#you cant just disappear without a word | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

Text

(6) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose.

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop.

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense.

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an “aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

421 notes · View notes

fairyofshampgyu · 2 years ago

Text

Super shy !

genre: smut, baker au, college au, crack

Pairing: shy loser virgin bakery worker ! soobin x college customer ! reader

Warnings: sub soobin, dom reader, clubbing, alcohol, loss of virginity, riding, hand job, titty groping (can’t be a Soobin smut without him being obsessed with boobies be fr), premature ejaculation,

word count: 2.9k

As soon as you stepped into the newly established campus bakery, walking up to the counter and observing all the pastries, contemplating for a rather long time before you end up deciding on what you’d usually order anyway, Soobin couldn’t help feeling like his world got totally turned upside down. The sight of you rendering him completely speechless and unable to even think.

Time seemingly going by so slow like in the kdramas as your shiny hair majestically blows in the non existent wind inside, smile brightening up the entire bakery. He could practically see the roses blooming around your face like in the mangas. Was this love at first sight?!

Realistically, no.

But were you incredibly attractive to him and a breath of fresh air to the moody, stressed out college students that purchase a single coffee and stay for hours completing assignments with their backs concerningly hunched over? Hell yes.

And unfortunately for Soobin, he does not do well with pretty people. At all. Not realising you had even ordered, too in awe and preoccupied with taking in all your features until he’s snapped back to reality with the clearing of your throat and he can already feel his cheeks burning up horribly fast. Oh god. He really, really hopes it’s not evident right now.

“S-sorry…What did you say?” He begins apologising profusely to you, too embarrassed to even look you in the eyes, staring off more to the side. This was definitely not his best customer service.

With a chuckle, you brush it off and state your order again, “I said could I have the strawberry swirl cheesecake please?” If Soobin could look at himself in third person, he would so be face palming right now. Or better yet, maybe he could just go up and like, punch himself straight up or something for acting like such a loser.

“Ah right... That’s ₩7500. Cash or card?”

You pay with cash and Soobin, very nervously, fumbles around to garner the right amount of change to hand you, though doing it in the most awkward way possible and his palm makes direct contact with yours as he hands the money, making him blush even more and let out a small obvious gasp at the feeling of your soft hand. Oh my god. Why did he do that?! He really hopes you didn’t find that weird.

You only let out another chuckle, thanking him before you’re leaving the bakery in an elegant manner and Soobin is left to sigh and watch your back disappear. Damn it. He’ll probably never see you again. You were so pretty and so cute, too cute even-

“You’re such a virgin.”

His thoughts about you are abruptly dissipated by his coworker and unfortunately best friend, Choi Beomgyu who gives him the stupidest, most annoying grin he would definitely like to slap off his face right now.

“Just shut up.” Soobin grimaces and rolls his eyes at beomgyu, bringing a batch of freshly baked cookies out of the oven behind him and placing them into the display glass one by one.

"You’re pinker than the strawberry macarons we sell. That's saying something." Beomgyu raises an eyebrow at him with sass.

So does that mean you could see how flustered he was getting then? Oh no! Soobin clears his throat and narrows his eyes at beomgyu anyway. “Am not.”

“Are too! Anyway, all I’m saying is that interaction was painful to watch. You’re really giving pathetic, loser, virgin right now. I cant lie.” Beomgyu attempts to stifle in one of his obnoxious laughs.

Soobin is quick to snap back, "You've only ever slept with one person!"

"S-so!! At least im not a virgin!" Beomgyu’s cheeks also become the equivalent to the strawberry macarons as he scrambles to try and defend himself, brows furrowed and cheeks puffed.

“Well, the concept of a virgin is purely societal anyway. It doesn’t actually matter. It doesn’t mean anything really.” Soobin bitterly replies, continuing to work whilst his counterpart does completely nothing like most of the time. It's usually soobin that does work, remind him not to agree to beomyu's silly ideas of getting a job together ever again.

Beomgyu scoffs and snickers at this, "Whatever. You’re just saying all that to make yourself feel better because you’re a loser. LMAO"

"I’ll punch you right now."

"Then we'll both be fired~”

A poor customer still awaits at the counter to be served, standing in bewilderment and tiredness. Waiting for the two bakers to finish bickering and sighing as they don’t seem like they’re going to stop anytime soon.

Soobin doesn’t expect to see you again, in complete honesty, he’s almost forgotten you even exist after you never come again. But he’s in luck and more than pleasantly surprised when he hears the bell to the door go ding!, indicating a customer had walked in. He looks up from the cake he was decorating and in comes you looking cuter than the first time he saw you. He tries not to mess up the cake and he stands up straight almost instantly when he sees you, waiting for you to order and trying to remain calm.

You laugh and point at his cute nose when you come up to the counter. “You have like, icing all on your nose.”

“O-oh. I do?” He points at himself and you nod in reply. He feels himself going redder by the minute. He must look so stupid right now! And he urgently brings his sleeve up and tries to wipe the icing off his nose to not make himself look an even more of a complete fool in front of you .

“Ah wait no. Let me do it!” You lean over the counter as you see him struggling and wipe it off the top of his cute bunny like nose instead for him.

And that was the end of soobin. The end.

You become a regular at the bakery and soobin becomes a regular of embarrassing the absolute shit out of himself each time he sees you. He really doesn’t think he can top the previous comedic disaster that occurs when you enter, yet he always proves himself wrong, the awkwardness reaching new heights each time. From dropping trays of pastries, spilling drinks, nearly slipping in front of you, giving you a ₩50000 note when it was only ₩5000 change, the list goes on and on. He’s actually surprised he hasn’t lost his job yet.

And there’s also always a disappointed beomgyu shaking his head afterwards ready to make fun of him when Soobin promises to make a move but freezes every time you’re in sight, too much of a pussy.

“I’m calling an intervention.” Beomgyu declares and sighs after the nth time of soobin making absolutely no moves on you whatsoever, “Soobin, my man, my bro, you desperately need to get banged. It’s painful seeing the way you act. Your little crush is not gonna like you with the way you act. That’s it. We’re going clubbing tonight after this shift. No buts.”

“But-”

“I said no buts!”

“You know I hate clubbing.”

“You’ve never even been with me despite my constant pleads.” Beomgyu shakes his head and makes a dramatic pained face at his way.

“So? I know I’ll hate it.”

“You’re such a hater bro.”

“Yes I am. And I take pride in it. I’m a hater of everything.”

Beomgyu just sighs. He was utterly hopeless.

Unfortunately, there was no way Soobin could get out of this because beomgyu was having absolutely none of his protests and excuses and that’s how he ends up finding himself at the club anyway after his shift, sitting off to the side as he watches beomgyu disappear somewhere into the crowd. Soobin sighs as he downs his jack and coke. This was going to be a long fucking night.

In the dimly lit club, soobin’s discomfort was palpable, like a fish out of water and you noticed instantly upon arrival. It’s that cute tall baker boy who always serves you! You excitedly make your way and sit next to him, he looked a little lonely. “Hey! You work at that bakery on campus. I go there!”

Soobin’s eyes nearly fall out of his sockets at the sight of you sitting next to him and he nearly chokes on his drink as he splutters on his straw and nods. Act calm, act calm, act calm, act calm. Act cool and mysterious.

It’s you! You’re speaking to him?!

“So…these things not really your scene, huh?”

“Gee. How did you ever notice?” Soobin attempts to smile and joke with dry humour but it executes a little more awkward and nervous than how he would have liked.

You also try to carry on the conversation since this is the first time you’ve got to ever actually talk to the cute boy before. “I’m very intuitive. I can just sense things like that.”

He laughs at that too, feeling a bit more comfortable around you now. “No but yeah, I’d much rather be at home right now sleeping. Can’t say I’m much of an advocate for getting stupidly drunk with sweaty people you don’t even know with terrible rave music and flashing lights that should have an epilepsy warning”

“I get it.” You chuckle at how passionate he gets talking about how much he hates clubbing, frown on his cute face. “So why are you here then?”

“Friend wanted me to. Said I needed to finally get laid or whatever.” Soobin rolls his eyes and sips on his drink again, motioning his head to the direction of beomgyu on the dance floor, clearly drunk off his ass now.

“Oh, you’re a Virgin?”

Soobin’s ears go red when he realises what he said to you. “O-oh um y-yeah I guess…”

“Are you waiting for like marriage or the right person or something?” You question, genuinely surprised. He was tall and very attractive and it was rare for college boys to not hook up every single night these days.

“God no. Just never happened. I don’t really care for things like that. It’s probably overhyped anyway and doesn’t even feel that good. Like porn is highly unrealistic anyway.”

“You think so?” You chuckle at him and he nods, continuing to cutely sip on his drink with his straw. “Well maybe you should to try it out first and see for yourself.” Your words start to become a little flirty as you grow more confident talking with him and also because of the alcohol making you slightly tipsy now. “Sorry, but do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes please.” Soobin’s eyes widen even more at your suggestion and he’s more than happy to get out of here with you especially.

“Umm your friend is a bit….out of it right now.” You watch beomgyu drunk from afar, whipping his long hair back and forth claiming to everyone around he’ll be able to do it fast enough to lift off his feet and fly like a helicopter.

“He’ll be…he’ll be fine I’m sure”

Soobin has no idea what good stuff he must have done in his past life to get to this moment right now, in your room, making out with you, in your bed. Did he mention making out? With you?! The customer he’s been crushing on for months?! Holy, he might hyperventilate right now. It all feels like a dream. Is this real right now?

You cup his cheek and move into his lap, continuing to move your lips against his and soobin’s ears and face are all flushed, breathing loud of enough for you to hear and he looks all nervous and a little shaky.

You stop kissing him but he chases after your lips still and you stroke his cheek, “Are you okay Soobin?”

He’s only able to nod, lips parted and eyes all glazed over. He’s so out of it just from making out with you it’s crazy. But so cute too.

“C-can you…can we…just want…”

“What do you want, baby?” You chuckle and stroke his cheek as he manages to utter some words. The petname only makes his head go even more haywire.

“W-want you…”

“What do you want me to do?” You giggle and coo at him.

He shyly shows you the boner he’s had this entire time. You can’t believe he got a boner just from some kissing. “Can you-will you touch me…please? Need it…” He pleads at you nervously, so red in the face.

“Are you sure?”

He nods his head exceptionally fast and you begin to unbuckle his jeans as he watches you take his flushed and hard dick out, breathing only becoming heavier. Damn, you didn’t think he’d be that big.

You take him into your hands and his mouth his already agape, gasping when you slowly start to stroke him.

You pump his big cock at a steady pace so as not to overwhelm him too much, though twisting and thumbing at the tip occasionally that has him drooling at the corner of his mouth and beads of precum dribbling out heavily from his cock. It’s endearing how far gone he is just at you stroking his dick slow, shy whimpers and other noises eliciting from his mouth.

You unbutton you shirt with your other hand as you continue to pump him and his eyes go crazed at the sight of your tits, you guiding his own big inexperienced hands to grope at them and he does, slumping his head into your neck and shoulder moaning into it and still groping and squeezing at your tits.

With a sudden yelp you feel Soobin’s cum spurt up and leak into your hands, his eyes rolling back as he whimpers continuously from his premature orgasm.

He doesn’t lift his head from your shoulder yet, too embarrassed to face you but he eventually does, eyes still half lidded, trying to catch his breath and he’s hard again. “W-will you fuck me? Please please please. Wanna feel it, wanna feel you, please?” He practically begs, still panting out.

“Are you really sure, Soobin? With me?”

“Yes please! Only want you.”

You study his face for any hesitancy but it’s clear he’s so set on wanting you to fuck him. So you wrap your hands around both his wrists and bring him to lay down on your pillows instead, you still straddling his lap.

When you’ve undressed your lower half, you bring his dick and slide it over your entrance a few times, he moans out loud, hands coming up shyly to cover his face and then you sink down incredibly slowly on his massive length . Soobin’s jaw drops and breath hitches at the feeling of his dick finally in your warm pussy, a strangled moan ripping out of him. He could seriously cum just from being in you right now, but he tries so hard not to or you’ll be disappointed and he doesn’t want to see you disappointed or embarrass himself even more.

“You good, baby?”

“M’ f-fine. Just-Just need a minute.” Soobin shakes out.

You take his hands away from his face and lean down to softly kiss him instead, trying to calm him down and he effuses into your mouth, kissing back passionately with his eyes closed.

“I’m ready now…” He pulls away after a while and looks you in the eyes.

So you start to slowly move, riding him, going up and down on his virgin dick. Soobin’s mouth hangs open in endless moans and gasps and whimpers, face buried into your pillow to the side and his hair all messy now. Whole body flushed and shaking underneath you.

“Better than you thought, baby?” You grunt out, bouncing on top of his cock.

“So much better. O-oh my god, f-fuck…ah!” So maybe sex wasn’t overhyped after all. Because goddamn, you feel so fucking good. Maybe it was just you. But Soobin truly feels like he’s gliding on fluffy clouds right now. All the times he’s touched himself not even coming close to how he feels right now stuffed in your pussy as you fuck him, watching mesmerised as your tits bounce with each movement. He could die here right now in full contentment. Oh how he was so wrong.

It’s not long at all before Soobin can’t hold it anymore. His hips bucking up and breath hitching as a loud strangled mewl tumbles out of his mouth and you feel hot cum fill you up suddenly that makes you still your movements on him. He lets out a long slurred groan and then goes limp beneath you, eyes closing shut and open as he fades from conscious to not every now and then. Is he really that fucked out?

After a while, he finally somewhat recovers and comes back to you from his high, still panting out and chest rising up and down. He looks up at you with a small shy smile on his lips, arm thrown over his forehead.

“You know I literally only go to the bakery because of how cute and silly you are and how you always make a mess of yourself whenever I walk in” You chuckle and admit, drawing shapes into his chest.

“W-wait you knew I liked you?” Soobin asks, shocked and feeling embarrassed again.

You laugh, “Come on, you made it rather obvious.”

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys 😭 if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and irriating when fics have such little reblogs ☹️. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it make writers want to actually write :)

A/n: having serious writers block rn but forced myself to write this in practically one sitting (it was so painful) and has not been proof read at all so if it makes no sense I apologise 😭

#soobin smut #Soobin x reader #txt smut #sub!idol #txt headcanons #txt scenarios #sub soobin #dom reader #dom! reader #txt x reader #sub txt #soobin hard thoughts #choi soobin smut #choi Soobin x reader #soobin scenarios #sub! txt #sub idol

5K notes · View notes

coradal · 3 months ago

Text

𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚 U𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚

★ shisui, itachi, sasuke, obito

✯ 🇸 🇭 🇮 🇸 🇺 🇮 ✯

- Shisui is fast. the moment he hears you were hurt, he moves, searching every battlefield and ruined village he passed.

- when he finds you, he feels his heart squeeze. "Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm here. I got you," he reassured you, but he was mostly trying to reassure it to himself.

- he lifted you into his arms gently and carefully to avoid causing you anymore harm

- he tries his best to keep his composure, but there's a light shake in his voice that gives him away. "im sorry" is all you say after you could muster up the energy to talk

- "you really scared me, you know that?" he pressed his forehead to yours before taking off once again and not stopping once until you got to safety and taken care of.

✯ 🇴 🇧 🇮 🇹 🇴 ✯

- as soon as the news hit his ears, he was gone in a blur. he began panicking as he searched every possible place you could've been. a thousand thoughts were going through his mind in such a short period of time

- the idea of you being alone, in pain, is enough to make him feel like his heart was about to split. every second he couldn't find you was agonizing and only made him speed up.

- when he finally spots to you, his breath caught in his throat, and he sped towards you, praying you were alive

- he kneels beside you and cups your face, "Thank God," he kept repeating to himself. he kept staring at you, scanning over your face and body just to reassure himself you were alive.

- he picks you up as gentle as he could, being as delicate as he could with you. he takes you to get medical help and doesn't let you leave his sight for a looooong time after.

✯ 🇮 🇹 🇦 🇨 🇭 🇮 ✯

- the moment he hears what happened, his calm demeanor instantly changed, only slightly, but enough for those who know him to notice.

- he disappears without a word, using his sharingan to look over the last place he knew you were at, his heart pounding faster and harder than he'd like to admit.

- when he finally finds you battered and barely conscious, he immediately sweeps you up. wiping your hair, dirt and any dust off your face.

- "i won't leave you again." is all he says as he feels his heart race, he slowly picks her up, bridal style, as she lets her head hang back in exhaustion, itachi's heart tightened at the sight.

✯🇸 🇦 🇸 🇺 🇰 🇪 ✯

- when someone tells him that youre injured his eyes immediately swirl into the familiar red flares, "where?" he snapped, his voice cold and sharp.

- when everyone says that they cant get contact or find her, he began to quietly panic to himself, trying to look as composed as he could in front of the others

- "go send out people to find her," he ordered quickly, taking off into a separate direction

- when he goes on his own path to find you, he sees you lying against a tree with your head back, panting for air.

-he almost appears at your side in less than a second, and when he sees you wounded and barely breathing, he dropped to his knees and looks at you, "who did this," he asked, the air around them thickening.

- when you laugh instead of answering, his face contorted into a confused look as you slowly begin talking, "You idiot, I just couldn't guard myself properly, i was already tired. its my fault"

- He rubbed his forehead before picking her up, "why didn't you wait for me?" he says, shaking his head

526 notes · View notes

ddiwata · 4 months ago

Text

if you could only know me (like your prayers at night) — the day you said goodnight, hale

— mydeimos x fem! wife! reader

— help.. help.. his words to phainon.. i cant breathe.. requests open!!

— warnings : MAJOR spoilers for the new quest, angst 💔💔 just tears and desperation idk!! no usage of y/n :3 devil works hard but i work extremely harder

— 🩸

“i’ll be leaving okhema soon to fight the greatest darkness of the world. and to shoulder nikador’s destiny. so, listen well: if there comes a day when we meet again on the battlefield, and i stand opposed to the flame-chase..

remember to stab your sword into my back and through my tenth thoracic vertebra. that’s my weakspot, and the only way to kill me.”

mydeimos’ last words to phainon. he planned to pack up and leave, with nothing but the clothes he has on and his bloodlust coursing through his veins. but every time he gazes down at his fingers, stained with the blood of too many to count. but the twinkle of gold around his ring finger makes him hesitate. he shouldn’t hesitate. he isn’t someone who hesitates.

but the words of his wife rings in his head. “i had these rings forged! look, it’s gold. it matches your armor!” his heart clenches and he can’t bear to say goodbye. to leave her like this. but he can’t bear to see her eyes fill with tears, her hands trembling as she pleads for him to stay when he says goodbye.

too many people he’s slain, too many people grovel at his feet. but every time his wife sobs, he feels mortal. fragile. so he leaves when night has fallen over their humble abode. his wife’s body comfortable underneath the weighted blanket they share, locks messy and her face relaxed— often marred by horror and concern when she finds out he’s died for the nth time after another battle.

he prays—for the first time—that his love won’t cry when she finds out. standing at the gate, where he’ll leave and won’t come back, he exhales deeply.

“walk out of okhema and i swear to the gods, i will divorce you, mydeimos.” the frail threat hangs in the air, and the prince turns around to see his wife—beautiful, tired, and utterly radiant. his breath hitches and he swallows. “it was a mistake giving that coreflame up. you know that, my love,” he looks away, eyebrows furrowing.

“why didn’t you wake me?” she asks firmly, voice cracking in a moment of weakness. mydei knows she’s trembling, fighting the urge to hold onto him. “i didn’t want to see the only reason why i want to stay hurt because of something i did. i left you a letter, but i’m.. horrible at writing.” he groans, his armored feet moving without the intention to.

he falls in his beloved’s arms, soft, sweet, and holding him so tightly. “my love, please forgive me.” de whispers, his cold, gloved hands grasping onto his wife’s cheeks. for the first time in a while, he feels tears trail down his cheeks and her soft thumb wiping it away as she stares up at him.

“you must go. and i understand..” she presses her forehead against her husband’s, nose brushing against his as she exhales softly, “do not lose yourself. come home to me.. please.”

a swift press to her lips, his own locking onto his wife’s, a familiar gesture— but this time it’s filled with grief. longing— desperation. he pulls away just as he kisses her, and with a gentle squeeze to her arms, he leaves, disappearing with the wind.

#angst #honkai star rail x reader #mydei x reader #mydei x you #mydei x y/n #mydei x fem! reader #ddiwata.hsr

483 notes · View notes

leriexoxo · 4 months ago

Text

STOLEN TOUCHES

Pairing: Jisung x afab! Reader (college au)

Tags: smut, 18+ mdni, unprotected sex, breeding, alcohol, cheating, p in v, oral (f receiving), best friends brother, noona kink.

Word count: 5k+ words

Summary: Jisung had been in love with his best friends older sister for as long as he could remember, unfortunately she never saw him as anything more than her brothers friend, until that night at a frat party.

This work contains mature themes, Minors DO NOT INTERACT!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You lived in a neighborhood close your college with your brother Felix, who had a group of friends that he had stuck with ever since 3rd grade; Chan, Leeknow, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Seungmin and Jeongin. You saw them around so much so that the presence of two or more in your house everyday was a constant.

As Felix’s older sister, you naturally were very protective of him and you subconsciously mothered him alot, which inevitably extended to a few of his friends who were the same age as him or younger; Jisung, Seungmin, Hyunjin and Innie, those were the few ones who practically lived at your house. There wasn’t so much of an age gap between you and your brother, you gave him only three years making you his oldest friend, Chan’s age.

That evening, your girlfriends had invited you to the biggest frat party happening on campus and you were reluctant about going, but you had not seen your boyfriend San for a few days and he had promised to take you out that weekend. You picked up your phone and shot him a quick text

You: Baby, where are you right now?

10 minutes later, his typing bubble popped up, disappeared and then popped up again. Huh.

San: At my friends studio… whats up?

You: Jihyo told me about the party at Kappa house tonight, are you gonna be there? I wanna go with you babe.

San: Oh no no! Kappa? I’m not going

You: Why?

San: I’m a bit tied up at the studio, I cant make it back to campus today. You’re not going right?

You: Well i wanted to go with you, otherwise ill go with the girls.

His bubble showed him typing again for a while before disappearing. What?

San: I dont want you to go babe, there’s gonna be a lot of dudes there and i can’t protect you.

You: Sweet of you baby, but i dont need protection, i’ll be fine

San: Just listen to me babe? Get your girls to do a movie night or something 🥺 i don’t want you to go without me, please?

Why was San acting weird? It wasn’t a big deal for you to go to the party if he wasnt coming, you had attended several parties without him before. You frowned at your screen, not entirely enjoying being told what to do. Another message popped up on your screen, one from the girl’s groupchat.

Jihyo: y/n are you gonna be ready in 10 minutes?? I’m already on the way to yours

You looked at the message, then back at your outfit you already laid you and thought fuck it.

You: I have not even showered as we speak so i know damn well i wont be ready in 10 😂

Jihyo: Girl i’m leaving you tf 😂 you can be your own ride!

You: Okay ill catch up with y’all at the party!

You put your phone down and started to get ready, taking your time since you were gonna be the one taking yourself to the party, faintly in the background muffled by the sound of the shower, you heard a door slam somewhere in the house and voices start to fill out, you guessed Felix was home with his friends.

Life’s a fucking bitch

That’s what you thought as you angrily stomped down the crowded frat staircase, away from the fucking spectacle you had just witnessed in one of the bedrooms on the second floor.

He was fucking some other bitch! He said he wasnt coming to the party but you opened the door and found your boyfriend ramming his stupid dick is some other bitches ass?! You were furious! He said he was going to be holed up at the fucking studio!! He lied?!

He didn’t even notice you, too far gone and lost in cheating, he didn’t hear you yell “WHAT THE FUCK SAN?!” over the blaring music. He didnt notice you storm out in tears either.

You grabbed the first solo cup you saw on the nearest table and threw back the contents, it tasted like shit but it burned your throat and that was exactly what you needed, your mind begging to forget, you found another half empty tequila bottle and tipped it back, ready to get yourself shitfaced and let the future you deal with the aftermath.

You had been dating San for the past 8 months, it wasn’t like you had the best relationship, he was constantly flirting with girls in his faculty, he always partied without you and lied alot and to top it off, your brother and his friends absolutely hated him but you still stubbornly ignored all the red flags and stayed with San, not ever entirely believing all the cheating rumors you heard cos you trusted him, that is until a few minutes ago. Now you felt angry and numb and you wanted to hurt him back.

On the other end of the crowded room, Jisung was hanging back against the frat wall beside Hyunjin and Minho, the party was in full swing and more than half the gang was already shitfaced or on the dancefloor, but as the designated drivers, himself and Minho stuck to drinking energy drinks and soda, while Hyunjin was sipping on whatever mixture he had in his solo cup chattering excitedly about the girl who just gave him her number, he tuned them out when he noticed you angrily stomp down the stairs, knocking peoples cups over and earning a series of “what the fucks” in your wake.

Curiously, his eyes followed you as you grabbed a cup and chugged its contents, He frowned, automatically wanting to go to you but stopping himself from pushing off the wall and making his way over, he was pretty sure that cup wasn’t yours and that was not very much a y/n thing to do.

Jisung wanted to go and stop you when you picked up an open tequila bottle but he knew that It wasn’t his place to do that, he hadnt even expected to see you at the same frat party, earlier when he drove to your house to pick up Felix and the guys, he hadnt seen your car in the driveway and assumed you were off somewhere else.

Jisung had secretly harbored a crush on you for a while now, he loved everything about you, often catching himself staring at you when he was over at Felix’s, the only other person who knew how he really felt about you was Minho and that was only because nothing ever skipped him. Now watching you cleary angry and about to make alot of bad decisions, Minho nudged him with an elbow.

“Shouldn’t you go check on Noona?” He said nodding towards your direction, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Do i have to-“ Jisung started to pretend as if he didn’t actually want to go to you already, but immediately stopped in his tracks when he saw some weirdo sidle up behind you. “Okay scratch that, I’ll be right back”

He dropped his cup on the closest chair and started making his way over to you, ignoring Minho’s annoying laughter.

You were swaying your head to the loud music, hands in the hair and the contents of the bottle in your hand sloshing over, the alcohol hit you fast as you were never really much of a drinker but atleast it had you where you wanted right now. In your hazy state you felt a hand come around your waist from behind. Unfamiliar hands. You felt like you were going to throw up.

“Go awayyy” you said, words slurring as your head spun. You pushed the hands away from you, turning your back once again and taking another swig of the tequila.

“Y/n! Noona”

Your head snapped up when you heard your name, squinting to try to make out the face of the otherwise familiar voice that called you, you looked ahead of you into the large body of people melted together in a sea of sweat, smoke and neon lights.

Jisung.

Your brain hissed the name of your little brothers best friend, as he appeared in your line of sight. Through the undulating bodies, strobing multicolored lights and pulse of the speakers.

“Sungie?” You ask, squinting up at him as he got closer to where you stood.

“Are you okay Noona? I think you’ve drank enough of that” He said, gently taking the bottle away from you which caused you to whine in protest.

“Nooooo! I was drinking that” You made grabby hands at it but he lifted the bottle above his head and out of your reach.

“What are you even doing here?” You asked again in a pout, subconsciously leaning into him for support.

“I’m here with Felix and the guys, we didn’t know you were coming to this party too” he said, gently placing his free hand at your back and steering you away from the center of the dancefloor.

“Oh? I was supposed to be here with my stupid boyfriend” *hiccup* “but he lied and said he wouldn’t come here!” You complained, words slurring at how tipsy you had become.

Han raised an eyebrow at the information, turning to scan the crowd for Choi San, your music major boyfriend who he absolutely despised. He couldn’t find him anywhere.

“Where’s he then?”

Annoyed, you pushed away from him to glare as if Jisung was the cause of your problems, “i just walked in on him cheating on me upstairs”

Jisung stopped in his tracks, staring at you wondering if he heard you wrong “what?”

“He’s up there fucking some other bitch Sungie! And he didn’t even notice me walk in.. *hiccup* I hate him!” You yelled, eyes welling up with tears for the second time that night.

Jisung saw red. He clenched his fists and glared up at the stairs, torn between taking care of you and going to find San to rip his head off.

“I think i’m going to thr-“ you words got cut short as you hunched over and emptied the contents of your stomach right there in the corner of the room, all over the floor and on yourself.

“Oh shit! Are you okay noona?!” Jisung asked for the third time that night, his eyebrows rose up in shock and he tried to hold you but it was too late.

“I feel sick..” you muttered

“Lets get you cleaned up”

He pulled off his jacket and threw over your shoulder and basically carried you into the nearest free room he could get to. Once in, he set you down on your feet by the bathroom door and held it open for you.

“Can you clean yourself up? Or do i need to get your friends? Are they here? Do you need help?” Jisung rambled, unsure what to do.

You grimaced, looking down at yourself and instantly starting to regret drinking so much so fast, you fingered at the edge of your soiled crop top, wanting to peel it off but too weak to actually make the move, you barely registered Jisungs panic mode beside you.

“Off… want it off” you whined

“You want me to… do it myself?” He stuttered

“I want it offff” you started to throw a small tantrum, palming at the shirt and soiling your hands even more.

“Shit okay okay I’ll help you”

He hesitantly pinched the clean part of the top and helped you peel it off over your head, all the while he kept his head firmly facing away from you in order to provide privacy.

He heard you struggle some more before letting out a sad whine sounding almost like you were about to cry.

“Sungie it’s so hot…,” you murmur, tugging at your jeans buckle. "Can you take off my jeans…?". You look at him with puppy dog eyes.

He audibly sucks in a breath, ears turning bright red at the thought of having to see you in any state of undress, he sighs and turns around to help you.

"Fine, I'll help you take them off Noona" He gingerly reaches towards your fly to pop the button, all the while keeping his eyes trained on his hand and not letting them wander.

In his peripheral vision though he realized that you were completely bare under the shirt you had tossed, Jisung gulped hard, his brain short circuiting for a moment before you sighed in relief as you took over undressing and started to peel off your jeans while you staggered into the bathroom and closed the door.

Jisung stood frozen in his spot, the image of you full perky breasts burning into his memory. Heat and blood rushed to his cock immediately filling him out. He knew he had to get the fuck out of that room and fast. But leaving you there in that state would mean letting anyone come in to take advantage of you and that was even worse.

The sounds of the shower turning on and a little ruckus from you struggling to get clean in your tipsy state came through the bathroom door, Jisung gulped hard, his imagination was running wild, there was literally only a door separating him from your naked form in the bathroom, he could already imagine the water cascading down your soft skin and God those fucking tits? He groaned dragging his palm over his face, he was so down bad for his best friend’s sister and there was nothing he could do about it.

He knew he absolutely had no chance for several reasons, the most being that you never looked at him that way, except as your little brother’s best friend who you babied alot, another reason being that Felix would absolutely kill him if he ever knew he thought about his sister like that.

The water stopped running and Jisung stood alert, not knowing what to do with himself as he heard you finish.

“Sungie?” You called.

“I’m here…?” he called back, almost like a question than an answer.

You gingerly opened the door a little and poked your head out to him.

“I dont have a shirt” you said in a small voice, you were already feeling a little better after you threw up and washed yourself, but the pain and anger from earlier still lingered. You were a bit more sober than before with just an underlying buzz.

His eyerows immediately shot up, completely disappearing under his bangs, he rushed to pull off his own shirt to offer to you without really thinking. “Oh right! Sorry you can put this on!” He said, stretching a very toned and musclar arm towards you.

Your eyes locked onto his body. Wow.

You hadn’t seen him shirtless for years now and you had heard in passing that one of Felix’s friends had gotten tattoos but you never really bothered to know who it was or what they got, so the markings of ink on your little brother’s best friend’s body was not something you expected to see.

He had a compass on his right pec, along with a gothic text saying BLESSED, and some smaller sentences underneath it that you could not quite make out. You let your eyes roam even further, checking out his very tight and toned body, he wasn’t as big as San but damn was he fine!

Without really meaning to, you took a step closer to get a better look at the writing on Jisung’s tattoo, in the process letting go of the door you hid behind. He instantly turned red, eyes nearly popping out of its socket when he saw your naked tits for the second time that night.

“Your tattoos,” you reached for his chest, tracing your fingernail along the smaller writing, which in turn caused Jisung to shudder under your touch. “What do they mean?”

Completely stupefied, His mouth hung open his words failing him. “Wh-what?”

You took another step closer, stepping completely into his space still blissfully unaware that you were flashing him as you had nothing but your panties on, Jisung wanted desperately to look away, to respect you but he was having a hard time taking his eyes off your beautiful body. The way your full perky breasts danced with each breath and movement, he watched as you stared in awe at his own body, not even bothering to hide your approval, your palm laid flat over the BLESSED ink and your other hand came up to touch him too like you were examining an expensive piece of sculptural art.

“Beautiful” You muttered wistfully under your breath but still he caught it, it was when your fingers lightly brushed over his nipples that he jolted out of his temporary paralysis. His hand instantly flew up to stop yours from causing more damage to his resolve.

“Noona! Wait, I… your shirt?” He offered weakly. The tip of his ears had turned a pretty shade of red, he hadn’t had any alcohol but at this point, he was the one who looked more tipsy between the two of you with his red face and dilated pupils.

“So pretty”

Your brain supplied the only two simple words that occupied it as you looked up to meet his eyes, seeing him like that with such a fucked out expression instantly had you realizing the state of your undress which he had just pointed out. That sobered you up completely.

Jisung knew the moment he saw your eyes widen, that you had just now realized the position you both were in, he fully expected you to scream or run back into the bathroom or something. Anything. You only just stared back at him in mild shock but you didn’t move, you didn’t even take your hands off his body, it was like you were frozen in place but very much assertive.

You knew at that moment that you were about to do something really fucking stupid. You knew you were going to regret it, but stubbornly you wanted to leave the consequences for future y/n to handle, you could worry about all that shit later, hell you could even blame it on the alcohol but right now, you were hurting and you needed to numb the pain, you needed to forget.

With newfound courage, you leaned in closer, standing up on your tippy toes and your eyes flitting from his own eyes to his soft looking lips and back.

Jisung knew instantly what was about to happen, the atmosphere in the room was suddenly charged and you could literally cut the tension with a knife. As you pressed your breasts to his chest when you stood on your toes to reach him, he knew at that point that he had lost the battle between common sense and his already raging boner.

“Fuck it” He swooped down and captured your lips, meeting you halfway there and you instantly melted into him.

Your hands slid up his body and found purchase behind his neck, he in turn wrapped his arms around your small waist, pulling you impossibly closer and deepening the kiss. You both moved against each others lips, seemingly not being able to get enough of each other, the kiss went from gentle to heated in a matter of seconds, both your hands groping each other wildy.

The two of you stumble backwards and fall on the bed, only breaking apart for him to pepper kisses along your jawline and down your neck.

You straddled him already feeling how much he wanted you, his impressive length sat thick and hard against your butt, your underwear being only material separating you from him.

“I need to know if you’re sure about this” he mouthed against your neck, “Noona, if we dont stop now-“

“I dont know what i want Ji, but i dont want to stop” you moaned, grinding down on his member and eliciting a desperate groan from him.

He pulled you away from him just to scan your face, he wasnt sure who even looked more fucked out between the both of you. You lifted your body off him climbing down from the bed completely, not breaking eye contact you hooked your thumbs onto your panties and slowly pulled, gyrating your hips in a sexy manner and watching his eyes follow every movement. Jisung visibly swallowed when you kicked off the offending material and stood before him in your birthday suit.

You had to be the most beautiful creature he ever set his eyes on, he could hardly believe he wasn’t in one of his wet dreams where you were a regular visitor.

Jisung sprawls to a sitting position on the bed, legs opened wide, head lifted and eyes on you, beckoning you closer.

"Sungie-" you crawl on the bed and kneel between his open thighs, raking a hand through his messy hair.

He tilts his face upwards, sitting up taller, "Yes Noona."

His hands ghost on the outside of your body, not touching, but asking wordlessly for permission to touch. You groan, climbing into his lap and grasping one of his hands to press it into your ass.

Jisung moans your name, fingers biting into the bare cheek of your ass as he tumbles back onto the bed just as your lips ghost over his.

"Let me take care of you" You whisper to him.

He responds with his hands greedily trying to roll your hips into his trapped erection. You giggle at that, drawing out another groan from him along with a string of profanities.

Sitting up, you press your full weight into his pelvis, Jisung starts to whine underneath you, bucking into your soft ass.

"Tsk tsk, don't get so worked up just yet," you kiss his cheekbone before sitting back.

You come into his space after taking in the view of him beneath you, you plant a soft kiss to his lips and down his cheek, along his jaw and neck. As your hands work to unbutton his jeans, he lifts his hips with your guidance and you gift him another soft kiss before pulling them off and tossing along with your other discarded clothing.

The air between the two of you sizzles with anticipation. Slowly, tauntingly you reach up to cup him through his briefs, watching as his head kicks back with a pitchy groan.

“I want you to taste me Ji” you said before gently pushing him back to lie against the pillows.

He followed your lead, lying back and gazing up at you as you straddled him. He touched every expanse of your skin that was within his reach, your breasts, your stomach, your ass, he grabbed at everything. It was like he wanted to memorize every curve and contour of your body.

Your cunt was already drenched, you had soaked a wet patch through his briefs, leaving a pussy sized stain on it. You then lifted yourself, moving to positioning yourself so your cunt was hovering over his head.

“Wanna cum on your mouth…” you said before letting your body down on his waiting mouth.

He looked up at you with those beautiful eyes, eyes that were already rolling back at your taste.

He lapped at your folds, tongue fucking into your core. You grabbed his hair rolling your hips on his tongue. As you rolled your hips you leaned back to grab his cock through his soiled briefs, his precum staining the underwear and making more of a mess that you left it.

He jumped at the sudden touch making him groan. You started moving your hand on him, squeezing and pumping him faster and faster knowing he wasn’t gonna last.

“Keep that up and i’m gonna cum” he choked out. You let go of him making him whine ruining his high.

“Please” he whimpered.

“Why should I let you cum when you haven’t even made me cum yet hmm?” You teased.

Jisung was now on a mission, sucking at your clit as you rode his face. He nibbled on you ever so gently, the moan you let out had his head spinning .

You were getting close- He was already there and desperately fucking into your hand for a release.

His hands found their way to your hips pulling you down onto him as far as you could, basically smothering himself in your cunt. His hands slinking their way up your chest to twist at your hardened sensitive nipples. As much as you wanted to protest you didn’t, feeling your high quickly approaching. Something he knew all too well was that you needed his touch, you craved it as much as he craved yours.

“I need you to cum for me! Please Noona” he begged. Those pretty eyes stared up at you with desperation. You snapped. Pulling his hair harshly as your thighs closed around him. Your orgasm came crashing down on you like a tsunami.

When you finally came down from your high and your legs stopped trembling, you moved yourself back down and without a warning, pulled him free of his briefs and you sunk yourself down taking his throbbing cock fully. Your cunt fit so perfectly on him.

“Fuuuuuckkkk”, He moaned out, body twitching like he was trying to get away, “You’re - I’m-“

He couldn’t even get out the words before he was cumming inside of you, cock twitching deep inside you, you rolled your hips as you felt him pump you full of cum over and over again, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his hands gripping your waist so tight you were sure it would leave nail marks.

“I’m sorry!” he said in a whisper, closing his eyes tight and not being able to bring himself to look at you, and yet he made no move to pull you off because guess what? His cock was still very hard.

You started to move up and down on his sensitive cock, not caring about his overstimulation. His hands gripped at your hips pathetically whimpering.

“Then make it up to me Sungie” you smirk, not slowing your movements, you knew he had more in him judging by how he was still rock solid inside you.

Jisung easily lifted you with his arms and flipped you over, you landed under him and he sunk back into your sopping heat in one stroke, your cunt already slick and messy with your mixed juices.

“I can do that y/n” his eyes darkened and it was like he flipped a switch the moment he flipped you over, something primal was dancing behind his eyes.

“Oh God!” You moaned as he started to thrust into you, creating a sharp and steady tempo, his skin slapped yours repeatedly making pornographic lewd sounds that mixed with the music in the background.

He doesn't relent fucking into your cunt, looking down at where you were joined and watching how you were literally sucking him in, Jisung felt as though his eyes might roll to the back of his head from the sight alone.

"Fuck, you feel so fucking tight," he groans, throwing his head back as he pistons his hips as if to match the beat of the music outside. “So good”

"Jisung!" you yell, you felt yourself quiver as your orgasm slammed into you with the onslaught of his cock on that sweet spot he kept hitting that had your back arching.

He picked up your left leg and threw it over his shoulder, creating a deeper angle, he felt like he might have convulsed from pleasure in that moment.

Jisung had his mind set, he was going to ‘make it up to you’ as you wanted and to do that, he wasn’t going to stop until you were shaking, sobbing mess, until you marked his back with your pretty nails murmuring nothing but his name over and over like a prayer. Even if this was going to be his only opportunity, he wanted to fuck the memory of San out of your body.

He was rutting his hips into yours so desperately now, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and eyebrows drawn together as he tried to hold himself back from spilling inside of you again, he needed to make this last, but the way you were clenching around him and fucking him back, the way your body responded to every movement had his self control hanging by a thread.

"Sungie! Please please- ah fuck! Please" you begged, pulling his head down and biting into his neck as your second orgasmn crashed down on you, your body convulsed beneath him, you saw white.

“I’m cumming!” You managed to gasp.

"That’s it Noona, just a little longer and i’m gonna fill you up so fucking good" Jisung mutters.

He felt you squeeze and clench around him again as he fucked you through your orgasm. he couldn’t hold out much longer, so gathered the last of his energy to slam his cock against your slippery warm walls so fucking hard you has practically become one with the bed.

“I’m cumming! Take it baby” he groaned. His hips stilled as he gave you ropes and ropes of his cum.

Jisung scattered wet kisses all over your face and chest as he slowly pumped out the last bits of his cum into your spent cunt. You both panted heavily as you came down from your highs, holding onto each other tightly like you were scared you would drift away.

A comfortable silence fell upon you both and you separately wondered about the events that just happened, you ran your fingers through his hair that had gotten damp with sweat, he lifted his head to search your eyes.

“Are you okay y/n” he asked in a small voice, the primal version of him suddenly back in its shell. “Did i hurt you?”

You smiled sweetly at him. “No you didn’t sungie, i can handle it” you winked and he blushed red.

“Okay noona, but i think its time to get you home for real” Jisung said, standing and retreating to the bathroom to get towels so he could clean you up. You made to sit up and follow him but he shook his head no and gestured that you lie back down.

You knew that by morning, after the hangover you were sure to get, you were going to be in a whole lot of shit, but you just allowed yourself a night of escape, you would think about what you had done later, right now all you wanted was to be taken care of by your little brothers best friend who had just fucked the living daylights out of you.

******************************************************

Authors Note: This was a result of my horny friends imagination! I just brought it to life!

Please leave a like and reblog if you love it!

#stray kids smau #minho audio smut #bang chan #leeknow smut #han jisung #bang chan angst #skz imagines #bang chan smut #bang chan skz #chan smut #han jisung smut #jisung x reader #jisung stray kids #skz smut #jeongin #skz drabbles #stray kids

349 notes · View notes

bowxs · 8 days ago

Note

I am OBSESSED with the Soldier Boy x Female Reader where he comforts her after the dates goes wrong!!! The follow up where we find out that he’s the reason all these dates are disappearing is just *mwah* perfection😘 We love a selfish and possessive Soldier Boy🥵🩷

More, more, more! Maybe Soldier Boy has enough of her going on all these dates and the next time he comforts her plans to lock her down….*wink*😏

so sorry this took so long😔😔 i promise i havent been ignoring yall

i hope you like!!

um.. t/w for baby trapping without full consent?

divider from @uzmacchiato

of fucking course your date cancelled on you again. recently, they havent even offered to go on a date before ditching you, just straight up saying no when you really thought it was going somewhere

but, of course, ben is always there to make you feel better. every time. it always ended with you on your back or your tummy, and ben fucking you stupid so you forget about those stupid other boys- only focusing on him

this time was no different- except ben seemed more frustrated. you pretended not to notice the way his jaw twitched when you said you were cancelled on again, and you ignored the way he pounded into you even harder than the past times

“ben- ah- cant, i cant- s’too much-” you moaned out into the sheets, but ben knew you didnt really mean it with the way you were pushing your hips back to try and meet his thrusts

“your gonna fucking take it- y’pussy takes my dick so good- might have to put a baby in it- shit” ben grunts, his grip on your hips only tightening

your breath stutters at his words, but you cant help the way you clench around him at his words. they were filthy- they were wrong.

“ben- i-” you choke out the weakest protest, words trailing off as his hands find your clit, rubbing hard and fast

“yeah you want that shit? god- squeezin’ me so tight- wont even let me pull out, just keeps suckin’ me in” ben sounds like hes almost in awe with how hes taking about you

“im gonna- oh fuck ben-!” you moan out, thighs shaking as your release hits you like a truck, his words only adding to the pleasure. you wanted to protest, tell him to pull out and that it was wrong, but your words are lost in your moans

“gonna cum in this tight fuckin’ pussy- you want it, yeah? i know you do” he grunts, his thrusts getting more and more sloppy as his own release approaches

your too far deep in the overstimulation to protest as you feel him still- buried to the hilt inside of you- and you feel the hot release of him inside

“fuck- ben- you cant-” you protest, hands reaching over your back, trying to push at his hips, trying to get him out. but not really, its a damn weak attempt

“i can. i just fuckin’ did baby. and ill do it again till your ruined for anyone else” you can hear the cocky grin on his face as he pumps himself in and out a few more times- like he was trying to make sure everything was as deep as possible

ben always knew what you wanted, right? so maybe he did know that this was the right thing. even if you didnt know it yet.

#soldier boy x yn #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy smut #jensen ackles x reader #soldier boy #dean winchester smut #the boys #the boys x you #the boys smut #billy butcher smut

247 notes · View notes

obsidianbaby · 1 year ago

Text

But that's what I love about you

synopsis - you always get told you're too loud and that your laugh is incredibly annoying but that's what your boyfriend chris loves about you the most

warnings/notes - NONE!! pure fluff, established relationship with chris, some pets names but like get over it ?

a/n - i loveddddd writing this request i had so much funnnn thank you sm @presleyanswrites

___________________________________

The boys are pacing around the living room getting ready to go out to film a car video and chris notices you sulking on the couch.

"hey babe are you coming with us?" Chris asks from the kitchen looking over at you. Your face buried in your phone reading through comments on the last youtube video you featured in with the triplets.

"omg she's so fucking annoying"

"dont know how chris can put up with her"

"if i had her as a gf i would want to kms"

"her laugh tho? yikes"

"they must be so sick of her fr"

"how to fix my eardrums after hearing her yap the whole video no borax no glue"

chris noticing the sad look on your face, he wonders over to the couch and takes a seat beside you, resting his head in the crook of your neck. You continue to doom scroll through the comments, not being able to take your eyes off of the public hate flooding the internet.

"babyyyyyy" chris says softly against your neck.

"hmm?" you say not taking your eyes off of the screen.

"did ya hear me?" he asks, softly brushing the hair out of your face.

"no sorry, what did you say?"

"are you gonna come film with us? want you there with us tonight." he says sweetly, wrapping his arms around you pulling you against him.

"um... no i think i'll skip this one" you say quietly.

"what? you cant!!" Nick shouts from the kitchen.

you immediatley look up at nick and matt standing in the kitchen looking over at you and chris sitting on the couch.

"no it's okay guys i think i'll just go to bed or something" putting your phone down on your lap, the screen still open.

Matt and nick nod at you and start walking towards the stairs to the garage door.

"meet ya down there chris" Matt shouts as they disappear down the stairs.

"yeah guys i'll be there in a minute" chris says back. He sits up and turns his body towards you on the couch, "what's wrong baby?" chris asks searching your face.

"nothing chris im okay, just tired." you lie, looking down at your lap where your phone sits. Chris follows your gaze and sees your phone open on your lap and he looks back at you.

"whats going on hmm?" chris asks softly, reaching his hand to lift your chin to face him and he sees the emptiness in your puffy eyes. "have you been crying baby what's wrong?" he asks rubbing his hand against your cheek.

"it's nothing dont worry about it, go and film your video chris i'll probably be in bed when you get home" you say looking into his eyes, you can see the concerned look painted across his face and it melts your heart, you feel guilty about him wasting his time here with you instead of having fun with his brothers.

"listen, you can't lie to me like that you know how well i can read you," he starts, cupping your face in his hands bringing your face closely to his and he plants a gentle kiss on your forehead, "now tell me what's going on i wanna help"

you close your eyes enjoying the soft embrace of his warm hands holding your heavy head and you let out a heavy sigh trying to collect your words without breaking out in a sob.

But chris is right in the way he can read you and he instantly pulls you into him and you bury your face against his chest, your tears starting to fall.

"its okay baby im here i've got you" he says rubbing your back in soft circles, "tell me when you're ready okay? i wont force you to talk about it if you dont want to okay?"

you nod into his chest and take a few deep breaths collecting yourself before you back up to look into his eyes, "i just feel like people don't want to see me with you guys. like in your videos... I don't think they like me that much..."

Chris nods and looks towards your phone sitting in your lap, "whats going on hm? you wanna show me?"

you hesitate fumbling your phone in your hands before you sigh and hand it over to him. He takes the time to read the disgusting comments glaring from your phone screen, the same that are still swimming in your mind.

he shakes his head and closes the app, putting your phone down behind him.

"you know none of that is true, right?" he says, reaching out to wipe the silent tears now strolling down your cheeks.

"but its not just a couple comments here and there, so many people are saying the same shit. That I'm too loud, that my laugh is annoying, that i talk too much, that you guys must be fed up with me i just feel so disgusting and embarrassed."

chris's eyes sadden at your words and he sighs looking down shaking his head, "i know dating a content creator must be difficult for you baby, there's always going to be people who have nothing but negative and hurtful shit to say but they don't matter."

"but they're right chris, your fans aren't the only people who've said im too much for them, i've been told that im too much my whole life.." you say hiding your face in your hands.

Chris gently holds your hands and pulls them away from your face holding them in his as he looks into your eyes.

"yet you're here with me right now. and you know what? you're not too much, not for nick, not for matt, and especially not for me. I love you and i love how outgoing and loud you are." he says smiling sweetly at you.

"but-" you start but chris interrupts you.

"but that's what i love the most about you. I love your contagious laugh, i love the way you can freely share your thoughts and opinions without hesitation. You're perfect for me and my heart would break if you ever tried to dim your light because of jealous assholes hiding behind their screens on the internet." he says smiling at you.

you sigh, knowing your boyfriend is right. he chose you. and he's choosing to give his undivided attention to you right now to make sure you feel better and to show you how much you mean to him.

"i love you...." he says looking at you waiting for a response.

"i love you too chris. i appreciate you so much you know that." you say meeting his eyes. he presses his forehead against yours and the two of you stay like that for a moment.

he pulls away and looks at you a stupid grin on his face, "of course you love me i'm the best" and you giggle at him shaking your head.

"i wouldn't go that far..." you say teasingly and he gasps pretending to act offended making you laugh. man he always knows how to make you feel better.

Chris's phone suddenly vibrates, an incoming call from nick coming up on his screen and he looks at it and answers it quickly, "yeah nick im coming okay be down in a minute" and he hangs up pocketing his phone.

"its okay if you still want to stay home baby it's up to you but just so you know, the three of us want you there yeah?"

"i know... I think i'm still going to stay home, probably watch a movie."

"sounds good baby, i'll text you okay?" chris says pulling you into a big hug and he sprinkles a bunch of kisses all over your face.

"see you soon" you say as you watch your boyfriend get up and walk towards the stairs to the garage.

____________________________________

a/n - first fluffffffff let me know what y'all think!! sorry if you hate the pet names "baby" and "babe" i literally cannot stand y/n so i try really hard not to use it okok thank you for reading mwah!! xx

dts - @jnkvivi @bigbeefybitch @loud-sturniolos @d44rla @stuniolvs @stasiesturn @moeberry @sturniolocamper @thatssocancelled @bitchydragonparadise @crazy-people-are-here

#sturniolo #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris x reader #chris fluff

857 notes · View notes

thedarksilkpen · 2 months ago

Text

Safe With Halsin

soft Halsin request from @optimisticgrey!

this wound up being 1,400 words oops.

NSFW Below

Halsin’s quarters smell of wild sage and soft earth, a mingling of dried herbs and sun-warmed wood. Lanternlight glows low and amber along the curved walls, casting golden halos on stone and fur-lined floor. The grove breathes gently beyond the door, crickets humming, the occasional rustle of leaves slipping into the hush between heartbeats. It's only been a few days since you arrived with the last refugee train, but you already feel at home amongst the Druids.

You stand at the center of it all, bare feet brushing against woven reeds and cool painted stone, watching Halsin unlace his tunic. His eyes hold yours, steady and warm. He strips with the patience of one who knows there is no rush, no pressure. Only trust. When he approaches you, it is without pretense or performance. He touches you like he already knows your body, not from having claimed it, but from having imagined it with reverence.

His fingers graze your shoulders first, brushing the straps of your garment away, letting it fall. The fabric slips down your body and pools at your feet. His hands are gentle on your skin, but hardened with callouses. Halsin slowly leans in, his mouth at your collarbone, breath curling into your skin. He kisses you there, slow and sure, then presses another kiss just below your jaw.

His hands cup your face, warm and strong, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if you are something fragile. Halsin's eyes meet yours and you hear his sharp intake of breath-- he wants this too. You lean into his touch, and his lips find yours, soft and coaxing. He kisses you with care, drawing out each breath, each sigh, until you feel yourself tilting into him, anchored only by his arms around you.

He guides you to the low bed tucked against the stone wall, layered with fur and thick woven blankets. You sink into them, watching him through your lashes as he joins you. He crawls toward you with the quiet grace of a bear through the woods, large and grounded and focused entirely on you. When he lies beside you, he doesn’t reach for anything but your hand.

You lace your fingers with his. Halsin smiles.

He leans in again, his mouth brushing the corner of yours, then your cheek, then your temple. His free hand drifts across your waist, curving around your hip. He pulls you closer, your thighs meeting, his warmth folding around you until the outside world disappears. You rest your palm against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart and the course hair .

His kisses deepen gradually. He lets you set the pace. His hand trails down to your thigh, resting there until you shift, canting your hips towards his hand and inviting him in. His fingers slide between your legs, gliding through slick heat. He hums against your lips, his pleasure threaded with awe. He murmurs to you, voice low, each word spoken like a gift.

He strokes you gently, never hurrying. The rhythm he finds is easy, meant to soothe, to open. Your legs fall further apart for him, hips rising to meet his touch, your breath catching on every slow, deliberate movement. When he slips a finger inside you, the stretch is perfect. Halsin's fingers are short but thick, the nails well trimmed and clean. His finger crooks perfectly inside of you to hit the spot that makes you see stars and you gasp, one hand flying to grip his forearm. You can feel his muscles under your hand as his moves, flexing and relaxing with each slow pump of his finger inside of you. The Druid's thumb finds your clit, circling, coaxing. You gasp into his mouth and he drinks it in, his own breath growing shallower.

Another finger joins the first, and still his hand remains gentle, reverent. He watches you, every twitch of your brow, every press of your lips, every gasp that leaves your throat. Halsin's eyes sweep up and down your body, hovering at the spot where you and he are joined. You feel completely seen, laid bare in a way that leaves no room for shame.

You whisper his name and he answers with a kiss, tongue parting your lips with ease as he redoubles his efforts between your legs.

When he finally withdraws his hand, it’s only to push himself up slightly, adjusting his body so that he can slide between the apex of your thighs. You part them further for him willingly, arms wrapping around his broad back as he lowers himself over you. He pauses, forehead resting against yours. His hand moves between you, guiding himself to your entrance. The back of Halsin's hand bumps your clit and you gasp, arms tightening around him briefly.

He pushes in slowly. The first inch is nothing but pressure and warmth. He groans softly, a sound full of restraint and reverence. You wrap your legs around his hips and he sinks deeper, filling you in long, careful strokes until he’s buried to the hilt. He stills, letting you both adjust. Your fingers flex against his back.

He begins to move with unhurried precision, hips rocking in a rhythm meant for connection, not conquest. Each thrust sends a new wave of sensation through you, soft and consuming. The friction builds gradually, tempered by the way his hands cradle your face, the way his lips return again and again to yours. He kisses you like he’s trying to etch the shape of your mouth into memory.

You whisper to him.

Praise, need, love.

Whatever slips free from your lips, he answers it in kind — with his mouth, with his body, with his hands. He never looks away. Not once.

Your climax builds without force, a warm tide that rises and spreads, tightening your thighs around him, stealing your breath. He feels the shift in you, adjusts his angle slightly, and your moan is immediate, raw. He whispers your name, then again, then again. The tension coils. Then breaks, and you come with a cry muffled against his neck. He holds you through it, moving just enough to carry you through the tremors, his own breath labored, his arms around you like sanctuary.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, voice catching. His release is quiet but devastating, the sound of it carving through the silence like devotion. He stays inside you as he softens, breath mingling with yours, lips pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder. The last few pulses of his thick cock make your own hips jolt under his, drawing slight hisses of overstimulation from the both of you.

Afterwards, you lie tangled together, bodies still humming with the afterglow, heat softening into comfort. Halsin's hand moves in slow circles along your spine, a steady, grounding rhythm that lulls you into stillness. Your cheek rests against the curve of his shoulder, his heartbeat slow and strong beneath your ear.

He does not speak. Neither do you. The quiet is full of understanding, of gratitude, of something deeper that you do not dare name. He shifts only to pull the blanket higher over your bodies, then settles again, curling his arm tighter around your waist.

His nose brushes the crown of your head. A kiss follows, light and lingering. His hand slips down your back to the curve of your hip, not to tease, only to hold. You press closer, letting your leg slide between his, your fingers stroking the short hair at the nape of his neck.

You feel safe. Sheltered. Cherished.

His breath deepens, and yours soon matches it. Sleep doesn’t take you all at once. It comes slowly, cradled between his warmth and the quiet symphony of the grove outside. The room seems to breathe with you, the stone feeling safer than the camp ever could. Here, with his body wound around yours, with his scent in your lungs and his heart beating against your skin, the world is as it should be.

Eventually, Halsin shifts to pull a thick woolen blanket over both your bodies. He curls his large body around you, shielding you from the cool night air that blows through the cracks in the stones, pressing one last kiss to the back of your neck.

Sleep comes easily in his arms. The grove outside continues its gentle song, but here, within these stone walls and warm blanket, the world has narrowed to the steady rhythm of Halsin’s breath and the memory of his hands on your skin.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 smut #writing #fanfic #aosarchive #ao oopsied #halsin x tav #halsin #halsin silverbough #halsin x reader #bg3 halsin #halsin bg3

289 notes · View notes

sheepispink · 9 months ago

Text

The Perfect Pair

Masterlist AO3

WC: 7.6k Tags: fluff, marriage of convenience, leon kennedy/ reader

Summary: Leon can barely hold himself upright most days and you've finally decided to ditch the DSO life in pursuit of happiness. However, that'd mean leaving all those beautiful tax benefits and medical insurance behind. Turns out Leon and Chris are pretty persuasive, landing you as Leon's 'wife' but you cant help but start to feel something more, unaware that Leon's already set his eyes on you for life.

It’d been a long day at work, the usual really— Chris had roped him into dealing with another bioweapon appearance, thus leading him to take a helicopter to some trashy place, locating the bioweapon, and promptly knocking its freaky nature out of action. Now he lugged his weary feet home to the apartment you shared, his stomach craving a taste of something only your skilled hands would prepare for him. After a short elevator trip that thankfully alleviated the ache of his feet for a moment, he reached the front door and, with a quick fumble with the keys he had inserted the right one inside, opening the door.

“I’m home.” He calls out, his raspy voice filling the silent yet serene space before him. He somehow grew used to this; the sight of two sets of keys on the hook, the vast difference in style as he places his shoes on the rack, and the two coats on the bannister, one far smaller than the other. “Smells good..” He mumbles beneath his breath, making his way towards the kitchen where you stand, back facing him as you work your hands through a ball of minced meat.

“Welcome home.” You turn to meet his hungry gaze with your typical warm smile, heart warming at the exhausted look on his face and even more so that he’d soon find relief in the food you had made.

“You’re lucky, we had just enough mince meat in the freezer for your favourite beef burgers.” That was a lie. You had woken up early this morning and decided he had looked far too tired recently, and it’d been far too long since he’d had his favourite meal. So, as any good wife does, you wanted to make him feel better and took to the nearest supermarket, picking up all the ingredients you needed and some for a tasty dessert too. He always denied that he enjoyed sweet treats, but he would always be the first to finish them, whether it was a sweet chocolate mousse or a tasty doughnut you picked up on the way home.

He chuckles, his hand disappearing into his work jacket as he slips off the leather and lays it on the back of a wooden chair. It then migrates to his collar, tugging on it to alleviate the heat through his body, which is proven by the thin layer of sweat covering his limbs.

“Oh? Thanks, I was sure you finished it last week when you gave Kitty a gourmet meal for once.”

This home wouldn’t be complete without its resident cat, a Siamese fur ball that Leon graciously named ‘Kitty’ though he has no doubt referred to it with a million different names anyway.

“I guess I must've missed a bit. I really treated her for nothing.” While he was smirking, your mind was far from the lightheartedness of this conversation, currently panicking over his words. He had seriously caught you out there; of course you finished the mince, last week but was he actually accusing you of lying or worse—did he know? As you let out an awkward chuckle, he speaks up again, undoing his belt with one hand as his other grabs a glass from the shelf to fill with water. “I’m not complaining though; they really are my favourites for a reason.” He drinks down the glass of water in one swig, letting out a satisfied breath before rolling his shoulders back. “I’m gonna take a quick shower—I don't want to drown your nose with my sweat.” He chuckles again, finally leaving you alone in the kitchen again as he takes his path up the stairs to your shared bedroom.

To say your relationship with him was complicated was a massive understatement; it was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, feelings that felt illicit, and signals that were impossible to decipher. Well, for you it felt like this—you’re not so sure about him. In fact, for someone who sleeps beside him nearly everyday, cooks him meals, eats dinner with him, and even drops off his lunch, you barely knew anything about the man.

This all began when you decided to quit the DSO, finally having enough money to move to a more peaceful job with flexible hours and still end up supporting yourself. You had only worked in communications at the DSO, but that was still a pain in itself. Before you left, they had an informal work dinner. A bunch of agents and other workers came along to a diner for some food before heading to mess around at a karaoke place before the weekend hit. With so many people around, it grew far too hot too quickly, and you soon wandered the halls seeking a breath of fresh air before you heard your name called by an agent. The voice belonged to Chris Redfield–your superior—who was beckoning you to come over, cigarette in hand, to where he stood with Leon right beside him. They were both your superiors in the work field but were perceived as far more important due to the missions they accomplished and lives they saved.

“Yes..?”

You were more confused than scared or anything of the like—why did they even want to talk to you? It’s not like you often saw them. Even so, you walked over to them, trying to reduce the awkwardness when you slipped your hands into the pockets of your jacket, tilting your head slightly.

“You’re gonna leave soon, right?” Leon asks, taking a swig of the golden whisky in his glass whilst Chris blows another puff of smoke off to the side.

“Yeah, I wanted to move onto a different job, a quieter one that isn't so taxing.” You shrug, having only thought out a bit of it so far.

Chris and Leon shared a glance at each other before Leon spoke once more, rolling back his shoulders a little. “You see, I have a bit of a predicament, and Chris thought you could help.”

Before you know it, he’s explaining how busy his work is and that he barely gets home in time for a sip of water before he knocks out, and you’re not really sure how this is your problem until Chris butts in.

“So basically, he needs a wife. You, on the other hand, won't have any of the perks of the DSO since you’re leaving, which includes medical insurance, tax benefits..” He trailed off as you started to ponder it, you really would lose a lot of the things you had grown to exist around. It would be very difficult to manage, and you can't say you’d miss a lot of those perks greatly. The two men give each other a glance as you speak up, nodding along. “You’re right, I will miss out a lot, but I really don't want to stay here longer..” Before Leon can even try and slide it in, Chris has already blurted it out.

“Well, you won't lose anything if you marry him.”

So, after a bunch of awkward talks and surviving interrogations from your coworkers, you ended up with a small wedding, which was mainly done to please your own parents rather than yourselves. Now you’re here, almost a year into this non formal contractual marriage, and your feelings are muddled. Very muddled. It’s hard to not catch feelings when you’re somewhat of a hopeless romantic yourself, or maybe the teenage girl mentality came back full force now you have a lot more free time. You owed him a fair amount to be fair—he didn’t realise how stress-free your life was these days. Wake up, eat a healthy breakfast, maybe watch some television too, head down to the small little bakery you own and teach the part time teenager there before wrapping up at four o'clock and heading home again. Your skin had cleared up, you were actually able to sleep in on the weekends and actually do whatever you want— pick up new hobbies, eat proper meals, and read books to your heart's content.

What you’ve concluded is that your life has drastically improved and you are more relaxed than you’ve ever been. The problem with that is that with the new addition of all this free time and air to breathe in, you’re able to actually think about the man you’ve married. In simpler terms that you tried to deny for a year now, you’ve caught feelings—a lot of feelings for him. That’s why you’re currently stuck in a conundrum; you’re technically allowed to pursue said feelings, as you’re married and no longer ‘colleagues’ needing to act professionally, but does he want the same?

The pan starts to sizzle, snapping you out of your daydreaming as you place the flattened patty into the oil, lightly frying each side. Being his wife meant looking after him as much as he did to you, so cooking was often your chore to handle. Even though you were more than happy to do most of the chores, he’d still help with the dishes after dinner and often cooked when he could—when he was exhausted from another mission. Plus, he did his own laundry. He would’ve done yours too, though after the first time he tried, your cheeks had flushed immediately when he handed you a pile of your freshly washed underwear and t-shirts, and you quickly told him you’d do your own.

The staircase groans as he steps down the stairs, his movements a lot slower now that he had let the tension ease from his muscles in the shower. So far, you’ve managed to cook four patties, which was more than enough to satisfy his stomach and yours. But you had an extra two for his lunch tomorrow and because he tended to have a third burger “just because it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.That’s when you hear him curse softly under his breath, turning back to glance at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?” His hair is damp, still dripping with water onto the white tee he wears. It’s loose and the one you bought him last month when you went on a shopping spree. You try to ignore the way your eyes naturally drift towards his chest; a small sliver of his pale skin peeks out where his hand disappears under his shirt, rubbing his abdomen in a strange way. “Did you get hurt?” You continue, turning down the heat on the hob so you can turn to face him better.

“Oh? This?”

He lifts the shirt a little, revealing the bruise on his right side of his stomach, and also gives you a perfect view of his toned abs. Damn. “It’s not as bad as it looks..” He mumbles, but his eyebrows are still knitted in a frowning gesture. “I’m annoyed because I missed an opportunity..”

That makes you blink, wondering what he could’ve missed in the time he went for his shower and came back here. Did he get a phone call? Or perhaps something happened this week you hadn't picked up on?

“An opportunity?”

“Yeah. I completely missed the chance to ask you, ‘What's cookin, Good Lookin?’. Damnit..”

Did the corniest line to ever exist really just make your chest tighten for a second?

You can’t deny the fact that the line itself had made your lips part as you stood there dumbfounded. Leon had a history with corny one-liners; in fact, whenever his colleagues happened to see you, they’d always mention whatever stupid thing he said during a mission. He’d say it to you occasionally too, usually random puns that he’d quietly snicker about, but he’d never quite openly flirt with you like that. Was it supposed to be a joke? Was it real? You couldn't tell, and so you quickly turned back around before your patties ended up burnt.

“O-of course only you would worry more about that than your own injuries.” His snickering is obvious behind you as you place the cooked patties onto a small plate. “Stop pestering me and go sit down at the table.” You feign annoyance, grumbling as you hide the furious flush of pink upon your cheeks. Unfortunately for you, he didn’t intend to give up that easily, walking up behind you and peering over your shoulder with his hands planted on the counter on either side of your waist.

“That was a good one, c’mon.” He argues, the most exaggerated pout on his face quickly disappearing when he watches the burgers sizzle in the pan. He loves your food so damn much.

“That was not a good one, shoo.”

Thankfully, he ends up leaving you alone in favour of Kitty, who had just woken up from her nap— eager to play with him even if it just means chasing after a wrapper he had thrown across the room. You place down two plates at the table, as per usual, along with a plate full of salad, a bowl of fresh chips you fried, and the small plate of patties— six to be exact. Then, you place down the two fancy glasses you bought last week and grab your usual favourite canned drink while grabbing a Coke Zero for him. Finally, you place Kitty’s dinner on the floor which she runs over for, immediately gobbling up the food. “She’s just like you.” You giggle, watching as she hungrily wolfs down the food, thus making him groan in return. “I do not eat like that.”

Dinner is the same. You’ll ask about his day in which he usually retorts in grunts and moans about the government, incompetent workers, and that woman.. Ada. Just the mention of her name used to make him go quiet back when you worked at the DSO, and even in the first few months of your “marriage”, he would shrug off the subject quickly. Now he talks about it here and there, mentioning how she suddenly appears and always seems to know his location. For some reason, it puts a sick feeling in your stomach, like someone is dragging their nails across the flesh of your insides.

“Ada.. was there. Ever since I saved the president’s daughter, it’s like she’s followed me everywhere. She helps me.. but then she claims to not care..?”

His words stopped registering in your mind after a while as your teeth grit against each other and you absentmindedly dipped your chip into ketchup over and over again. You can’t believe he could be so naive. She had played him once in Raccoon City, faking her identity and using him to her advantage. The same played out in Spain even if she ‘saved’ him. You didn't care about her damn motives; she worked for the enemy, and it irked you—she just used whatever she could to gain her benefit, and it seemed like no one could stop her.

“Earth to my beautiful wife, hello?” He waved his hand in front of your furrowed eyebrows and the obvious scowl upon your face. “You look like you just ate something you find disgusting. I thought you liked this too.”

You immediately realise you had zoned out, your face shifting to something sheepish before you finally stick the ketchup-soaked chip into your mouth. You didn't even get a chance to process what he just called you.

“No, it’s not the food; I was just thinking. Sorry, it’s nothing.”

That only serves to make him all the more curious, though he doesn't push it, instead continuing his story. “Where was I? Oh, right, then Ada shot—” He cuts himself off as your eyes immediately narrow, and you lower your head, picking with your food again subconsciously. It doesn’t take much to piece the clues together, his lips twitching upwards as a smile threatens to spread. Though he wants to test his suspicions one more time.

“Wanna hear something crazy? Ada tried to kiss me again.”

“What?!” You immediately sit up straight, the scowl returning just as fast and teeth grit, but it quickly softens when you see the smirk on his face.

“I knew it. You hate her, don’t you?” Leon always saw right through you, thankfully not with your growing feelings yet, and it made it all the harder to keep his marriage… Well, just as a contract.

“Fine, maybe I don’t like her. So what? She’s not exactly the most moral person.” You say, shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly as you take a bite out of your burger and chew it down. “She helps Umbrella, can you really blame me?” That only makes his lips twitch again, and he leans his elbows on the table, eyes trained on every feature of your face.

“Are you jealous of her?” That almost makes you choke on the burger, and you have to take a large gulp of your drink to swallow down the rest of the food, your face immediately pinkening. It can’t be possible—there’s no way you’re jealous of that cunning, manipulative, hot, extremely hot woman. How did she even look that good?

“Ha— she should be jealous of me.” You scoff boldly, finishing the last of your burger soon after.

“Oh, and why’s that? Because you’re the one wedded to me?

A moment earlier, your heart would’ve described his face as a perfectly carved sculpture, the ones that people bid thousands to place in their homes because not showing off such a perfect creation would be a crime. Right now, he wore a sly grin with his eyebrows raised as he eyed you suggestively.

And that look was very punchable.

“Because I'm living the dream. I’ve got a bakery, a ton of free time, and I guess you’re there too, I suppose.”

With a roll of your eyes, you dismiss his words quickly, even though the faintest blush on your cheeks betrays your true thoughts. What if you said yes? What happens then?

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t give me that satisfaction.” He feigns a pout before his grin returns as he takes a massive bite into his second burger of the night. Of course, he just has to make an exaggerated moan, one elbow leaning on the table as the other covers his face dramatically.

“This is heavenly, you know? One day I swear I'll start dreaming about these burgers.”

There he goes again, babbling on about Lord knows what and his corny lines again. You can't help but flash a small cheeky smile, winking as you pour yourself a glass of water from the pitcher.

“Another reason for her to be jealous of me.”

Once the dinner has been packed away by his speedy hands, he’s returned to make the couch his home again, stretching his whole body against the length of it like a cat would. You’re placing the dishes into your dishwasher before inserting a tablet and putting it on for three hours. As you walk over to wipe down the table, you notice his eyes have fluttered close as he groans and gets comfortable on the cushions. You can't say you didn't feel a tinge of affection—well, much more than that, like a heap almost—every time he crashed out like this, completely exhausted from a mission. “Weekend tomorrow..” You remind him with a gentle hum, swiftly removing any stray stains off the table. “Don’t you want to have a good sleep, y'know, in bed?”

He lets out a muffled grumble in response, burying his face into the cushions before he reluctantly sits up, making you smile a little more—you’d scold him regularly about lying down after eating. “What movie d’ya wanna watch?” He says even if he would usually wander his way to the bedroom after you said that. It’s been at least a month since you had been together like this to watch a movie. A lot had changed in that month, specifically your growing feelings for him. Perhaps distance really does bring fondness, you think.

“I don’t mind; you like action, no?” You finish wiping down the dirt from dinner to glance over whatever he’s doing on the television, only to find him flicking through your favourite genre of movies. Shoving down the warmth on your cheeks is near impossible as you speed walk back to the kitchen. Were these signs? Were you reading too much into it? Your teeth graze against each other nervously as you look up to see him waiting expectantly on the couch for you to join him. What the hell is happening right now? He had always gone to bed immediately or scrolled through his phone for a while— so what’s with the sudden change?

Moments later you’re sitting beside him on the couch, knees tucked to your chest as he presses play on the movie he picked—the one you had mentioned you wanted to watch when it first got announced that it was in production. Despite your excitement, you could hardly concentrate on the movie when he was practically centimetres from you. He was leaning back against the cushions, one arm resting around the back of the couch where you sat and the other comfortably against the armrest. If you had just moved your head back slightly, you would brush against his arm. If you did that, would he wrap it around your shoulders? Just the thought makes you shudder a little, your chin moving forward to sit comfortably on your knees. It was like you were a teenage girl again, sitting in the movies with your crush while you wondered if he thought of you as a friend or something more. You couldn't even believe you were acting like this—hell the two of you were married legally, not to mention you were both grown adults! Who cares if he had just stretched out his arms, his shirt riding up, and you could see the scars on his stomach? Your breath hitching when he had shuffled up to you was completely unnecessary; the warmth radiating off of him was irrelevant, no matter if the characters were kissing on the screen right now. You practically jump when he pokes your shoulder with his hand, your head snapping to him instantly, and you can barely even form a noise when you see how close his face is to yours. His eyes had to be one of your favourite things about him, or was it the messy mop of dirty blond hair on his head? It could even be the sharpness of his jawline, the lines of wear beneath his eyes, how perfectly his nose seemed to be carved, or perhaps, crazily enough, the way his voice rang out in your ears in the mornings.

“Do we have any dessert? I’m craving something sweet.”

Every step back into the kitchen is like torture from how hot your cheeks are, the cold fridge air doing nothing to soothe the embarrassment as you grab the microwave puddings you had bought today. You can't believe you had been so flustered by the proximity that all that had escaped you was a strangled noise before you just hurriedly nodded and escaped to the kitchen. Those five seconds between the poke and his words felt like a millennia— an incredibly romantically tense millennia— where for those whole five seconds, you stupidly thought he’d kiss you right then and there. You fan yourself as if that’ll soothe the metaphoric rush of warmth in your face right now, incredibly embarrassed by your own thoughts and desires. When you sit back down again, you quickly hand him the hot pudding and sit further away from him this time. If you even felt that again, you felt like you’d simply explode altogether.

Unbeknownst to you, he was now wondering if you were annoyed that he had interrupted, and he frowned as he glanced down at the plate with just a singular spoon. Weren’t you going to eat too? Not to mention, you were all stiff and sitting further from him than before—now you’re really twisting the knife in his heart. First he had agitated you by teasing you about Ada, then he laid on the couch right after dinner like you always told him not to do, and now you even refused to eat dessert! Maybe he isn't putting enough effort into all of this as he originally thought. After all, you did a lot to run a bakery in town and still cook, clean, and look after his cat. So, he decides to take a shot and scoops up a particularly chocolatey part of the pudding, the part he always eats first, and holds the spoon up to your lips.

“I know you’re mad, but you can't deny this.” He plasters his typical boyish grin, nudging your lips with the metal of the spoon. But he’s caught off guard when you pull back in surprise, waving your hands around frantically in denial. “H-huh? I ate a lot of sweet things today already—”

“Shut up. Don’t you dare even say you’re on a diet either; you’re perfect already.”

He pushes the spoon against your lips which you accidentally part in surprise at his words, the warm chocolate filling your mouth immediately like an instant boost of serotonin.

“See, it's good, told ya.” He says smugly as you swallow down the tasty pudding and sauce. That’s only for a moment before he notices the smudge of chocolate around your lips from his struggle, casually wiping away the crumbs with his thumb before licking it.

He had just wiped the crumbs.

He wiped it from your lips.

He wiped it and then licked it off his hand.

He didn't even think twice.

“I-its not bad-” That was all you could mutter out before he committed the crime, and now you were left dumbstruck as you watched him casually lick his thumb and then take another spoon of the dessert—the same spoon you just ate from. He leans back against the couch again, about to shove another in your mouth once he gets comfortable enough, though he quickly realises that you still haven’t spoken since. “You can’t still be mad; I’ll shove another one in your mouth, you know—” At that, you know you’re sure to blurt out the truth, and you scramble up, about to make an excuse about needing a glass of water, before your wrist is caught in his hand, and you’re promptly pulled back against the couch again.

“Hm? Where are you going, pink cheeks?”

He says it teasingly, instantly making you flush all the more. You couldn’t understand how anyone could even be so casual about these things, not that you had little experience in the area, but seriously— he had literally just licked the chocolate on your face. That was an indirect kiss!

“Do you do this with all your friends?” The frown on your face is suddenly a little harsher, accusing, and suddenly there's a hint of betrayal. That only serves to confuse him more, you’ve been acting off for a while now, had he cheated in his sleep or something? “What? You’re not my friend, though? That's not comparable.”

He doesn't even see you as a friend? You can't help the way your heart drops in a way you’ve never felt before in your life; it almost hurts the way he can just so easily dismiss you after all the time you’ve spent together—contractual or not. “I- I see how it is..”

“See how what is? You’re not making much sense.” His eyes narrow as you suddenly turn your head away from him, arms crossing firmly on your chest, but what doesn’t escape him is the sudden daze in your eyes. Gently, his hand grabs your chin, squashing your cheeks as he forces you to face him, and his mind instantly clicks all the pieces together.

“.. (Name).” He says firmly, making you let out a small hum in acknowledgement, unaware of the way your eyes are suddenly a lot wetter than they had been before.

“What did you drink earlier?”

“What? All I drank was water, mostly.”

“What about when I told you about Ada, was that water?” Your eyebrows furrow as you hear him repeat her name again, immediately growing more frustrated. “What about her now?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, wrapping a firm arm around your shoulders before he forces you to settle against the couch against him. “You drank some of my drink, didn't you? You were way too annoyed to even notice the whiskey I mixed in.”

The thought immediately clicks into your head; everything is suddenly a lot clearer now, even though you still weren't quite sober yet. Plus, you were pretty much a lightweight when it came to his strong stuff. It perfectly explained the warmth spreading through your chest, the uncoordinated actions, and the way nothing seemed to follow the way your head wanted it to. “S-still, you said I’m not even your friend.” Gently, his thumb rubs the tears that have formed in your eyes and tucks you close into him with his arm snugly around you. Just in case you decide to face plant off the couch as you seemed to want to do before. “You’re not my friend; you’re my wife. Who else would I treat like that?”

“I’m not your real wife though.” You slowly look up at him, turning your head, so your glossy eyes can stare up into his, searching for the right answer— the truth.

“Those papers seem pretty real to me. The way I feel is also pretty real to me.”

He grins at you like he hadn't doubted that fact for a second, and he hadn't, not since you both had signed and received the certificate, one he sometimes sneaks a small fond peek at whilst you’re sleeping. Not that he’d tell you, at least not yet.

“But— I’m not your wife; that’s my title, but I don't act like that.”

“So? I still love you as anyone would with their wife; do you really think I wouldn't fall for you? You’re even more perfect than I imagined.”

You’re momentarily stunned into silence, not quite expecting that but still not believing it quickly, your tipsy mind making you say things that you never would before.

“That's because I do everything for you— not that I mind b-but, I just act like a good partner. You don't feel romantically for me.” You huff, your teeth gritting together as you pettily narrow your eyes at him. What you hadn't considered is that he’d tuck your hair behind your ears, carefully pull you into his lap, and take one of your hands in his. He fondles your hand beneath his, his thumb rubbing gently over the skin before he brings it up to rest on his cheek, smiling fondly at you.

“I’ve been busy, I know. It’s quite hard having an agent as a partner, no? I already regret all the love I've lacked to give you.” This time, you’re positive that your cheeks are reacting to him, breath hiccuping when he turns his face in your grasp. His lips press a kiss to the palm of your hand before intertwining that hand with his and holding it against his heart.

“You just had to go get tipsy, didn't you?” The warmth of his hand on yours as he squeezes it gently is like a drug, one that squeezes your heart at the same rhythm whilst his teasing voice dances in the air around the two of you.

“Not my fault you always have to have a glass with dinner..” You grumble, not happy with how fast he had proven you wrong even if he had just confessed to his deepest feelings. He finds it quite endearing how stubborn a little bit of alcohol can make you. ”Alright, we can blame me for this one. How about you finish this pudding with me, and we can get you settled in bed, how does that sound?”

Before you know it, he’s wiping chocolate stains from your lips again as you sniffle in his lap, mumbling some nonsense about your so-called lack of lovelife while the movie plays in the background. He enjoys all your little comments about the movie, even when you subconsciously glance back at him when the couple starring do something romantic. Taking you up to bed is easy enough considering you’re only just bordering tipsy at the moment and you hardly weigh anything compared to the things he usually deals with. Your head just lolls lazily as he helps you upstairs, your eyes slowly blinking up at him when he sits you on the edge of the bed. “What pajamas do you want, pretty girl? How about your favourite?” The water he helped you drink before had sobered you up a little so you’re starting to feel better already. However, your mind is still a little hazy so you just nod along, not minding if this is the first time he undresses you.

Making sure to be gentle with you, he strips you down to your underwear before helping you pull on your warm sweatshirt and plaid pants. His lips twitched upwards when your own fingers tried to beat him with dressing yourself, finding it adorable how you still insisted on doing everything yourself. He could just put you to bed, but after watching for countless nights how you slave away at your skincare routine and keeping your teeth brushed well— he’d feel awful if he broke that. Before you know it, you’re sitting on the sink as he gently holds your jaw, his other hand using the electric toothbrush to clean your teeth. You’re a little uncooperative, swerving your head away at first until you just settle into a sleepy calm and he handles you with no problems. In no time he has you back on his lap, sitting at your small vanity as he carefully attempts to remember the order of your night time routine. What even is this? He thinks as he picks up a suspicious looking serum, labelled as snail mucin and gives it an experimental sniff. He thought it’d smell worse to be fair.

“No, you have to put the toner first and then the serum.” You mumble at him, gently tugging at his hands with your fingers and before he knows it, you have a toner pad all up in his face, wiping over his nose and cheeks before you cover the rest of his face.

“Hey- i’m meant to be doing your skincare. I don't need this stuff.”

He almost feels a pang of hurt in his chest as you raise an eyebrow at him, as if accusing him of having bad skin. With a huff, he removes the toner pad from your hands and throws it in the bin before gently pulling at your cheeks. “I have great skin, thank you. Dont give me that look.”

You immediately frown and attempt to puff your cheeks, causing him to have mercy and let go before he grabs a new toner pad and repeats your actions to yourself.

When you come back to your senses, your head is smushed against a pillow whilst he changes by the closet behind you. Your thoughts don't feel as hazy as they used to be, and you’re even starting to contemplate everything that happened earlier. Did he really mean what he meant? Did he actually like you.. romantically? You physically cringe at your own thoughts and hide your face behind your hands, groaning just quiet enough that he doesn't quite hear it. Sleeping next to him had always felt odd to you, but you always slept at different times so it never really felt romantic in any sort of way. You liked to stay up late and he liked to get a decent rest before the next morning. It was only recently that you started glancing at his sleeping face beside you, admiring the peace in his expression when he lost himself to his dreams and no other worries. Otherwise, it just felt like a roommate, nothing more nothing less.

But now his trousers were falling to the floor behind you, and you were laying in bed not quite falling asleep nor attempting to stay up. Suddenly, he wanted to sleep with you, not only beside you. It suddenly felt all too real that you two were actually married, actually partners and actually slept beside each other each night. What next, were the notes you left in his lunch romantic too? In truth, you were slightly freaking out but that might’ve been the alcohol making things a hundred times worse than they should’ve been, especially since you had started crying unannounced earlier. That’ll play in the back of your mind forever but for now you’re focused on his soft footsteps as he approaches the bed, dressed in a much looser shirt and pants. He always slept like this but this time he looks down at you, one finger gently poking your cheek as he sits on the other end of the bed.

“I actually prefer to sleep with my shirt off. But we always fell asleep at different times so I never got to ask your permission.”

He hums quietly, the finger now gently rubbing along the soft curve of your cheek instead.

“You can.. I don't mind.” You say quietly, eyes trailing over his form as he settles himself against the headboard right beside you. Touching you.

“Are you sure your cheeks won't get too red?”

He teases, hand moving towards the top of your head to gently card his fingers through your locks. You push yourself up to a sitting position, letting out a soft yawn as you do so before you blink at him hazily again. This time, you press forward and place your hand on his abdomen, absentmindedly rubbing your finger there back and forth. “I want to see your injuries.”

Not even he can stop the way his face softens at that and he tucks you into his side again, his other hand pulling the shirt up and over his head to discard onto the carpet beneath the bed. This view is only for you: his paled skin, the fresh scars, the old scars, fading bruises and fresh bruises, stitches that fall out and others that are pulled tight but most of all, his body. All for your eyes only, only for you. Your hand runs gently over the outline of his newest bruise, a deep purple that covers the entire expanse of his hip. It’s blooming into something worse and you’re sure it’ll hurt more tomorrow, not that he’d ever complain about that anyway. “You always come home with injuries, and you just play them off. Don't they hurt? Don't you want me to care for you?”

You say quietly, voice even softer now that you’ve sobered up, and he just lets out a breath, his face turning to watch the way your brows furrow and your lips press together. To have someone fuss over him like this is something he never thought about much, but it didn't mean he hadn’t craved the idea before. Yours was genuine worry, and you always held that genuine care for him. But it felt different now, more natural, more intimate. Like he was the only one you would worry about like this— he loved that feeling.

“I don't ever want you to worry about a thing, even if I do like the way your eyebrows crease when you do.” He chuckles softly, leaning down to press his lips affectionately against your hair before sitting back up properly again. “I suppose if you really want to.. I couldn't deny I'd be flattered to have you care for me.” The curve of your lips is what makes him smile as well, finding it all too endearing how easily a grin can form on your face.

“You’re such a flirt..” You mutter, trying to play it off and wiggle out of his hold on you, only serving for him to raise an amusing brow at you. “I’m only making up for what I can’t do to a tipsy girl.”

“I’m not tipsy..” You argue, sitting up a little straighter which makes his arm gently rest on your lower back instead.

“Oh? Really now? Let me test you then, since I used to be a policeman.”

“Fine, give me what you’ve got.”

“Sing the alphabet backwards if you’re sober.”

You instantly splutter, shaking your head quickly.

“Hey! Not even a normal person can do that. I knew you didn't actually like me.” He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes up at your grumbling, squashing your cheeks to make you shush.

“Is it really a crime that I don't want you to forget our first kiss because of some stupid whiskey?”

“Your stupid whiskey.” He finally rolls his eyes at your retort, gently pushing you back into bed and pulling the covers up and over you. “Alright fine, my stupid whiskey. Now, be honest with me, are you sober?”

The little frown on your face has disappeared with the hope his question brings, and you nod quietly, wide eyes looking into his.

“Are you very sure?” You were definitely sober now, his voice immediately lowering to a rasp as his hands travel up to cup the soft curves of your cheeks as they begin to turn pink. Just like that, he’s the man you’ve fallen for all over again, soft strands of fair hair framing his chiselled face as if they’re perfectly placed to put you under his spell. His index tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, gently rubbing the skin of your cheek with his calloused thumbs. His skin is so rough and yet you can't help but feel he is so soft at this moment; his eyes are like gentle waves, looking at you so fondly that you finally remember to reply.

“I-i'm sure.”

He doesn't hesitate, leaning in closer until his nose just touches the tip of yours, eyes locked onto every small movement you can even think about doing. “Can I?” The nod you give is the green light he’s always dreamed of; this day is all he has ever thought about since you joined his life. You let your eyes flutter closed, feel the warmth of his breath that tickles your skin as he draws closer and closer until his lips meet yours so gently. You have to physically stop yourself from giggling, probably the alcohol still trying to make a fool of you, but you just can't believe he’s the one wrapping you in his touch. Likewise, you wrap your arms around his neck, and he lets out a small gasp when you suddenly gain the strength to meet him upright, almost as if you’re threatening to pin him instead. Of course, he couldn't just let that slide easily. So, as anyone would, he pushes you back down into the mound of pillows, causing you to squeal as he leaves his touch all over your face, fleeting kisses painting your skin a rosy red. “You better not forget this in the morning.” He scoffs playfully as your eyes squeeze shut, giggles that spill out your mouth while he gives the affection he’s craved to gift to someone for years.

His job is hard, his life has been hard, and even this marriage initially felt the same. It wasn't so much the fact that he had essentially tied himself down to someone he barely knew, it was the realisation that he would never find his one person. That's why he did this after all, it seemed like it’d benefit the both of you and the day where he’d actually have a woman by his side slipped away with each mission. You, you were different though. You may have been an agent before, but outside of work you were the sweetest thing. Always subconsciously fussing over him, delaying sleep to prepare his lunch no matter how much he insisted you didn't need to, taking a personal duty to look after his cat, and still not being afraid to ask him when he seemed low or uncomfortable. You were everything he never had, even the annoying nagging of trying to get him to not lay on the couch after he ate or the fact that's his third whiskey yet.

Corny lines, the occasional flirty remark, dragging you to watch a movie— he wanted to do all of that before so you’d become actually his, actually the one he could say he loves and loves him back. But things got in the way, life got in the way, and he was starting to see his opportunities dissolve with each tired return from the mission. Despite his grumpy attitudes some days, his exhausted look as he collapsed into bed at eight, you still managed to fuss over him all the same— never once did you treat him differently, if not for the fact you’d cook him a slightly nicer meal after missions.

He was still busy, yes of course, but somehow he had managed to win you over. Maybe it was his silly jokes, though he’d seen you stare at his hair many times before so maybe that caught your eye. In any case, he’s happy to give any part of him to you, if not all of him. So when he’s pressed the last kiss on your nose and pulls the covers high over you, he tucks you into his chest, a final kiss to your temple as he looks down at your angelic expression. The way your smile curves at literally nothing but his touch is enough to make him fold right there, but he doesn't right now, squeezing you against him.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”

He whispers out, and you can't ignore it, eyes snapping up to look at him just from those three words. He sees the wonder in your eyes, the way they question the truth and if this really is real. Then you nod slowly, tuck your head into his chest, nestled against the beat of his heart.

“I love you too.”

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #flufftober #resident evil fluff #resident evil fandom #resident evil 4 #re4make #re4 leon #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy fanfic #re fanfic #!pinksheepfics #leon kennedy x y/n #leon s kennedy #resident evil fic

472 notes · View notes

lostintransist · 2 months ago

Text

The Second Duchess

Y'all, Noona's brain worms got me again. AO3 | This will be two parts. | This will end bitter. A/B/O dynamics, vaguely victorian, there will be an actual ghost in part two, odd power dynamics.

When John found you, a foreign lady, visiting a neighboring earl, he thought he had found redemption.

His first wife had been designationless, like you. He and his pack, Johnny, Simon, and Kyle, had ill-treated the first duchess. Her final words, left in an open letter, lingered over them all, even now.

You were supposed to be better. Every tale of you spoke of your bravery, your dedication, your loyalty. I found them all to be lies. When my corpse haunts your memories, may you think on it with more fondness than you ever did me.

The people who claimed the right of parentage over you had sent you to a foreign court in the hopes that someone would take pity on you. Foolish attempt really. No one at home wanted you; no one here would either.

All your life you had been discarded. Set aside for your lack of designation, you learned to cope. The scarred skin at your neck where your gland had failed to grow in the womb became your favorite place to decorate. If not with necklaces, then with art. You had learned how to paint on your body and create wreaths that wound round your neck; you set new standards because you could not do much else. If people were going to stare, why not give them something to look at?

Running wild became your favorite way to use your lack of designation. You could ride a horse side saddle or sitting forward like a man. You could ride better than most men in either seat. The stable hands at home got used to a horse disappearing for a few hours. You always stabled the horses you used, fed them, and brushed them. They stopped complaining after they saw how well you cared for the animals.

You hired art teachers and painted nude bodies. Music teachers taught you how to listen to the lewd songs sung in the taverns and play them at dinner parties. Languages were mastered; the curses were the things you memorized first. The cooks blustered when you demanded to be taught, but when you threatened to hire someone to teach you they quickly gave in.

The maids taught you on the sly the cant and candor of the working class. When they told you of the needs in the community you worked directly with the women who headed each group in need. Connections were gathered like coins in a purse and guarded like a hen over her chicks.

Without quite knowing how you became a woman of influence. A whisper or a word in the right ear and you could turn the tide on harmful policies. If you declared a business untenable for their use of child labor or the way they treated their workers the working class would not patronize them again.

That same level of leverage never breached the bubble of the aristocracy; hence, how you found yourself shipped away to start again.

The weeks warning your mother had given you had been enough for any in your contact to fire off letters to kin and foe alike of your coming. Even letters to foes told of your abilities to conquer changes.

Dock workers had a penchant for overindulging in your country. Men overindulging left women and children bereft of comfort and stability. You had been working at the underpinnings of fact before you had been shipped off.

No one noticed where you wandered, even here in this new country. No one cared. Just this morning you had sat down with the head of the laundress of the city to see what pieces you could shift. Their letter had arrived first, and tending to their needs would become your first priority. They needed childcare.

Children often needed tending and older children needed to be taught reading, writing, and arithmetic. An aging governess or two could be convinced to play school teachers and a maid without a reference could become a tender. Most of the legwork would arise from connecting with the women who would care for and teach the children. The juxtaposing issue would be where to house them and the children during the day. The price per child needed to be reasonable to the laundress and enticing to the governesses and the maid.

Censure, while a familiar disrespect, never became easier to bear. It bit at your flesh like the slap of hands. You had been relegated to the piano in the corner of the room while the other women partook in after-dinner sherry.

You hated sherry. You hated all alcohol really but sherry most of all. It tastes of lies and disappointment in its syrupy sweetness. Shuttering those memories, you focused on playing through a key change and into a jaunty tune; lewd would be a more accurate word, for the song you had learned down at the docks.

All these thoughts swirled through your head as your fingers played without you. Being so deep in thought you failed to notice the men had rejoined the party.

The knuckles rapping the top of the piano before your eyes brought you back to your body. Your motions paused the last notes you played lingering in the air. It is doubtful anyone was listening to you anyway.

A broad man leaned against the piano. His hair was cut short and sprinkled with gray. A neatly maintained beard, sun-kissed wrinkles around his eyes, as well as the fine cut of his coat completed the look of a lord. Being unfamiliar with this county’s aristocracy you offered a demure smile.

“Can I help you, my lord?”

“Where did a thing like you learn a tune like that?” His voice is rich and cadence firm.

“It is astounding the things musicians will teach you for the right incentive.” Settling your hands back to the keys you began to play a medley of your favorite drinking songs.

“Why do you not hide it?” His voice is as a surprise as it is unexpected.

Decorum meant different things here. Like it being acceptable to ask about one’s secondary gender.

“Why would I hide something I am not ashamed of, my lord? I am not causing harm to others by existing,” you lift a brow as you glance at him quickly.

He stared at the paint ringing your neck. The style of dresses here, that your great aunt had draped you in despite your protests, involved low necklines and off-the-shoulder sleeves. The corset cinched around you held up the dress. You had painted flowers and vines. Now, if anyone stared overlong you could assume they were observing your skill with a brush and not the scar where your scent gland should be.

Transitioning into a light, airy tune that has been well accepted by “higher” society you stole glances at the lord. You had yet to be introduced, but his dismissal of decorum intrigued you. Not many men approached you for a chat, even less without being introduced as an oddity first.

“Would you take a turn around the room with me?”

And there went your interest. Like with anyone who did not conform to society’s standards, you were propositioned every so often. Pursing your lips, you don’t look at him again.

“If you can gain an introduction before I depart for the night, I will consider it.” Focusing back on your fingers you played around a key change into a moving piece.

This bit of music sounded a bit like weeping when you played it.

He would not find your aunt anywhere near this room. She had consumed a fair amount of dairy in the soup course and would be leaving rancid deposits for the maids to clean in the morning. Once she felt well enough to travel she would send someone to collect you to the carriage. No one else here could claim acquaintance to the point of introductions.

As you predicted the lord could be seen drifting from person to person questioning and pointing toward you where you played still. All shook their heads and peered around for your aunt. Nearing forty minutes later a maid approached you, hands clasped neatly in front of her white frock.

“Ma’am, your aunt awaits you in the carriage,” her voice is mouse quiet even as her eyes dart to and for.

“Thank you for telling me. Can you inform the butler I will need my things?”

The notes lingered before dying, suffocated under the volume of conversation. The lord noticed though. As you slipped around seats and finally into the front hall, he followed. The aged butler held out your shawl, gloves, and hat.

One glove on and buttoned at the wrist you started on the other one when he appeared. The lord gave a near-silent dismissal to the butler. When you turned you found your hat and shawl held hostage.

“My things, my lord,” your hand extended for your things.

“While I was not able to obtain a formal introduction, I wanted to introduce myself. Duke John Price, at your service.”

Plucking your bonnet from his hand, you hum. Duke Price glared at you as tied it in place.

“How wonderful I avoided the misfortune of being introduced to a duke then being as lowly as I am, hmm?” You glanced at his face.

His sun-kissed wrinkles are now plucked with frustration.

“Will you be returning my shawl or shall I brave the night with bare shoulders, Duke Price?”

You let the title remind him of his place in the scheme of life.

The blue of his eyes reminded you of the center of a flame, scorching in its heat. You saw the decision in the tilt of his head. Standing stiller than the statues you saw dotting this land, you did not fight when he settled the shawl around your shoulders.

“Travel safe. I look forward to our upcoming introduction,” Duke Price held to the end of the shawl as you stepped back.

“Must not have much to look forward to in this country,” you let derision drip from your tone.

One more step back and you are free. A hand behind your back finds the doorknob and you are out. Now the footmen are looking to the door as you descend the stairs.

“What kept you?” Your great aunt’s voice bites from the dark of the carriage.

“It took some time for the butler to gather my things,” you lie. Climbing in and sitting forward on the bench to peer out the door window, Duke Price watches you from the door.

Sliding back the darkness hides you from view.

John fired off a letter before the sun had risen. I have found her. I will return when wed.

It took weeks before he secured your acquaintance. He tried though, gods, the way he tried. You would have laughed if he didn’t disrupt so many damn meetings.

A local Chaplin had agreed to offer room and board to the two governesses and the two maids who would be watching and teaching the children. A different church, whose Bishop agreed, would serve as the care space and classroom. The two churches would have no fees, but negotiating the prices that would remain fair for the laundresses and the women caring for the children became the sticking point.

The women all raised their voices. It was as if they could shout a little louder than their neighbor they might be clearly heard. In times like these, you were grateful for your nose blindness. Someone had once explained that the overlapping scents of anger reminded them of a barn fire, acrid and dense.

You finished finalizing the numbers on your page before standing. Snatching up your mini abacus, because math in your head forever alluded you, you placed it in a pocket of your skirt. Both hands lifted your skirt. Once your feet could move freely, you stepped onto the chair and then onto the long table where the discussion had devolved.

Both boots planted firmly you released your skirt and shoved fingers in your mouth to whistle. The piercing sound cut through all of the noise. All of the women sat down and glowered at each other, and you.

Movement at the door of the room tipped your annoyance into rage. Duke Price stood in the doorway. This was the fourth meeting he had appeared in.

“The Duke of Price has two seconds to be gone from this room or he will be funding this project for a year.”

Your pointed glare and sharp words caused all the women at the table to turn and do the same. These were proud women. They would not accept charity, and the offer of it would be seen as offensive. The duke narrowed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows.

“Close the door, my lord. If you are incapable of such a feat one of these lovely women would be happy to assist.”

The iron lock clicking into place turned all eyes back to you. Pinching your fingers to the bridge of your nose you shut your eyes and took a deep breath.

“Here is the pricing that accommodates everyone. The women handling the children will not need to cover room and board, which will reduce their incoming monies. In turn, that reduces the burden per child for the laundresses. Now, you must decide among yourselves,” you open your eyes and scan the laundresses now, “If you wish to pay a per child fee or a flat fee. Tally your votes and inform me of your decision. This scheme will begin on the first.”

The women who handled the dirty laundry for the city nodded and rose. They spoke among themselves as they exited the room.

The older governess, Brenton, if you recall correctly spoke up now. Her white hair gleamed under her dowdy cap.

“Who will be supplying the learning materials? The pay for watching the children will not cover that.”

You climbed down as you thought over how to obtain the needed materials.

“There is an irksome lord that I will make pay for the displeasure of my constant annoyance.”

All four women shared a look. They had worked under several lords and ladies and knew this would be a formidable task.

“Well,” Miss Brenton clapped her hands twice, “We will leave you to your trial ma’am. If we can be of any assistance before our work begins, please reach out.”

“Thank you. I know this is going to be an odd period of transition for all of us.” Settling at the head of the table as the other stood, you gestured to the door. “Miss Brenton, if you don’t mind, could you play chaperone for a moment?”

“Must say, I am interested to see how this plays out.” Tucking her skirt back down Miss Brenton sat back down.

Pulling out a clean sheet you began to note down the needed items, chalk and chalkboards, readers, nappies, blankets, cribs, the list went on. The click of heavy-soled shoes stopped at your side. Paying it no mind, you continued. A second sheet joined the first, transferring a list of vendors that would help funnel money to the bottom where it was most needed. Some were spouses of the laundress, others were brothers, fathers, or uncles. All were low class and would provide solid work.

A total of three sheets filled you ensured each was dry before stacking them. Folding them into neat thirds, you turned and handed them to Lord Price.

“You are a difficult woman to make an acquaintance of,” he took the papers held in proffer. “What is this?”

“The bill.” Standing, you let the chair legs scrape against the floor. “Miss Brenton, can I interest you in having company on your walk home?”

The shrewd woman looked near apoplectic at your handling of a duke.

“This is a lengthy bill.”

If you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

Lord Price’s eyes were upon you when you finally let your head finish turning. No smile graced his lips. Shame. For all he had made your last few weeks as painful as a throne in the thumb, he was nice to look at.

He wore a blue today. His eyes shone with the gold stitching on his jacket and vest.

“It has been extraordinary lengths you have gone to bother me; this seemed a fair request.”

Neither gaze shifts when Miss Brenton choked on air.

“Consider it done,” Duke Price tucked the list into his inner coat pocket. “May I join you ladies on your journey?”

“Of cour—”

You cut Miss Brenton off with a hand and a sharp look. Turning that sharp look on the lord, you speak your piece.

“No. I do not know what your intentions are with me, and frankly, I am tired of finding you amidst my business. The only men who pursue me do so for my,” you gesture to your scarred neck, “eccentricities.”

A string attached to your stomach could not have pulled tighter than if it were looped to a kite. This conversation made you wish you could skitter into a hole, a church mouse hiding from god. This would be the sixth time you had told a man no.

The duke huffed a laugh.

“I have enough eccentricities roaming my home. What I seek is a chance to see if we would get on well.”

His blue eyes left heated trails as they worked across your face. Goose flesh rose on your arms. Chest and further down where you dare not think of the flesh continued to rise. Every bit of you reacted.

“Why?” The question is breathy, haunted with questions.

Duke John Price held the sword of Damocles at your neck. The blade yearned for a taste.

You spent your days in the shadows. Confronting men who could take what they wanted was the only time you thought you knew what it was like to be whole. Acid bullied the back of your nose.

“I am in need of a wife. Someone who has the skills to manage others.”

He is not done. You don’t care.

“Choose any of your fashionably young countrywomen then.” Ripping your eyes from him, you stack your papers and close your ink well for travel. “There is a full troop of them yet unwed who would kill for the chance to lay in a duke’s bed. They have all been trained to manage households.”

The string in your body is cut. A tangle now lives in your chest.

“Miss Brenton, was it?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“Can you give us the room for a moment?” The kind command would take more fortitude than the aged governess possessed.

A beseeching look to the matronly woman did not save you. Her wrinkles quivered as she slowly stood.

“I can give you three minutes m’lord.”

He inclined his head as if accepting a toast from a royal.

As the door swung shut you formed a plan. Stepping to the opposite side of the table, for distance and a barrier, failed. The toe of your boot caught the leg of the table. Papers fluttered from your hands as your knees cracked against the stone floor. Duke Price was there in an instant. He lifted each paper, laying it neatly in a stack.

Tears pricked at your eyes. You hadn’t moved from your fallen position. Head hanging to your chest you held back from weeping by the breadth of a string.

“Why will you not leave me be?” The words are harsh, strangled by the tightness in your throat.

“When hunting foxes, one strategy to attempt is sending them to ground. Where do they hide when they can no longer run?” His demeanor was cool, his voice soothing. “You run in circles, managing to better every bird, twig, and rock you brush against in your escape.”

Sniffing, you set about finding a handkerchief to wipe your face; you refused to face the laundress’ if they knew you used your skirts as rags.

A blue handkerchief in a gloved hand drifted below your nose. Lifting it, careful to not touch even his glove, you dab your nose.

Somehow you had managed to drip ink into the crease where your nail becomes flesh. Gloves hurt your hands after a time. You had managed to work around wearing them. No one noticed. No one ever noticed. And if they did they didn’t care to police a grown woman who had no prospects.

“I have a pack, they are wonderful and I would burn the world for them. I need a wife who can see. I am looking for someone who notices the needs overlooked, connects with those unheard, and sends war captains on impossible journeys. If you had allowed an acquaintance between us weeks ago, I could have courted you slowly.”

Duke Price holds out your papers. They crinkle in your delicate grip as you press them to your breast.

“I do not believe you.”

His cloth pressed to your nose cannot prevent all the vile feelings filling up your bones from injecting themselves into the words.

No one wanted you. Even the one who had lied in word and deed to make you believe he did.

Brokenness allowed you to see because you could not smell; that did not make you valuable.

“And what would make you believe me?” He curls nearly in half to peer up at you.

A duke is on his knees, craning his need to get a look at you. What the hell had this world turned into?

Sniffing again, you straighten. Plans. You can make plans.

“A contract. Legally binding even in marriage. Make it two. One to court me and become engaged and the second retaining my rights to leave this country unhindered, if I so desire, if marriage were to come to pass.” You study him now. The wheels are turning in his mind.

“And what of the consequences of reneging on either contract?” A single brow is lifted in your direction.

“I imagine your solicitor has worked with you a long time, my lord. If he does not think of something suitable, I would be happy to revise and return it for review,” you lift a brow in response.

Games were easier. The rules never changed. Once understood, you could slide below notice and return to living life and helping where you could.

The man before you lifted both cheeks into a full smile. Your heart dropped into your heels still below your butt. He had a beautiful smile.

“They will be at your door for review before the week is out.”

“You have not yet gained an acquaintance, my lord, it might be rejected at the door,” you gave him a saucy wink and a watery laugh.

“I think a contract will be introduction enough.”

He held out a hand. You shook it, grip firm. Twice it bobbed before he turned your hand over and laid a kiss on your knuckles.

Catching sight of your lifted brow from his position he threw you off balance, again.

You had been to sea. Once only, were you out during a storm.

Then you had clung to the railing until a man in a slicker had slid a rope around your waist and helped haul you below deck. That wild energy that had commanded you to land came now. This time though? You longed to dive below the waves. If only to see if the storm could touch the seabed below.

Solicitor Allchin sat stiffly in the sitting room of your great aunt’s home. He wore black as if born to it, hair flounced the appropriate amount to show he would be fastidious and dogged in a task.

Your nails, trimmed short, bite into the fabric coating the arms of the wing-back chair. The crazy fool had actually done it. Two contracts lay strewn on the tea table before you. Unable to continue to read, they had been thrown down.

“Allchin?”

The man startled at being addressed. He had been taking surreptitiously deep breaths. If anyone believed you to be afflicted with no scent gland upon meeting you would call them a liar.

“Yes ma’am?”

“What is your opinion of Duke Price?”

You refused to call him John. It felt like ceding ground in a war you didn’t intend to entrench in.

“He is a fair man, mostly. Cares well for those that he considers his, discards those he doesn’t.” Allchin spoke firmly. Confident in his honesty.

“Thank you. That will be all. I will return these with any adjustments within three business days.” Standing would be beyond your power. If you rose the only thing you would manage is the three steps to vomit in an oriental vase.

“Ma’am,” Allchin rose, tugging his coat neatly into place. “If I may? I have a question.”

“You may not.”

Rage fluttered in your chest with hummingbird wings; it stung your eyes, water filling them.

Allchin nodded once and saw himself out. Lifting the paperwork, you read what you could. He had tilted everything in your favor. If you agreed to an engagement you could keep it quiet until the bans were read. Either party could break the engagement and you would receive a settlement for cover “pain and suffering.” You would retain full autonomy and legal status as a person in the event of a marriage. Property bought or sold in your name would remain yours.

Working itself out seemed to be working in Lord Price’s favor.

Someone, and if you ever found them you might actually hurl them down the stairs, had told your great aunt about the visit and the paperwork.

“What is this I hear about an offer?”

The testy old woman had called you to her office like a child. She opened and shut a fan in one hand. Open. Shut. Open. Shut.

Blinking slowly, you release a breath.

“I did not think you could hear at all anymore, Aunt.”

Slam. The fan cracked against the edge of her desk.

“Do not test me, child! Have you had an offer?” Her frail voice betrays none of her age as she shouts.

Disdain drips from your canines like blood from a throat you clenched between your teeth.

“I lost my childhood to bigotry and hate. I will not lose my adulthood to it as well. Any business between myself and any man who might make an offer is none of your damn business. Only those who care about my welfare are welcome to that knowledge.” The temperature in the room changed, flashing cool before heating up with a rage you knew waited to boil over.

Turning on a heel, you stride from the room.

Any calls from your aunt fall on deaf ears. You lock yourself in your room and squirrel away the paperwork. Not well enough.

One of the maids must have found them. Word reached you as you were fitted for a wedding gown that your aunt had offered a hefty reward for the person who could pry the information from you. You thank the young woman pinning the skirt and ask after her children. She smiles as she tells you of her daughters and their clumsy attempts at stitches.

Masterlist | Part 2

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap cod #john price x reader #soap mactavish #price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #captian john price

376 notes · View notes

silens-oro · 2 months ago

Text

Well Enough Alone: Part III

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Chicken Hawk (companion piece)

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: The unspoken line once drawn between Hawk and Pope is beginning to disappear. Word Count: 3,964 Content Warning: masturbation (m), typical Animal Kingdom warnings A/N: LISTEN we're starting to get into it and I've enjoyed the comments and messages I've gotten regarding this story so far. I'm rubbing my little fly hands together every time I read that someone has come over from The Pitt to Animal Kingdom territory. we're starting under a read-more because it is explicit right out of the gate lmao. Please comment & reblog :)

Pope tried to keep his grunting to a minimum, but the way his soapy hand glided over his cock as he watched Hawk in the pool from the bathroom window was too much for him this particular morning. The one way tint allowed him to look out without anyone seeing what he was doing.

It wasn’t the first time Pope had taken advantage of this, and it wouldn’t be the last.

The steaming hot water stung as it rained down on his freckled back. Pope braced his right forearm on the tiled shower wall, his face tilting into his bicep to smother some of the moans that tried to escape. Just the thought of Hawk taking his hand’s place was enough to send him over the edge.

“Fuck, fuck-” Pope groaned out through clenched teeth, his chest heaving as he caught Hawk climbing out of the pool just as his fist canted in time with his final thrust into his fist. White ropes of cum hit the wall in front of him in an orgasm that sent a shock through his entire body. He slowed his strokes as the last spurts of cum left him and his forehead came down to rest on his forearm that was still holding him up.

It was one thing to recall Hawk’s face and body from memory while he was locked up, but it was another thing entirely to have her in the flesh as Pope jerked himself off.

Pope stood under the stream of water, giving himself a moment to bask in the afterglow before the shame of what he had done would inevitably set in.

One day, he told himself as he sprayed the wall down to get rid of the aftermath that plagued his brain.

“You gonna keep giving me the cold shoulder?” Hawk ignored Pope as she worked. That seemed to be her usual morning schedule that he took note of since he moved in with her -wake up around seven, go for a morning swim, do some work at home, go by the shop, then either go to Smurf’s or come home. Pope nodded to himself at Hawk’s deliberate silence, pursing his lips in mild irritation as he leaned over the island into his forearms. “I was out of line,” He admitted. “and I apologized to the kid -we’re square. It won’t happen again.”

“For your sake, it better not.” Hawk didn’t look up at him as she continued to type. Her fingers hit the keys with more force than was needed, an indicator to Pope that she still wasn’t happy with him. He leaned down on the counter next to her and got her attention.

“I’m sorry.” He dragged out.

“You’re sorry?” Hawk asked with a less than impressed expression when she finally gave him her attention.

“I didn’t realize how close you and the kid were. Now that I know, it won’t happen again.” He explained as if that excuse was valid in any way, shape, or form. Whether Pope was genuine about what he was saying was something else entirely and Hawk didn’t really give two shits in that moment. She spoke her piece the night before and the emotions she was currently feeling were the aftermath of that. “I mean it.” Pope pushed. Hawk held his eyes for a few moments before nodding and going back to drafting an email to a potential client. Genuine or not, she had to let him know she meant every word that she said the night before.

Pope opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. He untwisted the cap with a loud snap and continued to watch Hawk as she worked. She ignored him as he paced the length of the kitchen, only glancing at him when his back was turned. Hawk tried not to let her eyes linger on the tight muscles of his shoulders as he moved his arms, and she definitely didn’t let her gaze fall further south. Definitely not. She quickly brought her eyes back to her laptop as he turned around.

“What the hell is this?” Hawk tried to keep the irritation out of her voice when Pope tossed a very obviously thick envelope on the island in front of the laptop. The sound of the envelope slapping against the granite startled her, the loud crack reverberated up to the tall ceilings.

“It’s for you.” He said with a nonchalant shrug, leaning his back against the counter where he was previously.

“Yeah, I get that,” Hawk shut the laptop closed and carefully peeled the flap open. “But why is there like,” She looked inside the envelope tentatively before looking back at Pope, “-ten grand in here?”

“There’s twelve. I figured that should cover the rooms and gas over the last three years, and to cover some stuff while I’m here.” He shrugged again, like this twelve grand was nothing, but Hawk knew this wasn't nothing. This was a whole lot of something, and she wanted nothing to do with wherever it came from. “You’ve sacrificed a lot for me. It’s only fair that I return the favor.” Hawk stood and rounded the corner to Pope’s side of the kitchen.

“I’m not taking this, Pope,” Hawk handed it over to him, but he crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. The muscles in his arms bulged, nearly distracting Hawk. “I’m serious. I’m not taking this.” She smacked the heavy envelope on his forearm, but he didn’t budge. Hawk sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger as she placed the envelope on the island. “I didn’t do any of that with the expectation that you needed to give me something in return, much less twelve grand, Pope. That’s insane.” Hawk hissed, though not angrily. Oh no, this was out of complete befuddlement.

“Then why did you do it?” He stepped towards her, his arms dropping to his sides. Hawk nearly tripped over her own feet as she backed up with every step Pope took forward. “Why are you still doing it?”

“Because I care about you.” Hawk said it like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “I’ve always cared about you, Pope.”

“Like you cared about Julia?” There was a brief pause. Hawk’s heart felt like it was beating in her ears as her eyes locked with Pope’s.

“No.” She breathed out.

“Is uh…everything alright?” J’s hesitant voice cut through the tension and Hawk met his alarmed eyes from where he stood in the entrance to the hallway. He must’ve just woken up, or he had been listening the whole time and felt this was the appropriate time to step in for Hawk.

Pope didn’t budge and kept his gaze on her.

“Everything’s fine, J.” Hawk’s voice cracked as she placed a hand on Pope’s chest to gently push him back, but he held her hand to his chest, right over his heart. His callused thumb rubbed gentle, soothing circles over the back of Hawk’s hand, and still his eyes never left her.

J did not like what he was seeing the second he stepped into the kitchen, dragging his feet and rubbing his eyes only to be faced with Hawk and Pope inches away from each other, locked in a very intimate conversation that he couldn’t hear from the other side of the room. And suddenly, as if a lightbulb went off over his head, J understood why Pope treated him the way he did. Sure, he was suspicious of J, but deep down Pope felt jealousy. Territorial might be the better word for it. The pieces were fitting together and J didn’t know if he preferred getting his ass beat by Pope or seeing Pope look down at Hawk like she hung the moon and the stars in the sky. J cleared his throat, feeling incredibly awkward.

“Just two adults trying to have a conversation, J.” Pope’s voice held a little bite to it.

“I’m uh, I’m gonna go to Nicky’s and then head to Smurf’s. Do you need anything from me before I leave?” He left the question open on purpose. Did she feel safe? Would she be in danger if he left? J didn’t think he could do much damage to Pope, but he could distract him long enough for Hawk to get out of the house if he had to.

“Everything is fine, J. Tell Nicky I said ‘Hi’.” J nodded, still unconvinced.

“Alright,” J nodded, still apprehensive. He hovered for a few more seconds before walking past Hawk and Pope to the entrance way so he could slip on his shoes. Hawk watched J until the door closed behind him, then brought her attention back to Pope. She brought her other hand up and cupped his jaw, her thumb rubbing at his cheekbone just under his eye. Pope leaned into it, his eyes finally closing as he took in the feeling of her palm’s caress.

“I’m serious about the money, Pope.” Hawk’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “I do appreciate the gesture, but you don’t owe me anything and you’ll never owe me anything just because I care about you. I want to make that abundantly clear. I’m not transactional.” Pope brought his forehead down to rest on hers in a brief moment of uncharted intimacy. The line that had never been crossed between them was starting to become muddy, unknown territory and it scared the absolute hell out of Hawk.

She took that moment to slowly pull back from Pope, gently removing her hand from his that was still on his chest and face. The loss of his warmth, and the strength in his hands alone was noticeable immediately. Could you crave someone’s touch when that touch was only just given to you? Hawk felt like she was losing her mind, her world going just slightly off kilter and Pope…Pope was trying desperately to hold himself together. He licked his lips anxiously and finally took a step back, allowing them both to breathe.

“Smurf wants us at the house later for lunch,” Pope mentioned once the dust had settled, making Hawk’s eye twitch. “I’ll drive.”

“I cannot tell you how good it is to have you around again, baby. I’m hoping you’re here for good this time,” Smurf eyed Hawk as she helped the matriarch put lunch together for the boys. All of the brothers, Baz, and J were outside roughhousing in the pool. Hawk felt on edge, knowing how rough the brothers could be and how J would be their target. “Being around you has been good for Pope since he got out of prison. I’ve noticed a change in him.”

“Yeah, it’s good to have him out.” Hawk responded nonchalantly as she finished slicing through the sandwiches she was assembling.

“You know what I mean, baby. Everyone can sense the tension between you. You’re telling me it’s completely one sided?” Smurf raised a brow, pouting her lips as she pushed some kale and bananas into her blender. Hawk sighed, slicing through two more sandwiches before looking up at Smurf. “Give me a break.”

“I don’t know what you think is going on there, Smurf, but nothing has happened. Nothing has changed between us.” Hawk definitely did not like the way Smurf was being pushy about this. Smurf didn’t have a genuine bone in her body, so when she pulled a pill bottle and set it on the counter, Hawk knew where all this sweet talk was going. “What is this, Smurf?”

“I trust you, Hawk. We may butt heads from time to time, but I know you’re sharper than a whip. Always have been.” Smurf pushed the bottle until it was directly in front of Hawk. “Pope is…struggling. I know you see it. He was outside, naked and howling at the moon the first night he was out. He has some difficulties with certain things and these help even him out. I can’t trust anyone but you with this. You care about Pope, I know you do, and you care about him deeply. You’re protective of him and I couldn’t be more appreciative, baby, which is why I need your help with this.”

“You’ve been giving these to him?” Hawk breathed out, a very bad feeling filling her stomach.

“I try to, but it seems he’s been spending more time at your place than he does here as of recent, so I can’t get him the doses he needs on a steady basis.”

“So you want me to give these to him?” Smurf opened a second bottle from where she grabbed the first and popped two pills out. She crushed them on the counter and tossed the powder into the blender that had one single serving of the smoothies remaining inside. Smurf put the lid on it and then set it to blend for a few seconds before shaking the last bit into an empty glass that was just out of the group of five other glasses. “Does he know you’re doing this?”

“He’s not the biggest fan of taking them, but it’s a necessary evil, Hawk. He’s his own worst enemy when he’s off the meds.”

“I don’t know how comfortable I am with this, Smurf.” That was a lie. Hawk knew exactly how uncomfortable this made her. Did Pope need some type of medication intervention? Maybe, but that should be something that he decides to do, not his mother, and definitely not hiding it in his food like she’s trying to medicate a dog with a pill wrapped in a piece of cheese. The whole thing felt bad and weird, and Hawk knew immediately that whatever Smurf was doing wasn’t to help Pope. If anything it more than likely just made him more agreeable to whatever fucked up bullshit Smurf wanted him to do.

Smurf was wrong in trusting Hawk with this. It could’ve been a test, Hawk thought to herself. It didn’t matter to her because there was no way in hell she’s actually go through with this. And if Smurf thought Hawk would, then she was more clueless than Hawk ever thought. The matriarch of the family was right about one thing, though -Hawk was protective of Pope (despite his altercation with J), and that protection was usually against his own family.

“He can become very dangerous without these.” Smurf switched to a fear tactic. “I’m not saying he’d ever hurt you, but sometimes he does things without knowing he’s doing them. This medication stops that. You’re the only person I can trust with this, baby.” Smurf repeated. She picked up the bottle and placed it in Hawk’s hand. Put these in your purse.”

There was no way Hawk would do this. No way in absolute hell. Pope trusted her, and she trusted him, and there was no way she’d do anything as nefarious as spike his food because it made him more agreeable. Still, not wanting to rock the boat with Smurf, Hawk merely nodded and stuffed the bottle into the bottom of her purse just as Smurf told her to.

“Good. Knew I could count on you.” Hawk nodded again, clearly lost in what to say after that revelation. “Now, back to the conversation at hand.”

“Nothing is happening between us, Smurf.” Smurf laughed, grabbing all of the smoothies in her arms to carry outside to the boys. To Pope. Hawk knew she should’ve done something, anything, to stop Smurf, but what could she do? Any kind of push back from her was just as good as spitting directly in Smurf’s face. It would be an offense that Smurf would not let flow under the bridge and Hawk knew that, so she did nothing except watch Smurf leave the kitchen with the glasses in her hands -ultimately powerless.

“Then maybe you should be the one to initiate, hm?” Smurf suggested as she picked up the tray of sandwiches and walked through the slider to the back yard. “It’ll be good for the both of you, baby. You know where his feelings lay. It’s hardly a secret. Bring the sandwiches out with you!”

“Jesus Christ, Pope.” The man in question was bleeding from his nose when Hawk finally made her way out to the patio. She set the platter of sandwiches down on the table and grabbed a towel off of a chair, then hurried over to Pope.

“I’m fine,” He brushed her away gently, glaring down at J. Hawk smacked his hand away when he tried to push her hand down from going up to his face. “J just got a little overzealous. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Stop,” Hawk demanded, dabbing at the blood. “Tilt your head back for a second to stop the bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Pope replied dryly.

“Let her take care of you, baby.” Smurf called over with a big ol smirk as if to say I told you so.

“Let her take care of you, baby,” Craig mocked, Daren laughing next to him as they sat at the table and started making their plates.

“Enough, idiots one and two.” Hawk snapped and grabbed Pope’s hand to bring it up to hold the towel to his face.

“That was very unkind of you, Hawk!” Craig called back, a shit eating grin ever present on his face.

“Ignore them.” Pope said softly for only Hawk to hear.

“Just give it a minute, alright?” Pope raised a brow, but nodded to get her to stop fussing. When Hawk was satisfied, she walked back into the house to wash her hands in the kitchen sink. She needed a moment to collect herself and the kitchen gave her the much needed respite from the knowing looks she was now recognizing from the rest of the family every time she made eye contact with them.

As Hawk turned around, drying her hands on a clean kitchen towel, she screamed, clutching her chest.

“Jesus fuck, Pope! You’re going to kill me if you keep doing this!” She smacked him lightly on his bare chest with the towel before tossing it onto the island. Hawk took a breath to try and calm her pounding heart, but the proximity of Pope was stifling. “What’s up?” He didn’t say anything as he caged Hawk against the sink.

Hawk’s eyes were about to pop out of her head at the invasion of her personal space. The coverup she wore over her bathing suit felt like she was wearing a parka in the California sun with the way she was flushed from head to toe. His chest was nearly touching hers and Hawk was sure that Pope could feel her heart pounding as her eyes unintentionally connected every freckle on his chest until her eyes met his.

Pope kept his eyes on her, watching every little move she made as Hawk attempted to process what he was doing. Without losing eye contact, Pope raised his arms and turned the tap on behind her.

“Just gotta wash my hands.” Hawk swallowed thickly, sweat rolling down her neck and between her shoulders, causing goosebumps to break out over her whole body as Pope’s arms flexed around her. He somehow stepped closer, the entire front of his body pressed against hers with one of his thighs nestled between hers. Hawk’s hands instinctively came up to grasp around Pope’s very naked, thick, muscular waist. The contact was electric, like a current shot from his skin to hers and she didn’t realize she was holding her breath until-

“-Oh!” Smurf’s voice cut through the tension. Hawk felt the air physically deflate from her body, but still Pope didn’t budge an inch. Hawk felt her face get hot, red hot, and embarrassment at getting caught like she was a teen all over again swept through her. “Just pretend I’m not here. Grabbing the rest of these,” Smurf grabbed a tray with condiments. “You lovebirds better join us soon.” Smurf said, just to stir the pot. With that, she was back out of the slider, leaving an irritated looking Pope and a panicked Hawk.

If Hawk could’ve dissolved into a pile of ashes, she would’ve.

If Pope could’ve killed his mother right then, he would’ve.

Hawk was the first to break contact. She gently pushed Pope away just far enough to duck under his arms and took off through the slider without a word, mentally berating herself for letting Pope drive them both over instead of just taking her own car.

Pope watched her go, the phantom feeling of her body pressed to his was seared in his memory. The lingering heat didn’t do anything to stop the tug in his stomach when he saw the panicked look in her eyes as she fled. He brought his wet hands up to his face to cool himself down before he faced her and the leering he’d get from Smurf outside.

The ride back to Hawk’s was…silent. She could feel Pope’s eyes on her as he shifted his attention between the road and her.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” The irony of Pope himself sounding uncomfortable was not lost on Hawk. They were stopped at a red light and Hawk was fidgeting with her hands just like she did on the fist visit to Folsom. She was nervous and he didn’t like that at all, especially when that nervousness stemmed from him. “I’ve clearly overstepped-”

“I care about you, Pope. Believe me, I do.” Hawk’s thoughts went back to that pill bottle that weighed her purse down like it was made of lead.

“You’ve said as much.” He referenced their conversation from earlier that morning. The same conversation that didn’t give him an answer to what was going on between them. Twice Pope has tried to initiate, and twice he was unsuccessful.

“I just…there are a lot of moving parts here.”

“What are you afraid of, Hawk?” The light turned green. “Unless I’m reading this wrong, which I don’t think I am by the way, there’s something here. We’ve been tiptoeing around it, but it’s still there.”

“I’ve been on the outside of all this, Pope.” This meaning his family. “My life has remained mostly unaffected by whatever jobs you guys are pulling and I’m afraid that this is going to open a door I want to stay shut.” Hawk explained. “I’m not ignorant to what you guys do, why you went to prison. My rule of thumb has always been to not ask questions and don’t comment on any of it, but I know. And right now I’m breaking my own rule and I’m going to ask one question, Pope.” Hawk looked up from her hands to look at Pope. The truck was climbing the steep driveway to Hawk’s home and he nodded as he put it in park once they reached the outside of her garage. “Has he been involved in any of this?” Pope knew she meant J.

“Who? The kid?” He played dumb and shook his head, one of his hands rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Pope.” She pleaded.

“He’s not involved, Hawk. You said not to involve him, so he’s not.” She analysed Pope’s features, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. She didn’t think he would have any reason to lie to her, but he was a naturally hard to read person and he was also a Cody. “J’s good. With all of us.” This seemed to lift a visible weight from her shoulders. “He spends more time at girlfriend’s house than he does at Smurf’s anyway.” It was a believable lie, that much Pope knew, and Hawk seemed to accept it as truth. She would find out the truth eventually, and Pope would cross that bridge when he got to it.

“Okay.” Hawk nodded, looking into his eyes once more before she hopped out of the truck and waited for Pope to follow her into the house.

The second the door was closed, Hawk was on him.

please comment & reblog :)

#pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody #animal kingdom fanfiction #animal kingdom tnt #shawn hatosy

281 notes · View notes

leyforshort · 3 months ago

Text

hot take, because i feel like nobody talks about this very much

the arcane fandom is close to crashing and burning for the sole purpose of the fact that SOME people in this fandom can’t be kind and courteous to other people. like genuinely, do we need to use hextech to create a filter or a timeout area for anyone who uses hurtful words? i thought we knew better, kindergarten literally went through the entire year teaching us how to be kind.

the racism, the homophobia, the disrespect and just the toxicity overall has taken its giant blanket of nastiness and thrown it over almost the entire fandom.

i’ll start out by saying this. your friend doesn’t like silco but likes heimerdinger? boom. deal with it. sing why cant we be friends and get along. your friend doesn’t like caitlyn but likes jinx? boom. deal with it. put yourselves in a get along shirt and make friendship bracelets together. you didn’t think caitvi should’ve been endgame? i respect that and so should everyone else, but dont go around throwing slurs at people and insulting their intelligence.

if you dont want to be friends with someone and dont want to talk to them, THEN JUST DONT TALK TO THEM!!! THERES A BLOCK BUTTON FOR A REASON!!

unless the content is incestual, contains sa, or is pedophilic or anything you and everyone else knows is wrong, there is simply no reason for you to be disrespectful.

this reminds me of how the mha fandom was. i couldnt like or dislike a character without getting absolutely ATTACKED for it. my like for that fandom disappeared SO quickly because of the death threats and hate i was getting for simply saying that katsuki or ochako were my favorite characters.

and for what? because the opposing person couldnt bring themselves to like them? get over yourself, please. you do not have to like a character, you do not have to dislike a character. stop making racist jokes and throwing slurs around like its nothing, stop saying one ship is better than the other all because you hate gay people or you hate straight people.

it is an animation, it is NOT REAL, despite how attached you may be to the show because believe me i know the feeling, these characters CANNOT get you and they aren’t going to pop out of the screen to give you kudos for defending their well being.

it takes absolutely NOTHING to be KIND.

195 notes · View notes

colouredbyd · 2 months ago

Text

The Nightingale: The Volunteer

Regulus Black x fem!reader Hunger Games AU

summary: She was thirteen when her name was called. He was fourteen when he took her place. Now, years later, she’s standing there again as tribute of the 70th Hunger Games.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, mentions of injuries, physical exhaustion, corrupted goverment, talks of death, mentions of weapons, typical hunger games violence. hurt/comfort childhood friends to strangers to lovers trope

word count: 5.3k

authors note: okay so here is part 1 of my new series The Nightingale. I have mostly all the parts written and drafted and i cant wait to post them!! this ones probably my favourite work and i hope you all love it 🌷💖

next part series masterlist main masterlist

The 65th Hunger Games

“May the odds be ever in your favor!”

They say it like a promise. Like a prayer. As if luck can shield you from the way a name sounds when it’s yours. As if odds have hearts to sway or hands to hold. But the odds have never favored girls with music in their bones or boys with shadows stitched to their heels. Not in District 7. Not in a world where survival is currency and love is a liability.

My name was still ringing through the square when he said it.

“I volunteer.”

Two words. A blade through the silence. He said it like it hurt. Like it was the only thing he’d ever meant. I turned, too slow, too stunned, just in time to see the peacekeepers pull him away—too young, too slight, too sure. Fourteen and already breaking for me. He didn’t look back. Not once. That was the worst part. Like if he looked, he’d stay. Like if he stayed, he’d shatter.

They asked him for his name. And when he gave it, the crowd swallowed it whole.

Regulus Black, District 7. Volunteer.

He gave them his body. He gave them his future. And all I could do was stand there with my name still echoing through the cold. All I could do was live.

And I’ve been paying for that mercy ever since.

District 7 was not made for softness. It bore no patience for delicate things, no mercy for children with bright eyes or steady dreams. The forest ruled us long before the Capitol did. Trees older than our blood whispered warnings in the wind, and if you didn’t learn how to listen, you disappeared. Splinters and silence shaped us more than schooling ever could.

Our homes were wooden, creaking things. Roofs that leaked in the spring, floors that sang in the winter, walls thin enough to hear your neighbor crying through. We were born with sawdust in our lungs and calluses on our hands. Most children learned how to swing an axe before they could write their names. Hunger made us practical. So did grief.

But even here, where beauty withered quickly, I learned to sing.

Not loudly, not for attention. Never in the open air, where the wrong ears could turn anything tender into a weapon. I sang in the moments in between — under my breath while stacking bark, or alone beneath the hanging branches of the sycamores. My voice belonged to no one but the trees and the boy who found me.

Regulus Black.

He wasn’t from my part of the district. He didn’t have the look of the lumber families. His hands weren’t made for chopping, but for stringing arrows. He was quick-footed, sharp-eyed. Quiet in the way that felt like a storm waiting to happen. The first time I saw him, he was crouched by a stream, soaking a cut on his palm, face turned to the sky as if listening for something.

I sang that day without meaning to. Just a soft hum carried on the wind.

He didn’t move, didn’t look at me. But when I paused, he said, “Don’t stop.”

That was how it began.

We weren’t quite friends at first. We were survivors in the same stretch of woods, careful not to scare each other off. He taught me which berries not to eat. I showed him how to twist pine needles into thread. He hunted. I sang. He used silence like a blade, and I used music like a balm. Somehow, between stolen hours and shared shelters, we made something sacred.

I learned he had a brother, though he rarely spoke of him. I learned that he hated the sound of axes. I learned that no one taught him to shoot — he taught himself, because no one else would.

He learned that my mother once sang lullabies before her voice gave out. He learned that I dreamed of light, of being heard. He learned that my hands shook when I was afraid, and I was afraid often.

We made a hideout deep in the woods, past the northern logging zone where few dared to go. It was barely a lean-to of branches and tattered cloth, but to us it was untouchable. Safe. He carved my name into the bark of the tree beside it, tiny and crooked. I braided wildflowers into his sleeve when spring came.

He never asked me to stop singing.

He said once that my voice made the forest feel alive again. That it reminded him of the world before it became cruel. I told him his arrows did the same. We didn’t say it aloud, but we were everything to each other. When the world took and took, we found ways to give.

Regulus was the only boy I knew who looked at the stars like they owed him something. He wasn’t reckless. He was angry in a quiet, careful way. The Capitol hadn’t taken everything from him yet, and so he fought in the only ways he knew how. He hunted for food he’d pretend he hadn’t found. He watched Peacekeepers with a stillness that bordered on dangerous. He protected me without saying the word protect.

I remember one night, cold enough that my breath came out in clouds, I asked him if he thought we’d ever get out. He didn’t answer right away. He just handed me a sliver of wood he had carved into the shape of a bird.

“When you fly,” he said, “take me with you.”

I wanted to believe we would stay like that forever. Two ghosts beneath the trees, untouched by the Capitol’s reach. But District 7 does not allow dreams to grow roots. The Games come for all of us eventually.

And when they did, he didn’t let me go.

He volunteered for me before I could even open my mouth.

Year Of The 64th Hunger Games: Memories Of a Nightingale.

It was a quiet afternoon beneath the hawthorn tree where we spent most of our stolen moments together. The world seemed to slow down there, away from the ever-watchful eyes of the Capitol and the bitter weight of the district. I hummed a song, soft and low, as the breeze played with my hair, the familiar melody slipping between the branches. Regulus sat beside me, his hands moving over the wood in his lap, carving another weapon—sharp, pointed, and useful for a world that demanded its people to be sharp, pointed, and useful.

“You’re always making those.” I said, trying to keep my voice light, teasing him as I watched him work.

He didn’t look up, his brow furrowing as he pressed the knife into the wood. “The Capitol won’t care if you’re singing or carving stars, Starling,” he muttered. “They just care if you’re useful.”

I watched him in silence for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in deeper than I wanted to admit. Regulus wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t mean I liked it. “ Well yeah, but you will always protect me right, shadow?” i teased

“Always, (Y/N).” he whispered.

Picking up the smaller, discarded pieces of wood, I shaped them carefully with my own knife, trying not to let the sharp edges of the world touch me too much. I carved stars, tiny pieces of hope I could hold in my hand. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I handed him one, a rough star with jagged edges, as I had done countless times before.

“Here,” I said quietly, my voice almost a whisper. “For you.”

He paused, looking at it for the briefest of moments before taking it from my hand. “It’s perfect, Starling,” he said, his voice soft in a way it rarely was. “Thank you.”

I smiled, even though my heart ached with the weight of it. These stars were the only things I could give him—things he didn’t ask for, things that might not mean much, but still, they were mine to give. And he accepted them.

Regulus had a way of making me feel seen when the world seemed to be looking the other way. He was hard on everyone, but with me, he softened. He wasn’t perfect, far from it, but when he called me “Starling” in his quiet way, it made me feel like I was something precious, like I mattered in a world that told us every day we didn’t.

He’d come to the Lovegood’s house often, though we never said why. His family was falling apart—his brother Sirius, gone, lost to the Capitol after a run-in with the Peacekeepers. His mother, too far gone in her own grief to care for him. He didn’t say much about it, but I could see it in his eyes whenever he stood at the edge of the field, looking out at the horizon. That same distant look when I spoke of my father, when the Capitol had taken him for no reason other than the injustice of trying to survive.

I’d been taken in by the Lovegoods family after that, a kindness I didn’t deserve, and Regulus would come by to check on me. He never said it, but I knew. His visits, though brief, were the only comfort I had. He wouldn’t stay long, always had something else to do, something else to prepare for, but his presence was enough.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” I asked him once, my voice barely more than a breath, as he walked away from the small house after one of his visits.

He turned back to me, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Starling,” he said. “Where would I go without you?”

“It’s too quiet,” I whisper, even though I know he hates it when I say things like that.

Regulus doesn’t look up from the sliver of wood in his hands. He’s crouched in the dirt beneath our tree—our tree—carving a blade out of pine like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. “The forest’s always quiet,” he says. “You just hear more when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You are.” He says it softly, almost like it’s a compliment. “You always are, little bird.”

I pretend the nickname doesn’t twist something warm in my chest. He’s the only one who calls me that. The only one who makes it sound like something alive. I never asked him why, but I think it’s because I sing. Because even in this broken place, I keep letting music fall out of me like it might matter.

I reach down and pick up a smooth, flat twig from the dirt, running my fingers over it. I used to make little stars from the scraps Regulus left behind. Carve them with bits of broken glass and shape them with my thumbs until they looked just right. I give him one almost every week. He never throws them away.

“Do you think they’ll ever find Sirius?”

He pauses. I watch his jaw tense before he answers. “No.”

Just that. No. No hope, no softness. Like he already buried his brother the second he disappeared. Like he’s preparing to bury me, too.

I look away, up at the branches of the tree we always come back to. It’s bent at the middle and knotted at the roots, but it still stands. That feels important somehow. Like a promise.

When the silence thickens too much, I do the only thing that makes it bearable—I sing.

A soft lullaby, the kind I hum when my nightmares wake me. It sounds hollow in the open air, but Regulus doesn’t tell me to stop. He never does. Not since that night after Sirius vanished, when he found me crying under this tree and asked me, in the smallest voice, to sing until it stopped hurting.

When my voice trails off, I hold out the little star I’d been shaping. It’s not perfect—none of them are—but it’s mine.

“For you.”

He takes it carefully, like it might break. “What’s it for?”

“Protection,” I say, even though I don’t really believe in it anymore.

“You already gave me that.” He glances up, and his eyes look too old for thirteen. “Every time you sing.”

I watch him tie the star to the worn leather cord around his neck. It disappears beneath his shirt, close to his heart. I think if I asked him, he’d say he keeps them all. Every single one.

“You’d better not lose it,” I say, trying to tease.

“If I did,” he says, voice low, “you’d haunt me.”

“You already do,” I shoot back, smirking a little.

We fall into that quiet again. But it’s different this time. Not empty. Just full of things we don’t say. Things like: I miss my dad. I hate the Capitol. I’m scared they’ll take you next.

I live with Pandora’s family now. My father was shot in the square last winter—for stealing a sack of flour to feed us. And Regulus—he flinches every time a Peacekeeper passes, like he knows the way grief lingers after someone’s ripped away.

We’re only twelve and thirteen. But under this tree, we get to be something else. I sing. He carves. I make stars. He wears them. He calls me Starling, and I call him Shadow, because he’s always there—quiet, sharp, watching. Like something the world tried to break but failed to kill.

I think we’re still learning how to survive. But here, for now, we’re still learning together.

My dress is old. I’ve worn it every Reaping Day since I turned twelve. The hem is frayed, the collar softened by too many washes. It smells like cedar and time, like the chest we keep it in and the quiet ache of years I’ve outlived. It holds the dust of survival. It remembers the names of the girls who didn’t.

The square is a silent wound—rows of children dressed in borrowed hope and trembling silence. Somewhere, a baby cries. Somewhere, a mother prays. We all stand still, pretending not to see the peacekeepers, the cameras, the Capitol flag snapping like a threat above us.

Regulus finds me in the crowd. He always does. Even now, with a hundred heads between us and a hundred fears stronger than steel, his eyes find mine. Like the first crack of sunlight through winter branches—sharp, warm, and far too much.

He doesn’t smile. He never smiles on Reaping Day. But he gives me a nod. Barely there. A flicker of something constant in a world that won’t stop changing. It means: I’m here, I’m watching.

And sometimes I think it means: I’ll burn this whole world down if it tries to take you.

He’s fourteen now—taller this year, stronger too. His knuckles are bruised, as always. His mouth looks carved from stone. There’s always something dangerous behind it. Cold to everyone. Except me.

Always, always me.

I think of the tree on the hill—the one with the crooked branch we used to climb when we still believed in things like forever. When the Games were something that happened to other districts. Before Sirius disappeared into the woods and never came back. Before my father was dragged out in the night for saying one wrong sentence too loudly. Before we started sleeping with our shoes on, just in case we had to run.

That was when Regulus began making weapons from bones and bark. And I began shaping stars out of splinters. I gave him one once—a crooked little thing carved from pine and etched with a trembling promise: come back to me. He wore it like a secret. Still does.

I see it now, just peeking out from under his shirt. Pressed against his heart.

The name is called, but I don’t hear it. Static. Or silence. Or maybe just the world stopping all at once.

I blink. A breeze moves past. A bird overhead breaks the sky with its wings. I think someone gasps, or maybe that’s just me trying to breathe.Then I hear it.

A sob. Sharp and sudden. And it comes from beside me.

Regulus.

His eyes aren’t on the stage, they’re on me. Not with confusion. Not surprise. Just pain. Like he’s already grieving something. Like he knew this would happen. And I understand.

The name.

My name.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way his jaw clenches. The way his fingers curl. The way he looks at me like he’s memorizing something he knows he’s about to lose. My knees don’t buckle, not yet atleast. I just stand there. Cold. Hollow. A girl-shaped shell in an old cedar-scented dress.

Then someone whispers my name, and the moment shatters.

I hear my own voice—screaming, cracking, raw. It rips through my throat like broken glass. No one moves to help.

Except him. Regulus takes one step forward. Then another.

“No,” I choke out, already knowing it’s useless.

“I volunteer!” His voice cuts the air cleanly, like a blade through silk. “I volunteer as tribute!”

And everything goes quiet.

No applause. No cheers. Just silence. Like the whole district just watched something sacred snap in half. The Peacekeepers hesitate. They’re not used to this. Boys don’t volunteer. Not for someone else. Not for love. But the one in charge—he knows who Regulus is. Of course he does. Everyone does. So he nods once, grimly, and lets him pass.

I try to run to him. I do. But arms hold me back—too many hands, too many strangers. I scream and fight and sob, but it doesn’t matter.

He’s already walking. Already stepping into the fire.

And when our paths cross—when the tide of the crowd forces him forward and drags me back—his hand finds mine.

Somehow, in all the chaos, he reaches for me.

And I reach back.

His forehead presses to mine. Just for a second, one heartbeat. All they allow.

“You’ll be okay, star” he whispers. “You always are. I love you so so much”

But I shake my head, crying so hard I can barely speak. “Don’t do this. Please. Regulus, please.”

His lips brush my temple like a goodbye. Like a secret.

“Please don’t watch the game.”

Then he’s gone.

They drag him onto the stage. Announce him as District Seven’s male tribute. The speakers blare with artificial applause. His name echoes off the stone buildings like it belongs to someone else.

Come back to me.

But deep down, I know, he won’t.

The Games didn’t end the day Regulus was taken. They only began.

For me, they never stopped. They just changed shape.

When the hovercraft disappeared into the clouds, it felt like he had been erased from the earth. One second he was beside me, breathing the same air, the next he was a name on a list and a face in a Capitol broadcast. I stayed in the square long after the crowds faded. Long after the Peacekeepers stopped watching. Until my legs gave out and the dust soaked through the knees of my dress. Until I could no longer feel the place where his forehead had pressed against mine.

The first night was the hardest. The silence roared. I kept hearing his voice in the creak of the door, in the wind against the windows. I pressed the pine star against my chest so hard it bruised. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I just waited. Like he might walk back through the door and say it had all been a mistake.

And then the Games began.

They dress him in silk and shadow, like a prince carved from storm clouds. They oil his curls and line his eyes with gold. They ask him to smile, and he does—not like he used to, not the secret, crooked one he saved for me. This one is sharp. Public. Practiced.

They made a spectacle of him. The youngest tribute in history. Fourteen ears old with coal under his fingernails and defiance in every bone. The Capitol ate it up. They loved his sharp mouth and quiet rage. They played it on every screen. They slowed down the footage when he killed. They called him a prodigy. A miracle. A monster.

I watched every second.

He was brutal. Smart. Unforgiving. He used a branch sharpened to a point to slit someone’s throat and didn’t flinch. He snapped a boy’s arm in half to take his knife and then turned it on a girl who had been hiding in a hollow tree. He moved like he had already died and was trying to take the rest of the world with him.

But every night when the anthem played, I saw him reach for his neck. Just for a second. Just a flicker of his hand to make sure the pine star was still there.

And then he won.

He stood on the pedestal, soaked in blood and silence, while they crowned him. I thought he’d cry. Or scream. Or refuse to smile. But he did smile. Not the one I knew. Not the soft one, not the kind one he saved just for me. This one was razor sharp and hollow and made of teeth. I knew in that moment I had lost him.

He never came back.

Not once.

They said he was too important now. Too dangerous. Too fragile. They said the Capitol had plans for him. They dressed him in silk and poured him into interviews like he was made to be adored. He became a myth in a gold suit. The boy from District Seven who never looked back.

I wrote letters. Dozens of them. Hundreds. I carved them into bark and stone and silence. I whispered them to the wind. I buried one beneath the tree on the hill where we used to play. I lit another on fire and watched the smoke rise like a prayer.

He never answered.

The years passed like ghosts. They didn’t walk. They floated. They haunted.

The first one is the hardest. I scream into my pillow every night until my throat bleeds. I run through the woods until my legs collapse. I break every wooden carving I ever made.

I stop singing.

The second year, I start collecting scraps of Capitol broadcasts. Trying to spot him in the background. Some days I do. Always perfect. Always polished. They paint him like a storybook villain—fierce, loyal, unreadable. The Capitol’s golden boy. The Capitol’s ghost.

He mentors the new tributes. Sends them to their deaths with silent eyes. He wins sponsors with a tilt of his head. He never speaks of home. Never speaks of me.

By year three, I begin to hate him for it.

Every Reaping Day I wore the same dress. Every year it smelled more like death and dust. Every year I stood in the crowd and waited for a miracle that never came. I would search the Peacekeepers’ faces, hoping to see his. I would beg the stars to send him back to me.

I waited so long I forgot how his voice sounded when he said my name.

The Capitol paraded him on Victory Tours. His eyes stopped looking like eyes. They looked like glass. Like mirrors that only showed what the Capitol wanted them to reflect. And he looked right into the cameras and told the next batch of tributes to fight hard. To be brave. To survive.

Not once did he mention the tree on the hill. Not once did he say my name.

He belonged to them now.

And I hated him for it.

I hated him for surviving when my father hadn’t. I hated him for smiling while I screamed into my pillow every night. I hated him for choosing silence. For letting me rot in a house full of ghosts. For becoming everything we promised we’d never be.

But I never took off the star.

Not even when it cracked down the middle and the edges splintered into my skin. I wore it like a scar. Like a wound I wanted the world to see.

Because no matter how much I hated him, I loved him more.

And that was the cruelest part. Loving someone who no longer existed. Loving someone who never came home.

I am no longer twelve, or thirteen or even fourteen. I am now seventeen. Five years since the boy with storm-gray eyes and a wooden star around his neck walked into the Hunger Games and didn’t die.

Five years since he stopped being mine.

Five years since I was anything other than the girl he saved.

Time moved differently after that. Like honey left in the cold. Slow, thick, impossible to swallow. The days passed but left no mark. Just the dull echo of what used to be.

I still live in District Seven. Not the quiet outer woods where we used to hide, but in the Victor’s Village. A house built for him, empty and too large. It stares down at me from the hill like a monument to something I didn’t ask for. We were allowed to move in once he won, though he never came back to see it. He never came back at all.

Sometimes I imagine the moment he won—when he killed the final tribute. They say he didn’t hesitate. That it was quick, clean, merciless. The Capitol loved him for that. Crowned him with gold and blood. They gave him a nickname. The Porcelain Wolf. Beautiful. Fragile. Deadly.

I stopped watching the Games after that.

They say Victors get a choice. To return. To mentor. To disappear. Regulus chose to stay. Chose the Capitol. Chose them.

He didn’t write. He didn’t visit. He didn’t send a single word. But I saw him.

On screens. In newspapers. Draped in velvet and black silk. Face sharper, eyes colder. His hair always perfectly combed. A Capitol woman on his arm, sometimes two. He smiled with his mouth, not his eyes.

I kept the wooden star in a box beneath my bed. I didn’t touch it. I couldn’t.

They made him a symbol. A weapon wrapped in silk and sorrow. President Barty Crouch Sr. personally invited him to every gala, every celebration. Said Regulus Black embodied the strength of the districts and the civility of the Capitol. Said he was an example for all future tributes.

His son, Barty Crouch Jr., a golden boy of fire and cruelty, followed Regulus like a shadow. I saw them together once on screen. Laughing. Drinking something deep red. Their eyes matched.

That night I vomited until I saw stars.

But I wasn’t alone in the dark. Not always.

Pandora came to me that winter. She was odd in the way trees are odd—twisting, reaching, growing toward something no one else could see. She moved like a whisper and spoke like a song, full of strange dreams and endless wonder. Her family had fled the Capitol years ago and settled here, quiet and kind.

We became unlikely friends. She never asked me about Regulus. She just let me sit beside her in silence until I was ready to speak again.

She once told me I had a voice made of stitched-up stars. That when I sang, it made the woods pause to listen.

I laughed for the first time in years.

Together, we made a sort of life. I worked in the lumber fields part-time. Helped her sell pressed flowers and herbal remedies in the market. We made plans, silly and impossible—like running away to District Thirteen if it even existed. Or crafting a new kind of life where no one could own us.

I almost believed it. Almost.

But Reaping Day doesn’t care about dreams.

It came with smoke in the sky and the scent of metal in the wind. Everything felt too sharp that morning. The way my braid pulled at my scalp. The way my dress clung to my ribs. Five years later, im here, standing again in the same square for the 70th Hunger Games.

I stood beside Pandora in the square. Her hand found mine. It was warm and shaking. The stage was the same as always. Wood splintered and stained. A microphone that crackled like bones. The stage was the same as always—warped wood, splintered and stained with a thousand yesterdays. The microphone still crackled like dry bone snapping under a boot. And the Capitol escort stood painted and powdered, her lashes dusted in silver. A wax doll in velvet gloves. Her smile was too red.

“Ladies first! Now, now, for the female tribute of District Seven!” she sang, voice too bright, too clean for this place.

Her hand dipped into the glass bowl. Time stretched, the world felt like it was holding its breath.

She pulled out a slip of paper and unfolded it with a painted smile. She read the name.

Silence.

Then Pandora screamed. A raw, animal sound, tearing itself out of her throat. Mary shouted something from the row behind us. Somewhere near me, someone sobbed. I heard it all like it was underwater—muffled, distant. My own breath barely reached me. Everything narrowed to a point of pain. The world didn’t spin. It stopped. Froze just long enough to crack.

Pandora’s nails were digging into my arm now. “No. No. No,” she whispered, over and over again, as if saying it could change the name on that slip of paper. As if it could undo the horror stitched into the silence. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t even speak. My voice was gone, swallowed by the shock.I couldn’t move.

I was twelve again.

I was thirteen.

I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.

Now I was the girl they would kill.

My name echoed through the square, again and again, like the beat of a funeral drum.

No one volunteered. Not this time.

Of all the names. Of all the girls. Of all the slips of paper folded and dropped into that glass bowl like prayers no one answers. It had to be mine. Again.

As if fate had been holding its breath all these years, biding time like a vulture waiting for the heart to slow. I had already been chosen once—called by death and spared by a boy with stars in his eyes and fire in his voice.

I was supposed to die at thirteen. And maybe I should have. Because at least then, he would have been there. Regulus. My Regulus. His hand in mine, his voice the last sound I’d hear. At least then, I would have gone knowing I was loved.

Back then, he wasn’t yet a Capitol trophy, draped in velvet lies and stitched smiles. He hadn’t learned to hide behind applause or kiss the rings of monsters. Back then, he was still real. Still mine.

If I had gone then, it would have been with someone waiting for me on the other side.

Now—now there’s nothing but ghosts behind me and a spotlight ahead. Maybe this is what fate wanted all along. It wasn’t mercy four years ago. It was a delay. A cruel postponement. A way to drag me through grief, through loneliness, through the slow death of remembering.

Because no one escapes the Games. Some of us just take longer to get there.

authors note again: why tf are the first chapters the hardest to write??

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black angst #regulust black fluff #regulus black x reader angst #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader fluff #hunger games au #marauders era #marauders x reader #marauders fluff #marauders angst #marauders x reader angst #marauders x reader fluff #regulus arcturus black

197 notes · View notes