#like. i just need to sit and play with her most of the time and i cant do that without pain

[valeisaslut]

⭒࿐COLLIDE - epilogue

credits for the fanart: nramvv - edited by me

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 - 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐄

𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘

𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍�� 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄

𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

𝐏𝐓. 𝟑 : 𝐖𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐃.

← 𝑒𝑝𝑖���𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡. 𝟸 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 →

⚢ pairing: Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ synopsis: After watching them lose and bloom, shatter and survive, fate exhales—and answers the question that has haunted every stage, every verse, every sleepless night: will it finally loosen its grip and let them have what was always theirs? Maybe it doesn’t tie things clean. Maybe the red string coils into knots, frays with time, tangles itself around distance and silence and years that almost swallowed them whole. But it never breaks. And now—at last—it pulls tight. Not to strangle, but to lead. This is not the end. This is what happens when stars remember where they belong—and finally, collide 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ word count: 16,6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content: JUST READ BABE. JUST READ. TRUST. AFAB!Reader, modern AU setting, multi-part series. MEN AND MINORS DNI. Likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated — thank you for supporting! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

For the full experience, I recommend clicking on the songs linked to Spotify as you read!

But now, take my hand—let’s walk into the end of this story together <3

Two weeks.

That’s all that remained before Ellie Williams stepped back into the spotlight.

Not for an interview. Not for an apology.

For a stage. For a reckoning. For her.

She wasn’t coming back with headlines or handshakes. She was coming back the only way Ellie Williams ever knew how—burning. No warning, no press run, no apology tour. Just a guitar in her hands and one hundred thousand people at Michigan Stadium.

The same stage you opened your tour.

But now, it was her turn.

People flew in from every corner of the world. Slept in tents outside the gates. Painted her name on their cheeks like war paint. Wore her lyrics on their jackets like armor. Some hadn’t heard her voice since the Louder Than Fate tour, when she was still burning and hadn’t yet turned to ash. Others had never heard her live at all—just in headphones, in bedrooms, through car radios. Some came because they loved her. Others because they missed her. But most came because they needed to see her.

Needed to know if she was still real, still standing, still capable of singing through the wreckage she crawled out of.

Ellie got the offer from the label just days after she dropped the album.

She could’ve said no. She could’ve let the legacy speak for itself. But she didn’t.

Because she was hungry again.

Hungry for the stage, for the sweat, the sound, the roar of something louder than memory and pain. Hungry for the sting of light in her eyes, for the weight of the guitar against her chest, for the noise that could drown out everything she used to be.

Hungry to prove to the world—and herself—that she could step back into the spotlight that once shattered her and not just survive it, but reclaim it.

And the moment it was announced, the news spread like gospel.

Ellie Williams. Live. One night only.

It sold out in seconds.

The world was watching—eyes glued to screens, hearts clenched in anticipation, waiting to witness history.

But when the day finally came, none of them knew what she felt backstage.

She was sitting in front of a vanity mirror that didn’t feel like hers. Harsh yellow lights beat down on her face. The reflection staring back at her looked familiar in the way a childhood home does after a hurricane. Same bones, different air.

Her hair was pulled back into a low bun—not styled, just practical. She wore a white ribbed tank that clung to her shoulders, old jeans and a leather belt that still held the shape of her past, and those battered boots she’d once played entire tours in.

Her tattoos looked darker somehow, more defined, every line sharpened. Her face was clearer, stripped of eyeliner and pretense, scattered with freckles the world hadn’t seen in years.

She didn’t look older. Or younger. Just… still. Like everything that once raged inside her had burned to the ground—and something stronger had chosen to stay behind.

And for a moment—one long, breathless, soul-splitting moment—Ellie didn’t think she could do it.

She then stood beneath the humming lights of the corridor, the roar of one hundred thousand people pulsing through the concrete like a second heartbeat, and felt the weight of her own body like it was something foreign. Her chest was tight. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her mouth was dry, like even her voice had curled away from her in fear. 

There were no rails to cling to. No coke to jolt her heart into rhythm, no pills to anchor her breath, no needles to blur the sharp edges. No easy lie to armor herself with, no persona to slip into like a stage costume, no mask to make the trembling feel like performance. No Jesse cracking jokes beside her. No Dina tugging her sleeve, telling her to breathe. 

No you waiting in the wings to kiss her good luck, to squeeze her hand and tell her she was born for this. No soft smile to ground her. No voice whispering in her ear that she could do it, that she’d be okay, that she was already more than enough.

Just her. Raw and unfiltered. Barefaced. Bare-souled. Skin-to-bone vulnerable. Walking willingly into the same blaze that once swallowed her whole, but this time with no promise she'd come out the other side.

She felt the full, awful presence of her own unmedicated nerves. Her unedited grief. Her unmuted past. She didn’t know if her knees would carry her forward or buckle beneath the weight. She didn’t know if her voice would hold, or if it would crack and betray her in front of everyone. 

She had never felt smaller. Never felt more real. Never felt more alive.

But then—Joel appeared.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t clear his throat. Didn’t ask if she needed anything.

He just walked in.

The same way he had stepped into that hotel suite three years ago, when she was dying beneath taped-up curtains and cold bathroom tiles, when the air reeked of confinement and something worse, when her hands shook for a million different reasons and her soul felt like a ghost trapped somewhere deep in her chest, pounding to get out. 

And now, in this dressing room, on the edge of everything she’d become, he stood the same way, like time had folded in on itself to remind her: you are not alone this time, either.

He stood behind her in the mirror, silent and solid, a figure made of earth and time. That familiar weight in his shoulders—the kind of strength that doesn’t announce itself, but holds up the roof when everything else comes crashing down. 

He wore denim. Flannel. His boots were dusted from the road. His hair was streaked with more grey than she remembered. 

But his eyes—his eyes were steady. Unmoving. They had been holding still for years, just waiting for her to look up.

“…Y’know,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges, worn like gravel and truth, “first time I saw you hold a guitar, you were what—six?”

Ellie blinked, almost smiled. “Five.”

“Five.” He nodded. “Right. And your hands were so damn small I thought you were gonna snap the neck clean off just tryin’ to tune it.”

A breath escaped her. It was half a laugh, half a sob. That sound she only made around him. It meant she remembered, too.

“But you didn’t,” he went on. “You figured it out. I taught you how to play, sure—but you taught yourself how to make it sing. You took wood and wire and turned it into something unforgettable. And that something made you the greatest.”

He then stepped forward, slow and sure, and rested his hands on her shoulders. He looked at her like she was made of light and grit and second chances.

“I know you’re scared,” he said. “Hell, if it were me, I’d be scared too. But what’s in you, kiddo… that don’t get killed by fear. It don’t quit when it hurts. You’ve already walked through hell and came out the other side, and you’re still standing. Still breathing. Still singing.”

She looked down, breath catching, throat tight.

His hand moved to her cheek—rough thumb brushing just beneath her eye, the way only a father could touch someone and make them feel safer by standing still.

“You’re not what broke you,” he said quietly. “You’re what survived it. And you don’t gotta go up there alone—not ever again.”

He held out his hand.

She took it.

And in their in-ears, a voice crackled to life: Showtime in five seconds.

She closed her eyes. Breathed once. Twice.

The stadium lights dimmed.

A single spotlight cut through the dark like a blade through velvet.

And two silhouettes stepped into it. Side by side. Unshaken. Unafraid.

Ready.

The crowd saw Joel first—and the sound that erupted wasn’t a cheer. It was a detonation.

A seismic, full-body scream that tore out of a hundred thousand throats at once, rising from the depths of Michigan Stadium like the earth itself was howling. People weren’t just applauding. They were sobbing. Collapsing. Grabbing strangers. Shaking.

Joel Miller’s return to the stage after a decade was already legendary on it's own.

But then Ellie stepped into the light.

And the world broke open.

The noise became inhuman. It was the loudest thing she’d ever heard, even with her in-ear monitor trying to block it out. A sound so raw it blurred into static—like every heart in the stadium had burst at once. People dropped to their knees. Clutched their chests. Stared like they’d seen God materialize in front of them.

Because in a way, they had.

Not the myth. Not the scandal. Not the ghost they’d whispered about for three years in every corner of the earth.

Just Ellie fucking Williams.

Stripped of costume and spectacle. Her jaw set. Her eyes full. Her spine straight. Boots grounded on the edge that once shattered her. Her first acoustic guitar strapped across her chest like a shield made of memory.

And when the noise dimmed by the smallest fraction—her voice came through.

A voice that had once disappeared into silence now rose like a phoenix from ash.

“I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger…”

The way it moved through the stadium felt ancient. It came from something bigger than music.

Then Joel’s voice slipped into the harmony like it had always belonged there, effortless, worn in, achingly right.

The way their voices braided together felt less like a performance and more like a memory being rewritten in real time. 

And the crowd felt it. You could see it in the way people started crying and didn’t stop. Not polite tears, not glossy-eyed admiration, but full, collapsed sobs. As if hearing something they didn’t know they’d been starving for. Fathers held daughters like lifelines. Lovers clutched hands, some of them sobbing into each other’s shoulders. Fans leaned on strangers, weeping like confessionals. 

Because it wasn’t just Ellie up there. And it wasn’t just Joel. It was both of them, together—alive. Not as the fractured pieces of the people they used to be, but as something whole and rebuilt.

They stood side by side, boots grounded. Their playing wasn’t polished, and it didn’t need to be. It was raw and imperfect and so incredible it can barely be described. 

The scrape of strings, the breath between verses, the unfiltered ache in their voices—it all bled into something more honest than perfection could ever offer.

And somehow, that stripped-down moment, with no band behind them and no noise to hide inside, was more powerful than any anthem ever could’ve been.

When the final note rang out, it didn’t end with applause. It ended with stillness. The kind that makes you feel like the world has stopped spinning. For a heartbeat, it was silent enough to hear the breath of the person beside you. 

And then the sobbing started again—quieter now, reverent, as if no one wanted to break what had just happened.

Ellie turned to look at Joel.

Joel was already looking at Ellie.

And in that look, she saw something she had never seen before. Not the complicated, unspoken weight of a father who didn’t know how to hold a daughter made of fire.  She saw pride. Pure, earned, bone-deep pride. It didn’t need to be said aloud to be known.

And Joel saw her, too. Not the haunted. Not the addict. Not the one who ran. Not just the artist who rose from her own ashes, turning them into songs that brought the world to its knees—all over again.

But the daughter he thought he’d lost forever, standing beside him with her chin lifted and her voice unshaking. The saw the woman who clawed her way back from the dead.

The song ended, but something far more important ended with it.

The wound Joel had left in Ellie—the old, unspoken fracture of absence and disappointment—closed. Quietly. Completely. 

And the one Ellie left in Joel—the guilt, the helplessness, the deep, clawing ache of a man who feared he’d failed—finally softened into something like peace.

There were no apologies spoken.

Only a father and daughter, once torn apart by silence, who found each other again in the only language they never forgot how to speak—music.

The days had passed like mist through your fingers—formless, slow, devoid of shape or meaning, as if time itself had been grieving with you. Since the moment you pressed play on Ellie’s album, something inside you had cracked so quietly it didn’t even echo. Just a shattering, inward. A collapse you didn’t notice until you were already buried beneath it.

You moved through your days like a version of yourself caught between radio static and a memory—doing what you were supposed to do, but never quite arriving.

On stage, you sang the notes like a ghost of yourself. You moved the way you always had—fluid, rehearsed, divine—but something underneath had ruptured all over again. You smiled when the cameras were on, told stories on late-night couches with perfectly timed laughs. But every step offstage felt like unraveling. Every green room felt like a tomb.

And after, you went home, to this apartment high above the city. No press. No afterparties. The kitchen untouched. The bedroom too big. The pillows still smelling faintly like lavender and someone you didn’t name anymore.

You didn’t answer Abby. Not when she sent a long paragraph apology, somewhere between remorse and confusion. Not when she called three times in a row. And not when she finally gave up subtlety and said, “We can try again. If you want.”

You didn’t even open it.

Not because you wanted to be cruel. Not because you didn’t appreciate the softness you’d been offered, or the effort it took to stay at your side while you were halfway somewhere else. But because the truth had already bloomed inside your chest like a bruise you couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t Abby. It was never Abby. And no amount of stability or warm hands could quiet the voice you heard again.

Because that voice—her voice—had broken through the silence of your carefully reconstructed life like a blade. And in that moment, with every lyric, with every breath she sang into the dark, you knew.

Your heart had never moved on. Your soul had never made the journey. You had been surviving, yes. But you hadn’t really lived since her.

And in the aftermath of that album—raw, confessional, impossible to misinterpret—you finally let yourself accept what you’d been running from in the quietest, most painful kind of surrender.

That maybe you were destined to haunted by the ghost of Ellie Williams forever.

A shadow stitched into your ribcage. A presence that time could blur but never erase. A love that refused to die, even when you begged it to.

You’d walked into the studio the next morning after hearing it with your makeup already done and a smile pinned so tightly to your lips you were sure it would scar. Not even your stylist said a word. Not the lighting guy. Not your publicist, who usually couldn’t shut up about viral angles and fan engagement. You were handled like something breakable, a crystal vase perched too close to the edge of a windowsill. Everyone knew. No one dared to name it.

You got through the first hour of recording. Barely. Your voice cracked once, then again, and again—until it was no longer convincing. You stepped out mid-take, blamed it on exhaustion, waved off concern with a perfectly practiced flick of the wrist. My voice is shot, you said, and they nodded.

You didn’t check headlines. Couldn’t. The internet was drenched in her name—suffocating in it. Every push notification felt like a gut punch. Every flick of your thumb opened a trap. Ellie Williams Breaks Her Silence. Ellie’s New Album: A Love Letter or a Confession? “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”: A Song No One Was Ready For.

Your inbox overflowed. Interview requests. Podcast pitches. Brand deals—each one clawing for your reaction. All of them starved to know what you thought, desperate for a paparazzi shot of you crying. If they could catch you unraveling in real time, they’d rake in the numbers.

You hadn’t posted since.

You couldn’t care less about engagement, PR, or damage control. You hadn’t even posted the breakup statement with Abby—it still sat in your drafts, unsent and untouched.

Because knowing the media, of course they’d link it to Ellie’s return.

The worst part? They’d be completely right.

So now, you were in the penthouse.

In a second, you swore the whole place inhaled with you. The walls themselves paused, the air tensed, the silence had shape and sound and a pulse. Moonlight spilled across the hardwood in a long, silver exhale. You didn’t know what was coming. Only that something was.

You were lying in bed minutes later, barely breathing, when your phone lit up.

Rachel.

Your body didn’t jolt or freeze. It just… stilled. Like it recognized this moment before your brain did. You blinked, slow. Blank ceiling. Heavy air. You didn’t move. Didn’t answer right away. Just watched the screen light up with the name of the only person who might understand, the one who had always been there on the edge of everything, never pushing, always waiting.

You could have let it ring. You almost did. Let it vanish into missed call silence, another unopened door you couldn’t walk through.

But something deep inside you twitched—sharp and certain. A low, humming knowing that said respond.

So you reached quietly on the fifth ring, dragging the phone to your ear like it weighed your entire life.

“What.”

Your voice was flat, but your pulse had already spiked.

“RUN TO YOUR TV. First channel you can find—national, local, WHATEVER—just turn it on. RIGHT NOW. GO—”

Rachel’s breath was erratic on the other end, like she was sprinting through adrenaline.

“What? Rachel, what’s going on?” you sat up, “Why? What happened?”

“I—I can’t—OH MY GOD—JUST DO IT!” she half-laughed, half-screamed. “YOU’RE GONNA DIE. GO. NOW.”

Your heart lurched in your chest like it had been yanked by a string. Then raced.

Something electric ignited then—wild, primal, terrifying—the kind of feeling that didn’t come with warning. The kind of feeling that only meant one thing: Her.

You bolted barefoot across the hardwood, phone clutched in one hand, the other fumbling wildly for the remote. It was like your body already knew what your mind couldn’t yet process.

You clicked the remote on with trembling fingers.

The screen blinked to life.

One second of black.

And then—

Michigan Stadium.

Night sky overhead.

Lights flooding the stage.

And there.

There she was.

The one you thought you’d never see again.

Ellie.

You dropped the phone. It hit the floor hard. You heard Rachel screaming through the speaker, but her voice was a distant echo, swallowed by the roar in your ears.

Because she was there.

You stumbled back like the image itself had struck you in the chest. The air left your lungs all at once, sharp and violent, like you’d been punched by a ghost. Your knees caught the edge of the couch and buckled, and you sank down without grace or thought, eyes locked to the screen, unblinking, unmoving, undone.

Ellie stood in the center of Michigan Stadium like the world had tilted just to make room for her. White ribbed tank. Old jeans. Those battered black boots you once tripped over in the hallway of a hotel room you both refused to leave. Her hair was pulled back, out of her face. Her tattoos sat dark beneath the lights, inked relics of a war she survived. Her guitar rested across her chest like it belonged to her ribcage.

But it wasn’t the outfit. It wasn’t the set. It wasn’t the crowd.

It was her.

She looked radiant.

Not in a polished, made-for-press kind of way. Not only because she was already perfect. But because she looked holy. There was a quiet power in her posture, a stillness that rang louder than any scream. The kind of beauty that had nothing to prove. Her skin glowed under the lights, untouched by highlighter or stage makeup. Her arms were fuller now. Her face softer. Her body no longer carved by tension, but by healing. There was more weight to her, more color, more breath.

She looked more beautiful than your memory had dared to keep.

Changed in all the ways time demands, but still, so unmistakably her.

Because under it all, that Ellie the world and you fell in love with remained—that wild, impossible gravity only she had ever carried. The quiet danger curled beneath her stillness. The glint in her eye that dared every soul to look away. That fire in her blood, reckless and unrelenting, that burned you down and still made you crawl back, aching to be scorched again. It was the way she held a room without even speaking. The way her presence felt like prophecy.

No matter how much she changed—no matter how much softer, fuller, steadier she became—that raw, untamed pulse inside her still called to you like it always had.

But this woman, this Ellie, was alive in a way that made your throat close. Not because the pain was gone, but because she had walked through it. Burned, broke, and rebuilt every shattered piece.

You could feel it, pouring off of her in waves. This sacred knowing that she had faced death in all its quiet forms and chosen, somehow, to live.

And then—

Joel.

You pressed a hand to your mouth as the tears came fast—silent, unrelenting. They streamed down your face like they’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had. You weren’t only crying because it was beautiful. You were crying because it was real.

Because for the first time, you saw Ellie not just standing—but held.

The stadium around them was thunder, rising like a hurricane of disbelief and devotion. People wept. People screamed. People collapsed into each other in the stands.

Ellie’s voice was raw silk; Joel’s was gravel and time. Their voices braided together, weathered and warm. The song lifted into the night like smoke from an old fire. The commentators were speechless. And you—

You were wrecked.

The tears came freely now, tracing slow, aching paths down your cheeks, slipping over the curve of your jaw, soaking into the collar of your shirt. You folded over your knees, one hand clutching the center of your chest like you could physically hold your heart together, the other trembling in your lap.

And through the storm of breathless, silent sobs, you whispered—thank you.

Again and again. You thanked whatever had listened. The stars. God. Fate. The wind. That unnamed force that had heard you in your quietest agony and, at last, answered back.

It didn’t matter that she never called, not anymore. Didn’t matter that her name never lit up your phone, that she hadn’t texted or knocked your door or whispered your name back into the silence.

Because Joel was beside her. And he wasn’t hiding either. Not from her, not from you, not from the past that had nearly torn them apart. 

Because you knew, even without needing to be told, he had been with her this whole time. You could see it in the way she looked steadier. She had finally let someone love her without pushing them away.

And you knew why.

Because you had made that call.

You never got a thank you. You never needed one.

This—this moment, this breath, this proof of life—was enough.

Every night you cried for her. Every scream into your pillow. Every time you shouted into the dark, begging the universe not to take her from you.

All of it had been worth it. The pain. The silence. The years. The songs you wrote just to survive.

Because she was there, glowing. Standing with her chin held high, the stage catching her in that impossible kind of light. A light she wore like truth. No longer flinching at the crowd. No longer hiding from the name that came before her. No longer hiding from her own name.

And you sat there, tears streaming, broken open, watching from thousands of miles away. And your heart—after three long years of beating wrong—finally remembered the rhythm it was made for. 

The moment Wayfaring Stranger ended and that final chord rang out—slow and aching and holy—the stadium held its breath. The sound hung in the air like a ghost refusing to leave. Ellie stood still for a second, her head bowed, breath heaving gently in her chest.

Then she turned to Joel.

In unspoken sync, they each reached for their guitars, slinging them over their shoulders with practiced ease. The weight settled against their backs, familiar and grounding, old promises they never dared to break.

And then, without a word, they stepped forward and wrapped their arms around each other.

It was real hug—reverent, both arms around his shoulders like she was closing a loop neither of them ever truly believed would close. He held her back just as tightly, eyes shut, face buried in her shoulder like he was anchoring himself to her heartbeat. 

The crowd erupted. Not just in applause, but in something deeper. Gratitude. Relief. As if they had waited years not just for her return, but for this. For the proof that some stories do find their way back.

Ellie pulled away first, her smile faint but real. She stepped towards the mic and the light found her eyes—glassier than before, brighter than they had ever been.

“Everyone,” she said, breath catching on the word, voice rough from the weight of the moment, “A round of applause for Joel Miller. My dad.”

The response was thunder. The crowd roared like it was gospel, a wave of noise so massive it nearly lifted the stadium off its foundations. Joel shifted under it, awkward and quiet, rubbing the back of his neck like the sound might crawl down his spine. It had been over a decade since he’d stood this close to a stage, even longer since the roar of a crowd had been meant for anything he touched.

It hit him like muscle memory and whiplash at once—how the sound swelled in your chest before it ever reached your ears, how it made your ribs rattle, how it made your past feel like it never really left.

He gave a half-nod, like a man trying to stay small and humble beneath worship.

Ellie turned and looked at him—and the tenderness in her gaze made something in your own chest twist, ache, break. She held up a hand, waiting for the noise to dim, her fingers steady.

“In the past,” she said, “I was afraid I’d never be enough to step out from under his shadow. I thought I had to run from it. Outgrow it. Beat it.”

She glanced at Joel again, that crooked half-smile of hers spreading like sunrise.

“But now I get it. He’s not a shadow. He’s not a name I have to live up to. He’s my father. And I’m grateful every single day for who he is—for the fact that he’s still here. And for the fact that he still believed in me… even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

Joel stepped forward slowly, clearing his throat as he leaned toward the mic. The stadium went quiet. As if everyone knew this moment wasn’t to be missed.

“Ellie. My daughter,” he began, and even those words felt like a benediction, a prayer finally spoken out loud. “The one who made it out. And is still standin'.”

He paused. The lights caught the tears in his eyes. His voice cracked, just a little.

“The strongest and most brilliant person I’ve ever met… and ever will meet. I couldn’t possibly be prouder of her.”

He exhaled, eyes wet, the pride in him so loud it didn’t even need music.

"Everyone—a round of applause for Ellie Williams.”

The crowd didn’t cheer. They roared—with the force of something seismic, soul-deep.

Joel took a step back from the mic, gave a short wave, and began to turn. His role complete, the chapter closed.

But she blinked, tilted her head, and leaned into her mic.

“Ellie Miller.”

The crowd gasped, then rose again—like they hadn’t just been hit with the most personal, quiet bombshell of the night.

Joel froze mid-step. Slowly turned. Squinted at her with an exaggerated dad face so full of mock-scandal and affection it drew laughter through tears across the entire stadium.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” he said, feigning offense. “Changing your stage name without tellin' me?”

Ellie shrugged, expression sly and soft all at once.

“Figured I earned it.”

And then—Joel laughed. Really laughed. A deep, unfiltered sound.

He didn’t say another word. He just stepped back to her and hugged her again.

This time, longer. This time, tighter. This time, with every apology they had never said, every word they’d both gone without, every year lost that now didn’t matter anymore.

Ellie leaned into it, buried her face in his shoulder. Her mouth moved against his shirt, barely audible over the applause.

“I love you, Dad.”

And Joel, without pause, without blinking, held her closer still.

“I love you too, kiddo.”

And after the crowd finally settled, when Joel let her go and stepped backstage, someone from the wings came forward and placed it in her hands.

Her guitar.

The black Les Paul. The same one she’d played since the beginning—since cramped clubs and broken strings and dive bars that smelled like vodka and regret. It had followed her through every tour, every groupie, every breakdown, every rebirth. It had always been there, waiting.

But tonight, as she curled her fingers around the neck, it felt different.

It didn’t sit in her hands like a weapon anymore. It didn’t tremble like it was afraid of her. It rested there like it belonged.

Ellie adjusted the strap slowly, her movements precise. She stepped forward, boots echoing against the stage, and stopped just behind the mic. Her eyes swept across the crowd—one hundred thousand held breaths—and then back to the band behind her.

She nodded once. They nodded back.

Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You.

And when she started playing, everyone understood. This wasn’t a comeback. It wasn’t a redemption arc.

This was a resurrection.

Ellie had always carried something inside her—molten and unnamable, twisting in her chest like starlight caught in barbed wire. It wasn’t polish. It wasn’t performance. It was presence. That rare fire no one could teach and no label could manufacture.

And now, she didn’t just glow, she burned. She lit up that stage like she’d been born with a crowd already roaring for her. But the truth was, she didn’t need one.

Because Ellie had that thing. That impossible, untouchable thing artists spend their whole lives chasing.

She had always been her own spotlight.

And tonight, she only needed four things: a mic, a guitar, her voice and you.

From your penthouse window, even LA pulsed with the sound of her. The echo of her voice bled through televisions, car radios, rooftop speakers. A storm rolling in from the horizon, crawling towards your shore with one specific purpose.

But it wasn’t until the broadcast returned, the camera cutting back to her face—those unmistakable green eyes locked and unflinching, burning straight through the screen—that you felt it in your bones.

She had one hundred thousand people screaming her lyrics into the sky like scripture. Fans sobbing, collapsing, gripping each other like they were witnessing something divine only she could summon. The moment felt too big for sound, too holy for explanation.

But Ellie didn’t want their eyes on her. Not really.

She only wanted one specific pair.

Yours.

She stared into the camera like it was a portal, like if she looked hard enough, deep enough, it might carry her back to you. Might pull you through space and silence and time.

And somehow, it did.

Because you were there.

Watching.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. You were on the floor now—knees pulled tight to your chest, forehead resting against the crook of your arm, trying to stay anchored as your whole body threatened to come undone. Your mouth open, tears flowing. Your heart thudded against your ribs in perfect time with every chord she struck, every note she gave away striking like a bullet.

Because they were yours.

She wasn’t just singing the songs—she was ripping them out of herself. Tearing them from some raw, unspoken place deep within, where grief and longing and love had grown too vast to stay hidden any longer.

These were songs that had your name buried between the syllables, hidden in the breath between verses, stitched into final notes that lingered just a second too long.

Her voice wasn’t polished. It wasn’t pristine. It was a wound, sharp and aching and raw. A voice that bled. A voice that sliced the air open and somehow managed to stitch it closed again in the same breath.

She didn’t perform. She confessed.

Every lyric was a letter she never sent. Every chord was a memory she couldn’t bear to forget. Every time her fingers moved across the guitar, it felt like prayer.

And the crowd, the cameras, the stadium, the roar of one hundred thousand, none of it mattered.

Because she only cared about you.

She didn’t care where you were—whether you were alone in some quiet corner of the world, laughing with friends, tangled up in Rachel’s orbit, or with...Abby. All she wanted was to reach you.

But God, please not with Abby.

She didn’t care how the sound found you—through the static of a car radio, from the corner speaker of a bar you didn’t mean to walk into, or echoing faintly from someone else’s phone across the room. She just needed her voice to brush against your world, land somewhere near you ears and slip in your chest.

And she didn’t care how you saw her—on a screen, in the blur of clip gone viral, in a reflection that caught you off guard, made you look twice, made you remember. She just needed you to look long enough to recognize her, not as a star on stage, but her.

The girl who had loved you. Who still did.

Because what she was doing now wasn’t just for the world. Wasn't just for herself. It was for you.

She stared into the camera like it was a window she could reach through. Like maybe the songs would travel across the signal, across the air, and find the only heart they were meant for. The melody a key sliding into the lock of your chest.

And it did.

Sitting on the floor of your living room, lips parted, eyes blurred with tears, arms wrapped around yourself like you might fall apart if you didn’t hold tight—it did.

The way she looked into the lens when she sang the bridge of Iris—like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, and the only thing keeping her from falling was the thought of you. The way her voice cracked—just barely, but undeniably—on the second verse of Not, like the memory lodged in her throat finally fought its way out. The extra, aching strum before the outro of Twilight, a pause that wasn’t in the studio version, but lived only in this performance.

And then there was Black—that velvet, bruised wail of a song, the way she leaned into it like confession, like penance. The way Lilac Wine and Grace made her close her eyes, guitar cradled to her chest like a heartbeat, the melody unspooling as if it had been fermenting inside her for years. And in Francesca, when the lights dimmed and turned into a cold blue-purple haze, she looked up—not at the crowd, not at the band, but straight into the camera. Straight through it. Into the silence where you lived.

And the cameras caught her in it—that impossibly magnetic, sharp-browed and sharp-tongued beauty. The defiance in her jaw. The crease that lived between her eyes like a scar she never tried to erase. The green of her gaze, luminous even under the relentless blaze of stadium lights, cutting through like it had been sharpened for you.

She played, sang, and performed like she was starting a war and making peace in the same breath—every note a battle cry, every word a surrender.

Backstage, someone whispered, "She’s a fucking legend."

Another voice, awed: "This is history in the making."

Someone else, "She’s not human."

And maybe they were right.

Maybe she never was human, at least not in the way the rest of humans were.

Because Ellie on that stage wasn’t the girl who vanished three years ago, shaking and hollow, disappearing into a silence so deep it swallowed her. She wasn't the daughter of. She wasn't the ex-frontwoman of the Fireflies. She wasn’t the heartbreak you wrote an entire album about. She wasn’t even just the girl you loved.

Standing at the center of the biggest stadium in the country, with her Les Paul slung low against her hip, sweat glistening down the line of her throat, breath catching from the weight of her own voice, she was all of them at once.

She looked out into the dark, into the crowd, into the camera, and didn’t flinch.

She reached.

And somehow—so impossibly—you reached back.

And when the lights dimmed again, it felt like the air had been sucked from the world.

No music. Just a breathless, crushing stillness—like the universe was holding something behind its teeth. The stadium buzzed in the dark, bodies charged with static, hearts beating out of sync, phones lifted like trembling offerings.

But the band was gone. The monitors had gone dark.

And Ellie was nowhere in sight.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more. It was hard to tell. Time had folded into itself.

Then—movement.

Far stage left, barely illuminated, a silhouette appeared.

At first, it was just shape and shadow. The camera didn’t zoom. The lights didn’t rise. No cues. Just the slow reveal of a presence.

The stadium held its collective breath.

It was her.

You could tell by the weight of her walk—the deliberate thunder of boots hitting the stage like war drums. A now clean black tank clung to her shoulders, her jeans darker, still stiff from the quick change backstage. The Les Paul still strapped across her body like shield. Her stance was familiar, yet different. She wasn’t reemerging.

She was summoning something.

And then—

A second figure stepped into the low light beside her.

A woman. Lean. Curly hair catching the stage glow like a halo of fire. A bass hung low across her hips, hands already poised, one foot forward, like she’d never stopped playing. Like the time apart had only sharpened her.

The audience froze.

Then—A third figure appeared in the back.

A man. Seated. Shadowed. Hands spinning a pair of drumsticks like magic, like memory. His shoulders wide, head bowed as if in prayer, coiled with precision.

The crowd didn’t scream. Couldn’t.

Because no one dared to speak into what was happening.

The Fireflies.

The screen finally zoomed in, not all at once, but slowly. Like even the broadcast crew understood they were capturing something mythical. A resurrection not just of a band, but of legends.

Ellie stepped up to the microphone, backlit by fire and myth, sweat still shining across her collarbone, guitar strapped tight like her ribs might break without it.

The crowd still hadn’t broken their silence. They waited. Breathless.

Then her voice came—low, serrated, full of that old venom, aged like the finest wine.

She leaned into the mic, the corners of her mouth lifting between a smirk and a warning.

“Guess what, fuckers—turns out fire doesn’t die. It just waits.”

The crowd erupted.

A scream so violent it shook the camera feed, sent tremors through the floorboards, nearly knocked people to their knees. It wasn’t just cheering. It was release. It was reverence.

Because the impossible had just happened.

Screams tore through the stadium so loud, seismic sensors in three counties thought it was an earthquake. Security guards were crying. A paramedic fainted. One hundred people passed out instantly. At least five breakups and one proposal happened mid-scream. The cameras struggled to focus through the chaos. Hands reached towards the stage like the second coming had arrived.

If Ellie thought she’d already heard the loudest sound of the night—this made it feel like a whisper.

And just like that, she ripped the first note from her guitar like it had been waiting three years to scream.

Her voice cut through the sound system like a beast unleashed. 

“WE'RE BACK FROM THE DEAD!”

And behind her, Jesse slammed into the drums with a grin so wild it made three thousand headlines the next day.

Dina’s bass rumbled in, low and unrelenting, the kind of sound you felt in your ribs before you heard it.

In those hidden weeks in New York, Ellie, without warning, showed up at Jesse’s door.

No text. No heads-up. Just a knock, long past midnight.

He opened it, groggy and confused, rubbing sleep from his eyes—and froze.

Dina was on the couch behind him. She stood. They stared at Ellie like they'd seen a ghost.

Five full seconds passed. No one spoke.

Then—just like that—they broke.

They collapsed into each other in the hallway, tears wetting shoulders, hands clutching sleeves like they might disappear again if they didn’t hold tight enough. There were no apologies. No screaming matches. No grand speeches. Just the kind of crying that sounds like relief. The kind that only happens when someone you thought might lose forever walks through your door.

They didn’t try to fix everything all at once. They didn’t need to.

Instead, they talked.

For hours. Cross-legged on the floor. Curled up on the couch with knees tucked into their chests like kids. They passed a joint back and forth, laughed until they couldn’t breathe, ate chips from the bag. They talked about nothing. About everything. The silence between them softened into something like trust again.

At some point, Ellie played The Shape of What I Lost on Jesse’s living room speakers.

None of them moved while it played. No one spoke when it ended.

Five full minutes of silence.

And then Dina looked up, eyes glassy but clear, and said,

“So… when are we getting the band back together?”

It was never a maybe.

It was always a yes.

They planned it like a heist. In secret. No press. No leaks. No teams. Just the three of them in borrowed rehearsal spaces, writing new arrangements with old muscle memory and fresh scars. They rebuilt everything from the bones—new sound, new fire, same soul. Rehearsing like their lives depended on it.

Because maybe they did.

They started with a Fireflies version of Black Vultures. They stripped it raw, loaded it with grit, sharpened every verse until it sounded like vengeance. It was thunder. It was blood. It was the kind of opening track that let the world know—this wasn’t nostalgia. This was now.

Then came Back from the Dead.

Their first new song in years.

Written together. One night. In the middle of that too-small studio with too-warm beer and half-empty notebooks, Ellie had looked up from her guitar, her voice hoarse, and said, “This isn’t about being back. It’s about surviving it.”

And now—here they were.

After Ellie strummed one of the most powerful, soul-baring solos of her entire career—fingers blistering, guitar wailing—the final verse rang out into the night. It didn’t just echo through the stadium. It resounded across the entire city, flooding rooftops, trembling windows, bleeding into alleyways and high-rises and hearts that had been waiting for their return.

Black Vultures came.

They weren't just performing it. They were reinventing it.

The Fireflies version was heavier. Filthier. Sharper. It was blood-slick and golden, packed with harmonies and breakdowns and that wild, reckless chemistry that only the three of them could create.

Jesse’s drum kit pounded like an earthquake. Dina’s bassline and backing vocals hit like a fist through glass. And Ellie—center stage, mouth on the mic, eyes burning like flames in hell—howled.

Her voice was louder now, stronger than it had ever been, even in her prime. She sang like she wanted the whole universe to know:

The Fireflies weren’t just back.

They had never sounded better.

The bridge crashed in like a wave of fire, and Ellie dropped to her knees at the edge of the stage, her guitar howling beneath her fingers like it had waited years for this exact moment.

And with auburn strands plastered to her face, sweat slicking her arms, voice burning from the inside out—

She screamed the bridge.

She didn’t just sing it—she hurled it from her chest like it had been clawing at her ribs for years. The sound tore through the stadium, ripped through amplifiers, cracked across the sky like thunder made of bone.

Louder than anything she’d ever screamed before.

Louder than pain. Louder than addiction. Louder than guilt.

“I’M STILL ALIVE.” (2:46)

Her voice broke—sharp, guttural, glorious—and for a split second, it sounded like her soul was breaking with it.

Because she was still alive.

Against all odds. Against every headline. Against everything that tried to kill her.

And the world shook around her like it understood.

And you?

You were mess of sound—crying, laughing, screaming—all at once. Your hands clutched your chest like you were afraid your heart might actually tear itself free. You shook your head like you couldn't believe what you were witnessing, because how the hell could your body contain that much awe, that much history, all crashing back to life in front of you?

The Fireflies.

Your brain couldn’t make sense of it, but your soul did. Your soul was already on its knees.

And when the last guttural notes of Black Vultures shattered into silence, there was no formal send-off. No staged goodbye. No polished encore.

Just darkness.

Just three shadows—collapsing into each other, disappearing as one.

A constellation folding inward. Stars returning to the sky.

People didn’t clap. They screamed. They sobbed. They shouted things they couldn’t put into words. Strangers held each other. Generations wept side by side.

And the Fireflies stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a hug so tight, so chaotic, it looked like a home they had built out of each other. Ellie’s arms around Jesse and Dina. Their heads pressed together. Faces red with sweat and tears.

Nothing had ever broke them—not distance, not silence, not time.

They had found each other.

The image was already going viral. Captured from a thousand shaking phones. Every corner of the internet was drowning in real-time sobbing posts, reaction videos, screen recordings, blurry zoom-ins of that one perfect second.

Dina stepped forward, snatched the mic with shaking fingers, and through laughter and tears, said what everyone had been praying to hear for three years:

“THE FIREFLIES ARE FUCKING BACK!”

The stadium erupted like a match to gasoline.

Jesse stumbled forward next, still breathless, drenched in adrenaline, drumsticks half tucked into his back pocket.

“Y’all thought we were done?” He grabbed the mic from Dina and grinned. “Nah. The hiatus is OVER. Burned. Buried. Signed, sealed, fuckin’ obliterated. Lock your doors, hide your stages.”

Dina laughed, wiping her face, tugging Ellie between them. “And your girlfriends.”

Jesse barked a laugh. “Especially your girlfriends.”

Ellie, standing in the center, boots planted, face flushed, soaked in sweat and disbelief, waited until the crowd went quiet again, hanging on every breath.

She looked at Jesse. Then Dina. Then at the crowd. Her voice low, serrated, sure: “We’re the Fireflies. We're back.”

Ellie’s grin was feral. Her eyes gleamed.

“And we’re never fucking leaving again.”

And in that moment, three people who nearly didn’t survive it—did. Together. Loudly. Permanently.

And the Fireflies walked off together—shoulders touching, arms around each other’s backs, bathed in gold, glowing with something larger than life. A moment carved into music history like it had been written in blood.

Immortal.

But Ellie didn’t follow them.

She stayed.

The band had returned, melting into the shadows.

Ellie walked to the very edge of the stage. Not with power. Not with purpose. Just quietly. Like the weight in her bones had finally stilled. The stadium lights softened to a single warm glow that haloed around her like dusk.

She held only her acoustic now—no distortion pedals, no echo, no fire. Just six strings and silence.

The crowd fell into an eerie, reverent stillness.

And then—

She looked up.

Right into the camera.

Her face was calm, but her jaw was tight. You could see the pulse in her throat. The muscle flickering in her cheek. Her eyes—God, those eyes—shone like green of forests on fire.

She exhaled slowly.

And the chords of Lover, You Should’ve Come Over started ringing out behind her.

“I... I wasn’t gonna say anything,” she said, her voice low—frayed at the edges like old denim, worn from being bitten back too many times.“I thought the songs would do it for me. That they’d be enough. That maybe if I screamed it into a chorus, someone would understand what I meant.”

She paused, eyes flicking out over the sea of lights, breath catching like the words were scraping their way up her throat.

“But—fuck it. If I never get to say this again, I need to say it now.”

Her fingers tightened around the neck of the guitar like she was anchoring herself, grounding against the tremble in her chest. Her shoulders lifted, then sank.

“This was the first song I wrote after everything. And I wasn’t even gonna play it tonight. I was scared it would ruin me.”

She swallowed. Blinked hard. Her voice dropped to something raw, unvarnished.

“But not playing it… felt like lying.”

A hush swept over the stadium like fog. Even the air seemed to stop moving.

“I wrote it for someone who saved my life. Not by pulling me out of a fire. Not with some grand gesture. Just… by being herself. By existing. By letting me love her.”

She blinked hard. Her gaze didn’t leave the camera.

“I don’t know if she’s watching. I don’t know if she hates me. I don’t know if she ever wants to see my face again. But if she is… if you are out there, I need you to hear this.”

She leaned forward, the mic catching every breath, every break. 

“I will love you until the day I die. Always.” 

Her voice trembled on the last word.

“In every lifetime. In every version of me. In every fucking universe where I come back right or I don’t fall apart or I don’t ruin it. I have never stopped—not for one goddamn second.”

The crowd didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“I don’t need you to forgive me. I don’t need you to call. I don’t even need you to come back. I just needed you to know it.”

Her lips parted, trembling.

“I hope you’re happy. I really, really do. Even if it’s not with me. I hope they treat you the way you always deserved. I hope they see you the way I did.”

She drew in one last breath, as if steadying the part of herself she’d just cracked wide open.

“And I’m proud of you. For surviving. For growing. For still being here. Even if I was never meant to stay… you were always meant to be loved right.”

She then adjusted the mic, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the stand. She strummed once—gentle, unsure. Then again. 

And she began to sing.

No introduction. No theatrics.

Just her voice, bare and hoarse and open, stripped down. It stretched out across the cavernous hush of the stadium and threaded itself through satellites and static and signals, leaking into living rooms and bedrooms and car radios and headphones like smoke under a door. Her voice crawled into the cracks of the world. It didn’t ask for permission. It just filled the silence, turned it into something alive.

You didn’t cry at first. You couldn’t. Your body didn’t know how to respond to all of it.

You sat motionless, bones locked, eyes burning. Her face took up the screen and everything ceased to exist. The city below you vanished. The walls melted. The clock stopped.

All that remained was that voice—fractured but somehow steady—and the impossible way it made you feel like she was in the room.

Her eyes didn’t flicker from the camera, and for a moment you weren’t watching a broadcast. You were reliving it—every version of her you ever loved staring back at you, woven into this one moment.

And something inside you cracked. Just a hairline fracture, somewhere deep in your chest. But it spread—slow and certain, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to give way.

Then the tears came. Hot, blurred, relentless. You didn’t even feel them at first. Only realized when her face on the screen shimmered at the edges and dissolved into color and light.

You found yourself crawling closer to the TV, like a child chasing a ghost. Your hands touched the glass when her face appeared again, fingertips pressed to the image like they could somehow reach her. As if maybe—just maybe—she’d feel it. As if you could hold her the way you once did.

And the song wasn’t a performance. It was an undoing. Her voice stumbled, broke open mid-line, trembled in places where it roared minutes before. But she kept going. You could hear the exact breath where she almost couldn’t. You could feel how much it cost her. How much she meant it. Every note sounded torn from scar tissue and sewn together with your name.

You could hear the devotion behind it. The guilt. The grief. The quiet, impossible hope.

She wasn’t asking for forgiveness. She wasn’t trying to rewrite the past.

She was offering you what remained.

And you let it wash over you. Let it dig its hands into the wreckage of your heart and do what only she could ever do—make something beautiful out of it.

Because this—this was what it looked like to crawl back from the grave of who you used to be and still reach for the same hand.

One tear slid down her cheek during the final chorus. She didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t flinch. Just let it fall.

She didn’t know where you were, or who you were with. But she sang to you anyway, and her voice was still yours. Still filled with the shape of you, the shape of what she lost. Still aching with all the things she never got to say.

She sang like she could tear the world apart just to rebuild it in the shape of your silhouette. 

And you just watched the woman who once destroyed you sing herself back into your hands.

When the lights dimmed for the last time, there were no pyrotechnics. No encore. No choreographed goodbye.

Only Ellie. Alone at the center of the world. Her chest still rising like she hadn’t come down yet. Her guitar silent. Her body shaking. Her voice lingering in the air like it didn’t want to leave. Her hands hung loose at her sides, like she had given everything. 

Because she had.

The crowd—one hundred thousand strong—stood frozen. Reverence had swallowed them whole. They had just watched someone confess in a language more powerful than apology.

Ellie stepped forward.

Her face was flushed. Her lips parted. Her eyes glassy. Her voice was rough now, worn down from thirty songs delivered like confessions, like penance, like a prayer with no promise of an answer. She leaned into the mic.

And when she spoke, she didn’t pretend. She didn’t perform. She just told the truth.

“I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

The words landed with a hush, like snowfall.

“Three years ago, I walked off a stage and I didn’t know if I’d ever walk back onto one. I didn’t know if I’d ever sing again. Or write again. Or even want to.”

She paused. The crowd didn’t make a sound.

“I disappeared because I hit the lowest point in my life. I became someone I didn’t recognize. Someone I didn’t want to be. And instead of asking for help, I—”

She inhaled, steadying herself.

“I numbed it. I ran. I used.”

The silence deepened. All those years of rumors, headlines, speculation. And she was saying it now, for the first time. Out loud. Unafraid.

“I was an addict.”

Gasps, yes. Tears, yes. But not judgment. 

“And I’m not saying that because I want sympathy, or because my PR team finally let me say it. I’m saying it because I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to be ashamed of something I survived.”

Her voice cracked beautifully.

“I’m not proud of my past. But I’m proud of what I made out of it. I’m proud that I made it here. That I’m clean and still here.”

The stadium roared, not in chaos, but in agreement. Applause like thunder, cheers like an exhale the world had been holding for three years.

“And I don’t give a fuck what the media says about it. I don’t care what the headlines are tomorrow, if they call me ‘broken’ or ‘damaged’ or ‘a scandal.’ I’m alive. And that’s enough.”

She gripped the mic stand—not to steady herself, but to ground the moment. 

“And if you’re listening to me right now—” she began, her voice quiet but unshaking, “—if you’re where I was… if you feel like you’re drowning, if your hands are shaking, if you’ve convinced yourself it’s too late—it’s not.”

She scanned the crowd. She wasn’t looking for applause. She was looking for the people who needed to hear it.

“I swear to you, it’s never too late. I thought I was beyond saving. And then someone made a call. And I lived.” Her voice caught. She closed her eyes, breathed through it. “If I made it out, so can you. And I will keep saying that until my voice gives out.”

The stadium had gone quiet again. Every word she said felt like it mattered more than anything they’d heard in years.

“Every single cent from this concert is going to addiction centers across the country. Because people saved me. And now, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to return that favor.”

She paused. Swallowed hard. Her lips curled, just faintly, into something like awe.

“Thank you, Michigan. I will never forget this.”

And then—without spectacle, without sound to carry her away—Ellie stepped back from the mic.

The silence that followed held its breath. It was the kind of silence that happens after birth, after death, after the truth has been spoken out loud for the first time. No one cheered. No one screamed. It was reverent.. A hush draped over one hundred thousand hearts, like the world itself needed a moment to process what had just passed through it.

Joel Miller came back.

The Fireflies came back.

Ellie came back.

She had cracked her chest open and stitched a cathedral out of light and sound. She had unburied herself with her voice and her guitar—splintered, guttural, alive, carrying the weight of every unsaid thing.

It became the kind of night people would name their children after. The kind of night that would live forever in documentaries and tattoos and the back corners of minds that knew they had witnessed something unrepeatable.

The night the girl the world thought it had lost opened her mouth and dragged the sky back into color, like she’d never stopped painting it with her music.

And the second she stepped out of the spotlight, Rolling Stone pressed send on a headline. No debate. No discussion. The entire world already knew in their bones.

The Queen of Rock Has Risen.

Backstage, the light was dimmer, but somehow still glowing. The kind of golden warmth that comes after miracles.

The noise of the crowd—the screaming, the applause, the frenzy—felt a thousand miles away. Her legs were trembling beneath her, but she walked anyway. She didn’t feel triumphant.

She felt hollowed and filled all at once.

Jesse was already there.

He instantly pulled her into a hug like gravity had brought him forward and his body didn’t know how to do anything else. His arms were tight around her, his chin pressed into her shoulder, and it took half a breath before she melted into it—arms around his ribs, forehead buried in his neck, shaking.

“I missed you, bro,” he murmured.

“I missed you too,” she croaked, already crying.

Dina crashed into them next, wrapping around both of them with that reckless kind of love only she knew how to give. She was sobbing and laughing at the same time, kissing Ellie’s temple, whispering, “We came back. You came back.”

Joel stood off to the side for a moment, letting them have it. Watching them like he’d never seen anything so beautiful. Then he walked forward, slow and steady, and wrapped his arms around all three of them like he was pulling the broken pieces of the universe into one.

It was the kind of hug people spend lifetimes waiting for.

They cried, all four of them. Jesse muttering, “You’re a legend, you hear me?” Dina swearing through tears, “You just rewrote history, oh my fucking god Ellie—” Joel whispering, “You did good, kiddo. You did so good.”

It wasn’t just an embrace. It was a reckoning. A forgiveness. A coming home.

Eventually, Dina pulled back first. She wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her black jacket and looked at Ellie with a spark in her eye. “Okay. Everyone’s waiting. The press is foaming at the mouth.”

Jesse nodded, still grinning. “A thousand celebrities are waiting just to breathe the same air as you. You should probably change your shirt.”

Ellie let out a laugh that felt like it had taken three years to reach the surface.

“I’ll be out in a second,” she said softly.

Dina paused, searched her face, then nodded. “We’ll be at the end of the hallway. Take your time.”

And they left.

The crew, the band, the stagehands, the roar of one hundred thousand people still vibrating through the concrete—it all drifted away, like the echo of a dream.

Leaving just her.

Joel.

And the silence behind the storm.

Ellie sat down slowly, her movements heavy with the weight of what she’d just done. The Les Paul still hung across her like a cross she hadn’t yet set down. Her fingers trembled in her lap, twitching with phantom chords. The adrenaline was still thick in her bloodstream, but the ache in her chest was different. Older. Deeper. Familiar.

Joel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He watched her for a long moment—not as a legend, not as a miracle, but as his kid.

And then, gently—so gently it almost broke her—he spoke.

“You still something feel like something's missin'."

It wasn’t a question.

It was the truth. A soft, unshakable bell rung into the space between them.

Ellie didn’t answer.

What could she say? That she had screamed her love into thirty songs and one stadium and still felt it tearing through her ribcage like wildfire? That every note had been a plea she couldn’t say aloud? That the only moment she almost lost her footing was the one where she swore she could feel you watching, even from halfway across the world?

Didn’t have to.

Joel moved towards her and sat down—carefully, like a man approaching a wild animal he knew well enough to fear. 

Ellie stared at her hands. The calluses on her fingertips. The faint tremor that hadn’t stopped. Her jaw flexed. She blinked hard.

“I thought maybe the music and saying those things out loud would be enough.”

Joel tilted his head, eyes never leaving her. “Was it?”

“No,” she said. Voice cracking. “Not even close.”

He looked at her for a long, quiet moment.

“Then why didn’t you reach for her?”

Ellie’s jaw tightened. Her voice, when it came, was so small it barely sounded like her.

“She’s with someone else, Dad. I already said it. She moved on.”

Joel’s eyes didn’t move.

“She deserves to live her life.” she whispered, throat thick. “ I already took too much of it. I already hurt her enough. I don’t get to ask for anything more.”

Joel exhaled through his nose.

His voice came slower than usual—like he was peeling something loose from a part of himself that had long been sealed shut.

“You know…” he began, quiet. Measured. “I never told you this. Not until I knew you were truly ready to hear it.”

Ellie didn’t move, but her eyes, dulled and distant from everything she’d left on that stage, flicked up just enough to meet his.

“That night,” he said. “When I found you—”

His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and kept going.

“When I said someone called me… that someone begged me to come. Said they didn’t know where you were, only that you were close to the edge…”

His gaze finally lifted, locked onto hers. Nothing in it but the weight of truth. No buffer. No armor.

“It was her.”

Ellie didn’t react. Not at first. But she could feel the shift in her body, her breath leaving like a bullet had torn through it.

“She called me,” Joel continued. “Sobbing. Could barely get the words out. She told me everything that happened between you. Said she’d tried everything. Said she couldn’t reach you, couldn’t save you… and if she didn’t tell someone who could, she’d never forgive herself.”

Ellie’s breath left her body like it had been shot out of her. Her shoulders caved inward, like a second wave had hit—and this time she hadn’t braced.

“She didn’t just save you once,” Joel said, voice shaking. “She saved you twice. She called me, and you’re alive because of it.”

Ellie’s lips parted. But nothing came out. Her face contorted—silent, cracking open. One tear fell. Then another. Her hands, limp in her lap, trembled as she tried to hold herself still.

“That girl…” Joel said, softer now. So soft, like the words were breakable. “That girl still loves you, Ellie.”

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t care where she is, or how much time has passed, or who the hell she’s with. It’s written all over her. And it’s written all over you.”

He reached for her hand. Held it. Gentle, but firm.

“That kind of love,” he said, “isn’t normal. It’s bone-deep. You two—whether you’re together or not, whether the world likes it or not—you’re soulmates, Ellie. And I know that word gets thrown around, but I mean it. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.”

Ellie shook her head, barely, but he tightened his grip—not to argue, but to anchor.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I’m not telling you to beg, or fall at her feet or throw yourself into some story that already broke you. I’m just telling you this—”

“You owe it to both of you to reach out. To find out if there's still something waiting on the other side of all that silence.”

Ellie sat in it. The weight. The unbearable truth of it all.

Then—barely audible, like a child trying not to cry—she said:

“…What if she doesn’t want to hear from me?”

Joel smiled.

Not wide. Not triumphant. That other kind of smile. The sad, knowing kind.

“Then at least you’ll know,” he said gently. “At least you’ll know you tried. And that’s more than most people ever get to say.”

He brushed his thumb once across the back of her hand.

“You already came back from the dead tonight, kiddo. You stood in front of the whole world and told the truth. That was the hard part. One more step?”

His eyes softened.

“It won’t kill you.”

Ellie let out a sound—a half-laugh, half-sob, ragged and real. Her hand went to her face, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm.

She looked down. Then back at him.

And nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Okay.”

And in that small, broken, brave words—fate shifted.

Joel stood, squeezing her shoulder. 

Ellie didn’t wait another second.

The minute he left the room, her body moved before her brain could catch up, before fear could creep in, before she could second guess the string that had already gripped her by the throat and yanked. She didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Didn’t let herself feel anything but urgency—pure, breathless, blood-hot urgency.

She stripped the sweat-drenched black tank from her chest with shaking hands, heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Reached for the nearest thing that felt like armor and found it—a grey hoodie at the back of a chair, long abandoned, still smelling faintly of woodsmoke and rosemary and something safe.

Her fingers trembled as she zipped it up all the way to her collarbone. She didn’t tie her boots. Her legs were already moving before the zipper clicked shut.

She skipped the afterparty. Skipped the press. Skipped the team waiting backstage with champagne and glittering tears and a thousand wide-eyed congratulations and documentary cameras itching to catch her.

She had somewhere else to be.

No one could stop her, and no one tried. There was something in her face—hollowed out and bright, wild-eyed and burning—that told them all: this wasn’t about them.

She passed Joel in the hallway. He was waiting there, leaned against the wall like he’d known she’d come flying past. He didn’t ask where she was going. Didn’t need to. Their eyes met for a second, and the entire weight of everything passed between them.

He nodded once. Slow. Certain.

“Go get your girl.”

Out of the venue. Into the car. The night air hit her like a second wind—cold against her skin, slicing straight into her lungs. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely book the flight on her phone, her thumb smashing the screen like she could break through it.

Private. Direct. L.A.

At the airport, people recognized her. Of course they did. It was her night. The world was still reeling from her resurrection. Her name was everywhere, her voice still echoing off satellite feeds and breathless news anchors trying to define the undefinable.

But she wasn’t theirs. Not anymore.

She walked through security like a ghost. Like a girl in a dream she refused to wake up from. The guards didn’t stop her. Didn’t dare.

She boarded the jet like it might fall out of the sky but she didn’t care. Sat by the window with her hoodie pulled tight over her hair, hands clenched in her lap like if she let go of herself, she’d come undone.

She didn’t know what she was going to say. Didn’t know what you’d say. Didn’t know what she’d find.

She didn’t need a map. Or a message. Or a pin drop on a location app. She didn’t need confirmation. Didn’t need a green dot under your name or a picture posted or a text from someone who might’ve known.

She felt it.

The way she had always felt you—quietly, fiercely, impossibly—like gravity. Like a thread humming between her ribs, always pulling taut when you got too far away. The same strange, unshakable force that had made you crash into each other in the first place.

Ellie could feel you in her teeth.

She couldn’t explain it. There was no logic to it. She didn’t believe in fate. But something ancient inside her did. Some part of her that had been waiting since the beginning. Since that night that was supposed to mean nothing and ended up meaning everything.

She didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t know what you were doing. If you were asleep. Awake. Alone.

She just knew—

It was pulling her for a reason.

And across the country, you were mid-breath. Mid-cry. Somewhere between shaking and unraveling, curled in on yourself in the corner of your living room, your face wet from the tidal wreckage Ellie had sent crashing through your chest. Her voice had faded, but the echo hadn’t. You were still hearing her in your bloodstream.

Then—something hit you.

Not thought. Not reason. Not logic.

A pull.

You sat up so fast your neck cracked. The air in the room shifted. It felt like pressure building in your ears before a storm. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t name it, couldn’t pin it to anything real. But it gripped you by the spine and yanked.

And without thinking—without blinking—you opened your laptop.

Your fingers moved faster than your mind.

Private. Direct. Michigan.

No planning. No second-guessing. You didn’t care if it was reckless. You didn’t care what time it was. You just booked it.

You were already moving. Already on your feet. Already grabbing the suitcase from the back of your closet, tossing in the essentials—half-folded, half-thrown, hands trembling with sudden and strong urgency. You didn’t care what you wore. You didn’t care what would happen. All you knew was that you had to see her.

Not through a screen. Not from the crowd of a hundred thousand people. Not in a song.

You needed her.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The waiting. The wandering. The silence. The unbearable thought that she still believed you were with someone else. That she thought you’d moved on. That she thought you didn’t love her anymore.

You couldn’t let her keep believing that.

Not when every cell in your body had been screaming her name for years.

You paced your apartment barefoot, floor cool beneath your soles, heartbeat louder than your footsteps. The windows glowed with the soft pulse of the L.A. skyline—silent, unmoving, unaware. But something in the air had shifted. It felt charged. Unnatural.

Your chest buzzed with electricity. With instinct. With truth.

You didn’t know what would happen when you saw her. 

You only knew that you would step off that plane because the earth owed you something holy. The universe owed you an answer. The girl who used to kiss your shoulder while the sun rose still lived somewhere in the body of the woman who’d just sung her soul back to you.

You would find her.

And you would tell her everything.

That you never stopped loving her. That you tried to. That you wanted to. That you failed, gloriously and repeatedly. That loving her was the most alive you had ever felt. That breathing without her had felt like holding your head underwater. That even when you were in other arms, your heart was still bleeding in her hands.

And above you—somewhere between coasts, between midnight and morning—Ellie Williams was flying through the sky in the opposite direction.

Back to the city she swore she’d never return to. Back to the girl she hadn’t dared to call. With hope clutched in her fists and need bleeding like a pulse in her chest.

The city was still wrapped in silence, the kind that only lives between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m.—when night hasn’t fully gone and morning hasn’t fully arrived. The streets were washed in blue light. The horizon glowed like a secret waiting to be revealed.

She stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the building like it had been waiting for her.

Same glass. Same frame. Same quiet ache sitting behind every window like the memory of you.

She hadn’t slept. Her eyes burned. Her limbs ached. But none of it mattered.

There was something—something—that had pulled her across the country like a thread made of gravity and hope. A blind, relentless force that told her she had to be here, and she had to be here now.

She walked toward the door like she was stepping into the ocean.

And somehow—after all these years, after everything she’d done to forget—her hands remembered everything.

The code to your private elevator. Four digits. Punched in without hesitation. Muscle memory forged in a different lifetime. The screen blinked green, and the hum of the mechanism stirred like an old song. The doors slid closed behind her, and suddenly she was rising—slow, steady, silent.

Each floor ticked by like a pulse.

20.

21.

22.

She didn’t breathe the entire way up.

Her heart had been loud for hours, but now, in the stillness of the ascent, it quieted. Like it, too, was waiting. Like it knew the next breath might change everything.

Outside, your SUV was already idling on the curb.

Inside your penthouse, your suitcase sat zipped by the door. Passport tucked into the side pocket. Phone in your hand. Charger in your bag. You were dressed. Ready. 

Ellie found herself standing in front of your door like she had been summoned by the ache in your chest.

She hadn’t knocked yet.

Her fingers were frozen mid-air, inches from the surface. Her eyes traced the curve of the wood. The faint scuff mark near the bottom corner—she put it there once, with the toe of her boot accidentally.

She stared at it like it might open up and swallow her whole.

Her other hand was clenched at her side, white-knuckled. She’d spent the entire flight and ride up rehearsing what she’d say, but now couldn't remember a single thing.

You reached for the handle, breath shallow, some mix of fear and instinct surging through your veins like storm water. You didn’t know what you were expecting—maybe a delayed flight, maybe a burst of courage, maybe nothing.

And then—

You opened it.

Just as her hand was about to knock.

There you were.

And there she was.

Ellie's hair was still knotted in a messy bun, cheeks flushed from wind and disbelief, breath hitching in her chest like she hadn’t stopped running since the stage lights dimmed. The hoodie you once stole—faded gray, fraying at the cuffs—hung from her shoulders like a flag she didn’t know she’d still carry. Her sleeves were shoved up to her palms, hands trembling faintly. 

She looked different and exactly the same—like time had passed through her, not around her. Her jaw had sharpened, her shoulders squared, but her eyes—those wild, unholy green eyes—still held the same storm that ruined you the first time. Beautiful in a way that knocked the breath out of your chest. 

And you—

Suitcase behind you, coat halfway off your shoulder, lips parted in a breathless, disbelieving oh—stood like the earth had just cracked open and revealed something holy inside it. There was more grace in your shoulders now. More armor in your spine. You looked stronger. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. 

Your hands still shook from the moment you decided you couldn’t live one more second without seeing her again. You were halfway out the door to chase her across the country—and there she was.

Like fate had been watching both of you run in opposite directions and decided it was finally enough. 

And suddenly, the entire world narrowed to the space between your bodies.

Her hand was still hovering in the air, just inches from the door. 

Your fingers were still on the handle, knuckles white.

In one impossible second, everything aligned.

One divine collision.

The only sound was the pounding of your hearts—wild, breathless, almost violent. As if they might tear out of your chests, racing to reunite before your bodies had the stepped closer.

You opened your mouths, as if words might tumble out, but none came.

Just breath. Just silence. Just awe.

Just you standing in front of her. Just her standing in front of you.

Because what started in that club—that single, electric night, a hookup meant to burn fast and disappear—became the axis your whole world tilted on. It should’ve ended there, a forgettable blur of sweat and strobe lights. But it didn’t. It spiraled. It bloomed into something reckless and unplanned. A fake relationship born of convenience, publicity, and chaos.

And what started as a lie—a shared performance for the cameras, for your teams, for the world—became a love so blistering, so consuming, it remade both of you. A love neither of you could name without trembling. A love that burned in silence. That bruised in secret. That shattered you from the inside out and still, remained the purest thing you had ever felt.

And now here you were.

Three years of silence. Three years of wreckage. Three years of bleeding into microphones, of screaming each other’s names into the void and pretending not to hear the echo. Of becoming ghosts in each other’s lives, but never quite exorcising the love. Of dreams that ended in a jolt, in a sob, in a name bitten back before waking. Of lyrics more honest than phone calls, more vulnerable than voicemails. Of entire confessions wrapped in agony and mailed to the stars because it was the only place that felt far enough, safe enough, to hold them.

You both had your own catastrophes—different storms, same devastation. You broke in private, rebuilt in silence. You clawed your way out of grief with nothing but your fingernails and rage. You both carried the weight of what you lost like it was sacred.

And somehow, you both healed. Slowly. Ugly. Miraculously. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. But enough to stand again.

You both died and were born again—more than once. You had grown out of your fears.

You walked through fire barefoot, bleeding and blistered, and survived.

And now you were standing at the doorway of a home you thought you’d never return to.

Each other.

You looked at her and saw every version of her at once.

The girl who loved you like it was the last thing she would ever do. The one who broke your heart. The one who tried to die. The one who didn’t.

She looked at you and saw every version of you at once.

The girl who held her in that green room like her hands could stop time. The one who screamed at her in songs that set the world on fire. The one who still waited—through heartbreak, through silence, through everything.

You had found yourselves—even if you had to lose each other to do it.

And the only thing that hadn’t changed, the one thing that never even flinched—

Was the love.

And now, it stepped into the hallway between you and wrapped its arms around your chests, breathed back into your lungs, and said: “You found each other again.”

You stepped forward.

And she did too.

At the exact same moment.

Like you’d rehearsed it in a dream.

And your bodies collided with a gentleness so raw, so wide open, it knocked the breath out of you.

Her arms went around your waist, yours around her neck, and it wasn’t a hug—it was a memory. A heartbeat. A return.

You buried your face into the crook of her shoulder, nose brushing the fabric—faint lavender and something uniquely Ellie: warmth, sweat, a hint of old smoke, guitar strings, rain. She smelled the same. She smelled like you remembered. She smelled like love. Her face pressed against your neck, breath shaky, lashes damp against your skin. You felt her exhale and it sounded like something sacred breaking.

And then—

A sound she thought was lost forever, echoing now like a miracle she didn’t dare hope for.

Ellie giggled.

Just a little. Disbelieving. Like she was overwhelmed, like her body didn’t know if it should cry or laugh or both. It made your eyes sting harder.

You made a choked little noise in return, part sob, part joy, part something you didn’t know how to name. Your fingers dug into the back of her hoodie like if you didn’t hold tight enough, she might vanish again.

She squeezed you back just as fiercely. Her hands fisting into the back of your coat. Her whole body was shaking. You felt it in your ribs. Her grief. Her awe. Her relief.

There were no words. There didn’t need to be.

Only the echo of your breathing. The trembling of your hands.

You only melted into each other like this was the only place you’d ever belonged.

In that hallway, as the sun bled over the skyline and the city below began to wake, you held each other for so long, time dissolved.

You weren’t in the doorway. You weren’t in the penthouse. You weren’t in LA or Michigan or Earth at all.

You were somewhere else entirely, suspended in a place made of heartbeats and fingertips, breaths and silence, forgiveness and love. You held each other like gravity had reversed, like if you let go, the sky itself might fall apart.

After what felt like hours and seconds at the same time, Ellie pulled back just enough to look at you, her hands rose to cup your face, thumbs softly tracing your cheekbones as if she was trying to relearn a face she had seen a thousand times in her dreams. Her eyes were red-rimmed, shining like the first break of dawn, fierce and gentle all at once.

The sun had risen, painting gold and rose across her face, illuminating every freckle, every scar, every tear-stained line.

“I came here for you,”

She whispered, her voice shaking.

“I—I couldn’t celebrate, I couldn’t wait another minute, another second. I couldn’t breathe until I found you.”

Your breath caught, tangled itself in your chest as you smiled softly, almost disbelieving.

“Ellie, I was about to leave for the airport. I had a flight booked to Michigan,”

You whispered, your forehead tipping forward to rest against hers. 

“I couldn’t wait either. I was going to find you, no matter what it took.”

She laughed softly, a beautiful, broken sound. Her eyes widened a fraction in disbelief, her thumbs tracing your face, afraid to stop touching you.

“Of course you were,” she breathed, shaking her head. “Of course you fucking were.”

She swallowed hard, blinking fast, and you saw a shadow cross her face.

She took a breath, then softly—painfully—began, 

“I—I know you’re with someone else—”

But before she could finish, you brought your hands to her face, gently cupping her cheeks and tilting her gaze back up to you.

Your voice was clear, sure, gentle, as you interrupted:

“Not anymore.”

Her breath caught sharply, lips parting in surprise.

You stepped even closer, chest to chest, heart to heart, and let your thumbs stroke softly along the edge of her jaw. 

“Ellie, it’s a long story, but… the short version is—I never loved anyone or anything that wasn’t you. Not once. Not even for a second.”

She stilled, breath hitching audibly. Her eyes widened slightly, disbelief and relief flooding her gaze like light chasing out darkness. “You—”

“I never stopped loving you. I couldn’t.” you said fiercely, your voice shaking now, your throat raw with emotion, your hearts laid bare between you. 

“You were always there. Every song. Every breath. Every heartbeat. It’s always been you, and only you.”

Ellie’s expression shattered beautifully. 

Her chest rose and fell quickly, her hands trembling slightly as they cradled your face, her gaze melting deeper into yours. Tears spilled freely down her face as she pressed her forehead to yours, holding you desperately close. 

“You're the reason I’m breathing right now.” she whispered, voice breaking. 

“The reason I woke up, the reason I tried again. You’re my everything—everything good about me is because of you. I never stopped loving you, I never even tried to stop.”

You smiled softly, your tears mixing with hers, your breaths warm and shared in the narrow space between your mouths. 

“Ellie, I know,” you said gently, so sure, so steady it almost broke you both.

“I promised you always, and I kept it. I held onto that promise every second we were apart. Even when it hurt like hell. Even when I thought you were gone forever. I still loved you—always.”

She nodded softly, pressing her forehead deeper against yours, her voice dropping to a whisper, a confession, a prayer. “When I promised you always, I meant it. I always did. And I still do.”

You drew back, just enough to look clearly into her eyes. Just enough to see the girl you met in a dim-lit club, who wore a cocky smile and bruises like badges, who took your heart away and never gave it back.

Just enough to see the woman who survived it all—who fought addiction, fame, silence, grief, and still came back to you.

The woman you never stopped loving.

“Then kiss me.” 

You whispered, your voice so quiet, so vulnerable, that it was almost lost in the air between you.

And then, with all the gentle bravery of someone stepping into daylight after a lifetime of darkness, she leaned in. Impossibly gently, she closed the distance like it was holy ground.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your lips parted softly in anticipation, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

And then—finally—

Your lips met hers.

And it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was fate and destiny and that invisible thread everyone spoke of, wrapping tightly around your souls, binding you back together. 

Her mouth tasted like tears and truth and the same undeniable hunger that had brought you together that first night. Your fingers tangled in her hair, pulled her closer, needing more. Her hands went south and tightened around your waist, gripping you like you were the only thing left holding her to the earth.

It was desperate, yet gentle.

Furious, yet forgiving.

You kissed like you were breathing each other’s air. Like you were finally letting yourselves live again.

Ellie’s hands held you tightly, securely. It was a reunion of your broken pieces, a reclaiming of everything you lost, a quiet vow that said: never again.

Because what had always held you both together wasn’t fate, or luck, or even destiny.

It was simply love—wild, endless, patient, fierce love. The kind that rewrote stars and healed wounds and bridged chasms so wide the world had called them impossible.

A love that refused to let go, that waited patiently.

And as you finally broke apart, just enough to rest your foreheads together, chests rising and falling in rhythm, Ellie whispered softly, voice thick with love and relief and awe and a small and sweet smile curling the edges of her mouth.

“I’m never letting go again,” 

You smiled softly, pecking her lips and holding her even tighter, knowing you were exactly where you belonged, exactly where you'd always meant to be.

“Good,” you whispered back. “Because I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

The world outside your door began to wake fully now, sunrise bleeding through the window, bathing both of you in gold.

Unaware it had just witnessed a miracle—two souls, once lost, finally finding their way back home.

And there, in the doorway, you kissed her again.

The end and the beginning. The hush after the storm’s last scream. The first note after a symphony of silence.

A moment that bent time—where everything broken came back to life.

The impossible reunion of two hearts that never truly said goodbye—only paused, mid-sentence, until the universe was ready to let them finish the song.

Time, once the cruel god of your story, has softened. 

It no longer roars through your chapters like a thief, no longer dares to take. It lingers now, lacing your hours with light. It lives in the steam curling from mugs at sunrise, in the shadow of windchimes flickering across your porch, in the breath that passes between when neither of you are saying a word, but everything is understood.

It moves slow now. Gentle. Forgiving.

There are still stages, but now balanced with the lull of domestic quiet. 

Ellie still sings. Still performs. Still fills stadiums like they were built just for her. But not to prove anything Not for the charts, not for the noise, not because the world is watching. She does it because the stage is the only place where her soul stretches out its arms and exhales. Where the fire inside her flickers steady, not wild. Where she can be everything at once—loud and soft, broken and healed, gone and home.

And you still fill stadiums too. Still write songs that echo down city blocks and through the hearts of strangers. Still pile up golden awards. But it’s different now. Less frantic. Less like bleeding. More like breathing. More like living with the wound instead of trying to cauterize it.

What once felt like survival now feels like grace.

But now, both of your music live in quieter places too. In the kitchen, where her low, rasping hum drifts through morning light as she makes you coffee, barefoot and half-asleep. In the bathtub, where your voice softens, half-lost beneath the rhythm of water, singing just for her.

Somewhere along the road, after the world gave you every crown and award, after your names were stitched into history with gold thread, you realized the only place you ever wanted to be legendary was in each other’s eyes.

And you are. 

Even when your bodies ache and your hair has changed and your voices go softer by evening. You look at each other and see the full truth. Every version. Every bruise, every resurrection. You both see a girl who wrote an album to survive. The one who stood in front of thousands and broke herself open just to be seen. Who wouldn’t let go. Who stayed. Who held grief in one hand and love in the other and refused to put either down. You both see all of it. You always have.

You don’t talk much about those years anymore. The dark ones. The bloody ones. The ones where you vanished from earth and from each other in different directions and came back new. 

But sometimes, when the night is quiet and the dishes are put away and the cat has found its usual place curled at the end of the bed—you sit with your backs against the headboard, and you remember. You talk about the club. The pretending. The songs. The silence. And you press your hands together, and you say thank you. Not to each other.

But to whatever thread in the universe refused to snap.

And you both remember the day you stood—beneath a sky that felt too small to hold the weight of what you were about to vow—and promised. Not perfection. But to choose each other. Loudly. Publicly. Eternally. Again. Again. And again.

The event of the decade. Cameras lined the coast, desperate for a glimpse. Celebrities and icons flew in from every corner of the world, but none of them mattered. You wore white. She wore black. She cried the second she saw you—before you’d even made it to the altar. You kissed her before the officiant could finish the words. And when the crowd threw roses into the air like prayers, Ellie looked at you like she always had.

Like you were the only person the universe had ever made. Like all the noise, all the years, all the fire had only ever been a road back to you.

Dina, Jesse, and Rachel wept like widows—shoulders shaking, faces buried in trembling hands. Even Joel couldn’t hold it in. Especially Joel. He cried the hardest, in a way only fathers understand.

And now, years later, you still look down at your hand all the time—at the ring that catches the light like it was carved from stardust itself. A massive diamond nestled in platinum like it belongs in a museum, but the band worn smooth from years of sleeping with her hand curled in yours. 

And then, there’s Melody.

Born in the late hours of a stormless night, in that suspended breath between yesterday and tomorrow, she arrived—howling and perfect and wrapped in light. And Ellie was there, holding your hand—the one she’d slipped the ring onto beneath a sky full of stars, the same hand she hadn’t let go of once that night. Her fingers trembled. Her cheeks were damp with awe. And when the doctor whispered she’s here, Ellie looked at you like the world had cracked wide open all over again—only this time, it wasn’t just you standing in the light. It was you. And her. And the little life you wished for together.

A new beginning, wrapped in warmth and wonder, weeping softly between you.

Her name chosen into the hush like it had always been waiting—on your tongue, in her bones. She came into the world with a freckled face and eyes the same shade of green that made you write entire albums, that made you bleed onstage, that made you believe in fate. Her hair was yours—soft, wild, unbrushable—and when she sings, which she does constantly, you swear it’s your own voice coming back to you, bright and velvety like she’s sharing a secret in the most intimate way.

She doesn’t walk. She bursts. She doesn’t ask. She declares. She runs through the house like it belongs to her—because it does. She fills every room before her feet even cross the threshold. Her laugh shakes the walls. Her tantrums are operatic. She stomps when she wants something, yells for both of you like the universe itself should answer. She has Ellie’s recklessness, your fire, and the defiant tilt of a girl born of storm and song. She performs in the living room with a wooden spoon as a guitar and insists on an encore every night before bed.

The little princess of the queen of rock and the queen of pop came into the world like she already knew who she was: the daughter of two legends. Born not just into a family, but into music royalty. Into myth. And not in the headline sense—not in the Rolling Stone profiles or the Grammy speeches—but in the real way. In the spilled coffee on sheet music. In the quiet harmonies hummed over pancakes. In the fierce, unwavering love that has become the pulse of her home.

Born of the greatest love story the industry ever knew. One written not just in verses and hooks, but in survival. In forgiveness. In the choosing—over and over—of each other. Her mothers burned the world down and built it back again just for each other. They laid the foundation in heartache and climbed out of the rubble hand in hand. 

Now she runs barefoot through hallways lined with platinum records and crayon drawings, her voice echoing between trophies and guitars, her tiny shoes lost somewhere under the couch where your first demo still sleeps. She sings lyrics that were written years before she was even imagined. She wears your old Supernova tour shirts like royal capes. She calls Ellie Mama and you Mommy, and her favorite place is between the two of you—wrapped in the kind of adoration most people spend their lives dreaming about, a love she’ll never have to search for.

Because she was born into music. Into magic. Into something rare and real and unspeakably beautiful. She was born into love that didn't just survive the fire. It composed a symphony from the ashes.

You are not at war anymore.

You have lived. You have stayed. You have kept the promises that mattered. 

And every day since that door opened, since you stood face to face and didn’t have to say a word, you have loved each other without apology or pause.

Because this is what the end of a love story looks like when it refuses to end.

And when you close your eyes and breathe, you feel it everywhere—in the warmth between the sheets, in the quiet laughter down the hall, in the pulse beneath your skin.

This is the life you bled for.

This is what it looks like when people don’t just survive, but bloom.

This is what it means to collide,

and never let go.

← 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑢𝑒 𝑝𝑡. 𝟸 | 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 →

taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @annoyingpersonxoxo @haithone @lofied @sunflowerwinds @xojunebugxo @reidairie @piscesthepoet @elliewilliamskisser2000 @pariiissssssss @mxquelo @elliesbabygirl @xx2849 @kiiramiz @mikellie @brooks-lin @lovely-wisteria @marscardigan @elliesanqel @lovelaymedown @gold-dustwomxn @ilovewomenfr @seraphicsentences @mascspleasegetmepregnant @raindroprose23 @creepyswag  @elliesgffrfr @kirammanss @liztreez @catrapplesauces @livvietalks @furtherrawayy @thatchosen1 @kanadadryer @littlerosiesthings @eriiwaiii2 @nramv @redlightellie @elliepoems @sabrinathewitchh982 @shady-lemur @jubileexoxo @l0velylace @look-me @adoringanakin @daughterofthemoons-stuff @st4r-b3rries @liasxeatt @desiretolive @rios-st4rs @miajooz @hotpinkskitties

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Goosebumps. Just… goosebumps. I don’t even know what to say.

This story holds a piece of my soul—one I gave willingly, one I’ll never get back. Collide has been more than a fic to me. It’s been a home, a storm, a love letter, a scream into the void. And now it’s done.

And I’m mourning in the corner like the most dramatic widow you’ve ever seen.

Thank you—for reading, for screaming, for holding Ellie and the reader the way I did. Thank you for feeling with me.

They loved each other like the world was ending.

And maybe, somehow, that’s exactly how it had to begin.

THANK YOU, FOREVER.

♡

[strwberrybils]

SOMETHING NEW with caitlyn kiramman

୧ ‧₊˚ your sex life with your girlfriend, caitlyn, was sweet, but a little too…vanilla. so, you tell her exactly what you want, and she fulfills your wishes in more ways than you could think of.

pairings and aus. oldergf!caitlyn kiramman 𝑥 fem!reader

warnings. smut. swearing. light choking. orgasm denial. mention of a safe word, though not used. cum play. bondage/tying up. mommy kink. caitlyn being a big softie for her gf.

gabi’s quick thoughts. none. just this. sorry for the bad ending oops i really had nothing to say </3

word count. 5.5k

masterlist ‧₊˚ taglist

you don’t even knock.

your nerves are too loud for politeness, and your thoughts have been spiraling all morning. you need to say it now, or you won’t say it at all.

you and caitlyn had been dating for months, and she was absolutely lovely in every way. she was passionate, full of care, and she always told you how special you were to her, which, you appreciate. 

but, there was something missing. 

you and caitlyn first had intimacy around three months in. it was the most romantic and sweet thing you had ever experienced, and after, she held you for hours until the both of you drifted off to sleep. 

however, now a couple months later, you were wanting a bit more. it was relatively the same each time— you had gentle sex, with light kisses and fragile touches, cleaned up, and fell asleep. it wasn’t that you hated it— no, quite the opposite— but you were dying to try something new from time to time. you were just too scared to tell her. 

would she be down for it? or would it be repulsive to her? you had no idea. 

caitlyn was always pretty closed off when it came to talking about fantasies or things she wanted to try, which was a surprise, considering she had four years on you, and was way more experienced. you honestly didn’t have a clue if she was into anything other than standard vanilla sex, and at first, it didn’t raise any questions. but you were burning with passion, for such a deeper need that she could only fulfill. 

so, here you stood, right behind her closed door with clammy hands and a heart beating with anxiety. it wasn’t that you feel like you couldn’t talk about it, but everything was just so new, and the fear of messing up swallowed the desire to be direct with what you wanted. 

reluctantly, you pushed the door open, and stopped dead in the doorway. 

“cait, can we talk—?”

there are guards in her room. two of them, standing straight-backed near her window like they’re made of stone, and you have to take a double-take to make sure that they’re even breathing. caitlyn is sitting at her desk, reading something with too many signatures at the bottom, completely honed in. 

she looks up, startled, but clearly pleased to see you. her eyes soften, “darling—”

“i didn’t know you had people in here,” you mumble, one foot already back in the hall, regretting every step that led you here. you should’ve just waited, or called— but it was too late for that now. 

“what’s wrong?” she stands from her chair, already walking toward you, and you already know that there’s a slim chance you can get out of this. her voice lowers, gentle, like she thinks you’re hurt. her chin tilts, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

you hesitate. you were going to wait until tonight, to maybe whisper it in her ear while you curled up beside her, or maybe say it in a way that didn’t feel so serious. but now you’re standing here in front of her, heart stuttering, hands cold, yet the words are burning up the back of your throat.

“honey, just tell me. surely it can’t be that—“

“i wanted to talk about… um… our sex life.”

it gets so quiet that you hear one of the guards clear his throat in attempt to mask clear discomfort, and caitlyn blinks. her cheeks flush instantly, a pink hue blossoming over her cheeks, spreading to the tips of her ears. you can’t feel her, but you know she’s burning hot. 

“oh,” she says stiffly, pretending to cough, “oh. well then, um…g-guards, you may be dismissed.”

they file out wordlessly, though one of them definitely walks a little faster than the other, and you swear that you can hear one of them pretending to gag, followed by a giggle as they leave. the door shuts with a soft click, and you’re left alone with her, the tension humming in the air like static.

you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve.

“i shouldn’t have just…said it like that,” you murmur out nervously, still messing with the loose frays on your sleeve.  “i didn’t know they were gonna be in here, and now you probably think i’m—”

“no,” your girlfriend cuts in quickly, “i mean— yes, they were here, but no, i don’t think anything bad. just… surprised.”

“you never talk about it,” you say, quieter now, trying to avoid eye contact as best you could. “…and sometimes i feel like i shouldn’t bring it up because you’re always so composed. i just feel like everything’s so taboo between the two of us.”

she takes your hands, thumbs brushing over your knuckles, and looks at you with sweet, glossy eyes. her voice softens, “oh, i’m sorry, darling. i just… i’ve never been the kind of person who finds it easy to talk about those things. even when i want to.”

you nod, heart slowing down. she was right— knowing her upbringing, that probably wasn’t her focus at all. sure, she’s had flings and short-lived relationships, but you were the first girl that she was really with. none of this probably came easy for her, and you didn’t blame her. 

“babe, i wanted to….um. try…some things?” you confess, twisting your foot against the hardwood floors awkwardly. you swallow, trying to ease up, “something new. but not just that— i want us to be able to talk about ‘it’ without it feeling so… fragile. like if i say the wrong word, you’ll shut down. i’m scared of that.”

caitlyn exhales like she’s been holding her breath since you walked in. she pulls you in, forehead against yours, a gentle hand coming up to rub the small of your back, lowering gently to the lowest part. 

“i’m not shutting down,” she whispers into you, “i’m just… learning how to be more upfront about things. when i was younger, it wasn’t really on my mind, you know, love?”

you close your eyes, leaning farther into her embrace, letting her arms fully close around you, circling around your back and up your shoulders. “do you wanna talk now?” you ask her, your voice low, but oozing with nervousness.

she kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then a little lower, lips brushing your neck, sending gentle chills up your spine. you shiver against her as she pulls your face up with her hands, eyes boring into yours. 

she cracks a gentle smile, “we can talk, and then maybe… we can show each other what we want.”

you smile, a little breathless.

“okay.”

and the moment the words leave your mouth, you see something shift in her. it isn’t anything like usual— hesitant and reserved, but instead, it’s something akin to a quiet focus. 

she doesn’t rush at all. she lifts your hand to her mouth first, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like it’s the most gentle thing in the world. her voice is barely above a whisper as her eyes flutter up at you— her usual glassy, bright blue eyes now shadowed over with something you don’t recognize. 

“tell me what you want to try.”

your cheeks heat, but you hold her gaze, careful not to falter. this is what you’ve been wanting for so long, and now that the moment’s finally here, you want to do any and everything but back out. 

“i want you to stop being so careful. with me.”

she tilts her head, partially in confusion, partially because she wants you to elaborate more. so, you clarify.

“you’re always gentle, and so very sweet. which…i love that, don’t get me wrong— but i want more than just sweetness sometimes. i want you tell me what to do and when to do it— i just…i want you to do whatever you want.”

her eyes flick down to your lips. she’s listening attentively, taking in each word like it really matters— which, to her, it does.

you’re slightly nervous now, and a little embarrassed, heat flaring in your cheeks. you physically can’t look at her without doubling over, and you do so— falling into her, saying the rest against her collarbone, your voice barely above the sound of her breath.

“i want to see what you’re like when you’re not being nice. i want…i want you to be mean. rough with me.” 

something flickers in caitlyn, and you feel her nod, her hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. “are you sure?”

“yes.” you reply almost instantly, and that’s all it takes for cait. 

she doesn’t rush, but there’s a purpose to her actions now, a confidence that settles into her spine as she backs you toward her bed. the air shifts with it, and you feel your heartbeat speed up, anticipation curling in your stomach when she kisses you differently this time.

not the soft, tender brush of lips she usually gives you before sleep or bidding you goodbye. this one is deeper, hungrier, like it’s making up for every time she held back. her hands stay at your waist for a second, then trail lower, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, testing the waters just a little bit. 

she pulls back just slightly.

“i want you to tell me if i go too far,” she says, and she’s nothing but serious. you nod fervently, but she shakes her head, her index finger curling underneath your chin and tilting it up, forcing you to look at her. 

“tell me.”

“yes ma’am.” you squeak out, nodding again, your skin tingly and hot. 

“what a good girl.” she coos, and before you even have enough time to react, her hands find the hem of your t-shirt— which, is really her’s— pulling it off, her fingers brushing over every inch of your smooth skin like she’s committing it to memory. she kisses the space below your collarbone, then lower, and lower, and when you gasp her name, she murmurs “yes, love?” like she’s teasing, but her hands are shaking just a little.

she’s nervous, but she masks it well. you can tell she’s starting to ease up by the way she kisses you and grabs your ass, and not just a little tap like she usually does. her hands are roaming all around you, hungry for you, desperate to make you feel good. 

you reach for her shirt too— unbuttoning it, one by one, until her chest is bare beneath you, excusing a black, lacy bra that she’s wearing. her hair falls forward, brushing your shoulder, and she leans in again, mouth hot against your neck now, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch.

you discard her shirt to the floor like it’s worth nothing, grabbing her face to pull her lips back onto yours. you’re both messily trying to reach the bed, stumbling over shirts and other items that are scattered about her bedroom. 

cait pulls you down onto her crisply made bed, covers shifting as she flips you underneath her with a swift movement, not breaking the kiss. a tiny moan passes through your lips as her fingers toy with the waistband of your jeans, and you can practically hear your own heartbeat in your ears, anticipation rising. 

she shifts down to kiss your jaw, then your throat, then across your chest, slow and methodical like she’s tracing a map she’s read a hundred times but only now dares to touch. she presses her thigh between yours, and you arch into it, your breath catching in your throat.

“c-cait—”

“i know,” she murmurs, her voice dripping honey as she shifts down, her hand reaching the button on your jeans. as soon as she looks up at you for confirmation, you breathe out a helpless plea, and she nods, grinning. 

she slides her fingers onto the buttons, undoing each one carefully, amused at how shaky you get with each one she takes out slow and purposeful, until you’re gasping her name again, this time raw and open. 

with a little bit of force, plus your shimmying, she moves your bottoms down until they reach your ankles, sliding them off and throwing them behind her without another look. 

caitlyn gives you a half-smile when her eyes land on your pretty blue panties, the one with the lace and bow at the top that she had picked out for you. you offer up a sheepish smile, legs squeezed shut, “hi.”

“hi, pretty,” she gleams, tapping your thighs lightly, “open ‘em.”

you oblige, your legs spreading slowly for her, and she lets out a quiet giggle when she sees the giant wet spot at your core. she wets her lips with her tongue, “eager much, huh, babe?” 

you grow shy, your head falling into your shoulder as you nod silently. 

“let me take care of you.” 

caitlyn’s face falls in between your thighs, kissing them repeatedly, landing on all your sweet spots that she knows all too well. both her hands find the waistband of your panties, pulling them down, and you shiver at the new temperature of air. 

she, once again, throws your underwear onto the floor like it’s a piece of trash, cooing out at how pretty you look— and she tells you that, too. 

“you make it so hard to hold back,” she whispers honestly, “i…i don’t think i want to anymore.”

“then don’t.”

and she doesn’t.

“just—“ she brings her wrist up to her mouth, her teeth trapping the edge of a hair tie as her hands cup around her scalp, pooling her hair into a ponytail. she slides the elastic up her fingers and your eyes are glued to her, watching her nimble fingers dwindle, securing her hair and blowing a loose piece away from her face. 

your feel your eyes widen, just a bit. you don’t have much time to react before her middle and ring finger are placed against your sopping pussy, collecting your juices on her fingertips, spreading the wetness to your clit, teasing you. you shudder.

“w-wait, caitlyn,” you interrupt before she can go any further, and she looks up at you, “hm?”

“…nevermind.” you shake your head. 

she hums, but she’s not convinced. her hand slides up to your thigh, slower now, more deliberate. she squeezes it gently, “no. there’s something else.”

you bite your lip.

she shifts closer, blue eyes watching you with that sharp, focused look that always makes your stomach turn instantly. 

“you promised,” she reminds you gently, “that you’d tell me what you wanted.”

you hesitate. it’s not that you don’t want to— it’s just… different this time. harder to say. it’s more than just her changing her demeanor, it’s an action, once that you weren’t sure if she’d be interested in. 

“is it something you’re afraid i won’t like?” she asks gently, not pushing, but just out of pure wonder.

you shake your head.

“then what is it?”

your voice is barely a whisper when you say, “you’ll think it’s too much.”

caitlyn’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t let up. she leans in, brushing her lips just below your dripping core.

“tell me anyway.”

your throat works as you breathe out, honest, “i want you to tie me up.”

there’s a beat of silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. you can tell she’s thinking about what you just said, gears turning like she’s full of ideas.

she pulls back just slightly, just enough to see your face. “you want me to—”

“not in a scary way,” you rush out, cheeks burning, “just… soft. but firm. like you’re in control. i don’t know.” you look away from her, “gosh, i feel stupid.”

“look at me,” she says, and when you do, her expression makes you forget how to breathe. she’s not judging you or looking hesitant, but instead, her eyes are lit up like she’s been wanting to do that all along. 

“you’re not stupid,” she says slowly, “you’re perfect.”

you barely get a sound out before she speaks again, “stay right there.”

you nod, breathless, and watch as she stands up and crosses the room— calm and composed, but she’s got a new pep in her step. she opens a drawer at her desk and rummages around for a second before she returns with a soft, navy silk scarf and that look in her eyes again, the one that makes your knees go weak even when you’re lying down.

“hands up.” she orders, and it isn’t laced with that usual tenderness— no, this was a command, and you follow it.

you lift them slowly. you’re nervous and excited all at once, and the mixture is dizzying. she moves to the side of the bed and she binds your wrists together behind your back, gently but tight enough that you can feel it. her fingers linger after, tracing the new vulnerability she’s created.

“still okay?” she asks, watching your face to make sure you’re alright.

you nod again for what feels like the hundredth time, “yes, please. i need you.”

cait smiles. not her usual amused, aristocratic smirk— not at all. this one is deeper, much darker, and you whine at that, at that look, where you both know the exact same thing. 

she’s gonna make you fall apart. 

she kisses down your neck, your chest, taking her time while your arms stay pinned over your head. she moves lower until she’s sprawled underneath you, her nose laying on top of her clit. she starts off slowly, licking into you slow and precise, holding your thighs open as you gasp her name. you squirm and she presses your hips down with a firm hand, murmuring against your skin, “easy, love. i’ve got you.”

and you know she does. 

her tongue finds your clit almost instantly, toying with the sensitive bud. you sigh, basking in her touch, fingers curling in the sheets where you can, the scarf tight behind your back as your body arches helplessly.

you can’t even hide how loud the moan is. it slips out like a secret, but it’s still very audible. you weren’t expecting her to be this good at what you asked for, nor this focused. this deliberate.

caitlyn doesn’t say anything at first— she just hums low, like she’s pleased with herself. her lips are soft, her tongue precise, her grip on your thighs firm and immovable. it’s everything you asked for— commanding, but still cait, like always. 

then, suddenly, her lips pull away from you with a pop, and you whine out helpless, body shifting on the covers. she pulls her fingers to her mouth and wets them, eyes glued on you, lining them up with your wet pussy. slowly, she pushes them inside you— so deep that you can feel it so high up. she curls them tight and you gasp, and then, she’s gone. 

caitlyn pumps her fingers in and out in a harsh rhythm, fingertips curling as her thumb comes up to rub your clit in sloppy, quick circles. it’s nearly too much for you— it throws you into a haze of nothing but pleasure, the only sounds filling the room being your heavy breathing and the wetness from your cunt. she’s unrelenting, and it’s all you could ever want. 

you whisper her name like a prayer, squirming beneath her touch, but she tuts at you mockingly. 

“don’t run from it,” she murmurs, lips brushing against your sensitive thighs, “you said you wanted me in control, didn’t you?  i’m just giving you what you asked for.”

you whimper at the words, your body already on edge, your wrists aching in the best way. you want more. God, you want so much more.

you don’t even realize you’re crying out until her fingers quicken even faster— rapidly pushing inside you with practiced ease, curling just right, drawing a gasp from your throat that’s half-shock, half-desperation.

“f-fuck, cait—”

“that’s it,” she praises, voice low, “take it. be a good girl and take it.”

your legs are shaking, and she’s not even moving that fast. that’s the thing— she’s not trying to break you, but she’s trying to unravel you. 

her thumb circulates against your clit as her fingers work you open, and your whole body stutters beneath the intensity. you’re so worked up that you almost try to reach out before realizing that you’re tied up— you’re twitching, gasping, panting like it’s too much, but you don’t want her to stop. not even for a second.

she leans forward, teeth grazing your skin, “you like being tied up for me?” she asks you softly, but mockingly, “you like not being able to touch me? hm?” 

you nod desperately, your head thrown back as a string of curses slip through your teeth, “i love it,” you take a second to breathe, “i love it— please, c-caitlyn, don’t stop—”

your girlfriend chuckles— low, dangerous, but seemingly affectionate. her pace quickens slightly, and she’s cooing little praises beneath you as your back arches. you’re so close that it hurts.

“you’re so pretty when you’re like this,” caitlyn tells you, voice raw now, and her usual sweetness is long gone. “falling apart for me, making all these sweet little sounds— fuck, i need you.” 

you feel your walls tightening around her, crying out against her palm, practically begging for whatever else she can give. 

you feel your legs shake and your breath hitch, and you’re so close you feel like your body’s gonna snap. “c-cait, cait, baby— i’m gonna—“

but caitlyn… caitlyn has other plans.

just when you’re about to tip over the edge, she pulls back— fingers drenched, eyes dark, her breathing steady, while yours is completely shattered.

“you thought you were gonna cum, didn’t you?” she questions, thumb tracing a line over your inner thigh as she looks up at you with that look, and you shiver at that.

you nod, dazed and wide-eyed. “yes— baby, please, i—”

“did i say you could? did you even ask?” 

your breath catches in your throat again, this time from the shift in her tone. it’s not cruel, no, never cruel— but stern. in control, just what you had asked for. 

“well, n-no,” you admit, voice small, “but i thought—”

“you don’t get to think tonight,” caitlyn cuts in gently, and she leans up and kisses your trembling lips, “you asked me to take charge. so i am. you’ll cum when i want you to.”

your head drops back against the pillows, a whine building in your throat. she’s already kissing her way back down your body, hands pressing your thighs wide open again. 

you’re too sensitive now. every touch feels like a wild fire. your toes curl, your spine twists, and her tongue is back on your clit like nothing ever stopped— but you know now. you know she won’t let you finish, at least, not until you ask nicely— and even then, you know who’s really in control. 

and somehow, that makes it worse, yet so much hotter.

you cry out again, hips lifting, your legs shaking, and the feeling is so much stronger than before, but she pulls away just before you can get close. 

again.

“caitlyn,” you’re literally begging now, tears stinging against your eyes, “please, i’ll do anything, i’ll be so good. but i just need—” 

“i know,” she whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh gently, and it’s reassuring, “i know, darling. you’re doing so well. but not yet.”

you lose count of how many times she edges you like that— over and over, winding you up like a string she’s pulling tighter and tighter, and refusing to let you let go. she holds your hips down when you squirm, hushes you when you sob, kisses you so sweetly, and still won’t let you fall apart.

“tell me your safeword,” she murmurs, hands smoothing over your stomach with one hand, the other still buried deep inside of your cunt, fingers still at work. “just so i know you still remember.”

you nod through tears, eyes blurry and unfocused, “blueberry.”

she kisses your thighs, “good girl.”

then, she starts all over again. not completely— just enough to work you back up, her mouth replacing her thumb on your clit, and you feel like you’re seeing stars. 

you bury your face in a pillow, the need for stability gnawing at you. you can’t hold on, so you smush your face into the silky case, still wrecked. “please, cait…honey, i-i want to cum. i need to. i’ve been so…so good— and it hurts. please, cait!” 

caitlyn pulls away from your pussy and hums, thinking it over a few times, and then she grins.

“on my fingers or my tongue?”

you blink, gasping, surprised that she was even going to let you finish off. “wh-what?”

“you get one,” she tells you, “and you better cum hard, because i’m not letting you get another one.”

it doesn’t take much thought to answer her question. you choose her tongue, which she favors, and it’s inside you in seconds.

and when you cum— finally, completely, crying into the sheets— you scream her name like it’s the only thing that’ll save you. your whole body locks, and she talks you through it the entire time.

“yeah, that’s it, darling— cum for me.”

“such a pretty girl.”

“i know, i know, but you’re a big girl. you can take it.”

you don’t remember how long it takes for you to catch your breath. you just know that when you do, caitlyn’s right there, smiling. she’s brushing your hair back, her thumb tracing your cheekbone. “still breathing?”

you nod. barely.

“good,” she says, kissing you slowly, sweetly. “i love you.” she reminds you. 

you’re still laid out beneath her, body flushed and soft from the first round, when your free hands reach up to touch her again. your fingers trail up her clothed thigh, light and wanting, but she catches your wrist— not roughly. just firm.

you pause, eyes flicking up, “you don’t want me to touch you?”

caitlyn hesitates. she doesn’t pull you away, not exactly, but her grip lingers for a second, her thumb rubbing absent circles into your skin.

“i do,” she affirms softly, “i do, it’s just… i want to treat you tonight.”

you blink, a little breathless, “treat me?”

caitlyn exhales, and it’s a little shaky. her cheeks are flushed, and you can tell she’s nervous from something she hasn’t said yet, something she’s clearly been holding back.

“it’s stupid,” she murmurs, half-smiling like she’s already bracing to be teased, “i’ve just… i like being the one in charge. with you. i like taking care of you. and…” she trails off, lips parting like she’s not sure if she should finish.

“caitlyn,” you call out her her, and she hums. “baby, you can tell me. this is for both of us, and if you want something, i want you to let me know.” 

“okay,” she whispers slowly, more to brace herself than to respond to your statement. her eyes cast downward like she’s suddenly shy, and you blink up at her, surprised. “i’ve been thinking about something, a word— something i want you to say. but only if you’re comfortable.”

you nod, a little nervous now, but curious, “kiramman, spit it out.” 

you can tell she wants to, but she’s reluctant. she shakes her head and pulls you into her by your hips and kisses you, her fingers dancing against your nude hips, and you forget all about it. not wanting to push her. she throws your leg over hers, her hands roaming all over. she moans into you, “i want to touch you again.” 

you feel like your skin is ignited. you’re wanting more than you can handle, your sensitivity still heightened, but you don’t care. you let caitlyn flip you underneath her, let her place sloppy kisses all over your body, let her tongue graze your clit until your legs shake. 

she finds herself under you once again, her tongue drawing sloppy figure 8’s on your clit, then down to your pussy. you’re so sensitive that you’re already getting close, and caitlyn can tell— she always does. 

when you whimper out, she shushes you, “stop that, darling, let mommy make you feel good. it’s okay, i know— i’m not going anywhere.”

you stop. “caitlyn?”

she stops, and looks up at you. “yes?” 

“what did you just say?” 

she draws a slow breath in, “w-what do you mean?”

“let who make me feel good?”

there’s a pause, and you raise an eyebrow at her, smiling. she looks away for a second and almost laughs— and you know she’s embarrassed, which makes your heart squeeze. 

caitlyn sighs, “you’ve never called me anything like that before. but sometimes, when you let go like that… when you let me take care of you…” she swallows. “i think about you calling me…you know—“

“mommy?”

“right.” she agrees, looking anywhere but in your eyes. 

you stare at her for a long moment, heart skipping. caitlyn, flushed and trying so hard to stay composed, still has her hand pressed to your thigh. she's avoiding your eyes, which is rare. but you know her now— know her well enough to see the part of her that tries to hide when she's so vulnerable.

"you could've just said that," you murmur, voice breathy, warm. "you know i'd do anything for you."

her gaze finally meets yours, and something in it softens. she’s still shy, but she’s loosened up. "it's not just about the name, it's... what it means when you say it."

"and what does it mean?" 

caitlyn takes a breath, then crawls back up over you slowly, her body sliding over yours. her hand wraps gently around your throat— not squeezing, just holding— and the shift is immediate. she's in control again, and she knows it, basking in it. 

"it means you're mine," she whispers with a smile, “and i take care of what's mine. always.” 

you whimper at that, at the return of her weight. she watches you unravel beneath her again, and it must be all the permission she needs, because the next second, she's kissing you— rougher this time, messily, like this is the last time. 

quickly, her hands are between your legs again before you can say anything else, parting you with the same unrelenting precision she always has. she fingers you like she knows you inside and out, because she does. she’s so deep that it almost hurts, but the pleasure’s greater than the pain, and you moan out at that.

“cait, please—“ your sentence dies on your tongue, and just when you start to squirm, chasing the edge, she pulls back. 

“ask nicely.” she orders you, and without thinking, you plead, your head dropping into her shoulder. 

“please— m-mommy, please let me cum—“

the groan she lets out is deep, guttural, like you've just unhinged something in her. she doesn't waste another second— her fingers press inside you, slow but firm, and her mouth is back on your throat, your chest, anywhere she can reach. her other hand holds you down when your hips buck, and when you whimper again, she shushes you gently.

"just relax. mommy's gonna take care of everything."

and she does.

she builds you up so slowly you feel like you're losing your mind, touching you just how you like— soft but commanding, her pace teasing yet cruel. you squirm, and she tightens her grip on your hip.

you feel the coil in your stomach pulse, and you cry out, back lifting off of the covers, but caitlyn doesn’t stop. she just kisses your shoulder, “cum for mommy, baby.”

you feel everything in you snap open, your body shaking in periodic spurts, your back falling back into the sweaty covers beneath you. caitlyn helps you ride out your high and you swear you’ve died and came back to life. 

you both sigh and fall into the sheets, looking at each other before giggling silently. caitlyn cups your cheek, “was that…okay?”

“yeah,” you nod and kiss her plump lips, “more than okay.” 

₊⊹ taglist: @drunkinyourbenz

[merlucide]

Kira’s yapping about chpt 2:

His eyebrows knit together when he saw you, and it was such a sweet, dear expression that you were taken aback, for you had in truth believed him incapable of anything but that dark, glowering scowl which he maintained as if it were the sole representation of the few shreds of self-regard he had left to his name.

“You’re back,” he said carefully.

<- GIGGLINGNGNGNGNNGNFG WHEHE hes realizing that he want me bad trust okay

‘He spoke daringly, slyly, as if he were attempting to nudge you into honesty, and you imagined that if you were somewhere else, in a place where the sun shone and the tides eddied about your feet, you would’ve found his manner a temptation. Yet you were here, in this dark cellar, and so all you could muster was a kind of mournful heartache at the impossibility of it all.’ <- oh man that’s gooooooood 😭

‘Was he like this with the others, too? The many men who came to gouge at him with their glares and their abuse, did he strike them with his whip-sharp tongue? Or was it that you were the only one — the only one who deserved it, or the only one who took it with your tail tucked and your head bowed?’ <- maaaaaaaan…. oml….. I can’t this y/n is oml…. Another example of peak writing istg

‘ when my mother was taken to a cove where the seaweed held her hands and the monk-seals played as her midwives. You know, the whales sang when I was finally born, a clear-eyed slip of a child cradled in my father’s arms.” <- this was actually how I was born btw so, yeah

‘folding the blanket with a neat precision, matching the corners with mathematical accuracy. You watched him in bewilderment, the exactness and nigh-domesticity all but jarring’ <- omg that’s is so cute 😭 like just imanging a dirty Mydei sitting on the floor folding a blanket is so cute n funny oh 😭

‘“You said that the people of your home are known for their yellow-bellied cowardice,” That’s right,” you said. “Why do you mention it?”

“Where are you from? I haven’t heard of a place so opposite to Kremnos. It’s unfathomable’ <- CACKLING LMAOOO

“It was about time he found a wife, anyways. Heirs are not born overnight; as of right now, all he has in the way of succession is me, but of course that’s not sustainable, is it? He needed a wife to beget a son most of all; everything else you have brought us is a perquisite.” <- mothertrucker oh my GOOOOSh 😐 MM. MMMMM. stfu

Oh my gosh the WHOLE elephant scene was incredible oh my gosh. Readers internal dialogue was SO GOOD. Her desperation OML. And she did it and Verax ajdndjeje and oh my gosh the whole this was incredible oh my gosh it felt so cinematic

You may use me for your own measures,” he said. “You will meet your end if you do not, and then what? So let us make this one attempt. Lay your head in my lap if you cannot accept the floor, and, even if it is fleeting and fraught, come to sleep.” <- my face rn 😮

THE WHOLLEEEEE LAST SCENE OH MY GOSH ‘THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT’ BY FRANK SINTRA WAS PLAYING AT THE MAIN PART WHEN READER WAS SOBBING AND HE HELD HER AUGH IT WAS ARUGHHH

Omg this was sooo good man

I had been needing to finish reading liek the whole month AUGH😭🙏

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 17.0k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: okay so two things a) sorry for the wait (i thought i would get this out quicker but then my professors decided to kin reader's husband and trapped me with a multitude of exams...) and b) i am. truly shocked by how many people ended up reading/enjoying part one?? like it's crazy to me SLKJFH i hope you guys don't hate where i go with this 😭 and like ik i gave a ton of ooc warnings in the main warning section but they bear repeating LOL so. PLEASE DON'T HATE ME IF BRO IS OOC IDEK HIM LIKE THAT 😓💔

The Southern Sea was unsettled again, thrashing against the shore like a bird tangled in netting, beating itself into such a frenzy that the waves broke silver on the sand. This was atypical of the cerulean waters, and you crouched, fragments of seashells digging into your bare heels as you ran your fingers through the tide. Expecting your father to reprimand you for putting yourself in unnecessary danger, you glanced up, but his mind was clearly preoccupied, as distant as his soft gaze.

“Father,” you said, standing and taking a step back, clutching his arm to steady yourself against the wind. “The sea is strange as of late, isn’t it?”

“They say it knows more than we do,” he said, staring at the horizon, where ships gathered like thunderheads. “Perhaps this is its way of protecting us.”

“I thought the empire was friendly,” you said, narrowing your eyes at the crest painted on the coming boats. “Do we not have some understanding with them?”

“I wonder,” he said. “My darling…you know, sometimes, I wonder.”

 You lay in your bed, a sheen of sweat glistening on your skin as you stared at the ceiling. The blankets covering you were suddenly overwarm, though you could not bear to cast them aside, and your eyes welled with scalding tears that threatened to spill out of their corners. Swallowing and turning over, you used the edges of your pillow to blot at them before they could fall, burrowing further and further into the confines of the tangled furs which padded your bedding. 

Your vision often swam nowadays, for you were dizzy with exhaustion, but you could not bring yourself to sleep, not when your mind had taken up this new form of torment for you. As if it were not enough that you were imprisoned here in your waking hours, as well! Over and over, it would replay that same scene, everything clearer in recall than it had been when it had actually occurred, the colors brighter, the details sharper, stabbing into you with their cruel poignance. 

There were some things, however, which were blurred, the image fading at the edges with time, and this was worse than the remembering, because these were the only things you wished to recall, and this thieving empire would not even let you have that. Even your memories were not safe from their pillaging and their curses, and so their crest was burned into your mind while the rest of it slipped away like river-water through reeds.

You had known as soon as you had awoken that you would not be able to fall asleep again, but that did not stop you from yet another futile attempt. Your lower lip trembled as you waited, fisting your sheets and holding them to your heart as you tried in vain to ease its panicked thumping, which kept time with the furious crash of waves on a far-off shore.

You wanted your home. You wanted to sleep. You wanted your father. You wanted the sea. You wanted to go back. You wanted to have never left in the first place. You wanted, wanted, wanted, but only that which you could never get. Your husband, who was so wealthy in so many ways, who had given you the prince of Kremnos himself, wrapped in chains and delivered at your feet, would never grant you those few wishes which you truly desired, had neither the fancy nor the ability to do so.

Taking one of the lighter blankets and swaddling it around yourself like a shroud, you slid from your bed and fumbled around in the dark for a lantern, which you lit with the embers of the kept hearth. Holding it close to yourself, for luminance and for warmth, you tiptoed through the hallways, your previous flush fading in favor of shivers, which ran up and down your spine the farther you got from your chambers.

There was some invisible force which tethered you to the prince. Certainly there must’ve been, for you could not fathom any other reason why your feet were tracing that familiar path down to the cellar, the blanket still tossed over your shoulders, your stomach wringing itself out from the weight — both of the palace above you and the prince before you.

You thought he might be asleep when you came, but he was as he typically was, as much of a statue as the one you had stood across from on your wedding day. His eyebrows knit together when he saw you, and it was such a sweet, dear expression that you were taken aback, for you had in truth believed him incapable of anything but that dark, glowering scowl which he maintained as if it were the sole representation of the few shreds of self-regard he had left to his name.

“You’re back,” he said carefully. You set the lantern down in between the two of you and, as he always did, he crept closer to its meager incandescence. You pretended not to notice, affording him the grace of ignorance to his innate instinct, and then you nodded.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything. It’s still late at night.”

“I thought as much,” he said, nodding at your empty hands. “Time is different here, but even then, I think that I know the difference between a few hours and an entire day. Has there been some development, then? Is your rotten husband finally freeing me?”

“No,” you said, and though he disguised it with a blank frown, you noticed how his face fell. “I don’t have news in any way, for better or worse. Sometimes, I think my  husband is entirely determined to forget that you exist at all.”

“If I were to guess, he means to deprive me to death,” Mydeimos said dispassionately, as if he were talking about someone else, a distantly historical figure whose fate had no bearing on his own. “Should I face a proper execution, I will haunt him from beyond the grave as a banner for Kremnos to rally behind. As it is, he must be hoping that I will fade quietly from the annals of history — the last in another line of princes subsumed by his empire.”

You folded your arms over your chest, a shield against his blunt line of thought. “He is prone to it, I suppose.”

“Is he?” Mydeimos said, like you both were sharing some private joke. He spoke daringly, slyly, as if he were attempting to nudge you into honesty, and you imagined that if you were somewhere else, in a place where the sun shone and the tides eddied about your feet, you would’ve found his manner a temptation. Yet you were here, in this dark cellar, and so all you could muster was a kind of mournful heartache at the impossibility of it all.

“I am sure it is what he intends for the kingdom from whence I hail. Though neither death nor deprivation are required there; the princes are still young, and so if it comes to it, they will…” you trailed off, overcome, before you steeled yourself to continue once more, though a bitter resentment crept into your tone like poison when you did so. “Anyways, the eldest child of the kingdom is a daughter, and she is a spoiled, brattish thing who cares for little but her jewels and her dresses. She will pose no trouble to such an empire as my husband’s.”

“I see,” he said. 

“Ah, but regardless,” you said. “It matters little. I shan’t allow him to kill you in such a way.”

“And your word, of course, is law,” he said, and you wondered at his constitution, which allowed him to scorn you even when he was, in a sense, nothing more than a corpse, a vessel bound for funeral and finality. Was he like this with the others, too? The many men who came to gouge at him with their glares and their abuse, did he strike them with his whip-sharp tongue? Or was it that you were the only one — the only one who deserved it, or the only one who took it with your tail tucked and your head bowed?

“Do you ever sleep?” you said, for if it was the case and you were the sole person he dared to rail against, then how could you take it from him? When it had been taken from you, how could you turn around and do the same to another? “You are always awake when I come to see you.”

He stared at you incredulously, as if you were quite mad. You waited, thinking that he must be choosing his words carefully, but when he finally did speak, it was with a breathy laugh, like he could not quite believe that he had to say it aloud.

“Do I ever sleep?” he parroted. “If I sleep, dear lady, I am certain that I will never wake again. How many men would happen upon me and not dare to slit my throat in such a state, when they can be assured that I will not be able to retaliate? Do I ever sleep, indeed!”

You wished you could tell him that it was the same for you — different, because that which spelled your end came to you only in your dreams, and so you were chased from repose as surely as he ran from it, but the same nonetheless. The bruises carved into the hollows of his cheeks and painted under his dark lash-line were identically replicated on your face, although you were better about hiding it, staining your skin with all manners of concoctions so that your husband did not question what ailed you.

“It will kill you regardless, won’t it?” you said, furrowing your brow. He shrugged, and despite the atrophy of his mind and body alike, it was a powerful gesture, all the more intimidating for its halfheartedness.

“Who will weep if it does?” he said.

“Every manner of thing in this place is meant to kill you, in fact,” you continued. “It is as you said, then: they mean for you to meet death by deprivation, to suffer until your very end. You cannot sleep, nor can you eat…but as I have brought you food, so, too, shall I bring you rest.”

“And how do you imagine you’ll do that?” he said.

“I will stay here,” you said, the strength of your conviction shocking yourself. You hadn’t known until you had said it that you would, but as it left your mouth, you became utterly sure that it was the right decision. “I will watch over you, prince of Kremnos, and should — should someone else come, then I will wake you before I flee, so that you may defend yourself.”

“Why would you do that?” he said. “What good does it do for you to protect me when my end is decided?”

He said it with curiosity, not deprecation, although there was an edge of despairing anger to it. Why? Why do you extend your hand to a doomed man? If I must die, then let me die now instead of later. If he were more honest, then perhaps he would’ve said something like that, but instead he only gazed at you levelly and waited for your response.

“If we both are to meet our deaths in this palace, then let at least one of us meet that demise with a head held high,” you said.

For a moment, it seemed like he might question you. You prepared rebuttals that you could never make but which would swish around in your mind like an impenetrable defense — a death of the body is not the only way to die, after all — but then, miraculously, he only hummed

“You think that it must be me?” he said.

“The Kremnoans are known for their pride, aren’t they? It isn’t the same for my people, who roll over and show their stomachs at the slightest incitement,” you said, taking the blanket off of your shoulders and holding it out to him. “I have made my vows already. What can I do but accept this fate? Yet it needn’t be the same for you.”

He peered at you with eyes that saw far more than they should, far more than you had allowed him or anyone else to, and then he nodded. Shortly, curtly, but he did it, taking the blanket and unfurling it like a war-banner in the meantime.

“I understand,” he said.

“Do you?” you said, for you could not tell what, exactly, it was that he understood. He did not elaborate, however, tucking himself away in the corner, draping the blanket over himself like a mantle and resting his head on his arms. Although he did not close his eyes, watching you even still, you could see them fluttering against his will, and you knew it would not be long before he succumbed, whether he wanted to or not. There was only so long he could survive without sleep for, after all — at the end of the day, he was still a man, and thus prone to humanity’s shortcomings.

“Turn around,” he said gruffly. “Watch the stairs, not me. I will not be the one to bring you harm.”

You apologized, sitting with your legs crossed and your back to him, watching the shadows cast by the lantern as they flickered and danced, waltzing about to the soundtrack of his breaths, which slowly evened into a soft rhythm of inhales and exhales as the time dragged on.

Minutes or seconds or hours passed, you could not be sure, but when your legs grew numb from inactivity, you shifted so that you were hugging your knees to your chest, muffling your face in the fabric of your nightgown.

“Are you asleep?” you whispered.

He did not respond, and when you glanced over your shoulder, you saw that his eyes were closed, his face smooth with innocence as his chest rose and fell under the thin blanket. It was as if he were another person entirely, a more forgiving person, a kinder one, the sort of gentle prince that stories were written about instead of the violent beast who killed as many men as were thrown at him.

“That’s good, then,” you said, a weight on your tongue dissipating now that you were, in effect, alone. “Huh? I didn’t realize…”

Even your vows could not police your thoughts, or, if they could, they had not yet attempted to. Your stream of consciousness was still unfettered, and now that Mydeimos was asleep, you could say what you pleased, could tell him everything you wanted without fear of reproach. It nearly brought you to tears, the mere thought of it, and you had to take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“I understand you more than you think,” you admitted. “You know, just as they’ve taken the sun from you, they’ve taken something precious from me as well. I speak of the sea — oh, but I never told you that, right? Nobody here knows, or at least they pretend that they don’t, but it’s true that I am from the shores of the Southern Sea, where the sky is always clear and the people are as beautiful as the tides.”

You half-expected him to startle awake and snap at you, or for your voice to suddenly die away in protest at your rebellion, but when neither of these things happened, you slumped down in relief.

“It’s often said that the Southern Sea is beyond compare, the closest to paradise that can be found on the living earth. Perhaps I’m biased in agreeing, but I really think it’s the case. I love it, I love it as much as you love the sun — and how you miss the sun, so, too, do I miss the sea. Daily anew I ask myself how it is that I am still alive when I have been so far from it for so long, but somehow I persist, though there are times…ah, but I digress. It isn’t your concern,” you said.

If he were awake, he would’ve jeered at you. How dare you, who were the empress of this entire place, speak of struggle? When he was locked away like this and you were left to your own devices, how dare you pretend as though you understood him? You were suddenly grateful that he could not hear you, or else whatever opinion he had of you would be irrevocably lowered.

“You would find it strange and inexplicable, as Kremnos is entirely inland, but for me, the sea is parent and friend and confidante alike,” you said. “You see, I was my mother’s first child, and so my birth was rife with difficulties. For two days and two nights she labored, until a wisewoman recommended she be taken to the Southern Sea.

“Of course, my father was frightened, for who would trust a wife and a babe to the treachery of the currents? But it’s an odd thing…the waters have never been calmer than they were that day, when my mother was taken to a cove where the seaweed held her hands and the monk-seals played as her midwives. You know, the whales sang when I was finally born, a clear-eyed slip of a child cradled in my father’s arms.”

The mention of your father made you pause, for you had not said that word in so long that it was all but foreign. Father. Your father, your father, you would tell the sleeping Mydeimos all about your father if you had the time and the energy for it. But where would you start, and where would you end? 

“I miss the Southern Sea in the way a bride must miss her mother,” you said. “My actual mother never had much time for me, far too preoccupied with the rearing of the younger ones, and so I was left to the waters and my father, both who cared for me with great consideration, and both who I — who I miss most ardently.”

Your chest felt near to caving in, and you tightened your grip around your knees, as if by holding onto yourself, you could prevent the further spread of the burrowing sensation emanating from your heart, which would dig and dig until there was nothing left of you but blackened, gangrenous innards that rattled around in an empty carapace. 

Mydeimos awoke some time later, though you only knew because he cleared his throat, prompting you to turn and find that he was crouched on the ground, folding the blanket with a neat precision, matching the corners with mathematical accuracy. You watched him in bewilderment, the exactness and nigh-domesticity all but jarring, and in turn he ignored you, fascinating himself with the work so that he could avoid your gaze.

“You stayed,” he said when he could no longer pretend like the blanket required his attention. Dropping it in your lap, he looked down at you with arms crossed, a silent and clear refusal to offer you his hand in the way of a nobleman. You did not insist, taking the blanket and scrambling to your feet on your own.

“Yes, I told you that I would,” you said. “Did you sleep well?”

“‘Well’ is a stretch,” he said. You averted your eyes, lips tugging into an involuntary frown, and he sighed. “But at least I slept. For that, I am…grateful.”

“I didn’t really do anything,” you said, in an attempt to disguise the disproportionate pleasure the simple acknowledgment brought you. “But since you found it to be of some help, I will come back tomorrow.”

“If that is what you will,” he said, albeit lacking his typical sardonic bite. “By the way, you referenced your home.”

“I did?” you said, trying to think back to what you had said before he had fallen asleep. It felt as though you had lived very many lifetimes since then, and everything jumbled together in your mind, so you only blinked at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

“You said that the people of your home are known for their yellow-bellied cowardice,” he reminded you, and dimly you recalled saying such a thing, though you hadn’t expected him to latch onto such a random, stray line. 

“That’s right,” you said. “Why do you mention it?”

“Where are you from? I haven’t heard of a place so opposite to Kremnos. It’s unfathomable, the thought of somewhere with people who do not burn for the glory of their egos and esteems. What — what is it like?” he said, attempting to sound entirely unaffected but incapable of camouflaging the sheen of curiosity glazing over his irises, childish inquisition melding with a more mature, scholarly interest. 

“It is an ordinary and unremarkable place,” you said, pursing your lips and turning away from him again, your blanket over your back in the way of a shield, a barrier in between yourself and the kindly prying that you might’ve called uncharacteristic of the prince, if you were someone could claim to know anything about him and his character. “That’s all I can say.”

You lingered for a moment longer, thinking — or perhaps just hoping — that he would say something, that he would poke and poke at your dull, wounded answer, that somewhere deep in his beastly heart, he would understand what you really meant. But he only exhaled, bidding you farewell with the same inflamed terseness that he typically infused into his every word, and the moment was lost.

In the daytime, your husband’s voice had this quality of cheerfulness that, at least to you, seemed specifically designed to grate at your nerves. This was an especial cruelty, as the mornings were the worst for you, worn from the toils of the night as you were, but your husband remained blissful in his unawareness and so continued to chatter on without heed. 

You sat curled into your chair, the sun bright in your vision and his voice bright in your ears and everything all so bright, bright, bright. You considered gouging your nails into your eye sockets for the slightest bit of alleviation, or maybe scratching your fingers into your ears deep enough to bleed and drown out the speech he was giving about his plans for securing the Kremnoan border.

“...they have been severely weakened without Mydeimos, of course, but naturally that doesn’t mean they are entirely defeated; stubborn bastards, those Kremnoans, never know when to quit—”

“My lord, have you decided what you will do about him?” you said, your voice dragging on the vowels as you muffled a yawn. “The prince, I mean. Mydeimos.”

The name dallied on your tongue, sweet as the fruit you chewed on, syrupy like the juice of it on your lips. Your husband raised a brow at you, and you cursed him in your mind, cursed him for being so oblivious to so many things but this familiarity, this delicacy, this one thing you had left to savor.

“How flattered he would be, to know that you are so concerned for him!” he said. “I doubt he has ever had such a beautiful woman fawning over him so devotedly. I am sure his face would be as red as those crude markings of his if he heard of it.”

“Don’t be a boor,” his cousin interjected, the quiet control of his voice a welcome reprieve from the variances in your husband’s tone. “She’s only wondering, right, lady? He is her prisoner, after all. Why should she not ask?”

“Her prisoner,” your husband said, with a particular and unprecedented emphasis on the possessive nature of the word. “Yes, he is, at that. Fear not, dear lady; as I have said before, and so I will say again, I shall execute him when the time comes, but that time is not yet. Believe me, you will be the first to be told when it comes to it.”

“Very well,” you said, for there was no merit in further discussion of the topic. You understood when to back off as well as anything, and anyways, as you had told the prince, the people of the Southern Sea weren’t the confrontational sort. You were the worst of them, once, a barbarous lionfish in a sea of picarels, but now, by virtue of your vows, you were just like the rest, as pliant as a clamped oyster buried in the sand.

“Anyways, brother,” your husband’s cousin said when there was an awkward lull in the one-sided conversation, which was really more of a monologue on your husband’s part than anything but was still uncomfortable in its absence, “I was thinking.”

“Were you, now? And was it incredibly difficult?” your husband said. His cousin, who was one of the great military minds of the empire, smiled politely, well-used to the jabs that your husband doled out with a fraternal frequency. 

“On the contrary, your lady eases my mind. There is no difficulty when she is the one my thoughts tarry upon,” he said coolly, just serious enough that he was almost definitely in jest. “I thought she might find some amusement in visiting the elephants from Kremnos; they do not have those where she is from, I am sure, and seeing such rarities might be of some benefit to her health. Certainly the air will be.”

“You speak with wisdom…but I do not have the time to supervise such an excursion,” your husband said. “I have war-councils to attend, and an empire to manage besides.”

“Isn’t that what I was born for?” his cousin said. “I am your second, brother, and at your disposal entirely. If you cannot accompany her, then I will surely do it in your stead.”

Your husband’s eyes narrowed, so imperceptibly that it could easily be dismissed as a trick of the light or a defense against the sun. You ran your tongue along the back of the teeth as you waited for his response, a natural symptom of fretting that you could not help, but it came to nothing, as he only reclined back in his chair with an imperious nod.

“Who else can I rely on but you, hm? Thank you, then,” he said. “Dear lady, I hope you are not opposed.”

He phrased it as a question but meant it as a command; you were not so stupid as to think otherwise. Anyways, it might not be so horrible, so you only hummed in agreement and pretended like the berries in your mouth were the reason you did not say anything aloud.

The path to the stables where the elephants were kept was made of packed dirt, looping through the gardens in a meandering route far from the palace and any onlookers. For a while neither you nor your husband’s cousin spoke — he was lost in thought, and you busied yourself with admiring the scenery you had thus far only seen through the windows of your room. It was not the Southern Sea, could not be further from it, but there was a pastoral, picturesque charm to the blooming bushes regardless. Honeysuckle climbed over wrought-iron trellises, the slender vines curling in between the twisting leaf motifs of the metal, and the blush-white flowers perfumed the air with a melancholic sweetness.

How lovely you would’ve found it, if it did not all belong to you. If you were a visiting dignitary, a guest of the empire’s…if you walked alongside your husband’s cousin as a companion or friend instead of a sister-in-law…how lovely it might’ve all been. 

The sun beat down on your back nearly to the point of discomfort, but instead of complaints, all that came to your mind was Mydeimos, who you thought might’ve luxuriated in these things that you were irked by. So you bore it in his stead, the suffering, the burning, drinking it in with zeal, imprinting the sensation into your skin instead of shrinking away from it, a punishment to yourself as much as a favor to the prince that might never again wear the crown of day upon his handsome brow.

“I remember that first letter my brother’s advisor wrote to us about you,” your husband’s cousin said, ripping you from your reverie. There was a hint of shrewdness to his voice, one that you had never heard from him before, and it made you instantly wary, though he had never given you reason to doubt him before.

“Pardon?” you said.

“It was all such a surprise,” he said, though of course it had not been anything of the sort. “To think that you were to marry him. What a solution to the problem at hand.”

“Yes,” you said, picking at the frayed skin of your cuticles absentmindedly, ripping at them until they stung. “And here I am, having done just that.”

“Indeed,” he said. “It was about time he found a wife, anyways. Heirs are not born overnight; as of right now, all he has in the way of succession is me, but of course that’s not sustainable, is it? He needed a wife to beget a son most of all; everything else you have brought us is a perquisite.”

“Yet it was those very perquisites that made it all so much easier, I am certain,” you said.

“Who would not marry for as many advantages as they can come by?” he said. “You cannot blame us for that.”

“Perhaps,” you said noncommittally before shifting so that your shoulders did not face him. “But these are old things, which have long since happened. The elephants. Tell me about them.”

He wasn’t the last person you wished to discuss your past with, but if there were a list, then he was definitely near the bottom. It was conflicting in a way, nonsensical, almost, but you were sure that even if you could talk about it, you would not, for as much as you longed to, you also could not stand the notion. There was a sort of fortitude in your isolation, in your knowledge that in this place, the Southern Sea belonged solely to you. Not your husband nor his cousin nor their armies and their advisors; you, you, you and only you. So even if you had the means to speak of it with a loose tongue and ready words, you would not —  you would guard it instead, guard it and its people, keep them close to your chest, folded into your swooping collarbones where the empire could not cast its filthy gaze upon them. 

“There are three,” he began, holding up three fingers for emphasis. “The cows, Dromas and Lucabos, who were used only for the transport of goods and have taken well to their new keepers.”

You had reached the elephants’ temporary stabling by this point, and he pointed at the twin elephants in turn. Their tusks were short and blunted, and their trunks waved in the air as they reached for feed from their troughs; keepers milled around their feet, but neither Dromas nor Lucabos paid them any mind. There was an enduring temperateness to the depths of their dark gazes, and even to you, who knew nothing of elephants, it was obvious that these were not creatures of war but benevolent pack-animals in the way of your homeland’s donkeys.

Separated from the cows, the third elephant stood alone, sullen and unmoving. If the keepers dared to so much as look at him, he would rumble out a feral challenge, and unlike Dromas and Lucabos, he was tethered to the ground by ropes braided around his legs and torso. Faded red paint swirled on his forehead, a universal symbol of protection which was flaking off but had not yet turned illegible, and there was a mean slant to his eyes, his ivory tusks honed into swordpoints that he brandished before him.

“Verax,” your husband’s cousin said when he noticed that your stare had not budged from the savage bull. “The war-elephant of the prince himself. After we captured Mydeimos, he fell to his knees from grief and was easily corralled, despite his inordinate strength in battle. A loyal creature, to be sure, albeit a foolish one — you’d think he’d have ceased his struggling by now, when it so clearly will come to nothing! But still he fights, though I know not what he hopes to achieve. Even if he does somehow free himself…he must know that the one he loves has gone to a place he can never reach.”

“Perhaps he seek comfort in refusal,” you said. “There is courage and heart to be found in intransigence, after all.”

“Would you know very much about that?” he said, leaning with his back to the fence surrounding Verax, who stared at you with barely-concealed hatred, the expression so utterly human it made you shiver. 

“Should we stand so close to him?” you said, neatly avoiding the question by posing one of your own, batting your eyelashes in an attempt at naivete. For a second you thought he might not fall for it, that he might be possessed with a keen enough intellect to see through the farce, but if he was, then he did not display it, only waving you off dismissively.

“He may charge at us, but he will trip on his restraints before he reaches,” he said, and then he extended his hand towards Verax, waving his fingers at him teasingly. “See? They’ve taken every precaution; I wouldn’t have been permitted to bring you if they hadn’t. Nothing can happen to my beloved brother’s wife.”

“Let us go,” you said, tugging his arm with far more familiarity than was earned. He raised his eyebrows but did not reprimand you, allowing himself to be pulled along as you set course for the palace proper once more. “This is doing nothing for my health. I don’t wish to stay here any longer.”

“I know that Verax is frightening, but Dromas and Lucabos are as meek as horses,” he reassured you. “You needn’t fear when it comes to them. Don’t you wish to pet them?.”

“No,” you said. “No, I don’t. I am spent, and I think it’d be best if I retire until dinner. Thank you for accompanying me; I appreciate that you thought of me and my wellbeing, even though nothing much came of your attempts.”

“I will keep searching,” he said, a smile playing on his lips, taunting you as he had taunted Verax, waving the feigned gravitas he afforded the situation in your face as boyishly as he had waved his fingers at the elephant. “Until I may find what cures you, I will keep searching.”

“I wish you luck in your endeavors,” you said. “You will need it, I am sure. I do not think this ailment is one which will easily be alleviated.”

“Were you so feeble before you came here?” he said.

“On the contrary, I was healthy and strong,” you said as you passed Dromas and Lucabos’s enclosure again. Neither elephant took note of you, and you found they were easy to ignore, melding into the background like mountains on the horizon. They did not have the same demanding quality of presence as Verax, who commanded one’s attention as surely as his counterpart, Mydeimos, did.

“Perhaps there is some clue to be found there,” he mused. “I will earnestly reflect on it, and if I happen upon some answer, I will surely tell you.”

“Very well,” you said. “Though I—”

Before you could tell him that he would not find much if anything in his reflections, a fact which he most certainly already knew but was pretending to be ignorant to, a commotion broke out. Men’s voices layered over one another while Verax trumpeted and swung his great head about in a panic before lowering it, his ears flat against his neck as he strained against his constraints, his eyes focused on you and your husband’s cousin as he dug his feet, each the size of a chariot-wheel, into the muddy, rutted ground.

“Stay back, lady,” your husband’s cousin said, his arm barring your path forward and his brow knitting together in alarm.

“I thought you said he couldn’t do anything,” you said as the keepers swarmed about Verax, waving bullhooks and bindings at the elephant, who took no head of their warnings, his frenzied stomping causing the ground to shake and his bellows rending through the sky itself. 

“Would you like to find out if that’s the case?” he said. “He’s never been so belligerent before, at least not to my knowledge. I know not what he is capable of, not in such a state, and it seems as though we are his targets at present, so we must make haste and return to the palace at once. Allow the keepers to manage him, for they have been trained in the art and are doubly qualified for it!”

Was this what Mydeimos’s enemies had seen? When he took to the battlefield, had they recognized him as a harbinger of their destruction? For Verax must’ve shaken the earth then, too, the very world itself bowing to the combined might of their arrivals, to the power which was rumored even as far as the Southern Sea.

They say he is more of a god than a man, the prince who sits upon the throne of Kremnos, people would whisper in the streets. All we can do against that strength is pray that he does not turn it towards our shores.

Verax shrieked, and you paused, a terrible thought crossing your mind, unsolicited and unwelcome yet more and more appealing as the seconds mounted. How horrible would it be? You might die quickly, at any rate. One more burst of suffering, as acute as the final glimpse of your home when it vanished over the sunset, and then you would be reunited with the tides, turned to seafoam and silt by the elephant. Whether your end came at his tusks or his tread, wouldn’t it be better this way? 

“Lady?” your husband’s cousin said, and he reached for your hand, but you continued as if you were in a dream, a fog creeping over your mind as you took one step and then another towards the staggering Verax. “Lady, don’t—!”

The pulsing march of your heartbeat resounded in your ears like a wardrum, and as you grew nearer and nearer to the fearsome beast, whose tusks were already stained with crimson at their tips, a fist clamped around your stomach, squeezing and squeezing, yanking on your spine in a desperate attempt to halt your momentum. Fear, that must’ve been its name; you were no battle-hardened general, to be able to face your death without such a steadfast companion. You were only a girl, and you were afraid, but more than afraid you were weary, the kind of weary which seeped into your bones and resigned you to your fate.

“He recognizes scents!” one of the keepers shouted at you. You were aware of it in the way that a drowning man was aware of that which occurred above the surface; thickly, faintly, muddily. “He recognizes scents, lady — if he smells his majesty the emperor on you, he will — you must leave at once, or you will surely die!”

Verax stood with the sun behind him, his sides heaving as he regarded you with an imperious animosity. You stood and waited for his verdict, finding the anticipation to be more excruciating than the action itself but trusting his deliberations, trusting that whatever decision he arrived at would certainly be the right one. They were wise creatures, elephants, even the ones like him who were trained only for war.

He swung his trunk towards you like he meant to knock you down, and you did not flinch away from it, closing your eyes, wringing your hands to stop yourself from shying away, from running to the safety of your husband’s cousin and the elephant keepers. You could not let such a basic impulse impede your freedom, the freedom that you could only win through this agony, this tribulation, this death.

Yet instead of a crushing, bruising impact, he brushed it against you delicately, fondly, a featherlight kiss of a touch. You held your breath, but when nothing else happened, you cracked your eyes open, your brow pinching together as you looked at the elephant.

Verax exhaled out a rumbling whine of a breath, and then he fell to his knees, his trunk winding around you in what you could only describe as an embrace and was surely the tenderest affection you had received since coming to this bleak, cheerless empire. For a moment you did not understand it, and then, as surely as anything, it came to you, and you stroked your hand along his rough grey mouth.

“Does it cling to me even now, the spoor of that cellar, that prince?” you whispered in amazement. “No, you are not mistaken, Verax, it is him. Even now, Mydeimos lives; I swear to you that he does.”

“Lady!” your husband’s cousin said, wrenching you from Verax, his nails carving half-moons into your upper arms. “What foolishness is this? Have you a death wish? What would become of me, if something were to happen to you while you were under my care?” 

“It’s irrelevant, isn’t it? I’m unharmed,” you said.

“A small miracle,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You and my brother were right. It is for the best that you remain in the palace until you are in your right mind. Do forgive me for assuming to know you better than you knew yourself.”

“What will they do to him?” you said as he guided you away, his arm hard, unyielding against your waist. The keepers had set upon Verax, who, in the reverse of his earlier demeanor, only lay there and took it, as if the faintest traces of Mydeimos which he had picked up from you had been enough to soothe him into yielding. 

“To Verax?” he said. “I hardly know. You shouldn’t concern yourself with it; likely he will end up in the same way as his former master.”

“In the way of Mydeimos?” you said. “What do you mean by that?”

“Dead, of course,” he said. “What else?”

You turned for one final glance at Verax. He had nestled into himself, his cheek in the dirt and his legs tucked neatly against his enormous body. His ears fluttered weakly against the clangor of the many rebukes, but this was all the resistance he showed. The fight had left his eyes; they were now glassy and torpid, twin whelk-shells which sparkled at the corners with something that, if you were not more learned, you would call tears. But who had ever heard of an animal that cried? Still, as you left him behind, you could not shake the feeling that, whether from sorrow or jubilation, he was most assuredly weeping.

That night, you did not bother with ceremony or announcement when you returned to the cellar. You collapsed to the ground with a huff and slid the plate over to Mydeimos’s feet. Unlike the first few times you had done such a thing, he did not hesitate to sit across from you, using the silver cutlery you offered him to cut the meat into small pieces that he nibbled on with a daintiness which was almost pretty to watch.

“I saw the elephants today,” you said. He froze mid-chew before increasing his pace, swallowing it down in a gulp and canting forward, his expression feline, intrigued. It pinned you in place, staying your tongue and any retorts that might come to life by the sheer force of it. 

“The elephants? Then Verax—?” he said, so hopefully that all you could do was nod.

“Yes, him. Dromas and Lucabos, too,” you said. 

“Is he…alright?” he said. “Verax, I mean, though of course I worry for the others, too. But Verax is special.”

“Because he is yours?” you said. “You rode him into battle, did you not?”

He cocked his head at you, and for a long time he was silent, measuring the length and breadth of your mettle with his sweeping scrutiny. You did not move, afraid of what would happen if you failed this test, although he had proven so many times over that he had no intentions of harming you — just as you could not brave Verax without that old friend, however, so, too, could you not brave the searching, seeking Mydeimos.

“It is not customary for princes in Kremnos to ride elephants,” he said finally, evidently judging you worthy, though you knew not what you had done to deserve such a designation. He continued to eat in between sentences, every phrase constructed with a painstaking accuracy that he mulled over as he chewed. “We have cavalrymen for that. An elephant is a grand mount, but for a nation that thrives on bloodshed and conflict, such grandness is an extravagance that is frowned upon for those of us who are meant to be the ideal of that very turmoil.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it is that sort of place, then. I see.”

“Verax’s mother died as he was born,” he said. “So he was meant to be culled, for there wasn’t a soul in Castrum Kremnos, our fair capital, that had the time or the temperament for such an involved undertaking as raising him from infancy.”

“Culled!” you said, your hands flying to your mouth in surprise. “Such a small, darling creature, having just lost its mother, and they could only think to cull it?”

“They are without mercy,” he said, and unexpectedly he did not chide you for interrupting him as you thought he might’ve. In fact, he seemed to welcome it, your interest spurring him to continue instead of faltering into surliness as he often did. “Only those with the wherewithal to grasp at survival with both hands are deserving of this life, or so it is said; oh, don’t make such an expression, of course I don’t believe in the school of thought myself. Who do you think raised Verax? To my father’s eternal dismay, it was me.”

“You raised Verax?” you said, trying to envision it and finding you were unable. Was he capable of such parental warmth, this menacing, hulking figure sitting across from you? Had he handled the young calf with the hands of a warrior, coarse and unsympathetic, or had he managed to palliate them, so that they might resemble the compassion of the mother that the elephant had lost? Was that the extent of the love Verax knew, and was that why he mourned the prince so deeply, so consumingly? 

“Every night for a year, I slept in his stable,” he said, his eyes faraway, a small smile hovering at his lips — not entirely there, his frown still resolute in its position, but threatening to manifest at some point in the future. “He would follow me around in the daytime, a toddling, awkward mess of limbs that attended my lessons and watched my sparring matches with a sagacity that even most men can never hope to attain in their lifetimes. We were young together, Verax and I, and when the both of us ventured forth to the battlefields beyond Kremnos, we became men together, too. He is my child and my brother alike; thus, he is my particular concern. Tell me anything. Do they treat him well? Is he agreeable in his new situation? He is difficult, I have always scolded him for it — well, he is an elephant at the end of the day, so there is only so much he can understand, but I like to think he knows what I am saying more often than he doesn’t. They aren’t riding him, are they? His back is sensitive, in truth; I would not take to it for more than a few minutes at a time even if I were a simple cavalryman, for despite his size and strength, he does not have the necessary muscular development to carry a man for much longer than that. I could not bear to train him, you see, as I always found the methods of breaking too harsh to inflict on another in good conscience.”

“He…” You bit your lower lip. Would it be better to give him the truth, or would it be worse? How could you tell him that death, too, he would meet with Verax at his side? Yet how could you lie and say that he was alright? Because that false hope also seemed like a cruelty. When he had bared himself to you in this small way, when he had drawn back just one corner of his past in exchange for nothing of your own, how could you repay him with blithe misdirection? “I think that he longs for you.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Then he is as he always is. Thank you, dear lady. I am relieved to hear it.”

This time, you had brought him a better blanket, the heaviest you owned that was not overly unwieldy as you dragged it down the stairs behind you. It was large and quilted, scenes from a hunt embroidered into it, the vibrant threads dipped in woad and madder, a pack of hounds chasing after a saffron-stained lion as he lay down and pulled the swath of dark wool over his shoulders. Tonight he did not stall or argue, only giving you a halfhearted reminder that you had sworn to be vigilant before rolling over without waiting for your response.

“You sleep so quickly,” you said. “I am almost envious, though of course for me to say I envy you in any sense is…in poor taste, as the case may be.”

He had left a little bit of food untouched, as tidily cut as what he had eaten but portioned and kept away from the rest. You didn’t want to be presumptuous, but skipping dinner every night was taking its toll, and so the pangs of your stomach insisted that he had left it for you, that he pitied or sympathized with you and so had given you this unsaid gift. You had no reason to think that he would do such a thing, of course, but eventually you could not deny yourself any longer, not when it was so tantalizing, so fetchingly plated.

“I wonder if I will ever understand you,” you said, chewing on the cold, pearly rice, rolling the white grains around on your tongue and squinting at his motionless form. “How many strange habits you have. What would the people of this empire say, if they knew that the prince of terrors was also the mother of elephants?”

You laughed under your breath for the both of you, finding refuge in the brief, catty amusement you had allowed yourself. You had no idea if Mydeimos would find it entertaining; likely he would not, considering the joke was at his expense, but you comforted yourself with the image of him sharing your humor, of one other person in this entire desolate place finding some value in straightforward repartee instead of conniving witticisms.

“But speaking of elephants…” you said, sobering immediately, all traces of levity leaving your body. Now that he was asleep, you could tell him the truth, could allow the burden of your earlier reticence to be alleviated by confessional honesty to his body, if not his waking mind. “Oh, Mydeimos, the situation is so horrible I could not stand to say it aloud to you, not when you were so — so sincere in your anxious querying, but Verax’s fate is not so dissimilar to yours.”

You pushed the plate, now empty, away from you, turning your attention to the stairs, both so that you could fulfill your promise to him and so that you did not have to acknowledge his presence when you spoke. Even his sleeping frame held a sort of judgment to it, an accusation to his silence, as if he were blaming you for everything that had yet occurred to him. You supposed he wasn’t wrong to do it, but you ran from that blame regardless, unable to take it, your back as unused to the task as Verax’s.

“They might put him down soon. They thought he was going to kill me, after all,” you said, tracing circles in the dust on the ground, coughing when it plumed into the air, blinking rapidly to clear your irises from the irritation. “I thought he was going to kill me…but, you know, I think that I wanted him to, a little bit. Or maybe a lot. I don’t know, I don’t — I don’t want to be here anymore, I never wanted to come at all, and if death is the only way I can go home, then—!”

You broke off, shame enveloping you, unable to fathom what you had just blurted out. Weren’t you self-absorbed for it? Weren’t you miserly for seeking out something that had been thrust upon him unwillingly? Something he would surely meet if it were not for you? His life, his existence, it was all tethered to yours, and yet you had tried to throw it away for your own brief deliverance.

“It was the worst season of my life, Mydeimos,” you recalled. “And, also, the last. I speak, naturally, of the one with the storms, when the empire’s ships first cast anchor in the Southern Sea.

“Once, my husband’s empire was a genuine ally of my home. We were friendly enough, or maybe a better way to describe it would be that we had an understanding with them: as long as we continued to trade with them, to bow to their whims and their prices, they would protect us from the abominable — ah, well, it was your people we feared most of all. I am sure you are not surprised by it? Maybe you are even glad that stories of your deeds precede you so far…but I should not continue to assign such reactions to you. I don’t know you any more than you know me, after all, so for all I know you find this offensive.

“Anyways. The empire was always a foreign, distant consideration, especially for me, who was always so sheltered, so guarded. I knew of them — who does not? — but they were not an immediate concern.

“My father was always suspicious of them, however. He was always suspicious of everyone, in fairness, it’s a characteristic of men like that, but against such an enormous entity, what could he do about it? For as wealthy as we are, the Southern Sea has little in the way of an army. Our men are either too young or too old or not brave enough for fighting, and that is our greatest secret, which even my husband does not know for certain but, I believe, has long since guessed at. 

“You know how covetous he is. When he came to conjecture that we were so defenseless, he sank his teeth into our underbelly, unflinching as he throttled us in the coils of his strength. It was wealth he wanted, my father’s vast stores of gold and jewels that he eyed with a feasting hunger. I do not doubt that he was fully prepared to bleed us of it, and indeed as the ships grew closer and closer they sent us a messenger on a small wooden boat.

“‘Each ship contains five hundred men, all ready to die for their empire. Surrender your greatest treasure to us, and we will spare you.’ That was what we were told. My father had no choice; he would rather give up all the gold in the world than let anyone suffer for a moment longer than they needed to.”

You bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted salt, so similar and yet so different from the sprays of brine that had infused the air by the beach on the day the messenger had come. You could recall even now what a sinewy, aquiline man he had been, his flat blue stare affixed on your damp features as he recited the emperor’s words in his stead. He is busy in Kremnos, the messenger had explained. A bloody crusade to defend you from that loutish prince of theirs. Yes, yes, I am speaking to you, lady — pray that that brute never lays eyes on you. Such a pretty little bird, so beautiful…he will most assuredly hunt you down and tear into you with rapturous vehemence.

“My father scrambled about, offering them as much as he could. Chalices of gold coins; jewels from my mother’s dowry; a hundred of the finest Eastern horses; spices that only grow in one place, for one week; yet all of these were refused. ‘You think the emperor will be satisfied with something so paltry?’ We were at a loss. It seemed as though nothing short of the entire kingdom would be enough to please them, and despite how generous my father is, he could not give them that.

“I was the one who understood first. At least, I accepted before the rest what it was that the empire truly sought out. The tides, the kingdom, these were all unreachable — even if they conquered us, we would never do their bidding, not in any way that lasted. Thus, they needed a more concrete claim, a child born of sand and sea. My child, which, upon its conception, will have a right to the empire and the ocean alike, uniting both under my husband’s name for good.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself in a facsimile of a hug, pretending like your father was there, clinging to you as he had on that final night. The wind had howled and he had cried and you had sat there, stoic, your expression motionless but for the faintest sheen in your eyes. You had refused to let yourself waver, knowing that if you showed any hints of hesitation, your father would never release you from his arms, and so the Southern Sea would fall to the fire and brimstone of the ceaseless empire.

“He didn’t want me to leave anymore than I wanted to go,” you said. “My poor father. He would’ve given up the world to keep me by his side, so I made the decision for us both and insisted upon it. I promised him that I would find love here, even in this loveless place, and whether he truly believed me or if it only soothed him to do so, I do not know, but regardless he eventually allowed it. So I boarded that wooden boat with that wooden messenger, and as the sea tossed about in lament, I came to the ship which would take me to my new home, to the statue I would wed the moment my feet touched the ground.”

You laughed again, but it was resentful and acrid, scalding the back of your throat in the way of vomit. Flexing your fingers and digging them into the gaps between your ribs, you waited until you could feel your pulse, feel the proof that you, too, had not turned to stone in the time since you had come here.

“Yes, a statue,” you said. “A real-and-true block of marble. That is what I wed, and that is what I swore to my father I would come to love. What he would think, if he could see me now…”

You yawned, your eyelids heavy, spots painting your vision as it blackened at the corners. Eventually your body would repay you for your weeks of insomnia, for the massive debt which you had incurred and kept increasing day by day, but pinching yourself, you sat up straighter, for if it was here that you conceded, you would never forgive yourself, and neither would Mydeimos.

“Lady.” The firm address cut through your daze, and you shifted to see Mydeimos at the end of his tether, holding the blanket out to you, his forehead creased into something a little kinder than a grimace but still expressing that same distaste. “Will you be able to survive for much longer in this way?”

You shook your head to clear it, swaying a bit from the effort you put into the gesture, taking a hold of the blanket to disguise your momentary lack of balance. He did not let go of it, watching your charily, as if you were wont to spook or collapse, and you would’ve protested, but what he did not know was that you really might’ve fallen if it weren’t for his stolid grip on it and, by extension, on you.

“I will be alright,” you said. “Do not fuss. If you can endure such conditions without becoming disconsolate, then should I not do the same?”

“I am hardened to it from years of campaigning on the battlefield,” he said. “I will not grouse until the last.”

“You are…” What was he? Estimable? Laudable? There were not words enough in this language for you to describe it, and you did not think that he would appreciate them, anyways, so you merely held him by the shoulders, your fingertips stressing to him all that you could not say aloud. “If it were you instead of the princess, perhaps things would not be so dire for my home. You would not have absconded as she did, would not have forsaken your people for wealth and wedding. If it were you…if it were you…”

“Do you have some vendetta against her?” he said. “This is not the first time you have spoken ill of her.”

“She had everything I could ever want,” you said. “Yet she threw it away at the slightest provocation, prancing off to her new husband without care for all that she was leaving behind. I hate her for it, in truth. What if she had had a stronger will, a prouder spirit? If she had been from Kremnos, as you are, then instead of capitulating immediately, might she have fought?”

His eyes widened slightly, and then, inscrutably, enigmatically, they softened, twin suns on a summer evening settling into a comfortable, radiant twilight. You were enthralled by them, by their vast, golden tranquility, and for the briefest moment, entirely unbidden and illicit though it was, the notion of taking him into your arms crossed your mind.

“There is honor in concession, too,” he said, lifting your hands from his shoulders and setting the blanket in them before turning away. “Sometimes it is more difficult to live than it is to die; is persisting regardless, then, not bravery? At any rate, it’s a lesson the Kremnoans, many of whom do not live until they are dying, could stand to learn. Perhaps that princess of yours has more tenacity than you give her credit for after all.”

You held the blanket to your chest; it was still warm, the heat of his skin lingering in the wool even now, transforming it into a cinder which flickered against the hearth of your breast, coaxing a smoldering, dormant fire back into feeble life even as you attempted to outrun the effect. You stumbled up the stairs with the poise of a drunkard, like the proximity to him was what mattered, like there was some distance you could put between yourself and Mydeimos which would cure you of this new revelation, which you had not experienced before but could nevertheless recognize to be unwanted, dangerous, despicable.

What was its name, this clawing, rending sensation that took root in your stomach and fought desperately to tear out? Was it another version of consternation, made delicious and tangible from its immediacy, its familiarity? Had you grown so used to him that your fear had matured into something else, something that you sought out for its nigh-pleasurable thrill? Or was there another explanation, an aspect that you were missing in your callowness?

“Lady, were you listening to me, or shall I repeat myself?”

You startled at the voice that yanked you from your contemplations, which even so late into the next afternoon had not come to a satisfactory conclusion. Your husband’s cousin was staring at your expectantly, wisps of steam from his teacup billowing in his serene face, and when he realized you were blinking at him, he set it down and folded his hands in his lap. Your face growing hot with shame, you placed your own across from his and nodded to indicate he could continue.

“Are you still perturbed by what happened yesterday, such that it even disturbed your sleep?” he said. “Rest assured, if you are so troubled, then I can command them to halt their efforts at domesticating the recalcitrant animal and slay it for its crimes posthaste.”

“Verax?” you said. “No, no — it was my own — it was my own mistake, it definitely was, and I would hate to see such a valuable treasure destroyed for my foolishness. Please ensure that he is kept soundly and well; an elephant is not easily obtained, especially one such as Verax, who is worth ten each of those pack-types like Lucabos and Dromas. We mustn’t let him go to waste.”

“How forward-thinking,” he said. “Is this how your family’s wealth has accumulated? Perhaps we ought to learn from you, if you have the mind for investments and returns.”

“No, my father was the one who managed those things,” you said, swallowing back a yawn. “I was not privy to it, nor did I have much interest. I think that this is just an example of what my people call common sense.”

As soon as you said it, you realized how rudely it had come across, and indeed you were surprised that you had been able to do it at all. Of course, it was easier with others who were not your husband, the easiest of all when it was Mydeimos, but he was not Mydeimos, and was the closest person to your husband besides he himself, so you were in truth taken aback that you could speak as you willed. Perhaps it was the intention, or perhaps it came down to the fact that no matter what, he was not your husband, and so as long as you kept that basic little decorum, you were free to do what you liked.

“There is also that explanation,” he allowed. “But the fate of that elephant is not what I wish to discuss with you.”

“Then?” you said. 

“I am speaking to you, of course, as a family member — a relative of your husband’s, with a natural concern for the fate of his line and his empire,” he began. “You know that my brother is ever-busy with his celebrations and his councils, so the task of broaching this sensitivity falls to me.”

“You are his second, are you not? Who else would it be?” you said, raising your glass to your lips and peeking at him over the rim.

“That is exactly what we must discuss,” he said. You cocked your head at him; he cleared his throat, picking up his teacup, stirring in a lump of sugar and putting it back down without taking even a sip. Steepling his fingers, he pursed his lips at you. “He has been home for long enough that there should be news of an heir’s impending arrival by now.”

Fragments of crystal flew into the air with a crash of protest, scattering and embedding into the rich weave of the carpet below your feet, the stain of tea spreading dark and bloody over the cheery floral motifs. You immediately dropped to your knees, pressing the ends of your dress to it in a desperate attempt to soak it away before the damage was permanent, but all your efforts awarded you were cuts littering your hands and knees, translucent shards digging into your palms and slicing thin, stinging streaks which might, if they scarred, change the read of your fate-lines permanently.

“I am sorry,” you said. “My hand slipped — I didn’t think it would break — and now I have ruined it! I have ruined it, I did not mean to, please forgive me, I am so very sorry—”

“Why do you apologize so incessantly?” he said, helping you stand and picking the glass out of your hands with academic precision. “This carpet is yours. You can do what you want with it.”

“It is my husband’s,” you corrected. “As with everything in this empire, it belongs to him. By destroying it, I am destroying a small piece of him, and I do not want to do that. I am not permitted to do that.”

“Ah,” he said. “Well, if you are apprehensive about learning his reaction, don’t be. He will forgive you. He has finer carpets than this one, and needs more excuses to use them. Anyways, he won’t know of it unless you or I tell him, and I shall keep my silence if you swear to as well. Does that pacify you? Then let us continue with the earlier subject.”

“Yes,” you said. “You are commanding me to fulfill my obligations to him. I know I must, but…��

“Allow me to finish,” he said. “I understand that you have no desire for my brother. You needn’t affirm it, I know you cannot, but I am sure when I say that you cannot deny it, either, not if you are being honest with yourself. You hold neither love nor lust for him, and so any children born of your union will be puny, perhaps not even surviving past infancy.”

“How can you be so certain of that?” you said.

“It is enough of a trend in our family that some wonder if it is a genuine curse,” he said. “Those kings who are born of joy are robust, vigorous men, while those of withering wombs are invalid and infirm from the start.”

“I see,” you said. 

“You will not come to love him,” he predicted. “He pays no special attention to you, and the only gift he has ever given you is a ghastly prince you are forbidden from so much as seeing. What basis is there for love? So there is only one thing which can be done: you must find someone else, someone who will lie with you knowing that they will lose their life for it, and then you must pretend as though the ensuing child belongs to my brother alone.”

“You mean for me to commit such a sin?” you said incredulously. “You would endanger three lives for the sake of one? For you must know that my husband would not spare any of us — myself, the father, or the son — if he were to discover that he had been deceived in such a way.”

“He will never discover it,” he promised you. “I personally ensure that he won’t. Choose someone beneath notice, or someone who you trust with your entire being, and he will never come to know of it.”

“There is no one like that,” you said.

He smiled at you, dropping your hands and calling for a servant to fetch a broom. You eyed him, taking a skittish step backwards, but he did not match it, did not chase after you with an insistence that you listen to his idea, which was so far-fetched as to be closer to genuine fiction than probability.

“Don’t be so sure,” he said amiably. “You might be surprised at what suitors you will find, if you only think to ask.”

How was it, that in this entire palace, this entire empire, so filled with noble, genteel lords and refined, elegant ladies, you could only find sanity and solace in the cellar? How was it that until the sun set and you ran down those stairs, the stone slick and dense beneath your racing feet, you found yourself living in the type of delirious dream characteristic of fevers, and it was only there, in that dark, contained world consisting of nothing but yourself and Mydeimos and the chains which bound him, you could, for even a second, wake up?

“You wish to ask me something,” he said when he was about halfway finished with the food you had brought him. You were sitting on the blanket, the one with the lions and the hounds, and although you were pretending to be engrossed with flipping the corners up and down like a child with a new game, you had indeed been observing him from beneath your lowered lashes. “If it is so, then you should just ask. I will answer as best as I can.”

“Do you have a wife?” you said, deciding that if it had plagued you for this long, there was nothing to be lost in asking, especially as he had given you the permission for it.

He choked on the piece of fish he had just bitten into, thumping on his chest and coughing to dislodge it.

“What?” he said.

“A wife,” you said. “Do you have one? I mean, are you married? 

“No,” he said. 

“Really? But you are a prince,” you said.

“So?” he said, sneering as he regained his composure. “That doesn’t mean anything. I have spent my entire life far too busy with the care of my people to pay any mind to such a trivial construct as marriage.”

“Then you will not be able to understand my dilemma quite as well,” you said, both because it was the truth and because you wished to hide that you were, for some reason, relieved by this development. “But I will tell you anyway.”

“Your dil—you intend to seek my counsel regarding your marriage?” he said. “Surely you jest.”

“If you did have a wife,” you said, ignoring the scoff he let out at that. “If you did, and she bore a son by another man, what would you do to him?”

“I suppose I would put him to death, as would be expected of me,” he said.

“What if it was not his fault? What if your wife was the one who begged him to do it?” you said. “Would you kill them both?”

“No,” he said, sliding the still half-filled plate over to you and wrinkling his nose when you tried to give it back. “I would not kill her. Even if she were entirely to blame, I would not. It is easy to give the order for a nameless, faceless man’s death, but when it is someone you love, it is difficult.”

“Say you do not love her,” you urged, giving in to his unspoken behest and spearing a cooked vegetable through with the silver fork he had left atop the plate.

“Then I would not have wed her, and so she would not be my wife, in which case this entire situation would never occur in the first place,” he said, and rather smugly at that. “There you have it. Is that all, or must we continue this game? I thought that you were in some genuine trouble and required proper advice.”

“I…” you trailed off into a sighing exhale, suddenly finding yourself entirely foolish for expecting something like condolence from him. “Never mind.”

“Fatigue can drive someone to the brink of madness,” he said, and behind the gruffness was a note of solicitude. “Why don’t you sleep?”

“I can’t,” you told him. “I try, every night for a few hours after I have returned to my chambers, but inevitably it ends the same: I am caught in the throes of a nightmare which leaves me more debilitated than before. I cannot escape anguish, it seems.”

“Sleep here,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking his sharp nose in the air — an affected show of haughtiness that even a child would not fall for. “You have given me much, so in return, for just this one night, I will guard your dreams and defend you from that which troubles you.”

“Here? You mean the floor? What sort of proposition—” you broke off, wilting at the dull look he gave you. “Er, my apologies. I meant no offense, and really, I am appreciative that you would offer to do such a thing, but I am sure it will come to nothing, so let us not waste any time with an attempt. My woes are self-inflicted, after all, and thus undeserving of pity, of your pity especially.”

There were many mysteries contained within this prince — of terrors, of victory, of sacrifice and of subjugation — you knew this well, so well that by now it should have ceased to surprise you when he did something odd, when he proved himself to be so opposite to the philistine warrior everyone claimed he was. Yet that did not stop perplexity from washing over you when he exhaled heavily, extending his legs and leaning his head against the wall.

“Come,” he said. You narrowed your eyes at him, not from anger but out of a genuine desire to understand his method.

“Where shall I go?” you said patiently. “I am already here with you.”

“You will not sleep on the floor,” he said. “I do not know — well, I mean, one of my legs has this infernal chain about it, so it’ll hardly be any better, but perhaps it will be enough of an improvement?”

“Pardon?” you said. “I must confess I am still confused.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and when he elaborated, it was through gritted teeth, each word bullied out with a diffidence so at odds with his imposing posture and broad physique.

“You may use me for your own measures,” he said. “You will meet your end if you do not, and then what? So let us make this one attempt. Lay your head in my lap if you cannot accept the floor, and, even if it is fleeting and fraught, come to sleep.”

Your mouth opened and closed soundlessly, and then you were laughing, burying your face in your hands as you giggled helplessly, because wasn’t it such a joke? All the vows and magic that your husband had needed in order to tie your tongue, and yet here was Mydeimos, his greatest enemy, who had managed to steal your voice with merely the offer of his lap for you to lay your head upon.

His thigh was hard, muscular against your cheek, and although he was abnormally hot, it was not in the way of a fever; rather, it seemed natural, as if he were born to run at this temperature, a streak of fire that had deigned to coalesce into the shape of a man for some time. In comparison, the links of the thrice-blessed chains were freezing, and you shifted so that they did not push into your forehead, wanting nothing of the empire to touch you, wishing that nothing of this place would touch him, either, even if that could never be the case.

“Why do you trust me so much?” he said after a while. “You have from the beginning. I could have killed you so many times, dear lady, in so many ways — I even told you that, and yet you have not faltered.”

“Hm,” you said, rolling over so that you were on your back and could peer up at him. “I don’t know.”

His palm met your stomach with the lightness of a butterfly, splaying over it as he used his other hand to cover your eyes so that you had no choice but to close them. Your breaths grew shallow from that same ache as the other night, that ache which you were beginning to think did not originate from fear but another source entirely.

“The fork you give me to eat,” he said. “I could tear you asunder with it. It’s good silver, and sturdy — of course, it’s no spear, and I am nowhere near my full strength, but against you it would be more than sufficient as a weapon.”

He traced a path up your sternum, and then he encircled your neck with his fingers, placing no pressure upon it, only rubbing up and down along the furrows between your tendons.

“There is enough slack in my chains,” he said. “I could draw you close, throw them around your neck, and pull them taut until your throat is crushed.”

He hummed, and then his hand slid to your heart, which pounded and pounded until you thought it really was a puzzle that it did not burst forth and make its home in his fist.

“But all of these accoutrements are superfluous,” he said. “If I want, I can tear your heart out with only my hands — or, if your husband is to be believed, my teeth. I can do it now, and all too easily.”

“Yes,” you said. “You could.”

“You are frightened,” he said rhetorically.

“I’m not,” you said.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” he said. “And I have just explained to you how simply I could kill you, as well as how frequently I have considered it. Surely you are.”

“That isn’t why it’s beating,” you said. 

“Then?” he said.

“It’s because you’re here,” you said. “I can’t explain much beyond that, but I do not think — I do not think it would beat like this for anyone else.”

“No one has ever said that to me,” he said. “I am the one who silences hearts. Never have I been accused of accomplishing the inverse.”

“That is the reason,” you repeated. “I feel that it must be.”

He lifted his hand from your chest and patted your cheek, refusing to move the other from where it still soothed over your sore eyes.

“Well, no good will come of pondering it any longer,” he said, and if you strained, you could hear the faintest traces of a smile in his words. “Sleep now, and do not worry about your nightmares; the savage prince of a savage land is far more frightening than any visions your mind can come up with, and as you have conquered me, so, too, can you conquer them.”

You did not even have the wherewithal to ask him what he meant by that before the darkness and the warmth he afforded you lured you into the deepest pits of unconsciousness, where you had not been since you had come to this empire. And whether it was his presence or his reassurance or some magic — well, likely not the latter, the gods of this empire held no love for either of you — you really did not wake for many hours, sleeping, for the first time in months, without a single dream to haunt you.

“I apologize, brother, but it really is impossible to secure the south from the sea,” your husband’s cousin said from position at your husband’s right. “I have consulted with the best naval captains this empire has to offer, and they all give the same answer.”

“Consult them again, then, or find some better advisors. How is it that the kingdoms by the Southern Sea have flourished for as long as they have, and yet we cannot so much as make a foothold without it being swept away?” your husband snapped.

They had been going back-and-forth in this way for some time now, running in circles and saying the same thing over and over, neither satisfied with the other’s perspective. Ordinarily, you would’ve been brought to tears by the grating, cyclical nature of the discussion, as well as the rapidly rising volume, but today you were far too content with the bliss that a proper night’s rest brought to let them sully your happiness.

“Perhaps we should ask your darling wife,” his cousin suggested. “How about it, lady? Any maritime wisdom or common sense you’d like to share?”

“They say the sea knows more than we do,” you said, alarmed by the sudden address but disguising it well. “Perhaps it’s sending a message.”

“A message?” your husband said. “About what, exactly?”

Leave this place. Never return. The sea is not yours. The sun is not yours. I am not yours. He is not yours. Leave, leave, leave, you damnable man, leave these waters at once, leave me at once, leave and rot in the eternal winter of your solitary empire. The sea is not yours. The sun is not yours. I am not yours. He is not yours. Mydeimos is not yours, he’s not, he’s not. Leave while you still can. Leave while I still allow it. You thought it might be something like that.

“I cannot say, my lord,” you said, bowing your head so he did not notice that your eyes smarted when you were, once again, rendered mute and dumb before him. “But might I recommend that you turn your attention elsewhere for the time being? The season of the storms approaches rapidly once more, and the waters will only grow more and more treacherous. It may be better if you wait until it is over.”

“Let us concentrate our efforts on Kremnos and leave the south for now,” his cousin said. “We will be all the better for it.”

“Kremnos,” your husband repeated, his countenance unreadable, everything about him carefully neutral. “I do not foresee them being a problem for much longer, but if you both think that we should withdraw from the sea for the time being, then who am I to continue in my mulish refusals?”

“Have you come up with some new strategy?” his cousin said. “I thought that we were at somewhat of an impasse with the Kremnoans, our last victory being the capture of Mydeimos.”

“It is not new, necessarily, but finally nearing fruition,” your husband said. “Patience, brother; as I tell you and my dear lady so constantly, all will be revealed in time.”

“You preach patience far more than any man endowed with so little of it ought to,” his cousin said, although he said it more to you, flashing an innocent grin that you did not reciprocate in the slightest. 

Ever since he had recommended you find another to father the first of your sons, you had begun to see your husband’s cousin in a new light. Your husband was the more obvious of the two, so charming that he could not be anything but false, his comeliness in the way of a brightly-petaled flower, warning those who knew the signs that he was a peril, something to be avoided or, if touch was inevitable, then treated carefully, with the utmost of prudence. His cousin, on the other hand, did not have that same showmanship, that flair — he didn’t need to, not when he could somehow wheedle out one’s greatest secrets without ever divulging any of his own. 

He did everything with the sort of deliberate scrupulousness that only a second son would, and the more you thought about it, the uneasier you grew that you were an object of some contention between the two of them. Neither your husband nor his cousin would ever say it, but you could tell from their wily, duplicitous exchanges that they both wanted something out of you, and furthermore that whatever it was each wanted was different, at odds with his counterpart’s desires, setting them against one another even as they continued to behave as though they were true-born brothers of blood and body and mind alike.

“There’s news from the Southern Sea, by the way,” your husband said, his hand on the small of your back as he walked with you to your chambers, where you would spend the day as you always did, with idle amusements that did little to occupy your mind but would at least pass the time until you could go to the cellar once again. “About the king. Do you wish to hear?”

“The king?” you said. “Yes, yes, what is it? Of course I wish to hear. Is he alright?”

“They say he is gravely ill,” your husband said.

You thought you had known despair. You thought you had known anguish. You thought that pain and suffering were things that you were deadened to, that you had learnt how to live with, but everything you had ever experienced paled in comparison to this. It was as if a million needles drove into you at once, the tips a scorching white, melting away at every carefully constructed layer of armor you had drawn over yourself, boring into the veneer of magic that prevented you from screaming and wailing and shaking your husband until he let you go home.

“What is it?” you said. “What has beset him?”

“The southerners are such silly, high-strung folks,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “Believe it or not, but apparently, his physicians say that his affliction is none other than grief.”

“Grief?” you repeated, and then you were grabbing his arm and you hated yourself for it, but if you did not hold onto something you would crumple to the ground, you would crumple and never get up and you couldn’t — you couldn’t — “Grief? What do you mean?”

“His eldest daughter,” he said. “She has left him, and now he is dying of his longing for her.”

“I—” Your hands came to your neck, and they felt so different from Mydeimos’s, which had claimed that very same place only hours before — a constraint instead of a consolation, a sentence instead of a supplication. 

“He never loved anyone the way he loved that girl, after all,” he said, his eyes sparkling, like he was daring you to say something and finding exorbitant glee in the way you couldn’t, in the way your throat closed whenever you tried to curse him. “It’s a sorry thing, really. Perhaps seeing her even once might be enough to cure him…but we both know that’s not going to happen, is it? Oh, we have arrived at your chambers! Good day, dear lady. I shall see you for dinner.”

The worst was that you could not bring yourself to shed even a tear. You lay in your bed on your back, staring blankly at the ceiling, numb to the world as the scene played over and over in your mind. The king. They say he has taken ill. At one point, your husband’s cousin knocked on your door and told you it was time for supper, but you ignored him, or maybe it was more accurate to say that you didn’t even hear him in the first place. Perhaps seeing her even once might be enough to cure him…but we both know that’s not going to happen, is it?

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t cry. You couldn’t breathe. The sun set and the moon rose and still you were immobile, because what did it matter? The Southern Sea was lost; it had been from the start, you supposed. Your marriage had only been a delay of the inevitable, but you had known from the start that things would end like this, had known that the empire would never settle for anything less than total suppression.

Yet if that was the case, if you would meet your end regardless, then why could you not at least meet it at your home, as yourself? Why instead were you here, metamorphosed into this soulless doll, removed from all you had ever loved? Maybe you deserved it. Maybe this was your punishment for taking the easy way, the simple route, for caving to the empire instead of staying true and fighting as your father had wanted to. Maybe you should not have been surprised, and maybe you might’ve tolerated it if you were the only one bearing the consequences — but it was not just you, it was everyone, and this was what hurt you the most, what felt like twenty consecutive blows to your stomach, to that vulnerable flesh which would so easily rupture, which you thought really might rupture the longer you spent ruminating on the throwaway conversation which had irrevocably changed the course of your day, of your life.

Where you found the strength to stand, you could not say. It was instinct at this point, the act of sliding out of your bed, gathering a blanket and whatever food you had stashed away for Mydeimos before trudging down to the cellar where he awaited you. This must’ve been the reason, then — you were so accustomed to the work that your body operated even in the absence of your mind, such that you were handing his plate to him before you even realized where you were.

“Thank you,” he said before tilting his head at you. “Would you like some?”

“What?” you said. He held up the plate, and a second later, you registered his question. “No, I don’t want to eat anything from here.”

He raised his eyebrows but did not comment on it further, and so the two of you sat in quietude. You had so much you might’ve told him but could not; as for him, you guessed it was the inverse, in that he could say whatever it was he pleased, but there was just so little he wanted to say that the effect was the same.

“This empire has such finicky gods,” you said finally, focusing on the red of his throat, the way it crested and then ebbed with every swallow. “They will grant you any wish, as long as it is done in some form of three. Creation, preservation, death — father, man, son — this world has a propensity for the number, it seems, so doesn’t it make sense? And what amazing things you can do when you understand that. Repeat a phrase thrice over and think of the messenger lord; he will afford you the ability for it to be heard anywhere in the world, as long as you have been there once. Make your wedding vows three times under a portrait of the lady of matrimony; you will be bound by them until death.”

“We don’t believe in these miracles in Kremnos,” he said. “They are explicable by coincidence and cunning.”

“Even where I am from, we only recognize one god, and it is less god, more entity,” you said, speaking, of course, of the sea. “One we do not worship, but who loves us regardless. It is a more sustainable approach in my mind.”

“That is how it is for us,” he said. “Our religion is found on the battlefield, and victory is our only prayer. Sometimes, I wish it were not the case, that our devotion was not so violent, so all-consuming…but that is how it is.”

“Perhaps it is violent, but at least it is fair,” you said. “Not like here. Not like these gods, who will enforce even cruelty if it is asked of them.”

“You resent them,” he said. “You cannot confirm it, I am sure, cannot speak ill of them any more than you can of your husband. But I have come to understand your ways, and so I am sure you resent them.”

“If only there were something I could do to them,” you said, reassured immeasurably by his comprehension. “Some way I could — some way I could —”

“Rebel?” he completed for you when you clearly could not. You nodded, and he pouted in thought, pushing his now-empty plate away and reclining back against the wall the way he always did when he was finished. “I am sorry. I am a heretic in these lands; I do not know their traditions well enough to blaspheme them.”

“Oh,” you said. “Oh, that’s it.”

“Hm?” he said, watching you as you shuffled over so that you were sitting beside him, the blanket covering you both, his arm all but scalding against yours. “What are you doing?”

“You are the antithesis of this empire,” you said. “You are everything my husband hates, everything he wishes to destroy. With your mere existence, you imprecate his gods, and so I shall force those deities to defend your every sacrilegious breath. Those celestial beings who bore silent witness to your capture, to my wedding…by my will, for how much they have cursed you, they will now be bound to defend you with threefold the vigor!”

Mydeimos was motionless as you combed your fingers through his hair, his expression reverent like you were not just channeling a divinity you had no claim to but in fact were that divinity yourself. Your movements were careless, your knuckles banging against his chin, your palm skimming along his neck, but he did not complain, only staring at you with that same gentle admiration that would’ve made you flush with heat if only you were not so terribly focused on remembering everything you had ever read on the religion of your husband’s empire.

Brushing the rest of his hair over his shoulder, you took a lock from near his nape, twirling it around your finger and then holding it to your lips, murmuring words from a language neither of you held claim to but which you had memorized before your wedding, words which opened the both of you to the surveillance of the gods that would fulfill your commands.

“Integrity,” you said, separating the tress of hair into three sections and pulling the leftmost taut. “May your causes be ever strong and true; may you always be just and forthright in your actions; may you never waver from the path of honor.”

You crossed it over the middle strand, and then you took the rightmost, which was like silk in your grasp, dancing like sunbeams in the lamplight. 

“Loyalty,” you said. “May your people never betray you; may your men follow you until the bitter end; may you always have the might of your kingdom at your back.”

This, too, you crossed over the middle, the careful weave of a braid beginning to form, the neat v’s that would mark him as forever blessed, forever watched over by gods, by you. 

“Love,” you said, swallowing as you took the final piece, finding that your mouth was dry from more than overuse. “May you alway be loved, prince of Kremnos.”

A knot in your stomach unraveled as you worked, your fingers remembering the motions despite how long it had been since you had played with the hair of a friend or cousin. It was the knot of repression, of every single thing you had shoved down in the name of propriety, in the name of all the vows you had sworn, and as the warmth radiating from him sank into your bones, warding away the cold of this place for the first time since you had come to it, your vision began to swim with tears.

“I wish it were you,” you said, tucking the braid back amongst the rest of his hair, mussing it up so that it was as wild as a lion's mane, allowing your hands to fall into your lap as you wept in earnest, the break of your voice as much a product of your compounded grief as it was a supernatural effect. “I wish it were you, oh, how I wish that you were the one who had — who had —”

Married me. That was what you wanted to say. How I wish that you were the one who had landed upon the shores that day, how I wish that you were the one I had met with the sea at my feet and the sun on your shoulders, how I wish that you were that one who had married me.

“Don’t cry,” he admonished, holding your jaw with the care one might afford to a sculpture made of glass, using his thumbs to wipe at your cheeks and eyes. “Y/N, Y/N, don’t cry. Please don’t.”

You froze, and then you were grabbing his wrists, holding them in place, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping you in this realm. It must’ve bruised him, the weight of your fingertips against his veins, but he still gazed at you with that same mildness.

“What did you just call me?” you said.

“Y/N,” he said. “It is your name, is it not?”

“I never told you, so how…?” you said.

“Even in Kremnos, we have heard of the princess of the Southern Sea,” he said. “I was very young when news of your birth came, but I remember it as if it were yesterday, hiding behind my father’s throne so I could hear the announcement. Y/N L/N, they called you, a fine babe who will grow into the most beautiful girl the sea has ever whelped. I loved you then, I think; I loved you as soon as they said you were born to seals and whale-song.”

“Say it again,” you demanded. “My name, which no one else in this wretched place knows or cares to learn — say it again.”

“Y/N,” he said.

“Again,” you said, and then you were sobbing, viscerally and searingly and pathetically. “Say it again, please say it again, I miss it, I miss my father and all these things I cannot speak of, you do not know but I miss them so much I sometimes think I will be ruined by it—”

“I know,” he said, and then he was prying your hands off of him and gathering you in his arms, holding you to his chest and stroking your hair as you bawled. “Y/N. I do know. The sea, who is your mother; the king, who is your father; the home, which you left to protect. I do know.”

“How?” you choked out. He pressed his lips to the crown of your head.

“I am not such a sound sleeper,” he said. “Everything you have ever wanted to say to me, I have heard. I know you, Y/N L/N. Beloved princess of the Southern Sea, if nothing else, I swear to you this: I know you.”

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @mikashisus @ivana013-blog @mizukiqr @shehrazadekey @simp-simp-no-mi @reapersan @casualgalaxystrawberry @secretive3amramenmaker @academiq @chokifandom @voiddance @qwnelisa @duckydee-0 @anti-social-fox @iwumrndbm @elenaishere05 @belovedoftheanemoarchon @lannnu @ariichive @nightmarewasheree @seyboo @moons-and-mistakes @she-yaa @nayukiyukihira @sillykawa @yoyach @sugilitez @guineverewaves @pe4rlple @celestial--atlas @4acoffee @itseightamineedsleep @sunnywrites101 @moonskins @yourfavoritefreakyhan @fleuriion @luvether @lum1nesc3nce @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @lasrlo [if your tag does not show up in grey, that means tumblr had an issue with it, sorry! sometimes it does that sadly]

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Meet Me in the Hallway

where y/n and harry cross paths in Paris. a quiet hotel. a hallway. a second chance.

word count: 8.1k

content warnings: drinking, cursing, smut

The city hums outside her window like it’s dreaming. Paris, soft and gold, its light spilling over the edge of the balcony and pooling on the floor like something spilled. But the curtains are half-drawn, and she’s not looking.

She sits on the edge of the hotel bed, one hand resting in her lap, the other fidgeting with the edge of the comforter. The room is too quiet in the way all hotel rooms are—sanitized, still, pretending to be a home. Her heels are abandoned by the door, her feet bare and cold against the carpet. There’s a dull ache behind her eyes from too much noise and not enough sleep.

Her dress is creased from the way she folded herself into a chair backstage for hours. Simple black, nothing flashy. Just enough to not be invisible.

She lets her head fall forward for a moment, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees bursts of color. Her body is tired in a way that has nothing to do with muscles.

Downstairs, the fashion show had been louder than it needed to be. Fast cameras, flowing champagne, conversations that looped around her without ever settling. She smiled when she needed to. Nodded through directions. Focused her lens. The same way she always does.

She doesn’t remember most of it.

Now the room feels too large, too hollow. A small desk, untouched. The television mute. A single wine glass upside down on a paper doily like it’s part of the furniture. Her suitcase is still half-open on the bench, clothes folded in a way that looks more accidental than planned.

She exhales and reaches for her camera bag, dragging it into her lap. The strap is beginning to wear out—her thumb catches on a fray near the buckle. She unzips the front pocket, pulls the camera out with slow, practiced hands.

The images flip by beneath her fingers, backstage flashes, fabric in motion, half-caught expressions. A model laughing, her head thrown back. Someone adjusting an earring. A hand gripping a clutch too tight. Nothing wrong with any of them. Nothing remarkable either.

She scrolls until her eyes blur.

The battery flashes red. She plugs it in and sets it gently on the desk.

And then she just… sits.

She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. Sleep isn’t calling. She’s showered, changed into an old t-shirt, and still her body won’t settle. There’s something under her skin. Not loud. Just there. Like she forgot to do something and can’t remember what.

She glances toward the hallway.

Maybe a walk. Nothing long. Just down to the lobby, maybe out to the courtyard if it’s still open. She slides on her flats, grabs her keycard from the nightstand, and pulls the door shut behind her with a soft click.

The hallway is dim and quiet. She doesn’t check her phone. Doesn’t plan where she’s going.

Just walks.

The elevator hums as it lowers, the overhead lights casting a pale blue tint against the brushed metal walls. She watches the numbers tick down. Eighth. Sixth. Third. The lobby.

She steps out into a hush of polished marble and soft piano music playing somewhere out of sight. There’s no one at the front desk. A concierge scrolls through a tablet behind the counter. No one looks up.

Her feet carry her without thinking. Past the velvet chairs, past the enormous floral arrangement at the center of the room. The bar glows dimly in the corner like it knows something the rest of the hotel doesn’t. It’s half-empty. Just a couple at the far end, speaking in low, wine-softened French. A man in a suit tapping on his phone.

She chooses a stool near the middle. Drops her purse beside her feet. Leans her elbows against the dark wood.

The bartender turns toward her with a smile that looks practiced but not unkind.

“What can I get you?” he asks, his accent light. English, but softened by time in the city.

She glances at the bottles behind him. None of them stand out.

“Something dry,” she says. “Not too sweet.”

He nods, already reaching for a bottle. “Long night?”

She almost lies. Almost says she’s fine.

But something about the way he asks like it’s just conversation, not a demand for anything real makes her shrug and say, “Yeah. Just got back from work.”

He pours the drink, sets it down gently in front of her. “Let me guess. Fashion Week?”

She raises an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

“You’ve got the look,” he says with a faint smile. “Not model, though. Photographer, maybe?”

She blinks at him. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

He chuckles. “Lucky guess. You all come down here eventually. After the shows. Like you need to wash the glitter off.”

She picks up her drink and takes a sip. It burns, but only a little. “It’s not the glitter,” she says quietly.

He leans against the back wall, still drying a glass in his hand. “No?”

She shakes her head, eyes still on the bar. “It’s the pretending. The smiling. The noise.”

The bartender nods like he’s heard it before. “You’d be surprised how many people say that.”

She glances up. “And what do you say?”

He considers her for a moment, then shrugs. “I pour the drinks and let them talk.”

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Fair.”

A beat of silence passes. The piano music fades into a new song, something older, almost familiar.

The bartender gestures toward her glass. “You here alone?”

She hesitates. Not because it’s a strange question, but because it feels like the answer matters in a way it shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Just me.”

He nods again. “Well. Welcome to the safest place in the hotel for ghosts.”

She glances around. “That comforting?”

“Depends on the ghost,” he says, and moves to serve someone new.

She sips her drink, lets the warmth settle. Lets the quiet stay. There’s no rush.

At least not yet.

The glass is empty before she realizes it. The bartender catches her eye and raises an eyebrow. She nods. Just one more.

The second drink goes down smoother. Or maybe she just stops noticing the taste. The couple at the end of the bar is gone now, and the man in the suit has traded his phone for a scotch and a blank stare.

She taps her fingers against the side of the glass. Pulls her phone from her purse.

The lock screen lights up. No new messages.

She opens it anyway. Scrolls through photos she doesn’t remember taking. Snaps of velvet curtains, blurry silhouettes backstage, a shot of a cigarette still burning in an ashtray outside the venue.

She sighs. Sets the phone down. Picks it up again.

To Marcia

Why is it always around midnight that I start feeling pathetic?

Three dots. Then nothing.

She sets the phone down again. Pushes the glass away from her slightly, like putting distance between herself and the part of her that’s unraveling. The part that only gets loud when she’s alone. When the city outside keeps spinning but she feels stuck.

The bartender walks past and nods at the untouched third of her drink. She waves a hand; she’s fine.

The phone buzzes.

Marcia

Because that’s when the world gets quiet enough to hear your own brain being mean to you.

Another message follows a second later.

Want me to FaceTime you and aggressively compliment you until you go to bed?

A small laugh escapes her lips before she can stop it. She tucks a hand under her chin and replies.

To Marcia

Tempting. But I’m at the bar downstairs pretending I’m mysterious and French.

Marcia

You’re mysterious and hot. The French are jealous.

She smiles. But it doesn’t quite reach.

To Marcia

I just feel off. Can’t explain it. Something about tonight… I don’t know. Feels heavy.

She stares at the message. Debates deleting it. Sends it anyway.

The bar quiets further. A new song plays, this one is slower, sadder. Piano and something that sounds like rain.

The phone buzzes again.

Marcia

You need sleep. And carbs. And maybe a really good fuck. In that order.

To Marcia

If only.

She locks the phone. Leaves it face down on the bar. Stares into the last of her drink like it might tell her what she’s missing.

Outside, the city lights shift. Something flickers behind her ribs.

She nurses the last of her drink, letting it warm her mouth and chest like it’s trying to convince her she’s okay. The bar is nearly empty now. The man in the suit is gone. Even the music has faded into something slower, as if the speakers know it’s almost time to stop.

The bartender returns, wiping his hands on a folded cloth, a soft rhythm to his movements.

“Still holding strong,” he says, glancing at her glass.

She looks down at it, then back up at him with a faint smile. “Didn’t realize I was being watched.”

“Only a little,” he replies. “I get bored.”

She chuckles quietly. “Well. Hate to break it to you, but I’m not very exciting.”

“Maybe not tonight,” he says, resting his arms on the counter. “But you’ve got a story in you. I can tell.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You get that from two drinks and a bad mood?”

“I get that from the way you keep looking at the door. Like you’re not sure if someone’s coming or if you hope they never do.”

That soft smile falls from her face, just for a second. She picks up the glass and takes the last sip, letting it sit heavy on her tongue before swallowing.

“Maybe both,” she says.

He nods like he understands. Like he’s heard it before.

“Want me to put it on your room tab?” he asks, gently steering the moment somewhere lighter.

“Yeah. Room 1210.”

“Got it,” he says, scribbling something down. “Should I expect you again tomorrow night?”

She shrugs, standing slowly, her movements fluid but tired. “We’ll see if the pretending gets to me again.”

The bartender smiles. Not pitying, just warm. “Well. If it does—I’ll be here. Mysterious, and slightly overqualified.”

She gives him a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime,” he says, then watches as she slides her purse over her shoulder and steps away from the bar.

Her feet are heavier now. Or maybe the night is. The elevator takes its time again, humming low as it carries her back to the twelfth floor.

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the doors open. She exhales.

The hallway is empty.

Of course it is.

She’s halfway to her door before she realizes her keycard is missing.

She stops, frowning, and pats down her coat pocket. Nothing. Checks her purse, front pouch first, then the main compartment: lip balm, receipts, her phone. No key.

A sigh slips through her lips. It’s not frustration, not yet. Just another thing. Another small, invisible weight added to the pile.

She turns around slowly, eyes scanning the hallway. Maybe she dropped it in the elevator. Maybe at the bar. Maybe it’s tucked between the chair cushions and she’s just—

And then she hears it.

A voice.

Low, warm, crackling faintly with a smile. A laugh, quick and under-breathed, like it’s not meant for anyone nearby. Like it’s caught in the space between sentences.

She freezes.

It’s not close—somewhere down the hall, around the corner maybe—but it’s familiar in a way that makes her throat tighten. Not from recognition at first. Just… instinct. The way her body responds before her mind catches up.

She listens.

There’s a pause. A shuffle of feet. Then the voice again, clearer this time.

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong,” he says, and her heart jolts.

Harry.

She doesn’t mean to move. Doesn’t even decide to. But her body shifts slightly toward the sound, her eyes narrowing down the hall like they might find him without permission.

It’s not possible. He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one said anything. No texts. No whispers. Nothing.

Another laugh. Softer this time. It feels like it’s wrapped in memory.

She steps back from her door, slowly, silently, the breath caught high in her chest.

She still hasn’t found her key.

But suddenly, she’s not thinking about the room at all.

She stays frozen.

Not by fear. Not even surprise, really. It’s something else—an ache that tightens her ribs and stills her hands. Her breath catches somewhere between her throat and her chest, and she doesn’t know what she’s hoping for. Only that it’s too late to pretend she wasn’t standing there, listening.

His voice draws closer, low and lazy, almost amused. She hears him before she sees him.

And then—

He rounds the corner.

Harry.

He’s wearing a fitted black coat over a dark button-down, the collar slightly undone, just enough to show the curve of his throat. The sleeves are pushed to his forearms, revealing his tattoos in that casual way that never feels accidental. Slim trousers. Polished boots. A glint of a silver ring when he adjusts the phone against his cheek.

His hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night, still damp near the ends. There’s a faint flush in his face from whatever wine or warmth came before. He looks—God, he looks good.

He’s smiling at whoever’s on the other end of the line, voice low and easy.

And then he sees her.

He stops, like someone hit pause.

The smile fades, not with coldness, but with weight. Like everything around him just dropped into silence.

His eyes lock with hers, and she feels the ground tilt.

“Hey—” he says into the phone, eyes never leaving her. His voice is softer now. “I’ve gotta go.”

A beat. A murmur from the other line.

“Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He lowers the phone slowly. Slips it into his coat pocket.

Neither of them move.

The air stretches thick between them, all quiet tension and history that doesn’t know where to go. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her purse. She doesn’t know what she looks like to him. Tired? Lost? The girl he knew or someone else entirely?

But he’s looking at her like nothing’s changed. Like too much has.

And still neither of them says a word.

The silence stretches too long.

She doesn’t know what she expects him to do. Say her name? Pretend this isn’t strange? Smile like they’re old friends instead of old wounds?

But he just watches her—like he’s waiting for something she can’t give.

So she clears her throat, eyes flicking toward her door. She straightens her bag on her shoulder, tries to summon the version of herself that knows how to talk to strangers.

“I, uh… I lost my room key,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the door behind her. Her voice sounds thinner than she means it to—too casual, too rehearsed. “I think I must’ve dropped it downstairs. Or… maybe at the bar. So.”

She takes a step sideways. “Anyway. Sorry—don’t mean to block the hall or anything.”

It’s pathetic, really. The way she tries to slide past him like she’s someone else. Like he didn’t used to know every version of her in the dark.

She’s almost to the edge of his shoulder when he speaks.

“You’re really gonna pretend I don’t know who you are?”

His voice is quiet, but not soft. Like he’s peeling back something gently, but deliberately. Like he’s giving her the chance to stop lying before it hurts more.

She stops.

Her pulse stutters.

And then slowly—like it costs her something—she turns to face him again.

He looks the same. He doesn’t.

And the way he’s looking at her now… it’s not angry. It’s not even surprised.

It’s something else entirely.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to. He already sees it—the way her mouth opens slightly, like she wants to respond but the words don’t form. The way her body stays turned toward him even though her eyes keep drifting toward the door, like she’s trying to find an exit that doesn’t exist.

He takes one slow step forward.

And then he reaches out—gently, like he’s afraid she might pull away—and places his hand on her shoulder.

His palm is warm through the fabric of her sweater, steady in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. The kind of steady that once kept her upright in hotel rooms like this one. In cities where the only thing familiar was him.

His eyes search hers.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

The words land between them like something sacred. Not angry. Not bitter. Just true.

She swallows, but her throat’s too tight.

His hand stays where it is. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just there.

“I thought I imagined you once or twice,” he says, quieter now. “Crowded places. A laugh that sounded like yours. The back of someone’s head. I always told myself I was wrong.”

He pauses. Something in his voice dips lower.

“But this time, I��m not, am I?”

She looks up at him fully now. The air feels thinner. Her heart loud in her ears.

“No,” she says, voice barely more than a breath. “You’re not.”

His hand slips away from her shoulder, slow, like he doesn’t want to startle her. She still feels the shape of it there, the weight of memory pressed into skin.

“Come on,” he says, stepping back just enough to give her room to breathe. “Let me help you find your key.”

She hesitates, already halfway to no. “It’s fine. I’ll just go to the front desk—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, a soft smile tugging at his mouth, “but that’s boring.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he tilts his head slightly, eyes warm, insistent.

“And we both look too good tonight to go straight to bed.”

That gets her. A reluctant smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it.

“I’m not exactly dressed for anything.”

He gives her a slow once-over—not lingering, not leering, just a quiet kind of noticing. “Still. You wore that sweater like you were hoping someone would see you in it.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You always this confident?”

“Only when I mean it.”

She doesn’t say yes. But she doesn’t say no.

They ride the elevator down together in silence. The same soft blue lights. The same hum. But everything feels different now—charged and quiet, the air between them thick with what’s been left unsaid.

When they walk into the bar, the bartender looks up from polishing a glass and pauses. Then he grins.

“You again,” he says to her. Then to Harry, with a mock-serious nod, “And you brought a friend. Must be your lucky night.”

She flushes slightly, sliding onto the same stool she left earlier.

Harry sits beside her, body angled toward hers without crowding.

“We’re on a mission,” he says, tapping the bar lightly. “Lost key. Emotional damage. Maybe one more drink.”

The bartender snorts. “All the usuals, then.”

Harry glances at her. “You good with that?”

She hesitates. Then nods once.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “One more.”

The bartender turns away to pour.

And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel entirely alone in the quiet.

It’s not just one drink.

One turns into two. Then three. She loses count somewhere in the middle of a story he’s telling about a broken amp in Berlin and a show that nearly didn’t happen. Her laughter is quieter than it used to be, but it still curls the same way at the edges. And he watches her with something like disbelief, like he can’t believe she’s real and sitting beside him again.

The bar is nearly empty now. Chairs stacked in the far corner, the bartender wiping down the counter slower and slower like he’s giving them space.

Her cheeks are flushed, not just from the wine. It’s the warmth of being seen. Really seen. And not by strangers in passing, or by clients through a camera lens—but by someone who used to know the shape of her moods by the way she stirred her coffee.

“You still talk with your hands,” he says at one point, smiling into his glass.

She blinks, looking down at her fingers mid-story.

“You noticed that?”

“Always did.”

She smiles. Not because it’s a compliment, but because it feels like being remembered.

They talk about everything and nothing—work, mutual friends they’ve lost track of, cities they’ve both passed through but never at the same time. He tells her his sister got engaged. She tells him her favorite diner back home closed during the pandemic and she hasn’t quite forgiven the universe for it.

The conversation flows like it never stopped. Like it’s just picked up from a long pause.

At one point, she leans her cheek into her hand and watches him as he talks. Not just his words, but the way his mouth moves around them. The way his eyes flick between hers and the table and back again. Like he’s afraid if he looks too long, it’ll break the spell.

She doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s there, quiet under her breath:

God, I missed you.

He finishes his drink and gently nudges her knee under the bar.

“What?” she asks, smiling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just… haven’t seen you laugh like that in a long time.”

Her smile falters. Not in a bad way—just a flicker of something real behind her eyes.

“Me either.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Comfortable. Familiar.

Outside, the city is fast asleep. But inside, it’s like time doesn’t matter. Like this is the night they were always going to find each other again.

They don’t move.

The glasses on the bar sit nearly empty, but neither of them reaches for another. The drinks were just an excuse anyway—something to hold, something to do with their hands while the rest of them tried to catch up to this.

The bartender is gone now, slipping into the back room with a nod, the lights a little dimmer than before. There’s only the hum of the city outside the windows and the occasional creak of the old building settling into the quiet.

Her hand rests near his on the bar. Not touching. Just close enough that she could, if she wanted to.

Harry leans back slightly in his stool, head tilted toward her, eyes soft and half-lidded like he’s memorizing her in pieces.

“You still carry that notebook?” he asks, voice low and warm.

She laughs, surprised. “God. No one remembers that.”

“I do,” he says. “You used to write in it when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I was writing about you.”

“I know.”

Her eyes flick to his, sharp and playful for just a second, then soften again. The weight between them isn’t heavy anymore. It’s quiet. Gentle. Like they’re sitting in the space where a question used to live, and neither of them is in a rush to answer it.

He watches her as she tucks her hair behind her ear, fingers slow, like she doesn’t want to break the moment either.

“You’re different,” he says eventually.

“So are you.”

“Better?”

She shrugs, then nods once. “Maybe. Sadder, too.”

Harry leans forward, elbows resting on the bar again. “Still beautiful.”

Her breath catches just slightly, but she recovers quickly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a little drunk.”

“Maybe,” he admits, lips twitching. “But I’d say it sober.”

The pause that follows is long—but not uncomfortable.

He looks down at her hand, still resting near his, and then back up.

“I don’t want this night to end.”

She swallows. Feels it in her chest. That familiar ache, blooming again.

“I don’t either.”

But neither of them moves.

Because sometimes, the best part of the night is the not-knowing. The lingering. The possibility that whatever happens next might be something they can’t undo.

They stumble out of the elevator in a quiet hush of laughter, her hand brushing his arm as she tries to keep from tripping over absolutely nothing.

“God,” she says, pressing a palm to her forehead, “I can’t feel my teeth.”

Harry laughs, deep and surprised. “Is that a medical emergency, or…?”

“I don’t know,” she says, swaying slightly. “You ever been drunk enough that your mouth just disappears?”

“Can’t say I have,” he says, biting back another grin. “But I’m honored to be here for the milestone.”

They reach her door. She stops in front of it, staring like it might open if she wills it hard enough. Then she looks over at him.

“We… never got my key.”

A beat. Then they both burst into laughter, muffled and ridiculous in the stillness of the hallway.

“I was so focused on impressing the bartender with my tragic mystery girl routine,” she says, leaning back against the wall, “I completely forgot.”

Harry leans beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “He was impressed.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. You had the whole ‘haunted but hot’ thing going. Very French.”

She laughs again, eyes crinkling. “God, what now? I can’t call the front desk like this. I’ll end up booking a flight to Switzerland by accident.”

Harry turns to face her fully. There’s something soft in the way he’s looking at her now—less amused, more… steady.

“Stay with me.”

She blinks. “What?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “My room’s right down the hall. You’re already up here. I’ve got a toothbrush still in the plastic. You won’t die.”

She searches his face. “You sure?”

He nods once. “Yeah. I don’t want you alone tonight.”

Something in the way he says it makes her throat tighten. Not in a bad way. Just honest. Undeniable.

She hesitates for only a second. Then nods.

“Okay.”

He reaches out and gently takes her hand, warm and easy. “Come on, mystery girl. Let’s go ruin my minibar.”

His room is warm, dim, the city stretching out through tall windows in streaks of gold and navy. The curtains are half-drawn, the bed still made, though the pillows are a little messy—like he laid down earlier and got back up.

She toes off her shoes near the door and drops her bag on the armchair.

“You can sit wherever,” he says, pulling open the minibar. “Or collapse. That’s also allowed.”

She flops dramatically onto the edge of the bed. “I choose collapse.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Excellent choice.”

He crouches in front of the fridge and starts pulling out those tiny, overpriced bottles. Vodka. Rum. Some weird-looking liqueur neither of them will touch. He glances back.

“You like whiskey?”

“Do I look like I like whiskey?”

“You look like you’d lie about liking whiskey to impress someone, then drink it like a champ.”

She snorts. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

He hands her a bottle anyway and sits beside her on the bed. Their shoulders brush. Neither moves away.

She twists open the cap and holds up her drink. “To bad decisions and pretending we don’t feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Cheers to that,” he says, clinking his bottle lightly against hers.

They drink. It burns less than it should.

She leans back on her elbows, eyes on the ceiling. “I’m gonna hate myself in the morning.”

“You’re gonna hate yourself around 4 a.m. when the room starts spinning and your mouth feels like cotton.”

She groans dramatically. “Why are you so good at this?”

“Because I am the mistake people make when they’re drunk in hotels,” he says, very seriously.

She laughs, head tipping toward him. “Yeah, well. I don’t have rockstar money like you. This is gonna cost me half my paycheck.”

He leans back beside her, legs stretched out, still holding his tiny bottle. “I’ll write it off as emotional reparations.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Is that what this is?”

He glances over. “Isn’t it?”

For a second, it goes quiet again—not awkward, just full. Her fingers tap against the rim of her bottle. His knee presses lightly into hers.

“I forgot how easy this is,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“This. You and me. Talking like this.”

His voice softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

She takes another sip of whiskey, then winces and sets the bottle down on the nightstand like it personally offended her.

“Okay,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “Let’s not get sappy.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, grinning. “I wasn’t the one getting sappy.”

“You absolutely were. With your emotional reparations and your sad little rockstar eyes.”

He gasps. “You wound me.”

She grins. “Good.”

A beat passes, and then she says, “We need a game. Something stupid. Something to distract us from the fact that we’re definitely too drunk and definitely shouldn’t be making good decisions right now.”

“I like the sound of that,” he says, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. “What are we thinking? Truth or dare? Twenty questions? Drunk Spotify shuffle and we cry to Bon Iver?”

She makes a face. “God, no. I’m too emotionally fragile for Bon Iver.”

“Fair.”

He scrolls for a second, then looks up, eyes glinting. “Okay. I have something. There’s this app—stupid little game called Who’s Most Likely To.”

She gives him a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Only if you’re honest.”

“I’m always honest.”

“You used to lie about liking whiskey.”

She throws a pillow at him. “Play the game, Styles.”

He opens the app. The first question pops up, and he reads it with a mischievous smirk.

“Who’s most likely to text their ex at 2 a.m.?”

They both freeze for a beat, then burst out laughing.

“Okay, rude,” she says, snatching the phone to look. “What kind of emotionally manipulative setup—”

“It’s the algorithm,” he says, holding up his hands. “I swear.”

She hands the phone back. “Fine. You. You’d do it.”

“I am the ex,” he says, mock offended. “What am I supposed to do, text myself?”

“You probably have.”

“I plead the fifth.”

The next question rolls in.

“Who’s most likely to fall in love on vacation?”

They pause again. But this time the silence is softer.

He looks at her, eyes dipping just a little lower.

“You,” he says quietly. “You fall hard.”

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “Doesn’t mean I stay.”

He hums. Doesn’t push.

The next question appears.

“Who’s most likely to initiate a kiss?”

She raises her eyebrows, eyes locked on his.

Neither of them answers.

Not right away.

The question hangs in the air.

“Who’s most likely to initiate a kiss?”

Her eyes stay on the screen, like maybe if she keeps looking there, it won’t mean anything. Like maybe the weight of the moment won’t settle between them the way it already has.

But then—

“Me.”

His voice is low. Certain.

She turns her head toward him, and before she can respond—before she can even think—he leans in.

His hand finds her cheek, warm and steady, his fingers slipping into the hair just behind her ear. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask. Just moves like it’s inevitable.

And then he kisses her.

It’s not tentative. Not searching.

It’s full. Familiar. A little messy from the whiskey. A little desperate from all the time lost.

He kisses her like he remembers exactly how she tastes, exactly how she fits against him, exactly how this always went—like there was never any space between now and the last time.

She exhales into it, her body catching up a half-second later, hand gripping the front of his shirt like she needs something to hold onto.

He deepens it with a low sound in his throat, thumb stroking across her jaw, and she feels herself fold toward him, her knees brushing his, their chests lined up like gravity decided for them.

It’s been years.

It doesn’t feel like it.

When he finally pulls back, barely, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests lightly against hers. His voice is soft. Breathless.

“I missed that.”

She swallows, lips still parted, her pulse loud in her ears.

“So did I.”

His hand doesn’t leave her face.

It slides down, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of her jaw, down the curve of her neck. She leans into it instinctively, her breath catching again as his thumb brushes just beneath her collarbone.

He kisses her a second time—deeper, needier, like he’s been holding back all night and doesn’t want to anymore. She shifts in closer, straddling one of his legs without even thinking, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thigh.

His hands find her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she feels the heat bloom between them—no hesitation now, just years of wanting compressed into this one moment, like they’re trying to make up for every second they wasted apart.

She tugs at his shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists, and he laughs into her mouth, breathless.

“Still impatient,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Still too slow,” she replies, her hands already working the hem of his shirt up and over his head.

It lands somewhere behind them, forgotten.

Her palms flatten against his chest—warm, solid, familiar in ways that make her chest ache. His skin hums beneath her touch, his eyes heavy-lidded, fixed on hers like she’s the only thing in the room that matters.

He leans forward, mouths at the base of her neck, and her head tips back, a soft noise slipping out before she can stop it. His hands move beneath her sweater, slow, teasing thumbs brushing along her ribs, dragging the fabric upward inch by inch.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, breath ghosting across her skin.

She looks down at him, eyes dark, heart thudding.

“If you stop now,” she says, “I’ll kill you.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses her again, rougher this time, and everything else blurs—clothes hit the floor, the air between them burns, and for the first time in what feels like forever, nothing else matters.

Not the years.

Not the distance.

Not the way things ended.

Just this.

His hands.

Her mouth.

The weight of him pressing her back into the mattress like maybe, just maybe, this time they’ll get it right.

The moment her sweater hits the floor, his hands are on her—broad, possessive palms sliding up the bare skin of her back, fingers splayed like he can’t stand to miss a single inch. He pulls her in tight, chest to chest, his breath warm against her neck as he mouths at her throat. Her bra unclasps with a flick of practiced fingers, and she lets it fall, unthinking, uncaring—already dizzy with the way he’s touching her like she’s something sacred and forbidden all at once.

He leans back just enough to look at her. And the way his eyes drag down her body makes her feel like she’s standing in the center of a storm. His mouth parts, his voice thick with something between reverence and disbelief. “You’re still…”

He doesn’t finish. Just breathes out, “God,” like it’s a prayer.

She doesn’t give him the chance to say more. Her mouth finds his, hungry and hot, and the kiss deepens in a heartbeat. Her fingers tangle in his curls, pulling him closer, tugging just hard enough to make him groan low in his throat. It’s instinct—the way their bodies fit, the way their hands map each other like they never forgot. But this time, it’s raw. Charged. Sharpened by absence and aching.

She pushes him down onto the mattress, straddling him with purpose. Her thighs lock tight around his hips, grounding herself in the pressure of him beneath her. His hands slide up her sides, slow and reverent, brushing under her breasts before cupping them fully, thumbs teasing across her nipples until she gasps and arches into him.

He leans up, lips finding the soft skin above her heart. “I dreamt of this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

She bites her lip, rolling her hips against him, already feeling how hard he is through the fabric between them. Her voice is a whisper, thick with heat. “Is this how it went in the dream?”

He groans, his hands gripping her tighter. “Not even fucking close.”

She kisses along his jaw, down his throat, tongue flicking against his pulse as her hands move lower. She reaches for his belt, undoing it slowly, teasing him with the drag of her fingers along the waistband of his pants. He watches her, eyes heavy, jaw tight. His breath catches when she frees him, cock hard and flushed and already leaking.

Clothes disappear in a rush of desperate hands—her jeans, his shirt, underwear peeled away and tossed aside until nothing remains but heat and skin and everything they still haven’t said.

He flips her beneath him in one fluid motion, bracing himself above her with trembling arms. He pauses, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, eyes searching hers.

She nods without hesitation. “Yes. Please.”

His kiss is soft this time, but the moment he lines up and pushes in, slow and steady, everything else vanishes. Her back arches, a shattered gasp slipping from her lips as he fills her—thick, deep, unrelenting. He curses under his breath, burying his face in her neck, anchoring himself with one hand gripping her hip and the other fisted in her hair.

They move like they’re trying to say everything with their bodies—no words, just heat and tension and need. She clings to him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. He fucks her slow at first, long strokes that make her tremble, dragging out every flicker of pleasure until her breath stutters and her nails dig into his back.

“Fuck, you feel—” he groans into her ear, “so fucking good. Missed this. Missed you.”

“Don’t stop,” she breathes, voice breaking on the edges of pleasure.

And he doesn’t.

He fucks her harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. Her moans spill freely, breathless and raw, and he catches them with his mouth, lips crushed to hers, tongues tangling. His hand slides between them, thumb circling her clit in tight, expert motions, until her whole body coils tight beneath him.

“Harry—” she gasps, teetering.

He slows just enough to draw it out, voice soft but wrecked. “I’ve got you, love. Come for me.”

She shatters—hips jerking, body clenching around him, her cry sharp and helpless. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning her name like it’s been trapped in his throat for years, hips trembling as he comes hard, every muscle tight with release.

They stay wrapped around each other, bodies slick with sweat, breath mingling in the stillness. The silence afterward is thick—sated and heavy—with the weight of everything they thought they’d lost.

He finally shifts, brushing her damp hair back from her face, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The sheets are warm and tangled around their legs, the air in the room thick with the scent of sweat and something sweeter—familiarity, maybe. Skin still slick in places. Her head rests against his chest, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breath. One of his hands is in her hair, fingers absently combing through the strands like he doesn’t want to stop touching her.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s full. Like a held breath. Like a moment that knows it shouldn’t be broken too soon.

She closes her eyes, fingers tracing lazy patterns across the tattoo on his ribs. She feels the way his chest moves under her palm when he laughs softly at nothing.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“Are you still drunk?”

His chest rises, then falls.

“No.”

She’s quiet again. For a beat. Then—

“Will you regret it in the morning?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts a little, tilting his head so his mouth brushes the top of her head.

“No.”

His voice is steady. Sure.

Then he looks down at her, brushing a piece of hair off her cheek. “Will you?”

She meets his gaze—really meets it this time. There’s something unspoken in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away.

“No.”

It’s the truth. No hesitation.

She lays her head back down. His arms tighten around her just slightly, like he needed to hear it more than he realized.

They don’t say anything else for a long while.

And when they both finally start to drift, the last thing she feels is the press of his lips against her temple and the quiet way he exhales like maybe, just maybe, this time he can sleep.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows in quiet gold, painting soft shapes across the tangled sheets. The room smells like skin and sleep, the air heavy with warmth and the faintest scent of sex still clinging to the pillows.

She wakes slowly, eyes blinking open to a pale, quiet morning.

The space beside her is empty, but still warm. His pillow smells like him—like bergamot and something just a little darker underneath. Familiar. Grounding. Her hand brushes the sheets where his body had been, and for a moment she just breathes him in.

Then she hears it—the soft rush of water, muffled and steady.

The shower.

She pushes the sheets off her body and stretches, limbs sore in the best way. Her bare feet touch the floor, and she follows the sound, quiet and easy, like she’s done this before. Like her body knows the path.

The bathroom door is cracked open, steam curling out into the air like an invitation.

She slips inside.

The mirror is fogged, the tiles warm under her feet. She pauses just a moment, looking toward the glass shower door. His shape is hazy through the steam, broad shoulders, strong back, his head tilted slightly down as the water runs over him.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t call his name.

Just moves.

She pulls the shirt off over her head, lets it fall to the floor. Her underwear follows. And then she steps forward, fingers curling around the edge of the glass door, easing it open.

He turns at the sound, water streaking down his chest, his hair wet and pushed back from his forehead. His eyes widen slightly when he sees her—but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

She steps in and lets the water hit her skin—hot, soothing. Her hands find his chest first, splaying across the familiar planes of it, slick and warm beneath her fingers.

“You’re up early,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and surprise.

“Not really,” she says, eyes on his lips.

She presses closer.

The steam swirls around them, water pounding against the tile, and when she tilts her face up and kisses him, it’s slower this time. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just deep, deliberate, like she’s tasting him in pieces. Like she has time now.

His hands come to her waist, then slide down, gripping her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space left. Their bodies press flush, heat meeting heat, skin slick between them. He groans into her mouth when her hand drags along the back of his neck, her fingers slipping into his wet curls.

The kiss deepens—messy, open, teeth clashing slightly as it grows more frantic. His hands grip tighter, guiding her backward until her spine meets the cool tile wall. She gasps at the contrast, and he takes the sound into his mouth, swallowing it like a secret.

His lips leave hers only to travel down her jaw, to the spot beneath her ear that always made her knees weak. He remembers. Of course he does.

Her hands roam his shoulders, his chest, down his stomach, slow and teasing. He shudders when her fingers graze his hipbones.

“You’re dangerous,” he mutters against her skin, kissing lower, over the slope of her collarbone, the curve of her breast.

She lets her head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. “You invited me in.”

“You weren’t supposed to actually come,” he says, voice low, strained.

“Liar.”

His mouth crashes back to hers, and this time there’s no space between kisses—just heat, just hands, just the rhythm of their bodies pressed together under the water like nothing else exists.

The steam wraps around them. Their movements are slow, hungry, but unhurried—like they’ve stopped pretending anything is casual. Like every kiss is an answer to a question they were both too scared to ask the night before.

And when he finally pulls back, just an inch, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against hers, he whispers

“Stay today.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Okay.”

The water has stopped, the towels hang loose around their bodies, and the steam has begun to fade. The room is warm, filled with the low rustle of fabric and breath. Sunlight streams in through the curtains like it’s trying not to interrupt.

She sits on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up slightly, damp hair falling over one shoulder. He’s behind her, towel-drying his curls with lazy hands, still a little breathless, a little flushed from the shower.

She glances down at her hands resting in her lap, fingers twisting the edge of the towel. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks.

“Harry?”

He pauses. Lowers the towel from his head, eyes moving to her.

“Yeah?”

She doesn’t look at him. Not yet.

“I’m sorry.”

That gets him. The air shifts. He sits down beside her slowly, close but not crowding. Waiting.

“For what?” he asks gently.

She pulls in a breath. “For how I left. For walking away like I did. No warning. No reason.”

He’s quiet, but his gaze doesn’t waver. She feels the weight of it, even without looking up.

“I was going through something,” she says, the words slow and careful, like they’ve taken years to form. “And instead of… letting anyone in, I just shut everything out. Even you. Especially you.”

A long pause.

“It was easier,” she adds, barely audible. “I made it easier for me by making it harder for you.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just watches her. She can feel the heat of him beside her, solid and steady, not pulling away.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks eventually, and his voice isn’t angry just soft. Tired. “Why not let me help?”

She finally turns to look at him.

“Because if I let you help, I’d have to admit I needed it. And I was tired of needing things. I wanted to be okay on my own. I thought if I could just get through it without anyone… I’d come out stronger.”

“And did you?”

She swallows. “No. I just came out lonelier.”

His jaw flexes slightly, and he nods like he understands. And maybe he does. Maybe too well.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, not accusing—just curious.

Her eyes meet his, steady and sure this time.

“Every day.”

His hand finds hers between them, warm and careful.

He squeezes it once.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Then let’s start from here.”

He holds her hand like he’s anchoring both of them. Thumb brushing slow circles across the back of hers, his gaze never drifting. The room feels still again. Not frozen—just calm. Like the storm has passed, but everything is still tender in its wake.

“I missed you,” Harry says, voice thick and low. “Every day.”

Her breath stumbles.

“You weren’t just someone I loved,” he continues. “You were my best friend. The one person I always wanted to tell things to. Stupid shit. Big stuff. All of it.”

She looks at him, eyes soft, throat tight.

“I kept thinking it would go away eventually,” he says. “That I’d stop checking places for you. Stop hearing a song and thinking about how you’d hum the guitar part like a weirdo.”

She smiles faintly, blinking quickly. “I still do that.”

“Good,” he says. “Someone has to.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment. It’s not heavy, just honest.

“If this is going to work,” he says gently, “we can’t go back to what we were. We’re not those people anymore.”

She nods slowly, feeling the truth of that settle deep in her chest.

“No more shutting each other out,” he says. “No more disappearing when it gets hard. We have to be honest. All the way through.”

Her voice is quiet, but firm. “Okay.”

He squeezes her hand again.

“And we take it slow,” he adds. “No pressure. No expectations. Just see where this goes.”

She smiles, this time with more light behind it. “Like two people starting over.”

“Like two people who already know how the other takes their coffee,” he says, tilting his head, “but are still willing to ask again.”

Her eyes sting a little. But she laughs. “I take it black now.”

He grins. “You liar.”

They both laugh, and for a second it feels light again—simple, even. Like maybe this could be something good. Something real.

He tugs her into him gently, and she leans her head on his shoulder.

They sit like that for a long while—quiet, close, steady.

Starting again.

[cheriladycl01]

Could you do fic for Toto Wolff with wife reader? He wants nothing more than to be in bed with you all morning long after everything goes on during the races. Bonus: they had a son, Jack. Just something fluff and cute. Maybe a little suggestive 🫣 Thanks!! :))

Stay, just a little longer - Toto x Wife! Reader

Plot: your husband just wants to stay in bed for as long as possible

A/N: When it comes to these toto fics I never like using the name Jack. It just doesn’t feel right to me, and I hope you guys can understand this. I still will write with a child, just unnamed and most of the time genderless! Thank you all!

You woke up to the sun just rising, your natural work body clock waking you up only a few minutes before your alarm.

The sun leaked through the soft curtains draping across the wide bay windows in the room, making it that as you turned over you could see the hue across your husbands back.

He was laying on his stomach arms tucked around the pillow his head lay on and light snores coming from him. The morning light, no matter how low or high it was when the pair of you woke up always managed to make him look like he’d been carved by the gods.

You check the time on your phone seeing you still had 10 minutes before you alarm is due to go off so you cuddle into your husband who rolls over in his sleep pulling you closer to him.

You drift back off into a dozy sort of sleep, still able to hear the world start to move as the working day came to an open and people started to get along with their day, while remaining completely in the bliss of being cozy in bed with Toto.

However that faded in those short 10 minutes when your alarm sounded waking the pair of you up. A groan came from the hulk of a man next to you, pulling you closer into him and dipping his head into the crevice of your neck.

“Toto, come on. Alarm time means we have to get up” you coo at him, as your play with the end strands of his growing hair.

“Stay” he groans, “Just a little longer”

“Nope, come on! We need to make our little monsters breakfast” you smile at him and his eyes open, squinting as they attempt to adjust to the growing light in the room.

“Arghhhh please?! Does he even need school? He can just be an uneducated driver! Like Lando, or Max!” Toto says his sleepy morning voice taking over.

“Toto!! Our children need schooling at least at this age. If they want to pursue karting that’s fine but right now they stay in school!” You exclaim, outraged at the thought of pulling your children out of education early.

“But I just want to stay here with you. And show you how much I love you!” He says, eyes fully opening and a smirk coming into his face, suggestion all over his tone.

“We’re all going to be late, come on! You’re the worst” you laugh, pulling the covers off the pair of you.

“Argh fine. I’ll get breakfast ready while you get ready for work” he offers, placing a kiss on your forehead before taking his glasses and sitting up right on the bed. You get out as well heading into the en-suite.

You have an uninterrupted shower, managing to wash your hair too. You step out drying yourself off hair included with the hairdryer in your dresser before choosing which suit you’d wear to the office today.

You sit at your vanity turning the light on, staring to do your less invasive skincare that didn’t need the sink.

A shuffling noise is behind you, making you eye the surrounding in the mirror seeing your daughter at the door.

“Morning mumma” your daughter says, coming closer to you, still in her pyjamas and blanket clutched in her little fist.

“Hi darling! You wanna come sit while mummy gets ready?” You ask her as you spin round on the chair to look at her so she knows you’re focused on her. She nods sleepily trotting over to you.

She was a quiet little girl, and so when it came to her sitting on your lap, watching you place on your skincare and makeup before moving onto your hair she didn’t cause any interruptions. Just curiously looked through your makeup, placing items carefully back where they belong.

It was way different when you did this with your son, who would fidget and try to look at what you had in the draws but putting it on his own skin. He’d put it down to wanting to ‘match with mummy’ which you always found endearing.

“Now … how do you want your hair?” You ask locking eyes with your daughter in the mirror. A thoughtful look on her face appears making you giggle before she motions for pigtails.

“And what are they called?” You asked knowing exactly what she would say.

“BIGTAILS!” She squeals happily making you laugh and start in her hair.

10 minutes later your daughter has her hair done and is back in her room, while you help her and your son put their school uniform on.

“You did your own shoes? Well done sweetie” you smile at your son, seeing her already put his shoes on the correct feet and done up the Velcro straps.

“I wanna do my own shoes too!” Your daughter says running into her wardrobe to grab them.

“Woah, both of you are becoming so grown up!” You exclaims however see your daughter begin to struggle to get her foot in the shoe.

You help her out and she hugs you as a thanks.

“Breakfast is ready!” You hear come from downstairs and you pick your daughter up knowing your son would want to do the stairs like normal. You stand in front of him, making sure he wouldn’t trip.

You meet Toto at the bottom of the stairs who’s acquired his dressing gown, a chill to the unused bottom floor of the home.

You get them set up on the table while Toto dishes out breakfast. A light kiss is placed on his cheek as you lean up to get it.

“Life couldn’t be better” you sigh sitting next to him and taking a sip of Orange Juice.

“You’re right, it couldn’t be” he smiles at you. God he wished you could stay in bed all day, but he also loved moments like this.

Domestic and Pure.

Taglist:

@littlebitchsposts @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @daemyratwst @lauralarsen @the-untamed-soul @thewulf @itsjustkhaos @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @summissss @gulphulp @starfusionsworld @jspitwall @sierruhhhh @georgeparisole @youcannotcancelquidditch @tallbrownhairsarcastic @ourteenagetragedy @peachiicherries @formulas-bitch @cherry-piee @spilled-coffee-cup @mehrmonga @curseofhecate @alliwantisadonut @dark-night-sky-99 @i-wish-this-was-me @tallrock35 @butterfly-lover @barnestatic @landossainz @darleneslane @barcelonaloverf1life @r0nnsblog @ilove-tswizzle @laneyspaulding19 @malynn @landosgirlxoxo @marie0v @yourbane @teamnovalak @nikfigueiredo @fionaschicken @0picels0 @tinydeskwriter @ironmaiden1313 @splaterparty0-0 @formula1mount

[witchslove]

service top reader and power bottom wanda's first time pretty pleaaasee with a cherry on top <3

Your first time with Wanda is soft and intimate, while also reflecting your dynamic.

You start by kissing her tenderly, letting your tongue tease her bottom lip as you work her up slowly. When you pull away, you trail your kisses down to her neck, nipping and sucking at the skin there and finding her most sensitive spots surprisingly quickly. You make a mental note of where they are, wanting to draw out more gasps and whimpers from the brunette.

You take your time, getting lost in the feeling of her beneath you. You feel overwhelmed in the best way, mesmerized by her scent, her sounds, the way she’s looking at you, the way she wants you as much as you want her. You feel your brain getting fuzzy as your lips make their way down to the top of her shirt.

“Can I take this off?” You ask, wanting consent before you start removing her clothes, wanting to make sure she’s ready to take this step with you.

Instead of giving a verbal answer, Wanda sits up and removes the shirt herself, smirking at the way you’re practically drooling over her in her bra.

“You’re so beautiful,” you manage, your eyes flicking up from the lace covering her breasts to her smiling face, her pupils dilated as she meets your gaze.

“You gonna do something about it or just keep staring?” She teases, taking your right hand in her own and bringing it up to her chest.

You nod in response, squeezing her full breast in your hand, letting your thumb brush over her nipple through the fabric of her bra. She sighs at the contact, leaning back against the pillow while you focus on making her feel good.

When she grows impatient with your teasing touches, needing more, she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra, biting her lip as she watches your mouth fall open at the sight of her bare chest, her nipples hard and practically begging for attention.

You look up at her almost pleadingly and she knows what you’re silently asking for. She brings a hand to the back of your head and guides you where she wants you. You waste no time, eagerly capturing one of her nipples between your lips and sucking softly on the hardened bud, making Wanda let out a breathy moan.

The sound makes you feel feral and you need to hear it again. Your hand comes up to squeeze her other mound, your thumb caressing the nipple that isn’t in your mouth as she trembles beneath you. You alternate between licking and sucking, her delicate whimpers and hushed moans driving you crazy with desire.

“Just like that, fuck,” Wanda says breathily, her hand still tangled in your hair, guiding your movements. The way she’s reacting to your touch and subtly taking control makes you wet and as much as you want to drag this out, you can’t deny how desperate you are for more.

Once you’ve given her other nipple the same attention with your mouth, your hand makes its way to the button of her jeans, playing with it as you pull away to look up at her. “Can I take these off?” You ask quietly, suddenly feeling shy under her intense gaze.

“Go ahead baby,” Wanda encourages, lifting her hips to help you remove her jeans. When you notice the wet spot on the front of her panties, a moan escapes your mouth before you can stop it and she smirks at your reaction.

“Take off my panties too,” she instructs gently, not wanting to wait any longer to feel you. She guides your hand with her own, bringing it to the hem of her underwear. You take over from there, slowly pulling the last article of clothing down her impossibly smooth legs.

You take a moment to appreciate the sight of her bare before you, your eyes inevitably falling to the space between her legs.

Her pussy glistens in the low light, her folds wet with her arousal, her clit peeking out from between them, and you feel your own core throb with desire. She’s breathtaking from head to toe, and she’s all yours.

Wanda finds amusement in how captivated you are with the sight of her, spreading her legs wider just to tease you.

You bite back another moan before leaning in closer, settling between her soft thighs as you look up at her. Her eyes are already on you, looking down at you expectantly with pure lust, and it makes you nervous. “Can I…” you trail off, suddenly feeling shy under her intense gaze.

“Use your words baby,” Wanda says teasingly, smiling at how unexpectedly submissive you are for her.

“Can I taste you?” You ask shakily, almost feeling embarrassed at how eager you sound.

“Yeah,” Wanda says with a nod, letting her hand find the back of your head once more.

You kiss the insides of her thighs, nipping at the soft skin, slowly making your way up to her core. Her scent drives you insane, she smells divine and you feel giddy at the thought of tasting her.

Still, you take your time, despite how badly you want to kiss her where she’s dripping for you. When she grows tired of your teasing, she takes control and guides your head up to where she wants you, your eager mouth meeting her soaked pussy in one motion. You moan into her at her taste, at the feeling of her soft folds against your mouth, your lips wet with her arousal.

You swipe your tongue through her glistening folds eagerly, licking up as much of her wetness as you can, before wrapping your lips around her clit.

“Fuck,” Wanda moans, her hips bucking at the feeling of your hot mouth on her sensitive bundle of nerves. “So good,” she praises, making your heart flutter and your panties even more ruined.

Your tongue draws circles on her clit while you suction your lips around it and Wanda throws her head back against the pillow, her eyes falling shut as her face contorts in pleasure.

You move a hand from her thigh towards her pussy, one finger sliding between her folds to tease her entrance, and her grip tightens in your hair. “Fuck me,” Wanda gasps out, her hips moving against your mouth with purpose as she chases her pleasure.

You immediately obey, sliding your finger inside and curling it against her tight walls, making her whimper. After a few thrusts, you add a second finger and push them in as deep as you can. She lets out another heavenly sound, her hips unable to stay still as you fuck her with your fingers.

You’re so lost in the way she looks, the way she tastes, the way her warm pussy clenches around your fingers, that you barely notice how close she is to cumming for you until she tells you.

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she moans, practically fucking your face, her thighs clamped around your head to keep you in place, as if you would even think about moving away from her.

“You’re doing so good for me, I’m gonna cum.” You can’t help but moan with her at her praises, the sound muffled by your mouth on her pussy.

With one long moan, she falls apart, her cum coating your fingers and chin as you continue to fuck her through it. You lick her clit languidly, helping her ride out her orgasm, and also selfishly not wanting to stop tasting her. You vaguely notice that you’re already close too, on the verge of cumming without even being touched. Getting her off is getting you off and it’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever experienced.

When her body finally relaxes into the bed, you give one last kiss to her clit before pulling away, slowly pulling your fingers out of her. She whines at the loss and you chuckle, crawling up her body to kiss her cheeks until she opens her eyes.

She looks up at you tiredly with a smile on her face and you find yourself leaning in to capture her lips with your own. She hums at the taste of herself on your lips and tongue, deepening the kiss as she pulls your body down against hers so she can feel close to you.

Eventually you pull apart to catch your breath, closing your eyes as you rest your forehead against hers, your noses touching. You can feel her breaths against your lips and it’s so intimate, you wish you could stay in this moment forever.

“You were so good for me, detka,” she whispers, making you blush. “Made me feel so good.”

You smile at the praise, already feeling slightly turned on again at the way she talks to you. “Kinda wanna do it again,” you mumble, huffing out a gentle laugh.

Wanda grins at your words. “That good, huh?” She teases, making you groan. “Give me a minute and I’ll let you fuck me again, how’s that sound?”

You nod frantically, leaning in to kiss her almost desperately, excited at the prospect of getting to make her feel good again.

[animationnut]

Life's Purpose

Day 6: Pets

Ao3 link here!

...

After the Flynn-Fletcher kids discovered Perry was a secret agent, they spent the first week charging into activities with their platypus with explosive enthusiasm. They ate meals together in shadowy corners of restaurants, with Perry insisting Candace pay for the food with his credit card. They played board games until midnight, laughing and bickering, until Linda banged on Phineas and Ferb’s bedroom door and told them to go to bed. Phineas and Ferb built Perry a collar that would translate his sounds into English with a flip of a dial, and Candace didn’t even think about busting them.

But when the bliss faded away at the edges, some thoughts occurred to the kids. Candace winced as she recalled all the mean things she spat at Perry, and for a childhood of shoving him into sparkly doll dresses. Ferb considered that perhaps Perry wasn’t the most comfortable whenever he would drag the platypus across the lawn to chase a ball Phineas had thrown. Phineas worried about all the times he lugged Perry around like a sack of flour.

While Perry was out on his mission, Candace, Phineas, and Ferb clustered on the couch, Phineas holding a notebook and pen, and started brainstorming ideas to make Perry’s life more comfortable. “I know he’s a platypus, but he clearly enjoys human food,” Phineas spoke. “So what can we make him for meals?”

“Hmm, we could do up some salads, sandwiches, crackers, cheese and deli meat,” said Candace thoughtfully. “Easy meals to prep that won’t make Mom suspicious.”

Phineas wrote them down. “Great! We can probably clear out his toys.” His smile faltered, and Ferb set a hand on his shoulder. “I hope he didn’t hate playing fetch or tug of war with us too much.”

“We can get him some nice body wash for his baths,” suggested Ferb. “Instead of the pet soap.”

Candace nodded. “That’s a good idea. That stuff is nasty.”

“Oh, his own pillow and blanket,” said Phineas.

There was a stretch of silence as they stared at the lined paper, trying to think of more things they could do for Perry. “Maybe a cushion for the car?” voiced Candace. “So he doesn’t have to sit in someone’s lap?”

“And we can put the cage in the basement,” said Phineas with a nod. “Definitely don’t need that. Oh, man, I feel bad for all the times we put him in there.”

His eyes were downcast. Candace frowned. “Yeah, it was probably like a jail. But we had no idea he was more than just a platypus.”

“Well, now that we know, we’re gonna make sure we give him everything he needs.” Phineas’ eyes glinted with determination. “C’mon, guys, let’s keep thinking.”

When Perry arrived home from his mission, the first thing he did, and the first thing he’d always done since being adopted by the Flynn-Fletchers, was to go in search of his kids. He found them in the boys’ room, hunched over a notebook, with Phineas twirling a pen between his fingers.

He gave a curious chatter, and three heads turned to face him. “Oh, there you are, Perry!” Phineas said cheerfully.

He and Ferb slipped off of Phineas’ bed and ran to give Perry a hug. He squeezed them tight, a sensation he would never ever get sick of, and padded after them to rejoin Candace. She reached out with outstretched fingers, but she paused just before scratching his head. She bumped his shoulder with her fist instead. “Hi, Perry. How was the mission?”

He gave a thumbs-up. It was an average run of the mill fight with Doofenshmirtz. He pointed at the notebook his kids had been so focussed on, and Phineas slid it over to him. “Let us know if we’re missing anything.”

What Perry Needs

Real food – make him salads, sandwiches, snack trays, etc.

Blanket and pillow

No cage – apologize for making him go in it

No toys – donate to animal shelter

Stop calling Perry meatbrick, loser, etc.

Cushion for car

Body wash

Get rid of pictures where I forced him into dresses

Ask to carry him or pet him

Appalled by the list his kids had created, Perry immediately tore it up into tiny pieces. “Hey!” said Candace in surprise. “What was that for?”

Perry grabbed the notebook and pen from Phineas and started writing furiously. Phineas peered at his siblings in bewilderment, but they just shrugged in response.

Tossing the pen over his shoulder, Perry held out the list he had created and tapped it forcefully. Phineas, Ferb, and Candace leaned forwards so they could read it.

What Perry Needs

His family

I’m a platypus. I love human food, but bugs are also very delicious

Candace’s bed, Phineas’ bed, Ferb’s bed

The perfectly good cage lined with comfy blankets that was my safe space when I was a pup

Do not touch my toys, you bought them for me, no other animal can have them. I especially like the squeaky hamburger. It is very satisfying

You better keep calling me a meatbrick and loser. That’s how I know you love me, you brat

I don’t need a cushion, I need a lap

Body wash does sound nice

Don’t touch the pictures

You never ever have to ask to carry me or pet me

Phineas’ dark blue eyes welled with tears. “So you didn’t hate it when we played fetch with you or carried you around?” he asked hopefully, his voice hitching slightly.

Perry wrapped his arms around Phineas’ torso, and the boy buried his face against Perry’s warm fur. He turned on the dial on his new collar. Though he preferred communicating without it, he wanted to make he got his message across loud and clear.

“Not once, not ever, have you annoyed me or bothered me,” said Perry fiercely.

“But you’re so smart, and we treated you like a normal pet,” said Candace, picking at a loose thread on Phineas’ blanket. “Didn’t that, like, humiliate you?”

“No!” said Perry, horrified. He eased back from Phineas and looked between his kids urgently. “Where is all of this coming from? Of course it didn’t humiliate me. I am a pet. I’m YOUR pet. Every second spent with you has made my life worth living.”

Phineas beamed. Ferb itched at a spot just below his eyes. Candace sniffled. “Aw, Perry.”

“That’s meatbrick to you,” said Perry lightly. “And I don’t know about you, but that fist bump thing earlier was weird.”

“It was,” agreed Candace, scratching Perry’s head, giggling when he purred.

“I suppose we’ve been overthinking things,” mused Ferb.

Phineas rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess we started worrying that because you’re a super cool secret agent, you might not always have liked being treated like a pet.”

Perry raised a finger, eyes narrowing. “Being a secret agent is my job. Being your pet? Like I said, that’s my life. I can live without my job. I can’t live without being your pet.”

He opened his arms wide, and the kids gathered him up in a group hug. Their arms squished against his body and it was perfect. Candace nuzzled her nose against his side, Ferb rested his forehead against his temple, and Phineas tucked his chin against the top of Perry’s head.

“I love you,” said Perry, his voice surging with emotion. Never in a million years could he express just how much he loved them, but he would have to settle with the most important phrase in existence.

“We love you too,” murmured Phineas.

“You said the body wash sounded nice, right?” said Candace. “Let’s go get some. It’s gotta make you smell nicer, you little meatbrick.”

Perry looked at her with twinkling eyes. He squeezed her nose teasingly before switching off the dial on his collar. He gave an enthusiastic nod and gave a happy rumble when Ferb scooped him up into his arms.

Defeating evil was important, sure. But being the pet of Phineas, Ferb, and Candace? That was his life’s purpose.

[monstersflashlight]

Patreon Commission for Elise

Request: Butler (Monster) x Fem Chubby Reader: Honestly you can take full creative direction with this one. However to note the Reader is the heir to her father’s company and the butler has been working for their family since they were both children (i.e they were friends when they were younger they would play with each other but then as they grew older they stared to have their respective responsibilities). If the monster could be a Minotaur that would be great. Thank you. (Also NSFW if possible)

Company policy

Minotaur x fem!reader || dry humping, heavy make out, dirty talk, (light) boob-worship || tw: specisim (like racism but monsters), (very light) classism

The fucking specism with monsters is so blatant in the company that, once you are high enough position, you start to want to make changes. You already knew it was bad when you were just a teen, but lately, being “taught” how to control the company next to your dad…

You hate it.

You hate how they treat their lower employees, most of them monsters… You are so sick of it, you want to make changes, starting with firing your dad for trying to steal money from the company without the board noticing. Too bad that he’s not smarter than you, or than any of the members for the matter.

You were already talking to some investors before all the scandal blew up, but now? The board would 100% side with you, already wanting to make some changes around the company and expecting you to be the first to take a step towards the future. New blood, younger blood, but most of all… not specisits as your father is.

You are just out of the boardroom when everyone tries to stop you to congratulate you on being the new CEO. They all want to say some words encouragement. But you are having none of it. Your father left happily, not a single care in the world after being offered a huge sum to remain silent and step down quietly.

You are happy that he accepted, but right now you couldn’t care less about him or any of the others. The only thing in your mind is the awful way you left things with the only one that mattered to you. That mattered truly. You were scared by your new responsibilities, and he was ready to take his father’s job as the family butler. It felt so wrong when you walked away from him, but you didn’t know better, you didn’t know what to do…

But now, now you do. And you need to face your past mistakes in hopes to make better choices next time. Smarter choices. Especially the ones relating the awesome minotaur you left behind when you least wanted to. So you walk to him, waiting at the door of your office like he always does, silently staring at you.

“I feel like we haven’t talked in ages,” you let out, trying to hide your own embarrassment at the obvious stupidity of the catch phrase.

You see each other every day, when he brings your packages up, when he opens the door, even when he helps you get stuff to your car. He’s always around, but you barely talk more than necessary. You just grew up to be the stuck up your father once was. But you are so tired of acting like that all the fucking time. You hate how it drove you away from one of the best things in your life. How it drove you away from him.

“Can we have coffee? Talk?” He stares at you for a beat, not saying anything but nodding once, following you to the little coffee corner you have on one of the empty offices on the top floor.

He doesn’t say anything about that either, but you know what he’s thinking. You signal for him to sit down and you prepare his coffee how he used to have it back in the day, setting the coffees on the table and sitting in front of him. The love-seats are ugly in the best way possible, comfortable and nice against your back.

“What is this about?” He asks, looking around, humming appreciatively when he takes a sip of his coffee. You don’t fist pump the air, but you are close to it.

“I want to make changes to the company. Monsters are as capable of any human, and it’s time they are hired and compensated accordingly,” you start, feeling self-conscious as he just stares at you. “And I want to hire you as my personal assistant,” you add.

He scoffs, asking a short: “Why?”

“Because you excelled all your classes in college, we might not be in the same major, but we shared a lot of classes and I noticed. And you deserve so much more than a butler job.” I let out in a rush, realizing a beat too late how bad that sounds. “Not that there’s nothing bad with being a butler. Shit, I sound classist now, do I?” You let out a degrading laugh, feeling like you are messing everything up.

He doesn’t comment on your awful words, but asks something else instead: “And what if I tell you I don’t want to be your assistant?” He’s staring intently, and you are glad he didn’t say no and walked away directly.

You take a deep breath. “Then I won’t force you. I will give you a rise in your butler job, though. But that’s not for you!” You rapidly explain. “Either you accept or not, the position is going to be better compensated.”

“Why?” He asks again, licking his licks after another sip of his coffee. Fuck, you miss that tongue.

“Because I want to be better. I want this company to be better,” you tell him, truthfully.

“And how are you going to convince your father of that?” He says with a huff of amusement, making you almost smile at him.

But then you opt for the truth: “I fired him,” and watch him sputter his coffee out as you let out the laugh that you were holding back.

“And why tell me all this?” He asks after a beat, his eyes filled with emotions you don’t know how to name.

“Because…” You take a deep breath. “Because I wanted you to know.” He arcs an eyebrow, crooking his head to the side and almost knocking the hanging art on the wall down. “Because you are still important to me, okay? My feelings didn’t disappear when we broke up. I was just scared and, and…”

He stands up, stepping over the table as if it wasn’t even there (his legs are that long), and kneeling in front of you. “Are you scared now?”

“Not anymore,” you whisper, hopeful.

That’s all it takes for him to lean forward and claim your mouth in a kiss that feels possessive. Like he’s claiming you with his mouth, and good goddess if it doesn’t feel good to be claimed. You give him as much as he gives you, kissing him the way you want to own him. And he moans, making you feel like floating on a cloud.

You grab onto his horns as he deepens the kiss, hugging your middle and pulling you forward until he’s sitting on the floor with you on his lap. You feel frantic, rubbing your body against his like a cat seeking for attention. He trails a series of kisses down your neck, licking your throat with his too big tongue and sending sparks of arousal down your spine until your panties are so wet you are worried there’s a spot of juices on your crotch.

“Mmmm I missed you sweet you smelled when you are all wet for me,” he whispers against your collarbone, making you hornier.

He pushes your hips down, grinding up at the same time and short-circuiting your brain as you let out a very undignified moan. He huffs a laugh and does it again. And again. And again. And before you realize you are helping him, rubbing your clothed pussy against the front of his pants.

You can’t look down as you guide his head with his horns as handles towards your shirt. He opens the buttons, pulling down your bra until he’s nipping and licking your nipples and you are an absolute mess. You grind against his erection, rubbing yourself shamelessly as you moan his name and he worships your boobs.

And you come. Just like that. You let out a cry that sounds like his name and you feel a gush of juices wetting your panties and pants as you come very messily on his lap.

“Did you just come in my lap, little morsel?” He asks, the smug tone making you look down in embarrassment. “Don’t hide from me, you know I like when you are extra needy for me,” he says, pushing your face up with a finger in your chin. You nod shyly. “Now, now. I hope your chair is a bit more comfortable than the floor, because I seem to remember you need to ride a bull-cock to be fully satisfied…” He rubs his still hard dick up, and you shiver, nodding with your face as red as a tomato. He gets up with you on his arms, kissing your neck and whispering: “I’m not going to be your assistant, but I’ll claim the position as your boyfriend.” You laugh, grabbing his horns again and kissing him until he’s pressing you against the closed door of your office.

Firing your father is the best decision you ever taken… Well, after fucking your minotaur boyfriend on your office.

[muffinsin]

Hi muffin I was wondering how the sisters would react to a gf that is so touch starved that even just kisses on their neck can almost make them fall apart. And how they handle their clinginess after they get used to the kisses cuddles and hugs! Fluffy or smut is cool. Or both Fluff anon

Hey, hon! Let’s find out!👀🥳

Masterlist

Bela

Bela likes to think she isn’t a clingy person

Even more so, she likes claiming she isn't one

That being said- she does enjoy your clinginess plenty

It's a way for her to be clingy, too, without showing it or making it obvious. If you did pick up on it and pointed it out, she'd recoil, shame burning in her stomach. Yes. She would not claim herself to be clingy- obsessed, possessive, jealous, yes, but never clingy- but loves your clinginess

She likes to work, knowing you miss her, and enjoys feeling you throw your arms around her and cuddle to her front, your face hidden in her neck, when you see her again

She loves hearing you say you missed her as you cuddle into her

And deep inside, she loves when she feels you tear up, whimpering about how you missed her and how terribly boring it was without her

Adorable, to her

Devotion, to her

Your clinginess leaves her feeling- wanted, needed. She craves it. And while she prioritizes finishing her work even knowing you miss her, she enjoys coming back to you and seeing how eager you are to be with her again

Selfishly, perhaps, she wants you to always feel this way

She can’t- won’t- help it

It’s so lovely to feel this wanted, she thinks. So lovely to be needed after all those who used to rely on her- mainly her sisters- grew to be independent and strong, missing her only in small ways, yet never enough to be with her or even think of her all the time

When she is free, she too welcomes your clinginess

She’s certainly used to it from the time she was younger and Daniela in particular would spend day and night practically stuck to her, watching all she does with wide eyes and coos as though trying to learn all she could from her sister, whining for attention when bored and demanding to play or hunt down a maid for fun again, dozing off and curling up in her bed, hidden beneath the blankets at night during thunderstorms. Or perhaps Cassandra, growling and snarling, demanding she is protecting her after the little thing scared herself after a nightmare and stuck to her side for what must have been a week, going so far as to snarl at the door when she would work or bathe, demanding to hear her sister is alive and well. A difficult time, though not entirely an unwelcome one, given just how needed and useful it had her feel

Nonetheless, as such, it’s almost ridiculously easy for her to get used to your clinginess

She lets you hold her hand, always, and welcomes every kiss

To her, it’s all a form of worship

In return, she finds your clinginess and just how very touch starved you are utterly adorable

She will only rarely say it, though her teasing actions and gentle smiles are enough to tell, easily so

She loves flustering you by kissing your neck or making you sit on her lap, her large chest flush against your back, her warm breath against your sensitive throat

Sometimes, she does bite, will feed from you. Most of the time, she enjoys hearing your precious heart go pitter-patter knowing she might, or she might not dig in. It's a thrill to her, and she finds you extremely adorable in this state

Her favorite thing to do is to fluster you like this, as well as with teasing touches. She likes seeing your face get red and warm for her and loves to cup it when it is, her lips pressing lightly to yours as she coos about how cute you're being

Her precious little human

Of course, when a particular mood strikes her, Bela also quite enjoys your clinginess and inexperience in bed

She loves to make you feel flustered here, too, in many different ways

Her favorite, though?

That position is easily taken by one of her favorite ways of having you; her hand easily holding both of your wrists above your head to prevent you from hiding away your flushed face, your legs spread wide for her, her strap buried deep inside of you while she cups your face with her free hand

She loves fucking you into a flustered state, loves to feel your cheek heat up more and more for her, right below her fingertips

At other times she has you merely sit on her lap, her legs easily spreading yours apart, her fingers toying with you between your thighs

Often, she'll lick across your neck and place little kisses and bites, smirking and chuckling lowly when she feels your skin heat up for her and your heart beat faster

You find yourself in this position particularly often, your quick beating heart, loving, wide eyes and ability to become flustered from even the smallest things never fail to turn her on, or have her want to keep you as close as possible. Both, ideally

Lastly, another favorite way of hers to tease and keep you on edge

Bela is by no means as sadistic as her sisters, one would think

You know better, to a certain extend

Mainly when she has you sit completely bare on her lap in her bed chambers, her hands sliding across your body as she reads. Often, being like this isn't sexual at the start. She merely enjoys how flustered you are in this state, how you cling to her a tad bit tighter and hide away in her neck occasionally, jumping whenever she rubs your ass or neck

To her, you're perfect

Cassandra

Cassandra, much unlike her sisters, is hardly used to clinginess, nor particularly appreciative of it

Even in a relationship, Cassandra is not the type to be with her partner the majority of every day, often only seeing them an hour or two a day, even, far too busy hunting or playing around in the basement, unwilling to take a human down to the cellars with her

You- change things up a little

She doesn't want to hurt you, doesn't want to make you feel abandoned when she's gone for hours at a time with no warning, even

She doesn't understand your clinginess, having never had someone be overly clingy around her, unsurprisingly

Maidens flee from her, previous partners were often still wary around her, knowing the danger she is. And even her sisters knew not to be around her for too long, to stick too close and talk to her for hours to no end, knowing it would only make her feel restless and pushed to a corner

Cassandra likes solidarity, enjoys the peace and comfort of it

And even in a relationship, she isn't bothered about being alone. If anything, knowing she can come back to you when ready is comforting to her, even as she wouldn't admit it

That being said, she does eventually pick up on your unhappiness regarding just that

She hears you whine about how you missed her and doesn't quite understand

She feels you wrap your arms around her and hold her hand whenever you can, which takes a good amount of time getting used to

Especially in public, she isn't always eager to hold hands- she is no stuffed animal, she insists!- though she is willing to compromise and hold yours beneath the table at dinner, a light flush on her cheeks

And while she isn't quite a cuddler, she does enjoy feeling you curl up against her in bed, your smaller form curling against hers, your heartbeat calming, slowing, as you doze off

She doesn't mind this particularly much, though does get restless after cuddling for a while, full of energy she can't release by just cuddling

What she is and has always been a fan of, however, is flustering you

Much like her sisters Cassandra is a huge tease, and finds you're just utterly precious to tease

She calls you her little mouse, snaking up on you and wrapping her arms around you from the back, her hands usually slowly exploring your front or holding you in place by your hips

Sometimes, she does this deliberately just before feeding from you

At other times, it starts out with slow, hungry kisses to your throat, her teeth dragging against you and biting down only softly, just enough to trap your flesh as she marks you

She loves how you squirm, loves when she has to hold you up because your legs give out

She loves how even a small action like creating marks along your neck can make you melt and moan, cling to her as though she's all keeping you afloat

Though, this pleasure usually comes with the pain of her teeth eventually sinking in, too

You can only tempt a predator so much, after all, before she strikes

She isn't overly rough with you, eager to keep her little mouse intact. Ah, but she does bite, will hold you tight as she drinks, moaning against your throat, her hands often wandering a little here and there

Ah, and Cassandra loves to drink from you. Seeing as just the smallest touches get you excited, she tastes the pleasure course through you each time she tastes a drop of your blood

In no time it becomes her drug of choice. Given she could, you're sure she would drink from you every day. Instead, she often opts for feeding from you one day, then only sucking on the wound and surrounding area for the next couple of days, allowing you to recover and regain your strength

She would hate to suck you dry, after all

And while Bela might take a more gentle approach given you were with her, Cassandra is bold, rough, feral, hungry even in bed

She loves to tie you up, your arms behind your back, your legs spread wide, privates revealed to her, your body at her disposal

Helpless, like a sweet little mouse. Like prey

She cares little for how quickly you become flustered, will cup your cheek with mock sweetness and groan hotly as your heartbeat picks up, going faster, faster, faster with every touch

She loves trying different things on you, loves to corrupt and make you take it all

Often, this is how you find yourself moaning and whimpering on her lap, her fingers stuffed inside of you to feel you pulse around her, her lips attached to your throat, her other arm slung around you and holding you in place for however long she deems she wants to play with you

Ah, but you are her good little mouse

Hers, and only hers

She is not particularly clingy, no. But she shows her affections to you, shows how much you mean to her in her own ways, makes up for the time she is away by showering you in her attention and intensity when she is with you

Daniela

Much unlike her older sister, and far more outright open than her eldest sister, Daniela is clingy

She loves to love, and she loves to express it

Being clingy means just that to her

She wants to spend her time with you, wants you with her whenever she can bring you along

She thinks, life is so much nicer when she gets to spend her time with you. Her favorite activities- reading, hunting, cuddling, sparring- are so much more fun with you right there!

As such, Daniela not only loves your clinginess, as it makes her feel equally wanted- but welcomes it and easily reciprocates it

She loves when you're openly clingy with her, too

It makes her feel so utterly loved when you throw your arms around her, claiming you missed her so dearly, even when she has barely been gone

She's big on physical affection, much unlike her older sisters, regardless of where you are

Daniela loves to hold your hand, her thumb often stroking along the back of your hand as she skips ahead, giggling happily and squeezing your hand every few seconds

She likes holding onto your arm, or having you hold hers, and is the type to fluster you by randomly kissing you throughout the day

In return, she becomes absolutely giddy should you muster up the courage to do the same, often leaving her a blushing, smiling mess when you pull away again, her taste still lingering on your tongue

With Daniela, she will always appreciate when you come to cuddle

Though, you usually find yourself surrounded by a pile of flies, blankets, and your girlfriend curled against you at least in the mornings and at night. Often too, when she naps

Generally, Daniela loves to cuddle at any time of the day, often coming to you after a successful hunt, finally rid of the almost endless amount of energy within her, only to fall down on top of you, giggling and kissing you, curling up before dozing off in the end

Sexually, she thinks it's adorable how touched starved you are. She can't help it, really, having much more experience than you and being capable of dragging little noises or gasps from you from the smallest of touches

Naturally, she enjoys your neck in particular, often kissing and randomly biting down when you cuddle, her hands wandering and tongue licking feverishly against your bloodied throat

She loves to feel you shiver for her, giggles when your breath hitches and you clutch her sides for dear life

Oh, and how utterly adorable it is when she's intimate with you

One of her favorite things to do is explore toys together

Another favorite of hers is to be close, as close as possible, especially during sex

As such, you sometimes find yourself wrapped in her arms, her moans hot in your ear, yours in hers making her shiver

Between you, a vibrator wand, bringing you both enough pleasure to make you see stars after a while, especially if she combines this with the use of her fingers in one of you, or her tongue at your throat

Her hips grinding down on you, her breath by your ear and throat, her lips messily smearing against you, her chest pressed against yours and your heartbeat loud in her ears

She loves it

It's beautiful, romantic, clingy in the best way

She loves to feel you, to let you feel her

Equally, Daniela enjoys offering you new experiences and introducing you to new things

She likes to try out toys with you, often giggling as she tests for your reaction to them. If she particularly likes it, you're almost always sure to see her use it on you again, cooing about how adorable you are as she cups your hot cheeks and kisses you

Equally, she encourages you to find what you enjoy, often willing to try something out for you- lingerie she eagerly poses in, toys she tries out on you or allows you to try out on her, positions she guides the two of you in

She never makes fun of you for your lack of experience or how touched starved you are and just rarely teases you for it

Though, she does enjoy your flustered face

Especially so when she kisses you and your throat

[lazy4honey]

Insidious Waters

I felt encouraged so I wrote more and now it’s about 6k words.

Trigger Warning: thalassophobia, claustrophobia, a creeping change of the reader’s body, way of thinking, and perception (including food)

Contains: tentacles / koromodako x gender neutral reader; dub-con, insidious, i.e. gradual, subtle but harmful, assimilation; nipple play, penetration, lots of 💦, belly bulge, cumflation, a form of sex pollen, orgy, breeding, oviposition, NSFW & MDNI

✧ Good to know: a merrow is a mermaid or merman in Irish folklore

✧ : a koromodako is an octopus-like yokai that appears small and can grow to large sizes, big enough to engulf fish or big ships, and then shrink again

Don’t like, don’t read!

Five years ago, they caught a merrow near the northwestern Dalay Coast. They were brought into a research facility far inland, and then never heard of again.

There were protests against this treatment of the ocean folk in the beginning, but those soon died down. With the ocean constantly encroaching on the continent, there were many more personal things to worry about.

Then, you were invited to join an expedition. The vessel for this expedition would be the luxury cruiser sized submarine Athena, and the goal was to catch more sea merfolk and study them while on board. Even if you didn’t want to, you had no choice but to agree.

There were many people boarding the Athena this early morning when the pale dawn had just started to illuminate the foggy sea. The huge submarine resembled a behemoth lying in wait amidst the gentle waves, making your heart sink in trepidation as you gazed at it and clutched your sparse luggage. They’d told you that you wouldn’t need a lot down there, but as always, they weren’t to be fully trusted.

The queue moved forward. You swallowed nervously and couldn’t help thinking of that merrow they’d caught back then. Had they gleaned any insights from that capture, or were they just as clueless as in the beginning, which was why they sent you on this expedition? It was hard to say, and worrying to think about.

“Are you alright?”

You turned back. A towering orc lady was looking at you worriedly.

“You seem a little pale.”

You forced a smile, “Just nervous, thank you.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t understand why you’re thanking me, but you’re welcome.”

That got a chuckle out of you. Right, humans and their politeness were very strange to other beings residing on Pangea. Even elves with their mellifluous language had a more direct way of speaking than most humans. Or maybe it was more… sincere?

Anyway, such qualities were much appreciated.

There was a disturbance at the front of the queue; someone has forgotten their documents and was now getting into an argument.

The orc lady behind you sighed, “Just how long do we have to wait before we van set off?”

You thought about it, “Probably a few hours.”

She groaned.

Time passed slowly, and eventually, boredom made people get creative. Sitting down to read or paint, making some last calls before the connection was gone, downloading a slew of videos and podcasts, playing games or simply chatting with nearby people, all brought some liveliness into the long queue.

As such, you learned that the orc lady was named Flora, specialized in maritime shell creatures and their reproduction cycles, and was comically clumsy at fighting. She laughed when she said that her mother had kicked her out because of that last part.

Later, a few others joined your conversation, and by the time the sun had reached its zenith, you finally stepped on board of the Athena. It was just the compression chamber, but a little step is still a step.

Only after adjusting to the pressure were you allowed to truly enter the submarine. As the name hinted at, the Athena was built for gathering intel and preparing for a potential war with the ocean dwellers. Because of this, there were many researchers from various areas of expertise on board, all tasked with uncovering the secrets of the unfathomable depths.

From the inside, despite being tight and narrow to the point of triggering claustrophobia, the Athena didn’t look like an expedition vessel. It seemed more like a luxury cruiser, with an elegant lobby displaying a false sky through a digital dome and many potted plants cluttering the space between the intimately spaced seating areas. The sleeping arrangements were also very lavish — or rather, having a single person cabin with a bunk bed over a desk and its own bathroom was considered lavish for a submarine.

You stowed away your luggage, then followed the floor plan to the canteen. Following the overall style though, it was more of a restaurant. It made you feel like each meal could be your last before your inevitable death. As a result, the appetizing dishes all ended up being tasteless when they entered your mouth.

In the evening, after another tasteless dinner and a long steam bath, you lay in bed reading a book when there was an announcement. They said that everyone had boarded, so the teams currently on shift would do one last round of checks before the Athena would set off. If everything went well, by tomorrow morning, you would already be under the waves when you woke up again.

The following days, you barely noticed that you were inside a huge metal can diving deeper and deeper into the dark abyss that was the ocean. You followed your usual routine of eating, working, and entertaining yourself as you did on land, the only difference being the different colleagues and your occasional chat with Flora. Through the thick glass of the portholes, you saw the deep blue water, and sometimes when your thoughts drifted staring at that endless expanse, you meant to see something moving far away in the distance.

From then on, things got… strange. Your research still went as usual, but… for instance, when you were washing your hands and glanced up at the mirror, the reflected image you saw was blurred, a little like the mirror had fogged up. And in that reflection, your eyes carried an abysmal darkness unseen in any creature on land. Their gaze caught you, fascinated you, lured you with unspoken promises you couldn’t even put into thoughts, much less words.

Apart from this, the water in your bathroom smelled strange. You asked Flora and a few other people, but the water turned out to smell strange everywhere, so you unhappily decided to put this matter aside. Maybe the pressure was impacting your sense of smell? Or the water-filtration system couldn’t get rid of the deep sea’s unique stink, which was honestly more likely.

One evening, amidst the water’s weird scent, you unexpectedly fell asleep during your steam bath. Your mind was in a daze, resting on the fringes of consciousness. The water filling the bathtub splashed against you, and you vaguely felt something move next to you.

It was cold and smooth, almost slimy, feeling strange as it brushed against your bare skin. When it touched you, you recognized it as a pair of tentacles. They wandered over your body in an exploratory manner, poking and squeezing every now and then.

Then one of the tentacles poked your nipple. You moaned uncontrollably. The previous touches had already made heat pool in your abdomen like a lava lake, and touching you there only made it boil over.

Seemingly intrigued by your reaction, the tentacles focused their attention on your chest. They stroked up and down, feeling your areoles and tugging at your nipples, circling around the temperature sensitive nubs with their cold tips. Your nipples quickly became erect, and you unconsciously squirmed in your daze.

It was as if your world narrowed down to only the sensations on your chest. The cold tentacles sent sparks along your nerves into your brain and crotch, igniting a deep desire that set your body aflame. Your mouth hung open as you panted and bucked your hips, rubbing your thighs against each other for more stimulation, and then you came. Like the gently splashing waves in your bathtub, the orgasm washed over you. It was an almost cathartic feeling, as if something hidden deep within you had been quietly unlocked.

When you woke from this more than pleasant dream, the water was already cold. It reminded you of the two tentacles that had rubbed your chest and nipples into an orgasm, and your abdomen couldn’t help tightening with renewed desire. You subconsciously touched the erection between your thighs, and with just that slight bit of pressure, you came again. Your loud moan echoed in the narrow bathroom, back arching and toes curling.

Afterwards, you lay panting in the tub for a while before getting up to empty the bath and take a quick shower. Then you went to bed.

The next few days were very peaceful, only haunted by the occasional sudden nap that came with hazy wet dreams about a bundle of black tentacles roaming all over your body. Other than that, you felt fine. Maybe even better than before.

The same couldn’t be said about your colleagues. It wasn’t only you who felt that the water smelled strange, and strange dream-like experiences weren’t limited to you, either. Multiple people couldn’t deal with the change of smell, to the point where they went to check on the water filtration system only to find nothing. And those dreams were mostly unpleasant, with cold hands groping them, wet kelp entangling their limbs, or something unfathomable and unspeakable staring them down, making them feel unsafe as long as they were underwater.

But the Athena wouldn’t resurface for at least another month. Unless things went terribly haywire, but even then there was no guarantee that this huge submarine would make it back up…

A few days later, just when some people had started getting better — or maybe just used to it — the Athena suddenly shook.

It was like an earthquake. The hull creaked and groaned, the violent shaking making it impossible to stand still, and alarms blared throughout the decks as machines were damaged. People rushed back and forth to take care of their respective responsibilities, you among them, doing your best to reach your lab. Upon opening the door, shards of broken glass flew through the air and cut your protectively raised arms. For some reason, those few drops of blood smelled particularly pungent at this moment.

Disregarding the shards, you went forward to secure the remaining containers and utensils. It wasn’t really useful, but at least it was something to do.

You managed to busy yourself for quite a while, and only poked your head out again when the submarine had stopped shaking.

The Athena was a mess. A slew of items and fragments was scattered throughout the hallways and a few lights were malfunctioning, eerily shining their flickering light on a bunch of crying, wounded, and even some dead people. It was horrifying.

Later, after the Athena had been roughly repaired and the corpses were moved to the morgue, you heard from Flora that the submarine had been attacked by the ocean folk. The people in the cockpit had made eye contact with a hollow-eyed merrow the size of a blue whale, and then huge black tentacles had grabbed the submarine and squeezed it. Considering everything, it was a blessing so many people were still alive.

Of course, not everyone saw it that way.

Until the submarine reached the target location at the bottom of the sea a week later, the mood on board remained depressed. Everyone got their shit together, and the first exploration team got into the shuttle. They returned just an hour later, making the eagerly waiting people assume they’d run into trouble until they saw it—

The merrow.

She had deep green hair, and scales of the same color covering her skin and fishtail. Compared to a human, she was big, but from her features she appeared like a teenager. The reactions brought by her appearance were varied, from fondly remembering their own children to lust and the desire to take her apart, a whole array of emotions displayed before your eyes.

You felt pity. That was, until the laboratory ‘taking care’ of her was slaughtered. The merrow had somehow broken through the thick, bulletproof glass of the tank they kept her in and ensnared them with her song, inducing them to kill each other.

This time, you felt relief. It was good that the ocean folk weren’t helpless against you land dwellers.

Regarding matters of violence, your sympathy towards your kin was truly limited.

The exploration teams regularly took the shuttle out and brought back various ocean folk. After the experience with the merrow, those fishtailed creatures were only brought back dead. If the researchers wanted to observe them in action, they would have to join the exploration teams on the shuttle. Not many were willing to do so, so the daily ‘gifts’ were limited to corpses and unknown creatures found to be too lacking in intellect to be considered a threat.

Then, you got a ‘plant’. It was a cluster of black tentacles resembling a handful of thick seagrass, but you actually recognized them — those tentacles from your dreams. When they sensed you from within the container, they flocked to the glass, pressing themselves almost flat against it just to be closer to you. You felt their excitement and eagerness, and smiled fondly as you looked at them.

Your colleagues just thought you had finally found your fixation. They had no idea that when you remained alone in the lab for ‘overtime’ you actually opened the container. The black tentacles waved happily and crawled out and into your hands. It felt strange to hold them, a tangle of cold and slimy appendages consisting of pure muscle and nothing else.

They hugged your wrists, then started to expand, quickly swelling in size until they were just as big as you remembered. Their touch ignited the fire in your abdomen, and your breathing got rough just from watching them playfully fiddle with your fingers. They must’ve perceived your arousal as they stilled a moment, and then stretched themselves long and flat to make their way beneath your clothes.

You felt them move across your body, spreading all over you in a cold embrace. They curled around your nipples, rubbing and tugging in that familiar way that made your erection press against your underwear within seconds, and made their way further down to your crotch. A few tentacles slipped beneath your foreskin to caress your engorged glans, others wandered along to press against your leaking hole, and then one finally penetrated you.

It explored your insides in a fervent manner, cold slime mixing with your heat, and the moment it grazed a certain spot you came. Your cum squirted over the tentacles and stained your white lab uniform’s pants while you pressed a hand over your mouth, trying your best to muffle your blissful moans.

The tentacle inside you squirmed when you clenched around it. You felt it pulse and swell, and then it discharged its own cold, sticky cum. It was so much it made your belly bulge a little bit, like you’d just eaten something.

A moment later, a second tentacle squeezed itself through your tight entrance into your hole. Some slimy cum dribbled out with this action, and as the tentacles intertwined they expanded within you, stretching you with their girth. And then they started thrusting. Deep, slow thrusts hit your core as they bottomed out, wonderfully sliding in and out of you with the greatest of ease. Tears of ecstasy clouded your eyes as you came again, biting back your cries while a little puddle formed on your seat.

The tentacles were naturally sensitive to your emotions. They crawled up along your spine and swelled a little, wiping away your tears and forcing open your mouth so they could stuff themselves inside. Their tips entangled your tongue, and they trembled when you bit down on them, their trusts turning messy as they shot their cold cum down your throat and into your belly just a second later.

You greedily swallowed the fishy slime. The sound of squelching within you as they messily pounded your hole was intoxicating, and you could feel your stomach stretch from the amount of cum they pumped into you.

They must’ve noticed your stomach, because the next moment, a tentacle pressed down on your belly. Immediately, cum overflowed from your hole and spurted all over your crotch and chair. It thoroughly stained for ass and even some of your pants legs and shoes.

The tentacles froze for a moment, seeming a little stunned. Then you felt them throb. It made you feel like they’d grown even bigger, filling you thoroughly with their presence. They abruptly slammed into you. There was a feeling of desperate fervor as they rammed themselves up your hole, slithering all over your body and almost painfully pulling on your nipples. Slimy cum was pounded frothy and bubbled out, tentacles trembled as you bit down on them, and the fresh cum erupting from them as your hole fluttered with another orgasm nearly made you topple over and fall off your chair.

After two more rounds, you and the tentacles were finally done. All your pent up frustration was vented in the most thrilling way, leaving you in a state of rapture. Your chest heaved as you panted and leaned against the table before you, where the empty container was placed. Looking at that thing, you thought about putting the tentacles back in, but then decided against it. You had a much, much better idea.

Your legs almost gave out beneath you when you got up. Threads of slimy cum connected your ass and chair for a moment, shimmering in the sterile light of the lab.

By the time you reached the lab’s washing station — a shower, actually — you were crawling on your knees because of how badly your thighs kept trembling when you tried to stand. You turned on the water and let it drench your cum-stained clothes, outlining your bulging belly and the black tentacles sticking to your body.

Taking off your clothes took a while. On one hand, it was because of how relaxed you felt after your orgasms, and on the other, it was due to the tentacles. They’d move every now and then, revealing bruised skin or swollen nipples, and they also wriggled inside you. It made you quiver from overstimulation, and yet you still enjoyed it, like it was a proof of your intimate connection.

You calmly labeled yourself as crazy and a hopeless cause that would sooner or later bring doom to the Athena’s crew, and then started carefully peeling the slimy tentacles that had been warmed by your body temperature off of you. The tentacles squirmed, seemingly confused, but they quickly settled down again when you patted them.

With the tentacles out of your hole, just tensing your muscles made the clear cum gush out. It mixed with the water and disappeared down the drain, the flow of it leaving your body almost making you come again.

You took your sweet time washing yourself. Only when your fingers were wrinkly from the water did you turn off the shower and turn your attention back to the cluster of tentacles that was sitting next to you like a little puppy.

The black tentacles had shrank again, appearing exceptionally harmless and cute. You caressed them, picked them up, and then started inserting the small tentacles into your hole one after another. Every time one entered you, you groaned and hummed and rocked your hips, needing to take a break after each one.

The tentacles quickly understood what was happening. They waved happily and then started cooperating with you, eagerly cramming themselves into your warm hole. Their coldness quickly filled you up, accidentally triggering another orgasm and causing your belly to bulge even more than when they’d previously pumped you full of their cum, making you look like you were three or four months pregnant.

After calming down, you contentedly stroked your stomach, then dried yourself and put on a fresh uniform. It hid your distended shape well enough, so you didn’t worry about being found out. Anyway, the Athena crew didn’t have the luxury of caring about what exactly happened in the labs right now.

The stained uniform was dumped down a chute, presumably joining a pile of filthy uniforms that needed to be deep-cleaned before they could ever be worn again. Then you wiped up puddles and trails of slimy cum you’d left in the lab, washed your hands, and left like nothing had happened.

With every step, you felt the tentacles inside you. It made you fight the urge to go for another round right then and there in the hallway, despite already having been fucked raw. Then you caught a whiff of something — sweet and cloying like honey, making you unconsciously swallow as your genitals throbbed.

You quickly pressed a hand over your mouth and nose. You’d discarded your emergency gas mask with your uniform and forgotten to take a new one, only regretting your thoughtlessness at this moment when you really needed it. Cursing whatever was releasing its version of sex pollen, you started looking around and soon found the lab where the disturbing smell was coming from.

And when you found it, you wished you hadn’t even started looking. At this point, who even cared?? But like being witness to a car accident, you found it hard to look away, standing frozen at the entrance where a dented high-security door was just barely hanging onto its frame.

Because in the lab, a fox demon was currently doggy style fucking his swollen red knot into Flora. Both were completely naked, their uniforms lying on the floor, torn to shreds and stained with… water?

You frowned and scanned the room, doing your best not to breathe in more of that disgustingly sweet scent. Your gaze quickly settled on a tank in the lab containing a big mussel. It was open, with a suspiciously low water level, and next to it lay some test tubes and measurement cups still wet with a few drops of water and lip marks…

Ah. They’d drunk the mussel water. And gotten into heat from it. And considering what pollen were, the sweet-smelling stuff in the water that made them go into said heat was most likely the mussel’s sperm.

…okay, maybe it wouldn’t be just your fault that the Athena was doomed.

You unknowingly rubbed your thighs together when your genitals throbbed again, and only then did you realize that you’d somehow made your way over to the tank. The realization that you were just about to drink that stuff made you shiver with dread. Your brain crashed for a few seconds, and then you bolted out of the lab filled with obscene squelching and loud moans down the hallway through the lobby where two orcs were sandwiching a merrow with their fat cocks and back to your own little cabin.

You slammed the door shut, leaning against it as you panted.

Were the ocean folk… no, was the ocean trying to assimilate you? That might explain why after the water started to smell everyone got so horny… but it wasn’t a bad thing… If the continent got flooded anyway, being able to live on underwater was still quite a good deal, no? And you’d even be able to spend the rest of your life with that cluster of black tentacles currently obediently nestled in your hole…

As your thoughts returned to the tentacles, they squirmed as if on cue. The movement triggered a wave of heat, washing over you through your blood and making your swollen genitals twitch with renewed arousal.

Ah right, that heat-inducing mussel water…

You made your way to the bathroom. In the short amount of time it took you to walk over, you’d already started sweating, and your body was suffused with a fierce blush that steamed your brain soft. You barely had the patience to take off your fresh uniform, taking a quick second to thank yourself for not being stupid enough to wear your soaked underwear after being fucked so thoroughly, and then got into the bathtub.

Your genitals pressed against the cold material, and the sensation sent sparks up your spine and elicited a relieved groan from you. Now, in your own cabin, you could be as loud and messy as you wanted.

You reached down to your crotch and prodded your entrance. Your fingers easily slid into your already stretched and dripping with slime hole, touching the warmed tentacles inside. They writhed at your touch, coiling around your fingers and obediently cooperating with getting out of you.

Then they expanded dramatically, so big that it was a challenge for them to fit in the bathtub with you. Every time they moved, they unintentionally yet enticingly brushed against you, each touch stoking the flames of desire burning within you and making you delirious with the intense need to be fucked.

You grabbed a tentacle and desperately ground your hips against it, leaving your leaking fluids all over the slimy appendage. Your hole kept contracting around nothing, like it was gasping, inviting the tentacles back in to fill you, to relentlessly ravage you.

The tentacles wriggled. They coiled around you, hooking around your fingers, entangling your tongue, and pinching your nipples, wrapping you up like they were hiding you. Then a tentacle thicker than your forearm crammed itself into your hole. Your entrance was stretched painfully wide open, yet with the pain came waves of sublime pleasure that made you come the moment it bottomed out.

But it still wasn’t enough.

You bit the tentacle in your mouth and freed a hand to reach for your genitals that were so erect they hurt. You wanted to pull back the foreskin, rub your pulsing glans and torment the engorged tissue beneath—

The tentacles stopped you. They put two tentacles to your disregarded front, telling you with their actions that they would take care of this for you.

As such, everything you wanted was done. The foreskin was pulled back to lay bare your glans that was already peaking out, which was tugged and squeezed, slimy tentacle tips massaging you in an unskilled manner, all the while thrusting into you.

They were doing so much at the same time that your brain overheated and crashed. Engulfed in exhilarating ecstasy, you heard and felt nothing except the tentacles. Like a small boat tumbling between the valleys and peaks of the crashing waves of bliss, you were tossed and groped and pounded by them like a toy. It was a complete loss of control on both of your parts, as if your heat had infected the tentacles, making your hole feel like heaven on earth.

They fucked you for a long time, triggering one orgasm after another and squeezing all the liquid from your body while pumping you full of their cum.

In the end, you were fucked raw once more, overstimulation burning in your genitals. You felt satiated like never before, your stomach heavy with the tentacles' seed making you especially happy. It was just a pity that it kept leaking out…

The tentacles stroked your belly, incidentally causing some more cum to spill and earning themselves a glare from you. But they just affectionately nuzzled your cheek.

Afterwards, bedded on the tentacles, you fell asleep. They held still, not bothering you during your rest.

When you woke up again, the tentacles moved, causing the thick tentacle still plugging your stuffed hole to press against your bladder. You whined and had the tentacles lift you to the toilet, also using the opportunity to empty some of the cum into the bowl.

Then you slowly washed, had the tentacles shrink so they could hide inside you again, got dressed, and made your way to the canteen. It was just… compared to before you went to sleep, things had escalated.

For example, the hallway connecting the researcher’s cabins was filthy with cum. From white to clear, from liquid to sticky and thick, it was smeared onto the walls and doors, had splashed onto the ceiling, and formed large puddles on the floor, densely filling the stagnant air with the obscene smell of vented lust and desires. In one puddle, you even meant to see something wriggle… Fortunately, most of the doors were closed, or the cacophony of snores, moans and screams would’ve been unbearable.

The lobby wasn’t any better. Currently on display was the aftermath of an orgy, naked bodies and all kinds of fluids wherever the eye saw. Apart from your regular colleagues and the Athena’s crew, you also spotted a few limbs belonging to ocean creatures, like the fins or tails of merrows, webbed hands, and some red tentacles, all alive and well.

You smiled happily. It seemed like the land and sea folk were getting along very well!

In the canteen, you didn’t bother anymore to even glance at what everyone was doing. The slapping, squelching and sucking sounds amidst the noise of chewing and cutlery clinking against plated said it all. You turned these things out and queued up to get yourself something to eat.

When the Athena first submerged, the meals offered fully catered to the tastes of the land dwellers. Everything was neatly killed, cleaned, and cooked, seeming especially concerned about the aesthetics when serving them. Now, things were much simpler. One meal consisted of things like a plate of fresh seaweed, jellyfish tentacles and strips of hard white coral, a bowl of saltwater red with the diluted blood of crudely chopped off fish heads, and some roughly descaled fish.

You knew that before, this would have looked utterly disgusting to you, yet now, just looking at it you couldn’t help swallowing your saliva as your stomach growled. It tasted so delicious you ate it all and unexpectedly went back for seconds.

After you had your fill of food, you sauntered out of the canteen and over to the labs. There, the vigorous promotion of a harmonious life between land and ocean dwellers was in full swing. A pair of elven women were riding a fishtailed man’s two cocks, a vampire was spreading his ass cheeks to let a long string of slimy, ping-pong ball sized round eggs shoot out of his hole while cumming, a bunch of hulking orcs were being ravished by colorful tentacles with suckers, nubs, and ridges, a succubus was taking two cocks with their pussy while ramming their dick up a merrow’s cloaca... With things going like this, probably everyone abroad the Athena would come back ashore pregnant, if at all.

...Compared to your colleagues, you were still relatively sane.

You closed your lab’s door behind you and sat down at your desk to record your experiences. From the water smelling strange to the dreams, getting attacked and then encountering the tentacles and being fucked by them, everything was neatly written down. After a moment of thought, you also noted what happened to your colleagues, your guess of why that was, and your hypothesis that the strange-smelling water and water copulating with the ocean dwellers would assimilate one and allow a fully assimilated being to live underwater henceforth.

Rereading your log, you corrected a few spelling and grammar errors before finally nodding with satisfaction. The entry was saved, sent to some addresses you trusted, and then closed.

From now on, you’d focus on your life with the tentacles.

The tentacles wriggled on cue. A moan escaped your lips and echoed slightly in the empty lab, and the chair beneath you creaking as you rocked your hips.

There was a sound of tearing clothes when the tentacles got out of you and expanded. They teased your fragile neck and slithered into your mouth, entangled your limbs and spread your legs wide open to present yourself to them, unusually hot as they caressed your eagerly waiting hole and plunged in.

The heat was like a spark springing over to you, igniting an almost violent desire that had been engraved into your bones during your contact with them. A few thrusts in, not even bottomed out yet, your hole was already fluttering around the tentacles. Your thighs trembled, your toes curled, and your erect genitals twitched as you came, an enthralling fire burning through your veins and coming together at your core.

Then the tentacles bottomed out. They repeatedly thrust against a certain spot at your core, where the fire burned especially intensely, even holding back on cumming for long enough that you came two more times before finally shooting their cum against that spot. It was like a concentrated stream of water, powerful and thrilling, as if it could bore an extra hole into you.

And then you felt it. One of the tentacles poked at that spot they’d targeted, massaging it, and then it sank in.

You moaned at the sensation. It was so much tighter than your already well-used hole, burning with anticipation, making you aware of a new part within you. That one tentacle slowly thrust with the others, only it penetrating deep into your core. This time, you came with them together the moment their cum gushed into that space they had opened up within you. You bit down on the tentacles in your mouth and your eyes rolled with pleasure. It filled you so well, it made your belly bulge so nicely, it felt as if it would never get out...

The tentacles completely retreated from your hole, leaving you feeling uncomfortably empty. Your gaping hole dripped with slime, yet nothing left your core. Satisfaction spread between you and the tentacles, and they also conveyed a sense of eager anticipation and barely restrained fervor.

You reassured them; you wanted this just as much as them.

The tentacles throbbed and squirmed, squelching as they rubbed against each other, and then a shorter, more slender tentacle was extended from their core. It fit snugly in your hole, though it still left room for another one to squeeze in. But that wasn’t necessary now. That tentacle penetrated the hole they’d opened up within your core, making your ass rest firmly against their center, and bottomed out with that.

The tentacles brushed against your nipples as they thrust. They tugged and groped as they always did, more fervent than ever, and even somewhat desperate. You felt good, not enough to make you come, but you still clenched around their length.

It didn’t take long for them to come. That single tentacle's throbs shook the entire cluster, twitching and thrashing so much it swept your desk clean with a loud crash. Then the base of that tentacle bulged.

The next moment, something firm and round contained within prodded your hole. One was pushed past the entrance, then a second, then a third, and then you lost count as they made their way up your channel. They pressed against your core and were forced into that opened space, eliciting endless moans and groans and meaningless murmurs from you, and when the first one dropped into you, you came. You didn’t stop coming as string upon string of eggs was pumped into you, the weight so comforting and enrapturing, the way your belly bulged and was eventually distended not letting you come down from your climax for even a second.

After an unknown amount of time, the tentacle went limp and slipped out. Immediately after, just as you’d caught your breath, the eggs that hadn’t made it into your core and were clogging up your hole shot out. The sleek, round things felt wonderful against your walls and entrance, wracking your exhausted body with orgasm after orgasm.

Held by the tentacles stroking your heavy stomach, your brain felt like it had been pounded to mush by them. Not a single thought could form as all space was taken up by the sublime pleasure of being bred by the tentacles, and the endless amount of joyful anticipation you held for bearing their offspring.

Because once they were out, you could do it all over again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Until you broke.

[ladykailitha]

Forever Young Part 5

Welcome back to the fluffy fic that is angsty as hell, because apparently I can't write Steve without delving into trauma. Especially this chapter. I think I made myself tear up just now, re-reading this chapter to post it.

Like it has Steve trauma, the poorer kids clashing against the rich kids, and Mike and Max having a minor bonding moment.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

~

Will slipped out of the door to talk to his mom and Hopper before they left. He needed to know a could of things about Steve. It might not make them all adults again, but he felt like he needed it to understand Steve better.

“Mom!” he called out, jogging up to her. “Just a couple of questions really quick, and then you guys can leave.”

Joyce turned to him, and cocked her head. “What’s up, baby?”

“They don’t remember anything from after their current age,” Will said slowly. “So Steve’s kinda freaking out about this house. I was wondering if either one of you might remember when the Harrington’s moved in, so we have better idea of how to handle that.”

Hopper and Joyce looked at each other for a moment.

“God,” Hopper said rubbing his chin. “I think it was before I came back to town. Steve was in middle school then.”

Joyce nodded. “The Harringtons aren’t from Hawkins originally. To be honest, no one was sure why they moved into town in the first place. But I think it was in Jonathan’s first or second grade.”

“So Steve was about eight or nine you think?” Will pressed, leaning forward interest.

“That sounds about right,” Joyce confirmed. “No one was expecting anyone to move into this large house. It’s larger than most of the houses in Loch Nora. But they did.”

Will licked his lips as he thought about that. “I know it’s not talked about in polite society or whatever, but Steve is giving us the impression that his dad didn’t always cheat and his mom wasn’t always distant, so...”

“So you’re wondering if it was an immediate change when they got to town or if it happened later down the line?” Hopper asked, putting one hand on his hip as he continued to rub his chin.

“You’re brother was never one for sports, sweetie,” Joyce said, pained. “So I don’t know if they came to Steve’s games or anything.”

“I’d say about the time Steve started high school was when the troubles started,” Hopper said, putting his other hand on his hip and shifting his weight. “Because that’s when Steve started acting out. Clint called it youthful transgressions and always bailed Steve out, but I’d say that’s about when the Harringtons starting leaving on longer and longer trips out of town.”

“Is that everything you needed, Will?” she asked gently. “Because we really need to get going.”

Will nodded and both Joyce and Hopper got into his truck, pulling away from Will.

~

Lucas spotted Will coming back and mouthed, ‘Are you okay?’

Will nodded, sliding next to him at the counter.

“Will,” Wayne said without turning around from the stove where he was making dinner, “would you happen to know where Steve keeps his pots and pans, these yahoos didn’t.”

Will snorted. Because of course they didn’t. They never really helped Steve in the kitchen, it was always the older teens while they would hang out in the front room, letting them do all the work.

“Second pantry next to the hall.”

Wayne looked over his shoulder and Will pointed at the correct door. He whirled around and opened the door.

He blinked at the large space he found behind it in utter shock. It had pots and pans of every stripe no doubt. But it also had a blender, a hand mixer, a stand mixer, a food processor, a Crockpot, another microwave, mixing bowls, and Tupperware of every size and shape imaginable.

All the teenagers besides Will piled up around Wayne to see what he was staring at. Dustin turned to Little Steve who was sitting on the floor playing with Little Eddie with some string they found, and then back to the literal walk-in closet filled with kitchen stuff.

“Then what’s in the cupboards?” Mike whispered a little bit in awe. His parents were probably the richest of his friends, but not even they had a whole extra closet filled with stuff like this.

Hell, his mom was complaining that she didn’t have enough room in the kitchen.

Max went over to the cupboard by the sink and opened it slowly, unsure of what she would find. Inside were large containers of protein powder. El opened another one and there were cans of soup of nearly every kind she could think of.

They opened a couple more, but they were all filled with food.

“Well,” Wayne said, blinking for a moment. “At least we won’t have to go shopping for groceries.”

“He also has two chest freezers out in the garage,” Lucas said, “Max and I saw them when we were looking for toys for them to play with. They were filled to the brim of meat and frozen vegetables and shit.”

Dustin frowned and looked over at the kid who would grow up to be his best friend. Little Steve who was still playing Cat’s Cradle with Little Eddie. He let out a pained huff, that was a little on the nose. Like the song, Steve had grown up waiting for his dad to pay attention to him, but now, Mr. Harrington barely crossed his friend’s mind.

“They’re all food that doesn’t go bad easily,” he murmured and looked up at Wayne. “How long has the Harringtons relied on him to take care of himself?”

The older kids fell silent as the de-aged adults continued to laugh and play.

“I don’t know, son,” Wayne grumbled, “but it’s too long. Far, far too long.”

“Robin!” Lucas yelled, suddenly scrambling across the kitchen.

While everyone was focused on Little Eddie and Little Steve, Little Robin had decided that everyone was taking too long to feed her and took matters into her own tiny fists. She had managed to pull out a couple of drawers to crawl onto the counter where she was trying to reach the boxed mac and cheese.

Lucas caught her by the waist and hauled her away from the cupboard. “How did you know the mac was up there anyway?”

Little Robin stopped struggling for a moment to blink up at him. “Like where else is it gonna go?” Like Lucas was too dumb to know that everyone puts their mac and cheese above the stove for ease of grabbing.

“I don’t want mac and cheese!” Little Jonathan huffed, putting his hands on his hips. “It tastes funny!”

“Yeah!” Eddie whined, looking up at Wayne. “The powder stuff is gross!”

Mike and Dustin looked at each other in confusion. “The cheese?” Dustin asked, sneering.

Will winced and ducked his head to hide his blush. They absolutely did not mean the cheese. They meant the powdered milk. “It won’t be the powdered stuff,” he promised. “They have liquid milk.”

Little Jonathan frowned for a moment before he nodded. “Make sense, my friend Freddy gets to have liquid milk in his cereal when I sleepover.”

Will did not know that name, as far as he knew Jonathan didn’t have a friend named Freddie or even Fred.

“That’s not what we’re having for dinner,” Wayne growled. “Mac and cheese is a side and not a meal. Not unless you through in hot dogs or ground beef.”

“Ooh!” Little Robin said with a smile. “I always love it when Mom splurges for the hot dogs. She even puts ketchup in it!”

Little Steve made a face. “Ketchup is gross!”

Little Eddie looked over at his new friend in shock. “Ketchup is the only thing that makes hot dogs taste good!”

“Ketchup is too tangy,” Little Steve huffed, folding his arms over his chest with a pout. “Tomato sauce is better. But I like cheese on my hot dogs. That’s good.”

“Well it’s a good thing we aren’t doing either,” Wayne said, wading between them before things got heated. “I’ve got some chicken nuggets and french fries.”

Suddenly all the kids were clamoring for the prizes Wayne had brought. The teens started pulling out baking sheets and emptied the bags of chicken nuggets and fries onto them. They had long since learned how to work together from many a party there since the spring break from Hell.

Once the food was in the ovens, Wayne took the kids out front to let them play on the sprawling lawn while dinner cooked.

Will pulled out his notebook. “I’m adding Robin knowing where the mac and cheese was to the things they’re remembering.”

Dustin nodded and snapped his fingers. “Yeah. Let’s go everything they’ve remembered.”

Will started listing things with the others adding to the list from just the minor things they’ve heard one or the other of the newly minted kids said or did.

“But then they get confused,” El said cocking her head to the side, “and the memory vanishes.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, putting his hands on his hips. “I thought Steve was going to legit start crying over the bats on Eddie’s arm.”

They all looked around at each other and frowned. The mystery only seemed to deepen rather than get closer to being solved. It certainly didn’t seem to be like it would be over come tomorrow, that was for sure.

“I think it’s kinda cute,” Max said with a small smile. “Like they’re always taking care of us, making sure we’re okay. It’s nice to be able to return the favor without making them feel like adults burdening kids, you know?”

Lucas’s jaw worked up and down but no sound came out.

“It is nice,” Will said wistfully, propping his chin on fist and gazing off into the distance. “But like I do miss Jonathan being older than me, too. Like I can’t talk to him about things when he’s like this.”

“Why couldn’t they have waited until one of us had a driver’s license?” Dustin huffed. “Then we wouldn’t have had to involve adults at all.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “It’s not like they asked for this!” He waved his arm out the window where they could hear the sounds of the kids playing. “They didn’t ask to be cursed for fuck’s sake and yeah it’s cute now, but I want my badass sister back.”

He stood there breathing heavily for a moment then threw his arms in the air, storming out to the back.

The resulting silence was deafening.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Max whispered, her lip quivering. “I just think they’re cute. I wasn’t saying that we shouldn’t get them back. Of course I want them back as adults.”

“I think Mike is just having a hard time suddenly being the oldest,” Lucas said taking her hand. “When you’re the middle child for so long and are suddenly made in charge of everything, that’s a lot of pressure.”

Then the green timer went off and Dustin went to go call them in. Will and El went into the kitchen to get the food out of the ovens. Lucas got down the plates and started putting the fries and nuggets on them.

Max watched for a moment before she walked to the back door where Mike was sitting in the sun room.

She knocked on the door frame. “Food’s ready.”

Mike was sitting on the sofa facing the pool, he had his hands clasped together under his chin, propped up on his knees. He just nodded.

Max sat down next to him, her hands sliding down her thighs to grab her knees. “You do know you’re not the only one in there who’s older sibling got zapped into being a child right? There’s Will and El for a start with Jonathan. Yes, El isn’t biologically related, but that’s still her foster brother. And even Dustin and I looked up to Eddie and Steve respectively as our older brothers. Again, not related by blood, but still important to us. Even Lucas really looks up to Steve. But you’re out here acting like you’re the only one who’s sibling got wrecked.”

He stared at her in wide eyed shock.

“It’s just we rely on them for so much,” she continued, “I just think they deserve a day or two just being kids. Eddie might have join the Party as an adult, but the rest of them didn’t. Sixteen felt old when we started this, but we’re all nearly that ourselves now. I really don’t feel old. Do you?”

“That’s just it,” Mike growled, “Nancy’s never been the responsible one, it’s always been me. And now she’s getting this grand baby’s day out and the responsibility again falls on my shoulders.”

Max frowned. “But she helped us out with Vecna. She was there, we couldn’t have done it without her.”

Mike scoffed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Only because she didn’t want to miss the ‘big game’. She should have been with me seeing her boyfriend. But instead she thought writing an article about some stupid basketball game was more important than seeing her boyfriend whom she was supposed to be in love with. And she’s always like that. She would rather do what she wants then for the greater good or even for the love of her boyfriend or even brother both of which she says she loves very much. Doesn’t feel like it!”

Max blinked at him for a moment. Thinking back at all the times it was Steve and not Nancy or Jonathan standing between danger and the rest of them. Robin later when she became friends with Steve, but neither of them had any skin in the game. Not really.

“Oh.”

“Whatever,” he huffed and moved to stand up.

“Wait.” She pulled him by his sleeve and forced him to sit back down. “Look, I’m sorry. You’re right, you deserve to be a kid too. For fuck’s sake you got shot at. A lot. It’s not being cursed by a fucking psychopath, but it’s still scary as hell. I know you wanted your big sister in that moment and you’re right, she should have been there.” She gripped his arm tightly. “I’m alive and so is Eddie, because she was with us. I know that’s not a consolation and it isn’t meant to be.”

“Yeah, then what is it?”

“Proof that you never needed her to kick ass for you,” Max said gently. “We needed her, but you don’t. You never did, Mike. You’re pretty badass on your own.”

She stood up and walked back into the kitchen, leaving him there to think about that for a moment.

He scoffed, a small smile spreading over his face. No matter how hard he tried, the smile kept returning bigger every time. He snorted and then started laughing.

Mike got up and followed her back to the kitchen. Yeah. He really was pretty badass, wasn’t he?

~

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @oopsallgender @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @steddieislife @stripey82 @tony-2012 @stedestielfrattficlover @micheledawn1975

10- @moonshadows-13 @bridget-malfoy-stilinski-hale @morallyundefined @best-thing-at-this-party @ollieolive

[alltimecharlo]

OK but consider girl-Will, who is bros with Mack from the start of dev camp and it’s all good until, like, the teal carpet on opening night or the sharks foundation dinner where she does the hair makeup dress thing and Mack is like OH NO WILL IS HOT TOO, I HAVE A SERIOUS PROBLEM

oh yes definitely!!!! i have a soft spot for girl!will <3 mack would 100% malfunction, you are so correct anon 🩵 fic under the cut!

Mack doesn’t even clock it at first. Not the way people probably expect him to. He and Will hit it off fast, from the first day of dev camp—chirping each other, texting at all hours, getting competitive about everything.

She can toe-drag like nobody’s business and she already has a cult following on Sharks Twitter before either of them has even played a game. She’s just… cool. Effortlessly cool. In the way that makes Mack think of the kids he always wanted to impress when he was younger. The kind who make everything look easy.

They’re tight by the time rookie camp ends. Like, finish-each-other’s-sentences tight. Like, share-rides-to-the-arena-and-pick-up-coffee-for-each-other tight. So Mack never thinks about it. Never thinks about her like that.

Until the Foundation Dinner.

The Teal Carpet is a mess. Hot as hell, and Mack is sweating through his undershirt before they even hit the step and repeat. He’s still tugging at his collar when Will arrives, and he turns to wave her over—

—and chokes.

Literally chokes. On spit? Air? Pride? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that Will is walking toward him in a slinky navy dress that’s absolutely, one-hundred-percent illegal. Her makeup is subtle, sharp. Her hair is pinned back in that effortless way that definitely took two hours. She’s still Will. Still smirking at him like she knows he just forgot how to function.

“Hey, Mack,” she says, and it should sound normal. Casual. But it doesn’t. Not to him.

He stares. “You look—uh. Wow.”

Smooth.

Will cocks a brow. “You too. Not choking on your own tongue or anything, huh?”

Mack rubs a hand down his jaw. “Didn’t know we were dressing to kill.”

“You wore a double-breasted suit. You look like Bond.”

“You—” He gestures vaguely. “You look—like I need a drink.”

She laughs, bright and open, and hooks her arm through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it is. It always is. That’s the problem.

Because now he’s aware of everything. The curve of her shoulder against his. The way her perfume is subtle but maddening. The slight pressure of her fingers where they loop through his arm. He should be able to ignore it. He’s ignored plenty before.

But then they’re sitting at their assigned table, and Will tosses her hair over her shoulder and leans in to whisper something sarcastic about the rubber chicken they’re being served—and Mack sees the line of her neck, the shimmer at her collarbone, and it’s like he’s sixteen again, flunking out of rational thought.

He’s so fucked.

“You good?” Will asks, tipping her head at him. Her voice is low, private. For him.

He forces a smile. “Yeah. Just—distracted.”

“By the speeches? Or my legs?”

Mack coughs. Chokes again. Will beams.

Yeah. He’s got a serious problem.

♡

[joelmillerrrr]

Vice Versa, Mr Miller | Joel Miller x Reader

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

Warnings: FLUFF, pre-outbreak (Sarah is still alive), very soft!Joel, annoying in love!Joel

Word Count: not sure, it’s short though <3

Summary: You have been dating Joel Miller for a while now, you decide when he gets in late from work to order some takeaway <3

A/N: Real fluffy stuff, don’t really see much fluff for this man when there defo should be

10:23pm

It was no surprise to anyone that Joel lost himself within his work. He wanted to provide as much as he could for Sarah and you. So when he didn’t return when he said he would, you weren’t surprised at all.

“You know, your dad is quite the liar sometimes,” you joke to Sarah, who is sitting on the sofa, watching television.

“Tell me about it.” Sarah responds, a smile on her face, “We could just eat without him again.”

“Nah, I don’t really want to. I know he feels bad every time he’s late, and then he ends up eating alone.”

“Not really though, cos you are with him at the table,” Sarah shrugs, looking up from the television to look at you.

“Yeah, and I’m half asleep,” You sigh and walk over to the sofa to sit down. “Do you want to watch something whilst we wait for him?”

“Honestly, I think I’m just gonna go to bed. Thanks, though,” Sarah shuffles into her slippers and with a big stretch she stands up, “Tell him he stinks, though, from me.”

She giggles as she walks on up the stairs, and you let out a big snort, nodding your head in her direction, “Don’t worry, he’ll get it from me as soon as he walks through the door.”

11:37pm

You hadn’t realised that you’d fallen asleep on the sofa until you heard the click of the door open and close, and in came the most handsome man you had ever laid your eyes upon.

“Sorry, Darlin’, didn’t mean to wake you.” His thick Texan accent lulling you from your sleep, “Why ain’t you in bed, huh?”

“It’s okay, I was waiting up for you.”

Joel walks over to you with the biggest grin on his face, “Oh yeah, sure looks like it, sweetheart.”

Sitting up, you give him a death glare, one that came out when you were playing with him, “You caught me at a moment of weakness, but I swear I was waiting up for you.”

“Alright, I believe you.” His hands came up in defeat, and you crawled into him, and he held you so tight that you knew it had been a rough day at work.

“Is John still giving you grief at work? I already told you, I’ll go over there and beat his ass.” You say playfully and quietly, Joel rubs your upper arm, a slight laugh emitting from him.

“Yeah, but I’m sorting it, you don’t need to be beating anyone up for me.” He kisses the top of your head, “Their day will come and so will mine.”

“Very cryptic,” You look up at him and plant a gentle kiss on his lips. “Sarah went to bed like an hour ago. I think she snuck some leftovers in the fridge upstairs.”

“Better her than me, I hated that stuff.” Joel shivers, “Why would anyone eat that willingly?”

“What? Sushi?” You laugh, “loads of people love Sushi Joel, I do.”

“It does explain a lot.” Joel flashes you a cheeky grin and then, in the same breath, yawns straight in your face.

“Nice one.” You say, pushing away from him, going to sit on the sofa properly rather than in his arms. All Joel does is laugh again. He really loves to annoy you; it’s like his soul purpose in life.

“Anytime, Darlin’,” Joel leans back on the sofa, “I’m thinking we go to that Chinese place, it’s open till 1, right?”

“Sounds real good to me, but you are ordering, you know I can’t stand talking on the phone.”

“It’s a good thing I love you,” Joel smiles, getting up to grab the landline.

“Vice Versa, Mr Miller.” You smile back.

[richeeduvie]

ARRESTED HEART SNIPPET

(PROLOGUE) 2.9k words

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

What they would call the devil is a man with a strong nose in a light blue uniform. He sits across two cops in an interrogation room. 

“You know, I think it’s time you accept the situation you’re in.” 

The stringed light overhead swivels as if a ghost twirls it in boredom. You couldn’t blame a dead soul for being bored in the first place, but it’s most likely they’re limp from the hard-wall silence. 

The named devil has not spoken for forty minutes. 

“Come on. You…you of all people know how this is gonna end.”

He has smiled closed-lipped at every other question as if each one is a joke that’s not funny enough to laugh at, he has squeaked his body weight onto his chair at every other accusation. In the beginning of this interrogation, he did make it too easy to gun down the two cops’ words with every scratch of his goatee. Their attempts of manipulation that can't possibly work because yes, he of all people knows how this is going to end, meaning he knows all too well how to bring a person to that point, the finale of a confession. 

The cops know that, but they’re still on the clock…and to make it personal, this is one of their own. The devil was their friend. The man to play poker with.

“Lalo, we know what you did. This? This is just mandatory–this is us giving you a chance to make this easier for you.” 

The younger cop takes to looking at the table. 

“For her.”

The devil’s name sits on a small plaque on the desk next to theirs. Everything that used to be has been bloodied. Literally. 

They haven’t had the chance to give him unstained clothes, to let him wipe the red off his body. 

“Ah. I’ve surrounded myself with the nicest guys, no?” 

The two cops breathe out at Lalo’s words. They’re not useful. They’re mocking, but any word is better than none. 

“...You used to be a nice guy, Lalo.”

Lalo leans back on the chair, hands on his knees. 

“I’m not anymore? That’s too bad, then. What does that mean for me? I should kill myself for how not nice I am now. Or…” Lalo blows a raspberry in what’s obviously false thought. “...Something. Yeah. Something. I’ll go with the latter.”

“No, you know what? It’s easy to see you never were nice–” 

The hand of the cop reaches out for the other. Their emotions are not the ones that are supposed to rise to a boil. 

“Mike, we can’t just let him sit on his ass for the next hour.” 

…No. They can’t. Not if they want to find you. 

If there’s anything left to find. 

“Yeah, Michael–come on, I know you–and me, we’re both used to the beat cop routine, but you gotta let other guys have a chance at me.” 

Mike doesn’t lean forward, he doesn’t sigh. He only tries to think about how to go about this. 

How to finally stop failing you – get you out of the hole Lalo Salamanca’s had you in for a year. Right under their noses. God only knows what he’s done to you, and he’s hoping you can find out from you. 

Not from an autopsy. Hell, not even from Lalo’s impossible confession. From you. 

“You’re not getting out of here. Even if you manage to leave this room, which you won’t, you’re not making it out of the station. There is no point in holding onto where you’ve trapped her.”

There’s a snort from the bastard on the word trapped. Like it’s unbelievable Mike could use that in the first place. 

That means something, but he won’t beat at it now. He needs more reaction for the boil to…boil over, but that means something. And he won’t let it show that it does either. 

He’ll poke. Pinch, because Lalo has kept you trapped in his house for half of the year, that the crew knows, what he did in the early half to get you in his grasp is something he only wants to know because he has to. 

“Lalo.” 

…He’s seen the polaroids. He’s seen the room. 

“I’ve seen the polaroids. I’ve seen the room.” 

So, trapped seems like pretty much the right word to him. 

“If you care about her, which, for her sake, I’m gonna pretend like you do, you’d tell us where she is.” 

Lalo shifts, arms going up to cross over his chest. He smiles thin. 

“What are you doing, man?” 

“Telling the truth. We’re gonna pretend that you didn’t just use her for your sick games because this is about us finding her. This is not about getting a confession out of you. This is us giving you a chance but really? We can do this without you. But I’m sure she’d be happy to know that you actually cared about her enough to not let her rot away wherever you put her just because you failed to not get caught. That everything you forced her to do meant…something.” 

Lalo’s smile drops. 

There it is. Mike pokes, pinches. Rips a hole through the veil. 

There’s no way the fucker could believe that whatever he’s done to you is…mutual. Is something along the lines of love, but it’s obvious the idea that people believe what he’s doing to use is, well, torture…that seems to get at Lalo. Why? That doesn’t matter, but if this can make Lalo break, then Mike will keep on it.

“I mean, when we do find her–” 

“Okie.” It’s nearly humorous from Lalo’s mouth. Mike blinks. 

“...You don’t want her safe, do you?” 

Lalo looks away from the wall, eyes readying on Mike’s face, because this means something. 

“Trapped. That’s the word you use…so whatever you’ve got yourself thinking about when it comes to me, Michael…nah. You got everything figured out.”

“If you’re willing to let her die because you’re not getting out of here–” 

“You got everything figured out. About me, about her, but not you. Cause…” Lalo drags the word everything out on the low end of his throat, scratching his bicep before leaning forward. “Cause you can’t see that I see what you’re doing here.” He points to his chest on the word I. “It’s a better try than whatever the hell rookie’s been doin’ to me, but why would I need to…defend myself? Honestly, Michael. What you think of me, if you believe it’s all fact, then what can I do?” 

…The faces Lalo can make when he’s talking, whether it’s for the sake of emphasis, humor, or charm. Mike’s never found it that tolerable. 

What can Lalo find tolerable? Bullshit questions and interrogation methods? Yeah, he’s been able to for almost an hour. But just because he says poking at whatever he feels about you is pointless doesn’t mean that it is. 

It’s almost childish, really. Mike’s basically going “Yeah, thought not” to Lalo, but if it works, it works. 

This could almost make up for letting what Lalo did to you happen. 

“I was hoping you’d tell me that she loves you. Or that you love her. That wherever she is, she’s there willingly. If you did defend yourself, or however you put it, I’d take your word. Maybe it’d make the jury go easy on you.” 

“...Michael.” Lalo turns to rookie. “Rookie. What I’m gonna do is shut up and wait. I suggest you guys go ahead and do that too.”

Mike sighs. He makes sure he does. 

“Wait for what? A lawyer? It’s the fact you won’t even deny it, Lalo. What is she gonna have waiting for us when we find her? Will she even deny it? What happened to her, I mean.” 

Mike can hear Lalo patting his hand on his thigh. The bastard’s only looking up. 

“I don’t think she’ll do you that solid, even. A year isn’t enough to fully break her down. But maybe you don’t need everyone else to be convinced that what you did to her–sorry, had with her is something that isn’t, well, entrapment. Kidnapping.” Mike looks to the wall behind Lalo. “Sexual torture. And so on. Feel free to add anything else. It’s a “as long as I know who I am”, maybe?” 

Mike tilts his head to one side quickly, as if letting the purposeful thought fall against his skull. 

“Or maybe you just don’t care that we and everyone else knows how awful of a monster you were to her. That makes sense too.” 

Pat, pat, pat, pat. 

“Mike…I gotta use the bathroom.” 

“Use it, Rookie. This ain’t daycare, you don’t gotta ask.” 

“Go.” 

The younger cop gets up from his screeching chair. Mike doesn’t breathe out. 

He just looks to the scratches and bite marks on Lalo’s arms.

This motherfucker thinks nothing of what he’s done. And Mike wishes that he didn’t feel the need to spite, to see Lalo fumble that smirk off his face and those noises out of his throat, but he’s never been perfect–even when it came to the job.

“Would you at least tell us if we’re looking for her or a corpse?” 

The patting stops. Mike doesn’t hear the younger cop open the door. 

There it is. 

“What? You didn’t think that after everything we found out that we still wouldn’t dare think that you’d stoop to offing her the minute you find out we’re coming to take her away? No, maybe I shouldn’t be thinking you as possessive, I know you. There would be none of that “if I can’t have her, no one can” bullcrap. Getting rid of her probably wasn’t anything more than a disappointing chore, but it meant starting over, maybe. That on the off chance you get out of here, there’s room for another poor young woman to rape and hold hostage.”  

He doesn’t even know what he’s meaning to do with what he’s saying, other than making, as he thought, Lalo fumble…but still, it’s like he can tell that the accusations of this girl, this girl he’s kept away being something lesser to Lalo is something Lalo can’t handle. 

And if it’s the only thing Lalo can’t handle, if it’s the only thing he's showing true reaction to, then maybe the accusations aren’t true. 

Mike doesn’t know where to begin with that. 

“Michael.” 

“Yeah?” 

Lalo lowers his head back down. Mike stares into the black of his eyes. 

“You don’t know me. That’s the whole reason why it took you so long to find out just what was going on. You don’t know…nothing.” 

“You’re not denying it’s her body we’re gonna find by the end of the night. You’re making to easy to assume what’s probably the truth, that you threw her away the minute she wasn’t going to be useful–””

Mike doesn’t move at Lalo slamming his hand on the table. It echoes, he thinks. “Domingo, put your gun away. Go take your shit.” 

“Mike–” 

“You don’t know what she’s asked of me.” Lalo doesn’t blink with his eyes wide and tense, everything slightly wrinkled on his face curling with the furrow of his brows and mouth. His tabled arm bends. “You don’t know what I’ve given her.” 

“No. I don’t, so tell me. It’s obvious the corpse talk gets you riled, is it because it’s bull? Or that it’s true but still, you’re offended that I’m accusing you of the crime anyway.” 

Lalo leans back, eyes still on Mike like he’ll burn a hole through him, but he smiles anyway. 

No. He only smiles once he’s played with his ring for a bit. 

“You’re gonna find her, right? So…you don’t gotta ask me anything about her. You really…you–” Lalo presses his thumb over his ring to the point where Mike thinks he could break his finger. 

“You don’t need to be thinking about her as much as you’re doing right now. Okay? You? Thinking about her as a corpse? You’re, what do I say? You’re one sick puppy, man.” 

“...Lalo–” 

“Why would I go ahead and do that to myself?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you think of little Kaylee as a corpse?” 

Mike feels his arms heavy at that. 

It’s a nice try. It’s easy to go for. And that’s the type of man he is now. Always was. 

“Sorry, Michael. I’m not asking that to hurt you, I’m not that kind of guy. Just…you don’t, right?” 

Mike doesn’t speak. 

“Yeah. So why would I think of her as a corpse? Let alone…you know.” 

…He can’t even say it.

“You should be smart enough to put what’s got your heart all hard on me aside, partner. If you did, you’d realize that I wouldn’t do that.” Lalo sniffs. “Put her in a place where I can’t reach her.” 

Mike stares, only barely glances at Domingo still standing.

“Lalo, you’re never gonna be able to reach her again.” 

Mike and Domingo both wait on a reaction. Anything that isn’t Lalo’s dead stare. 

They wait for a minute. Then two. 

Just until he begins spinning the ring again. 

“This is gonna be over soon.” 

“I don’t even know what that means.” 

He’s not looking at Mike as he spins, like he’s…soothing himself.

“It means what I say. Gonna be over before we all know it.” He looks to the wall. “Didn’t mean to waste my guys’ time like this. You know how much I put myself out for this crew.” 

This bastard of a fellow cop. This monster of a man. 

“...You think she’s gonna keep your name safe on the stand?” 

Lalo licks his bottom lip with a heavy sigh. Mike can see that pushing him is putting that in tense territory, and that’s where they need to be right now. 

“I don’t even know what that means.” 

“It means that even if you’ve broken her to the point of Stockholm syndrome, she’s gonna tell the truth about what happened to her. Alright, you care about her enough. You’ve talked against your best interest to tell me that, so I believe you, but I’m not gonna believe this is some romance story for her too.” 

Mike can’t know what Lalo’s smile means at that, but he continues to push. 

“Is it important to you that she cares about you just as much as you care for her? I’m betting not.” 

“...Mm. What time is it?” 

“Domingo, what time is it?” 

“...Is he allowed to know th–” 

“Molina.” 

Domingo checks his watch. 

“1:45.” 

Mike can’t know exactly what Lalo’s smiles mean, and he can’t exactly know what it means when they drop like his does now. 

“Really?” Lalo straightens his back out. “You sure?” 

“...Yeah.” 

“Something you’re waiting on?” 

There’s nothing from the man across from him, because he is waiting on something–he can’t make mocking and spiteful, arrogant humor a priority when he’s waiting on something. 

Something that’s already supposed to be here, maybe, based on the way Lalo’s eyes get restless. The way he fully straightens out to squeeze his knees. 

“You’re never gonna reach her again–” 

Everything’s a blur once Mike’s words are broken. He didn’t think Lalo would ever break, at least not this quickly.

But there’s no doubt that he’s boiled over without the two other cops in the room knowing, or maybe, whatever he’s waiting for had him riled up so quickly, that his anger has boiled so fast that Mike’s words were just a knob to the flame. 

Either way, there’s a table being flipped before he can reach his gun. Or move out of the way. 

Lalo moves to the corner, all the white-knuckle obvious, in a way that’s never been Lalo. 

“You don’t know!” Somehow his words are spit out and a whisper at the same time. Mike groans as he rises slowly. “You don’t know. You don’t know. You don’t know.” 

Mike gestures to Domingo to lower his gun. 

“What don’t we know?” 

…Lalo isn’t being cornered, but he’s putting himself in the corner as if he is, like there’s more to it in his sick mind. 

He drags himself down, bent at his knees as he brings his knuckle to his mouth. 

The ring pressing against his lips and teeth. 

“We were waiting…we’re gonna keep waiting.” 

“For what, Lalo?

“For her.” 

Mike turns to the soft voice of Domingo. The stupidity, the nerves of his face and voice gone. He looks back to Lalo to see there’s no reaction to the words. 

But he’s right. It’s the truth. He’s been waiting for you. 

“You’re not keeping her anywhere, are you? That’s why you’re not telling us? Cause she’ll be okay? She’ll come here? Unless she decides to not–” 

“Krazy. Shut. Up.”

He’s been passing time with interrogation. 

But you’re not here, and maybe it’s that that has Lalo Salamanca pressed small in the corner of the room, soothing himself with the routine of spinning a ring. 

Whatever has been done to you, it’s you that has Lalo Salamanca like this, and it’s no longer just the question of what he’s done to you, it’s what you’ve done to him. 

“You said you saw the photos?” 

Mike rubs his back. “Yeah.”

“...Mind if I have one?” 

Lalo curls his ringless hand into a fist. Then uncurls. Then curls. 

But with either question, maybe this is just what happens when the devil falls in love. 

“I mean, come on, guys. They are mine.” 

No. Mike, even in the end, believes naming whatever’s been done to you as something of the devil is cowardly. That it’s what makes humanity cowardly. That thinking Lalo Salamanca to be the devil because of what he’s done is nothing but denial that the people around you can do what he’s done. 

"She is something, isn't she? Come on, I can't be mad that you noticed."

It’s never the devil, it’s always the man you play cards with.

[greensbeanspotatoestomatoes]

On John Doe and Stress

It’s something small that Arthur does. A habit that most people wouldn’t notice. Something inconspicuous but powerful.

Arthur plays piano when he’s nervous. 

Obviously not the actual instrument, that would be unmanageable given the situations they find themselves in. But Arthur goes through the motions of pressing the keys onto his thigh or arm when he feels uneasy. 

It’s small, and calming, and something John can distinctly feel in the vagueness between where he stops and Arthur begins. 

Slender fingers gently tap against their upper arm during the wait for a taxi. The pattern doesn’t follow any rhythm John can discern. In fact he only recognises it is a pattern after the third repeat. It’s something that belongs solely in Arthur’s mind, a small hold out from a time when his life was mostly normal. 

…John wonders if it is her song that brings him comfort. He remembers the tinkling tune that came from the music box, despite all that preceded and came after it. 

He knows Arthur believes it was her lullabye that brought him back. John doesn’t know if he wants to correct that thought. It’s nice, to hold onto the idea that he owes her more than just keeping her father alive. That he can string another hook in the weave that is John Doe and attach it to another reason to be. Latch on to a part of the same thing that drive’s Arthur so much.

If he thinks back to all the times Arthur has played the piano in his presence, its always had the same effect. Even the first time, when it was nothing but a ploy by John to get him to calm down. It worked. It settled Arthur’s mind and nerves. It always has.

So when John feels the tapping at the back of his hand in the back of the taxi, it's nothing particularly new. 

Except the closeness.

Mostly, when he can feel Arthur's tapping, it's just the impressions near their elbow. Where John can't quite control anything, but still has some sensation. 

It's never been this… blatant before. 

Arthur drums out the first couple of imaginary notes with his right hand, the part he’d been playing previously. But when his piece gets to the lower notes, his left hand does not complete the melody.

“Ah! John I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”  

Arthur tries to pull his hand back away, perhaps feeling embarrassment of some kind. John, however, feels an unexpected pang shoot through him. He suddenly, maybe desperately, does not want this contact to break. There's something special to this moment. It’s a chance for John to be of help to Arthur. There’s something to the song too, a need for Arthur to finish playing it.  Before Arthur can move his hand too far, John snags it back. 

“It’s alright Arthur,” he says, totally calm and cool,  “I… I don’t mind.”

Arthur slowly starts tapping the piece again, the motions slightly more deliberate.

The sensation is a bit odd. The soft points of pressure are unlike anything John has experienced before. It’s not unwelcome.

Eventually he can feel Arthur begin to relax, the movements of his hands less tight, less purposeful. 

Tentatively, when the piece seems finished, John reaches out to thread their fingers.

There’s a small twitch at the corner of his vision, a minor tightening of cheek muscles. It’s nice to know when Arthur is smiling. It’s nicer still, to be the cause of that smile.

John notes the point Arthur’s thoughts have drifted back to their task ahead, as Arthur absent mindedly brushes his fingers along the back of John’s hand. 

He can see why Arthur does this when he’s stressed. The effect is soothing.

John understands stress, maybe the most of all the emotions Arthur has shown him, because Arthur is always fucking stressing him out.

A horrible pressing, crushing weight settles in his core. The terror floods into him like an ice-cold fire, burning all his thoughts to ash. It squeezes at his sense of self, choking all his thoughts into a closed off bottle neck, only allowing the horror of the situation through. Where he can do nothing but sit helpless, just a fucking pair of eyes and a hand as Arthur struggles, fighting, drowning, bleeding.

Dying. 

Christ he hopes he never feels that again.

He failed Arthur. Failed her too.

They feel stress about different things, in different ways. So if this is something that John can do to help Arthur, he will. And maybe one day, he’ll be able to return the favour.

----------------------------------------------------------

More Thoughts

[ro4love]

Hii <33e i have a req, how about bllk guys confessing their feelings to reader during an argument? Nothing TOO heated tho :DD i was thinking about bachira, barou,chigiri, kunigami (pre wc cuz hes the sweetest), and gagamaru while ur at it (i understand if its kinda complicated to write for him, u can do or not:3)

Take care!

“Kiss and make up”

When the bllk boys accidentally spilled their feelings during an argument..

Characters: Bachira, Chigiri, Barou, pre!wc Kunigami, Gagamaru

Cw: fluff!, bad writing, ooc!, fem!reader implied

Bachira Meguru —

Light banters usually happen between you both by Bachira doing something silly

“Bachira why is there a sticky note on my back—“ snatches it before you could read it

Cue you’re persistence to get the note from him because you’ve had that note on for HOURS WITHOUT YOU REALIZING…

“Bachi— gimme!” “Nooo you’ll know my biggest secret!” “What the hell are you talking about dumbass!”

“That I have a big crush on you, duh!”

The world stops. Even Bachira stops moving, and he never sits still

“Bach—“ “Oops! I wasn’t supposed to say that yet”

You we’re gonna open your mouth to say something but he bolted out of the room before you could

The note wrote “prettiest girl”

Chigiri Hyoma —

you’re trying to playfully banter with him but he just don’t gaf I’m afraid

“Chigiri… can’t you just play along with me?” “Now you just sound sad”

You slowly resort to physical methods, like biting him. He let’s you albeit with a disappointed sigh

“My bar is seriously in hell..” “well— wait… what does that mean?”

He tensed up. You felt it.

“G-go back to your seat you dumbass!” “What! What did I do?!”

Muehehehe

Barou Shoei —

Silly king doesn’t know how to woo the woman of his dreams, so he often just banters with her. That’s your love language

“You’re a brave one to stand up against a king like me” “sometimes I forget how fucking corny you are” “Why you—“

You get on his nerves by being… uncoordinated. He hates when you leave crumpled up paper on your desk, leave the bits and pieces of your eraser inside your pencil case, and leaving the corners of your pages unfold even though you don’t need to mark that page anymore

“Can’t you be more proper about your tidiness!” “Barou, I’m not messy, you’re just too much of a clean freak!”

He mumbles really risky stuff under his breath and you always miss it, not this time though

“stupid girl, you’re lucky someone like me would want you”

“Huh?!”

You’ll never let him live it down

Kunigami Rensume —

We all know how Kunigami is terrible at accepting compliments

“Your biceps are HUGE Kunigami!” “Hey, don’t just… say stuff like that out in the open”

You’re gushing over his physique and he’s just there sustaining a red face.

You tease him about how bad he is at receiving compliments and he just responds with a big palm in your face.

“You know… you never tell me to get away and never try to move away. It’s like you love it when I compliment you” “Who wouldn’t want their ego stroked by their dream girl…”

It was quiet but it was still easy to make out

It’s your turn to be flustered now, and Kunigami’s enjoying it by his little devious smirk mwuehehe 😈

Gagamaru Gin —

He's unconsciously the biggest sweetheart, so you rarely find yourself arguing with him

but since he's so used to being in the mountains, some daily activities really is just a culture shock to him, so most of the time you're scolding him

"Hey.. stop eating with your hands..." "But the food taste better this way."

To try and prove a point, he's extending his arms towards you to feed you with his bare hands

"hu— Hey, no!" You shoot him a stern look while your ears turn red

He stops and looks at you, goes quiet and after a while just casually blurts "You're so pretty when angry"

"I— GIN STOP TRYING TO FEED ME!"

I hope someone out there likes ts bcs I don’t 💔💔 tysm for requesting!! I’m sorry I took so long 😓😓 had to finish my exams first. hope you likedd