a brand, black with fury, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so hard the cords in his neck jumped with every shallow breath. Blood dripped from his knuckles, long ropes of it trailing down his forearms, some of it wet, still warm, some already drying dark and cracked over his skin like warpaint. Some droplets of blood were caught in his beard.

“Joel—”

Your voice cracked at the edges, hoarse, so brittle you could’ve sworn it fractured somewhere in your throat. You hadn’t meant for his name to sound like fear. But it did and the second the syllable left your lips, something in him snapped.

He moved fast. He crossed the ruined floor with brutal speed, fists still flexing.

His hands slammed against the wall on either side of your face, trapping you between arms that still trembled with rage. His body closed in, caging you like prey. The blood on his skin smeared against the plaster. His forehead didn’t touch yours but it hovered close enough that every pant hit your lips like fire, his chest brushing yours with the shallow rise and fall of each breath he forced through his nose.

“This what you want?” he spat, voice a sawblade through gravel, eyes burning holes into your skull. “That’s why you keep fuckin’ pullin’ this shit?”

The words came out like punches, venom and heat.

Of course he fucking knew. He always had. In a world like this, a true survivor like him learns to read people’s body languages. He knew you were gone for him.

You spent every goddamn day trying to prove to him you were worth the risk. That you could handle yourself.

He dipped forward suddenly, a grunt tearing from his chest and your body jolted when he flipped you around, palms slamming flat against the wall. Your cheek pressed to the cold surface as his chest crashed into your back with a weight that made your knees threaten to fold.

One of his hands, calloused and massive, slid from the wall to your hip, fingers digging in hard, blood-slick and unyielding. The other came up and gripped your jaw, pulling your head to the side, exposing your neck like prey to the butcher’s blade.

His beard scratched against your throat, dragging over tender skin like sandpaper and honey, sting and sweetness, it made your hands curl into fists against the wall.

His breath was hot, still panting hard from the man he killed for you, the steam of it soaking into the crook of your neck, heating your skin from the inside out.

He grunted, low and guttural, right against your throat.

He shoved his hips forward and you felt the huge bulge pressing right against the cleft of your ass. Hard and thick. You gasped again, breath catching in your throat, jaw clenched as your knees buckled under the weight of that reality.

“Quiet now,” he rasped, voice like thunder in the shell of your ear, “s’funny how fast you shut the fuck up when it counts. All that fuckin’ attitude and now I can’t even get a sound outta you.”

His beard scratched along your collarbone now, lips brushing where neck meets shoulder, breath coming in sharp huffs.

Another grunt. He pressed his hips in harder, letting you feel every goddamn inch of the hardness grinding against your ass.

His hand was under your shirt now. Crawling across your ribs, sticky with blood and gripping your waist with bruising force.

Those hands traveled lower, blood smeared in thick streaks as he reached down and grabbed your ass hard. Fingers biting deep into the flesh, spreading and squeezing until your breath left your lungs in one short, shattered gasp.

He groaned behind you, deep and wrecked and still full of that fire that hadn’t gone out.

Joel’s spit splattered slick into his palm, you could feel the rough grooves of his fingerprints as he circled slow at first, teasing the rim.

The scrape of his beard rasped against your neck, a brutal kiss dragging across your skin, scratching a red path beneath the surface. His mouth opened against the hinge of your jaw, teeth grazing enough to warn. Breath steamed, thick with the copper tang of blood and sweat as he pressed harder.

He grunted low, a guttural sound that vibrated straight through your spine as his thumb pressed forward, circling tighter now, insistently, pushing into resistance and feeling you clench around nothing. You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, fists balled hard enough to make your knuckles ache.

His other hand found your hip again, gripping hard, squeezing down to bruise. His thumb breached you in one slow, brutal push, the blunt tip forcing your hole open, your breath catching sharp as you felt the stretch, raw and insistent.

He worked it deeper, knuckle grinding into your rim, twisting, pulling a grunt out of your chest that you couldn’t stifle. His beard rasped harder along your neck, biting into tender skin as he pressed a rough, open-mouthed kiss there, sucking bruises into the curve where shoulder met throat.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago,” he growled, his voice a stormcloud rumble, full of ash and threat. “Shoulda stopped wastin’ my fuckin’ breath screamin’ at you and just realize that all you needed was my cock stuffed so far down that smug throat you couldn’t say a fuckin’ word.”

His breath fogged hot against your skin as he pressed another finger in beside the first. Thicker now, the stretch sharper, the burn deeper.

You shuddered hard, hips rocking instinctively away from the pressure, but Joel’s grip snapped your body back against him, holding you flush, making you take every inch he forced inside.

“None of that,” he growled, breath breaking against the shell of your ear. “Gonna open you up good to take every fuckin’ inch I give you.”

The blunt force of his words punched straight to the pit of your gut, made your cock twitch even as your body trembled against the intrusion. His fingers scissored wider, dragging at the tender rim of your hole, making room where there hadn’t been enough.

The press of his body behind you felt like iron, solid and unyielding, decades of muscle and violence caging you in, heat rolling off him in waves thick enough to drown.

His fingers twisted deeper, hitting that spot that made your hips jerk, breath stuttering, a raw noise tearing from your throat that wasn’t a word, just heat and need given sound. He curled his fingers inside, dragging along the tender bundle of nerves again, grinding that spot until your knees buckled, hands scrabbling useless against the wall.

You could barely speak, the burn of the stretch making your thighs shake, your breath coming sharp and ragged. Joel’s free hand dragged up your side, palm rough with calluses, smearing sweat and blood in its path, then gripped the back of your neck, forcing your head down, making you arch your spine and push your hips back into his hand.

His fingers pulled free slowly, dragging wet and sticky from your hole, leaving it twitching, pulsing with the need to be filled again.

Joel grunted, shifting behind you, the scrape of his belt buckle loud in the quiet, the wet squelch of fabric pushed down over his thighs, heavy denim dragging rough along his skin.

You could feel the press of him, thick and hot.

“Breathe,” he growled, the word rough and commanding. “Ain’t gonna be gentle. You want this, you fuckin’ take it.”

He didn’t wait. His hips thrust forward hard, the fat head of his cock splitting you open with one brutal push, the thickness of him forcing your hole wider than his fingers ever could. The burn tore up your spine, sharp and blinding, breath stolen clean from your chest as he groaned deep.

“Fuck—” Joel rasped, voice breaking as he felt how tight you were around him, the squeeze of your body choking him, resisting him. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back onto him as he shoved deeper, inch by thick inch, forcing your body to stretch and take him.

The girth of him felt obscene, too much, scraping raw inside as he pressed forward, grunting with each shove, grinding his hips into your ass until you could feel the heavy drag of his balls against your skin.

Hips grinding slow to let you feel the full weight of him buried deep, stretching you open around the root of his cock. His beard scraped against your shoulder as he leaned in, breath panting hard against your skin, chest heaving with each ragged exhale.

His hips pulled back slowly, just the head dragging out, then slammed forward again, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward, cock grinding deep, rearranging you from the inside out.

Each thrust punched a groan from your chest, made your hands claw at the wall, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucked you harder, rougher, cock driving so deep you could feel the press of him against your guts.

His body loomed behind, weight anchoring you in place, heat radiating from his sweat-slick skin, hot breath panting hard into the crook of your neck.

His cock dragged out of you slow, thick and deliberate, every inch pulling free with a wet slide that left your hole clenching. You could feel the swell of his tip flare wide at the rim, the drag of thick veins scraping raw along your insides as he pulled nearly all the way out, leaving you empty for a breathless second before his hips slammed forward again, splitting you open all over again.

“Fuckin’—tight,” Joel snarled low, voice shredded raw at the edges, chest heaving as he buried himself to the hilt, every thrust forcing the air from your lungs, cock grinding against that spot that made your legs buckle, stretching your guts around his cock like he meant to leave you gaping and ruined, filled with the shape of him.

His hand snapped up, rough fingers curling hard around your jaw, wrenching your head to the side with brutal force and crashing his mouth against yours, lips bruising, beard scraping hard enough to bite.

His tongue shoved deep between your teeth, invasive and desperate, claiming you from the inside out. His lips pressed hard, swallowing the broken moans spilling from your throat as he fucked you harder, cock grinding deep with every thrust.

Joel groaned into your mouth, voice rough and thick, tongue twisting deep as his cock hammered into you, every inch grinding against that tender spot that made your knees threaten to give. His hand gripped your jaw tight, holding you still as he kissed you like he meant to devour you, tongue fucking your mouth with the same brutal rhythm as his hips.

You could feel him swell inside you, the twitch of his cock as it throbbed thick, grinding deep as he panted against your lips, every muscle pulling tight as he barreled toward the edge.

Joel groaned loud, hips grinding deep, cock pulsing thick inside you as he slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, grinding hard, body shuddering as he spilled deep, filling you with the hot rush of his cum, thick and heavy, flood after flood of warmth filling you until it leaked out around the base and dripping down your thighs.

Joel’s breath stayed ragged against your lips, the weight of him grinding deep inside, his cock buried thick to the hilt, body pressed flush to yours.

The last pulsing throb of his cock inside you made your guts ache as he stayed there for a long moment, body locked solid, his head bowed forward against the back of your neck, breath heaving, beard rough and scratching as he rasped against your skin. His fingers twitched against your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

He dragged himself slowly from your body, the stretch of it pulling wet and thick from your hole, leaving you aching, raw and empty in its absence.

Joel’s breath hitched again as he stood back enough for the cool air to kiss the sweat streaked across your skin. His hands dropped from your waist, dragged roughly down your sides before falling away completely, leaving you trembling against the wall.

“Get dressed.” A command, not an offer. Joel shifted behind you, the sound of him tucking himself back into his jeans loud, followed by the snap of his belt buckle.

You turned your head enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. That old familiar scowl carving deeper into the lines of his face, like what had just happened between you was something he could shove down, bury beneath anger and the weight of survival.

You pushed off the wall slowly, body aching, the mess of him slick between your legs, the sting at your rim sharp where he’d worked you open. Your hands fumbled for your pants, tugging them up with fingers that still trembled, pulling cloth back over skin that felt too raw to cover.

Joel watched, but his gaze never lingered too long, never dipped back down your body. He turned away fast, grabbed his revolver, checked the chamber with a sharp, practiced motion.

“We ain’t stayin’ here.” His voice was steady now, pushing past what had happened like it hadn’t cracked something open between you both. “Too exposed.”

You nodded again, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, swallowing down the knot in your throat.

Joel lingered in the doorway, weight settling heavy in the frame, fingers flexing slowly over the worn strap of his rifle, jaw clenched so hard you could see the twitch in the muscle there, a silent warning.

“You so much as step outta line again,” Joel growled, voice rough enough to sand the edges off bone, “I’ll put you right back where you belong.” His stare didn’t waver. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Fuck if that didn’t drag up the old self, the cocky, reckless part of you that never knew when to leave well enough alone, a smirk creeping slow to the corner of your lips, small but sharp enough to cut through the tension between you.

You met his stare head-on, that grin flickering into place like a goddamn match strike. Couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t, even if you’d wanted to.

“Is that a promise?” You rasped, voice low, playful curling around the edges.

Joel’s brow twitched, the scoff that rumbled out of him spoke louder than any words.

There was a shift at the corner of his mouth, subtle as the ghost of a breeze, a smile threatening to break out. It tugged faint at the rough line of his lips, there and gone, but you caught it. That flash of satisfaction threaded through the ironclad control he tried to keep wrapped tight around himself.

He crushed it down fast, that jaw clenching hard again, eyes flicking away as he shook his head. “Always gotta have the last word,” he grumbled, voice rough, annoyed, but the edge of warmth tucked so far down you almost missed it.

It was over, for now, but that flicker of a smile said he wouldn’t mind one bit if you gave him a reason to follow through on it.

But that was just a theory you elaborated.

Time to test it.

[liveyun]

the archivist.

life has bothered you enough that you end up taking a job at a forgotten archive. somehow, one of the barren books seem know too much about you, and so does he.

▸ pairing. namjoon x fem reader/oc

▸ genre. dark fantasy, liminal horror, magical realism, mature

▸ warnings. (for this one-shot) soft eldritch joon ? ? , surrealism , unreality, oc is a broke student, mentions of a toxic ex, time gets weird, mild possession ? ? . . kind of yearning ? , also — there’s erotica appearance!! namjoon is very gentle but also very intense, emotional vulnerability x10000. english isn’t my first language so pls excuse the lil mistakes ! !

▸ wc. 2.2k +

part of the “DEADL7NES” series

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You take the job because you’re broke.

You found the job on a half-broken bulletin board behind the convenience store, thumbtacked between a flier for lost kittens and a “no questions asked” roommate search.

The paper looked old. Faded ink. Just a time and an address.

No title, no description. No contact number. No interviews, no prior experience needed either.

Desperation has a sound — it's the growling of your stomach on the fourth day of instant ramen, the shame of unread emails with subject lines like we regret informing you.

So despite this whole ordeal sounding shady at all points, you show up.

The building looks like it’s seen some pretty tough shit.

It leans into a pocket of space between two concrete towers like a secret. Ivy coils up its bricks like veins, there are signs of ageing and neglect, but there’s a certain vibe which just screams vintage is undeniable. There’s no signboard, only a brass doorknob that’s too cold for your touch.

You step in. Dust sighs under your shoes. The air is still, too, like it’s listening.

The timing was listed at 7:00 PM sharp. A quick glance to your wrist watch tells you it’s 6:56, and you let out a small exhale of relief through your nose.

“I see that you’re quite punctual. . .” a voice as deep as sounds echoing back from vast halls startles you as you flush momentarily. you were zoned out on the small creeper plant which seems to have no roots at all, claiming the wall from the wood floorboard.

Kim Namjoon.

That’s what he introduces himself as when he steps out from behind the desk, his voice as quiet, yet raspy as the rest of him.

“I’m Namjoon. You’ll be taking care of the shelves,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the books that stretch like ribs around the room. “Call for me if you need help. I’ll be at the desk.”

You nod.

You do not speak, because his presence has stolen language from you.

It’s not just that he’s handsome — it’s that he’s unreasonably and unfairly so. Not the kind from glossy advertisements or late-night dramas, though, this. . . is different.

He is carved.

Ancient. Like a statue that forgot it was stone and decided to breathe. Like the sculptor blew the breath of life to their creation.

There’s wisdom in the slant of his eyes. Softness, too. Like an ancient, old dragon who never ages. The dragon, who believes that there’s strength in gentleness.

His hair is thick and dark, parted gently like the petals of a bloom. Dimples bloom when he smiles, but it’s rare.

You find yourself waiting for them like sunrise.

────────────────────────

You start the job.

It’s mostly cleaning — dusting shelves, sorting book returns, arrivals, fixing the labels that curl off from old spines, and sometimes even wiping, although that’s rare. Sometimes people come in, reserved and quiet, as though they too stumbled in by mistake. You suggest titles. Smile when they leave. You see the same names again and again. No one ever asks for a library card.

The place smells of paper and petrichor.

He’s always there, somewhere—at the big desk in the corner, writing into thick journals. Sometimes you catch the curve of his hand around a pen, ink smudged on his fingers.

He doesn’t talk much. But his plants are always freshly watered. You often catch glimpses of him lovingly watering his potted plant of night jasmine, admiring the tiny life with his gentle, calm eyes.

Something strange happens: your life starts to fix itself.

The rent gets paid on time. You get better sleep. An old wound on your ankle fades like it remembers how to heal. Your ex no longer harasses you over texts. Your fridge now has fresh produce instead of ancient boxes of takeout. Your stomach issues are gone, your skin is devoid of acne and hyperpigmentation, your roommate finds a better apartment and moves out, and the silence she leaves behind is warm, not cold. Your grades improve almost magically. The professor who you swore couldn’t stand the sight of you automatically starts giving you extention periods for your assignments.

It doesn’t make sense. But you don’t question it. Not when you can finally exhale for the first time in months, can buy yourself a latte without getting concerned glances from the barista regarding the embarrassingly low balance in your student card.

You feel grateful. You feel. . . happy.

────────────────────────

One evening, you’re working, as usual. You shelve a set of old poetry books and your fingers brush against a cover that looks newer than the rest. Bound in deep crimson, its spine uncracked. The pages look white instead of yellow.

No title. No author.

You pull it free.

It’s erotica. The kind that moans long and slow.

You shouldn’t read it, but you find yourself reading it. You cannot make yourself resist.

Your eyes devour the first few lines.

“Her limbs trembled like branches after rain, heavy with want.

His hands were galaxies, tracing constellations across her skin, stars burning beneath each fingertip.

She opened beneath him like dawn, and he worshipped like a man made of midnight.”

You think you’ve forgotten breathing.

“He pressed his lips to her collarbone, reverent, like a psalm sung in a forgotten tongue.

The mouth of the beloved does not ask permission.

It tastes. It drinks. It sings against the skin.

Her breath caught like a bird between palms—

desperate, fluttering, sacred.

When her eyes closed, it was not from fear.

It was surrender.

The world vanished beneath her spine.

There was only warmth,

and the memory of a name

moaned, but not spoken.

And when he took her, it was not just a body—it was a memory. It was a myth. A myth only he could unravel from her.”

Warmth pools between your thighs, unbidden, shameful, aching. You press your thighs together, hoping for a bit of relief.

“You found that one.”

You jerk. The book nearly flies from your hands.

Namjoon stands across the aisle, arms folded loosely, gaze dipped low. His eyes are unreadable—amused, yes, but something else. Like he’s expecting this of you. Like he’s seen it happen before.

You stammer. “I, uh, — I was just—”

“Curious?” he offers, head tilting slightly. The sleeves of his khaki cardigan are folded up to his elbows, showing the delicious, golden skin of his arm.

The silence thickens. Your throat works. He doesn’t approach — he just watches you. Eyes slow, deliberate, knowing. You feel exposed, naked, like the words you read clung to your skin and spelled your desire in script only he can decipher. Shame crawls down your neck like branches of a tree, swirling with the desire which bloomed in between your legs.

He smiles. One dimple appears.

You close the book and try to breathe.

That night bothers you enough to have you squirming in your bed, aching with need.

That night, you dream of slender hands roaming in between your legs and sending you to the clouds of heaven.

────────────────────────

You don’t speak of it again.

But it lingers.

The air between you two crackles differently. Some days he looks up when you pass, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Some days you catch him watching you through the reflection in the glass door. He never stares.

Just. . . observes. Like he’s waiting for you to notice something you haven’t yet.

Weeks pass.

One night, you’re working late again, alone among the shelves. The rain taps the windows in a quiet but soothing rhythm. It feels warm. Cosy. You don’t feel sleepy working late anymore, and you feel this library has become your small world. You’re humming under your breath, dusting the top of a shelf, when a heavy book slips from its place and falls with a thud. You reach down—

—and hear a click.

There’s something behind the shelf. A panel has loosened, just barely. You dig your fingers in and pull it open.

A drawer. Hidden, because you swear that you come by this shelf almost everyday and you’ve never once caught a glimpse of it.

Inside there’s a stack of thick, leather-bound books. The top one slides forward and you stumble to catch the fat book.

You lift it.

And on the first page, you see your name.

Your full name. Handwritten in that same smooth ink you’ve seen on his desk. In the same, smooth drawl you’ve seen countless times.

You flip through it. The first pages are mostly empty, and you feel like this is some sort of a very cruel joke. Frustration touches you, and soon you’re vigorously flipping through the pages untill you reach the middle of the novel, the text written in a muted shade of blue.

I. Childhood

She was a girl with small hands and wide eyes.

She knew how to be quiet,

the way others knew how to dance or sing.

Or maybe because she was often told she spoke a lot.

When no one looked, she tucked her hands in a sack of grains, finding comfort at how the grains brushing against her soft palms felt home. No one answered her questions of wonder when she asked how did butterflies learnt how to fly, or how did they get such beautiful colours in their wings.

She was always waiting for something —

not a person, not a thing.

Just . . . something.

Maybe it was kindness. . .

Or maybe a door.

II. Adolescence

At night, she’d trace the ceiling with her gaze,

as if searching for a skylight no one had built.

There was a fire in her,

but she hid it well—

tended to it like a secret she couldn’t afford to burn.

She’d try to figure out the changes she’d went through, trying to understand if she willed them, or they just happened.

And when her tender heart was thrown away by someone insignificant, she didn’t cry.

She just curled up in her bed and stared at the light

leaking in through the window

like it was your last friend,

wondering what was wrong with her,

Or if she could ever be good enough.

III. The becoming.

There is no single word for surviving.

You did it by half.

One shift. One skipped meal. One train. Years away from home.

You stitched rent money and broken dreams

into something like hope.

No one clapped.

But you kept waking up.

That was the miracle.

—

The letter that never came,

But you expected it the most.

You checked the inbox like a ritual, a routine.

It was summer—

the air sticky and humid with waiting.

That one line, that one school—

you had braided your future around its name.

But the screen stays blank.

You laughed.

Then you cried until your chest hurt

and your throat forgot how to make sound.

You touch your stomach when no one looks.

You cross your arms when you speak.

You fear being too much,

but worse — being not enough.

You pretend you don’t see the way people look past you.

But you do.

And it breaks you.

Quietly.

But you still keep going.

—

You were cleaning,

thinking of bills and bus rides.

You find a nameless book,

But the texts inside named a different spark inside you.

You tremble, not out of fear.

Your thighs press together,

slickness blooming between them like honey under sun.

You gasp when the thought touches you—

of lips against your collarbone,

of fingers ghosting down your spine,

of someone saying your name

like a prayer without God.

You are not shy.

Only aching.

—

Your days are brighter.

And your nights are peaceful.

The wind touches your cheeks gently and you don’t question it anymore.

Because you truly feels the tranquility of happiness in a very long time, so why even think about it?

The drawer.

You didn’t mean to find it.

You were lost in the puzzle of your own mind —

Dreaming of endless skies and the rain that fell.

Then the book fell.

And the drawer opened — like it had been waiting.

Inside: parchment, ink-stained and breathing.

A book too thick to belong to anyone.

Except you.

The first page had your name.

“Is this a joke?” you ponder, but it isn’t.

Now that you’ve read your story,

You taste salt. But you don’t know if it’s bitter or sweet

Because the tears which depart your eyes aren’t of sorrow, nor fear

But your heart feels heavy,

And your body trembles.

It’s because the soul remembers

what the body has not yet learned.

You didn’t realise you were on your knees now, your hands shaking as you come to an end of the novel. Your eyes burn with tears as your heart threatenes to trash out of your chest.

He is there. Right beside you.

Close enough that his warmth shouldn’t feel so cold.

Close enough that you wonder how long he’s been standing there as you slowly turn your head to look at him, kneeling down before you. Your eyes are hazy with tears, but..

His eyes— they look gentle, soft, and almost sorrowful. The kind of softness that ruins you quietly, like lullabies sung in the wrong language, tender but distant, like a poem written for someone who died too young.

But his smile. Ah, his smile. The kind which has dimples popping out, the kind which makes his eyes turn to gentle cresents.

That smile is nothing like his eyes.

The touch which brushes your cheeks is warm, but cold at the same time, as if he knew what the turmoil inside your heart was like. His fingers, his thumb, wiping away your tears.

“Now, now—don’t cry. You yourself wanted a better life, love.”

But that’s not what scares you.

It’s those eyes which don’t look as gentle as you’ve always seen them to be.

“Did you think I would do this for free, love?”

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[luvinescent]

Entangled Fates

Pairing: Robb Stark x fem!Targaryen!Reader

Summary: The Targaryen name has brought nothing but misery to Y/N— her half-blood placing a curse upon her. She's observed the toll her presence takes on the people she loves; no longer wanting to form a close tie with anyone. Nevertheless, her heart steered its own course. And it steered towards a certain man.

Warnings: angst. allusion to r*pe and death, nothing descriptive. a steamy make-out scene but nothing crazy. not really book or show accurate but f it we ball. also fluff. also reader has dark hair so just pretend u do if u don't xoxo.

Word count: 10.1K (beginning just has lots of background lore pls bear w/ me)

In life, there are those destined for lavish living and those made to struggle to see their next day. From a young age, Dorea knew she fell into the second category. She grew up orphaned; never knowing the love of a mother or a father. Despite the fact, Dorea was strong willed; she found her own kind of love. Love for herself, love for her friends, and love for her life. She knows that she did not have the best life; her dresses had holes in them, she had to work from dawn to dusk, and she often would need to go days without eating. That ultimately changed the day a close friend of hers had come to her with a new line of work.

“One of the castles maids was executed, so her position is open to take”.

Looking back, she should’ve said no from the way a chill went up her spine. She had heard the rumors of the king having gone mad; but at the time, that was not her problem. Being a castle maid sounded a lot better than being a candle maker. All she had to do was clean the chambers and mind her business and pay would be given to her. The task sounded easy— it should’ve been easy. Dorea had ways of not drawing attention to herself. That is how she has made it this far in her life; from hiding. The peace of obscurity brought her comfort; being anonymous was a safe refuge that protected her from prying eyes and the entanglements of wicked connections. The girl was pure and innocent.

Yet, fate, with its twisted sense of irony, had other plans.

She truly had done all she could to stay out of the eyes of the royal family. She should’ve been more careful, more attentive, more aware of the eyes that followed her unknowingly when she walked the halls. Her foolishness had caught up to her one day when a guard had dragged her to the throne room; thrown to the ground to kneel in front of the king, Aerys II Targaryen. Dorea was ready to open her mouth and beg for forgiveness on whatever crimes she had committed but was silenced in fear. “You will meet me in my chambers tonight”, he said. Dorea could do nothing but nod as she could not go against the kings’ words. The only thing she could do was look to the Hand of the King for some form of help, but they stood muted. Moments later, she was whisked away by some female servants— some of them her own friends— and was prepared for the event. She was washed and dressed properly; never have been so physically clean yet so dirty internally.

Later that night, her virtue and gaiety of life was destroyed when the king came and took her. She had prayed to the Gods that it was only a one-time thing. But the Gods seemed to find her plea a joke. The king would request her presence many more times and many more nights afterwards. Her position as a maid in the castle vanished overnight. Now, she stood as something different; still, she did not know exactly what. All Dorea knew was she felt shame as those working in the castle started to treat her different, with more respect and caution. She dreamt every night for this nightmare to end, but it only continued.

“The girl is pregnant, your grace”. The maestar told the king. Both fear and relief spread through her body. Fear in the sense that the king would have her eliminated to hide such sin, and relief that he might just send her away forever. It had to be one or the other; from what she has seen, the queen is currently pregnant as well and due in a few moons. Furthermore, he already had two children born, why would he need her? Her thoughts were interrupted by the third alternative she had feared the most, “You will continue to stay here. You will have the child”. Later that night, Dorea prayed once more for all this suffering to end. Finally, her prayer had been answered in the worst way possible.

She had heard the talks of the rebellion, but she never thought it would come to where she resigned. The king’s heir was now dead, along with his wife and children. The queen was now dead; dying from childbirth. The middle child and newest member of the royal family had been sent to exile. And the Mad King was now dead as well; stabbed by a member of his own Kingsguard.

Death and misery surrounded Dorea everywhere.

For her own safety, and her chance once again at freedom, she did what she knew she had to do. She ran away.

Dorea took refuge in a small village that resided in the Reach. Selling all the gifts and jewelry the king had bestowed upon her; she and her unborn child were set for life. A few moons later, Dorea gave birth during a warm summer night. As she held the newborn in her arms, she thought the Gods had finally decided to take pity on her and grant her some kindness. For starters, she had given birth to a girl. Dorea was thankful in the sense that the child would not be seen as a threat to the line of succession of the Iron throne. Additionally, the babe had no features of a Targaryen. Caressing the small amount of hair on her daughter’s hair, she was given hair as dark as night instead of the silvery-gold feature of her biological father. Dorea let out a sigh of relief once the girl opened her eyes— no violet eyes either. Pulling the babe closer to her chest, she gave a quick prayer and smiled down at the sleeping babe.

Dorea named her Y/N.

As time passed, Y/N quickly grew before her mothers’ eyes. Both her and her mother were beloved by the village folks— Dorea giving money to those who were in need, and her daughter who was tenderhearted and befriended all. No one in the village had known about Doreas’ past or Y/N true linage. And Dorea wanted to keep it that way. She, however, knew that one day it would all come back to bite her. Despite having run away, she knew that there were some people who knew of their existence. It did not help her case more when Y/N had begun to show a great fascination with fire; something the mothers of the village made jokes about, but Dorea knew the truth.

“You have dragon blood within you”, Dorea had whispered to her daughter one quiet night. “You are part Targaryen, but you must keep this a secret. I am only telling you this for your own safety. There are people in this world who will want to hurt you, to take you away from me. Do you understand darling?”. At just the age of eight, Y/N was smarter and brighter than her peers. Hearing such solemness in her mothers’ voice, she nodded, “Yes mother”.

Such a topic was dropped and never brought up again— that was until Y/N turned ten. Since Dorea had the funds, she had hired a tutor for the young girl. Y/N’s instructor was a retired tutor who had taught many kids from noble homes before moving to their village. The old man was just supposed to teach her simple things like language, arts, music, and maths.  Without her mothers’ knowledge, Y/N brought up the topic of history to her teacher, particularly the history of the Targaryen household. And that’s where everything started.

It was one calm afternoon in their shared bedroom when Y/N had asked the question. “Mother, am I cursed?”. Dorea, puzzled, stopped brushing her daughter’s hair and turned towards her, “What kind of question is that?”. Y/N looked sheepishly to the side and confessed everything, “I have been learning history with my tutor. Targaryen history”. Before Dorea could respond, the young girl continued, “You say I am half Targaryen, and based upon their history, I must be cursed”. Dorea questioned what she meant and then let out a loud laugh at her daughters’ answer: “I have black hair mother”.

Dorea caressed her daughters face, smiling and shaking her head, “Darling, your hair color does not mean anyth- “.

“But its true mother!” Y/N exclaimed, “It is shown all over their history. Rhaenyra Targaryen’s eldest sons were born with dark hair, and they all died before they could reach adulthood. Rhaenys Targaryen was known as the “Queen Who Never Was” and saw the death of her two children in her lifetime. Rhaegar Targaryen’s daughter was killed in the sack of Kings Landing. Valarr Targaryen was- “.

“What does any of that have to do with you?!”, Dorea shouted out, startling Y/N. The young girl felt tears come to her eyes as she hid herself in her mothers’ embrace, muffling her words, “They were not pure Targaryen. I am not a pure Targaryen, mother. I do not wish to fall to such misfortunes”. Dorea felt her heart break at the sound and thoughts of her daughters’ troubles. Shaking her head, Dorea raised Y/Ns’ head and looked straight into her eyes, “You are not cursed. Their misfortunes are not yours. Do you hear me girl? This is your life, and you control it”. Y/N could do nothing but continue to cry. "It's okay, sweetheart," her mother whispered, her voice a tender melody that carried reassurance. Dorea cradled the young girl, whose sobs softened but still lingered, the remnants of a storm that had raged within her fragile heart. “I will protect you no matter what”, she declared.

Y/N would forever remember that loving moment, amongst the many others she shared with her mother. While Dorea had said she would do anything to protect her, Y/N should’ve said the same thing back. Yet, fate, with its twisted sense of irony, had other plans for the daughter. Not even a month later, Y/Ns’ mother died, succumbing to a mysterious illness that took her in a matter of days. It felt as though the moment she acknowledged the said “curse”, her world only came to be filled with hurt.

Being only ten years old and now orphaned, the people in the village were kind enough to take the girl in. Specifically, it was a family of three that consisted of a father and mother and a son her age who took her into their home. The boy, named Tomas, had always been a close friend of Y/N. The two would spend many days together, playing and running around in the meadows. He would pick flowers for her and in return she would do the same. There was even one early morning when the two stood by their village’s lake and shared a kiss with each other. Despite still being a child, Y/N felt as though she was feeling the love that was described in the fairytale stories her mother used to read to her.

Sadly, that love was taken from her as well. At the young age of one and three, Tomas had somehow fallen and drowned in that same lake. Y/N had never heard such a devasting scream as Edith, Tomas’s mother, held her dead son in her arms. The village was both in mourning and in query; Tomas had been taught to swim at the age of four, how could this have happened? No explanations were thought of, but Y/N had her own belief.

I’m cursed, she would toss in turn in her bed at night, I am cursed.

Two more years would pass by, and no other unfortunate incidents would have occurred. But there is always calm before the storm. One day, something within Y/N had made her go explore the small forest that was near her village. It was nothing out of the ordinary; she had done it many times before. Yet, she stayed exploring for hours before that same voice within her told her to return. Upon seeing her village within the distance, Y/N should’ve never listened to that voice. She wishes she could’ve stayed back and continue being ignorant of everything. Her village— the homes, the crops, the trees, everything, was up in flames. Running down the dirt paths, Y/N did not have time (nor did she want to) to acknowledge all slaughtered men, women, and children that laid on the grounds. A small amount of hope had sparked within her when she saw that her home was not ablaze. That hope died upon entering the residence— Y/N crying out in distress at the sight of Edith, the women she had come to see as her second mother, dead on the ground. Her sadness was turned to fear when she spotted a large man in the corner, angry and hungry for blood. Before the crazed man could run at her, he was tackled to the ground by Lance— Edith’s husband and her adopted father. He was clearly injured; covered in blood from head to toe but still had the strength in him to scream at Y/N, desperation laced in his voice, “Run girl! Run and do not look back!”. Y/N, not wanting to witness his clear end, quickly listened to his order and ran out the door, trying her best to stay out of sight of all the other savage men as she made her way out the village.

She must’ve ran for hours before she knew she was no longer in danger. A day or two of traveling passed by before she took residence in a small city. That same night, under a dirty bridge, she finally acknowledged all hell that had occurred to her within the past forty-eight hours. The dams broke as she cried and screamed out in sorrow and pain. She cried, and cried, and cried until she had no more tears to let out; now consumed by numbness. Her mother, her first love, her caretakers, her childhood friends, her home; had all been taken from her. What had she done to deserve this? With her heart broken into millions of pieces, Y/N decided that she wouldn’t live like this. Never would she fall in love and never would she form a deep connection with anyone again. She wasn’t going to let herself be tied to the Targaryen name, to its blood, nor its curse. She wasn’t going to let this curse win and see her suffer again.

And so, she did; well, she tried her best at least. With the little money she had on her, Y/N jumped from village to village, city to city, and made sure not to socialize with anyone. There were some instances of people trying to get to know her, boys trying to court her, but she wouldn’t stay very long and would be gone the next day. It was a lonely life, a life she despised but knew she had to endure. That changed a bit when she came face to face with a woman with a fair complexion and silver hair.

Daenerys Targaryen. The “Mother of Dragons”. Her older half-sister.

Daenerys had always known about her half-sister’s existence; her older brother one day rambling that the throne belongs to a true Targaryen and not the current usurper, nor the “Targaryen-bastard filth” their father left behind. At first, Y/N was wary of the girl but soon found herself becoming fond of her presence. Daenerys felt the same way; with no family left on either girl’s end, they quickly found solace in each other— treating one another as the sisters they are. It was strange at first for Y/N; getting used to now having family once again and the companionship of dragons that came with it. Initially, she was terrified at the sight of the foreign creatures but quickly came to love them and their beautiful nature. She became quite close with the one called Rhaegal, favoring the dragon over the overs. Rhaegal doted and protected the girl the same; but still recognized Daenerys as its’ rightful mother. Y/N could say she just held the title of “favorite aunt” now amongst the creatures.

The thought of the curse still weighed heavy in the back of her mind, but Y/N hypothesized that whatever superstition was out to get her would not harm her sister; a true (and last) Targaryen. Y/N immediately recognized Daenerys as her queen and vowed to help her reclaim her throne. For some time, Y/N felt happiness once again entering her life as she spent more time with her sister and her allies. That bliss, however, turned out to be false hope.

“When the time comes and I reclaim my throne, I will legitimize you as a Targaryen”, Daenerys spoke to her one night. Y/N wanted to decline right away; she was content with not having a household name and did not want to be associated with the Targaryen name. Before Y/N could speak, Daenerys looked shamefully down while holding her sister’s hand, “There is a reason why I came looking for...”. Y/N felt a chill run up her spine and quickly encouraged the Mother of Dragons to continue. “I am unable to have my own children. When the time is right, I will need you to find a man, any man of your choosing..”, Daenerys sternly said as she looked into Y/N eyes, “I will need an heir to inherit the throne and continue my family name. Do you understand sister?”. Daenerys felt guilt creep up inside her as she finally confessed her true intentions from the start of meeting Y/N. She was asking too much of Y/N but, she, however, was on a mission to reclaim her birthright no matter what. Y/N stared agape at her, no words coming from her mouth. She wanted to decline even more— but, looking into Daenerys eyes, she saw the graveness within them and the true tone behind her words. She was not asking this of her as her sister. She was commanding this of her as her queen. And Y/N would do anything for her rightful queen.

“Yes, sister. I understand”. Y/N now found herself tied to the Targaryen name. Something she vowed never to be but couldn’t escape.

As time passed by, Y/N kept her promise and stood by Daenerys side as she continued her conquest; now finding herself at Dragonstone, her sister’s ancestral home. The preparations and campaign for Daenerys claim to the Iron Throne was in full effect but was interrupted momentarily.

“The King in the North?”, Daenerys questioned one of her advisors who came bearing news. “Yes my Queen. He sent a raven— detailing that he wishes to speak with you”. Y/N, standing off to the side, expressed her thoughts and question, “I had heard that the King in the North was dead”.

“As did I”, Daenerys said sharply. The man before them nodded his head, “Yes. There was an incident that had occurred that made everyone believe he was dead. But he is very much alive”. Daenerys raised her eyebrows up, skeptical about this so called “King in the North”— “And he trusts me with the information of his false death?”

“Well, according to his letter, yes.”

Y/N and Daenerys turned, staring into each other’s eyes, speaking with them. Not much emotion was shown behind Y/N eyes, but she was able to express with them, “What harm is there in seeing what he wants”. Sighing, Daenerys nodded her head and agreed with her sister.

“Send a message back. Invite him here and let him know I agree to speak with him”.

A few days later, Y/N stood on the shores, waiting to welcome her guests on the request of Daenerys. Once she saw the boats pull up on the beach, she made her way but stopped in amazement. Out from one of the boats came a large, thick furred animal— a dire wolf. She had only ever heard about the mythical creatures and now she was in close distance with one. Dragons and now dire wolves; she held a small smile on her face at the uniqueness that was the world. Clearing their throats, the two guards behind her had snapped her out of her daydream, reminding her of the task. Standing tall, Y/N put on her best welcoming smile and stood in front of the party, “Welcome to Dragonstone. I have been sent by our rightful Queen to give our greetings”.

Y/N voice had started loud and clear, but slightly quieted down towards the end as she made eye contact with a man. A very handsome man to be exact, she thought to herself. He stood tall and strong, a lean build with dark curls and blue eyes as blue as the water behind them. He smiled at her and before he could open his mouth, the older man next to him spoke up. “I present Robb Stark. Heir to the Stark household and King of the North”. Y/N raised her eyebrows at the discovery of the handsome stranger being the King in the North. Turning to him, she held a sort of mischief but harsh attitude in her voice, “Is the King in the North unable to speak for himself?”

The men in front of her were clearly taken back. Except for Robb Stark who let out a small laugh. “Forgive me, my lady, I am very capable of speaking. I am Robb Stark”. He held out his hand and was charmed when she firmly grasped it and shook it; opting out of giving her his hand to kiss.  

“I am not a lady. Please, call me Y/N��. Robb was preparing himself to compliment her name but was cut off by the same man next to him. “She’s the Targaryen bastard, your grace”. Though it was meant to be a whisper for only Robb to hear, Y/N was in close enough proximity to have heard it as well. Robb swiftly turned to his advisor next to him, giving him a crude look before turning back to the girl, “Forgive the rudeness of- “

“No, it is quite alright” she waved her hand, “It is all true anyway. I am THAT Targaryen bastard”. Robb nodded, gulping as he tried to ease the tension, “I have heard a lot about you...and your sister too, of course”. Y/N wanted to let out a chuckle at the sight before her; a gorgeous man trying his best not to insult her. “And I have heard very little about you,” Y/N voiced, “Other than the fact that you were supposedly dead, which I can see you are very much alive”, looking him up and down with her eyes. Robb smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, “It is a long story”. Y/N let out a “hmm” sound, looking off towards the side to the dire wolf. “Is he yours?”

“Yes. His name is Grey Wind. I’ve had him since he was a pup”. Y/N nodded once more, noticing just how well behaved the wolf was, “He’s very beautiful”. Robb thanked her for the compliment, grinning widely, “I can see you are fond of animals. Do you have any of your own?”

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head, “No. I have children.”

Robb was clearly taken back by her words, a stuttering mess as he questioned her statement. “O-oh? You have children?”. Y/N could sense some disappointment in his voice towards the end as it cracked. Smiling, she shook her head. “No. But I do consider them children. Just not mine. I am just an aunt”. All the guests in front of her were puzzled by her words but ducked down in fear at the sound of a roar from above. Looking up, she smiled at the sight of Rhaegal and Drogon patrolling the skies.

“Seven hells!” she heard one of Robbs’ men yell out. Turning back, she playfully spoke “My children. Beautiful, aren’t they?”. None of Robbs’ men were able to agree or speak; still in shock. Robb, still looking up to the sky, laughed earnestly, “Well, they sure are an eccentric sight to see”. Y/N smiled more at his honesty, clapping her hands together, turning and speaking to the entire party, “Well. I believe that is a sufficient way to welcome you all here. Now, I must welcome you into the castle. Please come, the Queen is curious to known what it is you wish to speak about”.

Upon greeting the Queen, Robb Starks’ words and terms were clear to her. He wishes to ally with her in her conquest to take the throne and create a fairer and just realm. “We both have a clear enemy,” he spoke, “I want the Lannisters dead for what they have done to my family, and you want them off the throne entirely”. Every so often, Robb would cast his eyes off to the side to look at Y/N; something she tried her best to hide her reddening face from. “My men, though small numbers, will be yours to use. We ask that in return, once you take your rule, you allow the North to maintain a degree of self-rule. We will recognize you as the rightful Queen, but we wish to keep the North the way it is”. Daenerys nodded her head, asking her advisors for their views on the matter, and taking Y/N by surprise when she asked her as well. “As I perceive it, the North is biggest land piece in Westeros. It would be better to keep them as allies instead of fighting them off. They recognize you as Queen, and the Stark household keeps the North in check for you, sister”. Daenerys responded with another nod, showing to be clear in thought at all the opinions given to her. The Queen stood up, still not fully convinced, but could not deny all the positives of the compromise, “Very well. I will continue to think about the matter. I will let you know that my thoughts are leaning more toward yes than it is no. For now, your men must be tired. Allow my people to escort them to rest”.

Later that night, Y/N made her way down the dark halls to the one place in the castle that brought her peace. She almost let out a small scream at the tall shadow that appeared around the corner, “My lady?”. Placing her hand to her chest to control her tachycardic heart, she saw that the dark shadow was Robb Stark. “Your grace. You almost scared me to death”, Y/N laughed, “And please, I am not a lady of noble birth. Call me by my first name”. Robb returned her laugh with his own, apologizing for scaring her. “Forgive me, my lad- Y/N. I was just curious as to why you are out so late”. She nodded her head in the direction she was originally heading in, “I can not sleep so I was heading to the library to bore myself with some reading” she joked, “Is it not late for you to be awake as well?”. Robb gave a similar answer; unable to sleep and practically full of energy. Y/N looked down at the ground for a mere second before glancing into his eyes, “Would you like to join me?”. He agreed to her invite, thankful for the darkness of the night hiding his blushed face.

Dimly lit by flickering candlelight, the shelves towered, laid with books that held centuries of knowledge and wisdom. Robb made himself comfortable at one of the chairs available while Y/N opted for the window nook. “Do you come in here often?” Robb asked. Y/n offered a silent yes, trailing her fingers against the rim of the book she had chosen, “I have not been here that long, but yes. I come here every night; I tend to have trouble sleeping”.

“Why is that?” Robb questioned.

“Nightmares”, Y/N replied. Her dreams were always filled with visions of her dead loved ones.

After a pause, Robb gave a “hmm”; silently admiring the girl for not being afraid to show vulnerability. “That’s something we both have in common” he gave a warm smile. Another quiet pause passed by until Y/N looked up at him, “You say that you being alive is a long story— can I listen to it?”. Robb gave a slight nod, standing up to sit next to her in a close but comfortable proximity.

“I was to marry the daughter of someone who I thought was my ally. I agreed initially but something within me told me not to carry out my word”. He slowly reached over for the book that was in her hands, both hands brushing slightly as he took it out of her grasp, now distracting himself with it. “The wedding still went on; I supplied another man in my place. But, there was bloodshed, and I was betrayed. I barely made it out alive, along with a few other men of mine”. Inhaling sharply, he continued with his outpour, “And I’m thankful I did. I have sources that tell me that even if I went along with the wedding, I was to be killed no matter what. The Lannisters long ago forming allies with the people I thought I could trust”. Coming close to a finish, he looked into Y/N eyes, softly smiling, “I guess it was fate that saved me somehow”.

Breaking eye contact, Y/N scoffed at his words. “Fate” she said with repugnance. Her reply caught him off guard, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “You do not believe in fate?”.

Y/N took in a long sigh, shaking her head, “No I believe in it”, she gently whispered the last part, “We just never have seen eye to eye. My fate only brings me bad luck”. Robb took in her words, trying to calculate what he should say next. “I believe fate can bring both good and bad luck”, he began with, “One can say it was my fathers’ fate to have been killed, or my sisters’ fates to be held captive”, Robb swallowed thickly before continuing, “But, it is my fate to avenge and save them. It is fate that has brought me this far; that has brought me here and to you”, he slowly spoke while staring deep into Y/N eyes. She quickly looked away, hoping her face wasn’t red and was successful in controlling her facial expression. Clearing her throat, she spoke firmly, “You must be confused; I believe you are trying to woo the wrong sister, Stark. Is it not my sister who you need as your ally?”.

Robb let out a low laugh, grinning widely, “That may be true, but”, he slowly scanned the room in a playful manner, “I believe that I don’t see your sister in here at all. So, no, I am not confused. I am speaking to the right sister”. A third pause passed by as the two continued staring, wating for one of them to speak or do something. Y/N was the first— standing abruptly, she moved her hair behind her ear and let out an awkward ahem. “I believe I must retire for the night. It was nice speaking to you Stark”. Before she could make her way out the door, he called out to her.

“It’s Robb”. Turning, she questioned what he meant. Smiling, he spoke, “You can call me Robb. You say you come here every night?”. Y/N nodded her head. “Would you allow me to see you here again tomorrow? Or even spend some time with you come morning?”.

Y/N wanted to say no. She needed to stop whatever friendship (or relationship) was forming between the two before she got too close. Before her curse got to him. He had already suffered enough. Despite the fact, deep down, her own selfish desires won over. She hadn’t felt like this in forever— she wanted this feeling to last forever.

“Yes. Of course, Robb”.

Come morning, they spent the entire day together, including the night. The next day was the same. Daenerys had granted Robb and his men a longer stay as there was much to discuss. It was late in the morning that he and Y/N were walking along the shores, discussing the most random of topics. Both were making a great effort to make the other one laugh: sprouting different jokes and funny stories. They both loved hearing the sound of laughter coming out of each another’s mouths. A gentle breeze roamed the air, blowing through Y/Ns’ dark hair. Robb stood silently still, stuck in a daze and awestruck by her appearance. Swiftly, he removed his fur cloak and placed it upon her exposed shoulders. Robb gestured to the area around them as Y/N looked at him in confusion, “I thought you might be cold”. She let out a small chuckle, shaking her head but not returning his cloak back. It provided her with a sense of ease. “No,” she confessed, “I don’t run cold that easily”. Resuming their walk, Robb gave her a look of admiration, “You would do great in the North then. Have you ever been there?”.

She answered with a clear no, stopping in her path to match Robb’s sudden cease of movement. Slowly, he placed his hands upon the cloak, further wrapping it securely around her. “I believe you would love it there. Maybe one day, you can come with me to Winterfell. I would love to give you a tour and introduce you to my mother, and hopefully my sisters too. I’m sure they would love you”. No further sounds were made; the distant sound of crashing waves serving as the only soundtrack to their wordless communion. Y/N leaned slightly into him — his closeness felt like a forbidden sanctuary, a place where she found solace and belonging but knew she shouldn’t enter. Y/N only response was a gentle nod and smile.

Many heart-fluttering moments continued to happen between the two. Stolen glances from across the table, hands brushing as they took their walks, laughter and smiles shared in the dark of night. There was an occurrence in the library when Robb had urged the girl to go to bed; taking notice of her eyebags forming from their long night of talking. “I can’t go to sleep that easily. And even if I can, I just have bad dreams I can’t wake up from”, she disclosed. They sat intimately close, sharing an intense gaze, both their features illuminated by the light of the candles in the room. Y/N could see every detail, every pore, every small scar that graced his beautiful face. She was caught by surprise, her breath hitching when he gently grabbed her hand, drawing small patterns into it.

“You can sleep here if you wish. I will watch over you and wake you at any sign of discomfort”. She wanted to decline, but there was something in his eyes that was persuading her. Y/N then found herself in his warm embrace, laying her head gently on his chest. She could hear every breath he took, every beat his heart made. Sealing her eyelids, he was the sole occupant of her dreams. She had never slept better.

Daenerys was no fool to what was happening before her very eyes. Sharing a private dinner with her sister, she brought up the topic.

“So, you and the Northern have been spending some time together”. Y/N nodded; not being able to lie since there was clear evidence in front of Daenerys. “He is a good man,” she smiled, “Very kind to his men, to his wolf”, she smiled even further at the memory of Robb introducing her properly to Grey Wind. She could still hear his laughter and the concern that replaced it when Grey Wind had tackled her to the ground with wet kisses. “We don’t want to get that pretty face all slobbered up now, do we?” fondness had colored his expression as he helped her back up. The smile upon her face slipped away, a frown and more serious look taking over.

“He’s very kind to me…I don’t think I will be spending much time with him anymore though”, she held her fork tightly in her hand. Daenerys questioned what she meant by her words. “Personal reasons”, Y/N said in a somber tone, “He will be leaving soon, and I plan to stay by your side”. Daenerys nodded her head, a part of her knowing that Y/Ns’ excuse was not the full truth. It’s not an exaggeration— Daenerys wasn’t a fool. She was well aware of Y/N’s standoffish attitude; practically a hermit as she kept to herself, or Daenerys. She saw the reasoning behind it— having an understanding of her past hardships. Additionally, Daenerys once tried to comfort Y/N during a nightmare of hers, hearing the word “curse” coming out of her mouth every few seconds. She badly wanted to comfort her sister, let her know that she was not cursed— life was just not fair to everyone. Daenerys, however, said nothing. Y/N was the only family she had left, and she did not want to lose her so soon, especially to some man. Forcing a smile upon her face, Daenerys tried to hide the distaste she felt towards her own selfishness. “That is good. Family must stick together”.

As the hours slipped away, Y/N and Robb were spending their last night together in the library. Robb and his men were set to leave tomorrow— all discussions and plans made with Daenerys were finalized. Robb, sitting across the room, was enamored as Y/N read to him out loud. It was a couple nights ago that they created this little routine; Y/N would read to him, and he would give his input at certain scenes. Right now, however, he was not paying attention to what was happening in the story. He was trying to memorize her gentle sweet voice, the way her lips moved with each syllable she said. Finishing a passage, Y/N put the book down to ask Robb his view.

“I can not lie to you. I was not paying attention”. Mouth agape, she pretended to be upset, throwing the small pillow she had next to her. Robb caught the cushion, letting out a hearty laugh that rumbled deep within his chest. Standing up, he walked across the room to her, placing the pillow behind her back. He knew she liked to read in comfort. Y/Ns’ smile was warm, spreading even more across her face at the words Robb spoke next, “You have a pretty voice”. Shyly looking down, she quietly thanked him. Robb’s compliments towards her only continued, “And a beautiful face”.

Biting her lip, she was readying herself to change the topic, but he only continued more. “I remember when I saw you for the first time”, he sat down beside her, sharing body warmth now, “I truly thought I had never seen a more beautiful woman before in my life”. Y/N chuckled, rolling her eyes softly and replying in a joking matter “And then you saw my sister and I was the second most beautiful woman you had seen in your life”. Her heart quickened up when she looked up at him, no humor present on his face, only showing seriousness. “No”, he whispered, “you were still the most captivating and breathtaking beauty I’d seen”. Silence filled the room. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers interlacing with hers. “I leave tomorrow”, he spoke of the one thing they both had refused to acknowledge. “That you are”, Y/N said, her main focus placed upon their hands. Drawing small comforting circles into her skin, he asked her what she had planned for her future.

“My future is a mystery”, Y/N sighed heavily, “Regardless, I will continue to stand by Daenerys and be with her when she retakes the throne. She told me that she was going to bestow the Targaryen name upon me, but I’m not sure that is what I want”. Confusion etched Robbs’ features, questioning her meaning. Her face gave away a gloomy look, “I have never really been fond of my Targaryen blood. Daenerys is the only good thing that has come out of it”, she said truthfully, “I’ve gone long enough without a household name, so I don’t see the point in having one”. A smile graced her lips as she looked at him, “I won’t lie, it is a small yearn of mine. To belong somewhere and become a part of something special”.

A pregnant pause filled the room. The only sound being heard was the burning of the fireplace. Y/Ns’ laughter echoed through the room; Robbs’ next statement finding humor within her.

“You can become a Stark”.

Shaking her head, almost wanting to wipe the imaginary tears in her eyes, she continued her fits of giggles. “And how can I do that- “

Robbs’ next sentence caused all laughter within her to cease, her breath getting stuck in her chest. “By marrying me”, he said.

Another pregnant pause. Y/N stared at him in shock, becoming a stuttering mess, “R-Robb, I…”. Before she could finish, he cut her off, taking both her hands into his now, “I plead that you allow me to speak first”, he smiled but looked ready to cry, “I have never felt the way I have when I am with you. You truly have stolen my heart, and I don’t plan on asking for it back. Come with me to Winterfell— become my wife, my queen”. With affection, he raised her hand and placed a gentle, lingering kiss on it, “Grant me the wish to spend the rest of my life with you”. Robb had poured his emotions out into his speech, mistakenly only imagining what he wanted her reply to be. He was not prepared for what Y/N said next.

“No.”

Furrowing his eyes, he dropped one of her hands but still held the other. Shaking his head, he began to apologize profoundly, “I-I’m sorry. I thought maybe there was something between us. Did I ask too soon?”, he looked desperate in front of her, “I can take back the proposal. I can court you properly if that is what you wish – “

“No. No, Robb”, Y/N let her hand drop from his, both now becoming colder by the second, “I can’t marry you”.

The tension crackled in the air as Y/N words hung between them, heavy and unresolved. The room felt suffocating, each second stretching into an eternity. Robb’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the ground, struggling to contain his emotions and appear unaffected, “Can I ask why?”. Y/N bit her lip, her own emotions consuming her, never wanting more than to cry. “Robb,” she sobbed, “marrying me— being with me would only bring you hell”. Shaking his head, Robb grabbed ahold of her face, staring into her eyes, “What nonsense do you speak of? That can be far from the truth”. Y/N wanted to push his hands off her but was brought warmth by his touch, “But it’s the truth. My presence alone carries a curse. All those I have cherished have been harmed and taken from me”, he delicately removed the tears that were dropping from her eyes, “I’m not supposed to fall in love with you”.

Robb didn’t know what to say, how exactly to comfort her. His only reply being, “there is no such thing as a curse”, which angered her to some extent. Standing abruptly, she screamed out in sorrow, “Yes there is! My mother, my first love, my home— everyone suffered because of me!”, she started hyperventilating, burying her face in her hands, sobs echoing through the room, “You have suffered enough Robb. I do not wish to cause you more misery”. Robb sprang up quickly and encircled her with an arm, drawing her in for a reassuring embrace. As she cried, he felt her body quiver against his chest. He rubbed her back in gentle circles, giving her a feeling of comfort and safety. “Shhh…”, he tried soothing her, “Even if there is a curse, I won’t let it get to me, or you. I will protect you with entire life; you will never be subjected to such pain”, he leaned down and placed a tender kiss on her head, “I can’t let you go— living out the rest of my life thinking “what if?”.

Shaking her head, she gently pushed him away, “No, Robb”. Y/N stared at him, her eyes reflecting her inner sadness, “This is for my protection and yours. I would not have the strength in me to live if something happened to you”. Walking swiftly towards the door, she ceased her movements when Robb called out to her.

“Y/N. You deserve better”, he spoke truthfully and with sorrow, “You can’t live like this. Someone as extraordinary as you deserves to be happy. To be loved”.

She gripped the door handle, almost hurting her own hand from the pressure. Turning her head, she offered him a pained smile, “Maybe you’re right”, she opened the door, “But such fine things were not made for me in this lifetime”. And she was gone.

Y/N was unable to sleep the rest of the night, tossing and turning in her bed. Come morning, she mentally prepared herself for a conversation she knew she had to make. Standing in front of the chamber rooms Robb occupied, she knocked. A few seconds later, he opened the door, clear surprise on his face at her presence.

“Hi”, she spoke softly. Robb did not verbally reply to her greeting; opting to nod to her instead. “May I come in?”, she asked, and Robb moved to the side to allow her to enter. Looking at him, his tunic was unlaced— a clear indication she had interrupted him in the middle of dressing up. Y/N was informed that Robb and his men were to leave early morning; all they had to do was suit up and prepare their ships, and then he would be gone.

Facing him entirely, she gestured to his packed supplies in the corner, “I came to wish you a safe journey. I enjoyed our time together”. Robb registered her words, taking a deep breath, “Thank you, my lady”. She didn’t have the strength to correct him. All the while, Robb was struggling to tie up the last laces of his tunic. His hands were shaking. Walking slowly to him, she reached for his hands, moving them away to replace them with hers, “Allow me”.  Robb felt a fire ignite inside him as her gentle touch sent a chill down his spine. Focused on her work, Y/N laced up the complex pattern, her breath quickening as her fingertips touched his bare chest. Finishing up the last lace, she patted his chest and smiled up at him, “There. All done”. She only took one step back before Robb wrapped his arm around her waist, pushing her back to him. Y/N gaze softened, a silent acknowledgement passing between them. Slowly and hesitantly, she placed her hand upon his cheek, caressing him. Stretching her neck, she placed a small kiss on his lips, pulling away in mere seconds before either of them could comprehend it. Robb did the same; the two now sharing their second kiss.

For a while, they stood in each other’s embrace in silence. Robb took the next step, closing the small distance and cupping her face in his hands. With a mixture of yearning and desire, she leaned into his touch, gazing up at him as her heart ached. Reaching down, he kissed her with longing and tenderness. Y/N reciprocated right away, moving her mouth with his to match his rhythm. This kiss was longer, both wanting to savor the moment a bit more. The kiss had started off slowly but quickly came alive as they both deepened it. Robb fingers wove into her hair, pulling her closer to him; despite being as physically close as possible. Y/Ns’ body felt on fire; Robb’s touch both gentle yet firm as he traced her body with his other hand. Gasping into his mouth, she was taken by surprise (but did not fight off) at Robb picking her up by the thighs— walking to the small table in his room and dropping her on it. Opening her legs widely, he stood between them, both breathing heavily as they’re lips continued pressing together. Y/N did not know what to do with her hands, moving them all across his body and landing upon his hair, tugging slightly at his roots. Robb was the same; still opting to trace his hands across her thighs and up her breasts— igniting a moan out of her moth that he swallowed with his. Both their lips parted slightly, allowing them to slip their tongues into each other’s.

The room was heating up by the second. The only sounds that could be heard were their muffled groans and heavy breathing. Parting away, Y/N went to work to unlace his tunic— undoing her work. There was some urgency in the way her hands moved, Robb staring at her, intoxicated by her face contoured in rapture. He went straight for her dress, moving the fabric down to expose her shoulders, planting kisses on her. Y/N let out a loud whimper; the feeling of Robb biting into her neck sending a jolt of pleasure and goosebumps over her body. Grabbing his jaw, she returned her attack on his lips; their kiss now getting sloppier by the second, teeth almost clashing against. Y/N was readying herself to further pull her dress down but was interfered by Robb pulling away. Almost desperate like, she chased his lips but was denied.

“No,” Robb spoke, almost sounding to be in pain. His breath was ragged, chest moving up and down and fist clenched to his side, “Not like this”. Y/Ns’ common sense returned, slightly embarrassed that her hunger for him had taken over her completely. She was thankful that Robb had the strength and respect to keep her virtue safe. A few moments passed and their breathing became stable once again. Y/N watched as Robb gazed down at her, his lips red and bruised. Taking a hold of her face in his hand, Robb placed his forehead against her, “I love you”. Y/N could do nothing but nod, wrapping her arms around his torso, “I know”.

He smiled sheepishly at her, caressing her cheek, “Write to me at least. Please. Write to me about anything…even if you have nothing to talk about. I will always send a reply back. I promise”.  She gave him a tight-lipped smile, kissing his hand lightly, “I’ll try”. Robb knew she was lying. As they held each other’s gaze, time appeared to stop and the outside world became less significant. With one last kiss to her temple, Robb picked up his belongings and went out the door.

Y/N waited a decent number of minutes to pass before she exited the room— making sure there were no prying eyes around. She was hurrying towards her own chambers; wanting to be alone and allowed let all her tears fall free. She didn’t make it far, stopping in her movements at the sound of someone calling her name.

“Y/N”, Daenerys called out at the end of the hallway. Approaching her, she offered her sister a happy smile, “I was looking all over for you. I came to see if you wanted to bid the North men a goodbye- “, Daenerys stopped talking momentarily. Her eyes taking in Y/N disheveled appearance, and the obvious love mark on her neck. “But I can see you must’ve already given your farewell to the King in the North”, she teased.

Y/N nodding, staring down at the ground with her hands picking at the skin around her nails, “Yes, I have. So, I have no need to bid them a further goodbye. If you excuse me, I will retire for the day”. She was barley able to turn her body around before Daenerys grabbed hold of her forearm. “Hold on”, Daenerys said letting out a low chuckle, “It is still early morning. Why would you retire so soon- “. Her amusement dwindled into silence, fully grasping the emotions displayed on her little sisters’ face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”, she inquired anxiously and hastily, “Did that Stark boy do something to you?”, now anger appearing in her voice. Y/N was quick to deny her accusations, “No. He did nothing. It’s what I’ve done to him”. The queen placed a comforting embrace around her sisters’ figure, soothing her hair. “He offered me a marriage proposal, Dany” she sobbed into her shoulders, “And I told him no. I broke his heart”. Daenerys said nothing to the information given to her.  A short interval of silence ensured; disrupted by Daenerys taking in a deep breath.

“Do you love him?”.

She hadn’t expected such a direct question from Daenerys, especially about something she had been trying to conceal. Y/N hesitated for a moment— deciding there was no use in denying it, “I do”.

The older sister pulled away, smiling down lovingly at her, “Then why not go be with him?”. Y/N furrowed her eyebrows, stumbling over her words, “Because I promised to stick by your side. To help you,” she defended. Staring back at the floor, Y/N inhaled deeply, “Because I am cursed- “

“That is a load of shit”, Daenerys cut in. Y/N gaped at her older sister in disbelief for her vulgar language directed at her. Daenerys persisted with her speech, “You are not cursed, Y/N. Our history might show that our ancestors without the inherited Targaryen traits suffered greatly, but that does not mean all of them will”. Putting both hands on her shoulder, she reassured Y/N, “I know that in their lives they were still able to experience contentment and love. And you should too”.

Whispering softly, Daenerys hold on her sister tightened, “You've gone through a lot, and life has made it difficult to look past your own suffering, I won't deny that. But you need not forget the positive impact that you have on others around you. You undoubtedly brought happiness and love into the lives of your mother as well as those from your pas, and me toot. I'm even more positive that you introduced that into Robb Starks' life as well”.

Daenerys took a moment to recover after her extended address; watching Y/N register every world she spoke. Placing a gentle hand on her face, Daenerys gave her final say, “So, why not go be with him?”.

Y/N expression mirrored her surprise at what she heard. Shaking her head, she repudiated, “B-But what about you? My promise to you- “. She was cut off once again. “I’ve been thinking it over”, Daenerys began, “And I’ve asked too much from you. You are my only family and I wish to keep you by me, but your life is not mine. You control it”. Y/N held her breath, a small tear forming in her eyes. A sense of déjà vu had come to her— those were similar words her own mother had told her. Daenerys smiled widely at her, taking both her hands into her own, “If I am to be a good queen and rule with fairness”, she gave her hand a gentle squeeze, “I should let you live your life. As your queen, I give you the order to go live a life of happiness with the man you love”. She sustained the cheerful curve of her lips, “Go to him— go be with him in the North. A change of scenery can be good, don’t you think?”.

Y/N didn’t answer her question; instead, she sprang and encircled her sister in a warm hug. “Thank you, Dany,”, she expressed her heartfelt thanks. Daenerys words had opened her eyes; Y/N was not brought into this world to fear it— she was brought in it to appreciate its gifts. The gifts being family, happiness, and love. Daenerys suppressed a laugh that wanted to escape her lips. Pushing the girl slightly, she encouraged her further, “Now go and tell him. Rhaegal will be sad but he’ll live”. Y/N was quick to turn and follow after Robb, but stopped abruptly at Daenerys calling out to her.

“Don’t marry him too soon”. Panic coiled in the pit of her stomach at the thought that Daenerys was taking back what she said. The older sister waved her hand, shooing the girl away, “I just meant that I wish to be present at the wedding. Now, go”.

Robb stood beside a couple of his men and advisor at Dragonstone’s port. He watched his men load up the ships, trying to listen to what his advisor was saying but his mind was elsewhere. He came here to acquire the Dragon Queen as his ally— and now he leaves with that success and a broken heart. He traced back the memory of their times together, the warmth of her hands completely enclosing his, the way her eyes sparkled with every grin. A longing buried deep in his chest arose with every thought of Y/N. It was a bittersweet anguish. His advisor next to him cleared his throat, grabbing his attention when he nudged Robbs’ side, “Your grace”. Following the direction of his advisor’s eyesight, his own landed on Y/N— clearly out of breath and showing urgency.

“Y/N”, he called out. Robb was quick to grab ahold of her forearms, inspecting her body for any signs of injury, “Are you okay? Is there something wrong?” he asked, concern shown deep in his eyes. Y/N nodded her head, calming down her breathing as she watched his men leave to give them privacy. Staring up at him, she confessed, “I will not write to you”. Robbs’ brows drew together in a frown, feeling as though she was taking a jab at his sorrows. A normal reaction would be to spit fire back, but he was too in love with her.

Swallowing thickly, he responded, “I figured that already- “

“No, let me finish” she interrupted him, “I will not write to you…because I am coming with you”. His eyes widened in disbelief at the statement— not given time to properly respond once again. Swallowing the lump in her throat, her palms grw clammy, “Robb…I love you”. At last, he managed to respond, "You do?" with a tone that hinted at both surprise and joy. Y/N nodded, vulnerability showing in the blush of her cheeks and grabbing a hold of his hand, “Yes. I should’ve told you from the start and I should’ve said yes to your proposal- “, she sucked in a trembling breath, “I care about you deeply and I’ve never felt this much love for anyone”. Y/Ns’ heart raced as her words lingered in the crisp morning air. With a subtle shake of her head, she redirected the conversation. “Though I’ve come to see the foolishness in it; I still don’t know if my curse is real or not. All I know is that I wish to spend every minute— every second of my life with you”. Biting her lip gently, she broke eye contact with him, “It is a big risk, I kno- “.

“A risk I am willing to take”, Robb finally cut her off, “I would do anything for you.” In their moment of confession, they wrapped each other in a tight embrace. With their foreheads resting against each other's, a warm yet hesitant smile spread across Y/N face. “So,” she spoke shyly, “is that tour of Winterfell still up for grabs?”

Robb reciprocated her smile with his own, gently lifting his hands to touch her bottom lip. “Yes. It still is” he breathed out, “And my proposal too”. With a gentle tilt of her head, Y/N moved in closer, “Then I say you take me to Winterfell and make me your wife”. Their lips meet in a tender and heartfelt kiss— all their troubles now resolved. A quiet vow of eternity was spoken as their lips moved in rhythm. A familiar roar was heard; Y/N breaking the kiss and laughing as she took notice of Rhaegal in the sky. Robb found himself smiling even more at the sight of her joy; pulling her closer to him.

A cheeky grin formed across her face, “I think Lady of Winterfell has a nice ring to it, don’t you?”

Robb chuckled, caressing her face, “I think Queen of Winterfell sounds nicer. I also think the title of “Robb Starks’ Wife” suits you even more”. Y/N jokingly jabbed her elbow into his side, slightly squeaking as Robb reclaimed her lips in his. They both were filled with excitement and anticipation for what their future together awaited.

[alaskan-wallflower]

eyes (2025 redraw)

i’m very glad i finished this lol—i spent quite some time on it—this definitely caters more to me and my personal designs (which i’ll explain under the cut for those who wanna read it) but i had a lot of fun with this :)) im not usually a soft shading/airbrush person and ive never really done it before, so this was a new experience, but im glad i tried something new :) i still prefer hatching tho

here’s a side by side for comparison

i think this is almost an exact year later too? idk i’ll have to check the posting date of the first one lo)

rambling under the cut if you’re interested :)

ponyboy’s is actually my least favorite one 😭 but honestly i think he does actually have grey green eyes rather than just green eyes like some people say. i just think they’re leaning more towards green rather than being completely green. also i know his hair is more ginger than auburn here. but yk what its ok

sodapop with heterochromia!! this one kinda came to me cause i saw a bunch of people talking about how both movie and musical sodapop have creepy blue eyes while in canon soda’s described with warm brown eyes, and i really liked both so !! kinda combined ‘em. also freckles! my guy has a LOT of ‘em

darry…i don’t like how his came out :/ but i think he’s another one whose eyes are more blue than green, although there’s definitely a hint of green if you look closely. if his looks jumbled it’s cause i merged the layers early and closed out of the app and once you do that you can’t undo it and i had to move some stuff around so that’s why some things look off

johnny’s was a lot of fun tbh—i’ve mentioned a few times but i headcanon that johnny has vitiligo. i tried showing that? i dunno if i did a very good job, i used references as best i could and tried to shade it with my utmost effort but idk if it really worked? also his eye scar! i forgot that in my previous drawing of johnny, which i realized after posting it, but i tried to go with the “big and hard to look at” part of it but i don’t think i did a very good job admittedly—

dally!! dally gave me a chance to kinda show myself with this cause i headcanon that dally has albinism (cause i have it and y’know, i wanted to add it for my own self indulgence)—i used myself as reference for this (minus the hair and with a bit of exaggeration to fit my style better) but i really like how his turned out!! i assumed he’d have some facial scarring too tbh from the fights he’s gotten into, and i wanted to add it in.

two bit—honestly, admittedly, his design is the only one i prefer from the musical over the movie (minus pony) but i still really like the movie/book description since its classic, so i figured why not add both aspects? personally i headcanon two bit to be half polynesian and half irish, and i kept the ginger hair because i thought it was neat and i like it, so i kept it. i also really like him having stormy grey eyes, and i kind do have my own concept for him that’s easier to draw than describe so i guess if/when i make a lineup for all of the gang it’ll be there.

steve…okay i had a change of heart with steve yesterday lol—an anon came to me about steve with green eyes and i had originally said that personally, i headcanoned steve had brown/black eyes…BUT then i thought about it and was like “why not both?” so boom, hazel. (i also think tom cruise has hazel eyes, no? idk) BUT there’s a reason for this. ponyboy originally says he “hates most guys with green eyes” and it kinda made me think like “oh, maybe ponyboy sees steve as one of those guys with green eyes” because he doesn’t like him, but maybe part of both of their character development is go from “steve has green eyes” to “maybe he doesn’t”. it’s more for my own symbolism than anything. oh, also he has a slit eyebrow because he thought it looked tuff and thought it’d look stupid to let it grow back so he just keeps it cut. also rather than “complicated swirls” i kinda think he has big, untamable hair so i tried displaying that, but thats another thing that’ll look better if i get to drawing a lineup lol

sorry steve’s was so long, i just put a lot of thought into that one far—

also just some little things but ive never really done airbrushing before so this was kinda new (which is prolly why they look kinda ehhhh but yk what it’s okay, i tried something new even tho i didn’t want to so i consider it a win

i dunno, i switch between liking how these turned out and hating them so idk, maybe you guys’ll like them more than me! i think ive been staring at em for too long

[on-my-vigilante-sht]

Follow Me

Luke Castellan x daughterofares!Reader

Summary: Luke's girlfriend is excited to finally become a year-round camper so she can spend it with him. But Luke has other plans for them.

Warning: Major spoilers if you haven't finished the first book(/season depending on when you read this), canon-level violence, weapons, injuries, angst

Word Count: 5.5K

Masterlist

A/N I haven't watched the show because I don't have Disney+ so I'm working from (memory of) the books. No characters are specifically book or show so descriptions are left vague. Imagine whatever you want.

I stumbled my way up Half-Blood Hill, determined to get to Thalia’s tree. This was my last year being a summer camper. After I graduated high school I’d decided to become a year round camper seeing as the real world was getting more and more dangerous for me. And I'd be damned if I let myself be killed right before I was in the safety of camp for good.

I was in so much pain, there was blood pouring out of my abdomen caused by the crocotta’s razor sharp claws slicing at me. My short break gave it enough time to catch up to me so rather than continuing to flee, I was forced to turn and face it. I pulled out my father’s gift to me, a sword made of celestial bronze that grew from a steel knife that could harm mortals. When he claimed and gifted it to me I found the steel useless. Why would I ever need to harm a mortal? The reasoning behind the dual blade still eluded me. The only reason I could think of was just that Ares had a penchant for violence.

As the crocotta bounded closer to me, all I could do was stand and wait for it to get within range. But upon reaching me, it just swiped the sword from my grasp, pouncing on me. I felt a tear slip down my face as I realized I’d failed to reach safety one final time. As it growled in my face and opened its jaw, I sent a silent prayer to my father and a goodbye to Luke. But before it’s jaws could clamp down on me, the weight lifted and a shimmery cloud of ichor rained down on me.

As the golden dust settled, I could see my boyfriend’s face above mine, standing over me, clutching his dagger. “Luke,” I practically sobbed in relief.

“Oh my gods,” he exclaimed, kneeling down next to me. His hands went to my stomach, pressing against the open wound, trying to stop the bleeding. “Can you walk?” he asked, fear in his eyes.

“Yeah,” I nodded, letting him take my hand as he stood. Truthfully I probably couldn’t really walk but it was either walk 10 feet to the tree or lie here waiting for someone else to help Luke carry me in and potentially getting attacked by another monster.

I let out a groan as Luke slung my arm over his shoulder, pulling me up from the ground. “C’mon,” he urged, “just get to the tree and then we’ll get some more people to help you.” I nodded, not bothering with a verbal agreement as I let my boyfriend practically carry me just past Thalia’s tree. “There we go,” he said gently as he eased me to the ground.

“Go. Go get Lee or Michael,” I urged him as he kneeled by my side again.

“No,” Luke immediately shot down. “I’m not leaving you like this and so close to the edge of the barrier.” I glanced to my left. We were about three feet from the edge of the camp’s protective barrier. “Help!” I heard him yell towards camp.

“What? Do you think I'm accidentally gonna roll down the hill?” I tried to joke. But my chuckle made my wounds hurt even more.

Seeing my pain made Luke even more unamused. Soon enough a few other campers ran up to us, having heard Luke’s call.

“Y/N, oh my god.”

“What happened?”

“Another one?!”

I heard the various reactions from other campers. Another one? What did they mean another one? But I didn’t dwell on my questions for long because Lee Fletcher and Michael Yew were running towards me. A few of my siblings followed them carrying a stretcher. As the Apollo boys started to try to stop the bleeding, I was moved onto the stretcher. But the pain of being lifted was so bad I blacked out.

~

When I came to in the sickroom of the Big House all I could feel was pain. I let out a soft groan, snapping Luke to attention. He was slumped over on my bedside, seemingly sleeping. He immediately grabbed a piece of ambrosia off the nightstand next to the cot, bringing it to my lips. I immediately rejected it, not feeling like eating anything.

“C’mon, it’s ambrosia. It’ll make you feel better,” Luke pleaded. Reluctantly I let him coax the food into my mouth and ate it. The comforting taste of my mother’s chocolate cake filled my mouth. Despite the fact that it tasted good, it felt heavy in my stomach and I pushed the food away. “You gotta eat more than that,” he tried again.

“Let’s start with water or nectar,” I suggested, my throat sore.

Luke looked at the floor angrily. He sighed. “We’re out of nectar for a while. Ambrosia is all we have.”

“What?” I asked in shock, sitting up in surprise. Luke was quick to coax me back down.

“Grover and the kid he was helping got attacked by the Minotaur on their way here. Just like the crocotta attacked you.”

“Oh my god,” I murmured. “Is that why someone said ‘Another one?’ as they were bringing me here?”

He nodded once again. “His name was Percy. He showed up the night before you did.” He suddenly stopped talking. Like he had something more to say. I urged him to continue and he did so reluctantly. “Poseidon claimed him the second night he was awake… and now he’s on a quest.”

I looked at him sympathetically. I knew all about Luke’s anger about going unclaimed for so long. And then when he finally was claimed and had trained to be a great hero, all Hermes could give him to do was steal some golden apples. But after countless rants about this I knew he wouldn’t want sympathy. “You said he’s on a quest already? How long have I been out?”

“A couple days. Chiron and Lee kicked me out for a while.”

“What’d you do?”

“Well, we already need new practice dummies for combat training,” he admitted sheepishly. I laughed and fortunately Luke did too.

By now, Chiron had sensed I was awake and entering the sickroom. As he ducked his way through the door he shrunk down back into his wheelchair so as to not overwhelm me. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. You gave us quite a scare for a few days,” he smiled.

“So I've heard.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like my guts were ripped out by a crocotta,” I answered.

“Well the ambrosia should help the pain and scarring. Lee stopped the bleeding and stitched you up but he said you’d be out for a few days.”

“Can you get her some nectar?” Luke interrupted. “She’s not exactly in a place to be eating solid foods.”

“Mr. D is trying to get into contact with Apollo. Apparently he’s concerned that Dionysus is overindulging.”

“That’s crap!” Luke suddenly burst out.

“Luke!” Chiron immediately cut him off. “I know you’re concerned for Ms. L/N, here but the food of the gods is in of itself a privilege.” He then turned his attention back to me. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well but ambrosia will have to do until we’re able to get more nectar.”

“Thanks, Chiron,” I tried to dismiss him, giving him a tight lipped smile. Sensing my disappointment he took his leave, wheeling out of the room.

Luke was back by my bedside with more pieces of ambrosia that I reluctantly took.

~

Thanks to the godly food I was up and walking within two days much to cabin 5’s relief. So many of my younger siblings were saying that Clarisse had been a terror in my absence. Something about a bathroom exploding and then she apparently tried to electrocute the new camper. I made a note to talk to her later but for now I was focused on getting my cabin back in order. They responded best to authority and a routine so I quickly had them out in training, telling them that I wouldn’t tolerate us losing capture the flag again.

We made our way down to the arena for sword fighting lessons. Luke and I were both instructors seeing as we were the oldest two campers and the best with blades. Our childhood competitiveness had eventually grown into love but for a while, we hated each other. We used to spend hours trying to get the upper hand over one another.

But now that we were dating, the younger campers always tried to goad us into sparring with one another. We always said that we’d save our sparring match for our own training or a reward for the others doing well but usually a few teasing comments had our swords pointed at one another.

I was correcting a Hermes camper’s form when he asked me to try fighting Luke. “Not today,” I laughed.

“Why? Is it because you’re scared?” he asked, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“No,” I corrected him. “It’s because once we fight, none of you will care about what we teach you.”

“Sound like you’re scared,” the boy just repeated.

I just rolled my eyes, prepared to dismiss him when Luke’s voice interrupted. “Yeah, Y/N. It sounds like you’re scared.” I rolled my eyes again as he approached. “I wouldn’t want to fight the capture the flag champion either.”

“You only won because I was recovering from being chased across the country by a monster. Just wait until the next game, I’ll show you how Cabin 5 does it.” That elicited a few cries of encouragement from my cabin, eager to win their flag back.

“You need a bit more time to train, I get it,” he mockingly offered. A few of his siblings joined in on the taunting with their exaggerated reactions.

“I don’t need time. I’d just rather not cut you up this early into the summer,” I smiled. A few ‘ooh’s came from our audience.

Luke bristled a little at that. “C’mon,” he gestured to the arena, “let’s settle this once and for all.”

I picked up one of the practice swords that resembled the size and weight of my real sword, stepping into the middle of the arena. “You say that every time.” Luke smiled, taking his spot in front of me with his practice sword as the other campers backed up.

I barely gave him a chance to settle before I was moving. I had the advantage of my father’s knack for fighting and aggression but I wasn’t as strong as Luke. Unfortunately, he knew all my moves and tricks so he was able to block me. But that also meant I knew all of his moves and tricks because I could anticipate his subsequent moves.

We continued on, trying to outmaneuver each other. He kept forcing me out of range, protecting his body, whilst I tried to find an opening to get close to him. The other campers had been within the walls of the arena but we moved around so much they were forced to jump out.

The only reason we stopped was because our little “lesson” had gone on too long and Chiron was wondering where his students were. Neither of us noticed him until he yelled our names. “Y/N L/N! Luke Castellan! What are you doing?” We both immediately stopped, facing the centaur like guilty children.

“We were just introducing them to technique,” Luke offered. I could tell Chiron saw right through his excuse but it was good enough reasoning.

“You both know you’re supposed to hold off on sparring one another. Children,” he turned to the other campers, “what did your instructors teach you?”

“Stance!”

“What to do if your opponent has a longer sword!”

Those were the answers our siblings offered but one Aphrodite camper’s answer ruined the whole thing. “How to waste time.” Luke and I both sent her stares.

Fortunately Chiron didn’t take it too seriously. “Save the sparring for your own sessions,” he warned us. “Everyone move on to your next activities. I’m sure your instructors are waiting.”

As everyone else filed off, Luke and I looked at each other. “You’re disgusting,” I laughed, observing his sweaty shirt.

He looked baffled at that. “Wow. I was gonna ask if you’re okay but clearly you don’t value me that much,” he answered in mocking offense.

“No, no, no,” I corrected through laughs, going to him. But as soon as he tried to hug me, I pulled away with a wrinkled nose. Seeing my disgust, he forcefully hugged me, drowning me in his B.O. When I finally wrestled my way out of his arms I was disgusting. “Ugh we both need showers.”

He smiled. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he promised. He stepped closer to me, kissing me quickly before heading off towards the showers. I watched him leave for a moment before heading to my cabin.

Later that night at dinner, I was talking to my cabin-mates when Luke came over, crouching by me. “Hey,” he smiled up at me as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi,” I laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“Being a good boyfriend. I’m just giving you a heads up that our spar from earlier isn’t over yet.”

“What?”

Chiron stood up and so did Luke. “Gotta go, bye,” he said, pressing a kiss to my temple before scurrying off.

Bewildered, I looked up at Chiron. “We have a special activity tonight per the request of the reigning capture the flag champions. We’ll be playing again tonight seeing as some claimed our last games were unfair due to a missing counselor.” Cabin 5 erupted into cheers, eager to win the flag back. “Luke Castellan and Y/N L/N are captains. Same rules as the prior games.”

Not willing to let my cabin lose again, I jumped into action. “Cabin 5, armor on, get to the creek in 5!” They all quickly scrambled off. Our allies for this game, Dionysus, Aphrodite, Demeter, and Hephaestus followed their lead.

I followed after them to get my armor as well and soon enough I was stood by the creek, discussing strategy with my teammates. Once our discussion time drew to a close, I faced my opposing captain. “You’re going down, feather feet,” I sneered.

“We’ll see, hot head,” Luke taunted.

I laughed. “Oh yeah, one more thing,” I told my teammates. “Bring me Luke’s sword and helmet.”

“In your dreams,” he taunted back. He looked at his team. “Bring me Y/N.”

“Okay,” Chiron interrupted us. “Before we begin I think we need a reminder that killing is not permitted. Are we clear?” A few unenthusiastic agreements came from the crowd. Nodding, Chiron blew into the horn, signaling that the games had begun. Some of my campers who hadn’t already been stationed bolted into the trees, doubling back so they could hopefully sneak through Hermes’ cabin’s defenses. The others stayed with me to defend the most obvious point.

One Hermes kid immediately jumped at me but I slashed him in the chest, (his armor protected him so he just got the wind knocked out of him) knocking him back into the water.

He got back up, running at one of my campers but he was immediately disarmed and taken prisoner. By the time I looked back, the other campers and Luke were gone. I realized with a frustrated scream that this kid was a distraction. “Find them!” I yelled at the others.

“Their territory or ours?” I observed the 5 campers in front of me. “You three, stay on our side. Fan across the creek, look for signs they crossed into our territory. The rest of you, we’re gonna either hunt them down in their territory or take their flag.”

My group leapt over the creek, running into the forest.

As we searched, we picked up a few of our own teammates, running through the woods and strangely finding no opposing campers. We continued on nonetheless until Athena and Apollo campers all of a sudden started darting through the trees.

Eventually they stopped moving enough for us to have a proper fight. I faced Malcom Pace, easily disarming him. But suddenly his older brothers were on me. As I was busy fighting twins, Leo and Cato, another one of the boys found an opening. Quinn wrapped his arms around me, a dagger at my throat. “Drop the sword,” they told me.

Seeing as I wasn’t getting out of this but my teammates were gone while many of the Athena and Apollo campers were still here, I dropped the sword. Most of my campers got away and were likely hunting down the flag.

Before they could decide where to stash their prisoner, the horn blew again, signaling the end of the games. But as I tried to leave, the others stopped me. “Woah, Luke said he wanted you so we’re taking you.”

I rolled my eyes, letting them lead me to the creek. “Yeah, well when my cabin gives me his stuff and the flag, you can apologize to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quinn dismissed. “You’re just mad I beat you.”

“You only ‘beat me’ because there were three of you. And you guys still lost the rest of my team.”

“We still got you!” Leo taunted in a sing-songy voice. By now we had reached the creek and I saw Clarisse holding the flag, a helmet, and a sword. Luke was kneeled beside her looking humiliated, clearly a captive.

Both sides let us go and I went to Clarisse. “Your spoils,” she presented me the flag, helmet, and sword. I smiled, wrapping the flag around her shoulders and taking Luke’s stuff.

“Thank you!” I said emphatically, pointing a look of victory at Luke.

He just shook his head, standing up. As he approached me I figured he was grabbing his belongings but instead he wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me in for a kiss. When he pulled away he explained. “You’re my spoil.”

~

Camp life continued on as normal for a while. I finally met the newest hero who had returned Zeus’ masterbolt— he did not like my father. He seemed surprised that Luke and I were dating and I learned that Luke had become a sort of mentor to Percy over the days that I had been asleep. That also surprised me, given how resentful Luke had seemed towards him when I first woke up. Regardless, everything seemed normal as we continued our routines throughout the summer until I was woken up one night.

“Y/N,” a voice whispered, shaking me. “Y/N.” I reluctantly opened my eyes, finding one of my younger brothers, Aiden, shaking me. “Luke’s asking for you.”

“What?” I asked, sitting up.

“Luke wants to talk to you. He gave me a coke if I woke you up.” The boy excitedly held up a shiny red can as if to persuade me to go.

I rubbed his messy hair as I sat up. “Don’t let Clarisse see that,” I advised, throwing on a hoodie. He nodded, going back to his bunk as I headed outside. “Luke!” I whispered into the night upon exiting the cabin. I didn’t notice him sneaking up towards me until his hands were around my waist. “Luke!” I exclaimed in surprise.

He quickly hushed me. “Do you want the harpies to find us?”

“Well we wouldn’t have to worry about that if you weren’t trying to talk to me in the middle of the night. What’s wrong?” I asked, knowing it’d be serious. He let his playful facade drop as he urged me to follow him, taking my hand. I went with him, silently trusting him until I realized we were heading to the woods. I stopped, letting my hand fall out of his grasp. “What? Are you gonna kill me in there?” I laughed shallowly, trying to lighten the mood and quell the alarms in my brain.

Luke returned my shallow laugh, clearly nervous. “Of course not. Look, I have to talk to you. It’s serious.” I could see the genuineness in his expression so I let him retake my hand. “I’d never hurt you,” he promised. So I followed him further into the woods until he deemed us far enough. “The nymphs may hear us but it’s kind of impossible to avoid them,” he chuckled.

“Hear what?” I asked.

He took a breath, seemingly composing himself. “You know how I went on that quest? For my dad?”

“Yeah. What? You want to go out into the world again?” I asked, a little relieved.

“Sort of,” he offered. “But on that ‘quest,’” he mocked the word, “I realized something: the gods are useless.”

“Luke!” I immediately reprimanded him.

“No,” he cut me off. “You don’t have to pretend like not fawning over the gods is a crime. We shouldn’t be blindly worshipping them. Y/N,” his hands were clasping my shoulders as if begging me to believe him, “your father waited for the last day of summer your first year to claim you. Why? Just to mess with you? Because he just couldn’t be bothered to do it until he remembered at the last second? That’s messed up. The gods aren’t fit to rule. The West is going to hades. My quest? To repeat Heracles’ quest? All the gods know how to do is repeat the past. Their glory days.”

“Luke, you’re scaring me.” I was practically begging him to stop talking so we could go back to the way it was. This was the first year I’d be staying year round. We were supposed to be celebrating Christmas together for the first time in a few months. Yet here he was, spouting off heresy.

“Open your eyes,” he insisted. “The gods are poisoning the world and they’ve been using us as pawns to do it. The only way to fix it is to destroy it and start over with something more honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been having dreams sent by the Titan Lord.”

A shiver ran down my spine and I stepped out of his grasp. “No,” I heard myself whisper. “Luke, he’s using you. You remember what Chiron taught us. We are not better off, no one was better off when the Titans ruled. We didn’t even have fire. He will kill all the humans. He’ll kill us.”

“Not if we join him willingly,” Luke promised, trying to take my hand again but I pulled away. “He said when I bring down the gods he’ll reward me. He’ll make me immortal. He promised you’d become like me too.” He quickly grasped my wrist tight enough so I couldn’t escape, pulling me closer. “We can rule together, forever.” He was pleading with me to take his offer, his hands finding a stray lock of hair to tuck behind my ear.

“Luke… this isn’t- you can’t…” I was at a loss for words.

“Please, Y/N,” his voice was cracking.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. This isn’t right. This is dangerous, can’t you see that?”

“This isn’t me just trying to get back at my dad. I’ve thought about this.” He stiffened, still tightly grasping my wrist. “Y/N, I need you with me.”

“Then don’t go,” I begged him. “I won’t even tell anyone. We can just go back to how things were.”

“No, we can’t,” he shook his head. “Because you’re gonna try to help me by telling Chiron and he’s gonna turn me in.”

“No he won’t! Luke, he trained you. He’ll want to help you.”

“Camp isn’t safe for us anymore. We have to go.”

This was the first time I actually started fearing for my safety. I tried to pull out of his grasp but he held firm. “Go where?”

“Our Titan Lord got us a ship. We’ll be safe there until I get my next orders. The monsters on it won’t harm us.”

“What?!” With a hard wrench I pulled my wrist out of his grasp. I immediately started running, hoping a nymph would find me before a monster did but Luke was on me in seconds. He knocked me to the ground and after a little struggling he had me pinned. “Luke, please don’t do this,” I begged as I saw him reach into his pocket. When I saw the milk of the poppy I began to thrash underneath him but I couldn’t manage to throw him off of me. He forced my mouth open, dropping the liquid onto my tongue and forcing me to swallow. Before I blacked out, I could vaguely hear him speak.

“You’ll be okay in a few days and then we can talk.” A few days???

~~

The next morning Luke was woken by frantic cries of his girlfriend’s name heard throughout camp. He immediately rushed out of bed, putting on a concerned boyfriend facade. Finding one of his brothers, he asked what was going on. “What? Did you just wake up?” Luke nodded frantically. “Oh, I’m sorry man. Uh, Y/N wasn’t in bed this morning. No one can find her. One of her little brothers said you asked to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah to talk about potentially allying for capture the flag but she went right back in,” he insisted frantically. He ran a hand through his hair, acting stressed. He kind of whished he’d be gone by now but he needed to get rid of Percy before he could go.

He ran out of the cabin, immediately going up to Cabin 5. Clarisse spotted him, her expression becoming sour. “What’d you do Castellan? Aiden said you wanted to talk to her last night.”

“Yeah, we were talking about capture the flag but she went right back in 10 minutes later. You sleep 20 feet from her, where’s my girlfriend?” he challenged. Clarisse sent him a scowl but otherwise stormed off, the other Cabin 5 campers following her with similar expressions.

“Luke, I'm so sorry,” a young voice called. He turned, finding Annabeth running towards him. As she hugged him, Luke couldn’t help but think about how much he’d miss her. She was too smart for her own good but he still couldn’t help but think of the seven year old he had found hiding from monsters. “She could just be out somewhere?” she offered, trying to console him.

“I hope so,” he smiled down at her. He then spotted Mr. D and ran over to him. “Mr. D, can you find where she is?”

The god gave him a tired expression. “I’m not omniscient in this state. All I know is she’s not in camp.”

“Well can’t you get a god who is? Surely her father wants to know where she is,” he insisted. But Ares had plenty of demigod children and most of them went missing in action or died tragic deaths. Y/N would be just another hero child that fought in his name.

“Lord Ares has other concerns,” Mr. D at least tried to soften the blow. “If she hasn’t returned by the end of the summer then we must assume she is dead. Even if she left of her own volition.”

“But summer is ends tomorrow. You can’t do this. She could still be out there. She could need our help. Let me go out and search,” he pleaded. By now, Chiron, Clarisse, and a few others had joined them.

“No one is leaving,” Chiron declared. “I’m not letting anyone else go missing. Luke, I understand your concern but her blade was found in Cabin 5. If she’s not in camp she is likely already dead.”

“No,” Luke insisted, putting on the performance of a lifetime, “you’re wrong.”

After nearly two whole days of searching camp and the closest borders, (that was the furthest Chiron would let anyone go) Y/N L/N was declared dead. Her siblings reluctantly built a funeral pyre, decorating it with some of her things. Luke did his best to look devastated and it seemed to be working because no one looked at him twice other than to offer their sympathies. That at least made it easy to lure Percy off into the woods just before he left.

~~

When I woke up I was in a strange room. It looked like a hotel room except for the fact that the floor to ceiling windows showed that I was on the ocean. That triggered all the memories of Luke. A sense of hopelessness came over me and I was immediately breaking down in sobs. I didn’t want to believe that he had joined Kronos and turned his back on everything he knew or that he was determined to drag me with him.

Once I finally managed to compose myself I went to the door, hoping to find a radio so someone could get me. Or maybe even find Luke so I could talk him into letting me go. But once I opened the door I was met with the massive jaws of a hellhound. I immediately shut the door and locked it.

Still feeling unsafe I went to grab the dresser to block the door but either it was too heavy or bolted down. I tried the desk next resulting in nothing. I was running out of time as the monster was probably just trying to process what it saw. Soon it’d smell me and start trying to break down the door. So I resorted to the chair, dragging it across the floor and jamming it under the door handle. I then went to the massive windows, realizing there was a hidden door. I wrenched it open, stepping out into the fresh air. I looked around, seeing no land I’d be able to swim to. But just as I was considering my chances, I noticed the body of a massive whale-like creature. I was willing to bet that whales weren’t just swimming around a cruise ship, this was a cetus.

Seeing as I had nowhere else to go, I went back into the room. I went to the attached bathroom, searching for something to defend myself. There wasn’t really anything in there except bar soap and toilet paper. Luke must have removed everything, even the towels, so I couldn’t hurt him or anyone else. Frustrated, I went to the closet, finding it completely empty. Not even a hangar to pull apart and stab someone with. So I reluctantly grabbed the soap seeing as it was literally the only thing remotely resembling a weapon, and sat on the bed, watching the door.

I don’t know how long I sat there but eventually I heard the door shake, like something was trying to get in. As I was preparing to clobber the monster with my bar of soap, a voice I recognized called through the door. “C’mon, Y/N! Open the door,” Luke said. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t want to see him. “Open the door or I break it down!” he demanded.

It was either open the door or have absolutely no protection from the monsters so I reluctantly got up. “Okay, okay!” I answered. “Just give me a second.” I climbed off the bed, removing the chair. I only twisted the handle, letting the door open slightly before going back to the bed to put some distance between us.

As Luke was locking the door again, I took my chance. Jumping, I tried to bring the bar of soap down on him but he turned, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, you had to have known that wouldn’t work,” he smiled.

I only gave him a burning stare. “It was worth a shot,” I said, trying to pull my hand away. But his grip held fast, not letting me pull away.

“So I guess you still hate me?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “You kidnapped me and are now holding me hostage on a monster infested ship.”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” he dismissed, once again brushing a piece of hair behind my ear. “Then we’ll be together forever.”

Masterlist

[alienseasfanfics]

Friction - Part 4

Series: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!traumatized!reader

Overall Summary: When you're targeted by a violent stalker, Sam sends Bucky to guard you in a remote safehouse. You clash instantly, but in the growing tension, something more fragile begins to take root. If you can learn to trust him in time. No Thunderbolts spoilers!

Chapter Summary: After a rough night, you scramble in your mission to apologize and he scrambles in emotions he can't even name. You come together under the stars, and try to find place for each other.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Reluctant Attraction, Forced Proximity, Yearning (dear lord the yearning in this chapter had me clawing my own walls lol), Protective Bucky/Reader. Bucky POV in this chapter! In this chapter, you don't know constellations or the legend of Orpheus. Or maybe you do and he's hot and you want to be near him. Whichever.

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: trauma response/disassociation, general violence, bombs, gun mention, kidnapping/experimentation. Reader is hard on herself for a bit :,) More description of trauma.

When the shower turns on, you’re already awake. Aching, exhausted, but awake. Your muscles haven’t forgotten the shock of yesterday’s meltdown.

You woke up at the first sign of him, ears attuned to his presence even in a state of half-consciousness. The squeak of the old couch springs, the soft grunt he makes when he stretches, his soft footsteps as he comes upstairs, avoiding the creaky floorboard by your door.

His tired sigh can be heard through the thin wall separating your bedroom and the bathroom as he turns the water on. The guilt starts creeping back up your throat. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Just be happy he’s there at all, and not shoving you in the back of the car and driving you all the way back to New York.

Why are you happy about that at all?

You’re already dressed (if you can call clean pyjamas ‘dressed’), and out the screen door before you can stop yourself. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, barely lighting your way to the garage. As you wrench the door open, the dust still dances in the dim light. expecting chaos but instead find it clean.

Normal.

Like you never happened.

The shelves are back up. Tools put away. Dust and debris swept away into nothing. Even the car, pushed into the garage door, was righted and its shattered headlights fixed. You’re frozen in the doorway, gripping the shitty plastic handle with enough force you feel it bend.

He did fix it. All of it. Like he said he would.

The only evidence of your sin is the wall. Cracks spiderweb from a central, deep hole in the plaster, showing the studs hidden beneath. Coming closer, you examine it with bated breath. He hit here because of you. This probably wasn’t the worst beating he’s ever had, but still. It wasn’t your worst shockwave either.

You reach forward and touch the hole, dust clinging to your fingertips. Just beneath your hand, on the floor, you see a dot.

Red. Blood, dried into a few round drops in a pool of dusty white. In your mind, you twist around last nights version of him, looking for any evidence of hurt. Nothing physical. Only in his eyes, staring into yours with that uneasy worry and sharp edge of some other emotion you can’t place. Your mind betrays you, blood dripping down his forehead in rivulets, and you have to pinch your thigh hard to rid yourself of the vision. It has as much efficacy as slamming your brakes on black ice.

Rubbing the plaster off your fingers, you leave the garage. You don’t let the newly risen sun warm you as you hurry inside. Guilt snaps at your heels like a wild dog, and you find yourself flitting around the house uselessly.

Bucky’s couch-bed is neatly made. His duffle bag of clothes, old books, and ammo cases is zipped up and put away. The place is swept clean, surfaces shining. Hell, he even did the dishes.

You pace, looking around the room like a madwoman. Your plan of a silent admission of guilt and reparation is quickly going down the toilet. Your skin still feels barely held together and the thought of having another shockwave and hurting him again makes your chest tighten. You close your eyes tightly and try to breathe.

Damn him. Why does he have to be so thoughtful all the time? He always seems to be thinking, analyzing, acting. No matter how much you shove him away. You tried being standoffish, being mean, yelling at him. Your body even tried throwing him across the room. And yet, he stays. Staring at you from afar, avoiding the creaky step outside your closed door, even doing the dishes.

The thought of him always being in the corner of the room is becoming worryingly comforting.

Damn him.

He’s still in the shower, and you rush through his morning routine in your head. He wakes up without opening his eyes, shifts. His face hardens.

He waits a few minutes, then stands with a stretch and a groan that shows his true age. He showers. He comes downstairs, reads the paper, and has his coffee and dry cereal. Eyes flying open, you look at the table. No signs of any food.

Quickly, before he can get out of the shower, you throw something together. Easy. Quick. Warm. An ‘I’m sorry, I hope this is good, I hope this makes you feel better, please don’t leave me alone even if I’m the worst.’ whispered into french toast, pan-fried in butter and given a generous helping of cinnamon.

As you put it on the table, you pinch yourself absentmindedly, chasing away the image of him throwing it in the trash. That’s not what Bucky would do. You think, anyway. Over the past month, he’s done the opposite of what you’ve expected him to do. Just the fact that he’s still here in the morning is confusing enough. The hopeful part of you is whispering, but you stamp it back down. It doesn’t know what’s good for it.

You look at the clock. The man can’t be bribed into a shower longer than 15 minutes, and it’s getting close. You rush upstairs, avoiding the creaky board. Just making him the food is hard enough, facing him without a built-up shield of indifference is worse. Though, after the past couple days, you don’t know if you can call that particular coping mechanism back up to bat. You open your bedroom door and-

“Mornin’.” His voice is smooth and light, and you turn to face him instinctively.

“Morning.” Your voice is shaky by comparison. Especially when you see he’s barely dressed, towel slung low on his waist and one around his shoulders. He’s almost leaning out of the doorframe, having obviously hurried to open the door. Every inch of him looks like a super soldier; broad shoulders, taut muscles rippling under the skin, ready for whatever problem needs to be done. Drops of water cling to the hair thatched on his lower stomach, falling into the towel and on the bathroom floor. His metal arm is foggy, but you can still see glimpses of your tense body in its reflection.

He’s hot. Red hot. His skin is bright from the boiling water he must shower with, and you see far too much of it for your own sanity. As your eyes flick all over him, trying to find a safe place to land, they fall on the scarred connection between metal and flesh on his shoulder. Healed gashes claw out across his skin, showing a painful past without a word. Your own scars itch at the connection, and you rub the one at the base of your skull absentmindedly.

“Do I have somethin’ on my face?” He says, smooth as butter, and you snap your eyes to the floor.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” You mutter, pasting on a smirk that you’re hoping is aloof.

“How’d you sleep?” He asks. He leans against the doorway, adjusting the towel slightly, it dipping deep beneath his navel. Your face burns. Hopefully HYDRA didn’t give him heat vision.

“Fine. You?”

“I slept alright. You’re up early, are you okay? Do you need the bathroom?” He asks. His head cocks to one side, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Damn him.

“No, Bucky. I’m fine, thanks. I just went to see the garage.”

“Ah. Well, no need to go out there. Unless you want to throw some shit around again.” He shrugs. You look away from him and to the wall, crossing your arms over your chest and rubbing a thumb over the spot you’re trying not to pinch in front of him.

“Sorry for leaving you to clean it up.”

“As I said yesterday, it’s no problem. I’ve cleaned up much worse.”

“I bet. And...are you okay? I saw some...blood.” You spit out the last word and look hurriedly over his wet hair. He shakes his head.

“I’m fine. Again, I’ve had worse.”

“So you did get hurt?” Your heart sinks to your stomach and you step forward, looking closer at his head. He watches your face for a second before bending down, showing you a small gash above his temple.

“Just a little cut. Doesn’t even need a kiss to make it better.” He murmurs, looking at you through his eyelashes.

He stills as you reach forward, taking his short hair between your fingers and pulling it to the side slightly. The cut is small and jagged, but already starting to heal. Static crackles between your fingertips. You step back away and he straightens once again.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and he shakes his head and sighs. He cocks his head to the side again and looks you over. This time, you can’t help but look back.

He looks tired. Small lines etch their way down his face, showing their wear. The dark circles under his eyes are more prominent than usual, and he looks at you with a weariness that you know you must have caused. But, the gentleness of his gaze is breaking your heart more than that. He almost bows to you, keeping his palms and arms open as you stand across from him like a cornered rabbit.

Rabbit. Always running. The sharp voice of Him ricochets in your brain, and you pinch the soft flesh of your inner arm.

“You sure you’re okay?” Bucky’s gentle voice comes rumbling through, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. He’s smiling softly at you, leaning forward slightly to fill the empty air between you. You smile too, unwillingly, like it’s a dog leash being ripped fro­m your fingers. His grin widens.

Is he really smiling just because you are, or is he just that good at faking his face? It has to be the latter.

“I’m okay. Just a bit tired.” You say, looking away.

“I bet. Eat yet?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“I’m not hungry. I’m just going to go back to bed.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Really? No food at all?”

“I had some cereal.” You lie. He stares at you, obviously seeing through it. His shoulders tense slightly. How bad have you gotten at lying that he can catch that?

“Alright. You’ll eat later, though?”

“Sure.” You acquiesce.

“Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

With that he goes back into the bathroom, holding his towel on his waist, and you go back into your room, slower than before. Now, all you want to do is go back into his presence, all smiles and steam and soft words. Your cold bed has more edges than you remember.

Bucky leans his weight on the bathroom door, forehead pressed to the wood. It’s cool, solid against his tacky skin. He closes his eyes.

You seem fine. Tired. Shaky and small. Not like someone that threw him like a damn ragdoll across the room without breaking a sweat. And yet, you still look at him in fear. Big doe eyes under the black hole of a gun. You hadn’t even said a word when you exploded, just flinched like he had burnt you. He looks down at his metal hand, clenching and releasing it. It shines up, dull, cold. Had he burned you?

And yet, you still crept out to clean the garage in the dim hours. He said he’d take care of it, and thank God he did. If you’d seen the wreck it was last night-

No. No use thinking about your reaction now. You didn’t have it. He made sure of that. Still, he sighs, emptying his chest.

Were you scared of his reaction? The memories of last night race through his head. He wasn’t angry, he thought. That wasn’t what he meant to be. Was he too forceful about you opening the door?

But you did. You opened it that fraction, just enough for him to see the tears streak down your face, the half-moon indents from your nails on your upper arm. But you had said it, in that light voice of yours. “You didn’t hurt me, Bucky.” A band-aid on a bullet hole. Did you mean it?

He takes a deep breath, trying to focus on your words. Last night, they haunted him. Now, it’s the only thing keeping him from falling further into that darkness. A tenuous grip to whatever reality he’s drowning in.

When he comes out of the bathroom, your door is closed. He holds his breath, listening for yours. Calm, slow. Asleep, thankfully. His shoulders relax just a fraction. His tension is a surprise, once it falls away.

As he hurries downstairs, he holds himself lightly so he wouldn’t wake you. There’s still a pile of debris out back to get rid of bef-

The smell hits him first. Warm. Sweet. Unreal. He stops short on the last stair, blinking into the dark living room.

Is that french toast?

He stares across the room at the plate on the table, coffee mug still steaming next to it. Three slices of breakfast instead of his normal bowl of dry cereal. Even the paper is brought in from the mailbox at the far end of the drive. His jaw tenses.

Did you make this?

What did he do to earn this? Cause you to freak out? That isn’t an action that deserves kindness. Hell, he’s pretty sure he has enough bad karma to ensure he never gets a good thing again. And yet, the food is there, at his seat, with his paper. You really went all the way down the drive to the mailbox?

He has to will himself to come closer, examining the plate like it’s an IED. Cinnamon, maple syrup, golden heavy butter. Dropping down onto the couch, he takes the fork gingerly, examining the bread more. Looks fine. He takes a bite.

Damn. The fork handle bends in a little as he grips it tighter. It’s good. He glances behind him at the stairs, feeling like a thief. Your door remains shut. It must be for him. The next bite is hard to swallow.

The plate is finished before he wants it to be. By the end of it, the fork is a hunk of metal, strangled to death absentmindedly. He throws it on the table with a clatter, rubbing his face and glaring down at the maple syrup swirls like there’s a message written for him that he’s too stupid to read.

Damn it. It was hard enough to be here without you being all...kind. Sneaking past his defenses in ways he never expected. You never do anything he expects. Damn it.

He falls back against the couch, closing his eyes and rubbing the spot between his eyebrows, willing his racing thoughts to shut up. The taste of maple syrup won’t leave his tongue, creeping down his throat and to his chest, twining itself around his ribs. It’s painful, this sugary affliction, as it embeds itself into places he didn’t know he had in him.

He about smashes the phone when it rings next to him. He picks it up in a second flat, putting it to his ear without looking at the caller ID.

“What.” He barks.

“Well hello sunshine, you seem chipper this morning.” Sam drawls into the line.

“What do you want.”

“Are you both alive out there?”

“Barely.”

“Really, Barnes? You hate her that much?”

Bucky’s jaw tenses. Hate isn’t the right word. Not even close. But any other word chokes him when he tries to say it.

“No. I’m the one barely alive.”

“What’d you do?” A car door slams from the other side of the phone. Bucky sighs again, taking a minute to will away the flash of your eyes before he got thrown away. Fear, hurt. The little lean of your face into his fingers before you ripped yourself away.

“Touch her cheek.”

“Well yeah, that’ll do it.”

“What?” Bucky closes his eyes, rubbing his temple. Riddles from Sam never failed to make his head hurt.

“She doesn’t like touch. Thought you knew that, Mr. Observant. How’d you get close enough to touch her, anyway? She avoids me like we’re the same magnetic poles.”

“Could you have said that in a nerdier way?”

“Want to hear me try?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Then shut up. I have news. We found the...encampment. Bunker. Hole in the ground.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. He didn’t really pay attention to Sam’s side of the assignment, focusing instead on how to navigate his own. Protecting you was never in the HYDRA training regiment. Hell, it felt leagues harder than most of the assignments they put him on.

“What are you talking about, Sam.”

“The place she escaped from, Buck. In the woods.”

“She escaped from somewhere?”

“Oh. Damn, she hasn’t told you?”

Bucky sits up, ice trickling down his spine. No, you hadn’t told him shit.

Glancing up at the empty staircase and the closed bedroom door just off the landing, he talks low into the phone.

“What happened there?”

“I don’t know. All she told me was some guy was after her. That she escaped from him once, now she has to escape him again. She was going to run off. Asked me to feed the stray cats that come up to her deck. I thought that was stupid and short-sighted. If he already found her once, he’ll find her again. That’s the point of the house. Of you.” Sam mutters, sounding exasperated. Bucky’s mind whirls. The visits before the guard house were full of hushed discussions between the two of them. He never paid attention, looking at the blast patterns in the shithole you call an apartment. The secured entry points to the building. The egregious amount of locks on all of your doors. Dots connect in his head, and he curses under his breath.

Bucky closes his eyes and makes an effort not to crush the phone, counting down from five silently.

“She explodes, Sam.”

“She what?”

“Good God. She blows up. Not physically, she’s all in one piece, but she just...blows up. Things go everywhere. I just finished clearing out the garage of half-broken shit.” He neglects to mention that he was caught in the blast. It hurt you enough to see his cut, for whatever reason. You didn’t mean to. Letting Sam know about it feels like an attack on your character. Sam’s sigh crackles over the speaker.

“Fuck. Well. This place looks like it’s been blown up, so that tracks. I wasn’t joking with “hole in the ground”. It’s basically just rubble. Except, the guys here think some things are missing.”

“Missing? How can they even tell?”

“There’s enough beat-up generators here to power D.C. for a year. But, and here’s the weird part, no tech. No computers, no equipment, nothing. And, even worse, the blast patterns don’t match up with all the pieces.”

“What the hell does that mean.” Sam’s riddles are bad at the worst of times. Hearing them now is just torture.

“It means that someone came here and took everything we could use to trace them. Either their whereabouts, or what they did. Or, with what you’re telling me, all the tools to make a living bomb.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, half-formed thoughts running around his head. Closing his eyes, he presses on his temple in an effort to make them stop. They don’t.

“So this is the guy that’s after her, yes?” He says after a minute.

“I guess so.”

“And we know nothing about him.”

“Nope. Just that he’s out there, and he has everything that he had then. Now, I don’t know anything about the explosions, but-”

“So, there were no placed bombs. She was the bomb.”

“Would stand to reason.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell either of us?”

“Hmm, gee, I don’t know, Bucky. I know every girl locked in a cage, experimented on, and turned into a walking bomb is the most stable and trusting individual walking the earth. I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t share this with a guy she barely knows that glared at her for the few months he’s known her.”

Bucky’s tongue is too big for his mouth.

“Caged?” He chokes out.

His own hole in the ground flashes in his memory. The smell of his blood and sweat mixed with the searing pain at his temples. The stinging pain at his fingertips as he clawed his way back to consciousness in a dark cell. The lingering pain in his jaw after biting down too hard on thick leather. Feeling small, cornered, while on display behind bars.

Coming out different. Changed. With blood on his hands, knowing that he did it. Knowing that he couldn’t take it back.

Did you wake up the same way?

“Yeah. The team found metal bars. Half-melted. If it really was her that caused it, she’s pretty damn powerful.”

Crack. Bucky swears and glances at the phone. Fractures spiderweb across the screen. Sam’s face in his stupid profile picture fractured in a web of damage.

“Barnes. You there?” His voice pipes up from the speaker, and Bucky puts it back to his ear.

“Yeah.”

“I have to go. If you find out anything more, call me.”

“OK.”

“Bucky.” Silence. Sam sighs. “Be careful, alright? Both of you. This seems bad on every level. Just be careful.”

“When am I not?” Bucky hangs up the phone, tossing it aside and holding his head in his hands. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, willing the tension in his shoulders to fall away, but his body doesn’t listen to him. Muscles hold firm, coiling under his skin like angered pythons waiting to strike.

He jolts up, he falls into routine. Intent on locking the house down until even a tornado couldn’t rip it away.

The cameras change first. New ones, old ones retooled. Fields of vision stretch across the house to parts unknown except to his tablet. Their red eyes blink steadily, but it’s not enough.

More trip wires next. Spread across the windowsills, the floor beneath the windows, the doors. He glances at your door, then continues on. You’re smart. You’ll look before you step. He rigs motions sensors to the glass, the doors, the bottom of the stairs. Outside, cameras hide under awnings and drain pipes. One red eye blinking at the bottom of the mailbox. Just past it, farther than any delivery guy would go, he adds more wires, stretched across the grass and shining lightly in the light of the dimming sun. He kicks dirt on them to hide them.

And yet, his muscles stay tight, his spine rigid. Eyes locked onto the second-floor window, showing your closed door. He’s up there before he fully realizes what he’s doing.

The final step is one he can’t do, but he can’t turn away from your bedroom door either. Your breathing is still even and slow. He watches the golden light slipping from under your door, tracking the setting sun. He can’t barge in like he did before, though the same unease is in his chest.

Instead, he runs a finger over the cool barrel of the gun in its holster, now strapped tight even in sweats and a t-shirt. He matches his breathing to yours on the other side of the door, letting it take away the marionette string keeping him upright. He sinks down, head tipped back, eyes unfocused.

The house still feels uneasy. Vulnerable. The dark windows feel like eyes looking in rather than out, keeping him blind.

He can see his ghostly shape in the reflection of the one past the bathroom door, crouched in wait like a ghoul.

How often has his body taken this shape in the shadows?

He hangs his head, rubbing a temple with his metal hand, flinching at the cold touch. And still, through it all, maple syrup clings to his tongue. Nothing but a memory, but worse memories have stuck to it.

“Fuck.” He says softly, to himself, to no one.

“Bucky? What are you doing?” You say, and Bucky snaps his head up, looking at you. You blink sleep out of your eyes, holding onto the bedroom door like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You tilt your head to the side, eyes dropping to him huddled on the ground like an animal. He shoots upright.

“I was sittin’.” Bucky says, dumbly. One of your eyebrows raises up, your lower lip sucking in slightly as you bite it, trying to be discreet. So many of your little movements are when you’re trying to be secretive. Hiding from him.

“I can see that. Are you drunk?” You lean against the door, steadying yourself.

“No.”

“So, just sitting outside the room, on the floor. For no reason. Have all the chairs disappeared?”

“No. That would be weird.”

“Like this isn’t.”

“I can’t sit without being interrogated?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m the crazy one in this scenario. I should’ve totally expected you to be hunkered down by my door like a crazy person as I slept peacefully.” You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

He watches your fingers, waiting for the pinch that always comes.

“Peacefully?” He raises an eyebrow. You still, looking away. You always look away.

“Yeah.” You sigh, then glance back at him. His forehead, rather. “How’s your head?”

“The head wound you gave me? It’s doubled in size since the last time you asked about it. Worst injury I’ve every had.” He smirks, but regrets it when your eyes widen and you jut forward towards him, leaning up to see it again. He holds out his palms, steadying you without touching you. “I’m kidding, doll. I’m fine. I don’t even see it anymore.”

The look in your eyes could burn him as you lean back against your doorframe, scowling.

“Don’t joke about that.” You whisper.

You both fall silent. You stare past him, somewhere far beyond the cramped hallway. He only stares at you. Your shoulders are rigid, your breathing calculatingly even. Fingers gripping your arms but not hurting them. The sun has set, leaving you both in the dark hallway, barely existing under the cover of night. The only evidence you exist at all is one bar of moonlight from the window behind him, falling on your eye and descending down your chest. When you look back at him, he can hear his heartbeat. You’re steady. Calmer. Walled off but not locked away.

He wants to say something aloof. Dance along the edge of your fear with plaintive words and a sarcastic bite. Maybe back downstairs and guard from there, leaving you in your comfortable fear.

But the tired, hopeful look in your eyes makes his fingers tremble. You’re not panicking. Not even hurt. He knows what your fear looks like. Now you just look...resigned. A wounded gazelle waiting for the lazy leopard to finish the job.

“Want to go stargazing?” The words fall out of his mouth before he can hold them back.

“Now?” You bow your head a little, looking at him from under your eyelashes. “Isn’t it cold?”

“I’ll get you a blanket.”

You watch him, carefully, rubbing your arm where you hold it with your thumb. You’re going to say no. Bucky knows all the reasons for you to. Too cold, or in the open, or not wanting to be with him.

He can leave. Watch from inside as you look away from him, towards something bigger than yourself. Maybe you can find the same peace he did. It’s easier without him crowding around you like a rainstorm.

And yet, the idea of watching from inside makes his jaw tense, teeth locking together like they have many times before. The gun weighs heavy on his hip. He’ll have to watch over you from the porch.

When you finally speak, your eyes flick to his arms, crossed tightly over his chest, then slide down to his holster. Obvious and brutal. He shifts, pushing the gun out of your view.

“Will you be there?” You ask, your voice barely a murmur.

“I’ll be out there.”

“No, I mean, are you watching the stars with me? I don’t know any of the constellations out here.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’ll show you the ones I know.” He says. You give him that small smile of yours, the corners of your lips barely turning up, but your eyes crinkling at the edges. His heart soars and he stamps the dramatic thing down. Clearing his throat, he moves aside and bows his head, moving out of the way as you go downstairs.

By the time he comes out with the blankets, you’re sitting in the tall grass, hugging your knees to your chest. When you hear the sound of the screen door close, you look back at him with a small smile, resting your head on your knees. The moon shines down at you, and Bucky almost loses his footing.

He throws one blanket on the ground, spreading it out, and you shuffle onto it, taking the other blanket in his outstretched hand with a silent thank you. He hovers over you as you get situated, unsure what to do. He hesitates, still standing, uncertain. You save him the trouble by patting the space beside you.

He lays next to your crouching form with a grunt, crossing his hands under his head. High above, the stars twinkle in the inky void of the dark. Neither of you say a word, the crickets filling the silence. After a moment, you shift, laying down and playing with the edge of the blanket you’ve thrown over yourself with the hand next to him. He avoids looking at it.

“I don’t see how any one could see anything up there.” You break the silence. Bucky tilts his head, studying the same sky you do. The connections between the stars are almost real in his eyes. If he loosens the tight grip he has on his thoughts, he could almost see his mothers finger in the corner of his vision, pointing up at the void and drawing the constellations with a manicured nail. Just for him.

He points to one bright star in the distance.

“You see that one?” He murmurs and you nod, “That’s Vega. It’s the top corner of Lyra. It goes down and makes a diamond. Turning into the Lyre of Orpheus.”

He draws it, glancing at you. You squint, chewing the inside of your lip as you look up. The moon highlights the curve of your cheek, the soft spot between your neck and your jaw, the way your eyes glitter like a shard of quartz under a calm riverbed. Bucky quickly looks back to the sky, coughing. You seem alright.

“What’s the story?” You ask, breaking through the silence. He drops his hand, putting it safely back under his head.

“Orpheus’s lover died when she was running away from some asshole. Stepped on a snake. He was so distraught, he went to hell with a lyre, trying to bring her back. Hades, the king of the dead, said he could lead her out as long as he never looked behind him. He messed up, and did, and she had to wander the dead forever.”

“Wow. Thanks for nothing.” You scoff. Bucky chuckles, surprising himself, coughing to cover it.

“I guess he couldn’t help it. If your lover died and you weren’t sure you were actually bringing them back, you’d want to check, no?” He asks. You shrug one shoulder.

“I’d trust them to be there. If we’ve gotten to the point of me going to hell for them, I’d never want to look away from them again.” You murmur. Clouds cover the sky, the moon’s light hiding away. Bucky takes the chance to look at you fully, seeing only the whisper of your lips in the near-pitch black.

“You don’t trust easily, do you.” He says it without really meaning to. A statement more than a question, and as it slips out, he hopes you don’t take it as an insult. You stay silent long enough for his hands to start to twitch, wishing they could grab his words and choke them back down his throat.

“You don’t either.” You murmur. His turn to be silent as you turn your face to him. His breath hitches until he manually lets it out.

“I try to. When it comes to the right person.” He says. The blanket of the void is making him comfortable, settling around him in a way that feels like a trap. But he can’t help himself.

“Do you have that person?” You ask.

Silence.

“I don’t think they trust me.” He breathes out.

You’re chewing the inside of your lip again, sucking in your cheek as you study him. He tries to be an open book.

“Are you a trustworthy person?”

“I’m not a weapon.” He breathes out.

“And I am.”

“I know you’re not.”

You say nothing, turning your head back up to the sky. He sighs.

“The last time I looked at the stars, I was half-dead in a snowbank in the Alps. My arm was a bleeding stump and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. The last thing I heard was Steve screaming my name from a train I had no way to get back to. All I had left was the stars. Dizzying, never-ending, stars. But they kept me alive. Calm. Most of humanity have used them to navigate, tell time, tell stories. I don’t know what constellations they have in Austria. I made my own. I told those same stories to myself when I woke up, my arm twisted into a hunk of metal and my brain shocked into a husk of itself. All I had left were the stories.” The words fall out of his mouth easily, broken past the shitty dam he’s made himself build up, but as you look at him, he avoids your gaze.

“On bad missions, when I didn’t know who I was, or what I was doing, I would look at the sky and tell myself stories. About the world, about whoevers neck I was crushing, about myself. About how I was kind, something in the wrong place, wrong time. I didn’t see myself as human. Just a weapon with a poetic streak.”

He chuckles dryly.

You don’t.

He continues, “When Steve woke me up, when I lost my arm, when they replaced it in Wakanda, I still looked to the stars. I didn’t feel anything inside. Just felt myself lost in the sky. I still look up there, looking for myself. I think I’m more down to Earth now, but it’s still comforting. The stories I can see up there can be true, now. I kept looking to the stars. I didn’t feel anything inside, just felt myself lost in the sky. Still do, sometimes. Still looking for myself.” He sighs, rubbing his face with his metal hand and letting it drop to his side, weary.

“I don’t have to be a weapon. I can be a guide. Even if it’s just for myself. You can be, too.” He says, letting the air out of his lungs to lay there like a rock. The crickets are silent now, or at least Bucky can’t hear them with his heartbeat pressing against his eardrums. Worse, you’re quiet too, your gaze still burning a hole in his cheek. He flinches away, turning his head to look anywhere but to you.

When you touch his cold metal hand with your warm fingers, it takes all of him to not jump out of his skin, even as every crevice in his mind becomes alight in thoughts he can’t focus on. The only thing he can keep track of is your index, tracing lightly up his wrist, into his palm, pressing in as the rest of your hand comes with it and spreading his fingers apart as you nestle your hand there, gripping tightly. Your thumb starts rubbing slow circles on the back of his. His shoulders relax to a point they haven’t in years.

“You’re not a monster, Bucky. You never have been.” You whisper. He looks at you.

“And you’re not either.” He whispers back.

The way you look at him is criminal. Doe eyes underneath eyelashes, wet tears on the brink of falling out. He fights back the instinct to brush them away, to grip your shoulder and bring you against his chest, nestle your head safely under his jaw and keep you pressed to him in a promise. Instead, he just grips your hand, and you close your eyes.

“That french toast was great, by the way. Perfect amount of cinnamon.” He whispers, and a ghost of a smile plays against the corner of your lips.

“I wanted to say thank you.” You whisper back.

“For what?”

“For staying.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” His question goes painfully unanswered as your thumb continues to rub his hand.

“I thought you’d throw it away.” Your eyes flutter open, looking up at his, cautiously.

“Who would throw away french toast that tastes like that?” He scoffs, managing to thread a laugh out of you, like windchimes in a light breeze. His chest aches with something unbearably sweet.

“Will you eat it with me tomorrow?” He asks.

A beat, then you shrug, smile still on your tranquil face.

“Of course.”

His brain empties, and all that’s left is you.

A/N: I had a rough month which means that this chapter definitely had some emotions in it, lol. Rewrote it from scratch a few times. I guess if you want a mentally ill character, you need a mentally ill author? Idk. I hope you enjoyed it, and sorry for the wait. Also, I love the gif I chose for this one. It's EXACTLY the face he makes when he's looking at you, by the way.

If anyone has any ideas for a oneshot, PLEASE let me know, I think I can write it faster if I don't have to worry about Overarching Story Structures. My brain is pudding. Taglist below, let me know if you want to be added!

@doilooklikeagiveafrack @lonelyghosts-stuff @justyna-pl @theb0mbdotcom @idk-maybe-i-did-it

[stsgluver]

𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐓.𝟒 — gojo satoru

synopsis. nobara can’t find the dvd anywhere and gojo has a decision to make

wc. 4k

tags. fluff, angst (kinda), reader is described as fem, possibly ooc gojo (my bad), cliffhanger-ish, any spelling mistakes blame on my cats, possible plotholes

a/n. several things to address: firstly my description of dvds and how they work ARE SO FLAWED IK DON'T JUDGE. secondly, look I get how rct works so not everything I say is accurate but like this is also about 2d men so who's to judge. finally I'm not too sure about this chapter so if its shit lmk BUT I HOPE YOU ALL LOVE IT THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT <333 ily all but I do have upcoming exams so the ending(s), won't be posted till possibly early February as I have to get back to studying :(

previous part / final part / series masterlist

“guys we’ve lost it.” nobara pushed up her mattress, phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder as she peered beneath the wooden slats. all there was was her suitcase and a bag from an expensive shop she’d convinced gojo to buy for her. “it’s gone. poof. here once and now it’s not.” the ‘it’ in question being the dvd they’d treasured for the last few weeks (well, yuuji and nobara anyways).

after gojo had taken the dvd – unbeknownst to the first years – nobara had ended up sleeping for the next fourty eight hours, and then afterwards spending several days catching up on the classwork she’d missed. she hadn’t had the time or energy to force her classmates into another movie night so now here they were, almost a week since it was last touched, finally realising its disappearance.

“do you want me and megumi to come help?” yuuji asked tentatively as he heard her curse as she dropped the mattress back down. nobara sighed, glancing around at the chaos she’d created. her room was a mess – drawers half open and half her clothes and books on the floor in case the dvd had slipped into a pile by accident. 

“it’s not in my room,” she said adamantly, pushing her hair back from her face in frustration as she struggled to piece together the final moments she had with the dvd. she could remember sending megumi away, beginning her little day of research and even some of the videos she watched (the arcade and the christmas reunion), but then she fell asleep and everything was hazy from there.

“when was the last time you had it?” megumi asked and nobara felt her eye twitch like she hadn't retraced her steps a million times already.

“the first day i was off sick. i was watching a few–”

“without us?” the pink haired sorcerer cut in with a gasp.

“what else was there to do?” nobara argued back with no bite but he quietened down nonetheless. 

a moment of silence settled between the three as each tried to figure out where it could have been misplaced or who could’ve accidentally picked it up. if nobara had dropped it somewhere outside of her dorm, could one of the older years taken it?

nobara was brought out of deep thought by yuuji flippantly asking: “did you watch any after sensei came to see you?” she froze at the implication of his words. at no point could she recall their teacher ever coming in to check on her – it had always been either yuuji, megumi or maki. 

“what?” 

several hours later, the three first years found themselves huddled on the benches, nobara in the middle and the boys either side of her. in front of them were the second years and gojo – the latter having said something to annoy maki as yuuta held her back from making a swing at their laughing teacher. the second year teacher was off ill today so the larger class meant that the three had a distraction as they tried to figure out what their next step was – if they even had one at this point.

the assumed facts were as such: the first years were no longer in possession of the dvd, and gojo had it. though there was little doubt that this was true, it didn’t stop them questioning the possibility – after all, megumi had pointed out, there’d been no alter in his behaviour whatsoever since the minute he’d checked on nobara. surely, even the strongest would be noticeably affected by a disk that immortalised a happiness and innocence he’d never be able to return to.

but then again, maybe this was just another thing that separated gojo from the rest of society. being the strongest came before all else, he didn’t have the time to mourn resurfaced memories.

“maybe he just doesn’t have it,” yuuji suggested.

“he has to,” nobara reaffirmed. at this point they’d exhausted all other options about where it could possibly be and surely they would have heard if one of the older years found what they had. “would he tell you if he had it?” she asked megumi.

“no,” megumi said quickly, shaking his head and leaning back on the bench as he looked over at gojo, “we… he wouldn’t talk to me about that. about them.”

“could we steal it back?” yuuji offered and nobara debated duct taping his mouth closed.

megumi scoffed, shaking his head, “he has six eyes. even if we tried, he’d know for sure it was us.”

“he already knows it was us,” nobara countered, not that she agreed with yuuji’s solution by any means. “which is why i don’t get why he hasn’t said anyth–”

“oi, you three!” the first years jumped apart from their circle, hearts pounding as gojo appeared before them with a smirk toying at the corner of his lips and his hands clasped behind his back. “whoever beats maki in hand to hand combat gets the day off tomorrow!”

“yuuji if you win, i’m taking your day off,” nobara called out as she trailed behind the aforementioned boy running to the centre of the field. 

“okay!”

unsurprisingly, all three first years lost against the second year. megumi came closest to winning but when he tried to use his cursed technique, gojo countered it, catching him off guard and giving maki the opportunity to sweep him off his feet with her staff.

gojo found himself still laughing over megumi’s shocked expression as he fell flat on his back as he stepped past the threshold of his office. even after all he’d taught the boy in combat, with no cursed technique it was hard to overcome the zenin girl’s strength and skill she’d mastered to take on her own clan.

he let out a small sigh as the door locked shut and, for the first time that day, he was alone with his own thoughts.

dropping down into his office chair, gojo crossed one leg over the other as he pulled open a drawer. on the top of a pile of unread paperwork for the higher ups was the dvd the first years were so fixated on. 

he wasn’t stupid; he knew eventually they would figure out he had it and, unlike himself, they’d been way less subtle once they’d put two and two together. yuuji’s speech had tripled in speed, nobara was way too keen on being anywhere but where he was and megumi… gojo couldn’t forget the guilt and hurt in the teenage boy’s eyes after telling him you were gone. it was here again, had been for several weeks, and it was only after stumbling upon the disk in nobara’s room that he’d understood why.

gojo gritted his teeth together as he held the disk up between shaky fingers. it was pathetic, he scolded himself, it was just a bit of plastic with memories lasered into divots in a never ending spiral. it wasn’t worth the heartache.

if he looked closely enough, he could see shoko’s name written on the centrepiece in faded black sharpie. after gojo had stumbled upon the old camera several years after graduating from jujutsu high, shoko had taken back the camera to transfer all of the old clips onto dvds and given him, herself, nanami and you your own copies. he couldn’t even remember where his and yours were anymore, in fact he’d pretty much forgotten about their existence until a week ago.

he wasn’t sure where shoko had lost the dvd for the first years to get their hands on it but he hadn’t worked up the courage to speak to her about it. he hadn’t worked up the courage to do anything more than just spin the disk between his fingers, cry about it for a bit, and go back to pretending he didn’t have the last remnants of his youth in his drawer.

gojo glanced between the disk and the laptop on his desk. it was the last step he needed to take to hear your voice again. it had been on repeat for the last week in his mind; you uttering his name and that innocent question, would you last beyond your teenage years?

he missed it, missed you so bad.

raising megumi was a lot harder without you there; you were his favourite after all, bridging the gap between the two when they bumped heads with their contrasting personalities. gojo was all rainbows and giggles and megumi was everything but. you were a happy medium, creating a balance that maintained order in the home you shared. it was a peace that megumi deserved after losing his parents.

gojo clicked his tongue, reaching across to press a button that opened up a space for the disk. slotting it in place, he clicked the device shut and held his breath as he waited. it took several seconds for the files to load and then there he was again, back in those fields under the large weeping willow that was your spot.

the video was paused, exactly where it had been left, except this time gojo could actually see the screen.

your face wasn’t in it, just his. his glasses were off – balanced on your head if he remembered correctly – as he used your lap as a pillow. one of your hands was holding the camera while the other was held over his eyes to block any sort of light. the only thing he could make out was your cursed energy.

you were nearing the end of your first year and whilst gojo was growing more powerful, he was also growing more and more reliant on his glasses to stop himself from becoming so overwhelmed with the constant information he received with his six eyes. he’d overworked himself that day, as he so often did, hence why you’d dragged him away from the school to the seclusion of the tree. 

your questions about the longevity of your relationship weren’t meant to hold deep meaning, you just wanted to take his mind off of the headaches. gojo would choose thinking about you over the searing pain in the back of his head any day. yaga said that once he had a better understanding of his reversed curse technique it wouldn’t be so bad but until then it was just about riding it out.

gojo snorted at the notion. his reversed curse technique only marginally helped. you were what got him through the days when he’d lock himself in his bedroom with blackout blinds pulled down, hiding under his covers till he felt like he could function in society again.

he didn’t unpause the video, however, instead clicking onto the main tab with all of the files stored. 

lifting up his blindfold and dropping it down onto the desk, gojo took a deep breath before he began scrolling. unlike when the first years were simply searching for the ones with their favourite thumbnail, gojo was specifically searching for the ones he knew focused on you.

he needed to hear your voice again, to play it on repeat until it became so ingrained into his skin he could feel your touch.

gojo halted the cursor over the familiar date of your birthday, clicking on it without a second thought as the video filled the screen. it buffered for a moment, giving him a view of the dorm he’d practically spent three years in (despite yaga’s constant complaints and reminders that dorms were segregated on gender).

in the corner of your room was a stack of plushies that he’d won for you at arcades, and your walls were covered in photobooth photos and polaroids of your group of friends. his personal favourite was the polaroid you had pinned just above your desk. it was the two of you on new years eve sharing your first kiss of the year, sparklers in hand and the faint pink of a firework in the background. on the bottom of the polaroid was haibara’s handwriting as he’d scribbled on the date and a small smiley face.

“happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!” seventeen year old gojo sung in the video, swaying the camera side to side above a pile of duvet and pillows. you were somewhere in the middle, half asleep and trying to push yourself deeper into the comfort of your bed and further from whatever the screeching was in your room.

you’d never been a morning person whereas he, on the other hand, had a reserve of energy that never depleted. it was what made getting up at the crack of dawn on your birthday so much more entertaining for him. even as an adult, when the two of you lived together in the comfort of your own apartment, he would either force you to stay up until midnight or gently nudge you awake at 4am to tell you he loved you.

“satoru,” you whispered groggily when you gave up trying to ignore his awful singing, lifting your head up just enough to meet his eyes. he would have done anything to see you physically before him instead of watching you through the lens of a camera. to be looked at with love as you did and not a mix of fear and respect. “if yaga catches you–”

“i’m just singing happy birthday to my girl,” his younger self dismissed, plopping down onto the bed next to you. he preferred your bed over his, a softer mattress he used to argue when shoko would complain about him showing up at your shared dorm several nights in a row. that particular birthday, he was pretty sure she’d been sent on a training mission over in kyoto. gojo’s hand came into frame as he ran a gentle hand through your hair, giving it a little pat when you quietly hummed at the contact. “he can’t hate on me for that.”

“yes he can,” you retorted, rolling your eyes with a tired smile. gojo felt his chest tighten – two years without waking up by that very same smile after almost a decade of having it everyday.

“i’ll blame shoko,” gojo shrugged with a grin, kicking his legs up onto your bed, despite your small protest that he was taking up all of your space. like you weren’t just as clingy as he was.

you huffed out a quiet laugh, your elbow digging into your pillow as you rested your head in your hand to stare incredulously at your boyfriend. “shoko forced the strongest sorcerer of the modern day to enter the girls’ dorms? uh huh.”

“woah woah, i’m the strongest of all time baby, i don’t do second best,” he corrected, leaning down to give you a peck on the forehead. you scrunched your nose up at the contact, but even through the viewpoint of the camera, he can see how your eyes dropped down to his lips.

“i know you don’t,” you smiled and gojo dropped the camera down as he moved to give you your first real kiss of seventeen. present day gojo sucked in a breath, willing for himself to get through at least one several minute video of you until he started crying.

the kiss ended all too quickly as gojo shoved the camera back into your face, the flash causing you to squint and squeeze your eyes closed. “now smile and say cheese, you’re seventeen!”

“woo!” you cheered half heartedly, giving in to his infectious excitement. blowing the camera a tired kiss, you shuffled yourself back deep beneath your duvet. “now can i go back to sleep?”

“as long as i can stay.”

“fine,” you dragged out, though you both knew you wanted him to just as much. yaga be damned. the video ended several seconds later and an odd silence filled his office. 

he’d only ever watched several of these videos once or twice – back when he still had you to curl up into his side and reminisce with him and laugh at nanami’s old haircut. if he was being honest, he didn’t even remember he’d recorded that (though he was glad he did).

gojo was more confident this time when he scrolled, his hands no longer shaking as much as they had been as he smiled at the life he once had. a life with you and geto.

this time he stopped at a thumbnail with the three of you; gojo holding up the camera high as the three of you posed like it was a photo. it was at one of only a handful clan events you had attended together, with both you and geto as gojo’s plus ones. he and geto were in matching suits and you were in a floor length dress that he’d spent way too much money on (but you looked so pretty when you tried it on he couldn’t not get it for you).

“hi this is mtv,” you clapped your hands together, “and welcome to my crib.” his younger self waved his hands around in the background (geto was recording), showing off the spiralling architecture that cost more money than fathomable. 

gojo quietly laughed in his office. the politics of clans and these events were the last reason he’d ever chosen to attend them. seeing you all dressed up and running around buildings with a million rooms were right at the top. his favourite had to be when both the first years, shoko and utahime had also been in attendance, but after haibara’s death, hanging around with the clans that upheld the institution that killed their friend seemed distasteful.

“this is my in house art museum collection.” you led geto along one of the vast corridors, pointing into a room with dozens of framed canvases of art from all across the globe. “this is where i come in for inspiration and to truly just feel art you know?”

“i wasn’t aware you had skills beyond stickmen,” geto interjected and you raised both your middle fingers at him.

“art is subjective, di–”

“woah, i have standards to uphold here,” gojo cupped a hand over your mouth, stopping any expletive leaving you. you hummed in annoyance and the white haired sorcerer grinned, nodding his head over to a partially opened door. “we don’t need to argue when we have a whole cinema room to ourselves.” gojo remembered the stain of red lipstick you’d left on his hand when he let you go (you’d refused to kiss him all evening because of your makeup).

the cinema room was massive: rows and rows of sleek leather seats that looked out of place when compared to the aesthetic of the building. this was someone’s home, though it looked like anything but.

“this is my cinema room,” geto held onto the back of one of the chairs as he loosened his tie. he lowered his voice as he leant closer to the camera gojo was now holding. “we used to have two but daddy converted the smaller one into a sauna so now we only have this one,” he said with an upturned nose, and you could be heard giggling in the background at his faux disgust.

you nor geto were from the same wealthy background as gojo was and loved to poke fun at his high status background.

“oi!” an official that was supposed to be watching for any curses or curse users that tried to sneak into the event pointed a light into the cinema room. “you kids shouldn’t be back here!”

gojo laughed, throwing the camera to geto as he grabbed your hand and led you quickly down the stairs to another exit at the bottom of the stairs. geto turned off the recording once he’d grabbed a hold of the device in favour of focusing on not being caught. it wasn’t like there would be any real consequence – they were with gojo satoru after all.

the white hair sorcerer smiled as he thought back to the rest of the night. obviously, you’d all managed to get away – though he had suffered your wrath at the fact your legs weren’t as long as their’s were and you were running in heels. two strikes, but he’d made it up to you by taking you out for ice cream instead of going back to hear the speeches.

it wasn’t an exaggeration to say gojo would have done anything for you then. 

gojo swallowed a lump in his throat as your last interaction came to mind. you were arguing, as you had been in the weeks up until megumi’s birthday as he inched closer and closer to being old enough to enrol in jujutsu high.

the only wish he’d ever refused to fulfil: keeping megumi away from jujutsu.

“he’s our responsibility.” you were yelling at him, desperate for him to understand your point of view and he was walking away. dodging your anger by going wherever his legs took him – anywhere but where you were. “we need to protect him. we can’t protect him if he becomes a sorcerer too.” 

“i can,” he insisted, halting in his place to turn and look down at you. his cursed technique was activated, though there was no need for it to be, and all it did was frustrate you further.

“i nearly died today!” you countered, pointing to your neck with a faint scar. shoko’s reversed cursed technique was almost perfect, but not even that could fully erase the deep lacerations that had almost taken your life. “where were you? you can’t be everywhere and help everyone at the same time. it’s just not possible.”

“i can try.” his jaw was tight as he responded through gritted teeth.

“and if that’s not enough?” you didn’t need to see his eyes to know his were locked directly onto yours, daring you to continue. he wouldn’t hurt you, would never dream of it, angry or not, but how could you of all people doubt him? “what then gojo satoru?” you uttered his full name like it was an insult, “you may be the strongest but he’s not. i’m not. we’re mortals compared to you.”

“you’re my family,” his voice broke.

“yu and suguru were family once too.”

gojo clenched his fists at the memory, at the reminder he walked out after that. you were trying to get him to see your concerns, and he’d taken that as you blaming him for the outcome of your close friends. that was the last time he ever saw you; tears welling up in the corner of your eyes at his insensitivity, at his inability to admit that maybe, just maybe, he too was just a mortal. 

everything you said was logical and made sense – he had almost lost you that day, having not initially received the message that you had needed backup as he was preoccupied with his own mission. by the time he had arrived, the curse had its claws dug deep into your skin and it had taken everything in him not to use hollow purple and bring the entire infrastructure down in seconds.

despite all he’d done to save you that day, he’d still lost you. he’d only delayed the seemingly inevitable by mere hours.

megumi sat up in bed at the sound of two knocks on the door. he highly doubted it would be yuuji since the pink haired sorcerer had only left several minutes prior, saying something about needing to meet panda. 

to his surprise, gojo stood before him, hands in the pockets of his pants as he half smiled at the younger boy. 

“is itadori here?” megumi hesitated before shaking his head. “good,” gojo held up the missing dvd, “we need to talk.”

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if ive missed anyone im so sorry send me a little reminder &lt;3

[hrizantemy]

Nesta's boots.

In the second chapter of ACOTAR, Feyre makes a note of how shiny they are. In ACOSF, when Nesta returns to the cabin, her point of view shows them as being so worn that they had a holes in them. While the most obvious reason for this is retcon, I think there is a in-universe reason that's worth looking into, because it's not the first time something like that happened.

“I needed new boots, but Elain needed a new cloak, and Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed.” ACOTAR, Chapter 1

In the first book, Feyre is written as someone practical, who is doing her best to keep her family alive. She also believes her sisters to be frivolous in their spending, which is shown when she mentions in chapter 2, that she feels the need to hide money.

“No, she just spent whatever money I didn’t hide from her" ACOTAR, Chapter 2

So, going back to the first quote, the fact that Feyre herself mentions Elain's need for a new cloak, already paints a picture of Nesta in our minds, of being the worst of the two sister, with the implication that Elain actually needs it while Nesta doesn't.

“I glanced at Nesta’s still-shiny pair by the door. Beside hers, my too-small boots were falling apart at the seams, held together only by fraying laces.” ACOTAR, Chapter 2

This perception of Nesta is practically set in stone by the description of those boots, in comparison's to Feyre's. I do think it's worth noting that, while we get the description of the boots the second Nesta mentions them, we don't get a description of Elain's coat, and the condition it's in. All we see is her whining about how cold she'll get.

However, in ACOSF, the description of the boots that we get is entirely contradictory.

“There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s seam. She’d worn those shoes—in public. Could still remember mud and stones creeping in.” ACOSF, Chapter 55

To begin with, I think it's important to consider what each pair of shoes was put through to get them in that condition.

Feyre, as a hunter, spent a lot of her time in the forest throughout the year. She's setting up traps, stalking potential prey, and carrying it back, either to town or to her cabin. I imagine that she also skins and preps the meat while wearing her shoes, especially during winter, meaning they often get covered in all sorts of substances that would cause them to fall apart faster.

Meanwhile, Nesta spends her days, largely, in the cabin. Perhaps she steps outside every now and then, perhaps she goes into town some days. But, for the most part, she doesn't put her shoes through half the amount of stress Feyre does.

If we also consider that neither of them probably have particularly good quality shoes anyway (I'm sure in such a poor village, there's a cap on the quality of the products they sell, since most people wouldn't be able to afford them at a certain point, so there wouldn't be a point in stocking it, if vendors even have the ability too), then it makes sense why Nesta's shoes may seem better off than Feyre's, from her perspective.

This wouldn't be the last time Feyre's view on wealth is skewed.

"Velaris was by no means poor, its people mostly cared for, the buildings and streets well kept. My sister, it seemed, had managed to find the only thing relatively close to a slum." ACOFAS, Chapter 4

'Relatively close', she said.

So not a slum. Not even particularly run down. Maybe somewhat outdated, I imagine, but not violating health or safety codes, in any way. The streets themselves don't seem to be particularly dirty either. It's very likely that the area itself is safe too. I mean, this singular city has the, supposed, most powerful fae in their court living there. They all see their High Lord regularly, you never know if the spymaster is lurking in a dark corner, and the entire IC seem to have way too much time on their hands. Mor spends half the books at Rita's, for God's sake. And they all treassure Velaris on a personal level, so it's understandable that crime would be very low there, and why crime rates in places like Illyria and the Hewn City are much higher.

Both of these instances show just how skewed Feyre's perception of wealth is, which shouldn't be surprising. Feyre's inability to read shows how uneducated she was, even before her family lost their wealth. Frankly, I think Nesta has a better perception of money than Feyre ever did.

Nesta was raised to be a Queen. The human lands seem to be based off of Medieval Europe, so the roles of Queens in universe are likely to reflect that. Mor confirms at least the second part in ACOWAR.

“But she was human. And a queen—who needed to continue her royal line, especially during such a tumultuous time.” ACOWAR, Chapter 66

This means that a Queen's main role, aside from providing heirs, would be running the royal household, managing the finances, hiring staff, etc. There were times when they may take part in religious ceremonies, and, depending on their circumstances, politics. But, largely, their main duty was to run the royal household.

“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. “You would need an armada. I have calculated the numbers. And if you are readying for war, you will not send your ships to us. We are stranded here.” ACOMAF, Chapter 57.

Nesta proved in ACOMAF, when she calculated the number of ships that would be needed to evacuate the people inhabiting the mortal lands on Prythian.

So, logically speaking, who would've been running their household while living in the cottage? I doubt their father, who's track record shows how terrible he is with money, would be doing it. Feyre's perception of wealth has been shown to be skewed too. This leaves Nesta and Elain. Weather or not Elain has the skills to do that is unclear, at this point, which means the most likely person was Nesta. Even after they were given money by Tamlin, the person running their newly restored household would, probably, be Nesta. After the last time it's unlikely she would trust him with such a sum of money again. Nobody would be there to help them if he lost it.

This leads me to the question, what exactly was Nesta spending money on?

When Feyre mentioned hiding money, she mentioned that she did it because Nesta spent it, but, to the best of my memory, we never learn what she bought with it. Is it possible Nesta struggled to adjust after losing their wealth, and made some impulse purchases? Yes. In fact, I'd say it's likely that she did, which may be what Feyre is basing her opinion of Nesta's spending habit on. However, it's also likely that as time went on, she started to help manage finances. Replace things that Feyre refused to because she didn't think they needed to be replaced, like Nesta's boots.

We also know that it was likely Nesta, and perhaps Elain, who handled domestic labour in their household. This would include fixing torn clothes. It's unclear exactly how long Nesta and Feyre had the same pair of boots, but even for someone who didn't leave their home much, they would begin to rot eventually, especially if they're low quality. It also wouldn't be surprising if, as part of the domestic labour, Nesta tried to clean, fix or polish their clothes and shoes however she could, but with Feyre heading to the forest every day, I doubt it would work as well on hers than Nesta's or Elain's.

With all of this in mind, it makes sense why, from Feyre's point of view, Nesta's boots look fine, better than fine, even, from her perspective. And now, with sudden access to hoards of wealth, Feyre has essentially gone from zero to a hundred in less than a day. She never experienced the middle ground, that most people live with, leaving her feeling entitled, and out of touch by the time we get to ACOFAS, and maybe even in ACOSF too. Its why she seems so jarring, like she forgot her roots entirely.

1. The Boots as Narrative Symbol: A Mirror of Perception

The contrast between Feyre’s perception of Nesta’s shiny boots in ACOTAR and Nesta’s actual memory of her “half-rotted” shoes in ACOSF is more than just a continuity oversight — it reflects a fundamental truth of the series: that Feyre is an unreliable narrator.

That line — “Nesta was prone to crave anything someone else possessed” — comes from Feyre’s internal monologue, not from Nesta’s actions. Feyre is projecting resentment. Her situation is horrible, and she’s young and desperate. And instead of seeing Nesta’s refusal to adapt as a trauma response or a psychological defense mechanism (which we later learn it was), Feyre interprets it as selfishness.

“I glanced at Nesta’s still-shiny pair by the door.” — ACOTAR, Chapter 2

But then in ACOSF, we get:

“There in the corner sat a pair of worn, half-rotted shoes. Her shoes. One of them was bursting at the toe’s seam.” — ACOSF, Chapter 55

That is a full-circle moment. It's not a contradiction — it's a correction. A window into how one character (Feyre) perceived things through her own bias, and how reality was far more complex. This shift matters because it reframes how we’re meant to understand Nesta. It’s the moment where the “spoiled, cold sister” trope begins to fracture, and the truth of her silent, lonely survival comes to light.

2. Wealth, Class, and Skewed Perception

You're absolutely right that Feyre’s perception of wealth is deeply skewed, both before and after her transition into High Lady. Her family was rich once, but she was a child — likely shielded from the logistics of how wealth was managed. When that wealth collapsed, she learned one thing: survival requires control. Her obsession with control — of food, money, her sisters’ choices — became a coping mechanism.

“No, she just spent whatever money I didn’t hide from her.” — ACOTAR, Chapter 2

But what Feyre sees as “frivolous spending” could very well have been basic necessities. In a household that was falling apart, with no income, and no parental guidance, it would have made sense for Nesta to try and replace things. To buy soap. Or fabric. Or, yes, a slightly better pair of boots to last the winter. And Feyre’s disdain isn’t rooted in logic — it’s rooted in resentment, which becomes increasingly clear with time.

Let’s not forget:

“Velaris was by no means poor… My sister, it seemed, had managed to find the only thing relatively close to a slum.” — ACOFAS, Chapter 4

This isn’t Nesta seeking out squalor — it’s Feyre projecting class-based judgment. It’s Feyre, who now lives in palaces and wears Night Court couture, acting like someone who used to be poor but now has the luxury to sneer at others from a safe distance. Her “relatively close to a slum” line isn’t just ignorant — it’s classist. It’s a reminder that Feyre hasn’t actually unlearned the trauma of being poor; she’s just buried it under wealth.

3. Nesta’s Financial Role and Domestic Responsibility

You hit on something truly important when you said Nesta was raised to be a queen — because that would have included education in household management. Queens in medieval and early modern European societies often oversaw everything from royal expenses to household inventories. They were expected to know how to run a court, a kitchen, and a staff. Even without fae-level magic, Nesta likely had early training in reading ledgers, assessing quality, and making judgment calls.

“You would need ten thousand ships,” Nesta said, her voice breaking. “I have calculated the numbers.” — ACOMAF, Chapter 57

Feyre, in contrast, couldn’t read at the beginning of ACOTAR. She admits this. So why is she the one assumed to be the practical, financially literate sister?

It’s because Feyre tells the story. She frames herself as the martyr, and her sisters as burdens. But who’s doing the mending? Who’s buying the salt? Who’s maintaining the hearth while Feyre is in the woods?

It’s likely Nesta did what she could — in a home where she had no real resources, no parental support, and no mental health help. Her “frivolity” may well have been the bare minimum of caretaking — but because Feyre sees it as excessive, so do we.

4. Symbolic Labor and Feminine Expectations

The boots symbolize more than class — they symbolize expectation. Feyre was expected to labor physically, while Nesta was expected to serve aesthetically and socially. When Feyre’s labor was visible (bruises, blood, boots falling apart), it was “real.” When Nesta’s labor was invisible (sewing, budgeting, scrubbing a floor, fighting to maintain dignity), it was “useless.”

Sound familiar?

It’s a gendered double standard that echoes through both human and fae society in the series. Feyre became the “masculine” heroine — bow-wielding, hunting, sacrificing. Nesta was the “feminine” failure — bitter, cold, broken, and ornamental. But both girls suffered. Both survived. And only one was allowed to be praised for it.

5. Feyre’s Arc Toward Elitism

By ACOFAS and ACOSF, Feyre isn’t just removed from her roots — she’s romanticizing them. She frames her past as a hardship she alone endured, without acknowledging the nuances of what her sisters went through. Her judgment of Nesta’s apartment, her flippant dismissal of Illyrian or Hewn City culture, all reflect a Feyre who has adopted the classism of her new station. She means well. She’s trying. But she’s also deeply out of touch.

And here’s the hard truth:

Feyre never had to learn how to live in the middle. She jumped from poverty to divine wealth, from hunter to High Lady. She never had to rebuild slowly — so she can’t fathom what it means when others do.

Conclusion: The Boots Were Never Just Boots

They were a symbol. Of perception. Of judgment. Of class. Of trauma.

Feyre’s narrative taught us, early on, that she was the only one struggling — that her sisters were dead weight. But as the series unfolds, and we finally get the chance to see through Nesta’s eyes, we realize the truth is so much more complicated. Nesta didn’t just let her boots rot. She let herself rot. She wore them into the mud and let them fall apart, just like she did with her body.

Because that’s what happens when nobody saves you. And nobody sees you.

So yes — the boots matter.

[heartepub]

有緣無分

genre/warnings/wc. angst. indie film director!minghao x interpreter!gn!reader. weird books and copious insect mating descriptions (do those count as warnings?). unbeta'd, not proofread. 0.9k. note. for @studioeisa, in response to minghao + the last love letter from an entomologist, by jared singer. part of my 100 followers event !

As with any retreat house worth its salt, there are shelves filled with the most eclectic titles one could ask for. You’re reading them aloud, eyes bright with both curiosity and tipsy wonder. There’s a bottle of wine held loosely in your hand, which Minghao eyes as you run your fingers lightly over the books.

“‘Long Walk to Freedom’—Mandela, hm…‘I Could Pee on This’… ‘Almanac 2011’—Oh, NatGeo! …‘How to Live with a Huge Penis’…” you begin to giggle, finger still running along the spines as he makes a face behind you. “‘How to Good-bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way?’” Your giggles grow louder as he snorts.

Minghao doesn’t need to know what malarkey means to grasp the utter absurdity of that combination of words.

You pull something from the shelf, handing it to him. “It’s the only book written in Chinese.” Obliging, he accepts it from you, patting the space beside him on the couch as he opens the book to a random page.

You flop down, the wine in the half-empty bottle sloshing with your motion. He gently extricates it from your hand as he reads the first sentence his eyes land on. “Sexual cannibalism is common amongst praying mantises. Typically, the female is the aggressor, which encourages males to approach the female carefully and cautiously when mating.” 

Minghao raises an eyebrow, intrigued even as his brain doesn’t quite parse the words. 

You continue from where he left off. His mother tongue fills the air, your accent endearing as it always is. But it’s all fluff in his head, nothing quite as important as the weight of your head on his shoulder. 

It is well into the night; neither of you have bothered with watches, and the clocks here are wildly unsynced. It’s an hour for dreams; the amber warmth of the indoor lamps meet the remnants of the lights from the pool outside. The result is a hazy mix of blue and orange casting mesmerizing shadows across your face.

“Oh, this is interesting,” he hums, pulling himself out of his daze to listen, “Some flies have been found to be monogamous, challenging prior assumptions of polygy- polygynous relations. Though postmating responses in female flies has been diplomatic, emerging research indicates that copulation, including the exposure to mating-specific pheromones, reduces receptors in certain neurons among males. This results in a severely reduced motivation to re-engage in mating behavior. Neither male nor female would mate with another, leading to loss in genetic material should copulation be unsuccessful.”

Minghao skims the passage. “Not diplomatic,” he corrects, “documented.”

“Mm. ’Kay.” The alcohol has already clearly gotten to you. Your words slur, ever so slightly. “I’d like to be a praying mantis in my next life. A true man-eater. Maybe a fly for the devotion.”

Minghao snorts again, the sound more unrestrained than usual. Perhaps a consequence of the second bottle. 

“Must be easy to love if you’re an insect,” you continue to muse, “Just pheromones, sex, then you give birth, then you die. No such thing as ‘cheating’. No room for emotions or family drama.”

“Seems like guys get the short end of the stick,” he replies after a beat. “Maybe not for me.”

You just giggle again, digging your head into his shoulder, only letting up when he yelps in pain. “Good. It’s men’s turn.” He just grunts, pushing you off while nursing the soreness. The moment his hand stops massaging his shoulder, your head has reclaimed its position. You’re saying something, but it doesn’t quite register—his mind has been weighing his next actions even as you talk glibly beside him. 

After a beat, he leans his head against yours. Your chatter dies quickly. For a while, you don’t move, until you shift slightly, allowing the top of your head to fit right under his jaw. He doesn’t usually drink; tonight was an exception, but he’s not too concerned. Not when it’s you and your warmth pressing against his side.

Nearly everything has been said and done; his flight is a red-eye, the early morning right after your impromptu midnight screening (A special edition, you had pitched to the head organizer, after your mutual bid of creative madness, where we add subtitles to the silent portions of the film, giving voice to what had been previously left unsaid). He and you had promptly been sent here, amid nature, wine, and strange books, in the name of unleashing the creative spirit.

Tomorrow, you’ll both have left the retreat house, ready with your hard drive of the edited film. A handful of hours after that, he’ll be back in China, to his life of writing and directing, or perhaps preparing for the next screening in some other country, in another film festival. 

Perhaps he’ll meet another interpreter, though he’s sure no one would ever quite be the same. No one else could linger between the cracks of himself, as careful as he was to choose what brokenness remains seen in the final iterations of his art.

Silence rests between you, not a burden, but a weight nonetheless. Even a whisper would feel like a scream. There is a precipice, but neither of you will jump. Only yearning can fill this space.

(In the early morning after you part, he boards the plane, How to Good-bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way? tucked into his carry-on. His first petty crime. A purely selfish way to remember how you laughed every time you read the title.

Minghao hopes that the Buddhists were right about karma and samsara. If they were, he could be born as an insect in his next life. He could learn to love with the vicious devotion only lesser creatures have. If it’s you, he wouldn’t mind his turn.)

有緣無分 . yǒu yuán wú fèn, destined to meet but not fated to be together (idiom)

note. praying mantis mating description from here ; flies one is straight out of my 2am brain. yet another outtake from a wip yet to be written—this will not be the last you see of this couple (kae hates to see me coming)

[nanamineedstherapy]

Heat & Dust: Where the Wind Calls Her Name

Modern AU: Nanami Kento x Indian F!Wife Reader

Summary: Nanami & his wife were happy. That was before Rajasthan. Because when the wind howls through the ruins, the whispers call a name. (A slow-burn tragedy about a love lost & a man who never stopped looking.) Trigger Warnings: Smut (so minors & ageless blogs please touch grass), Heavy Angst, Unreliable Narrator, Shakespearian Tragedy, Haunting Love Stories, Loverboy Kento Nanami, Emotional Torture, Rajasthan & Indian Folklore, Death (Past & New), Ghost Prince GS, Hopeless Romanticism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. The Reader is of Indian descent, but you can hallucinate whatever you want, body type, skin complexion, etc., descriptions have not been used. The town is real & abandoned overnight for haunting reasons, but the palace described is fictional. A/N: Welcome to My TED Talk on Why Nanami Kento Can’t Have Peace. So yesterday, I watched an Indian horror movie, & then I remembered a convo I had with my Indian atheist friend (hardcore non-believer), who casually dropped the fact that in India, “Oh yeah, we don’t dress up too much around ruins.” And I was like… excuse me???. Apparently, this isn’t just a "women beware" thing—even guys warn each other about this, because it’s not just women—cute men have also disappeared or gone insane. So instead of reacting like a normal person, my brain said: “What if Nanami Kento went full Majnu?” So naturally, this is now Nanami’s problem. Also, why do I keep making this man suffer? I love him, I really do, but if he’s not in maximum emotional distress, am I really doing my job? Anyway, Nanami is suffering & the narrator is a liar. Believe nothing. Enjoy the pain, besties. 🖤

Rajasthan was a furnace in late autumn. The sun bled into the horizon, streaking the sky with burnt oranges and bruised purples as a foreigner husband and his local wife trailed behind their tour group.

"Are we really doing this?" She murmured, her fingers lightly brushing his wrist. The tour guide was droning on about the history of Kuldhara, the abandoned village known for its curse. But their real interest lay in the looming structure ahead—the palace of a prince, a name lost in history but kept alive by local whispers.

The palace was breathtaking, a relic of Rajasthan’s royal past, its sandstone walls glowing amber under the setting sun. Nanami Kento had never been one for grand romantic gestures, but even he couldn’t resist the allure of this Mahal, with its intricate mosaics and whispered legends. His wife had been the one to suggest the trip. “It’s a place for lovers,” she’d said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And we could use a little adventure, don’t you think?”

They had been married for five years, a union that defied cultural expectations—a half-Danish, half-Japanese man and an Indian woman who had met in the unlikeliest of places: a student exchange in Tokyo. Their love had always been quiet but fierce, built on mutual respect and a shared disdain for the supernatural. They were atheists, both of them, grounded in logic and reason. Ghosts, spirits, curses—these were the stuff of fairy tales, not their reality.

Nanami adjusted his sunglasses. "It’s just a palace. You wanted to see something ‘haunted,’ right?"

She scoffed. "I was joking."

"You were not."

A smirk tugged at her lips. "Fine. Maybe a little."

The group paused in front of the arched entryway; the marble cracked and overgrown with creeping vines. A hush settled over them as the guide began to recount the tale:

“This story isn’t in most history books, but ask the locals, and they’ll all tell you the same thing. Hundreds of years ago, a foreign prince came to this land—as a conqueror, though he stayed because of a person who lived here. Some say it was a woman, others say a man. The details were lost over time, but what we do know is that he had wealth, power, and control over vast territories. Yet, despite all of that, he chose to stay here, in a kingdom that wasn’t of his customs.

The prince was renowned for his striking beauty—his unique hair and captivating eyes—a ruler of immense charm but even greater misfortune. He built alliances, settled disputes, even took on the customs of the land. He was even undefeated in wars, a genius strategist. Some say he did it all for them—for the one person he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

But love like that rarely ends well.

One night, he vanished alongside his lover, a woman likely, promised to another. Some say they were caught and killed before they could run. Others say the prince’s enemies set a trap, making sure neither of them left these walls alive. But the strangest stories come from those who claim he never left at all.”

Nanami’s wife rolled her eyes. "He sounds like a tragic anime protagonist."

Nanami exhaled sharply—a rare, barely-there laugh. "You watch too much TV."

She elbowed him, and he caught her wrist, pulling her closer. The air between them shifted—heavy, charged.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s go somewhere less... crowded."

His hesitation was brief, a flicker of logic against the pull of her hand. They drifted past a crumbling archway, slipping into the shadowed halls of the abandoned palace. The moment the voices of the group faded behind them, the atmosphere thickened.

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.

She tugged him into a hidden alcove, her back pressing against cool stone. "No one’s here," she murmured, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Careful, darling, you sound too eager," he smeirked, his voice lower and rougher.

"Maybe I just believe in you more than the ghosts," she teased.

But the Mahal had other plans.

He kissed her before she could say anything more—slow, deliberate, consuming. The taste of sweat and dust mixed with the softness of her lips, and for a moment, nothing existed beyond this—just the weight of her body against his, the sharp intake of breath when he gripped her waist beneath her t-shirt, the warmth of her skin beneath his palms. Her lips kissing his with a hunger that made his chest ache.

They kissed like they were the only two people in the world, the cool marble at their backs and the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air.

When they finally pulled apart, she laughed, her voice echoing strangely in the empty hall. “This place is magic,” she said, her fingers tracing the patterns on the wall. “Can’t you feel it?”

Nanami smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I feel you,” he replied, his voice low. “That’s enough magic for me.”

And then—

The wind shifted.

A whisper of cool air, unnatural against the desert heat, coiled around them.

She shivered.

He pulled back slightly, brows furrowing. "Are you cold?"

She shook her head. “I just... felt something.” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if she couldn’t quite put it into words.

A beat of silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken as he waited for her to elaborate.

Then she laughed, the sound light and airy, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Forget it. Let’s go back,” she said, her smile returning as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Her lips brushing against his ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “I want us to start trying for a baby.”

He shivered, a mix of surprise and warmth flooding through him. He’d wanted to have a family with her ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

Without a word, he pulled out his phone and called the driver, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

As she stepped away, though, she hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Her gaze flickered toward the shadows of the palace, her smile faltering.

But then she shook it off, linking her arm with her husband’s waist, who kissed her forehead and pulled her towards the exit.

---

The first time he noticed something was wrong, it was subtle.

She was quieter on the ride back. Thoughtful. Her fingers tapped against the car window, her gaze unfocused.

"You’re not feeling sick, are you?" he asked, eyes flickering toward her.

She turned to him too slowly, blinking as if shaking herself from a daze. "No. Just tired."

He accepted it. At first.

But the things were going to change forever.

The moment the words had left her lips—“I want us to start trying for a baby”—Nanami’s world had narrowed to her, like it already didn’t revolve around her. His hands, usually so controlled, had trembled as they gripped her hips, pulling her closer. His lips had found hers in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and reverence; his breath had hitched as she melted into him.

“Are you sure?” He’d murmured against her mouth as soon as they walked inside their hotel room, his voice rough with need. When she nodded, his restraint had shattered.

He had been everywhere at once—his hands roaming her body, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her gasp. He was drunk on her, consumed by the idea of her carrying his child, and it showed in every touch, every kiss, every ragged breath. His composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, primal hunger that left her breathless.

Nanami had been relentless, each thrust drawing a gasp or moan from her lips. He’d already brought her to the edge multiple times, his hands and mouth working in tandem to unravel her completely. But now, as he hovered above her, his hips moving with a rhythm that was almost possessive, he was focused on one thing: filling her. The thought of it—of her carrying his child—had him teetering on the edge of control.

“K…Ken…Ahh,” she had whimpered his name, her nails digging into his back as she arched against him. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.

“I’ve got you,” he’d murmured, voice rough, breathless. His hand had slid between them, thumb circling her clit as he felt her tighten around him again. “Come for me one more time, love.”

She had, her body shuddering as she cried out his name. He was about to follow her over the edge.

But then, she had frozen. Her eyes wide, as she’d turned her head sharply toward the window. “Do you hear that?” she’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch his breath. “Hear what?” he’d asked; his tone had been calm but tinged with concern.

“Music,” she’d said, her voice barely audible. "It's... it’s faint, but it’s there. Like a sitar or something.”

He had seriously listened but had heard nothing except the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of the curtains. “I don’t hear anything,” he’d said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you sure?”

She’d nodded, eyes wide with confusion. “It’s there, Kento. I’m not imagining it.”

Nanami had studied her face, his analytical mind kicking into gear.

He had known her well enough to recognize when she was serious, and right now, she looked genuinely unsettled.

“Alright,” he’d said softly, pulling out of her and sitting up. “Let’s figure this out.”

She’d blinked, surprised by his calm reaction. “You believe me?”

“I believe that you heard something,” he’d said carefully, his tone measured. “Whether it’s real or not, we’ll find out. But I need you to be honest with me—are you sure you’re ready for this? For us trying for a baby?”

Her eyes had been filled with tears, and she’d shaken her head. “I’m not lying, Kento. I want this. I want us. But I heard something, and it's...”

He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s take a breath and figure this out together.”

As he’d reached for his robe, she’d grabbed his hand, her grip tight. “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

He’d turned back to her, his expression softening. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he’d said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll figure this out. But for now, let’s just... breathe.”

She’d nodded, but the unease in her eyes remained.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Nanami had muttered before walking away.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of music still echoing in her ears.

Later that night, as they lay in their bed, she had sat up abruptly, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?” she’d whispered.

“Hear what?” Nanami had asked, already half-asleep.

“A voice. It was… singing.”

He’d dismissed it as a trick of the wind or her exhaustion, but the next day, she’d insisted they return to the palace, her tone urgent and her eyes wide with something he couldn’t quite place. “I need to see it again,” she’d said, her tone urgent. “There’s something there, Kento. I can’t explain it.” He had to spend two hours convincing her it was nothing and they’d stick with their itinerary with the hotel.

Maybe it was the stress of traveling. Maybe the unfamiliar environment was playing tricks on her senses. Or maybe, just maybe, she was overwhelmed by the idea of starting a family. He’d convinced himself it was temporary, something they could work through together.

But then it started happening every time.

Just as he was about to cum inside, she’d flinch, her body tensing as she turned her head sharply, her eyes darting toward some unseen corner of the room. “Do you hear that?” she’d whisper, her voice trembling. “Music. It’s… it’s faint, but it’s there.”

And every time, he’d stop, his patience wearing thinner and thinner. He’d listen, his brow furrowed, but hear nothing. “There’s no music,” he’d say, his voice calm but tinged with frustration. “It’s just us.”

She’d insist, her eyes pleading with him to believe her, but he couldn’t. Not when it kept happening. Not when it felt like she was pulling away from him in the moments they should have been closest.

Nanami was a logical man. He prided himself on his ability to analyze situations, to break them down into manageable parts, and find solutions. But this... this defied logic. He’d run through every possible explanation—stress, fatigue, even the lingering effects of jet lag—but none of them fully accounted for her behavior. And the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing doubt in the back of his mind.

Maybe she doesn’t want this. Maybe she doesn’t want kids with me. Maybe she doesn’t want me.

The thought was like a knife to his chest. They’d been together for so long—twelve years of knowing each other, five years of marriage. He’d fought for her, convinced her family to let him marry her, to leave everything behind and build a life with him. He’d never doubted her love before, but now... now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t want to believe his intrusive thoughts; he really didn’t.

She loved him, right? She married him.

But then why did this trip feel like he was better off back home than traveling the world with the love of his life?

So next time he hadn't been as kind to her.

“Ken baby,” she’d breathed one night, fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. They had been in their hotel room, the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her touch had been warm, familiar, and for a moment, he let himself believe everything was okay.

He’d kissed her deeply, his hands sliding under her thighs to lift her onto the bed from the table he’d been fucking her against. His movements were urgent but reverent, as if he couldn’t believe this was real. He wanted her, wanted this, wanted the future they’d talked about for so long.

But then, as he’d continued to roll his hips, tettering on the edge of her and his own release, his eyes dark with desire, she’d froze.

Her head snapped toward the window, her eyes wide with fear. “Do you hear that?” She’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, jaw tightening. “Hear what?” he’d asked, tone clipped.

“Music,” she’d said. “It’s… it’s coming from somewhere.”

He’d stared at her, his frustration bubbling over.

“There’s no music,” he’d said flatly, voice tight. “Are you... changing your mind? Is that what this is?”

“What? No!” She’d protested, voice rising. “I heard something, Kento. I’m not lying.”

He’d clenched his jaw and pulled out and away, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If you’re not ready, just say so. Don’t make up excuses.”

Her eyes had been wide, hurt flashing across her face. “I’m not making anything up! I heard music. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because there’s nothing there!” He’d snapped, voice sharper than he intended. He stood, pacing the room, his frustration boiling over. “If you’re not ready for this, fine. But don’t play games with me.”

She’d stared at him, her chest tightening. “I’m not playing games,” she’d said quietly, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not lying to you.”

Nanami had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to take a shower,” he’d muttered.

He’d grabbed his robe and left the room without another word.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of a voice singing her name still echoing in her ears.

Kento didn’t know that was the last time he was ever going to have sex with her.

---

Then, back in Tokyo, small things had began piling up.

She flinched at things he couldn’t see.

"You’re being ridiculous," he said one evening when she refused to step into their dimly lit living room. "It’s just shadows."

"You don’t understand," she whispered.

"You’re right," he snapped, patience thinning. "I don’t."

She recoiled as if struck.

Then she’d begun walking in the night, her side of the bed cold. She claimed she heard music, faint and haunting, like the strains of a sitar playing in another room. Nanami would check the apartment, of course, but there was never anything there.

“It’s stress,” he’d said one evening, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you should take some time off.”

She’d glared at him, her usually warm eyes icy. “You think I’m imagining this?”

“I think you’re exhausted,” he’d replied, reaching for her hand. She’d pulled away.

And then there were the whispers—half-heard murmurs when she thought he wasn’t listening.

She’d started to wake up in the middle of the night, staring at the corner of their bedroom. Sometimes mumbling under her breath, as if answering a question.

The fights started small—her frustration at his refusal to believe her, his exhaustion at her growing paranoia.

But resentment festered like a wound left untreated.

She’d insisted she wasn’t crazy and that something—or someone—was following her.

Nanami, the pragmatist, had suggested therapy. “Just to rule things out,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Please, darling. For me.”

She’d agreed, but the sessions only seemed to make things worse.

The therapist diagnosed her with schizophrenia, a word that hung between them like a death sentence.

She stopped going to work, retreating into herself. She spent her days at home, staring out the window or pacing the apartment, her once-vibrant personality dulled to a shadow.

Then the arguments got more frequent.

When he suggested starting medication, she laughed.

It wasn’t a kind laugh.

"You think I’m crazy?"

"I think you need help."

Her lips curled. "Of course you do."

She stopped sleeping beside him.

Stopped talking to him unless necessary.

Work became a distant thing, then a nonexistent one.

Nanami tried to be patient, but the distance between them grew. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing her. The woman he’d married—strong, independent, full of life—was slipping away, replaced by someone he barely recognized.

And one day, he came home to find her in the dark.

---

Nanami had come home to the sound of laughter. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in months, and it stopped him in his tracks.

It had been rich and warm, spilling from her lips like it belonged there.

A weight had lifted from his chest, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

Maybe she’d been getting better. Maybe they’d find their way back to each other. Maybe she’d been finally healing. Maybe—

But as he’d stepped into the living room, his heart sank.

She’d been sitting on the floor, her back to him, knees tucked beneath her, hands gesturing lightly—casual, intimate. Her shoulders had been shaking with laughter as she spoke to someone, voice soft.

Except there had been no one there.

“Darling,” he’d called, his voice trembling.

She’d turned then, still smiling, but the moment she’d seen him, her expression had shifted—a flicker of something unreadable before she’d schooled her features.

Her eyes had still been bright with a joy he hadn’t seen in so long. “Kento. You’re home.” She’d greeted him like he was an afterthought.

He’d forced a smile, though his pulse had thundered in his ears. “Who were you talking to?”

Her expression had faltered, just for a moment. “No one,” she said quickly. “Just… thinking out loud.”

“What was so funny?” he’d pushed.

She hesitated. Then, softly added, "you wouldn’t believe me."

His fists had clenched. "Try me."

Then her eyes had flicked—just slightly—to something over his shoulder.

And that was when he’d felt it.

The air had moved.

A cold breath against the back of his neck.

A presence too close, too real.

He’d turned.

And for the first time in his life, Nanami Kento saw a ghost.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in fine, outdated robes.

Beautiful eyes and hair.

Beautiful white hair and piercing blue eyes.

The man—the prince—was watching him with an unreadable expression.

Like a king appraising a pawn.

Like a conqueror surveying his land.

Nanami’s knees had buckled, and he’d fallen.

His wife had rushed forward, instinct taking over, her hands gripping his face, her touch grounding—alive, but her hands had been cold against his skin.

"Kento—!"

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He’d been looking at him.

And the ghost, Prince Gojo Satoru, had simply smirked.

Like he’d already won.

Nanami had realized then—this wasn’t just madness.

It wasn’t a break, a disorder, a cruel trick of the mind.

She hadn’t been losing herself.

She’d been taken.

And he had let it happen.

The pieces had fallen into place with cruel clarity.

The voice she’d heard in the palace, the laughter, the way she’d become distant—it wasn’t schizophrenia.

It had all been Gojo.

The ghost of a prince who had taken a liking to her, who had followed her home and woven himself into her life.

Nanami felt sick.

He had failed her.

He had dismissed her fears, convinced himself she was ill, when the truth was far more terrifying.

And now he was losing her to a man who wasn’t even alive.

“I’m sorry,” he’d choked out, his voice breaking. “I should have believed you.”

Her face had crumpled, and she’d pulled him into her arms. “It’s not your fault,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it either.”

But as they clung to each other, Nanami couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too late.

---

In the weeks that followed, she’d grow weaker, her once-vibrant spirit fading like a dying flame.

Nanami watched helplessly as the woman he loved slipped further and further away, her laughter now a ghostly echo in their empty home.

And in the corner of the room, Gojo watched, his smirk never wavering.

But as he’d sat by her bedside, holding her hand as she slept, he’d make a silent vow. He would find a way to bring her back, even if it meant confronting the dead monarch himself.

After all, love was the only magic he had ever believed in.

Then Nanami had tried everything—doctors, therapists, even a desperate visit to a priestess who had taken one look at him and shaken her head. “There’s nothing I can do,” she’d said. “This is beyond me.”

And now, she was gone.

She died on a quiet morning, as if the universe itself was too ashamed to make a sound.

No violence, no struggle—just silence.

Nanami had left for groceries, and when he returned, the door was ajar.

The air inside was stale, thick, suffocating.

He’d called her name.

No answer.

He found her curled on their bed, her body unnaturally still, her hands resting lightly on her stomach as if she had merely dozed off. Her lips were parted, and for a moment, he swore he saw them move.

But she was cold.

Kento stood there for a long time, unable to move, unable to breathe.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

He shook her once, twice. "Darling."

Her head lolled to the side.

His fingers clenched around her shoulders. "This isn’t funny."

Nothing.

A sound escaped him—raw, broken.

They told him it was heart failure. A tragedy. Sudden. Unexplained.

But he knew better.

The days that followed were a blur.

Nanami moved through them like a ghost himself, his grief a heavy cloak that suffocated him.

He expected to see Gojo’s ghost lurking in the corners of their apartment, taunting him, but the white-haired figure was nowhere to be found. It was as if Gojo had vanished the moment his wife had taken her last breath.

Nanami hated him for it.

Hated him for taking her, for leaving him alone, for existing at all.

But most of all, he hated himself for not being able to save her. For not believing her in time.

The days stretched into weeks. He drifted, weightless, his mind full of echoes.

He stopped speaking to people. Stopped working.

The world became a distant thing, muffled and unreal.

But the pull remained.

---

It was a month after her death when Nanami stood in the shadow of the Mahal, its sandstone walls glowing in the afternoon sun, looming over him like a specter from a past he couldn’t escape. It didn't hold the same allure anymore.

Now, it felt like a tomb.

He didn’t know why he’d come. He hadn’t planned it.

He hadn’t planned on anything at all.

Maybe it was desperation, or maybe it was the faint hope that he could confront Gojo, demand answers, scream at him until his voice gave out.

But deep down, he knew the truth: he was here because he had nowhere else to go.

The palace was empty; no tourists.

Nanami wandered the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

He found the alcove where it had all begun—the place where he had shared that fateful kiss.

The memory was sharp, painful, and he clenched his fists to keep from breaking down.

There was no sound, no music, only the faint rustle of wind through the palace’s ancient halls. Nanami sank to his knees, his anger giving way to despair. He whispered, his voice cracking. “Why? Why her?”

Still, there was nothing. No ghostly figure, no laughter, no sign that Gojo had ever been there at all.

Nanami felt a surge of frustration.

Had it all been in his head? Had her illness been just that—an illness—and he had been going insane and started seeing it too?

As he sat there, his mind racing, the air got heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and decay, and a faint sound reached his ears.

It was music—soft and haunting, reminiscent of the tunes she had described hearing all those months ago.

But this time, it was accompanied by the gentle jingle of the anklets she’d worn on their wedding day and during Karwachauth ever since.

Nanami’s breath caught in his throat.

He stood, following the sound through the palace’s labyrinthine corridors until he reached a small, hidden chamber.

Inside, the walls were covered in intricate carvings, their details illuminated by the faint light of a single oil lamp.

And there in the center of the room—

She’d looked just as she had in life, her eyes warm and full of love, voice soft. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Nanami stumbled forward, reaching for her, but his hand passed through her like smoke. “Darling,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?” Nanami demanded, his voice rising. “You didn’t choose this! He took you from me!”

She shook her head, her form beginning to fade.

“No!” Nanami shouted, lunging for her, but she was already gone, the music fading with her.

The next moment, there was nothing.

Only silence. Vast and consuming.

Then—a shimmer in the air, warping the space around it, like heat rising from the desert sand.

A figure materialized.

White hair. Piercing Blue eyes. Pale skin. A presence that did not belong.

Nanami could barely breathe.

Gojo Satoru stood before him, his gaze vacant, his posture relaxed in a way that felt unnatural—like he was here, but also elsewhere. His voice, when it came, was soft. Too soft.

"Why her?"

There was no malice, no satisfaction. Just neutrality. An absence of feeling.

Nanami swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers curled into trembling fists. "You really don’t know, do you, Kento?"

Nanami’s jaw clenched. "Enlighten me."

Gojo tilted his head slightly, as if considering the request. When he spoke, there was no anger, no cruelty—just a simple, unwavering truth.

"You married an Indian woman. Lived with her. Loved her. And yet, you never learned the most basic rule."

The air around them shifted, thick with something rancid. The wind through the broken palace walls carried the scent of decay, of age, of something that did not want to be disturbed.

Gojo’s voice remained even.

"In India, there’s an unspoken rule—one even atheists follow."

The air grew colder.

"You do not show off your women in ruins."

Nanami’s stomach twisted.

Gojo blinked slowly, like a creature that had forgotten how to mimic human expression. "You don’t dress them up and parade them around cemeteries, old buildings, palaces." His voice lowered. "People get possessed. Things follow them home."

Nanami felt his breath leave him.

The memory came back. The moment he lost her.

The way she had laughed in that alcove, her lips swollen from his kisses, her body pressed against his, flushed and breathless. The gold that had glinted at her wrists, her throat, catching the dying sunlight—making her glow. The way her voice, filled with love, with life, carried through the hollow halls of a palace where no living thing should have heard it.

They had looked so blissful.

But now, the memory felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Because he’d been watching.

“You looked so happy,” Gojo murmured, his voice almost thoughtful. “So in love.”

There was no malice. No regret. No sympathy.

"And I…" Gojo’s voice barely wavered. "I wanted that."

Nanami’s heart threatened to crawl out of his throat.

Gojo blinked, his expression unchanging. "My love left me," he said. "Married another. Her family pushed her into it, and she stayed once she met him. I waited for her. I waited for her to come back."

His head turned slightly, looking out the window, gaze distant. Like he was watching a memory. Like he was watching something only he could see. "She never did."

The stillness in his voice was unbearable.

Nanami’s vision blurred with rage. "So you took mine instead?"

Gojo turned to face him, eyes boring into Nanami's.

His face was still empty. Void of anything human.

"Maybe I did," he said. "Maybe she left. Maybe she came back to me. Maybe you stole her from me in another life. Maybe she chose you. Maybe she didn’t love me as much as I thought. Or maybe—" Gojo exhaled softly. "Maybe I see why she fell in love with you."

Rage coiled in Nanami’s chest. His hands trembled, nails biting into his palms.

Gojo watched him without blinking. Without caring. "After everything I lost—after she left me to marry someone else because her family pushed her into it—I wanted what you had."

Gojo’s voice did not rise. It did not falter.

"So I took it."

Nanami’s body locked up, something primal and violent rising in his chest. His throat burned. His vision swam. His grief was a wildfire, an avalanche, a noose tightening around his own damn throat.

“You’re a monster.”

Gojo continued, reactionless. "Maybe," he admitted.

Then—Gojo’s head tilted ever so slightly.

"But you’re the one who brought her here."

The words slammed into Nanami’s ribcage like a hammer.

"You didn’t protect her," Gojo murmured. "You thought she was insane before you believed her."

The words hit Nanami like he was being set on fire. 

Because he knew.

He knew.

Deep down, he knew the truth in them.

He’d been so focused on their future, too confident in logic and reason, on starting a family, that he’d ignored the warnings—both spoken and unspoken—the unease in her eyes, the way her voice had shaken when she begged him to listen, to believe her.

And now she was gone.

He would never see her again.

She had slipped through his fingers like smoke, like an illusion he was never meant to hold onto in the first place.

He stood there, rooted in the ruins of a past that no longer existed, a future that had been severed clean from his grasp.

Gojo did not smile.

He did not mock.

He simply stood there, blank and unfeeling, watching as Nanami shattered into something that could never be put back together.

"Give her back."

Nanami’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.

It was not a demand.

It was a plea.

"Please." His fingers twitched, reaching for something that wasn’t there. "Just give her back."

For the first time, Gojo’s expression shifted. Not in pity. Not in regret.

Just something fleeting. Almost human.

"I can’t."

His voice was quiet. Unshaken. Final.

"She’s not mine to give."

And then he was gone.

No shadow left behind.

No footprints in the dust.

As if he had never been there at all.

And maybe he hadn’t.

Nanami never saw Gojo again.

Not in the palace.

Not anywhere.

And neither did he see her.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not in the ruins where he had kissed her for the last time.

Not in the house where she had once lived, where the echoes of her voice had turned to silence.

But still, he searched.

Through the palace.

Through the crumbling ruins.

Through the empty villages.

Through the desert, where the sand swallowed footsteps whole.

Through the places where even the ghosts had grown tired of lingering.

But there was nothing.

There had never been anything.

No ghosts.

No answers.

Just silence—cold and unrelenting, stretching on and on until it hollowed him out from the inside.

Or maybe—maybe he had seen her.

Maybe she had whispered to him in the dead of night, her voice curled around his ear like a secret. Maybe he had caught glimpses of her in reflections, in the shimmer of heat rising from the sand, in the spaces between dreams and waking.

Or maybe it had all been in his head.

Maybe she had never been there at all.

The whispers started soon after.

Of the foreigner with blond hair who wandered through the ruins, his steps slow, his gaze hollow.

Of the man who murmured to the crumbling palace walls, who spoke to shadows, who waited for a love that would never return.

At first, people tried to help.

They approached him with cautious kindness.

“Are you lost, sir?”

“Do you have family we can call?”

“Here, drink this—eat something.”

But Nanami did not answer.

Did not acknowledge them.

Did not even seem to hear them at all.

He knew you’d be mad. 

You never liked when other women gave him attention.

He would sit in the dust, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into the stone, lips moving in silent conversation.

With whom, no one knew.

And slowly, they learned to leave him alone.

He became part of the ruins themselves.

A figure wrapped in dust and sorrow.

A cautionary tale whispered to children.

"Don’t wander too far, lest you meet the mad foreigner who searches for his dead wife."

The weeks passed. Then the months.

His hair grew long and matted, strands clumping together, dirt and sand tangled in the once-golden locks.

His clothes frayed at the edges, sleeves torn, fabric thinning from exposure to the harsh desert winds.

His face, once sharp with quiet confidence, sank inward—cheekbones too prominent, lips cracked, skin burnt raw by the unrelenting sun.

A living corpse.

The police and NGOs found him once, coaxed him into a rehabilitation center, gave him food, bathed him, handed him clean clothes.

But the moment they turned their backs, he was gone.

He ran.

Back to the palace.

Back to the ruins.

Back to the last place he thought he'd seen her.

He was twenty-seven, but to those who saw him, he was ageless.

A mad saint.

A lost soul.

A pagala baba, dressed in tattered rags, muttering prayers that weren’t prayers—just a name, her name, over and over again.

Still—he walked.

Because maybe, if he searched long enough—

If he wandered through the ruins until his feet bled—

If he kept looking, kept listening, kept believing—

Maybe one day, he would find her again.

Maybe she had just stepped away for a moment.

Maybe she would return.

Maybe one day, he would wake up and she would be beside him.

And the desert, mercifully, swallowed his grief whole.

Because one day—

He disappeared.

No one saw him leave.

No footprints in the sand.

No body was found.

Just gone.

But still—the whispers remained.

At night, when the wind howled through the ruins, when the air was thick with the weight of something unseen—

Some swore they heard it.

A hum.

A laugh.

A faint, lingering strain of music.

Some claimed they saw a figure—tall, blond, beautiful, with kind eyes.

A man, waiting. Searching. Wandering.

Still looking for the love stolen from him.

Still lost in the ruins, long after his body had faded into the sand.

Still hoping—

That maybe, this time, he would find her.

Or maybe he already had.

No one knew.

No one ever would.

But they all agreed on one thing—

That sometimes, in the dead of night, when the desert wind carried the echoes of the past, those who listened closely could hear it—

A faint hum of laughter.

The ghost of a love stolen.

Or the sorrowful strains of music that followed him wherever he went.

A/N: So, my dear readers… how did you like Schizophrenia? No, Just a Rajasthani Prince With No Bitches. Did Nanami ever find her? Did Gojo win? Or did our beloved blond idiot just walk himself into an early grave, Majnu-style? Comment below: 🔘 “They were reunited” (Delusional Romantic)🔘 “Nanami died searching” (Realist Pain Enthusiast)🔘 “Gojo gaslit gatekept girlbossed all of us” (Clown) Let me know which version of suffering you believe in. Your engagement fuels my villain arc. 💀✨

All Works Masterlist

[azrielbrainrot]

With Your Hand In Mine

Pairing: Eris x F!Reader

Description: Both you and Eris can agree that it would be good for you to know how to defend yourself. It's just a shame that he's the only one who can teach you.

Warnings: A bit suggestive

Word Count: 3700

Notes: I haven't written for these two in a while, I'm sorry it took so long. I hope you enjoy!

Fire on Fire Masterlist

“Is this truly necessary?”

“I wouldn't have agreed to train you if I knew you were going to complain the whole time.”

A sigh escapes your dry lips, rolling up your sleeves once more even though they'd hardly moved from the last time you had, trying to buy time while you catch your breath before he's forcing you to start back up. The fact that this had been your idea gave you little comfort when you've barely started and it already felt like you'd run a marathon, your body beyond confused at what you're putting it through.

“We don't have much time. It's best we don't unnecessarily waste it,” Eris says, arms crossed over his chest and the usual irritating smirk perched on his lips, not a hair out of place or any escalation in his breath - he was the picture of relaxation.

“I'm not wasting time, Eris. I told you I can't do it.”

The gold bracelet still sat on his wrist, a complete contrast to the simple nature of the rest of the clothes he wore today, fit for the intense training session he's putting you through. The bracelet was also yours, one of your favorites in fact, and had been sitting in its usual place in one of your jewelry boxes just this morning.

You still didn't know how he had stolen the bracelet so easily, avoiding both you and all your maids without getting noticed or leaving any trace behind. Well aside from the letter inviting - read ordering - you to meet him in this exact place before sundown, and a new box of cookies that sat waiting for you on your desk. He truly had gotten lucky no one else had come into your room in the meantime.

Knowing how to protect yourself and yield your powers properly was something you always wanted to do, which is why you had reluctantly asked Eris for help, seeing as he was the only one you could trust, a fact that brought you the opposite of comfort. What you couldn't have predicted is that this would mean spending hours playing one of his stupid games.

“You only need to get this off my wrist. I'm not using my powers or even half of my strength. The bracelet doesn't even have a clasp, you simply need to pull it off. I'm making this extremely easy for you,” his smirk widens as he adds, “even children can do this much.”

You can't help the frown that takes over your features at his little comment. No matter how much time you spend with Eris you can't get used to his sharp tongue, and unfortunately it strikes true more often than not. Your gaze lowers to his wrist and that offending bracelet once more, trying to focus on the task at hand and ignore his stupid comment, trying to hide the feelings of insecurity that rose to the surface.

“I wouldn't be here wasting my time if I thought you couldn't do it,” he adds, his tone significantly softer than before.

The fact that he noticed made you angrier somehow. Hiding your emotions was never a problem for you, it was something you had to learn very quickly when you were just a child. You do it in front of your parents and maids every day, in front of any relative or noble, even the High Lord and Lady of Autumn, but, for some inexplicable reason, Eris can always read you like an open book.

It seemed like he was trying to make you feel better in his own way. Even that gave you little comfort though, it didn't suit him and it definitely didn't suit your relationship.

You had tried to practice by yourself when you were younger and first noticed your powers developing. Hiding them had been the obvious choice for you, but you had also decided to use them as much as possible. Winnowing had been easy enough for you to understand and control on your own, and your fire had simply needed some more concentration and a few stolen books to fully understand.

After so easily taking control of your powers, you thought any physical training would be simple enough for you to understand. It resulted in countless hours of brandishing an old sword around, trying to mimic the way your books described the correct movements. Soon, you realized that without watching the proper techniques and having a sparring partner you would never be able to learn anything.

The necessity to at least know how to tame your fire powers had been important for your own survival, seeing as they manifested each time your emotions escalated, so it makes sense that you had been a lot more successful at it then with any other physical training.

You don't give him a response, focusing all your energy into calming down and trying to think of a way to get to the bracelet. He's a lot faster and stronger than you, even when he's holding back as he said. More importantly, he has been trained ever since he was a child, from a cruelly young age knowing Beron. He's even taller than you, only having to put his arm up for you not to be able to reach the bracelet. All the odds are in his favor, and the fact only adds to your annoyance.

A couple minutes go by like this, with you studying your target instead of reaching for the bracelet mindlessly as Eris watches on, unnervingly quiet. It never bode well when he actually kept his mouth shut, it meant he was thinking.

“You never told me why you wanted me to teach you,” your fiancé speaks up at last, his voice now closer. You had been so focused that you didn't even hear him approaching, something you should have definitely been focusing on. You wonder for a second if you would have been able to even if you weren't distracted.

Your gaze meets his, thinking through his words and attempting to understand the look in his eyes, when you can't you childishly ponder ignoring him and using this moment to steal the bracelet. Ultimately you decide against it, answering his question at last.

“If your enemies are to become my own, I'll need all the training I can get.”

That was an understatement considering his enemies were the High Lord of Autumn, his army and the nobles who supported him, maybe even his brothers. You're sure he even managed to find new ones after his allegiance to the Night Court, if his allies themselves aren't still considered enemies at the same time.

“It offends me that you think I can't tell when you're lying,” he muses.

You bite your lip in annoyance just as he comes to stand a mere step away from you, tilting your head so you can glare at him properly. His expression falls into a maddeningly alluring one, a smirk twitching along his inviting lips.

“I'm not lying.”

“No, but you're not telling me the whole truth either,” he says, fingers reaching out to pick a dried bit of flower or leaf out of your hair, mother knows how long it's been there, “I thought we were past the need for beating around our intentions.”

You look at him wearily, studying his nonchalant expression while he discards whatever was in your hair, watching it fall onto the soft grass as if he wouldn't much rather study your face back and try to find the answer on his own. You suppose you could appreciate that he would ask you instead of trying to pry it out of you, he can get any answer he wants out of anyone after all.

“I don't like being weak,” you confess, almost regretting it when his amber eyes meet yours. “If my father wasn't…” You trail off, not even knowing what to say. Someone who didn't think of his own daughter as a business opportunity? A coward, too afraid of letting anyone have the upper hand? A monster? Doesn't matter what words you choose, the truth of the matter is you were tired of playing by his rules. Eris watches you, never rushing you while you gather your thoughts. “I wish I had been trained since I was young. The world is cruel, and I want to have a fighting chance. I don't want to hide behind anyone's shadow.”

“Alright,” Eris says after a while, looking almost proudly down at you. His hands find his pockets and he nods at your training prop before changing the subject.

“You're going about it the wrong way.”

“I've noticed that, genius.”

“Such kind words,” he trails off after a chuckle, “I told you I wouldn't use my powers, but I never said anything about yours.”

You blink at his words, murmuring after a while, “Would that be fair? What if I hurt you?”

“Do you think you can hurt me, doll?”

The teasing, downright condescending tone is a means to get you motivated once more, and even knowing this, you can't help but feel a familiar heat bubbling under your skin, one he can so easily pull out of you. Perhaps Eris really was the perfect person to help you with this.

“Show me,” he says, a proud and excited glint in his eyes.

Your body answers his command, moving before you even think it through. Winnowing behind him, you reach out to grab his wrist, kicking the back of his knee as hard as you can when he unsurprisingly hides his wrist away from you to keep the bracelet safe. It makes him falter but he doesn't fall like you'd hoped.

Clenching your jaw at the breath of amusement he lets out, you summon your flames, burning a patch of grass under his feet, he sidesteps trying to salvage his shoes, and you attempt tripping him again, only to fail once more as he turns to face you, grabbing your arm and pulling you closer with a look of annoyance on his face. This makes you feel a bit better, at least you ruined his shoes.

Reaching out for his wrist now would be in vain, he's much stronger than you so aimlessly trying to grab the bracelet is no use, you've been trying to do just that for hours. Winnowing back to your initial spot and out of his arms, you watch him again, thinking.

“Giving up already?”

You scoff, a smirk of your own finding its way to your lips. “When have I ever given up?”

Fire rushes from your hands once more, a lot more than before, burning the grass and dried leaves all around you, the smoke they create is enough to not only hide you but also distract him as it grows taller than the trees. When you feel his magic pulsing, creating a shield so no one wandering around the forest sees or smells the smoke, you move, kicking his feet apart at the same time you push at his chest, making him lose balance.

His arms reach out for your waist as he falls back, giving you the opportunity to finally slip the bracelet from his wrist. The sense of accomplishment it brings you is short-lived as you take note of the position you're in, Eris' hand still holding onto your waist, his body completely still under yours. His amber eyes looking up at you, not even a little annoyed or surprised by you taking the bracelet.

A glare paints your features, your mood quickly souring, while a smile grows on his stupidly relaxed face, both his hands moving to hold onto your hips.

“You're going easy on me,” you accuse.

Eris chuckles, the sound shaking his body slightly, and yours with his, a reminder of your current position. The realization makes you look up briefly, trying to see if he had truly put up that shield to cover you both, mother knows what would happen if someone found you straddling your fiancé in the middle of the woods.

“Yes,” he starts, bending his knees and turning your world upside down so quickly you barely register the movement until you're laying down on the grass, his smirk growing. “I am.”

The sight of the Autumn Court's heir kneeling between your legs and looking down at you through amused yet arrogant eyes makes your thoughts stumble for a moment. No matter how much this male manages to irritate you to the point of contemplating murder, there are always moments when his beauty catches you off guard.

“We're only starting,” he says, his voice breaking you out of your treacherous thoughts, “and I have centuries of training on you, but if we keep up you'll grow stronger and there will come a time when I will not overpower you so easily.”

At his praise you find a different kind of heat rush over your body. You curse your parents for being so harsh on you, for making compliments such a rare occurrence in your life. A harsh breath escapes you as you swallow, searching for the right words to thank him, or perhaps pull him back to your usual conversations, hiding every emotion behind thinly veiled animosity. Your and Eris' relationship never went beyond raw anger that slowly transformed into bickering over the years, but lately things have started to change ever so slightly, resulting in confusing situations such as these.

You watch his head tilt to the side as you gather your thoughts, the amusement intensifying as something else burns in his eyes alongside it, something a lot more wicked. The air seems to thicken as your gazes meet in this inexplicable moment. You don't understand most of your body's reactions, but this has to be what losing your mind feels like.

Eris licks his lips, eyes looking above your head for a second before meeting yours once again. “Next time we'll focus on controlling your powers,” he starts, leaving you confused. He nods to the grass around you, prompting you to follow his eyes, finding the remaining embers of the fire you had caused earlier sparking up once again and burning the rest of the leaves. You try to quell them immediately, lifting yourself up on your forearms as a gasp escapes you. How had you not even noticed the smoke? “Can't have you starting a fire every time you get wet.”

It takes a moment for his words to fully register in your brain but when they do your foot flies to his chest, kicking him away from you. Unfortunately, the fire only intensifies with your reaction, and in result so does his laughter. Amber eyes moving to watch the beautiful flame engulfing the old piece of wood, the light reflecting in them making them appear so much brighter, redder.

“Oh, my.”

The amusement written on his face makes you kick him once more, sitting up in time to push him all the way to the ground, Eris never resisting as his body shook with laughter, laying down on the soft grass while you contemplated all the ways you could kill him. You had never seen him laugh this hard, it's just a shame it's at your expense.

“I don't know how vivid and sordid your imagination is but I'd appreciate it if you didn't involve me in your dirty fantasies.”

Eris lets out one last chuckle, looking up at you through half lidded eyes, his lack of reaction to your threats making you even more annoyed as usual. You bite your tongue, trying to not show it on your face, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, especially when you've already shown him more than you ever should have. It had simply been a momentary slip, a result of your lack of experience showing through, that's all.

“As much as I wish I could show you every single, dirty fantasy, it's getting late and we're both expected elsewhere soon,” he changes the subject effortlessly, maybe taking pity on you. When he holds up his hand and you find your bracelet back on his wrist you know pity has nothing to do with it. “Let's keep going. We're wasting precious time.”

Your entire body ached, muscles you didn't even know existed were screaming at you as you sat on the floor. You'd lost count on how many times Eris forced you to attempt taking the bracelet back from him, and even if you had failed plenty of times, your bracelet sat on your wrist at the end, where it belonged. There was an underlying satisfaction buzzing within you. You've always wanted to train like this, always wanted to use your powers and become stronger. It all felt like a dream.

“Come here,” Eris tells you softly, extending his hand towards you. You furrow your brows and look up at him, getting up slowly. He never explains, simply waiting for you to reach him, but you take his hand all the same. You have no more energy to fight with him today, there would be no heart behind it anyway. You're too grateful for him, unfortunately.

He grasps your hand in his silently and winnows you back to the cabin in the blink of an eye, the way he winnows from place to place so much smoother than when you do it yourself, maybe you should ask him to teach you more about that as well.

It had gotten late, the sun already setting and making way for the moon to shine in the sky, and you had to be home soon, before your father arrived for dinner and noticed you gone, so you were about to question him again when you noticed the big tub sitting in the middle of the usually empty room.

“Is that for me?”

“You weren't thinking of going back home directly in this state were you?” He rolls his eyes softly. “You'd be found out this same day.”

Actually, you knew the maids weren't anywhere close to your room at this hour. If you did everything right, you had more than enough time to change back into your dress and get in the bathtub once inside your room. It wouldn't be a lengthy bath but it would keep you clean. Still, looking at the steamy tub, that plan sounded worse than to wait for the rain to wash the sweat off.

“I think I could manage,” you offer.

“This way is easier,” he says, “and the warm water will soothe your muscles.”

This day had been confusing to say the least. Not only had Eris just realized one of your biggest wishes, but also prepared a warm bath for your sore body, making sure at the same time that you wouldn't get caught and suffer your father's wrath. At times like these, you're reminded he's not only Beron's heir or the future High Lord, and see the male behind the charade and the titles weighting on his shoulders.

“Thank you, Eris,” you say, “for everything.”

He watches you for a moment, seemingly surprised by your words and the conviction behind them, before nodding. It's not often you share vulnerable moments like this so you almost want to thank him again when he simply accepts your gratitude without making any further comments, especially with how he usually is.

Turning back to the tub, you wonder how this will work for a moment, seeing as there was only one singular tub, and two of you. Eris takes this as his cue to leave, placing his hands in his pockets after making the flames in the fireplace grow in size, warming up the cabin even more, before turning his body, moving to walk to the door.

“Are you leaving?”

Eris turns back towards you, tilting his head to the side slightly, amusement growing in his expression, but there was something else behind his gaze, just like before.

“Do you wish for me to join you?”

You almost bite your tongue vindictively. Your mouth was working against you today, and with the thoughts growing in your mind, you were starting to think even your brain had left you on your own.

“I was only asking because you need a bath of your own.” Even if he hadn't done much and this afternoon certainly couldn't be considered a work out for him, there was still grass and dirt on him, as well as some sweat. This would definitely raise questions. As you take him in, you also notice a faint, sweet undertone to his usual spicy scent. “You smell like me,” you conclude, your throat going dry.

The heat was almost obscenely distinguishable in his amber eyes now, threatening to consume you whole. As much as you will certainly try to deny the fact when you look back at this moment tomorrow, there is no question that these were two people looking at each other with desire in their eyes. It was also impossible to mistake the sudden heaviness in both of your scents for anything else.

Neither of you say a word for a minute too long, stuck in between your betraying bodies and everything else. Your heart was threatening to beat out of your chest, the heavy gaze the male in front of you kept you under enough to make you want to do something you've never done before and just give in despite all the consequences.

Eris is the one to find his composure first, clearing his throat and looking down at his shoes before saying, “No one will see me. You don't have to worry about me, doll.”

You nod, knowing better than to try and say anything, lest your words betray you as well, especially after the pet name that usually irritates you to no end sends a different kind of heat to your center. Watching him winnow out of the cabin without another word, allowing you to finally take a deep breath and try to clear your mind, but, even as you sit in the warm water he prepared, you can't take the images of Eris joining you out of your head, the reminder of his body against yours in the woods as he taught you, or the way his scent mingled with yours. You almost wish this was a cold bath instead.

[cryptidghostgirl]

Music (Lute x Reader)

Paring: Lute x Reader

Description: Y/n has been dating Lute for years. After her girlfriend gets home from the most recent extermination, she tries to talk to Lute about the person being around Adam makes her.

Warnings: I know that the description makes this sound angsty and like they're gonna fight but its actually really sweet. Fluff. Just fluff.

Word Count: 829, short and fluffy.

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

A/N I came up with this when I couldn't sleep last night. I just think it'd be cute. (Listen, I could fix her.)

"I don't like who you are around him."

Lute let the door fall shut behind her. Her whole body ached and was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, demon blood, and grime. As her eyes fell on her girlfriend, laying on the bed casually with a book loosely clutched between her gentle fingers, she scoffed.

"This again?"

"Yeah." Y/n nodded, closing her book and putting it to the side as she got up off the bed, "I don't like it. He makes you..."

"He makes me what?" Lute spat back.

She was tired. The extermination had taken a lot out of her, been so much to deal with. Lute didn't mean to lash out like this, she just couldn't deal with it right now. It was all too much.

"He... just... when you spend too much time with Adam, you start acting different. I don't know."

"Well, not like I really have much of a choice." Lute exclaimed in exhasperation, letting her mask and her spear fall to the floor by the doorway she still stood in.

"No, I know." Y/n hurried to correct herself, getting to her feet, "I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry."

"Whatever."

Lute stalked off into the bathroom. The drying blood felt tight against her skin, she was exhausted. The fact that she knew Y/n was right on some level, that being around Adam did change her, made her more volatile and rude, only fueled her anger. The truth was, without him goading her on, Lute would never do half the terrible things she did.

She began to unhook her armor, letting it fall haphazardly to the marble floor of the bathroom. Lute shot the doorway a glance as she heard a slight rustle of fabric. Y/n stood there, leaning against the frame with her arms around her waist, watching.

"What?" Lute grumbled.

With a sigh, Y/n straightened herself and crossed the room. Turning on the shower, she stuck her hand under the water as she messed with the temperature, trying to make sure it wasn't too hot.

"Look, Music, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to start something, I know you've had a long day. We'll talk about it later."

There it was, Music. Y/n had called her that since the minute they'd made things official. When Lute had asked her where the nickname had come from, she'd smiled softly and said something about her being art. Not the overlooked instrument, but the masterpiece that comes from it. All the fight slipped out of her.

Taking the chainmail off from beneath her plated armor, Lute walked over to her girlfriend. Y/n let out a short gasp of surprise as she snaked her hands around her waist, leaning her head on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry I snapped." Lute admitted, her cheeks flushed pink.

Apologies had never been her strong suit. Y/n smiled. Taking her hand out from under the water, she gently took Lute's arms from her waist. Turning to face her head on, Y/n held her hands in hers.

"I shouldn't have pushed it, Muse."

Muse. Y/n’s inspiration, her guiding light. How could Lute have forgotten? All the chaos, all the blood on her hands, and still -- Y/n loved her. Through all the bad, she somehow found the good.

"No, no." Lute looked away bashfully, "You were right. I... I just don't know how to get out of this. There is a person I have to be when I'm around him and... I don't like her either."

"Hey hey hey! Pretty girl!" Y/n exclaimed, dropping her hands and instead holding Lute's face gently, turning it to face her own once again, "We will figure it out. Together, we always do. All I ask of you is that you don't bring it home."

"I know, I wont anymore. It's not fair to you, I know."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Lute nodded.

Y/n smiled, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as she let her hands fall from Lute's cheeks. Lute caught them in their descent to Y/n's sides and, leaning back in, kissed her lips gently in return. Y/n's cheeks were flushed a pretty pink when Lute leaned away a few seconds later.

"Damn, how many years has it been and you still get all flustered?" Lute teased.

"Oh, hush." Y/n waved her off, looking away, "Take a shower, you smell like... like..."

"Demon blood and sweat?"

"Yeah." Y/n nodded apologetically, meeting Lute's eyes.

Lute laughed. Somehow, Y/n just had a way of making her feel better. It could be the worst day in the world and coming home to that girl would make it all go away.

"I love you." she whispered as steam began to fill the bathroom from the hot shower.

Lute wrapped her arms around Y/n's waist, holding her close.

"Always, Lute." Y/n confirmed, nuzzling her forehead into Lute's shoulder, "Always."