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luceleste · 20 days ago

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Where Flowers Bow

Chapter 1

pairing – Satoru Gojo x f!reader summary – Invited to Duke Satoru Gojo’s palace as a potential bride, you arrive with nothing but a ruined name and perfect manners. Among jewels and judgment, you’re just another candidate in a parade of perfect girls — until a stranger in the garden, who isn’t what he seems, speaks to you like you’re real. In a palace of masks, someone has already chosen you. You just don’t know why.

warnings – renaissance!AU, female reader, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, angst with comfort, political drama, emotional tension, power imbalance, mentions of social hierarchy/class pressure, slow burn, manipulation, masks and appearances, gojo’s mother is named midora. reader’s mother is important in the story. the language leans slightly formal and poetic in tone to match the setting. more to be added.

word count – 7.7k

notes – This will be a long story because I love drama. I was completely obsessed with the idea of Duke Gojo after reading Silent Serenades by @madamechrissy and couldn’t get it out of my head. Thanks for the inspo, Chrissy ♡

divider by @thecutestgrotto

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It had never been a secret that you were meant to marry well — and soon. Since childhood, your mother had made it your life’s purpose. You were trained to move with grace, to speak only when spoken to, to always smile at the right moments. Every lesson, every correction, every praise was offered with the same quiet promise: become the perfect wife, and you’ll be rewarded. Preferably with wealth. Hopefully with influence. Love was never part of the arrangement.

You were raised knowing your fate, and it wasn’t as if you had any other choice, so you learned to accept it.

You also knew — though it was never spoken aloud — that your mother had pulled every string she could to keep your family’s downfall a secret. If anyone had learned the truth — the debt, the disgrace, the thin cracks in your inheritance — you wouldn’t have been offered to a tailor’s apprentice, let alone a Duke.

And yet, somehow, your name had made it to the list.

Now, as the carriage rocked gently beneath you, you pressed a hand to the velvet-lined wall and stared out through the narrow window. The estate was still far in the distance, but even from here, you could see the spires reaching toward the sky — proud, pale, and unreal. The Gojo palace was not meant for people like you. It belonged to stories. To legends. To those born into power, not those clawing at the edges of it.

You didn’t know what your mother had promised, or to whom. You didn’t know how many hands she’d kissed or threatened, how many secrets she’d buried. But she had gotten you here — one of the few young women selected to be considered for the hand of Duke Satoru Gojo.

And now, you would have to survive it.

The silence in the carriage was heavy — the kind that pressed against your ribs and made your thoughts feel too loud.

Your mother sat across from you, spine perfectly straight despite the uneven road. Her gloved hands rested in her lap, unmoving. Not a single strand of hair had escaped the smooth roll pinned at the base of her neck. She was composed, as always — the picture of control.

“You will remember what I taught you.” She said at last, not looking at you.

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded once. “Yes, Mother.”

Her gaze shifted to the window. “You must make yourself indispensable. But never too eager. You must appear grateful, but never desperate. If he suspects you want him—truly want him—it’s over.”

You said nothing.

A moment passed.

“You can’t ruin this.”

The words sat between you like an accusation. You turned your face toward the glass, watching the pale towers grow taller with every passing second. “What did you promise?”

Your mother’s jaw tightened.

“Nothing we can’t survive.” She said. “If you do well.”

You looked at her again then — really looked. There was something steely beneath her calm, something like exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. You wondered how many letters she had written. How many names she’d begged from. How many favors she’d burned to ash.

The silence returned. But you were used to it by now. In fact, you preferred it this way.

The carriage slowed.

The pale stone of the palace shimmered like a mirage — all towering columns and gleaming spires, its windows catching the sunlight like shards of cut glass. It didn’t look real. It looked like something out of a storybook, the kind your governess used to read aloud when you were small — back when your family still had a governess. Still had servants. Still had status.

Even the front yard — if it could be called that — was larger than your entire estate. Wide marble steps unfolded like a stage. Fountains danced in the sunlight as if they existed for no other purpose than to sparkle.

It was beautiful.

It was obscene.

And you were expected to belong here.

Your heart beat once. Then again, harder.

Still, your hands remained folded neatly in your lap. Your posture was perfect. Your face, serene.

Outside, servants moved with mechanical precision — polished boots striking stone in perfect cadence, crisp uniforms, faces impassive. No one looked at the carriage. And yet, you felt it. The watching.

This place had eyes. You could feel them the moment the wheels touched the marble drive — silent, faceless, everywhere.

Don’t show it. You told yourself. Not the awe. Not the fear. Not the ache in your chest that felt dangerously close to hope.

“Chin up.” Your mother said as the carriage door clicked open. Her voice was calm — too calm. The kind that disguised sharp edges.

She stepped out first, her movements elegant, unhurried. Then, with a gloved hand, she offered you help — not as a gesture of affection, but of precision. Ceremony. As expected.

You took it.

The breeze greeted you at once, cool and perfumed with something you couldn’t name — roses, maybe, or lavender crushed under carriage wheels. It brushed your face like a caress, but there was no comfort in it. Only the sharp reminder that you were no longer home.

Some of the servants nearby rushed forward to collect the luggage, moving with quiet efficiency, as if every step had been rehearsed. Then, a tall young woman approached — graceful and composed, each movement deliberate.

She had long black hair pulled back in a smooth coil, lashes dark as ink, and cheekbones so finely sculpted they gave her the air of something painted, not born.

“Ladies.” She said, bowing her head with effortless poise. Her voice was smooth, practiced. “I am Ysera. I’ll be attending you throughout your stay at the palace. If you would follow me?”

You tried to match her composure, straightening your spine just slightly. But something inside you twisted — not from fear exactly, but from the quiet, rising suspicion that even the palace’s servants were more prepared for this world than you were.

The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

It was cooler here, like the walls had been holding their breath for centuries. The floors gleamed with such care that your reflection shimmered faintly beneath your feet. Tapestries the height of trees draped the walls, woven with gold thread and scenes you didn’t recognize. Stained glass windows filtered the sunlight into soft pools of blue, red, and purple that danced across the marble.

You had never seen anything so opulent. Or so quiet.

The corridor stretched endlessly before you. Every step felt too loud. You kept your chin up, your gaze steady, but your throat had gone dry.

Ysera walked ahead, graceful and unhurried. Your mother followed as if she belonged here — as if she’d done this before. Only you seemed to feel the weight pressing down from the ceiling itself, from the velvet silence, from the history threaded into every stone.

You tried not to stare too long at the grandeur around you. You couldn’t afford to be caught in awe. You were supposed to be used to this — supposed to belong among the gold and glass.

“You are to rest for now.” Ysera said as she led you down the hallway. “The banquet will be served at six. Please be prepared—Her Grace, Lady Midora Gojo, and His Grace, Lord Satoru Gojo, will see you there.”

You weren’t sure which name made your stomach twist more.

Ysera stopped before a tall white door and turned the handle with a graceful twist of her wrist.

“This is your room.”

You stepped forward — then froze.

It was a vision in blue and gold.

Sunlight poured through gauzy curtains, casting a soft glow over the white walls and spilled across an intricate carpet underfoot. The bed looked like something out of a painting: large enough to drown in, dressed in rich blue velvet and trimmed with golden tassels. Matching chairs stood beside a tall window. The room glowed with quiet warmth, like it had been prepared with care — not just for a guest, but for someone meant to be seen.

Your mother moved to enter behind you, but Ysera lifted a hand—polite, firm, immovable.

“I’m sorry, my lady.” She said. “This chamber is for your daughter alone. Don’t worry—your quarters are just as refined.”

Your mother’s lips thinned, but she said nothing.

You knew her well enough to recognize the displeasure in her silence. She didn’t like the idea of you being alone — not now, not in a place like this, where everything mattered and everything could be lost. But still, you couldn’t help the quiet relief that bloomed in your chest. For a few hours, at least, you would be able to breathe without being corrected. You could sleep without being jolted awake for sleeping in an improper position.

“Good evening, Mother. I hope you rest well.” You said, offering your most delicate smile — the one you’d practiced a hundred times in the mirror. “And thank you, Ysera.”

“I will return to escort you to the banquet hall, my lady.” Ysera replied, bowing with elegant precision before closing the door behind her with a soft, final click.

Silence.

Your knees wobbled. You reached for the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the thick velvet for balance.

Your mind spiraled — how were you supposed to become a Duchess when you could barely breathe in a place like this? How were you meant to impress a man whose palace made your childhood home look like the servant’s quarters? How could you ever convince a family like his that you belonged here?

The fear crept in slowly. Then all at once.

But you swallowed it, like you always did.

Because there was no room for doubt now.

You had to be perfect.

—

You couldn’t rest. Not even for a moment.

Lying in the enormous bed, you stared up at the blue and gold panels carved into the ceiling, your fingers drifting across the velvet sheets like they belonged to someone else. This wasn’t just a room — it was a throne disguised as a chamber, built for people born into power, not for girls like you, who had to be trained to imitate it.

The thoughts hadn’t stopped since the door clicked shut.

What would you do if he didn’t choose you? How would you face your mother then — look her in the eye after everything she’d risked?

Were the other pretenders just as close to breaking as you?

And the Duke… how did he look?

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t his face that would decide your future. It was his choice.

And it had never really been yours.

You kept repeating it in your head like a prayer — the way to walk, the right tone to speak in, how much to laugh, how little to eat, the exact pressure to hold a glass without showing a shake. Over and over. Again and again.

The walls felt like they were pressing in, gilded edges turning into a cage. Every breath you took felt shallow, like the air itself was too fine for your lungs. You knew this wasn’t how you were supposed to behave — a lady didn’t wander, didn’t drift unsupervised through a Duke’s palace like a restless ghost. But you needed air. Just a moment of it. Something real.

You stood by the door, frozen.

What if someone caught you? What if the Duke’s mother — Lady Gojo — heard of it? What if this single choice undid everything your mother had schemed to build? Your hands were cold, slick with nerves. But the thought of staying — of lying back on those sheets and letting the silence close in around you — felt worse. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You had to move.

You remembered a door you’d passed earlier, tucked between gilded columns and half-shadowed tapestries — it had looked like it led to the garden. You hoped you were right.

With fingers trembling against silk skirts, you stepped out of your room. The hall beyond was quiet. Too quiet.

Your mother would skin you alive if she found out. But with any luck, she was already resting. Or pretending to.

Your shoes made no sound on the polished floor as you walked, heart hammering with every step. A pair of servants passed — expressionless, dressed in silver and navy — and though their eyes slid to you, they said nothing. Just a bow of the head. Polite. Dismissive.

You found the door. Tall. Glass-paneled. Cool to the touch.

You pushed it open.

And breathed.

The garden unfolded like something from a dream — all sculpted hedges and marble fountains, arching roses and soft grass that looked too delicate to walk on. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, faint and heady. Lanterns glowed in the distance like fireflies caught mid-flight.

You had never seen anything so beautiful.

A light breeze played with your hair as you walked, catching at the loose strands and brushing cool against your cheeks. For the first time since arriving, you felt something close to peace — fragile, fleeting, but real. The distant sound of water trickling from a fountain filled the silence without demanding anything from you.

Then, you stopped.

A bush of blue flowers caught your eye — their color so vivid, it hardly seemed real. Not sapphire. Not cornflower. Something deeper, stranger, like the sky just before a storm or the pigment of a dream you couldn’t quite name. It was a shade you didn’t know flowers could be — not in books, not in gardens, not in anything meant to bloom.

You knelt, skirts folding beneath you, fingers hovering just above the petals. There was something sacred in the way they bent with the breeze — not broken, not fragile, only reverent. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached out, not quite touching. As if afraid contact would wake you from whatever this was.

They looked too beautiful to be allowed. And yet they bowed gently toward your palm, like they were the ones drawn to you.

“Are you lost?”

The voice cut through the quiet — warm, unhurried, and far too close.

You startled.

Spine snapping straight, you turned so quickly your hand brushed the petals. The flowers trembled — or maybe it was you.

There he was.

A tall man with silver-white hair, his skin pale and glowing faintly in the evening light. And his eyes — blue, yes, but nothing like the flowers. His eyes were unreal. Too vivid. Too piercing. Like they didn’t belong to this world.

He wasn’t dressed like a servant. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and he wore no coat, but there was an ease to the way he stood — like he belonged here more than anyone.

You stood quickly, smoothing your dress. “I’m so sorry, sir.” You said, breathless. “I only came to get some fresh air.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Lady Midora doesn’t like people picking her flowers.”

You froze. His voice sent a chill down your spine. And then you noticed — the way he’d called Duchess Gojo only by her first name.

Panic tightened in your chest. You couldn’t get in trouble on your first day in the palace.

“I—I wasn’t going to pick them.” You stammered, cursing yourself. “I’m really sorry. I just meant to—”

Your words caught in your throat as he stepped closer, reaching past you. His hand moved with quiet ease as he plucked one of the vibrant blooms from the bush behind you.

“But she’ll forgive me.” He said simply, offering it to you with a faint smile. “Eventually.”

You hesitated before taking the flower. His fingers brushed yours — just for a second — and something in your stomach twisted in response.

“Thank you.” You said uncertainly.

He only nodded, studying you with quiet curiosity.

“You’re not from the capital.” Not a question, but a fact.

You swallowed. “No, I’m not.”

“So what brings you here?”

You let your fingers trace the petals, trying to mask the thudding of your heart.

“I’m here for the banquet.” you said quickly. “Just a guest.”

“A guest.” he echoed, the corner of his mouth lifting like the word struck him as unexpected.

There was something about him — the way he stood, so relaxed, so confident — like no one had ever told him to be quiet or careful in his entire life.

You took a breath. “May I ask who you are, sir?” You asked carefully, trying not to look directly into his eyes.

“Same as you.” He said. “Just a guest.”

The tension in your chest loosened just slightly. He was clearly someone important, but if he wasn’t part of the Gojo household… you could breathe a little easier.

“Oh. I see.” You glanced down, your grip tightening around the flower. “The garden was so beautiful, I just had to see it for myself. I hope Duchess Gojo won’t be too upset.”

“She won’t, if she doesn’t find out.”

You let out a small laugh, hiding your smile behind your free hand.

“Well… I hope she doesn’t, then.”

“I won’t tell.” He said, already turning toward one of the marble fountains nearby. “If you don’t tell I’m here either.”

“Your secret is safe, sir.” You replied.

And when he walked, you followed.

His steps were slow but deliberate, hands clasped behind his back, like your presence was a detail, not a disruption. He moved with a kind of ease — not arrogant, exactly, but far from the stiff grace you’d been trained to recognize in noblemen.

And just when you thought the silence might stretch forever—

“Do you think he’ll choose you?” He asked, casually — like commenting on the weather, eyes still fixed on the marble fountain ahead.

You blinked. “What?”

“The Duke.” He clarified. “You’re here as one of the pretenders, aren’t you?”

Your step faltered.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, a faint smile ghosting across his lips — but his voice had dropped lower now.

“Do you think he’ll choose you?”

The question landed softly — but it echoed through your ribs like a bell. You turned to him, uncertain if you’d heard him correctly. But he was watching the water.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I… I wouldn’t know.” You said at last, the words careful, almost measured. “I haven’t even met him. Or the other girls.”

He tilted his head, studying you.

“I imagine they were trained as well as you.” He said, leaning against the fountain’s edge. “They know how to pretend they belong.”

“Would you blame us? It’s not like we have a choice.” The words slipped out — too fast, too real — and you winced. That wasn’t how you spoke. Not here. But something about him disarmed your careful rehearsals.

He smiled, faintly amused. “No blame. Don’t worry.”

He looked to the palace — the gold-trimmed walls glowing in the twilight. “This place swallows people.” He said. “It’s made to. Most who walk through those doors forget who they were before.”

“You speak like you’ve seen it happen.”

He shrugged, trailing his fingers through the fountain’s water. “I have.”

A beat passed. You moved closer, the flower in your hand was warm from your grip.

“Why did you ask me that?”

His eyes met yours. “Because you don’t seem like you’ve forgotten yet.”

You weren’t sure if it was a compliment. Or a warning. But it landed somewhere deep — like he saw something you weren’t sure you meant to show.

Then, more lightly, he added, “Or maybe I’m just trying to make conversation with the girl who wasn’t supposed to be in the garden.”

You huffed — almost a laugh — tension easing from your chest. “Well, you said you weren’t supposed to be here either. So I’d say we’re even.”

This time, it was your fingers brushing the water’s surface.

He didn’t speak at first. He just watched the motion of your hand — not rudely, not with the judgment you were used to. It was more like… curiosity. The kind that didn’t need answering.

“So,” he said at last, voice mellow, “do you make a habit of wandering into forbidden places?”

You glanced at him, arching an eyebrow. “Only when they’re beautiful.”

He smiled at that. Not the kind you’d expect — not polite, not rehearsed. It was crooked, almost boyish, like he hadn’t meant to let it out. “Dangerous answer.”

“Is it?” You challenged, resting your hands on the stone edge. “Or is it just honest?”

He tilted his head, regarding you again. “Honesty isn’t common here.” He said. “I can tell you are really not from the capital.”

“I didn’t think it was that obvious.” You murmured, glancing down.

“I didn't mean it in a bad way, trust me.”

You turned to him again, surprised by his tone. There was no mockery in it. If anything, he sounded almost wistful.

Then he glanced back at the water and said, lightly. “You know, when I was younger, I used to think there were tiny spirits living in fountains.”

You smiled. “Spirits?”

He nodded. “They’d whisper secrets to anyone brave enough to listen. I spent a whole summer trying to make them talk to me.”

“And did they?”

He leaned in slightly, stage-whispering. “Only once. But they had terrible advice.”

You laughed, and it came out too loud — real, surprised. You covered your mouth again, embarrassed.

But he just looked pleased.

He grinned. “They told me to cut all my hair off. I did. My mother nearly banished me to the mountains.”

“You can’t be real!” You said, still trying — and failing — to hold your laugh.

“I mean it!” He insisted, mock-offended. “She was furious, and I was completely frustrated — the tiny spirits conspired against me.”

You gave him a look — amused, curious, surprised at yourself. He wasn't afraid to say what he wanted, like you always were.

“What about you?” You asked. “You’re a guest… you said?”

Where was this curiosity coming from? You never let yourself speak so freely — but your spine wasn’t so straight now, your voice not so careful. Around him, it was like remembering how to breathe.

“I did say that.”

“But that’s not all, I presume.”

“Isn’t it?” His smile sharpened, eyes glittering. “I’m not lying.”

“No. But you’re not telling everything, either.”

“I’m always more sincere before breakfast.” He said with a grin. “After that, I tend to talk between the lines and hang around gardens hoping someone interesting loses their way.”

It took you a moment to register what he’d said — and when you did, the corners of your mouth betrayed you. A smile, quick and involuntary, slipped out before you could hide it.

As you part your lips to answer him, something shifts in the sky — a single star, then another. Your heart skips a beat.

“Oh dear lord — I’m going to be late!” You breathe, panic clutching your ribs like a corset drawn too tight. You hadn’t even noticed the time passing.

You were supposed to be ready by now. Your gown — laid out across your bed, untouched. Your hair — had the pins held through your aimless wandering? Had the curls fallen? And your shoes — dusty now from the garden paths, the fine leather smudged with soil and crushed petals.

You turn on your heel, but your body refuses to move as quickly as your thoughts. Your feet, suddenly heavy, hesitate on the garden path like they knew something your mind hadn’t admitted yet.

You didn’t want to leave.

How could you? The garden had been the only place you’d felt peace in a long time. Your breath was easier, your voice your own. The quiet here had soothed you, wrapped around your shoulders more gently than silk ever could. And maybe it wasn’t just the garden.

Maybe it was the man beside the fountain.

You look back.

He hasn’t moved. Still by the fountain, the water now glowing silver beneath the deepening twilight. His expression is unreadable — but he’s still watching you.

“Go.” He says softly, almost teasing. “I’ll see you around.”

The words warmed something under your skin. Ridiculous, maybe, how much you wanted to believe him. That this wouldn’t be the last time.

But you lingered a moment longer anyway. Just one more breath. Just in case.

You walked back toward the palace, your steps quieter now, slower than urgency demanded. With each one, the garden slipped further behind you. The flickering lanterns. The scent of jasmine. The sound of trickling water.

But a part of you — maybe the most honest part — was still there, somewhere between the fountain and the blue flowers.

And you weren’t sure if it would follow you back.

—

You didn’t need help getting ready.

Not anymore.

Since your family’s fall, you had learned to pin your own hair, apply your own makeup, to fasten corset laces with aching arms and silent frustration. You had taught yourself to move with elegance, even when no one was watching. Especially then.

Tonight, all of that practice had paid off. You were ready on time.

You’d just finished polishing your shoes — a careful, obsessive effort to remove every speck of dirt from the soles — when three soft knocks came at your door.

“It is time, my lady.” Came Ysera’s voice, muffled through the heavy wood. The same servant who’d helped you and your mother settle in earlier.

You closed your eyes.

That was it.

The performance began now.

You turned to the mirror for a final glance. Your reflection stared back — composed, poised, unfamiliar. You adjusted a curl near your temple, tucking it neatly behind your ear. Then, slowly, you layered on the smile you had practiced for years: gentle, beautiful, convincing.

Perfect.

You reached for the golden handle and opened the door.

Ysera stood before you in her spotless uniform, her face calm, giving nothing away. Behind her was your mother — rigid, as always, her gaze slicing through you like glass.

Just looking at her made your stomach clench. You knew what she was thinking. You knew what was at stake. You knew how much she had gambled to bring you here.

And so, you locked your arm with hers. Chin lifted. Shoulders squared.

You would make this right.

Ysera turned and began to lead you down the corridor, your heels echoing against marble floors. You and your mother followed in silence, arms intertwined, your pace practiced, your steps too careful to be natural.

You wanted to notice the palace — to let yourself be awed by the arched ceilings, the embroidered tapestries, the decor. But your mind was somewhere else entirely. Trapped in your chest. Beating fast, too fast, as though your body already knew what you were walking into.

“You won’t have another chance.” Your mother whispered beside you.

“I will cherish this opportunity, Mother.”

She didn’t look at you. She hadn’t looked at you in a long time. Not really. Her gaze always seemed to move just past you — like you were an image she hadn’t fully decided to keep.

“This isn’t the pair of earrings I told you to wear.”

Your hand flew to your ear without thinking, brushing the tiny gold drops you’d chosen.

“You were supposed to wear the pearls. I told you twice.”

“I know.” You said, softly. “I forgot to bring them.”

She sighed. A short breath. Not angry. Just disappointed. And tired.

You were always tired around each other.

“Of course you did.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say. You were already working so hard to hold yourself together, your smile strained at the edges, your spine starting to ache from how perfectly you were standing.

Ysera turned to you both, her voice gentle and practiced. “When you enter the hall, please sit immediately and do not speak until Her Grace, Lady Gojo, arrives. Do not interact with the others. Do not touch anything.”

You nodded. Your mother did the same.

Ysera stepped ahead and knocked on a tall, intricately carved white door.

It opened.

And for a moment, the world beyond it stole your breath.

The banquet hall was the largest room you had ever seen. The ceiling arched like a cathedral. Gilded columns stood in quiet rows along the walls, and between them, paintings — scenes of battles, saints, and heavenly skies — hung in golden frames as tall as you.

Statues stood like ghosts in the corners: marble maidens, a king holding a broken sword. Even the air smelled expensive — a blend of beeswax, rose oil, and something cool and sharp you couldn’t name.

But nothing — nothing — caught your attention like the table.

A single, enormous thing of polished mahogany, stretched the length of the room, set with silver platters and porcelain plates. Dozens of candles flickered in crystal holders, their flames casting shadows that danced across the glass. Every fork and knife was placed with precision, every napkin folded in identical perfection.

And around that table sat the other girls.

Three of them.

Each one more dazzling than the last.

Their dresses were made of the kind of fabric you’d only ever seen in paintings — silk that shimmered like water, lace so fine it looked like mist. Their jewelry sparkled with diamonds and pearls that didn’t catch the light — they commanded it. Their mothers sat beside them, regal and composed.

You had worn your finest gown. The one your mother had preserved from her younger years. You had tailored it yourself, adjusted the sleeves, stitched new embroidery along the hem.

You had thought it would be enough.

You were wrong.

They looked at you as you entered. All of them.

Not cruelly. Not even unkindly. Just… assessing. Like you were another item on the table, something to be weighed, compared, measured for worth.

And for the first time tonight, your smile nearly slipped.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself not to flinch under their eyes.

You had come this far.

You had to be perfect.

Even if it was already clear that perfection might not be enough.

The walk to your chair felt like a slow unraveling.

The stone floor echoed beneath your shoes, each step striking sharper than it should have. In the silence of the room, the sound was unkind — like you were announcing your presence when you would’ve rather disappeared.

No one spoke. Not even a polite murmur.

The three girls didn’t look at one another. They didn’t need to. The awareness in the room was a current — unseen, electric. You could feel it tightening around you with every step. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and already, you were being measured.

You wanted to look down.

But your mother’s voice echoed in your mind — firm, steady. “Head high. Chin soft. Never let them see where it hurts.”

So you did as she taught you. You lifted your gaze and let it drift, slow and deliberate, across the table.

Lady Taira.

Her silver gown shimmered like the moonlight. Every fold fell perfectly, not by accident — but because she’d been trained to make it seem accidental. Her wavy blonde hair had the kind of polish no brush could give without servants. And she sat like a statue — not stiff, but still. As if stillness was her natural state.

Your mother’s words came back to you, clipped and precise: “Baroness by title, but richer than half the dukes in the realm. Her family could buy land from the crown and not blink. She grew up in court — learned how to smile without warmth, and bow without bending. Watch her closely.”

Lady Vale.

She looked like something carved from ivory — soft, luminous, too pure to be real. Her dress shimmered like pearl dust, but her eyes… they gleamed. Curls were pinned atop her head, each one meticulous. She blinked slowly, almost too slowly.

“She’s the youngest, but don’t mistake that for innocence. Her family’s been loyal to the Gojo house for generations. Her father commanded the guard of the late Duke Gojo. She won’t make a scene — she’ll make allies. And she’ll do it quietly.”

And then — Condess Shinto.

There was no softness in her. Her eyes were green like shattered glass — beautiful, but not safe. She wore a dress the color of drying blood, velvet with a neckline like a blade. Around her throat sat a string of emeralds, polished to gleam like envy itself. She didn’t smile, not really. Not in any way that counted.

Your mother hadn’t even hesitated about her:

“She’s the favorite. Everyone knows it. Her uncle sits on the Council. Her cousins command fleets. She doesn’t have to try. The game is already rigged in her favor.”

You still remembered the day you found out a Condess — a woman with rank, wealth, and lineage — wasn’t the automatic choice for the Duke’s hand.

It had seemed impossible. If Condess Shinto wasn’t already chosen, then what were the rest of you doing here?

Even now, you didn’t have the answer.

They sat like portraits in a gallery — elegant, composed, untouchable.

You, by contrast, were a question mark. A curiosity.

A last-minute invitation.

A gamble made by a mother with nothing left but her name.

Still — you sat without flinching.

Lady Taira adjusted her glove with practiced indifference. Lady Vale blinked — slow, measured. Countess Shinto tapped one perfect nail against her glass, the sound sharp as judgment.

It was a game, all of it. And you were part of it, whether you liked it or not.

You were all pawns.

The only unfairness was that you were playing against perfection — girls raised for this moment, sculpted like marble into their roles. You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself you had no illusions. But sitting here, surrounded by them, it was hard not to feel the crushing weight of inadequacy.

Of course, you had been raised to be perfect too — taught the art of posture, of quiet obedience, of speaking only when spoken to. But as you looked around the table, at the glinting jewels, the practiced stillness, the effortless grace stitched into every gesture of the girls before you, you knew with aching certainty: you could never compare. Not to them. Not here. Not like this.

You had known, the moment you received the letter sealed with the Gojo crest, that this was far beyond you. You’d told yourself it was a formality. A courtesy. A trap, perhaps. But seeing them — the daughters of power and pedigree — was far more harrowing than any whispered rumor.

Your thoughts were scattered, tangled with tension, until—just for a flicker—you remembered the man in the garden.

The memory came soft at first: a breath of wind, the scent of crushed petals, the way the late sunlight caught the edge of his smile. He had seemed too unreal to belong to a place like this — and yet, in that moment, beside him, you had felt more yourself than you had in days. Maybe years.

Next to him, you had felt human.

Real.

Like you could belong in a place where flowers bloomed without permission and skies stretched wide and generous.

You barely caught yourself flushing, the ghost of that smile threatening to surface again.

And that’s when the door opened.

The great double doors at the far end of the hall parted without a single trumpet. Just the hush of wood and silk and breath. You turned delicately, instinctively, unsure of what you were expecting.

A woman entered — tall, composed, resplendent in restraint.

Duchess Midora Gojo.

You had heard the stories. Everyone had. That she’d ruled the Gojo estate with a blade sheathed in velvet. That she’d survived the fall of her husband without lowering her chin once. That she’d raised her son — the son — with wolves at the gate and knives at her back. And yet, no story prepared you for the sight of her.

She didn’t walk.

She arrived.

Her gown was navy, trimmed with gold — the kind of understated elegance that made more extravagant outfits look like theater costumes. The fabric shimmered subtly, embroidery catching only the softest hints of light. Her silver hair was braided into a crown, regal and exact. Not a single strand rebelled.

She did not smile.

She didn’t need to.

The Duchess moved to the head of the table, placed a single hand on the back of her chair — and stopped.

Without a word, every woman in the room stood. Including you.

You bowed your head, not out of respect but instinct. The atmosphere demanded it.

Her gaze swept the table slowly, like moonlight across still water. Calculated. Cold. Not unkind — but far from warm.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then her eyes found you.

It wasn’t just looking. It was the weight of being seen — truly, unmistakably seen. Her gaze was cool, discerning, a quiet threat wrapped in curiosity.

You didn’t blink.

Couldn’t.

Something told you that blinking would count against you.

So you held her eyes. Just long enough to feel the tremor of challenge. Until she moved on.

“Good evening.”

The women answered in perfect harmony. Like a prayer they’d recited since birth.

The Duchess sat. The rest of you followed.

Silence lingered, thick and reverent, until she spoke again — voice smooth but sharp as drawn steel.

“Ladies,” She said “you are here because your families have placed great faith in you. As have I.”

Her tone left no room for uncertainty.

“Conduct yourselves with composure. I expect grace. Poise. This is a demonstration.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Each word carried the weight of command — clean, final, unarguable.

“Each of you has been granted a seat. Whether you keep it,” She continued, her eyes gleaming with meaning, “depends on more than posture and pleasantries. The Duke will join us shortly.”

The mere mention of him was enough to set the air humming with tension. Some of the girls straightened in their chairs. Others held their breath.

The Duchess glanced toward the servants.

That was all it took.

They moved like clockwork — coordinated, efficient, silent. Wine was poured into crystal glasses. Platters were uncovered. Silverware gleamed. Aromas filled the air, rich and delicate. But no one relaxed. If anything, the tension only deepened. The ritual of dining had begun, and every movement now was a test.

You watched the girls — how they lifted forks with dainty precision, how they dabbed their lips, how they smiled just enough. Not too much. Never too much.

You mimicked them as best you could. Wrist poised. Chin tucked. Back unbending. You smiled when required. You didn’t breathe when you shouldn’t.

Across the table, Duchess Gojo engaged each mother in conversation — even yours. Her words weren’t warm, but they commanded. She dominated the room without trying. She didn’t need to try.

And then — it happened.

The door again.

You knew. Before you saw him. Before you heard a step.

The room didn’t just fall silent.

It held its breath.

You didn’t dare look. Looking would make it real. And part of you — the scared, unready part — didn’t want it to be real just yet.

There was no announcement.

No flourish.

No grand entrance.

Just the sound of footsteps.

Measured. Casual. Unhurried.

He moved through the room like the air adjusted for him. Like the space recognized who it belonged to. Like the walls bent slightly to accommodate his presence.

He took the seat beside the Duchess.

And your heart dropped.

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

The man from the garden. The stranger who had spoken to you like you mattered. Who had watched you reach for flowers like it was allowed. Who had made you laugh like it was safe.

You hadn’t just ruined everything.

You’d ruined it before it had even begun.

He was dressed now in formal regalia — a coat of midnight blue, its collar open with defiant elegance. Silver embroidery twisted along his sleeves like vines. A ceremonial sword hung at his hip, glinting softly. At his throat, the Gojo crest, a six-petaled flower.

He didn’t hurry.

Didn’t bow. Didn’t acknowledge.

And worst of all — he didn’t look at you.

Not even once.

Not a flicker of recognition.

Not even the smallest glance.

You looked down at your plate, fists clenched tight in your lap.

And still, your hands trembled.

You took a sip from your wine, careful not to gulp — though part of you wanted nothing more than to drain the whole glass and ask for another. You tried to look composed, as the Duchess demanded. Composed, like every other girl at the table seemed born to be.

But your chest was too tight. Your throat too dry.

You could only hope this was some cruel dream.

At first, you thought he wouldn’t speak — that he’d sit through the evening like a shadow cast by his mother’s presence. But then, quietly, effortlessly, he stood.

He did not need to raise his voice.

“Thank you all for coming.” He said, his posture relaxed but his tone exact. “My mother — Her Grace, Duchess Gojo — and I are pleased that your families have placed their trust in our name.”

It was him. You knew it. You would always know him by those eyes. But nothing else was the same.

The warmth was gone.

“This banquet.” He continued. “is simply a gesture of our appreciation.”

A lie — all of you knew that. Every girl seated here knew this was no simple dinner.

“I look forward to getting to know each of you in due time.”

And then — he smiled.

Not the off-kilter, boyish grin that had slipped free in the garden. No. This smile was sculpted. Beautiful. Practiced. The kind of smile that could win favor, or undo alliances, depending on where it was aimed.

His gaze moved from girl to girl — smooth, precise, unrevealing.

And when it landed on you, it did not soften.

It did not linger.

It did not recognize you.

Not truly.

And that, somehow, hurt more than if he hadn’t looked at you at all.

You held the eye contact because you had to. Because the rules of the room demanded it.

But inside, something cold was settling in your ribs — the slow realization that the man in the garden may never have existed at all.

Because standing before you now wasn’t him.

It was the Duke — Satoru Gojo. And there was no room in his eyes for who you’d been, or what you thought you’d shared.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo smut #strangers to lovers #renaissance au #historical au #slow burn #jjk x you #jjk #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you

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lizardho · 7 months ago

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I was like 11-12 years old when I figured out at a boring-ass church activity that you could put rocks into little plastic spoons and then pelt people who annoyed me with them. I did this for the rest of the activity, and at Sunday dinner the next night was bragging about my victory (cornering the mean kid who picked on my youngest brother and pelting him with rocks). One of my cousins was like “no way, that sounds SO fun! Let’s do that RIGHT NOW!” So we grabbed spoons and went and got pebbles from the back yard and launched them at each other.

The problem was my grandma sold her soul for the world’s most resilient plastic spoons so we could launch those fuckers HARD. I gave out welts like candy on Halloween, and I got them back in kind.

So we resorted to taking cover and giggling until we got whacked, then yelping, then returning fire.

My cousin hid in my grandpa’s little fishing boat. It was a good boat, but simple and honestly underused. We didn’t know the little windows on it, meant to keep the wind out of my grandpa’s face while he drove, were cracking. However, they were definitely cracking. Eventually it became obvious and we realized we had been being dumb.

This was NOT the first time in my life I’d been dumb roughhousing and broken something, and I had developed a reputation in my family as being “suicidally honest” so I was the one to deliver the bad news. My grandpa let out a pretty good chuckle and said it was OK, tousled my hair, and asked my grandma to bring me cake. I am not kidding. I learned later he hated his boat and only bought it for his kids’ sakes, since he thought everyone needed to know how to fish. At the time though I was just bewildered and pleased at my good fortune. FINALLY, at long last, being honest and telling the truth about breaking something expensive was getting me cake. I knew if I kept trying it would eventually serve me, and now so had CAKE. I was pleased as could be.

My dad, on the other hand, was livid. He LOVED that boat. He spent several weeks each summer recovering from breaking ribs in that boat every year for about 7 years prior to this incident. He had great memories and memories that boat. So he told my Grandma NO cake for me AND that I’d be coming by this weekend to fix stuff around the house and pay for the broken window with my babysitting/lawn mowing money.

Obviously I was devastated, but that felt more in-line with the way things normally went when I broke something expensive so I just figured it was OK. My grandpa gave my grandma a look and sadly said “Ok, have her here on Saturday to help me with some yard work.”

That Saturday my dad woke me up at 6:00 sharp and drove me, sleepy and bewildered, to my grandpa’s house. He was mumbling under his breath the whole time but he thought he was teaching me consequences for my actions so he was ultimately OK with it.

We get to my grandpa’s house at 6:15. My grandpa is outside with a ladder hanging Christmas lights. The lawn is freshly mowed, the trees and garden are weeded and well-tended to, the carnations in the front yard look immaculate, and my grandpa has this giddy mischievous look on his face. He tells me he was so excited that I was coming over that he couldn’t sleep, so he did all the yard work himself. He asked me to help him put up Christmas lights and decorate the Christmas tree, which I did, then said that because I was such a good helper I could have some pancakes for breakfast. I was sent home with the slice of cake I had been denied the week before, wrapped to keep it as fresh as possible.

The whole way home my dad looked a little miffed, but told me that he was glad I had been honest and was proud of me for helping grandpa. I know he wanted me to Learn a Lesson™️the cowboy way, like he had as a kid, but didn’t have much room to complain since I’d still been Put To Work.

I think that was a lesson for both of us, although I’m not totally sure what it was supposed to show me. I think it was my grandpa’s way of showing my dad that discipline without tenderness doesn’t count as much. He died last year and I miss him terribly, as does my dad. I hope that my story of victory, drama, punishment, and ultimately a secret second victory is meaningful to someone else out there, but if not it still means a lot to me ❤️

#grandpa #grampa #nostalgia #ex mormon #mormon #parental discipline #love

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mgakwentongbayan · 2 years ago

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The Tale of Peter Rabbit

“The Tale of Peter Rabbit” is a classic children’s book written and illustrated by Beatrix Potter. First published in 1902, the story follows the mischievous adventures of a young rabbit named Peter as he disobeys his mother’s warning and ventures into Mr. McGregor’s garden. Here’s the full story: Once upon a time, in a cozy little burrow, lived four little rabbits named Flopsy, Mopsy,…

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#Animal characters #Beatrix Potter #beloved tale #cautionary tale #children&039;s book #classic children&039;s literature #consequences of actions #delightful illustrations #disobedience #family bonds #forbidden garden #learning from mistakes #lessons in obedience #mischievous adventures #moral lessons.#The Tale of Peter Rabbit #timeless story

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therogueflame · 2 months ago

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Raised to Obey

omg hi guys!!

happy easter! this piece is based off this request from my dear friend, @uncoveredsun. she's an aemond girly through and through so ofc i had to make this one extra nasty. love you bye.

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Summary: You return to the court that shaped you, only to find the boy you once commanded grown into something dangerous. He follows you still, but not like he used to.

WC: 7.9k

Warnings: 18+, targcest, power imbalance, dubcon, (light) violcence, degradation, smut, oral (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, a little bit of brat!Aemond

Aemond Targaryen x OlderSister!Reader

MDNI!!!

They say nothing in the letter, but you know what it means.

The seal is plain. The wording neutral. Your presence is requested at the Red Keep, and your escort will arrive within the fortnight. There is no mention of the annulment. No word of House Tyrell or Ser Lyonel’s failure to bed his bride after seven long, silent years of marriage. No accusations. No apologies. Only a summons. Clean and simple and final.

The carriage ride feels longer than the voyage that first took you to Highgarden, but this time there is no veil, no lavender perfume, no bridal nerves tucked into your gloves. You wear your riding leathers beneath a heavy velvet cloak, the color too rich for a woman with no husband and no name. Your hands are bare. Your hair unadorned. Your mouth still set in that same quiet line, the one you learned to hold when the Reach looked at you like a storm they couldn’t contain.

The Red Keep has not changed since you left it. It rises above the city like a red god, towering and unyielding, its shadow spreading from the spiked towers to the streets below. The stones still glisten like blood when the sun hits them, casting an amber glow before dusk. The air still smells of oil and fire, a familiar tang of smoke and iron and promises burnt to ash. The guards still stiffen when you pass, their eyes bright with curiosity, unsure whether they should bow or look away and pretend they’ve not seen you. You catch your reflection in a shield as you walk through the gate, beneath the portcullis where you last saw the glint of sunlight on Aemond’s hair. You look like someone they thought was gone. A hush spreads in your wake, rippling through the corridors, a sweet echo of scandal that follows you like a shadow. Maids pause with linens half-folded. Courtiers shift and whisper as you pass, their conversations frozen. Your mother’s ladies offer faint, artificial smiles, the tilt of their heads betraying their impatience to be the first to tell her. You can hear the murmur before it reaches your ears. She’s back. She’s failed. She’s still childless. She was too proud, they say. Too cold. They say it in whispers, in glances, in silence that is more damning than words. They say the same things in King’s Landing that they said in Highgarden. Like a song passed from one musician to the next, they keep playing the same refrain. You recognize it all.

They know the match was political, a symbol more than a promise, a show of good faith as useless as a gilded parchment. That your wedding was a masterpiece of civility and nothing more. That Ser Lyonel Tyrell—gentle, golden, delicate—never once reached for you in the dark. That the garden never bloomed. That the Tyrells petitioned for annulment with grace and urgency, their letters riddled with concern for your soul. No heir. No bedding. No shame, only regret, tendered with the precision of an accountant’s ledger or a merchant’s bill of sale. And underneath it all, the unspoken truth: you were never meant to be someone’s wife. You were meant to be their burden. Their lesson. Their problem to solve.

When you left King’s Landing, you were Alicent’s daughter. Now you are something less and something more. The one who failed. The one who came back. The one who belongs nowhere except where others don’t want her.

You enter the throne room alone. No handmaid, no brother at your side, no welcoming line of lords eager to claim your favor. You walk with your spine straight, your chin lifted, each step purposeful. You expect to be ignored. Perhaps tolerated. Perhaps pitied.

You are not prepared for Aemond. Not for the way he commands the room like a lord, like a dragon, like something both regal and dangerous. The years have sculpted him into a stranger, one who stands just below the dais and a little apart from the others, his body angled toward the Iron Throne as if it belongs to him. His eye catches yours the moment you appear. You feel it—a burning and intrusive stare, hot and direct and deeply unfamiliar, as if he’s picking you apart, inspecting each piece polished or flawed. He is taller, much taller, than you remember. His shoulders broader, his stance lethal and still. The sapphire gleams cold and pitiless where his eye once was, a bright gem that seems to see everything, to miss nothing. His jaw is sharp now. His mouth cruel and knowing.

He wears the black of the court like armor, as if the velvet and silk could shield him from insurgents and assassins, and the longsword at his hip is heavy, solid, not for show. He watches you like a man appraising a threat, ready to draw blood, and when his lips curl, it is not in welcome.

You pause at the edge of the hall, and the years pause with you. Your gloves remain on. Your expression does not falter. But something inside you stills, freezes, like a river in winter.

Aemond doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge you before others can see. He lets the others gather near, shields himself with their presence. Lord Beesbury greets you with a thin, perfunctory smile, obscured by his drooping white mustache. Ser Harrold offers a nod, polite and stiff as his back. The queen smiles and, with effort, makes it convincing. No one mentions the annulment. Not yet. Not in front of Aemond, who watches it all with quiet, simmering amusement.

Then, slowly, with intention and certainty, Aemond steps forward.

He does not bow. He does not smile. “Lady Maidenflower,” he says, just soft enough that only you hear it, enough that it stings.

You turn your head just slightly, exactly enough to make him feel the weight of your reply. “Still clever, I see.”

His eye sweeps over you like a blade. He is not hiding the weight of it, the roughness of the cut. “You returned untouched, then. I’d wondered.”

“Lyonel Tyrell was a poet,” you reply, because you have sharpened your own edges. “Not a fool.”

“Poets rarely have the stomach for conquest.”

You meet his gaze without blinking, without flinching, though your heart still remembers how to race. “And you’ve always had too much of it.”

“I was twelve when you left.”

You tilt your head, and the movement is easy, graceful, scornful. “You still are, most days.”

That earns you a smirk, slow and deliberate, a lord’s smirk. A dragon’s. “Not anymore.”

He takes a single step closer. You don’t move. You let him come.

The pause between you stretches, heavy and hot and alive with unspoken challenges and renegotiated terms. His eye dips to your mouth, and it is not quickly, not politely, not as a brother should. When it rises again, it lingers.

You turn before he can speak again, before he can make you doubt or remember. You offer him no parting glance, no farewell. But you feel it as you walk away—his stare on your back, weighty and hungry. Not a boy’s gaze. Not a brother’s.

Let him look. Let them all.

You did not come back for their sympathy or to stand around, shrinking, while they trample your pride. The thought of wilted and drooping pity is almost amusing, withered and limp like Highgarden’s banner when the wind dies, and you refuse to let it gather at your feet like a folder of discarded marriage contracts. You returned because the summons meant something. Because they wanted you here. Because the annulment meant nothing. Because they are beginning to remember who you are and what you are worth. The realm has no place for a woman like you—a woman with no husband and no duty and no shame to parade—except when it needs one. You are still a dragon’s daughter, flames running molten where other women leave room for fear, and it seems they’re starting to recall the heat of their own blood. They thought a marriage would change you. That the Reach would wear you smooth and pliable. That seven years of silence would make you weak, complacent, eager to return with their leash around your neck. They were fools. You have not softened. You have stripped away everything unnecessary. You have become what you always should have been: scaled, certain, and dangerous. Aemond would be a fool, too, if he still believes he knows the girl who left. If he thinks the same breathless, reckless fool of a girl stands before him, he is welcome to try and find her, to search and search and find nothing at all. He will not.

It’s a few days before you see him again. Long enough that the ache dulls, the whispers shift, the court forgets to look twice. You don’t. You feel him in every corridor. His stare in the back of your skull. The words he didn’t say sitting heavier than the ones he did. You don’t seek him out. Not really. But when the sound of clashing steel drifts through the windows one morning, sharp and furious, your feet carry you there before you can stop them.

The yard is already thick with the sound of clashing steel and barked commands by the time you arrive, drawn not by curiosity but by the unmistakable pitch of Aemond’s voice, rising above the rest. You round the corner and find him standing over a boy barely older than twelve, sword in hand, patience worn thin. The boy is sweating and panting, bleeding lightly from the lip. Aemond says something low enough you can’t catch, but the tone carries and your stomach knots.

"Enough."

Aemond doesn't turn right away. The boy does, blinking at you like he's been thrown a lifeline, desperate and unsure. You step down into the yard without pausing, hands still gloved, shoulders squared, a defiance in each step. You know Aemond sees you, but he remains fixed over the boy, as if your presence is a small interruption. As if you are the one who should wait. As if waiting for the exact moment when his controlled apathy strikes deepest. He finally shifts, looking over his shoulder with slow, deliberate disinterest.

"You are not his commander," you say, your voice sharp and unyielding.

"I am his prince."

You take another step. "And you're still picking fights with boys too small to fight back."

That gets his attention. His eye catches yours and holds. The cut is deep, unrelenting, meant to wound. A quiet breath passes through the onlookers. No one moves. The boy backs away quickly, too smart to stay where the lightning is about to strike. Aemond sheathes his sword, but only halfway. His smirk is faint but not amused, a taunt that is both familiar and new.

"Would you like to teach him, then?"

You tilt your head. "I'd rather teach you."

His smile sharpens. "Then show me."

The court knows you well enough not to question it when you shrug off your cloak and take the spare sword from the rack. Your tunic is laced tight, boots steady, sleeves rolled. You are ready before they realize it, before you realize it yourself. You know the forms, the weight of the steel, the cadence of Aemond's skill. But you don't know the way the court watches now, not with surprise but with certainty, as if expecting exactly this. As if you haven't been gone seven years. Aemond stretches his neck as you step to the center. He doesn't offer the usual salutation. You don't bow.

When you strike, it's without warning. It feels right. Quick. Merciless. He parries fast, steel hissing, and the first clash draws a ripple from the men watching. You dance around him, light on your feet, quicker than he expects. It is a dance you thought you'd forgotten. The rhythm is familiar but off. He's faster now. Stronger. You are sharper. Angry. His blade grazes your shoulder. Yours slices along his side. He doesn't flinch. You don't, either. The heat builds quickly, sweat blooming beneath your collar. He presses harder, with more force, more insistence, more precision than the boy you thought you remembered. You give ground only to take it again. You used to beat him with speed, with patience, with quick, calculated precision. Now he meets you at every turn, matching blow for blow, circling like a predator who knows exactly where to bite.

How much he’s changed. How much he hasn’t.

How much you have.

When he finally gets you on your back, it's not clean. You stumble on loose gravel. He takes advantage, a fierce flicker of triumph in his eye. Your sword hits the dirt. Everything that’s happened since you left King’s Landing—the whispers, the annulment, the letters filled with false concern, the look on his face when you returned—everything that should have made this easy pinches sharp inside your lungs, more painful than his grip. His boot lands between your legs, arm braced against your throat. Not choking. Just holding.

Too close. An echo you can’t outrun.

You expect him to move. He doesn't.

His breathing is rough. So is yours. You can feel the sweat on his wrist, the heat of his body over yours. You look up. His hair is wild. His eye is burning.

"Still think I'm just a boy?"

You don't answer. His grip tightens just slightly. His fingers brush your jaw. He leans in, slow and sure, gaze locked to your mouth like it means something.

You shove him. Hard. He stumbles back, laughter spilling from his chest, not loud but knowing, as if you just gave him the answer he wanted. You roll to your feet before anyone can help you. Your chest is heaving, cheeks flushed, skin hot. You don't look at anyone else as you retrieve your sword and your pride.

"Lesson over?" he calls.

The pause stretches between you. You don’t let it hold. You shrug on your cloak with deliberate ease, the same ease you’ve cultivated since you returned. The hush follows you back into the keep. You feel his eyes like fingers pressing into your skin, a touch that lingers and burns and doesn’t fade when you reach the corridor.

It’s still there at supper. Fresh, insistent. No one else notices the bread you don’t eat, the soup that cools in your bowl, the wine you drink without tasting. You’re the only one who hears the hollow ring of his boot against your sword, echoing through the hall with every half-heard whisper. It doesn’t soften when your mother asks if you’re well, when the maids bring the third course, when the candles burn low. When your mother tells you it was wise to come home, you nod, polite and unconvincing. You take your leave, and the walls feel closer, the halls longer, the air colder.

You don’t think of him. You don’t think of the weight of his body, the feel of his fingers on your jaw. You’re only thinking of the cold when you tighten your laces, only thinking of the chill when you pace the length of your room. The scratch of the quill in the chamber next to yours is louder than you’d like, and the letters on your desk are too frantic and familiar to answer. You are not restless. You are thoughtful.

You think so hard you don’t realize you’ve left your chambers until you find yourself walking without thinking, past the solar, up the stairs, down the hall to the wing where he sleeps. You don't plan it. You don't knock.

You push the door open without a plan, breath quick and shallow from the unguarded walk. He’s there, not surprised, not even questioning your intrusion. Shirtless, lounging in a chair by the hearth, legs spread, as comfortable and confident as if he owned the place. He might as well. The heat of the fire licks the dampness from his hair. A goblet of wine sits comfortably in his hand; his sword rests close by, in easy reach. He looks up at you with an expression that feels both new and old, the same practiced disregard you once swore would never cut you again. Like he expected this. Like he’s been waiting.

"Come to finish what we started?"

Your throat tightens. Something in your chest does, too. The echo of it ricochets in your bones, and you shut the door with more force than you mean to. The sound is too loud, too final, but not enough to break the smile on his face.

"You embarrassed me in the yard," you say. There's a catch in your voice you hope he doesn't hear. You step closer. He hums, not quite a laugh. Almost.

"You embarrassed yourself."

You bite back a retort. He watches you try, waiting for the hollow bite of it, waiting for something deeper.

"You put your hand on me." The words taste more bitter than you expect, and he hears it. You know he does. He shrugs, the carelessness deliberate, and finishes the rest of the wine in a single, slow swallow.

"You didn't tell me to stop."

Anger and something else lances through you, sharp and unmistakable. A flower blooming violent beneath your skin. "You're not a child anymore," you say. "Fine. But you are still beneath me." There's satisfaction in that. A small thrill. He sets the goblet down with a thin click, the faint trace of red staining the rim. His smile returns, slow and sharp, more a weapon than a jest.

"Not where it counts."

You don't think, just move, a breathless reckless fool, too sure and too hurt to stop yourself. Your palm cracks across his face and his head turns with the force of it. The wine sloshes in his goblet when you strike him, but he does not drop it. He sets it down on the table carefully, eyes glittering with something you don’t recognize. He looks back at you with a hunger you've never seen before. A hunger that burns like dragon’s blood, searing and inscrutable. Not in him. Not from anyone.

"Again," he says.

Your breath catches. There's no air in this room, this keep, this entire place. You stare at him. His smile flickers wider when you don't answer. You don’t have to. He knows. He knows. You step closer, and he rises from the chair as you do, caught on the same pull. The distance vanishes faster than you mean it to. Faster than you can stop. Fury frays and threads you together. The space between you disappears quick and final and damning.

"You think you've won something?"

He shrugs, every inch of his body unwound and lithe. "You came here."

"To remind you of your place."

"Remind me, then."

He moves too quickly. Or maybe you move too slow. His hands catch your waist and your spine hits the door hard enough to steal your breath. The night explodes in stars behind your eyes. He doesn't press. Doesn't hurt. Just holds you there with his body, chest against yours, breath hot on your cheek, the heat of him impossible to escape. You grab his wrist, digging in, nails biting soft skin. He holds the wince behind his teeth, gaze fixed on you like he'd die before looking away.

"Let go of me."

The words are hard.

"Lyonel never touched you, did he?"

Your hand tightens on his wrist, so hard it shakes. You slap him again, harder this time, and the crack of it splits in the air between you, a current setting stone to fracture.

He laughs.

"Again," he says.

You don't. But gods, you want to. You want to and you hate it and you hate him and you turn and leave before you remember how to breathe.

You leave him there with the taste of your own fury still on your tongue. Your hand aches. So does your chest. You don’t look back. You don’t sleep. Not really. You lie awake and stare at the ceiling, the canopy of your bed a cage you can’t escape, can’t untangle. His voice plays over and over in your mind. Lyonel never touched you, did he. The worst part is how softly he said it. Like a secret. Like a truth. Like he knew exactly where to cut, exactly where to let the worst of it bleed.

The candles burn low in your chambers. The chill nips at your windowpanes. You don’t feel it. You feel the ghost of Aemond’s fingers on your hips, his breath on your cheek, the tremor beneath his skin. Everything you thought you buried comes rushing back, rushing through you, rushing until it cleaves the air from your lungs. Why did you return? Why did you think you could stay away? You are not restless. You are not impatient. You are thoughtful, but that thought is wrapped around him like a noose. Like a bruise. Like a bright, sharp hope.

You came to win. You’ve already lost.

By morning, the bruises are already forming beneath the surface of your skin. The memory of Aemond's touch blooms purple and dark, echoes of his fingertips wrought in flesh. You wish the sensation of him would fade as fast. It doesn't. The court is louder now. You feel it in every corridor, every room, every shift in posture when you enter. It clings to you, an invisible murmur that grows teeth. No one says your name, but they don’t need to. You returned without a husband. Without a child. Without a claim worth anything except shame. You were sent to the Reach to secure the realm and came back with nothing but silence. So now they whisper.

She must have refused him.

She must have failed.

She must have been too difficult to want.

The echoes are just as loud as the words. Each clever jab works its way beneath your skin, seeds of doubt taking root and sprouting vines you can't cut through. Even your mother looks at you differently. Her voice is soft, but her eyes are measuring. The warmth she once kept for you has cooled into caution, as if your return might stain her skirts if you stand too close. Her questions come dressed as concern, but you know the shape of judgment. And the ladies at court, the ones who used to play cyvasse and braid your hair, now look through you like you’re made of smoke. They weave tales you can’t quite hear, tales that bleed from one mouth to another, tales whose edges are sharp and cutting.

They don’t ask, but their silence does. What did she do wrong? Was he kind? Did she cry? Did he ever touch her at all? Or did she come back just as she left, proud and unspoiled and completely alone?

You do not answer them. You do not give them the truth they seek, the truth that tugs too close to the center of you. You walk through the halls like nothing has changed, like you are still the same creature you were before. You are not. Aemond says nothing to you in court. He does not look your way unless others are watching, and even then, it is brief. Quick enough to pass as something else. But you can feel it. He lets the rumors curl around you like smoke, never once bothering to stop them. He could silence it. One word from him and the court would fall quiet. But he doesn't. He listens. He watches. He waits.

You find him in the yard again, a few days after the incident in his chambers. He's alone this time. No one dares train with him lately, not since the last sparring match left a knight concussed. He moves with that same quiet precision, that same lethal grace. The sun catches the sweat at his temple, his shirt already discarded and thrown to the side. Your skin prickles at the sight, at the memory of him even more unguarded, even more certain. You should leave. You don't.

You don’t know what you mean to say when you see him there, when you watch him move and remember the way he looked at you, the way he still looks at you. You don’t know what you mean to do when you feel the full weight of his indifference, of the stories he lets the court tell. But you are moving before you can talk yourself out of it. Before the bruises fade, before this second return becomes as hollow as the first. You are moving and it feels like a mistake, but you’ve already made that mistake before, already seen what comes of it. There's no going back. This time, you mean to win.

He sees you before you speak. Of course he does. He always does.

“You following me now?” he says without looking up.

“I could say the same.”

His blade drops slightly. “You never used to lurk.”

“You never used to be worth watching.”

He turns at that, slow and smooth. “Didn’t stop you before.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck. “I gave the orders. You followed them.”

“You think that’s still true?”

“You think it’s not?”

“You dragged me through the mud. Screamed at me in front of knights twice my size.”

“And you listened.”

He steps in close. “Try it now. See if I still do.”

Your breath catches. His voice drops, soft and deliberate.

“They say no man ever wanted you. That Tyrell barely looked at you. That you came back untouched because no one could stand the thought.”

You don’t answer. You don’t move.

He tilts his head, close enough to touch. “Is that why you hate me looking?”

“Because you’re not supposed to.”

He smiles, slow and awful. “I can’t stop.”

He steps closer, closing the gap with a slow, sure determination. You don’t move. You don’t even flinch. His face is inches from yours now, and everything about him pulls you in and splits you apart. You can smell the leather of his gloves, the salt on his skin, the faint scent of iron and heat. His hand lifts slowly. You feel the brush of his fingers at your jaw, soft, testing, like he’s taking measure of the space between breath and need and wanting. You could slap him again. You could turn and walk away. You don’t. Your breath is shallow. He watches your mouth.

You step back. You leave. You don’t speak. You don’t run. You walk away with your back straight and your heart hammering in your ribs like it’s trying to claw out.

That night, you dream of him. Of course you do. You dream of his mouth, the cut of his lips, the press of his body hot and unrelenting against yours. You dream of his hands, the rough drag of his fingers on your cheek, your skin, your throat. The way his voice dropped low, soft and deliberate. The way his voice dragged low when he said your name. You wake tangled in your sheets, flushed and furious and aching, and you cannot tell whether you want to kill him or keep him.

It starts with silence. It starts with rooms you pretend not to linger in, corridors you just happen to walk through, doors you pass more slowly than you should. It starts with you lying to yourself—small, careful lies you don’t quite believe. You don’t mean to look for him. That’s what you tell yourself. You don’t mean to, not at first. Not at first, but you find him anyway.

He’s in the yard. He’s in the hall. He’s at the table, two seats down, eating grapes one by one like they mean something. Every time you look up, he’s already watching.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That you are only keeping an eye on him. That someone has to. That it might as well be you. But the lie doesn’t last. Not when the heat flares again behind your ribs every time he speaks. Not when you walk past the training yard and stop to watch. Not when your name comes from his mouth and you have to swallow hard before answering.

You avoid him. Until you don’t.

You find him at the edge of the godswood, on a day when the sun beats down like a curse and the wind is too warm, your thoughts too loud and insistent. He’s leaning against the old heart tree like it belongs to him, as if it's only there to hold him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His head is tilted up to the canopy, eyes closed, jaw sharp. He hears you long before you mean to speak. Even from a distance, you feel the weight of his awareness. As you move closer, he turns slowly, the light catching on the scar beneath his eye, the gleam of the sapphire where it settles. He watches you like he’s been waiting.

"You’ve been restless," he says. "I can tell."

"You don’t know anything about me."

He pushes off the tree and takes a step forward. "I know you come looking for me and pretend you don’t."

You set your jaw. "You think too highly of yourself."

"No," he says, a crooked grin on his lips, closer now. "I think exactly enough."

You take a step back. He follows.

"What do you want?" he asks, voice low.

You hate the question. You hate that he asks it like he knows you don’t have the answer.

"Nothing from you."

He circles you now, slow and deliberate. "You used to look at me like I was a boy. Now you look at me like I might bite."

"Maybe I think you should be put down."

He laughs, a soft huff that barely leaves his throat.

"Do you know what it did to me?" he says. "You left. Married some wilted flower. Let him look at you like a prize he’d never unwrap."

You flinch. He sees it.

"He didn’t even try, did he?"

You snap before you can stop yourself. "No. He didn’t. He was afraid. They all are."

The words hang between you like smoke, pulled from the center of you, unplanned and brutal. You breathe them in and try not to choke. Aemond steps closer. His voice goes quiet.

"I’m not."

You shake your head. You want to run. You don’t. He lifts his hand, not touching you yet, just hovering near your cheek.

"Say the word," he says, "and I’ll make you forget every man who ever disappointed you."

You slap him. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t recoil. He lets out a sound that freezes you in place. A moan. A real one. Low and ragged like it was dragged from his chest. When he turns back to you, there’s a flush high on his cheekbone. His lips are parted. His eye burns.

"I knew you liked it rough," he murmurs. "I remember how you used to throw me down."

You stare at him, breath caught halfway between a curse and a gasp. He leans in closer, slow, measured. You don’t move.

"You used to knock the wind out of me. You’d say I was too soft. That I’d never survive the yard unless I learned to take a hit."

"You never did learn."

"That’s not true," he says. "I learned to like it."

You shake your head again, but your fists stay at your sides. Your feet don’t move.

"You think this is a game."

"No," he says. "I think this is exactly what we’ve both been waiting for."

Your pulse roars in your ears. The godswood is quiet, but everything feels too loud. Too close. His breath brushes your cheek.

"Tell me to stop."

You leave him standing in the godswood, breath shallow, palms hot, the trees watching like they know what you almost said. You don’t speak. You don’t run. But you can’t quite breathe either. You walk back through the Keep like you’re sleepwalking, like you might burn through the floor if you stay still.

Night sinks in around you. The walls feel tighter. The fire in your chamber roars too hot. You pace. You pour wine you don’t drink. You open the window and shut it again. You think about sleeping. You think about forgetting. You think about how he looked at you when he said I’m not.

You tell yourself not to go. And then you do.

The hall outside his door is empty. The candlelight flickers low. The door isn’t fully shut. As if he left it waiting.

You don’t knock. You don’t speak. You step inside, and he’s already there. Shirtless, again. Hair damp. Leaning against the table like he hadn’t moved since the godswood. His eye finds yours and doesn’t flinch. You close the door behind you. You don’t lock it. He watches you cross the room without saying a word. He doesn’t ask why you’re here. He knows.

“I didn’t come for this,” you say.

He nods, slow. “Then say no.”

You don’t. He pushes off the table and walks toward you like he already knows how this ends. Like he’s dreamed it a hundred times and every version ends the same. He doesn’t reach for you. Not yet. He waits.

You’re the one who moves. Your hand fists in the collar of his shirt and drags him closer. Your mouth hovers near his, your breath unsteady, your body already too warm. You don’t kiss him. Not yet.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then you break. You kiss him like you’re furious. Like he’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel anything and you’d rather drown in it than say it out loud. His hands are everywhere. Yours are worse. There’s nothing careful about it. Nothing sweet. You don’t want sweet. You want to be ruined.

You want to ruin him back. The table knocks over. His back hits the wall. Your boots scatter across the floor. You don’t stop. You don’t think. You don’t ask. When he lifts you up and carries you to the bed, you let him. When he lays you down and looks at you like you’re the first real thing he’s ever wanted, you don’t speak.

He peels back your clothes with a precision that makes you ache, each layer a secret he's uncovering. Your shift falls away, and he stares at you like you're sacred. Like you're something he shouldn't touch but will anyway. His hands are rough, calloused from years of swordplay, but they move across your skin with a reverence that makes your breath catch. You don't want reverence. You want him to hurt. You want to hurt him back.

You flip him beneath you, straddling his hips, hands pinning his wrists above his head. His eye widens, pupils blown, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. You lean down, hair falling around your face like a curtain, and bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of copper fills your mouth. He moans, hips bucking up against yours.

"Is this what you wanted?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper. "To ruin me?"

His fingers dig into your hips, bruising and possessive. "I wanted to be the one who touched you first."

You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Not everything is yours to claim."

"No," he says, flipping you beneath him with a strength that makes your breath catch. His weight settles between your thighs, delicious and heavy. "But you are."

You should fight. You should push him away. But your body arches into his touch, craving the heat of him, the burn of his skin against yours. His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse, and you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. He hisses against your skin, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Tell me to stop," he says again, but this time it's different. It's not a challenge. It's a plea. You can hear the need beneath it, raw and desperate. It would be so easy to tell him no. To walk away. To leave him as broken as you've been. Instead, you pull him closer.

"Don't stop," you whisper against his mouth. "Don't you dare stop."

He trails kisses of fire down your body, spreading your thighs open and bringing his face close to your core. His breath is hot, his mouth everything you expected and nothing like you imagined. You choke on a sound that might be a sob, that might be his name, that might be something you’ve never said to anyone. There is a feeling of novelty between your legs. You don’t know what to do with it, what to call it. You don’t know how to stop it. His tongue traces a path that makes you gasp, your body shuddering beneath him, and every scrape of his teeth sends a shock to places you forgot you had. He pins your hips with his hands. Holds you there until you think you might scream, might call him something you’ll regret. You writhe, helpless and hungry, his mouth pushing you toward something you can't recognize but can't resist. It's new and wild and terrifying. It's more than you were ready for. You feel it building beyond your control, burning through you, breaking you down, and he's relentless. You’ve never been this close to shattering. You’ve never wanted to.

When it crests, it's like wildfire—unstoppable, consuming, spreading through your limbs until you're arching off the bed, his name torn from your throat. He holds you through it, mouth still working, drinking in every tremor until you push him away, too sensitive to bear it.

He moves up your body like he's been waiting his entire life for this moment. He's like a predator, but one who is starving, respectful, already intoxicated by your essence. His mouth is slick, his eyes are wild, and his hair is tousled from your touch. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a wave of heat through you. It makes you want to hide. It makes you want to be consumed.

He pulls back just enough to truly see you, and something raw and broken flickers across his face. You watch it shatter within him. You feel it cracking beneath your ribs.

His hands tremble as they explore your body. They're not hurried now, not greedy. Just desperately seeking. He wants to discover what makes you gasp, what makes you tremble, what makes you wrap your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his shoulders, calling his name like a curse.

Both of you are frantic, lost in something that has been building since the moment you returned. Since before that. Since before you left. Since forever.

When he finally sinks into you, the sound that tears from your throat is something between a sob and a moan. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But it's the kind of pain that feels like salvation, like something breaking open inside you that's been locked too long. He watches your face as he moves, drinking in every reaction, every gasp, every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His pace is relentless, punishing, exactly what you need and nothing like you imagined.

"Look at me," he growls, and you do. You meet his gaze and don't look away, even when it feels too intimate, too raw. His eye burns into yours, the sapphire gleaming in the firelight like a second witness to your surrender. "Say my name."

You bite your lip, refusing at first. His hand slides between your bodies, finding the place where you're most sensitive, and your resolve crumbles.

"Aemond," you gasp, the syllables breaking on your tongue like a prayer. "Aemond," you breathe again, and again, like a confession you can't keep hidden anymore.

His rhythm stutters at the sound of it, his name on your lips like a spell he never thought you’d cast. It tears through him, wild and fierce and reckless, like it can’t be contained. His pulse surges with the rush of possession, with a pride that borders on madness. The moment is electric, charged, impossibly taut. He crushes his mouth to yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, as if your voice alone could undo him, as if all your protests only fuel him further. The pace is dizzying, the edge razor-sharp, and you’re close, so close to something you've never let yourself feel before. Not like this. Not this blinding. Your body arches into him, desperate and unguarded, and you cry out, nails scoring down his back, leaving trails that scream of violence, of passion, of the pain you both need and the pleasure you can’t tell apart. He hisses at the sting, but the sound is nothing like surrender.

"You're mine," he growls, branding you with his words, his teeth grazing your throat, the promise lethal and soft and everything you’ve ever wanted to deny. "Say it."

You choke out the word, shaking your head as you do, still defiant even as your body says otherwise. Even as it betrays you, traitorous and unrelenting, your resistance splintering like ash before a torch. "No." It's barely a whisper, a last stand against the fire, but even you don’t believe it. You clench around him, pulling him deeper, binding him to you with every shuddering breath. He tightens his grip in your hair, and the pull arches your back, exposing your neck, your pulse, the truth you're trying to hide.

"Lie to me again," he says, his voice fractured with desire, the edges rough, unsteady. "And see what happens."

His eye is locked on yours, shining full of hunger and something else. Something that makes you want to give in just to see what it would do to him. You meet his gaze with a challenge, despite the tremor in your voice, despite the pleasure that is slowly unraveling you. "I am not yours."

His lips curl into a smile that is nothing but teeth and intent. He slows his movements with devastating precision, pulling out so slowly it feels like a loss, thrusting back in to make you pay for every lie, for every second you didn’t admit you were his. The impact shatters your defenses, touching something deep inside that makes you want to come apart. Makes you want to break just so he can put you back together.

"Liar," he breathes, but the word is tangled with awe, with worship, with disbelief that he ever let you go. His hands are brands on your skin, holding you in place as he moves, marking you with fingers as determined as his heart, as his claim, as his promise.

You’re losing. You’re lost. Your resolve crumbles, rushing out of you so quickly you feel dizzy with it. The pleasure winds tight, impossibly tight, spreading through your body faster than you can stop it, faster than you can pretend you don’t want it. You’re on the brink, teetering at the edge, and you can’t pull back. Can’t stop it. Can’t stop any of it.

"Say it," he demands, pushing you to the point of no return, his rhythm pushed to the breaking point as his control slips. As he starts to fall apart with you. "Tell me who you belong to."

You want to fight him. You want him to bleed the way you did. You want to be empty of him. You want him to lose the same way you did. You want to give him nothing. You want to watch him break. You want him to hurt the way you did. You want to give him everything. You want him to know it. You want to ruin him as he's ruined you. And suddenly, you are. The word leaves your throat like it’s tearing you apart, like it’s putting you back together. The admission is pain and salvation. The confession is agony and release. "You." The silence shatters. Your resolve shatters. Something wild and desperate between you shatters. You come undone with it, unable to hold anything back. Your voice, your control, the last of your resistance. "You," you whisper, the sound already gone. "You, Aemond."

It breaks something in both of you. He kisses you then, deep and consuming, and you fall apart beneath him, waves of pleasure wracking through you, your release a storm breaking against the shore. He follows you over the edge, his own release a fierce, primal claim, his body tensing above you, inside you, around you. The sound he makes is raw, unguarded, nothing like the prince who holds his emotions in check. His forehead presses against yours as he shudders, as he spills himself inside you, marking you in the most primitive way. You think he might have forgotten how to breathe, how to hold back, how to be a dragon and not a man. You think you might have forgotten the same.

It leaves you both unmoored, wild and vulnerable, unable to hold anything back. Every moment is a fracture, a split-second proof of his soul laid bare. Every tremor a piece of you given in ways you never thought you could. Never thought you would. The heat of him, the weight of him, it should feel like too much. It should feel like surrender. You should feel conquered, defeated. But for the first time, it feels like exactly what you’ve been wanting. Exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

It takes an eternity for the storm to pass, for the world to settle around you, but you hold fast through it, to him, to each other. You feel it long after the shakes subside, after your bodies run out of breath and fury and will. The truth of it so potent you can’t suppress it. Can’t deny it. Not even to save yourself. For a moment, neither of you move. His breath mingles with yours, ragged and spent. His weight is heavy, but you don't push him away. You can't. Your fingers trace the scars on his back, mapping the history of a boy who became a man you didn't recognize. Who became a man you couldn't resist.

When he finally rolls to the side, you feel the chill of the room rush back, reminding you of where you are. Who you are. What you've done. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your body humming with remnants of pleasure and something heavier. You should leave. You should get up, gather your clothes, and slip away before the castle wakes. Before reality returns. Before the weight of this settles fully on your shoulders. Instead, you stay.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, following the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, like he's memorizing the map of you. Neither of you speak. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it's heavy with things unsaid. With questions neither of you are ready to answer.

"They’ll know," you whisper, voice ragged from crying out his name.

He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at you—calm, unreadable—as if the words mean nothing at all.

"And?"

You swallow. "You don’t understand what they’ll say."

"I do." His voice is flat, unbothered. "They’ll say what they always do. It changes nothing."

You push his hand away, sitting up fast. "I’m not yours to claim."

His eye flicks to you, sharp and steady. "I never said you were."

That catches you off guard—but before you can speak, he adds, quieter this time:

"You chose this. Just like I did."

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malusokay · 10 months ago

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5 Classics for girly girls 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Emily of New Moon

The bittersweet process of growing up and finding where you truly belong... The perfect read for the start of a new school year. After her father’s death, Emily Starr is sent to live with her snobbish relatives at New Moon farm. Thrust into an unfamiliar and often cold environment, Emily faces numerous challenges. However, as time passes, she begins to adapt and discovers the beauty in her surroundings. With the support of her new friends—Teddy, Perry, and Ilse—Emily not only finds solace but also discovers her own creative talents, helping her carve out a place for herself in this new chapter of her life.

“If it's IN you to climb you must -- there are those who MUST lift their eyes to the hills -- they can't breathe properly in the valleys.”

Jane Eyre

A true classic for all my fellow gothic-lit enthusiasts, Jane Eyre, reminds us that everyone deserves a love that consumes, challenges, and transforms the very core of your being, offering both profound joy and deep heartache (we love a good situationsship). Following Jane Eyre, an orphaned and mistreated girl who endures a harsh upbringing but grows into a strong, independent woman. As she takes a position as a governess at Thornfield Hall, she encounters the enigmatic Mr. Rochester, sparking a profound and tumultuous romance. Their intense connection is marred by secrets and personal demons, revealing the complexities of their relationship.

“Jane, be still; don't struggle so like a wild, frantic bird, that is rending its own plumage in its desperation." "I am no bird, and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being, with an independent will; which I now exert to leave you.”

The Secret Garden

Mary Lennox, a spoiled and neglected girl, is sent to live with her uncle after the death of her parents. Initially ill-tempered and withdrawn, Mary’s curiosity is sparked by rumours of a hidden, abandoned garden on the estate. As she explores and begins to restore this secret garden, she experiences a beautiful shift (glow-up era). The once gloomy and sickly Mary starts to bloom alongside the garden, rediscovering happiness, vibrancy, and a sense of belonging, making the story a heartwarming tale of growth and recovery.

“At first, people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done--then it is done, and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago.”

Pride and Prejudice

Truly a classic that has shaped my romantic expectations hahah... Elizabeth Bennet battles societal expectations and her own misjudgments in 19th-century England. When the aloof Mr Darcy (he'd totally be a ghoster in the 21st century just saying...) first crosses her path, their initial encounters are fraught with tension and misunderstanding. However, as Elizabeth delves deeper, she uncovers the complexities of Darcy’s character and her own heart.

“I could no longer help saying that I loved him. I loved him not only for his sake but for his own sake. I loved him because he was the only person who had ever really loved me for myself. I loved him because he had made me feel that I was worthy of being loved.”

The Little Prince

A young, otherworldly prince from a tiny planet travels across the universe, meeting various inhabitants and learning profound life lessons. His journey brings him to Earth, where he encounters a stranded pilot and shares his reflections on love, loss, and the essence of human connections. Through whimsical adventures and encounters, The Little Prince explores the importance of seeing with the heart rather than the eyes and reminds us of the value of friendship and innocence.

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched; they are felt with the heart.”

you guys asked for more academia/book stuff so I thought this might be a nice start, especially since I know that many of you are just getting into classics; these are all very much suitable for beginners!! <3

love ya ･:*₊‧✩

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theliving-radio · 4 months ago

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Okay but hear me out... big brother Malleus with a human reader who's dating Leona. I can smell the drama already

WE'RE ON THE SAME WAVE LENGTH!!!!

I was already thinking of the possibility of Leona having a crush on the reader before Malleus dubbed himself as their big brother.

At first, Leona thought the reader was now dating that dumb dragon. The damn lizard is always leaning against them and being in their personal bubble, he's even seen Malleus give them a kiss on the forehead! Surely something is going on between those two!

So Leona now keeps his distance away from the reader, it's been a week now since he saw them. It hurts being away from them, but it hurts even more seeing those two together.

Malleus would have to be the one to get the Lion's attention. His Baby sibling is sad they haven't seen him in awhile. And Malleus hates it when his Baby Sibling is sad! :(

Of course, he finds the Beastmen in the gardens and keeps pestering him to go see you.

"Kingscholar, I do not know the reason why you've been avoiding my Baby sibling. But cease this behavior at once. You're making them sad."

Sibling? The Lizard has a sibling?? And if so, he hasn't met them-

Then, the Big Bang was created in his brain.

Wait... is he talking about Reader??? When did this happen???? HOW did this happen???????

Hold up, does that make you a Draconia now? Are you Royalty now? Were you aware of this? Surely you had to be aware of this, did you consent to this???

That means the reader isn't dating the lizard! Oh great sevens, does that mean he has a chance!?

Lion.exe has stopped working. Transcending to the heavens now with confusion and delight at the news he has received.

Before Malleus was about to scold him again, Leona shot up and sprinted out of the botanical garden.

Malleus just stands there in shock, not moving as he watches the beastman leave without saying a word. He lets out a huff and dusts off his hands.

"Good, I hope he learns his lesson to not upset my Baby Sibling"

Now, if the reader and Leona start dating. Ho ho ho ho-

I'm gonna save that for a later time~ but there is drama, lots of it.

#twisted wonderland x reader #platonic relationships #malleus draconia x reader #twst x reader #leona kingscholar #twst malleus #twst leona #leona x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #doodle #anon asks #anon

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ducksido · 2 months ago

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hey so Riddle dislikes it when people make fun of him for his height and he gets super angry, so what’s he do when his crush who is taller than him by a couple of inches, be it male or female, and crush is calmly like “you’re 5’3 right? Why not just take their kneecaps or kick them in their balls if they annoy you so much about it?” ( 😂 he’s never been in a physical fight in his life and I don’t think using his short height to his advantage has ever occurred to him. Crush encouraging a new sort of wrath on the tweels)).

Riddle Rosehearts was fuming. Again.

The Tweels had been particularly insufferable today—Floyd crouching dramatically to pat his head, and Jade making a suspiciously polite remark about “how hard it must be to assert one’s authority from such a low altitude.”

He’d nearly given himself an ulcer biting his tongue, only letting out a withering, “That is enough out of you two!” before storming off with his dignity as intact as it could be.

You found him pacing in the rose garden, mumbling under his breath and looking very much like he was seconds away from reenacting a guillotine scene with hedge clippers.

“Bad day?” you asked, leaning against a column casually. You were a few inches taller than him—not that it ever bothered you.

“Those eels—!” Riddle snapped, gesturing furiously with his arms. “I cannot understand why everyone insists on mocking me for my height! I am not a child! I am the Housewarden of Heartslabyul!”

You blinked at him. Then tilted your head.

“You’re 5’3”, right?”

His eye twitched. “Yes, and if you must bring that up—”

“I’m just saying,” you shrugged calmly, “if people are giving you grief about it, why not just take their kneecaps or kick them in the balls?”

Riddle stared. Visibly short-circuited. “I—I beg your pardon?!”

You smiled a little, nonchalant. “I mean, logically speaking, your height gives you the perfect angle. You don’t even need to aim that hard. A swift move and boom—problem solved. Think of it as strategic retaliation.”

He looked appalled. “That’s—that’s barbaric! I’ve never—I’m not a street brawler! I resolve disputes with rules! And logic! And—”

“But Riddle,” you interrupted sweetly, “you’d be so efficient at it.”

He paused.

“…Efficient?”

You nodded, utterly serious. “You could weaponize their assumptions. No one sees it coming from someone who quotes dorm rules and drinks tea with pinky out. Floyd crouches to mess with you? Just go for the knees. Jade tries to be snide? Ball tap. Bam. Lesson learned.”

Riddle looked down at his gloved hands. Then back up at you.

“…I could probably knock Floyd’s balance off if I timed it right…”

You nodded. “Exactly. You’re small but mighty. Tactical. Like a magical landmine.”

He flushed, torn between scandal and curiosity. “That’s… absurd. And completely against school policy.”

“…But you are a rule enforcer,” you pointed out. “Technically, you’d just be punishing them for misconduct. Just... with more spice.”

He made a strangled sound.

Later that week, Floyd tried the head-patting thing again.

Riddle didn’t actually kick him in the balls.

But he did jab his wand directly into the side of Floyd’s knee with the kind of force that made the eel slump to the floor like a sack of eels and wail, “Shrimpy what did you TELL HIM?!”

You sipped your tea from the sidelines.

Riddle didn’t smile.

But he did look... significantly less furious.

#twst x reader #twst #twst wonderland #twst headcanons #riddle rosehearts x y/n #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle

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straows · 3 months ago

Text

Garden injuries, Sukuna R.

—in which you’re Sukuna’s gardener (future wife), and you accidentally injure yourself. And hide it from him. But he finds out anyway.

Part two, part three>>>

A/n: I need ideas, help help help help

Sighing, you stood up straight, wiping the sweat from your brow. The sun was harsh on your skin, the tan you’d worked up had brought you a shade or two darker since the beginning of this week.

You wore a simple pair of overalls, a bit baggy on you. And under, you wore a simple spaghetti strap tank top and gloves to protect your hands. Sukuna always disapproved of your clothing choice, always called it ‘peasant human attire’, he stopped when he watched you work one day, watching as sweat would roll down your neck and into your cleavage, or how your skin looked like it was practically glowing in the sun, his eyes drinking in the sight of you working hungrily.

You held a pair of pruning shears in hand as you cleaned up a bush, making sure the garden was maintained and looking gorgeous.

Pulling away from the bush, you smiled at your work, however hearing a voice behind you suddenly had you jolting. The grip on the shears loosened and it slipped between your fingers. Before promptly slicing down your thigh, creating a good size gash from your hip to lower thigh.

Gasping in pain, you bit your lip hard. The man who had snuck up on you was simply a new servant of Sukuna’s who needed to find a certain fruit that Sukuna had requested.

However, his face turned pale when he saw the accident take place. Knowing damn well how valued you are to him. “Oh my goodness— I am so sorry!”

“No no! It’s fine, not your fault. I should have been more careful,” sighing, you looked down at your bleeding leg, the pain making your knees weak and your hands clenched into fists, “lessons were learned. Don’t tell Lord Sukuna, okay? He has enough to worry about as is.” You smiled sweetly at him, despite the pain that made you want to bash your brain into a brick.

Immediately, you hobbled away to go get secret medical attention. Working hard to avoid Uraume, as well as trying to keep your heart steady so Sukuna wouldn’t get suspicious. You didn’t know how it worked, but he always told you he could hear your emotions. Which admittedly pissed you off because that meant he would read you like a book.

You’d gone and gotten yourself stitched and wrapped up. And made sure to only wear pants. Much to Sukuna’s displeasure.

Anytime you were in a room with Sukuna, you would do a 180 and leave the room, trying to walk as normally as possible. Not only was your time with Sukuna hindered, but so was your work in the garden.

It was hard to do what you needed to do with your injury, and Sukuna was quick to notice.

“Miss y/n, you’ve been summoned by Sukuna. He wishes to see you in his bed chambers.” A servant walked over to you, eyeing you curiously. No doubt wondering why you were hobbling around and not doing as good a job as you usually did.

“Right. Ok.” You nodded, hissing as you planted your foot wrong and it sent a jolt of pain up your bandaged thigh.

The walk there was terrible. You were sweating and shaking slightly due to the pain. Brows furrowed in relief when you finally made it to his bed chambers. Knocking on the large door, immediately it opened.

Sukuna stared down at you, looking furious, but immediately paused. The scent of blood and wounded flesh filled his nostrils, and he immediately yanked you inside. “Foolish human, what have you done?” He snapped and forced you to sit on his writing table.

“Ow shit!—“ cursing in pain from Sukuna plopping you down onto the table, only to be followed by him ripping the pants off of you. “H-hey— stop wait-“

Sukuna stared at the wound on your leg for a long time. His jaw clenched as he tried to calm himself down. His favorite human, no, future wife and queen, was wounded. And bad at that, it looked infected. The stitches were threatening to pop and the bandages were too tight, giving it no room to breathe.

Taking a deep breath, he summoned Uraume into the room. And they were there just like that.

“Fix this.” Pointing to the wound on your thigh, he pulled out the chair under the table and sat down. His steely glare locked onto you the entire time Uraume checked over the wound and began trying their best to repair the shitty stitching. “Why have you hidden this from me, brat?”

Your nails dug into the table, creating scratch marks as your jaw tightened in pain. Resisting the urge to yelp in pain each time Uraume wasn’t careful with their nails they’d scratch the wound or dip their finger in it.

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t, fuck,” you whimpered, tilting your head back, sweat dripping down your face and chest, your chest raising up and down with the deep, fast breaths you took, “—r-relevant.”

Sukuna stared at you, his eyes growing dark at your words. Not relevant? To him? You belonged to him. Every inch of you was relevant to him. Not only that, he would never admit it, he totally would, but the sight of you, sweaty, nails digging into the table and whimpering like that had his cock stirring in his pants. Although quickly the boner that was beginning to form immediately softened when he remembered that you were in immense pain and not pleasure.

He’d fix that later though.

“Listen to me when I say this, human,” grabbing your jaw, a tight grip but gentle in his own way, he forced you to look at him, “Every little thing you do, every breath you take, every beat of your heart, all of it. All of it is relevant to me. You are mine. My human. My woman.” He was stern as he spoke to you.

You swallowed weakly, his words had your heart racing faster and faster, and you knew he could tell because a shit-eating smirk rose to his lips.

“You cannot deny me, your own body knows it belongs to me.” His smirk was cocky, and it just had you rolling your eyes with a weak smile.

“Lord Sukuna,” Uraume got his attention quickly as they showed him the infected bits of the wound, “it is badly infected. With the way it’s spread, combined with her fever, I believe we need some medicine.”

Sukuna just nodded, “Do whatever you must. Get one of the servants to move all of her belongings to my chamber at once.”

You just groaned in relief when Uraume finally stopped digging in your gash. And let your back fall against the table. Your head resting on the table between his arms.

Sukuna rested his chin on his fist, looking down at you with dark and curious eyes. Reaching down, he let his nails gently trace your face. And he found himself growing addicted to the way you would seek his touch, your eyes fluttering closed.

“Mm yes, you are my human,” Sukuna spoke, mainly to himself. “I will claim you when this wound heals. You will be by my side, no longer just a gardener.”

“Mmmhm…” you just hummed, not opening your eyes as you fell asleep tug at your consciousness.

#jjk #jjk x reader #imagine #high asf #jjk x you #jjk sukuna #jjk ryomen #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna drabble #sukuna imagine #jjk fluff #part two?

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goldenlikedayl1ght · 11 months ago

Text

...ready for it? - j.l. howlett

a/n: hi! here's a full version of a blurb i wrote a few days ago that got so much love so quick that i wanted to give yall a full version! the beginning is literally just the blurb but after that it's all new! like many of you wolverine brainrot has hit me hard, so here's graphic smut about him. leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed :) warnings: SMUT!!!!! some dumbification, use of pet names, reader is fem, reader is a mutant and able to control plants, lots of cursing, lots of grotesque fliritng/fantasies, some soft moments, some sort of primal sex, oral (fem receiving), some of the setting is probs inaccurate but whatever. let me know if i missed any big ones!! word count: 4.9 k summary: well, you had to find some way of entertaining yourself at charles xavier's school for gifted youngsters. and you have always liked an emotionally unavailable, absolutely hung, challenge. pairing: logan howlett x mutant!reader now playing: ...ready for it? - taylor swift "in the middle of the night, in my dreams/you should see the things we do, baby/in the middle of the night in my dreams/i know i'm gonna be with you, so i take my time"

You are absolutely enthralled with him. It’s actually sort of pathetic how your fingers twitch at the sight of him, at how the mention of his name or god forbid the sound of his voice makes your head snap up, attention deficit disorders be damned!

Funnily enough, you had no damn interest in Xavier’s stupid mutant school, because to you, you’re not an outsider because of your mutant abilities (that don’t have much of a physical apparition, at least one that you can’t hide) but because there’s never been much of a place for you to fit in.

But, you were behind on rent and of course, you fucking hate your job, so why not? You’d be able to be slightly less of a freak, and you’d get free room and board in the process! (Where Charles gets all of his money, you do not know.)

And because you’re a little older, Charles doesn’t force you to sit in a class room to learn about basic arithmetic and grammar lessons, so you really only do some training around three times a day, you have your own room (with a dusty box under the other bed, you also suspect your room used to be the ‘sex’ room) and you have the weekends off.

So for a twenty something year old with few ambitions, the social skills of a Martian with autism, and a huge crush on every older emotionally unavailable man you meet, it’s a pretty good set-up.

You’re waiting for time to pass in the garden, just reading a rather interesting book that Charles had recommended after he noticed you needed something to pass time before you started making bad decisions.

You hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel before you see him. Your heart beats faster, but you will yourself, do everything in your power not to glance up at him. And you let out a breath as you succeed, keeping your head down.

“In your natural habitat, are you, spitfire?” Your head darts up to him—There’s no way he isn’t talking to you, you know you’re the only one in this garden. And you can see his lips twitch up and you want to crawl out of your skin!

“My-My natural habitat?” You laugh, closing the book you’re reading because your attention is locked to him now.

“Yeah, seems like it.” He saunters on up to you and sits on the bench next to you.

And let’s make something very clear—

Logan Howlett does not sit.

This man poses, as if there’s always some invisible camera capturing every frame of movement, from the way his legs spread out, to the way his chest lifts when he inhales.

Fuck, you think you might die if you can’t suck him off right now.

“And what exactly is my uh.. habitat?” You question.

He takes out his lighter and a cigar, placing the cigar in his mouth as he gestures to the space around the two of you, lighter in hand.

“A garden.” He says, matter of facility, as his voice is muffled only the slightest bit by the cigar.

And you just sort of look at him before asking,

“Oh, you enjoy being boiled down to your mutations, Claws?” You question, and as he goes to light the cigar, he smirks.

“Alright, you gotta admit though, it is cliché!”

You are absolutely in agreement, there is zero doubt you are as much of a walking, breathing, real life living, stereotype.

“It is not!” And the pair of you give each other this look, like you’re both shocked at how whiney that statement is!

“Uh-huh, sure, Spitfire.” It sounds almost like he’s purring at you.

When he lights his cigar, he’s sort of eying you for your reaction, whatever you might say.

“You know, smoking is not only bad for you, it’s awful for the environment.”

“You’re probably the most cliché little freak around here.” Which.. honestly..? Shouldn’t possibly turn you on as much as it does.

You just stare at him for a minute, and he smirks.

“Cat got your tongue?’

And maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s immature but your hand just comes over to fiddle with the pointed part of his hair.

“We’ll you certainly look the part.” He just looks at you, and honestly? The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s proud of you for teasing him.

“Aw, there’s my little spitfire,” He teases, just to see how red you get. And red you are— it’s embarrassing. And here’s the kicker—You are young. Exceptionally young, and what’s insane about that? How horny it makes both you and Logan.

The idea of fucking your innocent cunt, tight and all his, drives him genuinely mad. And you are, quite literally, a whore for the idea of riding this older man’s dick. You know he’s big—sometimes you see the outerline of it when he walks away from you all huffy and puffy.

“You’re a tease, Claws.” You respond, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Says you,” he raises and eyebrow, leaning closer to you now, “You’re the one laying around in the sun, looking like that.”

“Looking like this?” You scoff. You’re wearing a muscle tee and a pair of ripped jeans, but the gaps are huge and he can see your thighs. He wants to devour you, and you would let him if he only asked.

And let’s be clear—he is fucking you with his eyes. There’s no way to go around it.

“I think you’re just.. horny.” You tease, and he just growls. Seriously, this man who is undressing you with his eyes, growls, because he does want you and he is horny!

“I think you’re onto something.” He purrs, and you want to just.. god. You don’t know how to express the pit of desire that grows in you. “I would fuck you until you couldn’t think, right here among your pretty flowers. Would you like that, baby?” he asks, his hand finding your thigh.

But you just cough on the smoke from his cigar, before frowning.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.”

“Aw, I’ll make it up to you.” He smirked. “Promise, spitfire.”

He’s very close to you now, so you take a second to just breath and you know that he knows that he’s got you—hook, line, and sweet, sweet sinker.

And then you realize what exactly it is that you’ve gotten yourself into. And what a nightmare it is—Or maybe a dream if you listen to the pathetic part of your brain, but you are into this an in a way that is concerning for your own mental wellbeing and desperately want to avoid him having all the power in this situation.

“Oh, I am sure you will.” You assure. You lean forward, plucking the cigar from his lips, and placing it on the ground, squashing it beneath your heel. With a flick of your wrist, vines and grass grow over the cigar, composting it. And from the vines, grows a small little buttercup flower.

You lean down and pluck the flower from the grass, before tucking it behind Logan’s ear.

“You should take care of that hard-on you have, Claws.” You hum, before standing up, and walking away. And for a minute, he just watches you go—partly to because you have an amazing ass, but partly because you have absolutely flabbergasted him.

And have made him want you even more.

• • •

The next time you see him is the next night, in the woods near the mansion. Because the literal sixteen year olds you go to ‘school’ with do not know how to do anything on the weekend except drink, fuck, and smoke.

Honestly, you kind of fit in great.

So here you are, nursing a mason jar of.. some fucked up concoction, and you’re not too sure what’s in it, but you have drunk two of them and are on your third. You think you might live forever, until you glance up and see Logan, in these fuck me jeans and this burnt orange flannel and a wife beater.

Instantly, you know that you’ll die tonight if you don’t have him.

He approaches you with this cocky smirk as if he hasn’t realized your intoxicated state yet.

“Now what’s a little spitfire like you doing all alone on a Friday night?” he questions, tilting his head. His smirk is deadly. And you roll your eyes.

“Here comes the big bad Wolverine, all bark and no bite.” You scoff, and his eyes flash with surprise. Only for a second, but even drunk, you notice the way his eyes shoot up in surprise.

“All bark and no bite? That’s quite the accusation.” He hums.

“Well, we’ve been.. eye fucking each other for a few weeks now, and you haven’t even kissed me yet. I get being into foreplay and edging, but holy shit, Claws, throw a girl a bone once in a while.” You scoff, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

“Are you.. drunk?”

“Do you think I’m drunk?”

“Yeah, you’re drunk.” He sighs. You respond by taking another sip of your drink, but before the bitter liquor hits your tongue, he snatches the bottle from you.

“Let me take you home.” You’re sure your eyes look like hearts, so, dreamily and a little love struck, you respond,

“’Kay.”

And he chuckles a little bit at that.

“We’re not gonna do anything, I’m just gonna walk you home, spitfire.” He starts, and your face falls a little bit, but in an effort to hide it, you respond,

“..’kay.” And he sees right through you. You’re pretty much an open book. And the alcohol doesn’t help. His pointer finger and thumb comes to your chin, and he gently rubs his thumb against your lip.

“Don’t be like that, pup. It’ll happen soon. Just not tonight, okay?” He assures.

“’Kay.” You answer softly, and you think he smiles at you but your vision is sort of blurry. Then, you blink, as a gust of wind moves through the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. He sighs, and wordlessly takes off his flannel, before wrapping it around you. Your arms slip into the sleeves, and you almost cry because it’s like, the best hug in the entire world. “Won’t.. you be cold, then?” you question, and he just shakes his head.

“Let’s get you home, spitfire.” He holds a handout to you, and without a second thought, you take his hand. He wraps his arm around you, and you lean against him like it’s something the two of you do often. If you were sober, you might short circuit. But, you’re not, so it feels right.

The walk home is quiet, but Logan’s thumb gently rubs against your shoulder. He wants to do more, but he knows he shouldn’t, since you are in fact plastered.

You ignore the giggles and whispers from teenagers making their way past you to the party or to their rooms, and you even ignore the way their giggles stop when they meet Logan’s gaze.

When you get back to your room, you take a second to lean against the door, and he takes a second to admire the way you look in his clothes.

“Ready for bed?” he asks gently, and you just smile at him.

“You’re really pretty.” He just does the half scoff-half chuckle that you’re obsessed with. Then, he wraps his arm around you again, opening the door to your room, and guiding you inside. He gets you to your bed and sits you down, before kneeling in front of you to untie your boots. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look on your knees?” you ask.

He just gives you this smirk.

“One or two pretty girls back in the day.” He says, “None as pretty as you though, spitfire.” He says, and you groan, leaning back and laying on the bed, as he pulls off your boots.

“You’re awful.” And you need him.

“Yes, I know, baby.” His voice is almost condescending, and it turns you on. But then he stands up, grabbing the folded blanket from the edge of your bed, and laying it over you. He finds his place kneeling next to you again as you stare at him, cozy in bed. His hands gently brush hair from your face. “Do you need anything else?”

“You.”

“Soon. But not yet, pup. You’re too drunk.” He says softly.

“Thanks for walking me home, Claws.”

“You’re very welcome, Spitfire.” He purrs, leaning forward and kissing your forehead gently. “I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Logan.” You mumble as you drift off to sleep. He sits there for a few minutes, just looking at you for a long time before he gets up and creeps out of your room.

• • •

The next morning, you sit in the cafeteria, drinking a large coffee, and nursing the worst hangover, possibly of your life. Made even worse by the fractions of memories about what happened last night.

You rub your eyes, flinching when you hear the clatter of a plate on the table, and someone sitting across from you. You peek through the gaps of your fingers to see Logan sitting across from you, a smirk on his face.

He opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it.

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he laughs. But he sees how much pain you’re in, and slides two pieces of sourdough toast to you. “Truce?”

“Truce.” You agree, taking a slice and biting into it. You feel better.

And after a moment of silence, he asks,

“I’m never getting my flannel back, am I?”

Truthfully, the flannel has been folded neatly and tucked into your drawer, for the next time you need some comfort.

You tilt your head, looking right into his eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

• • •

Weeks go by like this.

You spend your days either going to class or hanging out—okay, it’s more like flirting with a side of hanging out, with Logan. The pair of you become quite close, and maybe that’s why you haven’t fucked yet.

Oh, the two of you want to, and it’s obvious to everyone (Charles has called you out for being distracted more times than you can count, and you remind him not to probe your mind, and he tells you he does not need his mutant abilities to see that your thoughts linger elsewhere.) but you’re.. afraid, at this point.

Which is odd, because you’re no virgin, you know he wants you, but.. what if everything changes after that? Maybe he’ll start to avoid you. Maybe you’ll start to avoid him. And you’ve really become good friends, and don’t want to lose it.

And then, there’s the fact that half the time, he’s away on dangerous missions, and even if he can regenerate, you worry about him. But he hasn’t been on any lately, so it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You’re sitting in the garden when it happens.

He finds you, and this time, you do not even try to hide the way your head picks up and gazes at him.

“Hi, Spitfire.” He grins, and you smile a bit at him.

“Claws, what can I do for you?” And he sits next to you, and for some reason, maybe because he doesn’t say anything at first, you know that there is something wrong. And you know what it is.

After a few minutes, you glance to him.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Your voice is quiet, as if you’re scared that if it gets any louder, everything will fall apart.

“Yeah. Charles has me going on another mission.” He doesn’t say it, but you both know this isn’t an involuntary thing.

“Cool.” You cringe at your reaction.

“I guess.” He laughs weakly, as if he knows he’s twisting a knife buried within you.

Silence fills the air. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it isn’t the relaxed silence you’re used to with him. Confessions dance on the tips of your tongues, and you’re so close to saying it, that when you turn to each other suddenly, you just need to look at each other for a second.

“Be safe.” You say quietly. “And hurry back.” You request, and you try not to sound like you’re begging.

“Of course.” He says, like it perplexes him that you even have to request. “I can’t leave you here yearning for me forever, can I?” He teases, and for a moment, you have this flash of an alternate universe where he does die on this mission and you are trapped in this garden forever, waiting for him. Like a lost puppy, or worse, a lost lover. The mere thought of it fucks with your head.

“No. You can’t. I won’t allow it.” You explain, “If anything, I’m the one that should be haunting you.” He just smiles. A real, not at all awkward smile.

“I’m sure you will, spitfire.” He says, and his head comes forward so that his forehead is resting against yours.

“When do you leave?” You ask gently, and he sighs. His breath smells of mint and cigar smoke, maybe even a hint of lemon.

“An hour. I have to pack quick and then debrief.” He answers you.

And just as love struck as you were the night of the party, you answer,

“’Kay.” You smile weakly at him. And he just.. looks at you for a few minutes before sighing again. He pulls away and leans up to kiss your forehead again, before standing up. He turns a few steps away from you just to tease you.

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?” he requests softly. Before you can stop yourself, you stand up, and wrap your arms around him. He only pauses for a half a second before he returns your embrace, and it becomes apparent that you both needed this moment. You stay like this for a few minutes before you pull away.

“Bring me back a souvenir.” You try, a soft smile on your face.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll bring you something great from the great city of Tulsa, Ohklahoma.” He grins.

“Deal.”

• • •

For the next week, you feel like this must be what it was like for housewives when their husbands went to war. You knew all too well that that statement was extremely dramatic, but you simply cannot help yourself.

You think you might die by day three.

It’s like you’re going through withdrawals and it’s making you go genuinely insane.

You have worn this man’s flannel for almost the entire week, because at first you’re a little self-conscious of other people noticing your repeating outfits, but only at first. By day four, you have decided you don’t give a single fuck.

Day eight you’re just laying in bed, quietly making a list of all the positions you want him to take you in. It’s a long list. You’re brought back to reality by a knock on your door. You’re about to snap, knowing that you’ll tell whatever child has been sent to bother you to scram, but when you open the door, you grin widely.

Logan stands there, looking tired, but he’s smiling and holding up a shot glass that reads ‘Tusla’, and has skyline on it.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d get you a souvenir?” He asks, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, pulling him in. He hugs you back, making sure to squeeze you just a bit—your feet barely come off the ground.

He pulls away, and you grin up to him.

“You came back.” You say it as if you can barely believe it, and just for a moment, he feels an emotion he can’t quite place, but he ignores it.

“Of course I came back, spitfire. All in one piece too, as requested.” He grins, and you’re just.. amazed at the look of him. “What’s that look for?” He asks gently, tilting his head.

“I just..” you start.

And then you break.

You lean up and kiss him gently, those stupidly delicious sideburns making your stomach flip. He doesn’t waste time, kissing you back, his arms around your waist. After a minute, you pull away.

“Sorry. I’m kind of done playing that game of waiting for you to kiss me. I just got the first hit of you I’ve had all week, and I feel fucking amazing.” You confess, and sure, it’s not a big grand love confession with tears and poetry, but your words make him kiss you so intensely that you start backing into your room, his hands exploring your body as you tug off his leather jacket, a new flannel for you to steal coming off soon after.

He keeps kissing you as his hands come down to your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them, before gently pushing you to sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, and begins to tug off your boots again, then, on your jeans.

You grin.

“You know, I’m getting the oddest sense of déjà vu. Something about you looking great on your knees.” You tease, and he just tugs off your jeans in one strong swoop, before leaning in to bite your thigh. You gasp, your hands coming up to tug his hair.

Then, he begins to tug at your panties, and you tilt his head up, glancing at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, before I was interrupted, I was about to eat you out.”

“Wait, really?”

He blinks, confused.

“Yeah. Is that a, uh.. problem..?” He hasn’t gotten any complaints yet.

“I just.. I didn’t think guys actually did that, I thought it was just.. a porno thing.” And at this, the man who is about to burry his face between your thighs, laughs. And not just a chuckle, this man hollars. “What’s so funny, claws?” You ask, a little suspicious.

“Nothing,” he promises, “I am just going to take such good care of you, pup.”

“I’m holding you to that, claws.” And then, he leans in and begins to kiss your thighs, gently biting down here and there. Then, he licks a stripe along your cunt, and you let out this loud moan, and your hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, but he reaches up to grab your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

He pulls away to lecture you. Lecture you. On his knees. Head between your thighs.

“Nuh-uh, I wanna hear all the pretty noises you can make for me.” Then, softer, he adds, “Never been eaten out before, fuckin’ travesty.” He mumbles, before leaning in to lick your cunt again, beginning to lap his tongue over your throbbing heat.

His nose rubs against your clit, and it’s enough to drive you genuinely crazy. You’re unsure how you’ve gotten to this point in your life without having your pussy worshipped like this, but with him around, you’re pretty sure you’ll never go another day without it.

His tongue continues to work magic on your cunt, as his nose presses against your clit, stimulating you to the point of making you see stars.

Your hands tug at his hair, and the moan that it elicits from him is enough to send vibrations through your cunt through your stomach. Your head leans back as you moan, and for a moment, you hope there is no mutant in this mansion with super hearing.

His free hand grips your thigh as he bends your leg back to get better access, as he continues to eat you out. The mere taste of you is enough to drive him crazy—He almost wants to start thrusting into the side of your bed, he’s so hard, but he ignores that urge to continue to eat you out.

“Mm—Lo, I—I’m gonna—”

He just hums into your cunt, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze of approval, before his tongue moves even faster (if that’s even possible, though, he is an amazingly surprising man), and suddenly—

You feel a release you have been waiting for weeks, and it is fucking phenomenal. And the Wolverine just licks up all your cum, even if it makes your thighs shake, but honestly, he doesn’t care and neither do you. For a moment, you just listen to the sound of your own pants.

After a minute, you are able to look at him, and he just looks up to you with the same smirk that has been torturing you for all of those weeks. And you just have to pull him up to kiss you, like it’s the only way you’ll be able to live.

As you kiss him, you pull off his wifebeater and then your hands rest on the sides of his face as he pulls off your shirt as well, before his hands begin to make quick work of his belt, wanting to skip all of the pleasantries and just fuck you.

But when he finally gets his jeans off, you pull away, and he stares at you like you’re crazy.

“What the fuck could possibly be more important than me fucking you stupid?”

“Will you just.. let me look at you?” You scoff, your eyes flickering over him to just memorize every square inch of his body. He humors you for a few minutes, standing there with his hands on hips before he leans in and cages you in with his arms.

“Show’s over, spitfire.” He purrs, leaning in to kiss you, slowly making his way closer to you so that you’re laying back on your bed. At some point during the kiss, his boxers come off, and when you feel his cock against your cunt, you moan into the kiss, and you can feel his smirk against your lips.

Oh, you could kill him. But, you suspect maybe he’ll get to you first.

After he kisses you for a few minutes, he pulls away to tell—not ask, tell you, “I’m going to fuck you now.” And you know your line.

“’Kay.” He grins at this and kisses you again, before lining himself up and starting slowly. He just has the tip inside of you, and you begin to moan, your grip on his shoulders tightening. You already feel entirely too full, and he slowly agonizingly slowly pushes into you, and he sees how his size makes your face twitch,

“Shh, shh, I know, pup. Deep breathes for me, bub,” he says softly, such a stark contract to his rough movements, as he bottoms out and has his entire cock inside of you. And he gives you a second, watching as your face relaces, adjusting to the size of him. “Okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“’Kay,” You assure, and he kisses your forehead.

“’Kay.” He responds, and before you can tease him for it, he begins to thrust into you, slowly as first, but he continues to quicken his pace. Your nails begin to scratch on his back, and he lets out this angelic moan—You must’ve died and went to heaven.

As his thrusts quicken, the lines quickly blur between quick ruts and an animalistic need, manifesting itself in the way he fucks you. You know you won’t last long, especially when his fingers find your clit and begin to rub it again.

“Fuck! Oh my god—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, his free hand coming to your thigh to lift your leg up, only for better access to your throbbing cunt, “God, I love the feeling of you around me.. Worth the wait, I promise.” He grumbles, as he thrusts into you, his only goal to make you cum.

You want to respond to that—To tease him, to make him feel as shy as you do, but he has completed his goal of fucking you stupid.

All you can do is respond, “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby, go ahead, cum for me,” he requests softly, leaning in to press a rather jarringly sweet kiss to your lips.

As you cum around his cock, he shudders, the look of you, laying there fucked dumb, is almost too much for him to bear.

“I’m gonna fill you up, pup,” he tells you, and all you can do is moan in response, which makes him come that much closer to the edge. After a few more thrusts, with a euphoric moan that will haunt you forever, his hot cum fills you up, leaving the pair of you clawing at each other, wanting more.

When you’re both finally finished riding out your high, Logan lays next to you, keeping you close. His grip on you is tight—possessive. When you finally find your voice, you ask,

“You’re not gonna turn me into a booty call, are you, claws?”

And he laughs.

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss to your head. “You’re gonna be my best girl, Spitfire.”

“Does this mean I get to steal another of your flannels?”

“I’ll give you my whole fucking wardrobe to see how many times I can make you cum.”

#logan howlett x you #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #logan howlett #logan howlett blurb #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine blurb #wolverine smut #xmen smut #deadpool and wolverine #danny speaks to the void

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lotuswish · 5 months ago

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˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 3 - heartslabyul) ♡ .ᐟ

synopsis: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective-how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them.

featured character(s): riddle rosehearts, trey clover, cater diamond, ace trappola, deuce spade.

content warning(s): none.

a/n: what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

link(s): (masterlist) (pt. 1 - scarabia) (pt. 2 - savanaclaw) (pt. 3 - you are here) (pt. 4 - ignihyde) (pt. 5 - pomefiore) (pt. 6 - octavinelle) (pt. 7 - diasomnia)

riddle rosehearts

loving you feels like uncharted territory for riddle rosehearts—an unfamiliar but undeniable pull that challenges everything he thought he knew about himself and the world. it’s unsettling at first, like stepping out of a perfectly ordered garden into a wild, untamed forest. riddle has spent his life living by rules, adhering to structure, and keeping emotions tightly controlled. but loving you doesn’t follow the rules. it doesn’t fit neatly into the framework he’s built for himself. and yet, it feels right in a way that nothing else ever has.

loving you feels like freedom, though he’s reluctant to admit it. for so long, he’s been bound by expectations—those of his mother, his peers, and even his own rigid standards. but when he’s with you, he begins to realize there’s more to life than perfection and discipline. you show him the beauty in imperfection, the joy in spontaneity, and the strength in being vulnerable. it’s both petrifying and exciting to let his walls down, to trust you with the parts of himself he’s always kept hidden.

at first, loving you feels like a struggle—a battle between his need for control and the overwhelming feelings you bring out in him. he overthinks, questions himself, and tries to rationalize emotions that defy logic. but over time, he begins to see that love isn’t something to be mastered or contained; it’s something to be experienced. you teach him that it’s okay to let go, to make mistakes, and to be human. and in doing so, you give him a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing.

loving you also feels like growth. you challenge him, not by opposing him outright, but by simply being yourself—kind, patient, and unafraid to push back when needed. you help him see the world beyond the rules he’s lived by for so long, showing him that kindness and understanding are just as important as discipline and structure. with you, he feels like he’s becoming the person he was always meant to be—not the perfect son or the flawless student, but riddle, someone who can love and be loved in return.

for riddle, it goes beyond breaking free from his past or discovering joy in the present; it’s the chance to create a future where he can fully embrace his true self, with you by his side. you are his first taste of a world without restrictions, a world filled with warmth, understanding, and connection. loving you feels like learning how to live, truly live, and it’s a lesson he’ll cherish forever.

trey clover

loving you feels like the calm after a summer rain to trey clover—refreshing, soothing, and full of a quiet kind of peace that feels like it was always meant to be. for someone who’s always been the dependable one, the quiet supporter in the background, love feels like finding someone who sees him for more than his reliability. with you, it’s not about what he can give or do for others; it’s about being appreciated for who he is, without the weight of expectations. it’s a gentle, comforting feeling, like coming home after a long day and knowing he’s exactly where he belongs.

to trey, loving you feels natural, like something that was meant to be. he’s not one for dramatic declarations or grand gestures, but his love for you is woven into every little thing he does—remembering how you like your tea, baking your favorite treats when he notices you’ve had a hard day, or simply listening when you need to talk. it’s the small, everyday moments that make up the fabric of his love, each one a reflection of the deep care he feels for you.

at the same time, loving you feels like balance. trey is used to being the caretaker, the one who looks out for others, but with you, it’s different. you remind him that it’s okay to lean on someone else, to let himself be cared for too. your presence in his life is a gentle reminder that he doesn’t always have to be the responsible one, that he can let his guard down and simply be himself. that kind of mutual support is something he’s never experienced before, and it makes his love for you all the more profound.

loving you also feels like discovery. trey is grounded and practical, but you bring out a lighter, more adventurous side of him, encouraging him to step out of his comfort zone and try new things. whether it’s exploring a hobby he never considered or sharing in your own passions, you make him feel like life is full of possibilities he hadn’t thought to explore. it’s not a drastic change, but a gentle shift, like sunlight filtering through the trees, casting everything in a new light.

for trey, loving you feels like the slow, steady rise of dough—something patient, deliberate, and fulfilling. it’s about embracing the small moments, treasuring the quiet joys, and allowing the connection to deepen naturally over time. with you, he feels like he’s found a partner who understands the beauty in simplicity, someone who makes his life sweeter just by being in it. loving you isn’t a whirlwind or a spark—it’s a constant flame, warm and enduring.

cater diamond

loving you feels like contradiction to cater diamond—thrilling and unnerving, freeing and suffocating, all at once. for someone who’s built his life around facades, hiding his true feelings behind smiles and filters, love feels raw and vulnerable in a way he’s never let himself experience before. it’s like standing in front of an open window, the breeze exposing everything he’s tried so hard to keep hidden. it’s exciting, but it’s also a little terrifying, because loving you means letting you see the parts of him he’s not sure are good enough.

to cater, loving you feels like being seen for the first time. he’s used to being everyone’s friend, the guy who’s always fun to be around, but you don’t just see the version of him he presents to the world—you see the cater who gets tired, who feels lonely even in a crowd, who wonders if he’ll ever truly belong. and instead of turning away, you stay. you remind him that he doesn’t have to perform to earn your love, that he’s enough just as he is. it’s a kind of acceptance he’s never dared to hope for, and it makes him love you all the more fiercely.

loving you also feels like a risk, like holding something precious in hands that don’t quite feel steady. cater is so used to keeping people at arm’s length, afraid of the pain that comes when they leave, but with you, he can’t help but pull you closer. it’s scary, how much he cares, because the more he lets you in, the more he fears losing you. but even that fear is worth it, because the time he spends with you makes him feel more alive than he ever thought possible.

at the same time, loving you feels like joy. it’s the kind of happiness that comes from the little things—a shared laugh, a stolen glance, the way you say his name like it’s something special. you bring light to the corners of his heart he didn’t even know were dark, and for someone who’s always chasing fun and excitement, you’re the first person who makes him want to slow down and savor every moment. with you, love isn’t a distraction or a game; it’s real, and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

for cater, loving you feels like taking off the mask he’s worn for so long and finally breathing freely. it’s messy and imperfect, but it’s also beautiful and real, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. you are his anchor in a world that often feels fleeting, the one thing that makes him believe in something lasting. loving you is the most frightening and wonderful thing he’s ever known, and it’s a risk he’ll gladly take every single day.

ace trappola

loving you feels like a challenge to ace trappola—one he didn’t realize he wanted to win until he was in the middle of it. love wasn’t something he thought about seriously; to him, it always seemed like one of those cheesy fairytale things other people made a fuss about. but with you, it feels real, and that terrifies him as much as it thrills him. loving you feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into the unknown, yet grinning because he knows he’ll jump anyway.

to ace, loving you feels like being thrown off balance. he’s so used to keeping things lighthearted, dodging vulnerability with jokes and playful teasing, but you manage to see past all of that. you call him out when he’s being difficult, and instead of pushing you away, it makes him want to try harder. you don’t let him get away with his usual antics, and that’s part of what makes him love you—you’re not afraid to challenge him, to hold your ground, and that earns his respect in a way nothing else can.

loving you also feels like growth. ace is confident, but he’s not used to thinking about someone else’s feelings as much as his own. being with you teaches him to slow down, to consider your perspective, and to realize that love isn’t about winning or being right—it’s about compromise, patience, and effort. it’s not always easy for him, but he finds himself wanting to be better, not because he feels like he has to, but because you make him want to be someone worthy of your love.

at the same time, loving you feels like fun. ace has always had a knack for turning even the most mundane moments into something exciting, and with you, every day feels like an adventure. he loves the way you can banter with him, match his energy, and keep him on his toes. your relationship is full of laughter and lighthearted moments, but beneath it all is a deep connection that he doesn’t take lightly. with you, he feels like he can be himself—flaws, quirks, and all—and that kind of acceptance means more to him than he’ll ever admit out loud.

for ace, loving you feels like drawing a wild card in a hand he thought he’d already figured out, completely changing the game in the best way. it’s a mix of excitement, vulnerability, and the occasional frustration, but it’s also the most rewarding thing he’s ever experienced. you’re his equal, his partner, and his favorite person to annoy in the best possible way. loving you is unpredictable, exhilarating, and a little scary—but to him, it’s absolutely worth it.

deuce spade

loving you feels like redemption to deuce spade—raw, humbling, and deeply transformative. for someone who has spent so much of his life trying to leave his troubled past behind, love feels like proof that he’s on the right path. he feels something deeper than just affection for you—it’s how you make him see himself differently, like he’s capable of more than he ever thought. with you, he feels like he’s becoming the person he’s always wanted to be, someone strong, kind, and worthy of the life he’s trying to build.

to deuce, loving you feels like hope. he’s always been determined to prove himself, but with you, it’s not about proving anything. you don’t judge him for the mistakes he’s made or the parts of himself he’s still working on. instead, you see the potential in him, the good that he’s trying so hard to nurture, and that belief means more to him than he can put into words. you remind him that he’s more than his past, that he’s capable of being someone who deserves love and happiness.

loving you also feels like responsibility, but not in a burdensome way. deuce is fiercely protective by nature, and with you, that instinct is amplified tenfold. he wants to be your support, your rock, the one you can depend on no matter what. it’s not just about protecting you physically—it’s about being there for you emotionally, about making sure you always feel safe, valued, and cared for. it’s a role he takes seriously, and one he’s proud to fulfill.

at the same time, loving you feels like peace. deuce’s life has always been full of energy and turbulence, but with you, he finds a kind of calm he didn’t know he needed. you’re his anchor, the steady presence that keeps him grounded when his emotions threaten to get the better of him. with you, he doesn’t have to constantly push himself to be better—he can just be, and that’s enough. it’s a rare and precious feeling, one he holds onto with everything he has.

for deuce, loving you feels like a second chance. it’s the opportunity to rewrite his story, to be the kind of person who can give and receive love wholeheartedly. it’s not always easy—he’s still learning how to navigate his feelings and express them—but the thought of losing you is what drives him to keep trying. loving you is his greatest motivator and his greatest reward, and he knows he’s lucky to have you in his life. you’re not just his love—you’re his future, his hope, and his reason to keep striving for something better.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

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