IWTV / IDV / Sleep Token /Ghost band / Yandere games ! In this house we know how to Separate fiction from reality ! (anything goes on shipping ) //🇲🇽 // 20+
Reader who is freshly turned and has Lestat as their caregiver (maybe maker, but not necessarily).
Reader who clings to Lestat, and I mean cling. Like full on on their knees, claws digging into Lestat's waist begging him to hunt just one more human because you're just sooo hungry.
Lestat who just cannot refuse you, like ever, but he still needs to guide you somehow. "I know, mon amour, I know you're starving. But we have to set limits, non?"
Hey everyone! I deeply apologize for yet another long hiatus. Life has been life-ing once again, but I am back! I've been working on a nice, long chapter for you all, and I really hope you love it. Things are happening! Buckle your seatbelts, loves. Here's Chapter 5! Enjoy! :) <3
CW: light angst, yearning and fluff
Word Count: 6.4k
CHAPTER 5
The morning is kind to them; a gentle lull in contrast to the tension of the night before. Sunlight slips through the sheer living room curtains in pale ribbons, dust motes turning lazily in the warm air. The house is quieter than usual; no guitars yet, no clatter of pedalboards or laughter echoing down the hall. Just the soft, domestic hush of a kitchen coming to life. She stands at the stove in one of Vessel’s shirts she folded last night (the charcoal one that hangs perfectly off her shoulder) and a pair of his sweats, whisking eggs with easy rhythm. A second burner ticks beneath a kettle, steam fogging faintly up the tiled wall.
Wearing his clothes isn’t super ideal since they’re a few sizes too big for her and, well, she doesn’t want to just traipse in here and take over the place. She’s already claimed the kitchen, his bathroom, and her side of his bed, and adding his wardrobe to that just feels like too much all at once. She knows she needs to venture back to her apartment and gather her things, but she’s incredibly apprehensive about going back to that place knowing he’s there.
Vessel is beside her again this morning without even noticing he’d gravitated from the couch to the kitchen when she’d walked in earlier. Almost as if his body tracked hers across the room out of instinct. He’s holding a mug under the coffee machine, waiting for the last drop, eyes barely on the cup, but mostly on her. It’s a split devotion that makes his chest ache: the ordinary feeling of a morning shared, and the living, breathing miracle of having her in it.
“Too much pepper?” she asks, tilting the bowl toward him so he can see it better. He’s broken from his trance as he investigates the bowl, smiles, and replies simply, “Perfect.”
“Careful,” she teases, eyes glinting. “You’ll get a reputation for being a ‘yes man’.” He smirks as he says, “Only for you.” It comes out a bit more flirtatious than he intended, but she doesn’t seem to notice, unless she just didn’t mind it. He hands her the pepper grinder anyway. “Maybe a whisper more.” He winks at her playfully as she returns his smirk, twisting the grinder once more over the bowl.
The kettle whistles a few moments later. He turns the flame off and pours water over a waiting tea bag for IV, who sits on the counter opposite the stove like a cat, ankles crossed, flipping idly through a battered poetry book that probably belongs to no one and everyone. II drifts in a moment later, snagging slices of bread from the bag and dropping them into the toaster. III arrives loudest, yawning like a gate groaning open, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped. “My angels,” III declares, sniffing dramatically. “I woke to the scent of divinity and hoped it was for me.”
“It’s for the household,” IV murmurs without looking up, a hint of playful sarcasm in his raspy tone. “You do happen to be in it.”
“Semantics,” III says, planting a quick, thankful kiss to the top of her head as he passes. “God bless domesticity, I say.”
“God bless not eating cereal for the fourth day in a row,” II adds with a chuckle, grabbing plates.
Vessel watches her laugh; a soft burst that scrunches her nose and crinkles her eyes, and the ache in his chest becomes a slow, spreading heat. He wants this. God, he wants this so badly; the clink of plates, the smell of homemade breakfast in the morning, the way she lets her shoulder brush against his arm, chest, or back as she reaches for the spatula or a spice or the fridge door, the way she hums beautifully under her breath when she’s happy and thinks no one’s listening. He sets a mug by her elbow, coffee just how she likes it, and she rewards him with that small, almost bashful smile that makes him feel nineteen again. “Thank you,” she says, so simply it could break him.
“For the rest of my life,” he almost says. He swallows it into a warm, harmless, “No problem.” II slides past, tapping a clean fork against his palm. “How are you feeling today?” She considers honestly. “Lighter, actually,” she admits. “Still stressed, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was a few days ago, thanks to you lot.”
Vessel’s hand finds the small of her back for a second of reassurance, no more, no less, and her breath hitches. He feels it, and he pulls away before he lingers, before he can betray how much he needs that contact to feel grounded.
They settle around the kitchen island with plates; eggs glossy and bright, toast buttered to the edges, berries that Vessel rinsed until the water ran clear. III talks about gaming and future potential side-quest gigs, IV inserts wry footnotes, II steers the conversation away from work and technical things. It feels effortless and safe for her in this environment, like she can really let go and just be. For a moment.
Then, a knock sounds at the front door. It’s unremarkable, three firm raps. Not loud, not too urgent, but it holds the weight of the unexpected and unknown.
III is closest to the door. “I’ve got it,” he says, hopping off his stool, mouth still full. “If it’s a package, I am not signing for it,” he jokes as he shuffles to the door. Vessel’s fork stills above his plate. A thin wire draws taut along his spine. He doesn’t look up, not yet; he just listens. He always feels anxiety creep over him when there’s someone at the door these days.
The door swings open. A few seconds of silence pass, and then III’s voice lowers, the drawl sanding off into something flat and irritated. “Nah. Absolutely not.”
She’s already halfway to standing, plate forgotten. “What? Who is it?” Her voice is pensive and quiet as she slowly and quietly scoots her chair out with the backs of her knees until she’s standing. She cranes her neck to look past III’s tree-like form, but she can’t unless she takes a couple steps.
Vessel’s chair scrapes quietly as he rises. He doesn’t move far yet, one step only, but his body braces, shoulders tight, gaze angled toward the hallway where the entry opens into the living room. Vessel knows III never speaks to anyone like that unironically unless they’re a right piece of shit.
III’s tone sharpens and his form stiffens, shoulders squaring. “You’ve had your fun, man. Doors closed.” A familiar voice answers, oily with contrition. “I just need to talk to her.”
Her stomach drops to her knees. She knows that voice the way a struck dog knows the hand which strikes. She feels weak as a familiar cold sweat breaks out across the back of her neck and her forehead. She braces herself on the back of her chair as she’s frozen in place. Vessel’s eyes find her immediately taking in her condition, and the surge of protectiveness that washes over him is so strong it should’ve been audible. His eyes follow her as she begins to move toward the door. He’s a pace behind her in an instant. He knows she must do this for herself, but there’s no way in hell she’ll face that asshole alone.
“Don’t bother,” III scoffs. “She hasn’t got anything to say to the likes of you.” The man at the door sneers at III’s comment before retorting, “I’ll let her speak for herself, yeah?” His cracked lips part into a sick smile, revealing yellow teeth, as he locks eyes with her. “You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart?”
She’s already in the doorway, pulse roaring in her ears. The morning’s softness disappears as fast as it came; in its place rises white hot dread. Vessel is an outline at the periphery of her vision; unmoving, anchored in place. She steps forward anyway, mouth bone dry, limbs stiff as a board.
“What do you want?” she asks, voice steady enough to surprise her. Her ex is cleaner than he looked the last time she saw him; face freshly shaven, hair smoothed back, even a clean jacket that fits. Did he do laundry? He holds his hands up in a pantomime of surrender. “Just to talk.”
“You’ve said everything you had to say the other day, Josh,” she replies. His expression crumples into something wounded, practiced, almost robotic. His tone shifts from near threatening to solemn and pleading. “I was wrong, baby. I know that now.”
III snorts, rolling his eyes as he says under his breath, “He definitely rehearsed that in the mirror.” Josh ignores him, eyes fixed on her, though the twitch in his jaw gives away that he heard III’s comment. “I miss you,” he says soft, but still enough to be overheard, almost pitiful. “I’m sorry. I… I’ve been going to meetings,” he begins to count on his fingers, “I deleted all my socials. I blocked her... and her. I can show you the proof.” He pats his pocket like a magician ready to reveal a trick. “We can fix this.”
She feels Vessel’s warmth against her back, and she feels almost comforted in such an intense moment, protected, even. She feels the other two behind her; a soft reassurance from IV, a steadying presence from II. She considers kindness. She considers slamming the door in his pathetic face. This time, she chooses to be kind yet stern to avoid conflict. For now.
She squares her shoulders and plants her feet firmly beneath her, the presence of the guys giving her sudden confidence. “I’m not coming back,” she says evenly. His eyes flicker with fury before he blinks it away and regains control. He recalibrates. “We’re strong enough to get through hard things. Problems like these are normal, you know that.”
She lifts her chin, silently furious at the audacity he has to use her own mantras against her at a time like this. “You’re wrong and you know it. Problems like this are not normal, and have never been, and you should’ve never put me through the shit you have.”
Another near-microscopic jaw twitch. His eyes narrow, barely visible, not to anyone who doesn’t know to watch for it. But to her, it’s a light switch. He’s losing control.
Vessel steps closer, silent still. Not interposing himself, yet. Just drawing near enough that his shoulder would be between her and the door if she needed to step back. His hands are empty, loose at his sides, and somehow that makes him look more dangerous. III shifts fractionally in front of the threshold, his height a physical barrier. II’s attention tightens. IV closes his book and moves toward the group without a sound.
Josh tries again, voice honeyed. “Don’t do this in front of them, yeah? Let’s talk, just us. Come outside.” He dips his head toward the porch, casual. “Two minutes.”
“No,” she says firmly. A moment passes, and he gives up the act. The mask shatters. “You think this is funny?” The softness is gone; the tone turns bitter. He points a finger to each of them, adopting a mocking tone. “You think you’re better than me just because you’ve got some bodyguards now? Your cute little audience?”
She doesn’t falter. She knows this has been brewing. “I think I’m done with this, and with you.” He takes a step forward. Vessel mirrors it; one of those infinitesimal shifts you feel more than see, so slight it could be an accident, but she knows it’s deliberate. The world shifts and spins, funneling into that narrow space between them.
Josh’s jaw ticks, this time it’s obvious. “If you don’t come home with me right now,” he says quietly, yet threateningly, “you will regret it.” His hand shoots out and closes around her wrist, fingers biting fast, hard. She gasps, eyes going wide with shock as they flit between Josh’s face and his grip on her wrist.
The sound Vessel makes is nearly inhuman; a growl from the depths of his chest, his protectiveness taking charge. “Don’t you fucking touch her.” He is between them before anyone registers the blur of motion, his body a wall, his hand on her ex’s forearm as he peels it off her. He tightens his grip around Josh’s arm, his knuckles going white. “You so much as breathe wrong in her direction,” Vessel says, voice low, lethal, “and I’ll make sure you regret it.” Vessel flings Josh’s arm back toward him, punctuating his threat further.
Josh barks a laugh, all teeth, more of a twisted grimace than a smile. “What are you gonna do about it, little boy?”
The tension finally snaps. Vessel steps forward once more and shoves him back, furious, hard enough to make the man stumble back into the threshold, shoulder smacking the doorjamb with a hollow thud. III’s palm lands on the door above the fucker’s head with a bang that makes the frame rattle.
“That’s step one,” III says, voice mild, eyes anything but. “I don’t think you’d like to meet step two.” II’s already moving into Vessel’s peripheral, placing a calm hand on his shoulder, a grounding current ready to catch the surge if it crests. IV’s gaze is on her wrist, checking for marks, then flicking to her eyes; sending a telepathic with me? Breathe. IV hooks a gentle hand in the crook of her arm, leading her away from the scene. She follows robotically, clearly operating in fight-or-flight. Vessel doesn’t break eye contact with the man he just put back across the line.
“Listen carefully,” Vessel says, quieter now, and somehow that makes it worse. “You don’t come to this house again. You don’t text. You don’t call. You don’t ask anyone how she is. You don’t exist anymore. If you ignore any of that…” He leans in the slightest fraction, enough that only the ex and the door hear it. “Try me.”
Silence blooms, huge and ringing. The only sound is the kettle clicking as it cools.
Her ex straightens, mouth twisted, pride bleeding from a cut you can’t see. He glances at the three men arrayed before him; the giant, the anchor, and the storm, and finds no version of the next five minutes where he leaves without losing more than he already has.
“This isn’t over,” he says to the three of them, but he’s backing away as he says it. “Yeah,” III replies, opening the door just wide enough for one body. “I think it is.” Josh scoffs, rolls his eyes, and turns to take the stairs back down. The door shuts with a final, clean click.
The room exhales. Vessel’s first move isn’t triumph or adrenaline. It’s her. He turns, and the fury is gone from his eyes as if he ripped it out by the roots and left on the porch. What’s left is concern so fierce it borders on regret. “Thank you-” IV cuts him off. “Go to her. We’ll be here, mate.” Vessel offers a grateful smile as he nods and makes his way to the back room.
He finds the door cracked with a few inches of light from the room casting a glow down the hall. He slowly opens the door, peeking his head inside. He sees her and IV sitting on either side of the bed across from each other. IV holds her hand in his, a comforting gesture. She’s hiding her face in her other hand, but when she turns to see who’s entering the room, he can see that her face is red, and the conflicting emotions that wash over him in that moment are almost maddening. IV gives him a quick assuring smile and a nod before releasing her hand gently and climbing off the bed, patting Vessel’s back as Vessel whispers his gratitude before IV exits the room.
“Are you alright?” Vessel asks, voice rough with restraint. She nods, then shakes her head, then nods again, truth hovering somewhere between shock and relief. “I think so.” He steps forward, opening his hand toward her. She offers the arm Josh grabbed so that Vessel may give it a look. There’s a faint bloom of red where sinister fingers were. His own hand flexes like it wants the pain transferred.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the apology lands warm and heavy between them. “For losing my cool. You didn’t need to see that. I’m not... like that.” Her eyes soften. There’s a tremor in her voice she doesn’t try to hide. “You were protecting me. Thank you.”
His mouth lifts, only a little, only at one corner, as if anything more would crack him open. “Have my room for a bit,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Decompress. I’ll… take care of the rest of this. I want to make sure he's actually gone.”
Behind him, the other two have found the doorway, intent on checking on their friends. II nods once, a subtle we’ve got it. III mutters something about “installing a moat” that makes the corner of her mouth tilt despite everything.
She meets Vessel’s gaze, apology glinting through the shock, gratitude bent around nerves. There’s a gravity there that scares her and steadies her in equal measure. He has to lock his jaw to keep from tipping forward and pressing his mouth to her hairline, to keep from making a promise or a plea with his lips that his heart already made.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Just… don’t do anything stupid.”
“Define stupid,” III says immediately.
“Anything that puts us on telly,” II answers.
“Or in prison,” IV adds as he joins the doorway party.
“Or both,” Vessel finishes, eyes still on her. “I won’t, you have my word.” He steps aside, creating a clear path down the hall. “Go on,” he says to his blokes.
He turns to leave, though he feels the pull of a magnet emanating from her sullen form. The space between them hums as he forces himself to move his feet. She wants to touch his hand, to feel his arms around her, to be grounded. In a moment of such uncertainty and anxiety, she fully embraces the need to be near him, though she cannot and will not show it, not yet. If she only knew the matching internal battles they’re fighting in sync.
III blows out a long breath, shakes out his arms like a boxer between rounds. “I am starving,” he announces to no one and everyone. “Violence always makes me hungry.”
IV gives him a look as he jokes, attempting to lighten the mood. “You didn’t participate in the violence, you watched, ya knobhead.”
“It’s the empathy,” III says, deadpan. “Takes it out of me.” He fans himself dramatically, earning a chuckle from IV.
II’s palm finds Vessel’s shoulder, a steady weight. “You alright?” Vessel nods once. Twice. His jaw clenches in time with his pulse. “Yeah.”
“That was… new,” IV says gently. There’s no judgment in it. Only a truth laid on the table. Vessel’s eyes flick to the hallway, to the closed door at the end of it. “Felt... good almost. Like it’s been living under my ribs awhile.” III claps his hands once. “Right. I’ll draft a rota for front-door duty. Thirty-minute shifts. I get the baseball bat.”
“We don’t own a baseball bat,” II says.
“Then it’s a cricket bat and our brand is cultural exchange.” III looks pleased with himself. “Or we could just use II. He’s bat sized.”
IV sighs. “I’m going to make tea.”
“Make two,” II says, squeezing Vessel’s shoulder once more before letting go. “Then check on her.” Vessel nods, breath leaving him in a long, quiet stream. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I will.”
He flexes his fingers and shakes the nerves from his fingertips out once, then turns toward the hallway where his room waits and, inside it, the person his heart has been building a home around for years.
The now late morning is kind again, in its way. The kitchen faucet squeaks to life as the kettle is filled. The house resets itself gently around the new boundary carved into its threshold. And Vessel walks down the hall with a care that feels newly cemented.
Behind him, IV moves in the kitchen, the soft percussion of spoon against china. III drops onto the sofa with a huff, legs splayed, and II sinks into the armchair opposite, both of them watchful without admitting it. II clicks the power button on the remote as they settle in. Then...
Another knock.
All three freeze, then look at each other with the same identical expression: oh, hell no. III is on his feet first, shoulders already squaring. II follows, jaw tightening. They stomp toward the entryway as one, ready to drag a problem out by the scruff.
III wrenches the door open and prepares for battle. “What the-”
His eyes scan the porch, but there’s no one, not even Josh.
Just four cardboard boxes, haphazardly taped and stacked on the porch like discarded parcels.
II and III stand there for a beat, thrown off by the banality of corrugate and packing tape. Then III barks a laugh that isn’t remotely amused. “Coward.”
They haul the boxes inside, depositing them in the living room. IV arrives with a tea towel over his shoulder, brow quirking. “Anyone order chaos in bulk?”
“Let’s have a look,” II says, already crouching. He slips a finger under the tape of the nearest box and peels it back. Inside: bottles clink against each other, the soft rattle of compacts, a hairbrush caught in a tumble of palettes. It appears as if someone swept an arm across a vanity and called it done.
IV opens his and finds folded… no, not folded, crumpled women’s clothes. Familiar colors. Her cardigan peeking out like a small beige-and-white-checkered flag. A spark of anger flares in his eyes before he tucks it away.
III flips the lid on the third. Shoes. A battered paperback he recognizes from the coffee table two weeks ago. A framed photo facedown. “Right,” III says, voice gone flat. “He’s taken out the bin.”
A lightbulb flicks on in all of them at once. It’s her things. He’s dumped them like they’re a chore. And, as III glances instinctively toward the hall, he realizes she has no idea yet. “I’ll get them,” II says, already turning.
Down the hallway, the bedroom is calmer than the rest of the house, as if the walls themselves caught the aftershock and did their best to cushion the blow. Vessel is there, perched on the mattress edge, facing her. Their hands have found each other without needing permission. His thumbs trace slow, grounding paths across her knuckles, and the world narrows to that small, tender motion.
They’ve moved closer, more than likely without noticing. Inches away. The ship is drifting off course.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly. She swallows hard. “I know.” She lets out a breath that wavers at the end. “I hate that he still… gets in my head like that.”
“I know, love. He’s out now,” Vessel says. It’s not a promise, nor a threat, just a truth he intends to gently hammer into her new reality. “He doesn’t get to live in here anymore.” His hand lifts, slowly, delicately, giving her ample time to stop him or lean away, but she doesn’t. Her eyes stay locked onto his as his hand drifts to her cheek. He grazes gently with the backs of his fingers first, one soft movement from her cheek to her jaw. His hand opens, his palm cupping her cheek as his fingers find her jaw and slot around her ear. His thumb caresses small, slow circles on her cheek, and he watches as the skin under his touch reddens with blush. She’s... okay with this, he thinks to himself. Her eyes roam over his face, taking in his features absentmindedly, instinctually.
Her expression isn’t one of apprehension or question, but one of awe. His eyes drift across her face as he revels in her beauty. His eyes drift down slowly until they land on her lips. His ribcage closes in on his heart, squeezing out every last drop of control and reason. His lips part, his breathing becoming shallow. He watches as her lips draw nearer and nearer, he’s leaning in inch by agonizing inch, and she’s not stopping him. Is- is she leaning, too? he asks himself, his mind clouding with need for this moment, for her.
They’re practically sharing breath when they hear two soft knocks at the door. It creaks open slowly. “You decent?” II’s voice sounds, pitched carefully neutral.
They both jerk, guiltless but startled, and lean back by the same small measure. Their hands untwine like a secret returned to a lockbox. II steps in, eyes flicking anywhere but their faces for a respectful second as he clears his throat.
“Sorry. We’ve, uh... there are boxes. On the porch. We believe they’re for you.” He looks at her now, gentle but direct. “Might be best if you see what’s there.” A moment passes, then she swallows and nods. “Okay. Thank you, II,” she says kindly, giving him a soft smile. II nods back and steps out. The door hushes shut.
For a moment they simply sit, a new awareness thrumming in the space they left between them. Neither of them looks embarrassed. Neither regret being so close. The mutual yearning sits there, quiet and burning, and the possibilities begin to unfurl in her mind like pages of a book she suddenly wants, or even needs, to read to the end.
Vessel breaks the silence as he stands and offers his hand as though nothing about the gesture is unordinary. “Ready?” he asks with a warm smile as he looks down at her like the treasure she is to him. She slips her fingers into his in one swift motion, testing the waters. “With you.” Two simple words, yet powerful enough to set him ablaze.
They kneel in the living room together, side by side in front of the boxes. The guys make a wide, wordless perimeter around the scene: III perched on the arm of the sofa like a guard dog pretending not to pay attention, IV setting a cup of tea on a coaster on the coffee table, II hovering in that dependable orbit he keeps for people he loves.
She peels back the first lid and air leaves her lungs in a small, startled sound. Clothing, hers, crumpled like refuse. She recognizes the blue jumper she wore on their first winter market date, the dress she bought for a party she never ended up attending. Her hand hovers over a paperback with its spine broken from rereads. She flips the photo over and catches herself in the frame: laughing in the rain beneath a bus stop, a younger version of herself held at arm’s length by someone who never learned how to hold anything properly.
For a few seconds the sadness hits like an incoming tide; gradual, yet inevitable. It’s truly over. The narrative she’s clung to, if I’m better, if I’m quieter, if I’m smaller or more palatable, dissolves. A small grief for the time she can’t get back threatens to bloom.
Then something else rises to meet it: relief. Clean, bright, almost startling. The weight slides off her shoulders and hits the floor, blooming outward all around her. She can breathe. The room seems to lift and tilt toward something bright, something... beautiful.
Her face shifts, and Vessel catches the exact moment it happens. The line of her mouth loosens. The sorrow in her eyes gives way to light, then to something like joy. His chest fills so full so fast it almost hurts. He swallows against the sting behind his eyes and looks down like a man trying not to stare at a cloudless sunrise.
“Looks like he saved you a trip,” IV says softly, a small mercy in the phrasing. “Looks like he saved himself a beating,” III mutters, then softens his tone at her glance. “For the record, I am thrilled to lift heavy boxes when they’re evidence of freedom.”
“Let’s get them out of sight,” II suggests. “Bedroom? Closet? One thing at a time.” She nods, blinking fast. “Um, bedroom. Please.”
Vessel lifts the top box before anyone can volunteer. II takes the second. III grabs the third with a noise like he’s personally insulted by the weight, jokingly, of course. IV tidies the tape scraps into his palm and nudges a stray bottle of perfume back into its box with care.
They ferry everything down the hall. In Vessel’s room, the closet door slides open with a soft roll. Half the rail is empty, like it always has been. He’s never had an extensive wardrobe.
“You’ve got space,” Vessel says, casual to the point of transparent. “Loads.” She glances at the neatly spaced hangers, the shelf with folded hoodies, the little bank of drawers. She feels her pulse pick up in a way that has nothing to do with panic. “Are you sure?”
“Desperate for it,” III calls from the doorway, already backing away. “We can’t survive another week of your fashion living in a box like Schrödinger’s Outfit,” he calls as he walks down the hall.
IV nudges him. “Translation: yes.” II catches Vessel’s eye over her shoulder and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that says look at you letting her in. Then he’s gone too, herding the others away so they can have the moment to themselves.
They unpack her things together. It’s strangely intimate, this small choreography. He holds hangers, she slips fabric over them. He reaches up to the higher rail, the stretch pulling his shirt tight across his shoulders while exposing a peek of his toned stomach. She pretends not to notice, and fails. She tucks perfumes into a spare shelf in the bathroom cabinet and lines up compacts in a neat row while he clears a space without being asked.
“This is just temporary,” she says after a while, more to the closet and herself than to him. “Until I can find my own place. I don’t want to… wedge myself into your life. Again.”
He pauses mid-hanger, turns slightly. “Love, you’re not wedging,” he says softly. “You’re… home. If you want it.”
Her throat tightens. “We... didn’t talk for a long time.” Her tone is apologetic and almost apprehensive, as she’s unsure of how he’ll react to this difficult topic.
“Because you asked me not to,” he says simply. “I told myself if you ever needed me, you’d say so. And... you did.” He shrugs, small, like it costs nothing. “I’m here.”
She slides a hand down the front of a dress to smooth it and keeps her eyes on the fabric because looking at him might undo her. “I’m sorry I disappeared, Ves.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me an apology for putting yourself first, even if it was for that dickbag.” He walks two hangers to the rail and clears his throat, making it lighter. “Also, the boys will riot if you leave. They’ve tasted your breakfast. They’ve seen the light. If you go, it’s back to cold cereal and stale toast. Civilization crumbles. Looting by Thursday.”
It wins the smallest laugh out of her, her head tipping back for a second, the sound bright in the little room. “I do make a good fry-up.” He chuckles. “You do many things well,” he says before he can stop himself. He looks away quickly, masking it with a smile. “Including making a house feel like a home.”
A long, quiet moment passes. She looks at the closet, at her clothes sharing a rail with his, their colors side by side like they’ve been coordinating for years. Safety purls through her, warm and clean. Under it, something deeper stretches awake: the simple, startling truth that she likes being near him more than she has words for. That perhaps she’s done pretending the feeling is anything but what it is.
“I don’t know that I want to leave,” she admits, soft as a whisper. “Not yet.” Her gaze finally falls onto him, his eyes still glued to the closet, his resolve crumbling rapidly.
Vessel’s heart slams against his ribs so loud he can hear it roaring in his ears, and he prays she can’t hear it, too. He nods as if this is ordinary, keeping a cool exterior. “Stay as long as you like, please.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.” Her tone is almost timid as her eyes focus in on his. “You’re not.” He meets her eyes then, all pretenses gone. There’s a plea in it he hopes she can’t quite read, yet, in contradiction, he hopes she absolutely can. “You never could be.”
The room shrinks around them, the air growing tense with the words unsaid. They continue unpacking with sparse conversation. He offers a lower drawer, and she fills it with sleep shirts and shorts, smiling at the ridiculous intimacy of sleep clothes in someone else’s furniture. He shifts his hoodies to make a neat half-shelf for her jumpers. She slots her shampoo and soap in his shower, where there is, conveniently, the nicest water pressure in the house. It all takes on the shape of a life, not just a visit.
When they’re done, the boxes are flat and stacked by the door for recycling. Her scent threads through the room, mingling with his. He watches her brush her fingers along the row of hangers, like she’s checking the reality tethers. She glances back at him, smiling.
“Thank you,” she says. The words carry more than politeness. Gratitude, yes, but also relief, and a new, cautious joy. “For the rest of my life,” he almost says again. Instead: “Always.”
She steps closer, only a half-step, enough that he feels the warmth of her. “I feel… safe here,” she says, and he has to look at the floor for a second so his face doesn’t show everything his heart is screaming. “Good,” he manages. “That’s the point.” He wants to add and wanted and loved, but the moment doesn’t seem to require it, not yet.
Down the hall, the TV comes to life along with laughter from the guys. She looks at the closet one more time, then at him. “Tea?” she asks, like they haven’t just broken new, possibly life-changing ground.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Tea.” They walk out together, shoulders nearly touching, and the house seems to widen to make room to accommodate them. In the living room, where chaos was, there is only the soft debris of morning: plates, a folded blanket, and game controllers in the hands of their shared friends in the midst of what appears to be a tense round of MarioKart. It looks like the beginning of something, or at least, time to begin again.
taglist: @deathcapbunny @disastrous-delusions @yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom @lynzeequitlollygagging @blackcherrywhiskey @thedemonofsodom @mysticmorning1 @xnikix02 @javdery @whereismysertraline @embalmmeaesop @astraea89 @dravenskye @kalliphorne @evisnotok let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted here :)
I'll tell anyone about adblockers btw. I got ublock origin installed on the laptop at drag karaoke once because the youtube ads were driving us all insane. I told my physical therapist about it so she could fix her background music. from about 2012-2021 I essentially never saw an ad unless it was on the subway and I want everyone to be able to live like that
Here's chapter two for your reading pleasure! Proceed with a bit of caution, as themes of cheating are portrayed in this chapter. It gets much lighter after this, so please stay tuned! Enjoy <3
The faint clink of metal on glass wakes her before she can begin to comprehend what that sound could be. The room is dim, still heavy and clouded with the weight of sleep and dark of night, but there’s a soft spill of light from a small crack in the bathroom door, cutting a golden line across the bedroom rug.
She doesn’t move. From where she lies, still facing the wall, she can make out another clink, this time sounding more like glass on... porcelain? Fear strikes through her as rapid thoughts fill her mind. An intruder? She quickly and quietly pats the bed behind her, feeling for her partner, if one could even call him that. Her hand finds nothing but cold sheets.
The sharp intrusive scent of smoke and dark musk suddenly rolls into the air. Undeniably cologne. The expensive glass bottle he only ever wears when he’s going somewhere important. The one she bought him. He hasn’t used that scent on a date, or anything else for that matter, since the third month, so why the hell is he using it now?
She blinks at the darkness in front of her, forcing her breathing to stay slow and even, the practiced rhythm of someone pretending to sleep. The quiet sound of his shoes scuffing against tile fills the space between them. The sliver of light expands farther, farther, then disappears completely. The bathroom door clicks closed slowly, then her ears detect the rhythmic sound of bristles against rubber as it grows louder, then fades altogether. Footsteps. He’s leaving the room.
And then it hits her like a crashing wave, low and deep in her gut, overwhelming every orifice of sense and emotion. Her chest tightens, breath catching almost imperceptibly. A thousand excuses scatter through her mind. Maybe he’s meeting a friend, maybe he couldn’t sleep and needed air, but none of them stick. None of them can stand against the way he’s moving so carefully, deliberatly, and quietly. The usage of the cologne. The way the front door clicks closed a moment later without him saying a single word.
The silence that follows is utterly suffocating. She stays curled in the same position, eyes burning, head spinning. The mattress feels cold now, like the warmth went with him. A hot sting builds behind her eyelids, but she presses her fist against her mouth, muffling the sound of her own breathing, swallowing back every broken sob that threatens to claw its way out. She stares into the dark until her vision blurs and her eyes scream for respite.
Time becomes nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. Minutes. Hours. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t sleep or sob.
The front door opens again sometime after two in the morning. His steps are light and measured, the same as when he left. He smells like the same cologne, only dulled now by the scent of night air and... something sweet, floral, and maybe powdery. Unmistakable perfume. Her stomach drops through the bed and to the floor as her eyes gloss over before she clenches them shut so intensely that white spots flit behind her eyelids. He doesn’t touch her or pull the comforter over her shoulders, doesn’t even brush against her as he climbs into bed.
She keeps her eyes shut, waiting until his breathing evens out before she moves. She leaves the bed as slowly and quietly as she can muster. My turn to be sneaky, she thinks to herself. She tiptoes around the bed, watching him like a hawk to ensure that he stays asleep. Her eyes lock onto her target on the nightstand as soon as it becomes visible. Her fingers are nearly ablaze when she reaches for his phone.
It only takes three swipes and the smallest tap for everything to shatter.
Two months worth of messages.
Pictures.
Location and message history that line up perfectly with the nights he told her he was working late or meeting with friends.
Words that make her stomach turn and set her skin on fire: I can’t wait to see you again. That was amazing. See you soon, baby. She doesn’t suspect a thing.
The air feels sharp in her lungs as she sets the phone down in its previous position, carefully and quiet as a mouse. Her hand trembles as she swipes a tear from her eye. No more will I cry over this pathetic sack of wasted oxygen, she thinks to herself.
She moves through the room like a phantom, pulling clothes from drawers, stuffing them into the nearest bag. Her breath comes quick, shallow, and she grimaces as the sound of the zipper seems loud enough to wake the dead. She grabs essentials; toothbrush, charger, wallet, hairbrush, soaps from the shower, and her coat. The walls feel like they’re pressing in on her, the smell of him clinging to everything. The memories of things that have happened within these walls, both beautiful and disgusting, flash through her mind as she moves toward the door, opening it gently.
She walks down the driveway and onto the sidewalk when it hits her. Where will I go? Her face relaxes as his face flashes through her mind, and she immediately knows who to call upon. She feels awful for calling him so late, but this is urgent and she’s just sure he’ll understand. Her hand is shaking when she reaches into the pocket of her sweatpants for her phone.
It rings only once before Vessel picks up. “Hello?” Her throat closes at the sound of his voice. She forces herself to swallow and take a deep breath. “Can you-” The words splinter and break apart in her throat. Her mouth opens but nothing is uttered. She closes it, wets her lips and rolls her eyes at herself and her humiliating situation, and opens her mouth to try again. “Can you come get me?” She croaks through the lump in her gullet.
There’s a pause, quick and tense. “Where are you?” he replies, his voice deep and loaded with concern.
She gives her apartment address, the explanation barely coherent. He doesn’t press for details, he’s quick and straight to the point. “I’m on my way. Ten minutes.” Click.
The cold of the concrete seeps into her bones as she lowers herself onto a curb to sit and wait for her saviour to arrive. Hell will freeze over before she’s ever to take another step into that house.
It’s colder than she’d originally thought, biting through her sleeves and burning at the tip of her nose. She pulls the coat tighter around her, gripping the strap of her bag so hard her knuckles go white and ache.
His car pulls up faster than she thought possible. He must’ve sped the whole way to her. He’s in gray sweats and a black hoodie, hair mussed like he just rolled out of bed. His jaw is tight, his eyes sharper than she’s seen in months, but they soften instantly as they land on her. He strides over to her side and offers a hand to help her up. He pulls her into a warm embrace as she stands. She hugs him back as if it’s natural, and he can feel her wilt and begin to tremble in his arms. His heart shatters in his chest at her pain, and he wishes with his entire soul that he could take even a mere ounce from her. Hell, he’d take it all for her if he could without a second thought. He knows she was never meant to hurt like this. To love and pour everything into someone just to be slapped repeatedly in the face. She never, ever deserved this, and he absolutely loathes the one who’s done this to her.
He releases her after her arms fall from around him, and he takes a step back to take her in. She looks dreadful, the poor thing. She’s clearly exhausted, and it’s clear that she made a hasty escape. She gives him a small, sad smile and his heart sinks in his chest. He vows at that moment to be the one to bring her smile back; to restore light back into her sad eyes, no matter what it takes. The rough pad of his thumb brushes across the soft porcelain skin of her cheek, stopping a tear before it can fall from her jaw and deposit in her hair. He offers her a sympathetic look as he gently jerks his head toward the car.
She slides into the passenger seat after he loaded her bag into the trunk and insisted on opening her door and guiding her in, and the second the door shuts behind her, the tears come like a monsoon. But she doesn’t cry for that piece of garbage, no. She cries for herself and just how long she let this go on, hoping ignorantly that one day, things would be okay again. For all the time and patience she wasted on someone who would certainly never do the same for her.
He doesn’t tell her it’s okay, because it’s not. Instead, he just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other flexing restlessly on his thigh. His gaze flickers to her between turns and red lights, lingering for a heartbeat longer than it should. He takes deep breaths to keep himself grounded, but the only thing on his mind is how close she is to him and how he wishes to permanently disfigure the piece of shit who’s done this to her.
How can one be so incredibly blind and ignorant not to see the absolute diamond which sits in front of them, begging to be loved properly? Offering herself and all that she can give and do for you on a silver fucking platter, just to be ignored and abused? Absolutely preposterous.
She catches none of Vessel’s stolen glances and internal battles as her head rests on the car window, eyes fixed on the blurring visuals passing by mind somehow both completely full and devoid of anything. But his chest is burning, his heart pounding, his hands aching with the need to pull her into him, to make her believe she’ll never have to feel this again. That there is more to love, and that she deserves everything good both he and the world have to offer.
By the time they reach the band’s shared house, she’s gone silent, though her cheeks are still damp. She doesn’t wait for him to open her door. She’s out, pulling her bag from the trunk and hauling it over her shoulder, heading for the front door like she can’t get inside fast enough.
The others are still awake, gathered in the living room after Vessel’s loud exclamation of what he’d like to do to the guy woke up the members of the house in a panic. Everyone knows Vessel does not yell like that unless it’s something dire. She rushes past them without a word or even a passing glance, her eyes trained on the floor as she beelines for Vessel’s bedroom. The door clicks shut behind her, and she drops her bag, rips her coat off, and sits on the edge of the bed sobbing into her shaking hands.
Vessel lingers in the hallway, eyes shut, forehead pressed to the wall. His fists clench at his sides. “You gonna tell us what happened?” III’s voice is low, but it’s edged in steel. “She caught him,” Vessel answers, voice clipped. “He’s been stepping out on her for two bloody months and abusing her mentally the entire time,” he explains in a startlingly calm tone. The calm before the storm. His eyes reopen and dart around, wide and frantic.
III’s jaw works, his shoulders squaring. “Say the word, Ves. I’ll put him in the fucking hospital.” IV approaches slowly and shakes his head, voice gentle but firm. “She’s safe now, yeah? I’d say let’s keep it that way. That sack of shit will get what’s coming to him.” Vessel says nothing. His breath is sharp in his nose, his pulse loud in his ears as he fights back the urge to violently introduce his fist to the drywall.
II steps forward, catching Vessel’s arm as he turns to storm out and let his anger get the best of him. “Don’t,” II says quietly. “She needs you here, not in a holding cell, mate.” Vessel’s voice is rough, frayed at the edges. “I love her. Goddamnit, I’ve loved her for years, I’m sure you all know by now. And he-” He swallows hard. “He treated her like she was nothing. He fucking betrayed her in the worst way, I can’t just let tha-”
II’s grip on his shoulder tightens. “Yes, you can, man. What’s more important; taking your anger out on him, or showing your love to her?”
For a moment, Vessel just stands there silent, staring at II as he mulls over the drummer’s words of wisdom. “Alright. But I swear to Christ if he ever-” II interuupts with, “We know, bruv. He’s mince meat. Now get in there and make sure she hasn’t climbed out the window to go do him in herself.” Vessel chuckles dryly as he stares at the closed bedroom door for a moment, planning his next move. Then he exhales slowly and pushes it open as II pats him on the back and retreats back to his bedroom, and the other boys follow suit to their respective rooms.
He peeks in to assess before barging in, and the sight before him is enough to make him melt straight through the carpet. She’s already asleep, curled on her left side in his bed, hair spread over the pillow, tear trails glinting faintly in the dim light.
He doesn’t wake her, nor does he wish to. He just stands there in the doorway for a long time, memorizing the sound of her breathing and the sight of her in his bed, wishing it could wash away the ache in his chest. Even as devastated and disheveled as she may be, she’s still utterly breathtaking to him. Gazing upon her like this, with the pale moonlight shining through his window and gently cascading across her peaceful, ethereal features, he can finally understand why people in the 18th century were compelled to paint the forms and faces of those whom they loved.
taglist: @deathcapbunny @disastrous-delusions @yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom @lynzeequitlollygagging @blackcherrywhiskey @thedemonofsodom @mysticmorning1 @xnikix02 @javdery @embalmmeaesop @astraea89 here you go! Let me know if you'd like to be added here <3
Hey lovelies! It's been quite some time since you've heard from me, and for that I apologize. Life has been chaotic and busy, but I'm so glad to be back! This is the beginning of what will be a multi-chapter work inspired by a request from @embalmmeaesop! I'm very excited to finally feed my wonderful followers again, and I hope you all enjoy! This one starts out with some angst and toxicity (not from any of the band members) but I promise it gets much better later on. Who doesn't love a good slow-burn friends-to-lovers trope? Enjoy! <3
CW: this chapter contains toxicity and narcissism from fem!reader's current partner, breaking objects, dark themes, slight mentions of PTSD. Proceed with caution with this one, but the next chapter will be lighter!
Word Count: 1.9k
The roses are out of place and simply feel wrong, though it's not of her own volition that she's been conditioned to fear gifts from him. She notices them the second she steps through the door, and her stomach, along with her mood, drops to her knees.
They have perfect edges, crimson curling outward like a dark art, wrapped in black paper tied with silk ribbon. A full bouquet of twelve stems sits dead-center on the kitchen table in a clear glass vase, gleaming under the weak afternoon light, casting foreboding shadows across the gray and black speckled granite countertop. The stems are trimmed evenly at a clean-cut 45 degree angle. She knows they had to have been trimmed and arranged professionally. Considering she’s essentially been his housemaid for the past seven months, she knows he couldn’t do such a neat and tidy job if one paid him to.
And beside the vase, like a prop in a play, there’s a small cardboard jewelery box. She blinks once, then again as she struggles to comprehend what warrants such spoil. She attempts to pull even a stitch of joy from the recesses of her mind, but the pit in her stomach only grows instead. She sighs deeply, then casts a glance over her shoulder, as if someone else might appear and claim them. But there’s no one here; just the faint hum of the fridge, and the sickly sweet scent of roses.
“Babe?” His nasally voice drifts from the bedroom, lazy, like he’s been waiting for her reaction. She rolls her eyes as she dry-swallows and forces a small smile when he emerges, barefoot in sweats and a white wifebeater dappled with strange stains in various shades of brown, holding his phone in one hand. The other hand sports dirty fingernails and a can of Monster undoubtedly supplied by her. He leans against the doorframe, eyes flicking to the flowers, then to her, that maddening, arrogant smirk curling the corner of his cracked lips. “Well?”
“They’re beautiful,” she says, meaning it, but the words are cautious and loaded. “What’s the occasion?” she asks, praying he deosn’t detect the dread seeping in behind a smile that doesn’t meet her dull, yet full eyes. Full of forced, counterfeit excitement in hopes of appeasing him. Then again, essentially everything she does is solely to appease him. The soles of her feet ache from the constant eggshells she must tiptoe across daily. Her shoulders tense as his expression shifts, the smirk quickly replaced with a deep frown as his eyes darken subtly. Shit.
His jaw ticks as he pushes himself from the doorframe which he was leaning on, his arms unfolding as he takes a slow step toward her. “Occasion? Can’t I just do something nice for my girl just to be fucking nice?”
And there it is. His facade splinters as his anger and rage tear their way through; the real him making it’s usual appearance. He gently places his phone and energy drink on the counter to his left; a stark contrast of what she’s sure is about to come. It never gets less jarring to watch his mood shift so extremely in mere seconds. She mentally braces herself for the impending verbal and emotional impact.
“I didn’t mean it like that, I just-” She cuts herself off, taking a breath and leaning against the countertop to her right. Her fingertips cling to the underside of the granite; anything to steady the tremble in them and ground herself. He always finds a way to reform her words into daggers. “It’s not… you don’t usually do stuff like this, that’s all,” she tells him gently, in a voice hardly above a whisper as her eyes struggle to find his.
“Right. So I’m a bad boyfriend unless I buy you expensive shit every day?” He gives a humourless laugh, shaking his head and flinging his arms out to his sides before crossing them over his heaving chest. “God, you’re unbelievable sometimes, you know that?”
The tension threads through the air, pulling tighter with each beat of silence. She can hear her pulse in her ears as heat climbs the back of her neck and dread steeps in her stomach. She sucks in a breath as she steadies herself, her shoulders climbing practically to her ears. “I didn’t say that,” she tries again, softer this time. “I just… want to know why.”
That’s all it takes for his expression to fully curdle. His arms fling from their folded position over his chest as he strides past her, plucking the bouquet from the table with a quick, jerking motion.
“If you don’t want them,” he says, voice pitched low and dangerous, “ if you can’t be fucking grateful for them... then you don’t get them.” Her eyes widen as a hurricane of outcomes crashes through her mind.
“Wait-!”
But he’s already moving, shoving the flowers straight into the bin, vase, water and all. Petals scatter against the floor like blood drops as he shoves them straight to the bottom, his disgusted gaze shifting back and forth between the roses and her. Tears sting at the corners of her eyes as she watches the beautiful scarlet roses break over and effectively die in front of her. She gasps in horror at his aggression, hands flying up to grasp at her mouth. Through her terror she realizes that that was probably the best option out of all the other times he’s destroyed things.
The jewelery box is his next victim. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat when he picks it up, and she takes a step forward with stopping him being her mission. He instantly shoots her a glare of hatred and warning, stopping her in her tracks. She takes several steps back, a tearful “Please...” falls from her trembling lips, but in vain as he flips it open and pulls out the delicate silver bracelet, dangling it tauntingly at her eye level. He dons a smug, loathesome grin as he watches her shrink back and cover her face instinctually. She squints her eyes and grits her teeth as she waits for the impact of the metal, but it doesn’t come. She opens her eyes just in time to watch him snap the delicate jewelry in two with a swift, calculated motion.
Pieces of metal and small charms from the ruined chain scatter to the floor with delicate tings, but they echo through her ears like a gunshot in an open meadow. She feels a tear slip down her cheek and settle into the crevice of her lips as she rights herself. Her arms fall limply to her sides as she wilts, despair adorning her otherwise soft, beautiful features. At least he didn’t throw it at me this time, she thinks to herself. Her head pounds as she looks at him again, and it’ll never cease to vex her how he switches from violence back to ordinary in seconds. His face is relaxed save for the lingering look of disgust in his eyes as he locks them with hers.
“Happy now?” His tone is almost conversational, but the muscle in his jaw is working double-time. “You can’t accuse me of having an agenda if I don’t give you anything, right?” Her hands curl into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms as frustration wells in her chest. “I wasn’t accusing you-”
“Sure sounded like it.” He cuts her off with a scoff, turning away, already done with the conversation. He retrieves his phone and drink from the counter before retreating back into the office-turned-mancave.
The fight drains out of her in one slow, shuddering exhale. What’s the point? She could argue every word, every look, every blatant display of disloyalty or hatred and he’d still spin it into her fault. He’s got it down to a damned art.
She quietly slips away before he can turn around to say anything else, and she retreats down the hall to the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind her, blessedly muting the sound of the TV he’s already turned on in the other room. How long can I keep doing this, she asks herself with her head in her hands. She doesn’t even sniffle as the tears leak from her eyes and hit the cream-colored rug below. She leans forward, elbows on her knees as the weight of the interaction settles over her like a dark cloud. She knows it’s not always this bad. He’ll be in a better mood soon, then she’ll re-emerge to make dinner and they’ll discuss their day as if nothing ever happened, just like usual. Like every. Other. Time.
It wasn’t always like this. In the beginning, there was a pretty continuous flow of gifts, dates, and outings. There was never any unkind words spoken, no tension or suspense or bracing for impact. She’d really thought he was the one at one point. Maybe she still does at times when things are good. But how many more episodes like this can she take? She feels more and more of herself wasting away each time he loses his temper, or she screws something up. Where did I go wrong, she asks herself silently. What did I do to ruin things like this?
She loosely shakes her head as she reaches for the tissues on her nightstand. When she lifts the tissue box, her phone enters her sight. Her eyes linger on it for a moment before diverting to the tissue she’s removed from the box. She cleans her face, then throws the tissue into the bedside bin. She knows she shouldn’t bottle this up, she knows it’s unhealthy. But he doesn’t need to be inconvenienced by her drama. He’s probably doing something with the band or something to do with music and shouldn’t be interrupted. She tells herself that this will pass soon and she’ll feel foolish for ever bringing him into it.
Though it seems he does always know what to say to talk her down or reassure her that she’s not the problem despite the screaming voices in her head telling her the contrary.
Her phone is in her hand before she can talk herself out of it and begin the bottling. She doesn’t think more about it, she just types.
You: Are you busy?
The reply comes quicker than she expects, as per usual.
Ves: Not for you. What’s up?
And that’s all it takes. The tight knot in her chest loosens just enough for her to breathe again. She tells him everything, the words tumbling out in a mess of short sentences and shaky thumbs. The flowers, the bracelet, the way he destroyed them without flinching.
She stares at the screen until it blurs, biting the inside of her cheek. Her chin trembles as she slowly types out a response, forcing herself to re-read his words over and over, to comprehend them and find them true.
You: I don’t know anymore.
His reply is immediate.
Ves: No, none of that bullshit. You do. You’re worth vastly more than this. He doesn’t get to make you question yourself.
Her eyes sting and the small letters which her thumbs hover over blur together. She swipes at her eyes quickly, then wipes the dampness off on her navy blue jeans. What did she ever do to deserve a friend as marvellous as Vessel?
You: Thanks, Ves.
Ves: You don’t have to thank me, love. Just… promise me you’ll remember that. Please.
She imagines his voice as she reads his message; soothing and certain with that quiet conviction that’s always been her anchor.
What do we think? Is it gonna be a real page-turner? I'm excited for what comes next! New chapters very soon :) <3
taglist: @deathcapbunny @disastrous-delusions @yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom @lynzeequitlollygagging @blackcherrywhiskey @thedemonofsodom @mysticmorning1 @xnikix02 @javdery here you go! Let me know if you'd like to be added here :)
My heart goes out to everyone who’s been affected directly or indirectly by suicide, and if you’re suicidal, I hope so much that you get the help you need to feel better again 💕
I’ll always reblog this. If you’re struggling, there’s no shame in asking anyone for help. We’ve all been there! Please remember that you’re somebody’s someone. Please don’t listen to the liar in your head; you are loved, you are needed, and you belong here! 🫶🏼🫶🏼
This was a request, and I hope you like it anon! This might be one of my favorites that I've done, neck and neck with Mine. Enjoy!
Content Warning: Suggestive content near the end, but mostly just tooth-rotting fluff
Word Count: 5.1k
Vessel knew from fairly early on in the relationship that you were the one he wanted to have and to hold. From the way you calmed his nerves before a show with nothing more than your hand on his chest and a whispered, “Breathe,” to the way you refused to go to bed angry, insisting on talking things through, no matter how tired you were. He fell for you in a quiet, steady ache that built day after day, until loving you was as natural and necessary to him as air.
It wasn't a dramatic epiphany, no blinding light or cinematic lightning strike, just moments. Dozens of soft, barely even noticeable moments that stitched together until he couldn’t remember a version of himself that wasn’t completely enthralled with you. The way you scrunched your nose when concentrating or when you really laugh. The way you danced in the kitchen with headphones in, completely unaware he was watching. The way you kissed his mask, without ever needing to see the man beneath it to know and love him.
You never asked him for more than he could give. But he always wanted to give you everything.
The first conversation about marriage had been gentle and curious. You were curled up together on his sofa in the dead of winter, a film forgotten on the screen, your body warm against his under a shared blanket. You'd tilted your head, eyes soft with sleep, and asked:
"Do you ever think about getting married one day?"
He'd blinked slowly, heart suddenly thudding in his chest, but his voice was calm when he replied, "With the right person, yes."
You hadn't noticed the shift in him; hadn’t seen the way his fingers twitched with the urge to hold your face and tell you that he already had the right person.
From that day on, the idea had rooted itself inside him.
Over time, it grew like ivy, wrapping around his ribs and taking root in every crevice. He began planning without even meaning to. Scanning the jewelry section of any store he shopped at that had one. He took mental notes of the things you loved: peaceful evenings under the stars, nature trails and botanical gardens, hibiscus flowers and lilies. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about the ocean, even though you'd never seen it stretch endlessly to the horizon in person.
So, he started weaving the idea of this trip, and framing it as an anniversary getaway, something quiet and intimate. Something meant just for the two of you. In truth, he'd been planning your engagement for months.
And now, it was happening.
You were beside him on the plane, dozing lightly with your head on his shoulder and his fingers woven loosely through yours. Your body swayed slightly with each pocket of turbulence, but you didn’t stir. The gentle pressure of your palm against his calmed him more than any sedative ever could.
Vessel turned to look at you, not just to glance, but to truly look. The way your hair had fallen messily over your cheek. The faint crease between your brows. The little flutter of your lashes every few seconds. The swell of affection that rose in him was so intense he had to exhale softly just to keep from bursting at the seams, as he was already fraying at the edges just being on this plane to this destination, to the rest of his life.
The ring was in his carry-on. Tucked in a small velvet box, zipped in an interior pocket where he’d checked on it four times since leaving the house.
He’d custom-designed it with a local artisan; nothing flashy or oversized, just something elegant that you’d love. A delicate sterling silver band, slim and smooth, with a marquise-cut white diamond set between two smaller diamonds. He’d even had your initials engraved on the inside of the ring.
He hadn't told a soul. Not the band or his friends or family, not even II, though he'd almost caved the week before. He wanted this to be between you and him. Just as you'd like it.
You stirred against him slightly, shifting with a sleepy sigh, your nose brushing his collarbone, your eyes not bothering to open. Your voice was soft and scratchy with sleep as you murmured, “How much longer?”
Vessel glanced at the small screen in front of him. “Just under two hours.” You hummed. “Mmm. Wake me if I snore.”
“You never snore,” he said, lips brushing the crown of your head. “You make soft little… breathy noises.” You chuckled, eyes still closed. “You listen?”
“Always,” he whispered. You didn’t reply, but the way your fingers squeezed his was answer enough. Three squeezes. I love you. He squeezed back, and rested his own head against the plane window.
As the plane soared on toward the horizon, Vessel watched the sky outside shift from bright azure to molten amber, clouds stretched thin and gilded like the edges of a painting. Somewhere below, the ocean shimmered, waiting for you.
He smiled faintly, imagining your expression when you see it for the first time.
And when you say yes.
The moment your feet touch the tarmac in Maui; a warm breeze sweeps around you like an embrace. It smells faintly of sea salt, hibiscus, and something sweet, maybe plumeria. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden wash over everything.
Vessel keeps you close to his side as you both descend from the plane, his hand resting low on your back, thumb brushing in small, absent-minded circles. You know he doesn’t love flying, so you squeeze his hand tightly when you reach solid ground, silently thanking him for taking this trip with you.
He hadn’t said much about the itinerary, only that everything was “taken care of,” and that you don’t need to worry. You let him guide you, sleepy and wide-eyed, through the small airport and into a waiting car.
The drive along the coast is dreamlike. You’d never seen the ocean like this before; vast, alive, endlessly blue, rippling with the gold of the late afternoon sun. Your window stays open the entire ride, your arm resting on the edge as you stared out at it all, wind in your hair and wonder in your heart.
“Is this okay?” Vessel asks softly beside you, his voice cutting through your trance.
You turn to him slowly, eyes shining, chuckling incredulously. “Are you kidding? This is… this is perfect.”
He doesn’t answer right away, he only reaches out, fingers trailing down your arm until he finds your hand again, his palm warm and steady, grounding. His gaze lingers on your face as though attempting to memorize it; to brand you into his brain so that anytime he closes his eyes, your beautiful face is there to soothe his nerves.
Little do you know, this is his favorite version of you. Bathed in sun and salted air. Lit up by joy you weren’t trying to hide. Completely unaware of how beautiful you looked to him in that moment, with your hair alight in the sun, casting a halo around the crown of your head. Appropriate, for you are his angel. Your skin glows under the summer sun, shadows casting over the contours of your body as you twirl in the sand, head tilted back, eyes closed, fully immersed in this moment.
He loosely crosses his arms as he revels in the sight of you as you absorb the salt, sand, and sea for the first time, his heart swells in his chest as the realization washes over him that he’s truly looking at the rest of his life, and he’s never been more sure about anything ever. He smiles at you, his head tilting reverently as you do little stomps in the warm, ankle-deep ocean water. This man adores you.
He’d booked an oceanfront bungalow; standalone, tucked into a stretch of private coastline shaded by swaying palms and dotted with hibiscus bushes and collections of beach grass. It was as picturesque as a film set; warm teak wood, a sprawling bed draped in soft white linen, even a veranda that opened straight onto the sand.
He brought you to a soft halt in the doorway, Vessel standing behind you, your bodies resting warmly against one another, his front to your back like puzzle pieces. His hands cover your eyes in order to elevate the surprise. “Are you ready, my love?” he whispers, his breath warm against the lobe of your ear, and you can hear the grin on his face through the words he says. “Mhm,” you hum excitedly, nodding your head, a giddy smile spreading across your own face. He drops his hands from your eyes, allowing them to rest on your shoulders as you take in the room around you for the first time. You open your eyes and squint slightly as the low light from the room bleeds in, and as your eyes focus, you gasp, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth.
There are orchids and hibiscus petals scattered on the bedspread, and two champagne flutes waiting by a bucket of ice on the small table near the window. The low sun casts wide, sleepy beams across the floor, painting the room in shades of amber and rose gold, the chiseled glass suncatchers hanging in the window paint the room in sporadic prisms of the color spectrum. And just beyond the glass doors to the right, the ocean stretches into infinity.
“Oh…” Your breath catches in your throat as you step further inside slowly, your gaze drifting over every carefully placed detail, and you’ve never felt so seen. “Ves, this is…” You are truly at a loss for words.
You turn around to face him and you find that he’s already watching you, his eyes heavy with adoration for you.
His bag is still slung over his shoulder, fingers hooked in the strap, but every bit of his focus is on you. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
“You did all this?” you ask, voice low, touched. He nods, stepping toward you. “Every bit of it. You deserve a place that can be any semblance of how wonderful you are.”
Your throat tightens as warm tears prick at the backs of your eyes. You don’t say anything for a moment, you just step into him, arms wrapping around his middle as you bury your face into his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you in, holding you like a promise. You feel him kiss the top of your head once, then again, holding the kiss longer this time.
“You spoil me,” you whisper. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “But I’m going to.” You tilt your head up at him, playful. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a vow,” he says, voice quiet and sure. “You’ll never go a day not knowing how much you’re cherished.”
And it lands differently, those words. They aren’t flippant or poetic or abstract; they’re simple truth, deep and carved into him like scripture. You feel the weight of it settle in your bones, nuzzling comfortably into a home there.
He leads you out onto the deck just as the sun begins to sink into the sea. You stand together in the doorway, hand in hand, watching the horizon melt into hues of violet and fire. He doesn’t speak, he just holds you close and lets the comfortable silence stretch sweetly between you like warm honey.
At one point, you rest your head against his shoulder and whisper, “You really thought of everything to make this as special as possible, huh?” Vessel nods, almost imperceptibly. “And it’s not even our actual anniversary yet.” you whisper, taken aback at just how thoughtful he really is. He’d give you the moon if you asked.
“No,” he smiles. “That’s tomorrow.” You can’t possibly think of a way that he could top this. But little do you know, he already has.
Because it’s not the flowers or the view or even the carefully laid plans that makes your chest ache, it’s him. His thoughtfulness. The way he looks at you like you hold the planets and control their orbit with your hands. The way he has orchestrated this entire trip around you; your comfort, your joy, your peace. You could just cry and forever question what you did to ever deserve such a magnificent partner.
Instead, you turn and kiss his cheek. Then again, nearer to the corner of his mouth. He turned slightly, eyes warm and unreadable, and brushed your hair back with a gentle, loving touch. “You’re not even ready,” you whispered, eyes teasing. “Ready for what?” he asks, curiosity tinting his tone. “For how much I’m going to love you here.” He laughed, soft and low, pressing his forehead to yours. “Try me, love.”
The warm water rolls down your back in slow, steady rivulets, the air thick with steam and the smell of sandalwood. Your skin still tingles, pleasantly worn from the way he’d touched you just moments ago; slow and reverent, as though your body were a sonnet he’d spent his life memorizing.
Vessel stands behind you now, silent and focused, fingertips gliding through your damp hair. He’s lathering shampoo into your scalp with a gentleness that borders on worship. His touch is firm but unhurried, slow circles that lull you into a daze. You close your eyes and let your head tilt back slightly into his chest, trusting him entirely, letting him take care of you.
The water drums softly above you, and somewhere within it, you hear him exhale, quiet and controlled, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the moment.
His bare chest is warm against your back, the rise and fall of it steady. You can feel the quiet tremble in his fingertips as they comb through your hair, as if he’s trying to pour everything he feels into the movement; love, devotion, awe. His hands slide lower, massaging the soap through to the ends, and then rise again to cradle your skull like you’re something fragile, something absolutely irreplaceable.
He kisses your shoulder, then your neck. His lips are damp, and when they press against your skin, you swear you can feel his heartbeat thudding in tandem with yours. Unbeknownst to you, his heart is pounding.
You open your eyes just a sliver, the steam curling up like mist around your bodies, and murmur, “You’re being extra sweet today.”
“I’m always sweet to you, my baby,” he says quietly, but his voice is strained in that way that tells you he’s thinking hard about something.
Your brow furrows slightly, though you keep still. “What is it?”
His hands hesitate for the briefest second, then one hand withdraws to reach up and detach the handheld showerhead from its mounted fixture, bringing it between you to the back of your head. He begins rinsing the soap from your hair, taking extra caution as to not rinse the soap into your eyes.
With your back to him, you don’t see the way he closes his eyes, pressing his lips together, jaw clenched with something he’s not ready to say out loud yet. The water trickles down his face and chest, but it does nothing to cool the heat blooming in his chest.
He wants to tell you now. He wants to drop to his knees right here, wet tile, drenched hair and all, and ask you if you’ll let him spend the rest of his life loving you like this. Completely, honestly, and fiercely. He’s wanted to ask you for months, but now, now that you’re here, in his arms, with your head resting trustfully against his chest, he almost does it without thinking.
His lips part. The words are on the tip of his tongue. Will you m-
“Where are we going for dinner tonight, by the way? Not that I’m complaining about staying in all day…” you purr, smiling flirtatiously, your eyes still closed as the hot water cascades down your back, and you breathe in the clean smell of the steam.
The spell breaks. His trance is interrupted, definitely for the better. Who proposes to someone in a shower? He furrows his brows and shakes his head, shocked at his own idiocy. You don’t notice this or the way his shoulders rise with a silent breath as he swallows back the words.
Instead of answering your question right away, he leans down and presses his forehead gently to yours as you lean your head back more to meet his. It lingers there for a long, quiet moment, and then he chuckles softly, breath warm against your ear.
“You’ll see,” he murmurs. You smile, oblivious to the shift in his heartbeat, the ache in his chest. “Is it dressy?” you ask. “Just… wear what makes you feel beautiful,” he replies.
“That’s a trap,” you tease, turning in the stream to face him, water cascading between you. “Everything makes me feel beautiful when you look at me like that.”
He doesn’t laugh this time. He just gazes at you, eyes drinking you in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. He swears every time he looks at you, there’s a new detail he never noticed before, and it captivates him. He raises his hand, fingers brushing wet strands away from your face, and murmurs, “That’s because you are, my darling.”
You lean into his touch, heart fluttering under your skin, and rest your hands gently on his waist. The moment lingers, long enough for his eyes to dart to your lips and back, long enough for something unspoken to swell between you again.
But he doesn’t ask. Not yet. Because the next part deserves the stars, the waves, and the most beautiful sunset the world has to offer.
So instead, he kisses your forehead and says, “Come on. Let’s get you ready.” And you don’t know it yet, but in just a few hours, your entire life will change if you let it.
The breeze lifts the hem of your dress as you walk, warm and salt-kissed, soft as a whisper around your ankles. You’re barefoot in the sand, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead, molten gold rippling across its surface. The setting sun dips lower by the minute, casting firelight over the sky in streaks of peach and rose and lilac. You’d said earlier that it didn’t even look real, and Vessel had only smiled, watching you with something brighter than the sunset in his eyes.
Your dress sways around you, white cotton patterned with soft pink hibiscus petals accented by varying shades of green leaves. He told you earlier you looked like summer incarnate; like a dream come true.
Vessel walks beside you, the fine sand crunching softly underfoot, his hand clasped in yours. He’s wearing a simple white tee and soft tan cargo shorts, effortlessly handsome in the way only he can be. Sunlight dancing across his arms, the sea breeze ruffling the fringe of feathery hair at his forehead. He hasn’t let go of your hand once since you stepped onto the beach.
Not when he showed you the secluded pathway down the cliffside, not when you gasped at the beauty of it all, not even when you paused to take a thousand photos of the horizon.
And still, even now, his fingers remain laced with yours like a silent vow.
You don’t know it yet, but his heart is thundering in his chest so loud he’s certain you’ll hear it. Every moment you smile, every time you tilt your head toward him and squeeze his hand gently, he comes one step closer to falling apart in the best possible way.
“I didn’t think anything could top yesterday,” you say softly, a soft gasp escaping your lips as a breeze lifts your hair and cools the back of your neck. He turns his head to you, smiling gently. “It was never about topping anything.”
“No?” you ask, turning to look at him adoringly. “No,” he murmurs. “It’s about showing you what our lives could look like together. All the things I dream of giving you. You deserve the world and everything beautiful it has to offer.”
You squeeze his hand again. “You’re doing a damn good job, Ves. I’ve never felt so special or wanted in my life.”
He chuckles, nervous now, and slowly guides you toward a little flat area just off the shore where the rocks cradle a small clearing, safe and soft beneath your feet. A blanket lies in the sand, with two tall glasses of sparkling water, and the faint trace of music; gentle strings, like something classical wafting from a speaker tucked neatly behind a driftwood branch.
You blink, heart skipping. “When did you set this up?”
“I have my methods,” he says grinning, and something in his voice wavers. You sit beside him, stretching your legs out in front of you, and tilt your head, resting it on his shoulder. The last rays of sunlight cast a warm glow over everything, painting him in gold.
And when he breathes in, it shakes. This is it. He turns to face you fully. His hand slides from yours and moves to your cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye as if memorizing the gentle slope of your face.
“You know,” he says quietly, voice velvet-smooth, “I knew from very early on.” Your gaze softens. “Knew what?”
“That you were it. The one I wanted by my side for the rest of our days.” His voice hitches, not from nerves, but from emotion too thick to hide. “From the way you calm me before I walk onstage. The way you kissed my hands when you knew I just wanted to break down or break things. From every conversation where you listened with your heart instead of just your ears.” He’s trembling now.
And then, he shifts.
Slowly, nervously, Vessel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. He doesn’t open it immediately. Instead, he kneels before you there in the sand, as the tide begins to lap closer, the breeze rising to carry the words that he can’t hold back anymore.
“I know you hate big gestures and cliches,” he says, laughing softly through the crack in his voice. “And I know crowds make your hands shake and your chest tighten. But I couldn’t ask you to marry me in the corner of our kitchen or under fluorescent lights. I wouldn’t. You told me once that you always dreamed of seeing the ocean swallow the sun, and I - I want to be the one who gives you every dream you didn’t think you’d get to live out.”
He opens the box.
The ring glimmers like starlight inside.
“I didn’t bring you here just to celebrate our 3-year anniversary,” he whispers. “I brought you here because there isn’t a place in this world that could hold how much I love you, and because you deserve to see the most beautiful sights in the world as I ask you to be my wife. My love, my beautiful angel. I want to be with you, every day, for the rest of our lives.”
Your hands fly to your mouth. Your eyes sting as he lifts his gaze, eyes glassy and wide.
“So… will you marry me?”
And for a moment, you can’t breathe. Everything comes to a halt as you hear the blood rushing to your ears. The ocean hushes. The sun halts mid-sink. Your body floods with warmth so deep, so overwhelming, that all you can do is nod. But then you find your voice.
“Yes,” you breathe, breaking into a smile so wide it hurts. “God, yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!”
He exhales a laugh of disbelief, of wonder, of finally.
You tackle him into the sand, arms around his neck, the ring box forgotten for a moment as he cradles your face and kisses you full on the mouth; long and deep, like he’s been waiting lifetimes to feel your yes on his lips.
The waves crash behind you. The sun kisses the water goodnight. And in his arms, you already feel like this is your forever home. The rest of your life. And you could not be happier.
As you sit back up on the blanket and smooth out your dress and hair, he sits up next to you and open the ring box up again, plucking the ring from its velvet enclosure. You hold out your left hand and watch him slide the ring onto your finger, slipping over your knuckle with ease. You tilt it back and forth in the evening sunlight and watch it sparkle and glimmer. You smile and giggle as you’re taken aback by how beautiful it really is.
“It’s absolutely gorgeous, Ves,” you say to him, your eyes still locked onto the ring. “It’ll never measure up to you, my love.” he replies, and your heart just soars, your gaze shifting from the ring to your new fiancé's beautiful face, and you pull him into a deep, tender kiss.
The stars are out by the time you return to the bungalow.
The night has settled softly over Maui like a velvet curtain, quiet and cool in the spaces between palm leaves and moonlit waves. Vessel hasn’t let go of your hand since you left the beach, his thumb still brushing across your knuckles, as if trying to ground himself in the reality of it all, that you said yes. That you're his forever.
He opens the door for you, and you step inside to the low glow of lanterns strung from the wooden beams, casting amber warmth across the room. The windows are open, letting in the sound of the sea, and the sheer curtains sway gently in the ocean breeze.
It smells like citrus and coconut and something uniquely him; clean linen, warm skin, and something like mahogany or teakwood.
Vessel closes the door behind him, and for a moment, neither of you speak. You just look at each other.
His eyes trace your face like he’s memorizing you all over again, like the moment he dropped to one knee on the sand is etched into him, but it still wasn’t enough. There’s a kind of reverence in the way he approaches, slow and unhurried, the air between you heavy and sacred.
“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and honey. You smile, stepping closer. “Was there ever a doubt?”
His gaze flickers down to your hand, the one now wearing the promise he’s been dreaming of giving you for months. “Not really,” he admits. “But… hearing it. Watching you say it. That’s different. I’m just taken aback by the confirmation.”
Your hands rise to his chest, fingers resting over the place where his heart beats strong and steady beneath his shirt.
“You’re mine now,” he says, so softly it almost breaks you. “I’ve been yours,” you whisper, rising onto your toes. He kisses you like he’s trying to say it all again without words.
And when he carries you to the bed, it’s not with urgency. It’s with awe.
He lays you gently across the cool sheets, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek before shedding his shirt, revealing the lean strength of his form, the devotion built into every inch of his body. You reach for him, guiding him down into the covers beside you.
The bed dips under his weight, and you both shift toward each other, finding the shape you always seem to make together; tangled limbs, quiet, loaded breathing, that invisible tether that keeps you close even when you don’t speak.
His hands are warm and steady as they find your waist, your hips, the slow trail of your dress hem rising beneath his palms.
He doesn’t ask for anything. He simply looks at you, waiting. You nod, and that’s all he needs.
The dress comes off slowly, inch by inch, until it slips over your shoulders and is discarded on the floor below. He touches you like he’s tracing art across your skin, fingertips reverent, mouth tender. He kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss is a wordless vow. A promise to hold you closely and gently.
When you reach for him in turn, sliding his shorts down and pressing your palm against the heat of him, he exhales your name like a prayer. And when he finally presses into you, slow and sure, it’s like the world stills around you. The ocean fades. The wind dies out.
It’s just him, you, and the rhythm of your hearts settling into their home.
Vessel’s forehead rests against yours as he moves, gentle and steady, his hands cupping your face like you’re the most delicate, precious thing he’s ever touched.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re everything to me.”
You pull him closer, wrap your arms around his back, your legs around his hips, and hold him as tightly as you can because it feels like he might disappear otherwise; like this is just too good to be true. But he doesn’t fade or dissipate. He stays right there with you, in this moment of sanctitude. He moves with you, for you, anchored by the sounds you make and the love spilling from your eyes.
There are no fireworks. No loud crescendo. Just heavy breath, hot skin, and two hearts finally tethered. The quietest kind of ecstasy; being seen, being known, being treasured like this.
When you both come undone, it’s not with shouting. It’s with gasps and tears and whispered names. It’s with his hand pressed over your heart and your lips brushing his jaw. It’s with the knowledge that nothing in your lives will ever be the same again, and you wouldn’t want it to be.
After, Vessel pulls the sheet up over you both and brings you into his arms, holding you so close it’s hard to tell where you end and he begins.
His lips graze your hairline. “You’ve made me believe that love can last forever.” You smile into his chest. “You make me feel safe enough to believe in anything.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your fingers, now twined together over your stomach. “Tomorrow,” he says, “we’ll wake up to the ocean. And every day after, we’ll wake up to each other. But we’ll have to wake up a bit earlier than usual now that we’ve got a wedding to plan.” He finishes, and you giggle and curl closer into his chest as his hands find your side and back as he pulls you into him.
And in that quiet lull, curled up in the warmth of his body and the hush of the sea, you believe him. Because this love, it’s not just a feeling.
It’s a home, and it’s yours, forever.
@yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken I hope this is some semblance of what you had in mind anon! If anyone reading this would like to be added to the taglist, let me know!
Hi hi, idk if you're doing requests but I've been feeling down and wonder if you could write something for like marrying vessel and him singing for you as you dance at the wedding or something like that.
Thank you in advance !
Here it is! If you'd like to read the prequel titled The Love You Want, that can be found here. I hope it's everything you were looking for, and I hope it helps you feel better, love <3
Content Warning: None unless you count tooth-rotting fluff
Word Count: 3.5k
Mine
The afternoon sun gleams slow and golden, spilling warm sunlight through the gauzy curtains like a daydream.
You’re alone in the quiet room; an airy space tucked just beyond the garden’s edge, where thick ivy climbs up stone walls, and white and pink roses bloom like soft sighs. The windows are flung open, and the breeze moves through them like silk, carrying the scent of lavender and hydrangeas. It's peaceful and truly dream-like, your racing thoughts calmed by the faint singing of the windchimes hanging near the gazebo where your soon-to-be groom awaits.
Your dress is a breathtaking gown that combines the romantic and ethereal elements of bohemian style with the delicate charm of lace. It adorns your frame as if it’s a second skin, tailored specifically for you. It’s a soft ivory color, lace threaded with delicate shimmer; not ostentatious, just enough to catch the sunlight when you move. The bodice hugs your ribs like it’s always belonged there, and it gently defines your waistline, creating a flowing, hourglass shape. The neckline dips down into a V, ending right above the crevice of your breasts. The skirt cascades down, framing your hips and legs in beautiful lace and tulle, flowers and paisley patterns stitched throughout the soft, breathable fabric around your ankles. When you finally stepped into it earlier that morning, your hands trembled and your eyes clouded with joyful tears. It’s finally happening.
Your makeup is soft; dewy, glowing skin, a blush that makes your cheeks look like you’ve been kissed by anticipation, and your nose is contoured and blushed into a cute little button. Your radiant eyes are framed with brown eyeliner that fades into a soft wing, neutral shades of taupe and brown accentuating your eye color itself. You’re wearing just enough shimmer to catch the light when you blink, and your lashes have been curled and applied to perfection. Your silky, lustrous hair is swept up in a loose, romantic twist, lightly curled strands framing your face with intentional imperfection. There's a silver crescent moon-shaped pin at the back with an emerald green gem set in the middle. A gift from him.
You sit now on a small settee by the window, hands in your lap, twisting the simple gold band you’ll wear after today. You smile fondly to yourself as you imagine how that long-awaited moment at the alter will go, and the quiet buzz of anticipation hums beneath your skin. Out in the garden, you can hear soft laughter, the shuffle of chairs against concrete, the sound of strings tuning and warming up in the distance. The ceremony is soon, mere minutes now. You inhale deeply in an attempt to ground yourself, to try not to cry and thus ruin your perfect makeup.
“You alright?”
The voice at the doorway is warm and familiar. You turn and find IV leaning against the frame, his long figure still, a crooked smile on his lips. He’s dressed in a dark suit with a pale shirt underneath; crisp, well-fitted, but it doesn’t take from the softness out of his expression.
You nod, even though your throat is suddenly tight. “I am,” you say quietly, your leg bouncing subtly due to the thought of seeing your Vessel dressed so dapper, and fear that you’ll stutter over your vows.
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click, and comes to sit beside you. For a moment, he says nothing, just looks out the window with you at the rows of chairs nestled between trees and flowers, the marble altar draped in white and faint green gauze and different colored blossoms. Then he leans his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together before glancing at you sideways.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” he murmurs, smiling. “I didn’t think he’d ever open himself up to anyone again like this.” he pauses, smoothing over his slacks. “I’m quite happy that it’s you, though. He adores you, love.”
You let out a breath of a laugh, eyes misting. “I still can’t believe this is really happening,” you whisper. “It all feels so surreal. All of it. Every time he looks at me, my heart feels as if it may burst out of my chest. I’ve never felt so in love, so enamored before.”
IV’s gaze softens, something like reverence behind his eyes. “That’s how you know it’s real,” he says. “He’s different with you. He doesn’t have to say it out loud for the rest of us to see it. He’s... lighter. He breathes easier when you’re around. You put an irreplaceable pep in his step.”
You blink fast, then laugh gently as a tear escapes anyway. “I’m going to ruin my makeup.” He grins and hands you a folded cloth from his pocket; of course he’d come prepared.
“I remember the first time he told me about you,” he says, voice lowering with the memory. “Didn’t use your name. Just said, ‘I’ve found something... safe. And I don’t think I ever want to let it slip away.’ I didn’t understand what that meant until I saw you together.”
You wipe beneath your eyes and look at him with something like gratitude, or maybe awe. “Thank you,” you whisper. He shrugs, smile growing fond.
“It’s an honor,” he says, standing and holding out his hand to you. “To walk you down that aisle. To give you away to your one.”
Your breath catches. “It’s time.” you whisper. He smiles reassuringly down at you as he presents his arm to you, and you nervously wrap your fingers around his bicep as he straightens his boutonniere with his free hand.
The music outside shifts; gentle strings weaving the classic ballad of “Here Comes the Bride.” The guests have risen, and the world seems to still. You give IV’s arm a gentle squeeze, letting him know that you’re ready to walk. “Let’s go get him.” he says, smiling as he reaches for the door separating you from your beloved groom outside.
IV opens the door and guides you into the hall, and sunlight spills in, and you’re bathed in shades of blues and greens, pinks and purples from the stained-glass windows, and your skin warms as your chest fills with love and determination. It’s time.
Your feet move of their own accord, keeping in step with IV. He leads you down the hall, to a set of curtains, and they’re the only thing separating you from your jovial groom mere steps away. You offer IV’s arm another small squeeze, and that’s his cue.
He reaches forward and parts the curtains, and you both step out into the garden where the scent of roses curls through your nose, and the hush of anticipation surrounds you similarly to the warm breeze which flows through the light layers of your dress. Every set of eyes turns to you, but your eyes find only one.
At the end of the aisle, he waits.
Vessel, in a tailored black suit, his posture straight but his hands trembling at his sides. His face lights up instantly, and you can see his lower lip beginning to tremble as he takes in the glorious sight of you. Your heart flutters in your chest as you watch his eyebrows knit and his chin tremble; the reverent tilt of his head causing your mind to empty of every thought, except for three words: There’s my boy.
You walk slowly, your hand tight around IV’s arm. Each step brings you closer to something you’ve dreamed of, something worked and loved hard for, and it’s been years in the making. Some of the best years of your lives, and it’s only up from here. You feel a tear slip from your eye, but you’re too enraptured by the beautiful man in front of you to care. Your thin ivory veil is picked up by the breeze, slightly brushing the skin of your shoulder like a caress.
And then you’re there.
IV places your hand into his, and he takes it with a kind of awe that causes reverence to flood through your veins, and you’re beaming as you step up to the altar across from Vessel. His fingers are cool and steady, but when he squeezes gently, it sends sparks shooting through your nerves, your heart speeding up subtly.
He smiles down at you, his eyes rimmed with tears, and he mouths “hi”. He’s adorably nervous, and it makes you want to reach up and caress his face. Instead, you return his silent greeting and turn your attention to the officiant, who’s beaming at you both.
You stand facing each other, hand-in-hand, and exchange your vows. They’re heartfelt, raw, honest, and incredibly emotional as you agree to better or worse, rich or poor, in sickness and in health. Neither of you hold an ounce of hesitation as you speak, eyes locked and brimmed with love and tears and disbelief that this is actually finally happening.
He slides the diamond ring onto your finger, his own tremble as it slips over your knuckle and settles at the base of your finger. The smile that spreads across your face as you admire the way it looks on your hand is exuberant, almost disbelieving. You take his large hand in your small one, and as you slide the silver band over his knuckle, you feel your chin start to quiver as tears distort your vision. This is easily the happiest you have ever been in all your days, and you are so thankful that it’s him. It’s always been him, and it’ll always be him.
The kiss is featherlight at first; a breath shared between trembling lips. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you might disappear, like he still doesn’t quite believe this is real. But when you lean into him, and your hands find his forearms and gently squeeze three times, his lips part slightly and he deepens it, soft and slow, reverent as a prayer.
Applause swells in the distance, the small crowd of loved ones standing in the garden all clapping and cheering. But it all feels far away, muffled by the sound of your heartbeat and the weight of his hands that have travelled to your waist, and yours to his chest, fingers resting atop his silken lapels. Vessel pulls back only when he must, resting his forehead against yours as his hands slide gently to your hips.
“You’re really mine now, forever,” he murmurs, barely audible. “My love, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”
You breathe out a shaky laugh and nod, your hands clutching at the soft linen of his pale shirt beneath the jacket. “I adore you, my sweet.” you whisper to him, and he kisses you sweetly, his thumbs caressing your cheeks as he cups your jaw.
The next hour unfolds in a quiet blur of flower petals, champagne toasts, and small, glowing moments and laughter. The garden shifts with the golden light of late afternoon. Lanterns flicker to life one by one as the sun begins to dip below the tree line. Friends drift between small tables set beneath arching vines, their laughter mingling with the hum of string instruments tuning in the distance.
Then, the music changes.
The first few chords of the song float through the dusk air, stripped of its typical guitar and layered distortion. The string quartet begins to play the opening to a gentle melody, soft and haunting, every note arranged delicately, as though tailored for this very night. There’s a murmured hush from the guests, a few soft gasps of recognition.
You glance up, and there he is.
Vessel waits for you at the center of the garden floor, where the grass has been cleared and softened by scattered petals. The sunset casts him in warm, welcoming light; gradients of gold, ruby, and magenta fading to midnight purple are painted across the evening sky above. He’s taken off his jacket now, sleeves rolled up just slightly, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He’s arranged this beautiful, incredibly special moment just for you.
And in this golden light, he is stunning. He reaches out a hand to you, and without hesitation, you go to him.
When your fingers slip into his, he tugs you gently into him, one hand settling at your waist, the other holding your hand just above your heart and out to the side, ballroom-style. His touch is comforting and grounding, and he smiles fondly down at you as the strings swell, and he begins to sing. Not to the crowd, not into a microphone, just to you.
“I have waited…
Paralyzed by my own will
Viciously reminding me still
I'm born to believe…”
His voice is like velvet soaked in honey; soft, rich, and trembling with emotion. He doesn’t look away from you once. His eyes are locked on yours, glinting in the low light, like the sun refused to leave until it caught one last glimpse of him loving you.
The strings create a gentle and slow version of the melody, and it resonates through your chest as it settles in your bones, making a home there. The harmonies that flow from the soulful instruments wrap around you and carry you along with Vessel’s guidance, lulling your nerves and thoughts.
Each quiet lyric flows from his lips like a secret he’s held for years. His thumb strokes gently across the back of your hand as he sways with you, guiding you through the dance as though it’s something you’ve always done. Something your souls were born knowing.
“…And I am certain, no
That you and I are crashing course
Driven by a holy force
I know you can see…”
He smiles at you between lines, almost shyly. His voice wavers once, just slightly, when you move your hand from his shoulder to cup his cheek, the closeness overwhelming him in the best way. His cheeks glow with a faint pink in the low light, and his breath stills for just a moment. His hand moves from yours out to the side and finds your waist, pulling you ever-so-closer. Your hands both find his shoulders, and your eyes stay locked on his.
And then he sings the words you’ll remember for the rest of your life:
“You will be mine…”
His voice trembles. Not because he’s unsure, but because he’s never meant anything more in his life.
As the chorus fades, his hand caresses your waist, and the spin of your dance is slow and effortless as though time has slowed to accommodate only you in this moment. His lips brush your temple, his voice still low in your ear.
“You will be mine…”
And you already are. In every way that matters.
By the time the bridge begins, you’re both swaying in silence, surrounded by flickering candlelight and soft, tearful smiles from the people who love you, and the occasional camera shutter. He pulls back just enough to see your face, alight with pure devotion.
There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, glassy now, rimmed with emotion he’s too overwhelmed to hide. “Did you not say,” he whispers the lyrics, “we were made, for each other?”
You nod.
“I did.” you whisper.
He kisses you again, slow and deep this time; not in front of a crowd, not for any performance. Just for you. Just for this.
As the final note fades into the hush of evening, the garden falls quiet for a moment, suspended in the echo of the vow he just sang. And then applause breaks out again; louder this time, touched with awe and reverence. But neither of you move to acknowledge it.
Because right now, all he sees is you. His arm is still wrapped around your waist. Your forehead rests against his chest, and his heart beats steady beneath your palm. For a long time, you just hold each other like that, as if the earth itself paused on its axis to let you breathe.
“You’re mine, angel,” he says again, softer this time. As if he still needs to hear it out loud to believe it.
And you pull back just enough to smile up at him and reply, “And you’re mine.”
The wedding ends in a blur of warm light and whispered goodbyes, the garden now twinkling with golden lanterns, their glow catching in the threads of your dress as you walk hand-in-hand with him toward the waiting car. The music has faded, the last of the champagne glasses are half full and glinting under the stars, and the guests; friends, chosen family, offer sleepy smiles and murmured farewells as they see you off.
Vessel helps you into the sleek, black vintage limousine, and as the door closes behind you both, the rest of the world is gone.
The interior is dim, awash in amber accent lights. It smells faintly of peonies and jasmine from your bouquet still resting between you, and the leather is cool under your thighs. Your dress pools around you in soft waves, the delicate embroidery glinting as you shift closer. He reaches across the space between you, his hand instinctively finding yours.
For a moment, you just sit there, hands clasped, watching the glow of the garden recede through the back window as the car glides forward.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt so overjoyed and complete in my life,” he says quietly, a crooked, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His voice is raspy from singing, low and tender.
You laugh gently, leaning your head to rest on his shoulder. “You were perfect.”
“So were you,” he murmurs, eyes tracing your profile in the glow. “You were and are radiant.”
You turn slightly to face him, your nose brushing his cheek, and you kiss him again, slow and soft and lingering, like you’re both still not quite ready to let the magic settle. When you finally pull back, he’s looking at you like he wants to freeze this moment and keep it forever.
The silence that follows is soft, sacred. He threads your fingers together and raises your joined hands to kiss the back of yours.
As the city slips away and the night opens up ahead of you, you both lean into the hush between moments. No more rushing. No more preparation or last-minute details. Just the quiet arrival and settling of forever.
The honeymoon suite is warm, glowing with golden light and fragrant with soft garden air drifting in from the open balcony. You’d barely had time to admire it - all exposed wood and silky white curtains - before you were wrapped in each other again.
Now, hours later, you're lying in the wide bed, wrapped in sheets and still tangled together, skin pressed to skin under the soft cotton.
Your legs are draped over his. One of his arms is under your head, his fingers gently stroking your hair, the other tracing lazy circles against the small of your back. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek; steady and content, his breathing is a rhythm you already know by heart.
His skin is warm, marked here and there with freckles and faint scars. You trace a fingertip along the line of his collarbone, then the ridge of his jaw.
“You always smell like mahogany and rain, I love it,” you murmur sleepily.
He smiles, eyes still closed. “That’s what you’re taking from all of this?”
You laugh against his chest, pressing a kiss to the space just over his heart. “That, and the part where you married me.”
His hand comes up to cradle your face, tilting it so you’re looking at him. His eyes are soft, unguarded; no mask, no veil, just him.
“You are the only vow I’ve ever meant this deeply,” he says quietly. “And I’ll sunder the Earth to keep it.” You lean into his hand, your eyes misting a little as the weight of that truth settles around you and you know that he means it with his entire existence.
Outside the open balcony doors, the sea murmurs low against the shore. A distant breeze rustles the curtain and cools the room. Vessel leans forward to press his forehead against yours, his fingers smoothing through your hair.
“I’m terrified,” he whispers, breath warm against your lips. “Of being too much. Of not being enough.”
You reach up and place a gentle finger over his worrying lips. “You’re exactly what I need, my heart,” you say without hesitation.
He kisses you then; not with heat, but with infinite care and gratitude. His lips move gently against yours, and when he pulls away, he keeps his hand on your cheek like he’s anchoring himself there.
For a long while, you just lie together, held in the quiet afterglow of something greater than words. The room hums with a feeling too holy to name. No urgency, no rush. Just skin and breath, heartbeats and whispered promises under the soft shelter of night.
Eventually, Vessel sighs softly, curling closer to you beneath the blankets. “We’ll go anywhere you want, do anything you wish,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. “Anywhere, as long as I can wake up next to you.”
You smile, your lips brushing the slope of his shoulder. “My darling Ves, we’re already there.”
And you fall asleep like that; hearts stitched together in silence, fingers laced, his breath warm against your temple. The world outside can wait.
You’re his. He’s yours. Now, always, and forevermore.
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