#golden gilded guy remember?

[bywons]

WHISPERS BEHIND VELVET ✷ AGENT!PJS

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬──── 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗃𝖺𝗒 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋

【 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 】 ｡ 𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍!𝗃𝖺𝗒 & 𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍!𝖿!𝗋 2332w 𖥔 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 𝗌𝗉𝗒 𝖺𝗎 ━━━━ 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 ❛ 愛 ❜

する ܃ something out of my comfort zone, tried my best not to go overboard with it ! i hope you guys will like it, then maybe we'll get more agent enha :3

reb𝑙ogs────𝑓eedbacks 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 ꪆৎ

“this is it. keep your head in the game, rookie.”

jay’s voice is calm, yet there’s an undercurrent of tension in his tone. the quiet command sends a shiver down your spine as you watch him adjust the cufflinks of his black tuxedo with meticulous precision. everything about jay screams control—his posture, his movements, even the way he holds himself. he’s been in situations like this countless times, while for you, this is your first real undercover mission. you feel the weight of it pressing down on your chest.

“i’ve got this,” you reply, though the words sound hollow even to your own ears.

jay glances at you with a sharp, knowing look, his lips curving into that signature smirk of his. “we’ll see.”

as you’re about to get yourself ready for the mission in your mind, jay is quick to break it.

he slides his hand around your waist, and pulls you in until you bump against his chest. blood rushes to your cheeks as you gasp, softly trying to push him off.

“don't,” jay states, his voice firm and strict. he looks at you from the corner of his eyes, his infamous smirk on his face, “we’re husband and wife for the night.”

you gulp, slowly nodding at your superior before stepping out of the car.

you swallow hard, nodding as you grip the fabric of his tuxedo tighter. “right.”

he adjusts the strap of your dress that had slipped slightly, his fingers brushing against your bare shoulder. “relax. and remember, follow my lead.”

his touch is firm but not overbearing, and you force yourself to relax, your hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as you lean into him. “fine. but next time, give me a warning.”

jay leans closer, his breath brushing against your ear. “noted, darling.”

the valet opens the doors to the casino, and you step out into the night. the rush of cool air hits you as you survey the sprawling, glittering casino before you. the monte carlo casino is everything you’ve read about and more—opulent, filled with sharp-dressed gamblers, the rich scent of cologne mixing with the faint hum of excitement in the air. chandeliers hang overhead, casting soft golden light onto the marble floors.

you adjust your black satin dress, the coolness of the night air brushing your bare arms. the dress fits you perfectly, hugging every curve and leaving just enough to the imagination. the slit that runs up your leg is meant to be daring, and it certainly is, but it also makes you feel like you’re walking into the lion’s den with your heart pounding.

beside you, jay smooths out his tuxedo and pulls at his cufflinks one more time. “remember the plan,” he says softly, leaning in just enough for only you to hear.

you nod, fighting the nerves bubbling in your chest. “act, distract, gather intel. piece of cake.”

“stay alive, rookie,” he adds, his tone firm, though there’s an underlying edge to his words.

you want to argue, but you just nod, clenching your jaw. staying alive. right.

the casino's grand entrance swallows you both, and as you step inside, the atmosphere changes immediately. the murmur of conversations fills the space, punctuated by the clinking of glasses, laughter, and the sounds of roulette wheels spinning. every corner of the room is bathed in soft, warm light, reflecting off the gilded trim and luxurious décor. high-rollers sit at card tables, their laughter loud and smug, while others try their luck at the slot machines.

jay’s hand brushes the small of your back, and though it seems like a gesture of intimacy, you know it’s a signal. a reminder to stay alert. you walk side by side through the casino, your heels clicking sharply against the marble floors, your eyes scanning the room.

the target, marcus delacroix, sits at a corner table, his face familiar even from this distance. marcus is a man who exudes wealth and power, his tailored suit and diamond-studded rings just as much a part of his personality as his menacing grin. he’s notorious in the arms trade, and he’s known for his temper and ruthlessness.

“remember,” jay whispers, “you're the star of the show, y/n. let me sugar talk to him and you get the drive. one mistake and he escapes.”

you flash jay a tight smile, nodding slightly. you’re no rookie in this line of work, but the nerves are still there. you can’t help it. this mission is a big one.

the two of you approach the table. marcus looks up at the sound of your footsteps, his eyes lingering on you a moment too long. his gaze is predatory, a glint of recognition flickering in his eyes.

“mr. delacroix,” jay greets, extending a hand, his tone smooth but firm. “james daniels. and this is my wife, victoria.”

marcus doesn’t immediately take jay’s hand. Instead, his gaze flicks over to you again, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your appearance. “a pleasure to meet you both,” he says, his voice slow and deliberate. “i have to admit, james, your wife is even more captivating in person.”

“she’s not just captivating,” jay replies, his voice dripping with a light charm as he pulls you closer, “she’s my good luck charm.”

you can feel marcus’s eyes lingering on you, along with jays, as though trying to peel back the layers. you force a smile, leaning into jay slightly. “it’s a pleasure,” you say, your voice smooth.

marcus gestures to the chairs around the table. “please, have a seat. join the game. it’s not every day i have such fine company.”

you sit, playing your part flawlessly, and the game begins. your eyes flicker over the chips and cards, but your mind remains focused on marcus. every word he says is calculated, every movement purposeful. you catch glimpses of the guards stationed throughout the room, their eyes scanning the crowd. two near the bar. another by the exit. more near the staircase. you notice the subtle but deadly threat in their eyes.

through your earpiece, your handler’s voice crackles to life. “rookie, you’ve got fifteen minutes. delacroix’s laptop is in the suite upstairs. two guards posted outside. you need to move quickly.”

you glance at jay, who’s talking to marcus, his expression engaging but calculating. without missing a beat, he subtly glances over to you and gives the slightest nod.

“got it,” you whisper.

you excuse yourself from the table with a warm smile, smoothing down the front of your dress. “if you’ll excuse me, i need to freshen up,” you say lightly, your tone betraying none of the tension coursing through your body.

marcus’s gaze lingers on you, his smile sharp and untrusting. “don’t keep him waiting too long, mrs. daniels.”

you chuckle softly, leaning down to brush a kiss against jay’s cheek for added effect. “i never do.”

jay’s hand squeezes yours under the table briefly, a subtle signal to stay focused. you give him a slight nod and turn on your heel, heading toward the grand staircase that leads to the private suites.

the casino floor hums with energy, but the second floor is quieter, its opulence more understated. plush carpets line the halls, and abstract art decorates the walls. as you approach the suite at the end of the corridor, your pulse quickens. two guards stand at attention outside the door, their sharp eyes tracking your every move.

you don’t hesitate. confidence is your best weapon now. pulling out your compact mirror, you glance at your reflection, pretending to fix your lipstick as you stumble slightly on your heel.

“oh,” you mutter, looking up at the guards with an apologetic smile. “i’m sorry—new shoes. are the restrooms down this way?”

one of the guards hesitates, glancing at his partner. “no. they’re downstairs,” he says gruffly, jerking his chin toward the staircase.

“thank you!” you reply cheerfully, walking past them as if you’re heading back to the main floor.

once you’re out of their line of sight, you duck into a small alcove and pull out the lock-picking tool hidden in your clutch. with quick, practiced movements, you bypass the suite’s secondary door a few feet away from the guards.

“rookie, status?” jay’s voice crackles in your earpiece, his tone calm but firm.

“inside,” you whisper.

the suite is dimly lit, the faint scent of cigars lingering in the air. the room exudes wealth—dark wood furniture, leather armchairs, and a massive desk that holds marcus’s laptop. you make your way to it quickly, plugging in the usb drive and initiating the data transfer.

as the progress bar creeps forward, you hear muffled voices outside.

“rookie, you’ve got two minutes,” jay’s voice warns, a hint of urgency slipping through his usual calm.

“almost done,” you mutter, your eyes darting between the screen and the door.

just as the transfer completes, the door bursts open, and one of the guards storms in, his gun already drawn.

“step away from the desk,” he growls.

your heart pounds, but you force yourself to stay calm. you raise your hands slowly, stepping back as your mind races for a plan.

before the guard can act, a muffled shot rings out, and he crumples to the ground.

you turn to see jay in the doorway, his gun raised, the suppressor still smoking.

“cutting it close, aren’t you?” you quip, your voice shaky but light.

jay steps into the room, his eyes scanning it quickly before turning to you. “grab the drive. we need to move.”

you snatch the usb drive from the laptop and follow jay into the hallway. more footsteps echo from the direction of the staircase, and jay’s jaw tightens.

“run,” he orders, grabbing your hand and pulling you forward.

you sprint down the hallway, your heels pounding against the carpet as adrenaline courses through your veins. the echo of heavy boots behind you grows louder, and you chance a glance over your shoulder.

jay, a step behind you, fires off two precise shots over your shoulder. a guard grunts and falls, but another rounds the corner almost immediately, shouting for backup.

chaos soon ensues in the casino, causing screams and shouts from the rich guests, evacuating the casino soon enough.

“left!” jay barks, and you veer sharply, skidding slightly on the polished floor as you turn the corner.

a guard steps into your path, raising his weapon, but jay is faster. he shoves you behind him, lunging at the man with brutal efficiency. one hand grips the guard’s wrist, twisting the gun free, while the other slams into his jaw with enough force to send him sprawling.

“keep going!” jay snaps, shoving the gun into his pocket as he pushes you forward.

you run, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. the grand staircase comes into view, but two more guards block the way.

“stay behind me,” jay says, his voice low and commanding.

you press yourself against the wall as jay moves. one guard charges at him, but jay sidesteps smoothly, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him into the marble railing. the second guard draws a knife, slashing at jay, but he deflects the blow with his forearm and counters with a sharp kick to the man’s knee.

the guard stumbles, and jay finishes him with a swift punch to the temple.

“downstairs. now,” jay says, grabbing your hand again and pulling you down the staircase.

the casino floor is chaotic, the commotion from upstairs drawing attention from the guests and staff. you weave through the crowd, jay keeping a firm grip on your hand as you head toward the exit.

but marcus himself steps into your path, his gun trained on jay.

“going somewhere?” marcus sneers, his expression cold and calculating.

jay doesn’t hesitate. he lunges forward, grabbing marcus’s wrist and twisting it sharply. the gun clatters to the floor as jay delivers a brutal punch to marcus’s jaw, sending him sprawling.

“move,” jay growls, steering you toward the exit as more guards converge on the scene.

the two of you burst into the cool night air, your chest heaving as you stumble to a stop in the shadow of the casino. before the guards or any of marcus's men can grab you both, jay pulls you into a black limo which drives off instantly.

“you alright?” jay asks, his dark eyes scanning you for injuries.

“yeah,” you reply breathlessly.

jay leans closer, his hand cupping your face as he studies you. then, without warning, his lips crash against yours.

the kiss is fierce, raw, a collision of adrenaline and relief. his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips move with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

you melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as the chaos of the mission fades away. the heat of his body against yours grounds you, his presence overwhelming in the best way. you pull him closer by his collars, and he smirks into the kiss.

jay doesn't care there's a driver inside the car too, at this moment he just cares how your lips move against his, as he practically pulls you into his lap.

his lips travel from your lips to your jaws to your neck and then back at your lips, his hands traveling everywhere.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“you did good tonight,” jay murmurs, his voice low and rough.

“so did you,” you reply, your heart still racing.

jay smirks, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “next time, don’t make me work so hard to save you.”

“next time, maybe you let me save you,” you tease, your tone light despite the lingering adrenaline.

jay chuckles softly, wrapping an arm around your waist. “come on. we will do better next time.”

together, you disappear into the night, with jays lips back on yours.

© BYWONS, 2025 / do not copy or repost without permission . div ctto

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[gossameres]

chapter three, oil and honey

pairing: jacob black x f. reader

notes: did not mean to be posting daily but hey! more fluff more fluff i love when he’s sassy so theres lots of banter and cutesy little moments

genres: childhood friends, best friends to lovers, mutual pining

word count: 1.6k

prev. series masterlist! next.

You: I’m walking by your place

Jacob: I’m in the garage

You: Should I swing by?

Jacob: You already are

Jacob: Get in here

You slip through the side door and find him crouched next to a half-disassembled motorcycle. The smell of oil and dust clings to the air, warm and metallic. He doesn’t look up right away–just twists a wrench, tightens something, and wipes his hands on a rag that’s seen better days. You’re perched on an overturned crate, watching as Jacob wrestles with a stubborn bolt, his biceps flexing under the strain.

“You just loiter outside people’s garages now?” he asks without turning.

“I make exceptions for guys who owe me gummy worms,” you retort, referencing the other day at your place when he spilled your entire bag of sour Trolli’s on the ground.

He finally glances up. There’s a smudge of grease on his cheek and that tired grin he always throws your way when he’s caught off guard.

“Then you better earn ‘em.”

You sit cross-legged on the concrete floor beside him. No invitation needed.

“You’re gonna strip it,” you say.

“I’ve got it,” he mutters.

“You don’t got it.”

He shoots you a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna try?”

You nudge him aside. “Move over, hotshot.”

He huffs but scoots back, arms crossed as you take the wrench from him. You brace yourself, adjusting your grip, and twist. The bolt gives almost immediately.

Jacob stares.

“...Okay, yeah, that’s bullshit.”

You grin, tossing the wrench back to him. “Maybe you’re just weak.”

He catches it easily, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, I’m weak?”

“Mmhm.”

He leans in closer and the air between you feels hotter. You’re hyper aware of the way his gaze lingers on your face, the way his chest rises and falls just a little faster. Your pulse stutters and you can hear his pick up. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he leans back into himself and grabs the hem of his shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby toolbox. Sunlight streams through the open garage door, gilding his skin as he drags a hand over his brow, muscles shifting under the sheen of his sweat. Those are new.

You blink and you realize you’re staring.

He hesitates, glancing at you. “Sorry, I should’ve asked first. Do you mind if I–?”

“No,” you abruptly respond, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s–it’s fine. Hot. It’s hot… out.”

Jacob smirks, but there’s something unreadable about his expression as he turns back to the car. You swallow hard, trying (and failing) not to stare. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable, just charged.

“You remember when we got stuck on the side of the road in the middle of summer?” you ask, just to say something and break the silence.

Jacob snorts. “You passed out from heatstroke.”

“I did not pass out. I was resting my eyes.”

“You were snoring. On the side of the road.”

You shove him and he laughs, shoulder bumping against yours. Your own laugh escapes, softer than his, and when you glance up, he's already looking at you. His smile doesn't fade so much as settle, something unbearably fond in the curve of it. Like your laughter isn't just sound but honey, the slow drip of something golden and sweet. Something worth savoring on his tongue.

You end up staying longer than you meant to.

The conversations start with harmless updates–school, your mom’s new obsession with puzzles, the neighbor’s cat that keeps trying to sneak into your room. Jacob nods along, humming in acknowledgment as he tightens a bolt, but his responses aren’t just filler. He listens in that way of his, sharp and present, tossing in a question here and there like he’s cataloging every detail.

He tells you about Billy’s latest attempt to organize the shed, how he nearly dropped a toolbox on his own foot. He says it like it’s nothing, but the way he smiles when he says Dad is soft around the edges. You’d always loved Billy—how he treated you like another kid, feeding you both saltine crackers until you groaned, scolding Jacob halfheartedly when he caught you two sneaking out late. And Jacob, for all his teasing, had a quiet adoration for his father he’d never say out loud.

You watch his hands as he works. There’s something steady about them, even when the rest of him seems like it’s working twice as hard to hold still. Your dad wasn’t wrong when he joked about Jacob being the only one he’d trust around a sprinkler. There was something unfairly competent about him, like he could fix anything if he just willed it hard enough.

“Here.” Jacob nudges a socket wrench into your palm without looking up. “You’re not just here to sit pretty.

You scoff, stretching your spine (you’d been hunched beside him for an hour like some kind of gremlin). “When have I ever sat pretty?”

He doesn’t answer, just smirks–that infuriating, knowing tilt of his mouth, like he’s got a secret tucked behind his lips. You elbow him, then pretend to inspect the bike’s engine with exaggerate focus, turning the wrench like you know exactly what you’re doing, copying him.

“So,” you drag out, poking at a loose valve. “How’s the rest of life going?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Y’know, like…” You tap the metal, clink clink. “Any super interesting secrets you’ve been keeping from me? Or how you’ve been dealing with my absence–which, obviously, was devastating for you. Or…” You grin. “Girls?”

Jacob freezes mid-turn, then slowly looks up at you, brow raised. "First off," he says, voice dry, "no secrets. You know I wouldn’t keep any from you. Second, yeah, real tough without you. Had to find a new punching bag and everything." He flicks a grease-stained rag at you. "And no. Been too busy." A pause. "You?"

“No secrets here,” you say lightly. “And not seeing you was no biggie, really.” You snap the wrench playful. “And nope.”

He snorts. “Liar.”

“Prove it.”

For a second, it feels like when you were kids again by daring each other and toeing the line. But then the sunlight shifts, painting the garage in a dimmer gold and Jacob leans back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. You did a pretty good job at not staring for the past few hours, but your eyes slowly drift before snapping out of it quickly.

“Dinner?” he asks, like it’s nothing.

You glance at your phone and realize the hours have slipped away like minutes. “I could eat.”

There’s no discussion, no plan, just the easy understanding that you’ll figure it out together. You grab two of his jackets (both of which still smell like motor oil and the pine-scented soap Billy loves to buy), lock up the garage, and pile into his car. The windows stay cracked, letting in the cooling sunset air and the radio murmurs some old rock songs under the rumble of the engine.

Jacob drums his fingers on the steering wheel, quiet for once. But it’s a good quiet. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

Back at his place, you help unload the random assortment of things in the kitchen—barbecue-flavored Pringles, cheddar cheese, and, most importantly, gummy worms, along with a few other necessities. Billy’s out, probably at Charlie Swan’s or fishing with one of the other dads. The house is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty.

“We’re healthy, huh,” you joke, eyeing the scattered lineup of junk food across the counter.

“I’m very self-sufficient,” Jacob says. “I’ll cook something up.”

“Right,” you reply, deadpan. “With your two whole dishes: scrambled eggs and grilled cheese.”

“Don’t knock the classics,” he shoots back, pouting slightly as he starts pulling out a pan and whatever kitchen gadget he can fish out of the drawers.

You put a movie on in the background before joining him to help concoct whatever his limited cooking skills can manage, keeping a close eye on him to make sure he doesn’t burn the place down. The TV’s volume is up, but neither of you really watches. You talk over it, and the clatter from the kitchen practically drowns it out anyway.

Once the chaos ends—and you both survive—you grab your plates: triangle-cut grilled cheese, scrambled eggs, a side of Pringles, two cups of water, and the gummy worms. You set everything down on the coffee table and settle into the couch, finally ready to pay attention to the movie.

Somewhere between finishing the second half of your grilled cheese and the third time the remote glitches, you catch Jacob watching you from the corner of your eye.

“What?” you ask, looking over at him.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You squint at him, but he doesn’t offer more. Instead, he leans back on the couch and tosses a pillow lazily in your direction.

“I’m just saying,” he adds after a second, “you’re easy to be around.”

It’s casual. Simple. But the way he says it lands heavier than it should.

You pause, just long enough that he notices. Then you nod, smiling, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You too.”

And you mean it.

When you leave, he walks you to the door. The porch light flickers as he opens it. Your mom’s parked nearby—Jacob offered to drive you back, but you felt bad about how much he’s been driving you around lately, so you called her instead.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, leaning on the frame.

“Is this a standing appointment now?”

“Guess so.”

You smile, step down the stairs, and walk toward the car. You don’t look back, but you can feel him watching until you slide into the passenger seat.

When you get home, your phone buzzes once.

Jacob: Gummy worms were a good call

[loves-alibi]

i cared

MDNI simon "ghost" riley x f!reader summary: three and a half years ago and an ocean away, he tore you apart. now he's turned up at your door. wordcount: 4.1k warnings: smut (fingering), drinking, AFAB reader, possible past dub-con (reader was in a bad mental state and simon knew), simon is a shitty guy in this, talk of hypothetical suicide, talk of past bad mental state (depression), mentioned PTSD, heartbreak on both sides, death mention (MW:III canon) a/n: hey remember when i said that my next fic would be joel and i posted a little insert. that was a lie! instead of working on that (12k word, currently) monster, i wrote something else. if you couldn't tell, i started this before the holidays and then forgot about it.

ao3

The house is much nicer than Simon anticipated. When he saw the New York City address, he had expected you to be crammed into a shitty 6th-floor walk-up. But no, not you. Instead, you have an honest-to-God three-story home with red brick delicately dusted with snow. You certainly couldn’t afford it on the 141 salary. He always suspected you came from means. This just confirms it. It just makes him wonder why the hell you decided to slum it in the services for so long.

It reminds Simon that he shouldn’t be there. You weren't made for that life and left for a reason. Who is he to ruin your peace?

He’s not alone on the street. Well-to-do families of strangers pass by, all watching the masked man observe their neighbor’s home. He can still turn around and leave you to the life you so clearly want.

Something shifts in one of the windows, the curtain being tousled by something. A dog. You got a dog– a golden retriever with sharp eyes and, evidently, an even sharper bark. The canine goes berserk, barking and howling and growling at Simon through the window. It’s Simon’s cue to leave, to leave you be with your semi-rabid, semi-domestic canine.

But before he can move, the curtain shifts again– pulled this time –and you’re there. You squint for a moment, surely wondering what masked freak is standing in your walkway like he owns the damn place. He lets you scrutinize him. It’s now or never. Either you’ll tell him to fuck off once you realize who he is or you’ll call the police on him, though it’s not like they would do anything after he calls Kate.

Instead, you disappear behind the curtain, your loyal steed of a dog following hot on your heels. In a moment’s notice, the large front door, with a gilded knocker and door knob open. You beckon him in. He follows, eyes trailing up and down your body once you’re facing away from him. You’re dressed casually but smartly in a short denim skirt and cashmere sweater. Simon’s never seen you in that getup before, even when going out to the pub.

“Shoes off,” you order, motioning towards the neat shoe rack next to the door. They’re all women's shoes of the same size. Simon’s shoulders relax, and he slips off his boots. It was for the best, he figures. His old boots would have just dragged dirt into your space. He takes off his mask too, hanging it up with his jacket. It’s nothing you haven't seen before.

Simon follows you into the sitting room– at least, that’s what Simon guesses the room is. It’s too neat for your taste, or his memory of what your taste is exactly. The couch and single chair seem untouched, the air still, like Simon’s presence is cutting through some sacred stillness.

You point to a couch and Simon obeys, sitting with his hands on his knees. Your eyes lock with his without granting him any semblance of your thoughts. Simon keeps his gaze soft, neutral. You can scrutinize him all you need.

You sigh, straightening your posture. A smile pulls at your lips. Your smile lines crease deeper than he remembered. Or maybe they always creased that deep.

“Tea?”

***

“He’s quite protective,” you drop two sugar cubes into a cup of tea. The spoon in your hand lets out a delicate tink as it hits the porcelain cup. You hand Simon the teacup, it’s just how he likes it. “Always has his haunches raised, even when he’s not working.”

Ah. A service animal. He’s surprised to not have put that together sooner. Always loyal, the pooch plants himself at your feet, gaze burning into Simon. If looks could kill…

“Your home?” Simon asks. He lifts the teacup to his lips and sips. Simon places the teacup on its saucer impossibly slowly. Simon can’t believe you’d trust him with something so delicate.

“I inherited it.”

A smile creeps on Simon’s face. Teacups and generational wealth. He always knew you were posh. Or whatever Americans call posh.

“You’re on holiday?” You ask.

“‘Tis the season.”

You hum. Your house is the only one on the block without some sort of holiday decor. Simon wonders if it was a pointed decision.

“And you came here.” Why?

He can’t tell you the truth. The fact is that every day since you left– all one thousand two hundred ninety-eight of them since John uttered to his fuming lieutenant that you just weren’t fit to serve any more –he’s ached. One thousand two hundred ninety-eight days of no contact. Of his only proof that you ever existed being a photo and a tear-stained note with one sentence scribbled in ink: John has contact info– emergencies only.

“I wanted to wish you a happy holidays.”

You laugh dryly, though it sends a pang of pain through Simon. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Usually people send a card for that.”

You observe Simon with precision, like you never left the force, though the way you scratch Yogi’s belly unconsciously betrays the hardened exterior. It’s a glimpse into the last three and a half years. Of the woman you’ve become– so foreign to Simon. Foreign to your past self. Or not. Maybe this is who you’ve been all along, just hidden behind fatigues. Maybe the woman Simon thought he knew was just a farce. Rich girl playing army for a few years.

Maybe you joined the force just to fuck around for a bit. After a few years, you’d have stories to tell your socialite friends back home. Except, you didn’t get what you wanted, didn’t you? Simon knows well and good that serving, the 141, and him, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, destroyed something in you. 

You tap the porcelain of your teacup. It makes a pleasant ding. “Did John tell you where to find me?”

“No. Well–” Simon tries to tell you the truth without throwing his comrade under the bus. The truth was, John had indulged in one too many drinks at the pub one night and hadn’t locked his quarters. An envelope addressed to you sat front in center on his desk. “Not intentionally.”

It’s a satisfying enough answer. Only a small twinge of annoyance crosses your face before you hum. “This isn’t a guilt thing, right Simon?” You ask, “I didn’t do what I did because of what happened.”

“What we did back then, on the field,” Simon traps you under his gaze. His stare is aggressive, but he hopes it conveys the intense feelings he’s struggling with. “I can’t just leave it. That’s why I came.”

Simon doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t dare breathe while he watches you process his words. It’s a load of crap, he knows it, and he knows you know it. It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to kick him out.

You smize, teeth coming out to tug at your bottom lip. “Have you ever had New York pizza?”

***

You order two pies, hushing Simon when he insists it’s too much. You were right. Two isn’t enough. Simon scarfs down one pie without coming up for air. It’s delicious. It isn’t until he’s four slices deep that he realizes that you, smiling widely at him, haven’t yet picked up your first.

You’re a gracious host– a natural, really. You perch yourself on the kitchen island, legs crossed in a way that makes your skirt ride so sinfully up your thighs. Simon doesn’t look of course, he’s a gentleman. At least, he is for the first bottle of the ungodly expensive red wine you procure. It’s then that you perch your leg on the counter opposite your spot on the island, right next to Simon. Old habits die hard– especially when inebriated –and Simon places a hand on your leg, massaging the skin of your ankle.

You pay no mind to Simon’s ministrations, though, lost in the domestic bliss and mindless conversations you’ve probably been drowning yourself in for the last few years. You wave the glass of wine wildly about, like you wouldn’t give a damn if it spilled all over your expensive clothes. It seems so natural for you. Simon wonders what you were ever doing with the 141 when posh city living fits you like a second skin.

Simon inches his hand higher up your leg as you speak. He doesn’t get very far, but it’s enough so that he can trace patterns into the soft skin of your thigh. It’s too much, though, because your eyes lock onto his. But you’re not mad. You don’t tell him to stop. Rather, you examine him, and in your eyes Simon sees what looks like mirth.

“I missed this,” Simon says. He cringes at the words leaving his mouth. He’s succumbing to the domestic bliss you’ve created, looking at the past through rose-tinted glasses.

You reach for a third bottle of wine and a corkscrew, furrowing your brow in thought while twisting the screw. “I didn't want to abandon you,” you say. Simon, watching you pop the cork off with ease, almost forgets that you’re talking to him until you lock eyes. He watches you sniff the cork, pause, then sniff it again before topping off your glass. You take a heaping swig, like that Pinot Noir worth more than Simon’s monthly pay is unremarkable. “I left for a reason, you know.”

Oh, Simon certainly knows. The rumors had been inescapable in the first weeks of your absence. All around base every soldier had entertained the question of what happened to the American chick in the 141. Simon had only so many threatening looks to give privates before curiosity got the better of him. He abated the desire to ask John for so long, but there was only so much longing he could handle coupled with the cacophony of voices asking the same thing he desperately wanted to know.

John didn’t flounder when Simon finally came to him, demanding to know why you left.

She was discharged.

Why?

For… mental reasons.

Simon lost his shit in Price’s office that morning. He collapsed onto the couch with a gasp, a hand grasping and squeezing his heart. His breath left him, but Simon was too bloody stupid to understand what the hell was going on until Price was handing him a brown paper bag.

Breathe, son.

“Simon,” you breathe, your saccharine voice the most tantalizing sound Simon has ever heard. You lean forward, your finger tracing the scar parallel to the cut of his jaw. You were there for it, saw the knife slice through his mask and the skin underneath. You bandaged it in the helicopter after, making Simon promise to go to medical afterwards. He promised he would. That night he closed the wound with superglue. “Why did you really come?”

Because you disappeared. Because Price said you were on the brink of becoming a statistic. Because I fucked up. Because I said things I didn’t mean and I thought that it killed you.

“Johnny’s dead,” he lies. But it isn’t a lie. It’s true, sure, Johnny’s been reduced to ashes and scattered in the Scottish highlands. But that isn't why he came.

“I know.” You sniffle. Christ, Simon’s made you cry. Nausea washes over him. A voice in his head screams, fix it, idiot! But emotions were never Simon’s strong suit. Instead, Simon reaches for the bottle and tops off your glass of wine, probably a bit more than he should have, but it seems like you need it.

You mutter a thank you and down a bit more than half of the glass. You come up for air and hiccup. “John told me.”

“Price?” He asks, as though there was any other John. Anything to get you talking rather than crying.

You nod. “He dropped by around Thanksgiving. Asked if I wanted to be there when you all…” You wave your hand in the air, “You know.”

Something ugly festers in his chest. Maybe if he actually went to a therapist, Simon could recognize what it is.

“You said no?” He asks.

“I didn’t think I could.”

Simon nods, holding your gaze in a way that he hopes conveys his sense of understanding.

“How’d it happen?” You croak. Your eyes are glassy, a reminder of the ever-looming threat that you could fall apart again. Simon reminds himself that you wouldn’t be crying if he had just kept his distance.

“Bullet in the head.”

You tense, your head flying to Simon. Your eyes are frantic, searching for something in his face. “He…he…?”

Christ. 

“No, no,” Simon scrambles to get his next words out, “Makarov. It was-” His voice cracks. Unusual. “-was too fast to stop it. To save himself.”

You hum, slumping down like it’s comforting to you that Johnny had his life torn from his arms. Like it’s comforting that Johnny couldn’t go on his own terms, but on the terms of a Russian terrorist.

“You know,” you say like you know he knows, “Johnny’s the reason I got out.”

Simon shifts. Johnny never talked about your discharge, always responding to speculation like he was none the wiser. “He is?”

“Yeah,” you laugh. It’s deep and watery. “Things were…bad one night. He found me. Talked me through the night. Listened to me.” You throw your head back, eyes tracing imaginary patterns on the ceiling.

“He told Price?”

You nod.

“That was after we…”

You nod again. Simon feels sick.

“It had nothing to do with you, Simon.”

“I never thought it did.”

“Then why,” you ask, “did you bring it up?”

Simon shifts. “Thought it was relevant.”

You smile, though your eyes are still lined with tears. “Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not, love,” Simon laughs, hoping you buy it. It works, he thinks. You seem to deflate, slumping a bit. You take some time to think. Simon, panicking at the thought that your self-reflection could send him out the door, pulls out the one trick he has over you.

He lets your legs fall. They bang against the cabinets with a soft umph from your lips. Simon slides off of the counter and stalks your way. You watch him and put up no fight as he slots his wide body between your knees. You don't even complain as the parting of your legs forces your skirt to ride even higher.

Fingers card through Simon’s hair. He hums.

“Why did you do it?” You ask.

Simon tilts his head, and with the wine in his veins and your hand in his hair, the world spins. Your other hand slips under the hem of Simon’s shirt. Warm fingers graze the skin of his stomach and then side, before your hand settles on his back, palm splaying across scarred flesh.

“I–” Simon croaks, “–I felt something for you.”

You snort. Simon’s chest burns and he takes some deep breaths to calm himself. He imagines Price’s paper bag, inflating and crinkling over and over.

“You knew I would leave. That’s it, isn’t it?” You accuse with a gleam in your eyes. “I was in a bad place and was leaving so it didn’t matter if you hit it and quit it.” You laugh. “You got what you wanted without risking your position.”

“That’s not true.”

Your thighs bracket his legs, trapping him against you. Your words curl around your wine-stained tongue. “‘I don’t love you’. Isn’t that what you said Simon?”

“Love–”

You tense, thighs squeezing him like a vice. “Love,” you coo, the imitation of Simon’s long vowels curtles unnaturally on your tongue. “Love, love, love. You know Simon,” you wrap your hands around the back of his neck and lean into the crook of his neck. Your lips brush against his skin as you speak, “You say it, but you’ve never meant it.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon utters, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.

“You’re not.”

He’s not. He doesn’t argue. He could– should, rather –but he can’t think straight with you this close to him. The scent of your perfume itches the deepest part of his brain. You never wore perfume when on duty, rather, always coated in the aroma of base-issued shampoo and sweat.

“I really cared for you, you know,” you whisper, your lips millimeters from his, them parting when his fingers rub you through the fabric of your underwear.

“I know,” Simon closes the distance, capturing your lips with his.

He pushes you back onto the counter, you let him, lets Simon cage your body like he has the right to. You groan into his mouth when he traps your bottom lip between his teeth and melt when his fingers slip past the hem of your panties, his fingers plunging through the wetness into your cunt.

It’s obscene— the noises you make as he thrusts his fingers into you. With his free hand, Simon pushes your skirt up over your hips so he can watch your cunt squeeze around him.

He slides his thumb up to your clit and you gasp. “Simon,” you moan. He nearly stops. It’s been years since he’s heard you say his name, let alone moan it. Fuck, Simon can’t help but grind his cock against the island counter, groaning.

It doesn’t take much to work you into an orgasm. Before he knows it, your moans become softer, higher pitched, and you’re coming apart, clenching hard on Simon’s fingers.

He works you through your orgasm, whispering praise into your ears. Simon gives you no time before pouncing, fisting his hands in your hair and devouring you. You wiggle underneath his weight, uttering something, but the words are lost into Simon’s mouth. He pulls away, his eyes meeting your expectant ones.

“What?”

“Upstairs,” you say, chest heaving. “My room is upstairs.”

***

Simon wakes before dawn. He’s lying on top of you, your strong breath rocking him up and down. Your limbs are impossibly tangled. He’s reminded of an identical morning, years ago, of what he did then, and what that choice led him to. But that was years ago. You were different then, broken. How was he supposed to know that his choice would make you shatter?

He untangles himself slowly. It feels like the process takes hours, though the sun fails to make an appearance by the time he slips out of bed. The clock reads four in the morning. That explains it. It also explains the way the room around him is spinning slightly. He’s still drunk– or at least buzzed –from the night before.

His pants are an easy find, discarded by the door. His shirt though… Simon spins around the room, eyes glazing over the space. He tries not to take anything in too deeply, too personal for this morning.

He spots his shirt on your vanity. Simon yanks it off, but something hard and heavy comes with it. It nearly drops to the floor, but Simon catches it before it can hit and wake you up.

It’s a perfume bottle, heavy and half-filled. Simon can’t suppress the urge of his half-drunk brain to sniff it. The scent— the scent of you —explodes in his synapses. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, ensuring you’re still asleep, before pocketing the bottle.

The dog follows Simon as he walks through the house. Luckily, as he slips on his shoes, the dog disappears into the rest of the house.

Simon lingers with a hand wrapped around the door knob. It warms under his touch.

“Are we doing this again?”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, “I ‘ave to.” Simon stays facing the door, though he doesn’t make a move to turn around. He knows how he must look to you, too cowardly to face you. He’s reminded of the last time he spent the night with you. He got out scot-free. What would have happened if you found him then? Simon can’t say for certain whether or not he would have left then, if you called out for him in the same delicate voice.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“In New York,” you say, voice dry with sleep. “With me. Get out of the SAS, the 141, all that bullshit.”

“‘S not that easy.”

“It is. I left. You can leave. Or you can stay and end up like Johnny–”

“What do you know about Johnny,’ Simon growls, turning on his heels. He straightens his spine, puffing his chest up like you’re a threat. Your dog buys it, growling and worming himself between you and Simon. You don't take the bait though. You honest to God laugh in Simon’s face.

“I know enough.” You step closer to Simon. The pooch gets the memo, clearing the way for you. Simon almost does the same, he wants to. Some instinctual part of his brain needs to cave to you. “You mean something, Simon,” you flick your eyebrows up, letting them drop immediately. It feels like a challenge, like you were asking Simon the silent question. Do you matter? 

“You’re more than a soldier– more than a body on a field, waiting to drop.” There are tears in your eyes. You don't let them fall. Simon hopes you’ve finally realized that he isn’t worth your heartbreak. He’s never been, but at least your realization would stop his cruel cycle of him chewing you up and spitting you right back out.

“Come to New York, Simon, please. There– there’s a butcher shop up the block, they’re always looking for help. You said you used to do that stuff, right?”

Fucking hell. He had said it to you, years ago after a mission. Simon went drink for drink with Johnny and Gaz and got positively wasted. It was the night he first set his sight on you, when your tenderness sunk its claws into his heart and refused to let go. You didn’t know then what it would lead to. Simon did. Every love Simon had wilted in his claws. Why would you be different?

“Come here,” you plead, “Take the job with them. I can help you find an apartment or you can live with me but–” You grab Simon’s shoulders, tugging. It isn’t strong enough to turn him around, but he does. Your cheeks are wet and eyes glassy as you stare up at him. “Simon, it’s too late for us, but don’t let it be too late for you.”

Simon lifts his hand to your cheek, fingers grazing the plump skin. It slides to the back of your head and tugs– yanks you into his embrace as he crashes your lips against his own. The morning makes you soft though, as Simon nips your lips with his teeth, you melt, softening and slowing your movements.

It’s you that pulls away first, staring at Simon. You let him swipe his finger across your cheek, caressing you.

“Please,” you beg, kissing the palm of his hand.

Simon lets his hand fall from you. It sits achingly cold at his side.

It would be cowardly to leave you without a goodbye after forcing himself back into your life, even if it was for one night. Simon considers himself to be many things, but never a coward. Yet, standing in front of you, staring into your expectant eyes, words don’t come easy.

You step towards him. Simon steps back. The door knob presses into his back. His heart is pounding, the blood in his eyes deafening him. Your scent wafts his way, your perfume. The one whose bottle he knocked over, nearly let slip through his fingers and shatter. The one which you never got to wear in the 141. The one weighing down his back pocket.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Simon says.

He doesn’t look back. Not when you gasp his name. Not when he opens the door. Not when he walks down the snowy street.

Price and Gaz will ask about his holiday. They’re kind like that. In the cab to the airport, passing the bottle of perfume between his hands, Simon considers his answer. Single word answers are his forté, but won’t suffice with the prying curiosities of his captain and sergeant.

The answer comes to him when he sniffs the perfume once more.

In the coming week, when Gaz claps him on the back, he will ask, “How was the holiday, Ghost?”

Simon will answer, “I had a meal with an old friend.”

[yua0ra]

𝐒𝐧𝐚𝐩 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐈𝐭

WARNINGS: mattheo x pureblood!reader, SFW, proofread, english is not my first language. miscellaneous ☆

SUMMARY: Just because Mattheo has grown the way he has, doesn't mean that other pureblood families agree with the Riddle family ideologies. One of them, is yours; the Merlins

WC: 4.1K AN: Hey guys! I wanted to write some more about the pureblood culture and traditions because it's a theme that fascinates me. Obviously, this is all fictional and I would never, ever condone their behaviour and the mistreatment against innocent people.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

The Black family’s ancestral manor had stood for centuries, its towering spires casting long shadows over the frozen lake that stretched beneath a January moon. The evening’s soiree was an affair of hushed elegance, its invitation extended only to those of unimpeachable lineage—Pureblood families whose names echoed through the corridors of history.

Inside the ballroom, enchanted chandeliers cast golden light upon the polished obsidian floors. The air shimmered with magic, as goblets refilled themselves with ancient vintages, and delicate platters of enchanted hors d'oeuvres floated between clusters of elegantly robed witches and wizards. A string quartet played in the corner, their instruments charmed to sing with melodies older than the castle itself.

For as long as anyone could remember, such soirees had been a cornerstone of Pureblood society. A gathering of influence, tradition, and unspoken rivalries, each event was less a celebration and more a calculated display of power. A new emerald-green velvet robe, enchanted with golden embroidery to shimmer with every movement, was a silent announcement of a family's prosperity. A whispered conversation in the shadow of a grand staircase might determine an alliance between two houses—or the quiet ruination of another.

The evening always followed a strict order of customs, for to be a Pureblood was to uphold tradition. First, the elders of each family would exchange pleasantries laced with subtext, their voices honeyed but their gazes sharp. They spoke of lineage, of marriage prospects, of the ‘proper way of things.’ Then came the formal introductions of the season’s debutantes—young witches and wizards of age, poised like chess pieces awaiting their first move on the grand board of aristocratic politics.

At the stroke of ten, the waltz would begin. Partners were chosen not by fancy, but by strategy. A Malfoy would glide across the floor with a Rowle, a Lestrange with a Bulstrode, each step a subtle negotiation between families. To refuse a dance was to deliver an insult; to accept was to acknowledge the potential of a future bond.

Beyond the gilded civility, these gatherings carried undercurrents of intrigue. In dimly lit alcoves, quiet dealings were struck, futures bartered in murmured tones. Who would inherit a seat on the Wizengamot? Who had fallen from grace? Who was worthy of the grandest of alliances—marriage?

Not all traditions were dictated by decorum alone. At midnight, the ancient rite of the Naming was observed. The family patriarch would raise his wand and speak the names of his ancestors aloud, calling upon their spirits to bear witness. It was a moment of solemn reverence, a reminder that to be Pureblood was to carry the weight of history itself.

And yet, among the younger generation, there were whispers of change. Some, moved through the halls with an air of quiet rebellion. They danced the waltz with smirks rather than solemn nods, their presence a reminder that the rigid lines of Pureblood tradition were not as unshakable as they once were. Would the old ways hold? Or were these soirees, steeped in the past, doomed to fade like the last notes of a dying melody?

As the night waned and the guests slowly departed, the Black family’s great hall fell silent once more, until the next soiree summoned them all again—where history would repeat itself, or change forever.

- ★、

As the clock has strikes, the Debutante Ceremony has commenced and they are ready to upheld conversations with the Elders. A ritual as old as the bloodlines that fill the ballroom. It is not merely a presentation but an initiation—a passage into the world of unspoken alliances and delicate rivalries, where names carry power and every gesture is a calculated move. Their lineage is announced, their worth silently measured, their futures quietly bartered in the minds of those who hold influence. To be presented is to be acknowledged—to be placed upon the grand chessboard of Pureblood society, where tradition dictates the game, but ambition decides the victor.

The Merlin family has always stood apart from the more rigid Pureblood ideologies—not because you lack power, but because you understand that true magic transcends lineage. Your father, Ambrosius Merlin, and your mother, Morgana Selwyn-Merlin, are known not only for their ancestry but for their philosophy. They command respect, but their stance—your stance—on blood status makes your family both revered and watched carefully.

Still, tonight, you are not merely the heir of your family. You are a prize. A new powerful prize.

The emerald-green silk of your robes shimmers as you move through the room, the enchanted golden embroidery catching the flickering candlelight. Your name has been spoken with weight, and the moment you step into the ballroom, you feel the shift—the eyes that turn, the quiet assessments, the inevitable calculations. The season’s debutantes are meant to be admired, courted, traded like valuable pieces in the grand game of Pureblood politics.

But you are not a piece to be played.

At your side, your father exchanges pleasantries with Abraxas Malfoy, their conversation a carefully maneuvered waltz of its own. Your mother, ever the poised enchantress, speaks with some Lestrange, their words veiled behind the civility of old magic. The Abotts, the Travers, the Rosiers—all the names that have ruled this world for generations—stand in clusters, their heads inclined toward one another as they measure every movement in the room.

And then, there are the Riddles.

They arrive late, as if to ensure all eyes are drawn to them when they enter. Their presence is like a storm brewing at the edges of a carefully maintained sky—an undeniable force, something half-feared and half-fascinating.

Tom Riddle Jr. or Voldemort whatever you prefer, carries himself with the arrogance of a man who has bent fortune to his will, his sharp gaze missing nothing as he leads his family into the heart of the ballroom. His “wife” (dog), Bellatrix, a striking witch with ink-dark hair and a knowing smile, surveys the room as if she has already decided who is worth her time. And at their heels, moving with an effortless grace, is their son.

Mattheo Riddle.

You know him well.

Six years of shared classes, of crossed paths in the Slytherin common room, of watching him at the edges of every gathering—smirking, defiant, always walking the thin line between playing the game and tearing the board apart. He has always been a storm in waiting.

And now, he is watching you.

At the stroke of ten, the waltz begins. Tradition dictates that pairings are strategic, not sentimental. You expect to dance with a Nott or a Parkinson—someone whose family sees your lineage as a powerful acquisition. Instead, when the music swells and partners are chosen, a hand extends toward yours before anyone else can claim the honor.

Of course, belonging to the youngest Riddle.

It is not a request. It is a declaration.

"You know, I could have waited for the formalities," he muses as he guides you onto the floor, his grip light but confident. "Let someone else have the first dance. Give them a fighting chance."

You raise a brow. "And yet here you are. Stealing the moment."

"Taking what I want," he corrects, smirking. "Besides, we both know none of them stand a chance against me."

The music swells around you, a smooth waltz carrying you both across the floor, but the conversation is its own kind of dance—a careful exchange, a measured step forward and back.

"Bold of you to assume I’m the one being competed for," you reply, tilting your head. "Perhaps it’s the other way around. You did cut in rather quickly."

He chuckles, low and warm. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d let me."

You match his smirk but don’t answer. Silence is power, and you let it linger just long enough for him to wonder.

"You know," he muses after a beat, "my father was rather intrigued when he heard we’d be attending tonight. Said your family holds an interesting perspective."

"Interesting?" you echo. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

"Radical, by some accounts," he amends, his voice teasing but his eyes sharp. "The idea that magic should be valued over blood? That ability matters more than ancestry?"

"And does that shock you?" you ask, arching a brow. "That one of the oldest Pureblood families in the world doesn’t subscribe to the same archaic nonsense as the rest of them?"

"It doesn’t shock me," Mattheo admits. "But it does make me curious. I’ve spent my whole life hearing that power and blood go hand in hand. That magic is strongest when it remains pure."

"And yet," you counter smoothly, "some of the greatest minds in history have not been Purebloods. Morgana herself—our ancestor—was born of mixed bloodlines. Salazar Slytherin was said to be half-elven. Merlin was... well, Merlin. Do you really believe that if power were solely dictated by blood, we’d have wizards of half-blood and Muggle-born descent surpassing those who have spent generations trying to breed perfection?"

His grip on your waist tightens slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "You make a compelling argument."

"I make a true argument," you correct. "You, of all people, should understand that magic is not bound by blood. If it were, you wouldn’t be nearly as impressive as you are."

That earns you something—perhaps not surprise, but a shift in his expression, something just beneath the surface. "Was that a compliment?"

"An observation," you reply smoothly.

He exhales a quiet laugh. "You really do know how to play the game, don’t you?"

"The difference between us, Mattheo, is that I don’t just play the game," you murmur, allowing him to spin you effortlessly before returning to his arms. "I intend to win it."

His smirk widens, something darkly amused glinting in his eyes. "Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m on your side."

The waltz continues, the rhythm lulling you into a delicate flow, but the banter sharpens as the conversation deepens. Mattheo's eyes contain familiar mix of curiosity and challenge, a spark that makes the air between you charged.

"So," he begins, his voice a soft drawl, “you’re serious? You actually believe power should come from ability, not ancestry?"

You glance up at him, catching the flicker of amusement on his face. “Grandpa’s beard…, yes Matt, and it’s not just ability. But yeah. You’ve heard the same stories I have—the ones your father recites over dinner, where pure bloodlines are the be-all and end-all of power."

Mattheo’s smile widens, but there’s something almost dangerous in it. "You’re implying my father’s wrong, then?"

"You and I both know the line about blood is antiquated," you reply easily, your feet gliding gracefully across the floor. "The greatest wizards in history—The Founders, Flamel, hell, even Ollivander!,—were not bound by blood status. They transcended it. Why? Because magic is far greater than some petty distinction. It’s the strength of the mind, the force of will, the depth of understanding."

Mattheo chuckles lowly, clearly intrigued. "And here I thought the Riddles were the rebels. But I hear it all the time, in my own home—blood is everything. My father says that those who have 'pure' blood are born with a clearer connection to magic."

"Clearer, perhaps," you muse, "but not necessarily stronger. What, then, of those whose blood is ‘impure’ but can still bend the laws of magic to their will? What of the Half-Bloods who’ve gone on to perform feats that those with ‘perfect’ bloodlines can only dream of?"

"Your father may not care for tradition, but my family does." His voice is sharp, but there’s a respectful undertone. He can’t help it, he’s been brought up that way. "We don’t question the old ways, the things that have worked for centuries."

"And that’s exactly why you’ve never truly questioned them," you counter with a smile, sweet but full of challenge. "Tradition is only a barrier when it stops progress. My family has always believed in the magic that can change the world—not preserve an old idea of it."

Mattheo glances at you, his eyes narrowing slightly in amusement and something else—curiosity, perhaps. "You make it sound so easy, dismantling centuries of tradition with a wave of your wand."

"It’s not about dismantling it," you explain softly, leaning just slightly closer, "it’s about evolving it. We live in a time where progress is magic. Look at the world—look at the advancements. You know better than anyone that the ‘pure blood’ obsession is just a way to keep people divided."

Mattheo’s smile softens, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. I guess- I guess so. Your family, they’re more than just power and history, then?"

You glance up at him, a shimmer of something unspoken passing between you. "It’s about legacy, yes. But legacy is what you leave behind, not what you inherit."

His lips quirk into a half-smile. "And what do you plan to leave behind, then?"

"Something that can’t be measured in blood, but in what we create. A world where magic—true magic—is free to evolve, not bound to tradition."

He lets out a thoughtful hum, his fingers gently guiding you through the next step of the waltz. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe tradition does hold us back."

You meet his gaze, the conversation sliding into something deeper now, but still light, sweet. "I know I’m right, darling. The only real power is in change.”

He lets the words hang in the air between you, his expression thoughtful, as though weighing the possibility of this new truth you've presented. His hand gently guides you through the next turn, but his eyes remain locked on yours, intense and searching.

"Change," he repeats softly, almost to himself, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "It’s a dangerous thing, don’t you think? It challenges everything we know, everything we’ve been taught. Even a small shift can send everything into chaos."

You give a gentle shrug, your gaze soft but unwavering. "Sometimes chaos is necessary, Matt. Without it, nothing new is born. The world we know—our world—will only survive if we allow it to adapt. If we hold on to the past too tightly, it will strangle us."

There’s a pause, the tension of the conversation shifting between playful and profound. He spins you lightly, and for a brief moment, you feel the weight of the dance in your steps, but also the weight of the truth you’re exchanging. It’s delicate—this balance between banter and something far deeper.

Mattheo looks at you again, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, though it lacks any malice. "So, you're telling me that in order for us to survive, we should throw away the very things that made us strong? Magic, family, bloodlines… They’re not just irrelevant in your world, are they? You want us to forget them entirely?"

"Not forget," you say quickly, your voice quiet but firm. "But redefine. A family’s bloodline, yes, it has significance. History matters, I won’t deny that. But it shouldn’t define a person’s worth. What matters is what you do with it.”

He smirks, a trace of teasing in his eyes. "And what about the power you where talking about? You think you can just throw away centuries of tradition and create power like that?"

“Don’t be so extreme.” You smile. “Power,” you continue, drawing in a deep breath, "isn’t something you can create by force alone, Mattheo. It’s something that’s earned. Through action, conviction. And yes, even change. The power to build, to innovate, to move forward—that’s the power worth having."

There’s a spark in his eyes now—something more than the playful challenge you’ve seen before. It’s curiosity, mixed with respect. He considers your words carefully, his gaze unwavering as he watches you, really watches you for the first time tonight.

"I’ve never met anyone who thinks the way you do,” he admits, his voice low.

You smile, a soft, genuine smile. "Maybe that’s why you’re listening."

Mattheo raises an eyebrow, amused. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to figure out whether you’re as dangerous as you sound."

"You should know by now, Mattheo," you murmur, leaning just a fraction closer as the dance slows, "that dangerous is just another word for powerful."

The dance comes to an unexpected halt as a familiar, commanding voice cuts through the air—one that sends a ripple through the crowd. You glance up, a soft, knowing smile tugging at your lips as your father, Ambrosius Merlin, strides toward you.

He’s a striking figure, tall and dignified, his dark robes flowing with the same effortless grace as his presence. His silver hair catches the light, and the sharpness in his blue eyes cuts through the bustling ballroom with ease. Unlike the cold formality of most Pureblood patriarchs, Ambrosius exudes an energy that is both refined and warm, carrying an air of absolute authority that is never questioned, yet never unkind.

"Ah," he says with a smile as he steps closer, his voice a deep, melodic rumble. "There you are, my brilliant child. I must say, you’ve been quite the spectacle this evening." He looks at you with a gentle pride before turning his gaze to Mattheo, offering a hand in greeting. "I am Ambrosius Merlin. I’ve heard much about you, young Riddle."

You step aside with a subtle nod, letting your father take the lead. His presence commands the space, and in the quiet moment of his arrival, the room seems to part, giving the trio of you space to breathe.

Mattheo eyes Ambrosius with curiosity, clearly recognizing the power the Merlin name carries, but also sensing the softness that lies beneath. "A pleasure, Mr. Merlin," he says smoothly, taking your father’s hand in a firm, respectful shake. "I’ve heard your name often in the circles that matter."

Ambrosius chuckles softly, giving you a knowing glance as he places a hand on your shoulder, guiding you into the next step of the conversation. "Ah, so you’ve spoken of me, have you? I trust it was in a positive light?"

You smile gently, the edge of the conversation drifting back to familiar ground. "Mostly," you tease, before turning back to Mattheo. "Now that you’ve met my father, I think you’ll understand more fully where I’m coming from."

Mattheo’s gaze shifts between you both, his curiosity evident. "I’m intrigued. Your speech seems... different from the usual Pureblood patriarchs I’m used to. Not quite so…umm, oppressive?”

Ambrosius gives a quiet chuckle, his expression warm but his voice still filled with gravity. "I don’t see any value in stifling the potential of young minds," he says. "In fact, if there’s one thing I agree with my child on, it’s that magic—true magic—should always be allowed to evolve. The old ways are valuable in their own right, but they should never be a cage." He looks pointedly at you. "You understand this, don’t you?"

You nod with a soft, approving smile. "Absolutely. Magic is meant to grow, to transform. Everyone should have the right to experiment and experience it. My father’s always said that the greatest magic comes from the mind, the heart, the willingness to question what came before."

Mattheo listens, his brows furrowing slightly, as if trying to reconcile the two very different philosophies in front of him. "I see your point, both of you," he admits, the tone of his voice softening. "But what do you do when tradition is all that’s left? When the past is the only thing that holds us together? My father would argue that it’s the stability of our bloodlines that keeps us strong—keeps us safe from the chaos of the world."

Ambrosius’s expression hardens slightly, though his tone remains even, never cruel. "Your father’s concerns are not misplaced, Mattheo. Stability is important. I’ve always said that the past holds lessons for us. But the past is not meant to rule us. You can be proud of your ancestry, but that doesn’t mean you should be shackled by it."

Your eyes flicker with a knowing understanding as you add softly, "Safety isn’t the same as power. Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than proud to come from my lineage.”

There’s a pause, the quiet stretching between you all like a soft tension, before Mattheo finally speaks, repeating the same question from earlier, his voice thoughtful. "But... does that mean we should abandon everything that has kept us who we are? Do we really let go of our history, our family names, the legacy of our ancestors?"

Ambrosius places a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder, his grip firm yet kind. "No. We don't abandon the past," he says, his voice steady and wise. "We honor it. But we also challenge it. The world changes, and we must change with it, not to survive, but to thrive. Your father’s stance, while rooted in history, lacks the foresight that we need for the future." 

He glances at you with a proud smile. "And your vision, my dear, is the one that will shape that future."

Mattheo doesn’t reply immediately, his gaze lingering on both of you. The words, the philosophy, swirl in his mind like the dance, shifting and twisting into something new. The internal turmoil  growing as he questions what truly matters in the world of magic—and where the future lies.

“Right, so…” he says softly, his voice low and contemplative. "It’s not about abandoning tradition, but about shaping it into something new. A balance between what we were and what we can become."

Ambrosius gives a small, approving nod, his gaze softening. "Exactly. And you, Mattheo, will have to decide where you stand in that balance."

Finally, he meets your gaze, a hint of something new in his eyes—curiosity, respect, perhaps even admiration. "It’s strange," he says, his voice quieter now, the earlier playful challenge softened. "Most people would have thrown their lot in with the old ways. The ones who maintain order. It’s easier. I mean, my father is the example.” He looks between you and your father, the weight of your words settling on him. "You make it sound like we can choose what comes next. Like there’s... freedom in that."

Ambrosius smiles, a knowing, almost fatherly smile, and places a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder. "Freedom," he says softly, "isn’t something we’re given. It’s something we take. And when you’re ready to take it, the world will open up to you in ways you never imagined."

You add, your voice sweet as honey, "But you don’t have to do it alone, Mattheo. The world is full of people who are ready to fight for that change, even if it’s just in the smallest ways."

Mattheo nods slowly, as if understanding the depth of the words for the first time. He smiles, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his expression—something contemplative, almost as if he’s weighing his next steps in this dance of ideas, of magic, of destiny.

For a moment, it feels as though time stretches out, the world of Pureblood tradition swirling around you, yet you stand apart from it, caught between the past and the future.

Ambrosius clears his throat, his voice once again smooth and commanding, but never dismissive. "Mattheo, while I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I must say this: you come from a family that commands respect, but how you choose to use that respect will define your future. The question you must answer, my boy, is not what you inherit, but what you create with it."

Your father’s words linger in the space, a challenge and an invitation all at once. It’s clear now—this evening, this night, isn’t about any one person or even one family. It’s about legacy, yes, but it’s also about choice. About shaping the future, and about how each individual—be it you, Mattheo, or anyone in this room—holds the power to forge their own path.

Mattheo’s smile deepens, and his tone carries a new layer of thoughtfulness. "I think," he says, "I’m starting to see how much of this game is about more than just following the rules. It's about what you choose to do with the cards you're dealt."

You return the smile, your own confidence echoing in your words. "Exactly. The world doesn’t change on its own, Mattheo. It takes people who are willing to change with it. And that’s where real power lies. Also, let’s be completely honest, you were never the one that followed the rules.”

The soft, haunting notes of the string quartet rise again in the background, their melody filling the quiet space that’s settled around you. The dance continues, but now there’s something different in the air, something electric. The future feels like it’s not so far off anymore—like it’s already beginning, right here, right now.

As the music swells, you feel your father’s grip tighten just slightly on your shoulder, a silent reaffirmation of his belief in you. This moment, this conversation, will reverberate through the rest of the night. Through the traditions and the politics, through the rivalries and alliances, something else has been born: a new way forward.

And when the night ends, when the last notes of the waltz fade into the evening, it will be your words, your family’s vision, that will stay with Mattheo—and perhaps even with the whole room—long after the soiree’s final curtain.

[mangionemuse98]

UNDER HER SPELL 💎 - L.M. (PART 3/?)

Summary: In the golden quiet of a Paris morning, Luigi and the socialite wake up wrapped in each other’s arms and warmth at The Ritz, still glowing from the night before. Their movements are slow, their touches tender and full of unspoken love and safety. Over breakfast in bed, they share soft laughter and whispered confessions, both admitting they’ve fallen, deeply and unexpectedly. Unfortunately, news of their night out goes viral, and the moment is briefly pierced by the outside world, but instead of panicking, they find solace in each other. A steamy, sexy shower becomes another chapter of intimacy, not just in body but in spirit, as they move together with aching care and love. By the end, hearts wide open, they make a quiet promise, to leave Paris behind and escape to Cefalù, Sicily with just the two of them, finally free to love without noise or interruption.

Words: 2.5k+

Warnings: NSFW; p in v sex; slight choking; slightly rough sex; praise kink; mentions of trauma; fluff; d/s dynamics (if you squint).

A/N: Finally got around to finishing this after a couple days of figuring out where I wanted to take this since I just originally only meant it to be 2 parts but it was highly requested to keep the story going to see how their relationship blossoms. But you guys know I love a little chaos, so expect a lot of angst and chaos thrown in the mix very soon.

As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter! 💋

The daylight in Paris is different. It doesn’t barge in, it tiptoes, golden and gentle, slipping through the lace curtains like it knows we’re sleeping off something sacred.

I open my eyes slowly, blinking into the softness of morning. The first thing I see isn’t the gilded ceiling of The Coco Chanel Suite here at The Ritz. It’s her.

Sprawled across my chest, one leg tossed lazily over my hip, breath warm against my collarbone. Her silk slip is somewhere on the floor and long forgotten. Curls sprawled across the silk pillow. Her bare skin is all over me. Warm, smooth, divine. My arms are still wrapped around her waist, holding her like she’s mine.

Because she is. At least for now. Maybe longer. God, I want longer, forever even.

I study her face in the hush. Full lips slightly parted. Lashes fanned over her cheekbones. I trace the curve of her back with the pads of my fingers, committing every inch to memory. Her brown skin glows, lit with morning sun and whatever magic last night left behind.

I shift, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She stirs. Blinks. Then opens her eyes and looks up at me. A slow, sleepy smile spreads across her face.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.”

Her fingers move to my chest, lazily drawing patterns there. “What time is it?”

“Who cares?”

She giggles softly. “Fair.”

We stay there a while, still tangled in warmth and sex and something heavier neither of us wants to name yet. I feel her lips graze my chest. I kiss the crown of her head. And for the first time in years, I feel calm. Real calm. The kind that doesn’t come from silence, but from safety.

“You hungry?” I murmur.

She hums, nodding against me. “Starving.”

I reach over to the gold rotary phone on the nightstand, dialing room service like a man possessed. “Bonjour. Oui, deux cafés noirs… une omelette aux fines herbes (Good morning. Yes, two black coffees...an omelette with herbs)…pancakes… strawberries…extra whipped cream…and uh, that raspberry tart we saw last night.”

Her head pops up. “You remembered?”

“I remember everything,” I say simply, hanging up.

She looks at me for a moment. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just searching. Then she shifts, pulling the duvet around her as she sits up and folds her legs underneath her.

I follow, sitting up against the headboard, sheet slung low on my hips. She leans against the pillows next to me, one hand still resting lightly on my thigh. There’s a tension in the air now…delicate, but real.

She takes a breath.

“So…” she begins, eyes flicking to me. “Last night.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

She hesitates. “I heard you say something. In the middle of it. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or…”

I swallow. “You didn’t imagine it.”

Silence.

“You—you said you loved me,” she says quietly. “Did you mean it?”

I turn toward her fully, propping myself on my elbow. I cup her cheek gently, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw.

“I did,” I say, steady and honest. “I know, I know it’s fast. I know it sounds insane. But I’ve spent most of my life feeling disconnected, from everyone. My family. Friends. Girls I dated. And then I got locked up and figured I’d die like that. But then you came along. And I started to feel everything again. In color. Like I was alive for the first time.”

Her eyes glisten. She doesn’t blink.

“I’m tired of caution,” I go on. “Tired of withholding and playing it safe. You make me feel…like I want to live again. And yeah. I love you. I do.”

Her hand moves to my chest, over my heart. “Lu…”

“I know it’s scary,” I whisper. “But it’s real.”

She swallows hard, blinking back emotion.

“I’ve always been guarded,” she says, voice shaking slightly. “It takes me forever to trust people, men. To feel safe. I’ve been hurt and lied to. And I promised myself I’d never give myself to anyone unless I knew it was different.”

She looks up at me then. Eyes deep, tears brimming.

“But this feels different,” she whispers. “You feel different.”

I don’t speak. I just kiss her, long, slow, and deep. Her lips are so soft and plump.

Her hand moves to my jaw, holding me there. When we finally break apart, she rests her forehead against mine.

“I love you too,” she murmurs. “It scares the shit out of me. But I do.”

The moment sits between us like a shared breath.

Then, ding, my phone lights up on the nightstand. Then hers. Then mine again.

We both glance over.

Notifications flood in like a monsoon.

Instagram: 27 new DMs Twitter: “LUIGI MANGIONE SEEN LEAVING CRAZY HORSE WITH MYSTERY WOMAN” Page Six: “EXCLUSIVE: Socialite x Exonerated Ivy Grad?”

We scroll in silence.

Photos of us entering The Ritz last night. Her in that silk slip and heels, me trailing behind with the dazed look of a man drowning in lust. Videos from inside Crazy Horse. Her on stage. Me watching, eyes glued to her like I was watching God perform.

A million views.

She covers her face with her hands. “Oh my god…shut it the fuck off, please. I’m gonna throw up.”

I’m still scrolling, stunned. “I think we broke the internet.”

She groans. “My mom and dad are gonna kill me. I’ll never hear the end of it, omg…”

I laugh. “Same.”

She looks over at me through her fingers. “You okay, though? I know you’re supposed to be laying low and out of the spotlight.”

I pause. Let the moment land.

Then I shrug.

“I’m in bed in Paris with the woman I love. Who just danced like a little sexy siren and rocked my entire world. Yeah. I’m good.”

She grins. Leans in. Kisses me slow. Sweet. Then deepens it until we’re tangled again, sheets falling off, hearts racing again. She straddles my lap. But we don’t rush it.

This kiss isn’t about lust. It’s about confirmation. Surrender. Clarity. Love.

A knock at the door breaks the moment.

“Room service,” a soft voice calls.

We both laugh. She climbs off of me naked to go grab one of the plush “The Ritz” monogrammed robes off one of the velvet chaises.

She yells, “J'arrive, une minute !” (I’m coming, one minute!)

I snort out, “That’s what she said, last night…” 

She gasps and throws one of the decorative pillows off the chaise at me, then slips into the robe, giggling, cheeks flushed, and pads barefoot to the door. The server wheels in the cart, unfazed by the fact that she’s glowing and I’m shirtless in the sheets behind her like a man freshly ruined.

When the door closes, she lifts the lid off the omelet and smiles. “We feast.”

We eat in bed, bodies still warm, hands still touching. We feed each other bites, laugh through sips of coffee, kiss between bites of fruit.

Every now and then, I look at her like I’m trying to memorize this.

Because I am.

Because I’ve spent so long waiting for the world to stop hurting.

And now I’m here. With her. 

Alive and in love.

Finally free.

The breakfast dishes are half-eaten, our bodies still tangled in the mess of the night before. Sunlight glows off of her skin, painting gold over everything I thought I understood about love. But there’s something about Paris in the morning. Something that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, the world is still beautiful.

She shifts under the sheets beside me, stretching like a cat before lazily propping herself up on one elbow.

“Shower?” she asks, voice husky.

“God, yes.” 

We pad barefoot to the marble bathroom, her leading the way with that effortless sway in her hips. The bathroom is all pale stone and mirrors, gold fixtures and soft light. The kind of place that makes you feel holy even when you’re doing something filthy. She turns the knobs, steam blooming into the room, fogging the glass.

We step in together, warm water cascading over us like absolution. The second it hits her skin, she moans, soft and instinctual. I close the distance. The steam curls around us like a spell. Blurs the chandelier light above, muffles the world outside the marble walls of this gilded bathroom in The Ritz. 

She turns her back to me, letting the water soak through her hair. I watch, entranced, as beads of water roll down her spine, over the curve of her hips. I step closer and wrap my arms around her from behind, pressing my chest to her wet skin.

We don’t speak for a moment. Just let the water run down our bodies as our breathing synchronizes.

Then she turns in my arms. Lays her head on my chest.

“What now?” she whispers.

I know what she means.

What now…after Paris. After last night. After we crossed that line.

After we admitted we love each other.

I press a kiss to her shoulder. “You tell me.”

She tilts her head to look at me. “I was supposed to fly back to New York with my friends after Paris. Back to reality. Firm meetings. Charity galas. Responsibility. School. But now…”

Her voice trails off.

“But now?” I prompt, brushing a lock of wet hair from her cheek.

“Now I just want to be with you.”

My breath catches.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she continues, “but I haven’t felt this…safe, and unguarded, and seen in a long time. Maybe ever.”

I nod slowly. “It doesn’t sound crazy. It sounds like the first sane thing I’ve heard in the past two years.”

She smiles up at me, the water catching on her lashes like dew. She studies me, eyes locked on mine.

“I want to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere where it’s just us. No press. No eyes. Just...real life. Real connection.”

My chest tightens. “You know where’s quiet?”

“Where?”

“Cefalù.”

Her brow arches, intrigued.

“After I got out,” I explain, “my family, well, my mom—rented me a place out there to hide from the media shitstorm. I was supposed to stay low. Heal. Think.”

“And did you?”

“A little. But it was lonely. It didn’t feel like mine. Just another gilded cage. But now... maybe it could.”

“With me?” she says, her voice so soft I barely catch it.

“With you, it could feel like home, at least for a little while until we figure out what to do permanently.”

She bites her lip. “Then let’s go. After Paris.”

My heart beats harder.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she says. “I can just let fly my friends back on the jet without me. Because I want this. I want to see what this becomes.”

I don’t think. I just kiss her.

And it isn’t soft.

It’s consuming.

My hands tangle in her hair. Her arms wrap around my shoulders. We move together under the hot stream of water like gravity was made for this.

The kiss deepens, all tongue, teeth, heat. My body wakes up, hard and needing. She moans into my mouth, pressing herself against me. Her breasts slide against my chest, nipples stiff from heat and arousal. I grip her thighs, lift one leg around my waist, and press her back against the fogged glass wall.

She gasps, arching into me, head tipping back to let me kiss her neck.

“I need you so badly, baby. I can’t get enough of you,” I murmur, voice hoarse. “I’ll never get enough.”

“You don’t have to,” she breathes.

My fingers trail down, sliding between her folds.

“So wet already,” I whisper, teasing her clit with two fingers. “Always ready for me, huh?”

“Lu,” she moans, tilting her head back. “Please.”

I don’t make her beg this time.

I reach between us, guiding myself to her entrance. She’s already soaked—not from the water, but from us. I push in slow, groaning as her heat envelops me.

“Fuck—you feel unreal,” I growl against her throat, hips rolling slow. The glass fogs behind her. The water hits us both as I thrust deeper, my body pinning hers to the slick surface. One of her hands grips my hair, the other digging into my back.

Her mouth falls open. “Fuck, Luigi—don’t stop, please baby.”

“Not planning to. I got you, baby,” I whisper, biting her earlobe.

I thrust deeper, slower at first, letting us feel every inch, every stroke. 

The water pounds down around us, but all I hear is her moaning my name like a hymn.

My hand slides up her body, gripping her waist. The other braces against the glass behind her. She digs her nails into my back as I start to pound harder. Each thrust echoes in the marble chamber, wet skin slapping, breathless curses mingling with the sound of running water. Her hands slam to the glass behind her for support. I grab one of her wrists, pin it above her head, still buried to the hilt inside her.

“Oh my god, fuck—right there—yes,” she whimpers. Her head lolls to the side against the glass, eyes shut from the intensity. 

I let go of her wrists and I wrap my hand around her throat, tilting her chin up to look me in the eye. “Watch me. Don’t look away.”

Her eyes flutter open, glassy, lust-drunk. The eye contact is insane. She looks so beautiful like this. I almost cum just from this alone.

“You look so good taking me like this,” I growl. “Wrapped around me like you belong here. Like this is yours.”

She moans. “It is mine. No one else’s”

I lose it.

I slam into her, hard and fast, the glass behind her fogging with the heat of us. She rides each thrust, her leg hooked tighter around me. Our mouths crash together again, biting, gasping, tasting.

She clenches around me, crying out.

“Lu—baby—I’m coming—oh my god—”

“Let go for me,” I whisper. “Right now. Let me feel you cream all over me. Such a good fucking girl,” I growl. “You make me feel like a man again, fuck—”

She comes with a cry so raw it echoes off the marble. Her whole body trembles as I keep going, chasing my own release. When it hits, I bury my face in her neck, biting gently, groaning her name like I’m praying it into her skin.

We stay like that for a moment. Still joined. Still trembling.

The water never stopped. But time did.

Eventually I ease her down, cradling her close. She kisses my chest softly, both of us slick with steam and sweat and something far deeper than lust.

“You okay?” I murmur.

She nods giggling. “More than okay. Euphoric even.”

We stand there together, her forehead resting against mine, breathing each other in.

We don’t need to say it.

We’re already gone.

Gone for each other.

Gone from the world we used to know.

And headed somewhere new.

Together.

<- Previous Part | Masterlist 🤍 ->

💎💋 TAGLIST 💋💎

@mangionebabymama, @mangionesdaisy, @luigislady, @notyancionline, @luigisbambinaaa, @multi-culti-girl, @sweetclassnotes3 @iinfinitelimits, @justlulupeachy, @bbyelle12, @dreamsareviolent

[kurokawaia]

❛ The Balance ❜ ─ 02

Yandere!JugramHaschwalth X Fem!Quincy!Reader

WC; 2.3k+ | !MDNI! | TW/CW; yandere themes, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, kidnapping, coercion, reader is a virgin, reader acts dumb/oblivious, kind of an airhead guys so if you don't like that then don't read it, she's shy and timid!

⋆·˚ ༘ *𝒮𝒴𝒩𝒪𝒫𝒮𝐼𝒮; Yandere!Jugram kidnaps the reader with the help of the Bambies. {Y/n} becomes pregnant with his child but wants to abort due to the circumstances, trying to keep it a secret. Jugram finds out, becomes furious, insisting on a marriage (coerced). She escapes to the human world, but Jugram tracks her down, discovers her plan to abort the child, and forcibly takes her back.

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 - m.list | bleach m.list

he present seemed to blend into a waking nightmare. The ornate palace loomed around me, its grand halls and opulent decorations contrasting altogether too sharply with the humble modesty of my flower shop. Everything here is cold and impersonal. These grandeurs seemed almost suffocating as the feeling of bad omens seemed to keep building up inside of me, and fear would gnaw at my insides, urging to attack like some relentless parasite.

I had been torn from my town, pulled out of my life as easily as a flower from the ground. That day, so easy to remember—five women in white outfits with gold trimming, faces set in cold determination as they took me against my will. My begging went unheard; neighbors and friends too frightened or simply too indifferent to intervene.

But now I was confined within this palace that was a gilded cage, and I didn't feel safe at all inside it. The vast corridors just seemed to go on forever, each one more labyrinthine than the last. The tapestries were of battles and triumphs by Quincies long past, their eyes following me with a judgmental glare, though they were only tapestries.

Fear became my friend. Every creak on the floor, every murmur of conversation from afar, it sent my heart racing. I had become a stranger in this place, within people whose intentions I could not fathom.

I wandered the halls, as if without plan, with the image of the blond man who entered my shop still stuck in my mind. Those eyes and that mystery of a presence just made everything fit, and part of me feared that he might be behind the scenes of my abduction, while another part hoped he might be unwilling in this sordid game.

I stood in a grand room: the ceiling was far above, and the light of the dim, eerie chandeliers dropped to the floor. Fancy-smooth couches and lace tables sat in the room; to me, it felt more like a prison than a sanctuary.

I turned a corner and froze. Standing at the end of the hall was the man from my shop—that blonde stranger whose name I still did not know. He had a rather different look now; he was much more imposing, his presence felt in every inch of the space around him. The white trench coat with dark green fur, the golden belt buckle—they looked all the more intimidating in that alien setting.

My breath caught in my throat, my body straight as an arrow in the grip of my fear. His eyes fixed on mine—that pervasive shade of blue and green—locked onto mine; the very intensity of his gaze took over me. It was even more daunting now in this high palace, where he seemed to order the air around him.

"Why am I here?" I stammered out, my voice quaking with fear mixed with confusion. "What do you want from me?"

One step closer, slow and deliberate, the man continued to walk toward me. Each step, it felt like he devoured an inch of space, which palpably grew smaller with each beat of my heart, increasing my fear.

"You are here because. your abilities are useful," he said, his voice calm, yet underlaid by something a little too possessive, and it made my skin crawl. "I have brought you here to keep you safe, to ensure you are always by my side."

His words only added to my fear and confusion. I tried to back up a step, but my legs seemed to turn into lead, as if nailed to the spot by the very intensity of his presence.

"But why me?" I asked; my voice was barely audible. "I don't understand."

His gaze did, however, waver for a moment; the fire did not. "Because," he said softly, "you are special to me. You may not understand now, but in time, you will see."

Jugram loomed before me, his gaze rigid and still on my face, waiting for some reaction. "Come," he said, commanding and soft. "I'll take you to your room."

Every fiber in my being urged me to run, flee from this place and this man who had stolen me from my home. But alas, fear that weaves into my bone is what truly holds me rooted to the spot. My alien surroundings, the towering figure of Jugram, and not knowing what lay ahead—all served in totality to find that few remnants of any courage held were found. The only alternative left for me was to follow him—hopefully in understanding my situation better.

Down a series of progressively grander corridors he led. The silence was oppressive between us, no sound other than the echo of our footsteps on the marble floor. In my imagination, I was working out all kinds of escape scenarios. But each time, when it really came down to it, the sheer size of the palace and the lurking unknown danger beyond every corner quashed my resolve.

The oppressing weight of that great palace upon me, I could not help feeling, as we walked. Priceless art lined the walls; intricate frescoes decorated the ceilings. It was a place designed to awe and intimidate, a reminder of the powerful place the people in its walls had.

Suddenly, Jugram halted abruptly, and my mind was lost in thoughts until it was too late. I walked right into his broad back, and as a result, stumbled back with a soft 'huff,' my eyes wide in fear of what his reaction would be. My heart was pounding, and I chewed on my bottom lip, bracing myself for whatever was about to come next.

But Jugram seemed uninterested in my mistake. He focused all his attention on the man opposite him, eyes glowing with tributes of respect and calculation. Tension filled the air between them, and naturally, I found myself holding my breath, waiting for whatever blow was about to come.

"Bazz B," was all Jugram said, his voice purposeful and controlled. "What brings you here?"

Bazz-B nodded minutely. "Jugram," he replied, his tone no less placid. "His Majesty wishes to see you in the council chamber. There is business that needs your attention urgently."

A flicker, just for a split second, of irritation in Jugram's eyes could be seen. "As you wish," he said. "I shall be there in a few moments."

When Bazz-B turned the corner to leave, Jugram pivoted. The weight of his gaze was heavy and intense as he tried to bore right into me. My teeth had my full lip worrying them, and fear gripped my heart at what he might do.

"Watch where you are walking," Jugram told me flatly.

I looked down at the floor, feeling awkward and overwhelmed by his presence. The tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, which was a reaction to the amount of fear and stress that had pinged inside. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, my voice barely audible as I struggled to hold the tears back.

Jugram's expression softened, ever so slightly, though his stern demeanor remained. "Just be careful," he said, his voice a bit gentler. "You are important here, even though you do not yet understand why."

His words only confused me further, and tears spilled over despite all I could do to rein them in. Jugram looked for a moment longer before he turned away, cloak swirling around him as he moved in the direction of the council chamber.

He cast the final look; his face was unreadable, before turning to Bazz B. "Take her to the room and make her comfortable," he ordered, in no mood for debate.

He just nodded. Bazz B's eyes flicked briefly to mine before he gestured for me to follow him. I reluctantly tore my gaze away from Jugram and fell into step behind Bazz B. My mind swirled with questions and fears.

I had that uncomfortable feeling of being watched the whole time, of being but a pawn in a game I did not understand. The corridors sprawled—different corridors one from the other—that they looked like mazes designed to make one lose their sense of direction. I had no other alternative but to put my trust in Bazz B.

Finally, we reached a large ornate door. Bazz B opened it and stood aside to let me in first. The room beyond was luxurious, rich in fabrics and elegant furniture. The contrast with the simplicity of my life back home, in proportion to the fact that everything had apparently changed, was just tremendously at odds.

"You will be safe here," he spoke surprisingly gently, "and if you need anything, there are servants who can assist you."

I crossed the threshold, my eyes quenching on the affluence surrounding me. A large canopy bed dominated the space with plush pillows and silk sheets, both welcoming and intimidating. A fireplace snapped warmly in the corner, casting a soft, flickering glow across the rich tapestries suspended from the walls. The furniture was in dark, polished wood, each piece a work of art in its own right.

For all the luxurious radius of the hotel, a chill seemed to grip me. I asked Bazz B, shivering a bit, "What am I doing here, and what does Jugram want from me?"

Bazz B's look softened, and for a second in those eyes, I saw a shine of empathy. "I don't know," he replied, not unkindly.

It did so small to abate my anxiety, but still, I nodded, knowing well it would be useless to pressure him for more answers. I could feel the discomfort in the way Bazz B noted, "Take rest."

Swallowing hard, I felt a lump forming in my throat, and tears were not too far from welling up in my eyes. "Thank you," I whispered, almost inaudibly.

With a nod, Bazz B turned and prepared to leave. "If you ever need anything, ask one of the servants. They are all here to serve you."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the grand room left me in its emptiness, the silence almost weighing on me. I approached a window and gazed out on the far-stretching gardens below. The beauty of the scene did nothing to calm the racing thoughts in my head. I was a stranger in this place, caught in a web of intrigue and power beyond my imagination.

I sat on the edge of the bed and finally allowed the tears, which I was withholding up to that point, to cascade freely. My life was upside-down, and I was clueless about the future. All that was left for me was to hope that, with time, the answers would manifest themselves and that somehow I'd make my way through this new and horrifying world.

The grandeur and the luxuriousness of these rooms decorated made it foreign, yet intriguing. There was curiosity, bundled with apprehension, which left me no choice but to take a tour of my new surroundings. I wandered around, with light touches of fingers on rich tapestries and polished wood.

An ornate vanity dominated one wall, the surface littered with all sorts of dainty, unknown items: intricate perfume bottles, silver hairbrushes, and elegant jewellery boxes. It seemed like every piece belonged to a different life, one into which I had been set against my will.

To the far end of the room, my attention was captured by a bookshelf filled with books in large volumes and thick leather-bound whose titles were embossed in gold. I ran my fingers along the spines and felt what seemed like old leather, the texture of it, marveling at what secrets and stories might be held within.

My eyes, roving about still in search of the spirit of adventure, fell on a door that I had not before seen. My heart pounded in my chest and I approached it, really not knowing what in the world I was going to see on the other side. Swallowing my apprehension, I turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open. A huge wardrobe; but instead of female clothes, I expected to find male attire. Suits, dress shirts, trousers—all were hung on hangers, every piece meticulously in place.

My throat started to knot as my eyes caught the sight. The realization slapped me in the face that these were Jugram's clothes, and a bad feeling crept over me. Why was his clothing inside this room he had taken me into? What did this mean for me?

Was this. his room?

Kicked into gear by the panic that suddenly surged, I carefully wandered over to the door and turned the handle in the hope that it would be open, but it was locked. I felt even more trapped, and then, upon realizing my position, a wave of helplessness started to take over. My hand just idled there on the doorknob for another second, shaking a bit, before I let go.

I closed the wardrobe door softly, retreating to the center of the room. It all felt so grand, overwhelming, insignificant in the fact that I did not belong. Every ornate detail, every expensive piece of furniture seemed to mock my situation, how far I was from the simplicity and safety of my former life.

I went over to the bed and sat down on its edge, whirling into deep plush comfort. The silk sheets and soft pillows on the bed formed a contrasting note with the tempest in my soul. I placed an arm around one of the pillows, feeling its softness as a form of solace.

A weight of the day's events and its occurrences weighed upon me. I lay back, sinking into the soft bed, embraced by it. I tightened my hold on the pillow, but found my mind so clouded and tired to bring some sense to everything.

The flickering light of the fireplace messed around with the shadows on the ceiling, adding to the surreal ambiance: Yet in the crease of fear and confusion, there began to creep in that strange sense of safety. In the room, it was warm, and the bed was soft—a little comfort, a small reprieve from the turmoil.

As my eyelids grew heavy, I was holding onto my pillow, with the last anxious thought dissipating, and then the sleep truly had me—releasing me from the confusion of the new reality.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc.Relogs and like are appreciated.

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[daydreaming-nerd]

Young Love and Old Money (Cassian x Female! Reader) Part 10

Young Love and Old Money Masterlist

AN: You guys I'm sorry this took a while. I really put a lot into this so I hope the wait was worth it. ALSO The Tortured Poets Department just came out!!! which means my creative juices are flowing, because nothing gets me thinking like Hans Zimmer and Taylor Swift. Already thinking of some Azriel angst for The Black Dog. ALSO this fic has a a cinematic playlist that goes with it? I can post it if that's something you guys are interested in.

Summary: She was the most beautiful woman in Prythian, sister to the High Lord of Night, and now she is the soon-to-be wife of Eris Vanserra. Despite her many titles and her aura of unattainability, Cassian can't help but fall deeply in love with the princess of the Night Court. But will it be enough to stop her impending wedding to a man who is sure to destroy her from the inside out?

Warnings: Sexism, heavy angst, descriptions of character injuries, reader got the Mor treatment, last lil bit of angst guys you'll like the end.

Word Count: 5,103

Third Person pov:

Cassian stared at the other side of his bed. The one that suddenly felt so large now. He skipped training that morning, skipped breakfast too. Instead he twirled a small brass ring between his fingers. His mother’s ring to be exact. The last thing he had of hers, given to him by the female that told him where her body was dumped. 

He had wanted to give it to her, his mate.  Longed to see it on her dainty hand. He laughed when he thought about it in comparison to the ring Eris gave her. He remembered the sight of it as she pulled it out after the night he first made love to her. The thing was huge, when he held her hand yesterday he could practically feel the weight of it. The idea of putting a busted up old brass ring on that finger made his heartbreak. He wanted to give her so much more. 

At least, he thought, if she’s married to Eris she will be able to have nothing but the finest things. 

He tried to make that a consolation for him. But he knew that even a gilded cage was a cage. 

It wasn’t until midday when pain exploded through his gut, white hot and unyielding. He sat up abruptly, clutching his heart as he reached down the bound searching for her. Gasped as he realized that golden rope unwinding slowly but surely. He looked deeper, allowing himself to feel whatever she felt. His body temperature dropped as the pain in his gut worsened, and then as if the string was cleaved by a sword he felt nothing at all. A stone wall had dropped over the bond.   

No, no, no, no. 

He shot from his bed, ripping on whatever leathers he could find on the ground of his bedroom. Banishment be damned, he wouldn't let her die. 

Azriel sat on the couch nursing a hangover as Cassian bursted into the room, he tossed him a spare dagger. 

“Get up somethings wrong with y/n,” Cassain ordered the voice of a general making itself known as he laced up his boots.

Azriel didn’t object, didn’t even whine or moan from his aching head as he got up to join his brother. The shadowsinger had always been the calmest of the three, always the most collected. But he had never seen his brother so scared before, and that cool veil of calm that he always kept so wholly intact started to slip. 

It was a short flight to the townhouse and as Cassian landed at the front steps he started to realize the weight of what was about to happen. He had no time to prepare himself for how he would tell his High Lord, his best friend, and his brother in arms about the secret relationship he had been having with his precious little sister. And y/n was precious to Rhys, always had been, even if the trauma they both endured under the mountain had driven a wedge between them. 

Cassian reached through the bond and felt nothing still. He lost all hesitation and nearly blew off the doors to Rhysand’s study. 

Rhysand’s head flew up, and assessed whatever threat would lie before him. His eyes soften when he found his best friend standing in the doorway, but hardened again once he saw the sheer panic in his eyes. 

“y/n is in trouble we have to find her,” Cassian ordered, leaving no room for argument. 

“What do you mean y/n is in trouble?” Rhysand stood to brace his hands against his desk. “If she’s having a problem her husband can help her Cassian.” 

“And what if her husband is the reason she’s in trouble? I came to you for help, but if you won’t offer it I’ll take Azriel and I’ll find her myself.” Cassian growled, a male beyond feral. 

Azriel looked between the general and the High Lord, the stare down between the two so cold, so unyielding that it would go down in history. Rhysand’s violet eyes burned into Cassian’s, looking for the untold truth Cassian was keeping from him. When he didn’t find it, power filled the room as Rhys looked into Cassian’s mind.

“Stay out of my head Rhys!” Cassain grumbled, shaking his head as if those dark talons had already pried into his memories.  

It was too late, and Rhysand’s eyes filled with an anger Cassian had never seen as he winnowed over to where he stood and slammed him against the wall. 

“YOU SLEPT WITH MY LITTLE SISTER?!” Rhysand bellowed in his face. 

Cassian had never been afraid of the High Lord of Night. Not when he showed up at Windhaven with his brand new training clothes, not when he saw him wipe whole infantries off the face of the earth with the flick of his wrist. The common denominator was that he was never on the receiving end of Rhysand’s rage. But now he had a not so friendly reminder that he was the most powerful High Lord to ever grace Prythian, and Cassian was scared. 

“Let me explain,” Cassian choked out, the raw power spilling off Rhysand stifling his ability to even breathe. 

“Rhys,” Azriel warned, that cool calm coming back to him as he watched his brothers at eachothers throats. 

Rhys’ head whipped around to Azriel, “You knew?” he seethed. 

The spymaster didn’t dare speak, he simply took a step back raising his hands in surrender. 

“She’s my mate Rhys,” Cassian ground out. 

Rhys’ eyes met Cassain’s, and saw the pleading in them. The kind that could only be found in a male who’s mate was in danger. He had seen it before, when Kallias talked about Viviane, even before he knew she was his mate. 

Rhys released his hold on Cassian and the general's boots hit the floor with a thud as he started to collect himself. 

“She’s dying Rhys’ I can feel it. She was so cold and then there was just nothing. Please we have to find her.” Cassain pleaded. 

The High Lord seemed to be inside his own head, sorting through all the information he had been given in the last couple of minutes. This was more than just saving his sister, it was saving his best friend’s mate. Losing one would be like losing both, Cassian could never recover from such a loss. 

“If you felt cold she’s most likely in the Winter Court. You and Azriel take the border of Autumn and Winter, I’ll go speak to Kallias and Viviane and see what they know.” Rhysand ordered in a way that was more High Lordly than his brothers had ever heard. 

y/n’s pov:

It had been at least an hour, I had deciphered. The cold winter winds whipping around me as my body became so cold the snow started to bury me. 

I thought about grabbing the dagger just inches away from my frozen hand and plunging it through my heart, but when I tried to reach for it the pain that radiated through my side was too great. 

So I kept pulling on that bond, the rope that had turned to a thread. It felt like it was tied to a boulder, as every time I pulled it I found the otherside dead. The effects of the bloodbane taking away my ability to feel Cassian and my ability to heal.  

As I lay there, my legs becoming heavy as they become covered in a thin layer of frost and my blood spilling out onto the snow, I thought of one thing. 

It was all for nothing.

Cassian’s pov: 

The blizzard that had waged war on my wings yesterday was even stronger today. Thankfully Azriel was able to winnow the two of us to the border with ease. If y/n had truly been left out here then there was no time to waste. The snow and wind was so thick I could hardly see the ground below us. I prayed to the mother that she was with Kallias and Viviane, warm, safe and alright. Because if I found her out here it would be a miracle to find her alive. 

I flew as fast as possible, fighting against the gusts of wind. Azriel was farther behind me, no doubt running his eyes over every place I might’ve missed in my panic. If she was out here she wouldn't be hard to find, for on the border there was nothing but bare land. No trees, and no bushes or rocks. If the snow hadn’t buried her she would stand out like a sore thumb. 

She can’t be gone.

She can’t be gone. 

She can’t be gone.

I was beginning to lose hope, nearing the end of the border when Rhys spoke into my mind. 

Kallias and Viviane have not seen her, they’re sending out search parties as we speak.

My fears only heightened at Rhys’ status report, she was out here somewhere and I was most likely already too late.

No she’s not gone.

I told myself as I tugged on the bond one more time to see if there was still that concrete wall there and to my surprise I found a faint hum. The rope between us torn to shreds, I almost felt like if I tugged on it one more time it might disintegrate.  

“I can feel her!” I shout to Azriel over the wind. He shields his eyes from the wind to give me a nod, as he continues to search for her. 

My eyes scan the vast expanse of white below me until I see a small crumpled form, lying in the snow. 

No. 

I don’t think for another moment before tucking in my wings and diving straight for it. As I slam into the icy ground. I rush over to the heap on the ground and my worst fears are confirmed. 

There lies y/n with her back facing me, nothing covering her but a silk robe. Her body littered in bruises and blood pooling all around her. I fall to my knees before her, ignoring the bite of the snow. I pick her up and turn her carefully in my arms. The frost that covers her cheeks isn’t the worst of my concerns as my eyes fall to her stomach. There, nailed to her womb is a note that reads… 

‘WHORE’

I feel a liquid coating my hand and I hold it up to find blood. I spy a bloodblane laced dagger lying in the snow just a foot away. I reach down inside for the bond but I feel it disintegrating before my very eyes. 

“No, no, no Princess wake up!” I cry moving the hair from her frozen face. 

She doesn’t move. 

“Please wake up y/n!” I scream, my tears falling on her face as I try to shake her awake. “COME ON!” I growl. 

A shadow slams into the earth behind me and I feel Az’s presence behind me falling to hitting his knees next to mine. I don’t try to read his face, if he looks at her like she’s dead I don’t know what I’ll do. Instead I focus all my efforts on trying to get those frozen eyelashes to open up for me. 

“Come on baby come back to me,” I grit, pressing a kiss to her forehead. My lips bite at the coldness there. 

“Cass I told Rhys, he’s already home,” Azriel reported, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Give her here,” he began reaching for her.

“No, don't touch her,” I growled, holding her closer to my chest. 

“I can winnow her back faster than you can fly her. You need to trust me Cass or she’s not going to make it,” he pleaded calmly. 

I sigh knowing that my brother is right and that my territorial male bullshit would only kill her. I reluctantly give her to Azriel and it isn’t until he stands with her that I realize how small she looks in his arms. How breakable, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. 

“Save her Az, please,” I beg, still on my knees. 

“Hang tight Cass I’ll be right back,” he says winnowing away. 

I’m left with the aftermath, and the roaring wind that’s practically white noise by now. In front of me is the imprint her body left in the snow and ice, as well as crimson colored snow. The knife that lay just a foot away identical to the one that was jabbed into my side just yesterday. I nearly threw up at the idea that she had felt that white hot pain of bloodbane making its way through her blood. 

A few minutes later Az winnowed back and took me with him to the townhouse. We landed in the foyer, and I didn’t hesitate to bound up the steps towards her own room. The door was flung open and Rhysand was already pacing watching Madja do her best work. 

“Is she going to be okay?” I ask, unable to rip my eyes away from her too still form lying on the bed. Her hair is still frozen, lips still blue. 

“We don’t know yet,” Rhys answers in a tone so somber it pulls my attention. His eyes are just as bloodshot as mine and his hair is sticking up all over the place like he had been running his hands through it too much. 

As Majda stitches her wounds and assesses every inch of her, I find myself peeling off some of my leathers. The place was practically a sauna with a roaring fire heating the room and the bedpans littered about her bed. Even Rhys had a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead. It was the only thing that could be done, to warm her up. 

I stared at my mate's unconscious body, and prayed to the Mother that she wouldn’t take her away. Even half frozen, battered and bruised, she was still so beautiful, still the Jewel. Still my princess who I had fallen for all those years ago.

Please Mother, please don’t take her. 

If anything, just let me see her one last time. See her beautiful eyes and kiss her lips. Allow me to hold my mate one last time while her heart is still beating. 

As Madja worked her hands up and down her body she didn’t say a word, didn’t even breathe loudly, as if she was listening for something. Her behavior affected us all, as we stayed completely silent, the only sounds in the room coming from the crackling fire.

So when her shoulders slumped and she sighed, the breath echoed throughout the room. My stomach sank as she turned to us with a somber face. 

“Before she was left out there she was taken by force, that’s where the bruises are from. The wound to the right side was caused by a dagger laced in bloodbane, she was practically mortal when he left her in the snow. And the wound to her lower abdomen? It hit her womb, if she ever wakes up she may never be able to have children,” Madja says sadly. 

“If she wakes up?” I ask quietly, praying I heard wrong. 

Her eyes meet mine and then Rhysand’s, “We’re losing her.” she begins and I swear I feel my knees about to give out. “I can’t access her thoughts or her emotions, but given what she’s been through, it seems she’s lost the will to live.”  

That was it. 

I take the two steps to the edge of her bed and my knees hit the ground as I begin to weep. I slide my hand under the piles of blankets, careful not to disturb them, and take her hand in mine. Gods it’s so cold.  She had always had cold hands, she used to put them under my shirt to warm them up. But this was different, her hands were like ice. She didn’t even feel like her. 

“Maybe if I can look into her mind?” Rhys breathed, the angst ridden in his voice. 

“You are welcome to try my Lord,” Madja said solemnly, like whatever he found wouldn’t be of any use anyways. 

I hear Rhys' footsteps walk around to the other side of the bed and kneel. He places a hand over her head, his palm twitching from the sudden cold that was there. I watched intently as his eyes closed and brows furrowed. As he went deeper and deeper into her mind his face contorted until it began to soften once more, and a single tear fell from his face. 

“What? What is it?” I asked, my voice cracking. 

The High Lord pulled his hand from his sisters face to wipe his stray tear,  “Madja’s right. She’s given up. Her last thought was that she had lost the Autumn Court’s armies and she had lost you too Cassian. After everything that happened, it was all for nothing.” Rhys relayed sadly. 

“But she’s here now, she’s safe, she has to wake up,” I pleaded, squeezing her too cold hand tighter. 

“She doesn’t know that she is here though general,” Madja says calmly, like if she spoke any other way I would rip her to shreds, which was probably true. “She fell under thinking she would never see you again.”

“What can I do? I’ll do anything.” I plead with Madja. Hell I’d trade places with her if I could. Her people needed a princess more than they needed a general.

“I’m afraid there is nothing any of us can do. All we can do is wait and hope she comes back,” Madja says sadly. 

“I want you to take up quarters in the town house for the time being,” Rhys ordered.

“Of course my Lord, I will be checking on her constantly,” Madja nods, collecting her bag full of tonics and bandages.

“Is there anything I can do for you Cass?” Azriel asks, placing a hand on my back. 

“No,” I say solemnly, pressing my forehead to her hand. “Just leave us.” 

Neither one of my brothers protested. The only indication that they had left was the door closing and the silence that had followed. Their muffled voices went down the hall, no doubt to show Madja where she would be staying. I was sure that Rhys would be back to check on his little sister once he was done. 

I lifted my head from where I had it pressed against her hand to see her face again. Her skin was still pale but the frost had melted off her eyelashes and skin. Hickies littered her neck and a faint hand shaped bruise wrapped around her neck.

Gods what had he done to her? 

“Princess I don’t know if you can hear me but you have to open those pretty eyes for me okay?” I pleaded with her. “It wasn’t for nothing baby, I’m here now and I’m not going to let anyone take you away again. You were so strong and so brave but you don’t have to be anymore, you just need to wake up. Just wake up and I’ll take care of you okay?” 

I feel my tears starting to well up. I didn’t just want my girlfriend back, or even my mate. I wanted my best friend back. I thought about what a lonely world it would be without her. 

“We can go back to reading your silly books while I tickle your feet. And you can whoop my ass and drink me under the table when we play Marks again.” I laugh remembering the time I taught her how to play the ridiculous drinking game, it felt like so long ago now.

“You have to come back to me because we have to have the most ridiculous and ornate mating ceremony ever.” I chuckle through my tears picturing how much she would detest the idea of an over the top event. “And you gotta wake up because I wanna make you my wife baby.” 

I feel the lump in my throat form, remembering the brass ring I had left on my nightstand from this morning. I had almost wished that I had felt the same sadness I felt then now. For nothing could compare to the agony of the mating bond slipping out of my hands like sand falling through an hourglass. 

“But we can’t do any of those things until you wake up honey, so you gotta open your eyes for me okay?” I say trying to smile. 

Her eyes don’t open, I’m not even sure if her chest rises and falls to breathe.

“Please y/n wake up! Please don’t leave me, I can’t live without you.” I plead, my tears falling faster than ever now. 

 I let out a groan as I press my forehead to her little hand again. My chest caving in as I find the skin there still cold.  Fuck it, if she can’t hear me than I’ll beg to the gods who might. 

“Please don’t take her from me. Please don’t take her from me.  Please don’t take her from me…”

Rhysand’s pov: 

After I show Madja where she can set her things and take a load off, I slump into an armchair in my room and run my hands through my hair. For the first time today, I’m finally hit by the weight of what the past two hours have been.  

The images of what I saw when I reached into y/n’s mind were enough to make me shudder. I was so blind to her pain. So focused on my own mate, and my own trauma, I forgot that she went under that mountain with me. And what’s worse is that she felt like she owed me an army for saving her. I almost regret going so far back into her memories that I saw it all. The things Eris did to her, the way he spoke to her. The conflict she felt. 

But then there were moments of immense happiness. Each one of them featured Cassian in one way or another. Images of him lacing up her dresses and placing a kiss on her shoulder when he was done. Her laughing in the early hours of morning with him. I had never seen my brother smile so big or love so much. 

Oh gods Cassian. 

I thought to myself, remembering the look on his face when he saw her lying prone on that bed. His agony that practically filled and infected everything in the room. He needed me, and I needed to see my little sister. 

My tired body creaks as I stand from the chair with a groan, making my way next door to y/n’s room. The same one I used to sneak her out of when we were kids. Sometimes I miss those days and how simple everything was. 

I opened the door slowly to not disturb Cassian. The light from behind me illuminated the mostly dark room. The only other light source was the fire. Cassain was right where I left him, kneeling on by the edge of the bed, stroking her hair whispering sweet nothings to her that I couldn’t hear. 

I make my way inside and close the door to keep in the heat as I sit on the opposite side of the bed. It isn’t until the bed dips under my weight that Cassian’s eyes meet mine. In all the years I’ve known him I had never seen him this way. His eyes were bloodshot and weepy, and the bags under his eyes prevalent. It reminded me of when I thought Feyre had died under the mountain, and I supposed that made sense given this was the same thing.  

“Has she?” I asked, wondering if she had shown any signs of life. 

“No,” was the only answer the general could give me. 

My eyes fell to my sister once more, unable to take the sorrow that came from Cassian’s stare. The frost that once covered her face was now melted, and her lips were no longer blue. However, pink had not yet tinted her cheeks and I wondered if it ever would again. It raised the question, how could I have prevented her from meeting this fate, and prevented Cassain from having to feel this pain. I was the most powerful High Lord in History, but right now I had never felt so small. 

“Why didn’t you tell me she was your mate?” the question spilled out of me. “If I had known I would’ve stopped the wedding immediately.” 

Cassian lifted his head from where it was pressed against her hand and looked at me again, “For the same reason your mate is still in the Spring Court. She deserved to have a choice.” he said to me, and though his words held no anger, no resentment, they were a punch to the gut. 

“I’m a terrible brother,” I admit, my eyes falling to her. 

“No you’re not. She did what she did because you are a good brother. She wanted to help you in any way she could, at any cost.  That’s how much she loves you.” Cassian spoke, his voice quiet and even toned. “But things might’ve been different if you two hadn’t distanced yourselves when you got back from under the mountain. Whatever you guys saw down there? Whatever happened? You need to face it together, Rhys. If she wakes up, you need to be as close as you once were.” 

Gods, for a general my brother had a way with words. He was right about all of it. I had distanced myself from her after we came back. Thinking that I could spare her from the pain I felt, but I had forgotten that she had gone under that mountain with me. She had demons to battle as well, and I left her to fight them alone. 

“She will wake up Cass,” was all I could say. “She has to, because I have to make things right.”

y/n’s pov: 

Waking up was slow. 

First all I could hear was the crackling of a fire and slow steady breaths. Then I smelled the familiar scent of night blooming jasmine laced with cedar. Next was the immeasurable warmth that fanned my face, and last was the feeling of a strong calloused hand holding my own.

I squeezed that hand ever so slightly before finally opening my eyes. I looked up at the familiar ceiling of my childhood bedroom, the constellations that had been painstakingly painted there. To my left a roaring fire and to my right… Cassian. Kneeling at the edge of the bed his forehead pressed to my hand. His breaths rising and falling slowly, the way they always did when he was asleep. 

“Cass,” I rasped out, my voice still uneasy. 

His head flew up and his eyes were on me in an instant. I loosed a sob at finding that familiar hazel staring back at me. The face I thought I would never see before. 

“Oh my god baby,” he smiled, pressing his lips to my forehead. “You came back to me, thank the Mother.” 

“Cassian, I'm so sorry. I should’ve listened to you.  You were right about everything and I should’ve stayed and-” I began to ramble through  my tears. 

“Shhh, shhh,” he cooed, brushing a tear from my eye as a few of his own fell. “Don’t worry  about that now. You’re safe, no one’s going to hurt you know” 

The bond tugged at his promise and I was reminded of the blessing I had been given, “You’re my mate,” I smiled pressing a hand to his face. He winced at the cold but then laid one of his own hands over it, bringing it down to his lips to press a kiss to my palm. 

“Yeah I am,” he laughs. “And you’re mine.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked him as he continued pressing kisses into the palm of my hand. 

“You were already dealing with so much y/n,”  he said softly. “I couldn’t make things even more complicated or try to control your choices. Not when this alliance was the first thing you ever got to choose for yourself. But I should’ve told you and I’m so sorry.”

“Shhhh,” I soothed him like he had me moments ago. “We both made mistakes Cass, but none of that matters now that we’re together again.” 

“You’re right,” he smiled, kissing my forehead.

“The only thing we need to worry about now is Eris and whatever he does next,” I say, rubbing his cheek with my thumb, the stubble there telling me he hadn’t shaved in a while. 

His eyes hardened as he pulled my hand from his cheek, grasping it in both of his hands as if he was praying, “If he comes back for you y/n I will fucking kill him. I swear to the Gods I will invoke the blood duel-”

“You will do nothing of the sort Cassian. I just got you back. I won’t lose you again.” I say firmly. 

“Are you doubting your general?” He gave me a cocky smile.

“No, but I don’t trust Eris to play fair. If he comes back Rhys will deal with him.” I assure him.

“As your mate I have the right to defend you,” he reminds me. 

“You’re right, you do. But if we don’t handle things just right Eris could declare war on us. I won’t let my people be attacked by Hybern and the Autumn Court.” I explained to him. 

Cassain nodded. I could sense the disappointment in him, and I didn’t blame him for feeling that way. I would’ve paid good money to watch him kill Eris. It was scary enough when someone hurt another male's mate. Especially when the affected male is The Lord of Bloodshed. 

“And Cass?” I asked. 

“Yes?”

“You were wrong before, about my choices. The first thing I ever got to choose for myself wasn’t Eris, Cassian. It was you.” I smile looking at the best decision I had ever made. I would never come to regret asking him to kiss me after that ball. Not when it had brought me his love. The best thing I never knew I needed. 

Cassain smiled and then let out a hearty chuckle, as if he had finally realized that I was back, and we were together again, and we would be together until The Mother called us home. 

To be continued…

Taglist: @crystalferret202 , @nickishadow139 ,  @graceshifts, @writeroutoftime , @heyyitsnat21,  @stinkinstuffie , @lilah-asteria , @12358 , @fxckmiup , @daughterofthemoons-stuff , @mybestfriendmademe , @anxious-study , @bxm-1012 , @mal-adaptive-dreams ,  @sh4nn , @talesofadragon , @5onedirection5 , @saltedcoffeescotch , @flourelle

Permanent Taglist: @fides25, @dissociated-always   

[selendred-thelibrary]

Sonic 33rd Anniversary (2024)

So this one was made, as obviously stated, for Sonic's 33rd Anniversary. Less babies this time around, because they're just the ones that got added to the already massive roster from the previous drawing. It's also a smaller drawing, so everyone is a tad bit less detailed, but I'm still happy with how it came out. Keep on reading to learn more about the beans!

Okay, so clearly they're not numbered, so we're gonna have to get a bit more descriptive this time around. So bare with me here.

Angelite!Sonic The one with the big, fluffy white wings. Frankly he's mostly just a Sonic design, but I do have vague ideas of what his story would be about, particularly dealing with a magic Angelite gemstone and possibly a war.

LittleNightmares!Sonic(s) The giant, weird looking Sonic + the little guy with a glowing flower crown beside him. Both of them are for a potential Little Nightmares crossover. I have some ideas, but I'm refraining from making a concrete story until the third game is out. But they do have names! Big guy is Urso, and lil' guy is Bottle.

Silenced The white wolf. Yeah, that's Sonic. From a story in which Sonic sells his identity to secure a happy ending for his friends, and in the process is cursed to always be forgotten. His name becomes Olive Mallory, and where the story ended, he never got a happy ending. Olive is a Relic! So you can actually ask him things! I'm sure he'll be happy to be asked things and be remembered.

Two Motes of Golden Light Another design for this series! The original was really just tied to Koco Logs, but this one is unique to the series. (Although I did mess up while coloring him, and his eyes should be brown)

Hydrocity (As in Velocity) The Sonic with the tall black boots. My Sonic x Subnautica crossover!

GreenWorld!Sonic The Sonic in the black cloak. A Sonic AU inspired by this beautiful animation. But centuries after most of his friends have passed on, Sonic is still there. As the Emerald's chosen, as their favorite, as their vessel in a world were their power reaches less and less people, he remains, undying and unwilling. Unsure if I'll do more with him, but he's here.

Fountain of Youth The dragon Sonic! Also part of my silly little "let's see how much trauma and how many transformations I can fit in this bad boy" series, Eggman's discovery of an ancient curse leaves Sonic... a little different than usual.

It's Not About Romance The Sonic in the green cloak. Part of series I'll write eventually, with a vampire and werewolf scenario. Except it's not Sonadow, or Sonamy, or Shadamy, or whatever ship is usually the focus of vampire/werewolf AUs. Nothing against those ships, is just that I really want to see the concept explored not as a romance but as an adventure. (Thus the series name).

Gilded Gold The Super Sonic taking a lil' nap. Part of a story I'm writing with @azthedragon. It's been super fun so far! I wanna say more, but spoilers shall keep me quiet.

Internal Turmoil The glowing colorful gaggle in the lower right corner. Back again is the Inside Out AU, but with Sonic's new emotions! Anxiety, Apathy, Shame, and Envy. But it's Sonic the Hedgehog, so they surely just sit back and don't do much of anything.

Saiph Saiph! Saiph! In the middle of the image is Saiph! A spin-off of my PsyChlo AU (from 2023, if you remember), he's a version of PsyChlo that got adopted and pulled out of his bad situation. Who adopted him? Why Beetlejuice, of course. Saiph originated from a roleplay with my friend @sad-catbrick, and he's kinda of an icon, so I couldn't not include him.

There! That's the 2024 babies, all explained!

[fiendishfinesse]

(taps mic) Chatting with my cute little owl guy yesterday (@dvilsdesire ♥), I accidentally remembered a little thing/story/headcanon I had back at the beginning of this blog when I listened to a song.

So, Raphael paints, right? He’s the creative, bard-ish, artist type. And I relate a bit of that to one of 

Raphael’s exes™—the painter, a tragic tale

[ BEWARE TW BELOW: abuse, taking own life ]

Raphael is ancient; it’s unlikely he never engaged in relationships. I like to imagine this person—a mortal, an artist, and a teacher—someone completely opposite to him: quiet and gentle.

Raphael approached them initially to commission his dorky paintings. He wanted an artist who could properly capture his visions, and eventually, he found them. That person was odd—strangely understanding of the fact that he was a devil (he had to switch to his true devilish form to be painted accurately, after all). Yet, they seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, his ramblings, his monologues, his poetry, his illusions of grandeur.

Painting sessions became pleasant with such company. Soon, Raphael found himself wanting to learn their skills, to paint for himself. They were a teacher, after all, so the lessons came naturally. Their painting classes stretched into long hours filled with sharp wit, gentle corrections, and an undeniable connection. Raphael’s ego was fed, and he was visibly improving in his art, which pleased him greatly.

The painter fell in love quickly, and Raphael indulged them—why not? They were fun to be around, and such a pretty thing to ravage. Their desires in bed aligned all too well. He started looking forward to their sessions, to their dates, a peculiar feeling for the devil.

But then it started.

They were his, and his alone. He would not tolerate others in their lives. Other suitors, other admirers. They were beautiful, radiant even, and the attention they received drove him mad, quite literally. He would demean and hurt both his beloved and any rival who dared draw too close.

Raphael ensured they were utterly alone, with no one to call upon besides him, no one to need but him. They were pliant, blindly in love—a poor, naive thing. Manipulating them away from anyone who wished them well was a simple feat. He crafted a gilded cage around them, every bar polished and gleaming with golden promises.

He stretched—no, demanded—more hours of their attention. Slowly, methodically, he ensured they had no access to money, no means to provide for themselves. They would have to rely on him for everything. But oh, he was so generous. Lavish gifts, endless pampering, luxurious dates, sweet words dripping with honey, and promises of eternal devotion.

This continued for years. Years.

Then, the painter made a mistake. They told Raphael that they loved him.

Something in him cracked, shattered. He wasn’t quite sure why, but the words broke something irreparable inside him. He grew tired of them. His affection, once smothering and possessive, turned glacial, so cold it could make Cania itself seem warm.

Unfortunately, without Raphael, they were utterly shattered in every conceivable way. Mentally, emotionally, financially. He had made certain of that.

Raphael, ever the gentleman, decided to be courteous enough to end things face-to-face. Courteous, but not kind. Every word was a lash. Months passed. Utter, suffocating coldness. He ignored every attempt they made to reach out, every letter soaked with ink and tears. Perhaps, once or twice, he sent a letter in return—just a flicker of false hope—but never anything more.

And then, silence.

Raphael would soon learn they had hanged themselves.

His first thought? "I hope you were thinking of me."

Somewhere deep within him, there was an ache. An odd, quiet pain, a distant echo of something fragile and broken.

But Raphael shrugged it off. After all, he was a devil. And devils don’t grieve.

-------

The song that inspired me: https://genius.com/Circus-contraption-if-i-told-you-once-annotated

As your muscles were twitching in their final plea, Hope you were thinking of me Hope you were thinking of me Thinking of me Always thinking of me Just me ♥

--hope you liked my stupid ass story about this random npc in raphaels life 😂

[deathbyhertouch]

3 Musketeers

stripper!reader x boygenius

AN: Sorry this took so long, I wanted to really make it special. I hope you like it. I'm happy with it, maybe a bit too much lol

word count: 3.8k

warnings: smut (18+, mdni), group sex, stripper, pussy eating, face riding, fingering, bad descriptions of dancing, multiple orgasms, overstimulation ( if you squint), fluff at the end

here is the playlist for this fic

Your shift was running at a glacial pace. The money wasn’t coming in and there were little to no customers at this point. You were last to be cut for the night, internally kicking yourself for agreeing to pick up the shift. You would’ve much rather been cuddling up in your lonely apartment with a bottle of cheap wine and a blunt. Perhaps another night for that.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Please give it up for Poppy!”

You made your way to the stage, before grabbing some cleaner and a cloth. You shook your hips as you walked towards the pole. You made quite the spectacle of cleaning it thoroughly before walking the rag and cleaner back to the side stage. You wrapped a hand around the pole, shaking your ass, perhaps a bit too dramatic. You smiled widely, looking at the 2 people actually sitting at the stage. 2 older guys that probably didn’t want to be here, let alone to watch your routine. You flashed a wink at them anyway, as they each hesitantly threw a dollar bill at your foot. You turned to face the pole, wrapping your legs in unison with your hands. You twirled around, making sure to show off your scantily clad breasts. Your body flowed so smoothly, almost as though you were being puppeteered. 

As your song played to its end, you finished up your song before collecting the very small payload off the floor. You grabbed your small bag that you keep your earnings in. You waltzed off the stage, towards the DJ Booth to give him your next couple songs, instead of that happening tho, you felt a heavy hand tap your shoulders. You turned to see one of the bouncers, a large burly man with a greasy ponytail.

“Champagne Room, you’re booked for the next hour.” He grumbled at you. Your eyes widened, an hour? You flashed him a small smile, and turned on your heels. You were nervous, after all, you had never been booked for that long before, usually just a lap dance or two. You anxiously made your way to the gilded room, golden beaded curtains and a bright neon sign reading ‘champagne room’. You took a deep breath, stabling yourself before drawing back the curtain and heading inside. You looked along the plush, carpeted room, and saw three figures seated across the far end of the room. You made your way to the small bar cart, pouring four glasses of the strawberry champagne, provided by the club. You placed the glasses on a tray and strutted over to your audience. It felt like forever before you were in front of them, finally seeing their faces for the first time, it was three very attractive women, something familiar about them, but you couldn’t quite place it. 

“Welcome to the champagne room, ladies. My name is Poppy, please enjoy a drink with me.” You spoke, with a smile on your face as you handed each of them a glass of champagne. They looked at each other, seemingly sharing a telepathic conversation. You brushed it off, taking a swig of your own drink.

“I’m Lucy, this is Phoebe, and Julien.” The raven-haired woman spoke, pointing towards the other two as she said their names. You smiled and gave a wink to them. You nodded and set your drink down on a small table beside them. 

“Lovely to meet you, so rare to get booked in the champagne room, let alone by three of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life.” You cooed at them. “Is this your first time here at the Lioness Lounge?” You were certain you would’ve remembered faces like theirs. Fuck, this must be a dream. Your eyes moved from each one, taking their sweet time memorizing each of them.

“Yeah, we are celebrating tonight. A friend of Lucy’s recommended this place, said something about the best dancers, hoping to have a great night, especially considering you are gorgeous.” The smallest one, Julien, told you. Her words making a blush creep up your neck, you hummed contently. 

“Thank you, doll. So, what are we celebrating tonight?” You asked, connecting your phone to the nearby speaker, putting on your dance playlist. You began to sway your hips, making your way to the small platform. 

“W-We are in a band, our new album releases tomorrow. We wanted to have a mini party of our own tonight before the release party.” Phoebe murmured, her eyes fixated on your body. Normally, you didn’t care for lingering stares, but this was your job, and you made bank so it was fine. Seeing how her eyes, as well as the other two, were fixated on you, made you feel warm and excited. 

“Ah, I see. Well, that does call for celebration. How does a show sound?” You purred at her, moving your body as seductively as you could, wanting to impress them. The thought of actually wanting to impress a customer, enough to get them to remember you, was a rarity, one that hasn’t happened in quite a while. You bent forward, tightening the straps of your heels, before standing up slowly. You made sure to push out your ass, running your hands sensually over your body as you fully stood up. You rubbed a hand over your pussy, rubbing a small circle over your clit, before you moved to grab your clothed breasts, pinching your already hard nipples between your forefingers and thumbs. You heard a small ‘fuck’, although you couldn’t figure out which one. 

You moved off the platform, moving onto your hands and knees before crawling towards them. You had your best ‘fuck me’ eyes on, making sure to push your tits between your arms, really wanting to accentuate them. As you grew closer, you could feel the nervous tension off each of them. As you were kneeled in front of them, you placed your left hand on Lucy’s knee, the right on Julien’s, and you placed a chaste kiss on each of Phoebe’s knees. You snaked your way up, dragging your breasts across her lap, before pushing against hers. You were inches apart and her eyes were wide, pupils blown. 

“Hi.” You whispered, before placing a small kiss on her nose. You were quick to notice her breath start to waver, a dark red crawling across her cheeks. You took that as your cue to continue, moving your head towards her neck. You made sure to drag your lips down her jawline, before pulling her earlobe into your mouth. You let out a loud moan, making sure the others heard. You swirled your tongue around the soft flesh before letting go. You pulled back enough to see her face. She was in bliss, mouth slightly agape, eyes quick to meet yours. You blew her a kiss and stood up to make your way around the back of the couch.

 In unison, all three heads followed your movements as if there were strings attached to them. You stood behind Julien, her head fully leaned back against the couch, so she could keep eye contact with you. You placed a kiss on her forehead, making her grin up at you. You matched her smile.

“May I?” You asked, placing your hands on her shoulders, giving them a slight rub. She nodded a bit too excited and you let out a small giggle, loving how adorable she looked under your touch. You lowered your head so it was next to hers, blowing on her ear. She shuddered a bit from the sensation, letting out a whimper. You moved your hands from her shoulders, down to her collarbones, just above where she wanted you to touch her. Your fingers inched across her skin, almost feather-light to the touch. 

“Tell me what you want, baby. I want to hear you use your words.” You breathed against her ear. “I-I want you to touch me. Please.” She whined, her eyes watching your hands closely. You giggled, obliged to give this sweet thing anything she desired. Your hands slipped under the button up shirt she wore, wrapping your fingers around her breasts. You kneaded the soft flesh achingly slow. She let out a breathy moan, melting under your skilled hands. You rolled her nipples under your fingers, pressing a kiss to her neck. You were incredibly turned on, wanting nothing more than to end your shift, and take these girls back to your place. You gave her breasts one more light squeeze, before removing your hands completely from her. If looks could kill, you would be 6 feet under. Her brows were furrowed at the abrupt stop. 

“Sorry baby, I want to keep all 3 of you happy.” You murmured, pressing another kiss to her forehead. She huffed, yet made no further protest. You moved from the back of the couch, rubbing a hand across all of their shoulders. You strutted to the front of the couch, stopping in front of Lucy. She swallowed harshly, her eyes on yours, waiting for your instruction. You smiled and held your hand out for her. She smiled and brought hers to yours, interlacing your fingers. You placed her hand on your breast, allowing her to touch you. She graciously accepted, squeezing your boob, as if she was going to break you. You let out a moan, pushing your chest into her hand, inviting her to touch you more. Your eyes closed, head falling back onto your shoulders. Her hand moved down, moving to your hip, the other joining the first on your other hip. She pulled you forward, moving you to straddle her lap. You opened your eyes, wanting to focus on her. Your hands moved up to her shoulders to support you. She had a large smile on her face, red lips calling out to you. You leaned in, pressing your forehead to hers.

“Can I kiss you, darling?” She whispered, leaning in halfway to yours. You didn’t answer, moving to capture her mouth with yours. Her lips were soft, forming against your own. You moaned into the kiss, and she took the opportunity to slip her tongue in your mouth. You were so enamored with Lucy, you barely noticed Phoebe moving behind you, running her fingers up your arms. She pressed her lips to your ear, letting out a low growl. 

“How soon can we get out of here, babe?” She asked, lips never leaving your ear. You broke your kiss with Lucy, looking up at her with big doe eyes.

“Whenever you want, love. I just need to cash out.” You murmured. She smiled down at you, looking over at Julien, who gave her a small nod. Lucy, not wanting to be forgotten, pulled your hips down, grinding your dripping core against the rough fabric of her pants. You moaned, and Phoebe’s lips moved down your neck. She sank her teeth into your neck, sucking a bruise into your flesh. You gasped, already feeling your orgasm drawing near. 

“JB, care to join?” Lucy posed the question to the third girl, who had been silent for the most part. She smiled before standing to join the three of you. She switched places with Phoebe, wrapping a hand across your chest, pulling your heaving tits out of the confines of the strappy lace bralette. Lucy groaned at the sight of you, Phoebe moving to sit closer to achieve a better look.

“Whaddya think, boys, shall we make her cum before we take her home?” Julien asked, her inked hands moving south towards your wet, aching cunt. You whined, nodding your head. “Please, let me cum. I’ll be so good for you.” You bargained, wanting to please the three of them. 

“I believe she’s earned it, JB. Pheebs?” Lucy quipped, looking to the blonde beside her for an answer. Phoebe smiled and hummed, nodding her head. You felt Julien’s other hand grab your jaw, pulling your face to look up at hers. She pulled you into a heavy kiss, teeth mashing and tongues wrestling. You gasped into her mouth as you felt her fingers finally run through your slick folds. Her middle and index fingers slipped inside your pussy and her thumb moved to rub sweet circles on your clit. You moaned into her mouth. You could feel a hand roughly grab your tit, and another gripping your hip tightly. Julien giggled into your mouth, pumping her fingers faster, her thumb applying more pressure to your swollen nub. You whined, feeling your orgasm drawing to a close. The girls, also noticing how close you were to your release, only doubled down on your assault. You broke off the kiss, leaning your head back against Julien’s chest. 

“You gonna cum for us, princess? Make a mess all over Lucy’s thighs for us. C’mon pretty girl.” Phoebe purred in your ear, massaging your nipples, egging you on further. Your body listened, attentive to their guiding words and touch. You felt your orgasm hit you hard, no doubt your arousal leaving a mark over Lucy’s pants. You cried out, as they rode you through the ecstasy that filled you to the brim. As you came down, you could feel your legs shaking. Julien pulled her fingers out of you and brought them to your mouth. You happily suckled on them, moaning at the taste of your release. She pulled them out of your mouth before leaning down to kiss your lips briefly. Phoebe stood up, quickly downing her near-forgotten glass of champagne. Julien backed up, allowing you to stand off of Lucy’s lap. As you moved to stand for yourself, Lucy grabbed your hips and pulled you back down, bringing your lips back to hers. She hummed sweetly into your mouth, pulling away as quickly as she pulled you in. You smiled, blushing harder than ever at the sweet gesture.

“C’mon sweet girl, go close out, and grab your purse. We’ll meet you outside.” Phoebe assured you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You nodded, pulling your lingerie back in place. 

❃❃❃❃❃❃❃❃❃❃❃❃

You had closed out, gotten your belongings, and were now seated on the very plush sofa in your apartment. You were currently naked, Phoebe on your left, Julien on the right. Lucy’s face was currently buried in your wet cunt. Your legs were over her shoulders, while the other two were alternating between sucking dark hickies into your neck and groping your boobs. You could die happily here, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind about it. 

“Fuck, Luce, I’m close. I can’t hold it much longer. Please fuck let me cum.” You moaned, your hips bucking hard into her face. She moaned against you, the vibrations threatening to push you over the edge. She pulled back, her chin dripping with your juices. Phoebe smiled at her and pulled her into a wet kiss, eager to taste you. You whined, turning to Julien, who had a shit eating grin on her face. She pulled you onto her lap, your knees on either side of her hips. 

“Does our pretty girl want to cum? Again?” She cooed at you, pulling your hips down so your wet cunt was grinding against her jeans. You gasped and nodded at her. She mockingly nodded back at you. “Guess you’ll have to be a good girl for us, huh?” She teased. You wanted nothing more than anything to please her.

“Let’s go to the bedroom, pet. We can really take our time with you.” Lucy spoke to you, enjoying how much of a puddle you were for them. You stood up, grabbing Phoebe’s hand, the other two following behind, leading them to your room. You turned on your small lamp, setting a subtle glow for ambience. 

You felt a pair of hands on your waist and a pair of lips on your bare shoulder. You turned your head to see Phoebe, already looking into yours. You smiled and drew her into a passionate kiss, humming at the taste of her tongue on yours. She turned you in her arms, tapping the back of your thighs to signal you to jump. You gladly did, wrapping your legs around her waist as she carried you to the bed, laying you down on your back before settling on top of you. She broke the kiss to move back down to your neck, biting into it, soothing the forming mark with her tongue. You looked over, seeing Julien and Lucy locking lips, undressing each other. It was cute, you weren’t sure what the dynamic was between the three of them, but you could tell there was a lot of passion and devotion, something you felt honored to be a part of, if only for the night.

“Eyes on me, beautiful.” Phoebe had pulled your face back to look at hers. She was hovering above you. “Hi.” You whispered, making her smile at you.

“You’re so fucking adorable. I love it.” She giggled. Lucy and Julien had now joined you both on the bed. Julien moved to switch spots with Phoebe, her lips ghosting down your chest and resting at your stomach. Your hands found their way into her hair, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail. She pressed a kiss to your pubic bone, eyes waiting for your permission to go further.

“Please, eat me. I need it.” You whined, waiting for her mouth where you had needed her most. That was all the sentiment she needed before diving into your wet cunt. You moaned, loudly, your grip on her hair tightening. She slipped a couple fingers back into your entrance, curling them inside of you. Your eyes peeled open and turned your head to look at the other two. Lucy was straddling Phoebe’s face, making the most tantalizing sounds. She looked down at you, running her hand over your hair, soothing you. Julien had pulled you back down to earth, suckling on your clit, her fingers were pumping in and out of you at a relentless pace.

“C’mon pretty girl, come for her, make a mess on her fingers. She needs to taste how heavenly you are. Julien, go faster. Get her there.” Lucy’s words worked magic on you, as you felt yet another orgasm begin to unfurl inside of you. You cried out, and Julien’s fingers begin to slow down, to help you ride out your orgasm. She pulled off your puffy pussy, to show you her beautiful face. 

“You weren’t kidding, that’s the sweetest little pussy. She’s practically gushing on my face.” Julien beamed up at the raven-haired woman. Lucy laughed and pulled her into a kiss, swapping spit and your release between their mouths. You slowed your breathing, slowly raising yourself up on your hands, before scooting over between Phoebe’s legs. You placed a small kiss on her clit. The small action was enough for Phoebe to let out a muffled moan, the vibrations in turn causing Lucy to gasp and grind her hips down onto the blonde’s jaw. 

You began to eat her out like you were a starved man, and this was a decadent feast laid in front of you. You wrapped your arms around her thighs, essentially imprisoning her against your body. You could tell she was growing close, so you sucked her clit into her mouth and began to suction hard on it, tongue flicking rapidly against it. She tried to match your pace, trying to get Lucy over the edge as well. Lucy moaned out, her buttery smooth voice sounded like an angel’s against your ear. Julien was rubbing circles on her own clit, wanting some relief of her own. Lucy’s orgasm was first, making her cry out against Phoebe’s mouth. 

“Pheebs, I want my turn with her. She can cum again, let me help her.” Poor Julien, feeling a bit left out, helped Lucy off of Phoebe’s face, and grabbed her hips, moving her onto her own face. Lucy was all fucked out but couldn’t resist the brunette’s sweet praises and encouragement. You were a bit busy, trying to get Phoebe to cum as well. You released one of your hands to reach up to tweak her own nipple. She cried out, and ran her hands through your hair. She gripped your hair tight, only encouraging you to keep going. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so close, princess. I want to cum f’you. Please let me, I want to cum so bad.” She pleaded, and who were you to deny such a request. You moaned against her dripping pussy and fucked into her hole with your tongue. She cried out against you, her arousal now gushing over your face. Your arms tightened back around her thighs and her hips were bucking incessantly against your face. She tapped your arm once you came down, and you released her. You brought your face up, inches in front of her, and you reached your hand up to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She blushed and kissed your lips. 

“We should keep you around. You are quite a fun addition.” She mumbled against your lips. You smiled at the statement. “Whenever you want, sugar.” You quipped back at her. A gasp broke your concentration, you both looked over, seeing Lucy finish, her juices coating Julien’s face with a sheer layer. Her hands were fisting through your sheets, absolutely enjoying herself. You smirked and moved to take one of her nipples into your mouth. Phoebe moved behind Julien, placing her mouth on Julien’s aching cunt from behind. Lucy moved to sit up a bit, Julien laying her head in Lucy’s lap. You brushed her hair, helping her relax a bit as Phoebe worked her magic on the smaller girl. 

“She’s right, y’know. We like you, we’d love to do this again sometime.” Lucy breathed down at you. You bit her nipple, not enough to hurt, just enough to elicit another moan out of her. You pulled off of her tit, looking back up at her. 

“I wouldn’t want anything else. I want you, all of you, all the time. Not even sexually, but in general.” You spoke truthfully. You wanted this to turn to more, you couldn’t get enough of them. Julien moaned loudly, cumming against Phoebe. You felt her slump forward a bit, exhausted from the intense orgasm. She hummed, and kissed Lucy’s thighs, wrapping an arm around her thigh, the other rubbing soothing circles on your own thigh. 

“My real name is Y/N, by the way. I just realized I never gave it to you guys. My apologies.” You let out a laugh, the realization of your fucked out brain forgetting to relay the information to them. Phoebe snorted, sticking a hand out to you.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Y/N.” She quipped at you, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You smiled and snuggled back into Lucy’s side. Phoebe quickly moved to your backside, spooning you. You were overjoyed at tonight’s events. 

Love, A

[amazingmsme]

Just an angsty sneak peek via Ted’s thoughts on the color yellow

Ted has never understood why so many people seemed to hate the color yellow. Sure it wasn't his favorite color by any means, but the softer or more golden hues could be quite beautiful. He enjoyed seeing the yellow pops of dandelions in the grass, and hey, wasn't it supposed to be a fun color? He's a fun guy, so why the hell shouldn't he like yellow? He loved the way the sun bathed everything in a bright gilded light when he got off from work in the summer. Charlotte’s yellow polk-a-dot dress is one of his favorites, his favorite flower was daffodils, and he really liked golden retrievers and labs. (The yellowest of dogs, in his opinion.) He used to like the color yellow.

But that was before… hell, before everything.

Before a giant fucking goat plucked him from his crappy life and trapped him in its own personal hellscape. Before he became stuck in an endless cycle of time machines, lost love, homelessness, and insanity until he was thrust back to the start of this sick, twisted game. Because that’s this all was to Him, wasn’t it? A game.

Before he said enough, and stepped out of the cycle. Before he tried to find a way back home, but instead was met with endless, winding halls. Before he realized he’ll never get to take Charlotte to see that movie, or drive Pete to prom. Before he realized there truly is no way back to Hatchetfield.

And everything, from the goat to the maze was yellow, yellow, YELLOW! It was enough to make him sick.

He did get sick in fact; on more than one occasion. The neon walls and floor paired poorly with the dizzying labyrinth and wreaked havoc on his motion sickness.

At this point, if he never saw the color ever again, it would be too soon.

Ted’s racing steps slowed to a trot, and eventually, a stroll as his mind wandered. He thought back to this story they had to read in high school (or was it college? Maybe if he ever saw Peter again, he’d ask if they read it) where some chick was sent to the countryside to “recover” but she was condemned to a small bedroom covered in a strange, yellow wallpaper. The story freaked him out at the time, which is probably the only reason he remembers it now. The color and spiraling pattern on the walls made the woman go insane, and Ted had always thought it to be a little far fetched. Surely something so simple can’t break a person down so completely. But now, he’s never related more to a character.

[corvusspecialartist]

The Beloved Brood Mare (Demon Primarch Corax x Pregnant Reader)

A/N: This is Roboutian Hersey AU Corax. This guy in this Universe is object MENACE to society. He is essentially Bile, but as a free agent and as a primarch and Chaos aligned. In fact, in that canon they are described as one if not the MOST vile traitor legions. (If you are the AU writer... I am 50% sorry for writing this terrible fanfic for your AU) AND on top of that, this author gives A REASON on why Rushal joined the Night Lords.

Read it Here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10578370/18/The-Roboutian-Heresy

TW: implied forced pregnancy, rape

You arise. You are trapped in a gilded cage, for Warp knows how long. Getting up, you almost tripped over the golden chain around your ankle, it was a common occurrence by now. Even since the experiments... you have never truly gotten used to this body. Everything about you has been altered to aid the process of birthing.

You were essentially if the primarch body was female with none of the sterilization that would naturally occur. Like the Marines that guarded your room, you were an abomination. You could almost remember when this transformation happened. Glimpses of the Demon Primarch, an older Marine with many appendages, and a screaming captive Thousand Son...

You remember passing out and waking up in this new form... it was awkward.. but never mind... your "duties" had to continue. Corax occasionally visited, but it was very rare. Often to ask brisk questions in a white lab coat about the progression of the pregnancy, you answered honestly.. for he could tell if you were lying given the nature of his place...

Looking around your room, it was time... you could often get food as much as requested, but just enough to make it so you could survive the process... you looked down at the swollen belly. Around this time, it would be time for "breakfast". You were often fed a random assortment of ingredients... often to see the effect would have on the fetus.

You had often tried to escape from the room, often killing the Spawn Marines that stood guard outside of your room with contemptuously ease. The furthest you had gone was at least a couple of miles within the tower before you were hit with a neutralizing gas.

Every step you took, you felt the pain in your legs. you felt helpless.. you felt your two heartbeats move faster.. you had not really entered your body this much before... for Lord Corax demanded that you have minimum exercise. However, you felt a sharp pang within your belly. It was kicking again.

Maybe the pain was fake, a phantom feeling of the soul imagining how pregnancy felt like.

Maybe the room had some form of shielding to protect the fetus from what laid on the outside.

The resulted in resuscitation of you in a lab table in which your arms and legs were strapped. You could feel the eyes of many Marines all on you. Struggling you cursed and tired to escape, but the equipment held fast. Your eye adjusted to the dark quickly, until you saw him come into the room. You felt your skin upon the laboratory table, cold and unyielding. The overpowering smell of disinfectant, mixed blood and other gore made your stomach turn. You also noticed your legs were in stirrups with your privates facing the audience.

Lord Corax's face was scared from the years from captivity, You could recall memories of you being ordered to soothe him and tend to his scars. His face held a mixture of contentment and disdain. You could hear others whisper in the long dead Kivharian, and lean forward almost if they were excited what were to come next. Corvus gave close and his statue seemed to dawn over you. He approached you and stroked your hair almost as if it was kind gently. He was in front of you, and he held a syringe within his left hand and a forceps in his right hand. As if he were giving a lecture, He gave you an gentle kiss on the forehead.. before starting to explain the process. You felt something cold enter your private.. you tried to struggle and fight but nothing really changed, then a liquid flowed in. You started to scream and fight even more... but the lecture continued on. even after the process had been done.

You shook yourself out of that feeling and sat down... you knew that your tower didn't have windows. But, given the advanced the state of the pregnancy, he would visit. That was something that you dreaded the most. TO try and entertain yourself you started to sing, of course it was old Imperial tunes that you took to heart. At that moment.... the door burst open and Corax appeared.

Immediately you stopped singing...as he moved almost with a slowness, but your mind being unable to process it it he grabbed you by the arm. "Don't even sing that again." He said, his voice still maintaining that softness... he face was a warped tone of anger.. but then softed as he left go of your arm and forcefully sat you down on the bed. It was comfortable sure, but still.. you knew that in your heart of hearts he was only like this because of the forlorn hope that you could produce functioning Marines with working geneseed...

He started to coo as he stroked your belly.. "I hope that this one is a success.... this is your fifth this year. I do hope that this one lives you to expectations..."- you swallowed a bit before trying to move out of range.. but he followed you. "This one.. I tried to do it more scientifically..." He placed his head down.. "And it is growing far past expectations, I should move you... to a more safer place." He started to touch your hair which your bristled. He paused but chuckled. "Though... your womb is really only used for procreation... it does get boring tormenting them." You tried to move away, but he got up and gave you a gentle kiss on the forehead. He left almost as quickly as he came. You shuddered, why you?

[howlingday]

Hey, buddy, it's been a long time since I sent an ask though i used a different name and you answered them, anyways, I have a good one, I think, ok, so have you heard of the gilded guy animations. If you did, how would team ruby react to this fairy tale in the ever after of this guy infamous for getting into random fights suddenly fighting jaune. I think yang would love the irony.

The Makings of a Hero

"Hey, Jaune?"

"Yeah, Ruby?"

"It's just... Back when you were fighting off those Jabberwalkers, your fighting style was kinda... different."

"I thought so, too." Weiss added. "In fact, it seems like your time here has changed you a lot more than any of us expected."

"Assuming any of us could have expected you'd be here with us." Blake amended.

"Or how some of us would think of you in a new way~." Yang teased.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Weiss replied, looking away from Yang.

"Well, I didn't exactly travel alone." Jaune answered. "I've been here a long time. So long that I had no choice to keep growing and learning. I owe a lot of it to my mentor."

"Your mentor?" Yang asked. "You had a mentor down here?"

"Was he another fairy tale character?" Blake asked with almost too much excitement.

"WAS HE?!" Weiss added with way too much excitement.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Jaune held up his hands defensively. "In order; yes, I did; I think so, but I don't remember which one; and Weiss, you need to calm down." Almost everyone laughed at this interaction. The only ones who didn't were Weiss, face flushed with embarrassment, and Ruby, who'd been mostly quiet the whole time.

"What was your mentor like?" Ruby spoke up.

"He was... quiet." Jaune said. "He wore golden armor and wielded a sword and a sort of magic marker."

"A magic marker?" Yang asked.

"I don't remember him."

"I do." Weiss answered. "He's not very well known, and most fairy tales don't feature him because he doesn't really do much as far as fairy tale characters go. He just sort of... fights people and doesn't say a word."

"That makes sense why he isn't popular, then." Blake surmised. "A lot of what makes fairy tales so memorable is their dialogue, and if there's no dialogue, it won't have memorable moments for people to latch onto an learn lessons from."

"Did he talk to you?" Yang asked Jaune.

"No, he didn't." He said. "Most of what he did was making hand gestures... That and grabbing his sword when it was time to spar." He chuckled. "And we sparred a lot."

"Did you see his memories, and he yours?"

"Yeah." Jaune answered, a little unnerved. "Was that in the fairy tales?"

"It was." Weiss nodded. "It was my grandfather's favorite story, but I never understood why. I only saw it as a person with a kind heart in armor."

"My guess was that he was just a guy who believed actions spoke louder than words and took that to heart." Jaune said.

"Maybe he got tired of talking." Ruby said softly. If anyone heard her, they didn't show it.

"We should stop here for the night." Jaune pulled back on Juniper's fur. With a grunt, she stopped in her tracks. Jaune hopped down. "Alright, I'll get some wood for the fire."

"What should we do?"

"There's some tent supplies under Juniper's saddle." He explained. "It makes the riding easier for her and for me."

"Riding, huh?" Yang smirked. "Maybe you could give Ice Queen a few pointers~?"

"Shut. Up. Yang." Weiss hissed back.

[skzdust]

Arrange These to Spell Love

Chapter Two: Violet, Purple

Chapter two!! I've been way more into this fic than I thought, so you can expect even more coming soon :)

Also, wrote about half of this in a sleep deprived, election-anxious haze. So I'm sorry if it's not great. Hope you enjoy though lol.

Inspired by an ask from @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna !

Summary: You run Beehive Flowers and Enchantments in your small beach town... and the attractive and infuriating Choi San runs the competition, Seaside Floral. When he calls you asking for help learning about Victorian flower language, you agree to help him. Little did you know what was to follow... involving your town's harvest festival, a wayward enchantment, and your best friend with benefits, Kang Yeosang.

Pairing: Kang Yeosang/Choi San/afab reader love triangle

This chapter includes: more "I hate him I swear", more flower lessons, a birthday party, and Mingi, Yunho, and Wooyoung!

Word count: 1.6k

Taglist (Comment on a post/send an ask if you'd like to be added): @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345, @katsukis1wife,

@hyunjinsjeans, @somethingkindazainy, @silverstarburst

Network:@mirohs-aurora-society

Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!!!

Part 1

Masterlist

-----

VIOLET, PURPLE.

You occupy my thoughts.

The sun is bright— its golden rays / Gild mountain-top and flower; / O’er rock, and wave, and vale it plays, / From morn till evening hour. / But, ah! No beauty in its beams / My weary heart can see,/ While rocks, and vales, and glancing streams / Keep me away from thee!

“Do you think he’d like this one?” Yeosang thrust a glittery body mist at you. You took it gingerly and sniffed it.

“I don’t think Mingi would wear something that smelled like jasmine.”

“I don’t either.” He snatched it back, setting it back on the shelf. “I think he’s more of a sandalwood kind of guy.”

You nodded. “Very masculine. That’s Mingi.”

“Yes.” Yeosang picked up another bottle. “Maybe this one?”

“Maybe.” You hummed.

“You’re thinking about something.” Yeosang smelled it, shook his head, and put it back. “I can tell. You’re quiet.”

“Oh, I don’t know, just… thinking about the harvest festival.”

“That’s not till late October, right? Why are you thinking about it now?”

“Just… remembering what San said. About having a stand together. Sign-ups are due soon.”

“You want to do a stand with him? Wow, flower lessons must be going well. I thought you’d rather slip him some kind of poison than voluntarily spend more time with him.”

“Yeah, well, that was a couple weeks ago.” You mumbled. “He’s more bearable than I thought.”

“You also like teaching people things.” He smiled at you over his shoulder. “Maybe you just like a willing student.”

“Okay, who doesn’t like having someone to teach their valued knowledge to?” You flicked him.

“Hey! What is this, high school?” Yeosang rubbed his shoulder. “I get it. Your little rivalry with him was a little aggressive, anyway. I’m glad you don’t hate him anymore.”

“He’s actually kind of nice.” You said. “He’s, like, getting into the flower meanings and stuff. Keeps asking me about the poems. It’s kind of endearing.”

“Ooooo, you have a crush on him!” Yeosang singsonged.

Your cheeks got hot. “I do not.”

“I better be in the wedding.” He sniffed another body spray. “Oh, wait, I think this is the one.”

You engaged Yeosang in the perfume conversation, glad to turn the topic away from your love life— especially your love life in relation to San.

Discussing dating with Yeosang always seemed normal, the way you’d expect two best friends to discuss their romantic prospects. You thought that it felt a little tense every time though— your romantic past and sexually active present weighing over the conversation like the executioner’s axe over the condemned man. Yeosang hadn’t met someone he wanted to date in the past few years, and you’d only had a couple of relationships since Yeosang. It felt like only a matter of time before you’d have to deal with your ambiguous, not-ambiguous relationship.

It wasn’t that it was ambiguous, exactly, it was best friendship with benefits. You both knew the boundaries. It was the true emotions both of you were hiding that were the unknown.

You didn’t even really know what you felt about Yeosang, so it was safer not even to touch the topic.

But you could identify how you felt about San, and it was quickly evolving from annoyance to attraction, a fact you weren’t exactly thrilled about.

He was the competition. You couldn’t date the competition. Besides, you told yourself, he’d still thrown away your flowers. You couldn’t forget that. He didn’t like you.

And, more importantly, you didn’t like him.

—

“Alright, we’ve had three lessons. What are you thinking for this weekend?” You crossed your arms.

“Forget-me-not and short sunflowers for true love and adoration, and marjoram for blushing. It’s a very colorful theme to the wedding, so I wanted to include lots of colors in the centerpieces.” San nodded. “And I was thinking each table would have a different centerpiece. Like, one table has forget-me-not, one has sunflowers, one has marjoram. And then they’re all filled in with moss, which is for maternal love, but the bride is very close with both her mother and her mother-in-law, so I think it will work, and it’ll look nice. And then the bride’s bouquet will be all of it.”

“I’m impressed.” You blinked. “You’ve memorized that pretty fast.”

“Yes, well, I want to keep learning.” San smiled. “I like working with you on— on this. I’m having fun.”

It might just have been your imagination, but he seemed to shift a bit, almost as if he were nervous.

“Okay, I can keep teaching you, then.” You smiled. “Is there anything you want to learn to say with flowers?”

“Maybe… I was actually thinking, first, maybe you could help me with this wedding. I want to use sunflowers, but I’ve never stocked those in large quantities, and I know you sell a lot of them. I’d pay you, of course, and credit you. Just… a little collaboration.” He smiled.

You were taken aback. San wanted to work with you?

“I, um, I think that would work, yeah.” You stumbled over your words. “I’d love to work with you.”

You could barely believe you were thinking this, but San wasn’t as unbearable as you’d thought. He was actually kind of sweet… and thoughtful… and he seemed to enjoy working with you… and though you wanted to deny it, you had to admit the man was gorgeous.

“Great!” He beamed, and your chest fluttered.

You continued with your flower lesson for the day— the meanings of colors.

“Flowers with multiple colors often mean different things based on the color.” You pulled a few roses from your bag. “White roses mean something different from pink roses, and you’ve gotta be careful with yellow.”

San nodded. “Colors. Got it.”

You set the roses down on the table. “I can tell you about the different colors, but you have to remember, it’s dependent on the flower as well. It’s sort of… a combination of the two.” You sighed. “It’s hard to explain. I’m… my book does a much better job.”

“I want to see this famous book at some point.” He smiled. “It sounds amazing.”

“No.” You said quickly.

“Oh… okay.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“It’s just… it’s my family’s spell book as well.”

“Spell book? So you’re herbalists?”

“Yes. Herbalists who do all kinds of enchantments.” You waved your hand in the air. “My family’s been doing magic for centuries, probably longer.”

“Really?” San’s eyes were wide. “My parents were always wary of that stuff.”

You couldn’t help it, you snorted. “Denying magic is like denying the sky is blue. Now that we don’t have to hide anymore, no witch trials or anything, we’re pretty open about it.”

“I know. People around here trust you, trust your spells. I hear all about it.”

You smiled, pride glowing in your chest. “I try to help people. I’m glad it’s doing something.”

“You do a good job.”

Had San always looked this adorable when smiling? You couldn’t really say.

—

Mingi’s birthday was a relatively calm event. It was Mingi, his boyfriend Yunho, Yeosang, and you. You’d all met in college, and remained friends ever since.

“Where’s Wooyoung?” You looked around. “Where are you hiding him?”

“Hiding him?” Yunho laughed. “Why would we hide him? We want him here as much as you do.”

“So then… where is he?”

“Dunno.” Yunho put his glass on the table. “I’m not in charge of him. He said he might bring a friend, though.”

You hummed. “Wooyoung is certainly… friendly.”

The front doorbell rang, and Mingi leapt up to answer it.

“Wooyoung! And this is…”

“San.” Wooyoung filled in.

Goosebumps ran over you. San? No way it was the same San. There had to be another one, or something.

But you looked over your shoulder, and you felt yourself flush. It was, in fact, the same San. He was in a dark shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, and light wash jeans. A few necklaces glittered on his collarbones.

He looked more than fine. He looked hot.

He grinned at you. “Y/n! Woo didn’t say you’d be here.”

“Well, here I am.” You swallowed before remembering to force your face into a smile.

Yeosang cut in. “San! It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” San looked amused, his gaze darting between you and Yeosang.

You huffed. “I just… told Yeosang about the flower lessons. That’s all. This is Yeosang, he’s my best friend.” You left out the part where you occasionally fucked.

“Hi, Yeosang.” San said with a small laugh.

“Well, don’t just stand in the doorway.” Mingi ushered them inside. “Sit down.”

Wooyoung took the last available chair, leaving San to sit on the couch beside you. His leg bumped yours as he sat, and he briefly smiled at you as he pulled it back.

The conversation was mudane, at least until after dinner.

“Any news on the dating front, y/n?” Yunho asked, pulling his legs up into his chair.

“Not really.” You laughed. “Still single. The shop is my boyfriend.”

Was it your imagination, or did it seem like San perked up?

“Oh, Beehive Flowers and Enchantments, sweep me off my feet!” Wooyoung put the back of his hand to his forehead, swooning back.

“Exactly!” You grinned.

“I won’t stop at my mission to get you laid, y/n. We will find you someone.” Mingi looked at you sincerely.

“I’m sure you will.” You smiled.

“How about you, San? You got a partner?” Mingi turned to him.

San shifted. “No, I… I don’t.”

“Sounds like you wish you did.” He poked.

“Maybe.” San looked down, flushing. “I do kinda want someone… yeah.”

Your heart jumped.

“We should get you on some dating apps or something, then.” Yeosang leaned over. “I hear there’s a few that are pretty good.”

“Yeah, that could be good.” San glanced at you with an inscrutable expression before looking to Yeosang. “For sure.”

You didn’t know what he wanted. But you wanted him.

[adara-sakamaki]

♤ - - INTRO POST- - ♤

Blood moon's out tonight. There are witches in the woods. The forgotten child has returned to this gilded cage called home. Abandoned children don't come back for their parents. They return for the younger siblings who weren't thrown out of that golden cage called a home.

Hey everyone! I hope your all having a lovely day!

I'm Adara Sakamaki.

I'm a Vampire, several hundred years old - and I'm a witch!! That's right! I cast spells and brew potions and fly on broomstick. The whole shebang! I even have a Cat! - Her name is Luna and she's the sweetest Kitty ever! - But I won't melt if you splash water on me so don't try that.

Now, you may be wondering - how am I a Sakamaki? - Karlheinz has no daughters. And you'd be wrong in that assumption. Karlheinz is my father, Lady Beatrix is my mother. I was born before Shu and Reiji. But good old Karl didn't want a girl to be his first born (~because stupid politics and sexism~). So instead of raising me in our dear fucked up little family I was thrown away. They didn't want me so I was tossed away and they tried again a few years later for sons - and got Shu and later Reiji.

So - some stuff about me.....

Who raised me? Uncle Richter - he did a good job in my opinion, not the best but not the worst either.

How did I become a Witch? I had a master - someone to teach me! :)

What's my sensuality? I'm Bisexual-!

Am I in a relationship? Nope! I'm comfortably single right now!

What kind of Witch are you? The jack of all trades kind! I can do at least a little bit of every type of magic - I've had many years to study and learn after all. I'm really good with most magics too - there are only a few that are difficult to do for me.

Do I drink blood from Humans? Only if they give me permission on all fronts. I don't like crossing boundaries with the Humans I know - so if they don't want &/or consent to being bitten I won't bite. I get most of my blood from hunting animals.

What are some things I like? Magic obviously. It's amazing. I also love to do art - sketching is my favorite. Skateboarding is something I like and do a lot. I also like reading books of all kinds.

What am I afraid of? Not telling you guys, I know my father is on here and I don't trust him with that information.

'Kay everybody!

Account rules time!

1. No incest/NSFW type asks. - incest is disgusting. Keep that off of my page. Any and all incest asks are going to be deleted. As for NSFW asks I'm not comfortable with those so don't send them. Semi-but-not-fully-NSFW asks should be okay. If I'm uncomfortable with any semi-NSFW asks I simply won't answer them. But bottom line NO NSFW and NO INCEST!!

2. SFW asks can and should be sent in - as well as RP starters. That is the content primarily permitted on this blog.

3. Be friendly / kind to me and Admin in your asks. Needless hate will not be tolerated here. No hating - be kind and show respect and me and admin will do the same in return.

4. All things posted by this blog WILL BE IN CHARECTER FOR ME ADARA unless it is specifically stated otherwise. Adara's personality and hobbies and opinions don't fully match up to Admin's - so basicly we're not the same person and I want people to remember that.

5. Have a good time - this blog is a place to have fun so try to enjoy yourselves.

Okay guys! I think that's all the rules and reminders we need. No need to be restrictive or anything!

THE ASK BOX IS: OPEN

Admin here Huge!

Huge thank you to my friend @bubblespalace for helping me develope and create Adara. She also runs @nephilimcursed

[droughtofapathy]

Despite not having seen the show itself, I very much hope you’ve seen Bebe and Patina Miller perform the cover of The Longest Time (this is the kind of fan-service that the Gilded Age should be providing: finding vague reasons for their Tony winners to sing during random episodes)

Yes, I'm familiar, and I think about it a lot actually. Bebe in that pink strapless dress, shimmying her shoulders. Patina Miller, what a voice. And the Waitress guy was there too, I guess. He's on Broadway in Boop! now, and plays a sleezy politician, so yeah.

We used to be a society that just had musical episodes every now and then and no one questioned it. Or just had contrived reasons for the cast to sing. I remember The Golden Girls's many songs so fondly. Biggest heartbreak over Julia being cancelled was that they didn't have time to get Bebe to sing or dance a little. They let Jefferson Mayes do a little warbling, so why not commit fully? And yes, I'm still begging for Gilded Age musical. Make it non-canonical if they must, but please make it. Christmas carols around the damn piano. Come on. They have Broadway's current foremost sopranos on their show and they are WASTING them.