#trapped doesn’t mean defeated

[husk-says-no]

Husk, Husk, Husk, aw man. How do you live, yaknow? How do you live. So like, the boss is gonna make me work for years to get into this elite job I hate. Because it’s the perfect job for him to get what he wants (don’t ask). It’s not the worst job out there, but it’s so far from what I’d like to be doing with my time, and worse, if I don’t get results in it, he is going to flip. out. How do you live, all that just. Being there. And being life. And no, I can’t leave. Physically. Just, can’t, okay. I know his detailed plans to punish everyone around us if I fail. How do ya study like that. How do you live. Anyway I figured you’d know! Maybe.

Yeah… I know that situation. Got a boss like that myself.

Charismatic, calculated, thinks he’s doin’ you a favor while quietly pullin’ the strings tight enough to leave bruises. Always smilin’. Always watchin’. He doesn’t yell, not usually—but when he does? You remember it for weeks. And the scariest part? Most folks don’t even see the leash ‘til it’s already around their neck.

So yeah, kid. I know exactly what it’s like to “work” for someone whose idea of loyalty looks a lot like quiet servitude wrapped in a velvet threat. You don’t leave, ‘cause if you do, somebody else takes the hit. That ain’t a job—that’s psychological warfare with a dress code.

Now—how do you live?

You compartmentalize. That’s the first skill. You break your life into sections. This part’s for him, fine, but this sliver right here? That’s yours. Your thoughts, your memories, your defiance. Even if it’s small, it’s sacred. Learn how to protect it. Weaponize it, if you have to.

Then you master detachment. Not apathy—that’s poison. I mean strategic detachment. You show up, you perform, you check the boxes, and you leave as much of yourself at the door as you can. The more you try to be yourself in a space built to control you, the more it’ll hurt. So you don’t give ‘em the real you—not unless you choose to. Not unless it’s safe.

And most important—don’t let ‘em make you forget who you are. That job, that pressure, that fear? It doesn’t define you. It’s a context, not a character. You still get to be you. Quietly. Fiercely. With whatever strength you can scavenge.

When you're stuck in a power-imbalanced dynamic like this—where exit isn't an option and performance is survival—the goal stops being success or fulfillment. The goal becomes retaining agency. You survive by maintaining mental autonomy in a system that wants to consume it.

Even if you're playin' their game, play it like it’s a long con. Learn their patterns. Keep your own goals stashed somewhere safe, even if they gotta stay in your head for now. You're not weak for adapting. You're smart for stayin’ alive.

And for what it’s worth? The fact that you're askin’ how to live means you still want to. That’s the spark. The fight. That’s what they can’t take from you—unless you let ‘em.

And I got a feelin’ you won’t.

[nereidprinc3ss]

hi!!! here for a request. can we have a imagine where reader has a wound from surgery or whatever on like in a rib and she hides to change the bandages but then spencer sees her and he’s like ‘lemme help you’ and…

you do you for the rest!

in which spencer helps BAU fem!reader change her bandages in the bathroom at work. it's intimate, and he's adorable and awkward, and it only fuels her terrible, terrible crush.

warnings/tags: fluff, talk/description of wound, brief talk of being stabbed (does not actually occur in this fic lol), reader wears a bra, spencer undoes said bra but not sexually, lots of suggestive humor and teasing, a TINY sprinkling of angst but not really, idiots in love

a/n: i'm picturing early seasons spencer and it is filling me with so much unbridled joy. I. LOVE. HIM. thank you for the request!! and lets not talk about how inconsistent my formatting for requests is pls and thanks!!

It’s not like you meant to bend down so quickly that your wound reopened—but here you are, suffering the consequences of your actions in the women’s bathroom at Quantico as you try to assess the injury before you re-bandage it. And your shoe is still untied. 

Unfortunately, the fact that you had quite literally been stabbed in the back last week makes it hard to reach said injury—especially when you’re at work and so can’t take off your shirt like you normally would. And all this struggling means it’s taking longer than it should, so now you’re focused on the wound and its scabby, wet edges and all the things it’s secreting rather than hurrying to give another statement of the entire event to Hotch since the first one had apparently been too sparse on the details. 

A knock sounds on the open door. Spencer calls your name. 

“You in there?”

The angle of your neck has your voice slightly strained as you call back, “yeah, what’s up? Is it Hotch?” you pause to hiss as you accidentally scratch at the wound with a nail. You don’t even want to know how much bacteria you just introduced to it. ��Tell him I didn’t forget our meeting, I’ll be there in—”

“It’s not Hotch. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with your back? I know you said you were going to check on it, but you’ve been in there a while.”

You sigh, dropping your sore arm as you continue to hold up your shirt with the other and regarding the reflection of your back in the mirror. 

“Actually—could you come in here?”

There’s a pause. 

“You want me to come into the women’s restroom?”

“Yes, Spencer. It’s fine. There’s nobody else in here. I just… I need some help, I think.”

The last part is admitted quietly, with an air of defeat. To admit to needing help, is, by your standards, the same as failure. Spencer knows this, which is probably the only reason he puts aside his hesitations and shuffles uncertainly into the tiled room. If you’re asking for help, it’s because you really need it. 

“What do you need help with?” he asks, sweeping his gaze suspiciously around the lavatory as if you were lying about there not being any other women present and this whole thing might be a trap of some sort. 

“It’s gross, and you can totally say no.”

He raises his brows expectantly, before spotting the weeping wound on your back. Unconsciously he steps closer, leaning forward. It’s not your fault, and the gore is not specific to you—anyone’s body would react this way to being stabbed. But you still feel embarrassed by the close attention to such an ugly marring, which nobody besides you and your doctors has actually seen up close.

“That doesn’t look good,” he mutters. The expression on his face is irritatingly familiar—the drawn brows, tightened eyes, barely parted lips—but it takes a moment before you realize what it is. 

“Reid,” you complain. He’s still stooped over slightly to examine the wound, and looks up at you through dark lashes with those infuriatingly warm puppydog eyes.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me the way you look at a dead body on the slab.”

His nose scrunches.

Some might say it scrunches adorably. 

“No, I’m not. That’s just my face.”

“Okay, well stop. It’s freaking me out.”

He pouts—actually pouts. Subtle, but bottom lip jutted out and all. It’s ridiculously endearing. 

“My face freaks you out?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what I said! You have—you have a great face! I didn’t mean—” 

You manage to claw yourself out of the hole you’re digging when you see the dopey smile growing on his face. 

Oh. He was fucking with you. 

He never used to do that. It’s unnerving to be the fucked with instead of the fucker for a change. Especially when it’s Spencer. 

“What did you need me for?” Spencer asks by way of peace offering. You close your eyes and sigh, attempting to collect your thoughts without his presence re-scrambling them.  

“Um—I just need you to put this bandage over it. I can’t reach without taking my shirt off.”

And now you’re forced to wonder if he’s thinking about you shirtless as much as you’re thinking about you shirtless.

“Yeah—don’t do that,” he says absentmindedly, stepping again closer to get a better look before turning to the nearest sink.

For some reason, this offends you. 

“Why not?”

Spencer pulls another face as he washes his hands—you love the constant flow of expressions he always seems so unconscious of. Even when they’re not pleasant and directed at you.  

“Are you asking me why shouldn’t you take your shirt off?” he clarifies. 

“I know why I shouldn’t take my shirt off, but I want to know why you think I shouldn’t take my shirt off.”

“Because we’re at work?” he observes astutely. You frown deeply at his completely logical reply. Spencer chuckles as he dries his hands and approaches once more, taking the square of gauze pre-lined with medical tape from your hand. “I mean, I can’t stop you. But it would be kind of a weird choice.”

“Oh, so me shirtless is weird?”

Cool fingers meet the comparatively hot skin of your back—where everything is still sensitive because the wound wreaked havoc on your nerves there. You flinch slightly. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs gently. Though his touch is so incredibly light it doesn’t really hurt—it hurts much less than when you’re tending to the wound, anyway. It’s almost soothing. After a moment he continues, a bit louder. “And that is not what I was saying. But I am completely comfortable asserting that it would be weird for you to be shirtless at work.”

The gentle touches contrast with his teasing words and serve to disorient you as you’re shaken back in to your usual dynamic. Which is markedly more sarcastic. 

“Well—”

Before you have to think of something to say, Spencer interrupts you. 

“Your, um—I think your… brassiere… is in the way.”

As soon as he says it you burst out laughing. It echoes through the room. 

“My brassiere? Are you actually 70 years old?”

His brows knit even tighter and his face gets very pink very quickly. He can’t meet your eyes over your shoulder. 

“That’s what it’s called.”

“Spencer, you may be the first person to use that word since 1952. Say bra.”

“I don’t want to,” he complains. Your laughter only grows as your head tips back. 

“Why? How is brassiere better than bra?”

“It’s—it’s too colloquial! I’m trying to be professional!”

“Call it a bra or I’m going to rub my dirty hands all over my back,” you threaten, adopting a poker face so he knows you mean business. His eyes widen immediately. 

“Oh my god! Bra! Do you want to introduce staph and meningitis and g—do not do that!”

“See? How hard was that?”

“I hate you,” he mumbles, face still flushed and adorable. “And you still have to take it off.”

“Excuse me?” you grin, pretending to be affronted because you know he didn’t mean it like that but it’s fun to pretend he did. Fun for you, of course. Not so much for him. He's utterly flustered by this point.

“Or at least undo it! It’s in the way.”

With a deeply bored sigh, you go to unclasp your bra—but as you go to do it your shirt drops down. You grimace, humor briefly forgotten as the fabric brushes the damaged skin. 

“I can’t—”

“Okay, just—I’ll do it,” Spencer says. “Just move your shirt again.”

So you do, watching his reflection as he works.

And you have not one joke to break the heavy silence with as you feel his knuckles gently pressing into the middle of your back, as he unclasps the bra with his characteristic tenderness and a surprising amount of agility. It’s quiet except for your pulse in your own ears as he carefully pushes it out of his way, holding it down with a hand to your rib cage and fingertips slipping just under the fabric of your shirt—unintentionally and certainly non-sexual, no doubt, but skimming under your heart in a way that still feels so intimate you’re realizing how touch-starved you are. 

“You do that often?” you find yourself asking, because you’re stupid, and you need to cool the tension before it chokes you, and you can’t help yourself even though you don’t actually want to know the answer. 

“I,” he begins, voice quiet as rustling paper, tongue darting over his lip and eyes narrowed. The sentence stalls as he focuses on placing the patch just so. “Do not think that is an appropriate workplace question.”

Something aches in the pit of your stomach. 

Something resembling jealousy. 

It was not the timid evasive linguistic maneuver of someone who is insecure about the thing they’re discussing. It was not the awkward fumbling no but I don’t want to tell you that which you were expecting from Spencer Reid. 

Nor is it an easy yes—an admission between friends. He doesn’t want to tell you. 

You swallow and try to act like yourself. 

“Yet here you are, in the woman’s restroom at our place of employment, undoing my bra. I think we’re past professionalism.”

“When you decontextualize it like that it sounds like something it’s not. This is professional, because I’m helping you with a wound you sustained on the job. I’m being a good colleague.”

Your lips twist into a smile he can’t see. 

“A great colleague would kiss it better.”

“It's almost like you want me to file a sexual harassment complaint with HR," he says through a little smirk as he smooths the bandage over. Before you can snip back, he steamrolls over his own teasing—you’ve both been speaking in almost reverent tones since he started but his voice loses the sarcastic edge from a second before and reverts back to concerned and sweet. “Does that feel okay?”

You rotate your shoulders best you can without letting go of your shirt or flashing the good doctor to check if it feels secure.  

“It’s good. And hey—if I were going to sexually harass you I would do a lot better than that. You think that’s my best material? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I keep so many inappropriate comments to myself. You’d be shocked by some of the things I have almost said to you.”

He laughs, secures the band of your bra and begins fitting it to the clasp you’d had it on—and at that precise moment Emily walks in. 

“H—woah.”

“It’s—I’m—I was helping her!” Spencer panics, immediately removing his hands from you like his palms are burning and holding them up defensively. 

“Oh, you helped me alright,” you tease, pulling your shirt back into place. 

“Don’t say it like that!” And then, to Emily, “I was changing out her bandage!”

“Changing my bandage,” you emphasize, winking more than is advisable. 

“That’s—this is a hostile work environment! I feel unsafe!” Spencer almost yells, half laughs, as he scampers towards the door. “I’m going to HR!”

“Shut up! You love it!”

His laughter audibly travels farther away for several moments as he presumably goes back down the hallway to do his actual job. 

You have the stupidest grin on your face, but you wipe it off when you notice Emily staring. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head and looking away, moving toward a stall. “You’re just… you guys are funny.”

“What do you mean funny?” You demand, standing right outside her stall as she closes it. 

“Wh—I mean funny! Are you going to listen to me pee, you weirdo?”

You frown. 

She makes a good point. 

Unfortunately, giving Hotch a more detailed statement is just as bad as you’d thought it’d be. Despite how cheery you’ve tried to remain about the whole situation, despite the way you insisted that the wound was so shallow you didn’t need more than a few days off work, despite the jokes you make about forgetting it’s even there because it’s on your back—it’s hard not to remember exactly how the glass felt twisting under your skin, how you’d felt suddenly so hot and lightheaded and sick to your stomach and the way Morgan hollered because he didn’t know how deep it had gone after you crumpled quick from shock, when you’re asked to describe it all in excruciating detail. 

It only takes ten minutes, but they seem to drag on and on and by the time you’re leaving Hotch’s office you feel utterly drained. You hurry back to your desk, covertly wiping away moisture that you refuse to allow to become tears. Once seated, and having dodged sympathetic looks and avoided any do you want to talk about its, you allow yourself a few deep breaths with your eyes shut. 

When you open them, you realize there’s a fresh cup of your favorite tea on your desk, in the Snoopy mug the team is always fighting over. Now his little black nose is covered by a square of yellow paper. You’re already smiling as you peel away the sticky note and hold it closer. 

On it is an adorably odd smiley-face, and a note in familiar, messy looping scrawl. 

I would never report you to HR beautiful

That would be a stab in the back!

You snort loudly and clap a hand to your mouth—but you’ve already drawn the attention of almost everyone in the bullpen. 

When you turn to look at Spencer, he’s not looking back. Instead, his eyes are firmly trained on his computer screen. But he’s got his chin propped on his fist over the desk, and his knuckles are doing a poor job of concealing a giant self satisfied grin. He is the only person on the team who knows you well enough to make such a distasteful joke. And he also knows you well enough to know that it would make you feel so much better after your meeting with Hotch than all the well-meaning sincerity in the world ever could.

Funny. 

Maybe that is the right word for what you two are. 

[pininghermit]

Duchess' Consort

Request: Loving your Tropovenia stories ❤️ I got, 'Against Parents'. Would you please write something about Adrian and modern reader with that prompt? 🥺

AN: Hello anon, I am glad you're enjoying my silly little event! I loved writing this and would have loved to add more bg but this event is for short stories so I tried my best. I hope you like it :)

Genre: drama & royalty au ish??

Pairing(s): Alucard x female Reader

Summary: “You will have to be my consort. You will not be given the title of duke. I will be the duchess. Our children will bear my family name. Yours will be forgotten. They will never quite treat you well. Your heritage will be scorned. Your lands will be absorbed by the duchy.”

“He’s a vampire!” your father roars, his face flushing red. It’s a familiar sight, one that mirrors your own anger. Apparently, temper ran strong in the family.

“And he’s a dhampir!” you snap back, marching toward him with equal fury.

The latest argument about your relationship had now passed the two-hour mark. You were both too stubborn to yield, two sides of the same damn coin. Exhaustion tugged at your shoulders, but neither of you would back down. Not yet.

With a huff of defeat, your father finally lowers himself into his chair, rubbing his temples. “You can’t just marry the son of Dracula,” he says, his voice weary but still carrying an edge of authority. “He’s no match for you.”

“We’re in love!” You slam a glass of water back, trying to swallow both the drink and your frustration. “And it’s not like I’m abandoning my duties. I’m still here. I’m still doing everything I’m supposed to. Isn’t that enough?”

Your father shakes his head slowly. “And what?” he retorts, his tone bitter. “Sully our bloodline with a half-vampire? You’d ruin everything. Do not make me regret not seeking another heir when I had the chance. Perhaps I should have remarried, like everyone insisted...”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and stinging. They lodge deep in your gut, twisting until your vision blurs with tears you refuse to let fall. You grit your teeth, clenching the glass in your hand so tightly you fear it might shatter.

“Worry not, Father,” you bite out through clenched teeth, your voice trembling with controlled rage. “I’ll be sure to have plenty of children with Adrian. Enough that I never have to suffer the same regrets you do!”

The room falls silent, your words hanging heavy in the air.

Your father glares up at you, his eyes hard but not without pain. He didn’t mean it, you know he didn’t. He loves you. He’s just afraid, trapped by his grief and his fears. You are all he has left of your mother, and her betrayal has carved a gaping void between the two of you. Making a weak man out of your father. One afraid of any and all gentleness.

“I will not give up on him,” you say quietly but firmly. “The duchy can deal with it. And if you can’t, Father…”

You take a deep breath, standing tall despite the tremor in your voice.

“Then I’m sure Uncle will be more than happy to step up as your heir.”

Your father’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of his brother, and you see the flash of panic before he quickly masks it with a glare. He doesn’t want to lose you, but he’s too proud to admit it. The two of you stare each other down, both unwilling to break first.

The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, your father sighs, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of years has finally caught up to him. "You’re just like your mother," he mutters under his breath.

“Thank you,” you reply curtly, turning on your heel. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You turn to leave the room before he can see the tears threatening to fall.

Once, being compared to your mother had cut deep. A wound to your pride, an insult whispered in the shadows of your childhood. The woman who abandoned her title, her duty, for the fleeting fantasy of love. The scandal had clung to you like a curse. A  constant reminder of your supposed weakness.

But not anymore.

“There are conditions.”

Your father’s voice cuts through your thoughts, halting you mid-step. His tone is cold, measured, calculated like a final move in a losing game.

“For him to be with you, there are rules he must obey.”

You turn back to face him, your heart tightening. His gaze is hard, filled with the last fragments of control he refuses to relinquish. This is his last attempt to bind you to his authority, to play his final pawn.

And yet, you stand straighter. You are not the child he once manipulated with fear and duty. Whatever terms he lays out, you will not falter.

“I’m listening,” you say evenly, crossing your arms as you meet his stare. You will not cower. Not for him, not for anyone.

“You will have to be my consort. You will not be given the title of duke. I will be the duchess. Our children will bear my family name. Yours will be forgotten. They will never quite treat you well. Your heritage will be scorned. Your lands will be absorbed by the duchy.”

Your voice remains steady, though each word feels like a blade against your heart. You stand with your back to him, your eyes fixed on the blooming garden outside the window.

“It is a terrible fate,” you continue quietly. “And I have nothing to give you. But I promise, should you take this foolish gamble, I will always be on your side. We will be equals beyond titles. Our children will grow up listening to your stories, to the tales of your people. Your lands will be cared for and passed on to our second-born, who shall inherit them.”

You pause, your thoughts momentarily drifting to a dream you dare not linger on too long. It’s easy, too easy, to imagine this future with Adrian. Despite your father’s endless demands, the vision takes root deep within you.

You can see it clearly: traveling to Castle Dracula with your children. Spending Yule together in the estates of your duchy. The dream feels achingly familiar, a warmth you are afraid to grasp.

Still, you steel your resolve, pushing the dream aside as you turn to face him.

“I cannot abandon my duties,” you say, the words final yet heavy with sorrow. “But you can leave. This life... it doesn’t have to be a fate you endure, Adrian.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. It stretches out like a chasm, each second a reminder of how deeply you’ve laid bare your vulnerability. You resist the urge to take the words back, to deny him the choice, to ease his decision with false comforts.

But no. A marriage built on lies and half-truths could not survive a harsh winter, let alone the storms your future would bring. He deserves the truth, as bitter as it is. You were prepared to lose him.

At least that’s what you told yourself.

You had rehearsed this moment countless times, steeling your heart for the inevitable. You imagined his hesitation, the disappointment clouding his eyes, and perhaps even a polite, resigned farewell. You had told yourself that you would understand. You had promised yourself you would let him go if that was his choice.

But now, as the silence stretches and your heart pounds louder than reason, you realize you were lying to yourself. You weren’t prepared. You never could be. The very thought of Adrian turning away feels like a blade pressing deep into your ribs, and you hold your breath, bracing for the worst.

Then he speaks, his voice so soft you almost miss it.

“My mother’s maiden name,” he says, his gaze fixed on the steaming cup of tea in his hands. He does not look at you, as though he needs the space to steady himself. “I want one of our children to carry it as their middle name.”

You blink, stunned into silence. Before you can respond, he continues.

“I do not care for titles,” he says, his voice firmer now, each word deliberate. “All I ask is that you do not take other partners. And that you allow me time... time to learn the ways of the household. I would hate to be anything less than worthy of you.”

He sets the teacup down with a quiet clink and steps toward you. His presence is steady as he takes your hands gently in his.

At last, Adrian lifts his gaze, and you see the depth of his conviction shining in his eyes. “I have no doubt that you will not let me be wronged,” he says softly. “My fate with yours will be one of happiness. And I would be the most foolish dhampir to ever walk this earth if I gave that up for anything else.”

A sharp breath escapes you, half-relief, half disbelief. His words fill the hollow ache that had settled in your chest, and for a moment, the dream you’d been holding at bay no longer feels so distant.

“Adrian...” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly.

“I have made my choice,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing tenderly over your knuckles. “And I will make it every day, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Tears blur your vision, but this time, you don’t try to hide them. Instead, you squeeze his hands tightly and offer him a smile that holds all the love and gratitude you cannot yet put into words.

One thing you know for certain: with Adrian by your side, you’ll be better parents than either of you ever had. With him, the weight of your duties will feel lighter. Together, you will make something beautiful out of all the broken pieces you were given.

“You are a miraculous idiot,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you throw your arms around him. You cling to him tightly, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Adrian lets out a warm chuckle, his chest vibrating gently against yours. “Marry me, maybe?” he teases softly, his arms pulling you even closer, as if he never intends to let go.

You laugh through your tears, swatting at his shoulder. “I suppose that can be arranged.”

[dollyswishingwell]

I love your page, aesthetic, and writings! May the wishing well grant all the LADS men when reader argues with them. Reader is feeling petty she gives them the silent treatment and sleeps in the living room. How would they react and coax her softly back to bed with them? Thank you.✨🫶🏻

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Wanna argue?

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, crack, i can’t imagine them seriously arguing with reader lol. they’re just men in love

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ Your feeling bored, petty even.

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafayel doesn’t even remember what the argument was about. Something dumb. Something petty. Something you started because you were bored and looking for a little drama to spice up your afternoon.

He’d narrowed his eyes in that usual amused way, tilted his head like, Oh? So we’re doing this now? And you’d flounced away with a dramatic sigh, declared you were “SO done,” and relocated yourself to the guest bedroom.

Which would be funny, if it didn’t kill him.

At first, he thinks you’re joking. A little pout, a little fake mad face. So he humors it. He waits. Hangs around the hallway, fingers tapping against the doorframe.

“…You’re not really mad, right?” he finally calls. “You just wanna see how cute I get when I beg?”

No answer.

Now he’s nervous. This isn’t part of the usual script. There’s no teasing voice behind the door, no exaggerated sighs for attention. Just silence.

Rafayel presses his ear to the door. “You’re not allowed to give me the silent treatment,” he mumbles softly. “That’s cheating. You know I hate it…”

Still nothing.

So.

This is war.

—

Later that night, you’re curled up under the guest sheets with your back to the door, determined to “teach him a lesson.” You’re not even that mad anymore, just sleepy. A little smug. You’re waiting for him to cave.

And he does.

Soft footsteps. A tentative knock. Then… the creak of the door opening.

He doesn’t speak. He just stands there in the dim light of the hall, wearing his loose white shirt, hair a little messy, blue-and-pink eyes glassy with defeat.

Then, gently, he steps over, crouches by your bedside, and lays his cheek on the mattress beside your hip.

“…I can’t sleep without you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and baby-soft. “I keep reaching over and you’re not there. I keep thinking you’ll crawl back in. But you’re being so mean, pretty girl…”

Your lashes flutter. You pretend to ignore him.

He lets out a breath. “Okay. Okay. You win, fine. I’ll say it.” He lifts his head just enough to kiss your arm through the blankets. “I’m sorry for whatever dumb thing I said that made you mad. Even if I’m right. Especially if I’m right.”

You stifle a smile.

“I’ll build you a bigger vanity. I’ll buy you new gowns. I’ll let you pick what I wear tomorrow and sit in my lap when i paint. Just… come back to bed?”

Still, you don’t move.

So he does the unthinkable.

He whines. Soft. Needy. Heartbroken.

“…You’re my pillow princess. My real-life fairytale. I need my bedtime cuddles. I need you to drool on my shirt and trap my legs and complain about my cold feet.”

You turn slowly to face him, raising a brow. “…Cold feet?”

His eyes sparkle, hooked. “Mm. So cold. Miserable, really. I think I’m dying.”

You roll your eyes. “…Maybe you should’ve thought of that before being a brat.”

He beams. There she is.

“Then come punish me, baby,” he whispers, swooping in and nuzzling against your tummy like a kicked puppy. “You can call me names. Make me beg. Just don’t exile yourself like this. My bed feels like a coffin without you.”

Finally, you sigh, dramatic and tired. “Fine.”

He scoops you up bridal-style before you can change your mind. You squeal, swat at him half-heartedly.

“Didn’t say you could carry me—!”

“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” he purrs, already padding barefoot down the hallway with you wrapped in his arms.

When he drops you onto your shared bed and curls tightly around you, he sighs like he’s finally at peace.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into your hair. “Don’t leave me again. Or I’ll cry.”

You smirk sleepily. “No you won’t.”

“…Try me.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You hadn’t even meant to make it a thing. You were just feeling bored. Playful. Maybe even a little bratty. So when Zayne made that dry little comment about your “third outfit change before dinner,” you gasped, scandalized, and declared that you were spending the night elsewhere.

“A true queen,” you announced, silk robe billowing as you stormed off, “does not sleep beside critics.”

He blinked. “…You’re being dramatic.”

“Yes, I am,” you snapped. “And you’ll miss me.”

Now it’s nearly midnight. And you were right.

Because Zayne is pacing down his hallway like a storm in dress pants, no tie, robe hanging open, hair slightly mussed. He’s searched three of the guest bedrooms already.

All of them pristine. All of them empty.

The man is fuming. Not at you, never truly at you, but at the absurdity of this game. The mansion is too damn big. The house too quiet. The silk sheets too cold without your warm body burrowed into them like you always do.

He checks another room. Empty. Again. His jaw tightens.

“…Princess?” he calls softly, more gentle than he means to be. “You done sulking yet?”

No answer. Just silence.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re lucky I love you,” he mutters under his breath. “This is ridiculous.”

Finally, finally, he opens the fifth guest room. And there you are.

Asleep. Curled up like a smug little kitten beneath the expensive throw blankets. Looking all innocent. Angelic. Your robe half-fallen off your shoulder and your cheek smushed against the pillow.

Zayne exhales like he’s just found a missing patient. Runs a hand through his hair.

Then he steps inside. Quietly. Like you’re a wild animal he’s trying not to scare off.

He kneels beside the bed. Brushes his fingers against your temple.

“You win,” he murmurs. “You made your point. Loud and clear.”

You stir slightly. But keep your eyes closed. Just enough to make him keep talking.

He lets out a tired chuckle. “What, do I need to beg now? Give a heartfelt apology at your bedside like I’m auditioning for some palace drama?”

You sniff quietly, still feigning sleep. He sees right through it.

He exhales again and leans down, brushing a kiss to your forehead.

“…Come back to bed, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and warm now. “You don’t belong out here like some pouting exile. I missed you. I always do, even when you’re in the next room.”

You blink your eyes open. Look up at him, half-lidded and smug. “Took you long enough.”

Zayne narrows his eyes. “You were testing me.”

“And you passed,” you hum sweetly. “Barely.”

He sighs through a crooked smile. “You’re impossible.”

And without another word, he lifts you up, bedding and all, into his arms like a surgeon retrieving something very precious. You let out a sleepy giggle as he carries you back to the master bedroom.

“Zaynie—”

“Quiet.” His voice is dry. But there’s a hand on your back, another cradling your thighs. “You’re not allowed to hide from me in my own house again. I’ll install GPS trackers in every blanket if I have to.”

You just hum and curl up against his chest. “Mm. You do love me.”

He presses a kiss into your hair. “God help me, I do.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You didn’t go far. You didn’t even mean to actually upset him. You were just being pouty, petty, maybe feeling a little under-pampered after he dozed off mid-conversation again.

So you decided: Fine. He can nap by himself tonight.

You tiptoed into the guest room next door. Crawled under the covers with your favorite blanket and a dramatic sigh.

You assumed he’d be too asleep to notice.

You were wrong.

—

The softest knock. A pause. Then a barely-there voice:

“…Are you mad at me?”

It’s him.

You don’t answer. Not yet. You want to see what he’ll do.

There’s a beat. Silence. Then:

“…I woke up and you weren’t there.”

Still, you stay quiet, pretending to be asleep.

You hear him step inside anyway. Quietly. He walks like a shadow, barefoot, half-dressed, silver hair slightly rumpled, his loose robe slipping off one shoulder. He stops just beside the bed.

“…I checked every room,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “But I already knew you were here. The pillows still smelled like you. And your side of the bed was cold.”

You crack an eye open, just slightly.

He looks tired. Genuinely tired. Like he’s been drifting between rooms for hours, even though it’s only been twenty minutes.

He lowers himself slowly to his knees beside the bed.

“Don’t go far like that again,” he whispers. “I know it’s just the next room. I know I’m being unreasonable. But…”

His voice catches. His fingers brush the edge of the blanket.

“…When I can’t feel you next to me, it feels like I’ve lost something important. Like I forgot how to sleep.”

You blink fully awake now, staring down at him. “Xavi—”

“I don’t know how to be mad back,” he adds, barely audible. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say when you leave. So I just wait. And hope you come back.”

The silence stretches. Then you lift the blanket wordlessly.

He moves instantly, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind, and climbs in beside you, wrapping himself tightly around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“…You smell like my side of the bed,” he mumbles. “I missed that.”

You hum softly. “You didn’t even give me time to miss you.”

He kisses your collarbone like an apology. “I know.”

A pause. Then quieter:

“Just… if you need space again, take me with you.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You were just bored. Petty. Spoiled.

He made some offhanded quip while reviewing blueprints over dinner, and you, feeling particularly princessy, decided that would not stand.

So you stood up. Tossed your napkin onto the table like a socialite.

“I’m sleeping elsewhere tonight.”

Sylus just quirked a brow. “Am I meant to be punished?”

You didn’t answer. You simply turned and sauntered off, hips swaying. A strategic retreat to the east wing guest suite. Lavish, unused, and chilly without him.

You expected him to follow.

He didn’t.

Not immediately.

—

Now it’s nearly midnight. You’re under three blankets, curled up like a tiny sulking princess. And you’re waiting.

Then, finally, the lock clicks.

You don’t move. But your heart flutters.

Sylus steps inside slowly, as if entering enemy territory. His black silk shirt is still half-unbuttoned from earlier. His sleeves are rolled up. His voice is dangerously calm:

“…So this is where my little wife has exiled herself.”

You don’t reply. You just give him your back.

He pauses. Stares. Smiles, very faintly.

“I see,” he murmurs. “A full siege.”

Another moment. Then, his shoes hit the floor with two soft thuds. The bed dips as he sits beside you. His hand brushes your shoulder.

“Princess.”

No response.

“You’re angry.”

Still nothing.

“…Or you’re playing.” His tone turns low. Knowing. “You want me to crack.”

You hear him chuckle under his breath. A sound so warm and dangerous it sends a chill up your spine.

Then, he kneels.

He kneels beside the bed, one hand gripping your blanket, the other sliding gently beneath it to find your waist. His lips press to your bare shoulder.

“…You win, baby,” he murmurs. “I surrender.”

You finally roll over, just enough to look down at him. Eyes half-lidded. “Say it.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Say what?”

“Beg.”

A pause. He licks his teeth. Breathes in slow. And then, so softly, he obeys.

“Please come back to bed,” he says, voice like velvet soaked in wine. “I can’t sleep when you’re gone. I don’t want to sleep without you. I hate it.”

Another kiss to your arm.

“I miss the way you droop over me like a spoiled kitten. I miss your whining. I miss your heat. I miss the way you steal the pillows.”

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. “Mmm… not enough.”

He looks up at you, eyes blood-red and glinting like low flame. And then, so quietly it makes your throat tighten:

“Please, my love. Come back to me.”

The air goes still.

You lift the blanket in silence.

He doesn’t smirk this time. Doesn’t tease. He just slides into bed beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms like you’re something sacred.

He exhales shakily against your neck. “You’re cruel when you’re bored.”

You smile. “And you love it.”

He kisses your throat. “I do.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

It starts like usual.

A little playful argument after dinner. Some mock whining. You teasing him about being bossy, him calling you his “loud little gremlin.”

But tonight you don’t stay for the usual kiss-and-cuddle ending.

Nope. You roll your eyes, toss your hair over your shoulder, and waltz off with a lazy, “I’m sleeping alone tonight.”

At first? Caleb grins.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, real dramatic,” he calls after you. “Don’t forget your stuffed bunny, Your Majesty.”

But you don’t respond.

You don’t come back.

Ten minutes pass.

Then twenty.

He’s not grinning anymore.

He’s pacing. Hands on his hips, brows furrowed, glancing at the hallway like it insulted him personally.

“…You really left?” he mutters to himself. “Wait. That wasn’t a bit?”

You’re curled up in one of the guest bedrooms, sipping juice like a smug little gremlin, flipping through your tablet and waiting for the inevitable: Caleb’s dramatic reappearance.

It takes exactly 38 minutes.

The door bursts open. He stands in the frame like a man on a mission. Disheveled. Betrayed.

One sock on. One sock off. Shirt untucked. Face full of outrage.

“You abandoned the bit,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, perfectly innocent. “What bit?”

“Our thing!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly. “You brat, I tease, you yell, I chase, you pout, I smother you in kisses, we roll into bed, boom! domestic bliss! And you—” he points an accusing finger, “just walked away! Like you don’t know the rules!”

You sip your juice. “Maybe I’m rewriting them.”

He gasps. Like you slapped him. “You’re rebelling.”

“Maybe.” You roll over, half-buried in the blanket now. “Maybe I’m just bored of you.”

He blinks. Takes a full step back. Looks dramatically wounded. Then:

“Oh, it’s on.”

He strides forward and, without warning, picks you up like a bratty little sack of defiance.

You yelp. “Caleb—!”

“No. You don’t get to declare war and then nap your way through it,” he growls, tossing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. “You wanna be difficult? Great. I’ll tuck you in my way.”

He storms back down the hallway, muttering the whole time. “Bored of me. Rewriting the rules. What next, you join a rebellion? Start a pillow coup? Marry my second-in-command? Huh?!”

You’re cackling now, absolutely delighted. “You’re so dramatic.”

He kicks the bedroom door open. “You started it.”

Then he drops you gently on the bed, climbs in after you, and traps you in a tight, warm hold like you’re something precious.

You try to wiggle. “You’re clingy.”

He growls against your neck. “You’re mine.”

“…Fine,” you whisper, sinking into him. “But I’m still mad.”

“Good,” he mumbles, kissing your jaw. “I like you mad. Gives me an excuse to hold you hostage.”

You pout. “I’m serious.”

He just hums and starts tracing your waist lazily. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll bribe you in the morning. Right now? You’re staying right here. Try leaving again and I’ll sleep in every doorway until you give in.”

And you believe him.

Because you know he would.

[oceantornadoo]

the ex-wife chronicles pt.1 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

masterlist | next

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John Price loves Kate Laswell. She’s like an older sister to him, a brusque sort of bond built by survival and betrayal.

He hates one thing about her: how much she loves her wife.

“You’re takin’ leave?” John huffs into the speak of his phone, his shoulder pressing it into his ear. “Soap’s going to be recovering for months, and Ghost with him. Our main enemy is dead. I was offered two months of leave as compensation for the past year so yes, John, I am taking leave so I can actually see my wife for more than a meal.” John sighs discontentedly, already knowing this means he’ll have to be interacting with others who don’t understand his team. It’s a sneaky mistake he tries to slip into the conversation, testing the waters.

“Not that my men won’t enjoy the two months of leave-” Kate cuts him off with a chuckle. Damn it. “I’m assigning a temporary contact for you. I trust her with my life and I think you will too. She will be giving me updates every week.” John sighs again like a disappointed grandfather. “She’s experienced in managing field trauma as well, so she’ll be like a field therapist but with my clearance. The higher-ups were shaken by Soap getting shot and reassurance that the team will exist in six months. She’ll help Ghost reacclimate, Soap recover, and put you and Gaz back together. Lord knows you need it.” John really can’t deny that. The shell-shocked look that hides behind Gaz’s eyes every time he enters the hospital. Simon sits vigil at Johnny’s bedside, scaring off the most seasoned doctors with one glare. John doesn’t even want to know what he looks like since he’s only shaved once since Johnny got shot three weeks ago. It’s like penance since one of his men almost died. “You sayin’ we’ll have two months of team bonding while you fuck off on your honeymoon?” He can hear a smile in Kate’s tone as she replies, “We’re calling it a vow renewal. I’ll send you a postcard.”

The next ten minutes are spent reading emails about the logistics of this ‘team-bonding’. Compulsory group activities made for specialized military teams. None of that holding-hands bullshit but real strategies to use on and off the field. Breathing techniques, yoga, massages, visualization techniques, while reacclimating them to a battlefield. Each team member will be assigned a different therapist and the woman Laswell is sending will be ensuring that therapy is attended. Laswell still hasn’t sent over the personnel file, something about ‘not wanting to ruin the surprise’ which John only grunted at, watching the end of his cigar burn closer and closer to his hand. The spark of him reminds him of the bullet-hole in Johnny’s head, a starburst of destruction. Maybe a little therapy wouldn’t hurt.

“She gets there tomorrow. She’ll be staying on base and in your section of housing, easier access for emergencies.” What emergencies? The constant nightmares that bleed into John’s days? “We don’t have an extra room.” Kate’s silent for a second. “Soap-” “Is off limits. Jesus, Kate.” She’s silent and he can hear her flipping through files, likely looking at the base’s layout. “Actually, I have a better idea. The isolation housing.” It’s usually used as punishment for unruly recruits, a bit like that Parent Trap movie his nieces used to watch. Ex-nieces.

Four bedrooms with a shared bathroom, updated plumbing but an isolated location. Perfect for forcing soldiers who don’t like each other together until they’re used to the smell of each other’s shit. Unfortunately perfect for two months of team bonding. “There’s no office.” Kate snorts at his protest. “Use Ghost’s. He’s required to show up but it’s not like he’ll be sleeping there. I bet he won’t even step foot into the room.” John sighs in defeat at her solution. A part of him knows his team needs this but it irks him, knowing they’re going to be fattened up like chickens just to be slaughtered the moment they’re able to fight. It doesn’t escape them that this is an investment that requires results. More time off means they’re expected to come back polished like new, shoving the memory of Johnny getting shot into a corner and compartmentalizing. Christ, that’s dark, even for him.

“Fine.” Kate hums. “She’ll be there at 0800 tomorrow. If you want to be a good host, I’d make sure the barracks are ready by tonight.” John murmurs his goodbye and wonders how the hell he’s supposed to get his team to report for duty tomorrow.

-

“Sir.” Heart machines beep in the background on Simon’s side of the call. John slides a hand down his desk, tracing the wood grain as he imagines the phantom pain the man is going through. “How’s Soap?” He can hear a ruffling of fabric, like Simon’s masked head is turning to confirm Johnny exists before replying. “They’re sayin’ it was a graze but the shock waves caused more damage.” Right. The image John sees every night, that of a gaping wound in Johnny’s head, is not actually true. The bullet only grazed, due to the reflexes of his sergeant, but all the blood at the scene made it look much worse. Doctors didn’t even need to do surgery, just a worrying amount of tests and shock at Johnny’s ability to survive. John knows all this information of course, but he also knows Simon needs to keep saying it to remind himself that it’s true.

“He starts therapy in a week.” John replies. Simon grunts. This timeline was suggested by the doctors but John has now confirmed it, something he knows Simon hates. “When he starts, you’re expected back on base.” Simon does not sputter. He’s not built for it. However, John knows the man enough to hear the instinct of doing so in the back of the man’s throat. When Simon doesn’t hang up, John continues. “We’re not gettin’ shipped out for a while. As long as you’re on base durin’ the day, I don’t care where you’re sleepin’. The PT facility is only a 15 minute drive from base.” Translation: I don’t care that you’re sleeping with Johnny. The biggest concession John can make without acknowledging it, something he knows Simon will hate. The speaker crackles, Simon muffling it with a gloved hand. He can imagine the man turning to Johnny, the two conversing in that language only they know. Finally, the speaker becomes clear. “See you in seven days, sir.” John says goodbye and the line cuts.

He dials Gaz next. Although the call connects instantly, he imagines the signal traversing north to Lancashire, where Gaz decided to take off after they were all given personal leave. His family home, not his usual flat in London. A choice John would make as well, if he had a family home to go back to. Not a tragedy like Simon but simply…unattached. His parents died from old age a few years ago and he was the only child of two only children. He’d gone back to his own London flat, but memories of his men playing poker in his living room, Johnny laughing and happy, had been too haunting.

“Sir?” Gaz greets him apprehensively. “Alrigh’, Gaz?” The man pauses, the check-in catching him off-guard. John mentally notes that’s a reaction he doesn’t want in the future. Something to bring up at this godforsaken team bonding experience. “Yessir.” He keeps going when John doesn’t say anything, trying to drag a response out of the sergeant. “Bit of rest and relaxation. Been checkin’ in with Soap when Ghost picks up his phone.” John hums, eyes flicking back to the team bonding itinerary in front of him. “Rest’s over, Gaz. There’s a flight for you at your old airfield. It’ll take off in four hours, 0800 sharp.” Four hours, the most he could give Gaz for some goodbyes, a sorely needed morale boost for the next few months. “Thank you, sir. See you soon.” For the second time today, John hangs up on a call he didn’t want to make.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of paperwork. John scrounges up a pre-wrapped sandwich from mess and eats it with two-fingers of whiskey. A feast fit for a king. Sleep overtakes him in fits and starts, a reminder that he needs a clear mind for tomorrow is the only reason he forces himself to slow his breathing and give in.

-

Gaz arrived late last night. They watch a helicopter land at exactly 0805, wind whipping around their jackets as they squint in the morning sun. Their hats do almost nothing to block it. A few familiar faces hop off, men who tagged along in the flight from the Manchester base back to London. It’s only after they clear the area that you emerge.

Standard base gear with a black hoodie thrown over your t-shirt to wear off the morning chill. You’ve got sunglasses on, blocking the glare that’s sent John squinting. It’s only when you pull them off your face and into the crown of your hair does John realize who he’s looking at.

It’s been ten years since he saw his ex-wife. He did not expect a reunion on a spring Tuesday morning.

John’s well-trained enough to swear in a low tone that doesn’t catch Gaz’s ears. The man has a sunny smile on his face, his hand stuck out for a handshake. “You must be Kyle Garrick.” You say, stopping in front of the men as you shake Gaz’s hand firmly. “Got our files memorized already, Doc?” You laugh, a sharp, tinkling sound that sends an almost-shiver down John’s spine. “No,” you pause to look John up and down, “call it process of elimination.” You don’t bother to shake his hand. Instead, you wait until your eyes catch and nod, like you are cordial colleagues. Like you weren’t his wife once upon a time (it was only a year, his brain whispers). John tips his hat and turns to lead you back to the isolation barracks. In the background, he can hear Gaz recovering well, asking questions about the flight and how you know Kate.

John gives a half-hearted tour, a hard feat to complete when he refuses to meet your eyes. There’s mainly a lot of gesturing and grumbling about how this won’t be a spot to frequent since you’re getting moved to the other barracks. John feels out of character, particularly moody on what was supposed to be a new start of a day. Instead, you, the woman he hasn’t thought about for years (well, maybe a little bit), is at his heels, expected to be his new boss.

The walk to the barracks takes half an hour. Gaz offered to take your bag and now he’s paying for it, his shoulder slumping as he carries the pile of bricks. If John still knew you, he would guess there’s a few of your well-worn books in there. But he doesn’t (know you, that is), so he pretends his sergeant needs to up his bicep routine. How should he kill Kate Laswell? Maybe not answer her calls until she shows up at base so he can get the drop on her. Or show up on her vow renewal vacation and dress her down in front of her wife. All terrible ideas, spun to distract him from the fact that you are hiking a grassy hill a meter behind him, about to enter your new cohabitated home for the next two months. And share a bathroom.

“Christ, Captain, they couldn’tve given it a new paint job?” The gray paint outside the building is flaking, but at least it’s updated inside. John guides them in, pointing out room assignments. You pass by him in a whiff of a new perfume scent he hasn’t smelled and silent outrage, a deadly combination. “Fancy a tea, sir?” John’s about to shake his head until he remembers. He rounds the hallway of bedrooms into the small kitchen, where empty shelves sit. “Looks like we need a restock, Sergeant.” Gaz sighs. John fishes out the new Visa Laswell sent over as part of their ‘bonding budget’. “Don’t steal from mess, go to the store.” It’s at least an hour trip to the parking lot, the shops, and back. Enough time for an argument with his ex-wife, hopefully. Gaz looks a little dazed at the sudden power in his hands. “How much can I buy, sir?” Ghost may love his tea but Gaz is obsessed with candy, always trying a new kind whenever they’re deployed. Somehow, the kid still has perfect teeth. Also, John is still mad at Laswell. “Whatever catches your eye, Sergeant.” He’s gone in a flash, the front door banging on the way out as he yells ‘thank you, sir’ over his shoulder. John sighs.

He finds you in your bedroom, predictably pulling out books from your go-bag. Your shoulders tense when he purposefully stomps up to your doorframe, waiting. You speak at the same time.

“Look, I didn’t know-”

“I don’t know what Laswell told you but-”

You stop at the same time as well, glaring at each other from opposite sides of the room. He gestures at you to go first, a gentleman move that has you rolling your eyes. “I didn’t know it was your team. I owed Laswell a favor and didn’t have anything on my docket, so when she said she needed me to piece some men back together, I volunteered for the challenge.” He takes you in as you talk. The confidence in your squared shoulders is new, no longer faked. Your hairstyle is different as is your makeup, a fact that shouldn’t surprise him. The only thing that stays the same is the bracelet at your wrist, a slim sentimental piece of metal. 

“That what you do now? Piece men back together?” You shrug, turning away from him to unpack. “You know I was never meant to be a regular field doctor. I’ve got both my security clearance and psychiatry background - it’s a unique combination. I get to pick my cases without a lot of paperwork and without worrying whose war I’m fighting. I like what I do.” The message is clear. You are morally above John and you’re proud of it, a fact he sees in your now-relaxed shoulders. You stack books near your bedside, then toss a bag of toiletries on the freshly-made bed. Turning back around to face him, you cross your arms and raise your eyebrows. At least your frustrated look hasn’t changed.

“We gonna have a problem, John? I thought you were a Captain, all professional.” He edges closer into the room, crossing some invisible barrier. “No problem. I’m capable of burying a decade-old history.” You huff, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. It’s you and him for a second, staring. Not reminiscing but remembering. The ghosts of your past fights, long dead and forgotten, are suddenly brought back to life with one blink. Meeting when you were both young and dumb, a whirlwind engagement, an angst-filled marriage. The whole process of it is a two-year blip in his memory from nearly ten years ago. No prenup but no shared assets either, everything you both were and are belonging to the military. Like knocking two dolls together and being disappointed when nothing forms between them.

He only thinks about your marriage when he’s drunk. Drunk and alone. Drunk and with a pretty thing under him, only to blink and remember what you felt like.

Other than that, he doesn’t think about his failed marriage.

John sticks his hand out and you take it. Miraculously, your hand is not as callused as his and he wants to ask why, how you don’t bear the scars of sewing soldiers back together, occasionally pricking your own thumb and watching it bleed. The moment is gone when you let go.

-

a few things

i will not be doing a taglist, they stress me out

this has been in my drafts for weeks, i have one more chapter written but don't expect timely updates

this is mainly going to be fast-burn bc they have a history and i get impatient if there's no smut

no clue how long this is going to be but pls enjoy!

tag: fic: formerly mrs. price

[inkdrinkerworld]

Maybe Spencer is having a bad BAD day, full on ptsd, and sunshine!reader is trying hard to cheer him up. It gets to a point where Spmcer just snaps and says something mean and starts a fight

Spencer can feel the bars around him. He feels trapped in his own mind because he can see that he isn’t in prison anymore, but his brain has been conjuring these vivid dreams of him being back and of Shaw sending men to beat him up.

Every night, the dreams end with Spencer never being found not guilty and him having to spend five years in prison and his eventual death from Shaw’s men.

He’s gasping and shaking and there’s a sweat spot on his sheets. He apologises every morning, you tell him it’s okay and that you’re here to talk. He never wants to talk about it and you never push.

He doesn’t sleep the rest of the night and it makes him irritable.

When he comes into work, you try not to internalise the way he brushes you out of his path as he beelines for the coffee pot.

“I already put your cup on your desk. With breakfast.” You try to temper your cheeriness when you notice the way his shoulders tense.

Spencer wants to be grateful, but all he can think is, ‘I can do it myself. I can take care of myself.’

He doesn’t say anything, not a quiet thanks, not even a half smile.

Your nerves are frayed immediately.

You don’t know what Spencer experienced in prison, he’s told you bits and pieces, the nicer parts of living in a 4 x 4.

Yet, you know the signs of PTSD and as the day drags on, you’re almost certain Spencer’s having a rough go of things.

He’s been snappy with Luke, nice with Penelope, and then flippant with you all over again. It’s hard not to feel like nothing you do is helping.

“We could go out to get lunch. From the place you like, the burger joint.” Spencer’s been slipping in and out of this conversation and the longer he hears your sweet voice, the more it sounds like chalk grating a blackboard.

At his silence, “Or we could order in? Whatever helps, Spence.”

Suddenly, his coffee cup is shattering in the wall behind your head and Spencer’s chest is racing. “Stop!” You feel hot tears prick behind your eyes at being yelled at; at work no less.

“It would help if you weren’t fucking hovering all the damn time. I can take care of myself, I don’t need your help. As a matter of fact, I don’t want your help. Go find someone else to be happy go lucky with, some of us can’t stand it.”

Your breath hitches, you’ve never heard Spencer speak with such venom. You reach a hand to your cheek pulling it away to find blood on your fingertips. Spencer must see it too because he’s on his feet, reaching for you as you step away from his outstretched hands.

You try to remind yourself that he’s just reeling, that he’s been having a rough couple of nights, that this will pass and that you don’t need to be mean to him too. “Fuck you Spencer.” The words are out of you before you can think about it much more. It’s honestly the nicest thing you could muster right now, embarrassment and defeat hot in your chest.

Emily and Matt rush in, finding Spencer tugging at his hair. Emily sighs as she sees the broken mug, Matt sighs as he notes your missing presence.

“Fucking stupid.” Spencer murmurs to himself, pushing back his chair, digging around in his desk for a first aid kit. “I’ll come back and clean it up,” no one is really listening. Emily will do this for him while he cleans up his other mess.

Spencer finds you in the bathroom with Penelope cleaning the little shards from your hair and cheek.

She glares at him and Spencer feels even worse; to top it off you don’t even look at him, just at his shoes.

“I’ll finish it, Garcia.” She stills, not knowing what to do. As she looks at you, you give her a little nod and she leaves, rubbing your back as she goes.

Spencer doesn’t approach you for some time, standing there like you’re the one who exploded and he’s waiting for another shout.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, taking up the tweezers Penelope left behind and reaching for your cheek. Spencer cradles your face gently as he picks the shards out. “I shouldn’t have thrown the mug, or said any of what I said.”

You don’t say anything, letting him continue. “You don’t hover, and I love that you’re always smiling and happy. It’s not an excuse but my dreams are really getting to me, but I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.”

You offer Spencer your other hand. You weigh your words, “No you shouldn’t have. I understand that some of what happened while you were in prison is too hard to talk about, but you need to talk to someone Spencer. You can’t just throw things and scream and then shut people out.”

He nods, “Luke recommended me to a psychiatrist for people suffering from PTSD, but I guess I felt like going would be me admitting that things there got to me.”

You sigh, “I’m not sure if I can do this if you’re going to shut me out and be violent like that.” At Spencer’s panicked eyes you continue. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but this unchecked shit is going to. Whether you mean for it to or not.”

Spencer opens the first aid kit and swipes at your cheek gently, grateful that it hadn’t been a deep cut. Still he knows the silver scar it’s going to leave will eat at him forever.

“I made an appointment for tomorrow at nine.” He mumbles, worry and dread eating at his stomach. “I know it might take a bit for you to trust me again-“

You roll your eyes, “I do trust you. I trust that you’ll go to therapy, use all the tools given to you and cue me in when things are too hard. I trust that you won’t do this again Spencer. I’m not going to punish you for having an off day.”

Tears spring to his eyes unconsciously, “You don’t want to leave? Because I’d understand if you wanted to.”

You kiss his wrist, “No I don’t want to. I know you’re going to get better, but if there’s a next time, Spencer I’m not staying.”

“There won’t be a next time, I swear.” He kisses right under your injured cheek, tender and soft.

[undiagnosedcruelty]

The Cat Test

Pairing: bf!l.minho x GenderNeutral!reader

Summary: Because dating Minho means dating his cats, too.

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Genre: fluff, crackfic

Content Warnings: chaotic cats, fluff, established relationship.

Word Count: 923

A/N: I was craving fluff and chaos while writing this💗

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EVERYTHING WRITTEN IS PURELY FICTION ───NOTHING DIRECTLY RELATES TO ANY REAL LIFE EVENTS.

You had been dating Minho for a few weeks now, and tonight was finally the night.

Not a big, dramatic event. Not an elaborate date. Just… a cozy, peaceful night in. You had been mentally preparing for this—picturing the scene in your head like a Pinterest-worthy romantic moment. You’d both curl up under a blanket, Minho’s arm wrapped securely around you as some random movie played in the background. Maybe he’d absentmindedly run his fingers through your hair, and you’d pretend not to melt at how sweet he was.

Calm. Cute. Cuddly.

At least… that was the plan.

What you had not accounted for was the fact that Minho’s apartment was a certified war zone.

The moment you step inside, expecting warm lighting and a cozy couch, you are instead met with absolute, unfiltered chaos.

A blur of fur shoots past your legs with enough force to nearly knock you over. Something crashes in the next room. In the background, you hear the ominous scritch-scratch of claws against fabric, and when you look up—

Dori. Hanging from the curtains like a tiny, fluffy demon, his eyes locked onto yours with unsettling intensity. His tiny legs kick as if he’s about to drop down at any moment.

A reasonable person might leave.

A reasonable person might fear for their life.

But you are not reasonable.

You are a new partner, desperately trying to impress your boyfriend.

"Uh…" you start, carefully stepping inside. "...Should I be concerned?"

From the couch, Minho��completely unbothered by the madness—looks up at you with a lazy smirk, sipping his tea like he’s in a peaceful countryside cottage instead of a battlefield.

“They’re just saying hi,” he replies.

You cautiously take another step in, eyes flicking around as you assess the situation. It does not look safe.

Another loud thud echoes from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of something shattering.

"...Are you sure?"

Minho just shrugs. “Welcome to my world.”

Despite the growing fear that this would not, in fact, be a chill and relaxing evening, you make your way toward the couch, dodging an unidentified flying object (which you later realize was just a sock Doongie had launched into the air).

You barely sit down before Soonie appears out of nowhere and claims your lap as his throne.

Your heart melts immediately.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, resisting the urge to cry. “He chose me.”

Minho, watching with amusement, raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t get too excited,” he warns. “He’s a little—”

Too late. The second you move your hand to pet him, Soonie’s eyes darken. Then, in the blink of an eye—he’s gone.

Just… vanished.

Like a ghost.

You blink at the now-empty space on your lap. Then at Minho. Then back at your lap.

"...What just happened?"

Minho snorts. "He played you."

Betrayal.

“Here,” Minho says suddenly, tossing you a bag of cat treats. His smirk turns devilish. “You do it.”

You catch the bag and hesitate. This feels like a trap. But you’re determined. You’re new to this relationship, and you refuse to be defeated by a few tiny, adorable creatures.

With all the confidence of a person who has no idea what’s coming, you crinkle the bag.

And then—everything changes.

The room, which had been filled with playful chaos, falls eerily silent. The air shifts.

Three pairs of glowing eyes snap toward you at the same time.

Then—

Absolute anarchy.

Dori launches himself off the curtain rod like some kind of possessed ninja. Soonie, despite previously acting like he doesn’t care, is suddenly inches from your face. And Doongie? Doongie has materialized from the void, tail flicking like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Before you can react──you are tackled.

The impact sends you falling backward in 0.2 seconds flat. Tiny paws scramble all over you. A chorus of urgent meows fills the air, demanding tribute.

Minho, from his place on the couch, watches you get devoured by his own personal army. His grin only widens as you accept your fate.

“I am their leader now,” you mumble from beneath the pile of fur.

Minho finally takes pity on you, reaching down to help you up. He casually brushes stray fur from your sweater, then boops your nose.

“You passed the test,” he hums. “They like you.”

You sigh, still winded. “Are you sure? Because I think I just got jumped.”

Minho chuckles. “If they didn’t like you, you wouldn’t be standing right now.”

Before you can question what that even means, he leans in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it catches you off guard, and suddenly, despite everything, your heart is fluttering.

Just as you begin to relax into the moment—

BAM.

Dori LAUNCHES HIMSELF onto Minho’s head like he’s been possessed by some ancient battle spirit. Minho yelps. You scream.

The cuddle session? Officially over.

Minho, with the patience of a man who has clearly been through this many times before, peels Dori off his face while muttering a string of curses. The cat clings to his sweater sleeve, refusing to let go.

You stare at the scene before you, taking a deep breath. Then, you simply shake your head.

“Yeah,” you mumble to yourself, “this is my life now.”

Minho glances at you, a soft smile playing at his lips. “Regrets?”

You turn to him, watching as he cradles Dori in one arm while swatting Soonie off the couch with the other.

“…Not even a little.”

[sttoru]

⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. your roommate, toji, can’t pay rent - again. he promises to pay you back soon, but you’re tired of his behaviour.

tags. (perv) roommate!toji fushiguro x female reader. smut, pōrn with plot kinda. dirty talk. rough. p in v -> unprotected. crēampie. fīngering. praise. reader gets called ‘princess, girl’. degrādation. toji’s a womaniser and asshole, like i’m talking dusty, manipulative asshole. unestablished relationship.

“that shit again?” toji rolls his eyes as he lazily switches between the channels on the television. he knows exactly what you’re going to say next. your complaining has a certain pattern that he’s picked up on.

he smacks his lips after being done with his snack. your snack - the one you put your name on before putting in the fridge. the dark-haired man shrugs, “i told ya, girl. i ain’t got the money this month.”

your head feels like it’s going to explode with anger. you know toji has the money. you saw him count the bills on his bed just yesterday, when you passed by his room to go to yours. “yeaaaah - gambled it all away, right?”

the usual excuse he uses. you’re sick and tired of hearing that for the nth time. it’s the same story every month. toji’s a lazy bastard. he’s living off your salary at this point. unapologetically.

“yep,” toji yawns, not even attempting to sound convincing, “got that right.” he knows you’re not going to do anything about it, so he takes advantage of that fact. you’re all bark, no bite.

you always tell him that you’re going to kick him out if he doesn’t pay, though you never take the action you swear on doing. toji has you wrapped around his finger and he knows.

even now, he notices the way you try not to look down at his body. his black shirt is slightly lifted, showing his happy trail that stops at the waistband of his boxers. the fact that he’s sitting on the couch with his legs spread only makes the sight more appealing.

“well, pack your bags then,” you cross your arms after succeeding into averting your attention to the problem at hand. you point at the door with a nod of your head, “i want you to leave by tonight.”

toji struggles to hold back a chuckle. he’ll play along for your sake and act upset by the situation. the tall man sighs and throws his hands up in defeat, trying to gain some pity, “aw, c’mon. have some mercy on me, yeah?”

you’re the one rolling your eyes this time. you’re not going to be naive about this anymore. you’re not going to fall into his trap. you stomp your way over to his room and grab the bag he uses for the gym, aggressively filling it with a bunch of his clothes.

“you’re going out,” you hiss as you walk back to your living room. you throw the filled bag at toji’s chest without hesitation. you know that you’re no match to a grown man, but you’re too fired up to care, “out. i don’t need some useless bum like you in my house.”

toji’s grin drops. his jaw clenches as he gets his bag thrown at him. you seem more serious about this. normally, you’d just cuss him out and lock yourself up in your room. you’re slowly breaking out of the helpless cycle you were in.

“move it,” you huff. your patience is wearing thin. you stand close to toji, your legs nearly touching. you’re towering over him as he sits on the couch, which gives you all the needed confidence. though if he were to stand up it’d be the exact opposite.

toji frowns and starts to realise that his usual manipulation tactics won’t work. he’s trying to think of other ways to distract you of your current dissatisfaction. some more… direct ways.

“you don’t mean that,” his voice turns husky. a real deep tone he only uses when he needs something out of a woman. toji’s veiny hand moves to the side of your thigh, slowly crawling up your skin while he gauges your reaction.

he’s never attempted distracting you in a sexual manner. perhaps now is the perfect moment to try out if it works.

your breath hitches as you feel his touch on your bare thigh. such a warm touch. you’re not going to act like toji hasn’t been attractive to you all this time. his cocky attitude is annoying, yes, but the nonchalance is also a huge turn on.

you’re in a daze. your rational mind is screaming at you to kick that man to the curb—to let him suffer the consequences of his actions—but you’re weak. you’ve sworn never to get involved with him intimately. you wouldn’t want to sleep with an asshole like him.

“do not,” your voice is shaky, revealing the truth behind your contradicting words. you can’t resist him and you’re slowly realising it. you don’t want to end up as all the other women toji’s charmed with his words and actions. you promised yourself that you wouldn’t fall for him.

and yet here you are.

“i can repay you in a different way, y’know?” toji hums, his other hand landing on your left thigh. he rubs your plush flesh up and down in a slow manner. his eyes watch yours intently. you’re nervous and it’s painfully obvious to him. he suppresses a victorious grin, “y’ sure you don’t wanna, princess?”

you’re as weak as they come. toji’s toying with you and you’re allowing it. you’re no different than those women he fucks every other day when he needs something from them. be it money or just stress relief.

you tremble as you feel his fingers graze against the insides of your thighs.

“i take the silence as a yes, hm?” toji chuckles haughtily. he cups the back of your thighs, just below your ass, pushing your body closer to his. you’re standing between his legs and his head is close to your chest. he looks up at you, “use y’r words f’me, pretty thing.”

your brain stops working. you’re so easy. all toji has to do is call you by those alluring names and you’re all his. his callused fingers stop at the hem of your shorts. they continue to sensually rub the material, inching closer to your clothed cunt.

“say you want it,” toji whispers, his raspy voice making your knees weak. you want it, but you’re stubborn enough to deny your desires. you’re throbbing, aching and wet for him. your eyes catch a glimpse of the bulge in his grey sweatpants.

“no, i won’t,” you try to keep your dignity, however you’re slowly losing it. it’s inevitable. you’re putty in his hands. you let out a high pitched whine when toji ‘accidentally’ slides his fingertips back and forth over your clothed pussy, “mgh—okay, okay. fuck—i want you. need you.”

you blurt the words out before you can stop them from leaving your mouth. you silently curse at yourself. your bodily desires have fully taken over. you hold onto toji’s broad shoulders, your grip on them so tight that it sends a shiver down his spine.

he knew that you’d give in sooner or later. the dark-haired man watches as you lower your head, placing it in the crook of his neck to hide yourself from him. he coos condescendingly—

“mhm. tha’s more like it,” toji wastes no time to pull your shorts down to your ankles. he licks his lips, breathing heavily against your bare shoulder. he can’t wait to take this further. he groans the moment your wetness makes contact with his hand, “shiiittt, she’s fuckin’ wet. bet you dreamt about this.”

your panties are discarded on the floor not a second later. you whine in embarrassment, though still spread your legs. you feel ashamed because of how quickly you gave in to his charms. you thought you’d be different, but alas.

your roommate is one hell of a womaniser.

“y’ think i don’t see those lewd looks you give me?”toji clicks his tongue. his green irises are shining brightly. he enjoys the feeling of your sloppy cunt against his bare hand. his thick fingers rub between your folds, teasing your entrance, “nasty little girl. got me wanting to fuck you silly every single time.”

the desire has been mutual all this time. you’ve been driving toji crazy since day one. the way you think you’re being subtle when checking him out never fails to make him hard. or when you walk around the apartment in those skimpy clothes—those shorts that define your ass so well.

he’s sure that you are doing it all on purpose. not wearing a bra, staring at him for too long when he comes out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around his waist, sneaking glances at the outline of his fat cock. you’re not as clever as you think you are.

toji finally has you in his grasp and he’s not letting go. he’ll pound you to the mattress, until you’re satisfied and overstimulated.

he’ll get revenge for all those times you’ve (un)intentionally left him hard. all those times you left him sexually frustrated. all those times he had to resort to other things to relieve himself. all those times he had to waste his cum on his hands or on other women.

all those times he couldn’t fuck you—his pretty little roommate.

“you’re a pervert,” you whimper as you feel toji slip two fingers inside you without warning. his eyes nearly roll back from how tight you’re gripping his digits. it’s going to be so worth it once he’s got your pussy wrapped around his cock.

“yeah, but tha’s how you like ‘em,” toji laughs, not taking any offence to the accusation. he is a pervert when it comes to you and you secretly love it. the squelchy sounds echoing through the living space are all the evidence he needs, “no need to deny it. y’r cunt is doing all the talking for ya.”

you weakly punch his chest at his dirty words. he’s riling you up in both the best and worst ways possible. you moan and your hips shake from pleasure, feeling him curl his fingers up inside you. you hiccup and try to silence him, “shut up!”

toji loves seeing you deny your own feelings. it gives him so much power over you. he knows you’ll come back crawling to him when he’s done here.

after all, you’re stuck with him. literally. he’s not leaving this apartment any time soon. not when he’s got a cute roommate like you awaiting him whenever he comes back home.

soon enough, you end up in his bed. it smells like him. you’ve only imagined being in this situation. with him on top of you, between your legs, filling you to the brim with his cock. it’s huge—bigger than you thought it’d be. no wonder those other girls come back for more.

you can’t talk anymore. the only noises leaving your lips are moans—signs of the pleasurable sensations rushing through your body. your vision is blurry and all you can think of is this moment that you’ve waited for. to be dicked down by your roommate.

perhaps you’re the pervert here.

“bratty attitude nowhere to be found, heh,” toji snickers while his hips ram against yours. flop flop flop — it’s embarrassing how much noise your wet cunt is making. you’re dripping on his sheets while he’s splitting you open. he’s doing it so, so well. he grabs both your wrists with one hand and pins them above your head, giving you no chance to touch him.

toji pants as his thrusts increase in speed. he can’t keep his eyes away from you. you’re beautiful underneath him like this, on his bed, your body a piece of art he wishes to admire every single night. he smirks, “all you needed was some dick to shut that mouth of y’rs up, huh?”

you’re humiliated by how cheap you made yourself seem. you don’t respond to the man’s words and just wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in. toji grunts and slaps your thighs with his free hand, surprised by your actions, “fuck—didn’t know my roommate was such a slut in bed.”

your mouth hangs open. you’re sure you’re drooling by now. toji’s voice nearly becomes inaudible with how focused you are on the feeling of his cock. it’s hitting that right spot over and over again, the curve of his pink tip almost kissing your cervix.

“fffnghh, right there!” you moan loudly. you don’t care if the neighbours file noise complaints against you. they should’ve done so before, when toji had other women over. you remember how many times you had to put your earplugs in because your bastard of a roommate couldn’t keep it down.

the same bastard that’s fucking you so good right now. you can’t recall the amount of orgasms you’ve had already. toji didn’t even cum once and that’s only embarrassing you more. your inability to control yourself is pathetic. maybe not to toji though; he enjoys how easily he can make you spasm and squirt underneath him.

“i got’cha,” toji’s voice turns sweet for a split second once he sees how desperate you are for another mind blowing climax. if he knew you’d be this needy for him, he’d have taken you to bed long time ago.

“need you to say smthing f’me, ‘kay?” toji whispers and bites your earlobe, nibbling on it. his husky voice in your ear is like heaven. it makes you want to listen to whatever he has to say. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he increases his pace, “say that i don’t need to pay y’ back no more.”

you nearly choke on your own spit. toji is an asshole—manipulating your moment of weakness and vulnerability for his own benefit—and yet you allow him. you try to fight the urge to give in, but it’s too late.

“y-you don’t have to pay me back anymore,” you repeat with a whine and shake your head. it’s impossible to think rationally when you’ve got a fat dick all the way in your cunt, hitting all the right spots. your eyes roll back as you babble inaudible stuff in between moans, “promise, you don’t have to—mghhh!”

toji hisses at the feeling of you tightening up around him. you’re insatiable, wanting to continue until you’re able to milk every drop of cum out of his heavy balls. he’s never had a girl be so desperate for him. so dumb and easy.

“atta girl,” your roommate hums and moves his hands to lift your thighs. his inhuman pace only seems to increase with the change of positions. toji stares down at you from behind his black bangs, “no more whinin’ about money ‘n stuff, yeah?”

his gaze is a mix of pure lust and intimidation. you nod your head along to all he says, too cockdrunk to resist anything. you’re living the dream and you’re unwilling to ruin it, “y-yes, not gonna do it again.”

toji groans at the sound of your whiny voice. he’s going to make you addicted to him—that’s his ultimate goal. his hips slam against yours repeatedly, a slick trail of your fluids sticking to his pelvis, “shit, pussy’s sucking me in, princess.”

you can’t get enough of him and vice versa. the dark-haired man fails to keep his composure for a second, pushing his body weight on yours, caging you right against the mattress. he can’t stop his cock from throbbing each time it dives into your insides.

“gonna cum real deep in you,” toji grumbles. he’ll give you every drop, all the way into your womb. he’ll make you his woman for tonight and the many nights yet to come. if it’s left up to him, he’ll gladly fuck you like this every day, “be greedy ‘n take it all.”

you gasp and feel toji thrusting harder into your aching cunt. you didn’t think he’d be able to go faster. you mewl and scream about how good he feels, which only feeds toji’s big ego. he grips your thighs tightly, nails digging into the flesh.

“fuck!” white dots appear in your vision as you reach your peak once again. you feel like your heart stops beating for a second. you involuntarily start convulsing, legs shaking and hips bucking up to meet toji’s.

he hisses and closes his eyes, shooting his creamy load all the way inside of you. ropes of warm cum spurt out of his tip, filling your pussy like both of you have always imagined. he sighs and thrusts a couple more times, making sure no drop escapes your messy folds, “mhmmm, there we go, girl.”

you’re still dazed. you’re slack-jawed, your spit dripping down your chin. you’re more sleepy than ever. no one has made you feel this good in a while. toji watches you struggle to stay conscious and huffs proudly.

he rolls off you and lays down on his back, stretching his arms. he yawns—not bothering with aftercare at the moment. he’ll let you cool off first before he gets you a towel to clean up. toji tilts his head to the side and grins, “debt repaid.”

he’s said it so casually. you don’t notice what he’s implying until you’ve calmed down. your rationality comes back to you after a couple seconds, and when it does, your heart sinks to your stomach. your eyes widen as you recall what you’ve basically promised him.

you promised not to ask for the money he owes you ever again. oh, stupid you.

“wait—”

unfortunately for you, toji’s already snoring. his eyes are closed as he lays there like he hasn’t just rearranged your guts and manipulated you to say stuff you can’t take back. you scoff and rub your eyes, kicking your legs in frustration at your own naivety.

what a bastard.

[nutellavvv]

Eyes That Wander (Humanoid! Enderman x F!Reader)

Summary:

“Beware of the purple eyes.” In an alternate Minecraft universe, Y/n is warned of Endermen, a mythical humanoid species that come from The End. Y/n lives in a humble village, living with a weary overbearing mother, and a missing father. In Y/n’s youth she wanders into the forest and encounters a young Enderman. A naive decision gives her a taste of freedom, but leads her down a path of risky decisions and a forbidden romance.

Themes: Romance, Drama, Angst, Smut, Childhood friends to Lovers.

Disclaimer: In this universe Endermen and other select monsters are humanoid compared their original Minecraft designs. The Endermen in this series look more human!!!

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Prologue: Love at First Purple

wc: Almost 2k

A/N: I feel like this is so niche… But I hope yall like it. Find me on AO3 @/nutellav !

“Whatever you do… don’t look at them.”

“If you catch a glimpse… pretend you didn’t.”

“… Don’t look them in the eyes.”

5 years later…

When Y/N was 5 years old her father had gone missing. And asking about it wasn’t an option, her mother avoided the question. But there was one thing Y/N knew for sure, purple eyes meant danger.

"Endermen, a species of lost souls reborn through The End Kingdom.” At least— that’s what she had learned about them in school. It was vague, and her mother had a heavy dislike of them.

“They’re dangerous, that's all you need to know, okay sweetie?” A teacher explained to her once.

Y/N was lost in her thoughts when suddenly she heard someone call out to her.

“Y/N! We’re going to play hide and seek’ today… when the moon comes out!” The little boy, Jax, exclaimed with a mischievous smile, “Can you join us?” 

Y/N’s friends all stared at her, the silence hanging heavy in the air.

She spoke hesitantly, “I don’t know guys… My mom wouldn’t allow that—“

”C’mon Y/N! Your mom doesn’t let you do anything—! You can't even play with us in the morning, what's up with that?” Another friend of Y/N’s whined, frowning.

”H-Hey…! Don’t be mean to Y/N. Her mom is strict… we can’t do anything.” Lilith, Y/N’s best friend interrupted, looking stern but supportive.

The little group of friends went quiet, the whole village knew Y/N’s father had gone missing.

Whether it was through their parent’s gossip or whispers throughout the town. One thing the community knew for sure— was that it had heavily impacted Y/N’s mom.

Y/N walked home, feeling down once again, it’d been years since she had properly gone outside.

The small girl entered her home, the air heavy.

”Ah! Y/N! I’m so glad you made it home safely!” Her mother gasped, tumbling over and gripping the girl tightly in her arms, “Dinner will be ready soon, sweetie.”

There was always this frantic undertone to her mother’s actions. She could never pinpoint why.

Later at dinner, Y/N scooped at the mushroom soup— but she was deep in thought. Debating if asking to go out with her friends was worth a shot. But before she could finish her thoughts, her mother spoke.

“Y/N… I feel like… I’ve been hard on you lately. I’m sorry, sweetie.” She spoke up hesitantly., 

Mother cleared her throat, ”You deserve to go outside, play with kids your age… Explore this world. That's what your dad would’ve wanted.” 

Tears began to bubble up in Mother’s eyes, “I’m sorry for shutting you in! You’re a growing girl! J-Just because I’m afraid of losing you… I shouldn't keep you trapped!” Mother gasped between words, her form looking weak and defeated.

Y/N was hesitant to speak— but then Mother wiped her tears. “Is there anything you want to do? Let me know, you’re a big girl now.” She said with an awkward smile.

Y/N paused, her 10-year-old brain processing the moment. Was this her chance to ask?

“M-My… friends are going to be playing at the park later tonight! It’s close to our house… there will be lots of adults there and lots of torches!” Y/N blurted out quickly, “… they invited me… can I go?”

Mother had a nearly horrified look on her face, but took a deep breath,

”Okay. T-That's… fine-“,

”YAAAY—!”

—————

“Really? Your mom said yes?” Lilith asked. 

Y/N nodded excitedly, her friends looking at her in surprise.

”Psh… Hurry up, guys! Let's play hide and seek already, I’ll count first!” Jax yelled.

Suddenly the children started to disperse, running in separate directions.

”Let’s hide over here Y/N,” Lilith whispered, the little girl grabbed onto Y/N’s hands, running into the forest together. 

The girls ran towards a bush, but it wasn’t big enough to hide the both of them.

Y/N whisperer, ”You hide here, I’ll hide over there!”

Y/N began to trek through the oak biome, the lights from their village lightly illuminated the surrounding forest they explored.

”Ready or not! Here I come!” Jax shouted from afar.

Y/N’s steps began to quicken, attempting to find a place to hide. This was her first time playing with her friends in a while, she would make this hiding spot memorable.

The air was cold, her eyes focused ahead, the forest getting denser, darker. 

”Found you!”

She heard Jack’s voice faintly from afar, nobody was going to find her at this distance—she thought.

“AHHH—“ Thump.

In Y/N’s haste, she tripped, falling onto the grassy forest floor. Scrambling off the ground, she suddenly heard the floor crunch behind her. The girl looked behind her—

purple.

purple.

purple.

Purple eyes that glowed in the darkness surrounded by a white sclera.

It appeared to be a young Enderboy. His skin was a brown tan with a grey undertone— he had black hair that appeared to be buzzed. He was tall but looked similar in age to Y/N.

But those eyes, it was like looking into a galaxy. His eyes were full of life… but most noticeably, they were purple.

Wait— purple?

“Don’t look them in the eyes.” She remembered.

Y/N gasped, covering her eyes. 

“I-I didn’t see anything!” She shouted. Y/N shivered in fear, heart pounding. She had made eye contact, it was clear as day! She looked into those beautiful glowing purple eyes and was going to die now! 

Any moment now...

Now?

Wait. Nothing's happening.

Y/N carefully, but cautiously, peeked out through her fingers.

"Hey!" The boy shouted, frightening Y/N to cover her eyes back up.

"You... didn't run from me. Why? Why didn't you run away?"

The boy knelt, looking at Y/N like she was some strange creature.

"W-What do you mean..?" She replied hesitantly.

"—Answer me! You saw my eyes, why didn't you run?" The boy snapped, a raspy distorted undertone escaping his throat at his slight frustration.

"I..." Y/N thought of his mesmerizing gaze, a cemented image in her mind

"I thought your eyes were beautiful... I couldn't look away. I don't know..." She mumbled awkwardly, fitting for a simple-minded 10-year-old.

The boy was silent. He stood up, resting his hands on his sides. He was puzzled, the first time he had been puzzled in his life. All because of this confusing human girl.

After a long drawn out moment, he took a deep breath,

"You can open your eyes..." He said gently.

"A-Are you sure—! But—!"

"You already looked at my eyes and I'm not attacking you, am I?!" The boy snapped. 

Y/N quieted down, realizing that it didn't seem like she was in any danger. And... this boy didn't look like the dangerous Endermen that were often described to her. He was... so little. With cautious hands, she uncovered her face, meeting the boy's gaze. 

The boy stared at her suspiciously, he looked puzzled and lost, but... on the other hand, he looked... intrigued.

"You're a strange human," He commented, his posture loosening up. 

Y/N gasped, "Hey! What do you mean by that?" She shouted, almost immediately regaining her composure.

The Enderboy paused, "I mean... most humans see me and run away. I'm scary, right? I-I'm a monster, you're supposed to run away!" He exclaimed insecurely. 

Y/N listened intently, he was right for the most part. But for some reason, he wasn't scary, and she couldn't find the instincts to run.

"You're pretty short for an Enderman... are you an Enderman?" Y/N questioned.

"I'm not short!" He snapped, "I'm just... shorter than most. B-But it's because most of the Enderman in the overworld are adults! I'm going to be tall like them too someday..."

Y/N nodded, the thought piqued her interest. "Oh! I see... are there other... Enderkids like you?"

"Tch! No! I'm the only one brave enough to explore the overworld," He said, with a confident smirk, "The End is so boring!"

Y/N raised a brow. "Really? But doesn't it get lonely without your friends?"

"Friends? I don't have friends, and... I don't need friends to explore!" The boy shook his head.

"No friends!?" Y/N gasped.

Then an idea dawned on her, her eyes gleaming with inspiration. An idea that would change the course of her entire life. But the kindness and curiosity in her heart wouldn't stop her.

"Hey! How about I be your first overworld friend? I could help you explore..." Y/N smiled.

The Enderboy froze, raising a brow. He took a moment to think about it.

"Sure. You can be my friend." He said, a nonchalant expression on his face, but the sides of his mouth twitched, hiding a naïve excitement, "But we'll be exploring places far from your home."

Y/N's eyes widened, in interest and intrigue.

Suddenly,

"Y/N! Where are you!" Jax called out. "We're done playing now! Come out we're going to go home now!" Lillith shouted.

Y/N quickly turned around, thinking rashly, "Ah! I-I have to go now... let's meet here tomorrow! When the sun sets? I want to talk to you more!"

The steps of her friend's were getting louder, and closer. "Hurry, go! My friends might freak out if they see you!" Y/N whispered frantically.

"Wait, what's your name?" The boy asked.

"Oh— right! I'm Y/N!"

"I'm Eros." He smiled.

Suddenly Y/N heard loud rustling behind her, turning around to the noise swiftly.

"There you are Y/N! Geez, you're so competitive, we almost got the adults involved!" Jax said.

Suddenly his eyes widened, noticing what was behind Y/N.

He let out a scream.

Y/N panicked, "Wait! Jax, I can explain! I- its-"

Then Lilith burst out laughing.

"Jax, you're such a scaredy-cat, getting afraid of a chicken?" The girl began to giggle hysterically.

Y/N whipped around, seeing that Eros was nowhere in sight. 

"C'mon, let's go home." Lilith giggled.

The children made their way back to the village, conversing about the fun and eventful night.

Y/N was lost in thought, satisfied with the encounter she had. She was surprised, being told for years the vague and scary things about Endermen. But she had just met one— and he wasn't dangerous or scary! She had to tell her mom about this... she had to tell everyone! Maybe if her mom met Eros... she wouldn't be afraid any more—

"AAAAHHHH!"

A blood-curdling scream cut through the air.

"An Enderman! Someone— please help! HELP ME!"

Y/N's blood ran cold, she and her friends were frozen in fear at the sight before them.

A large Enderman held her mother up in the air with long grotesque limbs. His mouth was foaming with an odd black substance, his eyes a blinding purple— it was lifeless, nothing like Eros's eyes.

Suddenly a few men cried out, slashing the monster from behind— it let out a feral screech before teleporting away.

Mother fell to the ground, looking utterly shaken. Mother's frightened gaze caught site of Y/N.

"Y/N!" She screamed, dashing off the ground, her hair and outfit disheveled, "I-I'm so... Everything's okay... Mommy is okay. My baby is okay. We are okay..." Mother hyperventilated, holding Y/N in a tight grip.

The moonlight loomed over the town, setting an unsettling mood.

"Mommy's never going to let those monsters get to you... You're safe... If anyone touches my baby they're... dead." Mother mumbled in between overwhelmed gasps.

Behind Y/N she could hear the cries of her peers, her body locked in place by her mother's tight grip.

The sound of sobs, screams, and angry shouting commenced, Y/N's eyes focused on the bright full moon— thoughts raced through her mind.

No.

She couldn't tell her mom about Eros.

Not anyone.

Not now— not ever.

It was too late to turn back now, the young Y/N had made her decision.

From that day on, the connection between Y/N and Eros grew in secret.

—————————— End

Up Next:

Chapter 1: What's it like when an Enderman turns 18? Well... It's a lot more dangerous than you'd expect.

Tag List: 🦗

[lyn31]

Sleepover

Summary

Sharing a bed should be simple—but between stolen blankets, overheating, and Zayne’s infuriating composure, you quickly realize: you were not prepared for this battle.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader College AU, fluff, banter, silly, new relationship.

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The first time you stay over in Zayne’s dorm, you assume it’ll be fine. You’ve known him forever, and you’ve even crashed in his room before—on his couch, of course. But now that you’re dating, staying in his bed should be a totally normal next step. Right?

Wrong.

The first challenge presents itself immediately—and it’s a battle for survival. Or, well… a battle for the blanket. You claim the blanket as soon as you climb into bed, cocooning yourself in it like a triumphant burrito. Zayne watches from his side of the bed, unimpressed, as you tuck the edges under yourself, ensuring maximum warmth and zero blanket-sharing.

“You do realize I need that too,” he remarks, voice as dry as ever.

“You run cold,” you counter, wiggling deeper into your warmth. “You don’t even feel temperature changes like I do.”

Zayne doesn’t argue, but the weight of his stare says, This is ridiculous. He sighs, then shifts, as if trying to pull at least a corner of the blanket back.

“Don’t you dare,” you warn, tightening your grip.

Another pause. Then, calmly. “You’re going to overheat.”

You scoff. “Please, I know how to regulate my own body temperature.”

Five minutes later, you’re dying.

The warmth you so desperately sought is now your worst enemy. You’re sweating, overheating under layers of fabric, but admitting that out loud would mean surrendering, and surrender is not an option. Zayne doesn’t even have to say anything, you can feel his judgment.

When he does speak, his voice is carefully neutral. "You know, sharing is an option."

You roll over, glaring at him from within your self-imposed hell. “No.”

He lifts a brow. “You’re keeping it just to prove a point?”

“Obviously.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. Then, before you can react, he shifts closer and—wraps his arms around you. Through the cocoon barrier.

“Hey—what—stop that!” You wiggle in protest, but the blanket is too tight around you, effectively trapping you in his hold. Zayne doesn’t even try to squeeze past the layers; he just rests against you like this is completely normal.

“It’s not like you’re using this properly,” he points out. His voice is calm, but you know he’s enjoying this.

“I am using it properly,” you grumble. “And no cuddling.”

Zayne shifts again, just enough to make his presence known. “I’m not cuddling,” he says, entirely deadpan.

"You're literally wrapped around me."

“Through a blanket.”

You groan in frustration, trying to wiggle free, but your earlier masterpiece of tucking yourself in works against you. You’re stuck, and Zayne doesn’t make any effort to move.

“Why are you like this?” you mutter.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You let out a long, suffering sigh. “Fine. Maybe I was a little wrong about the blanket.”

A pause. Then, softly. “Oh?”

You immediately regret your words. “Forget I said anything.”

Zayne hums, but you know he won’t. He shifts, finally loosening his grip, giving you the chance to breathe—and maybe escape. But of course that would mean defeat, so you just shift and try to fall asleep.

The first thing you register upon waking is warmth. Not the kind you expected—the soft, cozy kind of a well-earned morning—but an uncomfortable, suffocating kind. Your body is roasting under layers of fabric, your limbs sticky with sweat, your shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin, and your mouth dry from breathing in hot air all night.

Regret kicks in immediately.

Still half-asleep, you fight your way out of the cocoon you so valiantly claimed last night. Cool air rushes over your skin, bringing a small, blessed relief. With great effort, you force your eyes open, blinking blearily at your surroundings.

Then, you notice him.

Zayne is sitting up beside you, already awake, his back resting against the headboard. His dark hair is slightly tousled, and he’s casually sipping from a water bottle, looking far too refreshed for someone who also suffered through a night of misery.

He glances at you, “Good morning. Or should I say, welcome back to the world of reasonable body temperature.” and then he takes another sip.

Zayne—who usually needed at least one coffee before his neurons started firing properly—looks irritatingly alert. Normally, there was at least a lag. You’d seen it in class plenty of times—how he always looked composed, but sometimes, when the professor called on him too soon, there was a split second of delayed processing before his brain caught up. He made up for it with sheer willpower—and a ridiculous caffeine intake.

You narrow your eyes. “How are you… functional?”

He hums, lowering the bottle from his lips. “I got up earlier. Unlike someone, I don’t wrap myself in layers of heat and expect to sleep comfortably.”

You groan, pushing yourself up into a slouch. The blanket slides off your shoulders, and cool air finally reaches your overheated skin. “Okay, I admit. Maybe I went a little overboard.”

“A little?” His brow lifts, unimpressed. “You were like a dragon hoarding its treasure. I couldn’t even steal a corner.”

“You tried again?” You squint at him, imagining him attempting to steal back the blanket while you were dead asleep.

“Briefly. Then I figured I'd let you suffer the consequences of your own stubbornness.”

You narrow your eyes further, suspicious. “That sounds like a very convenient excuse.”

Zayne doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with that unreadable expression he always wears when he’s trying not to amuse himself at your expense.

You huff, yanking the blanket off completely. A wave of blessed relief washes over you, and you let out an exaggerated sigh of relief before grabbing Zayne’s abandoned pillow and smacking him with it. He catches it with ease, unbothered, and sets it back down beside him.

“Did you even sleep?” you ask, rubbing the back of your neck.

"A little." His gaze flickers over you before he reaches toward the nightstand. You don’t register what’s happening until you feel something press against your lips—his water bottle. “Here.”

His hand is steady, but there’s something effortlessly familiar about the gesture—like he’s done this a hundred times before.

It’s such a simple, casual gesture, yet it leaves you momentarily blank. You blink up at him, and he tilts the bottle slightly, wordlessly encouraging you. Resigned—and thirsty as hell—you take a sip, the cool water soothing your dry throat.

When you lower the bottle, you sigh again. “Well… We failed.”

“At sleeping together? Yes.”

“We should just… never do this again.”

Zayne makes a thoughtful sound, then—without warning—tugs you forward. You yelp as he pulls you against him, his arm loosely draped around your waist. He’s still cool to the touch, a welcome contrast to the heat lingering on your skin.

“Or,” he says calmly, as if this is a perfectly logical solution, “you could just accept that I’m not as warm as you, and stop making things difficult.”

You scowl, shifting against him. “Excuse you, I am the victim here.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Zayne exhales, unimpressed. “Then I’ll consider this an act of mercy.”

You’re about to fire back something equally dramatic when you realize… this is nice. The coolness of his body, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way his fingers trace light, absentminded circles against your back. After last night’s sweaty misery, this feels almost too comfortable.

Maybe he has a point.

You let out a soft, defeated sigh and nuzzle against his shoulder.

His hold on you doesn’t change, keeping you tucked against him, a silent declaration of victory.

For now, though, you let it go. After all, there’s always next time. And next time? You are winning the blanket war. Even if it kills you.

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Notes

Can't escape from College AU at this point.... I'm so deep into this.... ahahahahahaha the continuation is on Ao3!!

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: College AU list ✨

[fallenbratfiction]

stay put ~ Joel Miller x f! reader

This fic is part of the In sickness and in health series! Where a lot of different favorite characters take turns to take care of you. 🧻🌡️🩹

A/N: KJNDFEWJKFENWFWEJKNEDJKDN I'm not even sick and not trying to manifest it either *knock on wood* but I had a hard time getting up from bed today and that was enough to make me think what would Joel do in that case

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you choose to read.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

Your alarm went off at 6 but there was no energy in your body to get up, not even to snooze it.

The sound was annoyingly loud and your best idea was throwing it to the ground. At least it stopped.

“Shit.”

You groaned and pulled the sheets up over your head.

Only five minutes, you assured yourself. You weren’t going to call in sick, although you felt it growing inside you. You couldn’t miss a day. Couldn’t lose progress.

“Five more,” you whispered quietly.

You pulled yourself up to sit on the bed, but there was no point in trying to stand.

You groan, head sinking back against the pillow. You reach over, patting around on the nightstand for your phone without even lifting your head. Nothing.

Where the hell— It’s always there.

You sit up slower this time. Rub your eyes, blink through the dizziness. Your limbs feel heavy, like your body’s been filled with wet sand, but you still manage to throw off the covers and stand on shaking legs.

Sweatpants. Hoodie. No bra. Whatever. You make it out of the room, leaning against the wall as you fumble for your shoes in the hallway.

You crouch, trying to tug one on, and that’s when it happens. Your balance tips. The world tilts—

You hit the floor with a soft thud and a louder groan.

You stay there for a second. Just breathing. Head against the wall, heart thudding in your ears.

You manage to push yourself up and make your way toward the kitchen, sockless and defeated, still stubborn as hell.

And there he is. Joel Miller, standing by the stove in a worn-out tee and those grey sweatpants you love, stirring a pot with one hand and holding your phone in the other like it’s a weapon.

He turns just in time to see you swaying in the doorway.

Brows draw tight.

“What the hell are you doin’ dressed for work?” he says, already setting the spoon down. “Get back in bed.”

“I need to go to work,” you say hoarsely. You try to sound firm. It comes out wrecked. “Have you seen my phone?”

Joel lifts it slowly, like it’s a trap he set and you just stepped into it.

“Already told them you’re not comin’ in today.”

You stare at him, too sick to even argue properly. “Joel—”

“Bed,” he says firmly, but not unkind. “Come on.”

“That’s my job. You can’t just—"

“You fell in the damn hallway. I heard it.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” His tone softens but stays solid, like the heat under a simmering pot. “You’re not, baby. Come on.”

You start to tear up, mostly from exhaustion. Or maybe frustration. Your knees wobble, and Joel’s already crossing the room.

“I have to go—”

“You don’t even got your second shoe on.”

“I need to—”

Joel gently takes the boot out of your hand. “Alright. Come on.”

“I can walk.”

He snorts. “Sure. Right into a wall.”

You bat at him weakly, half-hearted and floppy like a grumpy cat being scooped off a windowsill.

One arm slips around your waist, the other tucks under your legs, and suddenly you're off the ground. You let out a soft noise of protest as your arms flail and your boot drops to the floor with a thud.

“You’re—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m bossy. I’m controlling. I’m carryin’ you to bed because I love you. Get over it.”

You sit on the edge reluctantly. He crouches down in front of you, hands slipping under the hem of your hoodie to help you peel it off, then eases you back into bed like you’re made of glass. You don’t have the energy to stop him, and maybe—just maybe—you don’t want to.

“I’m just tired,” you murmur. “Doesn’t mean I’m dying.”

“I know,” he says. He tucks the blanket up around your chest, smoothing it over your shoulder. “But you don’t gotta wait till you are to let someone take care of you.”

Your eyes sting again. You blink, a little too fast, and Joel presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, thumb brushing under your eye like he can catch the tears before they fall.

“Try and rest, alright?” he murmurs. “Soup’s coolin’. Gonna bring it in with crackers in a bit. Maybe that dumb show you like.”

You give a sleepy snort. “It’s not dumb.”

Joel smiles, brushing his knuckles along your jaw. “Didn’t say I didn’t like it too.”

You let your eyes close. Joel stays beside you a minute longer. Just watching. Just being there.

You don’t know how long you were out. Just that when you open your eyes, the light’s a little softer and Joel’s back, moving carefully like he doesn’t want to wake you.

But you’re already stirring, head fuzzy, lips dry.

“You’re back,” you croak.

“Yeah, baby,” he says, setting the tray down carefully on the bed next to you. “Didn’t go far.”

You glance down at it, a bowl of soup—chicken, of course—cut up tiny like you’re a damn child, and some crackers on the side. There’s even a folded napkin.

Joel helps you sit up, one hand steady on your back, the other fluffing up a pillow behind you with more tenderness than you thought he was capable of.

“You made all this?”

“S’just soup,” he mutters. “Didn’t make it from scratch or nothin’. Got that good one you like.”

You look at him with wide, hazy eyes. “Still made it,” you say, a little too sincere.

Joel just watches you for a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with how soft you sound. Then he leans in and tucks your hair behind your ear with rough fingers, like you’re something breakable, and presses a kiss to your warm cheek. Lingers there for a second.

“Still hot,” he murmurs against your skin. “You feelin’ any better?”

“Dunno. I feel… floaty.”

“Mm. Meds must be hittin’.”

You pick up the spoon clumsily, fingers not quite working right, and Joel just takes it gently out of your hand and says, “I got it,” before feeding you the first little bite himself. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You manage a couple spoonfuls before you’re curling back down, head tipped lazily to the side. Your eyes fall on the TV remote on the tray.

“You put it on?”

“Course I did.”

It’s already playing—the show you love, the one he secretly watches without you but swears he doesn’t. You smile softly, cheek still pressed to the pillow, and mumble—

“You’re my husband.”

Joel freezes.

You don’t even seem to notice. “You are,” you continue dreamily. “In my dream, you were. We had a dog and you made me tea. You always made me tea.”

He huffs a laugh, trying to play it off, but his ears are pink and you’re too out of it to register how that affects him. You reach out and tap his chest with two weak fingers like you’re proving a point.

“You smell good. Like wood and soup.”

Joel chokes on a laugh. “Wood and soup? That’s my cologne now?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re high as hell, baby.”

“And you liked it when I was bossy,” you add, barely whispering.

That gets him to smile again. Barely. “Is that so?”

You give the tiniest nod and go limp again in the blankets, thoroughly pleased with yourself.

“See? I win.”

And that’s the part that kills him. That smug little doped-up smirk. You’re delirious, running a 101 fever, half out of your mind on cold meds and NyQuil and somehow still acting like you beat him at something.

Joel exhales slowly, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your forehead again, his voice all gravel and honey. “You win, baby.”

You wake up late. Sun’s higher, room warmer. Your throat’s dry and your limbs ache less, but your brain is just starting to reboot. The blanket is still tucked under your chin, and Joel’s sweatshirt is still hanging off your frame, sleeves bunched at the wrists.

He’s not in the room, but his hoodie still smells like him. Wood and laundry soap and something warm. You pull the blanket higher, then sniff the air. Coffee. He’s up.

You drag yourself into the kitchen, wrapped in a blanket like some kind of feral Victorian ghost, and Joel just turns around from the stove like he was expecting it.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.

You rub your eyes. “Fever’s down.”

“Still. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Thanks, babe.”

He snorts. “C’mon, sit. Made tea.”

You blink. “Tea?”

“Figured you’d want it.” He sets a mug down in front of you, perfectly steeped, the exact kind you always make when you’re sick.

You squint at him. “You… don’t even drink tea.”

“Don’t gotta drink it to know how you like it.”

That makes you pause.

Something about the way he says it. The look in his eyes. Something… lingering.

“…Did I say something weird last night?”

Joel doesn’t answer immediately. His mouth twitches, almost like he’s trying to smother a smile.

You narrow your eyes. “Joel.”

“You said a lot of things.”

“Okay but—bad things? Embarrassing things?”

He shrugs. “Not bad.”

You stare at him for a moment longer. He’s being way too calm.

“What did I say?”

“Nothin’ you gotta worry about.”

“No—what did I say.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, looks over the rim of the mug like he’s just so pleased with himself.

“You don’t remember?”

“Joel—”

He leans in just a little, voice low and far too casual.

“You called me your husband.”

You freeze. Stare at him. Eyes wide. Brain short-circuiting.

“I what—”

Joel shrugs, smug. “Real soft, too. All dreamy. Said we had a dog. I made you tea. Said I liked it when you were bossy.”

You bite back a smile. “…Was it the fat beagle?”

“Damn right it was the fat beagle.”

You bury your face in your hands, immediately ready to melt through the floor.

“Noooo. No I didn’t.”

“Sure did. Was adorable.”

You groan louder. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

“I wouldn’t do that to my wife.”

You squeak.

He grins.

I wish he was real you guys.

I hope you enjoyed this fic, feedback is always welcome!

Join the tag list to be the first to know when a new fic comes out!

Reblogs, likes and comments help stories grow! ✨✨🩷

[astria31]

How not to fall in love with your best friend: a step by step guide

Pairing: Joshua Hong x y/n

Notes: just pure fluff, best friends to lovers because its my favorite troupe, both are down bad, mutual pining, fem reader, one swear word, short reader, height diff, y/n is a little clumsy, “princess” used as a nickname 

It's my first ever attempt at fanfiction and so I hope you enjoy! And please do not copy my work (even with credits), however reblogs and likes and even comments are greatly appreciated :D

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Its getting harder and harder to resist the temptation known as Hong Joshua. His kind eyes, gummy smile, well built arms– the universe has given you many many reasons to fall for the beautiful man. 

There’s one issue though, he’s your best friend. 

Good thing you came up with a “y/n’s guide on how to not fall in love with your best friend”:

1. Ignore his teasing remarks followed by a far past platonic amount of praise 

“You sure you don’t need help?” Joshua chuckles from his seat on the couch, watching you struggling to reach a jug of juice set on one of his ridiculously high shelves. 

“No I’m good” you respond, clearly struggling. You reach up, on the tips of your toes, fingers barely grazing the baby pink handle.

Hangouts like this were normal between you and your best friend of many years, just casually lounging around his apartment with some movie was drowned out as white noise. 

“Doesn’t look like “you’re good”, you don’t have to keep up such a “cool” facade around me y/nnie,”

“Shut your trap Hong Jisoo,”  

2. NO THE NICKNAMES ARE NOT CUTE DO NOT FALL FOR THEM

“Princess, aww don’t be mad at me, I was just trying to be helpful,” he smirked, getting off his comfy place on the couch and walking over to the kitchen counter. His arm rested against the counter, clearly amused. 

A smile briefly flashed on your face as you grazed the handle, but you ultimately pushed it further into the shelf. A pout adorned your lips, sighing in defeat as you began to move away from the shelves. 

Mid movement you bumped into a strong…wall? It was warm. You looked up, it was Joshua. He smiled down at you, and shifted closer to the shelf, caging you in between him and the shelf. 

3. The close proximity means nothing stop imagining having a house and children with him–

His arm rested on your waist, the other reached up to easily grab the jug. You looked up, his face was so close to yours. He looked down at you. Your mind went blank. Not thinking straight, you moved to the right, attempting to create distance and to hide your flushing face. In the process you knocked into his arm, tipping over the jug onto yourself and his sleeve, the jug landing on the floor with a loud clatter. 

“Shit y/n I’m so sorry-” he scrambled to grab tissues and gently wiped your face. 

“Nono Shua, it's ok, it was my fault,” you sheepishly smiled. His eyes briefly moved from your eyes to your lips, so quickly that you almost didn’t catch it. He cleared his throat and refocused on drying your face and neck. 

“You’re blushing”, this time it was his turn to smile, your blush deepening. His smile was too pretty. 

“Hush Hong, I’m just naturally this red,”

“Naturally as red as Minghao’s hair in the “hot” music video, mhm seems normal”

“Oh my god!,” you whined, his smile grew even larger. How could you be this endearing? 

He decided to stop his teasing as your shirt was still drenched. “Well, just go to my room and pick out whatever, you know the place well enough.” You nodded at his suggestion, walking over to his bedroom and rummaging through his closet. 

“The hoodie you like to wear is in the wash but I have a really comfy t-shirt in the bottom drawer on the left,” he called out to you a few moments later from the kitchen where he was wiping away the remains of your earlier encounter. 

4. Just because he frequently offers you his clothes doesn't mean it's a sign. 

“He knows me so well” instantly popped up in your head as the shirt fell loosely over you, reaching mid thigh over your shorts. It was comfy, warm– very much like Joshua. 

The corners of his lips tilted up as he laid his eyes on you. “Comfy?”

“Yeah, very much. Thanks Shua”

His pretty eyes crinkled up at your validation, “that’s good. Come sit down on the sofa, we can pick up from where we left off with weightlifting fairy,” 

“You are amazing,” 

“I know”

You took your spot next to him, suddenly hyper aware of his presence right next to you, thighs grazing, shoulder to shoulder. 

5. Every best friend duo has their cuddle-ish sessions while still being just friends right?

That's what you tell yourself, 2 episodes in, Joshua’s arm around your waist, your head resting comfortably on his shoulder. This happens to everyone, right? 

You don’t miss the way his eyes would linger on you, on your lips, your hands, every so often. 

“Hey y/n”

“Hm?” 

“What do you think of the show?”

“I really like it, they are cute, its nice to watch a relationship flourish,”

“You like best friends to lovers?”

Your eyes lit up, “yes of course! It’s one of my favorite troupes.. Mutual pining and whatnot,”

“Best friends to lovers, hm that sounds pretty nice,”

“Yeah..” you agree, painfully aware of the flutter in your chest, the pounding of your heart that seems to intensify every time his hand brushes against yours. But it's becoming harder, isn’t it? It’s becoming impossible not to feel everything when he's this close, when he's always so effortlessly there. 

You don’t want to fall for him. You can’t, but every little thing, every laugh, every look, every touch chips away at that resolve. And now… now you’re starting to realize that maybe you don’t want to resist him anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, unable to look away as he shifts to face you, that familiar smile of his tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Y/n,” he murmurs, his voice low, like a secret just between the two of you. “I’ve been thinking…”

Your heart skips a beat.

“About what?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

About you. About him. About this. 

He leans in slightly, his face so close now that you can count the lashes on his eyes. Your breath catches again. His hand lifts to your cheek, his thumb gently grazing the skin there, sending a shock of warmth through your whole body.

You think you should pull away. You think you should do anything to preserve the fragile balance you’ve carefully maintained for years. But something inside you snaps, and before you can even stop yourself, your hand moves to his chest, your fingers curling slightly into the soft fabric of his shirt.

“I…” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I think I’ve been falling for you for a while now.”

6. Give in to the temptation and fall in love with him because the slow burn has slowburnt enough and you both are hopelessly in love with each other. 

His eyes soften, his smile turning tender as he leans in closer, until his lips hover just above yours.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I think I have, too.”

And just like that, the world shifts, the lines between best friends and something more blurring in the most natural, inevitable way. His lips find yours in a kiss that feels like both an answer and a promise. A kiss that burns with everything unspoken, everything you’ve both denied for so long.

It’s terrifying. It’s thrilling. But you don’t want to fight it anymore.

You give in, falling into him completely, and you realize that maybe, just maybe, you were never meant to resist the temptation known as Hong Joshua. 

[ettraxx]

She Leaned In

Lena awakens with a start, the medical bed is deathly silent all about her. Shooting up she looks to the bed, and sees its dimly glowing golden surface is empty. She rushes to the door, unable to speak, choking with fear. Exiting the med bay, she rushes out in desperate search for Kara fearing that the entire rescue was a dream.

In a moment of silent relief she sees Kara in the tower’s largest and most open space leaning against the back of a sofa on unsteady legs. Without a second thought or a single word, she comes up behind the blonde and swiftly wraps her arms around her in as warm an embrace as she has ever given.

Kara uncharacteristically, freezes and stiffens at the touch. Lena undaunted presses herself against Kara’s back sharing her warmth. Kara’s right arm stiffly and oh so slowly reaches up to hold Lena’s. Her hand hesitates to connect for an incredibly long moment. To Lena’s delight and relief the surprisingly cold hand grasps her own.

Kara releases the breath she didn’t even know she was holding. Expecting the entire world around her to fall away the moment she believed it was true. Expecting the tower itself to shatter and for that hellscape to return. Kara nearly collapses in that moment. But Lena’s arms hold tight and she stands firm.

If this were not the culmination of so many weeks of desperation to save her, Lena might chuckle at the idea that she was the strong one holding up Supergirl this time. Instead a sharp pain in her chest begins to fade as she holds as tightly as she can on to the Kryptonian. They had all fought so hard to save her and she won’t let Kara fall back in to that cold darkness.

Kara sobs silently, the weight of the Phantom Zone still resting so heavy on her shoulders. The only thing she can let herself focus on in this moment is elegant arms interlacing around her and the calm breathing and familiar heartbeat of the only other person that maters in the world. They stand in silence for what feels like years before Kara finally speaks.

Her voice cracks, as if from years of disuse. “He was never really there was he?”

“You… you were all alone when we found you.” Lena responds, sadness at the edges of her voice. “But your not alone anymore, never again.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep Lena.” Coldly responds the Woman of Steel.

With surprising strength, Lena spins Kara around in her arms. Locking her own blood shot eyes on to Kara’s. She had never seen Kara this defeated before, not even in all the inches were fighting. She doesn’t hesitate to speak with all of her strength and compassion.

“I will never leave you Kara. I almost gave up all of National City just to get you back.” Lena’s doesn’t hold back her tears. “I didn’t sleep for days after Lex banished you. All any of us could do was try desperately to get you back.”

“You brought me a sun.” Responds Kara with a faint smile curling her lips, if only for a moment. “You shouldn’t have tried, I’m not worth it.”

Lena tightens her grip on her best friend and looks desperately in to her eyes. “Don’t you dare say that! You mean so much to so many people.” Tears are fully streaming down Lena’s pale cheeks now. “You are a beacon of hope to National City, an amazing friend to Nia and Brainy, a surrogate daughter to J’onn. You’re Alex’s sister for god’s sake.” Lena hesitates for only a moment before continuing no longer willing to hide. “And you mean everything to me. I… I’m in love with you, Kara. I think I always have been.”

Kara’s eyes focus on Lena. The tears still streaming down her pale cheeks, her emerald eyes shining so brightly, and her teeth hesitantly bitting against her red lip. Kara wants to say so much but can’t trust her voice. She slowly closes her eyes and inhales deeply. Holding her breath and her eyes for a moment too long, Kara hesitates to open them.

When she does open her eyes and release her trapped breath, she sees Lena is still there. The tower is still around them, the Phantom Zone is gone. Locking her eyes once more on to Lena’s crimson lips, Kara gives in to years of repressed feelings and longing glances. She leans in and without a word she presses her own lips to Lena’s. Her unsteady arms wrap around Lena, and Lena’s own arms reposition themselves around Kara.

Lena responds to the kiss with equal passion, holding back only because Kara is still sluggish from her ordeal. The two women remain in their embrace for a short eternity before they break the kiss. Kara leaning on Lena as she once more feels the weakness creeping through her. Lena never for a moment letting the weight of the Kryptonian wear her down.

Kara soon recovers enough to stand on her own, but can’t bring herself to stop pressing herself to Lena’s warmth. She smiles the largest and most natural smile she has mustered since being rescued. “I think I need to go back to bed.” She stumbles out.

“I will take you to bed.” Responds Lena with a smile greater than any Kara had seen in a very long time. “And I’ll be right at your side until you wake up once more.”

“I love you too Lena.” Finally says Kara, her voice stronger than it has been. “I know the kiss gave it away, but I still wanted to say the words.”

“I appreciate it Kara.” Responds Lena choking back tears of joy as the two begin the journey back to the medical bed.

Lena lays Kara on the bed, and the solar lamps kick back on instantly. Kara’s head comes to a stop on the small and firm pillow. She can feel the artificial yellow sunlight bombarding her body. She unleashes a faint sigh and continues to grasp hold of Lena’s hand in her own. Kara’s eyes flutter shut as her body begins to relax and absorb the yellow light.

“I’m going to be right here when you wake.” Whispers Lena soothingly.

[brokenmenswhore]

betrothals & brothels | aegon, aemond, & jace

part 6 (finale)

pairings: aegon targaryen x stark fem!reader, aegon targaryen x stark fem!reader, jacaerys velaryon x stark fem!reader

series summary: aemond targaryen tells the realm that you, the lady of house stark, are to wed him and secure a partnership in the north. in protest, you agree to marry jacaerys velaryon, affirming the north’s allegiance to rhaenyra. when the news hits king’s landing, aegon decides it’s better to have you under his watchful eye until the political partnership is solidified, but doesn’t realize you have a life away from your duty as a stark

chapter warnings: SPOILERS: smut (MDNI 18+), anal, double penetration, foursome

a/n: if you thought this was ending literally any other way… you came to the wrong blog. it’s like the whole reason i wrote this damn series. also PLEASE keep in mind it’s been MONTHS since i wrote the other 5 parts so i did my BEST with continuity life happens okay also i didn’t proofread sue me

series masterlist

────── ☾ ──────

“Surely you must be lying.”

Cregan, who was already overwhelmed and upset with you, sighed in defeat. “I cannot explain to you how truly I wish I was.”

“I’m going to kill him,” you said, storming off past your brother with an intensity that only the culprit of your anger could match.

It was much too early in the morn for you to be dealing with such a strife, but it could not wait. He would not ever expect to, anyway.

You pushed open the Great Hall doors so forcefully that they slammed back against the wall, violently alerting the room’s occupant of your presence. You stopped just after the doors, refusing to grant him the kindness of moving any closer.

“I cannot fathom one singular acceptable reason for your being here,” you spat.

Aemond smirked, still nonchalantly hunched over in a grand chair. “Trust me, I did not wish this so.”

“Oh, you mean to tell me the great one-eyed prince had his hand forced? Not likely.”

“I’ve never seen you quite this angry,” Aemond taunted, “I rather enjoy it.”

Aemond tried to stand, but you quickly warned, “move and I’ll kill you.”

“Doubtful,” he said, still nonchalant as he stood and straightened out his back.

“Aemond, I swear to the sep-“

“I’m here for my brother.”

Despite your anger, you were taken aback by Aemond’s words. Aegon had left days ago.

“Sore luck checking here.”

“I know he came here. Give him back and I’ll depart.”

You scoffed. “You make the mistake of assuming your brother is a piece of property, much like how you treated me.”

“Give him back and I’ll depart,” he repeated.

“I already told you, he’s not here.”

“You think I cannot tell when you lie?” Aemond contested, stepping forward.

“Do not take another step,” you warned.

“What reason do you have to guard him, hm? You truly fancy him so much? Clearly you must if you bed him,” Aemond said, stepping even closer.

“I do not enjoy repeating myself,” you said.

Aemond was now even closer to you, his body mere inches from your own. “Give me Aegon.”

You spoke through gritted teeth, pausing between your words for emphasis, “he. Is. Not. Here.”

Aemond stepped closer, and you took a step backward to avoid your bodies touching. He did not stop, however, and continued to encroach upon your personal space until your back hit the wall of the dining hall.

Aemond slammed his hands against the wall on either side of your head, trapping you in the cage of his presence.

“You think I wanted to come here? Do you think I would have truly done so if not necessary?”

You were taken aback by Aemond’s sudden candor. “If you wish to see your brother, you should look no further than your own home. He left Winterfell as quickly as he came.”

“Then explain to me why his bed has remained unoccupied.”

“What makes you think I would know? Perhaps he frequents the very brothel he, like yourself, found me in.”

Aemond’s face was intimately close to your own, but you tried your hardest to focus your gaze toward his eye. You remained in a stalemate for several moments, exchanging a weighted stare.

“Okay,” Aemond said, backing away and holding his arms behind his back in a proper stance, “did he say where he was headed?”

“I suppose he returned home, Aemond, I do not keep track of your king.”

Aemond remained silent.

You both stared expectantly at one another, yet the room filled with silence.

“I am to wed Jacaerys in the morn,” you said, calculated but somewhat blurt out.

“I am aware.”

“Do you not, perhaps, think it nice to attend?”

Aemond stared at you for a moment. “You wish for me to attend your wedding?”

“You are already here.”

Aemond nearly scoffed. “You have not hidden your disdain for me, Stark. Extending the courtesy of an invitation does not mask such things.”

“Contrary to what you may believe, I do not enjoy hating you,” you said.

“I very hesitantly decline.”

You furrowed your brow. “You decline?”

You had extended the invitation, perhaps for selfish reasoning, but outwardly to show Aemond a kindness. After all he had put you through, the very least he could do was attend your wedding. After all, it has been his own actions that were responsible for its delay.

“Accept my gratitude for the invitation-“

“After all you have done-“

“After all I have done?” Aemond’s voice suddenly raised, but you stopped him before he could continue.

“I thought you and I had an understanding, yet you told of my doings in King’s Landing in a heinous letter to my brother. I did not think you so spiteful. You- you-“

“You- you have been the very bane of my existence,” he took over, “You have contradicted my every action, my every word, my every thought, and held yourself in rather high regard in doing so. You spoilt an alliance with the North for my house-“

“You petulant child!” you cut him off, your voice overtaking his, “is all you care about your honor? Your duty? Is kindness for naught? You dare take anger with me and speak that I spoilt an alliance for your house? Do you forget what you’ve done? How you threatened to burn my home? Abducted me from it? Kept me prisoner in hopes I would bend to your will?”

“I did what I had to do!” Aemond screamed, “while you spent the time you could have been comfortable in a castle slumming it as a whore-“

“Are you truly so bothered that you could not bend me to your will? All you want is to feel like you have the power, like you’re a man more so than your brother. You never cared about a marriage, you never thought of even attempting to gain my affections, yet you storm around this room, in my home, like a toddler whose toy has been taken away-“

“I AM BOTHERED BECAUSE I COULD NOT GAIN YOUR AFFECTIONS!”

It was not often you were rendered speechless. It was not in your nature. However, upon hearing Aemond’s rather bellowing confession, all time stood still.

He suddenly became brutally aware of his words, and quieted his voice, fighting to calm down his angered breaths as he looked to you for a retort.

“Excuse me?” you spoke, your voice low.

You looked to Aemond, but he could not speak. He had stunned himself into silence.

You swallowed hard as the air thickened. You initiated a break in eye contact and attempted to collect your thoughts quicker than usual. You had to speak first, and you had to have the last word.

“I will ask the handmaidens to prepare a bed chamber in the Guest House near the Godswood,” you said, your tone forcefully monotonous, “I shall see you in the morn.”

You, without looking up at Aemond, turned on your heel and exited the Great Hall.

────── ☾ ──────

The thrashing of your body against the mattress abruptly pulled you from slumber, your handmaidens frantic as they shook you awake.

No one was more excited for your wedding day, perhaps, than your handmaidens. As women you considered friends, they had all seen the sparks fly between you and Jacaerys, and had all looked forward to this day for as long as you were old enough for men to propose marriage to their son for a trade of goods.

You reminded yourself of all that was at stake; you wanted this marriage, you wanted Jacaerys, but that did not mean there was no turmoil ahead. Jacaerys’s family would, as tradition tells, be in attendance. You had never been granted the privilege of meeting the Queen.

You contemplated that it was a rather crass and impulsive decision to ask Aemond to attend, given that he was perhaps Rhaenyra’s biggest foe. Yes, Aegon had her throne, but Aemond was more of a threat to Rhaenyra and her cause, and all of the realm knew it.

You allowed yourself a moment of calm as you remembered Aemond’s decline of your invitation and your subsequent argument.

The argument.

Had Aemond truly spoken the words you believed to have heard? Had he truly said he was bothered by his inability to gain your affections? Had he wanted to gain your affections?

As you stated into the mirror, your handmaidens tending to your hair, you wondered if you had possibly forsaken the depth of Aemond’s character. Had you been so headstrong as to miss a whole other person behind the eye? You had experienced the same with Aegon.

It was the day you were to wed Jacaerys, and you could not forget the two silver-haired brothers who had plagued your past several weeks.

“It’s time!” your handmaidens exclaimed.

You glanced in the mirror one final time to ensure all the minute details of your appearance were up to your standards before you were whisked away to marry Jacaerys.

You were grateful that he had agreed to host the wedding in Winterfell. Winterfell was, while devoted to the Blacks, a more neutral space than Dragonstone. Had Aemond or Aegon agreed to attend, a wedding elsewhere would not likely ever take place.

The wedding was beautiful.

Your handmaidens has spearheaded a majority of the work, being that the work had begun, then you were kidnapped and the work was halted, and then a while later you returned and agreed to wed Jacaerys rather soon after.

You had made it to your reception, a rather lavish affair considering it was the wedding of the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. You understood that this wedding was special. Jacaerys was to be King someday, and therefore you were to be Queen.

Jacaerys seemed elated the entire time. You were able to grasp a quick moment of solitude in a whisper between chairs.

“Jace?”

“Yes?”

“Is everything alright? I know it’s been a rather tumultuous week and-“

Jacaerys sighed. “My love, I’ve already told you I am not angry about what transpired with Aegon. Even if I had been, this is our wedding. And our wedding day means a rather fun wedding night, wouldn’t you agree?”

He was evidently feeling the effects of the many cups he has drank thus far.

You smiled at your now-husband. “Jacaerys Velaryon, are you flirting with me? But won’t your wife see?”

Jacaerys leaned over to whisper in your ear, “I’ve heard you could probably fuck better anyway.”

You leaned away and caught his gaze to gage whether or not he meant it as spite toward you, but the look on his face immediately explained that he meant it positively. Being experienced acted as a rather unexpected turn on for your husband.

────── ☾ ──────

“Are you still drunk?”

Jacaerys smiled. “I appreciate your concern, but no,” he insisted, “I’m well sobered up for this.”

You sat on your bed, still fully clothed, in anticipation of the bedding ceremony. Jacaerys extended his hand to you, and you placed yours in his, allowing him to guide you to a stand.

“Can I take this dress off of you?” he asked.

You smiled at his sweetness. “Yes.”

Jacaerys undid all the small buttons aligned down your back and slipped top of the dress down your shoulders, allowing you to shimmy out of the remainder of the rather lavish gown.

You were so focused on disrobing that you had not noticed Jacaerys’s momentary absence until he returned in front of you, holding out a black cloak.

You looked up at him with a questioning expression.

“I am in this for every part of you, Stark,” he explained, “a bedding ceremony in this castle just simply will not do. It is not fit for you.”

“Jacaerys-“

He held up a hand to signal that he intended to continue. “We do not have to. However, please understand that I want to know. I want to experience. I want to feel the freedom you feel in those places. Teach me, Y/N. Please.”

You searched Jacaerys’s eyes for any hint of hesitation or untruthfulness, but to no avail. The prospect of brothels excited him, but he was not one to attend. He craved connection, and he craved intimacy with a name, a personality, a partner. The dichotomy had lived within him, and your secret profession was finally an outlet.

“We must be extremely discreet.”

────── ☾ ──────

You took Jacaerys to the brothel you worked at, perhaps no longer. You had advised him to still maintain anonymity via his cloak, for regardless of the higher safety of your concealed identity at this particular brothel, you were still in Winterfell, and you were still a Stark.

At the allowance of the Madam, you began to pull Jacaerys toward an unoccupied room. Once inside, you removed the hood of your cloak. Jacaerys followed suit.

“‘Tis loud in here,” Jacaerys said, in reference to the moaning and bellowing laughter of collective drunken men.

You nodded. Jacaerys wasted no time.

He pulled your waist into his body, crashing his lips against yours as if he had been waiting to reunite with them for ages.

Your hands instinctively found their way through the curly black strands of his hair, keeping him close to you as the kiss remained hungry and needy.

You managed to escape for a breath just long enough to say, “wait.”

Jacaerys pulled away with a pout on his lips.

“Patience, Jace, allow me to get some cups in here.”

“But-“

“I will not be but two minutes.”

Jacaerys pouted as you began to exit the room, flipping your hood upward.

Jacaerys reached out for your arm to pull you back. “Baby, please.”

The pet name almost stopped you, but you persevered. When you still left, he plopped down on the bed like a toddler in want throwing a tantrum.

You kept your head down as you navigated through the brothel. You saw approaching footsteps as a guide to where you could step, and you had managed to memorize the layout of the brothel by heart. You made it to the bar without having to look at any of your immediate surroundings.

It was not until the Madam approached you that you halfway lifted your head and requested two cups of water and two cups of wine.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

The voice to your right was all too familiar.

You were taken aback by the sight of him. He would appear drunk to the naked eye, but you knew him. The look in his eyes communicated that he had drank to the point of intolerance, no longer drunk, but drinking nonetheless.

Aemond was right. He had not returned home. He had never even left Winterfell.

“What are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same,” he said, taking a large gulp from his cup, “or is it not your wedding night?”

He refused to look you in the eye. In fact, he had not looked toward you at all. He was able to identify your voice, even with the cloaked barrier between the two of you.

“Aegon, you told me you would leave the morn after whence you came.”

“Evidently I did not.”

The Madam placed the drinks in front of you, and you smiled as a thank you, waiting until she left your space to continue speaking to Aegon.

“Why?”

Aegon simply let out a laughable scoff and continued to drink.

“Aegon.”

“Y/N.”

“What are you doing in Winterfell, Aegon.” It was phrased more as an exhausted sentence, rather than a genuine question.

Aegon sighed. “You mustn’t pretend as if you are unaware of my plights.”

You were not unaware. You had thought of him many a time since your intimacy together, and you knew he had done the same. You also knew that you and Aegon were far past the point of disguising vulnerabilities.

“Is Jace around? Or are you a lone wolf on your wedding night? My little nephew can’t handle you?”

“Do not bait me, Aegon, you know it will not work,” you said.

“No, no, where is he? Is he here?” Aegon stood abruptly, swinging wine out of his cup as he began to spin around.

“Aegon-“

“Is he in here?” Aegon approached an occupied room, swinging back the fabric to see a worker and her customer.

“Nope,” Aegon said, moving on to another room, “maybe he’s hiding in here!”

Aegon swung the fabric open to find his own flesh and blood curled into a ball on the mattress, two workers surrounding him as he lay with his head in one of their laps.

He shot upward the moment he spotted Aegon, and his body stilled when he noticed you.

Aegon erupted into cacophonous laughter, a wide grin appearing on his features for perhaps the first time tonight.

Aemond stood and began to tie a robe around his lean, tall frame, pretending as if Aegon’s interruption and subsequent laughter did not bother him.

“Oh, what a sight! We shall never need comfort of our mother if we find solace here! How sweet of you. Tell me, do you even fuck them, or do you-“

Aemond pushed past both of you, but you gripped his wrist before he could make it fully past you.

He looked to where you had caught him, then up to your face.

“What are you doing here?” Aegon squealed.

Aemond stayed silent.

“I cannot stand you two. Come with me,” you said.

You pulled Aemond along, and he only obliged so as not to cause a scene and draw attention to himself or his brother. Aegon followed you out of pure amusement.

When you entered the room with Jacaerys, he was already shirtless, adjusting his posture on the bed to try to look proper for your return. When he spotted his uncles, he reacted the same as Aemond had, shooting upward to a stand.

You dropped Aemond’s hand and stood across from the three Targaryen-blooded men. Dropping your cloak off of your body, you took a large breath.

“Well, get on with it, then,” Aegon prompted.

“You,” you started, pressing a pointer finger into Aegon and Aemond’s chests, “you two have been sulking and stalking around Winterfell without a word. What am I, your mother? A king and a soldier should be able to overcome their own woes.”

“So you admit I am king?” Aegon smiled.

“Never.”

“Why have you lingered in the North so long?” Aemond cut you off, turning to his brother, “I am only here because your incompetent council sent me to retrieve you.”

“I do not need retrieving, thank you, brother,” Aegon responded.

“I opt to disagree, for it appears that you’ve spent the last several days drowning your sorrows in snowy brothels in hopes you’ll find yourself another pet wolf, or am I mistaken?”

“Mind your tongue and remember your place,” Aegon spit.

“This is-“

Jacaerys attempted to interject, but his two uncles were too far invested in their own bickering.

“Just as well for you to remember yours. What King discards their duty for the loss of a woman that was not theirs to lose? You are but a placeholder, you evidently do not deserve-“

“You speak so confidently for a man in my same position when it comes to wolves.”

Jacaerys began to understand. He knew you had shared intimacies with Aegon, and he had yet to question you on the dynamics present during your time with his other uncle. He had fallen for you rather easily, and would never admit it aloud, but could understand how his uncles could do just the same. Though it left a bitter taste in his mouth, he knew you were much too special to win the heart of only one man.

The realization caused Jacaerys to become somewhat competitive and possessive. “You are both aware we wed today,” he said.

Aemond and Aegon turned toward him.

“Despite my best efforts,” Aegon mumbled.

“Oh shut it, Aegon, you have already had her,” Jacaerys snapped back, “what sorrows do you possibly have to drown?”

“You married her.”

“And I have been cast as the villain, yet you two continue to be the ones to bicker,” Aemond spoke, level-headed.

“Perhaps you were cast as the villain because you acted as such,” Jacaerys shrugged.

“Say that again,” Aemond challenged, stepping closer to Jacaerys and towering over him. Had he possessed his sword, he would have drawn it.

“You kidnapped her, and now you stand here and complain that you-“

“I took her with me upon Aegon’s command,” Aemond cut off.

“Do not transfer the blame, brother. I thought I was too incompetent to be king?” Aegon tested.

“You are, that is why I am to be king,” Jacaerys said.

“Oh, but who sits on the throne, little boy?” Aegon spat, “because it certainly is not some-“

“Do not presume to-“

“You could not handle a woman like this if you tried,” Aegon continued.

All three men huffed in a stalemate, angered as they exchanged glances, all unsure of how to retort.

“Are you lot done then?” you questioned, seated on the bed nonchalantly.

“So what?” Aegon threw his hands up, “you dragged us in here so that we can all bicker? Is Jacaerys truly so boring that you cannot be alone with him, even on your wedding night?”

“Aegon, if you do not shut-“

“Innocent little Jacey, do you even know how to bed a woman?” Aegon tested.

Aemond scoffed in laughter, a smirk painting his otherwise stoic features.

“I must know something, if she chose me in the end,” Jacaerys replied.

“She’ll get bored,” Aemond began, speaking calm and collected, “and she will seek a challenge. Neither of you can provide the level of wit or intellect that I have.”

You remained silent, enjoying the entertainment from the men arguing. You hoped you were right about where this would all lead, you just needed to exercise patience.

Aegon, as he usually did, chose to ignore his brother, and continue chastising Jacaerys. “Do you need help, nephew? I can teach you, if you need, as I know you most definitely do not know-“

“And you do? You do not respect women the way one must in order to-“

“One man forever will never be enough for her,” Aemond interjected.

Jacaerys knew Aemond only said it to get it under his skin, however, despite his better judgement and knowledge, it was working. Jacaerys felt the pang of doubt in the back of his mind that this woman, this free, sexual woman who had bed multiple men, would not be fulfilled by just him.

Aemond could see his words sinking in. Aemond, the most calculated and logical of them all, knew there would only be one way to get you. “Allow us to aid you, Jacaerys.”

Aegon looked at his brother. “Excuse me?”

Aemond turned toward you. He had thought many times what he remembered now: you were the only one on his level. With you, he met his match.

He allowed Aegon and Jacaerys to bicker like children while he studied your expressions. He could tell exactly what game you were playing. You were stuck between three Targaryens, and while you wed one, Aemond believed that it did not mean you intended to tether yourself. He felt as if he knew you too well for that.

“She is my wife now, Aemond,” Jacaerys warned.

“And I will ensure she feels as such.”

The energy in the room began to shift. Despite the years of hatred, argument, and war, you wanted them all, and the one thing they had in common is that they all wanted you. They all had to internally admit the violent truth that the only way to have you wholly would be to share you.

You stood and approached your husband. “I promise to save the sanctity of our marriage for you, and you alone.” You assured him that he would be the only one to risk pregnancy tonight.

You maintained eye contact with Jacaerys as you removed your clothing until you were fully naked.

Jacaerys, despite the dread of critique from his uncles, could not wait any longer. He captured your lips in a heated kiss, refusing to worry about the other men in the room and focus on what he wanted.

You stepped backward until you felt the bed behind your legs. You swiftly turned Jacaerys around, pushing his back toward the mattress until he was horizontal.

He shifted his weight backwards so that his legs were no longer dangling off the mattress, but he was horizontal across the midsection of the foam.

You straddled his waist, tangling your fingers through the curly black strands of his hair as you resumed your kiss.

You grinded against his clothed length, eliciting a slight whimper from Jace in the kiss. Your felt yourself wetten at from the noise; you had been waiting what felt like a millennium to finally have him.

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” you heard Aegon say as Aemond positioned him behind you.

Aegon gently brushed his fingertips across the skin of your lower back, signaling his presence so as not to startle you.

You leaned back down to kiss Jacaerys again, and his hands found their way to your waist. He instinctively thrust his hips upward, desperate for friction.

You felt Aegon’s fingertips leave your skin, and in their place, two large hands grasped your waist and yanked your body backward so that your waist no longer hovered over Jacaerys’s, and your knees nearly slipped off the mattress.

In this new position, your face was mere inches away from where Jacaerys wanted you most.

“Off,” you said, tugging at the waistband of his breeches. Jacaerys shyly removed them, his cheeks flush when his cock sprung free in front of everyone.

You gazed up at Jace through hooded lids, licking a stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, before sinking down onto as much of his length as you could.

Jacaerys threw his head back, a gasp escaping his lips at the sensation of your lips around him. His curls were splayed out on the mattress surrounding his head. He looked so handsome; the way his features contorted as he whined and moaned were reminiscent of a sculpture, an artist chipping away at beautiful marble and stone until the features were defined, each chip shifting the features, however they never lost beauty.

You began to bob your head up and down, and you admired the way Jacaerys’s stomach tightened with each stretch of his back or sharp inhalation.

You could hear when Jacaerys inadvertently let himself get lost in the pleasure, because his heavenly sounds were growing rapidly in volume and length.

One of his hands found the back of your head, and he did not apply pressure, but simple kept his hand there for the comfort that it meant you would not pull away.

You felt a tap on the inside of your left thigh. “Wider,” Aemond commanded.

You lifted off of Jacaerys’s cock with a pop, turning your head around to look at Aemond. “Or what?”

Aemond nearly growled, knowing you were too stubborn to not get your way. He swallowed his pride, and through gritted teeth, said, “please.”

You smirked at your success and widened your legs. It forced your backside higher, leaving you on display for Aemond and Aegon, who resided next to his brother in anticipation.

Your mouth resumed its attention toward Jace, and he let out a rather filthy moan of your name.

Aemond ran a slender finger through your folds, drawing more wetness from you. He knelt to the ground, still almost taller than you on his knees from his extravagant height.

His hands wrapped around your thighs as he delved into your cunt, his tongue dancing through your folds.

You remained attached to Jace, but that did not stop whimpers and moans. The vibrations around Jace’s cock send shivers up his spine.

“Can’t,” was all Jacaerys could say to signal that you had to cease your actions, or else he would come.

You pulled off of him and immediately let out a strangled moan. Aemond moved his tongue faster and faster monitoring your facial expressions the best he could from behind you.

You dropped your head onto Jacaerys’s thigh, one cheek pressed against his skin and the other toward the sky, allowing him to watch your face as Aemond ate you out.

Jacaerys could not help but stroke your hair, pushing the sweat-soaked strands out of your face as he watched your brows furrow and lips part in pleasure.

Your back arched and straightened slightly every few seconds as you moved against Aemond’s tongue. He was as skilled as you had expected. His nose hit against you every few movements he made, adding to your arousal.

His grip on your hips was becoming tighter and tighter. He felt a certain possessiveness take over as his brother, who typically got everything while Aemond got nothing, and Jacaerys, the one who actually got you, watched him pleasure you so good you nearly fell apart.

He licked and sucked at your cunt, his grasp on your legs definitively hard enough to bruise as your whines became higher and higher in pitch.

It was not until you began to grind yourself against his tongue that he stilled, allowing you to use his tongue for your own pleasure.

Your ever so slightly bounced your hips upward and downward against Aemond’s face, and the sight just about killed Aegon.

Jacaerys continued to stroke your hair as a reminder that he was there, and he was your husband.

Aemond pulled away without warning, leaving your core exposed and cold. He circled the bed until he was in front of you, but he was still fully clothed. He was playing a calculated game, and you caught on. Knowing Aemond, he would only take his turn when it was the least convenient for you.

You knee-crawled back to Jacaerys’s hips, looking down at his face as you searched for any signal that he was not ready for you.

You took Jacaerys’s cock in your hand, and after a few short strokes, you lined it up with your entrance, slowly sinking down until he was entirely inside of you.

You placed your hands on either side of his head, your back slightly arched as you searched for his reaction.

“Holy- oh my- fuck,” Jacaerys moaned. You had yet to move.

Aegon stood behind you, simply enjoying the sight of you as his cock throbbed with desire.

“Let me know when I can move, Jace,” you spoke softly.

“Oh my gods please move,” he nearly begged.

You appeased him but lifting your hips a small amount before dropping them back again, and Jacaerys lost all control. His body writhed beneath you, and you had to place a hand onto his cheek to draw him back to earth.

“Relax, Jacey.”

Jacaerys took a deep breath. “No.”

Jace wrapped a strong arm around your waist and pulled you into his body, causing your head to fall into the crook of his neck as your body pressed against his chest.

He began to thrust his hips upward, pumping in and out of you at a steady pace. The arm around your waist held you in place, allowing Jacaerys control as he used you.

“Shit- you feel b- better than I imagined,” he sighed out.

You moaned in response, unable to make much noise since one hand was against the back of your neck, holding you in place against him, and your voice fell straight into the mattress.

Despite his own selfish desires, Aegon allowed Jacaerys quality time to feel and connect with you. He could wait another few minutes if it meant he didn’t have to give you up.

Jacaerys pressed down on your lower back, pushing you back against his thrusts, causing his cock to hit even deeper within you. You arched your back and moaned in his ear at the sensation.

You whisper-whined so only he could hear, “doing so good, Jacey.”

The praise only egged him on more, and he began to thrust inside of you as quickly as he possibly could.

He tired quickly, resetting a steady pace.

Aegon took it as an opportunity to touch you again, this time by tapping his hardened cock against one of your ass cheeks.

“Jace, baby, wait a second,” you said.

“I don’t think I can- shit, can ever stop fucking you,” he moaned.

“One minute, my love, just still for one minute,” you pleaded, and Jacaerys forced himself to stop moving.

He gave Aegon a dirty look, so as to say ‘how dare you interrupt my fun.’

Aegon used his fingers to circle your folds for a moment, causing your core to clench around Jacaerys.

He used your wetness to lubricate his cock as best as he could before he lined it up with your backside.

You inhaled a sharp breath when his tip prodded past your ass. He stopped in fear that he had hurt you, and you noticed. “I’m okay,” you assured him, looking back at him.

“Just take it slow,” Jacaerys said, “if you hurt her, I swear to the sept-“

You leaned down and kissed Jacaerys to quiet him down as Aegon pushed further and further into you, slowly, almost excruciatingly so, until he was bottomed out inside of you.

Jacaerys was careful not to move until you had adjusted to Aegon as well.

When the burning sensation of pain subsided, you caught your breathing and told Aegon to be gentle and move.

Aegon did just that, fighting with every cell of his being to treat you kindly, when all he truly desired was to take you as he had in King’s Landing. He moved only halfway in and out, scared that any more intensity or movement would be too overstimulating.

Aegon set a slow rhythm, and Jacaerys gripped your hips to still them as he himself began to move.

You inhaled a sharp breath at the sudden stimulation. You had been in a room with two men before, but had never taken them at the same time.

“Are you alright?” Jacaerys half-whispered through shuddered breath, evidently struggling to speak and keep his composure.

You kissed him to ease his worries. He reciprocated instantly, and became greedy. He cherished that intimate moments like this could be his and his alone, despite what his two uncles may attempt.

You whined and whimpered as the two men fucked you in tandem. The pressure was enough to break you, but you refused to focus on anything apart from the intense pleasure of it all.

Just as it became pure ecstasy, you felt Aemond’s slender fingers stroke your hair. You lifted your gaze to meet his eye, then dropped your head slightly to see his hardened cock patiently waiting for your attention.

You began to shake your head. “No. Not unless the- fuck, shit, Aeg- take it easy- not unless, fuck! Eye patch. Off.”

Aemond stared down at your frame, gazing up at him expectantly, waiting for him to remove his eye patch while your body jolted forward and backward every few seconds or so.

Aegon’s presence was the reason Aemond was hesitant, and you knew it. Aegon had spend his entire life relentlessly teasing his brother for his handicap, but as Aemond looked to Aegon, he realized that Aegon did not even have the capacity to pay attention to his actions. Aegon was blissed out, a way Aemond had never seen when he had interrupted his brother with previous suitors and whores.

Aemond suddenly became violently aware that all three men currently occupying you were in the same boat; Jacaerys and Aegon were no strangers to Aemond’s feelings toward you. Though your relationship to Aemond was different, and his feelings were of different reason, they were present in all of them nonetheless.

Aemond almost felt bad for you, worried that the sheer amount of men surrounding you was much too overstimulating for you, but you hoisted your upper half upward, no longer laying on Jacaerys’s chest, but arms propped up on either side of his head as you looked to Aemond.

You reached up as far as you could, but could not stretch yourself high enough to capture Aemond’s eye patch in your hand. The new angle proved positive for Jacaerys, who threw his head back against the mattress and he rutted his hips even faster within you.

Aegon, ever competitive, felt the change in pace, and met it, fucking you faster and faster.

Jacaerys and Aegon entered a silent battle, each trying to fuck you faster and harder than the other, all the while still consumed in their own pleasure, and never looking at one another.

Your body subsequently collapsed onto Jacaerys. You allowed your body to adjust to the new brutal pacing, and when you looked back up to Aemond, his eye patch was gone.

“Beautiful,” you mouthed to Aemond, and you could have sworn you noticed a faint blush creep up to the apples of his cheeks.

Without breaking your eye contact, you opened your mouth and stick out your tongue, inviting Aemond to take the lead, as you couldn’t hold yourself up without falling straight back down onto your husband.

Aemond took his length in one hand and gripped your jaw in the other. His gaze was harsh as he pressed the head of his cock against your tongue. You closed your mouth around the muscle and he pushed in slowly, bottomed out, and immediately pulled out.

“You will not break me, Aemond, take me how you wish.”

Aemond did not need to be told twice.

He shoved his cock past your lips and began to fuck your mouth in a steady pace, not nearly close to the vigor Jacaerys and Aegon had, but steady nonetheless.

You moaned around Aemond’s cock as you squeezed around Jacaerys’s, and both men groaned in tandem.

“Fuck,” Jacaerys whined.

You could have waged that Jacaerys would be the first to come. He was the least experienced and the most pent up. You guessed that he would have come even earlier had he not pushed himself through a few near-orgasms to save himself from the teasing of his uncles.

Jacaerys grunted as he pistoned his hips against yours. He had no space to pull out of you to come, and he did not want to anyhow. His breathing quickened as the coil snapped in his lower abdomen.

Your head was still as Aemond fucked your mouth, and you squeaked around his cock when you felt Jacaerys’s seed paint your walls.

Jacaerys hit your hips with a few harsh thrusts, using you to milk his cock dry, and the thrusts pushed you further into Aemond’s cock. You fought back a gag as his tip brutally hit the back of your throat.

Clearly it was proper pleasure for Aemond, since he snaked one hand through the hair on the back of your head as he held you in place, and continued to hit the same sweet spot at the back of your throat.

“Aemond, fuck- can you, can you just come already? I’m dying here,” Aegon snapped through labored breaths.

Aemond, completely composed as if he wasn’t currently shoving his cock down your throat, spoke without stopping, “who said you had to wait for me, brother?”

Aegon groaned as his grip on your hips tightened. Jacaerys lay beneath you, still inside of you, simply enjoying the sight of you wrecked.

“I’m not going to finish before you, she finishes with me,” Aegon said.

Jacaerys placed his arms behind his head and watched in amusement as a small bulge appeared where your chin met your throat with every thrust from Aemond.

You forced yourself off of Aemond’s cock with a pop to say, “are you two seriously arguing right now?”

Aemond just shrugged. You turned back to look at Aegon, and his resolve broke. Seeing the look in your eyes as you gazed back to him, his cock in your ass, was enough for him to quickly unsheath his cock and release all over your back.

The moment Aegon pulled out of you, Aemond grabbed your arms and pulled you closer, which pulled you off of Jacaerys’s cock. He wanted you to kneel, but he did not want to hurt you by having you sit.

You remained bent over as you began to suck his cock again, this time bobbing your head and assisting in the work. Aemond threw his head back, and you admired the way his toned stomach flexed when his hips jutted forward.

You ran your tongue along the underside of his cock, swirling it around his tip as his thrusts continued. You looked up at him, teary-eyed and fucked out, and the sight was prettier than he could imagine.

“Don’t look up at me,” Aemond said, “or else I’m going to come down your throat.”

If your lips weren’t around him, you would have grinned. You didn’t break eye contact as you moved your head faster, and Aemond gripped your hair.

“I said don’t look up at me.”

You released from his cock, only momentarily, to say, “after all this time, you’d think you’d know that I don’t take orders from you.”

You went back to sucking and licking at his cock, staring into his eye as his cock twitched and swelled until he released into your mouth.

You remained in place until you were confident that he was completely finished. You pulled off of him and showed him your clean tongue.

He could not help it- he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your lips. “You’re my only equal, you know.”

“How sentimental,” you teased.

You rolled over and laid down on your back. The sheets felt soothing and comfortable beneath your aching, naked form.

“You alright?” Jacaerys checked in.

You simply smiled, looked to the ceiling, and began to uncontrollably giggle.

“Y/N?”

“Mhm?” you stopped laughing to hum.

“What now?” Aegon asked.

You shrugged and continued to smile as you caught your breath.

────── ☾ ──────

taglist: @torchbearerkyle @dracaryxzs @hangmanscoming @callsignwidow @velvetcrowbarcherry @kravitzwhore @darlingisntit @not-neverland06 @albionfay @cluz1babe @flusteredmoonn @sab-falco @ajanauia @lycaonpictusphotography

[inamindfarfaraway]

Kieran Valentine being canonically gay is so fucking funny. This man is an emotional vampire who spent centuries, maybe over a thousand years, being a sleazy ladykiller with a dark magical twist. He charms, manipulates and love-bombs girls. If that fails to win their hearts, he’ll outright use mind control to completely override their free will by force. If they have another love interest, he will sabotage them. His girlfriends’ feelings and autonomy mean nothing to him. He sees them as prey, objects to possess, literally claiming trophies of their hearts. When he’s done with them, he abandons them. Their hearts then stay broken. Forever. That’s part of the spell, and they are indeed still crying in his magic pictures. They’re only allowed to heal once he’s defeated and loses his power over them.

He’s successfully “harvested” at least fourteen hearts, based on the collection we see. Monsters’ lifespans vary wildly by species, with some being immortal or extremely long-lived and some having human lifespans, so these may just be the victims who are still alive by the time of Draculaura’s 1600th birthday. And they may have been trapped in supernatural post-breakup hell for centuries on end. Some of them may have died in that state.

He’s over a thousand years old. This is the only way he knew how to consume love from his peers. How often has he done it?

And then, in the present day, he figures out that a) he can be much better satisfied by freely given love, meaning the exploitation was unnecessary, and b) he’s gay. He doesn’t like girls romantically or sexually. He just couldn’t accept that and overcompensated in the worst possible way.

Can you imagine being one of his poor exes, finally able to move on, stumbling across him and Spelldon online and finding out that he was never even into you. At all. He never even thought you were hot.

[sparrowmp4]

Bi Tao (sketch + story extra)

Part 2 of putting everyone in hanfus, I think Li Ling and Yun Chuan might be next I think!

Another short story, I did a bit of character study and put my own twist on it! Some quotes are directly from his esper profile thing lol.

(English isn’t my first language, sorry! I still think I ate with this one)

Steam curled languidly around Bi Tao’s face, masking the sharp lines of his features. The man lounged against the slick stone edge, water lapping against his chest as faint tendrils of purple smoke mingled into the mist from the pipe that hung from his lips.

The scene replayed in his mind again and again—the way Lü Shang had stared at him, calm and unbothered, as if Bi Tao were nothing but air.

He drew a deep pull from the pipe, the bitter tang of the herbs attacking his tastebuds. Yet it couldn’t compare to the bitterness left in his heart as the words left Lü Shangs lips

“Shixiong, you must be mistaken” Lü Shang had said, with maddening politeness. No sneer, no edge of malice. Just indifference.

Bi Tao let out a low Humorless laugh, smoke spilled from his mouth and billowed around him, disturbing the lazily rising mist around him. Shixiong, he had said, as though they were equals.

Bi Tao clenched his teeth, biting down on the pipe until it creaked. He had cut the man off before he could finish, spitting venomous words about long-forgotten debts, declaring him his arch nemesis.

And what had Lü Shang done? He had only looked at him with that same maddening, infuriating calmness, as though Bi Tao were a stranger.

He doesn't even remember me.

“Shizun clearly doesn’t know what you’re talking about!” He couldn’t even remember the girl who had spoken up for her Shizun.

“Shizun.” The words tasted like bile, souring on his tongue as his lips twisted into a sneer. "You don't deserve that title. You never did."

He flicked ash from his pipe into the spring. Lü Shang. The calm, collected, beloved Lü Shang was everything Bi Tao despised. He was content to sit by a lake and fish, to guide one last disciple with sincerity, as though the past hadn't left scars. As though the efforts Bi Tao spent to ruin his imagine didn’t even leave a scratch.

Lü Shang is a calm pond, full of fish, clear and shallow. He doesn't know what it means to boil. To seethe. To claw one's way to the top.

Bi Tao remembered that day clearly. The courtyard was crowded with elders and disciples as he prepared for his speech, rehearsing every word meticulously. It was meant to be his moment.

But his cultivation faltered. He staggered, his vision blurred and his voice was trapped in his throat. The last thing he saw before collapsing was the shimmer of Lü Shang's robes—the perfect Shidi who had captured everyone's hearts.

When Bi Tao awoke in shame, no one spoke of his failure; instead, they whispered of how Lü Shang had carried him from the stage like a tragic hero.

He stole my moment

Bi Tao slammed the pipe into the water, sending ripples across the surface. He leaned forward as he watched the embers of the pipe extinguish and go under, his long hair clung to his face. He had spent years clawing his way back from that humiliation. Years of scheming, strategizing, and plotting to rise above all others.

“One day, you’ll pay twice over for the past”

But no matter how far he climbed, no matter how many enemies he crushed beneath his heel, Lü Shang always came out stronger.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part had to be the truth.

Bi Tao’s nails scraped against the stone. A fantasy twisted in his mind, he imagined looming over Lü Shangs lifeless body, imagined his polite expression faltering. Yet… Victory felt hollow in his heart. It always had- What he truly wanted, he realized, was not Lü Shang’s defeat.

It was his attention.