#(<- talking about the asks.. literally my favorite thing to answer to)

[nocturnebite]

Someone Like You ౨ৎ

(Its always been you) - bestfriend!enha (ot7) x fem!reader

synopsis: You’ve had enough of bad dates and bare-minimum effort. But when your best friend shows up for you in their own soft, thoughtful way… you start to wonder why you’ve never looked at them like that. Turns out, they’ve been waiting for you to. fic notes: friends to lovers || comfort & fluff || soft confessions || bad date recovery || dreamy slowburn mutual pining || emotional support kings wc: about 800ish per member (5.7k total)

ash's notes: heyy back again! this one was so fun for me to write, i'm a sucker for friends to lovers troupes.. especially when it's "they knew all along". get me a man like this PLEASE.. enjoy :3

౨ৎ Heeseung - You always know

The door clicks softly behind you as you slump inside your apartment, heels dangling from your hand, mascara slightly smudged from the stress of the night. Another date gone wrong. Another charming-on-text loser who spent more time talking about himself than asking a single question about you. At one point he even took a call at the table. You’d sat there swirling a straw in a watered-down drink, wishing you were literally anywhere else.

You drop your bag by the couch and sigh into the quiet. It hums back at you with the same kind of hollow loneliness you’ve gotten too used to.

Your fingers tap against your phone screen before you even think about it.

you: had another trash date lol sorry if im bothering u just rly bummed out

You don’t expect a reply right away. But before you can even toss your phone aside, it buzzes.

hee ౨ৎ: open the door

You blink. Then look up.

Another buzz.

hee ౨ৎ: i was already on my way. figured something was up

Heart hiccuping, you shuffle to the door, unlocking it slowly—and there he is. Hoodie half-zipped, hair tousled like he just left in a hurry, one hand clutching your favorite takeout and the other carrying a fuzzy blanket you've been trying to steal from him for weeks.

“I didn’t know if you’d eaten,” Heeseung says, stepping inside like he always belongs here. He doesn't wait for an answer, just sets everything down on the coffee table and opens his arms.

You melt.

Your face tucks into the curve of his neck like it’s muscle memory. He’s warm and steady and smells like laundry detergent and vanilla and home.

You mumble, “You really were already on your way?”

“Mmhm,” he hums against your hair. “Just had a feeling.”

You don’t even question it. He always knows.

You eat curled up on opposite ends of the couch, his long legs tangled with yours under the blanket. He doesn’t ask about the date. He doesn’t need to. He just listens while you vent, eyes soft, gaze focused on you like you’re the only thing that matters.

Eventually, you’re lying with your head in his lap while he scrolls through movies on the TV.

“Something comforting,” he murmurs, already queuing up your favorite. “The one with the sad girl who finds herself and the cottage with the vines—”

“That’s a romance,” you whisper, half-laughing.

Heeseung just smirks. “Exactly.”

As the movie plays, you watch him in the flickering light — the soft shadows against his jawline, the slight smile when a familiar line hits, the way he rests his hand gently over your arm like he wants to keep you tethered here with him.

And somewhere between your chest aching and your heart warming, it slips out.

“Why can’t the guys I date be more like you…”

Heeseung flinches.

The remote fumbles in his hand and clatters to the ground with a sharp clack.

Your eyes widen. He stiffens. “Oops—uh. Sorry.” He leans down too fast to grab it, smacking his head lightly on the table and cursing under his breath.

You blink at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just—clumsy.” He clears his throat, setting the remote back carefully like it might explode again. His ears are glowing pink.

You stare at him, heart thudding.

He doesn’t look at you. Just leans back against the couch and mutters, “Want me to rewind the movie?”

You pause. “No. I’m good.”

He nods, quiet.

But the atmosphere has changed. Charged. He’s still close, still comforting, but his posture’s too stiff now, too careful, like he’s thinking too hard about breathing near you.

Later, when the movie ends and you both sit in the hush of the credits, you speak again.

“I just…” you whisper, watching the glow from the screen reflect in his eyes. “I wish I could find someone who treats me like you do. You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Heeseung freezes.

Then turns to you slowly, expression unreadable. His voice is low.

“Then why don’t you date me?”

You laugh, confused. “What—”

“I’m serious.”

You blink.

His eyes are locked on yours. No teasing. No smirk. Just honest, vulnerable silence.

“You’re serious?” you whisper.

He nods once. “I’ve always known it was you. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. And then—flutters.

His fingers inch toward yours, tentative, until they’re brushing lightly, and when you don’t pull away, he laces them together.

“I didn’t think…” You breathe out. “I didn’t think you felt the same.”

“I do.” Heeseung smiles softly, then leans forward until your foreheads touch. “I have. Every time I showed up for you, every night I stayed over just to keep you company, every moment I wished you’d look at me like that…”

You do now.

And this time, when he leans in — slow, careful, trembling with hope — you meet him halfway.

౨ৎ Jay - The way you look at me

You’re already in tears by the time you leave the restaurant.

Not the dramatic, mascara-running kind. Just the quiet, aching kind — the ones that slip out even when you don’t want them to. This one stung a little more than usual. The guy didn’t just talk over you — he insulted your interests, made snide jokes about “emotional girls,” and scoffed when you said you wanted something real. It left you wondering if you were asking for too much.

You don’t text Jay.

You don’t have to.

The second your key turns in the door, the smell hits you — warm, comforting, something buttery and spiced — like childhood and safety all rolled into one.

You step inside and blink.

Jay stands in your kitchen in a dark t-shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, a striped apron tied lazily around his waist. He looks up like he’s been caught red-handed.

“I was gonna text and say come over,” you mumble.

“I figured you’d need something sooner,” he says simply, stirring the pan once before lowering the heat. “So I let myself in.”

Your chest tightens.

There’s a pot on the stove, steam rising lazily from it. A pan of something golden browning beside it. Plates already set. A candle burning low.

“You made—” Your voice cracks. “You made the pasta?”

“The one you said reminds you of your mom’s.” He shrugs, trying to seem casual. “You sounded tired last time we talked. Thought you’d need it tonight.”

Your throat feels too full to respond. You cross the kitchen slowly, eyes burning in that way that says thank you without the words.

He glances at you. “You okay?”

You nod.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You shake your head, stepping behind him, letting your arms wrap around his middle as you press your face into his back. He stills, surprised—but only for a moment. Then one of his hands reaches down to cover yours.

“You’re not asking for too much,” he says softly, like he’s already guessed the thing you didn’t say.

You don’t speak. You just hold on tighter.

Dinner is quiet, the way it always is when you’re feeling raw and Jay is being careful with you — soft glances, gentle hands when he passes the parmesan, a million unspoken things in every motion. Afterward, he makes tea and sets up the couch for a movie night without asking.

“You pick,” he says, stretching across the cushions to pass you the remote.

You curl under the throw blanket and sigh, not even looking at the screen.

Jay turns his head toward you. “Wanna do nothing instead?”

You nod.

So you sit. Shoulder to shoulder. Familiar and close and quiet.

After a while, he gets up and starts tidying the kitchen. And that’s when you catch yourself watching.

The way he moves—careful, confident, focused. The way he takes his time with everything. The soft hum in his throat as he dries dishes. The way he set aside the last bite of garlic bread because he knew it was your favorite.

And suddenly, something slips out.

“I wish the guys I went out on dates with were more like.. you.”

The sound of ceramic shattering on tile cuts the air in half.

You jump.

Jay freezes mid-motion, staring down at the cracked plate on the floor like it betrayed him. “Shit—sorry.” He crouches quickly to clean it, not looking at you.

You rush to help. “It’s okay, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s—” He’s already sweeping the pieces into his hand, face turned so you can’t see it. “It’s fine.”

But his hands are trembling.

You blink. “Jay?”

He doesn’t answer.

You touch his wrist lightly. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

He finally looks at you, and it’s like the air has changed again — his expression unreadable, jaw tight, eyes searching yours for something you don’t quite understand.

You try to laugh it off, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, that was kind of a weird thing to say.”

Jay finishes sweeping and stands slowly, leaning against the counter like he needs a second to think.

Then you say it again, more quietly. “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

He lets out a breath — sharp, disbelieving.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Why not?”

“Because…” He looks at you like you’ve cracked something in him. “I’ve been trying so hard not to say it first.”

The silence that follows is thick.

You stare. “Say what?”

Jay steps toward you, then stops — unsure, unreadable.

“That I’m in love with you,” he says quietly. “That I’ve been in love with you. That every time you cry about some guy who couldn’t see how lucky he was, it kills me because I’m right here. And I’ve been here.”

Your lips part, but you can’t speak.

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes wild and warm and terrified. “I know you weren’t ready. And I never wanted to make you feel like you had to see me that way, but tonight—” His voice softens. “Tonight you looked at me like you finally saw what I’ve been trying to show you this whole time.”

Your heart thunders.

You had looked at him that way. You’d always admired him — his calm, his kindness, the fire in him that always warmed you up when you felt too cold. You just never thought…

“I didn’t think you’d want me,” you whisper.

Jay’s breath catches. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He takes another step.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to lose you. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more than this.”

You look at him—really look at him—and all the times he showed up for you play in your mind like flashes of sunlight.

Slowly, you take his hand. It’s still a little shaky, but when you hold on, he steadies.

You whisper, “What if I want more too?”

He doesn’t speak. He just pulls you in and kisses your forehead, gently, reverently—like he’s waited a lifetime for this moment to finally arrive.

౨ৎ Jake - Never not you

It starts with your phone vibrating on your chest, just as your eyes are starting to sting from holding back tears too long.

You don’t check the screen. You don’t want to talk to anyone. You just stare at the ceiling of your bedroom, replaying the disaster of tonight’s date — the awkward silences, the backhanded compliments, the fake polite goodbye at the end. All you wanted was someone who’d make you feel seen. Instead, you feel lonelier than before.

Another buzz.

Then another.

Then a knock at your door.

You sit up, confused, wiping your eyes.

“Delivery?” you mumble, shuffling to open it.

But it’s not food.

It’s Jake.

He’s standing there, hair a little windblown, hoodie zipped up halfway and cheeks pink from the chill. In one hand, he’s holding a small bouquet of fresh wildflowers. In the other, a bag from your favorite bakery—the one that’s only open late on Fridays.

“I was already on my way,” he says softly. “Something told me you needed me.”

Your bottom lip wobbles.

You don’t cry, but you do fold into him the second he opens his arms.

He doesn’t say anything. Just hugs you so tight it’s like he’s holding together all the parts of you that want to fall apart.

Twenty minutes later, you’re in your pajamas under a mountain of blankets on the couch. The warm scent of baked pastries fills the air. Jake’s got your feet in his lap, his thumbs gently massaging the arch like he’s trying to erase all the tension of the night.

You’re both watching one of those cheesy rom-coms he secretly loves more than you do, though he always pretends otherwise.

“Tonight sucked,” you mutter.

He doesn’t ask for details. He just leans back, still holding your feet. “He didn’t see you, did he?”

You glance at him. “How do you always know?”

Jake shrugs one shoulder. “Because if he had, you’d be smiling. You always light up when someone gets you.”

Your breath catches. You don’t respond. You just look at him.

His profile is soft in the glow of the TV. There’s a slight crease in his brow, like he’s still worried. You want to reach out and smooth it with your thumb.

Instead, you say quietly, “Why can’t guys be more like you…”

Jake stills.

His eyes don’t leave the screen, but his fingers stop moving.

You sit up a little, trying to meet his eyes. “Seriously. You’re so thoughtful. You always know what I need. You never make me feel like I’m too much or not enough—”

Jake suddenly fumbles the pastry bag in his lap and spills the last croissant right onto the floor.

“Ah..shit—sorry,” he blurts, scrambling to grab it. He drops the tongs trying to pick it up.

You blink. “You okay?”

“Fine!” he squeaks. Then clears his throat and tries to play it off. “Yeah. Just… butter fingers.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

He nods a little too quickly. “Totally. I just… wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

He carefully places the rescued croissant on a napkin, still not looking at you. “That you wish guys were like me.”

Your voice softens. “Well… I do.”

The silence stretches, almost like the room’s holding its breath with you.

And then, because the ache in your chest is too much to sit with, you add, “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Jake turns to you, eyes wide.

He looks like you just told him the moon said his name.

Then, very quietly, he says, “Then… why not me?”

Your heart skips.

You blink. “Wait..what..? Are you serious?”

He nods, slowly this time. The corners of his mouth twitch up—hopeful, nervous, a little amazed you haven’t laughed him off yet.

“I know we’ve been best friends forever,” he says gently, “but I’ve loved you for almost as long. I didn’t want to ruin what we had by saying anything. But it’s you. It’s never not been you.”

Your lips part. “Jake…”

“I didn’t want to be another guy who hurt you,” he whispers, voice shaking a little. “I wanted to be the one who reminded you how loved you are. I just never thought you’d actually—feel the same.”

You swallow hard.

Your chest is doing that tight fluttery thing again. Because you do. Deep down, you’ve always known it. The way you’d light up when his name appeared on your phone. The way his laugh made everything easier. The way you looked for him in every crowd.

You whisper, “I think I’ve always wanted it to be you.”

Jake beams.

Not a smirk. Not a flirty grin. A full, radiant, stunned smile like you’ve just made his entire year.

He reaches for your hand, then changes his mind and gently cups your cheek instead, brushing his thumb just under your eye.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly, breathlessly.

You nod.

And when he leans in, it’s slow and sweet and full of every unspoken thing you’ve both carried for so long. And when he pulls back just barely, lips still brushing yours, he murmurs,

“You’re my favorite everything.”

౨ৎ Sunghoon - Say something

It’s late.

The kind of late where the streets outside are quiet and your bedroom ceiling is glowing dimly with the light of passing cars. You’re curled up under a blanket in your hoodie, trying not to cry but very much failing. Again.

The guy from tonight wasn’t mean, exactly. Just… indifferent. He scrolled through his phone when you talked. Showed up twenty minutes late with no explanation. Didn’t even pretend to walk you home.

And maybe it wouldn’t sting so much if it didn’t feel like a pattern.

You don’t text anyone. You just throw your phone facedown and try to forget it.

Until, barely five minutes later, there’s a knock at your window.

You freeze.

Another knock.

You scramble out of bed and yank the curtains aside — and there he is.

Sunghoon. In his gray zip-up and a beanie pulled low over his brows, standing on your fire escape holding two steaming cups of hot chocolate and a very unimpressed expression.

You open the window with wide eyes. “What the—Hoon??”

“I figured he’d flake,” he says flatly, climbing in like this is something he does every day. “You ghosted the group chat. That’s never a good sign.”

You blink as he hands you one of the cups.

“I made it with that fancy cocoa you like,” he mumbles. “With the cinnamon.”

You stare at him.

Sunghoon doesn't meet your eyes. He just kicks off his shoes and settles onto your bed like it’s his.

“I didn’t get ghosted,” you say quietly, sitting beside him.

He nods. “But you are sad.”

You sip the cocoa. “How do you always know?”

He shrugs. “You always blink a lot when you’re trying not to cry.”

Your throat tightens.

Silence passes for a bit. Your room is dim, your fairy lights casting soft little shadows across his jawline. You watch him — the way his hands cradle the mug, the furrow in his brows even now. He’s always like this. A little standoffish. A little too observant. And yet always there the second you fall apart.

And maybe it’s the warmth in your hands, or the fact that you’re so, so tired of being disappointed — but the words come out before you can stop them.

“Why can’t guys be more like you…”

He freezes.

Like actually freezes.

No blink. No breath. Just wide, stunned deer-in-headlights stillness.

Then he promptly chokes on his hot chocolate.

You lunge to pat his back. “Hoon??”

“I’m good—” cough cough “Totally fine—” cough “Jesus—”

You bite back a laugh. “You don’t look fine.”

“I’m great.” He clears his throat aggressively and looks everywhere but at you. “Just… went down the wrong pipe.”

“Mmhmm,” you say, clearly not buying it.

He shifts on the bed, suddenly tense. “You… didn’t mean that, right?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He swallows, hard.

You lean back against the pillows, watching him over the rim of your cup. “Seriously. You’re thoughtful, reliable, good with your words—when you use them—”

“Okay—”

“You always show up when I need you,” you add, voice soft now. “You’d be the perfect boyfriend.”

Sunghoon just stares at you.

You don’t even realize how intense your gaze is until he finally looks away, the tips of his ears glowing red.

“You’re messing with me,” he mutters.

“No, I’m not.”

He sets down his cup slowly. His voice is quieter when he says, “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”

You sit up straighter. “But I do mean it.”

Sunghoon finally meets your eyes, and there’s something raw there now. Something just barely holding itself together.

And then, because he’s Sunghoon and horrible at vulnerability, he blurts:

“Then maybe you should date me.”

Your mouth opens. “What?”

He looks away again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

You reach for his hand before he can pull it away. “Sunghoon. Look at me.”

He hesitates—then does. And your heart cracks wide open.

“I want to say yes,” you whisper.

He blinks. “You do?”

You nod. “I didn’t think you liked me that way.”

“I didn’t think you’d ever look at me that way,” he breathes. “You’re always chasing guys who treat you like crap. Meanwhile, I’m here, dying every time you tell me about them, and all I want to do is tell you they don’t deserve you.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I was scared.” His voice rises slightly, then softens again. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But tonight… when you said that…”

He pauses, then lets out a soft breath.

“I wanted to kiss you so bad I forgot how to breathe.”

Your eyes soften. You shift closer.

“Then don’t forget now.”

He stares at you.

And then he kisses you.

It’s tentative at first — almost like he doesn’t believe it’s happening — but it grows, slow and sure and full of everything he’s held back for so long.

When you pull apart, you press your forehead against his and whisper,

“You know you can come through the door next time, right?”

He grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”

౨ৎ Sunoo - If only you knew

You don’t say anything when the door swings open.

You just step inside, drop your purse on the floor, and crawl straight onto the couch face-down, muffling a scream into the cushions.

There's silence.

Then the sound of slippers shuffling quickly across hardwood.

Then:

“Oh no. Which flavor of man failed you this time?”

You peek out of the couch to see Sunoo standing over you in an oversized sweatshirt, hair in a clip, face cream still dotted on his cheeks like he was mid-self-care ritual when you texted the dreaded “can I come over”.

You groan. “The worst one.”

He gasps. “Worse than finance bro?”

“Worse than vape in the Uber guy.”

“Girl.”

“I know.”

Sunoo lets out the most offended noise you've ever heard and immediately shuffles toward the kitchen. “I’m making tea. And I’m putting on that sad cottage movie you like. You’re not allowed to argue.”

You don’t.

You just melt further into the couch and let yourself exhale.

Because somehow, Sunoo always knows exactly what to do when the world feels heavy.

By the time the kettle whistles, you’ve been tucked in with three blankets and a stuffed animal you pretend isn’t yours.

Sunoo returns with a tray of snacks, two mugs of tea, and a disgusted look on his face.

“So what did he do? Tell me everything. I’m ready to judge.”

You shake your head. “He… didn’t even try, Nuu.”

He sets the tray down and climbs onto the couch beside you. “Try what?”

“To know me. To see me. I spent half the night trying to think of things to talk about. It felt like I was trying to impress someone who couldn’t care less.”

Sunoo's eyes narrow. “Should I fight him?”

You let out a laugh — small, watery.

He leans his head on your shoulder. “You know you’re not hard to love, right?”

You stay quiet.

Sunoo reaches for your hand under the blanket and squeezes it. “Some people just don’t know what they’re holding until it’s gone.”

You glance at him, heart aching.

He’s right here. Warm and thoughtful and sharp as ever. He always has been.

And somehow, you whisper it before you can think better of it.

“I wish guys were more like you…”

You feel him tense.

He sits up, blinking, and nearly spills the tray trying to set his cup down.

You blink back. “Nuu?”

“Did you mean that?” he says quickly, voice just slightly higher than usual.

“I—yeah?”

He just stares at you, lips parted, like his brain has fully exited the building.

You sit up. “Why does that freak you out so much?”

Sunoo clears his throat, crosses his legs, and clasps his hands like he's giving a TED talk to himself. “No no I’m fine. Totally calm. Just casually losing my mind that the person I’m in love with just said that.”

You blink. “Wait. What.”

He freezes.

You gape. “You’re in love with me??”

“OH MY GOSH,” he says, loudly, throwing a pillow over his own face. “FORGET I SAID THAT—”

“Nuu!” You pull the pillow away and stare at him, heart pounding.

He groans. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out, okay?! It’s not like I planned to tell you after a garbage date like some B-list plot twist—”

“You’re in love with me?”

He falters, looks at you properly — flushed, anxious, but still so Sunoo.

“…Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ve been in love with you for a while.”

Your chest tightens.

“You… never said anything.”

He gives a tiny, shy shrug. “You were always dating someone. I didn’t want to confuse things. Or ruin us.”

“But you always—” Your voice cracks. “You always take care of me.”

He smiles sadly. “Because I want to. Because you deserve someone who actually shows up when it counts.”

You look at him — really look at him — and suddenly, all the late nights, all the surprise coffee deliveries, all the “I brought your favorite just because” texts make perfect, blinding sense.

And suddenly, this feels like the only real thing you’ve ever known.

“I think…” you whisper, “I’ve been in love with you too. I just didn’t let myself believe it.”

Sunoo blinks, stunned.

“You what?”

“I kept waiting for someone who’d treat me like you do,” you murmur, leaning in. “I just didn’t think that person could be you.”

“Why not?! I’m amazing!”

You laugh through a tear.

He grins, then cups your face with both hands. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but so fondly it makes your stomach flip.

Then, very softly, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod, heart in your throat.

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime — careful, steady, warm. When he pulls away, you’re still smiling.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers, “You’re never going to cry over another date again.”

“Because you’re going to fight them?”

“No.” He grins. “Because you’re done dating losers. You’re dating me now.”

౨ৎ Jungwon - What took you so long 

You don’t expect anyone to be waiting when you get home.

Your date was forgettable in the worst way — vague answers, barely-there eye contact, the kind of guy who asked questions only to talk about himself. You left early and walked home alone under a gray sky, the city lights blurred through a curtain of drizzle.

You don’t text anyone. You don’t want to talk. You just want the night to be over.

So when you push open your apartment door and find Jungwon sitting on your couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands and a small box of takeout on his lap, you stop in your tracks.

He looks up casually. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

You blink. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I figured you’d need me.”

The way he says it — need me — sinks under your skin like something dangerous.

You walk in slowly, wet hair dripping onto your shirt, and collapse onto the couch beside him without a word.

“I brought your favorite,” he adds, offering the box. “That noodle thing you get when you’re upset but pretending not to be.”

You take it silently, the warmth of the container grounding you.

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t have to.

A while later, you’re curled up together under the same blanket, the food half-eaten and a soft playlist humming through the room. You’re both quiet, the way you always are when things get too heavy to name.

You tilt your head toward him.

Jungwon’s watching the rain trail down the window, his profile lit faintly by the glow of the streetlights. One arm rests behind your head, casual but close enough that your shoulders touch. Always close. Always almost.

“You know,” you say softly, “you’d make the perfect boyfriend.”

He blinks.

Then — too quickly — he shifts.

The blanket slips from his shoulder as he moves to set his drink down, knocking over a napkin in the process. He fumbles it. Misses. Swears quietly under his breath.

You blink. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he mumbles. Then, softer, “Just… surprised you’d say that.”

You smile faintly. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick toward yours, unreadable. “Because you’re always chasing guys who aren’t me.”

The words land like a pin dropped in a still room.

You stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungwon lets out a long breath, then looks at you fully — not shy, not sarcastic, not teasing. Just… honest.

“It means I’ve been here this whole time,” he says quietly. “Watching you get your heart broken over and over and wishing you’d just look at me.”

Your heart lurches.

“Jungwon…”

“I didn’t say anything because I thought maybe you already knew,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “But tonight, when you said that—when you said that—I couldn’t not say it anymore.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure you can.

“I know I’m quiet about how I feel,” he murmurs. “But I show up. I always show up for you. Because I love you. And I’ve been loving you quietly for so long, I don’t know how to stop.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

You reach out, almost without thinking, fingers brushing his wrist. “I think I’ve always loved the way you love me,” you whisper. “I just didn’t realize that’s what it was.”

He exhales shakily.

And then — like gravity pulling him forward — he leans in, resting his forehead against yours. His voice is soft, barely trembling:

“I’ve been yours for a long time.”

You whisper, “Then maybe it’s time I caught up.”

౨ৎ Ni-ki - Not just a phase

The rain has stopped by the time you make it to his place.

You’re soaked anyway — not just from the weather, but from the date that ended in a fight over whether your standards were “too high.”

You didn’t cry this time.

Not until you walked home in the drizzle and realized how tired you were of pretending the bare minimum was enough.

You’re still blinking away the sting when the door swings open.

Ni-ki stands there in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair messy from sleep, one wireless headphone still in. He blinks once. Takes in your face.

Then without a word, he grabs your wrist and pulls you in.

“You look cold,” he mumbles, already guiding you toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll get the fluffy blanket.”

You don’t even argue. You just drop onto the cushions and watch as he disappears down the hall.

You don’t remember when it started—this instinct he has. This quiet caretaking. One second you’re friends who bicker over cereal brands and game scores, and the next he’s handing you tissues without asking. Wrapping you in the same blanket he used to cocoon himself in during movie nights. Like you’ve always belonged here, even if no one ever said it.

Ni-ki returns with the blanket and throws it over your shoulders, his hands lingering for a second too long.

He doesn’t ask what happened.

He just sits beside you, legs sprawled out, staring ahead like he’s waiting for you to speak.

So you do.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for dating.”

He glances at you. “That bad?”

You nod. “It’s like… I want something real. But everyone I meet makes me feel stupid for asking.”

Ni-ki stays quiet for a second.

Then: “They’re the stupid ones.”

You glance over. “What?”

He shrugs. “For not seeing it. For not recognizing you’re the kind of person people should want.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. His eyes are on the floor, hands fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie.

You laugh weakly. “Why can’t I just date someone like you?”

His whole body stiffens.

You blink. “Ni-ki?”

He moves too fast. Reaches for the glass on the table. Misses. Knocks it over. It clatters loudly — empty, but loud enough to make you jump.

“Shit—” He rushes to grab it. “I—sorry, sorry. I wasn’t expecting—”

“What did I say?” you ask slowly.

He freezes with the glass in his hand. Doesn’t look at you.

You sit up straighter. “Ni-ki.”

He exhales hard, then sets the glass down. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fair.”

You stare. “What do you mean?”

Finally — finally — he turns to you. And his eyes are bare.

Not guarded. Not teasing. Just real.

“Because I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that this—” he gestures between you “—was just a phase. That eventually you’d stop showing up at my place with tears in your eyes. That I’d stop wondering what it would be like to be the one you chose.”

You go silent.

Ni-ki lets out a small laugh, bitter and soft. “But I never got over you. I don’t think I ever will.”

Your throat tightens. “You never said anything.”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you just because I caught feelings first.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing.

The Ni-ki who made fun of your bad taste in ramen. Who used to walk you home in high school just because. Who showed up at every breakup with your favorite snacks and a movie cued up. That Ni-ki has been in love with you this whole time?

“I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same,” he murmurs.

You whisper, “What if I do?”

He stops breathing.

You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his — slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

“I think I’ve been trying to find pieces of you in everyone I’ve dated,” you say quietly. “But no one comes close.”

Ni-ki swallows hard. “You’re serious?”

You nod.

The quiet between you stretches — long and full of something new. Something changing.

Then he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

You nod again.

So he does.

And it’s everything — every unsaid word, every held breath, every day he stood at your side wondering what it would feel like to be wanted back. His hands are gentle. His lips are soft and searching. And when he pulls away, his voice is the quietest it’s ever been.

“I’ve always been yours,” he whispers.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌

tl: (read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[kikiiidym]

hii! could you please do a jason grace x reader where reader is a very famous actress and jason is their non celebrity bf?

“More Than a Spotlight”

WARNING: NONE! PAIRING: Jason Grace x Actress! reader A/N: I once said that I'm an actress and I got SWARMED w questions oml, no, I'm not recognized YET but I will be one day, trust.

Jason wasn’t used to flashing cameras, velvet ropes, or being called Mr. Y/N L/N like it was his actual name.

But he’d never say it bothered him. Not really.

Because every time you looked at him across the chaos of red carpets or gala crowds, he knew exactly why he was there.

For you.

Not for the fame. Not for the luxury. For the girl who curled into his chest when the world felt too loud. The one who left eyeliner marks on his hoodies. The one who still texted him from set with things like

“They brought me the wrong smoothie and I thought of you because you’d never forget my order :(”.

You met him at a bookstore in Brooklyn. You had a hat pulled low and oversized sunglasses on, thinking you were being subtle. Jason had bumped into you by accident.

Literally.

He knocked your book out of your hands and muttered, “Sorry, I didn’t see—wait...you’re—”

And then, blessedly, he didn’t say your name like everyone else did. He blinked. Then smiled. “...the girl holding my favorite book.”

You laughed. “Really? The Song of Achilles?”

“Hurts so good.”

You ended up talking in the aisle for an hour. No selfies. No asking for autographs. Just two people debating tragic Greek heroes like nerds in a mythology class.

You left your number on his receipt.

Dating you came with a spotlight Jason never asked for. Paparazzi staked out his apartment once the relationship went public. Twitter speculated about how long it would last. Tabloids called him “The Civilian Arm Candy” or worse—“The Blonde Nobody.”

He never said anything. But you knew it wore on him.

He was the son of a civilian nobody. He was just a student finishing college. A normal person. He didn’t need cameras or luxury. But he chose you.

And he stayed.

Every film premiere. Every fashion week. Every exhausting press circuit.

Jason Grace, in a black suit, quietly holding your hand in the background while the world screamed your name.

One night, after a grueling award ceremony, you kicked off your heels and collapsed on your penthouse couch with a groan.

Jason sat beside you, tossing his blazer over a chair. “You okay?”

You looked at him, mascara slightly smudged, dress bunched at your waist, heart full of the ache that only fame could cause.

“They asked me again,” you said quietly.

He knew what you meant.

The reporters. The questions. “Are you two still together?” “Is he just a fling?” “How does someone like him keep up with a megastar like you?”

Jason didn’t answer right away.

You turned toward him, fingers brushing his. “Tell me the truth. Is it too much?”

His brows pulled together. “What?”

“All of this. The cameras. The chaos. Me. I didn’t ask for this life—but I chose it. And you didn’t. You didn’t choose to be in the public eye.”

Jason reached out and cupped your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye.

“I didn’t choose the spotlight,” he said. “But I chose you. And I’ll keep choosing you, whether it’s in a five-star hotel or a gas station parking lot.”

Your throat tightened.

“You always know exactly what to say.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “That’s because I know you. Not the actress. Not the tabloid name. Just you.”

And in that quiet space between paparazzi and premieres, the two of you curled up together, tangled limbs and whispered secrets under soft blankets, with the window open and the city lights glittering outside.

Here, in this ordinary peace, was a love extraordinary.

Bonus Moment: Red Carpet Chaos

You were running late to a major movie premiere. Hair and makeup were rushing you. Stylists were fixing your train. And somewhere in the chaos, Jason slipped in through the back, dressed sharp but clearly a little out of place.

When you saw him across the crowd, your whole face lit up.

One photographer caught the moment—your eyes softening, your body angling toward him instinctively. Jason reaching for your hand like there was no one else in the world.

The photo went viral.

Caption: "The way he looks at her like she's just a girl, not a goddess. That’s real."

And the comments? Pretty out of hand.

@Nancybobo “Forget celebrities. I want a Jason Grace.” @Tojissluttt "I'VE BEEN SAYING THIS FOR MONTHS N YOU GUYS WOULDN'T LISTEN 😭" @Ynslefttoe "Can Y/N fight? cuz DAMN I need him." @PiperMczim "Chat I bet he whimpers." @ThaliaGraceigg "Y'all bitches are weird asf, go touch some damn grass."

And the edits? secretly saved in your phone.

[flashdoesahundredyarddash]

I feel like if Hal spent much more time on earth than in space he would be beloved in the coast city as Barry's beloved in the central city cuz he would hang out with the people there like friends like playing baseball just like Barry did

THIS, but at the same time, I think it isn't just the space thing that people aren't fond of but whatever DC writers (loath..) made him do in the early comics (<- The most I can remember is Hal going onto the Oprah show to make his image appear better and etc...). At another time people will like him, like they do with Barry. It's kinda curious to see the different sides of how people treat heroes within the universe, especially if they're from other planets or use weaponry that they 'don't know of'

And for my second part, I am a HUGE fan of baseball... And seeing (forgot what it's called) but the BASEBALL fanfic is SO cute. I actually can't think about it without having to mention how that fic has grasped my heart and tossed it around a couple of times.

^ It even influenced my baseball hcs for these two, or how I genuinely think that their bond of baseball is kinda everything. // Or you know how they have people play games for fundraising (or even the raise between Superman and Flash), how I believe it would be kinda fun to see heroes play baseball together..

[whumpy-wyrms]

basement is flooding 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥 :(((

[sanchoyo]

ole anon here again !!! all of your points about why you weren't into it are absolutely valid, it was hard for me to get into it at the start too !! its. very much a shounen queerbait from my perspective at least, but unfortunately i am the demographic for that (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠) thank you for sharing your thoughts !

in regards to you being That tmm writer for me— even with 3 fics, you have some of my favorite characterizations ever and you seem to just intrinsically understand who the characters are in a very refreshing way. genuinely whenever i miss the tokyo mew mew cast i usually end up rereading all your fics ,, i adore Tokyo Miracle, too ! it's so wonderfully made. and every time, no matter what i read, i usually always end up giggling and kicking my feet. you're by far one of my favorite authors just because of the passion i can see in your works alone (⁠〃ﾟ⁠3ﾟ⁠〃⁠) . im always interested in seeing your thoughts on literally anything tokyo mew mew !!

stay strong my shonen warrior do not say its 'unfortunate' that you're the demo. if it makes you happy then that's good!! even if I'm not into it I am glad other ppl are having fun 🥺 I know the ole fandom is small as it is too so I do hope you can find others who also like it and wanna chat about it in a less critical way than me adjkhfakj (sometimes when I step back I feel like that old man yells at cloud meme. like it is so not that serious where I needed to type THAT much. my inner yuri warrior jumped out ToT)

but AAA THANK YOU?? That makes me so happy to hear... I actually have way more fics for other fandoms BECAUSE. when I write tmm I want it to be REALLY GOOD because I love it so much. so I tend to freeze up and just NOT put a ton out there fic-wise with it bc of that.

I also feel like my work tends to fill a few niches that I don't think would do well- e.i: crackships, and weird meta about how I think the science would go weird and trying to extrapolate on very specific lore that was not mentioned much in the series but I want more info on... whereas I think a lot of ppl looking for tmm fics/fan content like? fluff? cute content of the girls hanging out? (also love that) or common ships? (not to say I don't enjoy some of the more canon ones like mintkuro or masago etc but I know a lot of ppl are going to ao3 for. kishigo. not my wheelhouse but I hope they find good ones and have fun etc) so a lot of my ideas just stay as text posts on here lol (but I have had some banger au ideas as text posts. anyone who sees them is free to take them and run 🫡)

I AM very passionate about tmm though. always. I'm glad to hear it shows and I am super happy if you enjoy my works!! as far as tmm fandom goes I feel like I'm more known on the art side than the writing side but I rly do enjoy doing that too ;w;

[leclerc-hs]

bunny! - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader summary: in which lando always calls you bunny OR your favorite place to be is riding lando's cock warnings: smut, riding, dirty talk, language, pet name!, NOT PROOFREAD (I hate re-reading stuff I write if you couldn't tell hahahah) word count: 1.2k ish author's note: this idea came to mind LAST NIGHT and i just had to write it since i'm off of work today. talk about me feeding y'all LOL xoxo still working on oscar's version of aphrodisiac chocolates!!! I literally wrote this in like an hour so it’s shortttt. xoxo ily ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

Lando calls you Bunny like it’s your actual name.

Don’t forget your lanyard later, Bunny

Hey Bunny, can you hand me that?

Y’look great, Bun

It was constant. In the paddock. During interviews. Even the fans notice it. Some thought it was a childhood thing. Others assumed it was just something that stuck.

And the rest of the grid? Of course they asked. 

And every time, you and Lando offered a different answer.

She had these ridiculous bunny ears the first time I met here…never wanted to take them off.

Her nose used to do this little twitch whenever she was annoyed…I swear

She loves carrots

And tonight was no different. 

You’re curled into the booth beside Lando, wine glass in hand, one leg draped over his under the table. He was warm, hand on your thigh. Thumb brushing soft, lazy circles.

And then it came up again.

“Alright…someone has to ask again,” Pierre points his fork toward Lando. “Bunny. What’s it actually from?”

Groans went around the table. Everyone chattering how he’ll never tell you. Just let them have their secrets.

And Oscar grins. “No, I wanna hear this one.” He leans forward. “What’s the excuse tonight?”

Lando doesn’t miss a beat. Fingers gripping your leg. A grin pulled onto his mouth.

“Showed up to my flat in bunny ears once. Wouldn’t take them off.”

You scoff beside him. “It was Halloween.”

“She wore them to sleep.”

And laughter erupts around the table.

And his hand tightens on your thigh. And you felt the shift in his demeanor.

The part no one ever saw.

The reason why he started calling you that.

Didn’t know that the first time he’d said it, was barely a whisper, as you rode him in his driver’s room after a race.

How you were so worked up, desperate, how your knees trembled as you bounced on him like you couldn’t stop.

They didn’t know how he said it when you were on top. How he groaned against your lips.

“Okay but seriously,” Charles says, laughing. “Is it like a….is it like a kink thing?”

You choke on your wine. And Lando drags his fingers higher up your leg.

Lando didn’t even so much as blink. “Absolutely not.”

And later, after everyone said their goodnights and you slipped into the car with him, Lando was quiet. Calm. Fingers brushing against your skin whenever they could.

And when you got back to the hotel. The door clicking shut.

He says, “Everyone thinks it started with ears…”

He presses you into the wall.

“But it was this fuckin’ cunt, Bunny.”

His voice was low. And you gasp, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, as he grinds his hips into you. Slow. Heavy. Could feel how hard he was. 

He kisses your jaw, under your ear…biting, sucking, claiming you.

“Fuck,” he groans into your skin. “Remember that night? In the driver’s room? You got on top of me like you needed it. Like you were gonna die if I didn’t let you bounce on my fuckin’ cock.”

You whimper.

“I think about it every fuckin’ day.” He groans.

And you don’t even get a chance to respond before he lifts you off the ground, hands gripping your thighs, and carries you straight to the bed.

“M’so obsessed with it,” he says, voice rough. Kissing you again as he drops you on the mattress and yanks his hoodie over his head with one hand. “With you. With this fuckin’ cunt.”

He kneels between your legs, pulls your panties off, and then stuffs them in his back pocket.

He pulls his jeans down, cock hard and thick. Leaking.

“Don’t even wanna fuck you from behind anymore. Just want you on top. Losing your fuckin’ mind on my cock.”

You crawl into his lap, straddling him like instinct.

And he hisses when your cunt touches his tip.

“Y’turned it into a fuckin’ problem,” His hands grip your ass.

You drag his cock through your folds, teasing him. And he hits his head against the headboard with a thud as he drops his head back.

“Y’think I don’t notice the way you moan when I let you sit on it?” He pants. “The way you tell me to shut up and take it like a good boy?”

You sink down on him in a single motion.

“Fuck, Bunny…” He gasps. Hips jerking.

And you start moving. Steadily. Rolling into him.

“Every time you do this,” He says through gritted teeth, hands grabbing your hips. “I tell myself that it’ll be the last. I’ll tell myself Lando, be normal. Change it up.”

And you bounce on him harder.

“But then you climb into my lap with that fuckin crazed look in your eye. And I let you. Always let you.”

His head rests against the headboard. Neck thick. Veiny. Flushed.

“Ride me everywhere. Every fuckin’ place that you shouldn’t.”

He flexes his hips into you, just enough to make your cunt clench. And you gasp.

“Let you ride on me on that fuckin’ plane. My trainer two rows back. Had your sweatshirt over your lap like that would hide it.”

You whimper, pressing your hand to his chest. Cock twitching in you.

“Remember Suzuka?” He continues. “Showed up with no underwear under that skirt, climbed into my lap during lunch and said, five minutes. Just need to use it.”

He groans at the memory. At the feel of your cunt around him.

“Fuckin’ bounced on me while I tried to be normal. Bit into my shoulder while you came.”

You roll your hips harder, whining.

“Imola…my god…” He pants. “Told you I was exhausted. Needed to sleep.”

He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. Eyes blown.

“And you just got on top. Said I’ll do all the work.” He huffs. “And you did. Fucked me so slow and deep. Grinding into me like you wanted my fuckin’ soul.”

You moan, squeezing him. Panting. 

“Monaco yacht…” His hands grip you harder. “Dragged me into that fuckin’ cabin during the afterparty…made me sit on that little chair.”

You both breath out. Hips grinding harder as he fucks into you.

“Remember how many people were there? How many of them heard the fuckin’ chair squeaking under us every time you dropped down onto my cock?”

You’re gasping now. Head falling into his neck.

And he fucking loses it.

Mouth on your throat, sucking a bruise there, as his cock slams up into you.

“Hotels, rental cars, Fuck…in a fuckin’ golf cart. Remember that?” He hisses. “Bahrain. Climbed into my lap after practice, pushed your panties to the side, said you needed to calm down. Calm down.”

You’re sobbing.

“It’s the only way I want it now. Moaning. Grinding. Milking me.”

Your body seizes. Hips uncontrollable now.

“Y’gonna come again?” He grunts. “Make another mess on my cock like always?”

You nod into his shoulder. Unable to speak.

“Do it,” He groans. “C’mon, Bunny. Fuckin’ come all over me.”

And you do.

With a loud moan, cunt squeezing him tight. Shaking. Trembling.

And he was right there with you. Hips jerking as he comes inside you, groaning your name out like he didn’t want it to end.

“Bunny…bunny. Fuck, I fuckin’ love you.”

You collapse into him. Wrecked. Smiling.

“You’ll do it in the morning, yeah?”

You laugh. “Obsessed.”

He kisses your temple. 

“Fuckin’ right.”

[cursedcola]

Prompt: YOU ARE LIKE PAPA!!!! Aka. I'm seeing a trend. The boys are all literal carbon copies of their mommas (or one parent) at this point - so how do they feel having a child that’s THEIR spitting image? In which your genes didn’t even try. Physically...and personality. Masterlist: LinkedUP Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: House-Wardens Format: Headcannons+ imagine (Yes, I know I said I wouldn't be doing bullets anymore...but one more? It's mixed. Can't just cold turkey a gal) A/N: Do I want to make this a series?...I do not know. Maybe? It's really hard to write without the kids having names - and I'm just here like...can I use the names I want? I already made them up in a past post. Would that ruin the experience for people? I mean - it's my stuff and I can do what I want but hmmm.... Warning(?): For this to be, MC's the one who popped the kid out and has reproductive ability to house spawn. Kiddos are biological. Talk of pregnancy and general child-rearing. Use of mother and she/her pronouns to make my life a bit easier.

Riddle couldn't care if his child looked like him down to the last freckle on is butt. What mattered most in that delivery room was that the child came out healthy with no complications. He's the father that doesn't shy away from asking the doctor + midwives questions - perhaps too many, since you nearly toss him out of the delivery room for causing unneeded distress.

In all honesty? Had he studied medicine like his mother pushed - Riddle would've been the one delivering his own child. He copes with stress through control - so imagine THAT scenario.

After birth, he cares much more for the child's skills and manners rather than their appearance. Do they wash their hands before every meal? Say their please and thank you? Do they trust him enough to state their opinions - respectfully, not a potty mouth.

Riddle can and will make them lick a bar of soap if they utter a curse word before the age of 15.

How's their academic drive? Are they social? It's very important that they get along well with others from an early age. He wants them to have many friends.

He's so focused on their personality - aiming to raise a happy, confident, healthy child - that Riddle takes compliments on their physical attributes with a grain of salt until his hard work all those years child-rearing amass into... well, a second less intense version of himself.

He's adamant to ensure the child's homelife is better than what he had growing up. In a way, he misses much while worrying about other things. 10/10 an anxious father, but very doting despite being strict.

"Must I paint a heart on my cheek every day? Why not a crown, or something more fitting us? Like a rose?" his daughter huffed, yet went to paint a large red heart over her cheekbone regardless.

Just like her father, she'd received her invitation to Night Raven. The girl was expecting it, her certainty fueled by perfect grades and a strong aptitude for magic. She did not lack confidence.

Just like her father, she was assured to land in Heartslabyul. Already prepping her cheek-mark before the mirror made any verdict.

Just like her father, she aimed for the position of Housewarden before setting a single foot on campus.

Yet unlike her father, she held no issues in speaking her grievances. She bemoaned about packing, groveled at her mother's feet for her favorite biscuits before living off cafeteria meals, and surely had no reservations stealing Riddle's best fountain pen for her studies.

She keenly resembled a certain ginger that still calls the Rosehearts' household every day despite getting blue-screened by the answering machine.

That’s the last time Riddle allows you to chose the godfather of his child. Ace is an insufferable influence without that power to toss around.

Riddle sighed, plucking the brush from her fingers and pinning her V-shaped bangs back to examine her uniform. He flattens her lapels and redoes her necktie.

His necktie. Gods he’s raised a little thief.

For a moment, as he loops the tie-knot, he's a young boy calling the girl's mother over each morning to straighten her uniform. It's nostalgic, especially with how his daughter squirms under his appraisal.

Definetly her mother’s daughter, he thinks.

It is then that Riddle sees himself through her wide eyes - they're the same greyish blue that were hardened on his first day. His daughter's are much kinder, he notes. She'll easily find companions to eat her meals with.

Her cheeks are full with sweetness- his were too, but by genetic design rather than an extra treat here and there. To this day his baby-face lingers.

Her cheeks were 100% rounded with uncle Trey's spoiling. Not that Riddle could deny her when he'd eat just as much sweets while toiling over papers in his office. He remembers the familiar patter of feet slipping in, tiny hands pushing a cookie on his desk and coating it with crumbs.

He'd scold her to bring a plate next time, but take a break from work to enjoy the moment. Strict yet not domineering. A child that shares should be encouraged, at least that's what one of his many parenting manuals said.

She shared his button nose and tiny stature. Except she loved wearing matching Mary-Janes with her mother, while he wouldn't be caught without a heel at that age. She inherited his height but not his insecurity. Thank goodness.

Perhaps all those comments about his genetics weren't solely in regard to her magical prowess or ambitions. "....Father? Hellloooo?" she side-stepped to grab her bags, just as he reached to flatten her hair for the fifth time. His heart mellowed enough to not scold her impropriety.

"Ah - " Riddle coughed into his fist, " - apologies, little rose. I just never realized how much you look like -"

"You?” She cut in, “Yeah, psssssh. Mother says it at least once a day. About time you listened."

Riddle snorted, pinching between his brows. Yes, of course it was said. Although only now was he beginning to believe it.

"In appearances, yes. Yet your manners are as deplorable as ever."

Leona hopes his children are nothing like him. Which is impossible, since beastmen carry dominant traits when pitted against humans. He's not surprised in the slightest when his child has two little cub-ears atop their head, or that tiny chord barely passing as a tail. A ready snack he threatens to bite off when they misbehave.

At the very least, he hoped for your eyes. His piercing citrine was attractive, no doubt about that. He's not displeased to have them peer up at him from a bassinette each morning. Yet it is your eyes that carry a softness that this palace needs for him to get through his day.

Hey. At least there's no question of paternity. The joke falls flat with the midwives though. 'course it does.

Multiple times, by the way. For someone who claims to dislike loud children, Leona's genes are intent to sire three spitting images of himself.

In every which way - from their squeaky yawns after a mid-day siesta, to the magic flowing in their veins.

"Papa! Look what I learned how to do!"

Leona barely had time to look up from his endless pile of paperwork. The damn thing was near endless, and he'd missed three scheduled siestas just trying to get through the civil dispute filings. His brother spared no mercy in delegating the less 'enthusing' tasks to his 'smart, wise, people-smart' - pah - little brother.

He hated the sea of menial administrative filings.

His eldest daughter was well aware - she hated her homework just as much.

"A stampede's on it's way! Better freeze up before it's too late!"

Which is why she chose that moment to turn her beloved papa's woes to stone. Literally.

The moment her little fingers touched papyrus, the entire stack turned into solid rock. As did the blood in Leona's veins. Sparkly citrine eyes looked at him expectantly. Somewhere in the palace the lioness' tutor was undoubtly scouring to find her, take her back to magic theory, maybe try to cover this up from the other servants.

"You - OI! I needed those - urk, what else have you turned to stone?" he drops the pen in his hand and tries to move the now frozen stack into a drawer.

"Dammit Ki'faji...Where are your tutors? This is exactly why I told your mom combined lessons with Cheka would be a hassle," Leona grumbles and kicks from his desk, quick to check the hall outside. The kid was a bad influence - rambunctious as a twerp and even more riled up as a preteen.

Upon seeing no servants, guards, or even Cheka running up after his cousin - Leona's both relieved and angered.

Angered that his daughter was left alone. She probably escaped to avoid classwork, which he did too at that age but she deserved better. A proper education outside of solitude. One where she could hopefully grow up optimistic about this country and the people inside of it.

Relieved that no servant witnessed her Unique magic. They wouldn't understand. He can't bear the thought of them speaking of her like they did him.

Except it would be inevitable.

Then angered again, because in his hurry her little tail tucked between her legs. She hugged the side of his work desk with her hands fisted at the hem of her tunic. Her lips set in a scared pout, looking up at him past that untamed mane in her eyes. Worried.

"Papa...did I do something wrong?"

He wonders if this is what his father felt like. Being confronted with your own child, knowing that by cruel fate they'd have to face hardships and hatred for something out of their control.

Suffocating. His own throat felt full of sand. The leather on his hands too tight. She looked so much like him. Acted like him. That much Leona never once contested. Ki-Faji bemoaned to the skies that it was like time never passed, and he was stuck in a loop teaching the same unruly child.

It was funny, until it wasn't. "Nah, kiddo. Nothin' like that," he tried to keep his usual drawl. Unclench his fists. Forget about when he first slipped gloves on, "ya gotta warn me before a shock like that. So you finally got your magic tamed down, huh? Good job."

He shut the door and it set closed with a load thud. Leona might have an idea of what his father felt, but right now? She came first.

Ensuring she felt wanted, strong, and damn right accomplished - came first. Everything else later.

So with just a few strides, he swept her up over his shoulder and out from under that desk. She giggled and squawked about turning 'him' to stone if he made her go back to classes.

And Leona made no promises, but set her on the edge of his desk with 'threats' of turning her sweets to sand if she didn't at least try.

"With Unique Magic like that, you'll out-class your cousin before he even catches wind," and a bit of rivalry never hurt to keep the bloodline strong too.

Which judging by his daughter's immediate squirming to go and turn the first-prince to stone? She inherited Leona's competitive streak as well.

Unions between Merfolk and Humans are rare. Roughly 1/100 and that is giving benefit of the doubt. There were too many boundaries and complications. Prejudice born from history, the need for transfiguration, differing lifespans and culture.

One strong deterrent, perhaps the most impactful, is childrearing. The genetic output - while not impossible - is exceedingly unpredictable. Each species of merfolk reproduces differently, and their genetic dominance when put against a human's gene (especially if the mother is human) can cause complications. Capricious complications.

And as we all know - Azul is not fond of chance. Were his child to be born on land, yet have gills? Their lungs are so small, so new, they wouldn't make it to water in time. The same could be if they were born underwater and needed air.

One thing he is certain of, is that Octopi carry strong genetics. Literally. Should the child inherit his strength its kicks could do much more to your stomach than be a tickle to fawn over.

His mother wanted grandchildren, as did his great-grandmother did great grandchildren. Truth be told he wouldn't be opposed to raise one to leave his legacy to. Yet the Ashengrotto genes were strong with each descendent, so much that when he discovered you were with child? He couldn't be happy. Not truly - because too much was at risk and out of his control.

He prayed, which is not something Azul ever does, that the child would take after you. At each stage of development you were monitored down to the last detail, looking for any complications. Even the slightest hint of a tentacle or incompatibility.

Luckily, the child formed feet. Its first kick scared the hell out of him, but at most left you sore. Yet he wasn't able to relax. Not until you were taken care of in the best hospital on land, with a literal aquarium set up next to the bed just in case.

A medical marvel. That's what this child was.

Not a miracle. Not a blessing.

A medical marvel, and the most beautifully unpredictable thing that has ever happened to Azul in his entire life.

There was no clear picture of how his son might look at birth. He waited with bated breath, mentally running through every text he could find on mer-human unions. Banking on all the preparations He arranged and trying not to bite through his nails from the anxiety. The success rate was too low, but you insisted.

And he was most fortunate, because had you not then he wouldn't be holding the most cherished prize of his life.

The baby didn't cry, yet neither did he according to his mother. He was pale, no gills in sight but the wispy swirls of light gray on his head showed Azul's genes wouldn't rescind everything.

It was hidden from view for now, but there were signs of mixed blood on his son's skin. Plentiful black dots spotted his entire body, too dark to be freckles yet too light to be like Azul's outer skin in his mer-form. Time would only tell if Azul's genes really did overtake all, and if his son would look at the world with wet purple eyes.

Yet what struck Azul the most wasn't these obvious traits, ones he predicted at the very start of your pregnancy after endless nights of research.

It was that right below his son's lip, in the same spot as his father, was a small mole. That truly was by chance with no genetic influence.

He thumbed the little speck, marveling at something so small yet he didn't realize he wanted until it was there.

"You weren't lying, huh? Those are some strong genetics you carry."

Azul balked, just barely stopping himself from whipping around too quick. He turned to scold you for not sleeping, worry ebbing at him all over again.

Yet you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his ruffled button down to sink against him. His heart still spun like it did as a teenager.

"Look at his little head of hair," you laughed, and he mutely did just that, "if he gets glasses, then I think my bloodline's finished. Might as well say you did mitosis"

That got him to scoff.

"Hardly," he said dismissively, but his lips pulled to smile regardless, "I don't recall giving him feet. That's all your doing."

"Well excuse me for not having eight legs."

"You are excused," he snickered, "Truly, he would be so much more productive with them."

Azul didn't mean that. Well, partially. Yes his son would get much more done with four sets of arms but with other costs.

You hadn't pressed, and he was grateful.

Kalim wants a large family. Not only because it is expected of him as the eldest Asim, but also because he is a family man. He adores his siblings and does his absolute best to give them all attention despite their large quantity.

He's the most doting husband, and is even more attentive as a parent. One thing he will do differently from his father is keeping his family 'small'. Four children minimum, six children maximum. Monogamous as well. As much as he loves all his siblings, the unspoken tensions are too much to endure. Kalim's also a one-spouse kind of guy, and the thought of sharing - while normal for someone of his status - is not for him. No amount of suggestion or pressure will change that. It is bad enough that his children will be subject to worries about their uncles, aunties, and cousins possibly harboring ill-will. Kalim is set on ensuring that they are part of a true family, one without such tensions, and that he can give them all the love they deserve.

Perhaps he feels guilt as the eldest. He received the most attention from his father as the heir, but he has siblings who barely know anything about their father aside from how he looks. He has step-mothers he has met only in formality, and as time went on there were strains between his siblings that he couldn't ignore. Not after taking his official seat.

Kalim will not be the same as his father. Regardless for his respect and love for the man - No matter what the future does to him, no matter if he lives a long life or one cut short. Kalim will make sure his spouse and children are cared for. He loves them more than anything on the planet.

Should he have a family, and the situation demand it? He'd give up his spot as heir in a heartbeat and move far out into the dunes with nothing but the clothes on his back. All for them to be happy and safe. That's the kind of dad he is.

"Baba?"

Kalim resisted the urge to giggle. His eldest son hated when Kalim acted too childlike, and he was already pushing the boy's patience. He was just past thirteen, his fourteenth birthday already planned for a week-long celebration in just a half-month. It would be the biggest banquet the Scaldings Sands had see since Kalim's wedding. His son would soon start officially training as the next head Asim, just like Kalim did at that age.

Yet it was never too early to celebrate one of the best days of Kalim's life. Which is exactly why Kalim hovered outside the boy's window at an hour long past their family's 'bedtime'. The carpet under his feet familiar as ever, as was his son's exhausted disapproval (we wonder which attendant he inherited 'that' look from).

"Come on! Let's go for a carpet ride. Just you and me tonight," Kalim gently pat the space next to him, his smile adamant, "we don't even have to tell your mother."

His son deadpanned. Even Kalim grimaced at that one.

"Okay! If we get caught, I'll take the hit for both of us. Please? It's such a lovely night out. Perfect for a flight~"

Normally it would be the son begging his father to sneak out, not the other way around. Yet Kalim's eldest was much more mature than he was at that age. Despite being his physical copy, those ruby reds never sparkled with excitement like his father's. They were aways fully concentrated - be it on his studies, his charity, or whomever captured his attention. There came a point when a rumor surfaced that he couldn't possibly be Kalims, yet they didn't reach far thanks to the physical resemblance.

The 'only' resemblance. Since the kid hadn't cracked a laugh since he was in diapers.

Something Kalim learned to accept, but never gave up trying.

His son observed from his bed, the boy's nose wrinkled with thought. No doubt wondering if he should tattle to his mom. He was a doting momma's boy, at least he had that in common with his father.

"Fine," he sighed heavily, and rolled out of bed like it was torture.

Kalim waited, holding the curtain open eagerly until his boy hopped the ledge and sat cross-legged on the carpet's far edge.

Then they were off. High above the city where no one would see. Kalim bobbed his head happily, pointing out buildings as if his son hadn't memorized the entire map of their homeland at the ripe age of five.

"Oh! And there's the restaurant I took your mother on our first date. She loves their Kanafeh -"

"Baba, I know. We have it for breakfast twice every week."

Kalim guided the carpet towards lower ground without a response - keeping air, sassy teenagers, and his messy turban from whacking him in the face.

Only two of those three succeeded.

"Why are we even out here? Shouldn't you worry more about your responsibilities? What if mother wakes to an empty bed, did you consider the consequences? Her worries?"

There came those older thoughts out of such a young mouth. Kalim couldn't help but slump inwards, although his smile still hung on. "You're turning fourteen soon," life will change, "Don't you want to enjoy life a bit more before starting your studies? Baba will understand, you know." he said, and perhaps that was not what his son expected to hear. The boy puffed up. His tanned skin rouging with lost composure.

"I'm not like you. Being al Asim means something to me. Maybe you'd understand if you were a proper sultan who took his job and family seriously! Rather than sneaking off in the night for merry rides on a flying carpet!"

Under the moonlight, his son's perfectly primmed white hair bounced in the wind. Even in sleep he managed to keep his appearance tidy. There were times it was like Kailm was looking in warped a mirror. Those rare moments when he caught the boy lapse, usually with his younger siblings or cousins. When he looked softer, his garnet eyes full of kindness rather than the contempt held in them right now.

Except in these moments too - he still saw a mirror. Just one he wished to avoid.

He too disliked his father's way of doing things, to a certain extent. That his own son felt similar wasn't a surprise. It did not lessen the sting regardless.

"Tifli..." Kalim started, and his son faltered at the endearment, "think what you want, but there is nothing that means more to me than our family."

And even if his son wouldn't admit to it - Kalim knew he saw the mirror too. Just because Kalim disliked his father's choices, didn't mean he did not love him.

He reached for his son without a second thought, pulling the boy down to roughly rub his cheek over his head.

and just like that, Kalim was back to being happy and his son back to groaning complaints - albeit less agitated, to Kalim's delight - and pretending he was much more mature than he was deep down. Kalim's opposite yet perfect little replica.

"Ahahaha!!! Look at you! Just wait until the council has to fight against that fire! I can't wait to bring you with me! "

"AGH LET ME GO!!! WHY DID I EVEN AGREE TO THIS?!"

Papa Vil - now that's one unexpected title to tack onto his Resume. Contrary to what everyone might believe of a superstar leading a life on the go, Vil is proud to be a father. His own raised him while juggling his goals, why should Vil's career deny him the joys of fatherhood?

No. When Vil's daughter is born, he is more than prepared to balance family and work. He locked in when taking a spouse, and is never one to be unprepared.

When you were pregnant, he announced a hiatus in his career just as you entered the third trimester. He can afford it. The public loves a family man. He has money money, and wasn't going to risk missing the birth of his first child while travelling.

Also. Supportive husband to the maximum. Considering you were carrying his child, the bare minimum he could do was be readily available as you go through the roughest stage. That baby had a college fund made and filled before she was even born.

Not that he'd just let her mooch - no child of his would grow up without ambition and practiced life skills. He was not 'aiming' to create a replica or enforce his standards...but she wouldn't lack drive. No Schoenheit - not even you - is going to go through life quietly.

His hiatus was meant to extend until she turned one. Old enough to enjoy life on the road, for you to recover, and give 3-5 years for him to work until she started school. Unlike him at that age, she wouldn't be chartered around as much for his work. Nope.

He already had it planned. She'd be enrolled in a private academy, you'd work as you liked in a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't take any contracts outside of the Shaftlands until she was a teenager. Balance. She would have every opportunity, proper support, and hopefully independence to grow outside of his shadow.

The last thing Vil wanted was for her to be influenced by his career - well, other than admiring his films and being that perfect little face to single out int the audience while at a talk-show or photoshoot.

Speaking of Schoenheit genetics and their blossoming careers - heavens above, he fell in love the moment she first opened her eyes. There were few curly blond ringlets that grew out at super speed as the months past, and she inherited his lavender eyes. Although on a baby they were more rounded, doe-like, and would most definitely take his sharp edge as she grew. Every time he booped her little nose, the little giggle that came was almost melodic.

Such a well behaved baby made a cameo in one of his largest projects to date. He took the role of an unruly ostracized duke, where the special effects makeup made him both enchanting yet horribly frightening to young children. His character gained his redemption through raising an orphan, and Vil's little girl was the only baby they could find who wouldn't cry when seeing her father act so heinous.

"Vil, everyone here is itching to know, is it true that the baby we see in 'Redemption of our Finest ' is your own daughter? There are rumors and speculations from those on set yet we'd love confirmation."

Vil shifts in his chair. The many cameras at all angles did little to deter his focus from the interview in progress. It was one of many, and the talk-host across from him looked very eager to get the first scoop on his latest hit success. He smiled to the camera with his eyes, pretending to be in thought for a moment. The questions were all pre-approved, after all.

"Your assumption and the rumors are all correct," he started, crossing his legs and folding his hands together in them, "unfortunately we struggled to find a child that would not cry when faced with my appearance. Poor little things - it is a struggle to rear child actors. Especially babies."

The reporter blinked, somehow still shocked despite knowing the already.

"And you're saying that your daughter is a cut above the rest?" they asked, and he tutted inwardly. The phrasing was poor, as always with these reporters.

"Yes," he gave them a moment's victory, "and no."

He didn't wait for further inquiry.

"My daughter is remarkable - she is my greatest production, a work of perfection alongside my beloved spouse. Yet this film is rated PG-13, and includes scenes not fit for young eyes. Babies act on instincts alone, and for the majority of this film my appearance was...ah, I so rarely say this, but I was unsightly."

His tone carried warning for them not to twist his words, and the message was received as they gestured for those behind the scenes to alter the backdrop.

"We could even argue your acting ability is that good! To make such a beautiful face and poised demeanor come off as cold." they said, and with the click of a button the screen behind them changed.

On it came a picture of an old, tattered bassinette left on the front stoop of a castle. The picture flicked to show inside, and in it was Vil's precious little girl. Special effects added some dirt on her cheeks, and they wrapped her in a tattered blanket for the scene. Yet despite their efforts to make the child look abandoned, Schoenheit genetics demanded the world see such an adorable baby for all she is.

The audience awed at the picture, even without a cue card. Vil himself took on a genuine lift to his practiced smile when seeing her.

"And just look at her folks! Such an adorable little baby! Can you really expect anything less from THE Vil Schoenheit and Eric Venue's heritage. An actor before she can even count! Your wife's genes didn't even try here, did they Vil?"

The crowd appears insatiable as the host scrolls through a series of photos. Some taken from the film, others from photoshoots and the occasional candid photo snuck by paparazzi. He knew better than to try and hide his family, but said nothing as they all made assumptions.

After all - he was beautiful, and his daughter was undoubtedly the most beloved baby in all of Twisted Wonderland. It was only natural and who was he to turn his nose when faced with one of the few facts these reporters have gotten right.

Although, he wasn't entirely content He laughed into his palm, unable to resist the chance and made direct eye-contact with one of the cameras. Knowing full well that you were watching somewhere back stage, lips likely puckered from being disrespected and just waiting for him to come sneak your family out before the public was dismissed.

"I'm afraid there is nothing to argue there. My genes are perfection, not to mention competitive," he smirked seductively at the camera, propping his chin in the palm of his hand, "but I'm not opposed if my wife would like a rematch for a chance to win the next battle."

And with that - he simultaneously spiked his popularity rating and soft-launched what would likely be a second replica coming to life soon.

Maybe.

If you didn't kill him for that stunt first.

Prodigies spawn prodigies. At least in this case.

Idia never pictured himself as a family man. Hells he never thought anyone would even look at him with anything other than disgust (minus that one ghost lady. He doesn’t like to talk about it) let alone marry him. Needless to say that he cannot decide if you are an idiot or if he has plot armor - because those are the only two reasons you could possibly ever agree to give up your entire life and move to STYX just to be with him.

**see Marriage series for settling THAT can of worms

Yet you do, and now he’s got not only his little brother but a whole ass spouse. He’s on cloud nine. Life cannot be letting him have such good luck. The RNG is rigged

Until he learns that you’re with child - and it all goes boom. Literally. Since not only does his daughter inherit his curse, his fiery flames that never tame themselves, and his spiked teeth that nip his lips way too many times for comfort -

She inherits his genius.

Raising a child in a contained base is a living nightmare.

Raising a child with a need to infiltrate the laboratories and experiment is hell. At least he kept to his room when tinkering as a kid. Idia’s daughter has his brains and your craftiness for going around undetected…and your habit of initiating dramatic events. Needless to say that she does NOT keep to your family’s apartment, does NOT submit to any security (he regrets teaching her how to decode the base padlocks), and very much enjoys making STYX ‘lively’….haha…yeah

No one has ever met such a happy Shroud. Excluding Ortho. He was a sweet type of happy. You spawned a menace.

But let’s not derail. Even if he didn’t want her per-say - Idia loves his daughter. His gut twisted seeing the Shroud curse start taking hold over such a tiny body. She was just a toddler and already burning through enough blot to tie her to this place. He knew the feeling of those youthful amber eyes looking at him for guidance. She looked so much like Ortho as a toddler, and as a child began to resemble him more with longer flames.

It was a constant battle every day. Balancing his work while also trying to do better - because his attitude sucked. He knew his attitude sucked. You warned him about using self-deprecative language and for the most part he did learn to reign it in.

Except old habits die hard, and deep down he still struggles to like himself. Seeing his daughter follow in his footsteps burns brutally, since she has all this potential and just like him she’ end up working for the family business without a choice. All because of these stupid flames and these stupid teeth and these stupid genetics and this STUPID curse -

“MAMAAAAAAAA!!!! DADDY’S BEING A BIG MEANIE AGAIN!!!”

Her shrill high-pitched cry carried throughout the apartment. Idia had just enough time to swipe the alarm system off before it processed. He wishes he could regret putting a system to detect and alert if she was distressed when alone here - but couldn’t. Even now. Since this was totally 100% his fault.

Dammit this kid has lungs of steel.

“Nonononononono - No Mama! No! Shhh shh shh shh!” He grapppled at her little shoulders with clammy hands, “Look! Look I’m not sad, see??? We have pretty hair! Super cool hair! Please please please stop crying -“

And then she did.

The tonal whiplash. The way this tiny manipulator just ceased all her tears, mouth clamping shut with an audible click. A literal child pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to pat her eyes dry - like some twisted 60yr old swindler at a poker game who’s been training for this moment for decades.

He should have known.

Honestly. Idia can’t even bring himself to be mad. The amount of gaslighting it took to get this kid off his Ninswendo last week already put his best tricks to use.

He is the one who created this monster.

Just like her dad - his little girl was hyper aware of people. Including him, and picked up all his weaknesses. She knew damn well that he genuinely had reason to fear only two people - her momma and her grandmother. Both of which lecture him about being a good model. She knew that system was put in place, and to be good when no one was around to watch her. Not that she ever stayed quiet in their home with S.T.Y.X labs to infiltrate.

He just never thought the day would come, when her demon like tendencies would be used for something like this.

“Your her father, not her friend” his mother said.

“It’s bad enough you turned me into a living photocopier - don’t you dare get lenient with her at this age” you warned.

“That child scares me” he thought, and you agreed. Awful. Awful parents. You both mean it in the most loving way possible.

“Hwee hee hee! I’m glad you think so, daddy,” she grinned up at him all sweet-like, with those pointy little chompers ready to stake their claim. She snapped her teeth at him like a piranha, “hehe~ Mommy says our teeth are cool too. The pointies make eating steak easier - oh! Oh! Can we please have steak for dinner tonight? Please?? Pleaseeeeee?”

Something told him that should he say no, those distress detectors would be set off before he could catch them.

“U-uh…yeah, kiddo. Sure thing. Just go play and I’ll put an order in.”

He tried desperately to hide the quiver in his voice, but knew he failed. She skipped off to her bedroom much too happily - even if father’s were supposed to want their kids to be happy, that was too much - and whatever work remained for the evening didn’t seem important

As Idia slid up to one of the house control panels to check for instant-card delivery, he wondered how this became his life, and if this is how his parents felt having a prodigal spawn of the under-hells for a son.

No. He wasn’t that bad….was he? Did he even want to know at this point?

Boom

“DADDY!!! MY EXPERIMENT BLEW UP AND IS LEAKING RED GUNK!”

No. No. He really did not want to know. For the sake of whatever relationship he had with his parents.

He wants as many children as possible. The definition of that one clip of of the kid who wanted 100 children, so that they'd all have to be his friend. Not that Malleus would force his children to be his friends - well, it would be a plus surely - but he does want a large family to live his life beside.

He finds comfort in solitude, but comfort's close companion is loneliness. He wishes to never be partnered with that feeling. There was opposition. Union between the Briar Prince and a human? Unheard of. Not to mention the life-span difference. Not just between himself and you, but also for his children. Half-fae live long, but not as long as full-blooded fae. In time he will still come out alone, but he hopes to have many memories. Much love and warmth to take with him.

Yet this isn't meant to be sad - no, let us focus on the absolute joy he felt when his first child was born. A boy, his magic exceedingly strong despite his lineage. Even the elders were surprised at the magical prowess this child held. It was almost as if Malleus' nightly wishes for his child to be well, to be loved, to be healthy - taking every precaution to ensure you were well cared for during pregnancy, speaking blessings to your stomach in the dead of night - it all just manifested and out came the world's most perfect child.

A Draconia who would grow up with both parents. He'd be protected, nurtured, loved, and never ever alone. Some might call the King overbearing, making sure his spouse had a desk in his office and attending his meetings with a bright yellow baby sling over his chest. It definitely stood out against his royal attire but Malleus didn't mind.

In magic - there was also physical appearance. Being half-human, the child physically aged quicker than Malleus did in his youth. Yet he still retained the Draconia genes, with two curled scaly horns poking out above his forehead. He had no tail at birth, but around puberty many little scales began to poke their way through at his temple, back, wrists, and neck. No one predicted this since the Draconias have never reproduced with humans, but you tried to calm him with poorly convoluted jokes about ' fancy dragon acne'.

Yet according to Lilia, the boy looked like a near carbon-copy of Malleus once he sprouted up. His hair may have been kept shorter, slicked back, and he may carry himself entirely different from his father. Yet the look in his slitted-emerald eyes was exactly the same. His aura was the same.

And Malleus hadn't any idea how to handle that observation. Surely it was meant as a compliment. In the moment, he laughed and took it as one. Who wouldn't be prideful to see themselves in their child? Especially one so accomplished, growing into his scales with pride and eagerly stepping into his role as prince.

Except Malleus wouldn't, because the thought of his child sharing the feelings he had at that age? It unsettled him greatly. Perhaps one of his worst nightmares as a doting father.

“Father?”

Three sharp knocks echoed in Malleus’ study. He needn’t look up from his book, since the door opened with a thud without waiting for his approval.

Not that he minded - no, quite the contrary. He felt excitement building up at the first knock after all. There was only one person who it could be.

No one would dare impose on the Briar King during his downtime.

None had permission for such rudeness.

No one except his dear family, of course. Although as much as he wished for them to cling to his side and be a welcome reprise from his duties - Malleus was rarely afforded such a gift. His eldest son in particular conducted himself more as a knight or distant consultant than a loving son. Perhaps that came from leaving him in Sebek’s care - as much as his knight was ecstatic to become the first prince’s personal guard, his constant reverence to the elder briar ways likely left an impact on an impressionable child. Instead of bedtime stories, the little Draconia likely fell asleep to Sebek's long-winded lectures on the daily.

Back when he was a starry-eyed toddler, of course. Now the boy wouldn't dare let his guard down enough to sleep, even if his safety was guaranteed. Somehow despite Malleus taking every last precaution to rear a tranquil child, he raised a stickler instead.

“Hm? You look troubled, my son” Malleus met his eldest’s rare lack of decorum with amusement. He didn’t bother to hide a fanged smirk from him.

His son, who seemed to bristle in the doorway when under Malleus’ eye, clearly struggled to contain himself into the proper prince he was trying to be.

“Because I am troubled, father” he grit out, hands flexing at his sides. Sharp black fingernails pricking at his palms.

“Oh? And what seems to be the problem? You so rarely come to me with such matters” - to anyone who didn’t know the king, the sentence read as a bitter slight.

Yet it was merely a father sulking for his son’s attention, in his own prideful way.

“That’s precisely the issue,” his son huffed, “with all held respect, you cannot just drop in on my classes whenever you feel like it! It’s disruptive!”

Malleus merely turned the page in his book, “and whose fault is it that I had to resort to such measures?”

His question met a guilty conscience, and so he continued.

“What else am I to do? My child no longer behaves as my blood. He writes home giving stale reports as if he is one of my soldiers and bids his precious family far too few visits,” Malleus looks up from his ‘reading,’ and gestures to the uniform his son wears, “What else am I to do to see my precious son, other than visit his school? I was a student there once. Your headmaster wouldn’t dare to deny my entry.”

“Father - I understand your anger with my negligence but that is not an excuse for disrupting my classmates -“

“They looked quite please with my presence. I even supplemented material for your lecture -“

“They were scared beyond their wits! - And what of mother?! Surely she was against doing something so drastic! Think of our image! The King of Briar Valley cannot just casually drop his responsibilities whenever he so pleases.”

The boy’s composure finally cracked - and even for a half-blood, his power easily contorted the world around them if left unteathered.

Crackles of electricity buzzed across the study, flickering through a lit desk-lamp. As did the temperature lessen some degrees. Rather than be miffed by his son’s explosion, Malleus laughed in the face of it.

So this is how he must have looked during his moments of impulsivity. Hah.

“You’d be foolish to assume she didn’t try and come along. I thought to spare you her ire, as a mercy.”

At that, the lamp ceased it’s flickering to beam a steady light once again. The teen’s cheeks flushed a shameful color, so rare for one who prides himself more than any of his siblings.

"That was not necessary," he softened almost instantly. Even if she nearly committed the same 'crime' as Malleus, it seems favorites were at play.

"You know with certainty that it was."

A Draconia through and through. What was the term Lilia used? “Momma’s boy”? Considering that none disrespect the Queen - the King included - as her ire could strike the most sore spots of their family after all.

The boy pulled at his collar, out of arguments and simmered to displeasure rather than anger. He muttered an apology for losing his temper, and Malleus found himself wishing for the argument to continue just a bit longer.

After all, these were the times he felt most like a father, a husband, part of a family - rather than a king. He misses the early days when he was only the first three, before the council and other influences pushed his children to focus on responsibilities and their lineage.

“I’m sorry for not writing home…or visiting…I hadn’t thought it would trouble you. I simply - I thought it best to place distance between us.”

“Distance?” Malleus balked, “Distance from your family?”

He couldn’t understand why his child would want distance.

How could the boy he worked so hard to instill belonging within, whom he raised from egg to man, whom he would give up everything for - possibly say such a harrowing thing.

His own blood. His heart and soul. To spew such things in the face of ancestors who were bound to loneliness.

Whatever explanation for his manners didn’t matter so long as he was happy, but to intentionally want to be away from all Malleus thought worthwhile in life?

Never-mind. Malleus wanted the argument to cease. Indefinitely. And to tie himself to this desk for a decade or more.

“Yes, Father. Otherwise it is too difficult-“ he hesitated to continue, but one look at his father- whatever expression he might hold that couldn’t be contained despite his efforts - seemed to be the last push, “- being away. From my family. Leaving. I do not like it, but it is my duty. Coming home, hearing from you, mother, even the care packages I receive from grandfather! I can’t eat them but somehow just smelling the burnt food makes me falter! How can you expect me to preform up to our family’s standards, if I am homesick all the time!?”

It was the first time since he was a boy, clinging to Malleus’ legs, begging his parents not to leave him with his babysitters, that his son cried so openly. Malleus nearly gave in each time it happened too.

The pressure of royal duties, of perfection, on his shoulders was the same as those who came before him. Yet Malleus found himself more relieved than anything, even if his child might never recover his pride.

It was also the first time in many years that Malleus hugged his son, careful to avoid his growing blunted horns, and wasn’t pushed away.

“You are already doing more than enough. Loving your family is nothing to be ashamed of, and it is one of my greatest regrets that you thought otherwise for a single moment.”

[ama3003]

In the Middle

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: Being caught in the middle is always hard.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!! I have seen Thunderbolts* on Thursday (amazing btw) and have been craving Thunderbolts!Bucky. Also reader is like mid to late 20s.

Also double whammy with these fics. Also thank you those who requested some fics. I'm getting on them right now. Keep em coming!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

“I cannot believe this dude,” Sam says, pacing the living room like it personally offended him. His hands are moving almost as fast as his mouth. “I tell him Ross wants me to rebuild the Avengers, right? I open up—I mean really open up. I tell him I’m not sure I’m the guy for it. That maybe Steve made a mistake giving me the shield.”

He stops mid-step and points dramatically in the air, like he's building up his case.

“And you know what Bucky says? ‘No, he didn’t.’ That’s it. No discussion. Just—‘No, he didn’t.’ Point. Blank. Period. And I'm not gonna lie, that's all I needed to hear."

You open your mouth to say something, but Sam’s already spinning toward you.

“And I believed him! I believed him because I thought he was my best friend.”

"Hey!" you cut in, brows raised.

Sam waves you off. “Nah, nah—don’t ‘hey’ me. You know you’re like my sister. Ultimate mega best friend status and all that, but not the point right now. Lemme vent about your ugly boyfriend real quick.”

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you!” Sam claps once, then starts pacing again. “Then I find out there’s already a ‘New Avengers’—capital N, capital A—already up and running. And guess who’s right in the middle of it? Bucky! Like I wasn’t gonna find out!”

He stops again, staring at you like it’s your fault. “You know what I call that? Betrayal.” He jabs the air for emphasis. “Straight-up betrayal.”

You’re sitting on the sofa, letting him work through it. Honestly, you couldn’t blame him. Bucky had called not ten minutes ago to talk about—of all things—the copyright on the Avengers name.

Now Sam wants to sue them.

“Fourteen months,” Sam says, voice rising, “of back-and-forth with this man and his ‘new family.’ You remember what we went through? What he went through? Guess what? We were his family first. And now he’s calling me like I’m the one stepping on toes? Like I’m in the wrong for trying to do what Ross asked me to do?”

“He told you to back off?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Sam gives you a long-suffering look. “He wants me to give him the rights of the name."

"So it didn't end well..." You sighed, rubbing your temples.

"Y/N… if I’m venting like this, how do you think the call went?”

You try to offer something. “Can’t you just… I don’t know. Combine the teams? Be the MegaVengers or something? Steve literally said ‘Avengers, assemble’ and there were like a thousand people who showed up. We all kind of worked together then.”

Sam looks horrified. “No. No combining. It’s not about numbers—it’s about principle. That man knew what this meant to me. And now he’s trying to sidestep it like it’s nothing.”

He crosses his arms and looks at you with purpose. “You need to talk to him. Get him to step back.”

You shake your head. “Nope. Not getting in the middle of this.”

You meant it. You’ve known Sam for years—he was your ride-or-die, your day-one, the brother you got to choose. But through Sam, you met Bucky. And he became your favorite person. You were in between your best friend and the love of your life.

You learned about the ‘New Avengers’ team at the same time Sam did. The two of you had stared at the screen in disbelief.

But after hours of yelling at Bucky—tears, arguments, explanations—you got it. You understood that he hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. That Valentina made moves he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t betrayed you… not intentionally.

Still, the line between intention and impact? That’s where Sam lived.

He stares at you for a moment, then reaches into his jacket and hands you a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” you ask, skimming it. Then you stop. Your eyes widen.

“I want you to join my team,” he says simply. “The new Avengers.”

Your jaw drops. “Sam…”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says quickly. “You really think I’d build a team without you? Come on. We’ve never not been on a team together.”

“Sam, I… I can’t sign this,” you say, handing the paper back. “You know I can’t.”

He rolls his eyes. “You can. You should. Y/N, I’ve already started recruiting. I’ve got a plan, but I need my right hand. I need you.”

You stand, walking toward him. “And I can’t go against Bucky.”

He exhales sharply, then softens. “Just… think about it, okay? I don’t need a yes right now. Just don’t say no yet.”

“Sam…”

“Think about it,” he says again, looking at his watch. “Ugh—venting session’s over. Gotta go pitch Ross on the plan. Wish me luck.”

He leans in, presses a quick kiss to your cheek, "Please think about it," and walks out the door.

You sit back down, staring at the paper. Then you run a hand through your hair, heart pounding.

A few quiet moments pass.

Then you grab your bag and head straight for the other tower.

*****

“James Buchanan Barnes—you are in so much trouble.”

Your voice echoed through the tower as you dropped your bag with a thud. The team—scattered around the lounge doing everything from eating chips to watching TV—immediately snapped to attention.

A chorus of "Ooooooh!" broke out like a middle school lunchroom.

Bucky stood up fast, hands already in the air like he was facing down a SWAT team. “Okay, doll, don’t be mad.”

You marched forward, hands on your hips. “Don’t be mad? You asked Sam to drop the Avengers name.”

“He’s suing us!” Bucky shot back, already defensive. “We had the name first! Val got the jump on it—we just made it official.”

He crossed his arms like a stubborn teenager. Behind him, his teammates exchanged exasperated looks, a few shaking their heads like, here we go again.

“Are you both five?” you snapped. “You need to talk. Face to face. Not through lawyers. Not through phones. Like actual adults.”

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Bucky muttered. “And honestly, I don’t want to see him either.”

He tried to hold his glare, but it faltered when he looked at you. He could see it written all over your face: this was tearing you up. And he hated that he’d played a part in it.

“I saw Sam today,” you said quietly. “He asked me to join his team.”

The room fell completely silent. Even Yelena put down her snack.

Bucky blinked. “And… what’d you say?”

“I told him no. For now. But he asked me to think about it.”

Bucky scoffed like that was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. “Think about it? What’s there to think about? You’re not joining them.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Every single person in the room physically cringed. Even Red Guardian mouthed oh no.

“You’re not serious right now,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “Did you just try to tell me what to do?”

“I’m saying Sam’s being irrational,” Bucky argued, digging his own grave. “He’s suing us, Y/N. You can’t join them. That’s not how this works.”

You stepped toward him, fire in your eyes. “He’s not being irrational. He’s hurt, Bucky. He thinks you betrayed him. And the truth? Even if it wasn’t on purpose—you kind of did.”

Bucky opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I get it,” you added, softer now. “He shouldn’t have filed a lawsuit. It’s messy. But this—this whole thing—is a disaster. And you’re both too stubborn to fix it.”

Bucky slowly reached for you, pulling you into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I never wanted to put you in the middle of this. I just... I won’t give up on this team.”

You let him hold you, but your heart was heavy. “I know,” you whispered, then gave him a small kiss. “But I can’t keep being the bridge between you two.”

He pulled back, looking at you. “Then don’t be. Move in with me. You said you were thinking about it. And hell, you could just join us too. We’d be unstoppable.”

You stepped back, blinking. “Are you seriously asking me to join your team right after I told you Sam asked me the same thing? Are you kidding me, Bucky?”

“Not cool,” Yelena muttered, earning a death glare from Bucky.

Then your phone rang—loud and dramatic. Mariah Carey’s voice filled the room. You groaned and answered.

“What, Sam?”

“Figured you were over there,” he said. “So I’ll keep it short. Ross and I have a few new recruits saying yes already. We might fast-track things. So I need an answer. ASAP.”

“You gave me thirty minutes—”

“Thirty minutes for what?” Bucky leaned in, practically pressing his ear to your phone.

“Would you stop?” you muttered, pushing him back.

“Is that Barnes?” Sam asked over the line. “Yo, Barnes—fuck you.”

Bucky blinked. “What did he just say?”

You sighed. “He said—”

“I said fuck you,” Sam shouted, louder this time.

You snapped.

“That’s it!” you barked, stepping between the two of them. “Both of you, shut up.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“I am so done being in the middle of your pissing contest,” you said, voice shaking now. “You used to be a family. We used to be a family. And you two are tearing it apart like a couple of overgrown toddlers.”

Bucky looked like he’d been slapped. Sam was silent on the other end.

“You know what’s really messed up?” you added. “You both say you love me, you both trust me—but you’re trying to make me pick between you. And I won’t. I won’t.”

Everyone was still, barely breathing.

Then Sam, faint over the phone: “Wait… Did Barnes ask you to join the FAKEngers?”

“We’re the real Avengers, for the record,” Bucky muttered.

“Oh my god,” you said, throwing your hands up. “I’m done. Until you both grow up and get your shit together, I’m out. I’m not picking sides.”

You turned, grabbed your bag, and stormed toward the door.

“Wait—what do you mean?” Bucky called, chasing after you.

You turned back, pointing between him and your phone. “I love you, Bucky. And Sam—you’re my brother. But if you two can’t stop acting like enemies, then you don’t get to have me caught in the crossfire.”

And with that, you hung up the call and walked out.

Back in the room, Walker slowly picked up the paper. “Ouch,” he said, wincing. “Don’t you just hate when they walk away?”

Yelena smacked him in the head. “You’re not helping.”

***********

It had been a few days since everything exploded—and both Sam and Bucky were unraveling in their own ways.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both felt it: the quiet ache where you used to be. The texts left on read. The silence that said more than any shouting match ever could.

Eventually, they both found themselves doing the same thing—sitting alone, staring at their phones, thumbs hovering over each other's names.

Bucky sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and hit the contact.

Sam’s phone lit up. He stared at the screen for a long second before finally answering.

“Barnes,” Sam said flatly.

“Wilson,” Bucky replied, just as dry.

A beat.

Then Bucky exhaled. “I miss her.”

Sam’s voice was quieter this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

Another pause.

“We gotta fix this,” Bucky said. “This whole thing… it’s not worth losing her over.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam agreed. “We should talk. In person. Try to settle this."

“Tomorrow?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. Tomorrow’s good.”

“Alright.”

“Cool.”

“…Fine.”

“…Fine.”

They hung up.

No apologies yet. Not out loud.

But it was a start.

Maybe this whole MegaVengers idea wasn’t so bad after all.

[mariasont]

Craving Like A Lungful - S.R

you ask spencer a question about breath play. he gives you a lecture, a safety demonstration, and a mind-shattering orgasm. in that order.

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, AFAB, reader wearing a skirt, breath play, choking (consensual), fingering, dirty talk, praise, experimentation, soft dom reid, power exchange, pet names, 75% smut and 25% love letter to spencer reid's fingers wc: 4.1k

He’s torturing you. Actually, genuinely torturing you. Spencer Reid, certified genius, closeted sadist, worst man on Earth. 

Except, well, obviously, he isn’t. You would qualify him as your favorite person in existence on any given day, and therein lies half the problem. 

Because right now, he’s just sitting there, reading, while his fingertips scrap absent-minded shapes along the slope of your neck. Each harmless pass managing to turn your thoughts to mush and bones to jelly. 

At this point, you’re convinced you’re less a person and more a limp collection of nerves slumped against his side, pretending (poorly, might you add) to watch a show you mentally abandoned about ten minutes ago.

You’re too busy contemplating just how blatantly you’d need to behave to distract him from those words and coax him into pursuits you deem far more exciting. Pursuits that involve significantly more touching.

His grasp on you briefly firms, just a heartbeat of strain if that.

You know it was surely accidental, but your body can’t compensate for the difference. You try to swallow the intrusion of indecent thoughts like sour medicine.

The dose doesn’t take.

You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be pinned beneath him, discovering firsthand the perfect contradiction that is Spencer’s innate gentleness and the strength you’re suddenly craving from his hands.

You’re not crazy for this, you reassure yourself desperately. He’s safe. He’s the literal personification of comfort, disguised in scholarly tweed and tender kisses. 

Fantasizing him into something rougher, a little less cautious... it doesn't cancel that out. It just colors it deeper. Some might consider it acceptable, even. Right?

“Spence?”

“Hmm?” He answers preoccupiedly, the pad of his finger wetting against his tongue before flipping another page.

“What do you, um… what do you know about breath play?”

You hate the way your throat tightens immediately as the question leaves your mouth. (The universe is a huge fan of irony, you’ve discovered.)

“You know I love when you ask me questions,” he begins slowly. “But something tells me this one isn’t purely theoretical.” His regard eases as his eyes track over your shoulders, now curving inward. “Am I right?”

“Yeah.” 

You could try to pretend otherwise, but you’ve come to realize, faking it is futile with Spencer. You’re sure he already knows. He’s had months to figure you out, and he treats that like a privilege — just one he’s very good at using to his advantage.

“Alright, sweetheart. Enlighten me. What exactly has you curious?”

You flap your hand, unsure what you’re even trying to say with it, and instantly feel ridiculous. Silly even. 

But Spencer smiles like he thinks you’re charming and suddenly your embarrassment feels a little less terminal.

“I guess like, what’s the science behind it? Is it an adrenaline thing? A psychological thing? Or is it just, you know… a thing?”

Spencer’s hand drops from your neck, sliding to rest on your shoulder instead. It’s not exactly abrupt, but it’s unexpected enough to spark a little twinge of disappointment that sneaks out in the form of a tiny frown.

You hurry to erase it, but not fast enough.

“I only moved my hand,” he clarifies, “because I don’t want to introduce any external variables into this discussion.”

You stare, brows pinching together. “External variables?”

“Yes.” He nods. “If I kept touching your neck while describing breath play, I'd risk subconsciously steering your reactions. Maybe stirring up curiosity, maybe aversion, or maybe something more complicated. Removing the physical cue ensures you form your opinion independently.”

You squint at him. “That’s… weirdly considerate. And possibly a tiny bit intense, Professor.”

“It’s an intense topic.”

“Oh. Right. Guess that tracks.”

He’s got that look now, that particular smile he only pulls out when you’ve made him laugh without intending to. You should feel annoyed. You’re not. It's more like lucking into treasure when you were content sifting through scraps. 

“Okay, so… think of it like this,” he starts, already slipping into that half-professor, half-boyfriend tone. “When you restrict airflow, even briefly, your body interprets it as a stressor. That triggers a fight-or-flight response. Your heart rate spikes, adrenaline kicks in, and your brain releases dopamine to counteract the stress.”

He pauses slightly, eyes searching yours to ensure you’re still with him. You are, mostly. Enough, anyway.

“That dopamine rush is what makes it feel so good to some people. It’s the same principle behind things like sky-diving or high-intensity workouts, the brain perceives a mild, controlled threat and rewards you with a chemical high.”

You open your mouth to interrupt but Spencer’s lips are already curling into a sideways grin, like he’s already one step ahead of you.

“And before you ask, yes, it’s completely safe when done correctly. The key is control. It’s never about actual danger, just the illusion of it.”

You hesitate for a second, then ask, “I mean… how do you know when someone’s doing it right versus, like, actively trying to murder you?”

“First of all, it shouldn’t feel aggressive or sudden. You should feel an edge of intensity without genuine fear or distress. Your body’s reactions shouldn’t tip over into panic or actual pain.” He leans forward, his proximity suddenly sharpened. “And secondly, it has to be with someone you trust implicitly. This isn’t the sort of activity you’d want to try after a few drinks at a questionable frat party.” He lifts a brow. “Selfishly, I’d much rather you not explore something this delicate with anyone but me.”

“Spencer.”

“Just being responsible, angel,” he says lightly, completely unrepentant as he dips forward, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’d hate to imagine you in the inexperienced hands of someone less qualified.”

You press your lips together, glaring in a way you hope reads as stern instead of hopelessly flustered. “Don’t make fun.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Which, given his shit-eating grin, is an outright lie. His hand finds your knee and squeezes. “Any other pressing questions?”

“Have you ever done it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” You fumble momentarily, grasping to find footing that doesn’t involve imagining him with someone else. “Um, so, was it — did you like it?”

He tugs your knee a little closer. “I think you’re asking because you hope my experience will give you some clarity about your own feelings.”

You freeze, because, well, yeah, that’s exactly what you were doing. And hearing it out loud makes it harder to dodge.

“The thing is,” he continues softly, patiently, “my answer won’t really help, sweetheart. My role is fundamentally different, both physically and psychologically, from yours. You're the one feeling the rush. I’d be the one carefully controlling it.” He tilts his head, studying your reaction. “What you need to ask yourself is how the idea itself makes you feel.”

You stare down at your hands, willing an answer to manifest. But the truth is, you don’t have one.

Everything you know about this is secondhand. The way your friends talk about it, joking over drinks like it’s no big deal. The way it’s portrayed in movies, always intense and dramatic. The way a passage in a book makes you pause, reread it over again, just to be sure.

But all of that is distant, safely removed from your actual life. None of it feels like you.

“It’s complicated,” you admit, squirming under his gaze. “It feels interesting in theory. Like, hypothetically exciting. But actually enjoying it? That’s still an enormous, intimidating question mark.”

Spencer’s eyes flick over you once, assessing, before he nods. 

“Alright,” he says. “Well, this is a safe, controlled environment. We can take it step by step, nice and logical, okay?”

You nod quickly — probably too quickly. Spencer’s mouth twitches, but he’s kind enough not to call you on it.

His hand moves back to one side of your neck.

“Let’s start by narrowing it down,” he continues, “If I touched you right here —” his voice dipping intimately, “— what’s the first thing you feel? Excited? Nervous? Both?”

Spencer’s hand is cold, just on the edge of uncomfortably so, but by now, you’ve learned to anticipate it.

The first time, he’d explained away the chill, intertwining your fingers while he launched into a gentle explanation about blood vessels, circulation, and temperature regulation, as if medical jargon might warm you up faster. Your dazed, crush-drunk state had earnestly tried to soak up every word.

The second time, however, there had been no hope of retaining anything. His fingers tracing circles around your clit, whispering against your neck something vaguely scientific — vasoconstriction, maybe? — the words entirely lost beneath your own breathy sighs.

Maybe some responsible corner of your brain caught it and tucked it away for later. But right now, all you can feel is the heat flooding your skin, surging up to meet those same chilly fingers, smothering any hope of remembering a damn thing.

You wet your lips. “Yeah, I…I think I like it.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “Think?”

You try to swallow, but it’s clumsy. Like your brain forgot how, his touch is so light, it barely registers, and you're honestly not even sure he is touching you or if your brain's inventing it, already drunk on the idea.

“I do like it,” you clarify quickly, ears burning. “But it’s not like you’re doing anything unusual yet.”

“That's because I’d rather ease you into it than overwhelm you.” 

His eyes remain locked with yours as he slowly adjusts his hand, four fingers resting on one side of your neck, thumb curving around to the opposite side. 

“And this? How does this make you feel?”

You don’t plan to react, but your breath tangles mid-inhale, catching on something sharp. Too fast in, not enough out.

Your fingers tap aimlessly against your thigh, unsure where to go, what to do with all this feeling and nothing to burn it on.

Spencer must notice, because a second later, his free hand finds yours, cold fusing with warm.

“I like the weight of it,” you whisper, barely trusting your voice. “Feels… assertive. In a good way.”

Spencer hums before leaning in, close enough for you to see where his lashes clump at the tips, impossibly dark. 

“Yeah, it probably does feel that way,” he says, thumb brushing under your ear. “Doesn’t mean I’m trying to take control. Just means I like knowing I have your attention.”

You almost laugh. He has your attention, your focus, your heart, and a few other things you probably shouldn’t name. But you just nod like he’s not entirely right.

“What now?”

“That depends on you,” he says. “We can take the next step, and I can apply gradual pressure to let you experience the sensation, monitor your response.” His eyes drag over your face. “Or we can pause. Talk it through. Or we can stop.” A squeeze to your hand. “There’s no wrong answer.”

“I want to take the next step,” you say, trying to hide the urgency. “But I might not react the way I’m supposed to.”

“There’s no supposed to,” he says, thumb sweeping over your wrist. “You don’t have to react in any particular way. We’re just exploring. No expectations.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Just… talk me through it?”

“Always.”

His fingers tighten. Just a little. Almost like a symphony getting louder, but one instrument, one beat at a time. You don’t breathe, just to feel it better.

“Let’s stay here a second. Let you get used to it.”

The size of his hand dwarfs your throat, fingers splayed wide directly over your jugular, encompassing delicate skin and fragile bone. 

You’re not blind to the strength of him. But what strikes you is the control he exercises over it. The ease with which he could hurt and instead chooses to draw out something else entirely. Every move angled towards pleasure, not power.

He’s studying you now. You know it without meeting his gaze. You can feel the scrutiny everywhere, razor-sharp eyes stripping back every layer you thought you were hiding. Measuring. Tracking. 

But you realize it’s more than just simple observation. It’s also craving, masked behind patience. 

“Still okay?”

You nod.

“Alright I’m gonna tighten a bit. Tell me if it’s too much.”

He thumb sweeps over your windpipe without closing off any air. Your thighs clamp together accordingly, locking around your joined hands.

Spencer laughs, not at you, never that, but with the same quiet pride he gets when one of his obscure theories turns out to be correct. 

Trust you to be another equation effortlessly solved by his clever fingers.

His hand slips from yours, redirecting to nudge your legs apart, stern enough that resistance doesn’t even cross your mind. 

As he nestles between your thighs, you wonder if maybe you were purpose-built for this. Shaped by fate into the perfect receptacle for Spencer. It’s not the most absurd thought you’ve had when it comes to him.

“You know why this works?” His voice dips into something possessive, fingers kneading into the plush give of your thighs, sliding upward, a constellation of goosebumps being left in their wake. “Because you like knowing I could keep you here, but also knowing I’d never have to.”

You’ll never understand it — how Spencer manages to reach into the depths of your mind, extracting the exact words there, murmuring them back to you as though they were born on his tongue.

Your hips shift restlessly beneath him, craving friction you hadn’t even consciously acknowledged, your skirt climbs higher, revealing inch by betraying inch of skin without an ounce of remorse. 

Spencer’s gaze falls instantly, eyes growing heavy, pupils expanding into endless darkness, mirroring the ache brewing inside you.

“I’m going to introduce something called intermittent restriction, okay?” he says. “That means I’ll apply pressure for just a few seconds, long enough for your brain to notice, but not long enough to make you light-headed. Then I’ll release. That cycle, restriction and releasing, triggers a rush of oxygen back into your system.”

His mouth finds your jaw, so softly that the rush of your pulse seems premature.

“Your nerve endings will become hypersensitive, responsive to even the slightest touch.” And just to prove a point, his fingertips slip between your thighs, tracing fire over already scorching skin. “This, for example,” he whispers, “will feel ten times as intense.”

The pressure on your throat fades as his hand shifts upward, finding a new home cradling the back of your neck, fingertips twining through your hair. 

You’re left staring at his mouth, every heartbeat a fervent prayer — kiss me, please, please, kiss me.

Then, slowly, he tilts your chin upward, sweetening your unspoken wish.

When he draws away, your breath trembles, coming in shattered fragments. Your vision dims slightly at the edges, leaving only Spencer in vivid clarity.

“Is that something you’d like me to do?”

“Yes,” you breathe, everything in you reaching. “Yes, please.”

He nods slowly, pressing a kiss to your nose.

“Good. You know the safe word, but if you can’t talk and want me to stop, just tap my wrist twice.” He demonstrates against your neck. “The second it stops feeling good, we stop. No explanations needed.”

His hand settles again at the column of your throat, fingertips fitting into the tender hollow beneath your jawline. He tilts your head back, and for a second all you can think about is how exposed you are. The weird crease on your collarbone. That one spot that gets blotchy when you’re turned on.

You wonder if he sees all of it. If he likes all of it. 

He looks at you like none of it surprises you. Like he expected every detail and already decided it was his favorite part.

“What if I do it wrong? Like, should I be —?”

“Hey,” he soothes, thumb gently rubbing slow circles against the underside of your chin. Gentle kisses trail along the line of your jaw toward your ear. “You can’t do anything wrong.” He catches your earlobe between his teeth, tugging. “Just relax and let me do all the work, angel.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly as every part of you goes warm and liquid.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmurs. “There’s my girl. You ready?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “love you.”

His smile deepens, fondness glowing through him as he bumps your chin with his nose. “Love you.”

His breath is minty when it brushes yours again, tinged with that strange clove candy he orders from some European site. You’re still trying to place it when his hand moves — and just like that, you’re out of air.

It should set off alarms, should terrify you, but strangely all it does is strip away the noise, everything crystallizing. 

It’s exactly like the first morning after you fell asleep beside him, waking up in tangled limbs, realizing you’d never truly rested before him, the world realigning itself in high definition, as though you’d finally found the perfect pair of glasses after years of blurry half-truths.

Time seems to move in slow motion, each elongated second stretching into something much more infinite. When his fingers ease up, you feel the air whoosh back into your lungs, somehow sweeter than before.

“Good girl,” Spencer praises softly, lips curving into a smile you can feel even with half-closed eyes. “How did that feel for you?”

You pause. “I think I need a little more evidence before I can give a definitive answer.”

You conveniently omit just how much you liked it. How every cell in your body is quietly pleading for him to do it again, and soon. Immediately, if possible. Though judging by the look in his eyes, you’re not exactly fooling anyone.

“Ah,” he chuckles softly, thumb stamping over your bottom lip, “spoken like a true scientist.”

“Well,” you breathe, “there are worse traits I could’ve picked up from you.”

His fingers squeeze around your throat once more.

You’re dimly aware that his other hand has taken up occupancy on your thigh. How long had it been there? Five seconds? Five years? 

Both seem plausible, neither important. It’s there, and your lower half is already chasing the feeling, searching in desperate little movements. Anything — his palm, the couch cushion, a miracle — would suffice to ease the fever spreading through your hypoxic brain down to the sticky heat between your legs.

His fingers skim down to the edge of your panties just as his grip on your throat dissolves. One sensation gives way to the other, making it impossible to know where relief ends, and desire begins.

You, however, don’t take the opportunity to gasp for breath. Instead, you chase Spencer’s lips, gifting him your last lungful of air in a kiss that is decidedly messy and anything but falling under the category of graceful. He takes your clumsy devotion in stride, hands moving to haul you tighter against him, slotting your legs tighter around his waist.

You pull back only when your body calls for it, not your heart. And when you do, your head spins a little, most likely oxygen-related, but it feels more Reid-related. 

His mouth lingers barely an inch from yours. “Take a deep breath for me, angel.”

One shallow inhale, and then it’s gone. But it doesn’t matter, because his fingertips are dipping beneath your panties in the same motion, stroking through your folds, dragging pleasure through you so intensely, you’re scared you’ll break apart right then and there. 

He was right, you’re so unbearably sensitive, nerves bursting open beneath his touch, each one catching like a spark on dry glass, spreading before you can stop it.

He clicks his tongue softly, clearly pleased. “Look at you, making such a mess for me.”

There’s nothing rushed about the way he moves, but your body doesn't seem to know that. Frantic anyway, trembling anyway, gasping like he himself is a trap you’ve willingly walked into. 

He doles out air like it’s been earned, a mercy, always paired to the slow tease of his finger gliding up and down your folds, spreading you open, painting your clit with everything he’s pulled from you.

He gives you just the tip of his index, barely inside, and then pulls back like he's punishing you for wanting more than he offered.

You’re soaked now. Slick enough that it’s starting to drip where your pelvis meets his thighs, a growing mess that’s probably already bled through to the couch.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he murmurs. “I wanna hear everything running through that beautiful head.”

“I’m not — there’s not much going on up there,” you confess. “Just need your fingers. ”

“You have them,” he says.

“Inside,” you whimper. “Need you inside.”

He releases your throat just as his finger slides in.

“That’s what you needed, huh?” He smirks. “You sound so pretty when you beg for it.”

And your body answers for you, clenching around the intrusion, like it’s trying to hold onto him, pull him closer, keep him.

You used to watch his fingers like a secret obsession. Long before he’d ever touched you. The slope of his knuckle, the faint ridge of old scars, the exact spacing between his middle and index finger — you’d count it, like maybe the detail meant something.

Now one of them is buried inside you, barely, and it’s already too much.

When the second slides in, it feels like being opened from the inside out. Again. Like every other time he’s had his fingers in you. Or his tongue. Or his cock. You’d think your body would be used to this by now. It never is.

A moan punches out of your chest unfiltered. Your hands reach up for something to hold, finding purchase at the overgrown curls at the nape of his neck, fingers tightening there.

He leans in, eyes half-lidded, voice hushed. “Always so tight for me.”

“Spencer…” You reach, fingers closing around his wrist, moving his hand back to your throat. Your voice comes out pleading, every bit as vulnerable as you feel. “Please?”

He stops. Breathes. Absorbs it like a gift he hadn’t expected to be given twice. But he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.

“So polite, baby.” 

Your next inhale gets caught beneath his palm. Your lungs stay empty, but your body lights up in its place. Pulsing. Drenched. Stretched open around his fingers. The sound of it is filthy, wet and messy and loud enough to drown out whatever noise you just tried to make.

You’re grinding down on him now, mindless, rutting against the heel of his palm like shame doesn't even exist anymore.

Your head is light, skin buzzing, orgasm barreling toward you like a tsunami you can’t outrun.

“I wish you could see yourself like this,” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.  “You’re so beautiful. Every single time.”

You want to answer. Maybe cry. Maybe laugh. Maybe beg. But your core answers first — vision goes spotty, thighs twitching uncontrollably.

And then everything clenches, cracks open and takes you with it.

There’s a second of silence, brain fogged with nothing but static. Heat, stars, white noise. You only notice his absence when your body jerks, still chasing pressure that’s no longer there.

Your hands find him clumsily, clutching at his wrist, trying to pull him back without a word.

“I’m here. You’re okay. Come here, angel,” Spencer says, already folding you into his chest.

Your face stays pressed to his shirt, breath still shaky where it escapes in uneven puffs. Spencer’s hands stay steady on your back, but you can feel his heart beating a little too fast under your cheek.

“Not gonna ask yet,” he says lightly, “but my brain is running a post-scene checklist at full speed. So just… squeeze my hand if anything feels wrong. Please.”

“What counts as feeling wrong?” You ask. His heart skips a beat beneath you, and you wince. “Not that I feel that way. I definitely don’t. I promise. I’m just curious.” 

He strokes your hair once, twice.

“You’re sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed as you nuzzle closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Mm. Yeah. Just a little floaty. And in love with you. But that’s normal.”

“Floaty and in love,” he repeats, pretending to consider. “Dangerous combination. Might have to keep you under observation.” He kisses your temple, voice gentling, “But seriously, if you feel off in any way. Dizziness, fingertips tingling, even a little headache, I need to know right away, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” you say, squeezing his shirt. “And, um… totally unrelated… how long is the average recovery time before we can do that again?”

“Realistically,” he starts, “we should wait a while. Especially since it was your first time experimenting with that.” Your lower lip starts to just slightly. He grins. “But… if you were interested in cutting off my oxygen, I might have a few ideas.”

You don’t even get the chance to react. One second, you’re in his lap, and the next — you’re airborne, guided up, forward, and set down over his face like he’s been planning this all night.

You let him take your breath. Now he gives you his in return.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Sometimes I feel like us as the bat family fandom forget how starry eyed people get about Nightwing canonically.

Because with the exception of early era Tim most of the Batkids are like. lol that’s my loser older brother or some variation of yeah…he’s some guy I guess? He helps me with homework?

And Nightwing is the canonically a center of multiversal light.

When Heroes meet Nightwing they do the vigorous handshake and the “it’s an honor to meet you sir, I have heard so much about you oh my god”

There are so many character where they are literally shown giggling and kicking their feet whenever Nightwing talks to them.

Even the people who don’t have the celebrity level worship of him respect the hell out of him and call him as soon as they need help.

From raven to Starfire to Superman to Superboy to all or the flashes there is so much respect and awe given to this one dude.

And it is deserved

But imagine you are Damian Wayne and you’ve been working with what 90% of the people you’ve met (all bats) have been calling an embarrassment to your father’s legacy.

Your mother hates him and your Grandfather doesn’t feel that strongly about him.

The red hood calls him an embarrassment and a coward and he couldn’t even keep Red Robin from running away.

Your father tells him that he never should have been Batman

And you’ve worked with him and you know what you think everyone is full of shit about him and you and him the new Batman and Robin are the best no matter what anyone says.

And fuck it the fact he keeps going in a suit that everyone tells him he’s not good enough for is scratching something in your brain that you’re refusing to acknowledge because why would you feel that way? You are the circus freak have nothing in common (shut up)

And then you meet the justice league and all the extended teams.

And people are falling over themselves to listen to a word out of your brothers, your Batman’s mouth. They wait for a nod or headshake and dictate decades worth of planning on it.

Both Drake and Todd’s hero teams ask him for advice with or without their designated bats presence.

The man of steel asks for child rearing advice and wonder woman cracks a joke about a spar

Newer heroes whisper about him in the halls

He’s literally your favorite hero’s favorite hero

And it’s breaking Damian’s Brain

Because well… he kinda gets slapped around in Gotham. He’s the butt of half the jokes the other Batkids make and Dick just smiles and takes it.

The rogues have a bounty on nightwings ass and he gets leered at by goons, rogues, civilians and anti-hero’s alike and he doesn’t say anything.

He lets oracle crack jokes about a pretty face and having to do everything herself

Let’s Jason run the alley despite the fact that apparently he knows how to take it back

Apparently he’s had 12 people tailing Drake since Paris and despite being the man Ra’s Al Ghul calls detective has yet to notice. (Because you can’t tell me Dick was just magically at the right place to catch Tim falling to his death on coincidence)

And necessary to peace talks because he’s the best they have at deescalation

Like imagine you are a child who was raised to believe power is this obvious, all consuming thing. That the ones who control the board are visibly larger than life figures who fought their way to the top and cling to power by even the thinnest hangnail if they had to.

People who ignore simpler morals or an overall greater goal or good

And then you’re taken in by the man who whispers the correct answers into the larger than life figures ear.

Like I feel like that would have such an impact because Dick didn’t take power from anyone to reach his goals, it’s why his siblings don’t really defer to him unless in crisis.

Dick didn’t take power, no people just looked at him and decided he was the best option to give it to.

Everyone basically looked at this kid and went, yeah you’re the future of all heroism.

And if that dude can’t even get Bruce Wayne’s respect what chance does Damian Wayne have

[zyafics]

CAN YOU PLEASE, PLEASE ON MY KNEES WRITE ABOUT BITCHY!READER X RAFE AND IT'S SMUT?? I FEEL LIKE YOU'LL DO IT JUSTICE!!! thank you

you literally read my mind because i was just thinking of this prompt that works so well with bitchy!reader!! hope you'll enjoy <3 (if it’s bad, look away!!)

WHATEVER SHE WANTS | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Oneshot)

Pairing — Rafe x Bitchy!Kook!Female Reader

Content — 18+, power/dominance play, p in v, doggy style, orgasm denial, and dirty talks

Word Count — 2.2K

lıllılı Whatever She Wants by Bryson Tiller

You always wanted Rafe.

It's your right. Since you were a child, you demanded the best in everything—toys, clothes, boyfriends. They had to be perfect. Had to be yours. And yes, it may come off a little superficial but who cares? It's what you deserve, and it'll be hell if you don't get it.

Since the first look, when you caught Rafe lounging on a chair with his friends, tipping the rim of his beer onto his lips, while his eyes scanned over the room in an attractive lazy way, you knew you had to have him. It didn't help that you were competitive, and Rafe garnered attention with women. They flocked to him and begged for a minute of his time. It became a game to you, and that heightened your need.

Everything was calculated. The makeup you wore, the outfits you curated, the glances. You always timed your arrivals—when you knew Rafe would be watching the door—and marked your exits. You knew exactly what to wear—dresses that tantalizing exposes your ass, but only as a preview—and the cosmetic style he liked. Rafe's the type of man who believes he wants a bare-faced woman, but truly, he wants something natural that enhances your features.

You came with friends. You left alone. You drank enough to loosen your nerves and danced with the crowd, but not enough to make a fool of yourself. You knew your tolerance and knew Rafe didn't like a messy girl.

At least, in public.

You caught his gaze a couple of times, flashing a flirtatious smile over your shoulders, but never lingered longer than three seconds. Rafe can't know how easy he can have you, because Rafe, like most boys, loves a chase. You're not easy, you're spoiled. He had to come to you.

And he did.

Rafe tried to introduce himself on several occasions. On those nights when you're leaving early—as planned—Rafe would cut to the door to pay a parting remark. "You're leaving so soon?" he would ask, "Alone? Again?" He would add. You always told him it was because no one caught your eye, and Rafe took that as a personal challenge. He would then try to tell you his name, as if he were different, to which you nod—detached—as if it didn't matter.

It drove him insane.

Because you didn't offer the same courtesy. You kept him guessing. He had to finally ask around to learn your name, which he would use to tease you the next time he saw you. And he did. And you laughed. But you acted like you didn't care. Like all the trouble he went through didn't prove a thing. That's when Rafe knew he needed you.

Tonight's no different. Just as you're about to leave, Rafe catches you with another smooth pick-up line. You just giggle. He studies how your eyes crinkle with amusement, the curve of your lips painted in his favorite shade of lipstick, and the lithe tilt of your head to the side as you ask him with your gaze, is that the best you got?

It isn't. But Rafe's determined to get further with you tonight. He continues to talk, asking about which men disappointed you and the reasons for your constant disappearances from these parties. And, for once, you're answering his questions with little resistance. Perhaps, it's because of the amount of cheap wines you consumed, or maybe you—for once—are tired of the games and want it to come to a fruitful end. Because when Rafe finally asks to take you home, you don't say no.

The walk to his truck is brisk. His arm wrapped around your waist, directing your path, while his fingers trail over the backless cut of your dress, producing a buzzing feeling beneath your skin. He's whispering something in your ear, but all of it is incomprehensible as you revel in the feeling of his touch and his touch alone. The feeling of your game coming to a conclusion.

And, just as you're about to reach the car, Rafe slams you into the side of the vehicle with a searing kiss.

His mouth catches yours and everything feels perfect. As if the buildup leading to this precise moment had been worth it, and every needy emotion rises to the top. His hand travels down the length of your body, to your hips, pulling you closer, and needing to eliminate all the space and wait you made him do.

Rafe's movements are swift and controlled. One of his hands props open the backdoor of his car, pushing you inside, and laying you against his leather seats. All without breaking the kiss.

"You don't know how long I wanted this, wanted you," Rafe blubbers between wet kisses. "Seeing you at every party, in these tiny dresses, not being able to touch," he rasps, bundling the hem of your dress into a tight fist. "Tell me you wear them for me."

"And if I did?" You say with a moan, tipping your head back to grant him access to your neck. "Did you like them?"

"Of course I did," he murmurs against the curve of your neck, the vibration of his words sending heat straight to your core. "You dressing up for me like my own perfect doll."

You want to retort that it's him who's in the palm of your hand, but Rafe sucks on a sensitive spot, causing your eyes to roll back and a whimper to escape your lips instead. He grabs your wrists with one hand, throwing them over his shoulder as he pulls you flush against his chest.

"So pretty, so fucking untouchable," Rafe kisses down the length of your throat, his fingers collecting the spaghetti straps of your dress before sliding it down the slope of your shoulders. "I'm going to fuck you so good."

His words snap you out of your haze. And while Rafe continues to expose more of your body, lamenting each reveal of flesh with a kiss, you withdraw enough to grab his attention.

"You're not fucking me in a car."

"What?" Rafe breaths, unable to snap out of the trace you had him in. Delirious with want, his mind warped around the idea of you being so close to attainable, that all rational manners left his system. He tries to kiss you again, to resume the moment, but you pull enough to send him a deadly glare, pouty and spoiled.

"Rafe, take me somewhere nice or we're not fucking at all."

He can't believe what he's hearing. He can't believe he's contemplating it. But Rafe doesn't understand that you have it all planned out to result in a perfect moment. You won't let it be disrupted just because Rafe can't drive the extra mile to take you somewhere nice. You'd rather leave him with blue balls.

"Are you serious?" He asks slowly, his eyes drawn to your swollen lips, the little pout, and the desperation to have them back on his. Sure, Rafe's had girls who wanted something more than a casual fling. He had them ask him for a better spot, but he never obliged. He never cared. But you're different. He wants you, and it's been a hell of a chase to get you here. He'll be damned if he lets it slip away because of a pretentious standard.

"Does it look like I'm joking?" You cross your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts further up. He nearly groans at the sight. "We're not having sex here."

"The nearest place has to be at least a fifteen-minute drive," Rafe argues. And it makes you upset, brows pinched together. "We can just—"

"I don't care," you snap. "Take me somewhere nice or I'm leaving."

You're serious. He sees it on your face. Rafe can't risk that, despite wanting to protest, because he knows he if he messes this up, he won't have another chance. Swearing under his breath, he drags himself out of the backseat and into the driver's side, pulling the car out of the parking lot.

Dangerously, Rafe speeds down the road, while you're sitting in the backseat with a self-satisfied demeanor, fixing your makeup through the rearview mirror. Occasionally, Rafe spares a glance through the same reflection, connecting with your gaze, and while there's subtle bitterness coiled in his chest, he recognizes the bigger prize at hand.

And what he can do with it.

Because, despite your bratty attitude, Rafe is a person who wants control. You want perfection. You two can have both.

That's how you find yourself in a newly-booked penthouse suite at one of the bougie hotels in Kildare, your head digging into the soft comforter of the bed, your ass in the air, as Rafe drills into you from behind.

When you reached the room, everything moved frantically. Rafe slammed you against the nearest wall to kiss you again—needing your lips, needing your taste—while his hands roamed over your dress and pulled down your cleavage, revealing your tits. Your hands wandered down his pants, unbuttoning them hurriedly, needily, and he assisted you by pulling them off alongside his boxers. His cock was big, slightly red with a pearly bead of pre-cum that rolls off the tip. And you could tell by the look on Rafe's face that he wanted you to suck it.

But you told him, "I don't do blowjobs."

So fucking pretentious.

It didn't matter. He hauled you over to the king-sized bed and pushed you onto the mattress. You landed with a soft thump, while Rafe hauled you up to your ass, pushing up your dress, until it became nothing but a bundle around your waist. His movements were urgent, and he wanted—no, needed—to be inside you because a bratty girl was going to be a great fuck.

And he was right.

You're perfect. The way you wrap around him, the way he sinks inside you. He doesn't know if it's because of the delirium of wanting you so desperately, of chasing you for so long—but he never had better pussy. And it doesn't help that your moans are sweet, breathy, and loud—begging him to go faster.

"Such a pretentious brat," Rafe grabs your throat, hauling you upwards till your spine rest on his chest, airway constricted by his harsh grip. "Making me wait this fucking long."

"R—Rafe," you mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your skull at the way he's angling his cock deep into your cervix, bullying the sensitive spot over and over again until you're seeing stars.

"Had to get the princess treatment, did you?" He murmurs hotly into your ear, nibbling a spot on your neck as you rest the back of your head on his shoulder. His thrusts grow more erratic. "Had to make me earn you, didn't you?"

"You weren't going to fuck me in a car," you persist, and despite how cockdrunk you became, and how much of an attitude you're willing to sacrifice to feel good, you were still adamant about receiving what you deemed enough. He respected that. "I'm not one of your whores."

"But I'm fucking you like my own personal slut. Is that any better?" He bites the lobe of your ear, and his other hand wanders up to grab a handful of your breast, squeezing the fat before rolling your perked nipple between his fingers. You moan louder. "What does that make you?"

You can't seem to answer him, can't seem to find your senses. The words Rafe uses are vulgar, but there’s still no regrets about this entire thing. Rafe wanted you so badly, that he was willing to spend hundreds of dollars on a hotel he probably won't even stay the night in. All because you demanded it.

You win.

"Shut up," you stammer, your stomach tightening. "Shut up and just fuck me, Rafe."

Rafe grins. The hand playing with your tits slips between your thighs to assist, finding your clit easily as he rubs it with his thumb in sync with his thrusts. Breathy moans escape you as you arch into his palm, while he pistons deeper inside of you, bottoming out.

"You sound so pretty, doll," Rafe murmurs against your heated skin, "Come on, take my fucking cock."

Everything’s so dirty. The way he handles you, the way your wetness drips down your thighs, the way his words breathe onto your skin and tighten your core. But you love it. You do, but you're not willing to give in so easily. No matter how good it feels. No matter how much he feels like a prize.

"You don't deserve me." You whisper with a mewl, body tightening with the familiar wave of your undoing.

Yet, Rafe merely grins.

"But you're sucking in my cock like you need me," Rafe taunts, pleasure coursing through his body at the way your walls grip him in a vice. The way your words spark challenge and invitation. He knows, despite your spoiled attitude and pretentious demands, he'll do anything to get another chance like this. "Now, behave like a good girl or you're not coming tonight."

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

[xinganhao]

⛓️‍💥 svt trying (and failing) to gatekeep you.

ANON REQUESTED “SEVEN-I wanted to gatekeep you from everyone else but I failed-TEEN and their bff/gf??”

ⓘ INCLUDES: romance, fluff, humor. established relationships, use of pet names, mention of alcohol (soonyoung). headcanons under the cut. ・ NOTE: the laugh i let out when i saw this request. my favorite genre of svt fr. ‹𝟹

⛓️‍💥 how (and why) seventeen failed at gatekeeping you.

seungcheol posts a photo of you on weverse. it's simple enough: a picture of you across the table from him, smiling over a dinner date. the only caption is a single red heart emoji. the photo choice is intentional. he chose one where your face is clear and your identity is unmistakable, because he'll be damned if any other guy tries to hit you up when you're spoken for.

jeonghan falls into the rabbit hole of couple items. it starts with the phone cases, but it doesn't end there. clothes of the same style. shoes from the same brand. he swears he's not playing relationship olympics; it's just so clear to him that the two of you are the it couple. anybody who says otherwise can talk to your matching luxury bags, thank you very much.

joshua misses the fact that he hadn't switched instagram accounts. he has two: his work-sanctioned one, and the one where he keeps up with everybody that matters. the boys call it his 'shrine' for you, because that's where he actually keeps log of your little dates. until he accidentally posts it to his main. where's that damn delete button, and why is it so elusive?

junhui is on a roll during an interview. he's in a chatty mood, and he's feeling a little loose-lipped. when the interviewer cleverly asks about his love life— phrasing it like they already know he has one— jun is trapped. hook, line, sinker. he happily yaps about you, only to realize much later that may have not been the move. too late. the interview's already live.

soonyoung should have known that alcohol and a media engagement would not be a good combination. he had begged the producers to cut the footage out, but, alas; it was the most clickbait-y part of the video. how could they? now, everybody knows soonyoung can rant about how much he loves you for upwards of twenty minutes.

wonwoo isn't aware he was supposed to be gatekeeping you. one fine day, he drops a carousel of photos on his photography account. you're partially visible in some of them— the side of your face, the curve of your side, the flash of your grin. the two of you had been on vacation. the account is his archive, anyway; everyone else's opinion be damned. he wants to remember you like this.

it's not a name drop, but it's a close thing. jihoon's never been the type to declare things on sns, so he does it in the way that he knows. a throwaway lyric. an entire song. fine, maybe a mini-album. he could have an entire discography solely about you, if he's being honest. people can guess all they want. if you're immortalize in his song, then jihoon's job is done.

from the very beginning, seokmin has wanted to scream you off the rooftops. he holds back because he knows the consequences of going public. he can't resist it, though, and he eventually sneaks a photo or two into a photo carousel. he gets giddy at perfecting the soft launch, at nailing the art of perfectly-cropped photos and choice songs. it scratches that itch of his— the urge to have everybody know about you, while also keeping you to himself.

you and mingyu show up at fashion week, immaculately dressed from head to toe. talk about a hard launch! he giggles as he answers questions from interviewers. it's clear to everybody that he's absolutely smitten. there are literal models in front of him, and he's looking at you like you beat them out any day. he never really liked these types of events, but if he gets to have you at his side, looking like the goddess that you are— well. he might have to start responding to a couple more invites.

minghao shocks the entertainment industry with a well-worded essay on weibo about the importance of valuing an idol's private relationships. in true minghao fashion, he makes it abundantly clear how important boundaries are to him. buried underneath that is the confirmation that he is dating, yes, and that it's a part of his life he'll stake his career to defend. this is just his job, but loving you is part of his life.

seungkwan's cover of a western love song has fans swooning, but a dedication buried in the description of the youtube video has everybody flabbergasted. 'dedicated to my girl,' it simply says. no explanation. no name drop. seungkwan has a girl, and that's that. he accepts your wrath; he knows you'll secretly enjoy reading the absurd speculation with him. chaos is fun in moderation, and this is one of the ways seungkwan likes to poke the bear.

it's a series of unfortunate events for vernon. he posts a mirror selfie of himself— a rare one!— without knowing anyone can zoom in and see you on his bed, (thankfully) fully clothed but definitely looking very comfortable. like you belong there. he takes a long nap after, missing dozens of calls and waking up to hundreds of texts. oh, well. you were going to have to go public one day, anyway.

your privacy might have lasted if chan wasn't so damn obvious whenever the two of you were out and about. even on your most discreet dates, chan looks a little too happy to just be hanging out with a friend. the paparazzi catches wind. the final nail on the coffin is a close-up stolen photo of chan's lockscreen: a selfie of him planting a big, fat kiss on your cheek.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[sleepyjuice]

toxic!rafe will blow your phone up the second you post something on instagram that he’s ‘iffy’ about.

you posted a photo dump which consisted of some random photos of the beach, some of your friends, one of you and rafe of course, but the one that had rafe seeing red was the last slide, which was you in a bikini. he texted you several times at first, and while you were literally typing your response, he called you. your fingers were typing so fast to respond to him that you accidentally declined the call, and he did not like that. you immediately went to call him back, but another text from rafe rolled in, saying ‘fuck you don’t talk to me we’re done’ you sighed loudly, knowing damn well he was talking out of his ass right now, so you sat back and waited for the inevitable next string of texts to roll in. which they did, only seconds later.

rafe <3: do you get off on making me mad or something

rafe <3: like i’m racking my brain trying to understand why you do the things you do and that’s all i can come up with

rafe <3: and i see at least 4 guys have already liked your post like that’s crazy to me?? thought i told you to block all the guys that followed you?? of course you didn’t

rafe <3: also who even took that pic of you??? bc i know damn well it wasn’t me so who the fuck you posing for with your fucking ass and tits out? WHAT THE FUCK

rafe <3: DO NOT PUT YOUR SHIT ON DO NOT DISTURB answer me rn.

rafe <3: nah it’s cool actually i’m gonna go hit up my other gfs so you have a good night.

you rolled your eyes at that last text, deciding to fully turn your phone off. you knew he would likely try to text or call you again very soon but you didn’t want to deal with it right now. this wasn’t your first rodeo, you knew nothing you could say to him right now would calm him down, so letting him freak out on his own was the best method to his madness.

three hours had passed since you turned your phone off. you had caught up on some reading and turned on your current favorite show, but found yourself interrupted by a knock at your front door. you expected it to be rafe, but instead it was a large bouquet of your favorite flowers and a gift bag. you glanced around to see if rafe was lurking around, but saw nothing. when he freaked out over text and was able to reread his actions, he usually waited a bit longer to show his face as opposed to a verbal argument.

you brought the flowers inside and set them on the counter before grabbing the card attached to the side of the bouquet.

sorry we argued. you are so beautiful and i love you so much. got you a little gift and sent you some money for food and i set your appointment with your nail girl for tomorrow at 10. love you forever baby -rafe

you couldn’t help but smile just a little. the flowers were beautiful and the note was pretty sweet, so you chose to ignore the part where he said ‘we argued.’ you didn’t get a word in, but you let it slide. especially after you opened the gift bag to see the new dior bag you had been wanting.

you hurried to turn on your phone, immediately seeing a $500 apple payment from rafe as well as a new text from a few minutes ago.

rafe <3: hope you like the flowers and bag baby. love you! :)

you: i love them. thanks rafe, love you too

rafe <3: good to hear. lmk what you end up getting for dinner and i’ll pick you up tomorrow to take you to your nail apt. can’t wait to see you baby

you would order yourself dinner that was obviously way less than $500, but you would send rafe a picture and thank him again. you’d facetime him before bed and conversation flowed like nothing had even happened just hours before. he’d ask you what color nails you were getting, tell you funny stories about the old men at the country club and excitedly plan what you two were going to do the next day. the cycle seemed like it would never end, but you often forgot about the bad when he was talking so sweetly to you and all you could think about was how excited you were to see him tomorrow.

[kxsagi]

I feel like I'm requesting a lot these past days but my creative juices are pumping:(

Anyways how would the boys (isagi, nagi, sae, rin, you can add whoever you want) react to reader being the favorite WAG, like people aspires to be her cause even tho she's dating a rich footballer she still works, doesn't dress too fancy (literally seen this online, fancy in like designer brands that cost millions), always support her man, is nice, no fan ever had a bad experience with her, love the love story of her and her man... List goes on, just everyone fav girl and maybe their fans like her more then him

Or if its easier for you a one shot with Isagi about it, whatever works best for you!!💕

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐖𝐀𝐆”

a/n: i wanna be a WAG sm, i absolutely loved this request and ate it up cath THANK YOU

ft. itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, isagi yoichi, itoshi rin

itoshi sae

sae doesn’t care about public opinion, until he realizes you’re literally being hailed as the "standard" for WAGs everywhere. 

you're known for showing up to his games in comfy outfits, no loud designer logos, just jeans and a cute little top, but the way you cheer for him so genuinely? fans cry over it. 

everyone’s obsessed with the fact you still freelance and don’t rely on his money, even though he's loaded. 

his fanbase calls you “mrs. unbothered” because you carry his same calm, cool aura but in a way nicer way. 

interviewers will ask about sae, and you’ll always answer like, “i’m just proud of him. he works so hard.” and everyone in the comments goes: “we love a humble queen.” 

sae pretends he doesn’t care when people say you're more likable than him… but he absolutely does. he likes bragging about you privately, muttering stuff like, “they’re not wrong though.” 

his fans go from writing thirst tweets to “i’d never even look at sae if his girlfriend was in the room. she’s the real prize.” 

whenever you post a soft pic of him, the comments are just: “how does she make him look this warm???”

nagi seishiro

people are constantly shocked you’re dating nagi, because you’re the complete opposite of lazy – you work hard, stay busy, and somehow still make time to support him at every match. 

the internet’s favorite thing is how you always pack snacks for him when he's gaming or heading to practice like, “don’t forget to eat.” 

nagi just nods sleepily, but his fans MELT. 

you're so chill and unmaterialistic it blows people’s minds. you literally pull up in $20 sneakers and a cute hoodie, and still outshine every designer-clad girl. 

nagi thinks it’s “troublesome” when he trends but gets pouty when you trend instead: "why are they talking about you more than me... i scored three goals. that’s a hat trick." 

when you told him you weren’t quitting your job just because he’s rich, nagi fell harder. fans fell harder too. 

he brags about you on stream all the time. “my girlfriend’s cooler than me. she actually does stuff.” 

your fan nickname is “miss soft launch” because you’re lowkey and private but every glimpse he shares of you goes viral. 

isagi yoichi

everyone loves the slow-burn, hardworking love story between you two – he wasn’t famous when you got together, and you were both hustling, so now it feels earned. 

you’re always there on the sidelines, dressed casual and comfy, holding his baby boy during interviews like a proud mom-wife and fans swoon. 

his fans legit make edits captioned: “if she’s not like isagi’s wife idc”

people are obsessed with how kind you are. fans have full threads titled “times isagi’s wife was too sweet for this world.” 

even players from other teams have admitted that you’re the only WAG they never get tired of seeing at matches. 

you're always defending isagi too, like, “he’s harder on himself than anyone else. just support him, guys.” and the fandom eats it up. 

isagi once admitted in an interview that you do his hair sometimes, and fans lost it. “SHE FIXES HIS LITTLE AHOGE???” became a meme. 

when his son’s ahoge showed up, the internet was like: “okay, she’s not just the fave… she’s the blueprint.”

itoshi rin

fans are terrified of rin but adore you because you're just so sweet and level-headed. 

they call you “the rin whisperer” because you’re the only one who can make him smile in public. 

you show up to games in the simplest outfits: sweater, jeans, a little necklace, and somehow you still slay more than girls in $5,000 fits. 

you still work your job, even when rin’s like “you don’t need to.” your fans treat it like a power move. 

every time rin posts a pic of you, it’s the softest, most lovingly taken photo. fans literally go: “he is SO in love. this is not the same rin we see on the field.”

he hates interviews, but if someone mentions you, he perks up a little. “yeah. she’s great. i don’t know why she likes me.” 

fans think your dynamic is the funniest because rin’s so cold but you’re warm and sociable. at meet-and-greets, he just stands behind you like a bodyguard while you do all the talking. 

people joke that you're the protagonist of the love story, and rin’s just lucky to be your love interest. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[itoshiierae]

Hii I’m so glad you’re taking requests bc I literally love ur writing sm omg but I was wondering if you could write about blue lock boys finding out about their girlfriend’s celebrity crush and getting jealous ? (Ness , sae, rin, kaiser) ^^

bllk boys getting jealous of your celeb crush

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

ᡣ𐭩 ft: alexis ness, sae itoshi, rin itoshi, michael kaiser x f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 notes: omg anon you had no right being this real with that request. celebrity crush?? jealousy?? drama??? this was basically begging to be written HAHAH. tysm for the love bby ilyyy hope you enjoy the chaos!!! <33

✮ ALEXIS NESS ✮

he finds out when he glances over and sees your phone wallpaper — not even scandalous, just a candid red carpet pic of your celeb crush. and without thinking, you go, “ugh, he’s so perfect.” ness gasps. like. ACTUALLY gasps then places a hand on his chest like you just betrayed your entire relationship and whispers, “you’ve known me for years and you never looked at me like that?? am i just your second choice now…?” he’s 75% joking, 25% spiraling — already staring at his reflection like a heartbroken lead in a k-drama, muttering things like

“maybe i should grow my hair out”

“do i need to start wearing more suits??”

you have to grab his face and tell him he’s cuter. your real celeb crush, your favorite boy. he melts instantly. clings to you like a needy cat, head tucked into your shoulder, voice muffled and shameless when he whispers, “say it again. no, seriously — say it one more time.”

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

✮ SAE ITOSHI ✮

hears about your celebrity crush mid-scroll when you sigh and go, “he’s so hot oh my god,” and all he gives you is a flat, unimpressed “okay.” nothing else. doesn’t look up, doesn’t blink — just sits there in deadpan silence for a full five minutes until he randomly mutters, “he’s overrated.” and from there it spirals. suddenly he’s critiquing the guy’s acting, fashion, jawline, and entire existence like he’s on a judging panel he never signed up for.

he swears he’s not jealous. but later that night, when you’re in bed and he’s holding you a little tighter than usual — arms wrapped around your waist like he’s scared you’ll disappear — it clicks. you lean in, lips brushing the corner of his jaw, and whisper, “you’re still my favorite.” he doesn’t answer. just exhales. slow. and laces his fingers through yours like that’s all he needed to hear.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

✮ RIN ITOSHI ✮

you mention your celebrity crush so casually — something innocent like “he’s totally my type” — and rin freezes. doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. just stares ahead like you handed him a breakup letter mid-match. you don’t even realize the shift until the silence drags.“..what?” you ask. nothing. just rin, sulking in high-definition. he mutters eventually, “i just don’t get it. what do you even like about him?” voice flat. tight.

he starts scrolling through his phone with more aggression than necessary, thumbs tapping like the app personally wronged him. you end up crawling into his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, whispering, “you’re the one i want, rin.” he exhales. finally… face buried in your neck, voice muffled and stubborn when he says, “don’t talk about him again.” and yeah… you don’t. mostly because it’s kind of hot when he gets like this.

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

✮ MICHAEL KAISER ✮

you’re watching an interview and casually mutter, “ugh, he’s sooo attractive,” like it’s no big deal. but that’s all it takes. kaiser snatches the remote without warning, pauses the video mid-frame, and narrows his eyes at the screen like he’s preparing to file a lawsuit. “..you mean this guy?” suddenly he’s scrolling through google images like he’s in a forensic lab, judging every photo with brutal, surgical precision.

“his jawline’s not even that sharp.”

“he wears THAT to interviews?”

“my hair’s better.”

and just to prove it, he pulls up a selfie of himself and starts comparing side profiles like he’s submitting evidence in court. he’s cocky about it — smug grin, head tilted — but you can tell he’s riled beneath the surface. because next thing you know, his arms are wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you into his lap, lips brushing your ear. “you don’t need a celebrity crush when you’ve got me,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, possessive. so you test him. “maybe he has better hair.” kaiser pauses. smirks. grabs your chin with that annoyingly gentle grip and leans in until your noses touch. “say that again, ..liebling. i dare you.”

© itoshiierae 2025 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ please do not modify or repost my content onto any other platforms.

[cryptidghostgirl]

The Love (Alastor x Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Description: Alastor is drunk and Charlie asks him if he has ever been in love.

Warnings: I don't think there are any but correct me if I'm wrong.

Word Count: 1,323

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

A/N Y'all, I'm lowkey dying from the requests. I'm sorry for the last five or so taking so long, I just need a little break and mix in some of my own ideas if that is okay.

Alastor was drinking at the bar with Husk, Charlie, and Angel. The day had been a lot, seeing Mimzy was always a lot. Yes she was trouble, but Alastor loved her. He loved her for the same reason he was trying to drink himself stupid at the bar. He loved her because she reminded him of Y/n. Mimzy had been her friend first, after all.

He sat off to the side in his own little world while Angel and Charlie chatted and Husk obediently poured the drinks. Normally, Husk would have joined the pair in the mindless, mundane chatter but after the events of the day, Alastor's presence kept him silent.

"No way!" Charlie exclaimed.

She and Angel were talking about some TV show they both watched or another. A mind numbingly boring background noise but, Alastor wasn't complaining.

"Yes! They are one hundred percent perfect for each other." Angel replied animatedly.

"Literally how. Name one thing that shows they have good chemistry."

"Uh, they’re constantly at each other's throats? If that's not love, I don't know what is."

"Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't know what love is."

Husk let out a short, sharp laugh as he topped off Angel's drink.

"Oh yeah? Well then, Princess, what do you think love is."

Charlie sighed, leaning her elbow on the counter as a dreamy look spread across her face.

"Love is... love is when you would do anything for the person. It's when they're your guiding star, your... your prayers answered."

"Uh, no? Love is when you want to literally kill the person but like, in a good way."

"Angel, what does that even mean." Charlie laughed.

"It means... it means there is passion. That spark everyone always talks about? It's violence."

"Hey Al!" Charlie suddenly called, leaning back in her seat to peer at Alastor behind Angel's back, "Who's right, me or Angel?"

Alastor looked up from his glass.

"I hate to say it, but neither of you are correct." he sighed in irritation at having been disturbed, "Love is neither a constant fight nor a blind devotion, though it contains aspects of both."

"Like you know anything about love, mister fancy talk creepy voice." Angel scoffed, turning to face Alastor as well now.

"Actually, I do."

Charlie's face lit up. She practically vibrated with anticipation.

"Alastor! You've been in love!?"

Normally, on a night like this, he'd be alone. He'd be careful to be alone, or at least have Husk as his only company. When he told Husk to shut up and pour, he listened. Other people, not so much.

"Yes."

Charlie had stars in her eyes. She inched closer to him.

"Are you gonna spill?" Angel asked after a moment.

"It was a long time ago."

Alastor took a long sip from his glass.

"Do you... do you not remember it?" Charlie asked, her excited smile slipping slightly at the notion

Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the long day, Lucifer, Mimzy, Husk. Those shark demons. Maybe it was just that secretly all along, he had wanted someone to talk to. He watched the liquor in his glass as he swirled it gently.

"It was a long time ago, but I still remember it." his smile softened as he spoke, "It's strange. I remember her laughter, her little quixotic tendencies. I remember the way her eyes would light up when she smiled and the way her perfume smelled. I know her favorite author, the way she took her coffee, the way she folded her clothes but, I can't seem to ever see her face anymore. I..."

He trailed off, taking a breath.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Charlie quickly said, not wanting to make Alastor uncomfortable.

Alastor shook his head.

"I've spent years not talking about her. Maybe... maybe something else would be nice."

"So, how'd you guys meet?" Charlie immediately asked.

Alastor looked up at her and let out a light chuckle. He felt like he was human again for a moment. It was odd.

"I don't know if you know this about me, but I was a radio broadcaster back when I was alive. A rather famous one at that, in New Orleans at any rate. Her family ran a restaurant near the studio that I went to get lunch at from time to time. She worked there as a server."

"And she loved you?" Angel asked, "Like, you weren't just delusional?"

"I was quite the lady's man back in my day."

"Uh-huh." Angel doubtfully replied, "Sure."

"Oh hush, Angel." Charlie shoved the spider demon slightly, "Tell us more! What was she like? Did you ever get together or were you just friends? Gah! I wanna know everything!"

"She was..." Alastor's gaze fell back to his glass, "you remind me of her in a way. She was so idealistic, so driven. So... bubbly. She worked hard and she cared deeply. I don't know how I swung her, despite my charms. We were friends for about a year. The whole time, I was trying to work up the courage to ask her out but she ended up being the one to ask me. We got married when we were in our mid twenties. I only had a few years with her as my wife before I died."

Unbidden ideas darkened the edges of his mind. Y/n had always been so good, so sweet. Alastor had no idea if she had ever learned of his... escapades. He figured she must know, considering the manner in which he died but it was a horrifying thought. He was grateful when Charlie spoke again, pulling his mind back to the present.

"Thats so cute!" Charlie exclaimed, clapping her hands as she looked between Alastor and Angel, searching for similar excitement.

"Can we meet this alleged doll of yours?" Angel asked, "Cause I am really not believing any of this bullshit your spouting."

Charlie gasped, suddenly struck by inspiration.

"Do you think she would want to be redeemed?"

"Oh dear," Alastor shook his head, meeting Charlie's eyes, "she's not here."

"Then wh-"

"She's in heaven?" Angel exclaimed, "You married someone who ended up in heaven?"

"Either that or she's over a hundred years old and still on earth." Alastor weakly joked.

"I'm sorry."

Alastor shrugged, downing the rest of his drink.

"No!" Charlie insisted, "You'll... you'll never get to see her again! That's so sad!"

"And here I thought you were trying to get us redeemed." Angel scoffed.

Charlie turned to him.

"I'm trying to get you redeemed cause you're a guest. Alastor isn't a guest."

"Right you are, my dear."

"But you could do that." Charlie said turning back to Alastor, "Angel's right, if you were a guest you could be redeemed. You could see her again!"

Alastor smiled kindly at the excited demon. He patted her back.

"I'm afraid I don't think that's an option."

"But why not!" Charlie insisted, "Anyone can be redeemed, Alastor."

"That's not the issue, my dear." he sighed, "I did some things on earth that she would most certainly view as... unfavorable shall we say? Things she most certainly learned of after my death."

"You're not even gonna give it a shot?" Angel asked.

"Yeah, come on Alastor. Let us help you. You never know how it could turn out!"

"It's alright. I have the time we spent together, the memories. I don't want to taint that." he slowly, unconsciously, raised a hand to his chest, his palm over his heart, "The love is still there, thats what matters."

The quartet fell silent as Husk poured Alastor another drink. Alastor sighed, grabbing the glass and examining it carefully, but not taking a sip.

"What was her name?" Charlie asked, her voice small and her smile long gone.

"Y/n."

It had been years since he'd said it out loud. His tongue relished every syllable.

"Her name was Y/n."