#do not mind that I had to pull from my savings to afford it

[thepocketedindividual]

If all goes well I am getting my first real camera after work today!!!! It’s a used fujifilm from fb marketplace (obvs we all hate fb but gosh do I love their marketplace and buy nothing groups) and I am SO excited to learn how to use it!! I have some exposure (pun intended) with camera functionalities and settings from using The Family Camera as a kid/teenager, but I haven’t had much experience outside of that. I’m getting the camera MOSTLY because I’m traveling out of the country with my bff later this year, and I want to have something nice to take pictures on, but I’ve also had the craving to document my transition and my terrarium builds and stuff— maybe to post or maybe just to keep for me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ But regardless I’m so excited!!!

[thesweetestofdreams]

Homesick part 2

poly!marauders roommate au 2.6k (part 1)

I apologize for the wait. I'm officially the worst, but here she is!

Your roommates were nice, too nice. It was a suffocating drowning feeling. James, Remus and Sirius were nice, and all you could do was shrink around it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, just the way it was. 

They believed the lie that you still hadn’t unpacked your coat, and James gave you one of his. You walked to work trying to ignore that his smell still lingered in the fabric. It was the closest thing you’d had to a hug in a long time. It made you miss them. 

You were ready to live off of stolen saltines from work. Working at a cheap diner was far from glorious, but it was the first place to hire you when you needed it. The last few weeks your tips had been shitty and the customers shittier, but somehow your roommates always made too much for dinner. So last night you ate the best pasta you’d ever had trying not to choke on your own guilt. 

It was never that you disliked your roommates, the opposite, really. You liked them too much; you could just never seem to bridge the gap. They were like an opulent display in a store window. You felt like a kid pressing up against the glass but never opening the door; you couldn’t afford any of it anyway.

You'd already been two weeks late paying rent last month, saving up tips. Your roommates of course, were nothing but obliging. It just made the guilt worse. Remus tried to pull you aside once to tell you it was okay if you couldn't, but you quickly brushed him off. You knew they were already charging less than they should.

So you found yourself stealing glances, watching from the hall as Remus came home and Sirius took his bag before he was ever fully inside. You saw them pile into the same bedroom as you brushed your teeth, soft whispers and laughs coming from the door. 

Last night was no different, you peeking into how they were with each other from the kitchen doorway. James was making the pasta from scratch and there was flour in his hair, on his nose, the rim of his glasses. Sirius was hugging Remus from behind while the latter used the sleeve of his sweater to clean James’s glasses. You can’t recall ever being that comfortable with someone. Sometimes you’d think about it as you fell asleep, stealing the ghost of their warmth to lull your eyes closed. 

Now as you flipped the open sign to close, you found yourself stuck there. Stuck in the kitchen doorway haunted by the golden light in the windows and the unwarranted thoughts of what it would feel like to be any one of the three of them. 

“Hey, my boyfriends here and he hates waiting on me, you don’t mind if I run, do you?” Stephanie asked, smacking her gum between her teeth. 

You shook your head despite yourself.

“Thanks you're the best,” she said already out the door. Great now you’d have to close by yourself. 

You finally got done at eleven and the darkness that greeted you on your way home was cold and sticky. You’d left James’s coat at home because you’d been in a mood, too stubborn to accept any help even if it was just a stupid coat. Now you were just stupidly cold, but at least it was something. Every day you felt more like a crack in the sidewalk, weeds growing from between your ribs, only to be crushed underfoot, so just feeling cold was a nice change of pace. 

It was a somewhat peaceful walk until you felt the first raindrop plop onto the top of your head. Before you knew it rain was coming down in fat droplets soaking you from your head to your sneakers, your socks were already wet. You picked up the pace, cursing yourself for taking the long way home. 

“Hey,” you heard the voice before noticing the car slow beside you on the road. You felt your blood run cold. “You need a ride,” the man hollered over the rain. You looked but didn’t stop. Two men were in the car, matching your speed and creeping dangerously close to the sidewalk. From the drooping of their eyes you could tell they were probably drunk. The one closest to you had long hair that kept falling in his face. 

“No, thank you,” you practically squeaked, far from intimidating if even believable. 

“It’s raining,” he said, a hand waving out the window. “Don’t be like that, we're just trying to be nice.” 

“I’m alright.” You offered a stupid smile, like a stupid sheep smiling at snarling wolves. The pit in your stomach did a full turn. A voice in your head told you if you got in that car you wouldn’t end up anywhere nice. 

“Come on,” the man said he was practically through the window and you felt a hand close around your wrist. You used all of your body weight to pull away from him, stumbling back a bit as you did. You backed up as far as possible before running as fast as you could. By the time you made it to your apartment you were crying, hot tears mixing with cold rain. 

You slipped through the front door hoping your roommates had gone to bed. Three pairs of eyes were on you as soon as the door clicked shut. James was the first to get up. 

“I had no idea it was gonna rain, not like that," he said, glancing out the window. “I’m sorry I was here, I could have gotten you from work.” Now he was looking at the kitchen, “Are you hungry? I made Indian food. Do you like-” 

“James,” Remus said softly, a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked, brow wrought with concern. 

Your eyes were wide looking between the three of them. Your chest rattled with uneven breaths, puffing past frozen lips. Sirius held out a towel for you, you hadn’t noticed him leave. “You’re shaking like a leaf, doll,” he said it like a secret, like he was cluing you in to Remus’s concern. 

“Did something happen?” James asked, and then it was quiet and you felt your eyes burn as more tears welled. 

“I’m fine.” You attempted a smile, but they saw your lip quiver. There was no way for you to know how much it broke them. “I’m not very hungry,” you lied around an empty stomach.

Remus gave you a sad look, “Are you sure, because if you want to talk, we’re here.” 

“God Remus, can you just get off it. I said I was fine.” It came out harsher than you meant to, a knife laced with the edge of panic you couldn’t seem to shake. It was too much, all three of them looking at you like some child, like something about to break. 

Why should anybody care if you were okay, as long as you said you were then that was enough. Why couldn’t they just leave you alone? Everything was so much easier to do alone, it always had been. 

You pushed past Sirius to get to your room. He was giving you a look that cut right through you, like he could see all of your insides, everything you tried to hide. 

You didn't need anyone's pity; in fact, you didn't need anyone's anything. You made sure of that. It was you against the world, just you. Remus, James, and Sirius, for all their niceties, all their warmth towards you, could never truly understand. They had each other, closer than anyone you'd seen.

You didn’t sleep the rest of the night, not until the sun rose and your tears had dried up. 

-

Thank goodness you didn’t work the next day. You woke up with a shiver down your spine curling into an ache in your back. Of course you’d be sick, it was just your luck. Either way the hunt for a new job couldn’t wait, so you trudged into the kitchen. 

In front of the coffee pot, sat a chocolate bar with a sticky note stuck to it. In curly writing it said that James had saved you leftovers in the fridge. It made your chest ache. You just couldn’t understand why they cared so much. 

“They’re too nice for their own good sometimes,” a voice from the kitchen doorway made you flinch. “That’s from Remus by the way, although if you ask me he shouldn’t be the one apologizing,” Sirius said trailing in with mussed hair and a crooked tank top. 

It stung to remember last night, but Sirius wasn’t wrong. You shouldn’t have snapped at Remus, but how were you meant to fix it?

“I get it you know,” he said, reaching around you for the coffee pot and filling two mugs. 

“Get what?” you felt backed in a corner but nowhere near the panic of last night. Somehow you knew if you really wanted to leave Sirius wouldn’t stop you, but you had to hear what he had to say. 

“Saying you’re fine when you’re not. Getting mad when people care.” He poured a mountain of sugar in his coffee and handed you the milk for yours. 

“I don’t…” you trailed off. 

“It’s fine, if that’s the way you want to do things, but you’ll have an awfully hard time trying with those two around.” He leaned against the counter, hair falling over his cheeks. “And a secret, it feels so much better when you stop doing everything alone.” 

“Yeah thanks Sirius,” you said, trying not to fold in on yourself until you disappeared. 

He swayed off the counter, heading back out of the kitchen. He stopped before fully leaving the doorway. ”I’d eat that chocolate. Remus gave it to you to make you feel better, just,” he sighed, “give it a try, doll.”

You grabbed a tylenol from the bottle on the counter. You stood for a minute staring at the chocolate bar, you finally took it as you returned to your room. 

The next day you were plagued by Sirius’s words. You’d tried to apologize to Remus, he’d just asked if you liked the chocolate, and James well he was still James, bright, loving, perfectly James. It seemed like maybe you could try, that was until your fever took a turn for the worst. 

It was time to go back to work and you couldn’t afford to call in. You’d spent half your time trying to ignore being sick and the other half trying to sleep it off. The ache in your back had spread to the rest of your body, worst of all being your head. Your head felt like a weight on your shoulders and your eyelids felt perpetually heavy. You managed to get dressed in your work uniform but by then you felt on the verge of collapsing. You convinced yourself you could make it. You just needed to bring your fever down and then things would be fine, the tylenol would kick in and you could manage. 

You wet a cloth in the bathroom sink and sank to the floor, just fifteen minutes, cool off and then leave. 

-

“Sometimes things just take time James,” Remus said, dropping his bag at the hall tree next to the front door. “We’ve had years to get comfortable together, she’ll come around.” 

“Maybe we could write her a letter,” James said, earnest in his suggestion. “I just don’t want to be doing something that makes her uncomfortable.” 

“You’re not doing anything wrong, Prongs,” Sirius said, sliding a hand across James’s back. “Promise. Moony is right, she just needs time.” 

“If you say so,” James said, feeling somewhat defeated. He just wanted you to feel comfortable in your own home. He wanted to fix it, just like he wanted to fix everything. He was at least going to write you a note, but on his way to the bedroom he noticed you through the open bathroom door. 

“Shit.” He rushed into the bathroom. He knelt down next to you, calling your name. “Are you alright?” 

Your head bobbed off of the side of the bathtub as you woke up. “James,” you said, utterly confused. You’d just closed your eyes for a minute. When did he get here?

“Hello love,” he said, a hand coming to your forehead. “You’re boiling.” 

“Oh my god what time is it?” you said, a slur of words all mushed together in your tired panic. 

“James, Remus wants takeaway. What do you-” Sirius’s words died at the sight before him. 

“C’mon let’s get you off the floor,” James said, taking the brunt of your weight as he pulled you up. 

“Here I thought we had talked about this,” Sirius said, braced at your other side. 

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to will the shaking out of your legs. 

“Right and I’m the queen.” Sirius laughed to himself a small exasperated thing, nothing at all like his normal laugh. 

Remus finally saw you as you sat in a heap on the sofa, he exhaled your name. “Thank goodness you didn’t go to work. You’re burning up.” He pushed hair from your face, tsking in the soft concerned voice usually reserved only for James and Sirius. “I’ll make tea. Pads, the tylenol, please.” 

You let your head fall into your hands as you felt James pulling off your shoes. “I’m so fired,” you sighed, voice full of tired frustration.

“Seemed like a shit job anyways,” Sirius said, turning for the kitchen. 

“Do you mind if I?” James started a hand toward your neck.

You gave him a pained, inquisitive look, but he didn’t wait. He pressed his fingers to the side of your neck. Despite yourself you leaned into the warmth. He was counting to himself.

“Just wanted to make sure you weren’t in any distress.” He kept his hand still for a moment. “You’re not, just a nasty fever. You can have a blanket but I say lots of fluids, rest, and a cold compress to get that fever down.”

“Thank you Dr. Potter,” Sirius said, returning with an assortment of medicine bottles. Remus was quick to follow with tea in hand. 

“Does your throat hurt? I added honey,” Remus said, holding the mug out to you, but you didn’t take it. It felt like you couldn’t.

Three expectant pairs of eyes landed on you, and that’s when the seams ripped. “I just…” you caught on the word, breath hitching, “Why are you being so nice to me?” 

“That’s the fever talking,” James said, rocking onto the couch next to you. Remus and Sirius looked like they weren’t so sure. 

“No, I- I’m mean, and I don’t let you help. I’m always telling you no, or going off somewhere. You shouldn’t be nice to me.” 

“I believe that’s for us to decide, thank you,” Sirius said. 

Remus sank to his knees in front of you, pressing the mug into your hands. “Despite what you may want to think. We want you here. We like you. And sometimes people need help and that’s okay.” 

“Remus and Sirius are right, love. We’re selfish,” James flashed a mischievous grin, “let us take care of you. We want to.”

“If I may have a moment alone with our patient,” Sirius said, a nudging look in his eyes. Reluctantly the two stood, James already planning a healing soup for this very occasion. 

“I hate to say I told you so, but-” Sirus started.

“You love to say I told you so,” James and Remus said almost in unison near the kitchen. You felt a tired smile creep on the corners of your mouth. 

“Okay fine, but what I’m trying to say is, let us help you. It feels so much better than running yourself ragged all alone. I know because I tried, and this,” he gestured around him, to the sight of Remus and James cooking in practiced turns through the kitchen door, “this is exactly what I needed.” 

[with-my-calamitous-love]

paper cut stings from my paper thin glands

chuuya n. x reader

the trials and tribulations of dating a criminal executive ❥ angst with comfort, pros and cons format

song: death by a thousand cuts

pro: he’s incredibly romantic

chuuya has seen more than plenty of scumbags in his life. womanizers, cheaters, abusers. he didn’t make it this far as an executive without meeting unsavoury people. he’s seen darker sides of the city, the sides that he’s had to survive in.

meeting all these people, he’s had the good fortune of learning- the hard way- how not to treat someone you love. he does all the classics- fancy dinners, late night joyrides, pretty flowers.

but he also manages to make everything, including the most mundane things, even just a little romantic. he waits for you in the clinic for every appointment, folds clothes while you order dinner (he can’t cook to save his life), and sits through hours of old sitcoms and reality tv while rotting on the couch with you.

you could have skipped a shower, be in yesterdays clothes with crumbs on your lips and he’d still tell you every second: “you’re beautiful.”

you almost laugh, standing up to clean the empty plates and wine glasses. he joins you shortly after. what a pleasure it is to wash dishes at 2am in your apartment.

con: he’s got a temper

perhaps apart of it is survival instinct. everyone loves puppies, but never wounded dogs that bites. chuuya has lived most of his life a wounded dog.

when he’s silent, its because he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. when he does open his mouth, he usually regrets what he says about 2 seconds after. he often has so much left unsaid, so many emotions swirling around in him, that he doesn’t know how to not notice. he’s more empathetic than one would imagine, seeing all the anger and hatred in the world, often shouldering those feelings without even realizing it.

he just wants to kiss the ground you walk on, to get inside your mind and see himself through your eyes. he never fully understands why you put up with him, why you’re so patient. but he also chooses not to question it, because he knows its more than he deserves.

“…i was angry but you didn’t deserve what i said. i shouldn’t have taken it out on you. i’m so sorry.” he says firm, biting his tongue. he’s never sure when his apologies will fall onto deaf ears. he hopes you won’t look at him like a bad drug and toss him out.

“is that what you were practicing in the mirror?” you smile a little. for the first time in hours, he breathes.

“does that mean you forgive me?” he asks sheepishly, almost like a child.

you take his hand and pull him into the room. “just come to bed, baby.”

at least he’s not on the couch tonight.

pro: he’s loyal

when people see chuuya, they see the silk clothes and expensive accessories. they see his piercing glare and leather shoes. they see the surface, the hard, shiny exterior, and think that he can get anyone he wants. partly true.

but chuuya bristles at the thought of disposability. anyone who has ever loved him has either died, left, or simply doesn’t know he exists. after all he’s lost, he simply can’t afford to play fast and loose with you. he jumped out of a helicopter for someone he claims he doesn’t like. imagine what he’d do for you.

he knows of your insecurities, but he’ll never brush off jealousy as something silly or childish. he wants to show you off and, at the same time, keep you as something sacred and private to him. your heart, your hips, your body, your love, all of it something he worships. he somehow quiets all your fears with just the touch of his hand.

theres no part of him that you don’t exist in. his eyes, the way they light up upon your arrival. his hands molded like clay just to hold you. lips with your name on them. theres no part of him that you haven’t touched. and he wants you to know it.

con: he hardly knows himself

it isn’t his fault, really.

living on survival mode gives you little time for self discovery. he’s never thought of the future, or of his plans- just day to day. living just to survive the next few hours is how you end up in the shadows of city, a feared criminal, wondering how things ended up this way.

he knows what he doesn’t want to be. he doesn’t want to be a corrupted monster, an amalgamation of all the darkest years of his life. he wishes, more than anything, just to be human. he never wanted to be a god, or a even an executive, just human. but somehow, he still finds himself sinking his teeth into skin, wondering why he’s still biting, wondering why anyone would ever want a wounded dog that bites.

he’s hardly open about his own fears. but its not hard to spot the way it lingers in his eyes when he’s up at night, sweat sticking to his skin, staring down his hands. he’s searching for the humanity you see in him. he wants to believe that its there.

some nights he doesn’t fully find it. its the nights he pulls you closer to him, closing his eyes only when they grow heavy, needing to feel another human presence next to him.

pro: he gives you all he is, and more

his humanity doesn’t come from origin but rather his love and loyalty, devotion to people like you. you feel it in the way he kisses you- pecks on the cheek before he leaves work, or deep longing ones when the night has dawned and you’re in bed. he’s made peace with his mysteries if it means he can give all of himself to you, all the parts of him that you’ve chosen to love.

you’re the centre of his universe, the gravity that keeps him alive. and to you, he’s not chuuya nakahara: the god, or the night warden, or even a dog. he’s funny and faithful. he’s a terrible cook but a good motorcyclist. he’s incredibly handsome, cocky but somehow humble at the same time. he’s yours, for as long as gravity pulls him to you.

[pure-smut]

babysitting.

featuring: Toji Fushiguro x f!reader

contains: you're megumi's babysitter and toji pays for "extra services", might be slightly ooc bc we know toji is always broke as hell, age gap, dubcon if you squint, oral (m and f receiving), face fucking, doggy, unprotected s*x, creampie, breeding k*nk at the end

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

word count: 2.4k

masterlist

MDNI | 18+ content

You’ve been babysitting twice a week for Toji Fushiguro’s toddler for around two months now and he’s barely said more than five words to you.

He pays you on time, he comes back home when he says he will, and his toddler, Megumi, is a sweet little boy who’s easy to take care of. So it doesn’t bother you that Toji doesn’t really talk to you – you’re a broke college student and babysitting a couple of evenings a night is just a way to keep your head above water. As long as he pays, you keep to yourself and that suits you.

Until he offers something more.

Megumi’s been tucked into bed and you’re in the living room, watching TV until Toji comes home. He’s usually back around midnight so you kill time until then, checking in on Megumi every so often. When the front door opens and Toji comes in, you barely glance up from your phone.

Toji usually leaves your money on the kitchen counter for you to collect on your way out before he goes straight to bed. This time though, when you stretch and stand from the couch, he’s lingering in the doorway. You startle, not expecting him.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly.

Toji leans with his forearm against the doorway, looking at you. You feel like you’re under a microscope suddenly and you forget what to do with your hands, wringing them nervously in front of you.

“Um. Megumi was fine tonight, a bit fussy with dinner but nothing major,” you say, wondering if he’s finally looking for an update on minding his son. “He’s asleep upstairs, I just checked on him about thirty minutes ago.”

Toji tilts his chin up, studying you through a half-lidded gaze. You’re struggling to keep eye contact with him, your eyes glancing over his sculped torso, barely concealed by his black compression shirt. You cough awkwardly.

“Anyway,” you say. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

You make to move past him but his large form is blocking the doorway.

“Um…”

“Your cash is in the kitchen,” Toji says and you blink up at him, wondering why he’s telling you something you already know. “And…”

Toji pulls another wad of cash from his sweatpants pocket.

“I have extra for you, if you want it.”

Your eyes widen at the money in his hands. You’re barely scraping by this month and some extra money would really help. But…

“Extra for what?” you ask, brow furrowed.

Toji smirks at you, his scarred lips lifting at the corner.

“Let’s see…” he says, flicking through the notes. “$50 to let me lick your pussy…”

You inhale sharply, mouth dropping open, but Toji continues on as if nothing’s wrong.

“$100 to suck my dick, $150 to let me fuck you aaaand…” Toji holds up the entire wad of cash with a grin. “$2,000 if you do all of it.”

Your lungs constrict. You swallow thickly as your eyes dart between Toji’s easy smile and the cash he’s dangling in front of you.

You open your mouth, your first instinct to tell him to shove his money and storm out. But the more you think about it…

Toji watches you close your mouth, eyes on the money, and knows he has you. He’s not in any rush – he can be patient. He’s been waiting all this time for a payload like this so he could entice you with it. He watches as you dither in front of him, hands fidgeting.

You think about all the nights you’ve lived off ramen and plain bread, the amount of textbooks you had to pirate because you couldn’t afford them, your savings as they slowly dwindle every month.

And then you think about the broad man in front of you, Megumi’s dad, who isn’t even bad looking. You’ve had worse one-night stands and you didn’t even get paid for them. So what’s the problem, really?

You nibble at your bottom lip.

“Okay,” you eventually say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do all of it.”

Toji grins a little wider.

“Smart choice, kid.”

He pushes past you, putting the wad of cash down onto the coffee table, and beckons you over.

“Strip and get on the couch,” he says firmly. “And spread your legs for me.”

Fuck, why was that so hot? You already feel a coil of heat in your lower stomach even as your hands tremble, tugging off your top and leggings. You’re in your underwear, hesitating, when Toji frowns at you.

“I said strip. That means everything.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat and do what he says. You fight the urge to cover yourself as your bra and panties drop to the floor. Instead, you sit back on the couch like he said and spread your legs.

Toji drops to his knees in front of you, grabbing your hips and pulling your further forward. You’re already glistening with arousal, making him smirk. He dips his head and parts your folds with his tongue, licking you deep.

“Ah…” you gasp softly as you feel his tongue for the first time, hot and soft against your lips.

It feels strange to have someone eating you out when you haven’t even kissed, have barely even spoken before now, but as Toji’s tongue probes your hole, you quickly lose yourself to him.

His thick tongue slides inside you, his mouth flush to your pussy as he licks you deep. You automatically grind against him, your hand in his hair, a whimper leaving your lips.

Toji always wondered what you taste like, had fisted his cock to the thought of this before every time you were in his house in your tight leggings. He often fantasised about this, about buying your dignity and making you spread your legs for him. As he moves up to your clit, feeling it swollen with arousal, his cock throbs.

You’re this turned on already. Your pussy was practically waiting for him, already slick and primed for a good fucking. Toji hoped you’d be, hoped he’d found a perfect little live-in fucktoy. And he has.

Toji strokes the flat of his tongue over your clit, sucking it with just enough pressure to make a lustful moan roll off your lips. You’ve had people go down on you before but it never felt like this.

Toji keeps sucking and licking your sensitive nub as he presses a thick finger inside you. You clench around him and it makes his cock even harder, anticipating the feel of you around him later. He curves his finger, finding your sensitive spot and stroking it until your back curves.

“F-Fuck… Toji, I… I’m…”

You try to stammer out a sentence but you’re too close, your brows knitted in the middle, your thighs wrapped around his head. Toji continues to stroke you on the inside as he feels your clit throb against his tongue.

It’s too much.

You cry out, gripping his hair hard as you cum on Toji’s tongue, your thighs shaking against his head.

Toji laps up your juices, licking you through your orgasm until you’re jerking and shuddering under him. You taste too damn good and you’re so fucking wet for him. He didn’t realise eating your sweet little pussy would get him this hard but his cock is aching, begging to be touched.

Toji pulls back with a groan, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Before you realise what’s happening, he climbs on top of you, kneeling with his knees on either side of you as he presses his cock to your mouth.

Your head is against the back of the sofa, slumped in the seat and half-dazed from your orgasm as you feel his fat mushroom tip on your lips. It’s slick with precum and you open your eyes long enough to see the size of it. You don’t have time to worry whether you can take it – Toji doesn’t give you time – before he’s forcing his cock past your lips.

You open your mouth to try and accommodate him but he’s so thick. You swirl your tongue over his sensitive head and Toji lets out a long groan in relief. You hot mouth on his cock makes him leak even more precum which you dutifully lick up.

“That’s it. Good girl,” Toji praises you as he pulls back slightly only to push even deeper.

You have nowhere to turn, your head pressed against the back of the couch as Toji starts to fuck your mouth. You try to keep your jaw slack, your tongue licking along the fat vein running across the underside of his shaft as Toji slowly picks up speed.

You gag as he hits the back of your throat but Toji doesn’t let up, using your thick saliva as lube to face fuck you harder. Your eyes water, saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth as the slopping sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your mouth fill the room.

Toji’s hard as a rock, the heavenly feel of your mouth enough to make him want to cum. He’s tempted, loving the idea of making you swallow his load. He bets you’d struggle to swallow it all, his cum dribbling out of your mouth as he scoops it up with his fingers and forces it back in your mouth, forces you to suck his fingers clean.

“Ah, fuck…” Toji grabs the back of the couch as leverage, rocking his hips as he continues to use your mouth as a fleshlight.

You know it’s rough and degrading but it’s only making you hornier. You rub your thighs together, feeling them slick with your arousal, desperate for some more friction on your clit. Toji notices and grins down at you.

“You gettin’ turned on, baby?” he taunts. “You gettin’ wet from sucking me off?”

Toji’s hit the jackpot with you. It’s been a while since he felt this good with a woman, since he found such a perfect little slut to fulfil his needs and look after his son.

Toji pulls himself from your mouth, thick strings of saliva between your lips and his cock. You gasp for breath, your eyes wet and cheeks flushed. Fuck, you look so sexy like this. Toji needs to have you now.

He grabs you by the wrist, pulling you up roughly before pushing you over the arm of the couch, bending you over. You’re too fucked out to protest, moving limply where he puts you as Toji kicks your legs open.

You can only whimper as you feel his thick tip prod at your entrance. You clench, nervous, knowing how big he is, as Toji slowly sinks his girth inside you.

You’re tight but you’re ready, squeezing around Toji as he pushes deep. The combination of his saliva-slicked cock and your dripping pussy means there’s no pain, only a delicious stretch as your walls wrap around Toji. He keeps pushing, pushing, until he’s bottomed out, his pelvis flush to your ass.

Toji takes a second to savour the moment. You feel indescribable. Your silky walls are so hot, so pillowy soft, even as you clench around him it feels like you’re milking his cock.

“Perfect,” he growls. “My perfect little fucktoy.”

Toji grabs your hips, sinking his fingers in hard as he withdraws. After fucking your pretty little mouth, he’s already close and he wants to prolong it as much as possible. But a feral need overtakes him.

He starts to slam into you, fucking you wildly as you cry out beneath him.

“Shh,” he hushes you even as he doesn’t break pace. “Don’t want to wake up little Megumi, do we?”

His words silence you down to a whimper as you press your face into the couch cushion to smother your moans. Toji bullies his cock into you, his eyes glued on your cunt as your lips wrap around him, sucking him in. He knows you haven’t cum yet, not from him fucking you, so he pulls your hips back slightly, leaving enough of a gap between you and the sofa so he can reach under you and play with your clit.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stop from crying out again. Your orgasm builds from a combination of Toji deftly rubbing your sensitive nub and the way his cock is rubbing against your sensitive walls, each stroke sending your nerves alight.

Toji’s not overly concerned with your pleasure, not really, but he knows your perfect pussy will feel even better if you cum on his cock. Plus, he knows if he draws a second orgasm from you, it’ll be much harder for you to protest the next time. So he grits his teeth, delaying his own orgasm until he can feel yours.

It doesn’t take long.

You clench your hands into fists, moaning into the cushion as you clamp down around him. Toji was right – you feel even better. Your walls massage his cock, fluttering around him in a way that’s making him see spots.

Finally, he lets go.

“Fuck fuck fuuuuck.”

Toji buries himself to the hilt, exploding inside you. You feel his cum hit your walls, painting your pussy white as he fills to you the brim with load after load. His cock twitches with each wave of pleasure, his grip hard enough to leave bruises on your hips.

Your collapse onto the couch, still bent over as Toji slowly withdraws. A flood of his cum follows, spilling down your thighs, but your limbs are too heavy to move. It doesn’t matter though because Toji scoops you up, carrying you upstairs to his bedroom.

You feel a wet cloth between your legs, cleaning you up as you lie on his bed. You want to speak but you’re too dazed, weariness sweeping over your body.

Toji climbs into bed next to you, pulling you to him so you’re lying on his chest. For the first time that night, he tips his head down to kiss you.

He’s surprisingly tender, kissing you softly as his tongue gently laps into your mouth. You kiss him back as he pulls your leg over his, nestling it between his thighs.

“You did so well tonight,” he tells you. “Are you on birth control, baby?”

You stir at his question, your brain churning slowly.

“Um… no…” The implications begin to dawn on you. “S-Shit. I need to get Plan B.”

Toji hushes you with another kiss, his hand idly running up and down your thigh.

“I don’t think there’s any need for that,” he says with a smile. “Let’s give Megumi a little brother or sister, hm?”

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[wtfaniii]

Letters of destiny

● Summary: You entered the games for a reason, to pay for your husband's chemotherapy, there you meet someone who has a story quite similar to yours

● Note: This language is not my original language but I hope you like this one shot, I am open to recommendations and constructive criticism! <3

● Warning: Nothing, it's just a bit short since I'm not used to writing through this medium yet, but I hope you like it.

You didn't want to die, you had a man at home who adored you and was worried about you and you hoped to arrive with lots of money and a future resolved but the timer of the games only went backwards and you still couldn't find a group to join.

The carousel game had never been your strong suit, socializing was not your role but it was that or die, a group of 7 players and you were still standing there looking in all directions not knowing what to do until you felt someone pull your arm and in the blink of an eye you were in a compartment with 6 other people.

"Thank you..." The girl murmured, releasing the air she hadn't realized she had trapped in her lungs.

"It's nothing" answered player 456 also with accelerated breathing and taking gasps of air while he rested his hands on his knees, when the shots and screams were heard he looked through the half-open space of the door with sadness. You had already seen him, he was the one who guided them in the first game of green light and red light, the one who says he has already participated and won, maybe he tried to persuade people to withdraw from these games but he only encouraged you, it means that there is a chance to win.

"Thank you..." The young woman repeated, giving a slight bow to which he turned to look at her, confused, as did the rest of those who were there. "You motivated me to continue in these games."

You felt another look on you, only this one was full of curiosity and intensity. Without knowing it, you had said the same words as another person, only this time they were sincere.

"Are you crazy, women?" Another man shouted next to him, one with the number 390 "If what we want is for these games to end!"

You just stayed quiet with your eyes open, when your gaze moved towards the one who kept looking at you, you met with an intense and serious look, it made you shrink in your place just a little.

The door opened again and they all left together, happy to have been able to save their lives once again.

You were about to leave but before you could, one of them pulled you over with his arm around your shoulders with great confidence and shouted victoriously. "If we change her mind, we'll have another point in our favor!" he exclaimed, the number 388, pointing at the blue circle on your chest. "I don't understand."

"In the next vote, we want these games to end" said 456.

You remained silent again, not knowing what to answer. You didn't want to leave, or at least not yet. You wanted to gather more than enough money for your husband. Without realizing it, the same look as before fell on you.

[...]

There was a certain tension in the room, the participants had not yet voted but it was clear that the results would be almost even.

"My husband... has stage three lung cancer..." the woman murmured with her eyes downcast. "The doctors say that he can be cured, they would only remove the cancerous tumor but he would have to undergo several consultations and therapies that we cannot afford." The players surrounding her looked at her with pity and empathy. "I have already sold... many of our belongings, I have double shifts at work, I even mortgaged my house but it is not enough... and if I do not get enough money I will lose everything..." She did not even notice when the tears fell from her eyes without stopping.

It was horrible, most of them had debts but she would be left on the street and a widow if she did not get what she needed.

In-ho watched her silently as he bit his inner right cheek, the situation she was going through was not very different from the one he experienced, he knew that feeling of helplessness, of wanting to scream to the world how much he hated it for those cards of destiny "Does your husband know you came here?" he asked softly walking towards her to sit next to her.

She shook her head softly, wiping her tears with the sleeve of his jacket. "I just told him that I had found a way to get a lot of money." Now, that was cruel, even if she didn't achieve his goal and died on the way, her husband would think that she had abandoned him, along with his debts. "I want to go back home," she said after a few seconds of silence. "I think it's time to end this." She would vote to leave. The money they had so far was still not the amount they required, but it would be very helpful.

"You will get out of here," 001 said, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving her a slight closed-lip smile.

It was strange to feel that comforting and warm feeling from a stranger, but she was grateful for it. They say that eyes say more than words, and the look he gave her was one of genuine empathy.

As if he understood her in her current state of life.

"We'll get out of here," 456 now assured her with a nod.

Her knew them very little but without much hesitation her trusted them, even when Gi-hun told them about his plan on how to confront the guards and reach the people who led these games she agreed to help them, she needed the prize but not at the cost of more innocent deaths.

However, In-ho was not very happy about her following them, from the little he had read about her in her file he knew that she didn't hurt a fly, it would be useless to take her. Besides, the time to play in the yard was over, it was time to return to the command where he belonged and he didn't want the girl to be involved in this. But unfortunately for him he had no other option but to say "After you" as they left there being guided by the guard.

He was supposed to keep control over his emotions but it was inevitable, when he realized she was already too deep in his mind to let her die.

It was as if he had a chance to help his past self, that poor man who fell into misery being reflected by the young woman inexperienced in weapons who only sought to keep the love of her life alive.

It was an ironic and cruel letter from his destiny.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Don't Save Her.

she don't wanna be saved.

CBF!K. Garrick x sex worker!reader

CW: mention of repeated sexual assault. Mention of sex work. 18+

"She's a bonnie thing." Soap says after catching a small peep at Kyle's phone.

Kyle had been staring at his phone, a vacant look on his face for the past fifteen minutes. Well, maybe vacant is the wrong word. It was more like love sick, probably even a mix of hurt and wistful. Either way, it was a look that said that the girl in the photo was on his mind and on it heavily.

It's a photo of a woman, surrounded by white sheets and a duvet. Brown skin kissed by the morning sun that hits her just right. Eyes are barely open and a sleepy smile. It was the kind of photo you take of the woman you love waking up next to. The type of woman you move heaven and hell for no matter what.

"Yeah, she is." Kyle exits his phone gallery and sighs. They have a meeting in another half hour with Laswell, and he can't clear his head enough to focus.

"She leave you on read?" Soap teased.

Kyle is quiet, and he side eyes his friend, "I wish she left me on read."

"What she pulled a runner and didn't leave you her number?" Soap laughs. But he stops laughing when he sees that he's laughing alone. "Garrick?"

"Don't tell anyone. I just gotta get somethings confirmed first. But this next mission might be my last for a while." Kyle leans forward and places his head in his hands. He really wishes things could have turned out differently.

1.5 years prior.

You didn't want to be home, didn't want to be the only daughter in the will, and you for damn sho didn't want to be dealing with this. The mint green house made your stomach sour, the taste of bile mixed with the cigarette in your mouth. This is the house of your family, on a pretty picket fenced filled road. The funeral director had just gotten done placing the red lantern in the front yard. It would stay until after the repass. Your three siblings, all younger than you, have come in from distant places that life carried them off to. You were the only one who visited regularly. Not for nothing but because leaving your rotten mother all alone with her rotten husband was more than you could handle, but those visits were limited to twice a year.

"Well, Ma'am." Rufus, the director, said with a grim smile, "Bless you, your father was a good man. Worked for my father for years. It is an honor to do up his body."

There's an awkward silence as you stare blankly at him. He shuffles his feet, waiting for you to acknowledge him and his words. "I'll let mama know." You take another drag from your cigarette and look back at the house.

"My number hasn't changed. If you need to talk-"

"Thank you Rufus but there isn't much left for you to say to me." You cut him off. "Remember your mama said I was too fast for you to be hanging around? Keep that same energy love."

He sneers at you, vitriol in his spirit and face, "You're a ruined woman. Especially if what they say is true, always been ruined from what my mom says. And here I am trying to throw you a bone!"

You don't say anything to him at first. Quietly, you size him up, smile in such a snarling fashion. A flash of who you are now slips out and rolls off your tongue. "I wouldn't fuck you then and I wouldn't fuck you now even if your sorry ass could afford my half hour rate. And last I checked, your father didn't think I was fast, he complained that your mother wouldn't swallow." With that being said, you turn on your heel and stalk back unto your house. Rufus says something that's nasty, but it doesn't matter to you. The man was hard in his pants the entire conversation. Somethings never change.

The next morning, you find yourself in the kitchen trying to put something together. Your brothers have made their way into town to try and search for a suit that was appropriate for their father. Something better than the moth bitten clothes in the attic. Visitors and extended family are coming by to pay their respects. They will bring casseroles, chicken, cakes, pies, and drinks to feed your mom and brothers. They will say how your mother's husband was an upstanding man, God fearing and loved his wife and family, and took in his wife's first daughter from a failed relationship. They will praise your mother for her strength to carry on despite being a widow so young. Sickening really.

The doorbell rings, signaling the first of the days mourners. It's Mrs. And Mr. Garrick from down the street. Mrs. Garrick is holding a breakfast casserole, her husband carrying two jugs of juice, both of them giving you sad smiles.

"Oh sweetheart," Mrs. Garrick rushes in past you. She's always been the one neighbor, the one woman who didn't judge you, and often during your youth offered for you to stay up under her during the summer. She placed the dish on the table and pulled you into a tight hug. She smells like sugar cookies. She always did, "It's always so good to see you!" She pulls back. There are tears in her eyes. "You look good. Are you eating enough? How are things in London? I heard that you spent a year in France." Are you here to stay for good?

"Phaedra, don't overwhelm the girl." Mr. Garrick said as he set the juice down. "Poor thing is probably sick with grief."

All of you pause when there is shuffling and banging up stairs. Your mama is moving about getting ready to come down for the day. She liked the Garrick family as much as water liked oil. In all the years of knowing them, she has been nice but spoke so terribly about them behind their back. When your mama appears at the doorway, she smiles and tightens her house coat.

"Phaedra and Collin. Good to see you both. Marvin would be grateful for the visit." She greets them, and her eyes go to how Mrs. Garrick still hugs on to you.

The tension in the room is stiff but is thankfully broken by the sound of the front door opening. A heavy sigh that sounds slightly annoyed enter the chat. "Thanks for helping me with the three water cases, Dad."

Your eyes must have deceived you. It's been years since you've seen him. Kyle Garrick. He's not the thin boy you last saw on graduation. He's taller and broader, and his hair cut is close to his head. He now sports a scar on his cheek. It's faint, but it adds character. He's still prettier than all of the girls on the block, except now he's handsome and downright sexy. The shirt he wears strains just a bit over hard earned muscle, and it's like watching the beginning of a porn video.

"I'm sure you've carried heavier on the field, son!" Mr. Garrick laughs. His laugh makes you look away from Kyle, and your cheeks feel warm.

"Oh Jesus." Mrs. Garrick shook her head and looked back at your mom, "Let's get you fed Linda." She goes right to where the dishes are.

"My daughter can make herself useful. You all sit." Your mom shoots you a look. It's a desperate attempt at making sure the bad dishes weren't seen.

Like being on auto pilot, you move and hurriedly find the good plates. The conversation at the kitchen table was stilted at first. Lots of consoling your mother and asking about your brothers. As you rinsed off the good plates, you felt eyes on you. A quick glance and you see it's Kyle.

"Hey." He whispers, and it's like you two are kids again, trying to go unnoticed by the adults just a few feet away. "Long time no see."

"Yeah." Somehow, you manage to sound normal. "I see the military is treating you well." You smile and nudge him playfully. "You're not a scrawny twig anymore."

The way he looks at you is filled with nostalgia and warmth. "Being special forces will do for that you." He wiggles his brows in that cute and flirtatious way of his.

"Are you gloating? I should tell your mom."

"You know, she had been very excited when she saw you last night. Dad had to make her stay in the house." He leans against the countertop. "She worries about you, said you left home like the day after I left."

You stop rinsing the dishes, "I did. Had to get out."

"Why didn't you come to my house? You know-"

"For what reason Ky?" You glance over your shoulder at your parents talking. They are talking about the funeral arrangements. "I didn't want to be here, and I was old enough to finally leave."

"You could have at least stayed in contact with my mom...or even me." He places his hand on the side of your cheek and makes you look at him. "But I'm happy to see you again."

"I'm glad to see you too Ky."

He looks back at his parents and sees that his Dad is watching you both. It's a small movement, but Mr. Garrick nods towards the back door. He'll cover for you both.

The morning air is still wet with dew when you step outside, but the air is slowly heating up. Bird song is bright, the sky is blue, and the red lantern in the front yard is turned off. It still glows in the morning light, and it makes you angry that people are going through the trouble for your mother's husband. Kyle's hand is on the small of your back, and he ushers you down the walkway to the sidewalk. His car, sleek and shiny, sits on the curb right behind his mom's. The door gets opened, and he helps you and then gets into the driver's side. There are words that need to be said. You know it. He knows it. The space between you knows it. It's been close to a decade since you've seen each other face to face.

"How have things been?" He starts the car and pulls off. The unspoken rule that you won't speak outright about anything when close to your childhood home.

"Decent, I guess." You pull out of your jacket pocket your cigarettes, frown at the number left in the box and put them away. You weren't gonna waste your last three so soon.

"Just decent? And you know that's a bad habit."

"Everything is a bad habit, Ky." You grumble, "You just pick and choose which calms you the most."

"Are you sad?" He asked.

"About that bastard dying?" The scoff that leaves you is comical. "Not gone soon enough."

"Then why are you here?"

"I only visit twice a year and that's on Christmas and new years." You say, "This will be my last time seeing her now that Marvin is dead."

It's quiet a lot longer than she expected. She recognizes the route that they are going. The most secluded place they could find as teens when she needed to get away from everyone and everything.

"Ya know Buttercup," He moves his hand from the gearshift to your hand. It feels the same, but only this time, there are calluses on his fingers, scars that criss cross his hand.

"Don't call me that Ky."

"Why not?" He teases, "You're still my Buttercup."

"I don't feel like one." Your eyes stare out the window. "I haven't felt like one for a while now."

He's skirting around what he wants to ask. You both know it. Word gets back to your town easily when some of your first clients were the very men that leerrd at you. You see his jaw clench and relax through the reflection of the window.

You still don't look at him. The feeling of hot shame stabs at you from the inside. Your skin crawls a bit at what you've done. How can you tell him that what you do feels good? That seeling your body for an hour or two, getting gifts and trips, and plenty of money to chase away your loneliness feels better than the years you spent surviving at home. The shame only comes when you visit home and see the well maintained Garrick home.

"Do you want to stop? You aren't being made to do this are you?" His voice is strained, a mix between hurt and worry, maybe a bit of anger that boils underneath.

"I just want to catch up with my friend and get through this funeral." You finally look at him.

The car comes to a stop at the familiar lookout. It's the same and different. Like this part of your life has not been untouched. The only changes are you and him. Both changed by the years and experiences, but the only thing that's consistent is how you both look at each other. His brown eyes are still sweet and kind. And your only hope was that he couldn't see right through you and down into your soul.

"I'm on leave for the next two weeks. I'm only visiting for a bit. Why don't you come with me when I leave?" When he asks this of you, he brings your hand up to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your skin.

"No need to be all sappy." You shake out of his grip and laugh. "I don’t see why not, but I need to look at my calendar and figure some things around first."

"You can't just tell me yes?" He can't seem to keep his hands off of you. A soft grip on your chin, and he is pulling you closer to him. This all feels familiar, the comfort of knowing what's to come.

"You're still such a spoiled brat. How does the military tolerate you?"

"They don't get this side of me." He rubs his nose against yours. "Please think about it?"

You close your eyes and breathe him in deeply. "Sure Ky. I'll have an answer after the funeral."

The funeral made you sick. Watching them lower this man into the ground was as close to relief as you knew you would get. Your mother cried in a dramatic fashion. Your brothers are more so solemn and only really speak when they give the eulogy. Extended family greets you all, most of them in tears for Marvin and singing his praises. The Garricks stick around offer you silent support through it all.

The repass is held at the house. There is plenty of food and drinks and laughs. Children that belong from distant relatives run about. It is the most lively the house has been in years.

"A shame that it took a funeral to bring us all together." An aunt or cousin says. "Marvin always wanted us to get together more often. Let's not make this a habit." The same woman turns to you, with very little tact says, "Marvin wouldn't want you to be whoring yourself. Poor man bemoaned to hell and back over you running off. You were always his favorite even if you weren't his."

The sound in the room is sucked right on out. You look up from staring at your hands, just waiting for the day to be done. The expectation that you mourn your rapist isn't lost on you. The fact that many women in the room knew did nothing wasn't lost on you either. Your mother married this man to get herself out of crippling poverty and turned the other cheek to ignore your rape.

Kyle had been sitting next to you, stiff as a board. He glares at the woman, mouth set to defend your choices, even if he doesn't agree with them. His mother covers her mouth, and worried eyes shift to your mother. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting for Linda to defend you.

"Marvin did love her." She dabs at her eyes.

"The man was a rapist." Kyle is quick to correct her.

And of course, hell breaks loose. There's shouting, and your eldest brother screams at Kyle to respect his father and mother in their house. A table gets knocked over, and Mr. Garrick is putting himself between your brother and his son.

"Now you listen here." You mother stands up, "Marvin may have had his faults, but he loved us-"

"You let him fuck me for years and you hated me for it." You don't even realize that it's your voice that cuts through the chaos. It's raw and hollow, frightened and angry, a mix of everything that you are. A younger you could never imagine and stopped hoping long ago.

"We needed a man to look out for us." Your mother seems so small at the moment, and you wonder how you could have ever worried for her. How this was the same woman that left your biological father so he wouldn't beat on her. The looks on your family's faces are a plethora of emotions. Some sad, some angry, appalled, smug, horror, shock, resignation. You can almost feel that other sins are begging to be let out into the room. To be confronted, demons waiting to be slain.

You want no part of it. The years on your cheeks burn, and you're rooted staring at your mother. Kyle can see the distress in your body as you shake. Peoples voices go instantly to either condemn the truth or defend your mother. Someone says "She's a whore anyway, why do we care? She's always been fast, Marvin didn't stand a chance."

You don't get to hear what Mrs. Garrick says as Kyle is already pulling you out of the house.the front door slams shut behind you, and his grip on your wrist is grounding. "Kyle, my shoes." You left them in the house, and the walkway and pebbles dig into the sole of your feet.

He doesn't answer and practically rushes in getting you shoved into his car. He feels sick. He feels bad, like he shouldn't have let you be in this predicament. Kyle knows he shouldn't have left you alone, but his fighting with his own family over his choices drove him to leave sooner than he wanted. But his first love, his best friend, he left and didn't come back for, he wasn't making the same mistake.

The drive to anywhere is quiet. And when Kyle gets quiet, he gets in his head. You see the way he is tense, how his jaw works again. "Buttercup...you're leaving with me. I shouldn't have left you."

"But you did. It's fine." The energy to have this talk isn't in you.

"I shouldn't have. I should have taken you with me."

"So we can both be young and dumb? What were you going to do? Ask your officers to take in your homeless friend?" You shout at him.

"Buttercup-"

"Stop the car!" You scream.

"I'm not letting you out-"

"Kyle Garrick stop the got damn car now!" You thrash and unbuckle your seat belt.

"I'm not letting you out without any shoes. We're just gonna go for a drive and my mom will call us when she has your stuff at our house." His hand gets placed on your leg. Trying his best to ground you, "Please. Let me do this."

He does not stop the car. And he takes you guys out of the neighborhood into the city. Instead, he takes you to a hotel. It's small and will have to do for the night. You can't bring yourself to go back home and face the fallout, not even to get your things from his parents' house.

"I really want you to stay with me." He says in the quiet of the little room. There's only one bed, and you don't question why he's okay with being in such a seedy place. He mercifully doesn't question the same for you. You both lay next to each other, reminiscent of your teen years. Holding hands and staring into each other's eyes.

"Fine Ky...I'll leave with you. But I make no promises on anything else." You close your eyes and end the conversation.

Part 2

a.n: wow this was long! Welcome to another 3 part mini series! I hope you all are ready for this hell! Sorry if it's not as good, but I promise the set up is worth it. Uhm tagging the folks who I know would want to see this!

Tag: @lostintransist @gazsluckyhat @ilostthewar @leahnicole1219 @curiouslittleprincess @lay-z @chickennuggetuwu @uraeus56 @readingforaneternity @flairenragebelmont

[khuzena]

The Ink Didn’t Fade

Phainon’s Version: My DearestPairing: Phainon x AFAB!Reader Word Count: 11.1k (overall fic)

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: He held the line. He made the shot. He remembered the smell of your burnt bacon while bleeding out.

A casket. A letter. A love that survived the war—he just didn’t.

Phainon died a soldier. But he loved you like a man.

And the ink didn’t fade.

C.w: Major character death, war themes, graphic violence, implied ptsd, survivor's guilt, tragedy, hallucinations, violence, blood, grief, separation anxiety

A/n: second part here we fking go bro SOBS HYSTERICCALY I WAS GOING INSAEN TRYING TO POST IT YESTERDAY ON MOBILE BUT IT KEPT CRASHING AND WOULDN'T SAVE. It was actual hell trying to post from mobile so I had to wait AGAIN to post it so welpp here we are. HEy, read part 1 first !!!! idk man wtf why

taglist: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx @takeyomikamakura

The moment you step out of the bathroom, the hallway slams into you again.

Shouting. Moaning. Blood on the floor.

Hyacine runs past, her braid loose, gloves smeared red. “He’s seizing!”

Another soldier. You follow, legs still trembling, mind still fraying at the edges. You’ve already treated six today. You’ve watched three die.

You’re not supposed to be this shaken.

You can’t afford to be.

But your hands are trembling, and your heart won’t stop racing. There’s no time to cry again. There's no time to feel.

Inside the treatment room, it’s chaos. The boy who just came in is on the cot, shirt half-ripped open, wound gushing from his lower abdomen. He’s maybe nineteen. His mouth foams faintly at the edge, his eyes rolled back. He's losing blood. Fast.

“BP 85 over 50,” Hyacine yells. “He’s going into hypovolemic shock.”

Your body moves. Instinct. Experience. You grab gauze, press it to the wound, and call for saline.

“Get the morphine,” you mutter. “He won’t hold long.”

Mira’s already preparing the syringe behind you.

But the bottle’s half empty.

There’s a shortage. Everything’s running low. Running low on meds, hands, and hope.

You grab another vial. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to steady them. But your vision is swimming, and your ears are ringing, and…

You miss the mark.

The syringe pulls in too much. 10 milligrams.

Too much. Far too much.

“Mira!” Hyacine yells before you can inject. “That’s over 10!”

“What?” You freeze. The needle’s inches from his arm.

Mira’s already stepping forward. She gently but firmly takes it from your hand. “This is your second shift with no break,” she says, voice soft, “Go sit down. I’ll do it.”

You blink. “I’m—no, I can still—”

“You almost overdosed him.”

The words land like bullets.

The boy coughs, blood spurting over the side of the cot.

You step back, dazed. Mira adjusts the dosage quickly to 2 milligrams. Not a hair more. She injects it fast and starts wrapping the wound, calling for clamps and thread.

You’re still standing there. Stupid. Frozen.

Hyacine looks up, her expression torn between worry and frustration. “You need to rest,” she says. “You're doing too much. We all are.”

But you don’t move.

You hear the clipboard clatter against the table. Somewhere, one of the newer nurses vomits in the sink.

Everything’s falling apart.

You’re down five nurses this afternoon alone. One of them fainted in the hall from dehydration. Two are treating the burn victims from last night’s shelling. Another is coughing up blood herself. The last? You’re not sure. She hasn’t come back since noon. Maybe she never will.

The soldier on the cot begins to breathe normally again. Mira wipes his face. Hyacine double-checks his vitals.

And you just stand there.

You almost gave him enough morphine to stop his heart. A single careless dosage of 10mg in a man this size, already bleeding out, already crashing.  it could’ve killed him in seconds.

A voice echoes in your head.

He might be gone too.

Phainon. No letters. No word. Maybe you’re unraveling because you can’t bear losing one more man—even a stranger, while not knowing if your own still breathes.

The tears are rising again. But you can’t cry here.

Not in front of your girls. Not in front of a patient who just nearly died because of your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice dry and empty.

You leave again. You don’t wait for permission this time. You walk to the storeroom, step inside, shut the door.

The dark smells like metal and alcohol. The floor is sticky. The air is too hot. You press your back to the door and slide down again.

You breathe.

You clench your fists.

And this time you don’t cry.

You sit there, shaking, until Mira knocks once. Gently.

“I covered your charts,” she says through the door. “But we still need you.”

You close your eyes. You nod. When will this end?

For what felt like forever, four days flew by.

No reply.

Still no reply.

You check the incoming crates again. the envelopes bloodied, creased, or waterlogged. You sift through them one by one in the mail tent during your short break. Still nothing from him. Not even a scrap of handwriting. No flower, no tape, no ink-smudged paper. Not a single thing from Phainon.

You’re starting to think the letters got lost.

You’re starting to wonder if he’s the one who got lost.

Mira walks past you in the mud, her boots sinking slightly with each step. “Still nothing?”

You shake your head slowly.

She doesn’t push. But she lingers, just enough to place a hand on your arm, squeezing gently. “They’ve been rerouting mail. There was a screw-up at the intercom dispatch. One of the couriers said half the letters meant for the 4th division got sent back to the capital by accident.”

You blink. “Phainon’s division is the 4th.”

“Exactly.”

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard. Something cold and sick coils in your stomach. “So… he might have written.”

She nods. “It just never got through.”

Then she exhales — long, quiet, full of the things no one says out loud in places like this.

“And…” she adds softly, “Word is, they had to relocate. Ambush near the ridgeline. They lost the original station. No signal. No outgoing post for two, maybe three days. Might be longer.”

The clipboard slips a little in your hands.

Your head spins.

He wrote.

He could have written.

But you wouldn’t know.

Because the wires failed. Because someone else decided a new station was safer. Because the war swallowed one more piece of hope before you could hold it.

Your throat tightens

.

Mira’s already walking back to the clinic. You stand still, cold in the chest, hot in the eyes. Everything hurts. And no one even died today — not yet.

You pull out your pen.

You write again anyway.

Not because you know it’ll get to him. Not because there’s any promise it’ll even leave this field. But because if you don’t write, the silence might eat you alive.

So, you harden your grip one the pen and start writing.

“Dear Phainon, I hope you’re okay. I’m okay. I’m trying to be. Mira says our post is messed up. I don’t know if you’ve gotten anything from me. I don’t even know if you’re still where I last wrote to. But I’ll keep writing. In case you are. In case this one gets through.”

Your hand shakes as you write, wailing of soldiers still echoes in the hallways.

“A boy died last night. He was so small. And he wanted to go home. And I wanted to cry again but I couldn’t. The girls… they’re all really exhausted. We’re losing nurses every day. We keep covering for each other. The pain here doesn’t stop. I’m scared, Phai. But I love you. I love you so much. So I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep waiting even if your reply takes months later.Come home to me, okay?”

You fold the letter. Tape a tiny leaf you found outside, the same kind that grew near the hill you both used to walk. There’s no flower today. But he’ll understand.

“Stay safe, from your dearest.”

You slip it into the box. You don’t know if it’ll reach him.

But it’s better than doing nothing. Better than letting the silence be the last thing between you.

Back at Phainon's, the rain hasn’t let up in hours. It pours in sheets, washing over the wounded, slicking the mud until everything stinks of metal, blood, and gunpowder.

“Get the perimeter secured,” Phainon says hoarsely, voice frayed from shouting over cannon fire and screaming. “Use the broken crates. We don’t have time for sandbags.”

Charis jogs past him, splattered in mud up to the neck. He doesn’t need to reply. He just nods, already barking orders to the remaining able-bodied soldiers. Merek is stabilizing Nolan under the collapsed tent, fumbling with the bandages while keeping one eye on the hills.

Phainon kneels beside the boy with a shattered leg. Holds his hand. Tells him he’ll be okay. That he’s strong. That help is coming.

The boy smiles faintly before he seizes up and goes still.

Phainon shuts his eyes. Just for a moment. Then he stands.

There’s no time to grieve. Not yet.

The new post is worse.

They said it was safer, higher ground, better cover…but Phainon knows better. Safer just means the dead haven’t warmed it yet.

The soil’s still wet from the last rainfall, but not enough to wash away the blood. Trenches are half-dug, uneven. The fires won’t stay lit long. The food’s cold before it’s even passed around.

They lost too many men in four days.

He walks past the fallen. Past the half-covered bodies they don’t have enough tarps for. Past the tent where someone is sobbing into their hands. He doesn't stop. Can’t stop.

He doesn’t count them aloud, but he knows all their names.

One of them died laughing, delirious. One died choking. The youngest begged for some nice pasta before he died. Phainon had held that one’s hand until it went cold.

He keeps hearing their voices at night. He hasn’t slept properly since they switched camps.

Now Phainon walks the new ground like a ghost tethered to duty. He doesn’t speak unless he has to. His coat is stiff with dried blood and ash. His boots are worn through at the soles.

The men still look to him.

So he gives them what he can—orders, a steady hand, sometimes just silence that doesn’t break.

He crouches beside another injured soldier, He was young, freckled, trembling. The boy flinches as he adjusts the bandage. “You’re not gonna die tonight,” Phainon mutters. “That’s an order.”

A weak laugh.

Then a cough.

Then a shiver.

He tucks the boy’s letter into the boy’s pack. No postage, no name on it yet. Just a shaking hope that someone will send it.

A dog howls somewhere far off, and it catches him off guard. He flinches.

He remembers the last one. The dog he had to shoot because it wailed loudly in pain.

He can still feel the click of it in his bones.

He finds himself by a collapsed shed, away from the eyes. The frost creeps along the edges of the wood. He doesn’t shiver.

Instead, he touches his chest—

And there it is.

Your letter.

Pressed flat and protected in the inner lining of his uniform. The edges are soft now, the ink a little faded. He still remembers every word. He still imagines your hands folding it. Taping the flower. Writing his name.

His fingers slide down to the ring on his hand, dull with dirt, but still there. He turns it slowly. A ritual now. A vow in motion.

“I’m coming home. I have to.”

He grazes the ring again and again, like it’s the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. He cannot cry. Not when Nolan’s still unconscious. Not when Merek is holding things together by a thread. Not when Charis is covering three positions at once and hasn’t eaten since dawn.

He cannot cry.

He thinks about you.

He wonders if you sleep enough. If you’ve eaten. If you still hum when the kettle boils. If the flower he taped into the letter stayed in place, or if it crumbled on the way there.

He wonders if you smiled.

He misses your voice. The way you said his name like it was alive.

He wants to hold you.

He wants to come home.

But the enemy is pushing harder each day, and they’re running low on ammo. Low on warmth. Low on hope.

And Phainon is a lieutenant—but that doesn’t mean he’s made of stone.

He is still a man.

Still someone’s fiancé.

Still someone who promised a future. A wedding. A garden behind a crooked little house. A quiet life.

And now?

Now he’s not sure he’ll come back intact.

Or come back at all.

The alarm screams—a frantic, terrible sound. It was cutting through the rain and the gunfire. It’s starting again. The enemy’s coming.

“Get down!” Charis shouts, but it’s too late.

A shell explodes nearby, the earth erupting in a shower of mud and splinters.

Phainon’s chest tightens… not from the blast, but because every explosion pulls him further from you.

 I have to come home. I have to.

He’s yelling orders, voice raw, throat burning from constant shouting over the chaos. “Move the wounded! Cover the flanks! We hold here!”

 But inside, his mind is spinning. He ask himself again.

Did my letter reach you?

Are you safe?

Are you warm? Are you hungry? Did you sleep at all last night?

A soldier next to him stumbles, clutching his bleeding side. Phainon catches him, but there’s no time to linger.

Merek’s still stabilizing Nolan under the tent…

How many are left?

 Eleven gone in days. Eleven too many.

The sky lights up red with fire. Bullets zip past, pinging off scrap metal and stone.

Phainon ducks behind broken crates, heart hammering—not just from the gunfire, but from the weight of every life depending on him.

Then, the alarm screams—a desperate, grating wail cutting through the rain and gunfire.

It’s starting again. The enemy is relentless, always surging forward.

“Someone’s down!” Merek ducks under the rubble nearby as he yelled, but the world erupts before Phainon can react.

A shell detonates again nearby, mud and shards tearing through the air.

Everything is slowly starting to become a blur. How much longer will peace take?

He raises his rifle, breath ragged, eyes burning.

Bang.

One enemy falls.

Bang.

Another drops.

But with every shot, a ringing clogs his ears—sharp, insistent, drowning out the chaos but magnifying the screams he heard back at camp.

The boy with the shattered leg, fading too fast.

The dog’s terrified eyes before the final, painful shot.

Nolan’s faint moans under the torn tent.

Phainon blinks away the memories as a hail of bullets sprays toward him. He rolls, firing again.

Bang. Bang.

His muscles scream, sweat and rain mixing on his skin, but his mind fractures further with every enemy he takes down.

How long can this go on?

Charis yells nearby, rallying the soldiers, but Phainon barely hears him.

He catches a glimpse of Merek, frantic, trying to keep Nolan alive.

His throat tightens.

He forces himself forward, dragging a wounded man across the slick ground, heart pounding like a war drum.

The ringing grows louder, blurring the world into white noise—guns, screams, the rain pounding on broken earth.

He wants to shut it out, but it only pulls him deeper into the dark corners of his mind.

Do you miss me?

Do you ever think of this place—of me—when it’s quiet where you are?

The thought is a brief spark in the suffocating fog.

Phainon fights on, every breath heavier, every movement more desperate.

He can feel the weight of the fallen pressing down on him—their faces etched in his mind like shadows he can’t shake.

The sky burns, the enemy presses, and Phainon fights—because surrender isn’t an option.

Because somewhere beyond this hell, there’s a home waiting.

Somewhere beyond the gunfire and loss, there’s you.

And he clings to that, even as his body screams and his mind edges toward breaking.

As the rain lashes harder, turning the battlefield into a mire of mud and blood. Phainon’s boots slip with every step as he drags a wounded soldier toward the crumbling wall of crates. 

The man’s weight nearly pulls him down, but Phainon grits his teeth and presses forward.

Gunfire cracks sharply all around, bullets whistling past with deadly intent. A hail of lead tears through the air. Phainon drops to one knee, firing blindly at the advancing enemy. The recoil jars his aching shoulder, sending sharp jolts through his arm, but he holds the rifle steady, squeezing the trigger again and again.

An explosion nearby shakes the ground violently, throwing mud and splinters into the air. Phainon’s ears ring, and his vision blurs for a heartbeat. As the dust settles, he pushes off the crates and staggers to his feet, only to catch a searing pain ripping through his thigh

He looks down to see blood soaking the torn fabric of his uniform, the wound deep and burning cold in the rain.

Ignoring the pain, he limps forward, using the crates as cover, the weight of his body dragging him down. Another burst of gunfire forces him flat to the ground, the wet earth slick beneath him. He crawls a few desperate feet toward a fallen comrade, trying to shield the man’s head from the rain and flying debris.

Charis yells orders somewhere behind him, but Phainon barely hears through the roar of cannon fire and the ringing in his ears. 

The enemy closes in. Shadows move through the sheets of rain—figures advancing with ruthless determination.

Phainon grits his teeth, manages to raise his rifle once more, and fires. The crack of the shot cuts through the chaos, and a figure drops, but the effort drains him. His knees buckle, his hands tremble, and he slumps forward onto the mud, face pressed against the cold, wet ground.

A sudden sharp sting explodes in his ribs as shrapnel tears through his side. He gasps, the air forced from his lungs, his body convulsing with the pain. Blood bubbles at his lips as he fights to stay conscious.

Somewhere beyond the storm of violence, he hears the frantic cries of his men—calls to regroup, to hold the line. But his body betrays him. Limbs heavy and unresponsive, Phainon struggles to lift his head, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

The rain mixes with the blood on his face as the world narrows to the taste of iron and the relentless pounding in his ears. The enemy surges closer, and the fight drags on, even as his strength fades.

The sharp crack of a rifle shot split the air. Charis was moving fast, dodging debris, trying to reach cover when a bullet whistled just behind him. Without thinking, Phainon grabbed Charis’s arm and yanked him down hard behind a broken crate. The ground exploded where Charis had just been standing.

Phainon barely had time to catch his breath before a searing, crushing pain stabbed into his ribs. He gasped, staggering as a bullet tore through muscle and bone. His body slammed against the jagged wood of the crate, breath caught in his chest.

Charis’s eyes widened in horror. “Phainon!” His voice cracked, frantic and raw. “You’re hurt…stay with me!”

Phainon swallowed back a groan, clutching the wound as blood soaked his fingers and ran down his side. His breath was ragged, each inhale sharp and burning like fire in his lungs. Around them, the world was a chaotic blur of gunfire, screams, and explosions, but Charis’s voice anchored him.

“We can’t lose you now,” Charis pleaded, his hands trembling as he grasped Phainon’s shoulders. “You’re the only reason half of us are still breathing.”

Phainon’s eyes flickered, pain and determination wrestling for control. He tried to speak but only a rasp escaped. His fingers brushed his engagement ring—dirt-smudged, bloodied—an unspoken promise locked on his hand.

Charis’s chest tightened as he took in the deepening pallor of Phainon’s face, the way his breaths grew shallow. “Hang on, just a little longer,” Charis said, voice breaking. “I’m not leaving you. We all need you.”

Phainon’s vision blurred. The pounding in his ears grew louder, a relentless ringing that drowned out everything but the thundering of his own heart. He tried to focus, to push back the pain, to fight for every second.

A fresh volley of shots sent dirt and splinters raining over them. Charis pulled Phainon further behind the crate, shielding him as best he could. The world tilted, and Phainon’s grip loosened, his fingers barely holding on.

Charis’s breath caught as he saw the flicker of fading life in Phainon’s eyes. “No. Not like this. You’re not done.” His voice was fierce, desperate. “You still have to see it. The future you fought for.”

Phainon’s lips parted slightly, blood bubbling at the corners. Somewhere deep inside, a stubborn spark flared. But the pain was swallowing him whole.

Charis pressed closer, refusing to let the silence grow. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Phainon’s head was pounding like a drumbeat inside a cave—each throb louder than the last, drowning out the chaos around him. The ringing was relentless, a high-pitched scream echoing in his skull that blurred his vision and muddled his senses.

Despite the pain clawing through his body, a single memory pierced the fog.. a flash of your smile in the quiet light of dawn, the way your fingers curled around his in a silent promise. The image brought a tear, hot and unbidden, tracing down his cheek. He blinked it away, unwilling to let weakness take hold.

The battle wasn’t over. Not yet.

With trembling hands, Phainon gripped his rifle. His breath came shallow, ragged, but he forced himself upright, steadying against the broken crate. Every movement was agony, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto the ground, darkening the mud beneath him.

Through the haze, he saw the enemy advancing. THE figures moving like shadows, relentless and ruthless.

He raised his rifle, squeezing the trigger. The crack was sharp, a small victory in the endless storm. One fell.

Another shot. Another.

But his body was betraying him. Each breath was a knife twisting in his ribs. His strength was fading, and the medics, too far to reach, swallowed by the chaos, couldn’t come to him.

Charis’s voice was a distant anchor, pulling him back from the edge. “Stay with me, Phainon.”

Phainon’s lips quivered, an unspoken vow burning behind closed eyes. He still had a future to fight for—a life beyond this hell. There were plans left unfinished, laughter to share, a wedding to have, a home to build.

His fingers brushed the ring again, the cool metal grounding him once again. 

Was this the end?

He refused to let it be.

With a ragged breath, he readied himself to fire once more, the world narrowing to the muzzle flash and the desperate hope that he could hold just a little longer.

Phainon’s grip tightened around the rifle, but his arms trembled beneath the weight. The pain in his side flared—hot, relentless—burning through every breath he forced into his lungs. Each heartbeat pounded louder, drowning out everything else.

Stay awake. Don’t—don’t give in. Not yet.

But the world around him blurred. The sharp crack of gunfire and shouts faded into a distant hum, like echoes underwater. His vision flickered at the edges, darkening.

Then…. warmth. A gentle touch. He blinked, confused.

Was that… your hand?

His fingers twitched, searching desperately. The cold rifle in his grasp began to feel unreal, like a weight lifted.

No. That can’t be real.

His mind wavered between pain and memory.

The house. The one we dreamed about.

He could almost smell the rich coffee brewing in the morning light, feel the warmth of the sun spilling through the crooked windows.

You’re there. You’re always there.

Your laughter floated through the quiet room, a fragile thread anchoring him. He reached out, eyes barely open.

I’m almost home. Just a little further.

The ache in his ribs screamed, but the phantom warmth of your hand held him steady. His breath hitched, a tear slipping down his cheek.

I promised. I promised you a future.

A future he wasn’t sure he’d see.

His mind raced—thoughts scattered like shattered glass.

Did you get my letter? Are you safe?

Are you warm? Are you even thinking of me now?

He wanted to say so much, but words tangled and slipped away. The noise of battle was gone now. All that remained was the fading echo of your voice, the feel of your hand in his.

"Hold on, Phainon. Hold on for me."

But his body betrayed him. The rifle felt lighter, almost as if it melted away beneath his grasp, replaced by the softness of your hand. He imagined fingers weaving into his, steadying, unyielding.

I’m tired.

So tired.

He swallowed hard, vision dimming further, every edge blurring into the quiet sanctuary of the house.

Please don’t let this be the end.

A final tear, warm and salty, slid down his dirt-smeared face.

I’m not ready. Not yet.

The world slipped away, but the warmth stayed. Your hand, the scent of coffee, the promise of home.

Phainon’s breath was shallow and uneven, the cold seeping into his bones like ice water. His body trembled, wounds burning, muscles screaming… but his mind was quieter now, softer, turning inward.

He wasn’t fighting anymore. Not really.

The distant roar of gunfire faded into a dull, pulsing hum, replaced by the fragile echo of his thoughts.

If this is the end... what will happen to you?

The thought hit him harder than any bullet.

Will you be safe? Will you be alone?

His heart clenched, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He could already see your face, pale with worry, holding back tears he wouldn’t let fall.

I’m sorry.

Sorry for the nights you’d spend waiting, wondering if he was alive.

Sorry for the future he might never build with you.

Sorry for the silence that would stretch between you like a chasm.

The memories came unbidden, a bittersweet flood.

The day you became a nurse, he remembered, pride twisting painfully in his chest. How fiercely you’d fought to make a difference, how your hands had saved lives—while his own blood stained the ground here, so far from you.

And me, my first day as lieutenant.

The weight of that title, once a promise, now felt like a curse.

I wanted to protect you.

His fingers brushed the dirt and sweat caked over the engagement ring beneath his uniform. The ring he’d spent weeks searching for, the one you’d worn as a symbol of everything you two had planned.

I never wanted you to carry this alone.

Phainon’s mind drifted to the small moments—the burnt bacon smell in the kitchen, your teasing laugh as you shook your head. The quiet evenings spent dreaming of a crooked little house with a garden, of a life far from this war.

I wish I could have one last breakfast with you.

The ache in his chest deepened, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.

He knew the world was slipping away. His body growing colder, his thoughts more distant.

I hope you can forgive me.

If I don’t come home... please know I loved you.

His grip on the rifle loosened, the weapon feeling impossibly heavy. But somewhere deep inside, a spark remained, fragile, but alive, holding onto your face, your voice, your love.

Phainon closed his eyes, the sounds around him fading as the hallucination grew stronger.

You’re with me now.

It wasn’t long till three months later.

The capital was too quiet for a day like this.

No bombings, no alarms. Just the wind moving through rows of black flags, flapping weakly under a silver sky.

They’d set the memorial in the central square—an open ground, framed by the shattered columns of what used to be the Hall of Triumph. It had been hastily rebuilt, just enough to stand. Just enough to hold the weight of grief.

There were caskets lined across the stage, draped in the flag. Each one sealed.

Each one silent.

And there you were, standing among a sea of mourning families, white-knuckled and barely breathing, clutching the small pin they gave you—one of the medals he earned. Valor. Leadership. Sacrifice. The words meant nothing. They clinked dully against your chest.

They wouldn’t even open the casket.

They said it was better that way.

“Too much damage,” someone whispered.

“He wouldn’t want you to see.”

But you wanted to see him.

You needed to see him.

Your body moved before your mind could stop it. Shoving past soldiers, stumbling up the steps, tears hot and streaming down your face. You heard your name shouted, hands reaching for you, but none of them mattered. Not now.

Not when it was real.

Not when his name was carved into that plaque like a period at the end of everything.

“Phainon,” you choked out, falling to your knees before the casket.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Not him. Not your Phainon.

The man who picked burnt bacon out of his teeth and still said it was the best breakfast of his life.

The one who held your hand like he was memorizing it. Who kissed you like he was afraid time would steal you.

The one who promised you a crooked house with a little garden and a roof that always leaked when it rained.

You pressed your forehead to the wood of the casket, the smell of polish and smoke mixing in your lungs. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get to say goodbye. You didn’t get to hold him. You didn’t even get to bury him properly—just this fucking box, this thing, and a stupid folded flag.

“Come back,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Come back, come back…”

You knew he wouldn’t. You knew.

But it didn’t stop you from wishing.

Not when Charis was there too, standing beside you… alive, limping, eyes rimmed with red.

“I tried,” he said quietly, kneeling next to you. His voice was hoarse. “He saved my life. Took a shot meant for me. I—I held on as long as I could but…”

He looked away.

“He was asking for you until the end.”

That broke you.

Your sob echoed across the memorial, raw and guttural. No one stopped you this time. No one rushed forward to pull you back. The war had already taken so much; how could they deny you this one, final collapse?

You stayed there, your hand pressed to the casket like it could somehow keep him here. Like if you were still enough, quiet enough, maybe he’d reach back.

There’s no word for what you are now.

Not widow. Not fiancée. Not wife.

Just… left behind.

The world has terms for every kind of grief, every kind of role. But not this. Not for the woman who was supposed to marry a man who never made it home. Not for the ring that gleams cold and thin on your finger—a promise that never got fulfilled, a vow that never got spoken.

The train ride was quiet.

Too quiet.

The countryside blurred past the window, the same hills he once wrote about—how the grass turned gold at this time of year, how he wanted to show it to you himself. You sat still, hands clenched in your lap, eyes burning but dry.

You’d run out of tears days ago.

The bed still dips where he used to sleep. His uniform still hangs in the closet—pressed and perfect, waiting for a body that won't wear it again. His boots by the door. His sweet tea bags in the kitchen. The ones he insisted made him "feel human again" after deployment.

Sometimes, when you boil water, you reach for one out of habit.

Just to hold it. Just to pretend. Just to feel like he might walk through the door and say it was all a horrible joke. That he’s here. That he made it.

But the tea cools. The cup stays full. And the door never opens.

The sky was overcast by the time you reached your stop. The path home felt longer than it ever had before, every footstep hollow. The sounds of town—bakers shouting, carts rolling, distant laughter—felt like echoes from another life.

No one looked your way. You were just another shadow walking home with nothing left to carry but a silence so loud it filled your lungs.

And then you saw the house.

The same way you left it. The roof still crooked. The vines still overgrown. The front gate still squeaking like it always did, just slightly off the hinge.

But the flower taped to the letter—it had wilted.

Once a deep, vibrant red. Now a sad curl of dried brown, shriveled at the stem.

You paused, frozen.

There was a letter tucked behind it.

Your name on the front.

You reached with shaking fingers.

Two envelopes. One in his handwriting—sharp, careful, like always. The other... stamped and returned. Yours.

Unopened.

Marked: "Recipient Deceased. Unable to Deliver."

Your breath caught.

The world spun.

And you dropped right there on the doorstep, knees hitting the ground, arms folded around your stomach as the sobs finally returned—deep, wrenching, and endless.

He had written you. You had written back. But the war stole the time in between.

You held both letters to your chest, curling in on yourself as if the paper might warm you, as if maybe it still smelled faintly of him—his hands, his cologne, the ink he always accidentally smudged.

You didn’t read it yet.

You couldn’t.

Some of your friends talk about wedding dresses and baby names now. One of them wears her husband’s dog tags over her heart, with their newborn sleeping two rooms away. Another is learning how to build a life with someone new. Some are expecting.

You? You have silence.

No new beginning. No second chapter. Just this ghost of a life that almost was.

You sat on the kitchen floor, the envelope trembling in your grip. The same kitchen where he once spilled coffee trying to impress you with breakfast. The same counter still bearing the scorch mark from that one time he tried to iron his uniform “like a real adult.” Everything still smelled faintly like him. Or maybe that was memory clinging to the air.

The kitchen still smells like lemon and smoke. Like that last morning. His laughter still echoes faintly in the tiles, tucked between the cracks in the floor. You find yourself stepping over them gently, like the memory might shatter.

Sometimes you sit at the dinner table, two plates set out. One untouched.

And sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, you swear you feel the warmth of him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember what it was like to be loved that much.

And then it's gone.

Your fingers worked numbly, slipping under the flap. A soft tear. The paper inside unfolded slower than your breath, careful like you might break it. And there it was.

His handwriting.

“My dearest—”

You didn’t even make it through the second line before the tears came. Hot and soundless, tracing old paths down your cheeks, stinging like ash. The ink had long dried, but none of it had faded. Each word held him—his quiet warmth, the way he overthought every sentence, the little notes he always tucked in to make you smile.

You read it like scripture. Like prayer. Like if you memorize it deep enough, maybe he’ll come back in a dream and finish the parts he left unsaid.

But he doesn’t.

The only thing that answers is the wind outside the window, and the slow, steady ticking of a clock that won’t stop for grief.

The message hadn’t aged. Not even a little. It was like he was still here.

Still trying to love you across the distance. Still trying to come home, in the only way he could. With this.

Your hand pressed to your mouth as you read, not because you were trying to hold back the sobs, but because it felt like speaking would ruin the fragile spell, the impossible moment where time bent, and for just a heartbeat, you were his again.

He wrote of hope. Of how he missed you. Of the way he imagined your face when you opened this. Of love that refused to vanish.

And when you reached the end, when the last word met the edge of the page, there was nothing else.

No final twist of fate.

No more time.

Just the quiet.

The weight of a letter that had come too late.

And the echo of someone who never stopped loving you, even as the world burned around him.

You folded it back with reverence. Pressed it to your lips.

And for the first time in weeks, you whispered his name.

But he didn’t answer.

Because it was over.

notes: wow that was an emotional rollercoaster woweee! okay enough of that I cried writing this. i actually posted the of version on ao3 if u search hard enough but this ver I posted on tumblr is a bit refined but ya. Okay, kinda disappointed a bit but yes thank you reading this depressing fic of mine. and no I am not fine which is why I wrote this fic. I start jumping up and down in joy from feedback and notes so any type of interaction is appreciated and I will post the anaxa fic series and work on mydei's tomorrow. Thank you for reading this was something. 11k words of sobbing. How awesome of me. Even read some real world war letters from soldiers and civilians for some idea. idk man.

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[wandasaura]

BURN

summary — when years of abuse piles up, and you’re face to face with your ex in a familiar manhattan court room, olivia and amanda remain by your side through it all

warning(s) — mentions of sexual assault, discussion of rape and domestic violence, physical abuse, emotional/mental manipulation, trauma, mentions of child abuse/childhood sexual assault, cursing, derogatory names, panic attacks, anxiety, angst/hurt, comfort, soft olivia benson, protective amanda rollins, sonny carisi is my italian baby and what about it, verdict reading, john buchanan warning, men/minors dni

authors note — and we’re back for part two of stay alive (reprise), requested on ao3. once again brought to you by high aura and not proof read/edited

“Can I ask you a question, Councellor?” Your voice carried through the courtroom, catching through the wind and propelling itself through the room until it disintegrated upon contact with the double doors behind Olivia. You’d been up here for an hour. Carisi throwing questions at you that only further stripped you down, left you naked and exposed in front of your decorated squad members. John Buchanan trying to take away your account and rewrite the narrative to fit your girlfriends — ex girlfriend. Olivia had sat beside you when you’d blocked her contact and her mothers — retelling of events, was one of the most humiliating things you’d been forced to endure for ‘justice’, the frustration of it leading you to quick emotions that had every potential to hurt this case. This she said, she said case that never should’ve been anything more than a simple conviction and plea deal.

You’d been willing to drop the assault charges if she just admitted to the rape.

She hadn’t though. You should’ve assumed she’d try to get away with it, even though you were a New York City detective trained to weed out the sexual predators tainting Manhattan. Even though you had Olivia Benson in your corner and she was relentless on a good day. Regardless, she’d looked Dominic Carisi dead in the eyes and denied accountability, instead spinning wild narratives that painted you as the crazy, traumatized, cop in your relationship. She hadn’t even had the maturity to call you a Detective when she’d told everyone in the interrogation room you’d asked her to fuck you till it hurt. You didn’t. You never had. But it felt futile to stand listening in Olivia’s offices and tell Amanda that at the time. She knew it, Olivia knew it, Carisi knew it. You’re sure John Buchanan knew it as he sat beside her with his hands clasped, the only reason your girlfriend could even afford him as her defense is because of your paychecks that you split in thirds and distribute amongst yourself, your savings account, and her. You’d given her everything. All that you had left and had rebuilt after somebody else tore your world apart.

You shifted your gaze to the judge, Elizabeth Donnelly, and she inclined her head just slightly in interest, She nodded her head, affirming that you had her permission to ask the defense a question at all. Buchanan didn’t hesitate to accept once he’d seen Donnelly nod approvingly, always ready to somehow talk himself up, never afraid of what could be at the forefront of a witnesses mind. That would be his downfall one day, even if you failed to bring him down a peg like you aimed to do now.

“Do you enjoy asking your colleagues for help? You just recently went through a lawsuit of your own. Your son. What was that experience like for you?” Your voice was firm, laced with that edge only Olivia could pull from deep within you when she joined you in the interrogation room. You preferred to gain your intelligence through compliance and trust. You were the stations star victim cross whenever it was particularly sensitive. Olivia cherished, assured that you never loss that intent to connect and understand, but she’s knows there’s more to you. She’s found your bark, but she knows there’s bite in you too, it’s just hidden beneath decades of trauma and reopened wounds.

Buchanan blanches at the reminder of his son's trial — it ended with him walking out scott free, but that was not the principle you tried to hone in on — and blinks at you uninterestedly. “Relevance, your honor?” He snapped his gave back to Donnelly, but if there was one thing you had going in this courtroom that felt like a slowly sinking ship with you tethered to the cabin, it was your relationship with the Judge. Elizabeth Donnelly would go as far as she could to stretch your point without tainting the laws of the courtroom. Her fairness would not give or gain, she’s never sacrifice your trial in such a way, but that meant her patience for this case was through the room. She’s scrape over once sentence of evidence a day if it meant sending you out with the verdict you deserved.

You are a New York City Detective, a prized addition to the police force. The favor is in you, but the jury is a wildcard. You hold your breath at the thought of the jury.

“Move it along, detective.” She instructed pointedly, her firm gaze trailing to look at you. There was only support in her eyes, shining brightly like the sun. With every day, you think it gets easier to handle this, but then you remember what this is, and it breaks you down from the inside again.

“It’s just a question, Counsellor. Did you enjoy having to ask your buddies for a favor?” Buchanan sighed, because evidently you were not going to be shut down by Donnelly who raised an eyebrow in the same curiosity. It was an odd question, one that hardly anybody thought to ask. Why were you asking? Buchanan couldn’t figure it out, and you know that infuriates him more than anything.

“I suppose it did, Ms. Y/L/N.” He refused to call you detective, refused to acknowledge that you amongst the group of people that got this city out of shit and scandals. In some way, you’re sure your devotion to the force has touched his families. This city is big, but its so small. You can’t fathom how he sees any case as a stomping ground, any person as collateral, any victim as a liar until he’s walking away without a win and only a paycheck from his client.

“Detective.” You seethed, unable to stand it anymore. Carisi had told you to let his taunts fall off of your shoulders, he’d warned you that Buchanan plays mind games, that he’s ruthless and looking for bloodied hands, and you’d known that. For an hour, you’d let him call you whatever he wanted, kept your composure when he’d tried to insist you liked kinky rough sex because you’re a lesbian and that’s the only way you can get off. He’d made you out to sound like a vile person, not even a detective, because it was like admitting you were that title gave his case something it didn’t already have. The minute he acknowledged your role, the jury was swayed in your favor. You’d pieced that together, but it didn’t make sense to you right now. Winning this case didn’t make sense to you. You just wanted someone to believe that it happened again. You wanted him to believe, because right now, he’s the loudest opposing force and your heart cant handle living another four decades knowing theres an egotistical man out there siding with your rapist because of a paycheck. It makes you feel dirty. Dirtier than you already felt. “I am a Detective. A special victims detective beneath Sergeant Benson. And that is the only thing I have ever wanted to be since the first time I was raped at twelve-yeas-oldold by my mother’s husband. So, Counsellor, this is not how I want to spend my Wednesday. There are people out there who could use my help, because they don’t have another way out. The last thing I want to do, is be unmade on this stand like I don’t stand in front of teh barrel of a gun and with pedophiles every day just to make sure your granddaughter, doesn’t end up like me. Your client, she raped me. Just like she bashed my head into the fireplace we hung stockings on last December. Just like she threw a wine glass at my head because after I made her dinner after removing a seven year old from her abusive hours ago, I was tired and forgot to do the dishes she left scattered around the apartment — my apartment. The one that I pay for, that I signed the lease to, that I pay every utility bill for with my job as a Detective. That was not a reason for her to rape me. Maybe I like rough sex, maybe i’ve never even considered it, you are not at liberty to prod into my sexual fantasies and shame me for the hypothetical of it all. If you think rough, consensual sex leads to your body being stitched together by a nurse because you were so overlooked in the entire thing — used as nothing more than an object — than I worry for you, Counsellor. Her assault left me with third degree teas, rough sex does not lead to three stitches because she raped me so brutaly I had third degree tears. Do you know the force it takes to tear the perineal area all the way down to the anal sphincter muscle. Oh, you grimaced Counselor, was that to much information for you?”

“That’s enough, Ms. Y/L/N.” He tried to concede, to wave you off and shut you up like he’d been doing since Carisi stepped down, but you couldn’t. Not when you were finally speaking your mind. Judge Donnelly didn’t look bothered by your outburst, infact, you think you might even notice a sheen of pride glazing over her typically set and forced eyes. You cant look out into the audience. You can’t find Amanda and Olivia because Fin sits between them, and Kat sits off to the side. You can’t look down at Carisi, because you know he’s looking at you the way he looks at Bella in the pictures of them as kids. If you look at them you break, you lose the spark of anger that’s fueling you to finally, finally defend yourself against her.

“It’s Detective!” Your voice is shrill, and you're vaguely aware of how your throat vibrates with the force of your correction. “I will not sit up here and be unmade any farther by you! Or you! You, who rebuilt everything that had been broken after I went through this the first time, who came to therapy with me when it felt suffocating to remember that at twelve, i’d lost the one thing I was meant to decide to give away when I was ready. You and your words flooded my senses! Your defenses and your excuses and your apologies left me defenseless, and I’m trying so hard — so goddamn hard — to see what I did at the start, to see how I used to loved you, but I never loved you. I loved the narrative you painted in my head with blood. I loved the way you held me after you beat me because nobody had ever apologized for hurting me before. I can’t do it anymore! You raped me! You beat me! For years! You fed me clorophil because you thought it’s as clorophorm and you wanted to fuck me while I was unconscious. Even though you know that’s what he did! Even though you know he’d choke me out and then do whatever he wanted. I’m done! Your lies are transparent. They’re evident in everything you say. You told me you were a paranoid liar, and you should be! You should be! You raped me! Your biggest fear is being abandoned, and I tried for so long to never let it come to me walking away first, but I’m done. I’m erasing myself from the narrative you’ve spun, fed to anyone who will listen, forced down my thraot until I started questioning if I had it wrong. I don’t. I never did. You nearly crushed my windpipe. You bruised both of my knees. I needed twenty-three stitches between everything you caused. You forfeited any right to my heart, my life, my bed, when you decided I was just something you could manipulate.” You seethed, eyes directed at your ex, the woman you would’ve given the world to when you’d been drowned in her blue sorrow. The water had looked so beautiful from up high, you didn’t know how deadly it would be.

Her eyes flamed with rage, a look you’d seen a million times. “You stupid bitch! All you’re fucking good for is a cheap fuck. You’re damaged goods! You’re lucky that I wanted you at all! You let your step-father fuck you, you really think any of these insufferable morons would believe that I raped you? You’re crazy! Everyone knows that getting raped twice basically means you were asking for it!”

“Judge!” Carisi and Buchanan raised at the same time, but you didn’t even realize that she’d admitted it, that you’d gotten too deep into her head, into her traumas, that her anger had unleashed the truth you’d been so ferociously trying to unmuddle.

“I hope that you burn.” You spat, shaking your head, standing up from the stand, no longer willing to be everyone’s entertainment for the afternoon. You’d need to return, they’d need to read the verdict, but for now, you were done. You couldn’t sit in that room for another minute.

You found the bathroom in a haze, moving on autopilot as you entirely bypassed Olivia who tried to reach out for your hand before you could flea. You don’t recognize anything as you weave through people in the courthouse, somehow finding the bathroom but you think that’s solely because it’s never been moved in the years that you’ve dedicated your life to law enforcement in Manhattan. The beige and grey scenery didn’t help, only forcing you to feel like you were spiraling farther and farther from the current moment. You couldn’t decide if the grey stall doors looked so dark because they were, or if your vision was swimming with dark spots as you held your breath desperately. If you let it out, if you exhaled everything that had been weighing on your chest, you think you’d die. It would crush you, smother you, drown you in the pain of constantly loving and being hurt. At every phase of life, you’d been shown that you’re nothing but disposable and dispensable.

The bathroom door pushes open, blonde hair and caramel highlights cutting through your vision in the reflection of the mirror. You couldn’t look at yourself. Your eyes had been fluttering to everything else. You don’t know if anyone else noticed that toilet paper in the third stall, a red heart drawn onto the first hanging square, but your eyes had locked onto it, unwilling to move away and be forced to submit to Olivia’s affection. She’d drown you. She’d break you. She couldn’t. You had to get back in there. This wasn’t over yet. It felt like it was never going to be over.

”I can’t breathe.” The words don’t sound like your own, nor do you recognize your mouth moving at all. You don't know when holding your breath became not being able to breathe, but as you try to draw in a gulp of air, everything gets caught in your throat and a desperate sob stumbled out, hoarse and utterly devastating. “I don’t— I can’t—“ Your hands grab at your throat, at the skin that’s not even begun to heal from when her hand had wrapped around it unforgivingly. Your nails claw at the bruised skin, something that should’ve made you wince, but the dull ache of pain was diluted by the panic circling your eyes like sharks in the water.

“Alright, alright, hey,” Amanda concedes, whatever praise she was ready to bestow upon you pocketed for a time when you weren’t turning purple beneath your own hands. Her touch pulled yours away from your neck, and every nerve in your biceps flexed with burning pain as you fought against the nurturing guidance. “No, no, hey, don’t fight me. It’s Amanda. Just Amanda, only Amanda.”

“I can’t breathe!” You sobbed, finally recognizing her blue eyes, accepting their comfort even when it felt like sandpaper being rubbed directly against the healing laceration on your forehead.

“What are the ten amendments?” Amanda asked, grabbing your cheeks, only when she was certain the unexpected touch wouldn’t send you right back into the pits of unreachable panic. She couldn’t help you if all you could hear was the heartbeat in your chest, nor could she guide you when your vision was clouded with blood and darkness. But, she was pulling you down, letting your feet find the ground at a pace that wouldn’t entirely unravel you.

Benson inched up beside you, her hand waving over the automatic paper towel dispenser. You flinched at the sound it made, almost certain if you closed your eyes you’d see shattering glass. You’d never thought they’d sounded alike before, but you cant mistake the harmonized pitch of the dispenser and shattering glass. Water runnings breaks that train of thought, and your mind can barely grasp onto Amanda’s question, but it tries.

“F-Freedom of religion, speech, press, um, I-I don’t know!” You tried to explain, but Amanda shook her head, her hands on your cheeks pulling your gaze back to her, not letting you subconsciously worry about whatever Benson was busy doing at the sink.

“Freedom of religion, speech, press, and what else? What’s the rest of the first amendment?” Amanda’s thumbs brushed against the tear tracks on your cheeks. You hadn’t worn makeup, no energy to spare on the task, and you’re grateful. You would’ve looked even worse than you do now with mascara running down your cheeks like rivers.

“Um, petition and assembly.” You couched, craning your neck to miss Amanda’s face. You felt like a child, your face snotty and damp, your hand now covered in a cough that had sent a deep pang through your tired heart. Amanda didn’t bristle in the slightest, only let her lips twitch slightly. Coughing was good, it meant you were getting air in. The purple sheen was beginning to twinge, flush with peach tones again.

“How about the second?” She asked, and this time, the answer was at the top of your head quicker. The fog was clearing slowly, disappearing into the back of your head for later on when it was more appropriate to cry on the shoulder of your Captain and partner.

“The right to keep and bear arms.” You mumbled, sniffling, reaching up to wipe at your nose that was tickled with dripping wetness. You didn’t have a chance to make contact with your bruises and battered skin, Olivia’s hand grabbing yours and pulling it back, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth as she inched toward you with a damp paper towel. Oh, so that’s what she was doing.

Rollins guided you through the remainder of the ten amendments, all while Olivia dragged the paper towel over your tears and nose, and assured that your rage hadn’t pulled any of the stitches in your face. Their coddling did eventually clear your mind as much as it could’ve, and when Amanda realized that your eyes were actively tracking hers, reacting to the inflection in her tone, she smiled.

“You did good in there.” She praised, and you figured that’s what she’d been dying to say all along. Now, you could nod, could begin to process what you’d done. You stood up to her, to him, to everyone who had ever thought less of you because of the circumstances you’d been forced into. You’d never yelled at someone like that before. Not unless it was a heated interrogation and not even iced tea from your favorite bodega could save your mood.

“I knew you could bite.” Olivia chimed in, and you offered a soft chuckle at her admission. You hadn’t laughed in a while, Amanda and Olivia would take that as a minor win. Suddenly, Bensons arms gripped your biceps, not a single hesitation in her features. You’d lashed out at them multiple times in the last few days, unable to help whenever a flashback randomly came over you, or something snapped and you remembered how it felt to not have a choice in contact. They’d both learned to be cautious, to be gentle and slow. But she didn’t do that now, and you didn’t even realize that you didn’t flinch. “You took your power back.” WHen she jostled you slowly, your head bobbing, not expecting the quick motion of your chest while your feet remained stationary, it dawned on you fully.

You’d finally let yourself accept what had happened, what had been done to you, and you cursed them out for it. You’d let them know it hurt you, even if your step-father wasn’t around to hear the message, something inside of you know that he got it — that he was suffering, wherever it was he found himself now. Your ex, with whatever verdict was found, would suffer with the weigh too her actions because you know that this will eat her up inside. Maybe not what she did, you can’t speak to her guilt or lack-there-of, you hope that with time she’ll realize, but if not, you know that just the simple fact of you besting her in open court will live with her eternally. You can find peace with that if its the only justice you get.

You stiffened when the door creaked open again, but then Sonny’s blue eyes found yours and you relaxed. Your chest panged with guilt at the red rim in his eyes. “The jury’s back. I can ask Donnelly for another five.” He said softly, looking only at you.

You shook your head, your shoulders falling backwards. Even if you didn’t want to do this anymore, more than ready to call it a night in Jesse’s bed while the toddler sleeps between Amanda and Carisi, but you can pretend that your walls are made of steel for another twenty minutes or so. You could see this through. You have the power, even if it still doesn’t feel like you wanted it to. “I’m ready.”

“I never doubted that for a second, kid.” Carisi nodded, turning around and marching back to the courthouse. You sighed, turned toward the mirror, and let Olivia fix your hair whilst Rollins gave you another pep talk, probably the seventh one you’ve received in the last four days. Even if you didn’t love it; didn’t love that they had to be in this position with you, you adored the sentiment behind her steady and unrelentless support.

In any other circumstance, you would’ve shouted after Carisi not to call you kid, but he’d been the one to wake you up that morning when he’d heard you tossing and turning, sobbing in your sleep so loud it trigged the baby monitor that him and Amanda had turned off seeing as Jesse was in their room on the nights you felt like Noah needed Olivia’s attention more than you needed a place to crash. The nightmares didnt happen often, if you were able to fall asleep, usually it was peaceful (albeit short) but whenever they did, someone came running, usually with a gun in hand. Amanda laughed at the trauma they all carried, but you were too deep in the tidal wave to laugh. Either way, it felt wrong to protest the nickname when Carisi had caught you with your head squishing one of Jesses beloved stuffed animals.

You stood beside Carisi, facing Elizabeth Donnelly. Olivia and Amanda sat beside you, both of their hands clutching the wooden banister separating your anxious bodies. “Has the jury reached a verdict?” Donnelly asked, and your gaze shifted, only just looking at the jury for teh first time. You hadn’t realized how they looked at you with such conflicted emotion, but not the ones you’d anticipated. Not disbelief, not disgust, not…amusement. They looked at you with pity, but teh kind of pity that came when you heard something truly devastating. The kind of pity that didn’t feel sinful, just heavy, because you know its deserved, you know nothing you can say will change the fact that terrible things happened. But, there was something else in their eyes, something that you couldn’t name, but felt empowered by. Without a single word, you knew the verdict, and your heart soared.

“We have, your honor.” A man stood, and it dawned on you that this was real, and suddenly that certainty dwindled. He extended a page of verdicts, watching it be passed along until Donnelly held it. You held your breath, only until Sonny’s leather loafer nudged your kitten heel, his eyes ablaze with protectiveness. You exhaled slowly, and your sure that somewhere behind you Amanda is staring holes into the back of his head, proud and in love with his care and consideration.

When the paper is passed back, you know that its time. That it's now or never. “On the charge of assault in the first degree, what is your verdict?”

You held your breath, but the words were spoken anyways. Carisi didn’t nudge you this time, he held his breath with you until both of your braids could process the single word utterance; guilty.

“And on the charge of rape in the first degree, what is your verdict?” Donnelly asked, her tone clipped, and if you weren’t so absorbed in hearing the verdict yourself, you’d have thought she was just as anxiously anticipating the call, the seal of your abusers fate.

“Guilty.”

You don’t recognize the wailing of your assaulter as she’s cuffed and dragged out of the courtroom. You don’t process the weight of Carisi’s hand clapping against your back, or the defeated look of John Buchanan as he shook his head and dipped out of the room — a piece of him knowing he never questioned you in the first place, but at the end of the day this was his job. You sobbed, loudly, ugly, unabashedly, and then you weren’t crying alone. Arms wrapped around your waist, around your torso, they squeezed your rib cage, your belly, any part of you they could touch. Somebody’s chest trapped Carisi’s hand to your chest, somebody’s tight embrace pulled you into the banister until you were flush against it. You didn’t care. It was over. You won. Everyone knows, but also, everyone knows. It was your story or it was hers, and you’d won. She’d never be able to say you were dramatic. You had your justice, even if there was still a wild road of recovery ahead of you. You weren’t alone. You hadn’t been alone this entire time.

”You did it.” Benson’s voice whispered in your head, her lips pressing against the side of your head in a fond kiss. You let your eyes close, let the sobs stop. You did it. You won.

[flowerandblood]

The Price of Pride (12/?)

[ canon • Aemond x Royce • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, unprotected sex, targcest stuff, smut, the angst, sexual tension, imprisonment, abuse of power ]

[ description: Prince Aemond finds a solution to the disproportion in the number of dragons between Dragonstone and King's Landing: he decides to find dragon blood and, like his half-sister, train dragon riders. He takes as his target the daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce, whom he abducts and imprisons in the Red Keep. Slow burn, darkish, insolent, arrogant Aemond. I have combined several requests here: (dragon blood female & prisoner female). ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Never before in her life had she been so terrified as she was the night their army was supposed to return from the battle of Rook's Rest. Lying in bed in her chamber, she looked towards the door, hoping in despair that it would open in a moment and he would appear in it, saying that they had won.

That he had returned.

It frightened her how far this had gone, how attached she had become to him, that the thought that he might die made her eyelids fill with heavy, burning tears.

She didn't care if he married her or not, she didn't resent him for taking her maidenhood even though he wasn't her husband, she didn't expect anything from him.

She just wanted him to survive.

She stood up, knelt before the bed on the floor and folded her hands as if to pray.

"Father, surround him with your support and wisdom. Warrior, give him the strength to fight. Mother, protect him and let him return home. Stranger, do not take him away yet." She muttered and sobbed quietly, burying her face in her hands, thinking she was pathetic.

He'd abducted her and forced her to serve him, fucked her like a whore, merely ensuring she didn't betray him, she repeated to herself, trying to pull herself together, but then she panicked again at the thought of never seeing him again.

She swallowed loudly, laying her head on the bedding, trying to calm her breathing, wondering how she would feel if he and Aegon had died and her father had marched into the Red Keep at the head of his army to liberate her.

Would she throw herself into his arms with joy?

Would she feel relieved?

Her heart and mind were filled with complete emptiness when she realised that she would not.

She didn't want to be saved.

The longer she thought about it, the more it came to her that she and her cousin were identical: they were drawn to each other like moths to a flame, burning in each other's embrace, taking from each other what they both so desperately craved.

He felt as rejected as she did, overlooked by his mother, who showed more tenderness to her lover instead of to him, her son, who was dying every day in the loneliness of his heart. Moreover, he could not openly ask for his mother's attention: it would show his weakness, the fact that deep down he was not a man but a little boy.

As rider of the greatest dragon in the world and protector of the Realm, he could not afford it.

She had only fallen asleep at dawn and shuddered when someone suddenly walked into her chamber, snapping her out of her deep slumber.

"My Lady. Prince Regent summons you to the Small Council chamber." Said Lysa.

Prince Regent.

She reached for the robe lying on the chair as quickly as she could, threw it over her shoulders, tying it around her waist, and went out into the corridor.

What has he done?

She made her way through the Red Keep with a quick step, finally standing in front of the door that the guards had opened for her, and she caught sight of his face sitting at the head of the table in the place reserved for the King.

What has he done?

She glanced around at the people sitting at the table – the Dowager Queen and Criston Cole looked distressed and tired, as did the other lords, however her cousin was grinning broadly, looking at her in a way she felt uneasy from.

"Leave us alone." He ordered and everyone around him stood up, bowing to him, leaving the chamber one by one.

She swallowed quietly as the door finally closed behind her with a quiet clatter of old wood, and they were left on their own. For a moment, they just looked at each other – her cousin hummed under his breath and spread himself comfortably in his seat, as if he was enjoying the moment, satisfaction and contentment in his gaze.

"Come closer, hāedar." He said softly, making a gesture towards her with his hand, as if encouraging her not to be afraid.

She moved towards him uncertainly, feeling that her lips were slightly parted in an accelerated breath, her heart pounding like mad.

She wanted to ask him where is Aegon, but didn't, recognising that the question would upset him.

He didn't like not being the centre of her attention, like a small child demanding her full involvement.

When she stopped in front of him his hand was still outstretched towards her, so she placed her fingers on it – she sighed as he pulled her gently and she fell into his lap, sitting down clumsily, trying to find a comfortable position, leaning against his shoulder for balance.

She closed her eyes when she felt his lips place a soft, sweet kiss on her cheek, the tip of his nose running over her skin as if he wanted to wordlessly tell her that he was glad to see her.

"– lēkia –" She whispered, not knowing what to say, afraid to use words, knowing that she had to be careful what she did now, feeling that something had changed.

He felt mighty and powerful.

Something had happened on the battlefield.

Had he disobeyed her?

Was Aegon dead?

Fear mingled with a sense of pleasant comfort in her heart when his familiar, broad hands stroked her back, trailing up and down, sliding up to her very buttocks, causing a delightful shiver to pass through her.

"– look at me, hāedar – look at me –" He sighed, his index finger tilting her face so that she looked straight into his own – his gaze was hot, filled with something she didn't understand, his breathing heavy, as if the very sight of her aroused him.

She dared to take his cheeks in her palms, and he closed his eyes as her thumbs gently stroked his skin, his lips slightly parted in a blissful expression.

There were so many things she wanted to ask him.

She was so afraid.

What have you done?

Why are you so proud of yourself?

Will you take me now while your brother's body is rotting somewhere?

She pressed her forehead against his, not knowing what to do, who was the man who had returned to her, thinking that he was at once close to her, beloved and foreign, terrifying.

"– iksan arlī, hāedar (I'm back, little sister) –" He whispered, stroking her hair, her shoulders, her back, her waist, her buttocks as if trying to remember what it was like to feel her body, his eyes closed, his face relaxed, as if he were in heaven.

"– ivestragon nyke skoros massitas, lēkia (tell me what happened, big brother) – kostilus (please) –" She muttered pleadingly, and his eye opened – contrary to what she had feared, his gaze was not cold or frustrated, but filled with warmth and relief.

"– my brother thoughtlessly interfered in the battle between Vhagar and Meleys – he paid for his foolishness and burned in the fire – he is alive, but incapable of performing his duties – I will remain Prince Regent until that changes –" He said quietly, as if he was telling her his secret, something meant only for her ears, stroking her cheeks and hair.

She sighed in relief and for some reason embraced him, cuddling his face between her breasts, feeling her heart pounding like mad.

My brother thoughtlessly interfered in the battle between Vhagar and Meleys.

So he didn't do it, she thought, feeling lighter, as if someone had dropped a stone from her back.

Simply the will of the gods had happened.

"– do you believe me, zaldrītsos? –" He whispered, as if he needed to hear it, his hands clenched tightly on the material of her robe at her back.

She had to believe him.

Hundreds of soldiers must have witnessed it, the sight of the dragon falling from the sky and what had happened before.

Why would he lie now, knowing that she would discover the truth anyway?

She stroked his soft white hair with her palm and placed a warm, loud kiss on the top of his head, cuddling him into her as if he were a small child.

"– I do, lēkia – I do –" She assured him and felt his manhood pulsate hard beneath her, then again and again.

She sighed when she felt his fingers untie her robe and nightgown, when with a light, impatient movement he slid their material off her shoulders, exposing shamelessly her breasts.

"– someone will see – ah –" She mumbled, involuntarily pressing him closer to her body as his lips in some subconscious, thirsty impulse found her nipple, sucking and licking it alternately – a powerful shudder ran along her spine, down to her fingertips and her swollen lips, making her cunt pulse hungrily around nothing.

She moaned helplessly as one of his hands clamped down on her ass, his hips beginning to roll back and forth, rubbing his hard, swollen erection against the place between her thighs.

"– no one dares –" He murmured softly, pulling away from her hard, puffy nipple only to move his mouth to the other, repeating the same caresses on it. "– I forbade it –"

She cried out in pleasure, clenching her fingers in his hair when she felt his hand slide from her buttock to between her thighs from behind – she began to rub against his fingers when she felt them sink into her leaking, soft folds with his sigh of satisfaction.

"– my little sister missed her brother – hm? –" He gasped, circling around her swollen bud, making a wonderful, tickling tension begin to rise in her lower abdomen, their hips meeting each other, his cock hard and swollen between her thighs.

"– did you not hear my desperate prayers? –" She mumbled, rising to her knees, lifting her robe and nightgown above her thighs as his hands slid down to his belt – he unbuckled it, looking at her with eye that was surprisingly vulnerable and warm, as if something in her words moved him.

"– what were you praying for, sweet girl? –" He whispered, untying and spreading the material of his breeches to the side, embracing her waist with his arm, with his other hand holding his swollen erection.

She liked the new position she found herself in – she knew that if he had wanted to, he could have simply come and fucked her in her bed, he, however, clearly desired something else.

Proof that she missed him, that she wanted him, that she needed him.

She placed her hands on his shoulders for balance and slowly lowered herself onto the fat head of his cock, feeling him open her wide on himself with their quiet sigh of pleasure.

She decided to tease him for a while and see how he would react to that.

"– for the Father to give you wisdom –" She gasped softly, letting him deeper into her hot core only to lift herself up again, sliding his manhood, slick with her moisture, out of her almost all the way, his mouth parted wide, his gaze fixed on her face, simultaneously terrified and delighted at how pleasurable what she was doing was. "– for the Warrior to give you strength –"

They both groaned pathetically as she let him into her all the way, closing their eyes only to open them a moment later, their hips in some subconscious, natural rhythm beginning to thrust out against each other as she pressed her forehead against his.

"– for the Mother to protect you –" She mewled as they both sped up, his stones slapping again and again against her asscheeks with loud splats of their bare skin, his cock thick and swollen, teasing her sweet spot with cruel precision, making her cunt begin to leak, the chair underneath them creaking loudly.

"– fuck –" He muttered, digging his short nails into the bare skin of her arse, forcing her to let him pound into her harder, his mouth grabbing her hard, sweet nipple and began to suck on it again, a wonderful, aggressive thrill of pleasure shook her body, her walls giving his erection a firm, sure squeeze.

"– for the Stranger not to take you away –" She cried out, moaning loudly along with him, her fingers clenched in his long hair, their bodies slamming against each other like mad, the tension deep inside her reaching its zenith, making her pant hard, their sweaty foreheads pressed together, their eyes fixed on each other.

"– hāedar – oh f-fuck –" He mumbled out, clenching his fingers on her body as tightly as if he felt he could no longer escape what was happening to him, how much he wanted it – their lips met in a messy, sticky kiss full of their tongues, her weeping cunt began to clench around his throbbing erection, bringing them closer to fulfilment.

"– ah – don't stop – gods, your brother is about to fill you –" He breathed out, and she cried out loudly, feeling that his words had done something to her – she heard him groan loudly, shocked when he felt her come hard on his cock, soaking his entire manhood in her wetness – they were both panting with relief and delight as his mouth spread wide in bliss, and his warm seed spilled deep inside her.

She snuggled her face into his neck, moaning quietly, unable to calm down as he did, their hips rocking for another moment, his arms embracing her tightly, cuddling her into his body.

"– dīnagon nyke, hāedar –" He sighed softly, combing his fingers through her hair, his lips placing a warm, tender kiss on her temple, as if he wanted to reassure both her and himself.

She froze, clenching her fingers on his black leather tunic, feeling her heart stop in her chest.

Marry me, little sister.

"– my brother is plunged into a deep sleep – there is no telling when he will awaken – we will manage to marry in the Great Sept by then – I have ensured that the message sent by the King does not reach the Iron Islands – I want it to be you –" He said in a voice trying to be calm, but she could hear it breaking, filled with the fear of rejection.

Gods, what was she to do?

If she became his wife, she would never run from him again.

She will become his property, like his chair, table or bed.

She would bear him children and he would bed his servants as soon as she was no longer young and beautiful.

"– I'm afraid –" She mumbled at last.

She heard him swallow hard, his free hand stroking her back reassuringly, as if he wanted to soothe her.

"– what are you afraid of, zaldrītsos? – tell me –" He whispered in her ear and fell silent, waiting anxiously for her words.

She pressed her lips together, feeling warm tears under her eyelids, her heart filled with stinging pain.

She embraced him and snuggled into him, deciding that this one time she would try to do what she had always dreamed of doing.

That she'll confide in someone like a friend.

"Marriage is for a woman like a cage. She can be happy only if she gives her husband children while still remaining young and beautiful. I don't know if a person born out of hatred can be fertile, but even if I am, I don't want to wait for the days when I find out that you are not faithful to me – I don't expect you to be, because since when have husbands been faithful to their wives? Isn't that why the world is filled with mistresses that everyone curses? I have never been the most important person for anyone and I know I won't be for you. I understand it, but our marriage would be a lie, even though everyone would have to believe otherwise. They would pity me, knowing that I have become a vessel for your seed." She muttered in a trembling voice, feeling tear after tear begin to run down her face, her throat clenched as if she was choking.

She heard him draw in a loud breath and sigh, his chest quivering all over – she lifted her gaze to him and froze, seeing that his jaw was shaking.

"If I wanted to have a mistress, I would marry Floris Baratheon and took you to my bed." He muttered at last, trying to remain calm, his eye large and filled with suffering fixed far ahead of him. "I wish for you to fall asleep and wake up beside me. For us to roam the skies together. For you to dine with me, read with me, speak with me. For you to always support me. For our children, if born, to be the result of our closeness. I will never dishonor you."

He said and looked at her, his hand stroking through her hair as if she were a small child.

"Marry me. I will care for you, and your place will always be by my side. I will protect you."

She felt her lips tremble, her eyebrows arching in pain as she heard those familiar words, what he had said to her then, as they lay under the stars.

If you tame a dragon, I will treat you like my little sister.

She understood what he was trying to tell her.

Had he lied then?

Had he let her down?

Had he abandoned her?

No.

"Yes." She whispered.

He swallowed hard, taking a deep breath, licking his lower lip.

"Yes, what?" He asked in a trembling voice.

"Kesan dīnagon ao, lēkia (I will marry you, big brother)." She whispered.

He pressed her body to his chest and sank his face into the crook of her neck, twitching all over with emotion.

She smiled, embracing him tenderly, thinking with amusement that she had already forgotten that his soft manhood was still deep inside her.

For some reason, the fact that they were one flesh seemed natural to her.

Her cousin announced their betrothal during supper later that evening, and although everyone at the table lowered their gazes, no one dared to contradict him.

He threw her a satisfied, piercing look as he sat at the head of the table in his brother's place, grinning broadly, and she sighed quietly and smiled, thinking that she might have been trying to lie to herself, but it was no use.

Her destiny was tied to this dark, violent, unpredictable man.

She spent that night in his chamber, for the first time feeling light-hearted with the fact that she was lying bare in his arms, in his pleasant, tender embrace, in which she felt safe – there was something wonderful about the way his fingers roamed lazily over her back, forming different shapes, while they lay in silence.

A silence full of understanding and contentment.

Her cousin wanted to use the time while his brother was unconscious, so he pushed for a quick nuptials – she didn't mind and agreed that he would organise everything as he saw fit, much to his delight.

"I haven't had time to congratulate you, my Lady. You are about to become the Prince's wife." Said Gwayne Hightower, Queen Alicent's older brother, raising his eyebrows in what she would call a mixture of amusement and mockery – he approached her with his hands folded behind his back as she practised archery in the courtyard.

She smiled under her breath as she drew her bowstring and took aim, releasing it, her arrow again hitting the centre of the target.

"Thank you, my Lord, for your kind words." She said lightly, not even bestowing a single glance on him, reaching into her quiver behind her back for an arrow, intending to take another shot.

She heard him snort under his breath, combing the sand beneath his feet with his boot.

"You could use tracks to shoot from a greater distance. You won't learn anything else here." He said softly, and she sighed, amused, pressing the bowstring to her cheek.

"On the contrary. I'm learning patience." She hummed, taking another accurate shot, looking up at him finally.

Indeed, Queen Alicent and her brother resembled each other, however, his eyes and hair were paler – she thought he looked like a confident and mischievous man, who was none too pleased that she was to join their family despite the fact that he himself owed his position to his sister.

The Court breathed hypocrisy.

"Surely your patience will come in handy with my nephew." He sneered, looking at her with a smile full of curiosity.

Did he really think she would let him provoke her, that she would tell him something about her cousin that he could then use against her?

"Prince Aemond doesn't like it when people speak about him behind his back. He generally doesn't like to be spoken about. He would not be pleased if he found out that you wished to discuss his affairs with me." She said, lowering her bow, coming closer to him, making his eyebrows raise.

He licked his lower lip, looking at her cheekily, as if he recognised that he had accepted the challenge.

"So he is oversensitive about himself. Like any Targaryen." He stated.

"He just doesn't like gossip. It's a trait of his character that I value in him." She replied.

Ser Gwayne cocked his head, taking a step towards her, standing, in her mind, too close to her – but she did not pull away, recognising that she would not be the one to pay the price.

"Are you carrying his child yet?" He asked, and she lifted her chin higher, understanding that with this innocent question he wished to humiliate her, reminding her that she was lying in bed with a man who was not her husband.

In his mind, she had simply seduced his nephew, whom he considered weak and vulnerable to manipulation.

"Possibly. I, unlike our Dowager Queen, don't make sure every time that my actions won't have consequences. I am prepared to pay them." She said calmly and smiled when she noticed that his gaze grew grimmer, his eyebrows straightened, his jaw clenched in fury.

He opened his mouth to say something, but they were interrupted by another voice.

"Hāedar."

She turned towards her cousin and smiled at him reassuringly, seeing his tense figure walking towards them, his gaze once on her, once on his uncle.

He stopped beside them and licked his lower lip, impatient.

"Skorion massitas (what happened)?" He asked coolly, staring at her expectantly.

She sighed quietly and threw him a soft, calm look.

"Aōha kēpus jaelagon naejot gīmigon lo nyke gryves aōha riña iemnȳ nyke (your uncle wants to know if I am carrying your child). Nyke udlitan zirȳla bona gaoman gīmigon daor (I answered him that I do not know)." She said and saw that he closed his eyelid and turned his head away, furious, swallowing hard the rage that surged in his body.

"Henujagon īlva, hāedar (leave us, little sister). Jikagon naejot ñuha tistālion (go to my chamber)." He said matter-of-factly.

She nodded and moved ahead without bestowing a single glance on Ser Gwayne Hightower.

She smiled under her breath, guessing that her betrothed would teach him a lesson in humility.

She sighed quietly as she went into her quarters for a moment, wanting to change and take a quick bath before heading to his bed, all hot and tired after the physical exertion. She put her bow, a gift she had received from her Prince on the occasion of their betrothal, into one of her trunks and stood up, undoing the buckles of her leather tunic one by one.

She froze when she noticed a small roll of parchment lying on the table by the window.

Was it possible?

She walked over there and reached her hand for the letter, feeling her heart pounding like mad, a cold sweat running down her back at the thought that her father and his third wife's spies were still in the Red Keep.

She knew it was him.

It had to be him.

She unrolled the parchment and swallowed hard, feeling her heart jump to her throat as she read what was written in it.

Congratulations on your betrothal Kepa

[withering-bloom]

Arlecchino x Fem Reader Angst

Arlecchino angst because I hate myself and I’m incredibly depressed atm, listening to good luck, babe for the past four hours LMAO

arlecchino x fem Reader Angst ,internalised homophobia, reader marrying a man tw.

2.5k words

The ballroom was gilded in gold and excess, every chandelier a mockery of the weight crushing your chest. Guests danced in practiced elegance, their laughter ringing hollow in your ears. Your fingers clenched the fabric of your white dress as you stood at the edge of the festivities, trying to make yourself invisible. But no amount of opulence could dull the aching in your heart.

You shouldn’t have looked. You promised yourself you wouldn’t, but when her piercing gaze found yours from across the room, it was as though the ground beneath you disappeared. Arlecchino stood in the shadowed corner, her presence impossible to ignore despite her effort to blend into the background. The tailored suit she wore fit her perfectly, but it was her expression that broke you. Her normally unreadable face now bore something raw, something vulnerable.

You forced yourself to look away.You have a husband now you're supposed to give your undivided attention and support to him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with her.

But you had.

Your father’s voice lingered in your mind like a cruel shadow, a constant reminder of why you were here tonight. His words were sharp, not with pride but with practicality, as he justified your union with the Demoisters, the family you're now bearing your last name with. It wasn’t about love or your happiness—it never was. This marriage was nothing more than a transaction, a lifeline for your father to pull himself out of crippling debt, no matter the cost to you.

Sometimes, in the back of your mind where your unspoken dreams slowly die , you wished the weight of his failures would finally crush him. Maybe then, you could finally escape the invisible chains he had wrapped around you for as long as you could remember. Even now, as a grown woman, you were nothing more than a pawn to him, your life reduced to serving his needs, his ambitions, his mistakes.

You’d tried to tell yourself it wasn’t his fault, that he was only doing what he thought was necessary to save your family. But that excuse had grown thin, and now, standing in the midst of this charade, you couldn’t ignore the bitter truth. He would never see you as more than a tool. And you—despite everything you wanted to believe—were too afraid to break free.

The realisation sank deeper, heavier, like a stone tied to your soul. You weren’t living for yourself. You never had been.Marrying the heir of another family wasn’t just an expectation—it was a lifeline for your family’s survival. You couldn’t afford the luxury of choice, let alone the freedom to love someone as dangerous as Arlecchino.

She’d warned you.

All that rang through your mind was the night before all of this happened. The last encounter you had with Arlecchino before she called off things with you for good.

“Your father is just using you,” she said, her voice low but trembling with restrained anger. Her eyes, usually so piercing, now brimmed with raw pain and frustration. “He doesn’t care what you want. He never has.”

You flinched at her words, but it wasn’t because she was wrong. It was because she was right, and hearing the truth from her lips made it unbearable.

“I—he’s my father,” you mumbled, the excuse tasting bitter in your mouth. You couldn’t meet her gaze, your eyes fixed on the floor instead, where the shadows of candlelight danced—so fragile, so fleeting. “It’s not that simple. I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she snapped, stepping closer, her voice growing more desperate. “But you’re too scared to take it. You’re scared of what they’ll say. What he’ll say. That’s why you’re going through with this farce of a marriage, isn’t it? Because it’s easier to let them decide your life for you than to fight for what you actually want.”

Her words hit like daggers, and you hated how well she could see through you. She always could.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your own emotions. “I have to do this. It’s my family—”

“It’s not your family,” she interrupted, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air. “It’s him. It’s always been him. He doesn’t care about you, about what makes you happy. He’s doing this for himself—to save his business, to save his reputation. And he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to live a life that isn’t yours.”

Tears burned in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now. “It’s not that simple,” you said again, but the words were hollow, and you knew she could hear it too.

“And for what?” she pressed, her voice softening but losing none of its intensity. “For a family that doesn’t see you for who you are? For a man who doesn’t love you—and never will? That’s why you’re marrying him and not me, isn’t it?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

She took a step back, her shoulders trembling as she let out a bitter scoff, the sound laced with heartbreak. “Because they’d rather see you miserable than happy with me. Because they’d rather you live a lie than accept the truth. And you’re letting them. You’re letting them steal everything from you, including me.”

Your chest tightened, and the tears finally fell, hot and unforgiving, streaking down your face. You wanted to tell her she was wrong, to reach out and beg her to stay, but your voice caught in your throat. Because deep down, you knew she was right.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. “I can’t fight them. I’m not strong enough.”

Her expression crumbled, her mask of anger giving way to something far more devastating—grief. “Then that’s it, isn’t it?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to let them decide your life for you. And you’re going to lose me in the process.”

She turned away, and for a moment, you wanted to reach for her, to beg her to understand, to stay despite everything. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“I love you,” you said, the words breaking on your lips.

She paused, her back still to you. “Then you should’ve chosen me.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet of your own cowardice, your heart shattering into pieces you would never put back together.

But you had no choice.

Now, the gilded ring on your finger felt heavier than lead. Every step you took toward the man you were bound to felt like another nail in the coffin of your happiness. He smiled at you, oblivious to the storm raging within you, as he held out his hand to guide you into the first dance.

You moved mechanically, your heart somewhere else entirely—across the room, where Arlecchino stood unmoving, watching.

When the music slowed, and the crowd dissolved into polite applause, you excused yourself under the guise of needing air. The garden was empty, the cool night breeze biting against your skin. But it wasn’t the cold that made you shiver.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

Her voice was low, cutting through the silence like a blade. You turned to see her standing there, her suit blending into the shadows.

“Then why are you here?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

She stepped closer, and for a moment, you thought she might touch you, but her hands stayed firmly at her sides. “Because I had to see it for myself,” she said, her voice cracking. “Had to see you give yourself to someone else.”

“I've told you a million times it wasn’t my choice,” you said, tears welling in your eyes.

“There’s always a choice,” she hissed, her calm veneer cracking to reveal the fury and heartbreak underneath. “But you’ve made yours.”

Her words stung, but they weren’t untrue. You had made a choice. A cruel, impossible choice.

“I love you,” you said, your voice breaking as the tears spilled freely now. “I love you more than I can put into words, but—”

“But it doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, her tone hollow and sharp. Her hands twitched at her sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you close one last time. “It never mattered, did it?”

“That’s not true,” you whispered, stepping closer, but she stepped back, the distance between you an unspoken barrier you knew you’d never cross again.

“You’ve already chosen,” she said bitterly, her voice trembling in a way you’d never heard before. “And I’m not going to stand here and beg for the scraps of your heart. Not when you’ve already handed it over to someone else—someone you don’t even love.”

Her words struck you like a physical blow, and you recoiled, clutching the fabric of your dress as though it could hold together the pieces of your breaking heart. “This isn’t fair, Arlecchino,” you choked out. “I’m doing this for my family—”

“For your family,” she repeated, the words dripping with venom. “What about you? What about what you want? Or does what we had mean so little that you can throw it away without a second thought?”

“It’s not that simple,” you pleaded, your voice barely audible.

“It is,” she snapped, her sharp eyes blazing with a mix of fury and heartbreak. “You just don’t want to admit it. You’re a coward, and you’re running from the one thing that’s real.” Your shoulders stiffened as you raised your head up to look her directly in the eyes.

“So what?” you snapped, the words spilling out before you could stop them, sharp and defensive, laced with fear you refused to acknowledge. “I’m doing what’s best for my mother and my sisters. They need this—they need me to do this.” You folded your arms tightly across your chest, trying to steady the tremble in your voice. “You don’t understand. They would never… they’d never look at me the same if they knew about—about us.”

Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, willing yourself not to cry. You hated how weak you sounded, how transparent. “They’d disown me,” you whispered, almost to yourself now, the words like broken glass in your throat. “They’d hate me. My own mother, my sisters—they’re the only family I have, and if I lose them, I’ll have nothing.”

Her silence stung, and when you finally looked up, the hurt in her eyes was unbearable.

“They wouldn’t hate you,” she said softly, but there was an edge of disbelief in her tone. “They’d come to understand. They love you. Isn’t that what family is supposed to do?”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You don’t know them like I do. Love isn’t unconditional in my family. Love is earned. And if they found out about this, about me…” You trailed off, your chest tightening as the weight of it all pressed down on you,while fiddling with the ring chained around your finger, “They’d never forgive me for ruining everything.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” she argued, her voice rising with frustration. “You’re just too afraid to live your life—our life. You’re letting their expectations cage you, and for what? To keep their love? What about your own happiness? What about mine?”

You flinched, her words cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. “You don’t get it,” you hissed, desperation creeping into your voice. “This isn’t just about me. This is about them, about saving them from losing everything. And—and being with you? It’s wrong, don’t you see that?”

Her face fell, her expression crumbling into something between anger and heartbreak. “Wrong?” she echoed, her voice barely audible. “You think this is wrong?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said quickly, but the damage was already done.

“Yes, you did,” she shot back, her voice trembling. “You think being able to allow yourself to love me is wrong. You think you are wrong.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “You don’t understand,” you repeated, weaker this time. “It’s not about love. It’s about survival. And if that means I have to bury this—bury us—then so be it.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a shaky breath. “I hope it’s worth it,” she said quietly, her voice devoid of the fire it once carried. “Giving up everything that matters to you. Including yourself.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. You reached out, desperate, but her cold, empty laugh froze you in place.

“Do me a favor,” she said softly, her voice cracking under the weight of her own words. “When you stand at that altar tomorrow and say your vows, don’t think of me. Don’t look at him and wish it was me standing there instead. Because I won’t be waiting for you, not now, not ever.”

Her words broke something in you, but before you could respond, she turned and walked away, her silhouette dissolving into the shadows.

You didn’t follow her.

You stood frozen in the cold garden, the echoes of her parting words wrapping around your throat like a noose. When you finally found the strength to move, your steps felt heavy, every movement dragging you closer to a future you no longer wanted.

As you re-entered the ballroom, the weight of the ring on your finger seemed to double, a gilded chain binding you to a life of pretense. Your fiancé greeted you with a warm smile, but you barely heard his words. You saw only Arlecchino’s back as she disappeared into the darkness, taking your heart with her.

And as the music swelled and the guests toasted to your impending marriage, the truth settled in your chest like a dagger:

You would love her for the rest of your life, but she would never forgive you.

And you would never forgive yourself.

Live,love,lesbian angst.

Me writing this fanfic:

[theladyismyshepard]

My Lady In Death

My interest has shifted towards Baldur's Gate 3 and call me obsessed, almost as much as I was for RE:V... This is my headcannons for the main ladies of the party... careful, it's a long post

How the Ladies Would React to Your (Tav's) Death

Shadowheart –

It’s funny… it’s so funny… There was a battlefield roaring its rage to the Heavens in the sky. A melodic thrum of agony and death and yet there was a single sound that rose above all else: the sound of your body crashing to the ground, a loud grunt forced out from between your lips.

The strong “Ignis!” caught itself in Shadowheart’s throat, subconsciously forfeiting her turn as she stared wide-eyed at your fallen form. Her lips were moving, yet no sound was escaping. No spell, no incantation, no anything– She was so frozen in disbelief, one could mistake her for being under a stunned or immobilizing spell. All she could do was watch your shaky movements as you attempted to hoist yourself to your feet, only to receive a final concussive blow that left trails of blood leaking from your nose, mouth, and eyes

“NO!” The scream was so raw that almost everyone in the party felt the shredding of their own throats

Karlach reached forward to intercept the cleric just as she showed the first signs of darting thoughtlessly across the battlefield towards your dead body, but when Shadowheart showed an ounce of determination, she proved unstoppable. She sidestepped Karlach’s hand, ignored the resulting string of curses from Lae’zel, and darted towards you. Not only did she have faith in her teammates (well, Karlach) to guard her back, she had faith that Shar would guide her forward.

Which raised a few questions: Why was Shadowheart fearing this loss in a way she never felt before? Why was she so desperate to counter the inevitable? Why couldn’t she let Shar take you away? Shadowheart swallowed thickly as she dropped to her knees beside you, pulling your head into her lap. Her trembling fingers reached into her travel pack and she didn’t stop fumbling around until she produced a Scroll of Revivify. She untied the knot keeping it together, and rested the parchment atop your chest.

Her voice shook the entire time she spoke through the words of the scroll. Her eyes were blurred so thickly with tears that the obscured spell was nearly illegible to her. Shadowheart’s left hand was tangling its fingers in your hair, an absent gesture of comfort more for herself rather than you at the moment. She was aware of the sudden company of defense that swarmed and encircled the two of you, but she couldn’t afford to pay them any mind, not when you were growing colder by the second and Shar’s grip of darkness was taking its hold on you.

There was a glow surrounding your body for a moment, and when it finally dimmed, the scroll burned itself to a crisp and faded away on a gust of wind. There was a pause that had Shadowheart’s heart stuttering against her ribcage and then you were taking in a large breath of air, and it looked so natural, as if you had never stopped. Shadowheart released a breath of her own and it nearly had her bowing over, her tears finally spilling down her cheeks.

You were here, you were alive, you were going to be okay… She indulged herself in stealing a single kiss atop your brow, her left hand gently scratching your scalp before she pulled back abruptly.

Shadowheart… turned her back on her lady. All color drained from her face, all relief she had been relishing in dried up, all fear she had dislodged back anew, but directed for herself now– As Shar’s servant, she must accept darkness, accept loss almost to the point of wishing for it. You were well within Shar’s merciful grasp

And Shadowheart stole you back… It’s only natural to struggle with your religious guilt after saving the one you care so much for. Give her time to process this.

Lae'zel –

Disbelief. That is the only emotion Lae’zel found herself able to process for an entire minute; Disbelief that your body was crumpled and shredded down in the dirt; Disbelief that this unorthodox hero that was supposedly “meant to save the world” had fallen so easily… Disbelief that she allowed your death to happen.

Next was the fury that almost visibly burned in licking flames. Death would not take you, not if she had anything to say about it. Not when she was standing right there and these fiendish goblins had the audacity to strip your life from your body before her very eyes. No… Lae’zel was fury, she was death, and she would avenge you before she would think to resurrect you.

That half-elf, she had powers of healing and while Lae’zel loathed Shadowheart on a good day, she knew the cleric to have enough wits to know to respond to their fallen hero with haste (lest she meet her own untimely end at the edge of her blade). The fight was a blur, and it was over before any of the other party members could land another hit.

Lae’zel was a flurry of strikes, one after the other, each enemy dropping with a thud before they could so much as raise a shield in defense. Her blade cut through their armor, and with each slice, she couldn’t help but to associate it with the final blow that cut you down. Each wet shluk as her sword went through reminded her of the very sound of your own flesh giving way to iron. She didn’t even feel the blood washing over her enough to get to relish in the victory– this was no victory.

“They’re all gone, soldier,” came Karlach’s small, but steady voice, though Lae’zel still felt rage, she couldn’t shake it…

It was a familiar feeling her people associated with, almost like lifelong friends, but this was driven by a loss that she had yet to experience, and she was damn near close to cursing the Comet himself for allowing such a person like yourself to come into her life and just… change her very being… or at least her standards. But she was cursing you.

Cursing you for coming into her life, showing her tolerance, showing her affection, showing her love… and then just as you had gotten her to fall, you fell at her feet in a pool of your own blood. Lae’zel’s grip around her silver sword tightened, her form trembling in a mix of rage, sorrow, and hatred. Hatred at those who killed you, hatred for you for how easily you went down, but mostly, hatred for herself for not throwing her own body on the blade before it could ever reach your perfect skin.

“Lae’zel… love,” 

The sword dropped as did her mouth. Right… You were intelligent enough to stock up on Scrolls of Revivify when the party was last in Baldur’s Gate. Lae’zel pulled herself together, grabbed her sword, and regained her signature scowl.

“I suggest we keep moving forward unless anyone is seriously injured… then we head for camp and rest… no matter, Tav, I need you in my sight at all times,” You couldn’t help the smile when she took your hand in her own, checked you over once for any lingering injuries, and pressed on before anyone could even answer her question.

Karlach –

Gravity was betraying Karlach on this particular day in so many ways. The way her stomach was dropping to her feet had her fighting back the urge to puke. The lightness of her soul wanting to leave behind the overheating engine that kept her in place. It was all so disorienting, but most of all was the gravity that dragged your body down into the abyss, completely disappearing from sight.

“NOOO!” she bellowed, fire engulfing her body, threatening all who were foolish enough to draw close.

“Karlach! It’s okay!” insisted Shadowheart urgently, “Their soul, look!”

Karlach always knew your soul would have a calming aura about it. The tiny, cool, blue ball of light was beckoning the fiery red that was Karlach’s being. There was still a stray archer somewhere out of sight, but that was of no concern to her. She needed to get to you, to protect you… She had to nourish your soul, feed it life from one of the scrolls that had to have been crafted from the very Gods themselves

You two still had so much left to explore together… The party had just encountered Dammon and had supplied enough infernal iron to ensure an upgrade to Karlach’s engine. Boy did you two celebrate that night after she received her first real hug in a decade. It was all fire and all passion, and that was everything that Karlach needed in life. You were everything she needed.

So forgive her if she refused to give you up so easily after finally, finally receiving the happiness she was denied for so long. She’s done her waiting… Ten years of it! In Avernus… You didn’t give up on her, not when a misguided Wyll had sent you on a path to kill her, and not when you found out she was a ticking time bomb waiting to blow. She would fight through all Nine Realms of the Hells to do the same for you.

Karlach reached the floating orb that was your soul, forced herself to relax enough to extinguish her own flames, and cradled it in her palms as if it was the grandest treasure in the world… to Karlach, it was the world. She had the world in the palm of her hands and she couldn’t help but burst into tears. You were too good to have had any hiccup in your heartbeat, to have been taken so early that Karlach had to bend the very will of fate to bring you back.

“Call me selfish, I don’t give a shit,” Karlach muttered to anyone who was listening. No one would dare to argue her in such a state as this

Gently repositioning your soul into one palm, Karlach reached into her pocket and withdrew a Scroll of Revivify. She swaddled the orb in the scroll, as if tucking it into a warm blanket on a cold night before bringing the entirety of it to her lips and whispering the incantation as if it were a prayer. Your body materialized before the party’s very eyes and you soon found yourself pulled into Karlach’s crushing embrace before she apologized and supplied a Potion of Supreme Healing.

“Try to stay on firm ground from now on, eh?”

Minthara –

Oh Gods, oh Hells, oh shit… May the Gods grant mercy on the soul that decides to cleave your soul from your body, leaving you a mangled mess of what Minthara had come to claim as hers. She was not finished with you and the rush of high you brought with, and she would part the Heavens or douse the Hells to rip you back into her life, and she was about to demonstrate such at this very moment.

Gortash was a formidable foe, he was Chosen for a reason… and that was because Minthara thought herself too good to be a God’s plaything. Second best must answer to her scorn and no longer will anyone question that the wrath of Minthara could shake even the Gods.

The entire scene shifted, and no more were Gortash’s semi-invisible minions, or his tangible, looming fist. He was on his knees, a quivering mess as he gazed into Minthara’s eyes and saw nothing but his own pitiful reflection.

At last, there was a change in her features as a cruel grin slowly twisted the edges of her lips. She would draw this out and savor every last scream he had to offer. It was one thing to threaten the safety of the entire world, but to outright target and end your life, with Minthara standing there no less… it was a direct insult and a loss that she couldn’t even really bring herself to feel.

Minthara is calculating, and while she refuses to ever witness your soul leave your body again, she also knew that she was resourceful if not intimidating. There were ways of bringing you back to life, and every option was at her fingertips, it was just a matter of who or what she wanted to exploit.

After driving a dagger straight through Grotash’s eye and into his skull, Minthara hardly even basked in the quivering of his pained body as he dropped and convulsed in a pool of his own blood. No, she was too busy turning towards Shadowheart and barking orders.

“You! Call upon your deity and demand them to revive your allies with half their health. I’m aware that you are granted this wish only once, and I have yet to have seen you use it.” It was done with only a minimal amount of glaring, and suddenly you were stiffly rising to your feet with a groan.

“You were careless with your life, and I am severely unappreciative of that… You would do best to not piss me off as such again, okay?”

You were nodding along without a word, but you couldn't help the flutter of your newly restarted heart when Minthara carefully put her arm around your shoulder as a means to both guide and protect you from what more is to come.

[formulaisa]

So I saw you were taking requests for Franco and i thought I would share my idea!

How about Mexican reader where she is like a fan of formula 1 and goes to one of the gp (any of them). And like she is there minding her business in the paddock (like asking drivers for photos and autographs) and Franco sees her and is like 😍😍😍 immediately and when reader goes to ask for a photo he starts like actually interacting with her (more than the polite thank you for being a fan talk) and idk you can take over from there.

Don’t feel pressured to write this! I just think is a cute idea and definitely not self protecting

The Signature | Franco Colapinto

Summary: Growing up watching Formula 1 with your dad made you dream of attending a Grand Prix, but you never imagined your first paddock experience would lead to catching a certain Argentinian rookie's attention.

Warnings: some spanish (with translations)

Author's note: Sorry for the inactivity! I've been busy with my family for the holidays. If you have any feedback or suggestions, I'd really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy! <3

F1 Masterlist / homepage / main masterlist

You had always dreamed of attending a Grand Prix. Ever since your dad introduced you to Formula 1 at a young age, you were hooked. The roar of the engines, the speed, the energy of the crowd—it all fascinated you. But the problem was, you lived far away from any Grand Prix, and the costs for tickets, travel, and hotels made this dream seem impossible.

That all changed when you went to college in the US. You were awarded a generous scholarship to a school in Texas, conveniently close to the US Grand Prix. Juggling a waitressing job and school, you worked hard and finally saved enough money to attend a race. To top it off, you earned enough to afford a paddock pass. There was only one thing that could make this experience even better: having your dad with you. Though he couldn't be there, you had a plan to make it up to him. You'd bought him a blank hat and set out to get as many driver autographs as possible for him.

It was a scorching Saturday in Austin. Qualifying was starting in just a few hours, so you arrived early, hoping to catch some drivers for autographs and photos. The paddock was already buzzing with activity—mechanics wheeling tires, engineers huddled over laptops, and the occasional flash of a driver's race suit disappearing into a garage.

By now, you'd been surprisingly lucky. You'd gotten photos and signatures from three drivers: Carlos, Yuki, and Nico. Their signatures decorated the pristine white hat, each one making you imagine your dad's face lighting up when he saw it. But you wouldn't be truly satisfied until you got signatures from your two favorites: Checo and Lewis.

The Texas heat was beginning to wear you down. Your outfit, a cute dress and cowboy boots, looked stylish but weren't exactly built for the sweltering weather. Sweat beaded at your temples, and you could feel your hair starting to stick to the back of your neck. You stopped by a kiosk to grab a water bottle, then took a quieter shortcut back to the main paddock area, hoping to bump into a driver.

Just as you rounded the corner, you spotted him. It was hard not to. Franco Colapinto was strutting through the paddock in his navy blue Williams polo, his trademark smirk on full display. The young Argentinian driver had been making waves in his rookie season, his natural talent and charismatic personality quickly making him a fan favorite. Now was your chance.

Suddenly, a small lump filled your throat. It was a strange sensation, one you hadn't felt with any of the other drivers today. Your hands felt clammy, and your heart began to race. You found yourself nervous in a way that had nothing to do with meeting a Formula 1 driver and everything to do with meeting him.

"Umm, hi, Franco?" you asked, your voice hesitant. "Could I get a picture?"

He paused and turned around, pulling an AirPod from his ear. His dark eyes met yours, and his smirk softened into a genuine smile that made your stomach do a little flip. "Yeah, of course," he said, his Argentine accent adding a musical quality to his words.

You pulled out your phone and went to take a selfie. As you did, you noticed Franco adjusting his hair in the camera, running his fingers through the dark waves with practiced ease.

"Sorry, it's just so hot here," he explained quickly, before leaning in and flashing a smile for the photo. As you snapped the picture, you caught him glancing down at you, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. The subtle cologne he wore mixed with the mechanical scents of the paddock, creating an oddly intoxicating combination.

"I know. I feel like I'm melting," you said, tucking your phone back into your purse. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple as if to emphasize your point.

Franco hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes sparkled with interest as he asked, "¿Hablas español?" [Do you speak Spanish?]

"Sí, sí," you replied with a small smile, pleasantly surprised by the question. [Yes, yes.]

"¿De dónde eres?" he asked, his signature smirk returning. [Where are you from?]

"México," you said, "pero voy a la universidad aquí." Your voice grew more confident as you spoke in Spanish, and you noticed how Franco's posture relaxed, his shoulders dropping slightly as he leaned in to hear you better. [Mexico, but I go to college here.]

“I could tell from your accent,” He nodded, clearly interested, still not in a rush to leave. The bustling paddock seemed to fade into the background as he focused his attention entirely on you. He glanced around the paddock, then asked, "Are you here by yourself?"

You sighed lightly and nodded. "Yeah, it's just me." The admission made you feel suddenly vulnerable, but there was something comforting about the way Franco listened, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Paddock pass all for yourself, huh?" His voice carried no judgment, just genuine curiosity.

"I saved up all my tips from work," you said, absently playing with the lanyard around your neck. "I originally wanted to surprise my dad with tickets for his birthday, but I couldn't afford a flight and hotel from Mexico, so it didn't work out."

He looked at you with understanding, his expression softening. "Where do you work?" he asked, genuine curiosity evident in his voice.

You shrugged slightly, a little embarrassed. "Just some restaurant... I'm a waitress." The words felt small compared to his profession, but his interested expression never wavered.

"What's it called?" he asked, taking a small step closer.

"Trust me. You wouldn't want to go there," you replied with a self-deprecating laugh, knowing Franco wouldn't be interested in the casual, country bar you worked at.

"Still, I’m curious," he asked, the same flirtatious tone in his voice. “Besides, I’m more interested in the service.”

"It's called Buck Wild," you said with a small laugh, watching his expression for any sign of judgment. “It’s a very Texan country bar.”

"I think I'd learn to like it," he teased with a smirk that made your heart skip a beat. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, you noticed. “When do you work there?”

"Tuesdays and Fridays," you answered, still smiling, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach at his continued interest.

He nodded, clearly thinking. "I leave on Thursday..." he muttered to himself, his voice soft and thoughtful as he created a mental plan. The words hung in the air between you, heavy with possibility.

Your heart began to race, and a warm blush crept up your neck. The way he was looking at you, the casual tone of his voice, the fact that he was even asking about your work schedule—it all pointed to something more than just a typical chat with a fan. You found yourself hyper-aware of every detail: the way his polo shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, how he kept shifting slightly closer to you, the warmth in his dark eyes.

Then, reality crashed back in as you remembered why you had actually approached him. The hat for your dad was still tucked away in your bag.

"I-I know you probably have to go soon, but before you leave, could you sign this for me?" you asked, pulling the hat out of your bag. Your fingers trembled slightly as you handed it to him.

He smiled warmly and took the sharpie and hat from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief moment. "Wow, you've got quite a few signatures already, huh?" He examined the other drivers' signatures with interest.

Franco signed the hat, moving slowly, almost like he was savoring the moment, stretching out the conversation. His signature was deliberate and careful, unlike the rushed autographs you'd seen him give to other fans earlier.

You smiled and explained, "I'm trying to get Lewis and Checo too. They're my dad's favorite drivers." Your voice softened when you mentioned your father, and Franco seemed to notice.

"Ah, Good taste," he said, nodding. Then, his expression shifted slightly. He glanced at the hat, pausing. A look of realization and minor panic appears on his face. 

“Wait,” he gestures to the hat “This isn’t for you?” 

“No, it’s a gift for my dad,” you explain “Why?” 

You look down at the hat in his hands and see his scrawled out signature. Underneath you see something else he had started to write. “+54 2322…” 

Your eyes widened as you realized what he'd done. "Joder," he muttered under his breath, quickly scribbling over the numbers, a faint blush creeping up his neck. Despite his embarrassment, you noticed he didn't step away.

You couldn't help but laugh softly, a warm smile spreading across your face as you looked up at him. The moment felt surreal—here was Franco Colapinto, Formula 1 driver, getting flustered while trying to give you his phone number on what he thought was your hat.

"I can just give you mine," you said shyly, still flustered but charmed by his awkward attempt.

Franco pulled out his phone, opened a new contact, and handed it to you. His phone was warm from being in his pocket, and you noticed his lock screen was a picture of his dog. Just as you were typing in your name and number, his phone buzzed with a message: 'Where are you, mate? Meeting started ten minutes ago.'

Franco's eyes widened with panic, and you could tell he was starting to realize just how much time he'd spent talking to you instead of attending his meeting. The easy conversation had made you both lose track of time completely. You handed him back his phone, but before you could say anything, he quickly added, "Let me give you my number too."

You began fumbling through your purse for your phone, your fingers clumsy with nervous energy, but before you could find it, you were interrupted by a loud voice from the Williams garage.

"Franco! Stop flirting and get over here. You're late, and James is pissed!" the mechanic yelled, his voice cutting through the paddock's ambient noise.

Franco looked over, frustration and guilt crossing his face in quick succession. "Sorry," he muttered to you, grabbing the sharpie back from your hand and hastily scribbling his number on your arm. His touch was gentle despite his hurry, and you felt goosebumps rise on your skin.

Before you could even react, he gently handed you back the sharpie. "I'll see you around..." he said with a wink and a grin, before turning and jogging off toward the Williams garage. You watched him go, admiring how he somehow managed to make even a rushed exit look graceful.

You stood there for a moment, your heart racing, the cool sharpie mark on your arm tingling where his fingers had just been. The numbers were slightly smudged but still legible, and you couldn't help but trace them with your finger.  You smiled to yourself, looking forward to the next time you'd see him and happy with the most special signature you’d gotten that day.

✩₊˚.⋆ all work belongs to formulaisa. please don’t modify, translate, or share my writing, and don’t feed it to AI.

[devildom-moss]

Flowers for Them (Mammon)

Continuation of a request where MC returns the favor for the characters giving them roses. Kind of a sequel series for the Roses for You series (links here)

Mammon x gn!MC

Word Count: +1.2k

Yellow Sunflowers

“Hey, MC.” Mammon tried to act cool as he hopped over the back of the couch and landed next to you with an almost choreographed grace. “Ya busy tomorrow night?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, ya are now.” He pulled a laminated VIP pass from his pocket and held it out to you between two fingers like he was buying something expensive and telling you to put it on his card. Although, to Mammon, your time was worth more than he could ever afford. “Here. I’m modelin’ on a runway tomorrow evening. You should come watch me. The Great Mammon will even take ya out afterwards to reward ya for showin’ support. Besides, I’m eager to start spendin’ that modelin’ cash.”

“I’d love to watch you work the catwalk,” you admitted, taking the pass from him.

“Did you say something about cats?” Satan popped his head into the common room on his way from the library.

“Catwalk, ya nosy–” Mammon started.

“Never mind. Not interested.” Satan shrugged and continued on his way but quickly turned around and added, “Wait. Who’s going to be on the catwalk?”

“The Great Mammon, of course.”

“Yeah, definitely not interested.” Satan disappeared down the hall.

You could tell Mammon was annoyed, so you jumped in, “well, I am interested.”

“’Course ya are. I’ll send ya the details. I’d offer to walk ya there, but they’re havin’ me come in a few hours before the show. But all this work’s gonna be worth it.” Mammon pulled out his D.D.D. and forwarded you the time and location. When he looked up at you from his phone, he had a frown on his face. “Man, I’d love to hang out a while longer, but I gotta go to a rehearsal soon. Don’t lose that pass, got it?”

“I’ll keep it safe.” You smiled.

“Ya better.” Mammon stood up and ruffled your hair aggressively – as if you were too cute for him to be gentle with.

The thought of going to Mammon’s gig without some kind of present felt off – not wrong, necessarily, but you knew you’d be missing an opportunity to make him feel loved. You couldn’t bear the thought of it. So, you made a stop at a particularly friendly demon’s shop.

“Stolas,” you called out as you entered the flower shop. A gentle chirp from above brought your attention to the demon, standing atop a shelf with a watering can.

“Oh, so the sweet little human has learned my name,” he grinned wickedly – flirtatiously if flirting involved a degree of danger. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence today?”

Stolas hopped down from the shelf and landed gracefully in front of you. He looked so much taller without the counter separating you.

“Do you have any scorching sunflowers?”

“Afraid not. My next delivery isn’t until next week, and I don’t grow them here – too much of a hassle. Can I interest you in something else?”

“Oh.” You immediately looked disappointed, which threw Stolas off.

He scrambled for a solution, “I can save some for you when the delivery comes. Or I can get you something else. I have dozens of gorgeous flowers, and some have a similar warming effect if you need it for a spell.”

“No, that’s okay – it’s just – how much do you know about human world flowers?”

“A good deal more than you, I’d assume. Missing the flora of your realm?”

“I need something similar to a human world sunflower to do the transfiguration spell. I really wanted to give sunflowers to someone close to me today,” you admitted.

Stolas sighed, “is that all? Come with me to the green room.”

He walked towards the room near the back of the shop. You followed, only slightly cautious of him. When he reached the door, he held it open for you. Even without stepping in the room, the scent of greenery was particularly strong. A fountain could be heard and you could see plants filling the room from ceiling to floor. As you entered, it was a beautiful sanctuary for life – as if the walls of the room encouraged growth and abundance.

“Now, I wouldn’t normally do this, but there is a way to create the flowers you desire without a Devildom equivalent. It’s more advanced, and I may need to borrow some of your magic to do it.”

Stolas instructed you to grab a petal the same color you wanted the sunflowers to be – a vibrant golden yellow – and bury it in the magic pot he placed on the workbench. You both placed your hands on the pot as Stolas whispered ancient incantations. You felt your magic being drained from your hands, but before long, sunflowers sprouted up from the pot – nearly two dozen of them. Stolas trimmed them and wrapped them up for you. As you took your wallet out to pay, his hand gently pressed over yours.

“I can’t sell flowers made purely from magic to you. You can have them,” Stolas smiled weakly.

“Surely I can repay you somehow, right?”

A number of ideas bloomed in his mind, but he settled on this instead: “Bring me some flowers sometime and we’ll call it even.”

You nodded and held the sunflowers close to your chest. With that, you headed to Mammon’s show.

Mammon was such a handsome demon, especially when he was in his element. They put him in some flashy numbers that complemented his vibrant white hair and beautifully hued skin. You could tell that the stylist hadn’t wanted just any demon; they wanted him to be their model, and it showed. As focused as he was, Mammon spotted you in the crowd – right where he left your name card on the chair – and gave you a wink. He was a crowd favorite, and you were so proud of him.

When the show concluded, you pulled the bouquet out from under your chair. They still look beautiful, you sighed in relief. Mammon was impatiently waiting for you backstage, scanning every face that entered with a pass until a smile glowed on his lips.

“Hey~ There’s my human,” Mammon shouted at you the second you stepped through the door. You tucked the bouquet behind your back. “What’d ya think of the Great Mammon? Devilishly handsome, ay?”

“Cool as ever, Mammon! You looked amazing out there.” You grinned and pulled the sunflowers out as you spoke, “I got these for you to congratulate you on a job well done.”

Mammon’s cool grin dropped as he felt his face burn. He took the flowers from your hands, “Ya got me sunflowers? These don’t look like scorching sunflowers, but my skin feels warm. Did ya enchant these?”

“No, silly. Although, a little magic was involved. Do you like them?”

“Hell yeah! What made ya think to get me these?” Mammon admired their beautiful golden hues as he asked. No one had ever given him sunflowers before.

“I learned that sunflowers symbolize loyalty; they represent enduring bonds and commitments and can be given for happy relationships based on truth and longevity. How could I not think of you when I read that. You’re faithful, we adore each other, and you always brighten my mood. They’re perfect for you.”

Mammon’s eyes felt misty, and he blinked away the threatening tears with a smile. He pulled you into a tight hug. He was so warm.

“’Course ya’d choose sunflowers for the Great Mammon! After all, you’re the main source of light in my life, and I’ll always turn to face ya, sunshine.” Your heart melted.

Lucifer | Leviathan | Satan | Asmodeus | Beelzebub | Belphegor | the others

A/N: I'm going to try to slowly come back over the next few months. I hope you all will welcome me back after being gone for so long. And I hope you like my OC as he makes yet another appearance.

[dipperscavern]

HELLO DIPPY! I’m kinda new here so i’m sorry if this is not detailed enough, but do you think you could write something about Jon or Robb braiding reader’s hair? please and thank you 🙏🙏🙏 i will give you my firstborn child.

i actually just did one w/ jon & braiding readers hair — you read my mind !! + this is plenty detailed :) first born child drop off will commence at noon

robb stark x gn!reader // reader has hair long enough to braid

you’re not exactly sure what prompted robb, but you definitely aren’t complaining.

it was when you were attempting to tame your wet hair after bathing he had approached you, finally standing up from spending countless hours planning at his table and directing you to the bed with a gentle command.

“Sit.”

the tent seems warmer now as he runs his fingers through your hair, or maybe that's just you. goosebumps raze your skin from his touch, like they always seem to do, and you feel him beginning to part sections. he's quiet only for a moment.

"It was Sansa who taught me how to braid."

a beat passes. you can't see each other faces, and for that you're grateful, because the surprise on your face is palpable. you try to erase it out of your tone, but you don't do such a good job.

"Sansa...?" he hums. you can't help it. "Truly?"

he huffs out a laugh. he hasn't done that in a while, and it makes you smile. "I know it. I was surprised too, the right snob."

"Robb," you chide, even though he's not quite wrong, unfortunately. a compromised is made in the form of a small, muttered apology - a kiss pressed to your shoulder.

your lashes flutter shut. his lips are warm.

"For Arya." he continues. "She wanted to keep the hair out her face, and Sansa refused to be interrupted sewing again."

you stifle a laugh by bringing your hand to your mouth. robb glances over, a smile tugging at his lips. it makes him feel warm - the memories of his family, your laughter, this very moment in time and the way his hands are full of your hair. gods, these quiet moments save him. and you don't even know.

he starts to intertwine the sections. slowly, like he's remembering how to. "But, when she was teaching me, I think that was the first time I saw her." he pauses then, emotion bubbling to the surface over his captive sister. little sister. the echo of his father's voice fills his head - "It is the duty of a brother to protect."

he blinks. then, quietly, "Knew she'd turn out alright."

silence at first. the sound of him reaching for a tie. "She will, Robb."

maybe the robb at winterfell would've hummed, mumbled an agreement - but his grace can't afford it. if he doesn't speak to you, he'll surely drown in all that swims in his head.

so, he does.

"Miss her, you know." the tie snaps into place. "I miss all of them."

the confession tugs at your chest. you all mourn their absence - whether it be their sons or brothers, or their fellow northern lords or their squires. it goes largely unspoken, funneled into anger to fuel the war.

it's nice to hear it in its rawest form, you think. your voice is soft, much like the atmosphere. "That's what you fight for. Their return."

his hands go still, leaving your form entirely, and you reach back to feel the braid. its well-made, rows that are tight under your fingertips. "She knows that. They all do."

you turn a bit to spare a look at him, and he seems to be deciding whether or not your words are enough - enough to satiate that little voice in his head that grows louder with every loss. love wins this time, though, and he nods to nobody but himself.

then, his eyes find you, softening when they do. he finds his voice. "Come here,"

he pulls you in, your back now flush to his chest. he's warm, firm, even when tired of fighting. his arms come to wrap around your chest, hugging you to him.

“You always make it all better, how’d you do that?”

your lips tug up in a smile, and you tilt your head to press a kiss to his jaw. “You make it easy.”

[astarioffsimpmain]

Unsolicited Affections (Part 2)

[Far Left & Right Screenshots + Tav by @brabblesblog & Center Screenshot by Raz]

Halsin x Plus Size F!Reader

Warnings: Body insecurity; internalized fatphobia; Halsin is a sweetheart

Synopsis: Halsin's cure for your ailments isn't exactly what you expected, but you're not exactly upset about it.

Author's Note: Thank you again to Ban and Raz for the wonderful screenshots! This one is where we dig really deep, everybody. Settle in with your comfort items and prepare for some Halsitherapy. <3 I hope you all enjoy, and get ready for some spice in Part 3!

Part 1 Here | Part 3 Here

Your hands shook as you made your way toward Halsin's tent near the edge of camp. He had insisted on being the first line of defense from any unwelcome visitors as a way to repay you all for saving his grove from the shadow curse, and while at first you had argued, you stopped short after witnessing the earnestness in those beautiful green eyes. He wanted to do this. He wanted to protect you all. So you had relented, and had found it nearly impossible to say no to him since.

You clamped your hands together and steadied your breaths. "Gods, get it together. He's just going to check over your cuts and bruises like always." You reasoned, chastising yourself for even taking your vampiric friend's words into consideration. "I'm nothing more than a good Samaritan to him. He is being kind in response to my kindness, nothing more." You reminded yourself, doing your best to ignore the way your heart ached sharply at the admonition. You wanted to hope, but you couldn’t afford it. Wrenching your hands with one another, you stepped up to Halsin's tent and awaited his appearance. 

"There you are." His soothing voice rumbled in your ear after several disarming seconds of silence and you would have toppled over in surprise had a strong arm not wrapped firmly around your waist to steady you. The Druid pulled you against his front and you nearly lost all of the breath in your lungs to the feeling of being tucked against him. He was solid, 7 feet of muscle mass, beautifully encased by the soft ripple of tanned skin that pillowed ever so slightly to accommodate you being pressed against it. You had never been this close to him before and your mind blanked as your heart hammered painfully against your ribcage. 

"Yep, here I am." You managed to sound playfully flippant, unable to reveal your true feelings, despite how desperately you wanted to jump into his arms. "I really do think I'm alright, Halsin. Nothing more than a scrape here or a bruise there."

"Physically, you seem well for wear, but I sense something bothering you, and I'd like to help, if you'll allow me. So please, follow me. I believe I have just the remedy." He smiled down at you, at last releasing you from his hold, which sent confusing waves of both relief and disappointment coursing through you. 

"Well… alright. I'll see what you have in mind." You mused, shrugging your shoulders and missing the way his eyes glinted in the light pulsing from the plants around you. You fell into step beside him, giddy at the prospect of spending more time with him. You figured this was as close to the Druid as you would ever get, so you relished each moment you spent by his side. You tried not to think about what would happen in the future. If you didn't end up the product of a non-consented ceremorphosis, what then? Where would you go? You knew it was likely that you'd never see Halsin again; that he'd return to the Grove to resume his position as Archdruid and that you'd end up somewhere far away, working some tavern job to survive. Hollowness carved its way through your chest, more painful than any knife, and you suddenly had to take a steadying breath to keep up with your companion's long strides. 

‘Don’t think on it now,’ you chastised yourself silently, instead forcing a glance to the towering man beside you. He was relaxed, walking in a gate slow enough for you to keep up without much effort. A soft smile decorated his beautiful lips and his green eyes reflected the serenity of the darkness surrounding them. There was not much peace in the Underdark, but what little there was, you found with Halsin. Soon, the path he led you on tapered into a clearing of stone and rocks, and in the very center, a small lake. A gasp escaped your lips at the sight. It was beautiful. The water hummed with the glow of bioluminescent lichen from beneath the surface, growing in scattered mounds at the bottom of the body of water. From the surrounding rocks and the looming trees hung glowing moss, their effervescence bathing you and Halsin in a soft blue light. 

"Halsin, this is stunning." You breathed out quietly, taking in the scene before you. 

"It is, is it not? Even here in the Underdark, a form of nature prevails and finds a way to create beauty. It inspired me when I found it. I have checked the water many times over, and it is safe for submersion." He replied, looking across the lake with a sense of pride that he could only find in what was natural. Several more seconds of awe passed through you before the implications of his words connected in your mind. 

"Oh, uhm…" you sputtered, your mind beginning to reel away from the scene before you and into your own insecurities. 'Oh gods, he's talking about swimming! I can't just swim in my clothes; can I? Maybe I can. He can't see me bare! Hells, he'd never look at me again!' Your thoughts ran away with you and you stood there, unmoving and unresponsive, and Halsin took notice. 

"My heart, please be silent no longer. What is it that troubles you?" He coaxed softly, fingers trailing over your arm with a gentleness that should not be possible from a man his size. When you did not react, he reached forward with the same fingers and curved them under your chin, turning your head to face him. Your eyes met his, wide and afraid, and his other hand came up to cup your cheek, his fingers wrapping around the back of your head as he settled into the hold. 

"Oh-" was all you managed to mumble before Halsin's lips were on yours; tender, loving. 'Gods..' your mind was racing.

You practically moaned into his mouth when he abandoned your chin to wrap his arm around your back, pulling you flush against him, the hard planes of his body sending electric shockwaves through you at an alarming rate. All thoughts from moments ago had scattered and you were awash with a feeling more overwhelming than anything you could ever remember experiencing. You weren't sure how your arms had made it around the Druid's neck, or when he had hoisted you into his arms, but when you finally parted for air, your ankles were crossed behind Halsin's back and he stood ankle deep in the lake, holding you in a vice grip against him. His eyes locked with yours and the green of his irises was overshadowed by how large his pupils were blown, staring at you like he held the world in his arms. You were made breathless all over again and felt your cheeks warm. 

"I- gods… Halsin, I-" you sputtered, your words still not having returned to you quite yet. 

"I do hope I have not been careless, my heart." He said lowly, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. "If I have misconceived your heart, I deeply apologize."

"I- no! Halsin, I- it was incredible. It was… it was everything, I had no idea. I never thought you would feel that way about- about me." You shook your head in surprise, a breathless chuckle escaping you. "Of all people." You added, attempting to seem at least somewhat put together in front of this incredibly handsome man who had just kissed you senseless. 

A confused look passed across Halsin's features. "You speak as though you are disbelieving. You saved me. You saved my home, knowing I could do little to pay you back in return. You are incessantly kind to me, and understanding of my position, my condition-" He paused, his voice cracking with barely hidden emotion, and you reached a tentative hand to his cheek, brushing your fingertips across it gently in hopeful comfort. You let out a shaky exhale as he leaned almost desperately into your touch, his eyes having fallen closed. "You are a wonder, my heart. Nature could not possibly have made a more divine creature." 

Your heart swelled, and the thorny vines that had grown around it over time began to prick it painfully, letting it bleed into Halsin's. You sniffled as a tear escaped your eye and cascaded down your cheek, and green eyes met yours once more. It was time. He deserved to know. "I-" you took a deep breath, steadying yourself. "It seems so foolish now, in the face of everything you've said to me."

"If it troubles you this deeply, it cannot be foolish." He corrected you gently, and you nodded, another tear falling down your face. He kissed them away like it was the most natural solution in the world and you giggled; a strained, breathless thing, riddled with leftover pain, shock, and love - gods, so much love. 

You curled your fingers into his chestnut brown locks and fiddled with his braids while you sorted out the correct way to begin. Halsin waited on you patiently, stroking the undersides of your thighs with his thumbs as he continued to hold you far above the water below. "I have never been perceived as beautiful. The- uhm… well, the world has decided on an idea of what beautiful is, and I simply don't fit. I never have. No matter what I tried or how hard I tried it… I never became that ideal. I've come to accept, at this point, that I was never meant to be that. I have always and will always take up more space than most people. I will always have trouble finding clothes. I will always be more difficult to pick up and swing around. I will always be too large, in all the wrong ways." Tears were streaming from your eyes now, vehicles of the pain you carried deep in your heart running out to join the water around you. "I have always been told that someone will find beauty in me eventually, that someone will find me worthy of love, but there's a hesitancy in their eyes; a question in their gaze. 'Should I tell her this? Should I raise her hopes like this?' But even with all of their good intentions, I have only ever been ignored, or used and tossed away." 

A little sob escaped you and you clapped a hand over your mouth to quiet it, but lips pressed firmly against your knuckles and you blinked through your tears to look at the Druid. "Do not hide your pain from me, my heart. I wish to see all of you, to love all of you. I wish for you to know my heart as well as my body, and I want the same from you." Your hand returned to his shoulder and he nuzzled your nose with his own. "You should never have had to know such heartache. You shine brighter than any sun, and had they not already been blind, perhaps they would have seen that." He murmured the words you had been longing to hear all your life into your mouth like a prayer, and then he kissed you with such earnestness that you thought you would melt away and become a part of the lake beneath you. 

You cried through the kiss, your tears wetting Halsin's cheeks along with your own, but he only held you tighter, his fingers finding purchase in the dips your thighs readily made for his grip. When your lips parted, only far enough for air to play across them, Halsin murmured, his voice low, "Let us bathe together, my sweet." 

fin

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[ghostofskywalker]

Anthony Bridgerton's Guide to Accidentally Falling In Love - 4

Anthony Bridgerton/Fem!Reader

Words: 1,841

Summary: Anthony Bridgerton thought it was clear that he does not intend to marry at this point, but still he is plagued by hopeful young ladies (and their mothers) who hope to change his mind. So when he meets a widowed Countess who is burdened by the ton's unkind gossip wherever she walks, the two of them realize that maybe they could be of help when it came to each other's problems.

Note: hehe the ruse is beginning! i hope everyone is enjoying the fic so far :)

Series Masterlist • Anthony Bridgerton Masterlist

Conversation buzzed all around him the next morning as the family broke fast together, but Anthony’s thoughts were far from present at the table. Last night, he made a pact, a deal that would not only affect his future but that of someone else’s, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous about whether or not it would even work. 

He did not regret his (admittedly hasty) proposition, but to effectively pull something like this off would require much more planning than the original conversation he had with you in that garden. And who knows? Maybe you had woken up this morning and regretted the answer you gave him, something he should probably know before truly setting any part of the ruse in motion. And then he had to consider his brothers and sisters - how would the others around him be affected by this plan they had no part in hatching?

Not that he believed his family would be unwelcome to the idea of him courting you, but that it might break their hearts if they found out it was all a lie. 

And besides, things had to end eventually, since neither you nor him had any intentions of actually getting married. The purpose of this agreement was not to chain yourselves to each other for life, but rather to offer a respite for the problems that faced you both this social season. He just hoped that when this all came to an end, that your friendship would remain a part of his life. 

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear his name being spoken, and he only realized that he missed something when every eye in the room was turned to him. “Yes?” he asked, feigning ignorance by simply taking a drink from the glass in front of him. 

“I asked what your plans were for the day,” his mother said. “I thought we could promenade as a family this evening.” 

“I have a business meeting later in the morning that I must be present for,” he spoke smoothly. “And I am unsure of how long it will take, but I believe I will be back in time to help you chaperone.” 

Violet’s eyes held a twinkle of humor in them, and she smiled before responding. “Are you sure that you would not be one of the family members requiring a chaperone?” 

Anthony’s gaze steeled for a moment, and then softened. If the rest of the ton was to believe this ruse, he could not afford to have a single member of his inner circle doubt the parts that were being played. Thankfully, Benedict’s desire to tease his brother saved Anthony from having to come up with a response to that particular question. “If a certain Countess happens to be promenading at the same time, I can step in and help keep watch, as Anthony will no doubt take his leave.” 

“I hope we do see her again soon,” Violet said with a smile, before directing her next statement at her eldest son. “The two of you looked lovely dancing together last night.” 

Anthony simply nodded as he took another sip from his glass, unsure of what to say. Unfortunately, that same problem was not shared by Eloise. “No rebuttal, brother?” she asked, a teasing smile on her face. “Be careful, one might think you were truly falling in love.” 

He wasn’t, but he also knew that the truth would do no good in this particular situation. 

Rolling his eyes, Anthony took the last bite from his plate and rose from the table. “If you are all done speculating about my feelings, I will bid you good day. As I mentioned, I have important business to attend to.” 

Not even waiting for a response, he left the room, completely oblivious to the way his family continued the conversation in his absence, all sharing their various theories on how his relationship with you might progress over the coming days.

It seemed that everything was already falling into place. 

***

As Anthony walked up the stone stairs that led to your estate, he couldn’t help but notice how quiet everything was. Even the street your house stood on seemed to have not woken up yet, a far cry from the way his home seemed to be alight with joy and laughter at all hours of the day. 

After being greeted by a kind-looking butler, he was led into the drawing room and left alone, without even a promise that you would be in to see him shortly. The moment he was alone he took in his surroundings, trying to ignore the persistent chill in the air and the coldness of the room. The decor and furniture were nothing less than exquisite, but it felt more like a museum than a home. 

He had just picked up one of the vases on the side table to get a closer look at it when the door opened. “Looking to add thievery to your list of colorful qualities, Lord Bridgerton?”

You stood in the doorway wearing a teasing smile, and instantly he felt at ease. “Why would I bother?” he responded, a mischievous look appearing on his face. “When we marry, all of this would not only be yours but mine as well.” 

“You truly are quite forward,” you responded with a laugh. “As my memory served, we agreed to simply court each other, but it seems that you’re already planning a wedding.”

”Do you expect anything less?” 

You smiled. “I suppose that is why you’ve called on me this morning, is it not?” 

“Even if we did not have a scheme to discuss, I would still have wanted to see my friend,” he responded, moving closer so that you stood only a step apart. “If for no other reason than to take a tour of her grand home.” 

“Well then,” you said, offering him your arm. “What kind of hostess would I be if I refused such an earnest request?” 

The conversation was pleasant as you led him through the rooms of your estate, every room he entered somehow grander than the last (even if he could tell they had not been used in some time). “All of this is yours?” he asked as the two of you stepped into the garden, and he could see vast stretches of perfectly kept grass in the distance. 

“All mine,” you confirmed. “My late husband left me everything in his will, and we had no children.” 

“It must be lonely here.” 

You were silent for a moment before responding. “You have no idea. I think you’re the first person to call in some months, Lord Bridgerton.” 

“Call me Anthony, please. As I’ve said before, we are friends,” he said. “And if we are going to pull this off, we need to be convincing.” 

You nodded, your expression swiftly shifting to one of all business. “Then we should discuss how we are to act around each other, to ensure that our deception is both accepted and unquestioned.” 

Sitting down on a nearby bench, the two of you were not as far apart this time as you had been the first time you had been alone in a garden together, at last night’s ball. “It is a given that we must dance together at balls,” Anthony said. “As is the fact that I will call on you with some regularity.” 

“We should also be seen together in public on occasion,” you added. “At the races or the park. And I should probably have tea with your mother sometime soon.”

“It would be wise if you were well-acquainted with all my family,” Anthony said. “Simply announcing a courtship might provoke more attention than necessary, but the rumors are sure to grow naturally if we are seen together more often before that particular piece of information starts to make its way around the ton.” 

You smiled. “Let Lady Whistledown do the work, I like it.” 

“I am going to be accompanying my mother and some of my siblings this evening to promenade in Hyde Park,” he said suddenly. “Maybe we could run into each other there?” 

“That’s a good idea.” 

A beat of silence descended over the two of you, and Anthony spoke once more. “We should also consider how we will end our charade.”

You were silent for a moment, clearly having not considered this particular part of the endeavor.  “I suppose the best way would be for us to simply go our separate ways at the end of season,” you said softly. 

Anthony’s chest tightened as he thought about your words. He didn’t want to have to give up your friendship once this was all said and done, but he knew that it may very well be necessary. “If neither of us make any official word on our relationship, we should be free to end the charade painlessly,” he said. “Ensuring that both our reputations will remain untouched and we are free to carry out the future in any way we wish.” 

You shot him a puzzled look. “How?” 

“If we let the rumor that we have called off the courtship start to grow at the season’s end, by the time next year comes, there will surely be another scandal for the ton to care about, leaving the two of us absolved of that attention,” he said. 

“I suppose it might be easier than staging an argument,” you said, a pensive look crossing your face. “Selfishly, I would like to remain close to your sister after this is all over, as she is becoming a dear friend.” 

“And what of my friendship?” he asked jokingly. 

You rolled your eyes as a playful smile appeared on your face. “I’ll ask that Daphne invites you over on occasion, this way we can still see each other.”

But before Anthony could respond in false offense, your butler approached the two of you on the bench. “Lady Everleigh, I apologize for interrupting,” he said. “But the solicitor is here to discuss something with you.” 

Anthony’s expression changed. “Is everything alright?” 

“Of course,” was your response. “I’ve been working with Mr. Hornsby to manage this estate, but I’m currently trying to decide whether or not I should move into a smaller one, since it’s just me in this grand house. I forgot that we had a meeting set for today, but it shouldn’t last too long. Edwin can lead you back out to your carriage,” you said, gesturing towards your butler. 

Anthony nodded as he began to get up from where he sat. “Very well,” he said. “I shall see you later on then?” 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” was your response, shooting him a kind smile before the two of you parted ways. 

Maybe it was because he knew that soon he would no longer be mobbed by eligible ladies and their obstinate mothers, but he couldn’t help but feel a lightness in his soul as his carriage pulled away from your estate and began to take him home.

- end of part four -

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