#in a kind and wistful way ;; threads | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seumyo · 2 months ago

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yearning drunk!husband ushijima wakatoshi.

NOTE. contains a bit of alcohol content—though nothing too explicit or anything concerning <33

It always started the same way—kind of like an inside joke that grew wings, feathers, a tab, and Ushijima’s name on the reservation list.

Ushijima never initiated going out drinking with his Schweiden Adlers teammates. In fact, he rarely said anything about it at all. It was always someone else who mentioned it after a game. Always someone else who slung an arm over his shoulder and declared, “C’mon, Ushiwaka, we have to celebrate,” even though Ushijima had never once expressed interest in alcohol, bar food, or drunken conversations.

Still, he always went.

Because it’d be rude if he didn’t at least stay for a few minutes, he thinks.

Sometimes he showed up in his team windbreaker, sometimes in a long, dark gray coat that made him look like a trench-wearing monument of silence. And he never said no, even when the clamor of celebration was already grating at the edges of his patience.

Tonight was one of those nights.

They’d won by the skin of their teeth—an overtime set against a grueling opponent, the kind of match that made even the benchwarmers feel like champions by the end. So of course Heiwajima had started the round-up in the locker room. Hoshiumi had shouted over everyone about their lucky bar down the street, and within twenty minutes, the entire team had found themselves in their regular private suite.

Ushijima sat at the end of the table, his back straight, a glass in front of him filled with alcohol he didn’t particularly like. His teammates were loud and loose and chaotic—laughing at Sokolov trying to arm-wrestle the bar’s bouncer, clapping every time someone dropped a fork, and yelling across the table in at least three different languages.

“A thousand yen says he’ll ask about his wife in twenty minutes,” Hoshiumi said quietly, leaning toward their captain, Hirugami Fukurou.

“You’re giving him way too much credit,” Romero replied, fondly grinning. “He gets wistful around minute twelve.”

“He gets wistful the moment he sits down.”

Ushijima was unmoved. He stared at his drink, took a single sip, and let it rest in his hand. He didn’t participate in the yelling, the toasts, or the story someone was animatedly telling about a missed serve from three seasons ago. He just existed—quietly, stoically—as a satellite to the chaos.

Except, of course, they all knew he was waiting.

He always was.

There was a pattern to the transformation. First, he’d sit there like stone. Then he’d blink a little more slowly. His brows would draw together—not in anger, but in vague confusion, like he was lost in a thought he couldn’t solve. His fingers would move against his glass, not to drink but to fidget, just a little.

And then…

“Has anyone seen my phone?” Ushijima asked, barely louder than the buzz of conversation.

Hoshiumi slid it across the table immediately. “Right here, Ushiwaka. Sorry! We took a few pictures here and there.”

“Thank you.”

He looked down at the screen. It was still lit with the last message from you from earlier that day: Good luck, baby. Don’t forget to stretch your left shoulder. He’d never replied—he never did, not when he was already in headspace—but now, he stared at it like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You want to text her?” Hoshiumi asks, lightly teasing, which Ushijima didn’t catch onto.

Ushijima didn’t answer. He opened the thread and typed a few letters. Deleted them. Typed something else. Backspaced. Then just stared.

And then finally: “She hasn’t replied.”

His teammates laughed.

“There it is!”

“It’s only been seventeen minutes! I win!”

“No, you cheated. I said ten, and he didn’t even check his phone until minute twelve!”

“Shh, shh, look at him—he’s pouting.”

“Wait, is this the pout phase? I thought that came after the silent brooding phase.”

“Technically we’re entering pout-brood overlap. It’s a dangerous time.”

Ushijima didn’t argue. He simply set the phone down again and folded his hands in front of him. Kageyama leaned over.

“You want me to call her for you, Ushijima-san?”

Ah, yes. Kageyama was too nice for his own good. Trying to enhance his socialization and trying to lessen his awkwardness with his teammates when the conversation didn’t revolve around volleyball.

Ushijima nodded. Just once. Immediately. “Yes.”

...

“Amazing! He’s not even trying to hide it.”

“Can you imagine being that in love?”

“He just wants his wife. Look at him. He’s a whole sad poem in one sitting.”

“She’s gonna get here, and he’s gonna light up like a lantern.”

“May this love run me over.”

Kageyama stood and walked a few paces away from the table, already dialing your number. Meanwhile, the others watched Ushijima sip his drink again—not because he wanted it, but because it gave his hands something to do. His eyes were glued to the screen even though no new notifications had appeared.

Romero leaned in conspiratorially to Hirugami. “Do you think she talks to him in, like, soft tones? Calls him ‘baby’ and stuff?”

“I think so,” he shrugs. “I think they’re sweet like that.”

“Aw, young love.”

The teasing continued, but it softened. Because underneath the jokes and the laughs was a sort of awe.

Their teammate—so serious, so focused, so unreadable on court—was completely and utterly soft when it came to his wife. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that could be easily teased, really. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.

When Kageyama returned, he had a pleased expression. “She’s on her way. Said she just got off work and is driving over.”

Ushijima gave another slow blink.

“Thank you.”

Kageyama nods. Somehow they manage to have conversations even if they just continue nodding to each other.

As soon as Kageyama said it, his phone buzzed with a new message. He didn’t even need to open it. He could tell by the way his entire body relaxed by a single, barely noticeable degree.

Sorry, hun. Just got off work. Are you okay?

He replied.

I’m okay. I miss you.

And then he set the phone down and folded his hands again, this time with more calm. More certainty. You were coming. That was all he needed to know.

The others noticed the shift immediately.

“He smiled.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He did! Don’t argue with me; I saw it. It was micro. But it counted.”

“He’s already halfway out the door with his heart.”

“Watch, the second she walks through that door, he’ll go full puppy mode.”

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A gust of cold air followed you inside, along with the soft jingle of the bar’s entrance bell. You spotted them easily—your eyes landing on Ushijima before anything else. And his entire body seemed to change shape.

He stood up—not quickly, but instantly, with a kind of gravity no one else in the room had.

You smiled as you approached, slipping out of your coat and brushing off the cold that nipped your nose softly. “Hi, love,” you greeted softly. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” Ushijima said, already reaching for his jacket.

As he shrugged it on, you turned to the table. “Hope he wasn’t too much trouble?”

Hoshiumi leaned on the table with a grin. “[Name], your husband is the definition of ‘not trouble.’ We’re just grateful you came to collect him before he sighed himself into the carpet.”

“Tell them what he said!” someone shouted.

“He asked if anyone had seen his phone like it was a national emergency.”

“And he didn’t pout—he brooded. Like a man out of a romantic novel.”

“I think I did,” Ushijima just nodded at their comments about him.

He then stood by quietly, waiting for you to finish your goodbyes. When you looped your arm through his, he leaned ever so slightly toward you.

As they left, Romero raised his glass.

“To [Name]’s husband,” he declared. The table cheered.

Outside, as you two walked toward the car, you glanced up at him, fingers tightening around his arm.

“You really okay?” you asked.

He hummed. Then, in that low, steady voice only you ever got to hear, it softened—

“I missed you,” he said again. “They were loud. I wanted to see you very much.”

You smiled and gave his arm a firm, loving squeeze. “Well. I’m here now.”

And... yeah.

That’s what he’s been wanting to hear all night.

#‹𝟹 𓏲🗒️ꜝֶָ֢ ʾʾ #ushijima x reader #ushijima x y/n #ushijima x you #ushijima fluff #ushijima oneshot #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu oneshot #hq x reader #hq fluff #hq oneshot #haikyuu ushijima #hq ushijima #ushijima wakatoshi #hq wakatoshi #haikyuu wakatoshi #haikyuu ushiwaka

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ladylilah · 6 months ago

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This had once been her favorite time of year, back when the kids were young and she had mastered the ability of pretending like everything in her life was fine and perfect. Back before it had all blown up in her face so spectacularly. This was a time of year for family and loved ones, and heavens knew how important both of those things were to Delilah Deare. Nothing on this Earth mattered to her more than the handful of people she had allowed into her heart. Which is why despite the shit show that has been her life these past two years, she’s determined to put it all to rest for just one night. To force time to still, or even reverse to back before it’d all gone to hell, just for one fucking night. That was all she asked for this year - the only wish on her Christmas list.

Which was why it meant so much to her that Colin actually agreed to attend, even if just for a short period. This wasn’t an event that would give him any political or power gain, no business would be discussed, but he was still here - taking the time for her and the family, all that she could have asked for. Stepping outside after opening to door to find him standing there, Lilah instinctively slipped her hand through his arm, wanting to share a moment with just him before they entered the festivities. It also allowed him the time to finish his cigarette before heading inside. “Thank you. Sammy actually helped put up most of the lights, but everything inside was done by us girls,” she admitted with a soft smile. It had been nice, decorating their home for the season all together on Thanksgiving, an old tradition that had gotten a bit lost over the years. It’s not a surprise when Colin gives a time limit to his time here, though she does silently wish it weren’t the case. But he had his business to attend to and she was determined to not be that girl that tried to hold him back, knowing there was nothing that could ever honestly keep Colin Hopper from going after and doing what he wanted or thought needed done. “Okay. We’re just happy you’re here for now. Thank you, by the way, for coming tonight. I know this type of party isn’t your style, but it means a lot ot me that you’re here.”

-timeskip-

The opening of the borders only meant more work for Hopper. Rest was a luxury he couldn’t afford. The relentless demands of his trade and the ever-present dangers it posed to his life—and his family—left no room for pause. Stopping wasn’t an option; it would only invite greater peril.

Even after the devastating loss of Annette's child, a family he had hoped to call his kin, Hopper pressed on. The business and the violence it brought were inseparable, and abandoning either felt like abandoning his family. He knew everyone around him was stretched thin, yet the best solace he could offer was his presence. That’s why, despite his disdain for celebrations, he agreed to attend the party Lilah had begged him to join.

Standing in the doorway, a cigarette in one hand, he exhaled into the crisp night air. The cold bit at his skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Lilah’s hand as it slipped through his arm. "You’ve decorated the place nicely," he said, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon.

Hopper could only hope there was some semblance of peace in Lilah’s life—if not now, then someday. Yet, they both knew that peace wasn’t a card in his deck. This evening was nothing more than a fleeting reprieve, a brief illusion of tranquility. “I’m leaving in a few hours,” he added, breaking the silence. “Meeting an Italian mafia.”

#in a kind and wistful way ;; threads #colin

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revelboo · 5 months ago

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Super appreciative of Megatron being the reasonable one in the situation- actually listening, asking Reader if they want him to send Star and Sounders away before doing so... he's really such a sweetie. (Even if Megatron is likely also doing it to have alone time with them).

Love to see that mech nervous and unskilled at emotional comfort. He's really so tender at times that it makes me sick (pos)!!!! Can't wait for him to maybe get some cheek kisses for being a sweetspark and realize he's dipping into romantic feelings - anytime he has that jarring moment of affectionate understanding, it's always so satisfying 😌 ❤️

Megs is just done with all of this stupidity

Everything Is Alright Pt 113

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Sitting crosslegged on Megatron’s berth, you fidget with the corner of a blanket, picking at loose strings. Neither Star or Soundwave have returned and there’s a nervous sort of anxiety threading through you even as you listen to Megatron’s low voice murmuring. Recounting stories of the gladiator pits of a place called Kaon on a world you’ll never see. And he keeps pausing mid-sentence before continuing, giving you the impression that he’s trying to leave out the worst parts. Even so, the picture he’s painting isn’t a pretty one. He’d willingly gone into the pits, but it sounds like not all of the gladiators had. But the wistful way he talks, makes you think a part of him enjoyed it. Misses it.

• Rumbling softly, he pauses and glances down at you. Sitting there neck craned to look up at him, relaxed in his presence instead of as tense as you usually are. And it’s a delight to mess with you, but this is nice, too. Unexpected. Just having someone to talk to without having to wonder if they’re scheming or plotting. “I’m sure I’m boring you, pet.” Surprised when you just shake your head, looking away with a little half smile.

• “Just not used to seeing you smile,” you admit, shrugging when he just looks at you in disbelief. “You should do it more often.” Because he’s a little less intimidating when he’s not scowling and serious. You kind of like this side of him. You’re definitely not shopping for another mate, you can barely handle the two you have trying to kill each other or playing tug of war over you. You’re aware that he’s just trying to distract you from the drama and you appreciate it even if it’s probably just mostly him being very uncomfortable with dealing with you crying. Tugging the blanket closer around yourself, you’re aware of exhaustion tugging at you. All the adrenaline and crying dragging at you until you just want to sleep. Until you’re having trouble focusing. Head lifting when he asks you something and the words sound like they’re from a great distance. Oh, he’s frowning again, leaning- no, you’re listing sideways.

• Denta gritted as Hook straightens his damaged wing so he can work on the support connections, Starscream glances over at Soundwave. The way he’d confessed to what he’d wanted had struck a chord in him and he hates it. Doesn’t want to understand or have any empathy for the other mech. Because it’s just easier to hate him, for him to be an enemy. And that’s what he is. A rival trying to steal you away from him.

• Can feel the Seeker staring at him as he flexes his servos. That anger banked to a dull exhaustion after the brawl. And beating the scrap out of the other mech hasn’t been nearly as satisfying as he’d thought it would be. That missing connection a raw spot in his spark like a jagged wound. Hurting him and he can only hope it didn’t hurt you, too. Or the spark. It’s not even his, but there haven’t been any new Cybertronians in so long and this is a chance to move forward. To have something he’d never allowed himself to even imagine because it could only hurt him with impossible things. “You’re not going to give up, are you?” Starscream asks, grimacing when Hook realigns his wing.

• “No,” Soundwave growls and it’s what he’d expected. Because he can’t bear to go through that again, to have to sever a bond and see that fear and hurt in your eyes. Even though he’d done it for you. To free you from being manipulated. Except, was it really for you or for him? Venting, he studies his hands. Was he worried for you or about being controlled through you? Because if it was the latter? No wonder you’re so upset. And he hates that he’s not sure.

• “Primus, I’m awful at this,” the Seeker mutters dejectedly and Soundwave huffs out a bitter laugh. Because they both are. He’d been so blinded with rage feeling his bond just ripped away that he’d not thought of how hurt and scared you must have been. Hadn’t checked on you, attacking Starscream instead. Neither one of them particularly good at taking care of a mate, both struggling even without being at odds with each other.

• “Truce?” Startled by the question, Starscream just stares, optics narrowed. Soundwave has to realize he still doesn’t trust him. That he likely never will. He can’t. Half the time, he isn’t sure he can trust himself. Doesn’t want the other mech bonded to his mate. Doesn’t want to share you with anyone. You’re his. He’d found you. But you love Soundwave as much as you love him, don’t you? Hates that and probably always will, but can’t do that to you again. Can’t hurt you. And something unfamiliar crackles through his bond, spark constricting. Knowing something’s wrong.

Swerve, Hound, Trailbreaker, Bluestreak, Earthspark Soundwave, Scavengers and Vortex are up next for updates. I think I’ve figured out a workable plot device for Megatronus Prime, Silverbolt, and D-16

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #megatron x reader #soundwave x reader #megatron #soundwave #starscream

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theonottsbxtch · 9 months ago

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CHICAGO PT.1 | OP81

an: i already know the girlies are going to hate me for this, i made oscar go through it this series ahhhhhhhhhhh im sorry

summary: he met her in chicago, she told him she didn't have a man, he got hooked.

wc: 4k

Oscar had met her in Chicago, of all places. The city sprawled beneath a sky that never seemed to settle, constantly shifting between grey and gold, as though unsure of its own identity. He hadn’t wanted to be there. Chicago was a detour, a necessary stop in a life too full of places he didn’t want to go. PR had dragged him into its windswept streets, ushering him toward events and dinners that blurred into a dull hum of names he would never remember.

But then there was her.

It happened at a cocktail event in some opulent hotel, a place where chandeliers dangled like stars over a sea of perfectly curated faces. The room was filled with a low murmur of voices, the clink of glasses, the thin veneer of sophistication that never quite reached beyond the surface. Oscar stood near the bar, fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as his thoughts drifted. He was already planning his escape when she appeared.

Not entered the room—appeared, as though the air had conjured her from nothingness. A figure dressed in shadows and light, with red lips like the first drop of blood on fresh snow, and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the very space around her. She moved like silk caught in a breeze—fluid, graceful, with a purpose that was almost predatory, though there was nothing menacing in her gaze. No, she was hunting something, but it was subtle, wrapped in a smile that promised a thousand secrets.

“Do you mind?” she asked, her voice soft, lilting, a melody that barely stirred the air. She gestured to the empty stool beside him.

Oscar blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the smoothness of her arrival. It was as though she had been meant to be there all along, the final piece of a puzzle he hadn’t even realised was missing. Without a word, he motioned for her to sit, his whiskey forgotten, the glass now an anchor in his hand rather than a comfort.

Her name was imprinted into his mind. Her voice curled around the syllables, a name that felt like it should belong to someone in a faded photograph, or a character in a half-forgotten dream. When she smiled, it was the kind of smile that didn’t ask to be trusted, but made you want to trust it anyway. There was something so effortless in the way she carried herself, in the way she tilted her head just so, her hair brushing against her cheek as she spoke.

They began to talk, though talk wasn’t quite the right word. She led the conversation with a gentle ease, guiding it as if she were navigating a river, never pushing too hard, never revealing more than she wanted. Her voice wove stories of her life in Chicago, like threads pulled from a tapestry woven just for him. Her work as a designer, her life as a single mother—it was all laid out before him, but in pieces, fragments of a larger picture he couldn’t yet see, but wanted desperately to complete.

Then, she mentioned her daughter, and the mask shifted, just slightly. There, in her eyes he saw a softness, a flicker of something real, or at least something that felt real.

“She’s seven,” she said, her smile now tinged with a kind of wistfulness that made Oscar’s chest tighten. “Her name’s Lila. Smart as a whip. It’s just me and her, though. Doing it on my own.”

The words hung in the air between them, and for the briefest of moments, Oscar felt as though he were standing on the edge of something he couldn’t quite name. A single mother, raising her daughter in a city that never stopped moving, never stopped demanding more—it struck a chord in him, deep and resonant. There was something in her story that tugged at him, an invisible thread that wound tighter with every word she spoke.

She glanced up at him, her eyes catching the light in a way that made them seem endless, like dark pools that promised a depth he wasn’t sure he could navigate. But he wanted to. He wanted to know everything about her, to uncover the layers she kept just out of reach, to be the one who could offer her something more. More than just conversation. More than just sympathy.

“Must be tough,” Oscar murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. There was something sacred in the way she spoke of her daughter, as if Lila was the only thing tethering her to the world, the anchor in her otherwise untethered existence.

She sighed, but it wasn’t the kind of sigh that begged for attention. It was subtle, almost delicate, the kind of resignation that comes from a practised weariness. The weight of her words was perfectly measured, enough to evoke sympathy, but never pity. She wasn’t asking for anything, not outright, and yet her silence spoke louder than anything else could.

“You get used to it,” she said, her voice like a thread pulled tight, thin but unbreaking. “But, yeah... sometimes it is.”

The way she said it, as though it were an afterthought, made Oscar’s heart twist. It was the kind of struggle that sounded too familiar, too real, and before he knew it, something had shifted in him. Something protective, something foolishly eager to offer help, to be the one who could ease that burden, even if only a little.

And that’s how she hooked him. Not with grand gestures or overt requests, but with the smallest, most intimate revelations. A look here, a sigh there. Each one perfectly placed, perfectly timed. She never needed to ask, because he offered before the words could form on her lips. And every time she smiled that secretive, knowing smile, he found himself falling deeper, wanting to believe that maybe—just maybe—he was the one who could change things for her.

Days slipped into weeks like sand through an hourglass, each encounter with her deepening the spell she cast over him. Chicago began to feel like a dreamscape where their paths intertwined, a place where his mundane existence blurred into a tapestry woven with her laughter and soft whispers.

They met in the city’s hidden corners—a quiet café tucked away from the bustling streets, a dimly lit bar where jazz music wrapped around them like a warm embrace. Each time Oscar saw her, the ache of attraction blossomed, rich and vibrant, filling him with a heady mixture of hope and longing. He often found himself stealing glances, wondering if she felt the same gravity toward him that he felt toward her.

But the deeper he fell, the more he sensed an undercurrent of mystery beneath her charm. It was subtle, a flicker in her gaze whenever her phone buzzed with a text she wouldn’t show him. Sometimes, he’d catch her staring out the window, her thoughts drifting away to somewhere he couldn’t follow.

One evening, they were at a secluded rooftop bar, the city sprawling below them like a sea of twinkling lights. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused just for them. Oscar had just shared a joke, one that made her laugh—a sound so genuine, it sent warmth coursing through him.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asked, his curiosity spilling over as they leaned closer, the space between them charged with something electric. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a spell.

“Every day,” she replied, her eyes locking onto his, dark and mysterious. “But it’s hard to dream when you’re so busy living.”

Oscar studied her, captivated by the glimmer of vulnerability beneath her poised exterior. “What do you dream of?” he probed, leaning in, their faces inches apart, the world around them fading into a blur.

“I dream of freedom,” she confessed, a faint tremor in her voice. “The freedom to choose… to be whoever I want.” There was a momentary flicker in her eyes, an openness that invited him in, only to pull back just as quickly, like a candle’s flame flickering in the wind.

He couldn’t believe a woman like her was really into him. His mind raced, battling with the part of him that wanted to dismiss the notion. She was enchanting, sophisticated, everything he had ever wanted but never thought he could attain. In this moment, he felt like a moth drawn to a flame, unable to resist the allure, even as it threatened to consume him.

As if sensing his turmoil, she reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand, a fleeting touch that ignited the air between them. “You’re a good man, Oscar,” she whispered, her voice sultry, each word curling around him like smoke. “You make me feel… alive.”

That’s when he leaned in, the space between them collapsing into something more intimate. Their lips met, tentatively at first, the kiss igniting a spark that coursed through him like fire. She tasted like whiskey and wildflowers, sweet and intoxicating, and Oscar lost himself in the moment. Every worry, every doubt faded away as he kissed her deeper, his hands finding their way to her waist, pulling her closer as if to shield her from the world outside.

But in the back of his mind, a nagging voice whispered warnings he didn’t want to hear. He wondered if he was the only one, she never mentioned her daughter’s father but that wasn’t something he was sure he wanted to know. He didn’t want to spend his days comparing himself to the man that she loved. Sometimes he caught himself wondering what he was like, was he a friend? Was he carefree and cool? Was he everything that he wasn’t? Or was he just like him? The thought made him pull back, his heart pounding not just from desire but from confusion and fear.

“Is it just me?” he asked before he could stop himself, breathless, searching her eyes for a hint of truth.

Her smile faltered for just a moment, and in that instant, he saw the cracks in her facade. But then it was gone, replaced by that intoxicating allure. “You know it’s complicated, Osc. But I like being with you. You make me feel… special.”

The way she said it drew him in again, like a moth irresistibly fluttering toward the flame, unable to see the danger. Yet the ghost of uncertainty lingered, an unsettling reminder that she might not be who she appeared to be.

“Sometimes, it feels like there’s more,” he murmured, almost to himself, but she caught his gaze, holding it like a secret, her expression unreadable.

“Don’t think too much,” she said, her tone playful but layered with something else—something deeper. “Just enjoy what we have. It’s beautiful in its own way.”

As the night wore on and the stars blinked into existence above them, Oscar found himself caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The intoxicating rush of her presence, the warmth of her body so close to his, overshadowed the haunting doubts that flickered in the recesses of his mind.

The days after that rooftop kiss blurred together into a fever dream, a haze of her touch, her scent, the way her lips felt against his skin. Oscar found himself thinking about her constantly, her name echoing in his mind like a mantra. He checked his phone compulsively, waiting for her messages, craving her presence. Each time she called or texted, his heart leapt in a way that both excited and terrified him.

He couldn’t focus on work. Off season meetings passed by in a fog of half-formed strategies and distracted nods while he was still away from the city he was meant to be in. His mind was always elsewhere—trapped in the memory of her smile, the feel of her fingers brushing against his arm, the way she whispered his name late at night, in that low, intimate voice that sent shivers down his spine.

By the time she invited him over to her apartment, it felt like an invitation to a sanctuary. His heart raced as he climbed the stairs, each step heavy with anticipation. When she opened the door, it was like the world outside ceased to exist. She stood there, bathed in the dim light of her living room, wearing a simple black dress that clung to her in all the right places. Her eyes gleamed as she smiled at him, a smile that was more dangerous than any warning.

"Come in," she murmured, stepping back to let him inside.

Oscar didn’t need to be asked twice. He crossed the threshold and found himself in a space that smelled faintly of vanilla and something warm, something that reminded him of her. The apartment was quiet, cosy, but he barely noticed the surroundings. All he could see was her.

They sat on the couch, glasses of wine in hand, but conversation quickly slipped away. She leaned in, her body inches from his, and it took everything in him not to close the gap. He could feel the heat of her skin, the soft exhale of her breath against his neck as she leaned even closer, her lips brushing his ear.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, the words sending a jolt of electricity through him.

Oscar turned to her, his pulse quickening as their eyes met. Her face was inches from his, lips parted just slightly, as if daring him to close the distance. And he did. In one swift motion, his hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her toward him.

Their lips collided with a force that startled him, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. The kiss was deep, hungry, the pent-up tension of weeks of longing spilling over all at once. Her hands slid up his chest, nails grazing his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and he groaned softly, losing himself in the feel of her. Every touch, every movement seemed to ignite something primal in him, something he hadn’t known existed until she had awakened it.

She straddled him, her thighs pressing against his hips as she deepened the kiss, her body moulding to his in a way that made him dizzy. Oscar’s hands roamed over her back, her waist, pulling her closer, needing her closer. He kissed her like he was starved for her, and in a way, he was—starved for the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she seemed to fill every space inside him that had once been hollow.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire, his breath shallow. “I can’t stop thinking about you, angel.”

Because that was what she was, an angel, sent from heaven. Just for him.

Her lips curled into a smile as she nipped at his bottom lip, a soft, teasing bite that made him moan. “Good,” she whispered, her voice sultry, her fingers trailing down his chest, over the buttons of his shirt, slowly undoing them, one by one. “I like knowing I’m always on your mind.”

“You are,” Oscar breathed, his hands gripping her hips as she pressed against him, the heat of her body making it impossible to think of anything else. His heart pounded in his chest, drowning out all reason, all sense of reality. There was only her. Only this.

He leaned back, his head resting against the couch as she kissed along his jawline, down his neck, each kiss leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His breath hitched as she bit softly at the sensitive spot just below his ear, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, nails raking lightly against his skin. He could barely speak, the words thick on his tongue, but they tumbled out before he could stop them.

“I’d leave everything for you, you know that?” he said, half-laughing, half-serious, the thought slipping out like a confession. “I’d quit my job—hell, I’d move to this shitty city for you.”

She paused, pulling back just enough to look at him, her eyes dark and unreadable. For a split second, Oscar saw something flicker in her gaze—surprise, amusement, maybe even guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. She tilted her head, her fingers trailing down his chest again, this time slower, more deliberate.

“Would you really?” she asked, her voice a soft purr, her lips curling into a playful smile that sent his heart racing.

Oscar swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d do anything for you.”

She smiled, that dangerous smile again, and leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss that made his entire body tremble. Her hands slid around his neck, pulling him closer, and for a moment, Oscar forgot everything—his job, his life, even his own name. There was only her. Only the way she made him feel, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.

But as the kiss deepened, as his mind spun with desire and longing, that nagging doubt crept back in. The flicker of uncertainty that had been lingering at the edge of his thoughts ever since that night on the rooftop. He pushed it down, pushed it away, not wanting to spoil the moment, but it was there—like a shadow, haunting the edges of his euphoria.

Oscar’s words hung in the air, a half-breathed promise laced with both desperation and devotion. The world outside, his career, his obligations—they seemed like distant echoes now, fading in the intensity of her presence. Every nerve in his body was attuned to her, to the subtle shift of her weight as she pressed closer, the heat of her body melding with his. The temptation, the desire, was overwhelming.

Her lips brushed against his in a whisper of a kiss, slow and deliberate, her breath warm as it mingled with his. Each kiss she planted was softer, more intimate than the last, trailing back from his mouth down to his neck, as if she was marking him as hers. She moved with a purpose, her hands sliding under his shirt, fingertips exploring his skin with a tantalising slowness that made Oscar’s breath hitch. Every touch was electric, sending shivers coursing down his spine.

“What would you do for me?” she murmured, her voice like velvet, the words teasing and yet dripping with seductive power. Her lips moved against his collarbone as she spoke, making it harder for him to focus on anything but the feel of her, the warmth of her breath, the way she said his name like it was something sacred.

Oscar could barely speak, barely breathe. He nodded, his fingers gripping her hips tighter, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. "Anything," he whispered, his voice raw and honest, his eyes searching hers for some sign that she might feel the same way, that this wasn’t all one-sided.

Her lips found his again, but this time the kiss was deeper, more consuming. It wasn’t just passion—it was possession. She kissed him as though she were claiming every part of him, and Oscar surrendered willingly, his mind lost in the sensation of her lips, the softness of her skin against his. Her body shifted, pressing fully against him, and he could feel the thrum of her heartbeat, could hear the soft, breathy moans that escaped her lips as they moved together.

His hands wandered up her back, fingers tracing the line of her spine before finding their way into her hair, tangling in the dark, silken strands. He tugged gently, pulling her head back just enough to expose her neck, and kissed the hollow of her throat, his lips trailing down to her shoulder. The scent of her perfume was intoxicating—something sweet and dangerous, like a promise that could never be kept.

She gasped softly, her fingers tightening in his hair, and he could feel her smile against his skin. “You’re so sweet, Oscar,” she whispered, her voice husky, dripping with allure. She shifted in his lap, grinding slowly against him in a way that made his breath catch, his heart pound in his chest. "So eager to please."

Her words were both a praise and a tease, and Oscar could feel his resolve melting, every coherent thought slipping away under the weight of his desire for her. He kissed her again, harder this time, a rush of emotion flooding through him as he poured everything he couldn’t say into the kiss. His hands roamed over her body, feeling the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the heat of her pressing against him. It was as though she had become the centre of his universe, everything else falling away, and he wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment, lost in her.

She responded with equal fervour, her fingers pulling at his shirt, sliding it over his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands explored the bare skin of his chest, nails dragging lightly across his muscles, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Oscar groaned softly, his lips moving to the curve of her jaw, kissing along the line until he reached her ear. He could feel her tremble slightly against him, a subtle shudder that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He pulled back for a moment, just enough to look at her—her flushed cheeks, the way her lips were swollen from his kisses, the way her eyes glistened in the low light of the room. She was breathtaking, and for a moment, Oscar couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his thumb brushing gently across her lower lip. She captured it between her teeth for just a second, her eyes gleaming with mischief, before releasing it with a slow, seductive smile.

“And you’re mine,” she whispered back, her voice a promise and a command all at once. She kissed him again, slow and deep, her hips rolling against his in a way that made him lose all sense of control. “Mine to keep, mine to own, mine to use.”

The words flew over Oscar’s head as he slid his hands beneath the hem of her dress, fingers tracing the smooth skin of her thighs, pulling her even closer. He wanted her—needed her—and every touch, every kiss, only made him more desperate. She moaned softly against his lips, a sound that sent heat rushing through his veins, making his heart race, making him weak for her in ways he never thought possible.

“I’d leave everything for you,” he repeated, his voice hoarse as he kissed the side of her neck, his hands tightening on her waist, wanting her closer, needing her closer. "My job, the city, everything. Just say the word, angel."

For a moment, she paused, her fingers stilling against his skin. Her eyes met his, and there was something in her gaze—something unreadable, something that flickered and then disappeared before he could grasp it. But then she smiled, that slow, dangerous smile that made his heart ache with both longing and uncertainty.

“I know you would,” she whispered, her voice like honey, thick and sweet. Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, and she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “But for now, just stay here… with me. Be mine.”

And with that, she kissed him again, deeper this time, pulling him back into the heat of the moment, into her, until all he could think about was the way she felt against him, the way she tasted, the way she made him forget everything else.

Oscar was completely, utterly hooked. He knew he was falling, deeper and deeper, blinded by the enchantment she wove around him, not realising that the threads were spun from illusions. While he yearned to be the hero in her story, she was crafting her own tale.

part two

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ladylilah · 9 months ago

Text

Maybe she should have been weary of the closeness they shared in the moment, especially as she felt a soft kiss being pressed upon the top of her head, but Lilah simply couldn’t find it in herself to be bothered by any of it. Rarely was she ever one to hide the care and love that she held for others, and she didn’t want to make James an exception to that rule. For all they were no longer together and a decent amount of time had passed with very little contact between them, she still cared deeply for the man in front of her. Maybe even loved, but she had never allowed herself to consider that possibility too closely - not when they had been dating and certainly not now that they were long broken up. He was just important to her, that’s all that she could handle accepting - anything more was too dangerous and confusing, and if there was one thing she had enough of in her life already it was danger and confusion. “I’m always going to worry about you,” she rebuts, a fact that wasn’t going to change no matter how many times he told her he’d be fine.

A smile grows on her lips at the sound of his chuckle and then the answer he gives to her question. The intent of who she’d really been asking about had been clear it appeared, given that he didn’t even try to pretend like she might have been inquiring about anyone else on his team of men. “Oh, that’s horrible. I’m glad he’s going to be alright, though. If he needs anything, you tell him to let me know, alright,” she offers before letting out a small laugh of her own. “A girl? Well that’s awfully exciting for him. Look at your boy, getting all grown up. You must be so proud.” Though she did genuinely mean what she said, there was still a teasing tone to it all, knowing James wasn’t always the most open about how deeply he truly cared for Smee.

༝༝ 🏴‍☠️ ༝༝

No one had ever cared what happened to him, not even his own family. She had always been different than the rest of the lot and maybe that's what brought her to him in the first place. Whatever Lilah saw in him was all James ever wanted to be seen for, no one's eyes seeing through him in the same way. A man made of steel had found the fire he needed to melt away the shackles of his past. As he looked down at her now he could feel that strange warmth in his chest, the one that only she could provide. Whatever she'd done to him those years ago hadn't dimensioned but changed shape into what they were now and he fought the urge to make it anything different. "Don't worry about me, they haven't been able to get me yet," he half-joked, knowing that James faced bigger threats in his daily routine. For being a man that had already lost a hand he figured there wasn't much left to be worried about. In fact, it was her children being put in harm's way that had shifted something in him and brought forth action. That was the thing about Lilah, she changed everything. "Always." The man placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head in hopes that he didn't overstep and simply sealed the truth that they both spoke.

The distance that formed between them was necessary but he wished he could've held on for a bit longer. Before anything else foolish could come from his mouth she'd filled the silence with a question. One that brought out a soft chuckle from the man, knowing that she worded it the way she did when he had so few people close to him. "Oliver's doin' alright now. He got a pretty nasty wound but they got him fixed up and he's going to be back to annoying me before I know it," James assured her. "I think he's actually got some girl staying with him as he recovers so I'd say he's doin' better than me."

#in a kind and wistful way ;; threads #hook

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jeonginsleftcheek · 8 months ago

Text

The sun to me

Chapter XI. Keep.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x afab!reader

word count: 5.7k

chapter summary: a love so great it appears in the reflection of a tear, in the sound of hushed voices and three words exchanged between lovers that bring a deeper meaning to the thread that connects.

warnings: lots of kissing and sweet nicknames(again), multiple sex scenes, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (again), choking, creampie, public sex (there's no one there), hyunjin is a bit possessive

~ Masterlist for the series

~ next part

🌹 Rose - true love, romance

The door slams loudly with the wind as Hyunjin's sneakers squeak on the clean wooden floor.

Isaac's head snaps from his newspapers as he looks up and sees the boy who's supposed to be staying at his house, seemingly in a rush as he looks around and scratches his head in thought.

"Oh, look who's here."- Isaac sighs with a warm smile, putting the newspaper down on the table.

Hyunjin lets out a chuckle, running his hand through his hair and smoothing it out a little.

"It's me, I'm here."- Hyunjin wiggles his fingers in a funny manner as Isaac motions for him to come closer.

"At least give me some time of the day and join me for tea."- he says. "Unless you're going to see your darling."

"Well, I was... I was actually gonna look for some paints I wanted to use today at her shop."

"Is she working now?"- Isaac asks and Hyunjin nods.

"Then, join me for a little while."

"Of course."- Hyunjin smiles as he sits down next to Isaac.

"So, tell me, how are things going?"- the older man asks as he pours a cup of tea for Hyunjin.

"Perfect. Almost too perfect. But I have this nagging feeling inside me, because I know at some point, I will have to leave this island and I don't think y/n would leave her garden behind, even for me. Besides, I would never ask that of her, I know how much she put into it and the flower shop. It's like asking her to choose between me and her precious flowers."- Hyunjin quickly shakes his head.

"You said once before you'd like to stay here."- Isaac remembers.

"I did, but I have a gallery to attend to. God knows what Charlie has done with it by now. It was always my dream to open up a gallery of my own and have exhibitions of my art there. To have people come in and admire my work as well as work of other artists whom I admire. It's all I ever dreamed of, a life of art."- Hyunjin talks with a wistful look on his face.

"And what is your dream now?"- Isaac asks and your smiling face, your warm hands, your sweet lips swirl in his mind instantly.

"Y/n. She's my dream."- he smiles and Isaac lets out a quiet chuckle.

"There you have it, the end to your dilemma."- he says and Hyunjin looks up from his cup to him.

"Listen, if two people are in love and willing to work on their relationship, nothing can come in their way and make them fall apart. I believe in both of you. As I came to know you, I realized you're both strong individuals with strong hearts that have endured hardships in their lives. What you need is a little warmness and kindness and if that's all you have for each other then there are no worries! You can conquer the world together so an ocean between you shouldn't mean a thing."

Hyunjin chews on his lip a little as he thinks about Isaac's words, a flicker of hope burning wilder inside him.

"Thank you, Isaac."- he smiles.

"No problem, son."

Hyunjin makes his way to your flower shop with a promise on his lips.

You're tending to your dear flowers, an unwavering smile on your face as you touch their petals and inhale the sweet scent.

Footsteps approach your shop and as they enter, you know it's Hyunjin, you have it engraved in your mind, even the sound of his footsteps ring familiarity in your soul.

"Hey, flower."- his arms wrap around your middle before you can even turn around to see his face.

"Hey, lover."- you melt into him instantly as he holds you tightly, inhaling your sweet shampoo and kissing your neck and shoulder.

"Did you wait for me too long?"- he says as he lets you go so you can turn around to face him.

"No, it's okay. I had to take care of some things around the shop anyways."- you say as you wrap around each other.

Hyunjin forgets to answer when your lips are closer to his and he gives into temptation, closing the gap between you and kissing you until you're breathless.

His hands grip at your waist as you hold the back of his head, fingers tangled in his soft hair.

"The shop is open, by the way."- you mumble as he presses you against the shelf, the flowers above you like a crown for the most beautiful queen.

"Mm?"- Hyunjin smirks, leaning in to kiss your neck.

"Anyone can come in."- you grip his hair a little as he kisses you harder.

"Mm."- he mutters against your skin.

"You'll have me tonight."- you chuckle and he leans back with a pout on his face.

"I want you all the time."- he says cutely.

"You have me, Jinnie."- you gently grab his face, caressing his cheeks with your thumbs.

"Always?"- he asks, something loving flickering in his eyes.

"As long as you want me."- you smile.

"Always it is then."- he gives you a big smile and you kiss him lovingly, unable to contain yourself.

Soon enough, Hyunjin is sat at his easel as you take care of your flowers.

He paints, his hand tireless as he creates yet another vision of you he had in his mind, capturing it on the canvas, to make it last forever, always etched in time.

When you finish with your flowers, you sit down and read your book next to Hyunjin as he paints.

Nothing could ever be better than sharing comfortable silence with a lover you feel safe with.

You feel more and more encouraged every day, Hyunjin's affection lifting you up to the sky and making you feel as if anything is possible.

One look at his smile and you know he feels the same.

Come evening, Hyunjin and you are at your house again, exchanging kisses and stories as the two of you sit on the couch all comfortable after dinner.

"Love, there's something I'd like to do."- he starts, his hand on your cheek, caressing you as you hold each other close.

"What is it?"- you ask.

"I'd like to paint you nude. Would you let me?"- he asks, voice low and a wave of electricity runs through you.

"Of course. I'd like that."- you smile. "Now?"- you add, chuckling.

"If you're comfortable, then yes."- he nods.

"Give me one more kiss and then I'll let you know."- you smirk and he smirks back at you before he leans in and gives you a passionate kiss.

Even the slightest touch drives you insane and makes you burn up for Hyunjin, and when he kisses you so ardently, you can't help but melt into him, arousal already pooling on your panties.

"Was that enough to convince you?"- Hyunjin jokes and you giggle in a haze.

"More than enough."- you say and the two of you decide to go to your room for the painting.

Hyunjin sets up as you slowly strip, feeling a bit self-conscious out of nowhere.

"What is it, my love?"- Hyunjin notices you struggling as you wrap your arms around your naked body to shield yourself.

"I just... feel a bit self-conscious. You can see everything."- you mutter and he gives you an endearing smile as he makes his way to you.

"I've already seen everything."- his hands are on your face as he makes you look at him.

"Yeah, but this is different. You'll have to stare at me as you paint me. And then you'll notice every blemish and-"

"And I will admire it and worship it."- he says as he kisses your forehead.

"Jinnie..."- you pout a little as your heart beats faster and he chuckles.

"You're my goddess, there's nothing I don't admire about you."- he smiles genuinely.

"Okay, if you say so. Sorry for being like this."

"You don't have to apologize for your feelings, darling."- he says as he takes you to the bed.

You smile and kiss his lips, his cheeks and his jawline.

"If you keep doing that, I will toss the painting out and just take you."- he smirks and you giggle as your face heats up.

"Okay, I'll be good."- you tease as you sit on the bed. "So, what position do you want me in?"

Hyunjin bites on his lip, as he lays you down comfortably into the pillow and puts your arms on either sides of your head.

He spreads your legs slowly, one of them falling off the bed to reveal your pussy to him.

You swallow as you look up at him, the tender touch is leaving you shivering and wanting more.

Your hair is splayed around your head like a halo, your lips parted as you look at Hyunjin with eyes full of love.

He almost gives in and lays his body on yours but somehow he comes to his senses, only leaning down to kiss you shortly.

"Beautiful."- he smiles and you chuckle.

Hyunjin sits behind his easel as you make small talk while his eyes travel from your naked body to his canvas.

Silence covers the room like a warm blanket as Hyunjin concentrates and you're melting into the bed, feeling so relaxed and comfortable that you almost fall asleep.

"Love? Are you sleeping?"- Hyunjin chuckles and you jolt.

"No, no, I'm here. I'm present."- you say and he lets out a little giggle before he gets up.

"Maybe I need to wake you up a little."- he states as he sits on the bed.

"Mm. How will you do that?"- you smile at him blissfully as he sits down next you, his hand on your knee.

You gulp as he slowly slides it up, fingertips touching your inner thigh.

His other hand is gentle on your breast before he squeezes it.

"H-Hyunjin."- you whimper as he touches you and plays with your nipple.

"You look so alluring right now."- he looks at you darkly, his fingers coming up to touch your folds, glistening with arousal for him.

Hyunjin touches you gently, getting you to breathe faster and lose your mind slowly as he plays with your clit and nipples.

As you get more and more wet, his fingers slip between your folds as he pushes only the tips in teasingly.

"Ah!"- you moan as he grips your breast.

Just as your eyes close, the stimulation stops and you whine as you look at him.

"Jinnie..."

"Sorry, baby, I have to finish my painting."- he smirks. "But as soon as I'm done I will give you all my attention."- he promises.

"Okay."- you pout a little but let him go back to the canvas so he can continue.

You're now fully aware of the breeze that's coming from the window touching your sensitive nipples, and the arousal dripping between your legs, and the way Hyunjin's eyes are dark and concentrated on you, mapping out every little detail of your body.

You thought you would feel scrutinized but you feel so vunerable in a good way, like you're only his and he loves every little thing about you, it's all for him to admire.

"Jinnie... Are you done soon?"- he can hear the neediness in your voice and he can't deny you the pleasure you crave anymore.

"Just a few more finishing touches but that can wait."- he says as he gets up. "My flower needs me, hm?"- he asks.

"Yes, I need you so much."- you whimper and before your brain can even compute what's going on, Hyunjin is on his knees, pulling you towards the edge of the bed, your pussy right in front of his face.

"Oh."- you let out a gasp and see him smirk.

Always gentle and taking his sweet time with you, Hyunjin surprises you as he dives in immediately, his lips attached to your lower ones as he kisses you, lower lip dragging on your wetness before he finds your clit and sucks on it.

"Ah! Hyunjin!"- you whimper at the onslaught of his lips and tongue making out with you as he holds your legs open, hands pressed in your inner thighs, leaving imprints on your skin.

The greedy, slurping sounds are sinful and arousing only resulting in making you even more wet as Hyunjin drinks from you, his saliva mixing with your sweet juice.

"Oh my god."- you whimper as his tongue works his way inside you and he laps at you like a man starved, and you feel his fingertips pressing on your entrance.

Arching your back off the bed, you whine his name loudly as he pushes his fingers inside your heat to his knuckles, working them together with his tongue.

You let out a broken moan at the stimulation as he gives it his all, sucking on your clit again and pushing his fingers all the way in, filling you up deliciously and finding that special spot inside you that makes you see stars.

You lose yourself in the pleasure, shaking and lifting up to meet his hand, your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, as you explode and release on his face and hand.

"Jinnie!"- you moan his name as he kisses you once more.

He hovers over you, his fingertips on your parted lips.

"Open up."- he says and you open your lips, letting him push his fingers in, and you lick at them, cleaning them up and tasting yourself.

The sight of you slightly choking on his bony fingers as you look at him like he's some kind of god makes his legs turn to jelly and his cock twitch in his pants.

"Good girl."- Hyunjin praises you as he pulls his fingers out, leaning down to kiss you sloppily, his tongue deep in your mouth, asserting his dominance.

You gasp for air when he pulls away, grabbing at his arms.

"I need you."- you whine.

"You need more, baby?"- he smirks and you nod.

"Yes, please."- you say quietly.

"Anything you need."

Hyunjin takes off his shirt as you admire his toned physique. He looks at you lustfully, sliding off his pants and boxers.

You lick your lips at the sight of his hard and leaking cock, made just for you to use as you please.

He tugs on his length a few times before coming closer to you.

"I wanna see you on top of me, my goddess."- he says, voice dark and low.

You sit up and give him a lazy smirk.

"Make yourself comfortable, lover."- you whisper, fingertips grazing his neck and collarbone.

Hyunjin sits up in the pillows, his whole body on full display for you as you crawl over to him.

Your legs are on either sides of him and you hover over his cock, your palms planted on his chest.

You slowly rake your fingers down, and he arches into you, his eyes fluttering and he looks at you with hooded eyes.

You can feel every shiver of his body under your touch and you know you have the same effect on him as he does on you.

You grab the base of his cock, running the tip over your folds.

"Please, baby stop teasing me."- Hyunjin whines and you giggle, teasing his length just for a few more moments, before you finally slide down on him, slowly taking his whole length, little moans spilling from your lips.

"Mm, that's it, my flower, take all of me in."- Hyunjin groans as he grips your hips and pushes up into you.

"J-Jinnie."- you cry out as he fills you up perfectly, it's almost too much and you grip his shoulders.

"Take your time."- he whispers, hands running up from your lower back up, then down on your waist, to your ass as he grabs handfuls of it, pulling you on him and making you grind.

You start moving slowly after you adjust and he observes you the whole time, holding your hips, his eyes looking into your soul, then to your parted lips, then down to your breasts, bouncing slightly as you take him gently.

He pulls you into a kiss, and it gets more heated the more kisses you exchange, your mind and body buzzing and screaming for more.

You start fucking on him faster, needing to feel him deep inside you, all of him, and he helps you bounce, meeting your movements with his.

"Hyunjin!"- you moan his name as he hits your spot.

"Ah, my rose, my beautiful rose."- he moans as he fucks up into you, driving you even more feral.

"I need you, I need you deep inside me."- you bounce harder, making the bed creak and Hyunjin grunts loudly as he digs his nails into your hips and lets you use him.

"Take me, my love. Take all you need. Devour me."- he keeps moaning as your hands wrap around his neck, something primal waking up inside you as you drip on his hard cock, using it for your pleasure and Hyunjin looks at you with eyes full of admiration.

You squeeze his neck a little, making him whimper as he grips your hips even harder, probably leaving bruises there as evidence of the passion shared between you.

"I- I can't hold it much longer, flower. I'm gonna cum."- Hyunjin whines.

"Cum inside me, lover."- you say and he gasps a little, hands on your ass, gripping it again.

"A-are you sure?"- he looks at you sweetly, with puppy eyes and his lips jutting out.

"Yes, I want you to fill me up, Jinnie. Make me yours forever."- you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck, okay I'll make you mine forever."- he groans and fucks up harder into you.

Your vision blurs as you scream, throwing your head back and cumming all over his cock, his name on your tongue.

Hyunjin explodes inside of you before he can even control it, the feeling of his warm cum filling you up makes your eyes roll back in your head.

He grabs onto your breasts as you keep moving your hips on him, overstimulating him.

"Mm, y/n, my muse."- he whines and his lips attach to your nipple, sucking on the sensitive bud as you tangle your hands in his hair, gripping it a little, his cock slowly going limp inside you.

His arms wrap around you as he lays his cheek on your breast and you wrap your arms around him, caressing his head gently, running your fingers through his hair dampened with sweat.

The moment is sweet and quiet as you stick to each other, not wanting to leave the embrace that's full of safety and love.

Suddenly, you feel something wet on your skin and hear Hyunjin sniffle.

"Hyunjin?!"- you panic, grabbing his face and lifting it up to make him look at you.

Your heart breaks when you meet his eyes, big and glassy, hot tears sliding down his cheeks as his lips tremble.

"What's wrong?"- you're still in panic mode as he isn't answering, your thumbs catching his tears.

"I love you."- he says like it's been weighing on his soul, like he waited for an eternity just to utter those three words to you and now he has found relief.

A wave of warmness travels through you, hitting your heart with an explosion of love for the man beneath you.

"I love you."- you say sweetly, giddily, gently, like saccharine is dripping from your very lips and Hyunjin's face lights up with a big smile, almost as that of an innocent child, their soul still untouched by everything bad in the world, heart still pure and unbroken.

Hyunjin starts chuckling happily, his plump lips kissing you everywhere they can reach, making you laugh as you hold onto him and endure the loving agression of his kisses.

"I didn't mean to cry."- he shakes his head. "I'm just overwhelmingly happy."

"I know, lover. But, you can cry in front of me if you need to, don't worry about that."- you smile, holding his face in your hands like you're holding the whole world.

"Thank you, y/n, you're so wonderful to me."- Hyunjin almost cries again so he buries his face in your neck and leaves kisses on your damp skin.

"You don't have to thank me."- you smile as you kiss the top of his head.

The same night as your tired limbs tangle together and you find home in each other's arms, hushed voices repeat those three words until you both fall asleep, hearts full and eyes teary.

It's just around 5am when Hyunjin squints his eyes, tilting his head at you as you bring him a cup of coffee.

The morning air in your garden is crisp and welcoming after a warm night under the blankets with Hyunjin's body pressed against yours.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."- you chuckle, pinching his cheek and leaning down to kiss his forehead.

You're about to move away but Hyunjin is quick to grab you and keep you in place, his arms enveloping you as he buries his face in your tummy and whines.

You giggle, your hands on his head instantly, giving him pats and caresses.

He says something into you, sending vibrations through your stomach that tickle you and you laugh.

"What was that?"- you ask and he looks up at you, his chin still leaned on you.

"Why are we up this early?"- he pouts.

"I'm taking you to my last favorite hidden place here."- you smile.

"Oh really? I almost forgot you were my tour guide."- he smiles cheekily as you play with his hair.

"Your tour guide got distracted."- you smirk.

"The distraction was worth it, though."- he says and pulls you down for a kiss before he releases you so you can actually eat breakfast and drink some coffee.

Hyunjin wakes up after that, and the two of you prepare some picnic food and stuff you'll need.

"You're not telling me anything?"- he asks with a cute pout.

"Nuh-uh."- you shake your head and kiss his pouty lips.

"What if I bribe you with kisses?"- he asks and you laugh.

"I'd enjoy your attempts but you'll see it when we get there."

"Give me at least one hint. Cause I really feel like I've seen it all."- Hyunjin whines.

"Okay, we're using a boat. Delmar lent it to us."

"Oh? Who's gonna steer it?"- he asks and you smirk.

"I am."

"I didn't know you could do that."- Hyunjin gasps with a smile.

"Well, now you do."- you say and he shakes his head in disbelief before giving you a sweet kiss.

"Alright, lead the way captain!"- he salutes you and you laugh as the two of you walk out of the house.

You talk quietly on the way to the pier, not wanting to disturb the silence enfolding the sleepy island.

"I'm gonna need a little help."- you say as the two of you arrive to Delmar's boat. "I need you to pull the boat towards the pier."

"Okay, I can do that."- Hyunjin nods quickly, stretching his arms a little and rolling his sleeves up.

He grips the rope and pulls, grunting a little and you bite on your lip as you stare at his arms.

You let out a giggle and he turns to look at you.

"Am I funny?"

"No, you're hot."- you wiggle your eyebrows.

"Oh."- he smirks.

"But you're funny too."- you nod and he pouts at you jokingly.

"Okay hop on, captain, I can't hold this forever."- Hyunjin says and you laugh as you see him struggling a little.

After you're both in and moving, Hyunjin sits close to you as you steer the boat.

"What?"- you yell slightly over the loud sound.

"That's kinda hot."- he says and you laugh, shaking your head.

Both of you enjoy the view after that, and Hyunjin feels excited about where you're taking him.

"We're here."- you say as you slow down and a small island comes into view, even smaller than the one you just left behind.

After you successfully moor the boat and get out, you walk out to the beautiful and almost untouched beach.

"This isn't technically on the island, but it's one of the smaller islands surrounding ours that is uninhabited. There's only a few birds and insects here and of course plants."- you chuckle.

"So I thought I'd show you a place I discovered on my own, per se."

"We're completely alone here?"- Hyunjin chuckles and you nod.

"That's it then. This is Hyunjin and y/n's island. No one set foot here or they will be destroyed!"- he says, pointing at the sea with his brows furrowed and lips pursed.

You burst into laughter, smacking his arm in the process.

"Okay king Hyunjin, let's go find a nice spot to sit down and watch the sunrise."- you snicker, linking your arms together.

"Yes, my queen."- he smirks and kisses you as the two of you walk on the beach.

After you find the spot, you take out the blanket and Hyunjin snaps a few photos of the island.

"We could take a walk later?"- he asks and you nod.

"Mhm. After the sun is fully up. There's lots of woods here and I don't wanna get lost in the darkness. I mean, it's always darker amongst the trees."- you say as the two of you sit down.

"Okay, I don't wanna get lost in the woods either. Are you sure there isn't a serial killer hidden somewhere around here?"- Hyunjin adds and you laugh.

"Baby, this isn't a horror story."- you say.

"What kinda story is it?"- he smirks, scooting closer to you and wrapping his arms around you.

"A love story."- you answer.

"I like those kinds of stories the most."- he smiles and kisses you.

"Mhm. Me too."- you mumble against his lips. "Are we watching the sunrise?"- you snicker as he keeps kissing you.

"We are."- he chuckles and pats the space between his legs. "Come here, darling."

You sit between his legs and lean your back on his chest, your head on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you, and you lay yours on his and play with his fingers, tracing patterns on his skin, fingertips touching the soft hairs on his arm.

He kisses your cheek and jawline gently, holding you tighter.

You watch as the sun rises, bathing the sea and your faces in a golden hue. Hyunjin closes his eyes for a moment, his mind turns the scene into a lovely painting, that the two of you belong in, one that people would admire and wish they'd had a love like you do.

You spend some time in that warm embrace before you move away as the sun moves higher in the sky and you take out some food and coffee.

Sketching together became one of your favorite activities to share and you try to sketch Hyunjin only to end up frustrated because nothing can capture his beauty.

He notices you frowning and huffing to yourself, so he looks up from his sketch of the beach.

"What's wrong, my muse?"- he asks.

"I'm trying to sketch you but you're too beautiful for my poor skills of sketching faces."- you say annoyingly and Hyunjin can't help but laugh.

"You are way more beautiful than me, my sweet flower. My paintbrush could never capture the perfection of you."- his hand cups your cheek and you lean into his touch.

"Sweet talker."- you smirk and he giggles.

"You love that."- he wiggles his eyebrows and you know he's right.

"I love you."- you say making his heart dance again.

"I love you."- he says it sweetly, moving closer to prove it with his kisses.

Your sketchbooks lay forgotten on the side as the two of you lose yourselves in each other, hands roaming everywhere, bodies craving to get closer and closer, lips stuck to one another's.

Hyunjin pulls you into his lap and you feel him under your wet core.

"H-Hyun-" - you whimper as he pushes his hips up into you.

"There's no one here."- he says, his lips relentless on your sensitive neck.

"I know, but-"

"I need you."- Hyunjin whimpers desperately as his hands grip you.

"I need you too."- you cup his face and kiss him passionately.

He slides your dress down to reveal your breasts, kissing them, licking and sucking on your sweet nipples as his hand travels between your legs.

You lift up a little to let him touch you as you throw your head back and moan quietly.

Hyunjin moves your panties to the side, fingers on your wet folds and pressed in to your clit, his movements driving you insane as you grind on his fingers.

As he leans back to look at you, eyes dark and hazy, your hands travel to his pants and you pull them down with his boxers just enough to reveal his hard cock.

You wrap your hand around him, thumbing his slit and playing with the pre-cum, smearing it on his head and down his twitching length.

"Mm, baby."- Hyunjin moans, biting on his lip as he leans on his hands.

You're so desperate to feel him inside you that you can't wait anymore so you lower yourself on him.

"Ah, y/n! So warm and tight."- he whimpers as you clench around him.

"Jinnie... My Jinnie."- you moan, arms wrapping around him, clinging to him as your emotions start wilding inside you, your body and heart burning up only for Hyunjin.

"Yours, only yours."- he holds onto you equally as desperately as you fuck into each other slowly.

You both lose yourselves in the moment, desperate for each other and Hyunjin is going crazy, every single movement brings him immense pleasure.

All the times he wanted to love, but found it hard to do so, with you it was so easy, it was easy to love you and every cell in his being screams your name as he flips you over, making you squeal in surprise.

"J-Jinnie!"

"I can't hold back, my love."- he pushes his cock back inside you and you take it, fitting him so perfectly inside your warmness, shaping around him and making it a home for him, forever only his.

"Don't hold back. Fuck me. Fuck me, Hyunjin."- you burn with desire and his eyes roll back.

"Ah, when you talk like that..."- he growls as he brings your knees up to your shoulders.

He starts pounding into you hard, harder than ever before as brings his whole weight down onto you, his cock hitting the deepest spot inside you where no one else has ever been before.

"Ah, fuck, Hyunjin, ah-" you moan and babble as you grip onto the blanket under you.

"You're mine, flower. Only mine."- he growls as he grabs your breasts, squeezing them and fucking you even harder.

You can't even form a sentence anymore as he fucks you senseless, the only word on your lips is his name.

"I'm gonna worship this pussy forever. It was made for me, made to take my cock."- he says and you whimper loudly.

"H-Hyunjin!"- you moan as you cum around his length, driving him even more insane when you clench around him so wetly and perfectly.

"Shit!"- he groans and pulls out, giving a few tugs to his wet cock and cumming on your breasts and dress.

Hyunjin takes in the erotic sight of you as you come down.

Your legs relax as you breathe hard, eyes filled with tears of pleasure.

Hyunjin catches his breath and his arms are around you instantly.

"Are you okay, my flower? Was I too harsh?"- he asks with concern on his face and you quickly shake your head.

"No, you were perfect."- you say with a smile.

"Yeah? So you liked it rough?"- he smirks and you smack his arm.

"Shut up."- heat rises to your cheeks as you try to hide from his cheeky smile.

"Aw, don't be shy now."- he says as he gently grabs your arms. "You can share what you like with me, I wanna fulfill all your desires, y/n."- he adds, kissing your cheeks.

"Mm. I wanna fulfill all your desires too."- you say.

"You already do."- he smiles and kisses you gently.

"I'm sorry I ruined your pretty dress."- Hyunjin adds when you part.

"It's okay, I can wash it."- you chuckle as he helps you clean up.

After the two of you are clean and dressed, Hyunjin leans on your chest and holds you tightly.

"Play with my hair!"- he whines and you chuckle at him and start running your fingers through his hair.

You enjoy the sweet moment before you decide to get up and round the island, as you walk and hold hands, the beautiful nature around you inspiring your souls and Hyunjin captures you surrounded by it's beauty on his camera.

You come back to the beach and sit once more to eat.

And you finish first, your eyes glued on Hyunjin's pretty frame.

You can't believe this man is yours.

Your hands can't help themselves as you reach out towards him and start caressing his cheek with your knuckles.

He looks at you with a mouthful of sandwich and you laugh.

"Cute."- you pinch his cheek and he whines.

"Is this a black onyx stone?"- your eyes fall to the necklace adorning his neck.

"I have no idea."- he says and you chuckle. "You like it?"

"Mhm, it looks pretty on you."- you say.

"It's gonna look even prettier on you."- he smiles, wiping his hands on a napkin as he's done eating.

"What?"

"I want you to have it."- he unclasps the necklace.

"You don't have to-"

"No, I want to, really. Please, I'm happy to see you wearing my clothes or jewelry."

"Okay."- you smile and lift your hair up so he can put the necklace on you.

"There. Beautiful. What's mine is yours, my flower."- he smiles at you sweetly.

"Likewise."- you smile back.

As you make your way back to the island, bathed in the sun and full of happiness, Hyunjin knows he'll soon have to tell you and burst the bubble the two of you fell into.

He'll have to tell you that he's leaving.

Taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @laylasbunbunny @porangporangmeong @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @simpforleeknaur @laughatdanger @lixies-favorite-cookie @linavc @quokkacidal @thisaintredwine @m00gyu @yaorzu-blog @skzfelixlove @tajannah-price1 @puccaaak @aft2rsexs @xxkissesforchanniexx @aprilmaejune77 @lilmeowneow @stayjinnie @astrobebba @danihwang882 @kaysungshine @nchhuhi @1810cl @chartrucewhore @babigriin @jisuperboard @alisonyus @minluvly @instantsoulnight @kkamismom12 @its-stayville-forever @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @lemonadeboun

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ladylilah · 1 year ago

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closed starter for @scamperoo location: lilah's house

At the sound of the front door opening, on instinct Lilah found herself tensing on the couch and waiting in a moment of terrified horror for who would be entering her house. Thankfully it was just her youngest daughter, rushing in and up the stairs in a flash, ignoring her mother’s call of greeting and asking if she was alright. That in itself wasn’t too surprising, Lilah far used to Colette’s cold shoulder. But what was a bit of a shock was seeing another familiar figuring following behind at a slower pace. “Sammy?” she asks, a bit foolishly considering she knows for a fact that it is indeed her only son. The question was though - just what was he doing here? Obviously he had been with his sister or was dropping her off from wherever she may have been on her own, and neither of those two potential situations came without some kind of trouble. As much as she wished she didn’t have to worry over the two spending time together, Lilah knew realistically though that Colette would never just willingly hang out with Scamp without a reason. Standing from her spot on the couch, she made her way to meet the boy halfway, glancing back up the stairs after where her daughter had run and wondering if she needed to intervene. “What happened? Where were you guys? Is she okay?”

#closed starter #in a kind and wistful way ;; threads #scamp

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lila-lou · 5 months ago

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✨High School Sweetheart - Pt 8✨

Summary: You come face-to-face with a ghost from your past—Dean Winchester. Five years after he vanished from your life without a word, and now he´s here. But neither you nor he are teenagers anymore.

-Listen to "Chance with you"-

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Language, Fuff, Angst

Word Count: 7663

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

Eight years.

It was both a lifetime and an instant, a stretch of days and nights where you had convinced yourself to move forward, one step at a time, learning how to let go of someone who had left, without letting go of the memory. And now, with your thirtieth birthday approaching, the ache you’d buried so deeply seemed to surface with each text from your ex-fiancé—the one who, mere weeks before the wedding, had shattered every vow he had promised to make. He was asking you to forgive him, to take him back, but the messages only served to reopen wounds you thought you’d managed to close.

You spent that night, as you had so many Thursdays since Dean left, at the bar with your best friend. It had become your quiet ritual, your way of remembering a part of yourself that had stayed frozen in time. For years, there had been a sliver of hope each time you walked in, a faint, persistent thought that maybe—just maybe—he’d be there, that he’d come back. But as the years passed, the hope dulled, replaced by a kind of bittersweet acceptance that this would always be your memory alone. Dean had become like a quiet ghost in your life, someone who was woven into every moment even when he was nowhere to be found. Again.

It was as if he was a part of every breath you took, his shadow cast over every milestone. The memory of him lingered, surfacing in the moments that should have felt the most whole: on first dates that left you hollow, on the day you said yes to a man you thought you could build a life with, even in the small, fluttering joy of seeing yourself in a wedding dress. He was a thread stitched into your life, his presence felt in every quiet moment, every whispered “what if?” you couldn’t quite ignore.

Your friend watched you, her gaze soft as she took in the look in your eyes. “You know, it’s okay if he’s still there”, she said gently, her voice barely audible above the bar’s din. “Some people leave marks on us that don’t fade. Doesn’t mean you’re broken”.

You took a shaky breath, the weight of your friend’s words settling over you, pressing into places you’d tried so hard to keep safe. “But I am”, you whispered, the admission slipping out, raw and unguarded. The words surprised even you, like a truth you’d been holding back for too long, finally surfacing. “I thought I’d healed, that I’d moved on. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like I’ve just learned how to live with a broken heart”.

Your friend sighed softly, her eyes filled with a gentle empathy. She reached over, giving your hand a comforting squeeze. “Someday, your person will come along”, she said, her tone both hopeful and certain, like she was trying to will it into existence for you. “Someone who will stay. Someone who’s meant for you”.

You shook your head, a sad, wistful smile touching your lips as you looked down at the rim of your glass, tracing it with your finger. “I already met him”, you murmured, your voice barely audible over the noise of the bar, as if saying it too loudly might break something inside you all over again. “I met him, and he slipped away. Two times”.

The words felt like letting go of a truth you’d carried all these years, a truth so heavy it had woven itself into your very being. You’d tried to move forward, to build a life around the empty space he’d left, but no matter how much time passed, Dean was always there, a quiet ache in your heart, a memory you couldn’t erase.

Your friend’s eyes softened, understanding settling in as she squeezed your hand once more. “Maybe he was a chapter”, she said gently, her voice thick with empathy. “A chapter that helped shape who you are. And maybe there’s another chapter waiting for you”.

But as she spoke, you knew that some chapters never truly end, no matter how many pages you turn. Some people come into your life and leave marks that can’t be erased, no matter how hard you try.

Dean was that for you—the person who taught you love in its truest form, and in losing him, you’d learned heartbreak in the deepest way possible.

You lowered your gaze, voice barely more than a whisper. “No one will ever come close”, you murmured, each word heavy with the weight of years. Saying it out loud felt strange, almost like an admission, as if by putting it into words, you were sealing off a part of your heart forever.

Your friend’s eyes softened, her expression both understanding and sorrowful. “I wish I’d met him”, she said softly, the words carrying a weight of their own, as if meeting him might have helped her understand why he still haunted you after all this time.

You gave her a faint, bittersweet smile. “I wish you had too”. Your voice wavered, and you took a steadying breath before continuing, almost as if the words themselves needed coaxing to surface. “He… he´s just… so much. More than I thought I’d ever find in someone. He saw parts of me no one else ever did. I think a part of me thought it would always be that way. And now…”. You shook your head slightly, the pain raw, open. “It’s like every person I meet is just an echo, a shadow of what we had. And it doesn’t matter how hard I try—no one will ever fill that space”.

Your friend’s hand squeezed your arm gently, her silence full of compassion. “A love like that…”, she began, her voice low, almost reverent. “It doesn’t just disappear. It doesn’t just fade. It becomes part of who you are”.

A tear escaped, and you brushed it away quickly, feeling both embarrassed and strangely grateful to say it out loud. “Sometimes I wish I could just let him go, like I’d let go of a memory, you know? But he’s… he’s not just a memory. It’s like he’s in everything. And everyone else just… falls short”.

Your friend pulled you into a quiet hug, her arms warm and steady around you as she held you close. She didn’t say anything else—she didn’t need to. Just being there, sharing the silence, grounding you, was enough. And you stayed like that for a while, your sadness finding a place to rest, comforted by the quiet presence of someone who understood that even if Dean was gone, his love had left a mark on you that would never truly fade.

A few days later, you found yourself standing in your bookstore, running your fingers over the spines of old ghost stories and folklore collections, the comforting, worn feel of the covers grounding you. You’d blocked your ex, finally severing that last fraying thread, though pity texts from friends and family still trickled in, each one a small, bittersweet reminder of the future you’d once thought was set in stone. You tried your best to let it all go, focusing on the life you had here, in the quiet refuge of your shop.

But standing there, lost in thought, you could almost swear you smelled Dean—a faint, familiar trace of his cologne that lingered like a whisper in the air, bringing with it a flood of memories. You closed your eyes, letting yourself drift into that feeling for a moment, imagining him here beside you, as though he’d just walked through the door with that half-smile that made your heart race.

The door chime rang, and you opened your eyes, your heart skipping a beat as you glanced up, half-expecting to see him standing there. But it was just a customer, nodding politely as he browsed the shelves. You let out a quiet sigh, reminding yourself that ghosts didn’t come back—no matter how deeply they lingered in your memory.

Still, as you moved through the shop, the feeling wouldn’t leave. It was as if his presence was woven into the walls, each corner of the room holding some fragment of him, some unspoken reminder of a love you’d never fully let go. And you realized that, despite everything, Dean had become more than just a memory; he was a part of you, woven into every quiet moment and lingering thought.

As the evening drifted into night, you found yourself in your old apartment, the one place that felt like a time capsule of your life before everything began to change. You hadn’t even intended to keep it; when you’d moved in with your ex-fiancé, it had seemed redundant, an echo of a life you thought you were leaving behind. But now, with the failed engagement and a lifetime of memories wrapped up in these walls, you were grateful you’d held onto it.

The quiet hum of the city night drifted through your windows as you moved around the small kitchen, where every drawer and shelf held stories and memories you couldn’t quite part with. You’d set a pot to boil, watching the bubbles rise and fall absently, your mind drifting. Your phone buzzed on the counter, another message from a friend who’d been slated to attend the wedding, a quiet expression of sympathy. You turned the screen over, trying to ignore it, instead focusing on the simple task of making pasta. Something about this ritual—the warm scent of garlic, the gentle clinking of silverware—had a grounding quality that steadied you in ways you couldn’t quite explain.

The minutes slipped by as you filled your plate, glancing up at the clock. Five minutes left. Just five more minutes, and this birthday would be behind you. Thirty. You’d imagined this moment so differently, once upon a time, picturing yourself settled and content, surrounded by love and the promise of a future. But reality had been messier, filled with sharp corners and unexpected losses. The silence of your apartment felt especially heavy tonight, every creak and hum magnified in the stillness.

As you lifted your fork, about to take that first bite, a knock at the door cut through the quiet, startling you. You froze, fork in mid-air, your gaze fixed on the door as if it held a mystery you hadn’t yet prepared yourself to solve. It was almost midnight—an odd time for visitors—and a part of you knew you should be cautious. But despite the voice in your head reminding you to leave it alone, something else, something deep and instinctive, urged you forward.

You set the fork down, slowly rising from your chair and crossing the small space to the door. Each step felt weighted, like you were moving through water, the anticipation building as you reached for the handle. Taking a breath, you turned it, bracing yourself for whatever lay on the other side.

Dean stood outside your door, his heart pounding in a way that felt foreign, unsettling. It had been eight years—a stretch of time he had spent moving from town to town, living in motels, the Impala his one constant. But here he was, back in a place he never thought he’d see again, staring at your door like it held the answer to every question he hadn’t dared to ask himself.

It was the wedding invitation that had done it.

He’d found it a few days ago, tucked in with some other things at Bobby’s place, the only adress you had from Dean, as if fate had decided to throw one last curveball his way. He remembered the flood of emotions that hit him as he held it in his hands, reading your name alongside someone else’s. The thought of you in a white dress, a life planned with another man—it made his chest ache in a way that went beyond regret.

It was loss, pure and simple, an emptiness he hadn’t wanted to confront.

He’d spent the next few days trying to talk himself out of coming, but no matter where he went, no matter how much he tried to push it aside, the idea gnawed at him. He couldn’t bear the thought of you walking down the aisle without at least telling you… something. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, but he knew he couldn’t let you slip away without one last goodbye. It felt selfish, maybe even foolish, but he needed to see you.

As he raised his hand to knock, every insecurity he had ever buried bubbled to the surface. He imagined you opening the door and slamming it shut in his face, telling him that his time had passed, that he was nothing more than a distant memory, a ghost of a life you’d left behind. And maybe he deserved that. He’d left, after all, made choices that took him far away from any semblance of normalcy, from any chance of a life with you.

When he finally knocked, his hand was trembling, a vulnerability he hadn’t felt in years laid bare in that one, simple action. He told himself he’d leave if you didn’t answer right away, but as he heard faint footsteps approaching from the other side, he felt rooted in place, a strange mix of hope and dread tying him there.

The door opened, and the light from your apartment spilled onto him, illuminating every unspoken feeling that had lingered between you. The moment your eyes met, a torrent of memories flooded back—nights spent in whispered conversations, the feel of your laughter filling the air, the warmth of holding you close. He could see the surprise, the shock, and then something else he couldn’t quite name in your gaze as you took him in.

Eight years had passed, and yet standing there in front of Dean, it felt like only days.

He looked older, more worn, the lines on his face deeper, like the years had left their mark in ways you couldn’t imagine. His hair was a little shorter, the familiar scruff darker, and his eyes held a weight you hadn’t seen before, a quiet burden that made your chest tighten. You could feel your heart beating faster, your throat dry, and as you held onto the door for support, your hand trembled, the gravity of the moment pressing in around you.

Dean’s gaze flickered as he took in your reaction, a slight hesitation in his movements, like he wasn’t sure if he should turn and leave or stay. His mouth opened, then closed, and finally, he forced a quiet, almost hesitant smile, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“It’s… it’s late”, he started, his voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t be here, I know that. I… I tried to talk myself out of it a dozen times”. He shifted his weight, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you. “But I got the invitation. Saw your name on it… and I just—”. He paused, his voice breaking slightly. “I just wanted to wish you the best”.

The words fell heavy between you, and you could feel his heart breaking with each one, as though each syllable was a piece of him he was giving up, a part of himself he was laying bare. Dean had always been the strong one, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without a second thought. But standing here, you could see the cracks, the vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide.

Your throat tightened further, and you swallowed, struggling to find your voice. But all you could do was stare, caught between the overwhelming emotions of seeing him again and the reality of what he was saying. The thought of him simply wishing you well, like a distant memory, cut deeper than you’d anticipated.

The silence stretched between you, thick and unbearable, as Dean stood there, waiting for anything—a word, a glance, some sign that this wasn’t the end he feared it might be. But your voice was caught in your throat, the shock and surge of emotions rendering you speechless. He could see the struggle in your eyes, the unspoken words you couldn’t manage to say, but after a long moment, the light in his eyes dimmed, a look of quiet defeat settling into his face.

He cleared his throat, looking down as if to gather the last shreds of his strength. “I just… I just hope you’re happy”, he whispered, his voice breaking with an ache so deep it was almost palpable. “I hope tomorrow goes exactly the way you’ve always dreamed it would”. He hesitated, searching your face one last time as though he were trying to memorize every detail. “You deserve that life you always wanted”.

There was a bitter smile, barely a shadow of his usual smirk, but it held a vulnerability he couldn’t hide. He turned, each step toward the hall feeling like he was walking away from the last piece of himself. But as he began to leave, something inside you broke, the words finally escaping, not in sounds but in movement.

Before he could take another step, you reached out, your hand wrapping around his wrist, tugging him back to you. He turned, eyes wide, surprise mingling with a glimmer of hope that he tried so hard to bury. But you didn’t need words—you didn’t have any. Instead, you closed the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close in a way that held everything you couldn’t say.

The hug was fierce, desperate, as though you were holding onto him to keep the last eight years from slipping away. Your fingers dug into his back, your face pressed against his shoulder, and the tears you’d held in for so long finally broke free, trailing silently down your cheeks. The scent of him—the familiar mix of leather, whiskey, and that faint, lingering cologne—wrapped around you, grounding you in a way that felt more real than anything you’d known.

Dean stood frozen for a moment, as though he couldn’t quite believe you were really there, holding him. But then his arms wrapped around you just as tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head as he closed his eyes, letting the moment sink into him. His hand traced gentle circles on your back, a silent apology, a quiet promise, and as he pulled you closer, you felt the subtle shudder of his own unspoken grief.

You clung to him as if letting go would mean losing him all over again. In his arms, every year, every quiet ache and memory, every whispered wish that you’d both buried so deeply came rushing back, filling the silence between you with the weight of all the words left unsaid. His hand ran up and down your back in a comforting, steady rhythm, grounding you as your tears soaked into his shirt.

Neither of you spoke; words would have shattered the fragile beauty of the moment, made everything feel too real, too final. The silence carried everything—an understanding that went deeper than any explanation ever could, the kind that grows only from loss and longing, from the ache of wanting someone in the spaces life wouldn’t allow.

Dean held you as if you were the last thing tethering him to this world, his own breaths uneven, his hand clutching the back of your shirt in a desperate bid to keep this moment alive. His chin rested atop your head, and you could feel him take in deep, unsteady breaths, as though he were trying to commit your scent, your warmth, to memory. You knew he was hurting just as much, and that knowledge both broke and healed you, stitching together the pieces of your heart in the quiet intimacy of his embrace.

The embrace seemed to suspend time, the two of you wrapped in a cocoon of shared grief and unsaid words, until finally, something in you snapped. You pulled back, eyes brimming with unshed tears as a new wave of anger surged up inside you—a fury at all the years lost, at the pain of him leaving, at the emptiness you’d carried for so long. Without thinking, you shoved him hard against his chest, not knowing the bruises and barely-healed ribs hidden beneath his shirt.

Dean winced, a brief flicker of pain crossing his face, but he didn’t stop you, just let you push him back, his expression open and remorseful. Your fists came down again, landing on his chest, small but relentless. More tears broke free, streaming down your face as you struck him.

Dean stood there, taking each hit, his face twisted with regret and a pain that mirrored your own. He didn’t try to defend himself, didn’t even flinch; he just held his ground, letting you release every ounce of hurt and anger that you’d bottled up over the years. Your fists slowed, the strength leaving you and finally, you stopped, your hands falling to your sides, trembling.

You looked up at him through wet lashes, your lip trembling, anger and heartbreak mingling in your gaze. The silence between you was deafening, filled with the weight of every year he’d been gone, every moment you’d thought of him, every word left unsaid. And before you could even begin to process it, he reached out, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you back tightly against his chest.

You resisted, tried to push him away, your hands pressing against him as you struggled to break free. But despite the bruises and pain he felt with every movement, Dean held you tighter, his grip unyielding, almost desperate. He seemed willing to bear the physical hurt just to keep you there, close enough that he could feel your heartbeat against his own. His touch was a plea, silent and raw, as if holding you could somehow make up for the years lost.

Finally, your strength waned, the fight slipping from you as you surrendered to the comfort of his arms. The anger softened into sorrow, and you let yourself collapse into him, your tears soaking into his shirt once more as you clung to him. The weight of every heartache and every unanswered question pressed down on you, but in his embrace, there was something almost soothing, as if he were absorbing the pain alongside you.

After a while, Dean’s voice broke the silence, a slight tremor running through it, whether from the physical pain of your head pressing against his bruised chest or the emotional weight of everything you’d both just shared. “You done?”, he mumbled softly, a hint of teasing in his tone, though it was laced with raw vulnerability. “That little tantrum of yours… you got it all out?”.

You let out a shaky breath. “Maybe”. The word came out quietly, almost sheepish, but there was a warmth beneath it.

The two of you chuckled softly, the sound barely more than a whisper but enough to lighten the air between you, if only for a moment. The laughter was fragile, shared with a sense of relief and a touch of self-awareness—an acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all, of how even now, in the midst of all this pain and longing, you could still find comfort in each other.

Dean looked down at you, his own eyes shimmering with unshed tears, his thumb brushing a gentle, reassuring line across your shoulder. “Good”, he murmured, his voice warm but still thick with emotion. “’Cause I don’t think I could take much more of that”. His hand lingered, his touch soft, grounding, as if anchoring himself in this moment with you.

You looked up at him, feeling the last remnants of anger and hurt begin to fade, replaced by a sense of peace that felt both unfamiliar and deeply needed.

As you slowly pulled back, giving him a little space, Dean instinctively brought his hand up to his chest, wincing slightly as he rubbed the spot where your fists had landed. He gave you a wry smile, muttering, “You’re still good at punching, you know that?”.

You laughed, the sound soft and light, though it carried an edge of vulnerability. “Well, you deserved it”, you replied, crossing your arms, though a small, lingering smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

Dean’s face softened, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of regret and quiet understanding. “Yeah… yeah, I know”. He took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he were grounding himself in the moment, in the reality that you were here, still standing before him despite everything.

The weight of his words hung between you, and for a few moments, there was only silence. But it wasn’t the painful silence of years past; instead, it was one of healing, of finally letting go of all the anger, all the missed chances and lost time. In that space, there was a gentle warmth, a comfort you hadn’t felt in so long.

Finally, he reached out, tentatively brushing a hand over your arm, his fingers lingering as if he were trying to reassure himself that you were real. “Thank you… for not slamming the door in my face”, he said with a hint of his old humor, though his voice held a vulnerability that made you realize how much he’d truly feared you would.

You looked at him, that familiar face etched with a little more wear, a few more scars, but still undeniably Dean. “I thought about it”, you teased softly, though your voice shook slightly with emotion. Then, more seriously, you added, “But I’m glad I didn’t”.

A smile ghosted across his lips, a rare, genuine expression that held both relief and gratitude. For the first time in years, it felt like the past didn’t weigh quite so heavily between you.

"Come in, Winchester”, you mumbled, your voice still trembling slightly, but there was a softness in it that felt like a bridge back to everything that had once been between you. Dean hesitated for just a moment, his hand slipping into his jeans pocket, a familiar gesture of nervousness. He stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the room, and you saw a glint of something unspoken in his expression as he took in the space.

It was as if time had barely touched it. The furniture, the little trinkets you’d collected, the books lining the shelves—it all looked like he’d left it, like the ghost of his presence still lingered in every corner. He took a slow breath, letting it all sink in, his gaze lingering on the small details as though they were fragments of a memory he couldn’t quite piece together.

His eyes flickered to the table where a single plate of pasta sat next to a glass of wine, the setting as quiet and solitary as the night itself. Dean’s expression softened, a faint shadow of concern crossing his face as he turned to you, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Your… fiancée around?”.

Your heart clenched at his question, and for a moment, the weight of the years settled heavily between you. The word “fiancé” seemed to hang in the air, a reminder of the life you’d almost built with someone else, of all the ways you’d tried to move on and build a future that Dean had no part of. You took a shaky breath, meeting his eyes with a mixture of sadness and something else—a faint glimmer of hope you hadn’t dared to feel in years.

“No”, you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “There is no fiancé, Dean. Not anymore”.

Dean’s eyes widened, the surprise clear on his face as he took in what you’d said. The realization seemed to hit him slowly, the pieces coming together in his mind, and you could see the disbelief written in every line of his expression. He had spent days trying to make peace with the idea of you marrying someone else, had convinced himself that you’d found a love worth holding on to—something solid, something he thought he could never give you. But now, standing here in the quiet of your apartment, hearing those words from your lips, the shock was almost palpable.

“But… the wedding was supposed to be tomorrow”, he murmured, his voice filled with disbelief. He looked at you, searching your face, as if waiting for you to tell him this was some kind of mistake. You could see the mixture of confusion and a hint of regret in his eyes as he tried to process what you were saying.

You let out a bitter, almost humorless laugh, the sound raw and filled with the sting of betrayal. “Yeah, well… that was the plan”. You looked down, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield from the ache that still lingered. “But… he cheated on me”. The words felt heavy, laced with anger, but underneath it all, there was a sadness, a weariness that had become all too familiar.

Dean’s face darkened, his entire body tensing as he absorbed what you’d said. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening with a barely-contained fury. He looked away for a moment, as if trying to stop himself from exploding right there. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a growl. “He did what?”. His words came out clipped, his eyes flashing with a fierce, protective anger.

Without thinking, he took a step closer to you, one hand raking through his hair as he muttered to himself, “I swear, if I ever get my hands on that son of a—”. He cut himself off, taking a shaky breath, but you could see it in his posture, the tension rolling off him in waves, his body vibrating with the urge to protect you—even if it was too late.

He turned back to you, his gaze softening when he saw the hurt in your eyes, the heartbreak that you were trying to mask with bitterness. His hand reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing your arm, as though he needed to ground himself in you, to remind himself that you were here, safe, even if you were carrying a hurt he couldn’t erase.

At your slight flinch, Dean immediately withdrew his hand, his eyes clouding with regret as he mumbled, “I’m… sorry”. There was a gentleness in his voice that was almost heartbreaking, an awareness of the pain you were carrying, the weight of a betrayal he couldn’t fix. “You didn’t deserve something like that”, he said, his voice low, filled with a quiet determination as though he wished he could undo it for you.

You nodded absently, biting your lip, eyes tracing a path to the floor as the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “He wasn’t… you, anyway”. It was a quiet confession, barely above a whisper, but the truth of it had lingered in your heart for so long that even saying it felt like letting go of a part of yourself you’d hidden away.

Dean’s gaze softened, and for a moment, silence filled the room, thick and charged. He looked at you with something between hope and disbelief, as if he hadn’t dared to imagine you’d feel the same way after all these years. He swallowed, his hand hovering between you, unsure, before finally finding his voice.

“I… didn’t think you’d still feel like that”, he murmured, his tone raw and vulnerable. “Not after everything I put you through”. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for an answer, his own emotions barely concealed. “I thought… I thought you’d moved on”.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes, the years of unspoken words and unhealed scars between you suddenly laid bare. “I tried”, you admitted, your voice thick with emotion.

You felt yourself sink into the couch, wrapping your arms around yourself, feeling small and exposed as the weight of everything settled over you. The years, the attempts to move on, the heartbreak—it all felt raw and fresh again, leaving you questioning every decision, every feeling you’d held onto for so long. You were almost afraid to meet his eyes, worried he’d see the vulnerability you’d worked so hard to bury.

Dean moved forward, his expression softened by a mixture of tenderness and regret. He crouched down in front of you, the faintest hint of a bittersweet smile touching his lips as he reached out, tilting your chin up gently, coaxing your gaze to meet his. His thumb brushed softly along your jaw, grounding you in the moment.

“Hey”, he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, steady but filled with so much he couldn’t quite say. “Don’t… don’t do that”, Dean said softly, his thumb still tracing soothing circles on your cheek. He held your gaze, his eyes filled with an intensity that made you feel like the only person in the world. You knew he meant the way you were pulling back, withdrawing into yourself, as if building a wall around the rawness you’d just exposed.

He took a breath, a flicker of awkwardness passing over his face as he fumbled for the right words. “You know, I’m not exactly good at… well, talking about my feelings and all that”. He let out a nervous chuckle, looking down for a moment. “But I do know one thing: I hate seeing you retreat into that little bubble. I mean… I know I’m pretty great to be around, so come on. Don’t leave me hanging”. He cracked a smile, his attempt at lightening the mood endearingly clumsy.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped, and he relaxed, clearly relieved that his attempt to cheer you up had worked, even just a little. “There she is”, he said with a warmth that seemed to soften the distance between you.

"Eight years, Dean”, you mumbled, shoving him lightly against the chest, a mix of hurt and frustration in your tone. But instead of reacting with that familiar guilty expression, Dean let out a strained laugh, wincing as he clutched his side. “I swear, if you shove me one more time…”. His voice trailed off, and though he tried to sound lighthearted, there was a tightness to his words.

You froze, your mouth falling open in sudden realization. “Are you… hurt?”, you asked, your voice laced with guilt as you looked down at the spot he was holding. The thought that you’d been pushing against a bruise or something made your stomach twist.

Dean gave a half-shrug, his smile soft but his voice still a little strained. “Just… a couple of fresh stitches”, he admitted, trying to play it off as no big deal. “Came straight here from… well, let’s just say it’s been a hell of a few days”.

Your hand flew to your mouth, eyes widening as the guilt settled deep in your chest. “Oh my god, Dean, I’m so sorry”, you whispered, your face flushed with worry. “Why didn’t you say anything?”.

Dean shrugged, trying to keep that casual air despite the discomfort etched into his face. “Didn’t seem important, you know?”, he muttered, his eyes softening as he took in your reaction. “Besides, it’s not exactly the kind of thing you lead with after eight years”. He managed a lopsided grin, but you could see through it—see the pain and the exhaustion he was trying so hard to hide.

“Not important?”, you repeated, shaking your head. You took a careful step forward, your hands hovering uncertainly near his side. “Dean, you’ve been hurt, and I… I’ve just been shoving you around”.

Dean’s grin softened, the faintest hint of vulnerability breaking through as he met your gaze. “Hey, it’s alright”, he said, his voice gentle. “Besides”, he murmured, a faint smile curving his lips, “if it means I get to feel your hand on my chest again, I’ll gladly take the pain”.

You felt your heart skip, a rush of emotions filling the quiet space between you. There was a tenderness in his words that made the room feel smaller, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. He looked at you with that familiar gaze, equal parts vulnerability and strength, and for a moment, the past didn’t seem so distant. It was as if every memory, every shared laugh, and every ache lingered in the air, bringing you back to the way things used to be.

You reached up, your hand hovering just above his chest, still unsure but drawn by the need to reassure yourself that he was here, real and solid. “But I don’t want to hurt you”, you whispered, your fingers finally settling over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath.

His hand covered yours, pressing it gently against him. “You’re not”, he said, his voice thick with something unspoken. “Trust me, you’re doing the opposite”.

You let your gaze linger on him, taking in every detail—the lines that had deepened around his eyes, the slight roughness of stubble along his jaw, the way his shoulders carried both strength and weariness. It was a face that had seen too much, been through too much, but still held that familiar, rugged warmth that had once made you feel so at home.

A wry smile tugged at your lips as you lifted your hand, gently brushing it along his jaw. “You’re getting old, Winchester”, you teased, your tone dry but softened by the affection in your eyes.

Dean chuckled, a low, genuine sound that reverberated through the room. “Yeah, well, can’t all be twenty forever, can we?”. He tilted his head into your hand slightly, his expression becoming a mix of playful and tender. “But you’re one to talk”, he shot back, though his voice was laced with something gentle, something deeper. “I don’t think you’ve changed a bit”.

Your smile softened, his words sending a warmth through you that you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Guess I held up a little better than you”, you murmured, trying to keep up the playful tone, but the emotion in his eyes made it hard to joke.

He met your gaze, his hand reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a little too long. “Maybe”, he whispered, his voice barely audible, “but some things… they only get better with time”.

The words hung between you, fragile and unspoken for years. You felt yourself drawn closer to him, the space between you disappearing as every unresolved feeling, every shared memory, seemed to converge in this one quiet moment.

You let your hand fall slowly from his face, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself, a hint of something unguarded in your tone. “Any girl waiting down in the Impala?”.

Dean straightened, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he reached out his hand to you. “Nah”, he said, his tone light but his eyes warm. “Dropped her off at the motel and told her not to wait up for me”.

You could tell he was messing with you, but you just raised an eyebrow, playing along as though you were genuinely unimpressed by his antics.

Dean rolled his eyes, chuckling as he gave you a playful pinch at your waist. “I’m talking about Sammy”, he said, his grin widening. “Dropped him off at the motel. Figured he’d be asleep by now, but knowing him, he’s probably got the whole place wired with EMF detectors”.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the image of Sam trying to get comfortable in a strange motel room with his equipment surrounding him vividly clear in your mind. “Poor guy”, you said, shaking your head with a smirk. “Always the third wheel”.

Dean shrugged, still holding your hand, and his expression softened. “He’ll survive”, he murmured, his voice dipping low. “For now, it’s just you and me”.

The words hung in the air, settling warmly between you both. The playfulness faded into something deeper. His gaze held yours, unspoken questions and hopes reflected in his eyes, a softness that reminded you of all the years and all the memories that lingered just beneath the surface.

Your words came out barely above a whisper, but they hung heavy in the space between you, raw and unfiltered. “Dean, I… I can’t do this again”. Your voice cracked, the weight of every night you’d spent wondering about him, waiting, hoping he’d come back, pressing down on you. “Spending a few nights with you, having the most beautiful time of my life… just for you to disappear again. Ten years, maybe, this time? I can’t, Dean”.

The vulnerability in your voice shattered the playful air between you, the truth of your words making the moment feel achingly real. Dean’s face fell, his fingers instinctively tightening around yours as if holding you in that instant could somehow anchor you both. He looked away for a moment, his jaw tight, his own voice barely steady when he finally found the courage to speak.

“I know”, he said softly, his voice thick with the weight of his own regrets. “I know I’ve messed this up more times than I can count. And I can’t stand the thought of hurting you again… I don’t want to be the reason you’re left waiting, wondering”. His gaze returned to yours, his eyes raw and filled with a sincerity that made your heart ache. “I never wanted to leave you like that".

The tension between you seemed to thicken as Dean’s words hung in the air. He held your gaze, his expression twisted with regret, his posture tense as if ready to turn and walk away if that’s what you wanted. “Maybe… maybe I should just go”, he mumbled, voice barely steady. “You could forget I was even here”.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped your lips, and you shook your head, grabbing your wine glass to steady yourself. “As if that would be possible”. You could feel the weight of everything you’d tried to bury—every ache, every question, every lingering memory—boiling up inside of you, but instead of lashing out, you took a calming breath, forcing yourself to keep your voice even.

“Sit down, Winchester”, you said after a long moment, nodding toward the untouched plate of pasta on the table. “At least give me the courtesy of filling me in on the last damn eight years of yours”.

Dean hesitated, glancing from you to the table and back again, before letting out a sigh. He took a step forward, shoulders relaxing just a bit, as he slipped into the seat across from you. You could see the flicker of a reluctant smile as he looked at the pasta, as though the simple sight of a home-cooked meal felt foreign yet comforting.

“Still know me well enough to know I’m always hungry”, he muttered, picking up the fork and twirling it between his fingers before finally taking a bite. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he gave a soft, appreciative groan before rolling his eyes in a way that was both exasperated and amused. “Damn”, he muttered, gesturing at the plate. “I swear, no matter where I’ve been or what I’ve had, your cooking’s still the best”.

There was a sincerity in his voice that made your chest tighten, and despite yourself, a small smile broke through. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so close to him, as if the years had dissolved, leaving only the familiarity of shared meals and quiet conversations.

Dean’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, a bit of that old spark coming back. “So, what, you cook like this every night now?”. He smirked, a teasing glint in his gaze.

You shrugged, trying to keep your tone casual even as the weight of your words settled between you. “Not much to do with a broken heart, you know? Besides work, hitting the gym… and, well, eating”. You managed a small, wry smile, but the truth of it lingered, the quiet ache of the years you’d spent trying to piece yourself back together.

Dean’s smirk softened, the teasing light in his eyes replaced by something deeper, something that seemed to mirror your own hurt. He looked down at his plate, his fork stilled mid-air, as if he needed a moment to absorb the weight of what you’d just said. “Yeah”, he murmured, almost to himself, “I get that”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 9

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ladylilah · 4 months ago

Text

Closing the door behind her, making sure it firmly shut without actually slamming to potentially alarm anyone upstairs, Lilah took just a singular moment to herself standing there in the foyer. Eyes closed tight in refusal to let a single tear fall and deep breaths taken to calm down the shaking nerves that were lit aflame inside of her system. The only real solace she could take was the hope that no one had heard any of that - that this was just another occurrence she could sweep under the rug and hide from everyone else in her life, especially her children. When no one immediately pounces on her with questions as to who was at the door or what they wanted, a false sense of relief washes over her and she finally extracts herself from the wall to head back into the kitchen and continue on with her night. Because that was all she really could do.

Of course, it’s as soon as she rounds the corner that her heart drops right back into her stomach at the sight of her youngest daughter standing in the middle of the kitchen. “Colette,” she breathes out the girl’s name, ready to ask what she was doing down here or how long she’d been standing there - only to be cut off before any other word could get out. Fuck. It was clear that she had heard at least part of what had just happened, but how much was the question. Despite the fact that she had told herself she was going to stop lying to the children as often, Lilah couldn’t help the way her first and most obvious instinct kicked in without thought. A soft, forced laugh escapes her as she shakes her head in an attempt to play nonchalant. “It was just your grandmother. We had a bit of an argument, nothing for you to worry about,” she answers easily, not even a lie but certainly far from the whole truth. “But what are you doing down here? Did you want some dessert? I saved you some in case you changed your mind and came down - or wanted any later tonight, you don’t need to have it right now if you’re still not up to it.” It was an obvious attempt to distract Colette from everything she had just potentially witnessed - one that she desperately hoped the younger girl would just accept and move forward with.

-timeskip to later that night-

Tonight was one of the few times Colette had ever confided in her mom about her relationship—or lack thereof now—of which there were many instances of similarity that occurred between her and her ex but this time, it was final. If anything, this was the time it meant most for her that her mom just sat down and listened and comforted her, and, most importantly, it was the first time she really wanted her mom to be there. Given her parent’s divorce, she figured that her mom could relate to finding a limit within a relationship. Even if she couldn’t, wasn’t the best thing a parent could do is, simply, be there? The fact that Colette could cast aside her harbored hostility towards her mom for one night definitely revealed that answer.

Why the hell anyone was showing up after Thanksgiving dinner was a perplexing enough question to get the young girl out of bed and ready to fight with whoever rang the doorbell so late at night. She figured it was just a prank, or something stupid along those lines, not even considering it was could have been sort of emergency or someone asking for help. And she was partially right, it wasn’t an emergency. She knew the voices that were shut out by the front door very well and was very close to opening the door herself to bring herself to a conversation that didn’t sound like it needed her at all. As she got closer to the door she could make out what her mother was saying, talks of the abuse she went through when she was married. It was something she was prepared to hear, with Tramp saying she would use an excuse like that to justify the divorce and that it wasn’t true at all. But when the words came from Lilah, it was hard to see her making it up. She spoke of it with such conviction, enough to consider that maybe her dad did her wrong and that maybe he really was capable of hurting Lilah.

Colette could sense their conversation coming to a close and out of panic she moved from the entryway to the kitchen, if only just to regain a sense of normalcy instead of having to rethink everything she’d ever known. But that seemed like a short-lived event when all of a sudden her mom entered the room to resume putting away the rest of tonight’s dinner. It wasn’t something she was going to ignore, there was no way she couldn’t ask about it and so she did. “What the hell was that?”

#in a kind and wistful way ;; threads #colette

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ryuunchi · 4 months ago

Note

Hii! Could I request Jotaro doing something special for the reader for Valentine's Day? Thank you, and have a nice day :D

Hii anon here's a Valentines Day with Joot <3 based on your request hope you like it :)

Love in His Own Way

The classroom buzzed with excitement. Pink and red decorated the hallways, students exchanged chocolates, and the air smelled of sugar and fresh roses. Your classmates were caught up in the Valentine’s Day spirit, chatting about their plans, handing out gifts, and giggling about their crushes. You weren’t necessarily jealous, but you couldn’t help but feel a little wistful.

Your boyfriend, Jotaro Kujo, sat at his desk, completely unbothered. His hat cast a shadow over his eyes, arms crossed as he ignored the love-filled chaos around him. You knew he wasn’t a fan of Valentine’s Day. In fact, he openly expressed his distaste for it.

It’s annoying, he muttered earlier when you brought it up. All these fangirls trying to give me gifts, I hate it.

You understood where he was coming from. After all, Jotaro was already in a relationship with you, and he made it clear that he had no interest in anyone else.You know your boyfriend isn’t actually the public display of affection type of person but still a tiny part of you wished he’d do something sweet just once.

The day dragged on, and Jotaro remained his usual self. He avoided the girls trying to shower him with gifts, barely acknowledged Valentine’s decorations, and kept his usual stoic demeanor. As classes ended and the sky turned into a soft shade of pink, you resigned yourself to the fact that today wouldn’t be anything special.

That was until Jotaro met you outside the school gates, hands in his pockets.

Come with me, he said simply.

Curious but not expecting much, you followed. He led you away from the bustling streets, walking in silence until you reached a quiet spot by the river. The gentle sound of water flowing mixed with the distant chirping of birds settling in for the night.

You turned to him, confused. “Jotaro, what—”

Before you could finish, he pulled something out from behind his back—a small, neatly wrapped box with a simple ribbon. He thrust it toward you, avoiding eye contact.

“…Here.”

Your heart nearly stopped. Jotaro Kujo, the same guy who grumbled about Valentine’s Day all morning, was now standing in front of you, awkwardly handing you a present.

You took the box and opened it. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, a small charm shaped like a star dangling from it. It was simple yet elegant, something that had clearly been picked out with care.

I know you like this kind of thing, he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. And… I figured if I was gonna do something, I should at least get you something you’d actually wear.

You blinked, still processing. Jotaro… you actually—?

He let out a small sigh. Look, I still think Valentine’s Day is stupid, but… I didn’t want you to feel left out.His voice softened, and for the first time that day, his gaze met yours. “You’re important to me.”

Warmth flooded your chest, and a bright smile stretched across your face. Overwhelmed with affection, you threw your arms around him, ignoring the way he stiffened at first before hesitantly wrapping an arm around you in return.

Thank you Jojo, you murmured, gripping the bracelet tightly, this means a lot.

He grumbled something under his breath, but you caught the slight pink tint on his cheeks before he pulled his hat down further.

Yeah, yeah. Good grief don’t make a big deal out of it.

You giggled, threading your fingers through his as you began walking home together. Maybe Jotaro wasn’t the most romantic guy, but moments like this? They were worth more than a thousand bouquets of roses.

And for you, this was the best Valentine’s Day ever.

As you walked, you noticed Jotaro glancing at you every so often, his gaze flickering toward the bracelet on your wrist. It was subtle, but you could tell he wanted something. You stopped in your tracks and looked at him curiously.

Why did we stop? he asked, acting as though he hadn’t been staring.

You tilted your head, trying to find the words, but instead, you recognized that look in his eyes. He wanted something but wouldn’t say it outright.

You really like that bracelet, huh? he asked, voice quieter than before.

You smiled. “Yeah, I do.

Jotaro hesitated, then muttered, You know, a thank you or— He paused, his gaze shifting toward you. You blinked, confused for a second before it clicked.

Oh. He wanted a kiss.

A soft chuckle left your lips before you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. His usual grumpy expression cracked for just a moment, a rare and genuine smile slipping through. It was brief, but you saw it pure happiness in his eyes.

You know, you teased, “if you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just told me.”

Jotaro huffed, his hat dipping lower as he looked away. Tch. I didn’t want it anyway.

But even as he tried to deny it, the warmth lingering in his expression told you otherwise. And honestly? That made your heart flutter even more.

#jjba #jotaro kujo #jjba jotaro #jotaro x reader #jotaro x y/n #jjba fanfic #jojo kimyou na bouken #jojo's bizarre adventure #ryu answers #jotaro req

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satinritual · 1 month ago

Text

TETHERED.

CHAPTER TWO: Ghosts in the Walls

Summary: Even the smallest trip down memory lane brings up things you’d rather forget.

Wc: 2.7k

Previous Chapter | Series’ Masterlist.

The sun, at its zenith, poured pale light through the half-drawn curtains of your childhood home, threading long, wavering beams of soft gold across the living room’s worn hardwood floor. Dust motes danced in the glow, suspended in the stillness, as you stood at the threshold, one hand gripping the doorframe, the wood cool and familiar under your fingertips. You felt like an intruder in your own past, unsure of your place in this house that smelled of old pine and faded memories.

Yesterday, you’d unpacked your clothes with mechanical precision—folding shirts and sweaters with the same detached efficiency you’d once used to bury pain, to silence the echoes of a life you’d fled. Each crease smoothed, each hanger aligned, had been a small act of control, a way to anchor yourself in the chaos of returning home. But now was different. Now, you faced the rest—the remnants of a life you’d tried to leave behind, now waiting in worn cardboard boxes stacked precariously by the front door, like relics from a time you weren’t sure you could reclaim.

You approached the boxes slowly, deliberately, your sneakers scuffing softly against the floor, the sound swallowed by the quiet of the house. The cardboard was rough under your hands, edges frayed and softened from years of being shuffled between apartments, storage units, and now here, back in Jackson. Each box bore a different weight—not just physical but emotional, a different shade of nostalgia, regret, or ache. You dragged them one by one to the center of the room, the scrape of cardboard against wood a grating reminder of the task ahead. Arranging them in a loose semicircle, you felt like an archaeologist unearthing fragments of a self you’d forgotten—or tried to.

Kneeling before the first box, you pried open the flaps, the tape brittle and peeling, releasing a faint puff of dust that tickled your nose. The scent of aged paper and old ink hit you first, sharp and bittersweet, like opening a book long untouched. Inside lay a jumble of novels, their spines cracked and faded, pages yellowed from time’s relentless march. These were your childhood treasures, once lovingly stacked in the corner of your bookshelf, unread for years but never discarded. You lifted one—a dog-eared copy of The Secret Garden—its cover soft under your fingers, the title embossed in flaking gold. The smell of dust clung to it, but beneath that, a ghost of pine, as if the trees from your backyard had seeped into the pages, tethering them to this house, this town. You traced the spine, your thumb catching on a tear, and felt a pang, a quiet longing for the girl who’d read these stories under the covers, flashlight in hand, believing the world was kind.

Setting the book aside, you dug deeper, your fingers brushing something small and smooth at the bottom. You pulled it out, heart stuttering as you recognized it—a ceramic bird, no bigger than your palm, painted in vibrant reds and yellows, its wings outstretched in eternal flight. Cracks marred its surface, deep fissures where it had shattered years ago, glued back together with clumsy care, the seams visible like scars. You turned it over in your hands, the glaze cool against your skin, and a small, wistful smile tugged at your lips. You remembered the day it broke—your clumsy teenage hands knocking it from the shelf, your father’s patient voice as he helped you piece it together, promising it was still beautiful, flaws and all. You set it carefully on the mantel, its bright colors stark against the room’s muted tones, half-hoping its presence would mend something in you.

Your movements slowed, meditative, as you opened the next box, revealing a stack of family photos, their glossy surfaces dulled by time, edges curling like leaves brittle with autumn. You hadn’t planned to linger, but the weight of the images drew you in, each one a chapter of a life you hadn’t revisited in years. You sat cross-legged on the floor, the hardwood cold through your jeans, and began to sort them, placing each beside the growing pile of books.

The first photo stole your breath—a snapshot of you at five or six, perched on your father’s shoulders, your small hand reaching for the sky, as if you could pluck a star from the heavens. Your smile was wide, unguarded, eyes sparkling with a joy so pure it felt foreign now. The sight of your father’s younger face, his grin broad and proud, twisted something deep in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much you’d leaned on him then, how his love had been your anchor, unshakable, before the world taught you it could break.

The next photo was from a camping trip in high school, the summer after your mother left. You stood beside your father, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your embrace raw, needy, a silent plea for stability. His flannel shirt was rumpled, his eyes tired but warm, and you could almost feel the crackle of the campfire, the chill of the night air pressing against your skin, the ache of loss that had settled in your bones. Her absence had hollowed the house, left echoes in every room, and you’d clung to him, your protector, your world, as if he could shield you from the void she’d left behind. You lingered on the image, your fingers tracing the edges, the memory a weight you hadn’t carried in years.

Then, buried beneath these fragments of joy, you found a photo you hadn’t expected, tucked away like a secret the universe meant to hide. Your breath caught, a sharp, painful hitch, as you pulled it free. It was you and him—your ex—at your last Christmas together, a time when you’d clung to desperate hope, convincing yourself things would change. In the photo, you smiled, arms around his waist, his lips brushing your cheek, a gesture you’d mistaken for love. The image was a lie, a frozen moment of denial, and staring at it now, the memories flooded back, unbidden, a tide too strong to hold.

His voice echoed in your mind, sharp and cutting, each word a blade you hadn’t dodged. “You’re too fucking sensitive, you know that? Just be normal for once.” “Why do you always make everything about you? You’re exhausting.” “It’s not my fault you can’t take a fucking joke.” The insults replayed, relentless, each one a reminder of how he’d chipped away at you, shrinking you into someone you didn’t recognize.

Your hands trembled, fingers clutching the photo too tightly, the edges crumpling under the pressure. How had you let him do that? How had you let someone convince you your heart, your softness, your self was a flaw? The shame burned, hot and bitter, mingling with the grief of losing who you’d been before him.

“Fuck you,” you whispered to the photo, your voice barely audible, a shaky defiance that felt too late. You shoved it back into the box, burying it beneath the others, your breath coming in short, jagged bursts. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, the weight of the memories suffocating. How long had you been broken without seeing it? How long had you carried this shame, this hollowed-out version of yourself, without questioning it? The boxes loomed around you, their contents spilled across the floor like a map of your fractures, and for a moment, you wanted to burn them, to erase every trace of the past that clung to you like damp rot. But you forced yourself to at least place all the books back in your bookshelf, it was a minimum effort, but at least you were trying.

But beneath the pain, a flicker stirred—a quiet, stubborn spark of something new. It was faint, fragile, but undeniable, a whisper of possibility, of healing, of reclaiming the pieces you’d lost. You clung to it, letting it anchor you as you rose, brushing dust from your jeans, your hands still trembling but steadier now. You shoved the heaviest box into the corner, its contents a chaotic spill of books and trinkets, and stepped back, wiping sweat from your brow. The task wasn’t finished, but it was enough for now. Enough to breathe.

Downstairs, the low hum of the baseball game crackled from the radio, mingling with the muffled voices of your father and Joel, their laughter a distant, grounding sound that tugged you from the spiral of your thoughts. You paused at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister, the wood smooth and worn from years of touch. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but their words drifted up, clear and unguarded, pulling you closer, as if they held the key to understanding the strange, liminal space you occupied.

“…never seen her like this,” your father said, his voice low, heavy with a vulnerability you rarely heard. The words carried a raw edge, a crack in the steady facade he’d always worn, even after your mother left. “She’s always been so good at holding it together, better than me when her mom… you know. And now, I don’t know what’s going on. She quit her job, Joel, packed up her whole life and came back. She’s never done anything like that. I’m worried she’s… I don’t know, breaking down, or maybe she really needs this, and I just don’t know how to help.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot of guilt and unease tightening with every syllable. Hearing your father voice his concern made it real, undeniable, a mirror held up to the choices you’d made. You hadn’t realized how your sudden return, your abrupt unraveling, looked to him—the man who’d been your rock, who’d pieced you back together after every fall. His worry was palpable, a weight you hadn’t meant to place on his shoulders, and it stung to know you’d shaken his unshakeable calm.

Joel’s response was softer, measured, the kind of tone that soothes without promising too much. “She’s just goin’ through somethin’, man. Happens to everyone. People process in their own way, at their own pace. Give her time.” His voice carried a quiet conviction, rough around the edges but steady, like he’d seen enough of life’s storms to know they passed.

Your father sighed, the sound heavy, resigned. “I know, I know. I’m glad she’s home, don’t get me wrong. But she’s actin’ like she’s cut herself off from everything she had out there. Her job, her friends, her whole life. I don’t want her to regret this, Joel. I don’t want her to wake up one day and realize she threw it all away.”

A thick silence followed, charged with unspoken fears, and you held your breath, your fingers tightening on the banister. Your actions, your retreat to Jackson, weren’t just yours anymore—they were ripples, touching the people who loved you, exposing their own vulnerabilities. The realization was a quiet ache, a reminder that you weren’t alone in this, even if it felt that way.

When Joel spoke again, his voice was calm, but there was a depth to it, a hint of something personal, almost protective. “She’s stronger than you think. She’ll figure it out. Just… be there. That’s all you can do.” The words were simple, but they landed like a lifeline, soothing the raw edges of your heart. You weren’t sure if he meant them for your father or himself, but they reached you, stirring that fragile spark of hope. Maybe he was right. Maybe you could rebuild, piece by piece, even if you didn’t know how yet.

Your throat tightened, a lump forming where words should have been. How could you explain this storm inside you—the confusion, the shame, the exhaustion of carrying a past that felt like a bruise? You hadn’t expected them to see you so clearly, to talk about you with such raw concern, and it left you exposed, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t prepared for. You lingered a moment longer, letting their voices fade as the radio’s static took over, the announcer’s drone a welcome distraction.

Stepping outside, you pushed open the front door, the cool evening air hitting you like a balm, sharp and clean, scented with pine and damp grass, the smell of Jackson, of home. The porch stretched before you, its wooden planks weathered and creaking under your weight as you hesitated, unsure whether to join them or retreat back to the safety of your room. The sky was a bruise of purples and golds, the sun dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the lawn. Your father and Joel sat on the porch swing, beers in hand, the radio perched on the railing, its tinny voice narrating the game.

Your father looked up first, his smile warm but tinged with that same silent plea you’d seen in his eyes before—a hope that you were okay, that you’d find your way. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, his voice easy, inviting, patting the space beside him on the swing. “Join us. Game’s tied, bottom of the eighth. Could use your luck.”

You managed a small nod, but your feet stayed rooted, your body too restless to settle. The weight of the day—of the boxes, the photos, their conversation—still pressed against you, making the idea of sitting, of pretending everything was normal, feel impossible. “Maybe in a bit,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, barely audible over the radio.

Joel’s gaze found you then, his eyes darker in the fading light, more intense than your father’s, searching for something you weren’t sure you could give. He didn’t smile, but his expression softened, his brows knitting slightly, as if he saw the storm behind your eyes and recognized it. He held out a beer, the bottle sweating in the evening chill, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting second as you reached for it—a touch that lingered, warm and grounding, sparking a quiet awareness you weren’t ready to name. “Want one?” he asked, his voice rough but not unkind, the low timbre carrying a weight that made your pulse skip.

You shook your head, the gesture automatic, your fingers curling back into your palm, still tingling from his touch. “No, thanks,” you said, your voice steadier now, though your heart wasn’t. You stepped back, leaning against the porch railing, the wood digging into your hip, a small discomfort to anchor you.

Joel studied you a moment longer, his gaze lingering, not pressing but curious, like he was trying to read a language he didn’t fully understand. “You holdin’ up okay?” he asked, the question soft, almost an afterthought, but the sincerity in it caught you off guard. His eyes held yours, steady, searching, and for a moment, you felt seen—too seen, like he could glimpse the cracks you’d tried to hide.

“Yeah,” you lied, the word slipping out before you could stop it, your voice tight. “Just… settling in.” You forced a small smile, hoping it would deflect, but Joel’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if he didn’t quite believe you, though he didn’t push.

Your father adjusted the radio dial, the static clearing to the announcer’s excited call, and the moment passed, the tension easing like a held breath released. “Damn game’s gonna kill me,” your dad muttered, leaning back in the swing, his grin returning, though his eyes still flicked to you with that quiet worry.

You stayed on the porch a while longer, the cool air soothing the heat in your chest, the sounds of the game and their banter a backdrop to your swirling thoughts. The world felt smaller now, the house’s walls closing in, but out here, under the vast, bruised sky, you could breathe. You didn’t know what lay ahead, didn’t know how to untangle the mess of your past or rebuild the life you’d fled. But as you glanced at Joel, his profile sharp against the fading light, and your father, his laughter a familiar anchor, you felt that spark again—small, fragile, but alive.

Maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to yourself, one cracked, beautiful piece at a time.

Next Chapter | Series Masterlist.

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ladylilah · 1 year ago

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“And you’re sure of that? You’re willing to bet your life on it?” she shoots back, not ready to back down. Not on this, nor any part of the argument they were currently having. For all she might have gained a good amount of trust in the other man recently, thanks to his actions in helping Atta and agreeing to also assist with handling the entire situation with Tristan, that didn’t mean she was ready to just throw her son’s life on the line and expect Buster to give enough of a shit to save him. “Because I’m not. And I’ve known him far longer and far better than you have.”

Shaking her head ever so slightly right before Scamp leaned forward to rest his own against her forehead, Lilah refused to go down so easily on this. Her son may not have realized or even cared how close he had been to dying all those months ago, but she did. And she wasn’t about to just let that happen again - not if there was anything she could do to stop it. It was the exact feeling that he had just admitted himself, only it wasn’t right for him to have to worry about her like that. She was the mother - she was the one that was supposed to do everything in her power to protect him, not the other way around. “And I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything else happened to you. Sammy, you don’t need to worry about me, alright? I know what I’m doing.” Or at least, that’s what she needed him to believe. Letting out a long breath through her nose, she closed her eyes tight for a moment as she genuinely considered that option. It wasn’t one she liked - but it was at least better than Scamp running behind her back and getting involved on his own. “Fine. But if things look like they’re going south, you run. No matter what might happen to me. Understood?”

"That's not true," he argued, despite not really knowing if it was the truth or not. For all he knew, Buster didn't give a single shit about him, and was just using him in some long game to get back at his father for the years of resentment they shared. But there was a larger part of him that believed that the man did care about him, despite what his mother said. There was a new energy to their relationship that had only come with a common enemy. And, if the rumors were true, he and Atta were still technically married--not that he knew much about their relationship, but he was sure at this point that she at least had his best interests in mind.

For all that had nearly happened to him, Scamp hadn't really thought too much about his own mortality since being shot. People were killed and nearly so every day in his job; it was bound to happen at some point. Having Hopper there was just part of the contingency plan in place for when things like this happened. So, though his mother had clearly been shaken by the experience of nearly watching her son die, Scamp hadn't considered just how close to death he'd come in the same way. It had felt more real when Hopper had pointed a gun in his face the first time, without even shooting. "Nothing's going to happen to me," Scamp insisted. "He's going to come after you, Mom, and I can't have anything happen to you without trying to stop him. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if that happened." They weren't going to get anywhere like this, both insistent on what they needed to do. He sighed, resting his own forehead on hers. "What if ... we talk to him together, or something? A compromise. At least give me one conversation, please."

#in a kind and wistful way ;; threads #scamp

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starpains · 2 months ago

Note

Ooh! Ooh! From the prompts:

"Surprise kiss during laughter"

Ooooh! Thanks for this prompt! Here are our boys, on some random diplomatic mission, on a very nice planet 🥰:

The local wine tasted faintly of citrus and smoke, and the sun—low now, just skimming the rim of the distant hills—bathed the plaza in amber. Anakin didn’t care about the wine, or the food, or the way the bench they sat on tilted slightly toward the fountain. He only cared about the man beside him, half-turned toward the sound of children's laughter.

Obi-Wan's gaze followed them—four children darting in and out of the fountain's spray, shrieking as the droplets caught in their hair, splashed their sandals, turned their tunics translucent in places. He wasn’t smiling broadly, not exactly. It was subtler than that. A soft curve of his mouth, touched with something else. Something wistful. Something like longing.

Anakin could guess what he was thinking. That in a galaxy fractured by war, moments like this—unburdened joy, innocent laughter—were rarer than kyber crystals on Tatooine. That it felt almost sacred, to see children play as if the world weren’t on fire.

He thought of everything they’d survived—Geonosis, Jabiim, Umbara. The nights when neither of them slept, the days when the losses bled together. And how through it all, Obi-Wan had stayed by his side. Stubborn, resilient, maddeningly composed. And so damn close.

He looked at him now. At the stripe of silver threading through his temple, far too early for a man his age. At the lines carved beside his eyes—etched deep, permanent, the kind that didn’t fade when the laughing stopped. Signs of a burden too long carried, of a man worn thin by duty and grief.

And still—there was light in him.

The sun caught in his hair, which shimmered like it couldn't decide whether it was more ginger or gold. The few days they'd spent here—under bright skies and slower hours—had coaxed out the freckles scattered across his cheekbones, faint and sun-warmed. His beard was as neatly trimmed as ever, but the lift of his mustache from his genuine smile made him look very different.

And then—he laughed. A sudden, delighted bark, unguarded and alive. He turned to Anakin, already speaking, breathless with amusement. “And then the smallest one—he just—”

But Anakin didn’t hear the rest.

He saw only the way Obi-Wan’s eyes sparked with joy. The animation in his face. The echo of laughter in the lines that time had etched there. Something pulled at him—urgent, invisible, undeniable.

He didn’t register it when he leaned in.

He caught the tail end of Obi-Wan’s sentence on his lips, cut him off mid-word with the press of his mouth. It wasn’t planned. It was a gravitational pull, sudden and irresistible.

Obi-Wan froze.

Anakin waited for it—the cold shift, the hands pushing him back, the inevitable guilt. But it didn’t come.

Obi-Wan didn’t move. Didn’t retreat.

So Anakin dared a little more.

He adjusted the angle of the kiss, lips brushing gently, seeking a better fit. His heart was a wild, staggering thing in his chest. He was about to pull away—when Obi-Wan made a sound. Soft, startled. And then—

He kissed him back.

Carefully. Tentatively. Like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening either. But it deepened, moment by moment. Their mouths found a rhythm—slow, uncertain, then steadier. Like they’d done this before. Like they’d always meant to.

Still, Obi-Wan didn’t pull away.

When they finally parted, Anakin felt as if the world had quieted. He could hear the fountain again, the children's laughter, the clink of dishes nearby—but it all felt distant. Unimportant. He looked at Obi-Wan, searching his face for answers, though he was the one who had started it.

Obi-Wan stared back, stunned, lips parted slightly.

Then his expression shifted. Not to regret, or refusal. But to something gentler. He huffed a laugh—half-bewildered, half-fond—and gave the smallest shake of his head.

And he didn’t turn away.

Instead, he reached for Anakin’s hand. Their fingers slid together easily, like they’d always meant to find each other.

“Maybe it’s selfish,” Obi-Wan said, voice quiet and steady, “but these kids made me realize… not everything has to be dreadful just because there’s a war.”

He gave Anakin’s hand a squeeze. His eyes didn’t waver.

“Maybe this is our one good thing, hm?”

#obikin #starpains writing #tumblr-exclusive

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anythinggoesbutme · 2 months ago

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Threads of Control

Chapter three of the White Gloves & Coal Dust series

Peacekeeper!Coriolanus Snow x Everdeen!Reader

Previous Chapters: Click Here

Warnings: emotional manipulation, stalking, invasion of privacy, mild physical intimidation, implied obsession, power imbalance, possessive behavior

Synopsis: Coriolanus begins weaving himself deeper into the Everdeen family’s life—first by charming Hazelle with unexpected favors, then by conducting unofficial “inspections” to learn everything he can about Y/N. But when he finds her alone in a field, he can no longer restrain the tension he feels—cornering her in a moment that blurs the line between attention and control.

Word Count: 2,640

It began with firewood.

Two nights after his unprompted delivery of rations, a small bundle of split pine logs appeared neatly stacked outside the Everdeen home. No note. No knock. Just the wood—dry, clean, and clearly not from District 12’s haphazard stockpiles.

Hazelle noticed it first.

The next time it happened, she waited by the window and caught the flash of a gray uniform disappearing into the trees.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said the following morning when he returned. Her tone was light, amused, touched even. “We manage fine.”

Coriolanus offered her the kind of smile he’d practiced in mirrors since boyhood. Not dazzling, but soft—meant to disarm, to suggest sincerity. He clasped his gloved hands behind his back like he always did when trying to appear harmless.

“I don’t mind,” he said, tone gentle. “It’s no trouble. I had some left from a run the Capitol sent us.”

Which wasn’t true.

But he was finding that the best lies were rooted in just enough plausibility to pass.

Hazelle tilted her head at him, looking through him the way all mothers do when weighing someone’s intent. “Most Peacekeepers don’t go out of their way,” she said, and there was a hint of suspicion there. Barely a sliver.

He let it sit between them for a breath before shrugging, looking almost sheepish. “Most Peacekeepers didn’t grow up with wood fires. I did. I know how miserable it is to wake up cold.”

Hazelle’s features softened. “Capitol boy, were you?”

“Once.” He smiled again, this time with a touch of wistful sadness. “A long time ago.”

The moment passed. She invited him inside.

From there, the offerings became more frequent. Small things. Intentional things.

A vial of medicine when Burdock came home coughing soot. A loaf of bread on a week when the rations had been thin. A fresh needle for Hazelle’s mending basket.

He never asked to stay long. He made a point not to overstay his welcome. But he was careful—always careful—to speak to Hazelle directly, to meet her eyes, to listen when she spoke.

When she mentioned her late husband, he bowed his head respectfully and didn’t pry. When she joked about how Burdock never learned to split logs properly, Coriolanus laughed along, as if the image of her son’s clumsy work amused him.

And always—always—he paid attention to the details.

He noted when their roof leaked. He noted when their flour was nearly gone. He listened when Hazelle spoke of her daughter’s stubbornness, her sharp tongue, her tendency to disappear into the woods for hours.

He tucked it all away like pieces in a puzzle he was beginning to see clearly.

Not out of malice.

At least, not openly.

Coriolanus told himself this was strategy. Necessary scaffolding. If Hazelle trusted him, if she thought of him as kind, generous, different from the others—it would be easier when the time came.

Easier to draw her daughter in.

Because kindness, he’d learned, was often the best leash.

And he intended to keep the Everdeens exactly where he wanted them—warm, fed, and inch by inch… dependent.

It was during one of his “inspections” that Coriolanus began to cross lines.

His eyes lingered on the cracks in the walls, the old, rusting stove that sputtered when it wasn’t being tended to, the way the floorboards creaked underfoot. He noted every detail—anomalies, signs of neglect—and made mental notes to ensure that Hazelle wouldn’t be able to dismiss them later.

But that wasn’t all.

One afternoon, after a particularly cold morning that had left Hazelle in a long, tired fit of coughing, he knocked on the door with the same pleasantries, the same tight smile. He had come, as always, under the guise of goodwill—bearing medicine, a few extra rations. But today, his visit wasn’t just to check on their health.

“I was just making sure everything’s in order,” he explained casually when Hazelle opened the door, the same practiced gentleness in his voice.

She frowned, slightly puzzled. “Everything’s fine, Coriolanus.”

“Just a standard procedure,” he insisted, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, like he belonged. “It’s my duty to ensure the district is… well, functioning properly.”

She raised an eyebrow, and he caught the flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. She wasn’t fully convinced, but neither was she opposed. Hazelle had learned to pick her battles, and this was a small one in her mind.

“I’m not sure it’s necessary,” she said, but she let him in anyway, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “The place is a bit of a mess, though. I’m just trying to keep things together.”

“I understand,” he said smoothly, walking past her and toward the back room with the kitchen and the small hallway that led to the bedrooms. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Just a quick look around.”

Hazelle nodded, still unsure but not wanting to seem ungrateful. She was a mother, and mothering was never simple—especially when survival was in question.

Coriolanus moved through the house with careful steps, feigning the air of a man simply trying to be thorough in his duties. He ran his fingers along the walls as if he were checking for mildew, though he had already seen the state of the rooms a dozen times before, noting which spots were particularly neglected, which places seemed to hold more attention than others.

But his interest wasn’t on the structure. It wasn’t even on the food or the firewood he’d already provided.

It was on her daughter’s room.

He had seen it before, of course, when he’d delivered the ration baskets or medicine. But this time, the door was closed. The walls were lined with books, the air smelling faintly of dried flowers and old paper. This time, he didn’t ask permission to enter.

The door creaked when he nudged it open.

His eyes scanned quickly—fingers twitching at the sight of a journal, the corner of a notebook peeking out from the bed’s thin quilt. He saw the books she kept, the tattered edges of pages she’d read and reread in her solitude.

His eyes didn’t linger there, though. They focused on the small drawer tucked underneath the desk.

He slid the drawer open slowly, his fingers brushing against something soft. Her undergarments—folded neatly, as if by her mother, but unmistakably hers.

He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a smirk. It wasn’t the undergarments that held his attention, but the silent reminder that he could, at any time, invade. That she was vulnerable in ways she didn’t yet realize.

As he turned back to the desk, his eyes found the journal. The leather binding was worn from use, the pages filling with words that weren’t meant for anyone else’s eyes.

It was easy. Too easy.

He slid the journal out, holding it in one hand, inspecting the worn corners. He was careful, moving it between his fingers with delicate precision as he flipped it open to a random page. It was the same as everything else—fragile, small, and filled with the secrets of a life he didn’t know yet but was desperate to understand.

“It was never supposed to be this way,” he read silently. “The Peacekeepers will burn everything. They’ll take everything from us, and there will be nothing left. There’s nothing to stop them.”

His stomach clenched, but he didn’t let it show.

This was the truth. This was the essence of her world—of the world he was threading himself into with every calculated move.

He read for a few more moments before shutting the book softly, placing it back where it belonged. But the taste of the words lingered in his mind, and he kept them locked away.

The entire inspection had taken only minutes. But to Coriolanus, it felt like hours.

By the time he returned downstairs, Hazelle was standing by the fire, her face glowing in the amber light as she wiped her hands on her apron. She gave him an expectant look, but he only offered a polite smile.

“It seems you’re doing well here,” he said, masking the sharpness in his tone. “A few small issues here and there, but nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Hazelle smiled at him, too trusting, too eager to please. “Thank you, Coriolanus. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

He nodded, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment too long.

“We’ll keep it quiet for now,” he said, his voice almost conspiratorial. “But I’ll be back soon to check on things again. For your own good.”

“Of course,” she said, never questioning, never doubting. “Thank you. You’ve been a real help to us.”

He left the Everdeen home shortly after that, the day’s quiet events hanging in the air like smoke, thick and choking. Outside, the chill had settled in, but his mind was focused on the cracks in the walls, the corners of the home, the hidden places he knew so well now.

It wasn’t long before he’d wear down their resistance completely.

The following afternoon was quiet. The air was dry, crisp, and the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the landscape of District 12. Coriolanus had completed his routine patrols, his eyes always searching for the smallest hint of disobedience. His mind was preoccupied with plans—plans to secure his position, to tighten his hold on this district, on her.

He wasn’t expecting her.

It was by pure chance that he wandered out of the district’s borders that day. There was a narrow path behind the mine, a route he’d come to know well over the past few weeks. He had no reason to be there, no official inspection, but it was a part of his ever-expanding territory.

That’s when he saw her.

In the middle of the field, under the watchful eye of a fading sun, Y/N sat on the ground, a basket in her lap. She was hunched slightly, her eyes focused on the small creatures around her, moving softly, carefully. It was like a secret little world, tucked away from the rest of the district—a world where rabbits and wild animals could find solace in the quiet space she had claimed.

Her dark hair was loose, falling in waves down her back, slightly curling from the moisture of the morning rain. She didn’t hear him approach. The sound of the soft breeze and the rustling leaves masked the light crunch of his boots against the ground. It wasn’t until he was just behind her, standing near the edge of the tree line, that she turned, startled.

Her face shifted immediately, from calm neutrality to surprise. Her eyes, wide with sudden recognition, narrowed as she saw him. The change was instant. She didn’t have to say a word for him to know her thoughts. It was in the way her posture stiffened, the slight, almost imperceptible clenching of her jaw.

“Coriolanus,” she said, her voice low—almost forced, like she was willing herself not to show more disdain than she already had.

He stood a few feet away, smiling with the sort of half-amused arrogance that had become second nature to him. The breeze fluttered his uniform, and he stepped forward, his eyes never leaving her face. “What a charming little haven you’ve created out here, Y/N.”

She didn’t respond immediately, though her eyes flicked to the rabbits, the animals that had become her companions in this lonely stretch of land. Her eyes softened for just a second, but then they snapped back to him, her expression hardening.

“I didn’t think you’d be out here,” she remarked coolly, standing up, brushing the dirt from her skirt. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

Coriolanus chuckled softly, his gaze never leaving her. He knew what she was trying to do—trying to push him away with coldness, but he had learned by now that she was more fragile than she let on. “I always find time for the most interesting people,” he replied smoothly, walking closer.

She stepped back instinctively, her hand brushing against the basket of food she had been offering the rabbits. Her eyes darted between him and the small creatures, clearly wanting to retreat into her quiet sanctuary, but Coriolanus wasn’t ready to let her hide just yet.

He was too close now.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice lower, as though a more intimate conversation were unfolding. “It’s dangerous to be alone out here, don’t you think?”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, taking a step back toward the basket of food, but Coriolanus moved before she could get away. He caught her wrist with an almost casual grip, his fingers tightening just enough to draw her attention. She blinked, startled by the suddenness of the action, but he didn’t give her a chance to react.

With a single, controlled motion, he stepped closer, pushing her lightly against the rough trunk of a nearby tree. Her back hit the bark with a soft thud, and she froze, her breath hitching in surprise.

She blinked, eyes wide now, not expecting the physicality from him, and for a split second, she seemed… vulnerable. It was a rare glimpse into her world, one where she wasn’t in control, one where she wasn’t the fierce, self-assured woman he had come to know.

“I thought,” he began, his voice low and teasing, “that you didn’t want to see me. Yet here we are, alone. Again.”

Her breath was steady, but her heart raced. Her eyes flicked to the ground, and she tugged lightly against his grip, trying to pull away from the tree, but his body was pressed so close now, a barrier between her and escape.

“I don’t want you here,” she said with a defiant edge, but the words felt more like a defense than a statement of truth. She couldn’t deny the tension between them. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t feeling it.

Coriolanus tilted his head, amused. “You don’t get to make that decision, Y/N.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything. She only stared at him, her pulse quickening under the weight of his gaze.

He didn’t let go of her wrist, though his grip loosened slightly, enough to allow her to move if she truly wanted to. He wasn’t worried. He knew she wouldn’t run. Not now.

“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” he added softly, as though there were nothing sinister about his presence. “It’s not a crime to enjoy each other’s company, is it?”

Y/N’s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and confusion, but there was a brief, flickering hesitation in her eyes—a conflict he could almost taste. It made her that much more fascinating. She didn’t want him there, didn’t want to admit that he had this hold over her, but the longer he stayed, the harder it would be for her to resist.

With a small, almost invisible sigh, Coriolanus finally let go of her wrist, taking a small step back, though his eyes remained fixed on hers. He smirked, enjoying the quiet tension that lingered between them, the way she refused to back down, even though he knew she was close to breaking.

“I’ll be seeing you around, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice a low murmur that only added to the weight of the moment.

He turned and left, his boots crunching against the dry earth as he walked away.

But as he disappeared from her sight, a lingering feeling settled in the pit of Y/N’s stomach. It wasn’t just the memory of his touch, or the way his presence had thrown her off balance. It was the realization that Coriolanus Snow wasn’t the kind of man to let anything—or anyone—go easily.

#the hunger games #coriolanus snow #hunger games fandom #thg series #coriolanus fic #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus fanfiction #peacekeepers #district 12 #fanfic #bookworm #tumblr fyp #fyp #fypツ

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nonnieapple · 8 months ago

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Afk journey, Sinbad, trans male/gender neutral reader, nsfw fanfiction. (I love this man very much)🤍

⛈️☂️Hook, Line, and Sinker☂️⛈️

• (Sinbad x trans!male!Reader)

• r a t i n g: e x p l i c i t • 4 1 4 0 w o r d s

• p o s t e d: 01.11.2024🌧️ navigation

n o t e: sinbad is so hot, i wish men were real :( s u m m a r y: sinbad walks in at the worst possible time, and the following events complicate your relationship further.

It was nearing night, and the hamsters were fast asleep as well as most guests of the inn.

When Sinbad walked into your room, you were staring out of the window with a wistful look, like the look his mothers had when they gazed out at the sea, remembering their husbands, lost forever to the fog and unrelenting waves. He wondered who you longed after, if anyone. Maybe you longed for home. Or for something he couldn't possibly imagine.

Before he closed the door, you broke the silence.

"You dare disturb my rest?"

Even turned away, you heard him. Your voice sent tingles up his leg. The room veered towards cold, the windows open, making the curtains flutter like sails.

"You're really living it up in here," Sinbad remarked, inviting himself to sit down on the fancy armchair flanked by another and a couch in the west of your room.

He hadn't ever been in it yet, and he was sure you wouldn't mind if he just sprawled out a little, he stretched, his boots hitting the leg of the short table. Lit candles sitting upon golden thrones flickered on it. Two glasses and a bottle were there as well.

"As I should, I was to have a vacation, and I'm still getting it, Cedartown or not." You made your way to the couch, your visage somewhat blurry from all the glamour swallowing up your form, the air around you swaying.

If he looked at you too long, he could see something was terribly wrong. It was not something anyone could notice at first, or at second sight, only those looking for it might begin to pull at the thread. He stopped examining you. He wasn't sure what he'd find.

You were like the fog that had almost killed him- leading him in mental circles until he went mad trying to get himself out of it.

Sinbad's leg jerked when you approached. You stood, close, your robe made of small, black, and knitted net. It should've revealed everything you wore under it- instead, everything around your chest and hips darkened and blurred.

The magic that wafted off you made his head spin. Or maybe it was that he drank too much. Sinbad sighed shakily as you ghosted your touch over his face, your eyes sharp and inhuman. The next second, they turned warm.

"Did you drink that swill again? Here, drink something good for once."

He barely caught the bottle you threw into his arms, and he thought, somewhat incredulously, You're too kind.

But, really, Magister- I don't know what to think of you. One second you wanna kill me and the next you're my savior.

I'll never know who you are, will I?

His eyes skimmed over the label. Dark liquid sloshed within darker green walls. "Woah! Fancy stuff. It's actually red."

The wine he was used to at most establishments was pale, watered down to save costs. You shrugged. You must've been used to good wine, good food, good people. He envied you.

"It's from an... old friend."

The way you said that with so much hesitance made his heart drop.

"They must be rich."

Sinbad popped open the bottle and poured himself some. He might as well indulge, and your room was a good place to do that. Upon second thought it might be questionable.

He had to hold back on drinking. He couldn't afford to do something stupid.

"Beyond that, and a massive drunkard I could never deny, but as I don't drink I have no use for his gifts." You took up the whole couch, propping up your head with a hand, the other playing idly with the belt of your delicate robe.

If he was to be mean, he'd liken you to a fish caught in a net, but he couldn't lie, you were more of a siren.

You hummed.

"I guess I could have a glass."

You poured yourself nearly half the bottle, and swallowed a third of the glass, drinking like a fish. He struggled not to gawk at you.

"Old friend... bet you have plenty of those. Not like it bothers me," he tacked on at the end, scratching at his scalp lightly.

The fireplace crackled and sputtered red. Strange, it gave off no warmth. Was it magic? Sheesh, what about you wasn't magic?

The rug beneath his boots was sure real, and a real good rug, too. If he were to get piss drunk he'd choose the rug over the street to pass out on. Oh, there were even pillows on the floor. Perfect.

"I mean it. We were friends, he isn't an old flame- as far as I know."

As far as you knew?

"You sure about that?" He raised a brow.

"Quite. Though one actual old flame, I wonder how she's doing. It's been a while, I last saw her in Holistone, it has been months since then. Damn Hogan for sending me on this "vacation", now I'm stuck in the middle of the sea with no idea when I'll see him or Valen. He should've gone with me."

Pushing aside his slight offense at the Rustport slander, you had mentioned General Hogan and Valen a few times. One was a Magistrate and, guess what, General of Holistone, the other some swashbuckling knight who, as he understood it, was hitting on you.

"Well, I'm glad he didn't."

"Hm? Why is that?" You smirked, your eyes glimmering like the wine you swished in your hand.

If Sinbad was pale, you would've seen his face lose color in an instant.

"I mean- I meant- he would've drowned in his armor, is all! It would've been worse than what happened to Chippy."

He drank quickly so he couldn't see your gloating expression.

"You're holding your glass like you're throttling a neck."

Even if he drank and drank, he still heard your voice, and if he plugged his ears, you'd get into his mind, too.

He couldn't tell if that was a way to hint at his discomfort or point out his terrible manners.

"I'm not much of a wine drinker."

You, on the other hand, held your glass between your thumb and forefinger ever so lightly. That fucking hand was calling him poor just at a glance.

"This better?" He emulated the way you did it, though it was nowhere near as graceful.

"Much better. The wine compliments your shirt."

The red, satin shirt, an illusion you cast, felt good nonetheless, and the wine was divine. It was bright, just sweet enough, and with a hint of berries and zest. It tasted more like the few fruits he had tried than the usual- as you put it- "swill" he drank.

It settled warmly in his chest, with the occasional sour tingle in his cheeks.

Sinbad didn't want to leave your room. It was fancy, and more importantly, it had wine AND you.

"How've you been?" You said between sips, your expression softening.

"Good. I've been spending a lot of time poking around the ship, avoiding going to Brineville so I don't have to explain myself. Things are better than before I met ya, anyway, I can finally do what I want, and... everything's so calm."

It was strange to not have to think about every little expense anymore for the village now that no one threatened its safety, and he was essentially a "hero". Sure, he still had to make money somehow and Rustport was as rusty as ever, but so much had been lifted off his shoulders.

By you, no less.

He'd said he'd repay you. That nagged at his mind sometimes. What could you possibly want?

It was nothing to worry about. It wouldn't be worse than what he had gone through.

"Planning on leaving soon?"

If he wasn't mistaken, he saw you frown ever so slightly.

"Not yet. I've got a lot to do here before I leave. What about you?"

You threw back your head and let your hair spill over the edge of the couch.

"You know, been here and there, helping people as I do, went fishing with my familiars. I like helping people and spending time with them but I do need alone time."

That was why the hamsters were in another room. Sinbad had to admit, they were cute and had grown on him. You truly were the most precious thing he had ever found washed up on the beach. He'd be no one without you.

"Are you leaving soon?"

You shook your head. "I want to stay a bit longer, until you leave, I suppose. I won't have much to do then. I'm dealing with people's problems rather quickly."

Of course, you weren't staying only for him. You were busy.

"I'm glad you're staying a bit longer." He couldn't imagine being without you now. You were the closest friend he'd had. Everyone wanted something from him, and you had asked for the least, always generous, if quirky.

You smiled, returning his giddy expression, which he hadn't noticed himself pull.

He felt his face get warmer. Must've been all the wine.

He and you listened to the crackling of the fire, finishing your glasses. You lounged like a cat. You were the image of peace when you closed your eyes. He rolled up his sleeves, feeling somewhat hot all of a sudden. He waited for you to kick him out, it'd happen sooner or later.

You watched from under your lashes.

"I was surprised that you had tattoos, though they are common here," you said.

He had helm tattoos on each forearm. "Funny story, I got them when I was drunk, like, extremely. I don't remember where or how exactly I got them." At least they healed fine and he had not felt much pain. He hadn't felt much at all.

"They suit you well." Your eyes lingered for a while.

"I have more that you haven't seen." He smirked, putting on that smooth-talking persona again.

"Although tempting, you won't smooth-talk me, Sinbad," you said sternly.

He sighed. A guy had to try. You were so damn hard to scam and trick, it was annoying. You were one of the only people immune to his charms. You were looking at him like he was a helpless animal. Again.

Instead of words of pity, he was hit with:

"You look upset. Mope in another room, I'm exhausted," you said, yawning and turning away from him unceremoniously.

He left with a huff.

"Good night to you too, Magister Merlin."

...

"Good night."

He should've been asleep.

Sinbad crept across the hall towards your newly luxurious room, careful not to make a sound, like he was escaping from a dungeon (like he had many times).

Sinbad cracked open your door. Strange, he left it unlocked, he thought. The room was dark and silent except for the sounds of the breeze coming in through the windows, like breaths.

You seemed to be asleep, as far as he could tell. He was sure he had heard something from your room. Maybe it had been the wind.

"Magister?" he said into the black, closing the door behind himself. It was not entirely dark, he noticed as he moved towards your canopy bed, as there was a lone candle burning close to the window.

The fireplace had no remains of smoldering wood.

The windows- they were closed shut. The sound was not from there. Had it been the draft instead? If this was how noisy the good rooms were, he'd go complain to Bols later.

Sinbad pushed past the closed curtains of the canopy bed, the fabric heavy and lush, a velvet he hadn't even dreamed of touching before, with much trepidation, his heart tense, ready for a beast to lunge at him any moment.

He didn't see what happened, it happened swiftly, the shape in the bed shifting loudly. The sound of the breeze halted.

"Ah, Sinbad. I was just thinking of you," you said, and it was undeniably you, your voice quiet yet clear, a little exasperated, your breathing so shallow he would've believed you if you said you had run around the whole of Rustport in a minute.

He would've believed you if you hadn't been in your bed all this time.

"Why aren't you asleep?" he stammered with wide eyes, gaze lost as he adjusted, making out your fuzzy shape. It was leaner than usual. He sensed none of your usual glamours on you.

"I could ask the same of you."

He leaned his knee on the bed, and you moved away.

"Some noise woke me up, and I thought it came from your room. Was I right?" He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, seeing that you lay rigid and didn't want him to come near you. To him, it seemed that something had happened, and you were uncooperative as to what.

One of his jobs was to get information. Clearly, he wasn't much good at it with you around.

"Did something happen, Magister? You're worrying me." His brows lowered over his honey-brown eyes.

"You didn't knock. You should leave my room." The light brightened against your face. Your skin was dewy and your hair was disheveled, the bedsheets in disarray. You were a mess.

The Merlin, a mess?

"I did know- and- you can't kick me out again!" He leaned over you as you leaned against cushiony pillows.

You pushed on his chest to get him away, your hand hot and humid.

"... Are you dense or what?" you snapped. "What do you think I'm doing in a dark room, alone, in my bed, gasping for air?"

His face transitioned from bewilderment to horror.

Oooh.

Embarrassment hit him like a wave. Holy Tritonus, he had heard you moaning. In this case, he was dense beyond belief. And the reason you were recoiling wasn't because something was wrong, it was, because, well. He chose the worst possible time to intrude.

And the reason your frame seemed leaner now was because you had no glamours concealing your body indeed, and no clothes besides that robe. He could see your bare skin between the fabric you held together with a tense hand.

He had trouble not looking. And it wasn't the wine, that had long left his system.

"Shit, I... I didn't..."

He had no excuse, and so close to you, caging you in, neither of you could escape, captured in the world's most awkward stalemate. The words drowned in the depths of his mind.

"You said you were thinking about me earlier. Do you mean...?" he trailed off, his voice mumbling and strained. Everything felt like a dream. He'd pinch himself if he wasn't frozen.

"I left the door open for you. I didn't expect you to come."

Sinbad's breathing had accelerated. He had already had thoughts about you. He couldn't possibly resist anything you asked him to do. That hint of servitude remained in him, and he was all eager to please.

"I'm here." He tried to smile, but it came out rather strained.

You pulled him in by tangling your hands in his freshly dried hair. Your lips were one push away.

He had already gotten ready for bed- his skin infused with whatever fancy soaps he managed to snatch this time. It mixed with that woody scent of a faraway home that clung to you no matter how many times you got drenched with rain or seawater.

"So?"

He felt your every breath. Berries.

"So..."

You kissed him first.

You were far from a reserved, shy mage. You nipped at his lip and broke the kiss just to piss him off.

He cursed like the sailor he was. Next thing he knew, his boots were lost in the dark along with his scarf (it felt like sacrilege to wear it during this), his shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned by your nimble fingers. You traced over the anchor tattoo between his collarbone and shoulder.

That wasn't how he expected you to find it.

Your hips were fuller than they appeared, filling him with thoughts he couldn't possibly speak, and your waist was small, perfect for holding when he-

Your chest wasn't quite... flat. That made him stop. His silent question hung in the air.

"I'm trans," you said, amused at how he was surprised by you again and again. You had hidden your chest to a point where he couldn't have guessed.

He had never been with someone like you (in any sense), but he didn't mind.

Your chest was soft, each breast perfectly fitting into his hand. At each caress and pull you reacted accordingly. It was his turn to be amused, and he was enjoying it immensely.

Your face and voice did not falter, the only thing betraying your feelings being your shallow breathing. Would your breaking point be easy to reach, or would he reach his first?

Goosebumps raised on your thighs when he felt them up with his calloused fingers. Only the richest of the rich could have pristine hands in Rustport. Sinbad spread your legs with little resistance from you, his hand wrapping around most of your thighs' circumference.

His hand dipped between your legs. You were wet, the wetness covering parts of your inner thighs. The hotness ignited a fever in him, a fever he hadn't felt in a long time, and never so strongly. Most of his prior fucks were hookups, and sometimes, to get out of uncomfortable situations in his jobs. They didn't happen often and he hardly looked forward to them. With you, he could hardly stop his hands and other body parts of his from thrusting right into you. You were by far the hottest guy he'd been with.

At the rough touch on your clit you jolted with a soft sigh, your legs closing on instinct, but they were stopped by Sinbad being in the way.

The thought crossed his mind that you were surrounded by others from all sides, and at any second, anyone could walk in. He didn't mind- he liked a bit of danger.

"How are you feeling?" he whispered close to your ear, hand exploring all the places that could feel best for you. He would make sure you'd remember this as a positive memory, and even if you left and never saw him again, the scene would stick in your mind.

"I've been better," you said with a shortness of breath, but impressively coherently.

"Don't you think this is a bad time for jokes?" Would you still talk like that if he filled you up? Would your face still be so serene?

"It's a perfect time for-" he interrupted you as he slid his finger over your clit over and over again, making your legs tremble and your brows lower. He might've not been experienced, but he was a quick learner.

After he got you to a point where you were panting and your pulse hammered relentlessly, he lowered his finger to your entrance, teasing it. You covered your mouth. A thin string, like fishing line, followed his hand as he withdrew.

Sinbad began with one finger, your tight walls even hotter than your wetness. Fuck. It felt amazing on his fingers. It might've made him cum instantly if he tried fucking you like that.

"Relax your muscles, there's no need to be tense," he said soothingly.

You visibly stopped straining and let him push his finger in fully. It circled your smooth cervix. You were pretty shallow inside.

He was clueless at that point, unsure of what to do for you.

"Curl your finger towards yourself."

Now you were the one close to his ear, leaning on his shoulders so he could have better access and less lewd sounds would be heard.

When he curled it as you said, he felt a spongy tissue that gave way under his prodding. You bit into his shoulder with little regard for how much that shit hurt. It would leave a mark, or even better, a scar. Yay. One more to the arsenal. He would have a hard time explaining that one, as it was in a visible place between his neck and shoulder muscles.

He groaned at the pain, pulling you halfway onto him. One hand of his rubbed your clit, and the other, inside you. You must've been leaving a hickey judging by the slight tingle on his neck. It made him harder than he already was.

Feeling every little groove inside and outside you couldn't be replicated by just ramming his dick in, and he thanked you that you had made the choice, since he was unwise- in general.

"What would your love-struck Knight think, Magister?" He pressed his lips into your shoulder. Slim, but surprisingly muscled from carrying every situation you got into on your shoulders.

You'd look good on top of him. With other people, his mind veered into nonsense and mundane thoughts of what he'd have for breakfast. Right now all he could think about was you, you in every way, in every angle, his. Everyone was right- he was greedy. Just not about money.

"Getting fingered by someone you met, what, a month ago? If even that?" Sinbad smirked, making sure you saw his expression. You bit your lip and gazed at him like you were oh so woeful. Would you tell the Knight what you'd done tonight? He didn't care if you did or not, but if you did, Sinbad would've loved like to see his face.

"He'd be jealous, I bet," you stuttered out with each thrust and curl of his finger, and when he added a second, you were reduced to adorable huffs and sighs, far from the virtuous Magister Merlin out in Rustport streets, a man of class and poise. A man who was now gasping for air with Sinbad's fingers deep in his cunt.

He kissed from the swell of your chest, up to your collarbones and neck. You were not a man, not a human, you were a dream, a fog a foolish sailor like him would lose himself in.

Screw him trying to make you never forget him. He'd never forget you, as he fell for you hook, line, and sinker, a fish falling for bait. He would never find someone like you. Someone who so easily saw through his tricks and had him willingly serve.

He could do it every night, sneaking in, fucking you whichever way you wanted him to, and acting like nothing was afoot.

You got him.

He kept gently fingering you as you gasped in an orgasm, one quite notable, your body going soft against his, your skin sticky and heart pounding.

What he had done felt automatic, like his body wasn't entirely his, his rhythm mechanical in nature, following your every whim and whine. He had just gotten you off, willingly, giddily, even, and enjoyed it.

That had been a first for him.

The first thing you said to him once you regained your breath and composure was: "Go wash your hands."

What a sweet way to snap him out of it.

It was fortunate that you had a bathroom attached to your bedroom. He didn't feel keen on doing a walk of shame through the halls.

The mirror revealed to him how hard you'd bitten him, leaving not only a hefty tooth mark, but even a hickey, too high for his scarf to hide. He cursed you inside his mind. All things considered, it was expected to have him do whatever he wanted to you, not the other way around. If you told him to jump into the sea right this second he probably would've done it. A flush was blooming across his face, not too obvious, but there.

You were next in the bathroom, and when you returned, Sinbad was on your bed, grinning. He did not budge a muscle.

"You're not kicking me out again, Magister. This handsome face needs its beauty sleep."

"I'll allow it," you said, tucking yourself in on the other side. Sinbad lay curled to take up as little space as possible. It wasn't exactly comfortable. You neared him, tugging his arms around your back, and you entwined under the thick blanket.

Hook, line, and sinker.

He didn't want the morning to arrive and so cruelly take you away. He'd savor every moment he had with you. For once in his life, he did not feel bound to you by duty, but by the call of his heart, similar to how he felt about the sea. Like the sea, you'd pull him in, and keep him wallowing in feelings so alien.

Did you know what you did to him? He didn't need you to. He just needed you close.

"Good night," he said.

"Seriously this time?"

"Seriously, I promise."

The lone candle flickered out.

#w r i t i n g #☂️#a f k j o u r n e y #afk journey #afk journey x reader #afk sinbad #afk sinbad x reader

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