#besides copper of course

[juh-wasnt-deactivated19691231]

oh yeah 100%, i just meant it’s kind of implied by “fiber optic”, no one uses anything /but/ glass fiber, right? (right??)

[dmitriene]

cw: baby fever, breeding, everything is emotional.

simon riley never discussed a possibility of having a baby with you, and you kept silent either, knowing that the whole family thing is hard to him, both to think about and try to accommodate to, wrap and build it up, and even if he allowed to feel the craving to start a family, take risks and give a new life together, which will rely and depend on both him and you, he'd keep it encased, in his heart, behind a chain mail.

some guy, a former soldier under his lieutenant leadership, a young guy full of future and hope, invited you both to the sip and see party to meet his and his wifey's newborn girl, simon saved him, once, not attaching any importance to it, because for him, it was a matter of his service, but he didn't know that if the boy wasn't been so lucky to have someone who will have time to drag him to the side before the bullet hits him, he would never have known in his life that his wife was pregnant.

that's why you're both here, standing in the spacious, cozy living room, a table with some homemade appetizers and some easy beverages in the corner to your right, the baby crib standing on forgotten, because currently, the little, dovey girl are held in the soothing hands of her momma, rocked side to side, even though she's calm and giggly, looking around the blurry of curious, smiling faces of the people you don't know, but sense that they are a close one to the family, as you continue to watch.

simon is calm, as much as possible, none of the guests look at him as if he's some creep, which helps to create a favorable atmosphere in advance, but he's still out of his skin, a raw nerve, being invited to an event like that, standing beside you with his heavy hand tucking you close, draped around the slope of your waist, and the touch feels like a loose attempt to anchor himself in the moment, as if knowing, that without fail, you would help him, and you do, rubbing a soothing caress over his already paling knuckles.

he felt obliged to come and support the poor guy who was so infinitely grateful to him, so easily decided to invite him into his family, to show him his child, whom he was able to see and will be able to raise only because simon saved him then, smiled understandingly and warmly when he refused to get too close, to try and hold the newborn, although the nervous tremor in his scarred hands was uncontained, as was the slight glint of deep lodged uncertainty in his copper amber eyes.

little by little, the guests begin to talk to each other, mostly with the mother, sitting down on the big sofa in the middle and around, asking easy, curious questions and sharing endless congratulations, leaving the father with the child, he holds her carefully, kisses the top of her head and smiles brightly in response to her deciphered babbles, before he moves, heading towards the kitchen, near you before stopping, almost shifting from foot to foot before looking at simon, stretching out his arms along with the baby.

simon is confused, gazes down to meet the wide, curious eyes of the little girl, her lips pouty as she babbles something giddy and gasps some random sounds, and his eyebrows knit, almost menacingly, with his jaw working along the instinctive clench, yet, the guy doesn't backs away, smiling calmly, murmuring that he has to leave to the kitchen for a couple of minutes, and does not want to interfere with his wife's conversation, so he asks for a small favor, to hold the baby, as she already reaches out with a grabby fists, leaving no other chance.

that's when everything seems to change course, like a jammed hand on a clock, when he takes her in his arms, and she settles in the crook of his elbow, over the twiney muscle that is wound tight from his wrist to his bicep, sinewy, sculpted out of steel and made to break, yet, the little pea lays there as if on feather cushion, curled, glancing up through her long, fluttering lashes, smiling toothlessly up, and you both seem to be blinded out.

meeting each other's eyes, only to see the same kaleidoscope of unnamed emotions reflected upon you in simon's widened eyes, wavering, blinking rapidly over something he can't even comprehend, looking back down, and his scarred hand moves to thumb over the round tummy of the baby girl in his arms, coming up her pinky, full cheeks, marveling at the smoothness of her milk smelling skin, as she giggles to him, pleased and happy, in his arms.

it's overwhelming, out of a sudden, the want, untamed need, to see simon holding a baby that would be yours, to wake up in the morning to her babbles coming out of the crib, with her tiny body curled against his ample chest, sleeping in the protective circle of his scarred, roughened hands, with you leaning over from his side, cradled as close, cooing at her and then seeing the pooling, sun resembling warmth in his crinkled eyes, blanketing over you both.

the drive back home goes hand in hand, grip tight around each other's fingers, as you look out in the window, lost in the unexpected, but somehow welcomed fantasies of the future you didn't knew was that appealing, but you hesitate to voice it out, the images that flash in before your eyes, the clench you feel deep in your gut, something pulling, pooling, reminding of itself with wetness that seeps in through your panties, and even then, you keep silent.

getting back in the house, taking off shoes, outerwear, going further inside, out of the narrow hallway and into the living room, spinning around and letting simon follow you, press up against your back with hands that curl around your waist and sweep over to your stomach, stubble tickling jaw nuzzles in the back of your neck, searing breath stuttering, lips vibrating over a growl that makes you gasp and tumble his name as a needy, shattering, trembling whisper.

you should discuss it better than this, sit and talk, weight it all, but there's a fever, an unbearable pull that makes his fingers rip off your clothes, splay you down and over the cold, rumpled linen beneath your bowing, snapping back, a whisper, plea, coming from his chapped, bitten lips as a rumbled question, to let him get you full, tonight, pump his cum in, with pushing, working thrusts in the gripping, tight clutch of your needy, weeping cunt, and you agree.

between the wide open thighs, supple skin tingling with bruises and muscles cramping, cunt pulsing, gaping around simon's battering movements, rocking back and then ramming in, plunging back the escaping globs of cum your cunt tries to waste out, too full to hold in more of his warm seed, but your hips roll to coerce him deeper, indulging in every inch, pleading, moaning, sobbing, falling in note with his gravelly, wrecked vows to make you pregnant.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

remmick x reader on her period 🫠

Crimson Worship||Remmick x Reader

Warnings: Period sex (oral), blood kink, vampire themes, explicit smut, praise, slight possessiveness, intense intimacy vampire x human, explicit content

MDNI +18

A/n— for the future all smut requests go to @faithsmadhouse

You were sure he’d smell it the second he walked in—the subtle shift in your scent, the unmistakable copper warmth that clung to the air. You tried to keep the blanket wrapped tightly around your waist, curled on the couch like you hadn’t just come back from changing a bloodied pad.

But of course, he knew. He always did.

Remmick lingered in the doorway, eyes glowing faintly in the low light of your apartment. His nostrils flared as he took a slow inhale, tongue flicking across the edge of a fang. His voice was velvet-dark.

“You bleeding for me, sweetheart?”

You flushed. “Not for you. Just… basic biology. Unfortunately.”

He chuckled low in his chest and crossed the room in two strides. He knelt in front of you, hands braced on your thighs, blanket slipping away with a gentle tug. You stiffened.

“Remmick—”

“You think I care?” His voice dipped, barely a whisper. “You think blood ever made me shy?”

You looked away. “It’s messy.”

“So am I.”

His hands were warm, but his eyes were molten. You’d never seen someone look at you like that like you were everything. Even now. Especially now.

“Lay back,” he murmured.

You obeyed, slowly. He helped guide you down onto the couch cushions, his lips trailing reverent kisses up the inside of your thighs. His breath fanned against the damp cotton of your panties, and when he tugged them down, he made no effort to hide the guttural sound in his throat.

“God, look at you,” he growled. “So sweet. So ripe.”

You whimpered, heat rushing through your core at his words—words that would’ve embarrassed you from anyone else. But this was Remmick. Your vampire. Your dark, dangerous, all-consuming lover.

He dipped his head, dragging his tongue through your folds with slow, devastating intent. You cried out, hips arching, but he pinned you gently with a hand across your stomach.

“Easy,” he breathed. “Let me taste you.”

And he did.

He devoured you.

Blood and slick and everything in between he lapped it up like a man starved, growling low against your core, teeth brushing just enough to make you shudder. His nose nuzzled against your mound, his tongue flicking and curling and drinking from you like you were a sacred altar.

You buried your hands in his hair, moaning his name, legs trembling.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he rasped between strokes. “Don’t ever hide this from me. Don’t ever think I’d turn away from your blood.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching around his head as his tongue circled your clit, slow and punishing. He held you open with bloodstained fingers, licking you through each wave of pleasure, humming as you cried out, hips stuttering.

And when you came trembling, gasping, wreckedhe didn’t stop. Not right away. He kissed your thighs, your belly, your trembling knees. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand but licked it clean afterward, eyes dark and soft.

“You were made for me,” he whispered, curling beside you. “Every part of you. Even this.”

You blinked through the haze of afterglow and saw the crimson smeared across his mouth like warpaint. And somehow, you felt beautiful.

His lips skimmed your inner thigh, hovering just above the pulse fluttering wildly beneath the skin. You were still trembling, your body barely recovering from the orgasm he’d already pulled from you with his mouth, but you knew what he wanted.

What you wanted too.

“May I?” he asked, voice dark and velvet-soft.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Please.”

He didn’t make you wait. His mouth sealed over the tender skin, and for a single heartbeat there was only warmth — Then the bite.

Fangs sank in, sharp and perfect, and you cried out—not from pain, but from the overwhelming rush of it. The pull. The heat. The way your nerves seemed to light up all at once like he’d sunk his teeth into the deepest part of you.

“God—the bite,” you gasped, eyes fluttering. “It always feels… fuck—too good—”

And it was. Too good. You tried to breathe through it, tried to anchor yourself—but your body had other plans.

Pleasure hit you like a wave. Sudden. Unstoppable.

You came again soaked and shaking, thighs clenching around his shoulders, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as your back arched off the couch. The release flooded through you, sharp and blinding, centered around the place his fangs still gripped you, as if your body was wired to respond to him that way. To need it.

He groaned low in his throat, drinking deep, the sound vibrating against your thigh. You swore you could feel it everywhere.

When he finally pulled back, blood staining his lips, his expression was raw with hunger and awe.

“You came,” he said, voice hoarse. “From the bite.”

You nodded weakly, breathless, completely undone. “You know what it does to me.”

He smirked, almost reverent. “I’ll never get tired of watching your body give in to me.”

Then softer, his fingers brushing your cheek, his tone turning tender:

“You were made for this. For me.”

You collapsed into his arms, boneless and safe, heart still hammering. The bite throbbed sweetly on your thigh, but there was no pain just the lingering ache of being seen, fed on, loved in the most intimate way possible.

And in the aftermath, as he curled around you with blood-warm kisses and quiet praise, you knew one thing for sure: You’d let him do it again.

[shewrites444]

arranged [thomas shelby x reader smut]

[ i’ve never written about one of cillian murphy’s characters but oppenheimer has me feeling a bit inspired lately. i haven’t watched peaky blinders in ages, so apologizes if it’s not completely accurate to the storyline. ]

[update: arranged part 2 ]

word count - 2.1k

[ summary - the reader and tommy agree to an arranged marriage that suits both of their needs. despite their disliking of each other, the two seem quite fond of each other in the bedroom, especially on their wedding night. ]

[ warnings - enemies to lovers trope that includes unprotected sex, oral, roughness, etc ]

-

thomas shelby was the last man i ever imagined myself being wedded to, but when my father unexpectedly passed and i no longer had the protection of his people, i had to find another way to make sure i wouldn’t be a victim to any gangs of birmingham - including the peaky blinders.

of course, tommy would never have married me if there wasn’t something i could offer him in return - that happened to be a ton of inherited money from my father, and several breweries i now technically owned, and numerous meeting spots that only i knew about, that the coppers would never find him or his family at, during anytime of the day.

despite the convenience of our arrangement, there was nothing favorable for either of us past the business side of things. our families had been at each other’s throats for years and now that my father was gone, a lot of that tension was, but nevertheless, you can’t expect a peaky blinder to not hold a grudge, even on their wedding night.

“see, that wasn’t so bad.” i mutter to my newly wed husband, walking into the dimly lit bedroom as i took off my white heels, setting them aside the now shut door. i watch as tommy began to unbutton his white dress shirt, and i sigh to myself, but loud enough to quirk his brow.

i tuck my hair behind my ears, walking to the bed and pulling the sheets down to prepare for what would hopefully be a fairly long sleep, given that i’d prefer not think much about who i was now standing across from.

“you don’t have to stay in here tonight if you don’t want to or even at all, tommy. you already have children and i’m aware you don’t want more, and frankly, i don’t want any, so just lie and tell polly the marriage was consummated tomorrow morning. go on.” i gesture my hand up and towards the door, watching his blank expression as i spoke in a more demanding, harsh manner.

he walked towards the bed, untucking his side, his shirt now unbuttoned and his toned, pale body at my exposure, which only made my cheeks redden as the muscles flexed with his movements. i may have despised the man for his profession, but it’s not like he wasn’t physically attractive.

“i may not be so found of you, mrs. shelby, but i do keep my marriage duties, at least to sleep beside you.” he says plainly, sitting down on the white sheets before looking up to me with a teasing expression. it almost felt wrong to see him show any emotion besides, well, none. “now, do i have to make you turn around while i fuck you, or can you bare the sight of me while doing so?”

i roll my eyes with a smirk, laying down and hovering my face above his before biting my bottom lip, glancing at his own with a bit of temptation, but nothing i couldn’t ignore for the sake of my ego. “i’m shocked you even asked to touch me, mr. shelby. peaky blinders have always seemed so forward with what they want.”

he tilted his head, his well-groomed hair bouncing lightly at the movement, now reaching over to hold the back of my neck, running his fingertips through the ends of my hair. “would you prefer i not ask? you didn’t strike me as the type of woman who’d prefer to be fucked like an animal.”

“you didn’t strike me as the type of man to wait until we were wed to even discuss sex, so we’re both a bit surprised. have you been distracted with other women through our engagement, dear husband?”

he scoffed at my comment, sitting up and leaning himself down to peck at my neck lightly, his heated breath against my tingling skin, a pit forming in my stomach at the touch he never dared grant me until now.

“you never gave me any suggestion to fuck before tonight, [y/n]. i assumed you wouldn’t allow me to lay a finger on you. this all seemed like a business opportunity, a plan for protection and financies, nothing more.” he muttered through his kisses, trailing his lips down to my covered chest before looking up to me again. “so, how about i ask you like a gentlemen, mrs. shelby. is this for business, or not?”

i shrug softly, glancing down to meet his seductive, icy blue eyes. “i think i’ll be able to tell if it is or not when you fuck me, mr. shelby."

he reached over to pull me on top of him, grabbing the white gown that dressed me and helping me to slip it off my core and past my arms, tossing it to the floor, which exposed me in nothing but my underwear, my breasts falling out of the fabric and resting before him. he took one hand to hold my back, the other cupping one breast and his thumb flicking at the hardening nipple. i feel him push me down, his lips attaching to the bud as i let out a soft moan, shocked by how sensual thomas shelby could be if directed to do so.

i could feel the bulge in his pants growing, beginning to grind myself against the black pants while he fondled my breasts with his mouth and free hand, the other that was once on my back now guiding itself down to my ass. he pulled himself away from my breast, panting softly to himself as the tension began to increase between our moving bodies.

“take off your panties and lay down on your back, won't you.” he said to me in a more demanding tone. i stood up and did so, spreading my legs before him as he undressed himself at the side of the bed, soon leaning down in front of me.

i chew my bottom lip at the sight of the man before me, but gasp as his tongue links to my clit, swirling and flicking around the sensitive bud of skin, while i only grow wetter through his touch and the saliva that collected against my entrance. i reach down to hold his head of black hair, my other hand resting against my chest while he continued to give me nothing but pleasure.

“this… this doesn’t seem… like b-business to me…” i stutter my words, my back arching at every sensitive touch he brought to my body. my words made him pull away, a smirk on his wet lips as he stuck one finger inside of me, pumping and curling it slowly enough to draw a loud moan from my lips before pulling it out right after.

he leaned down and gestured for me to open my mouth, sticking his finger inside for me to taste my own juices before pulling it out and licking it himself.

“neither does this, how wet you are for me. are you sure you want to take back the consummation of our arrangement, hm? it seems you like my tongue, mrs. shelby. do you think i’ll like yours?” he grinned, standing up and pointing his full erection towards me, holding it in one hand as i sat up on the bed.

i blush, getting off of the bed and onto my knees before him. i take his length into one hand, pumping it slowly as i look up to him, our eyes locked when i lean forward and take his tip into mouth, a heavy sigh coming from his lips as i begin to suck him off. he was thick and much longer than any man i’d ever been with, and frankly, if we were to sleep together tonight, i was a bit nervous of how my body would take him and the aftermath of it all tomorrow morning.

“fuck, fill your throat with me, [y/n]..” he moaned, both hands holding the back of my head as he thrusted himself towards my face. i took his cock down my throat, my eyes closing almost immediately as a tear runs down my cheek from the unexpected penetration, moving my head back and forth as his balls slap against my wet chin.

he tilted his head, mouth hung open as he watched me take him down my throat. i could hear his breath cutting short each time he thrusted, his cock twitching inside my mouth as he edged himself through each stroke. when he could tell through my reddening expression and glossy eyes that i was a bit overstimulated, he slowly pulled himself out of my mouth, leaning down to help me back on my feet and onto the bed.

he kneeled down before me, grabbing my face with both hands and pressing a passionate kiss against my lips, his tongue pushing itself into my mouth, which distracted me from the way he was moving my body off the bed again. he wraps his arms around me and guides me across the room and to the dresser, where he then breaks the kiss and turns me around, bending my body against the wood to where i made eye contact with the mirror that connected the furniture.

"i think this is worth the watch, don't you?" he teases, a devilish smirk across his face as he takes my neck in one hand, the other trailing before my pussy, his index and middle fingers attaching to my clit as he pushes himself inside of me without warning.

i gasp, watching my mouth open as he begins to fuck me, hard, against the dresser. the stimulation above my insides didn't make this any easier to take, given the fact i could already feeling my climax building in a matter of seconds.

i rest both palms against the wood, watching tommy's lips trail to my shoulder as he kissed against my sweating skin, leaving fresh hickeys from time to time, marking me like i was more than just an arrangement to him. if anything, this showed me that thomas shelby may not favor me, but he sure wanted the world to know i was his wife, and no one else's.

"i could fuck you all day, [y/n]. nothing fucking... compares to... how good you feel, fuck.." he muttered between kisses, looking up to meet my eyes in the mirror, his hand moving from my neck to hold my left breast tightly, halting it from bouncing throughout his thrusts. "do you feel me as much as i feel you?"

i nod, mouth still hung open, unable to even speak a word as tommy pulled my body closer, his fingers digging into my clit and forcing me to arch my back down, my ass pressing against him and causing even harsher friction between our bodies while he quickened his pace at the touch, the sound of our skin slapping together overpowering the bedroom.

i suddenly feel his arm wrap around my waist, and then the other, holding me so close and his body leaned so far down my back was touching his core. he thrusted deeper, further than what i even thought was possible for him to go, and so much so to the point i was in immense pain, but god, it felt so fucking good. his cock overpowered my entire body, and i felt my orgasm rushing to the surface, fluids leaking out from inside of me past himself and dripping between my legs, his own orgasm filling my insides within a matter of seconds after.

i feel him slide out of me, catching his own breath and helping turn me around to face him. he takes my hand and places the other on my back, guiding me to the bed once more and laying me down, pulling the sheet on top of me to cover my stomach down, my breasts exposed to the cold air. i feel his lips against my chest, lightly kissing from my nipples, to my shoulders, to my neck, and to my lips, once more. he smiles softly, and genuinely, to me, before snapping out of his sappy mood to grab a cigarette from the nightstand, lighting it.

"do you think we'll be doing this again?" he asks quietly, handing me the cigarette. "doesn't seem like it would be a negative thing to add to our arrangement, eh?"

i smirk, blowing the smoke out from my lips and towards the ceiling. "i wouldn't be opposed, but if you fuck me that hard every time, i'm not sure i would be able to get out of bed the next morning."

he chuckled to himself, standing up and walking to the other side of the bed, sliding himself into the sheets and putting out the cigar. he took me into his arms, lighting running his hand across my hair. "we can see about that. goodnight, mrs. shelby."

i rest my head against his chest, closing my eyes and smiling to myself, partially hoping tommy wouldn't see my vunerability.

"goodnight, mr. shelby."

[mayasaurusss]

hello!! how are ya??

may I request a jinx x FEM/GN reader who is shorter than her and has cat-like features almost like lest from arcane s2?? thank you and happy holidays Maya :D

A/N: hello anon! I'm fine, how about you? I hope you're okay with this, it's not a full oneshot but a series of thoughts/headcanons.

Thank you for requesting, and I wish you happy holidays as well!❤ (not gonna lie, when I read that I squealed 'cause of happiness😂)

Not proofread!

Jinx was transfixed with you from the first time she met you.

She met you during one of her raids in the undercity, and you, coincidentally, were one of the people who were near when she attacked. The enforcers, as usual, had entered the city's grounds and wrecked havoc. She, on the other hand, decided to bring her trusted granades and gun. Silco had explicitly ordered her to stay away, but she's Jinx: she does what she want and today, all she wanted was to have a little fun and distract the voices from her head.

You were one of the people running away from the enforcers. Blood caked in the small layer of fur you had, eyes as tight as slits and panic on your features. And when she drove them away, too scared to face Silco after her last little stunt, you looked at her with pure adoration.

And Jinx? She just has to admit that she was smitten with you from the start. Not immediately, let's make that clear, but somehow you tugged at something inside of her and slowly reached out into her heart.

Jinx who was at first, despite her interests, a little freaked out from you. She doesn't want you to know that, but something about how you looked just made a little alarm bubble pop off above her head. Overtime though, she started to get used to you and with it, became more and more infatuated.

Jinx who, every day, runs her hands into your fur. She likes to warm her cold hands in it, consequentially making you freeze. She smiles devilishly when she does so, while you try to pry her away or run from her grasp, but alas, she's too strong. You're gonna warm her up for a while.

Jinx who is utterly amazed by your eyes, far more intense than any she's ever seen. She wouldn't admit it to you right away, but she gets cranky whenever trying to draw you because no matter what shades of colors she uses, she can never replicate your eye's colours quite right.

Jinx who plays with your ears. They're very sensitive so she is careful, but she likes to play with their tips, twirling and pinching them. She likes to run her fingers in the floof at the base. When you're stressed, she'll scratch the back of your ears, making you fall asleep above her.

Jinx who just loves to annoy you for your height. She didn't even thought that there could be people shorter than her; you know, besides Isha and the yordels.

Jinx who, despite all her good will, sometimes will be pretty oblivious to social standards. Cut her some slack! She has only ever had relationships with Silco and... Sevika, in years! So she'll blurt out stuff without really thinking too much about it. "Do you need to do drink some milk, kitty cat?" and she says that every time you're cranky. Oh she's so lucky you love her, or by now she'd be scratched all over.

Jinx who boops you! All. The. Time. Throughout the day, few are the moments she doesn't spend her time with her fingers on the tip of your nose. She has the habit of booping your nose with her thumb and then pressing a kiss on it. The second after doing so, she let's cute aggression get to her and she starts to bite your cheeks and squish them.

Jinx who is all happy and fidgety when you bring her your "preys". Those are, of course, just little things you found around the under city that made you think of her. Usually they are shards of the most beautiful blue glass, copper coloured gears or some new set of crayons you bought. On that note, maybe you were better off as a bird. She always gasps and marvels at each of your gifts, always shocked by how much you know her. "Kitty cat! These are amazing!" she rolls the blue and pink polished shards of glass in her hands, "I'm going to make a beautiful necklace out of this for you!".

Jinx who tries to not be mad when she finds your fur on her clothes. "Please" she begs you, "please, one pair of pants. Leave me one pair of pants!".

Jinx who falls asleep immediately ever since you've entered her life. Her nose is pressed on your torso, limbs tangled in you. The voices are gone, and you are so soft and warm, so nice and loving... And as she drifts to sleep, she knows her place is here with you.

[chocsra]

✧ "MY KIND OF WOMAN"

☆ summary ↺: finding out that your crush, chuuya nakahara's type is the complete opposite of you, his close friend.

☆ content ↺: small oneshot, fluff, highschool au, other mentions of bsd chars (+gin, tachihara, hirotsu & dazai)

☆ song ↺: my kind of woman by mac demarco <3

☆ w/c ↺: 2k

sometimes, you felt unsure of yourself.

your parents and the people around you assured that there will be someone—no, plenty of people that would love you and your personality. you were rowdy, energetic and outspoken. very honestly yelling about cringe phrases in public. loved ones around you such as friends, would often shush you or swear you're going to be the death of them.

no—you weren't really weird, just humourous, mischevious and cheeky. yes, sometimes, it affected your love life. nonetheless, the people in your life always said there is someone out there who wants someone exactly like you. you are the ideal in someone's heart.

it made you wonder if others accepted their partner's flaws because they love them, or love your significant other for their flaws.

"man, i don't know."

your eyes roll at the guy beside you, sweating in his basketball uniform and adjusting his sports headband as you two sat at the foot of the bleachers. "very helpful, chuuya."

he was wearing red.

his uniform was red, his hair a colour of copper—but in sunlight he could be mistaken for ginger. and he had this look in his eyes, a look you can't but admire. it was full of passion, but he always suppressed his emotions. chuuya never expressed his emotions well.

and that's how chuuya nakahara was, a complete idiot. you were talked your ear off back then by him geeking out over a girl he likes but can't seem to express it well. though you get teased by him for keeping your head deep in the books when it comes to romance, you found yourself comforting him at 3am when he can't get his mind off another girl, who probably broke his heart.

that was the past when you were both new to highschool, of course he wanted a girlfriend. which was especially difficult since he was best friends with the basketcase of the school—dazai osamu. well, even he had girls liking him, which was surprising since he's not exactly friends with this thing called deodorant.

"well, why would you see flaws in somebody you love and think it's something to be changed?" the boy inquires, chugging his waterbottle. "when you don't love them, flaws shouldn't matter, and when you do love them, their flaws should be part of the reason you do."

cute, you thought.

"that's how it should be!" — you pause, waving your hands all over the place trying to express yourself, "but not everyone thinks like that, y'know?"

he chuckles, "well, unlucky for you, some people's flaws can be unbearable." you shoot a glare at your friend, "the hell is 'unlucky for you' supposed to mean?"

chuuya snickers, "nothing." he looks up at the gym's ceiling, eyebrows scrunching when he sees the numerous dodgeballs stuck up there. how did that get up there? he thinks for a second. you wrinkle your nose in distaste, "—asshole." he quickly averts his gaze from the ceiling, to your scrunched up face.

"hey!"

after settling down from trying to flick each other's foreheads for an extended period of time, you squish your cheek onto your palm. "since we were on the topic of relationships, what is your type in a girl?" you ask casually, the usual hustle and bustle of basketball boys and their friends watching screaming in the gym. "my type in a girl?.."

he thinks for a second, finger tapping on his chin.

"i like elegant girls, girls who are super classy." he smirks, closing his eyes with confidence in his answer.

your eyes widen a bit,

—you were nothing like any of those things.

"well, my type is tall guys." you quickly retort, the redhead almost pouts, before refraining it to a scoff.

"chuuya, we need you on the court, man!" a firm call back runs from one of his teammates, "oh shit," the redhead quickly gets up, setting his waterbottle.

"see ya later, idiot." his lips curve up in a slight smile, ruffling your hair gently before returning to court.

this day sucked already.

"i've been good today.. i burnt 15 ants instead of the usual 30."

chuuya felt is eye twitch, standing near the incinerator with his childhood friend, dazai osamu. "i really fuckin' wish we weren't neighbours."

he remembers back then when his mother would tell the boy to play with his neighbour, dazai. unfortunately, he managed to stick with him forever and ever.

the brunette ruffles his wavy brown hair, crouching down to fiddle with a few new ants. "so what's new, midget?" chuuya almost swears he throws his lit lighter onto the kid right there, before scoffing, "don't call me that, bastard." the bandaged student looks at him blankly, as if he knew the redhead was bothered.

chuuya sighs, "okay, well, [y/n]'s been kinda off lately, and she won't tell me why."

dazai sighs, letting go of the ant he's been holding. "what did you do this time? if a woman is acting off, it's 100% your fault." the ginger scoffs in response, "well, our last conversation was at the bleachers. she asked me what my type was and i responded with elegant and classy girls, and she hasn't been the same since. she even said after her type was tall guys!"

the brunette smirks again, snickering devilshly for a good hot minute. "what the hell? cut it out, man. you're scarin' me!" chuuya protests, before dazai asks him:"you told [y/n] that you like elegant girls, and you have a crush on her?"

the redhead pauses and thinks about that statement for a while, "yeah, what's wrong with that?" he tilts his head in confusion. "you're so inconsiderate, chuuya." dazai hums, "[y/n]'s the polar opposite of elegant and classy."

it suddenly hits chuuya like a brick — but he still rummages to work against that statement.

"dude, you're wrong! she's got a super classy smile, and really elegant hands. even the way she moves is elegant. and—" dazai shoves a bandaged hand in his face, "please, i don't wanna hear it."

"if you want her to actually like you back, tell her that she's your type, and whatever you just said right now." dazai gets up, patting the dirt off his ass. "or, be like me, and invite her to a double suicide date."

chuuya closes his eyes in disdain, "kill yourself." the teenager smirks, "you don't have to tell me twice, slug."

"you don't understaaannndddd!!" you whine, playing the flute despondently at band practice. the girl beside you purses her lips, before writing in her pocket notebook — it's just his type. and i think you're elegant in your own way.

you pout at reading that, before sluggishly getting up. "thanks, gin..." you thank, before another redhead flashily enters band practice. "sorry for being late, mr. hirotsu, somethin' came up." your band teacher nods, before tachihara, an outspoken second year, strides up to you and gin.

"what's up with her?" the boy asks, before sitting down and fiddling with his trumphet. gin writes down — [y/n] found out chuuya's type was the complete opposite of her. tachihara looks for a moment, before laughing: "pfft.."

gin, a super pretty but androgynous second year then tells him to shut up by smacking his shoulder, earning a yelp from tachihara. "eek! well, listen, that guy is total shit anyway.. besides his super cool motorcycle, and killer smile, and his super cool motorcycle.. damn, wish i could get somethin' like that."

"shut up, tachihara." you mumble, as he scoffs dramatically, adjusting the bandage on his nose. "shouldn't you just continue talking to him? him having a type doesn't mean he doesn't like you." the redhead reasons, before reading the sheet music. "yeah but, now i think of all the girls he used to like.. and i'm nothing like them." you frown, slumping again onto the desk.

"y'know what they say.. the past is past, like how i thought gin was a boy." tachihara shrugs, frowning when he sees the middle finger she shoots at him, "i'm telling your brother you did that to me." he quips, before gin clears her throat, her silky raven hair tied back in a ponytail. "he'll beat your sorry ass." she says in the girliest voice possible.

tachihara yelps before your band teacher, mr. hirotsu reprimands you three for slacking off, frowning as you guys apologize, tachihara whispers: "point is, just talk to him." the boy says, as gin nods. "—unless you told him that you liked tall guys after, that would send him into cardiac arrest." he concluded, you gulped in slight guilt.

gin whispered in a gentle tone, "did you actually?.." you don't respond and frown even more.

"damn, you suck." tachihara finishes, yelping as the teacher yells at him again. "sorry, sir!"

it was another day, well, end of the day.

most students already went home, but you decided to stay at school to study for a bit. unbeknownst to your knowledge, it was raining heavily, and luckily for you, you had no umbrella. you sigh, jamming your earbuds in before walking out of the roof you covered yourself in.

except, upon your first step outside, you still felt no rain.

then, you saw chuuya's umbrella covering you. "hm?" you turn to him, surprised. "hey, you shouldn't get sick before my game, idiot." he chuckles as you two walked in the rain, under the same umbrella. "no way!" you smile.

an awkward silence came over you two. "uhm, about the other day," the boy starts off as you immediately flush — of course he noticed that you were upset. "hey! it's nothing serious, i—" chuuya shushes you by successfully flicking your head. you yelp, "ow.." rubbing your forehead. the boy swallows thickly, "i wanted to correct myself, actually."

raindrops. they moved at a steady pace, falling onto his black umbrella above you two, onto the pavement, and onto the cars passing by. you looked over at chuuya, who never followed dress-code, who had his button-up and tie neatly ironed. he strangely followed the dress-code perfectly today. "elegant and classy's not my type, actually."

you pause, thinking for a second. "then what is?"

"good question, actually." chuuya quips, adjusting his tie. he was completely confident when speaking, but you couldn't help but stare at the nervous quivering of his slender hands. "y'know that question you asked about flaws? it made me think that somewhere out there, every person is who someone has been exactly looking for. everyone in the world is someone's ideal type." he explained, inhaling sharply.

"—and i, uh," chuuya's words strained his throat, his cheeks are blazing and he has an odd coordination when walking. "you're my— ugh,"

cute, you thought, before internally slapping yourself.

"you're my kind of, mm, seriously?" the redhead stutters, rubbing two fingers against his temple, exhaling sharply. "you're my kind of girl, and—"

you felt a raindrop hit your cheek, it was cold and quick. but this feeling, it was slow and cherishing. warm, like a sunny day in a field of flowers, or another resting day of keeping your head in the books. after moping around for days, maybe tachihara was right. the whole ordeal was stupid, just like chuuya.

"—i like you too." you cut him off.

chuuya almost drops his umbrella in shock, as an abundance of rain water splashes onto you two. "shit!" he curses, feeling shitty for ruining the moment, but you laugh, extending out your hand to his, smiling brightly.

his lips curve into a smile, "okay, maybe this isn't that bad." chuuya quips, intertwining your fingers into his, before pressing a gentle kiss to the spot on your forehead he flicked earlier.

today, it felt like running through a field of flowers on a sunny day, even though it was raining and you got sick the next day. but it only felt that way because you had him next to you the entire time.

—in truth, he was your type too, and no, tall men were never your type.

✧ chocsra™

[gr4cier4cie]

girl that lewis snippet

i think like my brain broke cause

what

HEHHEHEEHEHE HIII MY LOVE 💫 THIS INSPIRED ME TO WRITE ANOTHER ONE HERE IT IS JUST FOR YOU I LOVE YOU SOOO MUCH MWAH: the rain wasn't supposed to happen.

not today. not here. not now, with you standing in the paddock wearing a rather... translucent shade of white. (it was stupid, really. you should've known better. should've checked the forecast this morning on your way out of lewis' bed. should have done anything besides trust the goddamn sky.)

your mascara was running (because of course). your shirt was soaked through (because why not?). and lewis hamilton was standing next to you as your eyes tracked the downpour, his hands intermittently clenching and relaxing near your lower hip. you could hear the slight shuffle of skin against skin, the whisper traveling accusatorily across the space between you. you swallowed thickly.

lewis watched the descent of your forgone mascara with something dark in his eyes. something hungry. (he always seemed to look at you like that. in briefing rooms. across the garage. in those moments when everyone else had gone home and the only sound in the air was rain against metal. hearts against cages of bone.)

"here." his voice was gravel wrapped in silk, the kind of sound that made your fingers itch to touch him. he shrugged off his jacket—the one worth more than your monthly salary, the one that had his name emblazoned across the back like a claim—and draped it over your shoulders. you shouldn't have let him.

but you did.

the scent of him made your skin prickle. made you wonder what it would taste like on your tongue. (wait a minute. you already knew that.) "i'm fine," you lied, the words tasting like copper on your tongue. it felt mysteriously like defeat.

his laugh was soft. the kind of sound that belonged in dark rooms made out of borrowed time. "you always are." his thumb caught a droplet of rain trailing down the side of your temple, and you found yourself unable to breathe. his skin was fever-hot, a stark reminder of jeddah and suzuka and every other bad decision you'd decided was worth making. his eyes had dropped to your mouth like gravity, and your fraying professionalism cracked like carbon fiber under pressure.

"thanks for the jacket," you whispered, swallowing, watching his eyes track the movement of your throat like he tracked racing telemetry—precise, hungry, calculating. he was so close you could count his eyelashes. one, two, three, four—

"you're welcome," he murmured, and only then did you realize he was brushing stray water droplets from your lashes, the tilt of your brow, the apple of your cheek. an excuse to touch you.

"you should—" his hand grazed the spot below your ear, and your words caught on a choked inhale. "we should—"

"careful," lewis huffed, thumb brushing your bottom lip, coming away stained red. (you'd done it on purpose, the lipstick. the mascara. the goddamn outfit. you were sure he knew.) "don't choke."

"someone might see us," you finally got out, palm closing around his wrist. your voice didn't sound like yours. too breathless. too wanting. too much like the sounds you'd made against his pillows last night, and the night before, and the night before. "this morning, when i—"

"left?"

you scoffed, taken aback by his interruption. "that's not—"

"ran away?"

"lewis." your breath ghosted over his lips, and you watched them part. longing you didn't even realize you had bubbled over, spilling into your bloodstream like heroin. your fingers dropped his hand, curled into his shirt without permission. "i didn't run."

his laugh was dark chocolate and champagne spray as he stepped away, leaving your skin burning. "sure you didn't."

(lewis hamilton had you on a leash. no matter how far you ran, you'd always come crawling right back.)

♡

I'M HAVING SO MUCH FUN WRITING FOR THIS WHAT 😵‍💫 love you always baby i've missed you MWAH from gracie always!!!

[magic-shop-stories]

Hi! I really love your writing. I wanted to see if it was possible to request something along the lines of a friends to lovers fic with Yoongi. Maybe some angst like he starts to get kind of distant so the reader thinks she’s being too annoying or clingy and thinks he wants to spend less time together so she starts to back off thinking it’ll make him happy. But it’s the opposite. He actually really really likes (loves) her and is scared and doesn’t know how to handle it or doesn’t want to mess up so he gets hurt that she starts distancing herself from him. Maybe an argument ensues ( it gets worse before it gets better). Have it end fluffy and happy. I’d really appreciate it! It’s okay if this isn’t your style. I’ll understand.

💌 Reply:

Hi love! 💜 Thank you so much for trusting me with this request. I loved your idea and it had me emotional from the start! I absolutely adore friends-to-lovers angst with Yoongi, especially when it’s layered with all that delicious tension and vulnerability. I tried to weave in plenty of hurt, misunderstandings, and emotional confrontations (plus a rooftop kiss in the rain), but don’t worry... it ends with all the softness and hope these two deserve. The members also meddle (because of course they do), and there’s a lot of quiet healing woven into the chaos, at least I think so. I hope this story feels as comfortin to read as it did to write! Let me know if you’d tweak anything... your feedback means the world. Thank you again!

PS.: I'm definitely NOT procrastinating and wrote this to avoid my uni assigments I have to hand in in a week - RIP

REQUEST NAME:

ECLIPSE

↳ Yoongi x F!Reader | Hurt/Comfort | Angst, Drama, (Slow Burn/ Romance) | BTS AU | Slice of Life

Rating: G (13)

Word Count: ~4.7k

Genre: Drama, BTS AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow-Burn Romance, Slice of Life

Warnings: themes of parental neglect, emotional abandonment, references to, self-harm, emotional distress (panic attacks, anxiety), strong language (occasional profanity), depictions of unresolved trauma and emotional repression, intense arguments, emotional confrontations, mild alcohol use

Pairing: Min Yoongi x F!Reader (Friends to Lovers)

Featuring: Yoongi as a guarded, introverted musician grappling with fear of vulnerability and abandonment, Reader as a resilient but scarred creative, haunted by childhood neglect and rejection, BTS Members as supportive yet meddling found family (Jin, Jungkook, Jimin, Namjoon, Taehyung, Hobi), Themes of healing through connection, the weight of silence, and learning to trust.

ECLIPSE

PROLOGUE: DAEGU, 2010

The bell above the door of Hwanhee Music jingles like a half-hearted apology as you duck inside, your older brother’s laughter still ringing in your ears. “You hum like a dying refrigerator,” he’d sneered, shoving you out of the car. The shop smells of rosin and dust, violins hanging like forgotten ghosts on the walls. You trail your fingers over a cracked cello case, its velvet lining frayed, when a voice slices through the quiet.

“You gonna stare all day,” he snaps, “or hand me the Phillips head?”

The boy under the desk is all sharp angles, elbows like knife-edges, ink-stained fingers, hair dyed a rebellious copper that clashes with his scowl. A gutted keyboard spills wires at his feet, and grease smears his cheekbone like war paint. You freeze, but his glare doesn’t waver.

“Screwdriver,” he barks, nodding to the toolbox.

You fumble for the tool, knees cracking against the linoleum as you kneel beside him. He snatches it without thanks, cursing under his breath as he jabs at the keyboard’s innards. Up close, he smells like solder and spearmint gum.

“You work here?” you venture.

“No. I break things for fun.” He doesn’t look up. “Why’re you here?”

“My brother’s a jerk.”

That earns a snort. “Join the club.”

You watch him work, the rhythm of his hands hypnotic, twisting screws, testing circuits. When the keyboard finally sputters to life, playing a distorted C-major scale, he leans back with a smirk. “Fixed it.”

“Sounds worse,” you say.

He barks a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Yeah. Perfect, isn’t it?”

He shoves a mixtape into your hand as you leave. GLOSS scrawled in red ink. That night, you press play in your closet, headphones swallowing the sound of your parents’ fight downstairs. The beats are raw, angry, alive. You fall asleep to the track on loop, your cheek against the cold floor.

You don’t know it yet, but this boy, Min Yoongi, 16, allergic to small talk and full of broken things, will become your anchor.

PRESENT

The hum of the air conditioner is the only sound in Yoongi’s studio, a sterile chill biting through the warmth of late summer. You hover in the doorway, balancing two paper cups of coffee, one black, decaf, with a sugar cube hidden beneath the saucer, the other a caramel macchiato you’d grabbed on impulse, though you know he’ll tease you for it.

He’s hunched over his desk, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard. The blue light of the screen casts shadows under his eyes, deeper than they were last week. A half-empty pack of menthol cigarettes sits beside a stack of lyric sheets, the top one scribbled with angry black strokes: “I built a fortress, but the walls keep crumbling.”

“Hey,” you say softly, setting his coffee down. “Track seven’s bridge… the metaphor about ‘winter bones.’ It’s brutal.”

He doesn’t look up. “It’s supposed to be.”

“But ‘embers’ could work better. Something that still burns, even in the cold.”

His jaw tenses. “Leave it.”

“Yoongi...”

“I said leave it.” The words crack like a whip.

You freeze. He’s snapped before, sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittery, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind, but never at you. Never with that edge of venom.

His fingers pause mid-keystroke. For a heartbeat, the room feels suspended, the air thick with unsaid things. Then he yanks his hoodie over his head, the fabric swallowing him whole, like a turtle retreating in its shell. “Go home. I’m busy.”

You go.

Seoul’s streets blur as you walk, the weight of his dismissal sharp in your ribs. You pass the convenience store where he once bought you banana milk after a panic attack, the alley where he taught you to ride his motorcycle, gripping his waist too tight as he laughed. “Relax, I won’t let you die.”

Your phone buzzes. A text from Jimin: 'Movie night? Bring Yoongi hyung’s grumpy ass.' You type 'Maybe next time' and pocket the phone.

The rain starts as you reach your apartment, a slow drizzle that soaks through your sweater. You’re fumbling with your keys when your brother’s name flashes on your screen.

“Dad’s in the hospital,” he says. “Minor heart attack. He’s fine, but… thought you should know.”

You stare at the puddle forming at your feet. “Did he ask for me?”

A pause. “You know how he is.”

“Right.” You hang up.

Inside, you curl on the couch, the Agust D mixtape he gave you a few years ago, one of the first, spinning quietly. The track skips where it’s been played too many times.

Friday’s samgyeopsal tradition dies with a text: Yoongi: 'Busy. Next week.'

No emojis. No apology. Just three words that carve a hollow in your chest.

You stare at the restaurant reservation on your phone, 'Table for 2, 7:30 PM' and delete it.

Jin texts an hour later: 'Yah, why’s Yoongi sulking in the studio? Did you two fight?'

You lie: 'Comeback stress.'

But you know better.

The next day, HYBE’s greenroom buzzes with laughter. Jungkook’s attempting handstands against the wall, Jimin filming while Taehyung heckles. You’re halfway through a story about Hobi’s failed attempt at baking bungeoppang when Yoongi walks in.

His eyes dart to you, then away.

“Hyung!” Jungkook grins, upside-down. “Bet you can’t do ten push-ups with Y/N on your back!”

“Pass,” Yoongi mutters, beelining for the coffee machine.

You force a laugh. “He’d collapse. Too many sleepless nights.”

It’s an old joke, one that usually earns an eye roll or a sarcastic “Yah, respect your elders.” Today, he stiffens, coffee sloshing over the rim of his mug.

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

The room falls silent. Jimin’s camera lowers.

“Hyung,...” Jungkook starts, but Yoongi’s already out the door.

Ten Years Earlier

You find him on the rooftop of his high school, knuckles split and bleeding.

“Fight?” you ask, sitting beside him.

“None of your business.”

“Your mom called me. Said you missed dinner.”

He scoffs. “She’s used to it.”

You pull a bandage from your bag, always carrying extras since the day he sliced his thumb fixing your bike. He lets you wrap his hand, hissing when the alcohol pad stings.

“Why do you do this?” you whisper.

He looks at you then, really looks, his eyes black and bottomless. “Why do you care?”

You don’t have an answer.

The distance becomes a chasm. He “forgets” your birthday, though you’ve spent every one together since you were 17.

You leave tteokbokki at his studio door. It sits untouched until the security guard throws it out.

At 3 a.m., you hear his motorcycle idle outside your apartment. The engine cuts, then roars away.

One night, drunk on soju and self-pity, you open the demo track he left on your laptop, Eclipse. The lyrics gut you:

“I’m a shadow chasing your light / Scared to touch, scared to fight / What if I’m just another ghost in your night?”

You play it on loop until dawn.

The final straw is a Thursday.

You’re in the HYBE archives, digging through old recordings for Namjoon’s documentary, when Yoongi walks in. He freezes at the sight of you, a file slipping from his hands.

“Need help?” you offer, kneeling to gather the papers.

“Don’t.” His voice is strained.

Your fingers brush his. He jerks back like burned.

“Yoongi, talk to me.”

He stares at the floor, jaw clenched. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice cracks. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Did I do something? Say something?”

He turns to leave.

“Coward,” you spit.

He stops, shoulders rigid.

“You’re scared,” you press. “Of what? Me?”

For a heartbeat, he hesitates. Then the door slams shut.

That night, you dig out the box under your bed, the one labeled Do Not Open in your mother’s handwriting. Inside: divorce papers, a dried corsage from your forgotten recital, and a note in her looping script: 'Sometimes love isn’t enough.'

You text Yoongi: 'I’ll stop bothering you.'

He doesn’t reply.

The silence between you and Yoongi hardens into something tangible, a wall built brick by brick with every unanswered text and averted glance. And you stop waiting.

No more coffee runs to his studio, no more scribbling notes in the margins of his lyrics. You delete his contact from your speed dial and mute the group chat buzzing with tour preparations. At Jimin’s birthday party, you lean into the chaos, laughing too loudly at Taehyung’s absurd jokes, letting Jungkook spin you in a drunken waltz until your heels skid on the polished floor.

“Careful,” Jungkook grins, steadying you as the room tilts. “Hyung’ll kill me if I break his favorite editor.”

You force a smile. “He won’t notice.”

But Yoongi does.

He watches from the balcony, cigarette cherry glowing like a warning light in the dark. The party’s golden haze doesn’t touch him here; he’s a shadow in a leather jacket, sleeves pushed up to reveal the faint scar on his forearm, the one he got teaching you to ride his motorbike years ago. His gaze lingers as Jungkook’s hand slides to your waist, his jaw tightening before he crushes the cigarette under his boot.

“He’s being weird,” Jimin murmurs, appearing at your side with a champagne flute. He nods toward the balcony, where Yoongi’s silhouette melts into the night. “Did you fight?”

“He’s just tired,” you lie, the words ash on your tongue.

Flashback — Age 19

The studio bathroom reeks of bleach and regret. You slump against the sink, your father’s latest text glaring from your cracked screen: 'Next time, kiddo. Promise.' The lie is a familiar ache, a bruise pressed too many times.

The door creaks open. Yoongi leans against the frame, arms crossed, hair mussed from hours of producing. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, wiping mascara streaks with a scratchy paper towel.

He tosses a crowbar onto the counter. “C’mon.”

You follow him to the storage closet, where an old keyboard gathers dust. “Break it,” he says, voice flat.

The first strike is hesitant. The second cracks the plastic. By the third, you’re screaming, tears mixing with sweat as shrapnel flies. Yoongi watches, arms crossed, until you collapse against the wall, breath ragged.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“No.”

He hands you a Coke, condensation slick on your palms. “Me neither. But it’s fun, right?”

You hiccup a laugh. “You’re weird.”

“Takes one to know one.”

He doesn’t ask why you were crying. Doesn’t have to. You both know the shape of absence too well.

Yoongi’s Studio, 3:14 AM

The cursor blinks mockingly on his screen, the lyrics to Eclipse taunting him.

“I’m a shadow afraid of my own light / You’re the sun I can’t let myself bite.”

Yoongi slams his laptop shut. The studio walls press in, cluttered with half-empty coffee cups and crumpled lyric sheets. His fingers drift to the light scar on his forearm, tracing it like a prayer. Coward, it snarls back.

He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over your name. The last text you sent 'I’ll stop bothering you' still burns. He types 'Don’t', deletes it. Types 'I’m sorry', then deletes that too.

The door creaks open.

“Hyung?” Jungkook pokes his head in, hair mussed from sleep. “You’ve been here for 18 hours. Eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.” Jungkook tosses a convenience store kimbap onto the desk. “Y/N texted me. Said you’re being… you again.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens. “She’s not my babysitter.”

“No,” Jungkook says quietly. “But she’s your friend. Or was.”

The door clicks shut. Yoongi stares at the uneaten kimbap, guilt curdling in his gut.

He notices everything.

The way you no longer linger in his doorway after dropping off coffee. How you laugh at Jungkook’s jokes but freeze when he enters the room. The hollow space where your notes used to clutter his desk.

It’s for the best, he tells himself.

Liar.

One night, he drives to your apartment, engine idling as he watches your shadow move behind the curtains. You’re humming, his melody, the one he wrote after your car crash. His hands shake on the steering wheel.

Go inside. Tell her.

But he’s sixteen again, staring at a closed door after you left Hwanhee Music for the first time after appearing out of nowhere.

He revs the engine and leaves.

The second intervention comes on a Tuesday.

Jin corners him in the practice room, arms crossed. “Fix this.”

“Fix what?” Yoongi dodges, pounding the punching bag.

“You know what. She’s miserable. You’re miserable. Even the staff’s placing bets on how long you’ll last.”

“Not your business.”

“It is when you’re both too stubborn to...”

The bag swings violently as Yoongi lands a final blow. “Back. Off.”

Jin doesn’t flinch. “You’re scared. That’s fine. But don’t take her down with you.”

That night he plays Eclipse on loop, the bass vibrating in his teeth.

“What if I’m just another ghost in your night?”

His fingers slip, hitting a dissonant chord. He slams the piano lid, breath ragged. The room spins, sleep deprivation, regret, the phantom weight of your absence.

On the floor, his sketchbook lies open to a page he’d tried to tear out: your face, half-scribbled, half-erased. He traces the lines, charcoal smudging under his thumb.

You’re home. And I don’t know how to keep things that matter.

His phone buzzes. A notification from your shared cloud album, a photo of you both at last year’s Christmas party, his arm slung over your shoulders, caught mid-laugh.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tear hits the sketchbook, blurring your smile.

He’s at your door at 5:03 AM, fist raised to knock.

The night air bites, but his palms sweat. Through the peephole, he sees the faint glow of your TV, Howl’s Moving Castle paused, your favorite. He knows you’re curled on the couch in that ridiculous Totoro onesie, popcorn abandoned, asleep by now.

Tell her. Tell her.

His phone lights up with a text from his manager: 'Flight to L.A. in 3 hours. Pack.'

He steps back.

The elevator dings.

He’s gone.

Again.

And you?

You stop answering calls.

Your apartment becomes a museum of half-lived moments, takeout containers stacked like monuments, lyric sheets buried under unopened bills, the Agust D mixtape spinning endlessly on your turntable. The world narrows to the glow of your laptop screen, where you edit track after track for other artists, burying yourself in their stories to avoid your own.

One night, you find an old voicemail from your mother. “Sweetheart, call me when you can. Your father wants to...” You delete it.

The past claws back anyway.

Flashback — Age 9

The school auditorium is cold, your ballet shoes pinching as you wait in the wings. “Parents only,” the teacher had said. “No siblings.”

Your brother sits in the front row anyway, smirking as your parents’ seats stay empty. You pirouette, stumble, and the snickers cut deeper than the splinter in your toe. Afterward, your brother tosses you a candy bar. “Don’t cry. They’re not worth it.”

You eat it in the bathroom, chocolate mixing with salt.

On day three after Yoongi flew off, Jimin corners you in HYBE’s dressing room, his reflection sharp in the vanity lights.

“When’s the last time you slept?” he asks, softer than he needs to.

You smudge concealer under your eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He spins your chair to face him. “Yoongi hyung’s a mess. You’re a mess. Talk to each other.”

Your laugh is brittle. “There’s nothing to say.”

He grips your shoulders, voice pleading. “You’re family. Let us help.”

You slip away, his touch burning like a brand.

Your old habits return like old lovers; familiar and destructive.

You skip meals, survive on iced coffee and nicotine gum. At 2 a.m., you scrub your kitchen floor until your knees bleed, just to feel something else. One night, you dig out the pocketknife from your brother’s old jacket, the blade dull from years of disuse.

Just once, you tell yourself. Just to remember.

The sting is a relief.

However they still notice, of course they do.

Namjoon finds you in the archives, buried under decade-old concert tapes.

“Jimin’s worried,” he says, leaning against a shelf. “I’m worried.”

You don’t look up. “I’m working.”

“You’re hiding.”

The tape in your hand trembles, 2015: Boy in Luv. Yoongi’s voice crackles through the speakers, raw and young. “Why’s love gotta hurt so much?”

Namjoon crouches beside you. “You know what he told me once? That loving someone feels like standing in a thunderstorm with a metal rod. You want to drop it, but you’re scared to let go.”

You press stop. The silence is suffocating.

“He’s scared,” Namjoon says. “But so are you.”

What you didnt know was that Yoongi didn't fly to LA.

He watches you from afar, sees you slip into the studio at dawn, hoodie swallowing your frame. Sees you flinch when Jungkook offers you his jacket. Sees the bandage on your wrist when you reach for a coffee cup.

One night, he follows you to the rooftop, your silhouette haloed by city lights. You don’t turn around.

“Go away,” you say, deep down you had felt his presence, but couldn't trust yourself anymore.

He doesn’t, but when both of you stay silent, you leave.

The panic attack hits you during a staff meeting, it had only been a matter of time.

Someone mentions Eclipse. Your chest tightens, air thinning to razorblades. You stumble into the hallway, clawing at your collar, and collapse against the wall.

Memories flood, your mother’s locked door, Yoongi’s studio light flicking off, your father’s empty seat in the auditorium. Not enough. Never enough.

“Breathe,” a voice rasps.

Yoongi kneels beside you, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch. You slap him away.

“Don’t,” you choke. “You don’t get to care now.”

He recoils. And you run.

That night, you blast Eclipse until your neighbors pound on the wall. The lyrics twist into a taunt:

“I’m a shadow afraid of my own light / You’re the sun I can’t let myself bite.”

You smash the mixtape against the wall. The plastic cracks, but the music keeps playing.

You ran off, couldn't hear it anymore...

The rain fell in sheets, drowning the city in a haze of silver and shadow. You stood on the rooftop’s edge, fingers numb where they gripped the guardrail, the storm swallowing the sound of your tears. The cold bit through your clothes, but you welcomed it, a distraction from the ache in your chest, the raw sting beneath your bandages. You didn’t hear the door slam open behind you, didn’t register the footsteps until his voice cut through the downpour.

“Get down,” Yoongi demanded, breathless, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. His eyes flickered to your trembling hands, the soaked sleeves clinging to your arms.

You laughed, hollow and cracked. “Why? You’ve made it clear you don’t want me here.”

He stepped closer, boots splashing through puddles. “You’re going to freeze.”

“And you’ll what? Care?” You whirled on him, voice rising above the storm. “You ignored me for weeks! You let me think...”

“I know!” The words ripped from him, raw and ragged. “I know what I did. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix this!” You gestured to your wrist, the bandage peeking beneath your sleeve. “You don’t get to disappear and then show up acting like you care!”

His face crumpled. “I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

“From me!” He shouted it, fists clenched at his sides, rain streaking down his face like tears. “From this...this curse of ruining everything I touch! My dad thought I wasn’t enough. My mom cried herself to sleep for years. And you...you...” His voice broke. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I couldn’t watch you realize I’m not worth it.”

The confession hung between you, fragile as the silence after a thunderclap. You stared at him, chest heaving, the truth of his words slicing through the anger.

“You don’t get to decide what I’m worth,” you whispered.

He closed the distance in two strides, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing away rain and tears. “I’m selfish,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m scared. But I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

His lips found yours, a collision of desperation and regret, salt and rain and years of unspoken words. You clung to him, fists tangled in his soaked hoodie, as the storm raged around you. When he pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, his breath shuddered. “Let me fix this. Please.”

He carried you to his apartment, your face buried in the curve of his neck, his grip unyielding. The elevator ride was silent, his heartbeat a frantic drum against your ear. Inside, he peeled off your drenched clothes with clinical care, hands lingering over fresh scars before bundling you into the shower. You stood under the scalding water, trembling as he washed your hair, his touch achingly gentle.

“This one’s infected,” he muttered later, kneeling on the bathroom floor, antiseptic and gauze scattered around him. His lips brushed the bandage on your wrist after he secured it, a silent vow. He tugged his old Agust D hoodie over your head, the fabric swallowing you whole, and microwaved a sad packet of instant jjajangmyeon, the only edible thing in his barren fridge.

You ate in silence at his kitchen table, legs pressed together beneath it, his gaze never leaving you.

When he finally spoke, it was to the darkness of his bedroom, your bodies inches apart on the mattress. “I wrote Eclipse about you,” he admitted, voice rough. “About how you’re… light. And I’m just the shadow chasing it.”

You turned toward him, tracing the scar on his forearm. “You’re not a shadow.”

He shifted, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Then what am I?”

“Mine.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, hands framing your face like you were something fragile, something sacred. You finally fell asleep tangled in his sheets, his arm a steady weight across your waist, nose buried in your hair.

Morning came soft and golden, the storm replaced by a quiet drizzle. You woke to his fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder, his voice sleep-roughened. “Stay,” he murmured into your skin. “Please.”

You turned, meeting his gaze; wide, vulnerable, stripped of armor. “What if we mess up again?”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the scar on your wrist. “We will. But I’ll fix it. Every time.”

EPILOGUE: Two Years Later

The soft hum of the studio’s air conditioner blended with the faint click of Yoongi’s mouse as he adjusted the final levels on his latest track. You sat cross-legged on the leather couch behind him, a stack of lyric sheets in your lap, red pen circling a line that felt too sharp, too raw. Outside, Seoul glittered under a midsummer moon, the city alive in a way that once felt suffocating but now pulsed with a rhythm you’d learned to dance to.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said, tossing a crumpled page at his head.

He caught it without turning, smirk audible in his voice. “Says the woman who rewrote the bridge six times.”

“It needed to breathe.”

“It needed to stop being micromanaged.” He spun his chair around, eyes crinkling as he took in your mock glare. The studio lights caught the silver hoop in his ear, the one you’d bought him last Christmas after he’d drunkenly admitted he’d always wanted to try piercings but was “too old for rebellion.”

You stood, padding over to his desk in socked feet, his socks, stolen from his drawer that morning, and leaned against the edge. “Play it again.”

He groaned but obeyed, fingers flying across the keyboard. The track bloomed through the speakers, a haunting blend of piano and synth that made your chest ache. It was different from his older work, softer at the edges, less like a scream and more like a confession.

“See?” you murmured, nodding to the screen. “The second verse. You softened the bass. It’s better.”

He tugged you onto his lap, chin resting on your shoulder. “Only because you bullied me into it.”

You elbowed him lightly, but his arms tightened around your waist, lips brushing the scar on your wrist, the one he still kissed every morning as if it were a promise.

The door creaked open. “Am I interrupting?”

You glanced up to find Jin leaning against the frame, eyebrow arched, a paper bag of mandu steaming in his hand.

“Yes,” Yoongi deadpanned, but he released you anyway, swiping a dumpling from the bag.

“You’re welcome,” Jin said, flopping onto the couch. “By the way, Jungkook’s betting you two will adopt a dog by Christmas. I’ve got 500,000 won riding on this, so hurry up.”

You snorted. “Tell him to mind his own business.”

“Impossible. You’re his favorite drama.”

Later, back at your shared apartment, a sunlit loft cluttered with vinyl records, half-finished paintings, and the Agust D mixtape framed above the turntable, you sprawled on the rug while Yoongi cooked. Or, more accurately, burned.

“You’re supposed to stir it,” you called from the floor, flipping through a photo album Jimin had made for your last anniversary.

“I am stirring it,” he grumbled, smoke curling from the pan.

You glanced up. “That’s a fire, Yoongi.”

“It’s caramelized.”

You abandoned the album, sidling up behind him to wrap your arms around his waist. “Let me.”

He huffed but handed over the spatula, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Show-off.”

The kitchen filled with the scent of garlic and soy sauce, the sizzle of the pan harmonizing with the jazz record spinning in the background. You hummed along, hips swaying, until his hands settled on your waist, his chin hooking over your shoulder.

“Remember the first time you tried to teach me to dance?” he murmured.

“You stepped on my toes.”

“You cursed in three languages.”

You laughed, flipping the kimchi pancake with a flourish. “And now look at you. Practically a pro.”

He spun you around, fingers lacing with yours, and guided you into a slow sway. “Only because you’re stubborn.”

You rested your head against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. “And you’re a slow learner.”

He kissed your hair. “Worth it.”

The nightmares still came, sometimes.

You’d wake gasping, sheets tangled, the ghost of your father’s empty seat in the auditorium clawing at your throat. But now, Yoongi was there, warm and sleep-rumpled, voice gravelly as he pulled you into his arms.

“Tell me,” he’d say, fingers tracing circles on your back.

So you did. About the recital, the locked door, the way silence felt like rejection. He’d listen, lips pressed to your hair, until your breathing slowed.

And when his demons surfaced, nights he’d pace the balcony, cigarette unlit between his fingers, staring at the city like it might swallow him whole, you’d join him, your hand finding his.

“Talk,” you’d say.

And he would. About his father, the mixtapes he made to drown out his mother’s tears, the fear that love was a currency he’d never earned.

You’d kiss his knuckles, the light scar, the pulse at his wrist. “You’re stuck with me,” you’d whisper. “Better get used to it.”

On your anniversary, he took you back to Daegu.

The music shop was gone, replaced by a sleek café, but the rooftop where you’d first kissed still overlooked the tangled streets. He handed you a new mixtape, Eclipse (Final Version), and pressed play on a beat-up portable speaker.

The track was familiar yet transformed, the old anger tempered by strings, your laughter sampled into the bridge.

“You kept it,” you said, voice thick.

He shrugged, but his ears burned pink. “Had to finish what we started.”

You kissed him there, under the same stormy sky that had once felt like an ending, now a beginning.

That night, curled in the loft’s window seat with his hoodie swallowing your frame, you watched the city lights flicker like distant stars. Yoongi’s head rested in your lap, his breathing even, fingers absently strumming the guitar across his knees.

“You’re humming again,” he said, eyes closed.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He smiled, soft and rare. “I like it.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, the melody spilling into the quiet. Outside, the rain began to fall, gentle, this time, a rhythm you no longer feared.

[mawrmyy]

Gold Dust Woman || Rupert Campbell-Black x Taggie O'Hara

wc: 2.5k

warnings: 18+ minors dni !! this is basically just porn but they're so in love, oral f!receiving, fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up y'all!!), nicknames (Angel, Sweetheart), Rupert is WHIPPED

a/n: HI!! this is my first time publishing something in forever, and my first time EVER publishing something like this!! I'm trying not to be nervous about how well this does because honestly I had so much fun writing it! Hope you enjoy <3

link to this work on ao3

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

“I can’t breathe without you,” Is what he’d told her, before kissing her until the both of them were breathless. 

One hand around her waist, resting on her hip bone, while the other cups the back of her head tenderly. He’s licking into her mouth, a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and every ounce of desire that has piled up throughout these long months of watching from afar. 

Rupert is a bad man. He knows it. He’d promised Declan that he wouldn’t touch Taggie, and at the time he really did plan to keep that promise. 

But Christ, Taggie, with her copper hair and her golden freckles, with the loveliest goddamn smile he’s ever seen. Who’s lips he just found out taste like cherries and sunshine and yeah, he’s fucked. Absolutely, irrevocably fucked.

She’s the first to break away, gasping for air. Rupert rests his forehead against hers, praying she doesn’t notice the slight tremble in his hands where they rest upon her body. 

“Come over,” he whispers against her lips. “When the party’s over, I mean. If you’d like.” He can see a flash of hesitation in Taggie’s eyes, but just as quickly as it came, it’s replaced with something else, something deliciously sinful. 

“Okay,” She tells him with a soft smile on her kiss-bruised lips. Rupert huffs out a relieved laugh before ducking down to kiss her once again, this time slower and sweeter, savoring the taste of her on his lips.

There are footsteps nearby, faint voices growing louder, and Taggie jumps away from him, straightening out her blue dress. He immediately misses the warmth of her in his hands, the way her body felt beneath his fingertips, internally cursing the bastards who dare disrupt this moment. He clears his throat, trying to act as natural as possible, picking up a bottle of wine from the table and reading the list of ingredients. 

Taggie washes her hands in the kitchen sink, splashing cold water on her face and steadying herself against the marble counter.

Charles walks into the kitchen with Caitlin beside him, talking about God knows what. They stop rambling when they notice Rupert and Taggie’s decidedly unnatural stances.

“We were just–” Caitlin says after an uncomfortably long pause, bursting into a fit of giggles before she can finish her sentence. 

“Just grabbing a glass of water!” Charles finishes for her, barely keeping his composure as a smile threatens to break out on his lips. Caitlin gives her sister a double thumbs-up before her and Charles run out of the kitchen, laughing loudly. 

Taggie is looking down at her hands when Rupert glances back at her. He can make out the bright red flush of her cheeks, her eyes wide with embarrassment. He can’t help but smile to himself at the sight of her– the way she’s practically glowing under the warm yellow fluorescents, how she looks like the sun itself. 

He comes to stand behind her, hands finding her waist once again like a moth to flame. His fingers move to brush her hair to one side and he presses his lips to the back of her neck, lingering there for a long moment before whispering into her skin.

“I’ll be waiting, Angel,” he says, before disappearing back into the crowd in the other room. 

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

He’s a bad man, is what Rupert thinks to himself as he paces around his sitting room, mindlessly biting his thumb. Of course Taggie wouldn’t come. What was he thinking to himself, asking that of her? She must’ve come to her senses. After all, he’s rotten, tainted, old. Old enough to be her father. Christ, he’s a bloody idiot.

A knock at the door shakes Rupert from his thoughts. He rushes towards it, swinging it open quickly. The second he sees her standing under the doorframe his heart warms, all of those dreadful thoughts he’d had just a moment before dissolving immediately. 

“I’m so sorry,” Taggie apologizes breathlessly. “Daddy drank too much and insisted he wasn’t tired, he just wouldn’t go to sleep. And Caitlin, she kept nagging me, asking where I was going and I just couldn’t get her to stop,” She keeps yammering, and Rupert just smiles, eyes scanning her face, her freckles, her lips. 

“Taggie–” He tries to interrupt, but she keeps blabbering out apologies. Saying something about having to clean the kitchen. His smile grows wider, fonder, on his lips. 

“Tag.” Rupert says, firmer this time. She finally pauses, catching her breath and looking up at him. “It’s alright,” He assures her softly, before cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand. She melts against him, nestling into his warm skin. 

They stay like that for a moment, gazing into the other’s eyes, relishing this fleeting feeling for as long as they can.

Taggie is the first to lean in, tilting her face up and rising to her tiptoes. Rupert catches her lips with his, kissing her softly. She tastes so sweet, like citrus fruit and everything he’s ever wanted. 

The kiss is gentle and tender and it’s not enough. Taggie’s fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer to her. His hands greedily roam all over her body— neck, chest, back, hips, arse. She’s still wearing the same blue dress she wore at the party, and Rupert feels absolutely feral, gripping the back of her thighs hungrily.

He drinks her down like smooth whiskey. He can’t seem to get enough.

Taggie breaks away from him for just a moment.

“Bedroom,” She gasps out breathlessly, before wasting no time and kissing him again. The two of them scramble to his room, laughing into the other’s mouth at every item of furniture that they knock down on their way there. 

Rupert pauses when they reach the doorway, taking the time to kiss her properly, devouring her like a man starved. Still, there’s something sweet about it, how he takes her bottom lip between his teeth, the curl of her fingers on the nape of his neck. 

With a surge of confidence, Taggie unbuttons and shucks Rupert’s trousers and pants down, planting her hands on his chest and guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. She blushes furiously as she toys with the buttons of his shirt, her lovely fingers trembling just slightly. He smiles fondly at her, and she smiles back nervously. 

A single, reckless thought crosses his mind—

Mine.

Taggie pushes Rupert’s shirt over his shoulders, fingers tracing over the defined muscles of his upper back. He melts like butter in her hands, letting her mould him to her liking. 

With Taggie standing between his thighs and his clothes discarded somewhere on the tiled flooring, he hesitantly runs the pads of his fingers over the line of her collar bone, following its trail to the sleeves of her dress. He looks at her, waiting for approval. The decisive nod of her head is all the confirmation he needs before slipping her dress down her body. 

She’s standing almost completely bare before him, cheeks flushed rosy-pink, and he’s sure he looks like a disheveled mess because fuck, she’s heavenly. The northern lights, the stars, every wonder of the world pales in comparison to the sight before him.  

“Oh, Tag,” He says breathlessly, before pulling her down and kissing her hungrily. His cock is impossibly hard by now, and Taggie takes notice, stroking him lightly. Rupert groans as soon as she touches him, and he can feel her smile against his lips. 

She stands up straight, guiding him to sit against the headboard of the bed. He complies easily, but not before taking her with him, tugging her into his lap so that her thighs straddle his middle. She laughs at his eagerness, and the sound of it is like windchimes, like goddamn music to his ears. He kisses her neck, right below her jaw, and she lets out a content sigh, her eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

He guides Taggie’s hips with his large hands, rocking her back and forth on his lap. He can feel how wet she is through her plain cotton panties. Her small, breathy moans make him see stars.  

Normally, he’d take his time. Tease her until her lashes are dewy from tears, make her fall apart with his fingers, his tongue, before finally sinking into her. But tonight he’s impatient. He’s just a man, is what he’d like to say, but honestly he’s not so sure if that’s true. Tonight he feels so animalistic, so feral for her, that he’s not so sure he’s even human anymore. After all these months of secret glances and fisting his cock late at night to the thought of her– he needs her now.

In one swift motion, Rupert rips her panties off, tossing the torn fabric to the floor. Taggie lets out a small gasp, and he can’t help the smug grin that curls onto his lips. She leans down and kisses it right off, still slowly grinding her wet cunt over his dick. 

It seems he’s not the only one that’s desperate tonight, because moments later she takes him into her hand and lines his tip with her weeping hole. She sinks down onto him slowly, panting out shallow breaths, and Rupert’s fingers dig into the fat of her hips because Jesus Christ, if he doesn’t steady himself he’s going to come right now.

And she looks like an angel on top of him, glowing under the pale moonlight, and he wishes he could worship her like she deserves, but right now he’s just desperately focused on not blowing his load. 

His fingers travel from her navel up her soft tummy, cupping her perfect tits, before descending once again and drawing slow circles on her clit. Her eyes squeeze shut at the delicious pressure, and Rupert swears he’s positively drunk on her. She's so tight around him, so wet and warm, and she looks like sunshine incarnated and feels like everything he’s been missing. 

“Tag–” He rasps out, “Fuck, please– slow down, sweetheart–” but she can’t hear him, her ears ringing at the overwhelming pleasure when he hits that sensitive spot inside her. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of anything other than how it feels like she was made for him. 

But he fails.

He comes with a guttural groan, painting the inside of her cunt white. He covers his eyes with his hands out of embarrassment as he feels Taggie’s movements come to a sudden stop above him. The room goes completely silent for a few moments. 

When he looks at her, she’s staring at him with her eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Did you just–” She starts, and Rupert grunts shamefully.

“Shit, Tag, I’m sorry,” He apologizes softly. Her expression remains the same, and Rupert wants to bash his head into the nearest wall. “I’ve never– this has never happened before. I don’t know what– fuck, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,”

Rupert may be an asshole, but even he is well-mannered enough to make a woman come at least twice before he even lets himself think about his own pleasure. He expects Taggie to be angry. Perhaps a slap to his cheek. God knows he deserves to have some sense slapped into him. 

His heart tightens at the sound of soft laughter above him. She’s giggling, pink lips parted and eyes sparkling brightly. She leans down to kiss him, and he lets her, cupping the back of her head in the palm of his hand.

“You’re not mad?” He asks when they part, and her brow furrows as if he’s just asked her whether or not pigs can fly.

“Of course not,” She replies, so sweetly and earnestly that he has to physically hold back from saying those three words he’s been itching to tell her for a long while now.

“Besides,” She continues, the corners of her lips turning slightly up. “I think it’s kind of sexy, how you can’t resist,”

Rupert huffs out a laugh, quickly maneuvering the two of them so that he lays on top of her. Taggie squeals at the sudden movement, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Good,” He tells her, trailing kisses down her body until he’s sitting on his knees between her legs, “Because you can hardly blame me, Angel.” He takes her foot in his hands, placing the heel to rest on his shoulder and pressing a tender kiss to the ankle. He continues kissing and nipping up her thigh, higher and higher and—

“Oh!” Taggie says with a gasp, just as he nearly reaches her core. Rupert halts his movements.

“You don’t have to– I mean, no one’s ever done that for me before–” She mumbles, and he smiles, cutting her off by pressing a feather-light kiss to her inner thigh.

“Idiots,” He mutters into her skin, souring at the thought of Ralphie and how he most likely never considered Taggie’s pleasure before his own, if at all. 

“Please,” He says. “Let me make it up to you, Angel,” He scans her face, waiting for her reaction. She lets out a shaky breath, before giving him a single nod. 

He wastes no time, flattening his tongue and licking a long stripe from her pussy up to her clit. She lets out a loud moan, her hands flying to his hair. She tugs at his dark locks in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer. Rupert loses himself in her, lapping at her sweet juices. He looks up at Taggie from where he is between her thighs, watching her freckled chest rise in fall with every gasp of air she breathes. 

Her whines are the sweetest poison, and he hums into her wet heat, completely surrounded by her. His large hand snakes around her to squeeze the soft flesh of her arse, and he can feel her breath hitching, cunt tightening around his tongue. He presses a kiss to her clit, pushing two long fingers into her entrance and curling them inside her, searching for the spot that’ll make her scream. 

Taggie’s getting close. He can feel it with the way she clenches around him. Her moans get breathier, shorter, before she goes completely silent and still, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Rupert climbs up the bed to kiss her, still pumping his fingers in and out of her, letting her ride out her high. She kisses him back with fervour, tasting herself on his tongue, and he groans into her mouth.

He wraps his arms around her, and she places a soft kiss to the center of his chest before resting her cheek there. 

She feels like home, he thinks to himself over and over.

“Don’t get up tomorrow,” he tells her as he mindlessly traces patterns with his thumb on her bare back. She hums noncommittally in response, her own hand resting on his hip.

“I mean it, Tag,” He tells her. “Stay with me. Let me make you pancakes,” She’s quiet for a long moment, contemplating.

“Alright,” She says finally, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “As long as they’re not burnt,” She adds. 

He snorts at the cheeky comment.

“No promises, Angel.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Hope you enjoyed this little drabble! I'm literally so obsessed with these two it's not even funny 😵‍💫

[sashayed]

Diving into the Wreck

First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.

Adrienne Rich Diving Into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972, 1973

[coochiequeens]

Women’s history just became even richer

By Marco Margaritoff | Edited By John Kuroski

Published March 14, 2025

Items found with the skeletons — including iron arrowheads, horse harnesses, and a broken vase — helped researchers trace back the burial to the 4th century B.C.

Institute of Archaeology RASThe oldest woman found in the grave wore a calathos, which is a ceremonial headdress.

Archaeologists in Russia have uncovered the remains of four Amazon women of different ages buried in the same tomb. According to CNN, this is the first time in history that such a discovery has been made.

Published by the Institute of Archaeology of the Russian Academy of Sciences, a new study estimates one girl to have been between 12 and 13 years old when she died. The second was aged 20 to 29, the third was 25 to 35, and the fourth was 45 to 50.

The tomb itself was built from clay and oak blocks.

Items discovered at the burial site — iron arrowheads, a bird-shaped hook made of iron, horse harnesses, harness hooks, iron knives, animal bones, various vessels, and a broken, black vase — all helped researchers estimate the burial to have taken place during the 4th century B.C.

This suggests the warrior women were Scythians, who were ancient warriors living throughout Siberia between 200 and 900 B.C. Female Scythians, in turn, were Amazons — and the inspiration behind Wonder Woman.

The more magical elements, of course, have yet to be discovered.

Institute of Archaeology RASThe excavation took place at a cemetery called Devitsa V, which contains 19 burial mounds.

This remarkable find took place at a cemetery in the Voronezh region of Russia called Devitsa V. The site is comprised of 19 burial mounds, and has been studied since 2010. It took an entire decade, however, for the Don Archaeological Society of the RAS to excavate these specific remains.

“The Amazons are common Scythian phenomenon and during the last decade our expedition has discovered approximately 11 burials of young armed women,” said Valerii Guliaev, head of the expedition.

“Separate barrows were filled for them and all burial rites which were usually made for men were done for them.”

The ancient personal items of this stunning discovery carry with them priceless ancient information that clarifies just how these people lived, millennia ago. While the girl and one of the young woman’s graves were ravaged by robbers in ancient times, the other graves were left undisturbed.

One young woman was buried as a “horseman,” which meant her body underwent a rather macabre tradition that includes cutting the tendons in the legs. Underneath her left shoulder was a bronze mirror, two spears, and a glass bead bracelet along her left side and hand.

At her legs laid a one-armed drinking cup and a dish adorned with a black lacquer design.

In addition to the headdress, many other priceless artifacts were also found.

The average life expectancy for a Scythian woman was between 30 and 35, making the oldest woman’s age at the time of death impressive enough. The calathos, or ceremonial headdress adorned with floral ornamented plates and pendants, however, was just as surprising.

The jewelry she was buried with was 65 to 70 percent gold, with copper, silver, and iron comprising the rest. Scythian jewelry has previously been found to contain far less gold. She was also buried with an iron knife that was wrapped in fabric, and an iron arrowhead with a forked end.

The researchers explained that the headdress was shocking to find, as so few of them even survived the burial itself, not to mention the years before people dug them up. Archaeologists typically find mere fragments of these calathos, rather than entirely preserved ones.

Besides the intriguing, ancient objects found in the middle of Siberia, the fact that no one has ever found for Amazons buried in the same grave before makes this rather exciting. There’s no telling what researchers will find in the remaining mounds at Devitsa V.

After learning about the ancient Scythian Amazon warrior women being uncovered in Russia, read about the Slavic warrior woman buried with weaponry in a Danish Viking cemetery. Then, learn about the ancient warrior woman unearthed in Armenia who may have been an Amazon.

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 12)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 4,3k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

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Days later

The Colosseum hums with the fevered energy of tens of thousands of souls, each voice adding to the deafening storm of sound that crashes against my ears. The scent of bodies pressed together, of spilled wine and perfumed oils. My fingers brush the silk of my stola, embroidered so finely it feels like liquid against my skin, yet the weight of it, the opulence, suffocates me. It is not my own. It belongs to them. At that moment, Geta stands at the edge of the balcony, wrapped in white and gold, the embodiment of imperial grace. The sun catches in his hair, turning the curls to bright copper, and the laurel on his head gleams with the weight of power. Below him, the Colosseum swells with voices, a sea of hands lifted toward their emperor, their devotion so easily given in exchange for the promise of bloodshed.

I stay beside him, on his left, my movements careful, deliberate. Around me, those granted the honor of these seats settle into place, such as Lucilla, draped in silks so sheer they are almost scandalous, offers me a brief glance, a flicker of acknowledgment before she returns to her idle conversation with her husband: General Acacius. The soldier’s face remains unreadable, his scars catching the light like old battle relics. Behind us, with Acacius and Lucilla, Macrinus watches everything with the sharp eyes of a man who trusts no one.

The Colosseum’s arena, transformed into a vast lake, glistens beneath the sun. The sight steals my breath. A feat of engineering so impossible it feels like magic. An entire battlefield drowned, turned into an ocean fit for war. On its surface, miniature warships rock with the motion of the water, the men aboard them nothing more than figures waiting to be swallowed by history.

The people chant, hungry for the violence they have been promised. They don’t care for the spectacle of the water itself. They don’t marvel at its creation. They only want to see it turn red.

A pulse beats at the base of my throat. How can such cruel game exists? Why people are so entranced? Life is too precious and none of them seem to realize this…

“You’re amazed.”

Caracalla’s voice, smooth and dark, cuts through the noise like a blade.

I refuse to turn my head, to grant him the satisfaction of my attention.

“How could I not be?” I half lie.

Of course, the Colosseum, filled with water, is splendid. However, I hate the idea of war so close to me…

His laughter barely carries, a low, amused thing meant only for me. He leans in, his breath warm against my temple.

“There are sharks in the water.”

The words crawl down my spine. I blink and focus on the shadows beneath the surface. They glide with unnatural ease, dark shapes slipping between the wavering reflections of the ships. A sharp taste rises in my throat.

“You’re lying…”

Caracalla shifts closer. I can feel the heat of him, the power coiled beneath his skin like a lion at rest.

“Am I?” He chuckles, his gold tooth shining under the sun.

I don’t know. That’s what unsettles me most.

A trumpet sounds, slicing through the chaos, and the entire Colosseum stills. Quickly, I sit on my eat, next to Geta’s one. The crowd holds its breath as if the gods themselves demand silence. The gates at either end groan open, and the combatants appear, stepping onto their assigned ships, their armor gleaming, their weapons ready. Some of them are slaves. Others, condemned men with nothing left to lose. None of them will leave unchanged. If they leave at all.

Geta lifts a hand, and the hush deepens.

My chest tightens.

He is going to announce it. My betrothal. My fate. My future, decided without my consent.

The crowd waits, eager for his words.

And all I can think about are the sharks in the water.

The cheers are deafening. The Colosseum, already a sea of restless bodies, erupts into a frenzy of shouts, stomping feet, and clashing fists against wooden benches. The people love a spectacle, and today, I am the center of it.

My breath catches in my throat as Geta rises from his own seat, the sun striking his golden tunic, the red fabric flowing like the robes of a god. His presence commands silence before he even speaks. His hand lifts, and the roar of the crowd quiets, not out of obedience, but in anticipation. They wait for him to give them something, a promise, a reason to continue their feverish adoration.

He gives them Rome. He gives them the future.

“Rome stands eternal,” he declares, his voice strong and unyielding, carrying over the vast amphitheater. “An empire that stretches beyond the edges of the known world. A force that will not falter, that will not crumble, but only grow.”

The people erupt again, fists pumping in the air, the echoes of their shouts rolling through the arena like a storm over the Tiber.

Geta waits, unshaken, allowing them their moment before raising his hand once more. Silence descends again, tense and expectant.

“No ruler, no empire, stands alone. Strength lies in blood. Strength lies in legacy. And I will give you that legacy.”

His fingers tighten into a fist. A murmur spreads through the senators seated in their reserved places. The equites lean in, their whispers barely audible over the distant clang of preparations for the naval battle below. The people catch on slower, but soon, the Colosseum vibrates with excitement, hands clapping, voices shouting their approval.

My blood turns cold.

I know what he is about to say before he says it.

“I will take a wife.” Geta announces, turning to me. “Rome will have an empress.”

A fresh wave of cheers erupts. A name passes through the mouths of the people before he even speaks it.

“Aurelia!” they chant. “Aurelia!”

My stomach twists. Geta’s hand reaches for mine. He doesn’t hesitate or ask. The world blurs for a moment as he pulls me to my feet, the weight of thousands of eyes pressing down on me, their scrutiny stripping me bare despite the silks and gold draped over my body. His fingers enclose mine, firm, possessive, unyielding.

“Lady Aurelia, daughter of Senator Aurelius! Your future empress!”

The ground seems to shift beneath me. The walls of the Colosseum feel impossibly high, the sheer number of people suffocating. The roar of their approval crashes over me like a wave, drowning out my own thoughts, my own voice. I am no longer a person to them. I am a name, a symbol, a decision already made. I force myself to stand tall, to keep my shoulders squared even as my heart hammers against my ribs. Lucilla moves first, stepping forward in a rustle of expensive fabric, her expression carefully composed. She reaches for my hands, her grip cool and deliberate. Her lips curl into a smile, but her eyes remain sharp, searching, assessing.

“The gods smile on you,” she says smoothly, her voice meant for the ears of the crowd as much as for mine. “And on Rome.”

There is something in her tone, an unspoken warning. I barely have time to process it before General Acacius approaches. His armor gleams under the sun, his posture rigid with military discipline. He inclines his head in deference to Geta before turning to me.

“A wise choice.” he remarks. He studies me for a moment, then adds, “An emperor needs an empress who can endure.”

Endure.

The word settles over me like a weight.

Macrinus follows, his expression unreadable, though something flickers in his gaze, something calculating. His mouth curves into what might be amusement. Or something colder.

“May the Fates weave you a strong future, Lady Aurelia.”

The applause swells again, louder than before, a deafening thunder that makes my pulse pound in my ears. I stand beside Geta, my hand still locked in his. I don’t smile. I do not bow my head. I meet the eyes of the people, the senators, the warriors, the men who will decide the course of my life from this moment forward. I don’t let them see how my hands shake.

When I turn my head towards Caracalla, this one is still seating, his legs shaking, while he bites his lower lips, his darkening blue eyes on me. At that very moment, I know he’s thinking what the wedding will grant him: access to my body, as his mind creeps into mine.

The horn’s blare reverberates through the Colosseum, a sound so deep it feels as though the stone itself hums beneath us. The crowd surges to its feet, their cries of anticipation rolling like thunder. Beneath the open sky, the great amphitheater is alive, a beast of marble and bloodlust. The arena, turned into a shimmering lake, reflects the golden light of the afternoon sun. Warships, their wooden hulls adorned with snarling sea creatures, glide into position, oars cutting through the surface in perfect rhythm. The men aboard, clad in gleaming armor, prepare for battle, gripping their weapons with grim determination. The scent of damp wood and burning oil mingles with the sweat of thousands of bodies packed together. Excitement thickens the air, stifling, suffocating. I shift in my seat, my silken robes heavy against my skin, my pulse hammering beneath layers of gold-threaded fabric.

Geta sits beside me, his posture relaxed, the white and gold of his tunic pristine despite the dust that clings to everything. His expression remains impassive as he watches the scene unfold. He seems utterly at ease amid the chaos, as though he were born to preside over such violence. The second horn sounds.

A brief silence falls over the Colosseum, a hush filled with bated breath.

Then, the battle erupts.

The first clash of metal against metal rings through the air. Arrows streak across the water, slicing through the sunlight like falling stars. The warships collide, sending up sprays of water as soldiers leap from deck to deck, swords flashing. A man lets out a guttural cry as he is struck across the chest, his blood fanning out in a bright arc before he tumbles into the water. I stiffen, my breath stuck in my throat, as my fingers grab the armchair.

Another warrior is shoved overboard, his arms thrashing wildly. The crowd roars with approval, fists pounding against wooden benches. Some chant for their favored side, others laugh at the doomed men struggling in the depths. A third man, young, no older than myself, is struck down, his helmet rolling across the deck before his body crumples lifelessly beside it.

My stomach twists.

I lower my gaze, hands clenched in my lap, but the vision of death lingers behind my eyes. The water, once pristine, darkens with spilled blood.

“Are you well, little lamb?” Geta asks with his smooth voice, edged with amusement.

I swallow, forcing myself to meet his gaze. His dark eyes flicker with something unreadable, as though he finds my discomfort… endearing. Or perhaps simply expected.

“I…” My throat tightens. I nod, though the motion feels unnatural, stiff.

The corner of his mouth curves, showing he doesn’t believe me at all.

“You will have to grow accustomed to this, it is part of the empress’ role.” he murmurs, fingers brushing idly against the gold cuff at his wrist.

A wave of heat rushes over me, though it has nothing to do with the sun. Another scream shatters the air, high and strangled. A man, wounded and desperate, attempts to hoist himself onto the wreckage of a shattered ship; he doesn’t get the chance. The water beneath him churns violently. Then, in the space of a breath, he’s gone. A song of whispers spreads through the crowd, a mix of delight and awe. Caracalla leans towards me with a huge smile on his face.

“These sharks are doing a good job.”

My body goes rigid as the ginger man chuckles softly, pleased by my reaction, and leans back in his seat. Geta, still watching me, merely tilts his head, as though curious to see what I will do. Instead of flinching, I stay still, I don’t allow the horror to twist my guts are enough me to show on my face. Unfortunately, my hands shake against my lap, and deep within me, something fragile cracks. I press my lips together. Then, with as much composure as I can summon, I fold my hands tighter and cast my eyes toward the heavens.

The people of Rome delight in this carnage.

But I won’t.

I offer a silent prayer to a God they don’t know, for the souls of the men slaughtered at their feet.

The Colosseum keeps pulsing with energy, the air thick with sweat, heat, and the stench of blood. The games are still raging when the change comes, subtle at first. The rhythm of the crowd falters, their cheers turning to something more uncertain.

Then, a sharp whistle cuts through the din.

Before I can react, the arrow strikes.

It buries itself into the carved wooden balustrade just behind the emperors, right between them. The force of impact sends splinters flying. My breath catches in my throat.

For the briefest of moments, everything stills.

Geta and Caracalla turn their heads, their expressions twisting from boredom to something utter fear. Their eyes meet, then flick to the arrow quivering between them. They yell and quickly moves. Everything happens really fast.

The Praetorian Guard surges forward, armor clanking, blades flashing. A hand seizes my wrist. Geta.

“We must move.”

Everything happens too fast.

Lucilla is already standing, her expression sharp and unreadable. Macrinus and Acacius bark orders, his voice lost beneath the roar of the chaos. A shield rises in front of Geta, another in front of Caracalla and another one in front of me. Strong hands guide us back, pushing us toward the safety of the inner corridors. The passage beneath the Colosseum is cool, damp, the scent of smoke and earth thick in my nose. The flickering torches cast jagged shadows against the stone walls. My heart pounds, my pulse a frantic rhythm in my ears.

Then Geta exhales, almost amused.

“I do believe someone just tried to kill us, brother.”

Caracalla leans forward, elbows on his knees, lips curling into something too close to a grin.

“Or perhaps they meant to warn us.” His fingers trace the polished wood, stopping just shy of the arrow’s shaft. “A bold statement, wouldn’t you say?”

A scream erupts from below. Then another. Panic spreads through the arena like wildfire. People shove against one another, spilling out of their seats, hands raised in desperate gestures. Dust kicks up, choking the air. Caracalla is the first to break the silence.

“I want that man found.” His commands, his voice low, laced with something dangerous.

His hand full of golden rings flexes at his side.

“Alive, if possible. But I won’t grieve if he arrives in pieces.”

A guard bows his head.

“It will be done, my Emperor.”

Geta exhales, brushing dust from his tunic.

“It could have been anyone. A poor shot. Or a message.”

His gaze slides to me, lingering.

“You’re quiet.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight as I blink, not sure what I should answer.

“Would you rather I scream? I didn’t know it’s what you’re expecting from your future Empress.”

If his lips twitch, he doesn’t answer, while his twin laugh, applauding me for being bold with Geta. Lucilla choses this moment to step closer, before she clears her throat.

“The people saw.”

Caracalla licks his lips, scoffs and shrugs.

“Let them.”

His eyes gleam in the torchlight, his smirk sharp enough to cut.

“Rome forgets quickly.”

*

The morning light spills gently through the windows and casts a soft glow over the room. The seamstresses are already busy, their hands move with practiced precision as they arrange fabrics across the long wooden table. The smell of fresh linen and wool fills the air, mixing with the faint scent of lavender from the small vase beside me. I sit at the edge of the table, as my fingers shake slightly while I take in the array of choices before me.

The tunica recta is to be my wedding garment, the most sacred of all the attires a Roman bride could wear. White wool, simple yet elegant, the embodiment of purity and chastity. It seems such a small thing, this simple dress, but it feels like the weight of the Empire itself rests upon my shoulders as I sift through the fabrics. I touch each one, testing its weight, its texture, until I find the perfect piece: a soft, almost ethereal wool that will sit lightly against my skin.

Beside it, the saffron-colored flammeum catches my eye. The veil. It will cover my hair, hide my face from the gaze of the crowd, a symbol of my transition into something more. Something the people will watch. It’s so delicate, the fabric like sunlight, almost translucent but still holding a subtle strength in its color. The pale yellow hue is the color of fire, of burning passion and sacrifice. It is fitting.

But it’s not just the garments I must choose. My heart sinks a little as I reach for the Hercules knot, a reminder of the role I am about to assume. A symbol of my fidelity to Geta, to Rome. The knot is intricate, woven with delicate strands of golden thread. It will hold the fabric of my tunica together, but it will also bind me. Bind me in ways I’m not sure if I’m ready for.

I pick it up and my fingers brush the smooth, silky strands. The room feels suddenly too warm. Too small. The weight of what I’m about to become presses down on me like a stone. The door opens behind me, and I barely have time to look up before Geta steps inside, his presence filling the room like a storm. The seamstresses immediately bow their heads, offering him their deference. He pays them little mind, his focus entirely on me.

“Ah, there you are!” He comments with a smile, his voice low and rich.

It’s the same voice that’s been haunting my dreams, the one that holds the promise of power and control.

“Are these your choices?” His words are easy, but his gaze is sharp.

As soon as he asks that question, he moves toward me and presses a hand lightly on my shoulder. His touch feels warm, familiar. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, not trusting my voice to remain steady. He looks over my choices with care, his eyes scanning the fabrics. The tunica, the veil, the knot. His approval is clear in his expression, though it doesn’t feel as reassuring as it should.

“Good taste, just like me. The tunica is simple. It speaks of grace, of purity. And the veil…”

He pauses as his fingers brush lightly against the edge of the saffron fabric.

“It will suit you. You will be perfect.”

His eyes catch mine then, and I see a flicker of something in them. Something I can’t name.

I swallow hard. The fabric beneath my fingers feels suddenly too heavy.

“And the knot?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t know why I ask it. I know it must be part of the ensemble. But there’s something about it, the knot, an element that feels like a chain I can’t undo. He looks at the knot and his eyes suddenly gleam.

“It is a symbol of our bond, a reminder of what is to come, what we are about to begin. It looks perfect to me.”

I glance down at it, then back up at him, unsure how to respond. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. There is something unsettling about it.

“I have no doubts you will wear it beautifully.” He adds, as though it’s already decided, as though it’s already written in stone.

I force myself to nod, but it feels like I’m being led into something I can’t escape.

Geta turns toward the table where the jewelry is laid out. There are necklaces of gold and silver, bracelets set with precious stones, rings gleaming with emeralds and sapphires. All of them are exquisite, all of them are meant for someone who belongs to the Empire. And yet, as I walk toward the table, it all feels like another world. A world I’ve never truly known.

“These will look well on you.” Geta says, picking up a delicate bracelet from the table.

The gold gleams in the soft light, and I can’t help but reach out to touch it. He’s right. It would look beautiful, resting against my skin. But it feels too much. Too heavy. He turns to me, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes me want to pull away. But I don’t.

“The golden hue will complement the white and saffron.” He explains, his voice smooth, so smooth it’s a privilege. “It will show everyone who you are. What you are becoming.”

I nod again, though I don’t feel like I’m becoming anything at all. I feel as though I’m betraying other people, servants, but also God. He places the bracelet down and picks up a necklace, one with a gold chain and bright green emeralds, their deep color reflecting the light in a way that makes them seem almost alive.

“What do you think of this?” He asks, turning toward me with the necklace in his hands.

I look at it, the way it catches the light. The way it would rest against my neck, marking me, claiming me.

“It’s beautiful.” I admit with a shy smile.

He smiles too, though there’s a glint in his eyes that makes me feel small, vulnerable.

“It is beautiful because it is meant to be worn by you, the most beautiful woman of Rome.” He declares, his words low, almost a whisper. “It is meant to mark you as mine.”

I feel a chill run through me. I don’t know how to respond to that.

I look away, my gaze falling to the floor. The weight of what I’m about to become, of what I’m about to do, presses down on me. It’s not a future I chose, but one that’s been thrust upon me.

Let’s hope I’ll be able to use my power to help other people, to soften these cruel Emperors…

“You will shine. Everyone will see your radiance. And they will know who you are.”

Unfortunately, I don’t feel radiant, most like I’m about to be swallowed whole. With these words, he presses a soft kiss on my forehead, his soft lips so warm against my burning skin. My heart hammers wildly in my chest. A sigh escapes my mouth, as it feels too good, too kind, to be true. Is he able to love someone else? Except his mother and his brother?

“Follows, I want to walk with you.”

Soon, the warm sun in the garden warm my skin, the kind of warmth that feels both comforting and unsettling all at once. The gardens stretch before us, a riot of color and scent, but it’s almost too much. Too bright. Too perfect. It only reminds me of how little I belong here, how little I understand what is happening. Geta walks beside me, his pace steady and confident, as if everything is exactly as it should be. His arm brushes mine, but it’s a casual touch, probably meant to reassure me. I look at him, at his face, but there’s nothing there that tells me what he’s thinking.

“You don’t have to worry about anything else, you know.” He suddenly says. “A month’s time, that’s when we’ll be married, after the Kalends.”

A month.

Right after a religious celebration dedicated to the gods and the coming month’s prosperity. It was also a day for settling debts.

I can’t even wrap my mind around it. A month until my life changes forever, until I am no longer just Y/N, a servant, but something else entirely. Something that belongs to Rome. The weight of that responsibility is heavy on my shoulders, and though I try not to let it show, I feel the pressure building inside me, crushing me little by little. The words are still heavy in the air, hanging between us like a barrier, and I can’t stand it any longer.

“Days ago, I forgot to ask… What about the Senate? Has the Senate actually validated our marriage?”

At the sound of my voice, Geta stops walking. I can hear his shoes scuff against the gravel path, his figure pausing just ahead of me. For the briefest of moments, I think he might be irritated by my question, but then he turns to me, a slight smile curling the edges of his lips.

“Of course, my heart. Two days before the naval battle.” He explains with a casual shrug, as if it’s nothing at all. “I submitted my plan to them. They had no choice but to accept. What else could they do? It was done, and they couldn’t argue with it. Not after everything that’s happened.”

He tilts his head slightly, looking at me with something like amusement.

“And anyway, you’ve become the perfect candidate. The daughter of a senator. The people love that. The Senate has no reason to deny it.”

The words hit me like a slap, and I have to force myself to breathe. The perfect candidate. That’s all I am in his eyes, in the Senate’s eyes. A piece of the puzzle, a move in the game. His smile is so easy, so practiced, like he’s made peace with all of it. But me? I’m not sure if I can.

-

I hope you enjoy this chapter! I know not much is happening, but I’ve been dealing with nonstop migraines lately, which has really impacted my writing. On top of that, I’ve decided to focus on writing the upcoming smut scenes before Lent (it’s my first time doing this, and I don’t want to fail)! I absolutely have to finish before midnight tomorrow… Wish me luck! lol

That's why the next chapter may take a little longer to come.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

-

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Ask to be added in the list! (or to be deleted)

[archivequinn]

What's your secret, envoy? emperor geta x fem!reader

Summary: Desperation drives you to the gates of the Roman Empire when your brother is dragged away to fight as a gladiator in their blood-soaked arenas. With nothing left to lose, you strike a perilous bargain with the cunning Emperor Geta—your freedom and future in exchange for your brother’s life. But what begins as a desperate ploy turns into a tangled web of intrigue, betrayal, and forbidden ties. You never imagined that the ruthless emperor would become more than an adversary—and that the most dangerous risk of all would be losing him.

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three (completed) ao3 link

Darkness had fallen, and the flickering light of the torches surrounding the arena cast dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls. The weight of chains stretched from wrist to wrist, from wrist to ankle, echoing with every step you took.

Fatigue and resignation were etched onto Geta’s face, but the last spark in his eyes had not yet dimmed. Looking at him, you felt in your bones that this moment had finally come, that the inevitable was now here, confronting you.

The screams and cheers echoing through the arena were like a death march rising from the heart of Rome. The crowd was filled with the fervor of ruthless savagery; in their hands were roses and mud-mixed stones, hurling at you the paradox of life and death.

On one side, a barbaric crowd hungry for blood; on the other, roses, symbols intertwined with death. The air carried the mingled scents of soil, sweat, and fire, imprinting the moment indelibly into your memory.

As the sky transitioned from a copper-hued sunset to the absolute blackness of night, Macrinus's arrogant gaze gleamed before you. Reclining on his throne with the demeanor of a king assured of his victory, he listened to the frenzied cheers of the crowd.

Beside him sat Caracalla, his face utterly different; tense with rage, you could almost hear the blood coursing through his veins. His hatred for Geta seemed like the hidden playwright of this dark theater.

Geta suddenly stopped. The clinking sound of the chains reverberated on the stone floor. Standing confidently in the center of the arena, he held his head high. “People of Rome!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the stone walls and reaching every corner.

The weight in his voice imbued each word with both fury and hope. “Today, here before you, a conspiracy is being staged. Macrinus is a traitor who has infiltrated the heart of our empire! Can’t you see his treachery?”

For a moment, the crowd fell silent, but it was short-lived. Screams, laughter, and jeers rose again, crashing over you like a wave. Geta’s voice was lost in this sea.

Though he continued speaking, the crowd’s minds were already sealed with a predetermined verdict. They wanted blood. The eyes looking at you sought not justice but mere entertainment.

Geta’s words were like winds wasted in the void. You looked at him, your heart constricting, helplessness clutching at you. Geta’s hands trembled into fists; the chains clattered once more. Among the faces watching, there was no mercy, only cruelty.

At that moment, Macrinus rose from his seat. As his steps echoed in the arena, the crowd began to quiet down. That arrogant, mocking smile never left his face. His hands moved like those of an actor initiating a play, and his voice rang out, cold and cutting.

“People of Rome!” Macrinus declared, his every word dripping like venom.

“Today, you will not only witness the punishment of traitors. No! Today, I present to you a tragedy! You will see how these two traitors pay the price of their betrayal. But the one to execute their punishment will not be an ordinary gladiator…”

The crowd held its breath. Everyone waited to hear what Macrinus would say. His voice lowered, but its impact grew stronger, slithering like a serpent and feeding the crowd’s curiosity.

“Their executioner will be one of this woman’s own blood! Her brother!”

For a moment, everything seemed frozen. Your mind refused to comprehend it. “No…” you murmured, the word breaking like a fractured prayer before leaving your lips.

Your eyes turned to Geta. He was just as shocked as you, but his expression quickly shifted to one of anger.

When one of the slave gates opened, the figure emerging was initially just a vague silhouette in the darkness. The crowd held its breath. As the echoes of footsteps drew closer, your heart began to race. Your eyes recognized the figure. Broad shoulders, a face weary but hardened—it was your brother.

No. This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. But there he was. His chained hands were visible beneath the coarse, heavy pieces of gladiator armor. The crowd’s shouts and cheers rose once more. The people were enthralled by this dramatic display.

Geta leaned toward you, his voice firm and sharp. “You must pull yourself together.”

Ignoring the weight of your chains, you surged forward, running toward your brother. But just as you moved, the world froze with the sharp cry of an arrow. The arrow embedded itself in the sands before you, halting your steps.

Geta suddenly appeared beside you, pulling you back. He extended his arms protectively in front of you like a shield. “Stay calm,” he said in a low voice, though a storm raged within him. “They’re luring us into a trap.”

Macrinus’s voice filled the arena with mocking resonance. “Ah, how touching! But there is no mercy in this arena! Without blood, there is no victory! The people of Rome want victory, they want tragedy, they want blood! But only one will leave this arena alive!”

A brief silence fell before he widened his smile and added, “And the decision of who that will be… is in your hands.”

As the crowd erupted in wild cheers over this merciless proposition, tears streamed down your cheeks, and you saw the same anguish in your brother’s eyes.

Geta turned to Caracalla, his voice now an unstoppable eruption of fury. “Are you really watching this, brother?” he shouted, his voice reverberating against the stone walls of the arena. “Can’t you see how Macrinus has deceived you? This game, this plan, all of it is his doing! He lied to make you kill us! He lied to turn you against me!”

Caracalla sat on the throne on the other side of the arena. His face seemed expressionless, but there was a flicker in his eyes. Yet what was it? Doubt? Or anger? You knew you wouldn’t get an answer in that moment, but you heard Geta’s voice rise even further in one last desperate effort.

“Are you so blind that you can’t see Macrinus’s true face?” he cried, his voice sharp like a cutting wind. “He’s the traitor! Not us! He’s the one poisoning Rome! He’s the one who turned you against me!”

At that very moment, one of the large gates in the corner of the arena slowly began to open. The crowd momentarily ceased their cheers, turning their attention to the gate. Beyond it, General Acacius and his elite soldiers emerged. Acacius stepped forward with a composed demeanor, his face bearing an expression as unyielding as stone. The silence of the crowd turned into a murmur; some greeted Acacius with surprise, while others speculated on his intentions.

Seeing Acacius enter the arena, a glimmer of hope appeared in Geta’s eyes. “Finally…” he murmured.

Acacius approached the center of the arena and bowed toward Caracalla. However, this did not please Macrinus. “General, what are you doing here? The game has started, and it is not your place to entertain the crowd!” he snapped, his voice tinged with irritation.

Acacius spoke with cold certainty in his tone, “Your Majesty, I am responsible for the security of Rome. However, I sense that there is a darker plan unfolding behind these public games.”

Macrinus, his anger plain on his face, demanded, “What are you implying, General?”

Acacius took another step forward, standing directly in front of Macrinus. “Betrayal and manipulation. And the one responsible for it is you, Macrinus.”

Turning to Caracalla, Acacius spoke in a measured tone, “Your Majesty, I have evidence to prove Macrinus’s treacherous schemes.”

Caracalla hesitated for a moment. His gaze shifted from Macrinus to Geta and finally to Acacius. The crowd held their breath, waiting in tense silence.

Caracalla’s face was like a stone mask. His silence made every breath in the arena feel heavy. At last, he turned to Macrinus and spoke with a mocking smile, “How curious, Macrinus. It seems everyone has a story to tell today.”

Macrinus let out a confident laugh, attempting to mask the tension in the air. “Your Majesty, this general’s loyalty has long been questionable. Don’t let him waste your time with supposed evidence. Justice must be served to Geta and these traitors!”

But Caracalla ignored Macrinus’s words and focused his gaze on Acacius. “Do you have evidence, General? And if so, why have you waited until now?”

Acacius, feeling the weight of the question, replied in a calm voice, “Because traitors work in the shadows, Your Majesty. I waited for the right moment.”

Despite the cheers of the crowd, Caracalla seemed lost in thought. Finally, he raised his hand, silencing the arena. A wave of quiet spread, broken only by the whisper of the wind and the crackle of the torches.

At that moment, Macrinus lost his feigned smile and raised his voice. “Your Majesty, this is a trap! Acacius and Geta’s collaboration is nothing less than treason against Rome!”

Acacius turned to Macrinus, his voice as firm as steel. “Watch your words, Macrinus. No one understands treachery better than you.”

At that instant, Acacius reached into an inner pocket of his armor and produced a carefully folded parchment. His expression remained stoic, but his eyes shone with the determination that matched the gravity of his words. “Your Majesty, this parchment contains the proof of Macrinus’s treacherous plans—details of conspiracies that threaten Rome’s security…” As he spoke, a murmur rose among the crowd.

The whispers spread like sparks under the flickering light of the torches.

Macrinus, struggling to maintain his mocking facade, said, “Who can guarantee the reliability of this so-called evidence?” But the panic in his voice was impossible to hide.

At that moment, the leader of the archers stationed at the edge of the arena was staring at Macrinus, waiting for his orders. Macrinus scanned the crowd quickly, then furrowed his brow and gave a low command: “Prepare.”

The archers drew their bows, aiming at the four figures in the arena. The tension was so thick it felt difficult to breathe. The murmurs of the crowd foretold an impending storm.

As you tried to understand how everything had reached this point, your eyes drifted to Geta. There was a strength in his stance, one that seemed to defy all the chaos in the world. When your eyes met, a spark of both fear and something else lit up within you. His gaze seemed to say, “You wil be okay.”

Geta stepped forward and suddenly pulled you into his arms. The warmth of his chest was stronger than the cold steel of his chains. It was as if you weren’t standing in the middle of an arena, as if you weren’t in the shadow of death. He whispered, his voice low enough for only you to hear, “If this is our end, I’ll die protecting you.”

In that moment, everything froze. The flames of the torches danced in your eyes as you felt Geta’s hands on your shoulders. His embrace wasn’t just protective—it was a reflection of all the emotions he had suppressed. A warmth spread through you, momentarily erasing all fear.

Macrinus’s voice cut through the moment. “Archers!” he shouted, his anger echoing through the crowd. But just then, chaos erupted among the spectators. Those who believed in Macrinus’s schemes clashed with those opposing him. Torches toppled over, and the crowd at the edge of the arena began scuffling with the guards.

Amid the chaos, someone accidentally bumped into an archer. Losing his balance, the archer released his bow, and the arrow shot through the air, piercing the silence of the arena as it landed on the ground. The tension peaked. A scream rose from the crowd, and people began to scatter in panic.

In that instant, Geta reflexively pulled you to the ground, wrapping his arms around you. The arrow had struck just a few steps away. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his breath warm against your neck. The tears streaming from your eyes were the expression of a feeling that was neither pure fear nor pure happiness. When you looked at Geta’s face, you saw that his eyes, too, were brimming with tears.

Acacius’s gaze was locked on Macrinus, who was attempting to retreat.

Meanwhile, the guards in the arena quickly moved to secure Caracalla’s safety. Soldiers rushed toward the emperor’s throne, escorting him to the palace gates to protect him from the chaos among the crowd.

Only four people remained in the center of the arena: You, Geta, Acacius, and your brother. The sands glowed with sparks from the fallen torches. Your heart knew that everything would unravel in this fleeting chaos. Geta’s hands were still on you, and when you turned to him, words caught in your throat. He simply whispered to you, “Never forget me.”

As the chaos grew, Macrinus retreated to a corner of the arena. But Acacius, sword drawn, began to pursue him.

The turmoil within the arena escalated. Shouts echoed among the crowd, and a full-blown rebellion erupted. For a brief moment, Geta turned to you, his face holding something you had never seen before—a mixture of love and sorrow.

“You must stay here,” he said, his voice softer than before. “I can’t protect you if you put yourself in danger.”

“No, Geta! You can’t go!” you cried, tears burning down your cheeks. But Geta had already made his decision. He gave you one last look—a gaze that wasn’t just a farewell but the passing of an eternal memory to you. “Forgive me,” he said. Then he surged forward, following Acacius.

You tried to run after him, but a strong hand on your shoulder stopped you. When you turned, you saw the determined look on your brother’s face. “Don’t leave him! Please!” you shouted, but your brother held you firmly.

“No,” he said, his voice hard and resolute. “Listen to me. I can’t leave you here. We have to get out of here. Now!”

He wrapped his arms around you, almost carrying you away from the chaos of the arena. But your mind and heart remained with Geta. With each step, you felt further away from him, and each breath became an unbearable torment.

Your brother quickly led you out of the arena to a waiting horse. “No! Let me go!” you shouted, but he didn’t listen. He placed you on the horse, your hands trembling, your eyes still locked on the fading sight of the arena. “Something will happen to Geta! I can’t leave him alone!”

Gripping the reins tightly, your brother said, “He risked everything to save us. We must honor his sacrifice!” He spurred the horse forward. Behind you, Geta’s face remained frozen in your mind as the last image you saw of him. Your eyes were still filled with tears, and everything felt like a dream—or rather, a nightmare. But one thing was certain: Geta’s choice had changed your life forever.

You found yourself inside an old stone-walled warehouse where your brother had dragged you. The interior was dark, illuminated only by the faint moonlight streaming through a narrow window in the wall, casting soft shadows. The distant screams and the sharp clash of metal against metal outside planted deep roots of fear in your heart. From afar, the silhouette of Rome was visible; massive fires painted the sky orange, and smoke rose like a heavy shroud. The city was burning. Rome was burning.

Your brother stood with one hand on your shoulder, the other gripping the hilt of his sword, on high alert. "You’re safe here," he said, though his voice didn’t sound particularly confident. His words didn’t comfort you.

Your eyes remained locked on the distant flames. Trembling with a storm of emotions swirling inside you, you muttered, "Geta... He’s dead. He... He tried to save us but failed. I... I couldn’t protect him..." Your voice was hoarse and filled with sorrow.

Your brother spoke without looking at you. "We had to survive. Geta knew that. That’s why he risked everything." But those words didn’t console you; instead, they brought another wave of guilt and grief. You collapsed to your knees, your throat tight with emotion. Tears streamed down your cheeks as the weight of your grief crushed you to the ground. Watching Rome burn, you remembered Geta’s face. The determination, courage, and... farewell in his eyes. You felt as though something inside you had shattered.

Crying was like trying to purge all the heaviness inside you, but it also left you feeling more drained. Your eyes burned, your shoulders shook. Finally, when your tears dried and your breathing grew uneven, exhaustion settled over you like a heavy blanket. Your eyelids succumbed to their own weight, and you slipped into a dark unconsciousness.

You didn’t know how much time had passed. It was as if your grief had disconnected you from time. But after a while, a sharp "clattering" sound pulled you back to reality. The echo of horse hooves reached your ears. Your heart began to race; the silence of the warehouse was torn apart by the resounding sound. A whistling noise came from above the rafters, like a cold wind slipping inside. You heard the creak of the door as it opened.

Your brother instantly rose to his feet on high alert. One hand went to the hilt of his sword, while the other protectively pushed you behind him. "Stay behind me," he said, his voice now tired but just as protective. Your heart pounded as you tried to guess who they were. But then, everything went still.

Then, the moonlight illuminated the faces of those who had entered. You suddenly recognized the two riders before you: Geta and Acacius.

At that moment, your world froze. You stared in disbelief. Standing before you was Geta, alive and breathing. His face bore a few scars, and he looked exhausted but strong. And then, your body moved as if it had a will of its own. "Geta!" you cried, your voice trembling, but this time not with sorrow— with joy.

You ran towards him. Your brother tried to say something, but you didn’t hear him. In that moment, all you cared about was reaching Geta. Tears streamed from your eyes, but they carried an entirely different meaning now. Geta bent slightly toward you, and when you threw your arms around his neck, it felt as if time itself had stopped. You held him tightly, as if letting go would make everything vanish again.

"You... You’re alive! I thought I lost you! I was so scared!" you said, words tumbling out of your mouth as your mind struggled to process everything. When Geta’s strong arms wrapped around you, a deep sense of comfort washed over you.

Behind you, Acacius exchanged a brief look with your brother, his face tired yet determined as he gave a small nod. In the darkness of the night, the only thing holding you all together was love and the instinct to survive.

Clinging to Geta, you felt waves of happiness and relief wash over you. The weight in your heart seemed to lift entirely. His warm voice broke the silence: "Don’t worry anymore. Everything is under control." His words rang with the solidity of a promise, though your mind was still struggling to grasp what had happened.

You pulled back slightly from his embrace to look into his eyes. "What happened? What did you go through?" you asked, your words shaky but filled with hope.

A faint smile appeared on Geta’s lips. "Macrinus has been captured. He’s been thrown into the dungeon and won’t pose a threat again. We also quelled the rebellion among the people. The city will be rebuilt now. There’s a light of hope for everyone," he said. His voice was weary but carried the relief of a hard-fought victory. As you watched his expression, you found yourself admiring his courage and leadership once more.

Acacius stepped forward, as stoic as ever, though a flicker of pride and satisfaction shone in his eyes. "Emperor," he said formally to Geta, "Tonight, Rome saw not an emperor but a hero of the people. Your loyalty and bravery will become a legend."

Geta turned to him, nodding. "This victory isn’t mine alone. It belongs to everyone here. And to you, Acacius. Rome could never have had a better general, and never will."

Acacius’s lips twitched slightly in what might have been a faint smile—a quiet expression of gratitude. But when Geta turned back to you, his face was entirely different. His eyes softened, as though he’d found his one source of peace amidst all the chaos. "But above all, seeing you here... That is my greatest victory."

Those words filled your heart with warmth. "I thought I’d lost you," you said, tears accompanying your words. "It felt like the whole world had stopped, Geta. Without you... I would be nothing."

Geta took one of your hands in his. The warmth of his palm melted away all your fears. "And I would never leave you," he said, his voice low but resolute. "No force, no rebellion, no war could ever separate me from you."

His words brought a faint smile to your lips. In that moment, the entire world seemed to quiet down. While Rome’s smoke rose in the distance, you felt safe at Geta’s side. His eyes held a promise—a future of countless days together filled with hope.

The following days were spent rebuilding Rome. The people looked upon both Geta and Acacius with deep respect. Acacius received an honorary medal from the Senate and was declared the commander-in-chief of the army. Your brother was hailed as a hero who restored his family’s honor. But your world was defined by being at Geta’s side.

One day, as you walked through Rome’s quiet gardens, Geta was beside you, his usual calm yet profound expression on his face. Amidst the birdsong, you noticed him suddenly stop. "I need to say something," he said, his voice taking on a serious tone.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What is it?" you asked, smiling slightly.

Geta took your hands in his. His eyes locked onto yours as if he understood the entire world within them. "I’ve seen many things in my life—power, war, betrayal. But after meeting you, I realized that the most important thing isn’t loyalty; it’s love. Before you, I wasn’t living, only existing. And now... I know what it means to truly live."

His words deeply moved you. Your eyes welled up, but with happiness this time. Being with him made all the chaos of the world feel meaningful.

In that moment, Geta leaned down, and his lips softly met yours. It was a moment beyond everything—a moment transcending all the complexities of life. Rome might have burned, and the world might have been changing. But your world was complete in Geta’s arms.

And in that moment, after all the struggles, losses, and fears, you were truly happy. It was a happiness that would last forever.

taglist: @hesvoid3434 @drowning-in-cosmic-hopes @quuinyoung @cokepowder55 @justnobodynothingmore @arluna @multyfangirl @sarahskywalker-amidala @spiderxparker @your-nightmaredoll @avenjames-anderson @fruitylikeabagofskittles @urlivingdeadgirl @flawssy-227 @t-folklore13 @carlaaa76-blog7 @nicholaschavezslut69 @zalera8310

[fairyysoup]

the devil i know

chapter six: i don't need to feel the sun, let me touch your skin

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Eddie's dumbassery brings the cops to… a door. Not exactly his, though.

cw: fem masturbation mention, demonic shenanigans, mean!eddie but not to reader, murder, there are multiple minor character deaths and death mentions, gore, blood, animal death mention, eddie says ACAB, smoking, implied bullying/harassment towards reader, deal with a demon, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. this entire work is explicit. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Eddie steps– read: stumbles– through the dusty mirror on the back of the closet door. This house he picked is one grade A shithole, but it’ll work for his purposes.

Ohhh, he’s so fucking mad. So mad. He would have stayed with you all night. He would have been there to force you to drink some water, eat some chocolate. Now that you’ve given him a chance– now that you’ve decided you want him– he would have stayed with you until you were crying from pleasure. You’re so fucking precious when you beg, and he’s a creature of pride. And lust. And gluttony and all those other fucking sins– something about becoming a demon has made them all multiply within him. 

If he’d stayed with you, he would have taken you to pieces. Pulled you apart and molded you to his whim, given you anything you asked for and more. Maybe he’d even coax you to another orgasm in your dreams; who knows? The possibilities were literally endless. 

But he’s not there with you. 

He’s here in Fuckass, Nowhere, because the cops decided to dig into your so-called ‘high school sweetheart,’ Eddie Munson.

Why the fuck he gave you his real name, he doesn’t know. Maybe because he wanted you to know it, to have it in your mind the way yours is in his, constantly. But he didn’t imagine the cops would try to look into it. 

But, of course they would, because shit like this never goes easy for him. And, of course they would decide to do it the day that he’s got a hot date to take care of.

Fucking cock blocks.

He had to leave you in your post-orgasmic haze to cause a power outage at the department of investigation before he could construct a fictitious Eddie Munson, who’d grown up in or around Eastwick. Sketchy background, a few minor felonies that don’t add up to shit, but warrant at least an arrest record. Something believable without being too on the nose.

The lamp lights flicker on and off as he moves through the trailer. The TV switches on without any physical force directing it to. He picks up a yellowing, half empty box of Marlboro reds from the end of the kitchen counter, and pulls one out of it. 

The previous owner of this house rots in a lake a mile away, a few months too late for the party. One of the good things about being a demon is that you can construct an alibi so easily, change names on house deeds and pay stubs and tax forms with the flick of a wrist. Make it so that something you say happened actually did happen, on paper. Erase something you don’t want there. 

The rug beneath his bare feet is rough, indoor-outdoor carpeting that the poor idiot who owned this house didn’t bother to switch out. Eddie’s dark jeans hang low on his hips, his chest bare and his hip bones jutting out at odd angles. He looks down and all his old tattoos are there, just the way he likes them. Your taste is still on his tongue, in the corners of his mouth, behind his teeth, reminding him of where he’d rather be. 

Eddie lights himself the cigarette as he peeks out of the kitchen window. In the yard, the coppers are rounding the rust bucket of a Volkswagen bug sitting in the tall grass.

He sits on the rickety wooden dining chair beside the door, listening to their footsteps as they mount the porch, whispering to each other. He hates cops. Always did, for obvious reasons, when he was human– but now that he’s beyond worldly measures, all they do is stick their noses in where they don’t belong.

Normally, he wouldn’t do this. A normal demon would allow the consequences of the deal you’d made to catch up with you. A normal demon would let you swim or drown when it comes to dealing with the repercussions, take their share from the deal and run away, allowing the contract to claim your soul. Just like his own demon did to him.

The thing that Eddie failed to mention to you when you cut that deal with him is that he would steal the sun just to keep you warm. He had already decided that he was in love with you when he got your petition, and he doesn’t know how to love passively. 

So, this is a walk in the park for him, all things considered.

Three knocks against the door cut over the sound of Scarface on the TV. Eddie shakes his head in solidarity at the house ghost floating in the corner, watching him with hollow eyes and creating a black hole where a lamp is supposed to be.

“Watch me fuck this up,” he whispers to it.

“Edward Munson?” The small one, Officer Leony, peers up at him with a blank expression when he opens the door. 

“Uh… yeah?” 

He stares down at her, leaning a naked shoulder against the doorframe, not bothering to extinguish his cigarette. He sucks in a long drag.

Christ, this thing tastes like ass. They don’t make ‘em like they used to. Cigarettes taste better when he just conjures them himself.

Eddie exhales a cloud of tobacco, somehow without pulling a face or retching. He’ll smell like smoke no matter what, and he’s sure that the heat of his hellfire radiates from his bare skin into the muggy air. Best to pretend it’s because he’s nothing but a smoker. He can feign mortality up to a point, and that’s where the uncanny valley sits. 

Seemingly to support this, Leony rocks back on her heels, but doesn’t step back the way she wants to.

“I’m Officer Leony, this is Officer Casey–” she gestures to the taller man beside her. “There’s been a disturbance at a town upstate, and we’re here to ask you a few questions about it, if that’s all right.”

Eddie shifts in place. Oh, no, he couldn’t have predicted this. “Can’t see what I’d have to do with something upstate.”

“Y’ever been to a little town called Eastwick?” Casey asks mildly. 

“I grew up a town over. Across the river.” Eddie lies. It gives him a certain thrill to lie to the cops again. It’s like riding a bike– you never really forget how, but sometimes you miss it when the weather’s right.

“Ever met a man named Andrew Montgomery?”

That piece of shit motherfucker. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s dating– dated– someone we think you may know,” Leony begins.

“You’ve got her name on your chest,” blurts Casey, who seems to be having trouble keeping his eyes on Eddie’s face, in favor of the glaring mark. “Nice, uh. Nice scar.”  

“It’s a brand.” Eddie can’t help the smirk that comes to his face when he glances down to see the raised tissue on his own skin. You’d only said that he burned your name on his chest, but he took that a step further and placed it over his heart. Go big or go home, right? “Not as pretty as she was, but it’s not like I can remove it.”

“Right.”  

A few paces away, in the trees, a pack of hounds snarl and bark like they’re having a real field day. 

“What’s that?” Casey nearly yelps, peering into the trees. He sees nothing. “Wolves?”

“No, those are just my dogs.” Eddie shrugs at him. He fights off a nervous laugh. “They get a little rowdy sometimes, y’know. No worries.”

Leony clears her throat. “Mr. Munson, we’re sure that given your… history, you’re no stranger to automotive accidents.”

Eddie’s eyes flick to her. “Accidents?” Accidents, referring to the spontaneously combusting car that a certain Edward Munson was held in custody for perpetrating, but was acquitted for lack of evidence.

Or something. He doesn’t exactly remember the wording he used on the fake case file. Not too on the nose, right?

“See, Mr. Montgomery’s vehicle exploded earlier today.”

“Shit, is he all right?” Pfffft. 

“Why would you assume he was harmed?” Leony asks, looking like she’s just caught him in a lie.

Eddie’s eyes flutter in annoyance. “I know cops. You don’t drive into the middle of nowhere to question someone for a bit of damaged property.”

Leony huffs. “You’re right. Mr. Montgomery is in the ICU, unfortunately. Severe burns all over his body. We just want to rule out any foul play. If you know anything at all…”

“Like I said, I’ve never heard of the guy before now.”

Leony nods, sucking on her teeth. “And, when was the last time you spoke to your ex-girlfriend?”

Eddie puffs out his cheeks, overdramatizing it. “Probably, uh…” Could be talking to her right now. “Five, six years?” 

“And you haven’t been back to Eastwick since then?”

“Why would I want to go back to that fuckin’ place?” Eddie growls. His anger isn’t entirely fake– he hates small towns. 

“I can think of one reason.” Leony’s eyes fall to your name burned onto his heart. “Mr. Munson, I’m sure you’re… aware of your ex-girlfriend’s reputation within the town.”

“Reputation,” Eddie parrots.

“As a witch.” Casey says it so frankly, as if it holds some kind of merit.

Eddie bristles and looks back and forth between them. “R’you telling me that two cops actually believe in that kind of horseshit?”

“Witchcraft isn’t illegal, even if it… were real…” Leony explains hesitantly, while Eddie tries to keep smoke from blowing out of his ears. “But rumors like that don’t form in a vacuum. We have reason to believe she may have tried to harm Mr. Montgomery. If the rumors are true– which, usually they are in these cases, she has a bit of a reputation for being unusual. We just wondered if you can recall any sort of odd behavior… besides the obvious.”

Another pointed look at the brand on his chest.

EDDIE.

Eddie glances up at the moon in the evening sky, waxing its way to full. It’s a little more than halfway there.

EDDIE. EDDIE. EDDIE.

You’re calling him. He can sense the need in your body, sees flashes of your hands moving down your stomach and dipping beneath the fabric of your pajamas. You’re just lying there, focusing all your energy on him. 

Touching yourself to the thought of him.

Your voice is ringing in his ears, screaming for him to leave this place and go to you. He fights not to wince at the volume of it. 

EDDIE I NEED YOU RIGHT NOW RIGHT NOW RIGHT NOW–

Fuck, he wishes he didn’t have to do this shit. 

Eddie clenches his jaw, squeezing the door jamb so hard that he leaves scorch marks in the plaster in the shape of his fingerprints. He’s mad that he can’t be with you as soon as you call, and he hates that this is keeping him away from you.

He hates what they’ve done to you, ostracized you the way that his own small town did to him. Witchcraft. Devil worship. Unusual equals murder. Even if you are a witch, even if he is the closest thing to the devil you’ll know, he hates the way that these cops talk about you like they know you, or what you’ve been through. 

“Believe me,” he snaps, letting his temper get the better of him, “If she ever did anything unusual, it’s because she had a damn good reason to. Hell, I’d rather burn that whole fuckin’ town to the ground than see her suffer in it anymore.”

Leony’s mouth twitches up at the corners. “Is that so?”

Eddie blinks.

You fucked it up, comes the whispering voice of the ghost in the corner.

“Shit.” Eddie presses his lips together, and tosses his burning cigarette into the dead grass next to the porch. He lifts his two fingers to his lips and whistles loudly. 

Snarling and barking, a pack of shadowy dogs bound out of the trees. Red eyes glow from each smoky figure, varying in size and shape, but all made of the same infernal aether. 

Casey tries to run. Leony tries pulling her gun. The juxtaposition between the two officers is laughable, but ultimately, they both meet the same fate between the jaws of the hellhounds that swarm them. 

Eddie doesn’t see where Casey gets dragged off to– somewhere in the trees, the shouts take a little bit to die down. Leony’s throat gets ripped out first, so all he hears from her is a faint gurgling that slowly gets overshadowed by the sound of crackling as a fire catches on in the grass. 

“Never trust a demon to make things easy,” he sighs, and takes a seat on the porch. It’ll take a few minutes before the fire really gets going on the wood, and by that time he’ll be gone. 

He’ll make sure this doesn’t get back to you. It just means another trip into the computers at the department of investigation, and those wires are really fucking tight to squeeze into.

Eddie whistles shortly. “Cerberus. Stop it, you’re making a mess.” 

The Doberman spirit drops the decapitated head he’d been using as a chew toy, flinging blood all over the yellow grass. Instead, the German Shepherd spirit beside him immediately snatches it and throws it across the yard before chasing after it. 

Eddie glares. “Sauron. Bad dog.”

Out of the mix of shadowy dogs and flying body parts, a tinier hellhound than all the rest trundles up. It’s the newest of the bunch, still in need of training– but Eddie’s not entirely sure that he wants to train it to be like the rest. 

Dogs will be dogs, even in the afterlife. He chose the others for their ferocity. Most of them were the losers of dog fights; innocent animals that never asked to be put through the pain and torture that they got in life, but were trained to be killers nonetheless. They’re protective, loyal, and at times bloodthirsty.

This one is different. This dog has never killed, never maimed, never hurt anything in its little life. This one chose Eddie, sought him out, wandering through the Otherworld as a messenger with a piece of copper in its mouth.

Lacey crawls up into Eddie’s lap on her tiny legs, her little red eyes blinking slowly as she settles down onto his thighs, just like she did when she’d delivered your petition. She’d found him lounging against a tree, emerged from the mist and dropped the copper into his outstretched hand. Made a home for herself in his lap as the details of your petition rolled around in his mind, and all at once he decided you were beginning and end of everything for him. 

He would have given her back to you– she’s the one that you miss, but she’s too young of a spirit to be able to manifest as a physical dog yet. 

But she’s a cuddly thing. He can understand why you loved her so much. He feels a little bit of that love well up in his own heart, underneath your name branded across it.

His hand pets her smoky back as the fire in the grass reaches the porch. 

EDDIE WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU EDDIE EDDIE EDDIE–

Shit, you’re persistent.

[ageingfangirl2]

Hazbin Hotel x Child Reader Series

PART 7 - ALASTOR REWARDS GOOD BEHAVIOUR

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX

It started as an innocent enough scene—well, as innocent as anything with Alastor could be. You were sitting beside him in the lounge, your legs swinging off the chair, while he grinned down at you. In his hand, he held a small candy, deep red and glossy, ‘Ah-ah, now what do we say, dear?

You perked up and chirped, ‘Thank you, Alastor!’ before eagerly taking the candy.

The moment it hit your tongue, you hummed in delight. It was sweet—but there was something else. Something… iron-like. Blood. Not enough to be overwhelming. Just enough to give it a dark, rich flavor.

‘Good little thing! Manners are very important,’ Alastor chuckled, ruffling your hair.

That’s when the door slammed open, ‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!’ Vaggie’s voice cracked with sheer rage.

Charlie was right behind her, her expression somewhere between horror and betrayal.

Alastor’s smile widened, ‘Oh, my, such an accusatory tone! Whatever do you mean, my dear Vaggie?’

Vaggie pointed at you, ‘You are feeding them BLOOD CANDY like they’re some kind of pet!’

Alastor placed a dramatic hand on his chest, ‘Oh, come now! I’m simply encouraging good behavior! The little dear has been so polite!’

Charlie looked at you, eyes pleading, ‘You… you don’t have to eat that; you know that, right kid?’

You blinked, confused, ‘But… it’s tasty?’

Charlie physically recoiled, pressing a hand over her mouth.

Vaggie turned back to Alastor, looking ready to commit a second death, ‘You manipulative bastard!’

‘Oh, flattery will get you everywhere, my dear!’ Alastor grins, ‘But bad language will not get you any sweets.’

Angel had been lounging nearby, watching with increasing interest. The moment he put two and two together, he cackled, ‘Oh my God, you’re training them like a dog!’

You tilted your head, ‘I’m not a dog?’

Alastor chuckled, ‘No, no, of course not! You're far more interesting than a dog!’

Angel wheezed, wiping away an imaginary tear, ‘No, but seriously, this is the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.’

Vaggie turned her fury on him, ‘YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!’

Angel shrugged, ‘I mean… kinda? I only wished I’d filmed it.

Husk, who had just walked in mid-rant, stopped dead in his tracks, ‘…Do I even wanna ask?’

Vaggie spun toward him, ‘ALASTOR HAS BEEN CONDITIONING THEM LIKE A DAMN PET!’

Husk blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the candy. Then he sighed, ‘Kid, you seriously gotta stop lettin’ this freak mess with your head.’

‘But he gives me treats!’ you said, holding up another candy proudly.

Husk just sighed harder, rubbing his temples, ‘Yeah, that’s the problem.’

Sir Pentious, who had also been sitting on one of the sofas, found the whole thing fascinating. Rewarding good behaviour with a treat, and then in the future whenever the kid sees a treat they should automatically behave. He jotted down notes to look over later, not fully aware that what Alastor was doing was a little sinister and creepy.

Niffty zipped over, practically vibrating with excitement, ‘Ooooh! Candy with blood in it? That’s so creative!’

‘Hey, hey, Alastor! Can I have one, too? I’ve been so good today! I even cleaned the knives twice!’ Niffty begs.

Charlie whimpered in despair.

Alastor, still grinning, tossed her one, ‘Why, of course, my dear! Good behavior should be rewarded!’

Niffty beamed as she popped it into her mouth, ‘Mmm! Tastes like copper and caramel!’

Charlie looked like she wanted to die again.

The aftermath is one of utter chaos. Charlie was traumatised not just for her but also for you, and she spent the next week drilling it into you that you didn’t need to earn food or affection. Vaggie had another item on her ‘Why I Should Be Allowed To Kill Alastor’ list; she just didn’t know how to get the kid to understand that Alastor couldn’t be trusted.

Husk simply sat at the bar and poured himself another drink, he knew how Alastor could get when he was bored and liked to stir drama, so Husk decided to stay as far away as possible because he didn’t want to be dragged into anything else. Angel couldn’t stop cracking up every time he thought about Alastor giving you a candy and ruffling your hair like you were a pet. He swore to get documented proof because this is something the whole of hell should know.

Sir Pentious tried experimenting with the reward technique on his egg bois to varying degrees of success and failure. He just couldn’t figure out what Alastor had that he didn’t. And well, Niffty was hooked; she wanted more blood candy, and the two of you hatched plans to get your hands on more of Alastor’s stash, but of course, Alastor already figured this out and always moved the candy, amused at your attempts.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

The Birds & The Bees | Pt. 29

Summary: Spencer attends a party. The BAU comes to visit. A/N: One chapter remains. Thank you for the patience and support. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Hospitals, descriptions of injuries, persistent vegetative state, discussions of the afterlife/religious sentiment Word Count: 5.1k

MASTERLIST | Series Masterlist

Humans have long sought to capture the stars. Even before exploration into the great unknown, the night sky could be found reflected in scattered campfires and lanterns hung by calloused hands.

Even that night, the stars came to the earth in the shape of silver and copper string wrapped tightly around little LEDs. Penelope always did love her fairy lights.

Perhaps it was the cynic in me that used to find them somewhat useless. They weren’t bright enough to light the way, but they called attention to themselves enough to be distracting. But that night, as I stared through the open door to Rossi’s carefully manicured backyard, the little lights felt warmer than they used to.

The loosely secured strings swayed with the gentle breeze, creating the illusion of twinkling stars. A perfect, picturesque backdrop for the woman at the center of it all.

My Bunny’s back was turned to me, but I could see every part of her expression through the almost imperceptible tilt of her head.

My heart began pounding. A sense of general unease crept through me in a way that felt wrong. Just as the vision of stars began to blur, I heard the sudden clink of a glass against the counter beside me.

“Alright, you made it,” Emily announced. “It was tough, but you are finally in the clear.”

I turned to her with the hope of an explanation that didn’t follow. Instead, I was met with a strained smile and a tongue-in-cheek shake of her head.

She seemed so calm that it almost made me forget what I hadn’t been able to remember.

“What do you mean?” I said after another playfully tense moment of silence.

Emily responded with a jerk of her elbow. She bumped me gently, but I felt I would fall over from the force of her joy. It was clear in the shape of her smile and how her whole body gestured to the girl waiting for me under the arch of stars.

“You know!” she cheered, “It’s the big night! You’re here!”

My face immediately burned with blood and overwhelming anxiety. Despite having told everyone my plans far in advance, it still felt like it was all happening so suddenly—as if I’d skipped a few steps to getting here.

But then I looked up again. Through an open door, I saw her standing still against the vast night sky. I wondered how I’d survived so long with such a great distance between us.

“How are you feeling?” Emily interrupted the thought.

“Dreadful,” I answered before realizing I’d said the wrong word.

“Ecstatic,” I corrected, but that wasn’t right, either. Ultimately, with a heavy sigh, I admitted what must have been true:

“I… don’t know?”

“Wow. You don’t know something?” she teased.

Something about the comforting sound of her snickering allowed me to forget something I almost remembered.

“It’s crazy, right?” I joked back.

“Of course it is!” she cried. The dreamy tilt to her voice betrayed her casual front. Emily’s eyes fell to my feet and took their time slowly returning to meet my gaze. “It’s absolutely insane and I couldn’t be happier about it.”

I bit down on my lip. It was a little too hard, sparking the taste of iron on my tongue. I brought my fingers to my lips, but Emily’s hand on my arm made me pause.

“I’m so proud of you, Spencer.”

I believed her. Her hand grew tighter, shaking me lightly and holding me in the moment.

“More than anyone I’ve ever known, you deserve this. You deserve to be…” she paused. She took in a deep breath with closed eyes before she laughed, “just… perfectly, impossibly, ridiculously happy.”

I joined her in the laughter. Together, we swayed to distant music with a haunting melody I’d definitely heard before.

I couldn’t remember the lyrics, but it hardly seemed important. Not while my Bunny was waiting for me.

My feet wouldn’t move just yet, though. They kept me in place until I admitted to my closest friend, “I just… I hope I deserve her.”

There was simply no one else I would trust to assure me in that moment—precisely because she responded to the concern with an ungrateful snort and a scoff.

“Probably not,” she muttered with a smirk, “but you should try, anyway.”

My pursed lips turned up in a smile. I turned away from Emily to find that my darling had finally spun around on her heels. Even through the hazy light of the moon and the stars, I saw how she called to me. My feet answered her call without needing any instruction.

“Go,” I heard Emily urge me with an eerie longing laced through the words, “Get your happily ever after.”

Each step felt torturously slow. I hadn’t wanted to spook the little lagomorph into running away, but the ring in my pocket weighed the same as a heavy heart reaching into the world and hoping to be held.

When I got close enough to touch her outstretched hand, I did. It took no persuasion for her to flow into my arms.

I held her; I pressed my face against her hair that smelled like memories. Memories of things that hadn’t happened yet.

It cut through the scent of gunpowder that must have been burned into my brain from years of tragedy that had led me here. So, too, did her laughter cut through the pain. She looked up at me with eyes bright enough to rival the moon.

“Bunny,” I said breathlessly. My fingers danced along the soft edges of her face as it made way for a smile.

“My Bunny,” I said again.

Her tongue broke out from the toothy grin.

“What’s up, doc?” she giggled.

I choked on whatever had meant to follow. It was simply too hard to swallow that feeling that we’d been here before—not just in this lifetime, but in an infinite sense.

Like the leaf reaching for the sun, the waves crashing against the shore, we had been here so many millions of times before. I felt her, the softness of her soul that wriggled in my arms. So new, so pure, so perfectly her.

“I feel like I’ve loved you forever,” I said.

She smiled. Her body swayed bashfully without moving away. Even that small movement robbed the breath from my lungs.

“Truly, I-I just…” I spoke anyway, “I love you.”

“You might’ve mentioned that once or twice,” she hummed.

“Have I?”

Her face scrunched up in false modesty before she answered, “I think so?”

The jovial tone of it all gave me hope that we would never grow tired of it. The simplicity and domesticity of it all—the constant reassurance that we would never again exist in a world where we risked being unloved.

I leaned forward to kiss her, but I didn’t. I stopped just short of her lips to whisper, “Would it surprise you if I told you that I still feel I haven’t told you enough?”

“No,” she whispered between soft kisses against bitten lips. She didn’t wince at the lingering taste of metal on my tongue. Instead, her hands pressed harder against the back of my neck.

“Say it again,” she begged.

“I love you, Bunny.”

The words barely made it out of my lips before being covered with hers again. The safety of her embrace seemed even more vast than usual. It was as if her warmth had finally transcended the most basic laws of physics to find me. To touch me at an atomic level—to hold me for the first time, in a way that two things are never supposed to be able to do.

There was no repulsion between charged electrons. In that moment, there was nothing between myself and the woman I’d loved enough to defy the universe.

“I’ll love you forever,” I told her with breathless urgency, “and I’m so sorry, Bunny, but I’m afraid you might have to suffer hearing about it forever.”

Her eyes flickered to mine with an almost silent understanding. Our faces burned like fire despite the chill in the air.

“Forever, huh?” she said with a contagious grin.

“For as long as you’ll have me,” I tried to tease.

But the rabbit was already out of the hat. She knew what was coming and I was struggling not to give it to her.

“Ask me already,” she pleaded with the quietest voice she could muster.

I needed no persuasion. I finally fell to my knee before her the way I’d dreamed of since the first time I held her. Trembling hands dug the velvet box from my pocket and opened it without any hesitation.

I looked up at her, my starlight studded universe. I saw the future in her eyes, that storied chance at finding something that I’d given up long ago.

I saw so much hope in her. I saw home in her.

“Bunny…” I choked, “Will you marry me?”

Time froze, but tears still flowed from her eyes. She held one hand against her heart and rested the other on my shoulder.

It was a perfect moment in a perfect night. All I needed was one night, one moment of peace. For once in my life, a love unmarred by tragedy.

But when her mouth opened with a shaky breath, the world seemed to crack beneath the weight of my hubris.

“No.”

No, she said. The lights began to flicker and burst.

No, she would not have me, and I was a fool to think I would ever be allowed.

This wasn’t real.

The vision of her sparked and shifted to a gruesome scene. The thing I’d been running from this whole time.

“No, no no,” she cried, blood stained but still reaching for me.

The deafening rumble of the earth did nothing to mask the sound of her screams when the ground finally ripped apart between our feet. A small, outstretched hand could have never made it across such a cruel distance.

She never could’ve managed to pull me from the place I’d always known. Yet when she called for me, I would’ve forsaken every promise I’d ever made if it meant holding her one more time.

“Don’t leave me, Spencer, please!”

In one final, desperate attempt, I reached for her hand. I almost felt her, almost held her to inevitably pull her down to Hades with me.

But then, I remembered.

It wasn’t meant to be.

I wonder, does Persephone mourn the dead?

Does she hate us foolish mortals for treating her home like a curse? Is that lack of appreciation for Hades the source of her wrath?

Does she pity us when we are turned to dust, reclaimed by the unforgiving hand that keeps her prisoner on earth?

Does she mourn us, or is she just jealous? I wondered about the gods in an attempt to romanticize the horror.

But I was not in the mood for poetry. It hardly seemed appropriate.

The waiting room was cold and sterile, and I was wearing a near-stranger’s clothes. The carefully placed glitter on my cheeks was streaked with an excess of saltwater and rubbing alcohol that still hadn’t masked the smell of death.

I couldn’t tell you how long I sat there, staring silently at a crack in the moulding before a nurse handed me a plastic bag filled with bloody clothes.

There is a point in grief where you become acutely aware of how cliche it really is. That crystalizing moment of awareness that it’s happened, and you can’t take it back. You are living through the worst moment of your life; your worst nightmares have become real and they’re happening. Hellfire comes through fluorescent lights and tired stares from nurses that don’t know why you’re there.

My hands, almost alien, grip the contents like I might find a smoking gun between the fabric. Tight knuckles turn to a full-bodied hold around crinkling plastic.

I accepted the sharp feeling of something digging against my ribs for a few moments too long before I moved. The pain was hardly noticed and almost appreciated because at least it assured me that I was still there, still waiting.

Once I managed to sit up, I contemplated whether Spencer would want me to go through his things. I tried to justify the desire by convincing myself I’d only been looking for some clue as to why someone would do any of this.

I didn’t find a clue.

Instead, I found confirmation of the death of my happy ending. A small velvet box tucked neatly away and waiting the same as I was.

As my lungs burned and my stomach churned, I tried not to hope for another life.  Because I knew, I knew how lucky I was to have ever met him at all.

But in one of the many millions of universes, I knew one existed where nothing horrible happened. A beautiful starlit night with a quiet question blubbered through laughter and tears—a universe where he tried to ask me, but I’d already answered before he could finish the question.

I felt the answer like a fire in my chest.

Until…

I stopped the thought with a shuddered breath soon followed by a broken sob.

Yes. Forever and ever until the stars go out.

But I couldn’t see any stars from the waiting room.

“Hey.”

The familiar voice broke me from my wallowing. I dropped the box back into the bag of bloody clothes and watched as the whole thing toppled to the ground in front of me.

Derek stood still. He watched silently for a moment as I didn’t even bother to reach for it.

His footsteps were barely perceptible until I saw his shoes in my peripherals. I watched his hand reach forward and pick up the bag with enough delicacy that the plastic barely wrinkled.

His ability to stay so calm despite what had happened made me too angry to look at him.

“Is he dead?” I asked. My voice was dry and cold like the winter wind.

As he sat beside me, I saw a brief tension in blanched knuckles.

“Nah…” he said, softly and warmly, “you can’t get rid of him that easy.”

I didn’t respond. I stared down at the empty space where his belongings had been. Bile rose in my throat.

Derek’s hand draped over mine without a second thought. He kept an even pressure even as my hand balled into a fist beneath him.

“How are you doing this?” I croaked. I tried not to sound as angry as I was.

“How am I doing what?”

“You…” My lungs shrunk around the word. “You all seem like you’re handling this so well, and I don’t…. understand how.”

To his credit, he paused. A brief shock appeared and faded, only to be replaced with a solemn chuckle. Breathless at first, but it grew and carried a lightness that filled the room.

“I’ve known Reid for a long time,” he said, “and in that time, I’ve seen that boy in there die enough times to kill a damn cat.”

The corner of my lip twitched with an attempt to smile. I swallowed the impulse out of shame.

Derek didn’t try to stop me. He did smile, though. A gentle, reassuring curve that betrayed the red rimmed color of his eyes.

“But he comes back every time,” he said, “Can’t keep him away.”

I couldn’t stop it that time. My mouth broke apart with a heavy breath that almost sounded pleased but still tasted bitter.

“You know, I’m pretty sure whatever it is waiting on the other side is more tired of him than we are,” Derek continued.

His words started to slur together. His free hand raised to cover his mouth. Whether it was to hide the laughter or the vulnerability bleeding through the facade, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I was grateful to see him be human.

“I bet he shows up with all sorts of questions,” he accused, “and, of course, they don’t know the answers to’em, so they just… send him right on back to us.”

The impossible came swiftly and like a punch to the gut. A laugh sputtered from my lips as I recounted each silly word said about a man who would’ve balked at the teasing.

I could feel his offense; see his soured pout as he tried and failed to defend his inquisitive nature.

He’d never needed to do that. We’d always loved him exactly the way he was.

The word ‘was’ fell heavy on my heart.

The way he is, I corrected myself.

Immediately, rage overtook any laughter and poured like a hurricane over my face.

“I’m not tired of him at all,” I blubbered incoherently. “I want him back.”

Whatever had come to his mind was never realized. Derek’s light snuffed itself out. The resulting smoke fogged whatever hope might have been visible.

“I know, Bunny,” he whispered, “Me too.”

Hours passed before we spoke again. I wondered if I’d managed to fall asleep, if the rest of the night actually played out the way it did or if I’d simply conjured a world in which he wasn’t gone.

But the doctors came, with good and bad news.

“He’s stable,” they said, “But he’s not awake.”

There was no mention of the word ‘yet.’

Yet, there I was, clinging to hope on the River Styx.

The threshold to his room felt like an insurmountable journey. I could hear the strong winds and warnings, the persistent rhythmic screams of machines.

Derek took my hand, but did not step forward. Rather, he treated the grip like the world’s gentlest prod. He urged me forward, and I stumbled through the door.

I didn’t look back.

“I’ll be right outside,” Derek said as my fingers slipped from his own. “Take all the time you need.”

The first steps forward were easier than those that followed. The closer I got to the bed, the less recognizable he became. His eyes were closed, almost peaceful if not for the ventilator strapped to his chin and the IV tubing falling around him like an outline. I didn’t dare try to look at the other side of him. Even from my peripheral, I could see the excess of skin where there used to be soft curls. The rest of it was matted and brittle and reeked of alcohol.

He probably found the scent comforting. But for me, it served as nothing but a reminder of the operating room.

My legs began to shake from the weight of my heart as it fell. Tentatively, I reached out to hold what remained. I spun tired strands around my fingers and let them fall into place once more.

“Oh, Spencer…” I whispered. I tried to smile but my words bubbled with grief, “You’ve really gotten yourself into a mess this time, haven’t you?”

I tried to stay upright, tried to stay positive and cheerful—I tried, so hard, not to let his closed eyes see me fall apart.

I glanced up and saw red cracks held together with black stitches and my stomach lurched. I swallowed rising bile with a gasp.

“I always knew you had a hard head, but…” I laughed.

Because it was funny, wasn’t it? Derek had been right, hadn’t he? The Gods had sent him back. He had come back to me.

But not close enough.

“I don’t know if there’s any truth to the idea that coma patients can hear what’s happening, but if there is…” I choked. I reached for his hand but found too many machines to hold it properly.

I paused before wrapping whatever I could around a single unencumbered pinky. I squeezed, not too tight, and I begged, “Please, I just really need you to wake up.”

There was no reply.

“Please,” I repeated to no avail.

My eyes slammed shut and tears dripped from chin to chest. The warm water on already flushed skin felt like fire burning through me. More words rushed out, covered with spit and crackling and roaring like a forest fire from within.

“I need you to wake up, Spencer, because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you. I don’t know—!”

When my eyes opened, I saw how his finger reddened within my grip. I loosened it, watching as the color faded back to normal but the pinky fell just as limp.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said. “And I know that isn’t fair, and I’m sorry, I just…”

I brought myself as close as I could. My body strained, reaching over medical equipment and metal bars to try and touch my lips to the unscathed side of his face.

But it was just a little too far. So I stayed there, lips hovering over his skin.

Breath brushed past his face as I whispered, “I love you so much. You know that, right?”

The steady, subtle beat of his heart echoed in the room like an answer.

I leaned back once more, releasing his hand and recognizing his bare ring finger that matched my own.

I smiled as I wondered whether a proposal of marriage would be enough to wake him. It felt wrong but reasonable under the circumstances. What felt worse was knowing that I’d known what his answer would be, but he hadn’t been able to hear mine.

“I have to admit something, but… don’t be mad at me, okay?” I said like he would answer. “I went through your things while I was waiting. I wasn’t trying to snoop, I just…”

There was no reply.

“I’m sorry your plan got ruined,” I said with the utmost sincerity, “But if you’d asked me, I…”

Excitement swelled for approximately half a second before it was gone with the sight of still-closed eyes.

I didn’t want him to hear it like this.

“You have to wake up,” I pleaded, instead. “So I can give you my answer.”

With a more urgent attempt, I flung myself over the barricade of his bed and managed to touch lips to his cheek. It still felt soft and warm despite the bitter taste.

“I love you,” I promised for the millionth time, “I’ll love you until the stars stop.”

For a moment, I swore I heard the pitch shift in the rhythmic tone. But when I looked up at the machine, nothing had changed.

There was no reply.

The heaviness set in before long. I made myself a home in the sterile chair beside his bed. I said nothing. Together, we sat in the silence until I was sure that Derek must have left. I stayed through the shifts and watched the routines of each person who tended carefully to the one I loved.

I stayed until someone came and told me it was time to go. I made my way to the door to leave with the rest of the people who’d waited with their friends and family as long as they were allowed.

Derek had stayed, too. He stayed until my hand returned to his and we walked out together. Together, we set out into a world in which Spencer wasn’t waiting for us.

I looked back. I saw Spencer and focused puffy, teary eyes on the image in case it was the last.

Through the haze of a cruel combination of fear and hope, I swear I saw his pinky twitch.

Perhaps a beg for me not to go. Perhaps return of a promise that the stars had not yet stopped. Perhaps it was nothing but a foolish grief riddled hope.

But I let myself believe that it was his reply.

Even the void was worse without her.

I felt my Bunny’s absence the same way that humans hear silence. The discomfort borne from the recognition that what was, is no longer. That shrill sound of tortured neurons trying to find something to justify their existence.

I couldn’t see anything but the endless nothing. I felt only pain for which there was little relief unless I could feel her, instead. Until I heard the soft sound of her voice. Like a distant whisper, broken by a grief I knew all too well.

It was a different hurt. A powerlessness I’d never known. An all-consuming need to end her suffering but being unable to find her amongst the echoes of myself.

And then she was gone again.

And there I remained, a lost planet seeking a star so brilliantly unlike the others. A useless, lifeless, wandering hunk of rock that was doomed to decay and fall unremembered into eternal darkness unless I could tether myself to something greater than I could ever be.

There was no way to measure how long I would be trapped there, locked between abject apathy and a soul-crushing hope.

They say it’s the hope that kills you, but it’s not. It’s the waiting. It’s the slow but sure erosion of the tides against a cracking cliffside. With enough time, water could even wear down a diamond.

Of course, the planet it was on would likely succumb to a supernova before it was given the proper chance.

I had been here before. It felt different this time. Somehow more permanent. Somehow more painful.

But even in my bleakest moments, I was reminded of just how many stars I’d encountered in an otherwise pitiful 40 years.

The fleeting sound of a mother’s voice as she recounted each conversation with her boys. The subtle scent of cigar smoke hanging on vintage cloth alongside the familiar tunes of a well-worn vinyl. The calming lull of the Simmons’ Stories. 

Sometimes, I could hear my friends with an eerie clarity. I would doubt their existence if they hadn’t been so perfectly aligned with who I knew them to be.

“Wow,” Emily said with a sharp inhale. “It’s a little unsettling to realize just how much of the conversation he kept up, isn’t it?”

She was comforted quickly by the soothing timbre of Tara’s snark.

“Don’t worry, Emily. You talk plenty on your own.”

A sarcastically shocked gasp rung through the air.

“You’re gonna let her talk to me like that, Reid? After all we’ve been through?”

I wished more than anything she could see me smile in reply. I wanted to join in, to share in the jest and the joy they graciously gave to a hopeless man.

I heard their attempts at comfort. But all they heard was silence.

“It was worth a try,” she said sadly.

I thanked her the only way I could. By hanging on another day. By suffering through the waiting.

It got easier. Easier, but worse.

Because I was trapped inside my own head, plagued by the fear of a running clock. The understanding that they would not be able to grieve forever. One day, the waiting for me would be too much to ask.

That was never clearer to me than the day my attention was awoken by the very angry squeaking of a certain Penelope Garcia.

“Bunny told me what you said about us and— and I’m very mad at you!”

A distant memory occurred to me. A self-pitying insecurity that my friends would forget me easily.

I hadn’t meant it, I would’ve said.

She called my bluff.

“It’s not fair that you think you know everything, including how we feel,” she cried, lightly at first only to be followed by a long silence.

“You never even asked,” she choked.

The pain wrecking my body intensified. The thudding in my chest felt like an earthquake threatening to cave in rattling ribs. My hands burned with the need to touch her. Anything to apologize for my selfishness. Anything to stop that sentiment from being the last thing she heard of me.

Anything to beg her not to give up on me yet.

But Penelope, like all of us, was accustomed to the void. She took a bold step into the nothing. Not just out of love, but out of spite for the mere notion that her love had gone unnoticed. 

“A-And you know what, Reid? You’re wrong!”

A rare but always thrilling challenge. I would’ve scoffed but for the tears that would’ve drowned out the sound.

“I know that’s hard for you to hear, but it’s true,” she continued. Fun loving words soured, bleeding bitterness and rage for the circumstances. “If you really believe that any of us wouldn’t forever carry around a hole in our hearts where you used to be…”

The words hit like fists and knives and bullets. I cursed my perfect recall as it failed. It ignored my desire to see each of their smiling faces, showing me only the familiar sight of them hunched over in silent prayer. To fate, to God, to whatever they could find. Their stained shirt cuffs as they struggled in vain to unredden their hands and sclera.

“You’re not just wrong, Reid,” she laughed between sobs, “You’re just being flat out dumb.”

Suddenly, a new sound ripped through the void. A loud, shrill beeping out of rhythm. A spiking heartrate as even the void grew too small to hold in the hurt.

“I’m sorry!” Penelope immediately cried.

Warm, comforting hands cradling freezing cheeks. A gentle shushing, a quiet apology from tear-soaked hands.

“You’re not dumb. I didn’t mean it,” she insisted, “I’m just—I’m very upset with you, okay? It’s just one of our little jokey spats. That’s all.”

My heart quieted along with her voice.

“We love you a lot. It’s not just her, although it is her more than most.”

‘I know,’ I tried to say.

“We all love you so much.”

‘I know. I’m sorry. I know.’

I had felt her just enough to notice when she pulled away. Still, her words came through. Clear and commanding, as she always was.

“And I don’t regret yelling at you because I needed you to hear that. One genius to another.”

Suddenly, another feeling flooded through me. The feeling of soft lips pressed against my cheek, mixing my memories of the… dozens of days spent like this. All the different visits, the different lips that warmed me in my sleep.

How long had I been here?

Was my Bunny still waiting?

Like an answer, Penelope chuckled as fingers fiddled with poorly cared for curls.

“Now wake up soon so I can plan a very cute garden themed wedding, okay?” she snickered. “It’ll have so many pumpkins. I promise.”

And with that small seedling of hope, the mere mention of my Bunny, Penelope was gone, and I remained.

Whatever feeling I had from my body began to itch with the need to escape.

I had to get out. I had to find her. Before it was too late.

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