#or saying she's a descender because of that one “flower that is not of this world” line WHICH WAS DEBUNKED SINCE 2. FUCKING 3

[rhineposting]

saw someone unironically saying "rhinedottir fed nigredo to durin to make nigredo grow better and stronger because durin's stomach is actually nurturing like hummus 😊😊😊" god if you're up there can you revoke this person's rights to speak about rhinedottir, or any morally questionable girlboss for that matter. if you can't accept that a lady had her son swallow her other son whole then just move onto characters who are actually nice instead of rewriting the actually not so good characters to fit your imaginary narrative better.

#rhine rambling tag #rhinedottir #i swear to god no one has it worse than rhinedottir fans we're in the FUCKING TRENCHES #if it's not people claiming rhinedottir is gonna be an eden or black swan or mobius or whatever honkai girl expy #or saying she's a descender because of that one “flower that is not of this world” line WHICH WAS DEBUNKED SINCE 2. FUCKING 3 #its people doing olympics levels of mental gymnastics to convince themselves and everyone else that she's not a horrible person. #SHE IS. THAT'S LITERALLY THE WHOLE POINT #god. reminds me of an ex-friend of mine that was 100% convinced scara was a psychopath who would turn evil and sadistic after 3.3 #and downright saying that the “little doll” story should have been deleted because it didn't fit THEIR interpretation of scara #that was based entirely in wishful thinking and poor misconceptions that have been cleared up PATCHES AGO. #but they just COULDN'T accept that scaramouche wasn't this inherently murderous goth sadistic mommy kinda character #and called ME and MY FRIEND *DELUSIONAL* #last time i spoke to them they said that neuvillette would never cry because he uhh didnt understand his emotions??? WHAT #THATS NOT HOW IT WORKS MAYBE IF YOU WERENT BUSY CRANKING IT TO SCARAMOUCHE IN NURSE LINGERIE YOU'D ACTUALLY KNOW WHO THE CHARACTERS **ARE** #aight that was quite the tangent #ok new tag #rhine hating

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 5; ghoap x reader) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

-

Give him blood and he’ll give you something new to chew on.

Except that isn’t the way it goes. Not this time at least.

He tries to talk Ghost out of it, but it falls on deaf ears. Blatantly ignored. The car barrels down the motorway under the cloak of night, a swell of stars overhead as the city falls farther behind. Radio shut off. Johnny thinks if Ghost had his way, the radio would’ve been pulled out entirely, just wires and an empty, black cavity in the dashboard, but it’s a rental. 

And no one wants to deal with the paperwork involved in damaging military property. Not even Ghost.

Ghost won’t so much as glance over at him. Unaffected as ever, as if they didn’t just fuck. Johnny’s stomach hurts when he thinks about it. Even without her knowing, he’s broken his girl’s trust. Not for the first time; maybe not even the last. His guilt echoes not only that he let Ghost make him come, but that he liked it—that the buzz in his bones says do it again, please god, again, please let me come, I need to come, touch me, please—

He thinks about his girl, then turns to Ghost again.

In the pit of his stomach, Johnny knows this is wrong. In his rational mind, he knows it. If he were in a better place, he wants to think that he’d make a real attempt to change Ghost’s mind, maybe get him to turn around at the next gas station, but he can’t deny the excitement bubbling in his belly at the prospect of seeing his girl again after a week of nothing. 

The silence has been eating away at him. Bits of his brain flaking away, moth-eaten. Checking his phone again and again to no new messages, getting the same voicemail message whenever he calls. Something flutters high in his chest, an itch he can’t scratch; it tells him to take off in the middle of the night, drive all the way back home and pound on her door until she’s forced to answer it, forced to talk to him face to face.

Again and again, he tries looking at it from her perspective—tries to empathize with her. What he would’ve done in her shoes had she allowed a coworker to grab his dick in front of a crowd of strangers. It’s more than fair, he thinks. His own shame leaks out of his pores in the middle of the night, sleeping on top of the covers because he sweats right through the sheets. 

And yet, he keeps butting up against his own anger. Talk it out with me, yell at me, he growls into her voicemail, anger growing as the days pass one by one. 

It’s the road that alerts him to their arrival into the city more than anything. More cracks in the asphalt, the car rattling over sewer depressions and potholes in a way that says home sweet home. Usually it’s a source of comfort, like seeing the silver lining on grey clouds or the iridescence in an oil spill, purples and greens catching the light. Not now. Now the road winds like descending into the underworld, each turn coming with a sinking feeling. 

They park down the road from the flower shop, tucked just out of sight. A cool breeze wafts over his hot face when he steps out of the car. It nearly rocks him back. When he glances up, his heart stutters at the sight of her bedroom window, sealed tight now. Only cracked open during their sleepovers, when Johnny runs a bit too hot at night for them to sleep comfortably with the window closed. 

“Should I…do ye want me to give her a call to wake her up?” Johnny asks tentatively, shutting the car door softly so as not to make a noise. 

Ghost shakes his head. “We’ll let ourselves in.”

Johnny’s picked hundreds of locks in his time; he’s jimmied open doors with crowbars, set up explosive charges, used a good old fashioned ram from time to time—no stranger to the trade—but it feels decidedly uncomfortable with Ghost at his back, staring down at him as he breaks into his own girlfriend’s apartment. 

“This is a bad idea,” he grumbles, turning the pick in the lock until he hears a familiar click inside. 

Ghost doesn’t answer, just raps his knuckles against the back of Johnny’s head. A silent get a move on. 

Her apartment looks the same but different when they enter it. His muscles remember the layout though. The pink couch in the living room with two dimpled pillows on either side, the footstool by the door, the stand with her shoes all piled in neat little rows, the vase on her kitchen island with a fresh new bundle of flowers, fragrant when he dips his head to take a whiff. He’s loved flowers ever since meeting his girl. 

Ghost doesn’t try to muffle his footsteps for once. He rummages through her cabinets and drawers with all the finesse of a first time burglar looking to get caught. It smacks of intentionality. Johnny’s worked with him too many times in the field to know that if Ghost wanted to disappear into the darkness, he would. He’d be the thing creeping silently through the shadows, tread lighter than air, close enough to touch but never see. 

So it’s more than deliberate when he noisily shuts a drawer. Baiting her out. 

It’s no surprise when Johnny hears her creep around the corner from out of her bedroom. He’s tucked in the shadows of the living room, just out of the light, so he sees her first when she comes silently down the hall, whole body trembling with fear, the bat she keeps beside her bed drawn over a shoulder. Even her hands shake around the grip.

Of course she yelps when Johnny says her name, stepping out of the shadows, swinging wild. He winces when the bat smashes into a lamp, shattering it on impact. 

“Fuck!” she screams, scurrying backwards into the wall behind her. Several framed pictures rattle against the wall, nearly knocked off their hooks. 

“Noisy, isn’t she?” Ghost grumbles from the kitchen, tossing a bored glance over, unbothered by the commotion. He undoubtedly heard her creeping down the hall as well. 

“What the fuck?” she gasps, chest heaving when she breathes. Her eyes dart from Johnny to Ghost’s massive form in the other room. Poor nervous thing. She must recognize Johnny’s voice saying her name even through the panic because her lips droop in a frown, more confused than petrified.

“Hen, it’s jus’ us—nothing to worry about,” Johnny coos, hands stretched out in front of him to show he means no harm. 

It gets her to lower the bat, but only just, the slightest dip that has him darting forward to pry it gently from her hands. The ceramic shards on the floor will have to be swept up later, but he’s relieved that at least she didn’t step on any of them. 

Up close, she’s just as pretty as he remembers. Pretty as pie. How could she not be? In the glow of youth still, not like it's been a decade since they last spoke face to face—only a little over a week. A sight for sore eyes, even though Johnny’s narrow when he stares down at her and thinks about the week of his texts and calls going unanswered. His jaw undulates, rage held back by the thin thread of her scent that wafts under his nose, making him lean into her. 

Breathe in and out. 

“Us?” she repeats, brow furrowing.

She glances over at Ghost again, the man still ambling around the kitchen, at home in her little one bedroom apartment like he visits her frequently. Like it’s his as well. 

“Aye…Ghost wanted to come—Simon wanted to apologize…for the other day,” Johnny explains. 

“You broke into my apartment in the middle of the night…so Simon could apologize for sexually harassing me?” she says, the disbelief smacking in her words. 

“Hen, it's no' nice to say it like that—” 

“No time like the present,” Ghost says, not ashamed in the slightest. “Heard you weren’t taking Johnny’s calls. Might not’ve had to do this if you’d picked up.” 

Johnny doesn’t believe a word of that, but there’s no reason to call him out on it now. 

He can see her wrestle with a trifecta of emotions competing for first place. Anger, embarrassment, and then, a smidge of worry holding up the rear. Aware of the fact that she woke up to two grown men, one practically a stranger, breaking into her apartment under the guise of having a conversation. His heart aches at the thought. The lion’s share of the blame rests with him, but still it’s her that suffers for it. 

“You…you shouldn’t be here,” she rasps, flinching when Johnny lays a hand on her waist, towering over where she’s still cowered against the wall. Bat gone now, defenceless. Her pupils narrow to a pinprick. He almost tuts, poor thing. Scared out of her wits. 

It feels so good to touch her though. Soft and yielding. 

“‘Was Simon’s idea, hen, but, ah—” his breathing picks up when his fingers tighten on her waist and she squirms “—I was goin’ crazy thinkin’ ye were pissed for what happened last week. Couldnae get a wink of sleep—kept closin’ my eyes and seein’ your face. Nearly broke me.”

“I am pissed at you,” she snaps, temper getting the better of her.

“I ken, I ken,” Johnny coos, ducking his head until his lips graze her temple. “Simon’s sorry—we came all the way here so he could tell ye to your face, but fuck, hen, I’m sorry too—shoulda said something instead of standin’ there like a fuckin’ dolt—”

“You should’ve,” she interrupts, still fuming mad, an iceberg melting right in front of them. It makes his cock pulse.

“—Aye, hen, I’ve no excuse, none at all. Shoulda told Simon to fuck off and keep his hands to himself—”

“Careful, Johnny,” Ghost says warningly, finally stepping into the living room. He fills out the archway imposingly, almost forced to twist his body on an angle to step in. 

Her eyes cut over to Ghost, narrowing, lips pursing. Johnny’s heart jumps in his chest. It’s one thing to see his girl again in the flesh, but to see her all righteous and on the verge of an argument—he could bend her over the back of the couch now, sink into the plush, delicate folds of her pussy, reacquaint himself with deep, languid thrusts. Heaven after not getting his cock wet in a week.

He flinches when he thinks about the last person to touch his dick. 

“So you’re sorry?” she says to Ghost, her disbelief clear. Difficult to see why she wouldn’t find it hard to believe that the man that shamelessly grabbed her ass in broad daylight in front of a group of his colleagues and her boyfriend would now choose to apologize. 

Johnny knows the answer is no when he sees the way Ghost’s eyes rove over her body, taking stock of her little cotton pajamas and her bare feet curling against the cold floor. Ghost tilts his head to the side, eyes travelling back up to meet hers. “Sure I am, bird. Don’t I look sorry?”

Neither of them answer that. Arguing with Ghost feels different, like inviting in danger. Moving too suddenly in front of a hungry dog, jowls loose and salivating for a bite. 

He takes a step closer. “Complete pillock, wasn’t I? And now Johnny’s getting the silent treatment ‘cause of it. Just couldn’t bear another second of him moping around base on the verge of tears.” 

Johnny frowns at that. His girl frowns too, but there’s something more to it. He wouldn’t blame her for not accepting Simon’s apology, if he could even call it that—nothing about it rings sincere, more like words spoken softly to call a kitty over—but questioning it feels worse somehow. Like detonating a bomb at two thousand feet above ground. 

“…Okay,” she says instead, voice trembling a little. “Apology accepted. You guys can go home now.”

“Bird’s forgiving, huh, Johnny?” 

Johnny preens despite himself. “Aye. She’s a good girl, Lt. Told ye so.”

Ghost nods. “That’s right. A good girl who’s gonna let us make it up to her ‘til we have to report back in forty-eight hours.”

“Wait, you can’t—” she starts, then cuts herself off when Ghost’s eyes flash.

He can’t help the way he shudders at the helpless look on her face. Downturned eyebrows, pretty lips slack with disbelief, just the slightest hint of a whine building in her throat that dies when it dawns on her that nothing short of calling the cops will make the two of them leave. 

And she’s a good girl—would never call the cops on him. His perfect girl. Sweet as pie. 

Johnny falls in love a little bit more when she presses her squeezed fists against her eyes and exhales. “Fine. I’m too—I’m going back to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

Ghost doesn’t react to her acceptance. It’s taken as a simple fact of nature—he says something and it happens. He speaks the world into being. 

“I’ll take the couch,” he grunts, finally sitting down to unlace his boots. He looks comically large on her little couch—it’s more than likely that his feet will hang off the end, if not everything from the knee down. 

Johnny already figured as much. No point in them driving all the way back to base when they both have the next two days off duty and there’s a perfectly serviceable couch for Ghost and the other half of her bed for him. He thought they’d have to convince her a bit more or strong arm her into it (a putrid thought; he’d rather have sweet talked her into the idea), but his girl always manages to surprise him in the best way. 

On that thought, he looks over his shoulder towards the bedroom door, cock throbbing again at the thought of getting to hold his girl’s body against his. Touch starved dog. Mangy mutt, tongue lolling out at even the possibility of a pet. 

Ghost must notice the object of his gaze because he sets him straight. “You can take the floor, Johnny.” 

His tone brooks no argument. When Johnny whirls around, the words already on his tongue, she’s my girl, I’ve already slept in that bed ten times over, the sight of Ghost’s bare face, the mask now off, dangling in his hand like some scrap of fabric, makes him lose his train of thought. It’s not often he’s granted the luxury of seeing Ghost’s face—wide, clean shaven jaw, buzzed blond hair, old burn marks like a half-moon around his eye, nasty old scar slicing through his lips—and to see it now, here, makes something in him give. 

Saturnine man with a wolf’s appetite. Ravenous. 

It burns him that his girl looks slightly relieved at having the bed to herself. Irks him. Makes his jaw clench on a mean remark, half tempted to spit out something cross. Just because things have gotten complicated, now he’s not welcome in her bed? After the week he’s spent toiling, trying to make amends? Pleading desperately over the phone, stewing in guilt and heartache—Johnny knows she’s a good girl, but if he finds out that she’s replaced him with someone else in the week since they last saw each other—

Even the thought makes him see red.

He watches her as she turns around to retreat back to bed, more than a little displeased. 

“Give Johnny a little kiss before bed, why don’t you, bird?” Ghost lightly suggests. Not a suggestion. 

She freezes mid-turn. His expression dares her to put up a fuss. Johnny again nearly clucks his tongue, troubled on her behalf. Her spitfire nature is snuffed out easily under that stare. Grown men with experience in the field wither under Ghost’s stare. It’s no weakness of hers that she acquiesces time and again to his demands, glancing up at Johnny from under her eyelashes before shuffling over, pressing the lightest of kisses to his cheek. 

“Better than that,” Ghost grunts, unimpressed. 

His poor darling. Humiliated now. No skin off his back though. Johnny’s heart pumps double time when she presses her lips to his; soft petals that spread when he slips his tongue into her mouth, too eager after a week of nothing. Touch starved. Desperate to sink into her, lap his tongue over her lips and the roof of her mouth and press her jaw open to spit messily in her mouth. Take it, hen, every piece of me.

She rips her lips from his and dances away when he tries to get his hands on her, eyes wide, casting one last glance over at Ghost before hightailing it back to her room. 

He barely resists going after her. Only Ghost’s stare roots him in place; his voice in Johnny’s head that rumbles, heel. I’ll tell you when to go.

He still doesn’t know what it says about him that he angles himself towards it. Bows his head to it. Moth to a flame that shocks him to the bone when he touches it.

Ghost tosses him the second pillow from the other end of the couch and takes the only blanket for himself. No matter. Johnny’s bivouacked on snowy cliff sides, chilblains blistering his toes for weeks; nights spent camped in torrential downpours, his tent on the verge of collapsing; windswept baysides chilling him to the bone. He can handle a pillow on a hardwood floor. 

The ebb and flux of an ocean in his ear, and then Ghost’s voice from the couch: “I’ll take first watch.”

Whole body falling loose as if snipping a cord tethering him to the world. 

“I’ll clean up the lamp in the morning,” he mumbles, vision already blurring. Ghost hums low in his throat.

He falls asleep with Ghost’s voice in his head, his girl’s taste still in his mouth.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #soap/reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/soap/reader

[andypantsx3]

𝑤𝘩𝑒𝑛 𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 : 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑖 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑥 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 : 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑖

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: In order to placate your anxious mother, you agree to return to your hometown to participate in a mating run—knowing full well that betas rarely get chased, never mind betas nearly old enough to age out of the practice. You’ve decided to treat it like a vacation, a chance to visit with your childhood friends, the mating run itself a nice relaxing hike. All in all it’s a solid plan—until alpha Todoroki Shouto, your best friend's little brother, steps in and blows it all to pieces. 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡: omegaverse, no quirks au, alpha!shouto, beta!reader, mating rituals, age gap, best friend’s little brother, older reader, afab reader, some class differences, aged up characters, semi-public sex, slight small town romance vibes, background implied dabihawks for some reason, smut, 18+; mdni! 𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑡ℎ: 5.7k | chapter 1 of 4

Then

It was a freezing day in spring the first time you set foot in the Todoroki house.

You had shared a class with Touya for years now, and in that time you’d become something of his best friend. You’d bonded early over a mutual hatred of fish and your status as the two best tree climbers on the playground—two integral friendship quality bars if ever you’d met them—and your entente had strengthened over the following months.

After enough time together Touya had even seemed to like you, seeking out your opinion, deploying you like a shield between himself and the other kids. He wanted to be paired with you for group projects constantly, as he seemed to disdain the ability of the other kids in your class.

He eventually acquiesced to two other friends—Rumi and Keigo—as Keigo was a really fast runner, and Rumi could kick a kid almost clear across a playground. But the two of you remained particularly close, and a few years in, Touya had seemed to want to check the final box of your friendship.

That was the day he’d haughtily informed you that you were coming home with him.

You’d phoned your mother from the school office to obtain permission, and then pulled your jacket on to follow Touya out into the cold, his skinny legs beating a quick path through the streets.

You’d half-expected that Touya lived in a box behind a shop, with the way he descended ravenously on his lunches (as well as yours, and Rumi’s, when he could occasionally get them—though notably not Keigo’s, something that had only retroactively made sense to you as an adult). But the house Touya steered you to was enormous—easily the biggest house you’d ever seen—a stately pile at the end of a fancy neighborhood.

You’d later learn this was because his father was the mayor, and the Todorokis were neck-deep in generational wealth. At the time you’d been mildly annoyed, because what had you let him eat part of your lunches for if he lived in a house like this?

“I’m home,” Touya had called into the echoey foyer, grand but strangely barren. He’d kicked off his coat and shoes, discarding them carelessly—perhaps purposefully—on the floor, then gestured for you to follow him into the kitchen as a warm voice called out to him. “Welcome home, Touya.”

“I brought Y/N,” he announced grandly as he prowled into the room. To you he said, “This is my mother, Rei.”

The voice you’d heard resolved itself into a woman, tall, with beautiful long white hair and a small, but unmistakably fond smile on her mouth. You startled, immediately floored by her beauty. She looked just like Touya, the same delicate prettiness to her mouth, the shape of her eyes—but even lovelier. She looked simultaneously like she belonged on the cover of a magazine, and would be embarrassed by one saying so.

She also smelled like an omega—sweet, but a little wilder than you were used to. Like spring flowers blooming on a cold day.

“Hello Y/N,” she said warmly, turning to you. You gave a shy wave back, suddenly nervous in front of her.

As she turned you finally noticed the child on her hip—a small, round, pudgy little thing with half red and half white hair, and two mismatched grey and blue eyes that pinned on you immediately. It was wearing a horrendous polkadot onesie, and you felt your eyebrows raise without your permission.

“That’s Shouto,” Touya informed you, and the pieces slotted together in your brain. Ah, so that was the face to the name.

Shouto was the little brother Touya complained about incessantly—the one that was his father’s favorite, the one that stared too much and wanted to play with all of Touya’s toys even though he was too little for them, the one Touya was saddled with babysitting constantly. He’d made Shouto out to be this sort of tiny harbinger of evil—but Shouto did not look very evil, perched there on his mother’s hip.

He blinked at you, a flutter of surprisingly long eyelashes, for a baby. You had the thought that actually he was kind of cute. Most probably not a harbinger of evil, and actually very sweet-looking, if weirdly round.

“I need to be excused from Shouto duty,” Touya said, the question posed more like a statement.

Rei shook her head, a somber little smile playing about her mouth. “I have to make dinner before Fuyumi and Natsuo get back from their playdates and your father gets home. Why don’t you take Shouto to play with you and Y/N?”

Touya rolled his eyes in the long-suffering manner of a man who’d endured it all. Shouto didn’t seem to notice, however, his mismatched gaze barely detaching from your face. You noticed Shouto’s left eye was the exact vivid blue of Touya’s, and his other eye the same silver as his mother’s.

“He’s staring like a weirdo,” Touya complained, but collected Shouto from Rei anyway. Shouto let himself be passed over as placidly as a bag of potatoes, still watching you.

“Y/N is a new face for him, he’s just curious, Touya,” Rei said, smoothing Shouto’s hair down as Touya hefted him in his arms. Shouto reached out a hand towards you, fat fingers flexing.

“What, you think I’m some taxi service who’s gonna bring you wherever you want to go?” Touya demanded. Shouto ignored him, his little chubby arm wavering.

Strangely, something compelled you to step closer, reaching out a hand in return. Shouto seized it in his pudgy little fist, staring up at you with solemn eyes. His other hand reached out to you, too, twisting in Touya’s grip, and Touya let out an annoyed scoff.

“Y/N didn’t come here to hang out with you,” he said. But Shouto ignored him, his little hand fisting in your tee shirt. He seemed to be trying to lever himself up out of Touya’s arms and into yours.

You were startled, never having held a baby before, and Shouto was kind of a big one. But Touya showed you how to hold him under his butt and across his back, and you heard the rustle of his diaper as he was handed off to you.

“Hi Shouto,” you said, watching him watch you.

His eyebrows raised, some small happiness lighting up his expression, and he gave a little kick that wiggled his whole body in your arms.

“He likes you,” Rei said over the counter top, as she settled a cutting board and a pile of vegetables across it.

You looked back at Shouto, feeling weirdly pleased. Maybe babies weren’t that bad.

Touya made an annoyed sort of grunt, stomping past you. “We’re going to play in the living room,” he announced imperiously. You glanced at Rei to make sure that was okay, then followed Touya, Shouto heavy in your arms.

By the time you arrived, Shouto had settled a hand on either of your cheeks and seemed to be trying to stare directly into your soul, and Touya patted him firmly on the back, clucking. “Stop being such a little freak.”

“He’s fine,” you said, bemused. No one had told you really little kids were this intense and weird. But Shouto’s little round face was kind of sweet, and it was hard to be annoyed at a baby staring up at you, that clearly enamored.

“Actually he’s being way nicer to me than you,” you told Touya.

Touya rolled his eyes and busied himself pulling out a horde of action figures, legos, puzzles, and games, as well as a turtle with multi-colored blocks set into it that appeared to be for Shouto.

“Oi, it’s turtle time, weirdo,” he told Shouto.

That seemed to break the baby’s singular focus on you, and he peered around, lighting up nearly the same way when he saw his blocks as he had when he’d seen you. You laughed, and helped him settle on the floor next to you, watching his clumsy, chubby grip fumble on the blocks as he carefully removed them one-by-one from the plastic turtle.

Touya set up the legos around you, an older parallel of his brother, though you thought he would kill you for saying so.

A block appeared in your lap, carefully and deliberately placed by a fat-fingered hand. You smiled down at Shouto, picking it up and gesturing grandly. “For me?”

A grey-and-blue gaze attached itself solemnly to your face, as if awaiting your judgment, and an instant fondness swept over you. Who knew babies could be this cute—when they weren’t screaming and crying and generally being small and annoying near you. Touya had massively undersold his little brother, who was the sweetest baby you’d ever encountered.

You bowed your head, clutching your gifted block close to you. “Thank you, Shouto. It’s very nice.”

Shouto stared up at you, smiling a shy little almost-smile, clearly pleased. You couldn’t help but reach up and ruffle that distinct tuft of hair, taken with him already. Yep, definitely a good little kid.

And you decided then and there that you liked Todoroki Shouto—though for now he was a child—you both were children—and he could only mean so much to you.

You wouldn’t realize how much he’d actually come to mean to you, until many, many years later.

Now

Touya’s white mess of hair was the first thing you spotted as you stumbled into the restaurant.

Outside it was unseasonably cold, an icy wind tearing through you as you’d rushed all the way from your mother’s house. The inside of the restaurant was blessedly warm, and slightly smoky from the meat and vegetables grilling away on each table top. Touya was on the far side, and you could see Rumi’s white hair beyond him, Keigo’s blonde riot of waves peeking over the top of the booth next to him.

Rumi faced the door so she spotted you first, a mouth-splitting grin overtaking her face as she waved you down.

You hurried your way over, letting out a surprised hrrk! when Rumi drew you down into a rib-crushing hug, her alpha strength barely contained. You fell into the seat at an awkward angle, your joints screaming.

“Well look what the cat dragged in! You don’t look a bit changed, you little beta cuck,” she crowed, making you choke on a laugh as you almost inhaled a mouthful of her hair.

“Rumi—!” you sputtered, half-pleased and half-scandalized that she clearly hadn’t changed in the years since you’d seen her last. She crushed you to her harder, and you could feel your eyeballs all but bulging like a rubber doll.

“If you plan to crush her to death you could at least wait until I clear the scene,” came Touya’s disaffected drawl from the other side of the table. “The last thing I need is police on my case again.”

That was so typical of him, too, after all this time.

“Good to see you too, Touya,” you said, even though you couldn’t get a look at him through Rumi’s hair. She ground her knuckles into the top of your head for good measure before releasing you, and you came up for air gratefully, watching the two men on the other side of the table grin at you.

Keigo looked exactly as you’d left him, a little bit more filled out than the skinny teen he’d been, the same wiry facial scruff growing in, those golden eyes alight with typical playfulness. Touya looked like he’d aged the most, his scars—fresher when you’d graduated—now deepened to the color of dark bruises. His features were still achingly familiar under them, however, the fine-boned prettiness of his mother shining through, his father’s blazing cerulean eyes the only nod to the other half of his parentage.

“So you really obeyed mommy dearest huh,” Touya said, pinning you with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes at him. As your closest childhood friend, he still knew all your weak spots, your mother the biggest of them. Growing up she’d been lonely and overworked, and you’d tried to care for her and please her the best you could. You still called her several times a week and sent back your wages to help pay for the house, and pay down the pile of debt your father had left her in when he’d died.

The concession of returning home for a few days to attend the annual mating run, as pointless as it was going to be, was the least you could do for her.

“You know as well as I do that no one is going to run down a beta,” you said, settling yourself in next to Rumi and shedding your coat and hat. “Especially not now that I’m well past newly-presented. It’ll be like a vacation.”

“You never know,” Keigo said, raising his fluffy eyebrows at you, his grin wicked. You flung the pile of your things across the table at him, but he intercepted easily, all alpha reflex. He stuffed your jacket down next to him, laughing at you.

“I do know,” you said emphatically. “And I’m not fussed about it. I don’t know who she thinks is going to pay her bills if I’m off getting dicked down by some knothead idiot.”

Touya made a dismissive noise and you looked around the table for something to fling at him too. He’d never had to worry about money, his future shored up with the Todoroki family fortune, built over generations and then basically quadrupled by his father. Since coming out of the correctional facility for a string of petty crimes, Touya had been skating by on family generosity, and you knew he wasn’t about to stop.

“Just burn her house down like mine,” he said, an unholy grin overtaking his face as he leaned forward. There was a light behind his eyes like he wasn’t entirely kidding. No one had ever been able to determine if the Todoroki family fire had been an accident or not, although Touya claimed it had been.

But you’d known Touya your whole life and you had your suspicions. Touya had hated his father for nearly all of your living memory—and the Todoroki men had an almost disturbing single-mindedness about them. You had long wondered if Touya’s fixation on his break with Enji had ever played into the fire that ravaged their house during your middle school years.

The one exception to the Todoroki single-mindedness was sweet little Shouto, who you’d last seen at your high school graduation. He was several years younger than you and had still been round-faced and chubby-cheeked then, all wide solemn eyes and pouty little mouth, just like when he was a baby.

You hadn’t seen him since, but couldn’t imagine Shouto turning out anything like Touya.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” you said to Touya, not liking how his grin widened.

Purportedly he’d come out of the correctional facility for good behavior, his record squeaky clean.

Purportedly.

“So why even agree to the run?” Rumi asked. “If you’re not looking to actually take anyone home?”

You helped yourself to the water that had been laid out before answering. “It’s just easier to appease my mother. She gets what she wants—some indication I’m open to my life mate-–and I get what I want, which is to be able to use this as an excuse next year.”

“Aww you won’t come back to see little old us?” Keigo asked. His tone was wheedling but his eyes tracked your expression carefully, always observing.

You smiled at him. You did miss your old friends, and you liked how easy it felt to sink right back into them after so many years away. You wanted to see them outside of the confines of a group chat or the rare facetime.

And you missed a lot about the town you’d grown up in. You liked the tiny storefronts of the downtown shops and the easy access to the coast and miles of hiking trails. You’d had a dream of opening up a little bookstore in one of the lovely brick buildings downtown when you were younger—but that was back before the staggering number of dollar signs on your mother’s bills had made themselves known to you and the romance of your daydream had begun to seem more like foolishness.

The bigger cities offered the bigger jobs, the bigger wages to send home. Even if it meant you could only see your friends every few years and mostly kept in touch via group chat.

“How about you guys come to me?” you asked. “There’s a chicken place I think Keigo will want to make the trip for.”

Keigo’s grin widened and he leaned in, interested. “Say no more,” he drawled.

On the table top, Touya’s phone vibrated. He peered at it, dismissing the notification with a swipe. “Rei wants to see you,” he reported, the usual blend of disrespect and unwilling fondness for his own mother layered in his voice. “She says you should come by the house.”

You smiled, pleased to be remembered. “I’d love that. Who’s living there now?”

Touya stretched, his back brushing the booth. “I do. And she does. Enji visits sometimes—” his tone was pointedly colorless “—and Fuyumi and Natsuo come by a couple times a week. Shouto is there almost daily for dinner when he’s not on shift, because his own cooking is absolute shit.”

You blinked, struggling to reconcile the idea of sweet-faced little Shouto with an adult who lived on his own now. “On shift?” you asked.

“He’s a fireman,” Touya rolled his eyes. “Little fucking do gooder. Ever since the house fire he’s wanted to.”

Your eyelashes fluttered again, your brain floating with the images of skinny, round-faced Shouto struggling to haul people out of a burning building. You struggled not to voice this disbelief.

“Wow, good for him,” you said.

“Not for me,” Touya complained. “Ever since he’s presented he’s been eating us out of house and home. Can’t find a fucking thing in the cabinets after he’s been through—”

And that shocked you, too, the idea that Shouto was already grown enough to have presented.

Objectively you knew he had to be into his early twenties at this point, but hearing the changes life had wrought on him was almost too much to contemplate. You wondered what he had presented as, and whether he’d be subject to the run this week as well. You’d always sort of suspected he’d be an omega, with that wide-eyed, beautiful face—almost a carbon copy of his mother’s, the same delicate prettiness in it as Touya.

And he’d been so sweet, too. When you’d been much, much younger—before Touya had become too cool and too emo for it—you remembered playing house together, remembered how often you’d dragged Shouto in to play the part of your son. He’d always sat there, a chubby-faced toddler, smashing blocks together and staring up at you with big eyes as you and Touya made plastic food and Touya unrolled a days-old newspaper collected from his father, bossing you around from his armchair.

Even when Shouto had gotten older and started to get as fresh with Touya as Touya was with him, he’d always been nice to you, always watched you with those same wide, mismatched eyes.

Yeah. He was most probably an omega.

“Well I’d love to see Rei, and Natsuo and Fuyumi and Shouto,” you said.

Touya stretched in the booth, not minding Keigo and thumping him right across the chest. Keigo squawked in annoyance.

“I’ll tell Rei you’re coming for dinner,” Touya said.

You smiled, pleased. You knew what a huge deal it was for both Touya and Rei to be in the same house again—both in recovery, both sharing the same space again.

When you’d left, Rei had been hospitalized and Touya had already been knee deep in petty crimes and utterly disinterested in any sort of overtures of help. For them to both be together again, getting regular help, with Enji out of the house and a rotating string of their family members checking in on them—you were happy to see them healing.

The buoyant feeling lasted all the way through lunch and too many drinks, until Touya shepherded you out of the restaurant, blazing a familiar path towards his family home. You followed, gratified when you saw that the Todoroki house was just as you remembered it, even the rebuilt pieces nostalgic.

Its grandness had been a shock to you as a child—not only in comparison to the tiny, squashed little two bed you’d grown up in—but that Touya had grown up there, in so vast and elegant a space. Touya who you dug in the dirt with. Touya who picked bugs out of the mud and put them on you. Touya who turned his nose up at dolls and ate things right out of your lunch box without asking, like he was a starving child without any access to food.

The house said otherwise.

Touya treated the Todoroki mansion with the same pointed lack of care he had as a teenager, kicking in the door as he led you inside, throwing his things in a pile in the entry. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, fondly nostalgic over his shithead behavior.

“You missed a spot—I think there’s a bare patch of floor over there,” you said.

Touya gave you a narrow-eyed gaze over his shoulder as he uttered a string of objects you might suck.

You raised your eyebrows at him, smiling and unbothered. He’d always said it was your beta nature that left you unfussed with his various attitudes, taking everything in stride. You didn’t know if that was true—you’d always sort of suspected it was the strange, inherent connection you felt to him, and to the Todoroki family at large that kept you fond of him, even as he descended into teenage fury.

You didn’t know what it was, as you’d not ever felt it with your other friends’ families who you’d spent nearly as much time with. But if it netted you a lifelong friend, you weren’t about to question it.

Rei was in the kitchen like she had been that first day Touya brought you home, an enormous expanse of marble counter and vaulted ceiling that made her look unfathomably small. Her snow white hair had been cropped short into a page boy cut and made her look younger than her years, especially when she glanced up at you with the very same smile she had when you were a child.

“Welcome back, Y/N,” she said. You bowed respectfully, Touya scoffing and grabbing the back of the collar to haul you up.

“She’s not the fucking prime minister,” he grunted.

“And you’re not the boss of me,” you sniped, the drinks you’d both shared at lunch making you a little looser tongued in front of Rei than you’d have liked.

“Shouto will be by in just a few minutes as well, and he’ll be so happy to see you,” Rei said, smiling gently.

“Shouto lives on his own?” you asked, curious. Aside from picturing him as the skinny preteen you’d last seen him as, you also had trouble imagining kind, sweet little Shouto leaving his mother on her own—and with Touya definitely counted as on her own, for all the help he was. Shouto seemed devoted, familial.

“He’s wanted his own space since he presented,” Rei said lightly, clearly unbothered.

It was rare for omegas to peel off from their family units before finding a mate, and the strangeness of striking out on his own struck you even further. Maybe he wanted a nest to bring someone back to, after finding the right person?

You wondered if he was going to be participating in this year’s mating run, and made a mental note to try and find out if he wanted help avoiding any undesirable alphas. If he was an omega, your beta scent would help disguise some of his tracks, you’d just have to follow in his footsteps far enough away from the main track that a ranging alpha wouldn’t accidentally stumble upon it.

That thought was cut short, however, by the sound of the door creaking open in the foyer you’d just come in from. There was the sound of rustling fabric, like someone shedding their coat, and then footsteps padded through the hall. A hint of a scent met your nose, slightly sweet and smoky, with an undercurrent of something fresh—like a campfire burning on a cold, clear day. Your brow furrowed, the frostiness an almost-familiar dimension, like Rei's cold widlflower scent. Who was—?

Then a tall, unfamiliar alpha poked his head through the door, fluffy red and white strands of hair tangling across his forehead. He was an arresting sight—easily the most beautiful person you had ever seen, every single one of his features so perfectly and evenly placed, like he'd been put together deliberately. He looked startlingly like Rei, if Rei were a man, except for the fiery blue of his left eye, the shock of scarlet hair above it.

You stared at this new interloper, confused, until you were seized with a sudden memory of that scar, that same mop of hair bent over a turtle-shaped block puzzle.

No. No fucking way.

Rei smiled, opening her arms, and you gaped after him as Todoroki Shouto prowled across the kitchen to her, enveloping her in a hug. Where Touya was taller than his mother, his baby brother almost dwarfed her, easily clearing six feet, his shoulders broad and his frame packed with dense muscle. He'd always had the same elegant, sweetly beautiful set to his features that his mother and Touya did, but there was something sharper about them now, a slightly more alpha edge to him.

An enormous bicep shifted against the sleeve of his t-shirt as Shouto held Rei, and suddenly it was very clear how Shouto had managed to become a firefighter.

Something pinched your arm, hard, and you whipped around to stare at Touya accusingly. “Ouch!”

He smirked. “Don’t fucking stare like he does.”

You scowled at him, and opened your mouth to say something unsavory, until two mismatched eyes turned on you, pinning you in place.

“Y/N,” Shouto said. His voice was deep as midnight—so much lower than you had remembered—careful and smooth. The sound of it slithered up your spine like a shiver.

“Shouto?” you answered, stepping closer. “You’re Shouto? Are you sure?”

Shouto released his mother, only the tiniest corner of his mouth twitching. And that was confirmation enough. Shouto had always been a little serious, watching you carefully and intently. He was most like his mother that way—withdrawn, a little bit solemn.

“As far as I am aware,” he said. His tone was flat but you heard the tease in it, regardless. And that was so like him too, couching his inner little shit under the most serious tone, under those earnest heterochromatic eyes.

“Wish he wasn’t,” Touya muttered.

“Oh my god, Shouto. You’ve grown up so much,” you said, a strange thrill zinging up your spine as he stepped closer. That scent like campfire on a cold day washed over you, making you a little dizzy.

Shouto’s eyes got a little bit round at the edges, and something pulled at the corner of his mouth again, an expression you didn’t recognize. His tone was soft as he observed, “You are exactly the same as I remember.”

You could tell he meant it kindly, so you chose not to be offended with his obvious tact. You were well aware you were not a fresh-faced high school graduate anymore.

“I’m definitely older than you remember,” you said, resisting the urge to poke him in the chest. Your hand felt magnetized toward it for some reason. “Don’t be surprised if you hear my bones creaking all the way from the preserve during the run.”

Something sudden and strange passed over Shouto’s face, those mismatched eyes narrowing in on you.

“You’re running,” he said, his tone suddenly flat. “This year.”

“Yeah I’m back in town for it,” you said, ignoring Touya’s scoff at your side. “Gotta appease my mother. She doesn’t get that betas aren’t the target crowd for this, nevermind ancient ones. That, and I plan to disappear up a tree if someone so much as sniffs in my direction.”

“Up a tree,” Shouto repeated, sounding contemplative.

You wondered if he was internalizing how weird you were. He probably wouldn’t have remembered you being weird, considering how younger kids never thought to question their older peers. Maybe he’d even thought you cool when you were growing up together—you’d quickly disabuse him of that notion.

You nodded. “I’ve only been followed by alphas twice and both times I lost them up that big willow overlooking the bay, if you take the seaside path out two miles?”

Shouto’s eyes tracked you closely, like he was committing every word to memory. “I know it.”

You smiled. “The sea breeze is just enough to hide a beta’s scent, once you’re out of sight up there. I hope the city life hasn’t gotten me too out of shape to get up the trunk. Though to be frank I’m not too worried about it this year. Are you running?”

“Yes,” Shouto said, so quickly that it looked like he’d startled himself.

Touya’s head whipped around to stare at him, and Rei’s eyelashes fluttered momentarily, a weird stillness overcoming her—until a sort of look of understanding came over her features. You thought you caught a hint of a smile as she ducked her head to return to her dinner preparations.

“Thought you said you weren’t interested,” Touya said, his tone accusing. “You’ve never run before.”

Shouto looked deeply unfussed by his older brother’s sudden consternation. “Perhaps I have changed my mind.”

“The hell you did,” Touya said snottily. “You said you knew you wouldn’t find your life mate there.”

“Perhaps that has changed too,” Shouto said, his tone so dry that you could tell he was purposefully needling Touya. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Brothers.

Touya’s scoff overlaid the thump of Rei’s knife as she returned to chopping, and you realized how rude it looked for the three of you to be standing there arguing while she was working.

You hurriedly stepped around Touya and Shouto, peering over Rei’s shoulder. For some reason you were hyperaware of Shouto as you passed him, a thought you shoved right back out of your mind as you approached Rei. “Is there anything I can help with? I feel like I have years of free dinners to pay you back for.”

“I am almost done, but thank you, Y/N,” Rei said, as Touya said something in a haughty tone of voice, and Shouto’s low baritone answered. Rei’s mouth quirked softly at this—and you realized it was the same way Shouto smiled, small and private.

“—Not bringing home some weird fucking omega,” Touya was saying when you turned back to the boys. You startled when you realized Shouto had shifted to face you instead of his brother, and his body language looked like he was mostly ignoring him.

You channeled your sudden laugh into a fake cough. Touya eyed you sourly, long used to your tricks.

“Well if you want any help on the run, let me know,” you told Shouto, cutting into their argument with the practice of a beta used to diffusing things, especially between Touya and others. Shouto’s mouth twitched again like he knew what you were doing, and you watched his eyes pick over you speculatively.

You marveled at how far back you had to tilt your head if you wanted to look him directly in the eye now. He was so big, and so unexpectedly handsome—he really had grown up well. Some omega was going to be very, very pleased at the end of this week, provided he really did go after someone.

“If it’s your first you probably won’t know all the best hiding spots,” you told him.

Not that they were really hiding spots, considering most omegas wanted to be found. And there was no one on this earth who wouldn’t want to be found by an alpha who looked like Shouto did now. But he’d probably want to make sure he got to his intended first, before any other alpha found them.

Shouto nodded, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I will take you up on that,” his tone was low, intimate.

You smiled up at him, though something weird twinged in your chest. “Lunch sometime this week then? I’ll walk you through everything.”

Touya made a noise of disgust, and you shushed him. Shouto’s smile pulled into a quarter-moon sliver, sweet and beautiful. “I would like that.”

A strange little thrill zinged down your spine. You very pointedly did not think about it, instead shooting Shouto a thumbs up. And then, seized by a sudden need to get away, you marched forward to grab Touya by his collar, dragging him out into the dining room.

“Do you have to make your mother do everything? Let’s set the table,” you ordered him, shoving him at the cabinets. Touya swore at you, trying to twist his lanky body out of your hands, spitting like a wet cat.

But your mind was already elsewhere, occupied by this strange new turn of events. It really had been a long time away from your hometown, and much more had changed than you realized. You’d missed seeing Touya start to recover his life, you’d missed Rei returning to herself, you’d missed Shouto growing up into a man—and an alpha. You were suddenly overcome by the feeling that you did not want to miss any more, did not want to leave again—though of course that was foolishness.

The run was less than a week away, and you had train tickets back into the city just after.

And you had your mom to provide for, much as she wanted you to settle down with the first rando who got handsy with you in the woods. An alpha would have to bring more than an interest in you to your coupling in order to win you—and that was not going to happen, especially not to a beta, and especially not to you.

You laid the dishes out, resolving yourself. You’d enjoy this week, but never lose sight of the fact that you’d still have to leave at the end of it.

After all, it wasn’t like some miraculous twist of fate was lurking just around the corner of the Todoroki kitchen, ready to change your life.

#todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #shouto x reader #shouto x you #shouto todoroki x reader #todoroki x you #todoroki x y/n #shouto x y/n #todoroki shouto imagine #bnha x reader #andie's writing #character: todoroki shouto

[3nlivenning]

Omg I'm happy you're doing Franics one-shot how can I milkman like him be so attractive ( JK love him too )

May I request

The reader ( female being a florist and always brining flowers to Francis everytime he delivers milk but the reader also hides because she's embarrassed about one day he'll know the flowers is from her. Maybe some spice when Francis finally encounters reader and makes her fill the needs she had for him?

Very optional

Thank you so much 💗^^

x. confessions, confessions

pairing : Francis Mosses x Fem!Reader

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

FLUFF

“Must say the flowers are blooming vibrantly this spring.”

Francis appreciatively yet flatly commented as he looked at the pots of flowers that brightened up your porch, adoration seen through his eyes. He always looked forward to delivering her milk just to end up becoming fixated at the bright blossoms. His head turned, the bags under his eyes looked subtly darker than last time when you looked back. You could only feel your heart warming and thumping against your rib cages at his compliment. As simple as it sounded, it fueled your motivation to garden more.

“Thank you kindly, I have always loved gardening after all.”

You replied in a light tone, a small grin curling into your lips before he returned the gesture. The corners of his mouth curling in a gentle smile before he then handed the small wooden crate of cold, milk-filled bottles.

“Here you are, Ms. [l/n], it’s a pleasure to chat with you.”

Ever since that interaction you didn’t deny the sudden attraction you developed towards the neighborhood’s milkman. You always looked forward to his deliveries in the morning, finding excuses and tasks to be out on your porch so you or he could initiate a small talk between the both of you. Often times you were the one to start the conversations, whether it's about something small like how each other’s mornings are going, or her flowers. Nothing a bit too personal.  As time passed, the attraction toward the milkman deepened. Each new day brought with it a growing desire to connect with him. The mornings found you in your garden, carefully selecting the freshest blooms. Throughout the day, you tended to these delicate flowers, ensuring they remained pristine and free from any imperfections. As evening descended, you carefully removed any bruised petals or damaged stems, making sure it was perfect in order to catch his eye before you began arranging the flowers into a small arrangement.   The first time you attempted this, you were mostly anxious when it came to handing it to him. Thankfully the apartment units weren’t quite crowded. To be fair, there was only one apartment unit and a small number of residents living inside. Arriving upon his doorstep, with the vibrant bouquet of fresh blossoms from your garden in one arm, your free hand shakily reached the doorbell beside his door. Your stomach fluttered within your body, a sudden rush of trepidation washed over your body. What if he turned you down? Would he really be harsh on you? Doubts lingered in your mind, pressuring you into backing away. Maybe you were being too fast, perhaps?

The decision was soon made, you chose to back down from your initial plan. A disappointed sigh escaped your lungs before you bent down to place the arrangement on his doorstep. Giving it one last glance, praying that he could take the hint and perhaps reciprocate the fondness she had felt since their first interaction.

Days have soon passed and it has been a couple months after you first dropped off the first bouquet you made for him. It has started to become a bi-weekly routine. She picks the freshest flowers in her garden out in her backyard, experiments with the different colors and which flower went well with the other. You couldn't forget the foliage as well. Mixing a good variety of eucalyptus, fern and other kinds of greenery that enhanced each bouquet's visual appeal.

Soon you heard the familiar rhythm of the milkman’s knock against your door. Indicating he arrived for your weekly milk delivery. You quickly hurried in your bedroom. Hastily touching up the last bits of your skin prep and makeup before opening the door, greeted by Francis with a subtle yet warm smile in his lips.

“Mmmm, mornin’ ms. [l/n]” He hummed out whilst handing the small crate of milk to her. Replacing the old and empty ones from the last delivery. You gleefully grinned back, your heart pounding from the interaction currently happening between the both of you.

“Say, these flowers sure look awfully familiar to the ones I keep seeing by my door.” Francis blurted out once his tired eyes caught onto the rose bushes and pots of various flowers. Suspicion raising within him as he slowly caught onto the hints before he turned his head again. You could see his fatigue in his eyes melt away just a little bit. His temperature rising slightly, same to you as well right after it seemed like he figured it out. How long did it take for that lightbulb to finally flicker in his head?

You gave a sheepish chuckle, a bit tongue-tied. You weren’t quite sure what to reply with or react to that. “What makes you think I was the culprit?” You try to scoff, appearing more offended but the subtle red hue that danced on your cheeks said something else.

“I don’t think I mentioned anything about accusing you of leaving them behind.” His chuckle was low and deep. Before you could respond your hand soon met his as he took it. His palms were rough and calloused from years of work. Gently bringing your knuckles up to his lips, he gave a light kiss before pulling away with a grin. “Although, I’m not complaining.” Heart rates soared at that point, meeting his gaze once more.

He cupped your chin right after, pulling you closely until your chest was right against his. Neighbors be damned, he could care less if they saw. Breaths mingled once noses brushed. Both of your temperatures rising further before your lips met in a slow yet heated kiss. Francis’s hand gently cupped your cheek while your hand rested on top of his. Clearing any doubts by reassuring you with a simple gesture of affection.

To what felt like hours, you both pulled away. Heavily breathing to cool yourselves down before Francis started. “How about I come over in an hour after my shift?” He whispered against your ear before he smiled and walked back to his truck. Leaving you all flustered yet relieved.

Waving goodbye, you quickly went back inside your home to prepare yourself. Blood rushing with excitement while you got ready for the eventful night.

—

*snores*

#francis mosses #milkman #thats not my neighbor #the milkman #tnmn #francis mosses x reader #doppleganger #fanfic #that’s not my neighbor

[grandeoatmilklatte]

A Year In Love 💚 - Ominis Gaunt x F!MC

Happy one year anniversary to Hogwarts Legacy! I can't believe it's been a whole year since the game has been released! (I can't believe it's been a whole year since I descended into madness over these boys either!)

A few of us in one of the HL Discord servers decided to all write a one year related fic, so here is my contribution to that. Enjoy!

Warnings - None! All Fluff! || 1.5k words

Ominis stopped walking as he felt his wand begin to rapidly pulsate in his hand - a sign that he had reached his destination. He sat on the grassy ground, using his wand to guide him again as he placed a small bouquet of flowers on his aunt’s grave, which was marked by a large rock, with various smaller colorful rocks and seashells surrounding it.  

Today marked one year since the night that Ominis, Sebastian, and the new fifth year ventured into Salazar Slytherin’s Scriptorium, where his aunt Noctua’s remains had been found. She was the only member of his family to show him any compassion, and the only member of his family not obsessed with blood status. She was the only family Ominis felt like he had. Although the night brought back painful memories for Ominis, it also changed the course of his life forever, in the most positive way possible. It was also the night Ominis realized he was in love. 

The evening started with Sebastian begging Ominis to join him in venturing into the Scriptorium, eager to see what secrets it held. Ominis didn’t want to go, well aware that the room likely held terrible things. But Sebastian wasn’t about to let it go, enlisting the help of his secret weapon against Ominis - the new fifth year, who Ominis had been harboring a small crush on. 

“Please, Ominis?” His name sounded so lovely on her lips, he couldn’t bring himself to say no to her. She was far too convincing. His heart even skipped a beat when she complimented him on his rare ability of being able to speak Parseltongue. 

 As the trio descended into the tunnel leading to the Scriptorium; however, Ominis cursed himself for allowing his crush on the girl to cloud his better judgment. The tunnel radiated dark magic, and was full of various puzzles which opened the way to more, deeper tunnels. What started as a nerve-wracking endeavor quickly turned into anguish as they reached the entrance to the scriptorium, guarded by a door that required a Cruciatus curse to be cast. In front of the door lay his Aunt Noctua’s long forgotten skeleton, her journal pages around her body confirming it was indeed her.

While Sebastian explored the Scriptorium, thrilled by their discovery, the new fifth year was by Ominis’s side, her arms around him as he sobbed into her shoulder. Ominis felt guilty, knowing that he should have been the one comforting her after she had endured the painful Cruciatus curse from Sebastian. Ominis could feel the way her hands shook as she held him, but despite the pain she was in, she had put his needs before her own. No one had ever put Ominis first, or shown him this level of care, not even his own blood. Her kindness changed him, and it was at this moment that he fell in love with her. 

Ominis awoke the next morning deep in denial, He convinced himself that he was just clinging to her because of the compassion she showed him, and he absolutely was not in love with her. That  is, until he received her owl asking to meet outside the castle. When he found her, she explained that she had gone back in the morning and retrieved his aunt’s remains so they could give her a proper burial. Ominis fought the urge to get down on one knee and ask for her hand in marriage at that moment. 

With her help, Ominis decided on a secluded spot across the Black Lake in a little clearing for her final resting place. The area was surrounded by trees and overlooked Hogwarts - the place Ominis called home. 

As the year went on, and the two became closer as friends, Ominis fell deeper in love with her each day. They supported each other when Sebastian strayed further and further away from them, and Ominis showed her the same level of compassion she had shown him in the scriptorium after the battle against Ranrok, when she broke down in his arms after losing Professor Fig - the closest thing she had to a father. Despite the clear connection they shared, Ominis still hadn’t confessed his true feelings, fearful that she only saw him as a friend. That fear was extinguished for good on a random night, after she crashed her lips into his and confessed her own feelings for him after an after hours meeting in The Undercroft. From that moment on they were inseparable.

Ominis was broken out of his thoughts as he heard footsteps approaching. His heart raced when the footsteps got closer and a familiar scent hit his nose - her scent. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Ominis! Professor Weasley needed me for something after class. I hope you’re not mad!”

Ominis let out a soft chuckle at her words, knowing he could never be mad at her. He stood to greet her, placing his hands on her waist to pull her into a gentle kiss. Once she pulled away, he heard her begin to dig through what sounded like a bag, followed by the sound of a blanket being fluffed out. As if she could read his mind, she explained herself. 

“I brought us lunch, the weather is lovely, I thought we could have a picnic!” 

As they sat in front of Aunt Noctua’s grave, enjoying the weather and food, Ominis’s mind began to wander again. This time, he thought about their future together. He thought about their graduation, and how he hoped she’d say yes to his elopement proposal he had planned for right after. He thought about what it would be like to have a home of their own, far away from the Gaunts. He even let his mind wander to children. Although he was still uncertain if he wanted to bring more Gaunts into the world, if they did have a daughter, he hoped his future wife would be open to naming her Noctua. 

As he said his aunt’s name in his head, he felt a tingle of pain in his heart. She would never get the chance to see him as a married man or a father. She would never get to meet the girl who had stolen his heart and made him so happy. He hoped that she was proud of him for finding someone who loved him and treated him right, unlike the rest of his family. He hoped that she was proud of him for making a new legacy for the Gaunts.

“Are you alright, darling?” Her sweet voice laced with concern flooded his ears and broke him out of his train of thought once again. 

“I miss her…” Ominis choked out as tears began to form in his eyes. 

His fingertips registered the softness of her hands as she gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “Oh darling, I’m so sorry. I know you do. But she’s not truly gone. The ones who love us never really leave us. They’re always in our hearts and watching over us.”

Ominis squeezed her hands back, his tears freely flowing now. “I wish she could have met you. She would have loved you. I…I hope she’s proud of me.”

Ominis’s heart fluttered as he felt her lips press against his cheek. “She is proud of you. I know she is. So proud of you for doing the Gaunt name justice. She helped make you into the amazing person you are and will grow to be. She’s extremely proud of you, and so am I.”

Releasing her hands to cup her face, Ominis pulled her into a gentle, but passionate kiss. Their lips remained locked for several seconds, Ominis savoring the way her lips felt against his own. Over the course of the past year, he had kissed her many times, never once getting sick of it. He didn’t think he could ever get sick of her.  

The couple spent the next hour in the same spot, talking, laughing, and updating Aunt Noctua on things that had happened throughout the year. They stayed until it got dark, Ominis feeling the change in temperature.

“We should probably make our way back, make sure we’re prepared for the potions exam tomorrow. Thank you for joining me today.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Ominis.”

She stood up, pulling Ominis to his feet with her. He wished Noctua a good night and assured her that he’d visit again soon before taking his lover’s hand as they made their way back towards the castle.

When they had just reached the Hogwarts grounds, Ominis felt his girlfriend stop walking, but before he could ask her what was wrong, he felt her arms wrap around his neck as she planted a soft kiss to his lips. 

“I love you, Ominis Gaunt.” she said softly. He could hear the smile on her face through her voice.

“And I love you.” he said back with a smile. And he did - he had loved her for a year, and planned to love her for many more years to come.

#ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis x mc

[comfortless]

Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

#könig x reader #konig x reader

[selarina]

Gojo Satoru might be the strongest boy in the world, but in truth, he’s a bit of a loser.

He didn’t learn how to tie his shoe laces until he was 12 because he just didn’t have to. He didn’t learn how to ride a cycle until he was 15 because what could even compare to flying? He cries, snot-faced and everything, during romance movies, and does so proudly.

But today, his veneer of self-assuredness starts to crack, and he confronts his own strange insecurities.

The day started out early with practice and he barrelled through it as though he was racing against time itself. His driver observes the happy grin on his face and wonders if he's won a trophy or something.

He reached an hour early but he decided to wait outside your school compound, under the scorching relentless sun because you see, he made a promise to you, one that restricted his usual extravagant gestures. And he realised that stepping out of a Lamborghini is not exactly inconspicuous.

And so, he waits and he waits patiently. The minutes stretch and stretch into an hour, and then he finally hears the school bell ring.

His ears perk up and he promptly draws the bouquet of flowers up in front of his chest, readying a smile he knows you like. He remembers luring it out of your chest one day as he made you admit it out loud. He even asked and asked and asked if he could record it, but you simply told him you'll just tell him again and again until it's etched onto his heart. That day could definitely go up on the list of the happiest days in his life.

As the children spur out of the entrance, he realises just how many children go to these normal schools as compared to his own, Jujutsu High School's population was astonishingly small.

He waits and he waits, his anticipation growing with each passing second, until finally, he spots you descending the school's main steps. The smile on his face comes to widen.

However, soon after, his smile starts twitching. He notices the group you’re walking with, specifically setting his eyes on a boy walking right beside you. The boy is handsome Satoru thinks at first glance, noticing his long black hair and at a second glance he notices a skateboard in his hand.

The handsome boy says something and the group and you start laughing quite loudly, your head flinging so far back he thinks you could break your neck.

And then when your eyes come back up after the laughters cool donw. You notice him, sending him a wave as you speed up towards him.

When you reach him, you throw yourself into him, hands flinging around his neck as you pull him into a hug. His hand squeezes your hips as his other hand tries to protect the flowers from getting crushed by you, as he holds it out of you reach.

“Hi baby, are these for me?” you inquire once you pull away, your fingers running over the flowers.

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Do you like the—“

And then he’s interrupted as the sound of laughing interrupts him. He looks up to find the group you were with finally catching up to you.

“Damn, leaving without telling us goodbye?” a girl chides, a familiar face from a polaroid in your bedroom.

“Sorry,” you say, abashed.

You interlace your fingers with Gojo's, hoisting them up as you introduce him, "Um, guys, this is Satoru! And Satoru, these are my friends."

Gojo extends a polite smile to each one as you introduce them by name. He realises he's not going to remember most, if not any, of their names. But he catches one name: Mikasa. Primarily because she was the girl from the polaroid, and seemed rather annoyed at something today.

And then he catches the guy’s name: Eren because apparently he makes you laugh so hard, enough for you to even break your neck.

“Alright, we’ll leave you two lovebirds now, enjoy!” the girl who spoke earlier declares. She turns to you, adding, “Don't forget to call me today, sweetheart!”

Sweetheart?

“Will do. Bye!” You chirp back.

"Wait—" Eren interjects before you can leave, “Are you coming? Evening?”

“I’ll see... if i’m not too tired,” you reply.

The guy nods, and soon after that, like a beehive struck by stone, the group disperses, all in different directions, presumably making their walk back to their houses.

Gojo remains surprisingly quiet beside you as the two of you walk to the food place he's been nagging to check out. His shoulders brush against your own and it seems to be the only sign of him being there beside you. It’s odd and unsettling.

"Something on your mind?" you ask, breaking the unbearable silence.

No response.

You take it upon yourself to encircle his hand with your own, halting him in his tracks as he meets your gaze.

"What's wrong?"

He pouts, he actually pouts— it's not new or anything but you always feel an overwhelming urge to pinch his cheeks whenever he pouts. But this seems serious so you suppress the urge.

"I don't think your friends like me," he confesses, leaving out the part where he harbours similar sentiments, particularly toward handsome boy Eren.

"Uhh," you hesitate, not rushing to refute him. "They barely know anything about you. So, does it matter?"

"Of course, it matters that the only people you hangout with hate me. They could turn you against me," he admits, his pout deepening.

"That's stupid. Do you think I'm gullible?"

"No," he frowns. "I just want your friends to approve of me."

"Okay— how about you join me today, in the evening?"

"Join you? Where?" he asks, confused.

"You know how Eren asked if I was coming this evening?"

"Yeah," he frowns again.

"Well, he was referring to the skate park. Both Mikasa and Eren will be there. It's an opportunity for you to get acquainted and such," you suggest.

"Okay!" Satoru doesn't necessarily beam with joy, but he strikes a smile. "I'll buy a skateboard."

"You don't have to do that. You can share mine."

He considered the visual—you teaching a seemingly helpless Satoru skate, your hand on his hips, your hand in his hand as you help him skate. The thought appeases him. "Okay," he replies.

"Okay. Now can we get some food? And we can talk more about it more if you want, but while we're waiting for food."

"Yes, I made a reservation," he says, pointing for you to take a turn.

"What? Reservation?"

"Yeah, it's this 4 star Italian hotel, it's supposed to be very good."

"Wait, are you talking about Rossoto?"

He nods, and you speak again. "That's pricey. I don't have that kind of money on me right now."

"Well, obviously I'm paying for us!"

"No, can we just go to a place nearby? I go there often. The food won't be exceptional or anything but it's good stuff!"

"Why though? I've made the reservation, and I've offered to pay," he pressed.

"Well, I'd like to pay for dates sometimes as well, you know? You can't always be the one paying," you say.

"Why not? I have the money," he asks, tilting his head in confusion.

"It's not about that," you sighed. "I appreciate it, but I don't want you to feel like you always have to take care of the money. It's important to me that I can contribute to our relationship as well."

"Okay," he acquiesced with a sigh. "If that's what you want. I just don't understand."

"Well, I can explain better when I'm less hungry. So, is it okay if we go to the place I told you about?"

"Of course. I trust your taste," he conceded.

"Why, thank you. It's a sushi place. You'll like it," you say, drawing his hand into your own.

He thinks even the shittiest restaurants could be amazing if he went with you. He'd rather not, but it's the sentiment of it all.

---

The day drifted by, and after your sushi meal, you both returned to your house. Satoru exchanged polite greetings with your parents before the two of retreated into the warmth of your room, where you whiled away the hours in languor. Eventually, at some point, you drifted off into slumber, only to later be awoken by the boy who did so by gently prying open your eyelids.

With your hair up and dawning a pair of cargo pants and a crop top, you two had some some coffee, before making your way down to the skatepark. In one hand, you cradled your skateboard, while the other held onto the white-haired boy

It didn't take long for you meet up with Eren and Mikasa and the three of you were off skating as Satoru watched in awe. He's never tried to skate before but he thinks maybe this would be hard if he wasn't literally drenched in powers. He thinks he could get in an hour even so, but for you he'll play dumb because he quite likes this.

Your hand found its way beneath his shirt, inadvertently grazing the soft skin of his hip, but you were quick in drawing your hands away.

"Wait— Don't let go," Satoru yelps, feigning a fall before you extend your hands out to help him.

"Sorry," you murmur. "I'll stand closer next time."

"That'll help," he says, and you don't miss the soft grin. After all, you're just playing along too.

"Maybe taking off your glasses should help, it's not even sunny dude," Eren's voice chimed in from behind you.

Gojo almost retorted but was preempted by your defense, "He has sensitive eyes, you dick. Besides, I haven been holding back on mentioning whatever is going on with his hair, so don't try me."

Gojo thinks that may be of Eren's best traits, but he's not saying that out loud or even subconsciously ever again.

"Hey, I was just trying to help," Eren shurgs.

The skatepark continued to echo with the rhythmic clatter of skateboards and laughter as you spent your time alternating between teaching Gojo, and doing your tricks which was always met with a round of enthusiastic applause from the boy.

Time passes, and the sun's just about beginning to set. There's someone playing soft some soft music in the background when Eren comes back.

"Hey, record me?" Eren comes up to you, handing you his phone. "Mika's got the other point of view."

"Course," you reply, readying his phone in front of your face.

When he reaches the top part of the flight of stairs, you press the record button, a hushed anticipation falls over the crowd, which began to gather around the scene. The onlookers cheered and shouted words of encouragement, their voices blending into pure chaos.

And then immediately, Eren gets up, gliding down the rail, as though there was merely a blanket of snow beneath his feet. He glides with the poise of a tightrope walker. As he nears the rail's end, he defies all caution, making an audacious and if Gojo's being honest, dangerous flip, descending down like a Greek God from the heavens of above.

Still astride his skateboard, he approaches the camera, i.e. you. He rolls his hand down for a quick bow, and then one swoop and he's enfolding you in a hug.

"Oh my fucking god! That was incredible." Satoru hears you exclaim, one hand gripping the phone and the other intently tousling his hair. Now, in this moment— a strange sensation stirs within Satoru's gut.

"Fucking amazing!" Mikasa exclaims, embracing Eren after he releases you, whirling the girl around.

A cluster of admirers swoop down to pat his back, and a bunch of other people gather around you to watch the video.

And in this moment, he feels like a loser somehow. It's strange. He's so used to feeling like a God on water, that once he's turned into the fish that's out of the water, it's all too strange and overwhelming.

"Did you see that?" You approach Gojo, a smile on your face that it could almost melt away all his thoughts. Only almost. "I can't believe he beat me to it. I'll do it one day, and better too."

"Send me the video when you do," he says.

"Or you can watch me in person," you countered, hesitantly.

"Sure," he replied, his tone betraying a hint of uncertainty. "Of course."

"It's alright if you don't want to, you know," you run your hand down his hand.

"It's not that. Of course, I love seeing you skate. You're incredible, better than Eren," he says, shooting a glare out at the oblivious boy surrounded by people. "But I don't belong here."

"Because you're wearing semi-formals at a skate park?" you surmised.

"Yeah," he says. "And I can't be Eren with his stupid hair, and his stupid outfit. And his stupid hair."

"You mentioned that already," you say with a chuckle.

"Well, it's stupid," he affirms again.

"Right, I think I understand," you say after a moment.

"You do?" he asks, head tilting in confusion because he barely gets what he himself is feeling right now.

"I mean, why do you think I'm so scared of meeting your parents?"

"My mum would love you!" He says, defensive because she would. He could almost hear the of conversations of the past where he would sit by her side and paint a vivid picture of you to her. He's sure she already knows you well enough.

"Maybe, but we're from different worlds. And that's hard sometimes, I guess," you say softly.

"Yeah," he agreed.

"But you know, I come to your galas, and you come to wait outside my school. So, I think we'll manage for now," you say, tousling his hair as you bend down to pick up your bag and skateboard.

You two say your quick goodbyes, and part ways, walking under the orange sky as you hold his hand, your thumb gently caressing the back of his palm.

"So, how about lunch at that Italian restaurant then?" you propose.

"Really?"

"You can pay too."

Satoru considered your proposal, a grin gracing his lips. "Next week?" he asks.

"Next week," you confirm.

#the way i wrote eren in a gojo fic because i miss him #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fluff #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x gender neutral reader #jjk fluff #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x gender neutral reader #jjk x reader fluff #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader angst #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #gojo satoru angst

[mycadences]

Edit: HOFAS spoilers ahead! Tread carefully!

Azriel has had two bonus chapters so far -- and what did they share in common?

HOFAS bonus chapter: "And with each mile onward, she could hear Azriel humming softly to himself. The rolling, wild melody of "Stone Mother" flowed off his lips, and she could have sworn even the shadows danced at the sound."

ACOSF bonus chapter: "Azriel entered the warmth of the stairwell, and as he descended, he could have sworn a faint, beautiful singing followed him. Could have sworn his shadows sang in answer."

Still don't see it? Then let me ask you:

Who is Gwyn?

"Across the hushed, cavernous space, it was easy to hear Gwyn’s soft singing as she flitted from table to table..."

"Gwyn turned from the desk where Nesta had found the priestess singing softly to herself..."

"Gwyn’s voice soared like a bird through the cavern as she started the third song with a solo..."

Yes, she is a priestess-Valkyrie who sings.

And now, who is Azriel?

"Do you sing?"

He blinked. It wasn't every day that people took him by surprise, but... "Why do you ask?"

"They call you shadowsinger. Is it because you sing?"

"I am a shadowsinger -- it's not a title that someone just made up."

She shrugged again, irreverently. Az narrowed his eyes, studying her. "Do you, though?" she pressed. "Sing?"

Azriel couldn't help his soft chuckle. "Yes."

He's a shadowsinger... who also sings (a bit of a "duh" moment but pardon me, it's meant to be dramatic lol).

With how intense the ship wars are, and based on SJM's interview lives, I'll say she has a strong inkling that readers would be analyzing HOFAS -- in particular the bonus chapter centering on Azriel -- for clues on the next ACOTAR couple

Notice that she chose, yes she CHOSE, to highlight Azriel singing when we all know how music is Gwyn/Gwynriel's thing.

Gwyn is literally associated with music/singing the way Nesta is with dancing, Feyre is with painting and Elain is with flowers.

And I don't see any flowers in this bonus chapter.

What I do see, however, is Azriel sharing the same hobby as Gwyn, something that was purposely emphasized in this scene, and with SJM having said that she looks at compatibility for her couples... Well, I'm feeling pretty hopeful. More than hopeful, actually.

(Also kindly remember that Gwyn is a Carynthian (one of the only two females in history), which makes her Azriel's equal.)

Another thing of interest is that both Az's bonus chapters referenced his mate, but that's a juicy tidbit for another day.

And that's what you missed on Glee! ;)

#gwynriel #pro gwynriel #the endgame is near #yet my heart holds no fear #gwynriel supremacy #why do I feel that az is secretly a horrible singer #like how feyre is secretly a bad painter #it's okay we still love them #antielriel #hofas spoilers

[lovepookie]

₊˚ෆ Favoring Roses Over Daisies - s.qr

♡ ︎sypnosis: daisies will forever and always be boring; they were the former queen’s—your mother’s—favorite flower. however, now that it’s your turn to ascend the thrown, you can’t help that roses are your favorite; just like the blood-red ones embellished on prince ricky’s black suit on the night of your suitor’s ball. but don’t get caught up in the pretty scent and petals, because where there is beauty, there is thorns. ricky is the prince of an enemy nation—and your whole life he has been nothing but a pest. a really pretty one.

♡ ︎genre: royal au, fantasy/magical, fluff, angsty, prince!ricky, fem!reader, prince!hanbin side pairing, enemies to lovers, forbidden love, the dramaaa

♡ 7.0k word count (i’m not sorry)

♡ ︎warnings: cursing, mentions of readers father passing away, misogyny mentioned, kinda angsty and dramatic, playful threats, please let me know if you’d like me to add any!

♡ ︎nano note: i know this is long asf, but i am not even the slightest bit sorry. been thinking about prince ricky for the longest and i just had to quench my forbidden love needs. feedback and fangirling in the replies w/ me is greatly appreciated! xoxo

.♡.

“Look at you…so beautiful.” Your mother said, standing behind you as you sat on your bench in front of your vanity. She placed a lavish gold crown on your head carefully, using pins to secure its place.

You manage to shoot her a faint smile.

Your older sister had dropped off the face of the earth when you were teens, and now that you’re becoming of age, you were the only heir able to be crowned.

It felt bittersweet.

Never once in your life did you ever want the title. You grew up thinking it was always out of touch because of your place as second to the thrown. And you were fine with that. You grew with the mindset that it was never yours to begin with and let your sister take reign.

You’d sigh in relief when she would be pulled away from your play dates for classes on her duties as a future leader.

It was a so bittersweet.

When she left.

Still, you stared at yourself in the mirror with a bit of poise.

This was your moment and you took it on with a great sense of responsibility; wanting nothing more than to be the best leader to your people. You had many plans now that you had been crowned, but nothing could prepare you for today.

Descending from your mother; you were shockingly only the second queen to be crowned as of a couple days ago. The ceremony came and went so fast with everyone making a big deal out of it. This catapulted misogynistic hate back into the thoughts and mouths of other nations who were still coming around to the idea of women in power.

On the night of your 21st birthday, you were notified that your mother would be stepping down as Queen. Your father had passed away a few months ago and because of this, your nation was now unable to continue to keep peace between the neighboring nation your father was great friends with.

This nation was Sector Four and they never really liked your sector, Sector Nine, for how they ruled. Your father, who was from Sector Three, was just miraculously married to your mother and was the sole driving factor to both nations recoiling from the long history of wars and bickering.

As your mother described it, she was just excited to meet boys on the night she was to find a suitor. She did not realize when she met your fathers eyes that they belonged to none other than a friend of the enemy.

He was a godsend to your nation and the very reason your mother says she was able to face such widespread disrespect that was thrown at her for being the first Queen.

But this didn’t matter anymore. That peace and sense of tranquillity vanished the moment your father’s breath did.

Now that your father is gone, the hunger for power and the ratification of misogyny was trickling back—you were nothing to them; so long as you were your mothers child.

Regardless, life went on and the fact of the matter was that you were now Queen of a nation too and therefore had to meet a suitor.

Today would be that fateful day.

Yes, you heard that right.

Only a few days as leader and every nation in question were lining up for a piece of the power.

It was laughable.

Still, you gathered your thoughts and made yourself knowledgeable of what had to happen. Unlike your mother, you’d be prepared—this wasn’t some joyous event created for you to find a man, this was so much more than that.

“Alright, your tiara is secure.” Your mother said, meeting eyes with you in the mirror as she smoothed down the sleeves of your dress.

You let another soft smile grace your face as you started to stand.

“Thank you, Mother.” You say, albeit a bit shaky.

You didn’t want to be nervous, but the time ticking by was starting to get to you. It was already evening, the ball that your mother put in place being seconds away from starting.

“Don’t worry. So many people may be waiting for you in there, but they all have an agenda of their own. Try to have fun, okay Daisy?” Your mother said, calling you by the nickname she gave you as a child.

She’d always loved daisies.

They were alright in your opinion.

You’d always prefer roses.

“I know. I’ll be fine.” You say, half trying to convince her, half trying to convince yourself.

“Very well, I better get going now. I’ll meet you out there okay? Remember to smile and have fun, alright?” She says as she walks slowly towards the door.

You nod at her.

“Yes Mother, I’ll try my best.” You say, the words being comforting to you somehow. She smiles and sends a flying kiss your way. You chuckle and catch it, much to her happiness.

Once she’s out of sight, you allow yourself some time to think.

Maybe tonight won’t be too bad. If you don’t find a suitor, so what?

There was no hurry, and you were sure everyone present was definitely not there for love. Everything is always meticulously planned when it comes to royal affairs, and anyone can rule truly.

It was just your lucky turn, so you could play by your own rules.

After talking yourself up and out of your nervousness, you decide it’s go time.

You make your way into the large hallway, it’s festive flowers lining the balcony that oversaw the foyer.

Wow, they really went all out.

Just a few halls down was the dining hall, so not many people were around. As you rounded a column in order to go down the stairs that were around the corner, you were quickly drawn out of your thoughts as you quite literally came face to face with someone else.

It all went so fast, suddenly you were falling backwards, a person falling over you too.

“Oh!” You yelled out.

My dress! This shit was hard to put on!

“Oh my! My apologies miss, I-“ Says a young man as he quickly gathers himself.

You crouch up on your elbows, looking up to meet his eyes.

He looked cute.

His features looked like a dear caught in headlights. You didn’t even know what headlights were, and you weren’t sure how you got that saying. Anyways.

“I- Your Majesty?” He utters out, as he stumbles to his feet. He was endearing.

You just stare.

“Your Majesty I’m so sorry, I should have been more careful.” He states, slightly bowing his head and holding out his hand for you to take.

You do so, placing your hand gracefully in his, the strength of his arm pulling you to your feet.

“It’s alright, I didn’t see you as well.” You say.

He clears his throat as he gets a good look at you for the first time, head slightly bowed still.

“You may be at ease.” You chuckle.

His cheeks go pink, a smile making its way onto his face. The dimples on his cheek bones poked through, his eyes forming into crescents in possible embarrassment.

A guinea pig.

He looked like a cute guinea pig.

“Well then, I take it I’ll see you during the reception?” You say, already endeared by his charms.

He looks back at you in shock and places a hand over his heart before bowing again.

“Oh- of course! It will be a pleasure to see you again Your Majesty.” He gets out, taking another bow.

You chuckle.

“Very well, I hope to find out your name then too.” You say, bowing back and making your way down the stairs.

His bow never falters, and you’re sure when you’re far enough you hear him scold himself.

You laugh to yourself.

He was endearing.

And only for a moment does it distract you from your responsibilities.

Within seconds your smile falters and you regained your poise.

It was time to address your guests.

As you walked into the corridor and greeted a bunch of royal caretakers, you greet the Royal announcer as well, making him aware of your presence so that he can announce your entrance. Once he did, everyone scrambled to make sure you were ready, fixing things unnecessarily to make things perfect.

You just let it happen of course—your nerves were starting to get the best of you anyways.

Within a few seconds, you were announced and the velvety ceiling-length curtains were opened.

You walked into the ballroom and were greeted by bright lights and loud cheers. The lighting blinded you for a second, but you didn’t let that show in your expression.

Once you were able to adjust your eyes to the room, you saw several hundred people. Some were smiling, some were serious.

You saw your mother and teachers, happiness evident in their faces to see you be announced as Queen to everyone in attendance. Then you looked over to the other nations and the suitors who were present for you.

My, oh my.

There were so many.

You let out a quiet nervous sigh as you continued through the people and made your way to your seat for the dinner to commence. Before you could sit, there were a few young men who passed near your area and bowed your way, hoping to get an early introduction in.

You chuckled.

One bowed generously, throwing you a wide gummy smile. He must be way younger than you, you note. Just as you slightly bow in response, you see him make his way closer.

He bows again before speaking, “Your Majesty, might I just say, your portraits do not do you justice.” He says, gummy smile coming back as he towered over your seated frame.

He was tall and built, but nothing could stop you from seeing his boyish nature. You let out a chuckle before replying, “And your name?”

“Gunwook. Prince Park Gunwook from Sector Five.” He says, shooting you another sly smile.

You decide to let your chuckle out a little louder this time.

“Noted, Prince Gunwook.” You smiled.

He bowed once more and walked back to what you assume is his royal friends.

Before you could catch the gazes of anymore cute faces, a plate was placed on the gold charger in front of you and everyone in attendance watched as you lifted your gauntlet of still-too-bitter wine; signaling the start of the dinner.

It was only a few hours of wining and dining under the gaze of many suitors before the most nerve racking part of the night was to commence. The classical music changed its tempo to that of dancing music, people making their way to the ballroom dance floor.

Your nerves were starting to build as the melodies played through the hall.

Looking over to your mother, you saw her gesture for you to join the dance floor despite no one asking for your hand to dance yet.

You sighed anxiously and stood slowly to your feet, your ball gown shifting to follow along. As soon as you do this, you see many figures moving, almost on par with your own movements.

Here we go.

It was obvious that the race to ask you to dance was finally here; and boy you wished your corsets hadn’t been so tightly hoisted around you.

Who even dances right after desert?

Still, you hold your chin up high and walk towards the floor as gracefully and as unfazed as you can. It’s there where you meet eyes with him again.

He smiled, whiskers reappearing. Without thinking, you walk towards him—much to everyone’s surprise. He looks shocked as he quickly aknowledges you with a bow.

“Your majesty-“ He starts.

“Would you like to dance?” You speak, cutting him off.

His shock is only evident for a moment, before he smiles bigger and holds his hand out for you to take. You smile back, already comfortable within his grasp.

Once meeting the dance floor, he turns towards you, grasping your waist and holding your other hand in his. You place your hand on his shoulder, and get a good look at him.

Please don’t be from Sector Four. Please don’t be from Sector Four. Please don’t be from Sector Four.

“Your Majesty, thank you for approaching me first, I really am flattered.” He speaks respectfully as he leads you into the dance.

The many people in the room become nonexistent as you let him guide you.

“No need to thank me, you were the first familiar face I’d seen, so naturally I approached you.” You say, smiling shyly under his gaze.

His intentions seemed so straightforward in the way he looked at you. He had seemed entranced.

Dare you say, taken.

You decided to stare at his royal blue suit, the intensity of his gaze becoming too much.

He chuckles.

“My name is Prince Sung Hanbin, Sector Two. Please call me Hanbin, Your Highness.” He says.

This took you by surprise, so you looked up at him and re-evaluated his face.

Your mother’s best friend had a son named Hanbin, but you’d never gotten the chance to meet either of them since she was a Princess of a far away nation. Suddenly his features matched up with that of the paintings you’d seen of your mother and her closest friends when she was younger.

It all came together so seamlessly.

“Oh, so you’re thee Hanbin…” You say, staring him straight in the eyes.

This garner’s you a laugh.

“With all do respect your majesty, I think you’re the woman of the hour.” He says slyly, passing you a smile.

He was smooth.

A very respectful kind of smooth.

Just as you were going to respond, another voice chimes in.

“Pardon for the interruption, but may I have the next dance Your Majesty?” Says a handsome man, confidence seeping through his demeanor.

Hanbin stops leading you and lets go of your waist. As you turn, you meet his eyes.

Sharp and confident, just like his tone, he came off very striking. He was stunning.

If Hanbin was endearing and Gunwook was adorable, this one was gorgeous.

“If her majesty would like to, of course.” Hanbin says, you notice a little protectiveness hidden in his tone as he looks your way.

You smile up at him, barely able to take your eyes off of the new gentleman in front of you.

You notice how his red hanker-chief and red embellishments stand out compared to the rest of his solid black suit. It was all very eye-catching.

When you look back up at him, you were met with a slight smirk. He smiles down at himself for a second, a boyish look on display for only a moment in time.

This, too, takes you by surprise.

You gather yourself as Hanbin clears his throat. You were probably being watched by so many people right now. You can’t help but take note of the evergrowing tension that was starting to cement amongst you three.

“My apologies,” You say, “I’ll be alright Prince Hanbin. Thank you for your time.” You finish, shooting him a smile of gratitude.

He reciprocates it kindly and bows, then passes your hand to the man in front of you.

You take a moment to look him up and down.

Why couldn’t you? You were the Queen for crying out loud.

As you grasped his hand, his other hand goes for your waist quite smoothly. When you place your hand on his shoulder, you hear a chuckle. Your eyebrows raise at this.

“Why do you laugh?” You ask, and you can’t help that your gaurd goes up.

Maybe it was time to go back to being skillfully observant and professional—because this one made you feel uneasy.

“I’m sorry Your Majesty, I wasn’t expecting your gaze.” He says, pulling you a little closer by the waist and staring down at you as he starts to lead you on the dance floor.

You note the vibrado in his tone this time, your heart doing something weird in the process. You also felt your face getting hot.

Why is it scorching in here?

“Pardon?” You say, trying to not drop into the floor.

He chuckles again as he stares down at you once more, “Nevermind that, Your Majesty. How are you feeling?” He asks.

This takes you by surprise—yet gratitude fills your heart at the fact that he even cared to ask.

“It depends. Which answer would you like to hear? The decent one….” You look up at him, meeting his playfull eyes.

“…or the truth?” You finish.

You see a glint in his eyes right before he spins you around, and when you meet again, his eyes find yours effortlessly.

“Whichever you’re willing to share, but I’d rather hear the truth.” He affirms, his serious and chic look taking reign again. You contemplate answering him altogether.

“Very well. But before I do, what’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking….” You stall.

“Apologies, Your Majesty. Prince Ricky.” He states, holding up your hand that was in his grasp and placing a kiss on your knuckles that were covered by your satin gloves.

Your breath gets caught in your throat at his actions, and you have to run what he says back in your mind over and over for you to even process his name.

“…It’s a pleasure to meet you…” You start, staring into his eyes as he continues making eye contact through the gesture.

You didn’t know from whomst he learned to be so smooth from, but you definitely wanted to meet them and say thank you.

He was sly like a feline.

“The pleasures all mine.” He responds and continues to guide you as the music plays.

Finally you decide to give him an answer to his earlier question.

“Truthfully, this is all planned and feels nerve-racking.” You state, deciding to stare at some people around you as you danced, getting a little too worked up by the young man’s continuous gaze.

“I can understand your majesty. Truthfully, are you even serious about finding someone tonight?” He asks a little daringly.

You roll your eyes playfully as he spun you once again, hoping you were moving too fast for others—your mother—to notice.

Ricky was making your graceful facade crumble right from beneath you, and it was something you thought you’d never let happen—let alone at the hands of someone you met a couple minutes ago.

“Truthfully?” You start, and he nods in response.

“Truthfully, yes. I need to do this for my nation.” You say, the conversation turning a bit more serious, your smile faltering.

You were starting to remember your responsibilities.

Right.

You had so much to uphold.

Ricky notices this—the change in mood.

He sighs and looks around as well, contemplating his response before he speaks.

“I can understand the heavy weight you must be carrying on your shoulders Your Majesty….” He mumbles.

Then he leans in, pulling you close so he can whisper in your ear.

“…but for now can we just be people?” He asks.

You feel your heart sink.

When he pulls away, you are met with a genuine look on his face. He smiles and looks down, a piece of his wavy blonde hair falling into his eyes. You go to move it out of his face, but just as you do, someone interrupts.

“May I have the next dance your majesty? Apologies for the disturbance-“ Someone starts, but before they can finish, a man who looks strikingly similar to Ricky steps up.

“Prince Quanrui, your mother is waiting.” He speaks, gaining Ricky’s attention.

Prince Quanrui?

You feel like the world starts spinning.

Prince Quanri.

No.

No…

NO!

“-Your Majesty!!” Your bestfriend and head-maid, Juni, exclaims, pulling you from out of your slumber, forcing you to sit up in your bed.

“Huh?!” You shoot up, chest heaving as you try to take in the feelings left behind from the dream you had just lived through.

“You wench, I’ve been yelling at you! You were starting to scare me!” Juni says, sending you a side eye as she gets up in an attempt to act irritated

All you can do is sigh in relief.

The people in your dreams resembled the same people in real life, but everything felt wrong.

Quanrui, or Ricky, had been the Prince of the neighboring nation that despises your mother, that much was true—but he was nothing like the boy you’d just interacted with in your dream just now.

From the moment you had met him as a child, he was insufferable. He’d always made fun of you and you always found yourself in constant arguments with him.

Tonight would be your suitor’s ball, but you were hoping it would go nothing like your dreams. You couldn’t even understand how you were able to dream of Ricky or see him in that light.

Yes, he was handsome, but that was besides the point.

“I’m sorry Juni, I was having a nightmare.” You say, gathering yourself and getting up from your bed.

It was time to start getting ready.

“A nightmare? ‘Oh- Prince Quanruiiii~ Oh! Do you want the truth Prince Quanrui??~’” Juni mocked as she pranced around your room with an embellished fan, obnoxiously fanning herself.

Your face went warm within seconds.

“Silence! Or I’ll make sure you’ll be serving Prince Yujin rather than Prince Jiwoong’s table tonight.” You say, daggers in your eyes being thrown her way.

Prince Yujin was your younger kid cousin, whilst Prince Jiwoong was a newly appointed royal over in Sector Eight, the latter being known for capturing the hearts of maidens across many lands.

To this, she pipes down like a startled cat, walking out of the room to do god knows what.

This leaves you alone in your room to get ready for the night—as well as all alone to your thoughts.

You sigh as you look yourself in the mirror after your bath. You brush through your hair, anxiousness coursing through your mind.

When your mother comes in and stands behind you to help you with your tiara just like you knew you’d seen before, you feel shivers go down your spine.

“Is everything alright?” She spoke with grace, making eye contact with you through the mirror.

You nod.

“Don’t worry…So many people may be waiting for you in there, but they all have an agenda of their own. Try to have fun, okay Daisy?” Your mother says, calling you once again by the nickname she gave you as a child.

Your face went pale, blood running cold at this statment.

You’d always prefer roses.

Still, she continued on like a broken record.

-

After getting ready and talking yourself through your possible insanity, you meticulously decide to take another route to the reception hall—this meant taking the long way through the castle in order to get there.

Just as you round a corner very carefully, a voice takes you by surprise.

“What are you doing?” A deep voice chimes in from behind.

You jump, immediately turning around to meet sharp and playful eyes. As soon as you see him, you deadpan, automatically irritated that he graced you with his presence.

“What are you doing following me?” You stammer back harshly, immediately turning your back on him and continuing on your way. He reaches out for you and grasps your hair as you run along, letting it pass through his fingers.

“Your hair has grown longer.” He states, a smile on his face as you turn to give him a weird look.

He just chuckles and catches up to you.

“Why are you speaking to me informally, put some respect on my name.” You state, walking faster to hopefully get some distance between you two.

“Oh I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” he starts, but before you can look his way, he spins you towards him and stares down at you.

You couldn’t read him really, but you knew he was probably doing this to embarrass you.

He did this to every lady.

You were sure.

“You look stunning tonight.” He states, brushing a stray part of your hair away from your forehead.

He watches as your face turns warm in color whilst doing everything in your power to try and avoid eye contact.

“Watch your trinkets Prince Ricky, I’ll make sure you go barren.” You say.

He quickly retaliates, immediately moving away—a wide-eyed smile playing on his face.

“Your Majesty, don’t speak that way. You don’t want your suitors to know you’re already thinking of me and children in your life.” He states, quickly sprinting off knowing you would resort to violence at his comment.

You catch his wide smile as he saunters off.

You were so tired of him.

-

With a fast heart beat, you ready yourself to take on the crowd for what felt like the second time today. You tried your best to get the events that just played out, out of your head; trying to convince yourself that your responsibilities and duties as a Queen were of the utmost importance. When the curtains open and your full name is announced, the same scenery you had dreamt of had come to life.

Your mom smiled the same way.

Your teachers did too.

The suitors all scurried to try and approach you just like you had seen before.

You walked over and sat in the same seat.

And there he was, that gummy smile introducing himself all over again.

It was unnerving this time.

The only thing that differed from your dream was the run in with the boy named Hanbin earlier within the day.

Instead, Ricky took his place. In a way, this excited you. Maybe what was to play out was that Hanbin would take Ricky’s spot too.

You smiled to yourself, the sound of music ringing throughout the hall as the strings and flutes played. This time, you didn’t need to search in your mothers eyes for what you should do next. You stand up, dress trailing in your wake.

You feel the room watching your every move. As you step out into the free open space on the dance floor, your eyes searching for him.

If everything play’s out like it did in the dream with only a few substitutions, it should all work out in your favor.

You turn gracefully, finding him on one side of the room. As soon as you see him and you make eye contact, he smiles, albeit a bit shocked.

Alright, you got this.

You take a step in his direction.

Then another.

And even when you see people make their way towards you, you continue towards him.

As you grow closer, his smile drops.

And when you stand in front of him, he stares you down, more serious than you had ever seen him.

“Would you like to dance?” You ask.

He looks around, fake smile on display to try and play off what was currently going down.

“Your Majesty, what are you doing?” He mutters, holding his hand out for you to place yours in.

“Just follow my lead.” You whisper as he bows before looking back up at you.

He takes your hand in his and pulls it towards his lips, taking you completely by surprise.

“You know they won’t like this.” He states, but gives you a smile contrary to his words.

He leads you out to the dance floor.

“I know,” You start, “…but I’m not doing this for you. Or them.” You say, making eye contact again with Ricky, his hand finding it’s way to your waist.

He chuckles at this, his smile reaching his striking eyes as he looks everywhere but at you, probably trying to sell the narrative that you two were having a decent conversation.

You two had always been around each other growing up, sworn enemies by the nations you both belonged to. It was just how it worked out, so you weren’t sure if anyone in the crowd was buying this.

“You sure? I see the way your cheeks go rosy when I tease you.” He speaks, looking back down to you.

This was the one time you recognize his height, because even though he’d tease you, you’d never stayed this close long enough to realize how his frame made you look almost sickly.

“I feel so sorry for you Prince Ricky. You’re so delusional, you don’t even realize how much you’ve rotted your looks away due to your own selfishness.” You mutter, starting to look around for the guinea pig who should be saving you at any moment from this hell.

If everything went to plan, the whiskered boy would take Ricky’s place and you’d dance the night away in contrary to how your dream turned out.

If everything went to plan.

“Oh, so you admit your attraction. I hate to break it to you Your Majesty, but I am not looking to be courted.” He says smugly, finally looking at you, mischief hidden in his eyes as his smile fades. It was almost a serious look.

You scoff at his words nonetheless.

“Say what you want. I know what I’m here for.” You say, continuing to look around.

Where are you?

Ricky notices this and starts to look around as well.

“Who are you searching for? You’re missing the whole reason you asked me to dance.” He says, half teasing, half confused.

You roll your eyes, but continue to search through the crowd.

“Right. Because i so badly wanted to dance with you.” You say, your tone contradicting your words.

Before you could hear out his next words, you were pulled closer by the waist. Your attention snaps to Ricky, meeting his eyes for the ninth time that day.

This time, he definitely looked serious.

A little too serious.

Despite this, you couldn’t look away. You take in the way his eyes look back and forth between each of your own. Without realizing your line of sight trails down to the swoop of his nose, and you see the way his cheeks smooth down to his sharp jaw. You didn’t even want to glance at the wording on the side of his neck. He was breathtaking—so long as he kept his mouth shut.

He looked just like the woman who hated your mothers guts.

When you trail to his lips, you see them upturn slowly. And just like that, you’re brought back to reality.

“Your Majesty-“ A voice chimes in, interrupting the moment.

You quickly snap your neck toward the voice.

Much to your dismay, it was a woman.

“Pardon Your Royal Highness, but may I steal Prince Quanrui for a dance?” She utters, smiling your way with innocence.

You hated that she too had whiskers.

You took in the way her yellow dress contradicted your red one; tailored to match her every inch, including her eye smile.

She was gorgeous.

And when you glance back at Ricky, that pretty entrancing look is gone from his eyes.

And he wasn’t Ricky.

He was Prince Quanrui.

“Ah- If I’m not interrupting anything, that is.” The girl states as she bows your way shyly.

You clear your throat and let go of Ricky’s shoulder, turning to reciprocate her bow.

“Of course. I don’t mind.” You say.

But you do.

You gave Ricky one last look, taking in the way his wavy blonde hair fell into his eyes. Naturally, his suit catches your eye again too; the pretty red roses looking a little different this time.

Roses had always been your favorite.

You send him a faint smile before you face the crowd again. It was an embarrassment that another suitor had taken away your current dance partner away. This was your suitors ball after all, but in that moment you couldn’t have cared less.

Guinea pig wasn’t here.

He didn’t ask you to dance.

Your dream was wrong, and he didn’t exist.

You walked back towards your seat, hoping to get a little rest after dancing for so long.

Despite how you were feeling, you kept your poise and grace as you went. Anyone watching would have thought you weren’t phased.

Everyone but your mother.

She met you back at your seat, brushing off suitors who were approaching you to dance in her wake.

“Are you alright, My Dear?” She asks, sitting down next to you whilst taking a sip of her drink.

You smile her way.

“Yes.”

“His eyes.” She mutters.

You stare at her in confusion.

“Your father got in the habit of gazing at me like that.” She finishes.

Within another minute, she was up and off, but not without leaving you with one last statment.

“Roses also deserve to be picked, regardless of their thorns.” She whispers, just enough for only you to hear, then you are once again left all alone to the maze that is your mind.

You look over to him.

He danced with this fake smile, his flirty eyes contrary to how lightly he grasped the young ladies waist.

It was all the confirmation you needed.

You knew he’d loved you your whole childhood.

You just knew.

Without thinking, you make your way across the ballroom floor.

Nothing could stop you.

No one.

“Your Highness?” A voice chimes up, trying to stop you on your way towards your destiny. You stop, but your eyes are still fixated on Ricky.

“Yes?” You say awkwardly, not even looking their way.

“Hello,” they bow, and you’re barely able to see their figure out of your peripheral vision, sight still set on one of the few blondes in the room.

“Uh- I’m a Prince from Sector Two, and I couldn’t help but-“ He notices your averted attention.

“-I couldn’t help but be in awe of-“ He follows your gaze.

Oh.

You finally take a moment to look towards the owner of the voice tripping over their words. You are met with a shy young man, smiling down in defeat, dimpled lines on the apples of his cheeks.

Him.

“I’m, sorry.” He says before he clears his throat to speak again.

“I couldn’t help but be in awe of your beauty, and it seems I know why.” He finishes. He finally looks you in the eyes.

Sung Hanbin, Sector Two.

“You have eyes I long for, but I see they burn for something else.” He finishes saying, a heartbreakingly respectful but sad smile gracing his face.

You just stare back in awe.

“Have a wonderful night, Your Majesty.” He says, defeat running rampant in his pretty eyes.

“I wish you happiness and health in abundance; truly.” He lets out, bowing before sending you one last smile.

He’s real.

You’re taken aback for a moment as you watch his figure fade back into the crowd, but then you remember the fire that was lit inside you before this interaction.

Right.

Whiskers was sadly the last of your worries right now, and the next thing that happens just confirms this.

When you turn back around, you meet eyes with him.

This time, he’s closer than you’d thought he’d be and you almost bump into his chest as a whole. With a few swift movements his hand finds your elbow, helping to steady you.

You can feel the warmth from him seep onto you—or maybe it was coming from you?

“There you are. I thought pretty boy might have entranced you.” He states, shooting a look in the direction whiskers had left. He over fixates on that area but you continue to look up at him and stare, taking him in all over again.

When he looks back down at you, the glint in his eyes change.

Ricky.

“Prince Quanrui.” You utter out.

His eyes turn blank.

You chuckle.

“Ricky?” You question, searching his eyes for change.

His eyebrows frown, and he tilts his head at you with his hands still placed on your elbow, but there’s that spark of life that’s ignited after you call him by his nickname.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” He questions, completely confused.

You smile up at him genuinely.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever regarded him as adorable before, but what was cute if not him right now?

“I really love daisies, did you know?” You ask, taking him in for all that he is, not caring if you two were stood standing in the middle of the banquet.

He speaks up quickly after registering your words, leaving no time or space to ponder them, “Nonsense, roses are your favorite—especially the red ones. Who are you and what did you do with the Queen?” He asks playfully, letting go of your arm and looking around like the playfull person he always was.

You stare at him, probably smiling like an idiot. He just waits for your response but when it never comes, he looks down at you in confusion.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” He finally decides to ask once his eyes land on yours.

“Ricky, I know you’re in love with me.” You state plainly.

His heart drops and you can see the warmth leave his face. He scoffs ironically, and looks around anxiously whilst he dusts himself off.

“Wow, that’s a good one, Your Highness. You’re really getting good at that-“ He starts, but before he can finish his fluster of a comeback, you grab him by the collar and pull him close.

It wasn’t close enough for your faces to be touching, but now your faces were closer than they’d ever been before. You can hear his breath get caught in his throat, and you watch as he gulps in order to cope with what was happening.

You smirk, looking into his eyes.

You were definitely starting to feel the power of a Queen alright.

“Ricky, I’m going to walk away. And when I do, I will continue to walk and never look back.” You whisper as you study him.

You watch as his eyes looked down to your lips and back up.

Precisely.

However, before you could even pull away, you are yanked forward as he brings his lips next to your ear.

“Let’s say you are correct; I am madly in love with you,” He starts out as a whisper, “…are you willing to deal with the repercussions?”

His tone is playful, and you can hear the smile in his words. He was definitely acknowledging the fact that you two had already been acting so inappropriately infront of all your guests—yet he did not care and was waiting for your permission to proceed.

Waiting for you to acknowledge him fully for what he was.

The sworn enemy who was supposed to hate your guts.

You smirk as you pull away.

“Rules and repercussions are for the people; I am your Queen.” You state boldly, a smile radiating onto your face.

He smiles too, your words garnering a laugh as he pulls away and slightly throws his head back in amusement.

He was really something.

When he leans back towards your face in an effort to keep the conversation between just the two of you, your heart to ascends into your throat.

“Y/n, are you serious?” He asks as he searches in each of your eyes for any sign of regret or even a glint of mischief. He really hoped this wasn’t a joke despite your two’s very playful attitudes.

You watch him, knowing that deep down this is all you’ve ever wanted. Then you send him a smile; and it’s all the confirmation he needs.

Within seconds he pulls you in, placing his pretty lips onto yours.

Finally.

Even the gasps you could hear from around you couldn’t tear you out of the moment you were having.

He was delicate with you; moving his lips on yours like you’d wither from beneath him. His hand that now held your waist inched you closer and closer; it was as if the act you two were in the middle of still wasn’t close enough for him.

When you finally pull away, he places one last kiss on your lips, before he stares down at them. A grin makes it’s way onto his face before he’s looking around at the people in the room without ever meeting your eyes.

He ignores the angry looks on his people’s face, deciding to shoot them the most dazzling smile you’ve ever seen as he focuses back in on you.

“I knew the dream potion would work, maybe meeting you through your dreams wasn’t a bad idea.” He mutters, grasping your hand and pulling you back in and close to him.

Your expression falls as your eyes go wide.

“What did you say?” You ask, half trying to process his words, half going to lose your mind if you heard him correctly.

He freezes and stares down at you like a dear caught in headlights.

Once again, you don’t know why that imagery popped in your head, but alas.

“It’s nothing, Your Majesty. May i have this dance?” He asks cheekily, not knowing if he should continue to play it off or make a run for it. He was always so playful and mischievous.

He was always so…himself.

He was always Ricky.

And you liked every bit of him unfortunately.

He was your favorite.

“Going once…Going twice…” He lets out playfully, holding his hand out closer towards you to take. You do so gracefully, a smile now making its way back onto your face.

When he leads you to the center of the dance floor, he pulls you close and urges you to rest your head near his heart. The music plays on and you could feel everyone’s eyes on you two in disbelief—but it did not matter.

This was your favorite place to be.

“Did you know I actually prefer daisies?” Ricky speaks out of nowhere, his soothing tone cutting through the music that played throughout the hall as you lifted your head and searched his eyes.

There it was again.

That pretty cat-eye gaze of his; fixated only on you.

“They’re my favorite, Y/n…”

“You’re my favorite.”

2024 © lovepookie

♡︎ please do not plagarize, repost, copy or translate any of my works. thank you.

#. . . nanowrites #lovepookie/au.doc #zb1 ricky #shen quanrui #ricky #shen ricky #shim ricky #zb1 x reader #zb1 au #zb1 fluff #zerobaseone #zb1 imagines #zerobaseone fluff #zb1 masterlist #prince ricky #royal au #zb1 #zerobaseone masterlist #zb1 scenarios #zerobaseone x reader #zerobase1 #zb1 angst #zerobaseone fics #zb1 hanbin #zerobaseone hanbin #sung hanbin #fantasy #fluff #zerobaseone fanfic #zb1 fanfiction

[paradoxlemonade]

Nature of Curiousity

Fandom: Hermitcraft

Characters: Joe & Cleo

words: 1024

Warnings: very mild body horror (Cleo is embroidering on Joe, but he's made of fabric and does not feel pain)

Ao3: Here!

Summary: Joe Hills the puppet wants to make friends with humans. The humans do not want to be made friends with. Cleo puts him back together afterwards. [Abecedarian Prose Poem]

@mcyt-valentines gift for @therizino-ao3! Hope you enjoy :]

...

A sunrise the color of a bitter lemon tea beckons in the fresh morning scent of grass and dreams, soft around the edges and losing their remaining sharpness as sleep turns to wakefulness. Beneath an old willow tree, a corpse as fresh as the day it died rests in the dewy grass and embroiders artful designs into her best friend’s shoulder.

Cleo huffs at him, “You know, it would’ve been nice if you had waited until at least breakfast to go galavanting around and get yourself shot by a humanfolk.”

Dauntlessly undeterred as per usual, Joe merely smiles serenely and says, “But I must watch them, as the rain must fall and snow must melt; it is in my nature, sewn into my skin.”

Even-spaced threads holding his innards on the right side of the felt are the only thing decorating his skin, by Cleo’s own observation.

“Fine as that may be, your ‘nature’ does not make you invincible to arrows.” Generally speaking, being made of cloth made Joe invincible to very little, save for perhaps pain and common sense. He would grow tired of his game eventually, and then he would stop attempting to consort with the humanfolk (at least, Cleo hoped he would tire of it).

“If I am endlessly repairable no matter my condition, is that not a form of invincibility?”

 “Joe, you can only be repaired if I have the pieces to put you back together; if the humanfolk decide it would be more fun to capture you instead of running you off, you would be in more pieces than magic thread could possibly hold together.”

“Killjoys—that being people who deny my innermost whimsy, that being you—” he gestured at her with the arm not being worked on, “should not judge how one chooses to express themself, especially when they are themselves of humanfolk blood.”

Less ever said about one Joe Hills’ innermost whimsy, the more sane one would be, as neither consistency nor thoughts of sound minds are facets of his being.

Minutes flow around them like a gentle brook as Cleo continues her stitchwork and pointedly does not give his comments the dignity of a direct response, at least until she thinks of one worth saying.

“No humanfolk,” she began slowly, “Would consider me possible by their understanding of the world, let alone ‘of their blood’; I have not been theirs for a very long time.” One day was all it took to lose everything that she’d built over the course of her entire life, as one day was all it took for the sickness that ravaged her village like a pack of wolves descending on a flock of sheep to bury her in an early grave that she didn’t stay put in.

“Perhaps that much is fair and you have no love left for them, but I have never been theirs; the humanfolk ways are unlike our own, and I find myself pulled in again and again despite all attempts to the contrary.”

Quickly fleeting curiosity would be too much to ask, she supposed, as temporary passion was also as antithetical to Joe’s nature as he claimed sedation to be.

 “Really, you can’t be all too mad at me for this, because if you were as upset as you pretend to be, you wouldn’t have offered to sew me back up, and you certainly wouldn’t have added these nice yellow flowers without me needing to ask.”

She glances down to her hands as if seeing them for the first time that morning, the hands that gently wove the thread in and out of his fabric skin with a practiced ease and the comfort of a close friend. This conversation—despite its distances—has still grown much too close to an uncomfortable shard of glass nestled deep into her chest, digging and poking into the soft tissue beneath her heart that she could not excise no matter how strong her will. 

“Unfortunately, we still live in a world where I need to sew you back up for reasons other than your own foolishness, and it’s not like I could simply let someone I’ve worked on walk around looking like I did the job carelessly.” 

Vexed enough by her candid response, Joe allows the conversation to wander along to more familiar territory by changing the topic with all the subtlety he could muster—that is, not a whole lot.

 “What type of flowers are these meant to be, anyway?” Joe asks, stretching to see Cleo’s handiwork.

“Xyris flowers, of some kind; they’re all over around here and you seem to like them well enough that I didn’t think you would mind if I put some on your arm.”

Yellow petals of soft thread cascade from the top of his shoulder down midway to his elbow, just shy of of meeting up with the dusky green vines—those were almost ready to come out, but the new stitches would have to stay for a few weeks so the fabric could knit itself back together. Zero weeks have gone in recent memory that did not end with one of Cleo’s friends needing stitches (usually Joe, and usually for silly and-or humanfolk reasons), but she never stopped pulling out her needle and thread before they could even apologize for bothering her.

And as Joe thanks her for the help and the flowers, she leads him back to her house for an early breakfast to cap off an odd morning, all the while dreaming of a world where the humanfolk and the otherfolk didn’t have to live on opposite sides of the veil, and Joe could make strangers into friends.

 Better worlds and broken hearts are playing cards of the same set, but a card for resilience is also shuffled into that same deck. Crisp toast and peppery fried eggs aren’t quite miracle workers, but they’re enough to bring Cleo back up to normal when combined with good company. Dreams weren’t going to come true on their own, but maybe Joe was onto something with his adventures.

 Everything considered, it took him an hour longer than last time to get run off.

#hermitcraft #mcyt #joe hills #zombiecleo #hermitcraft fic #idea writes #fanfic #idea original post

[togenabi]

throwing pebbles because I love you

megumi fushiguro x reader (royalty au)

♡—Whenever the night is clear, and the wind blows softly, Megumi throws rocks at your window.

word count♡— 2.3k words

genre♡— fluff, royalty au

aged up characters♡— 18+

content notes♡— childhood frenemies to lovers, megumi throws rocks, no use of y/n, mc is a bit of a snob, very fluff, secret codes, confessions, not really proofread, megumi is ooc I'm sorry TvT

author's note♡— I really didn't mean to make my second royalty au to also be related to windows, but here we are. (⁠◡⁠ ⁠ω⁠ ⁠◡⁠) no windows were harmed in the making of this fic.

The first time it happened, it was an accident. You were both eight.

Their royal highnesses, prince Megumi and prince Yuji, were staying over at your family's estate as guests. Your mother was a royal through and through, having descended from the greater empire then married into a neighboring kingdom's duchy. After your father passed, she never remarried; choosing instead to focus on serving the kingdom as the perfect duchess.

She never forced you to take on too many responsibilities, despite her own workaholic tendencies. Your mother had simply let you be a child. Eventually, you learned to be extremely grateful she let you grow into your own person.

For now though, you were eight. And some kid just threw a pebble at your very pretty window.

You throw it back at him.

“Ow!” The kid cries as he rubs his forehead, on which a mark has begun to redden. “Hey! Mine was an accident!”

“You still did it!” You say, pointing at the dent he caused while looking down at him from the windowsill. “My response was your consequence.”

The both of you glower at each other until you realize how far he is. “What were you doing throwing rocks at my manor anyway?”

The kid suddenly looks sheepish as his eyes turn to anywhere but you. “My friend needed rocks for some game he made up, and he bet he could catch all of them.” You notice he starts glaring ahead of him at the ground level, so you lean down—out of the window, to follow his gaze. Your eyes catch a head of pink hair before it runs away.

Realizing these two were the royal guests everyone was fussing about, you scoff. “That's hardly very princely of the two of you.”

He bristles. “Is that how you act towards the prince of the kingdom you serve?!”

“I'll greet you properly when our interaction doesn't begin with a pebble being thrown.” You say as you begin closing the window, throwing on a smile just to mess with him more. “Have a pleasant evening.”

You got terribly sick not long after that, and you never saw him for the rest of that summer. The duchess had forbidden visitors unless absolutely necessary so that you could recover quickly.

Prince Megumi fades into your memory, turning into one that you recall only when you spot that dent on your window frame.

You never made the effort to have it repaired, for some reason.

❀ ♡ ❀ ♡ ❀

You're fifteen, hiding in your room as a ball rages downstairs. Your maids would be distraught if they caught you, donning your best clothes, yet curled up on the couch with a book. No matter, this was the perfect way to spend an evening, in your opinion.

When a pebble glides through your window and lands on the floor nearby, you look at it incredulously.

‘This feels strangely familiar...’ But you decide to ignore it, your position on the couch is much too comfortable to leave. You resume reading.

But another rock comes in. Then another.

“Tsk!” Snapping your book shut, you spring up and finally look outside the window. Your eyes meet a certain familiar prince, holding even more rocks in his hands.

You frown at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “This time's deliberate, then?”

“I'm sorry but I need to hide! Please help me—could I come up?” His voice is urgent, and it's only then that you notice the state of his clothes. They were filthy, and part of his coat sleeve blooms red.

Without thinking further, you push a mechanism hidden beneath a flower pot by your window. A rope ladder immediately falls to the ground outside. Megumi is stunned for a moment before reaching for it, and you wonder if he had planned to climb the vines painfully when he asked to come up.

You assist by pulling him once he's within arm's reach, and he collapses into your room with a loud groan. You slam your hand on the mechanism again, and the rope reels back into place.

He looks exhausted, but you have to make him get up. You're not sure how you would move him to the couch if he fainted.

“Stand up for me, please.” You plead with him. “At least to the couch.”

Megumi's breaths are labored as he glances towards the couch. He closes his eyes and groans louder as he gets up and walks slowly, leaning on you the whole time.

He's out like a light once he lies down. Your first instinct is to go get help, but it hits you that you have no idea who Megumi was running from. It dawns on you that if he could ask help from a professional, especially one nearer the palace, he would have. It could be dangerous for anyone else to know he's here.

You purse your lips as you think, and reach for a medical journal on your shelf. You must do your best to tend to his wounds on your own while he rests.

Megumi looks so peaceful as he sleeps. He looks the most relaxed you've ever seen him, and you're thankful he's at least comfortable. While his wounds weren't that deep, he was probably running for a while, which had exhausted and strained him further.

You're cleaning up the medical supplies you used when Megumi regains consciousness for a moment.

“...Thank you.” Megumi's eyes reflect how truly grateful he is. He croaks out the words despite the toll on him. He even grasps your hand dearly.

You clear your throat and look away, but your ears clearly turn red. “If you ever need my help again, just throw a rock. I'll be here.”

That brings a sleepy smile to Megumi's face. “What happened to ignoring me if the encounter starts with a pebble being thrown?”

It takes you a moment to respond. You're not sure what surprises you more, that he remembers your exact words all those years ago, or that he has the gall to crack jokes in his condition.

You stutter out a response lamely to cover up how flustered you are, “I—there can be exceptions, even if it's for you.”

Megumi laughs quietly, and lets out a soft sigh before falling asleep.

You drape a blanket over him as he rests, pausing only to brush his hair away from his eyes.

You don't notice, but the gesture makes Megumi's breathing still for a moment.

❀ ♡ ❀ ♡ ❀

When you're eighteen, your window is severely banged up with dents and scratches. The glass had already broken on more than one occasion, and while of course you had that replaced, the frame stays strong from all the rocks it's been hit with throughout all these years. And, on the day it finally breaks and shatters into spikes, you think you'll make a picture frame out of it.

‘Megumi and I don't have a single nice portrait together, though.’ The thought makes you laugh softly. Both of you weren't exactly exemplary at the frivolous details that come with being nobles, you often helped each other out to skip balls and escape from dreadful hours posing for portraits. But neither of you ever minded.

You bought the most wonderful chair when you were sixteen, you simply melt into it while reading. The best part of it, however, was that you could put it by your window; with the ladder mechanism easy to reach nearby.

Megumi visits less often these days, though. His responsibilities are becoming far too great to leave the palace for too long. He even leaves for other nations and kingdoms sometimes.

But you keep waiting, and he always comes back to you.

A rock clatters into your room and you smile absentmindedly at the sound. You continue reading as your hand moves to trigger the ladder down.

Megumi enters through the window. You'd look at him, but the novel you're reading has suddenly taken an interesting turn, and you're absolutely absorbed into it.

If you had looked up, you would have seen the softest of smiles on Megumi's face.

He approaches and kisses your forehead. By the time you process what happened, he's already walking away as if that was the most normal thing to do. You blink at him in surprise. Megumi only sits on your desk, as he's done so many times before, and begins to do some paperwork he's brought with him.

“What was that?” You ask, still stunned.

“What was what?” Sounds of paper shuffles as he sifts through documents.

“That kiss.”

He pauses.

Your heart seems to rattle in your chest. Were you too blunt? Was it really a normal thing that people like both of you did? Both of you? What were both of you? Does he—

Your thoughts come to an abrupt halt when Megumi smiles, and you finally see that soft and caring smile he saves only for you.

His next words, however, make you throw a pillow at him.

“I'll give you another one later if you liked it that much.”

❀ ♡ ❀ ♡ ❀

It's late into the evening after Megumi has left. You don't speak of the kiss again, and he doesn't either. Though you already had an inkling of your feelings for Megumi, you've never spoken of or acted upon it.

But tonight suddenly made you question if you should start to.

As you retrieve it, your fingers trace a rough texture on the rock Megumi threw earlier. Turning it over, you read something that seems to be etched into it.

‘TWK—p.402, q.1'

Is it some sort of code? What could this be? Surely Megumi was the one to carve this, but how do you decipher it? You stare at the rock and return to your chair. Before you sit down, however, your eyes catch the cover of the book you were reading...

The Wicked King.

The puzzle pieces click into place. A title, a page number, and a quote! Your fingers flutter to get to page 402, not caring that you haven't actually reached that part of the book yet...

The first line makes you gasp and your heart stutter.

“You are my daylight.”

As you trace the line delicately, you wonder if he's always been doing this. But you would have definitely noticed if he was. The jagged texture of the letters are obvious no matter what way you hold the rock. The others before were always perfectly intact.

Your heart skips a beat again. ‘Then... Does this mean that this is the first, and that he'll leave another code next time?’

❀ ♡ ❀ ♡ ❀

A month passes, and Megumi has visited you exactly three times since the first rock with a clue.

Though he's visiting less, you're certainly thinking of him more. The messages you decoded all engraved into your mind at this point, with how many times you've read them.

“You are my daylight.”

“May your day be filled with happiness and warmth, as much as you have given to me.”

“My mind has not forgotten how you smiled at me so.”

“Thank you, for being my home.”

You never let on that you cracked the ciphers, however. He hasn't ever mentioned their existence either, but you suspect he knows that you're aware. Especially since he's been acting so much more dearly during his visits.

After writing all the messages down on a sheet of paper, you realize you should give Megumi a reply. But, how should you do it?

Your eyes find the four small rocks on your desk...

Ah, of course! Of course that's the most perfect way!

Your mind whirls with excitement as you rush outside to find a rock. Once you find one, you realize Megumi is the only person you would do this for...

Because you love him.

And that's it, you've decided. That's what you'll tell him, no code needed.

You love prince Megumi.

❀ ♡ ❀ ♡ ❀

‘Is this how he felt, all those times before?’ His window seems so far and almost out of reach. ‘Was he ever this nervous? Nervous that I wouldn't respond?’

You tighten your grip on the pebble. Megumi never had to worry about that. You'd always respond to him no matter what.

And yet, you're nervous as hell, and shaking like a leaf. If you weren't so anxious, you would have laughed at how baffled the palace staff were when you arrived but didn't enter the palace at all.

The head butler looked so confused when you asked to be led to Megumi's window, but you assured him your intentions meant well.

The pebble suddenly feels heavy in your palm, but you hold yourself firm. You blow a kiss on it softly, before beginning to aim.

The pebble flies from your hand. It was a perfect throw that collides with his window loudly before rattling along his balcony floor.

Megumi peeks out carefully, but then brightens up the moment he sees you. He laughs as he waves at you. “It feels so strange to be on the receiving end of the rock.”

You smile shyly up at him. “But, you haven't just been giving me rocks recently, haven't you?”

He suddenly looks nervous, and starts to search your face for any sign of rejection. When he finds none, he looks cautiously optimistic.

“Pick up that rock now, would you?” You say, acting impatient, but your heart is beating eagerly to see his reaction.

He turns this way and that looking for it, and you stop breathing when he finally finds and reaches for it. Once he reads it, he looks at you with a dazed expression. The rock falls from his hold as he quickly jumps over the balcony edge, and lands safely in front of you.

You're about to nag that he nearly gave you a heart attack when he slowly gets on one knee. Your words die in your throat.

Megumi laughs at how stunned you look. “I'd throw this rock at your window, but my family might actually kill me.”

His smile widens as he jokes, “I don't suppose I need to write a code to express what this one means...” He opens a small box to reveal a stunning ring that suits you perfectly.

“Will you marry me?”

© togenabi 2023 | see here to be added to my taglist ♡

#megumi fushiguro fluff #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustsu kaisen au #royalty au #prince au #megumi fushiguro #megumi fushiguro oneshot #togenabi-writes #togenabi-megumi-01

[reneezsq]

haven

❛ !¡ pairing; neuvillette x gender neutral!reader.

❛ !¡ summary; through the hazy reminiscence of all that has been lost, the delicate affection consoled by the croon of the deceased one reappears, and it comes back like the billows swaying with the marine creatures.

❛ !¡ warnings; sagau, idk the genre tbh it’s sad but also cute at the end ?, not impostor!sagau but reader is not worldwide known as the creator.

❛ !¡ a/n; he smells like vanilla mixed with sea water, trust i’m hoyoverse.

He saw the coming and departing of many people. Immortal ones, who’s legacy has been lost with the time and that shall never come back. Mortal ones, who’s name has been passed down by their descendants, but the meaning has been lost through the myriad of different tales uttered in hopes of honoring them. Amongst them, he lost some people dear to his heart.

Many he does not even remember the color of their eyes, a laughter that he will never hear again, and that will be lost when the time will come to let them go of his mind. Some others have left a more prominent mark on his heart. His sorrows embraced by the waters themselves, and anyone that would dwell too deep would see just how much his only wish is to have one last word. For one, he never got to say goodbye, as she never really knew herself she would have done what has been done. She simply wished to appease the hearts. And for him, a companion that had stood by his and her side, a companion whose last question echo in his mind. He never really got an answer himself.

And with those, he can still feel the soft brushing of his hair. A hand soft and rough at the same time, laced with scars from the countless cuts that have been done to the world they had created, embedding it with love only to be destroyed little by little. He should have seen it coming — their departure, that is what he is talking about, — he should have prevented it. But how ?

How ? How could he have done such a thing when at the mere mention of their children dying at each other’s weapons, they shed tears. Painting those cheeks that tasted like summer with the pain of a parent. They were never really mad at anyone and anything, they had just lost the understanding and knowledge of what could be done by those they had created. They were a bit too candid on that field, believing that the golden age would remain as long as the grass was green, as long as the rivers were blue. It was all a lie, because even the gods of this world painted this beautiful dream with the red of their own veins.

And he was there. He cannot remember it all, if anything, the fact he is aware of the existence of such a moment is like having found a needle in a haystack. Because it is his past life that drowned in such warmth, not him. But he can still feel those moments, when the world hasn’t hurt them yet, when they were still his.

He found his own hair a nuisance at times, and every complaint on his end was shushed with a fugitive kiss that felt like the blooming of a flower in the heat of the spring. They would beckon him closer, and he would indulge this small trivial matter. A Sovereign and his Creator, basking in the golden hues of the dawn with the scent of rosemary and the fleeting protection of an everlasting love, like a flame that would never be extinguished. Even if a storm would have come, he knew back then that they would hold his hand and drown his worries in the deepest abyss he couldn’t even imagine.

And then, he would always feel it. Nails scratching his scalp with the tenderness of the moon kissing the sun. Those moments were as rare as an eclipse, they had duties and he did too, and when they found the time to love each other like they should, the next day would start, and with the fluttering of an eyelash, they would be gone with only a flower left for him to kiss. And they would come back when it wilted to love him a bit more, only to disappear another time, leaving him to love them a bit more as he waited. But, it was never the time to think of when they would leave, he preferred humming alongside them with the delusion that they would never abandon him.

He would always grumble when they teasingly stopped, letting him to plead for a bit more. And their arms would wrap around his neck, and he would grab their waist as he let his lips against this skin as soft and delicate as the clouds to convince them to show him again how much he meant in their eyes. And then, he would vibrate with sheer excitement and happiness at the pristine sound of their laughter. Like a siren trying to lure the captain in. Gladly, let him perish if he gets to hear that one more time.

During the days when they were a bit more weak, trembling hands attempting to braid his hair. They never admitted any weakness, but he could feel it all around him, and he could see it all around him. The birds were as quiet as a fish, as if daring to make them flared with a song too morose to make the atmosphere romancing enough. And when they would stop, to hug him and grab his hand tight, he knew that this crack on their skin was not an illusion. He had seen it in other immortal ones before they passed away, and he knew that it was hurting them. Even the almighty lacks the strength to duel the erosion. There was no point in fighting a lost fight.

Their last time, he knew it. He had guessed it was the last. Their eyes could not match the sun anymore, and it felt like the misery of the world was falling over him in an instant. Perhaps, he was the losing one from the start as he carried them all around Fontaine with the hopeless delusion that they would hold him a bit tighter, just this time. Strangle him to death, if they wish, he would indulge in any kind of destruction of himself if it meant they would remain in this world. Because Teyvat isn’t without the one that made it be. He isn’t without the one that loved him.

When they tightened their embrace, he felt no joy swirling in his heart. And his steps stopped dead as if he had become a tree whose roots were clinging to the ground deep below. It started raining. He never really felt the drops all over his skin and clothes, but he knows it by the last words they ever said to him.

“Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don’t cry.”

That day, a part of him died too. They were freezing when he carried them to the streams, wishing that at least they could depart somewhere only the two of them knew. In his own fantasies, they were sleeping just a bit more deeply than usual, and he abandoned his jacket by their side to warm them up a bit. The last flowers they had given him were fully dead now, and it was his turn to have them some flowers. That way, they will know he loved them with all he had.

“Monsieur, is it all alright with you ?” His eyes met those of a small Melusine, standing proudly in front of him in her little uniform. He nodded and she knew he was lying, he only walked away after caressing her head, and she was left staring at the soaked scenery outside of the windows of his office. If only she knew how to console him, she had tried it all and he never gave any good answer. All that calmed him was playing with his hair in a certain way. Her and her sisters had to play with his hair, scratching his scalp, then stop to have him teasingly tickle them to continue. It was specific, perhaps he had gotten this habit from somebody else ?

His steps brought him to the shore, watching in the distance a scenery impregnated in his mind for a bit too long. He watched the waves come and go here for about the entirety of his existence, and the little marine creatures living there were no strangers to his company. They knew how well he enjoyed watching them give him some small shells that he would give back like a small funny game.

But this is when he heard it, the faint sound of shoes hitting against the sand a bit far away from everyone and everything. His instincts made him follow the noise like it was pulling him in, and he saw in the distance a figure basking in all the glory of the rain coming from above. They did not seem to mind it and were collecting some things on the beach like a child being given the authorization to do so by their parents a bit too used to this love of the water and all that came with it.

And he stopped a few feet away from this stranger, their eyes met his, and he could recognize the sorrows and happiness and pain and love he knew all those years ago. And he could have sworn that he was not in a dream. He wished that he was not in a dream, that this was a reality that was his and that he had found the one that he had lost, the one that had been his, the one that was his and that would remain as such for some more years. And with no sound, they smiled up at him, and the sun basked them in all the glory that was theirs.

Is this the meaning of coming back home after the storm ?

TAGGING:: @amxto; @dxmoness

#lumi.writes #neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x you #neuvillette x y/n #neuvillette x gn reader #neuvillette x gender neutral reader #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #sagau x reader #sagau #neuvillette sagau #sagau neuvillette #x gn y/n #x gender neutral y/n #x gn reader #x gender neutral reader #x reader #genshin impact #genshin neuvillette #genshin fanfic #genshin x you #genshin impact neuvillette

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (21/23)

Chapter summary: Christmas Eve; A person from Wanda's past prompts another bout of jealousy in you; Wanda surprises you with a Christmas present; You and Pietro talk it out after the festivities

Chapter word count: 7.5k+ | Tags: Mild Angst, Healing, Comfort | Ship: Wanda x Female Reader

Author's note: The second part of Christmas in LA. We continue wrapping up some relationships. Enjoy! :)

AO3 | Masterlist 

Next part: Twenty-two

--

Twenty-One

Christmas Eve

The ride with Shannon begins in an uneasy silence. With the only sound being the hum of the car and the occasional directions from the GPS, the quietness feels heavy, making your palms sweat against the leather steering wheel. 

“We need to pick up groceries first, then dry cleaning, and oh, there's a new shop selling artisanal cheese I've been dying to try,” she reels off her list of errands, her tone light and almost jovial, easing some of the tension in the car.

However, as the silence descends once again, there's a question that's been burning on your tongue since you stepped into her house, and it seems like the perfect opportunity to ask it.

“Shannon,” you start, your voice sounding unusually loud in the quiet car, “This might be a strange question, but...did you recognize me when I walked into your office for that interview at Stark Industries?”

There's a momentary pause, and you worry you've crossed some invisible line. But then Shannon chuckles, a light, easy sound, that oddly enough, puts you at ease.

“Well, I was wondering when you would ask,” she admits with a smirk. “Yes, I recognized you. But I didn't want to make things awkward by bringing it up.”

As you reach the grocery store and park the car, Shannon turns to you, offering a grateful smile. “Thanks for helping out, Y/N. It's been quite hectic with the preparations and all.”

On the way back, you spot a small coffee shop nestled between a bookstore and a flower shop. The sign in the window catches your eye–'Single Origin Beans' it reads, and you remember your conversation with Wanda on the plane.

“Shannon," you blurt out without taking your eyes off the signage. “Would you mind if we stop by that coffee store over there? I'd love to check out some of their beans."

She looks over to where you're pointing, and her face lights up in approval. “Oh, I've heard fantastic things about this place. Let's go.”

As you pull over, you can't help but think about Wanda and her upcoming competition, hoping that this little detour might just be the secret ingredient she needs to make her mark at the Cup-off.

As you and Shannon step into the shop, you are immediately enveloped by a blend of heady aromas–nutty, smoky, and unmistakably coffee. The smell is intoxicating, and you can't help but breathe it in deeply. 

A world map on one wall is dotted with markers showing where their beans are sourced–Ethiopia, Colombia, Kenya, Indonesia, Guatemala, and more.

Shannon seems equally impressed, her eyes taking in the array of beans displayed in glass jars behind the counter, each labeled with its country of origin and tasting notes. She glances back at you, her gaze curious.

“You're into coffee as well?” she asks, opening a particular jar to sniff at its contents.

“Well, I love it. I’m the original coffee drinker between the two of us,” you clarify. “But I’m looking mainly for Wanda. She's the enthusiast. I'm... more of the support crew.”

“So Wanda only started drinking coffee because of you?”

“I suppose you could say that,” you say, your mind drifting back to an amusing memory of one of your early dates with Wanda. She had attempted to impress you by ordering your favorite drink, not realizing it was a bold concoction of three shots of espresso and nothing else. “Although I don’t think she enjoys drinking it as much as I do. It's more of a part of her daily routine now.”

A smile spreads across Shannon's face as she shakes her head. You give her a funny look and ask, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Shannon shrugs off your question. “That girl is so head over heels for you.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Why would you say that?”

“She's taken something she's passionate about and turned it into something impactful. Something enjoyed by everyday people,” Shannon explains.

“I wouldn't exactly say coffee is her passion, though–”

“It's you, Y/N,” Shannon interjects, rolling her eyes playfully. “You are her passion. She excelled in coffee-making because it's something you love. And it's a beautiful thing, to shape a passion around someone you care about so deeply.”

“But it's rather strange, isn't it?” Shannon adds a while later. She digs her hand inside a bag of beans and takes a handful, then leans in to inhale its scent. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Well,” Shannon continues, “Considering how much she adores you, must be one of the universe’ greatest mysteries as to why she would ever cheat on you.”

You find yourself taken aback, unsure if you should feel insulted or if you should just brush it off. Her remark is quite out of the blue, and she doesn't seem to grasp how inappropriate it is. It seems that Shannon may be the sort of person who speaks without considering the impact of her words. 

But, in her candid, albeit tactless, comment, you get a glimpse of another side of her–one that's less reserved and more carefree than you had initially perceived. 

Before you can think of something to reply, a voice cuts in, causing you and Shannon to jerk your heads towards the source.

“Welcome! Can I help you find something particular?”

The voice belongs to the shopkeeper, an elderly gentleman sporting a smile as warming as a hot cup of chocolate. You return his smile with a slightly sheepish one, confessing, “I actually have no idea. My wif–my, uh, partner joined this annual coffee competition in NYC. I thought I might surprise her with some unique beans to experiment with.”

“Sounds like a wonderful gift!” he exclaims, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. He hobbles over to a nearby shelf filled with an array of coffee bags. “Well, if she's in a competition, I'd suggest trying a couple of different single-origin beans to get a variety of flavors.”

He reaches up to a shelf and pulls down a bag of coffee. “This here is a single-origin bean from Ethiopia. Known for its bright and fruity flavors, it's a favorite among many coffee connoisseurs.”

Setting that bag down, he moves over to another shelf. “And over here we have a single-origin bean from Colombia. This one has a richer, more full-bodied profile with notes of dark chocolate and a nutty finish.”

He hands both bags to you, his aged yet firm hands transferring the beans with a sense of reverence. “I think these two could provide some interesting flavors for her to experiment with. What do you think?”

A thoughtful hum escapes you as you consider the shopkeeper's recommendations. The Ethiopian and Colombian beans definitely sound like a good place to start, but you want to give Wanda something a little more... unexpected.

“Do you have anything else?” you ask. “Maybe something more unconventional? A wildcard, if you will.”

The shopkeeper looks at you for a moment, as if sizing up your level of coffee knowledge and daring. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Well, I do have something rather special,” he admits, leading you to the far corner of the shop.

He reaches behind a stack of bags, pulling out a smaller, unassuming bag. “This here is a single-origin bean from a tiny town in the northernmost region of Japan. It's not widely known for its coffee cultivation, but I have a friend there who has been growing these beans using a unique method. He's a former whiskey brewer and has applied some of the techniques from brewing to coffee cultivation.”

He hands over the bag and you take it, intrigued by the origin and backstory. The beans look slightly lighter than the other two bags, and you can almost smell the promise of a unique flavor profile.

“This is a real wildcard,” the shopkeeper adds with a wink. “It's unlike anything else you'll find. But tell your partner to be careful. These beans require a bit more finesse to fully bring out their complex flavors.”

You can't help but smile. This is exactly the kind of thing you were hoping to find. Something different and exciting for Wanda to work with, that would also show your support and faith in her skills. A perfect blend, in more ways than one.

“Seeing you so lovesick over your ex makes me want to gag,” Shannon comments, once you've finished your transaction with the shopkeeper.

You turn to her, eyebrow arched, “Are you always this tactless?”

She just laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet of the shop, and then completely ignores your question. “You know what? Now I see why you and Wanda are so perfect for each other.”

“And why is that?” you blink at her, intrigued despite yourself.

She shrugs, her smile knowing. “Because despite everything, you still do this shit like she’s the best thing that's ever happened to you. And I bet she’s the same.”

With those words, she heads out of the shop, leaving you standing there awkwardly, still processing her words. Her straightforwardness was unexpected but kind of refreshing. You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you follow her out. 

“...Wh-Where was I?” Your words hitch as Wanda tenderly grazes her teeth over your jugular.

“You were saying that Shannon is kind of a bitch,” Wanda whispers, continuing her assault.

You chuckle lightly but it quickly transforms into a low moan. “Well, she is, but I think that's just her way of dealing with things.”

Wanda hums against your skin, a small laugh escaping her lips. “She certainly seems to have a unique perspective,” she concedes, withdrawing slightly to look you in the eyes. “But she's right about one thing.”

“And what would that be?” you ask breathlessly as you feel Wanda’s fingers trail their way up your stomach, under your shirt.

She gives you a teasing grin, the irises of her eyes pitch black as she playfully declares, “That you're smitten with me.”

You blink in surprise. “Wait, what? She said that?”

You feel Wanda’s smile against your skin before her tongue slips out to lick the sweat that has gathered under your ear. “Yes, she did. Told me right when you two got back home earlier.”

“Well, can't argue with that,” you concede, pulling her closer. The conversation drifts, forgotten, drowned in Wanda’s lips against yours and her hand squeezing your tit as she finally pushes her tongue inside your mouth.

“W-Wands,” you whine as your ex-wife’s other hand moves to cup you over your leggings. Wanda ignores you, rubbing your clit achingly slow as her tongue flickers in and out of your mouth, teasing you relentlessly. 

“Wands,” you try again.

“What?” she husks out, her tone dripping with impatience and arousal.

“Is this a good idea? I mean… We… oh god,” you groan against her cheek when she slips her hand inside your underwear and zeroes in on your opening, collecting the wetness there before spreading them upwards towards your clit. 

“Try saying that again, love?” Wanda murmurs with a smirk.

“Uh, w-we scheduled an appointment with–”

Your words fail you at this point when Wanda inserts a finger into your pussy, burying it two knuckles deep at once. 

“Fuck–” 

Wanda swallows your scream with a kiss, and she smiles as she feels the vibrations of your moans as she starts thrusting her finger in and out of your hole.

“I love it when you’re so loud, baby,” Wanda whispers into your ear before biting your lobe. “But we need to keep quiet. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

She senses your nod, but just as she's about to introduce another finger, your laptop interrupts with its ringing sound. 

It’s a video call request from none other than your therapist.

You immediately extricate yourself from Wanda's grasp, causing her to groan in frustration at the untimely interruption. Your skin bears a heated flush and you hurriedly straighten your disheveled hair, trying to ignore how wet your inner thighs have gotten as you hit the accept button on the incoming video call. 

There’s a satisfying grin on Wanda’s face as she observes the way you press your legs together, trying to relieve some of the tension she caused there.

“Y/N? Wanda? Can you hear me?” Calliope’s voice breaks through the speakers. The video is still loading and you can’t see her on the screen yet.

Understanding that the call includes her as well, Wanda quickly composes herself, matching your effort to regain decency. Both of you adjust your clothing, smooth down your hair, and take a deep breath. 

“Am I disturbing anything?” Calliope inquires, an undercurrent of amusement lacing her tone. Your face turns a deeper shade of red at the hint of her insinuation, and you quickly shake your head in denial.

“With Christmas looming so near, I'd totally understand if you two prefer to reschedule–”

“No, it's okay,” you interject hastily. “Wanda and I are ready for this.”

The sound of Wanda's soft chuckle resonates beside you, and in a playful retort, you nudge her rib with your elbow. She responds with a firm, “Yes, we certainly are.” 

Simultaneously, she reaches for your hand, weaving your fingers together in a comforting interlock, resting them gently on her lap. You smile inwardly, feeling more giddy about the intimate nature of this small action than the sex that almost happened.

Without further ado, Calliope delves directly into the agenda of this, your third session. She invites you and Wanda to share what your married life was like prior to the indiscretion, and you find yourself taking the lead.

“Honestly, it felt like we had a perfect marriage,” you start off. “Not just the marriage, but our entire life seemed idyllic. My career was progressing as planned. Wanda... She was my pillar, always there, always supportive.” You look at Wanda adoringly and in return, she offers a shy, hesitant smile, her eyes momentarily flickering away before meeting yours again. You don’t notice, but there’s something else there. Her demeanor has shifted ever since Calliope brought up the session’s main topic.

Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours as you continue, recounting the times when you both laughed together, celebrated successes, and held each other through tougher days.

“And it wasn't just that she was supportive,” you add, your voice catching slightly. “She was, and still is, my best friend. We shared everything.”

Wanda's quiet during your monologue. The room is silent except for the low hum of the laptop and the occasional soft exhale from Wanda. After a moment, Calliope's calm voice pierces the quiet.

“Thank you for sharing that,” she says. “Wanda, would you like to share your perspective now?”

Wanda nods and lets go of your hand, her eyes filled with a somber resolve, her voice quieter when she finally speaks.

“Over the course of our five-year marriage, I was mostly content–happy. However, I often found myself feeling like a shadow, rather than an…equal partner.”

You whip your head towards Wanda, but her eyes stay stuck on the laptop screen. It takes a few seconds longer before she finally turns her gaze towards you and says, “For the last few months before I–before what happened–it felt like I was just trailing behind you, almost constantly. But it's not your fault.

“I was grappling with feelings of inadequacy when I... made that mistake,” she continues, her voice faltering slightly as she alludes to her infidelity. “I was in a state of confusion, and despite your joy and accomplishments, I was unable to share in that same level of happiness,” Wanda finishes.

Just when you believe you're set for an easygoing session, life throws you a curveball. It seems each encounter with Calliope pops the cozy bubble you've created with Wanda. Each time you're certain you've navigated the thickest of storms, another one brews on the horizon, causing your heart to question–yet again–the durability of this second shot at a relationship with your ex-wife.

Wanda swallows hard, before adding, “And then there was the struggle to start a family. You were the one who wanted children, but when it got tough... I felt like I was in it far deeper than you were. You were supportive, yes, but it felt like I was alone in the intensity of wanting it, needing it.”

“What made you feel like I wasn't with you through this?" you ask, a tinge of frustration seeping in your tone.

She takes a moment before responding, “When I couldn't get pregnant, you seemed so quick to dismiss our failure... it made me feel even more isolated.”

You shake your head. She couldn’t be further from how it really was for you, but you can’t blame her if that was how she felt during those times.

“I'm sorry if it seemed like I was dismissive,” you whisper as memories play back in your mind, each one revealing nuances you hadn't recognized at the time. “It wasn't my intention to belittle our struggle. I guess... I just didn't want to see you in more pain than you were already in. I thought being optimistic and pushing forward would help us cope, but I see now how that might have come across as indifference.”

“Weren't you upset with me?” Wanda asks, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We invested so much for me to conceive and... and I failed. Do you... do you resent me for that?”

“Wanda,” you say, your voice choked with emotion, “I never cared about the money. And you didn't fail. It's a process, and sometimes it's a tough one. But I don't resent you, not for a moment. My disappointment was never with you, but with the situation. I felt...helpless.”

“Helpless,” you reiterate, your eyes steadfastly meeting Wanda's. “Because I was at a loss on how to support you... how to alleviate your pain.”

Your voice, once steady, falters slightly as you confess, “Each doctor's appointment, every unsuccessful attempt... It felt like I was failing you, like I couldn't provide the comfort or solution you needed.”

You draw a shaky breath before adding, “And in my helplessness, I pushed for us to move forward right away. But now I realize...it might have felt to you like I was dismissing your pain, dismissing our shared struggle. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Wanda murmurs, her voice heavy with regret. There's a softness in her gaze as she looks at you. “I’m sorry for not telling you what I was feeling.”

Just as you're about to respond, Calliope cuts in. “The reason I asked you both to share your perspectives on your marriage before is to gauge the level of openness and communication between you two. Communication is one of the key bridges to trust. If we understand where we each stood before, we can better see clearly where we want to go.”

With this new revelation, you can't help but wonder about other instances where your and Wanda's perspectives may have diverged significantly.

It makes you wonder, what other moments had been experienced so differently by the two of you? How many times have you found yourselves adrift on separate pages of the same story?

A cold shiver of uncertainty sweeps through you. You're not sure you're ready to dive deep into the past, to unpack five years of the life you had shared with Wanda. 

The thought of your dissolved marriage possibly being built on illusion rather than truth feels scary, like realizing a favorite story might not be as real as you once thought.

The topic left untouched so far is how this disconnect relates to Wanda's act of infidelity. Despite your discomfort, the question lingers in your mind: If you were to misunderstand her feelings once more, would it drive Wanda away again? 

You hold your tongue for the time being. Maybe there'll be a moment later to wrestle with this thought... or perhaps, you find yourself wishing, it might simply fade away with time.

A couple of hours later, you and Wanda find yourselves working together in the kitchen. The session with Calliope has ended on a less intense note (thankfully) with an anecdote about her cat after Wanda made a request for Calliope to share something about herself for a change.

Afterwards, Calliope, not one to shy away from uncomfortable questions, had boldly asked about your and Wanda's physical intimacy. In response to your surprised silence, she suggested a temporary pause on sexual activities. Her reasoning was that sex, while a key component in a relationship, could sometimes blur the perception of the emotional state of the partnership and hinder the process of rebuilding trust.

In place of physical intimacy, Calliope suggested an exercise known as “Eye Gazing”. The idea was simple: sit across from each other in a quiet room, looking into each other's eyes without speaking. It's an exercise designed to foster emotional connection and understanding, without the distraction of words.

As you stir the simmering soup and Wanda deftly slices the vegetables, the appetizing smell of your evening meal fills the room. The intensity of the session's discussions seems to recede, replaced by the cheer that Christmas Eve unfailingly brings as it approaches.

“Mom's home!” Pietro yells from outside, his voice bubbling with excitement over the Taylor Swift songs that Shannon has playing in the kitchen. Shannon's taken charge of directing the preparation of the prime rib and turkey, even though she's doing little more than calling the shots. It's almost as if she's forgotten that there's a seasoned cook in the house–someone who actually runs their own food and beverage business.

Wanda freezes at Pietro’s announcement and you put a hand on the small of her back and lean in to ask, “Are you okay?”

She nods and assures you further with a smile. 

A few seconds later, the arrival of the twins’ mother is heralded by her appreciative comment about the tantalizing aroma wafting from the kitchen. You've only seen Iryna twice. The first time was when you drove Wanda to her hometown for a visit, and the last time was at a hospital, following a drug overdose just before you and Wanda tied the knot–an incident that was the final push for Wanda to sever all ties with her.

She appears significantly healthier compared to the grim memory etched in your mind. Her skin has a renewed vitality to it, and she's gained enough weight to fill out the hollow cheeks that you recall. Without the traces of addiction evident on her physique, she’s a dead ringer for Wanda.

You stop what you're doing, curious to see the reunion that would unfold.

Pietro’s arm is slung over Iryna’s shoulders as she laughs at something her son said. Wanda appears small and uneasy in the corner, waiting for her mother's recognition, uncertain whether she should be the one to make the first move. 

“Wanda, dear!” Iryna calls out to Wanda with a wide smile, but as she makes her way to her daughter, she is intercepted by Shannon who greets her with a kiss on the cheek and engages her briefly in small talk. Wanda looks on, the corners of her lips downturned, and you can almost see the conflict of emotions in her wide, green eyes. 

Finally, Pietro pulls his pregnant wife aside so that Iryna can have her moment with Wanda. 

“Iryna,” Wanda murmurs, her voice choked with emotion. As her mother comes to a stop in front of her, Wanda can't help but notice how the years have softened her features.

“Hello, Dove,” Iryna's voice is tender, brimming with an affection Wanda had almost forgotten. Without another word, Iryna wraps her arms around Wanda, pulling her into a hug that feels like home.

Wanda stiffens momentarily, the walls she's built over the years making her hesitate. But as her mother's familiar scent fills her senses, she can't help but let go, letting the warmth of the hug thaw her frozen heart. Her hands tentatively rise, resting on her mother's back.

Tears prick at her eyes, tears she stubbornly fights back. She'd told herself countless times she never wanted to see her mother again, that she could live without her. But standing here, enveloped in her, she realizes just how much she had missed Iryna. At the same time, this woman feels like a new person, and she realizes she’s more than willing to embrace this opportunity to get to know her.

“Hey, where should I put this?”

All heads swivel toward the door where a man stands, holding a case of beer and sporting a friendly smile. With his chiseled features and confident posture, he could easily be mistaken for a model straight out of a Men's Health magazine. Around your age and undeniably attractive, your eyes quickly dart to Wanda, trying to read her reaction.

Wanda looks genuinely surprised, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the newcomer. 

And there it is again, that constricting feeling in your chest, the sudden, inexplicable need to claim Wanda as yours and yours alone. You're unable to shake off the feeling, even as you remind yourself that Wanda's reaction is likely just a response to an unexpected guest. 

You should trust her, after all.

Pietro is the first to recover from the surprise, a grin breaking across his face. “Tom!” he exclaims, laughing as he moves to take the beer from him. “Kitchen counter's fine.”

You wrack your brain to place this “Tom,” mentally sifting through the countless Maximoff family photos you've seen, but come up empty.

But then, as he strides towards Wanda with a familiarity that tugs at a memory, it suddenly clicks.

Yes, Tom. Wanda and Pietro's childhood friend, and also Wanda's ex-boyfriend. 

“I forgot to mention,” Pietro starts, turning to the rest of the room with an apologetic grin, “Tom, our friend from back home, recently moved to town. He's new here and doesn't really know anyone yet, so I thought he could join us for tonight's dinner.” 

 A casual round of handshakes and friendly smiles makes its way to Tom, each person sharing a word or two of welcome.

When the introductions circle back to you, you accept his handshake, offering your name and a casual, “Merry Christmas,” before excusing yourself to grab a beer from the fridge. 

A second later, Wanda is at your side, her fingers finding yours. She leans close to your ear and murmurs, “I've told you about Tom, right?”

“Your ex-boyfriend?” You keep your tone neutral. “Yeah, you did.”

“Yup, that's him,” she confirms, nodding in his direction, her eyes searching yours for any signs of distress.

Finding your gaze locked onto Tom, you can't help but analyze him in every way. It's not your nature to be the jealous type, but after Wanda's affair, insecurity has a way of creeping into your thoughts every now and then. Perhaps Calliope hit the nail on the head; having sex with Wanda frequently might have lulled you into a false sense of security.

Meanwhile, Wanda's eyes are trained on you, her attention riveted to your reactions. Her indifference to Tom's presence is obvious, but you miss this entirely, too occupied with quelling the unexpected stir of jealousy within you. 

She squeezes your fingers to get you to look at her, and when you do, you see nothing but total devotion in those green orbs.

“Why don't we get back to our cooking, huh?” she suggests with a small, warm smile.

It’s a reprieve from being helpless to your not entirely baseless worries. That’s Wanda for you–always able to draw you back, grounding you in moments like this.

Dinner is a massive success. Shannon revels in the praise, beaming with satisfaction. You and Wanda let her take all the credit, just happy to see everyone enjoy themselves.

Iryna keeps everyone entertained with funny stories from when Wanda and Pietro were kids, and the whole table is laughing. Tom joins in, too, sharing some memories and even shooting friendly smiles at you and Wanda. It still bothers you a little, but seeing Wanda enjoy herself helps you push it aside.

You can't help but watch Wanda throughout the evening. She's completely caught up in the Christmas cheer, her eyes lighting up like the twinkling lights around the room. Every once in a while, she looks your way, and when your eyes meet, you feel a warmth that's hard to describe. 

After eleven years together, you'd think the initial thrill would fade, the love might settle into something comfortable and familiar. But with Wanda, it's different. It's almost frightening how you keep falling for her harder as the years go by.

Fortunately, no one bothers to reminisce about Tom and Wanda’s dating history, and you’re grateful for everybody’s consideration and respect for you and Wanda’s attempts at a reconciliation. 

Still, a knot tightens in your stomach each time you notice Wanda and Tom sharing a knowing smile over Pietro's tales from their hometown. Your grip on your cutlery hardens as Tom attempts to engage Wanda in a casual chat or praises her culinary skills.

You find yourself imagining quite a few things, your mind drifting to their shared past and what they might have once been to each other. The more you think about it, the more you spiral into an unpleasant series of what-ifs and maybes.

Silently, you push your chair back and stand, excusing yourself. Except for Wanda, they don’t find anything amiss at your departure, their cheerful chatter resuming unimpeded. 

A minute or so later, Wanda takes her leave as well, seeking you out. She discovers you in the guest room, the one both of you have been sharing, standing on the balcony, staring off into the distance.

She joins you at the balcony, her hand instinctively finding yours. “Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice soft, threading with concern. 

In front of you, the landscape of Los Angeles stretches out, utterly unlike the steel jungle of New York you're used to. There are hills undulating in the distance, a patchwork of houses and greenery, the quiet echo of the ocean's waves caressing the shore, and an abundance of space that makes you feel both small and infinite at once.

Her thumb gently rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand. 

“Talk to me,” she gently urges.

You've always prided yourself on your level-headedness, your rational thinking. But jealousy... It is a powerful emotion, tearing at the edges of your pride.

“I don't know how to say this without sounding pathetic,” you sigh, your eyes dropping to where your fingers are entwined. “But watching you and Tom, laughing and sharing stories, it stirred up feelings I didn't expect. I felt... jealous. And I know it's ridiculous and irrational. I know you're not... you're not going to just... But I can't help how I feel.”

The confession leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You don't know what you're expecting Wanda to say. An apology, reassurance, a confession of her own perhaps. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, but you can't find the courage to look at her.

“I get why you're feeling this way. It's because of me. Because of what I did… and I’m sorry for that,” Wanda’s voice comes out hoarse from laughing so many times at the dinner table.

It’s becoming a pattern: you being upset and Wanda apologizing over and over again. And it’s not even her fault this time.

“I can't control how you feel, and I don't want to pretend that I know what you're going through. But what I can do is keep showing up for you, keep proving that I'm all yours. That's all I can do, and that's what I promise,” she says. She moves closer, hugging you from behind, her arms encircling your waist. You feel her chin resting on your shoulder, and her warmth begins to envelop you. You let out a soft sigh.

Her honesty strikes a chord within you. You look at her, her eyes reflecting the moonlight, and in that moment, you want to believe her. 

You want and want and want. But when does the wanting transform into reality?

Still keeping her hold, she murmurs in your ear, “You know, I think now might be a good time for your Christmas gift.”

You turn to face her in surprise, the earlier heavy conversation momentarily forgotten. “A Christmas gift?” you echo, and she simply nods, her smile widening a touch.

“Yep, and I've been holding onto it for the right moment,” she explains, releasing you from her embrace to reach into her pocket. She retrieves a small box, its exterior adorned with intricate details and a shiny ribbon.

Her eyes find yours, alive with anticipation and a flicker of nervousness that is so uncharacteristic of her. She hands the box over to you, maintaining eye contact all the while.

"Go on, open it," she urges.

You look at her once more before directing your attention to the small package in your hands. Unraveling the ribbon and lifting the lid, you're met with a glint of silver catching the ambient light.

Inside the box lies a delicate silver chain, a pendant attached at its center. The pendant is a small compass, intricately detailed and with a vintage aura. What surprises you more is the small photo inside the compass. It's a picture of you and Wanda, the first one you took together as friends inside a photobooth.

Your breath catches in your throat as you carefully lift the necklace from its cushioned home. You can't take your eyes off the image. It's a snapshot of a time when you both were deeply in love but unaware of it, where everything was fresh and new and brimming with hope and ambition.

A memory of pure, undiluted happiness.

“Wanda…” you start, feeling an inexplicable lump in your throat.

“I know we can't go back in time,” she interrupts softly. “But this...this is my promise to you. I want to go forward, create more moments like these, and give you a reason to trust me again.”

You glance at the necklace in your hand, then at the one adorning Wanda's neck–the necklace that carries her wedding ring. An overwhelming desire washes over you to remove it from its chain and place it back where it truly belongs: on Wanda's finger. But you swiftly check yourself. You're moving too fast, allowing your hopes to get ahead of reality. You resolve to not act impulsively, to not assume anything.

You turn in Wanda’s arms to face her, a sheepish grin on your lips. “You know, I also got you a Christmas gift,” you confess, a bit hesitant. “Though it's nothing compared to this, and now I feel... a little embarrassed.”

Wanda's eyes sparkle with anticipation and a hint of amusement. She releases you and steps back, crossing her arms in front of her. “Oh, really? And here I thought you were going to outdo me,” she teases, chuckling at the red hue now spreading across your cheeks.

You let out a resigned sigh, knowing there's no way you can compete with the sentimentality of her gift. “Just... don't laugh, okay?” you warn her, but she's already grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Nervously, you reach into your suitcase, pulling out a box about the size of a shoebox, wrapped carefully in nondescript brown paper. As you hand it over to Wanda, your heartbeat escalates, thumping loudly in your ears.

“I just... I mean, it's nothing grand like yours,” you stutter, your cheeks flushing. “It feels a bit silly now, to be honest.”

Wanda merely smiles at you. “Stop it, I'm sure it's wonderful.”

Gently, she tears into the paper wrapping, unveiling a box. Inside it, three distinct bags of single-origin coffee beans sit.

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she takes in the contents of the box. “You got me coffee?” she echoes, an undertone of laughter coloring her voice.

Nodding bashfully, you say, “Yeah, I figured it could come in handy for the Cup-off.”

A chuckle escapes Wanda, and she lifts one of the bags to her nose, inhaling deeply. “These smell incredible,” she says, grinning at you. “This is such a thoughtful gift. Thank you. It’s just perfect.”

Your chest warms as you watch Wanda cradle the bags of coffee, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

“I’m sure this will help me make the best cup,” Wanda says.

You pull her in for a short but sweet kiss and say, “You already do.”

Much later, when everyone’s dozing off (Shannon) and catching up in small groups (Wanda and Iryna), Tom bids his goodbye to everyone, much to your relief. Your discomfort around him lingered in the background, even as you and Wanda returned to the living room to continue the celebrations and watch everyone else exchange Christmas presents.

Just as you're beginning to feel a bit more relaxed, Pietro approaches you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Hey, mind if I steal you for a second?” he asks, nodding towards the garden visible through the glass doors.

Puzzled, you glance at Wanda, but she’s in a deep and serious conversation with her mother. 

You shrug your shoulders and say, “Sure, Pietro, lead the way.”

He walks you out into the cool night; it’s completely quiet except for the serenade of crickets hiding in the backyard. 

Pietro settles onto a stone bench, and then gestures for you to join him.

As you take a seat, he fishes out a rolled blunt from his pocket. You merely raise an eyebrow and shake your head, waving away his offer.

His smirk broadens at your reaction. “Well, maybe it's worth a try. Might help you chill out a bit,” he suggests with a teasing note in his voice.

“No, thanks. I’m chill as it is,” you say.

“Really? Because I couldn't help but notice you weren't so 'chill' when Tom was around earlier.”

You hesitate, not expecting Pietro to call you out like this. “Was it that obvious?”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. He then takes a generous puff of his blunt before exhaling slowly.

Suddenly, Pietro looks you in the eyes and asks, “Do you love Wanda?” 

The directness of the question catches you off guard, more so than his earlier suggestion to try a blunt. You’re slightly offended that he feels the need to ask you this.

When you remain quiet and withdrawn for a long time, Pietro speaks again. “It’s not a rhetorical question by the way. I do want to know if you love Wanda.”

Finally, you turn towards him, brow furrowed, a hint of indignation in your eyes. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Do you love my sister?”

Yes.

Always.

Nevertheless.

The answer has always been clear to you, but instead, you return the volley. “Why are you asking? What's this about?” You challenge, more skeptical now about his motives behind such a question than providing him with an answer.

He meets your gaze, an uncharacteristic intensity in his eyes. “Because if you really loved her, why did you let it come to this?” he asks pointedly. “Why did you let things fall apart? Why didn't you fight for your marriage? You hurt her, Y/N. You hurt my sister.”

He continues, “And I know the extent of how much you hurt her. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Wait, what?” You choke out, disbelieving.

Pietro simply shrugs. “It was me,” he repeats, his voice steady, unrepentant. “I was the one who sent you that photo of Wanda in the hospital. I wanted you to see. To know.”

The shock is enough to rob you of words. Shame wells up inside you. 

He smirks in satisfaction and mumbles to himself, “Yeah, that kinda felt good.”

The words seem to get stuck in your throat; they press in on you, making it hard to breathe.

Finally, you find your voice, though it comes out as more of a whisper, your eyes fixed on a nondescript point on the floor. “At that time... I was so deeply hurt. I believed, truly believed, that Wanda didn't love me anymore.” You swallow hard, your throat feeling painfully dry.

“And I didn't want to fight for our marriage because... I was scared. Scared to fail if I tried, scared to prolong the agony only to find out in the end that there’s nothing to save.” Your voice cracks slightly, as if the wound is still fresh despite the passage of time.

Even now, you can't say that you're a hundred percent confident that Wanda's love for you is certain. Perhaps nothing she does will ever completely assure you. Maybe this time, it's really up to you to have faith.

“I just wanted the pain to stop. So, I did the only thing I thought would help. I... I walked away,” you finish, staring into nothingness as the memory of your decision reverberates painfully within you.

Pietro falls silent, his eyes narrowing as he studies you, taking in what you've said. Then, with a penetrating look, he says, “Sounds more like you wanted to be the one to walk away first.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “What?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes are sharp. “You just didn't want to be the one left behind.”

A part of you can't deny it–perhaps you did preemptively end things out of fear of being the one left behind. A self-preservation measure that's caused more harm than good. But admitting that to yourself is another thing entirely, let alone to Pietro.

“Maybe,” you concede after a moment. “But can you blame me for it? You’ve never been in my shoes. Have you ever paused to consider what it was like for your ex-wives? What it was like for Shannon?” Your voice rises with each question, frustration finally breaking free from its confines. 

Pietro looks at you, his expression inscrutable for a moment, before he gives you a curt nod. 

“Touché,” he admits grudgingly, and then attempts a chuckle. “We suck at celebrating this Christmas thing together, aren’t we?”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitches up in a small, matching smile. But then it’s gone almost instantly because the topic of loving Wanda is something you’ve always taken seriously.

“I think things would’ve been worse if I didn’t walk away. I was in a really dark place. I only realized it when several months later, seeing the bastard she slept with sent me off the rails.

“If I hadn't stepped away, things would've gotten even worse,” you explain. “It felt like I was stuck in never-ending darkness, with no hope of seeing the dawn. It was really bad. I didn't know how much until I ran into that guy she cheated with, months later. I just completely lost it.”

“That... actually makes a lot of sense,” Pietro says, his tone softer than before. “It might not have been the best approach, but I get it. It's tough to see things clearly when you're caught in a storm, isn't it?”

You nod, grateful for his understanding. This empathy from Pietro, who usually comes across as nonchalant, helps ease some of the tightness in your chest.

“But then,” Pietro continues, locking eyes with you. “That still leaves my question unanswered. Despite everything that's happened... Do you love Wanda?” His tone is serious, almost challenging, making it clear that he expects an honest answer this time.

You give him your answer this time.

***

You and Wanda arrive back in Manhattan around noon the next day.

The plane touches down smoothly on the John F. Kennedy runway, marking the end of an unforgettable weekend. As you collect your belongings, you turn to Wanda, gratitude in your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say, sincerity lacing your voice. “This weekend... It was something special. Really.”

Her lips curl into a soft smile as she meets your eyes. “I'm glad you had a good time,” she says. “But now, it's back to work. The coffee showdown won't prep itself.”

“Need any help with that?” you ask, eager to stay close, not ready to say goodbye just yet. 

She looks at you, her eyes wide with surprise, then her face softens into a grateful smile. “You're probably worn out from the trip,” she says, “and honestly, it might take me all night to get it right.”

Undeterred, you reply, “Well, you need a test subject, right?”

She thinks about it some more.

“I promise I won't be biased. I won’t just say everything tastes delicious,” you add, trying to win her over.

Her laughter rings through the air as she finally nods, accepting your offer. “Alright, you're on.”

What follows is an all-night coffee marathon, filled with experimentation, flirty banter, and more cups of coffee than you can count. 

Despite the late hour and the caffeine jitters, you wouldn't have it any other way.

Taglist: @canvascoloredin | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r | @kyaraderuwez | @justyourwritter69 | @stanolsevans | @aliherreraaa | @diaryoflife| @justagurlwholikes | @lizziesplant | @cowxpoke | @sokovianbaby| @swiftie1-0-1| @scarlettbitchx | @tercerspirit-22

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #agatha harkness #pietro maximoff

[moralesmilesanhourlibrary]

sunflower

summary: you begin to recieve flowers from an anonymous source. originally posted: sept. 22, 2019 (wtf I was posting fics damn near every day)

You open your locker to pack up for the day and go home, and there they are.

Sunflowers.

Yesterday it was roses, last week it was daisies. It was a sweet gesture, until you found a bouquet of sunflowers on your desk with your name on the tag. This person was in your class, and knew where your desk was, and who YOU were. Curiosity peaked, you meet up at Miles and Ganke’s dorm to discuss.

“So now I have like, 3 bouquets of flowers and petals all over my locker and I really need to know who it is-”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down [Y/N],” Ganke interrupted. “Are you saying you have a secret admirer?” You nodded, frantically. You’d only met Miles and Ganke the previous week, but, for some reason, you felt you could tell them a whole lot.

“I need you to help narrow down who could be giving me all these damn plants, because I’m running out of space in my vase at home,” you frowned. Miles smiles to himself at the thought of you taking the flowers home and caring for them. “They’re obviously in my homeroom, since they know where my desk is at, right? Miles, who’s in our homeroom?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Miles finally speaks after having been silent this entire time.

“Uh, there’s me and you, Andre, Miranda, and… That’s all I know.”

Sighing in frustration, you plop down on Ganke’s bed next to where Miles sat.

Impishly elbowing your arm, Miles, asks, “Is there anyone you want it to be?” Not catching onto the joke, you actually answer. “Hmm. I hope whoever it is is like, really sweet and artistic. I like artsy types.” Miles feels a glimmer of hope at that. “You’re mad corny,” he laughs.

The next day, you find more sunflowers and daisies in the holes of your locker, but there was something else there, too.

Stuck to one of the bigger sunflowers was a baby-blue sticky note, your name written in a bubbly font and decorated with neon patterns. Cute.

Miles opened his locker next to yours.

“More flowers?” he asked. You smiled and showed him the sticky note. “Look, they drew this, too! Isn’t that cute?” Miles smirks a little, though you don’t know why.

—

It was a Friday, so you texted Miles that you were coming over to hang out. Before you even ring the doorbell, he opens the door to let you in, beaming.

“Hey [Y/N], pizza’s here already. Don’t just stand there, now!” After greeting his parents, you both head to Miles’ room with the box of pizza. Of course, his Bluetooth speaker was blasting Swae Lee. You still had the sticky note in-hand as you sat on his bed, taking a slice of pizza.

“You good, Gonzalo? You been mad quiet lately.” Snapping out of his gaze at the mention of his middle name, Miles replies, “I’m fine, I’m fine. No need to use my government name.” Looking up, you notice a pop of color on Miles’ desk. It was piled with sketchbooks containing elaborate designs that looked like they belonged on a mural.

“Those are nice,” you tell him, pointing at the pile of drawings. “Thanks, made em myself, you know.” Miles internally facepalms himself. They’re on your desk, of course she knows they’re yours!

You get up from the bed to get a closer look at Miles’ designs. The circular lettering and neon color palette look… familiar. Then you take the sticky note out of your back pocket. A sheepish grin creeps onto your face as everything starts to make sense.

“Miles, you been giving me all those flowers?” Smiling playfully, he gives you a big shrug that said, ‘I’ve been caught, so yeah.’ You suck your teeth in feigned annoyance and hit Miles with a pillow. You both descend into uproarious laughter as you continue hitting him. “I really hate you, bro!”

“What, I’m the artsy type!” Miles jokingly exclaims, earning him another smack with the pillow. The two of you flop back down on his bed, exhausted from all the laughing.

“Did you buy all those flowers yourself?” you finally ask. Miles replies, “Yeah, man! 20 bucks each,” and you snort a little.

“All that for a prank-?”

“It wasn’t a prank.” Miles’ tone is somber, now. He isn’t grinning anymore. You don’t understand.

“What does that mean,” you prod further. He turns his head to look you directly in the eye. “Well… I kinda like you. Just a little. So I got you flowers.” You continue staring at him, at which he says, “…sorry?” You sit up, and so does Miles.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” you tell him as you pull him into a suffocating hug. “Wanna go out sometime?”

Miles chokes out a muffled, “Yes!”

#miles morales x reader #miles morales x black!reader #category: og fic

[the-s1lly-corner]

i have a cute request to make

the tadc gang with a shy and introvert child reader

basically reader is very shy and barely speaks, and when needs to talk they just whisper, kinda like fluttershy!

reader hates loud noises so they barely goes to an IHA with the gang, only if they are bored or someone asks them to go, reader just likes being alone for the silence

but, reader does some cute things for the cast, they make little presents, everytime that the gang is in the IHA, reader is busy in their room making little presents, like paper flowers and stuff and leaves at the gang's doorstep, with cute little messages, like: "ur so cool!" "ur doing so well!" before running back to their room.

Caine, Jax, Pomni x shy!sweet!child!reader who hates loud noises (platonic)

i hope you dont mind me running this through the wheel to select characters </3 i still dont take full cast posts/nm i think imma answer this then maybe write an extra post or two (idk we'll see after i write this one); then thats probably it for today, since i think imma work on more art again.. not really behind on my personal goals anymore, just have some ideas that i want to at least sketch so i have that done

CAINE:

would try to make the IHAs a little more quiet and calm but with caines energy and his thought process of "it needs to be stimulating so the circus members dont lose it to the monotony"... sometimes he slips. i was going to say he descends into the adventure waving around a red card making all the IHA-stuff freeze as a joke... but i can genuinely see him doing that. most of the time watches over the IHA now that you're here. you're like his lil kid!! tries to be a dad, falls into common dad stereotypes because thats all he really knows.. though he himself can be a little loud and all over the place... and perhaps even overbearing every now and then... WILL show off whatever notes and gifts you leave for him to everyone else. will make a wall in the common room to hang up your art so everyone can see it

POMNI:

i wouldnt say pomni is shy, but i do think overall she is an anxious person and in introvert... of which is more prominent due to being in the circus (you know, a place thats stressing her out) so it lets you two relate.. and it kind of makes pomni pull herself together for you.. so in a way youre kind of her reasoning to keep going no matter how many times she fails to find the exit; as grim as it sounds. keeps all your gifts and notes in her room on display because unlike SOME people shes not all the concerned with her image or how shes perceived (jax). will try to take you away from a place if theres some noise, usually this is either the common room where everyone else is hanging out at or during IHAs... probably lets you crash in one of your rooms until you feel better. i think she would probably get someone to get you something (like a toy or snack) while she keeps an eye on you

JAX:

i think he would subtly try to get you to stand up for yourself before being blunt that you need to start speaking up. he WAS going to say something about how hes not going to always be there to talk for you buuuuut in the digital circus theres some.. not good implications with that statement, at least a little more than the irl version. less of a parent figure and more of an older brother one.. does keep your notes, though hes not going to tell anyone and hes going to deny it if anyone ever brings it up. hes an asshole but hes not heartless. tries to limit his pranks that can make loud noises, will also play it off to others that he just doesnt feel like doing those pranks anymore. but everyone knows, you know?

#tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus x reader #digital circus x reader #caine x reader #caine x you #caine imagine #pomni x reader #pomni x you #pomni imagine #jax x reader #jax x you #jax imagine

[mik0rin]

2day, 2morrow, 4ever : party music & too many pauses

gojo satoru x black fem reader genre: college au, angst, second chance romance, exes to lovers warnings: cussing, alcohol consumption word count: 3,853

playlist: spotify apple music

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partner story (pls read): 224: the archives sign up for the taglist -> here!!

The birds, the flowers, and the leaves on the trees have all returned. Spring came around as a reminder that everything that was once gone always comes back. 

And you wish it wasn’t true. 

As much as you love the warmer weather and the occasional rainy days, you feel like you're descending into madness. You see him everywhere; while you’re grocery shopping, on the way to work, even when you run to the Family Mart next to your apartment. 

And it would be fine if he were actually there.

But, it's never really him. Whenever you “see” him, it’s only things you associate with him and your mind makes up the rest, projecting whatever image you have of him onto some poor unassuming person. You’re sure you’ve frightened a few people with your dead stare or teary eyes. 

You’ve avoided going out for the past few days trying to mentally prepare yourself for classes that start soon. Right now you’re sharing a blanket with Shoko on the couch as you watch a movie. Her phone vibrates on the coffee table and she picks it up, reading the notification before turning to you with a sly smile. 

“You wanna go to Haruka’s party tomorrow?” 

You turn to her with a small excited smile of your own,  “Now you know, you never have to ask.” 

She falls into your lap dramatically, “Do you know how boring it was without you?” 

“I know I’m the light of your life and-” 

“I didn’t say all that.” 

You push her off your lap and she falls to the floor with a soft thud. Shoko looks at you in disbelief as you step over her and walk to your room, flipping her off in the process. 

“Don’t follow me, we aren’t friends anymore.” 

She’s right behind you, playing into your joke, “Come on, babe. You know I can’t live without you!”

With every step the sole of your shoes stick to the hardwood floors, the temperature is straddling the line between bearable and uncomfortable, and you narrowly avoid a collision that would end with you covered in someone’s drink. 

It’s going to be a good night. 

Shoko’s hand is wrapped around your wrist as she leads you through the crowd in search of some harder alcohol. The both of you are insanely good at handling your liquor and the wine coolers you were offered earlier aren’t doing anything for you. 

Luckily, you’re able to swipe a bottle of tequila off of one of your old classmates. You and Shoko are going shot for shot until a man with curly hair approaches you with a shy smile. He looks at you briefly, saying a greeting you can barely hear over the music. Then his eyes are glued to your best friend and you realize this is the boy she was telling you about when you were abroad. 

“Take her away.” You tell him. 

His eyes darted between you and her, “Is that okay?” 

There’s a silent exchange between the two of you. Shoko wants to make sure you’ll be fine without her because you were always each other’s first priority. 

“You’ll be doing me a favor. I can’t stand this girl.” You smile against your shot glass before downing its contents. 

Shoko is glaring at you and you look at her innocently. You know she won’t leave you alone unless you push her to, and you’ll be damned if she ruins the chance that is being presented to her. 

Her focus shifts to the man, “It’s fine, Kazuo. Apparently, I’m no longer wanted.” 

They start to walk off and she looks back at you, her face screaming “Are you sure you’ll be okay alone?” 

You give her a reassuring smile and mouth, “Don’t forget protection!” Shoko rolls her eyes at you but you don’t miss the light pink that dusts her cheeks.

You appreciate her concern but you want her to enjoy herself without worrying about you falling apart. You know you’ve been a bit sensitive lately but it’s something you’ve been taking day by day and it doesn’t mean that you’ll shatter into pieces if you’re left unattended. 

You make your way to the dancefloor, finding some of your other friends. The music is providing a good escape for your tumultuous heart and mind. A distraction or an opportunity for release is what you desperately need; being on a different continent for six months only works because there’s no chance of running into whatever you’re running away from. But being back in Tokyo is testing your resolve and you don’t know how you’ll survive if you don’t have an outlet. 

Your limbs are starting to ache and the heat in the house has officially become uncomfortable. You excuse yourself from your group of friends and make your way to the kitchen, it’s where the A/C is the strongest and you would give up anything to feel the cool air on your exposed skin. After pushing through your fellow drunk college students, you lean against the counter and let out a sigh of relief. 

“y/n?” 

You turn your head towards the sound, “Naomi?” 

She looks a little different from the last time you saw her. Her hair is ginger and she’s swapped her usual goddess braids for locs, she even got the septum piercing you remember her always wanting. 

She opens her mouth to say something but is cut off by a deep voice calling her name. 

There’s a reason why Shoko is the only one you’ve willingly seen since you’ve come back. Despite the obvious reason, which is living together; if you’re with her you know it’ll only be her. As much as you miss your group of friends, there’s anxiety that looms over you at the thought of hanging out with them and having to be near him, pretending like everything is fine. 

But it seems like that might be happening regardless because you see Geto turn the corner in search of his girlfriend and his eyes widen when they see you. He greets you but still doesn’t cross the threshold into the kitchen like he’s trying to keep something out. 

Or more accurately, someone. 

But it’s too late because you can already see the ends of white hair and hear the voice that rings out, 

“Did you find her, Suguru?” 

He found her. As Gojo fully makes it into the kitchen, he realizes Suguru found one more person. It seems like everything has been put on pause as the four of you stare at each other, awkwardness settles in the air like humidity and this is exactly what you wanted to avoid. 

It’s hard for everyone when a couple that shares the same friends breaks up, especially when the friends aren’t exactly privy to the reason why. 

Gojo is trying (and failing) to keep his eyes off you but he can’t, he never can. You catch his stares but you’re more worried about how to fix the situation you’re stuck in. You really want to escape but where does running get you? It seems like you keep ending up in the same position and truth be told: you’re tired. 

You take a deep breath, clenching your fists that rest at your sides, and turn towards your ex-boyfriend. 

“Can we talk outside?” 

He falters a bit, taken aback by your request. What could you possibly want to talk about? And how serious is it that it requires privacy? 

Another few seconds pass before the blue-eyed man coughs out an “Of course.” Geto and Naomi eye the both of you, questions on the tips of their tongues but they keep silent as the two of you walk away, weaving through the dense crowd of people. 

Satoru slides open the door to the balcony, letting you through first before closing it behind him. The night has gotten cooler and you feel it all over your exposed skin, you lean against the railing and stare forward, your gaze fixated on the city’s skyline. 

“Gojo.” 

Ah. 

There's no intimacy in that name. He's so used to his given name falling from your lips or other terms of endearment, but this? 

This feels so cold. 

“I think we should try to at least be friendly? This is the third time we’ve run into each other and I know for sure it won’t be the last. We have the same group of friends and there’s no way we can avoid each other forever and still hang out with them.” 

Satoru nods in agreement, he gets what you mean and it wouldn’t be fair to either of you to sacrifice hanging out with your friends because you can’t be within five feet of each other. But, there’s also disappointment that swirls in his chest, he thought there would be more. 

That maybe, just maybe you would say the one thing that has been weighing on him ever since he saw you. 

“Yeah, I can do that.” His voice comes out much steadier than he thought it would. 

You look at him, his face neutral but you can see something brewing under the surface and you wonder if he wants to say something more. You give him a minute, the air between the two of you growing quiet but the thump of the music from inside fills in what would be an awkward silence. When he doesn’t say anything more, you turn around and place your hand on the door handle. 

“Imma head back inside.” 

“Okay. I’ll see you later?” 

“Yeah, later.” 

You slide the door open and you step back inside, immediately greeted by the warmth of the party once again. The conversation plays in your head like a broken record and you wonder if that was the right decision. 

Friendly, huh? 

Will that even work?  Aren’t your feelings a little too strong, a little too complicated, to be reduced to friendly?

The cherry blossoms have begun to bloom and classes have started. Albeit, there was an understandable amount of shock when you and Gojo acted as if nothing was wrong between the two of you, everyone adjusted quickly enough and the friends you missed when you were abroad, were only a text away again. 

The two of you can’t say it has gone completely back to normal; you can tell they try not to leave you alone with each other or even sit next to each other. If the conversation seemed to move towards any topic that involved the two of you, it was quickly steered away. And it’s not like you didn’t appreciate their efforts to make you comfortable, you just wish it wasn’t so obvious. 

And there’s the lingering problem, or lingering stare from your ex that you’ve been trying to ignore. It’s like every single time you’re around him, Gojo’s eyes are physically unable to look anywhere else. You’re used to it, he was like that when you were together too; always staring and when you would turn a little shy and question him, his response was always a compliment or “What? I can’t just look at you?” 

But now it’s different and the desire to ask him what he’s looking at eats at you. And every time the opportunity arises for you to do so, you don’t take it. There’s fear that the answer that Satoru gives you won’t be one you know how to handle. 

The seven of you are sitting in a group study room; papers scatter the table, textbooks lay open with sticky notes and highlighter galore, and you are showing Haibara something on your laptop. The poor boy has been struggling in biology and the semester is only a month in, and he thought who better to ask than the person whose major includes it?

“Before the citric acid cycle, acetyl-CoA has to be made. So, remember the glycolysis cycle notes I sent you?” 

“Of course! Those notes are the only reason I passed my quiz last week. I don’t get how you understand this stuff so well, you’re like a genius.” 

You lightly knock your shoulder against his, “Stop, you’re embarrassing me.” 

“No, seriously. I’m always lost in biology class until you explain it.” 

“You’re just saying that.” You dismiss, but you still flash him an appreciative smile before going back to explaining. 

Satoru watches this whole interaction, not in a burning jealousy kind of way because he knows Yu is just beyond grateful for your help. But in a yearning way, a longing way, because he wants that kind of smile to be directed towards him once more. 

A genuine smile. 

None of your smiles have been genuine whenever he’s around. It's not even a matter of it failing to reach your eyes. Your smiles always came from your heart. And one might question Gojo and say “Well how can you tell? Looks the same to me.” 

But Satoru knows. 

He knows.

He knows every single one of your expressions, there’s no way he shouldn't. He's studied your face to the point he could write books about it. He could detail what every blink, curve of your lip, and twitch of your nose meant. He's studied you to the point it’s engraved into his heart and he’ll continue to because you have and always will be his favorite lesson. 

Then he’s watching you leave with Shoko, the two of you bickering over what you should get for dinner. She says something to you and you laugh, pure and sweet. 

Gojo starts to think that this whole “friendly” thing is never going to work. 

At least not for him. 

And maybe not for you either.

"I’m not going, I have something to do next week.” 

“Bullshit,” Naomi calls you out on your lie and Shoko nods in agreement. 

You keep your eyes laser-focused on your lab report, you don’t want them to see the sadness you’ve been doing a damn good job at hiding. 

“All you do is go to class and do your homework, you have nothing going on in your life,” Shoko adds. 

You side-eye her, your lips falling into a displeased frown. She’s right but that doesn’t mean you want her to verbalize it. And it’s not like you don’t want to go to the Marine Biology department’s fundraiser and support Nao, but it's the date that is keeping you from finding it appealing. 

May 14th. 

The date of the fundraiser. 

And the date of what would’ve been your two-year anniversary with a certain white-haired individual.

And you can’t blame your friends for not realizing what that day that is, nor do you want to tell them. You want to avoid the looks of pity and the attempts to cheer you up; all you really want to do is wallow in your room until the day passes. And you want to avoid Satoru as much as you can. 

But the way both of the girls are looking at you is telling you that your plan of sitting alone in the darkness of your room with music blasting is not going to happen. There’s no way out of this unless you tell them the truth and somehow that seems worse than just giving in and attending the event.

“What do I have to wear?” You ask with a sigh. 

Gojo sheds his suit jacket, the heat of the room and his emotions that are running on overdrive are raising his body temperature to unpleasant levels. He wants to be anywhere but here, he should be at home sleeping away the thoughts of an anniversary that never came to fruition, however, Suguru insisted he come and he would’ve declined if Kento and Yu hadn’t said they weren’t going if he didn’t. And then Geto was basically pleading with him to go and help support his girlfriend, and Gojo has always been weak to his best friend. 

So here he stands, black suit jacket hanging in the fold of his arm as he walks outside to get some fresh air. He’s surprised and maybe a little grateful that he hasn’t run into you; the sheer amount of people and the fact he basically became one with a wall in the furthest corner of the room is what really kept the two of you apart. It’s not like he didn’t want to see you, he always wants to see you. 

Satoru wants to see the dress you wore, the hairstyle you chose, and that beautiful face of yours. He wants to feel the comforting heat of your skin and be enveloped in the aroma of your sweet perfume. He just wants to be near you, but it's probably best for the both of you not to see each other on a day so heavy like this one. 

Maybe the gods above are rearranging the cards that determine your fate because the second Gojo steps outside, he’s greeted by very familiar bare shoulders and curly-ended braids . His heart beats rapidly in his chest as his eyes work in conjunction with his memory to permanently engrave this image of you in a dress that fits like someone made it drunk off the sight of you. You look like the cosmos personified, like the wonders of the universe were based on you and you only. 

His heart hurts, it hurts so much. 

You should be wearing this dress with him as you walk under the streetlights and cherry blossom petals fall on your hair and shoulders. Your hand should rest comfortably in his as you look up at him with a complaint written in your eyes- your heels are starting to hurt your feet. And then he’s scooping you up into his arms and you give him the sweetest smile as he carries you the rest of the way home. 

There’s no way he can move on from you. 

Satoru turns around, deciding going back inside and dealing with the heat is better than fantasizing about what could’ve been. The door creaks as he opens it and you whip your head around at the sound. 

“Satoru?”

You’re genuinely surprised and you don’t even notice that you used Satoru instead of Gojo. You’ve been trying to keep that distance between you by not addressing him so familiarly but the simple fact of not seeing him all night and then suddenly his right in front of your eyes is shocking you back to old habits. 

His heart pounds, his name always sounded better falling from your lips.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to bother you or anything.” He takes one step inside. 

Even if it hurts to see him, even if this day is one of the most painful. 

You never wanted to be around him so badly. 

“You’re hot.” 

Gojo's cheeks burn at your statement, if it weren’t for your deadpan voice it almost sounds like you’re complimenting him. 

“Nah, I’m fine.” 

“No, you’re a liar. I can see how red your neck is from here, just stay outside it’s fine.” 

He removes his hand from the handle, walking towards the railing of the balcony. Satoru puts a comfortable amount of distance between the two of you and he’s suddenly reminded of the similar scene that occurred at the party. He starts to wonder what conversation will happen this time. You turn your head towards him, unshed tears shining in your eyes and it takes every ounce of his strength not to immediately pull you into his arms. 

“It’s our anniversary.” You whisper out, broken. 

You don’t know why you suddenly said that but maybe you’re craving something from him. You want to be truly seen in your feelings, and oddly enough the only person who can provide comfort and truly understands what you’re going through is the man who is part of it all. 

Gojo lets out a shaky exhale, his knuckles turning white as he grips onto the railing. When you left for the other side of the world, there was so much he wanted to say to you and this might be his only chance to do so.

“When we broke up,” He starts and you stiffen at the memory but you don’t stop him, “I should've fought harder for you. I should've done more to reassure you that it would be better, I would be better.” 

Then Satoru looks at you, his expression just as broken as yours but there’s a sad smile on his face. 

“But you know I can never say no to you. And I knew at that moment even if you didn’t want to break up with me, you thought it was the right thing to do.”

You take half a step closer to him, “I never thought it was the right thing to do. I thought it was the only thing. I tried to justify our behavior in so many ways, I wanted to blame it on us being young and dumb and not knowing how to love properly but even now we aren’t that much older.” 

Your words are now replaced with silence because no matter how much you want to deny it, both of you are right. It might’ve been the right thing to do at the time and you are still young, learning to navigate the world and all the dreams and nightmares that come with it. 

But, six months apart is a long time for lovers and a lot of growth can happen when you have the time to realize where things went wrong. 

Satoru closes the space between you, draping his jacket over your goosebump-covered shoulders. You don’t move away, you allow yourself to soak in the scent of his cologne and enjoy the warmth he brings you. 

“I’m sorry.” He says softly. 

“I know. And I’m sorry too.” 

And as if to test the waters, your fingertips brush against his wrist and without a second wasted, he slips his hand into yours. 

It feels like heaven, it’s comforting in a nostalgic way. It feels oh-so-right, like the last two puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly. And then you realize the feeling never changed and nothing else will ever be enough. 

A love like this only happens when the stars align perfectly and it would be foolish to let it slip away again. 

Satoru runs his free hand through his silky hair and you look up at him with those brown eyes he loves so much. 

“I can’t do this.” He says, a little bit of frustration leaking out.

“What?” 

“I want to try again, please. I want to be yours again.” 

You look at him, examining the seriousness in his furrowed brows and unwavering eyes. The way he grips your hand like you would run away if there was even a millimeter of room. You don’t know if it’s a good idea but what’s the alternative? Living without him? 

The pause you’re taking is too long to be considered appropriate and Gojo’s skin tints pink at his outrageous request. 

“Ne-”

“Okay…” You interrupt him and his eyes widen at your answer, “But can we take it slow?”

He squeezes your hand, “Whatever it takes.” 

a/n: hope you guys enjoyed this chapter !!! also im trying to have the first chapter of the partner story up sometime next week,, also i think i might have tag this slow burn (but at the same time its not) ??

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