#tw: knives. Sort of

[writerwhoreads]

I was up at night instead of sleeping so I carved a rectangular eraser into the shape of a bone with the craft equivalent of a scalpel

[dancing-lex]

My contribution for @octobernote week 3 !!! Very bloody fic with surprise fluff, read it on AO3 here :]

[mad-hunts]

a starter for @sillyjokes related to this prompt '[ ESCAPE ]: our muses are both inmates planning a daring escape from a maximum-security prison' will be ahead.

when nightfall finally came that day, specifically whilst in the infirmary of arkham asylum... barton opened his eyes with every intention to escape. there did seem to be a certain order to the schedule the nurse and doctor followed during the graveyard shift after all. and that would give barton an opening to make his move. seemingly just by chance, the nurse that worked the night shift that week always seemed to take a smoke break right at midnight; which meant that he'd have a window (albeit a narrow one) to deal with the doctor without any interruptions and crawl up into the vents.

this also entailed that he couldn't afford to make any mistakes, however, so barton double-checked to make sure the nurse was gone from the infirmary before quietly sliding out of his bed. the details behind how he got there were fortunately not too grisly. he'd just purposely provoked another inmate into hitting him over the head, and had ended up with a moderate concussion because of it. but barton knew that such an injury would still land him in this wing of arkham so he believed it'd be worth enduring it to end up in the infirmary.

barton only wished that he was able to get his hands on a scalpel earlier. it was pretty much an unavoidable fact that, with how careful the doctor during the day shift was when accounting for all of his instruments, it was going to take him some time to obtain one despite that. the dollmaker held the metal tool by his side as he snuck behind the doctor whom had his back turned to the beds (bad idea) and reached an arm out to quickly put him in a chokehold. pressing on the man's windpipe was all he could do to possibly stop him from crying out for help, before barton sunk that blade into his neck - blood spewing from the area almost immediately.

barton held onto the man all throughout this only to pick him up at the last second. due to the fact that the vent was far up onto the ceiling, he would need to use his body as a 'boost' up against the wall in order to reach it. once he'd done that, it was just a matter of unscrewing the bolts that kept the vent in place before he reached up to crawl through it, shutting the vent up behind him. he had about ten minutes now until the nurse came back and discovered he was gone... therefore, barton had to make the most of that. he soon ran into a bit of a problem however.

right as he dropped down from the vents, barton came face-to-face with the joker's cell instead of where he'd intended to go, which was the surveillance room that had an override button that'd allow him to open all the cells. and he'd just caught the attention of a certain guard who was standing just a few spaces from him. of course the man rose up his gun whilst approaching barton, telling him to 'get on the ground' afterwards. he'd complied in a kneeling position and just as he was about to grab his wrist to cuff him, barton pulled the man forward by the wrist - sinking his blade into his chest all the while but not before the alarm that someone was missing started to go off.

shit. well, now that he was here, barton figured he might as well let perhaps both the best and the worst person out if he couldn't get everyone to cause chaos in the building. he grabbed the now dead guards keys and unlocked the door to the joker's cell. the man's gun was now in barton's possession, luckily, but that didn't meant they were out of the woods yet. he let out a deep exhale out of stress and swung the door open while saying, ❝ well? i'm giving you a chance to get the hell out of here with me, because you might be useful, even though i absolutely fucking hate your guts. so are you coming or what? ❞

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, kidnapping, bondage

gn reader

Thinking about ex-military Yandere and how he doesn’t bat an eye over any of the things he does to you because it all pales in comparison to what he’s seen and done across the border. Ex-military Yandere, who’s only a bit older than you but seems a whole lifetime mature. Ex-military Yandere, who moves like clockwork, with veteran skill—like a rustless steel tool who knows exactly how to get the job done without any fuss. 

He sneaks into your home in the dead of night, triggering no alarms, and has you zip-tied and duct-taped like a hostage before you can even make a sound, then thrown in the backseat like he’s driving you out into the desert to put a bullet in your head. 

You’re convinced he’s a paid bounty hunter of some sort and that you’ve been taken for ransom by god-only-knows who—but that theory dissipates over time—you wish that had been all it was. 

He keeps you in the basement, in some type of doomsday prep bomb shelter. The knives and guns mounted behind a thick sheen of glass under a dozen locks and keys tell you enough about how not to mess with him. Still, you put up a meager fight when you realize what he means to do to you. 

A steel bed is what he takes you on. The mattress is thin, and the cold metal bites clean through it. And still, his touch seems tougher, holding you like he’s never held anything soft before—with a vicious grip like he’s catching prey bare-handed.

You’re tied tighter than need be—every limb immobilized—wrists bound behind your back, and your legs in a crossed knot that’s fixed to your throat like a chain and collar, keeping your thighs folded against your chest.

Even if your mouth wasn’t gagged, you’d only be able to squeak with the way he pounds away at you like it’s the literal end of the world.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Enji, Aizawa ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Nanami, Geto, Toji, Higuruma ♡ HQ – Daichi, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, Sakusa, Miya twins, Ushijima, Ukai ♡ AOT – Eren, Levi, Erwin, Zeke ♡ DS – Akaza, Inosuke, Sanemi, Genya ♡ HxH – Uvogin

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[thewritetofreespeech]

In the Dark

pairing: Aemond x Targaryen!reader [Rhaenyra & Daemon's daughter]

summary: one night, while coming back from the Street of Silk, Aemond runs into an all too familiar figure in the dark. request from @brideofcthulhu10

tags: married reader, targaryen incest, tw: knives, tw: mentions of potential SA

-------------------------------⚔️--------------------------------

The Street of Silk was never quiet, but they were usually a bit more subdued this time of night. Aemond had planned for it this way.

Leaving the comfort of the palace to find comfort somewhere else, the prince always snuck out under the cover of darkness and returned just the same. No one the wiser. No one able to catch him and mock that he would be out here with whores instead of in bed with his wife. No one able to know what he was really doing here….

The prince adjusted his cloak to pull around him to make his way back to the secret tunnels of the castle. He rounded the corner and paused as he caught a glimpse of another figure in the streets. Not unusual, but not the usual sort either. Aemond’s good eye scanned the potential witness and noticed that their cloak was made of much finer material than any other in Flea Bottom. Too nice for peasants, though it clearly made efforts to seem plain.

Aemond growled through his teeth as he realized who it was. Even with the cloak, those whisps of silver hair that snuck out of the hood are a dead giveaway. Although Aemond had already memorized the gait. “What are you doing out here?” He hissed at his wife as he appeared behind her like a shadow.

You spun around fast. Wide eyed in startled fear, which quickly faded when you realized it was him. An odd feeling for Aemond, as it was usually the other way round when people realized it was him. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“What are you doing out here?” He repeated, still hissing, but more from the whispering now. “What are you doing outside the castle, alone, at night, without an escort?!” His blood boiled with each new remark to his list. Aemond thought his wife clever for a time, but he would have to rethink that in this lunacy.

You glared at him. “I do not need an escort.” You insisted. “And what are you doing out here? Last you told me; you would be with Ser Cristion for the night.”

The apple of his throat bobbed, but Aemond refused to admit he gulped at the accusations of his wife. True, they were both at fault here. Sneaking out unbeknownst to their people and partner. The only difference was that Aemond’s transgression did not come with the inherited danger a young lady, alone, in the middle of the night had. Your life was not your own now, and Aemond was angry that you were being so careless with it.

“That is immaterial. You do need an escort. What if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

“I can handle myself, Aemond.” You continued to insist. Why did the Gods have to give him such an infuriating woman as a wife? “I’m not the soft petal that other women in the palace are. I’m a Targaryen.”

True, you were not as soft as the other ladies. Rhaenyra may bare bastards left & right, and Daemon may be an opportunistic lech, but they had done right by their daughter. Teaching you to not only be an adequate lady of court, but also a skilled rider, both of dragon & horse, and how to defend yourself. Targaryens were never short of enemies. It was best to be prepared. But their Targaryen jewel had not been trained in the same way Aemond had. More how to hold a knife and properly thrust when the moment came, but not actually overcome a group of attackers if swarmed.

“Targaryen’s bleed just as much as anyone, ābrazȳrys.” Aemond told her. Stepping close. You predictably take a step back away from his ire. “We are not immortal like our beasts. What would you have done if I had been another man? Two men? Twenty?”

Your back eventually hit a walk. Locked on with Aemond’s eye as you felt a swell of fear in your belly at his words. “I…I would run away.”

Aemond cruelly laughed at your answer. “You would outrun twenty men? You’re fast, byka ābrazȳrys,” he remembers the races they had when they were children, before he sprouted to his current height, “but not fast enough to outrun twenty.” He then used that impressive height of his to quell around you. His arm coming up to place his hand against the wall. Blocking one exit. “What would you do if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

There was a tense moment between you. You felt trapped. You have to force your body to stay still and not tremble. “Stop it Aemond.” You hiss as you try to push him away. He’d made his point. Perhaps this was a bad idea. But you would never admit it.

“Who's Aemond?" Your eyes flickered up to him as Aemond’s voice sounded different. Void of the subtle hints of affection he had for you, and stone cold. A blade was suddenly out from by his pocket and by your throat. “I'm just a faceless, masked man in the dark.”

Your back went straight against the wall as you tried to create as much space as possible between you, Aemond, and the knife. “S-Stop it…”

“Make me.” Was his reply. “You’re a strong, capable Targareyn, aren’t you? Make me stop.”

You realize you can’t. You’re too afraid. This was indeed Aemond, your husband who loved you, but your mind kept thinking on what if this wasn’t Aemond. What if this had been a strange man in the dark? What is this wasn’t a test but truly real? An enemy of your mother? An enemy of Aemond? Or just a man like so many in the city who pulled women into dark alleys and forced them to their needs? What if this had been real?

Aemond saw the fear welling up inside you as tears came to your eyes in panic. He put the knife away and leaned in to give you a kiss. His build softening around you as the point had been made and the ‘game’ was over. You cling to Aemond in relief. Like a life raft out to sea. Overcome with emotions you kiss your husband desperately in a manner unbecoming of commoners in an alley, much less royalty.

Aemond kissed you back with equal fervor. Never missing an opportunity to kiss you. Relief also washed over him as well, thinking on the what-ifs if he had not run into you and another man did. What could have happened to you. The prince growled possessively at the thought and ran his hands over your body to claim it from these imaginary brigands. You moaned against his lips. Breasts heaving as you pant against him while his knee slid up between your legs as he bucked against you. “Let us go home issa jorrāelagon.”

You nodded fervently. You just wanted to go home now. Be with your husband. Be in the palace walls. Be safe.

The prince released you and the two of you walked back through the cobblestone streets for the tunnels. “Why are you out here anyway, issa jorrāelagon?” He realized you had never answered him.

“Father told me once of a spot past the Iron Gate that, if you look out at it at sunrise, you can see Valyria.” Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye. What a ridiculous story. Valryia was leagues away. He’d barely come close to it on Vhagar; though in truth he would never fly near the place after what happened to Princess Aerea. “I know it’s silly, but I wanted to see it.”

“Why now?” He asked. You had lived in King’s Landing on & off for most of your life. Had you wish to see ‘The Valyrian Sun’ (yes, he knew what she was talking about) you could have done so at any time before. Why now, alone, when such danger was about for them?

“In times of trouble, I look to the Old Gods more, like your mother looks to the Seven.” Daemon’s influence, no doubt. Or perhaps it was just her own. Aemond parroted the phrases and did the prayers when asked by his mother, but he would not truly say he was bound to one set or the other. “I thought it might bring me some clarity on things. Some answers.”

“Answers on what?” You don’t answer, which made Aemond suspicious, but he doesn’t pry further. “Why didn’t you just ask me to come with you?”

“I thought you wouldn’t go if I told you it was something my father taught me.”

He frowned. Did you really think him that petty of the man that he wouldn’t go just because Daemon Targaryen taught of it first. “Come. This way.”

You do not have time to react as Aemond took your hand and pulled you down a different alley. “Where are we going?”

“The proper way.” He told you. “You were headed for the Dragon’s Gate. Yet another reason why you need an escort.” You frown at Aemond’s slight but follow after him.

The two of you meet the ‘Valyrian Sun’ together. There is no cast of Old Valyrian in the sun beams, nor any of the answers you seek. But when you turn to look at Aemond amongst the sunrise, you feel some kind of peace. Some kind of answers. “Let’s go home.”

[thehatboxwitch]

anaxagoras yandere profile. gender neutral, TW // nsfw mentions, yandere. credits once again to cinnamonest. :)

What is he generally like? Is he self-aware, lucid, or obsessive? How does he behave?

Anaxa has the inherent desire to understand, and through that, conquer. It's the reason why he refuses to acknowledge gods as a power greater than himself, and why he believes strongly that the flame-chase is an unnecessary endeavour.

In that vein, he spirals into a sort of delusional, worshipping, yet condescending attitude towards you. He treats you like... a god in his grasp that he can control and own. We know he's obsessive through and through, and he can be blindsided by his own stubbornness and insistence on being right. (Granted, he usually is, which doesn't help your case.)

He's not quite lucid like Phainon or Mydeimos would be - he acts in his own way, and treats you as some sort of experiment. If you end up loving him back, that's the preferred outcome, but hating him is just an obstacle to him. Anaxa is convinced he would have some way to warm you up to him, just another problem to be solved.

How do you meet him?

I imagine the situation to be something domestic and peaceful - maybe you encounter him in the market and strike up friendly conversation. Anaxa is fascinated by the attitudes of the people of Okhema towards life, their ability to carry on with their grocery shopping and gossips like the world is no bigger than they perceive it. You’re bright but not terribly so, just enough to meet him with an open mind and polite curiosity.

He'd like someone sharp enough to bounce off (dull knives bore him terribly), but not really someone sassier or more troublesome than himself. He likes the feeling of being relied on as well, and having someone to come home to after galivanting about and setting Aglaea's temper off.

How likely will he kidnap his darling?

8.5/10 - it does seem quite likely. Be it in his personal home or in the Grove, Anaxa would want to keep you somewhere where he could monitor you at all times, like mould in a petri dish of his making. If he doesn’t kidnap you, be prepared to have people breathing down your neck at all time; students from the Grove, guards, even Anaxa himself. But it’d be easier for him to simply sweep you up and take you wherever he’s going next.

How difficult is it to escape from him? How does he restrain his darling? How does he deal with attempted escape?

If Anaxa doesn’t presently need you for anything, he doesn’t really care if you’re wandering elsewhere in the house trying to avoid him. He has traps and mazes set up to confuse you and keep you occupied, and when you think you've gotten out, you realise you've just been turning in his palm all along. Difficulty 10/10 - he knows you better than you know yourself.

Attempted escape is just another something he takes in stride. Your penchant for trying to get out all the time is something he encourages to an extent. He nudges you in the direction of little clues, like letting slip that a window is unlocked somewhere, then amuses himself watching you scurry around, straining your mind to work out his puzzles like watching a mouse solve a scientist's maze.

Usually 'punishment' is something of an NSFW nature. It's more of a reward for him, really.

How easy is it to trick, deceive, or manipulate him?

0/10. It's not easy, and Anaxa would never let you even think that you've led him on. It doesn't play to his ego. There's no trickery, deception, or manipulation that he lets slide. This is where he draws the line - lies are a big negative for him, and if you want to piss him off, this is probably how to do it. But I wouldn't recommend it. Anaxa has a fearsome temper.

What kind of punishments would he use?

Anaxa's punishments range from evil (academic) to evil (physical). If he so desires, he sticks you with painstakingly sorting through a stack of papers, arranged by year, in alphabetical order. Tiring, mundane tasks like that. It frustrates you so badly to tears that you often think twice before going against him again.

Evil (physical) punishments would be NSFW. He doesn't really mean for them to be punishments more than he means them to be a reward for himself. He'll deny you pleasure, have you serve him until your jaw aches, leave bites and bruises until you're red and raw. He likes the power that he has over you, and he likes knowing that your body can be manipulated to betray you.

How does he deal with rivals, or perceived rivals?

He doesn't quite perceive people as rivals, but rather nuisances that are getting in his way. Be it a brother who's sniffing around too close to the truth, or a colleague who wants to have a meal with you one time too many, they're all the same to Anaxa. Just another obstacle to be overcome.

He's an efficient individual. He can't really be bothered with the patience of having to manipulate and work someone out of your life, so if they disappear, it's likely that they're dead. Anaxa would never trust anyone other than himself with such an important task, so you can trust that he'd be the one with blood on his hands.

How easy is it to make him mad? What does his anger look like?

Fairly easy, if you know where to hit where it hurts, but it also depends on his mood. Sometimes Anaxa finds it amusing how hard you're trying to rile him up, and he plays your game, deflecting and working you into a corner until you have nowhere to go and have to admit defeat. Other times if he's had a long day, he doesn't quite have the patience to play mind games. You'll quickly find yourself pinned down and silenced that way.

Does he see you as above, beneath, or equal to him?

Beneath him, absolutely. He doesn't believe in gods. What do you think?

How determined is he for you to love him, or is he content just having you?

Anaxa isn't really that determined, honestly. He's here to play the long game, not really to win - if either of you die and you've never loved him, so be it. Some projects are simply destined to end in failure.

That's not to say that he won't try, of course. The fun is in the journey!

General perverseness: How sexual is he? What's his drive like? Touchy?

It's not quite about the pleasure for him, but the power. Like I mentioned earlier, he likes knowing that he's able to manipulate your body and have it betray you - which to him is the ultimate, most intimate betrayal.

He's not against all the pleasure of it all, of course. If he so wished, Anaxa might get turned on by just seeing a sliver of your skin or you could be grinding against him with zero reaction. He treats touch as more of a tool, rather than finding comfort in it i.e. holding you close, restraining you, guiding you through whatever pleasure he wants (or doesn't want) you to experience that day.

What body parts of his darling does he like the most?

Waist. He likes holding you around it (even if you're bigger), tucking you into his side and very much unable to get away. Or he holds you as he guides you up and down as you ride him.

What is it with him and power? Poor thing.

[mullermilkshake]

Trust issues

Part 1 <- -> Part 2

Hiromi tries to iron out some issues.

Yandere!Hiromi Higuruma x PregnantFem!reader TW - Pregnancy,Captive,Kidnapping,Arguments

<<< For more Hiromi content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

Hiromi was excellent at explaining and rebutting others' arguments, to pull them apart and make them look weak, while he appeared effortless and untouchable. 

How the hell was he going to explain this if you ever got out?

He never meant to get you pregnant either, it sort of just happened.

Now, it sounded ridiculous if it was ever discussed out loud, he knew what happened when two consenting adults, at the time, had unprotected sexual intercourse. He just didn’t anticipate pregnancy on the first try.

No one ever does.

That being said, Hiromi couldn’t help see this as a silver lining. He made more than enough money to support the two of you, and the idea of having a baby might mellow you out a bit to the point you may even stop trying to get away from him. Well, eventually you’d be too far along to try anything. High risk, big reward. Hiromi hated using restraints, but he couldn’t bear the thought of you running, getting out and ending up in a courtroom sitting opposite him.

You’d say wild things, totally delirious due to the stress on your body when you should have been holed up in bed for rest before the baby came. Hiromi’s poor heart sank at the mere thought of you turning against him. He never wanted to entertain the idea that you might want to ruin what he had worked so hard to formulate.

The first moment he saw you was what gave it away for him. He just had to have you, be close to you, be inside you. 

And with hard work and due diligence, he got all three.

“Please don’t ignore me when I speak to you. I know you’re upset, but I’m working on it, aren’t I? I said I’d make it up to you.”

You were about in your second trimester if he guessed correctly. Sitting on the bed with a self-inflicted swollen ankle, pouting because he left you here to go to work.

“I’m trying here, Love.”

Still you said nothing, looking away to punish him whilst he slaved over cases at work. He gave you plenty of slack to reach different parts of the house, you were not limited to one room. That was in clear breach of your human rights and Hiromi did not see himself as the monster you tried to make him out to be.

You simply hadn’t understood yet how much he cared for you.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

It was because of what happened yesterday. Hiromi admitted that he shouldn’t have snapped how he did, but he couldn’t take it back even though he wanted to. Somehow, you managed to get hold of a knife from the kitchen. Before you could even move it, Hiromi snatched it away and gave you a ten minute scolding of how dangerous knives could be.

And he jumped out of his skin because he was certain you’d try to use it on him. How could you explain that one in court if he died because of it? Hiromi dreaded the thought of you giving birth in prison, so his instincts kicked in and he lashed out. So you were pouting at him, though his guilt was eating away at his brain. The way you looked at him so upset and innocent made his heart swell, he even took you to bed and held you until you fell asleep. Well, he had to drag you there, but you fell asleep all the same.

However, you still weren’t talking to him.

“What more can I do?” He said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and noting the way you pulled your legs away.

“I said I don’t want to talk to you. That’s what you can do.”

“Well, we need to talk about this, I thought it was all in the past but you keep bringing it up. We cuddled last night- we can again tonight. I took tomorrow off as a surprise so we can spend the entire day together tomorrow.” He intended on telling you tomorrow, but to hell with waiting.

You glared at him like he’d done something wrong. “We didn’t cuddle last night, you pinned me down because I was fighting you so much- you hurt my wrists because of it and you never even apologised.”

“I get you’re emotional right now, it’s completely normal-“

You cut him off before he could finish. “Do you know what the best time of my day is?”

He shook his head with a little curious shrug. “When, Love?”

“When you aren’t here.” Now you were just saying things to hurt him.

Hiromi let out a long exhausted sigh and pulled away at his tie to loosen it. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I really do.” 

Hiromi could sense himself getting frustrated, his eye twitching at the deep mess of the verbal cuts. “You seem to forget all that I do for you, Love… I’ll go run you a nice bath.”

He took the high ground and made his way over to the bedroom door to let you and he cooling off time. Because he knew you didn’t mean the horrid things you said most days, he put it down simply to your pregnancy.

Then, you carried on. “I never asked for any of it.”

Hiromi stopped by the door and kept his back to you so that his frustration did not develop into an anger he tried so hard to keep from you. “It didn’t stop you sitting on my cock the first time, did it? That’s how we ended up in this situation in the first place-“

“You put me in this situation in the first place! I was happy with a one night stand with a handsome stranger I’d never see again, and it should have been that way! It was you who started stalking me and getting possessive when you found out I was pregnant!”

You thought he was handsome. The first compliment you’d given him since living together.

“I had a life built for myself and you ruined it the moment you stepped foot in my life- I don’t stay here because I want to, I stay because I know just how bad you can make my life if I actually tried to get out of here.”

Actually tried? Hiromi had caught you all of an amount of four times trying to leave the apartment when he first made it a home for you. It was what you said and how you said it got him thinking, and it begged the question as to whether you were just bluffing.

Hiromi kept that close to his chest and turned to watch you on the bed, sat there so innocently with a scowl. “You stay because you love me, because you’re having my child- our child. That’s why.”

You fucking laughed at him. “Love you... love you?! I despise you, you’re lucky you have me tied up in here because if I had it my way, I’d give this baby up to a loving family that doesn’t have a psychotic kidnapper for a father-“

“Take that back.” Hiromi was not psychotic.

And you would not give his baby away. 

“I will not.”

He balled his fists so firm his knuckle joints cracked. “I said, take it back… I’m going to be the best father for our baby, and you aren’t taking them anywhere.”

“Where would I even go? I’m sure you’ve done something to make sure I have nowhere to go. I wouldn’t put it past you to tamper with my apartment.”

Well you weren’t wrong. Hiromi had paid the rest of your lease in advance, left a note that you were eloping and that you were okay and put all your things into storage. He didn’t see the point in keeping your apartment when you were living here with him now.

“You didn’t need your old apartment, why would I leave it vacant when someone else could use it?”

“See, I know you’d do some crazy shit like this- I knew I shouldn’t have gone back to your place that night!”

As far as your family were concerned, he messaged them regularly to avoid suspicion. Eventually he’d let you out, or your parents wouldn’t be able to meet their grandchild. Family was important to Hiromi. He was sure that your folks would love him too.

“Listen to me why I say this,” Hiromi would do everything to get him on your good side. He would not sit opposite you in court should you get out. So he simmered down his anger. “Everything that I’ve done, has been in consideration of you and the baby. I want you to be happy here, to start a life with me together while we make our little family.”

You watched his with an accusatory stare. “Y’know, sometimes I think you got me pregnant on purpose.”

He didn’t, he really didn’t. That he was innocent of. “Please don’t think that little of me. The condom broke, there’s nothing else to it- I got you your contraception for after the baby's here, didn’t I? As per your request, might I add.”

“Why do I not believe that?”

There it was again, the frustration flickering behind his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, I know my legal rights as a father.”

Following the recent changes in legislation, Hiromi would be granted joint custody. So even if you did get out, you’d be tethered to him for life. But that was a last resort. He could not afford for you to get out. 

You simply could not.

When you said nothing in response, no huff and top of the eyes, he continued. “Soon enough you’ll have to rely on me to help you. When the baby gets here, you’ll need me.”

He wanted you to rely on him, to confide and trust in him. You needed looking after, to be doted on and the sooner you realised that, the better.

“It seems we’re at a stalemate then.”

Hiromi nodded. “It appears so.”

The way you looked at him was nothing like how you did that night, seductive and lustrous, looking for a fun night. It was love at first sight for Hiromi, never understanding until then that someone could be so perfect, offering themselves up to him like fate. He couldn’t believe his luck to see you approach him, going against the flow of people towards the dance floor. That little black dress hanging off of your body perfectly and the jasmine scent of perfume at your neck.

Hiromi bet even now that dress would adorn your little baby bump to accentuate it. The area becoming one of his favourite parts of you he craved to touch constantly.

He gave up for now, he knew when to pick his battles. “Do you want a bath?“

“Yes.”

“I’ll run it and get dinner started.” Hiromi picked up on your own frustrated huff and stopped before he left the bedroom. "What now?"

Were you pulling him into another argument? “It’s done- I did it earlier.”

He noticed how you never made eye contact, yet it upturned the corners of his mouth nonetheless. “You did- you made dinner?”

“I’m bored in here, there’s nothing else for me to do.” You made dinner like a wife- Hiromi’s wife. And he’d marry you soon enough, your family did think you ‘eloped’ when all was said and done. 

“Well… would you have dinner with me?” That could be an interesting pastime, one he wanted desperately.

He could get to know you better than he already did.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” Still, you hesitated, which meant you thought about it, Hiromi would take that as a win.

“Maybe another time then… I’ll get the bath ready.”

When he left, he couldn’t help but smile. Being honest with you had moved in leaps and bounds, seeing how being here was changing your mind about him. You and the baby would be a part of his dream and he hoped to make this little family the best one it could be, even if you were reluctant and fighting him every step of the way.

One day you’d see.

One day you’d care enough.

It was Hiromi’s job to lead by example and show you the best life could offer so leaving him didn’t seem so tempting anymore.

And he just could not wait to be a father.

Part 1 <- -> Part 2

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[writerwhoreads]

I was up at night instead of sleeping so I carved a rectangular eraser into the shape of a bone with the craft equivalent of a scalpel

[woozivrsefactry]

c.sc — sex is the real weapon

pairing : mafia boss!choi seungcheol x assassin!reader synopsis : you have been assigned to kill the mafia boss choi seungcheol. unfortunately, he is not gonna be an easy beat/ w.c. : 1.5 k tw : piv sex , unprotected sex , slight spanking , mentions of knives , sort of manipulation , sort of power imbalance , unaliving cheol in the end

The night was silent, the kind of silence that was heavy with anticipation. You perched on the rooftop of a tall building, overlooking the city's bustling streets below. Neon lights flickered, casting an eerie glow that danced with the shadows. The target was in sight.

Choi Seungcheol, the notorious mafia boss, was known for his cruelty and power. He was feared and respected equally, a man who commanded absolute loyalty and fear from those around him. Taking him down would be the pinnacle of your career as an assassin.

You had spent weeks tracking his movements, learning his routines, and understanding his security measures. Tonight was the night you would make your move. Dressed in all black, you blended into the shadows, your heart steady and your mind focused. You were ready.

Seungcheol was at his favorite club, a luxurious establishment that catered to the city's elite. You had timed your approach perfectly, knowing he would be alone in his private suite, away from his usual entourage. Silently, you made your way into the building, easily bypassing security. 

The hallway leading to his suite was dimly lit, and you moved with the grace and silence of a shadow. Your hand hovered over the knife strapped to your thigh, the cold metal a reassuring presence. As you reached the door, you paused, listening for any sign of movement inside. 

Slowly, you turned the handle and slipped inside. The suite was opulent, filled with expensive furniture and decor. Your eyes scanned the room, landing on the figure seated at the large, mahogany desk. Seungcheol looked up, his sharp eyes meeting yours instantly.

"So, you've finally come," he said, his voice calm and collected. There was no surprise in his tone, only a quiet acceptance.

You froze, your mind racing. How had he known? 

"You're not the first they've sent," he continued, leaning back in his chair. His lips curled in a smirk and his eyebrows quirked. "But you might be the last."

"You're not an easy man to kill, Choi Seungcheol," you replied, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

He smiled a predatory grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

You took a step forward, your hand tightening around the handle of your knife. "I'm here to finish what others couldn't."

He stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. "And what makes you think you'll succeed where they failed?"

"I don't make mistakes," you said, determination in your eyes.

Seungcheol moved closer, his presence overwhelming. You could see the confidence in his eyes, the dangerous glint that spoke of a man who had seen and done things most could only imagine. 

"You're brave," he said softly, his voice like velvet. "But bravery can only get you so far."

Before you could react, he was in front of you, his hand reaching out to grasp your wrist. His grip was strong, almost painfully so, but you didn't flinch. 

"Let go," you demanded, your voice low and dangerous.

His eyes bored into yours, and for a moment, you saw something flicker in their depths. Curiosity? Admiration? Lust? You couldn't tell.

"Why did you become an assassin?" he asked suddenly, his grip loosening slightly.

You frowned, taken aback by the question. "Why does it matter to you?"

"It matters to me," he said simply. “You’re to pretty for a dangerous job like this one, sweetheart.”

"I don't have time for this," you snapped, rolling your eyes and him and taking a step back. "You're my target, and I intend to finish the job."

He raised an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. "Then do it."

You moved, your knife slicing through the air with deadly precision. But he was faster, his hand catching your wrist and twisting it, the knife falling to the floor with a clatter. He pulled you close, his other arm wrapping around your waist, holding you in place.

Your breath hitched, the proximity overwhelming. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath brushing against your ear. 

"You're a good girl," he murmured, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "But not good enough."

For a moment, you were at a loss. This close, you could see the intensity in his eyes, the raw power and confidence that made him so dangerous. And yet, there was something else there too, something that made your heart race and your resolve waver.

Without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his. It was a tentative kiss, a test, and when he responded, deepening the kiss, your world tilted on its axis. 

His lips were soft but demanding, his hand moving to tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. You responded in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. The kiss grew more urgent, more desperate, as if both of you were trying to drown in each other.

The rational part of your mind screamed at you to stop, to remember your mission. But the heat, the need, was too overwhelming. You wanted him, wanted to feel more of him, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Seungcheol broke the kiss, his eyes dark with desire. "You really want me, huh?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes."

He didn't need any more encouragement. His hands were on you, pulling at your clothes, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck. You moaned softly, your own hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, eager to feel his skin against yours.

Clothes were discarded in a frenzy, both of you too lost in the moment to care where they landed. Seungcheol's hands roamed over your body, his touch setting your skin on fire. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you down on the plush carpet, his body covering yours.

His lips found yours again, the kiss hungry and demanding. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to be as close to him as possible. His hand trailed down your naked side, his fingers exploring and teasing your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with desire.

"You," you breathed, your hands gripping his shoulders. "I want you."

He didn't hesitate. His hand moved between your legs, his fingers brushing against your core. You gasped, your body arching into his touch. He teased you, his fingers moving with maddening slowness, drawing out your pleasure. His teeth grazed over your neck, bruising hungrily and moving lower. His middle and ring finger scissored you open for him as his thumb harshly rubbed over your clit, making your hips jerk up.

"Please," you begged, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing against your ear. "Patience."

But you didn't want patience. You wanted him, needed him, and you couldn't wait any longer. You reached down, getting a hold of his dick and guiding him closer. Seungcheol chuckled at your eagerness, before finally listening too your demands. Seungcheol groaned softly as he entered you, his movements slow and deliberate. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, your bodies moving together in a classy rhythm. 

Seungcheols hands gripped your thighs and hips tightly, leaving its bruise marks. You gasped and moaned as his cockhead hit deep inside you on all the right spots. When seungcheol was satisfied with this position, he manhandled you get on your hands and knees, chuckling proudly as he smacked your ass and entered you again. He kneaded your ass raw with his strong palms, making you gasp out his name louder. 

You could feel the tension coiling inside you, ready to snap, and when it did, it was like a wave crashing over you, drowning you in sensation. Seungcheol followed soon after, his body tensing before he shuddered, a low groan escaping his lips. His cum followed in a string as he exited you slowly, falling over you. 

There was a long silence and for a while the loudest sound was of the two of you breathing. Seungcheol kissed the lobe of your ear. “God was that amazing.”

You smiled, “mm, so good.”

You wiped the still warm dark blood from your dagger, sliding it back in its strap on your thigh garter. You put on your black dress back and look back at choi seungcheol’s lifeless body. What an idiot, you thought to yourself.

Men would be men, always. All it takes is one seductive move to get them on their knees. He had a great dick, and was a great fuck – you’d give that to him. But he was too much of an idiot for a mafia boss, killed so shamefully, naked and leaking in his private room at such an luxurious bar. You chuckle to yourself, thinking how his men would react to find their boss lying ass naked in the middle of the room, killed.

“I told you, seungcheol, didn’t i, that i intend to get my work done?” you speak out loud to the dead body as you put on your shoes, “i told you i don’t make mistakes.”

[mad-hunts]

"I crave the sensation of your blade against my skin."

well, this gave a whole new meaning to 'there's a first time for everything,' barton thought. though that isn't to say that he didn't find something arousing about the current situation they were in. i mean what with barton being dressed in the typical clothes he wore whilst he was 'the dollmaker' and kat just being dressed in normal clothes. barton had entrapped her as well at that moment because she had nearly seen what was inside of the freezer in his workshop; because trust me, when i say that barton had something horrific in there, i truly mean that.

but even barton could acknowledge that the way he went about getting her away from it might've been a little extreme. he had caged her against a wall with his hand placed against it next to her head, essentially trapping her there - and made an explicit effort to not hold her at knife point as the last time that had happened? things didn't go so well for them to put it simply. but barton had to admit, thoughts did begin to run through his head a mile a minute related to his own paranoia (as well as his trust issues) that kat would likely some day betray him.

thus, if that wasn't extreme enough already, he grilled kat quite aggressively as to why she was there and what exactly she was aiming to accomplish by looking into the freezer. but after a few minutes of tense silence that built up the suspense between them... barton realized that she was merely there to try to find him. which, caused him to apologize to her, and lean forward to give her a soft kiss on the lips to show her he meant kat no harm. for he really did feel bad for assuming the worst out of her. but that wasn't the end of their kissing.

due to their close proximity and barton wanting to channel that 'riled up' feeling he had within him in a more acceptable way, he began to kiss kat multiple times. things only seemed to escalate from there as he took the opportunity to try to put down the metacarpal saw he had in one hand in order to pick kat up - but she told him that she craved feeling the blade. that statement was enough to get barton to fling off his mask and carry her to the sofa bed he had in the room.

he then eased her down roughly on there before saying something to kat in between kisses, ❝ ahh, so you are alright with certain types of 'badness' after all, aren't you? and by that i mean you somehow couldn't stand it when i was bratty towards you, but the thought of possibly being cut with a blade now excites you. a blade that has no doubt helped me kill several people, ❞ barton whispered that last part in kat's ear as he trailed the small saw he had in hand carefully down her neck at an angle. a sly smile formed on his lips afterward, which could be seen as he pulled away from her lips.

❝ i certainly had my suspicions that your nature as a vigilante is a bit questionable considering that you want to protect me... but now i know for sure that it is. ❞ he was saying this mostly just to try to get her riled up, in truth, but barton did think that maybe the other wasn't as good as she portrayed herself to be on the outside. not to say that he would ever be the type of person to judge kat if she wasn't.

[dastardly-imbecile]

TENEBROSITY

TW: suicidal ideation, depictions of death and grief

wordcount: 1.3k

masterlist, ao3

something something reader who dies. Doesn't particularly matter if she was a soldier or a civilian, if it was the blur of battle or the quietus of an accident, if it was a bullet or a blade or the cruel hand of Fortuna. Out with a bang, out with a whimper.

What does matter is that Simon, predictably, takes it not well. Worse that Price puts him on leave, and he has nothing to do but lay spread-eagled on the bed you once shared, stare at the ceiling and quietly thinks about the knives in the kitchen, about the pills in the cabinet. Not with any real sort of action behind the notion, but just the everpresent reality that they're there, that he can take the kind way out. The only thing that stops him, really, is that he knows if there is an afterlife, he sure as hell isn't going where you are.

Between the team's sporadic visits, Kyle's attempts to set him up with a therapist and Johnny's attempts to cheer the grief out of him and Price's attempts to have a normal conversation - as if normalcy exists, anymore - he takes to scrolling through your old messages. Little lines of text: years of love encapsulated in a single bubble, such small things. Messages that he once only spared a seconds' glance before responding, he now spends hours poring over, trying to find the secret to mortality etched into those pixels.

Still has your phone, too. Leaves your search tabs untouched, leaves your apps opened just as they were, just like your products still litter the bathroom counter, just like he put your half-finished leftovers in the freezer, cold and permanent as the dead.

It's not healthy, but he's never been healthy. Not a moment in his life: not his childhood, not the military, not now, in which there was not something, someone, searching for the best way to break him; best way to put those pieces back together and shatter them again. The only difference, this time, is that both are him: something about Ouroboros, something about Sisyphus.

He starts texting you again. Long, incoherent paragraphs about how much he misses you; simple love yous, all the hundreds that he never got to say. He could have told you ten times a day, for a thousand years, and he would still have so much more. Calls your voicemail, just to hear your voice once again, so he can pretend you're just out of the house, that you'll truly call him back 'whenever I'm able'.

Imagine his surprise when, one night, he sends a succinct, goodnight dove, and you reply.

I love you.

Of course, he's pissed: someone gets your number by some means, not only uses it - if they'd told him, fuck off, who are you, stop texting me - he could have has a modicum of respect, at the very least. But no: they imitate, they paint themselves in the image of a Goddess; something about Exodus 20:4, something about the Viceroy butterfly.

It pushes him into overdrive for the first time since you died - he pulls up the old software, hooks the phone up, tries to triangulate the location of the sender. All he gets, though, is a jumble of letters and numbers that apply to no coordinate on earth.

And then, you call him. Your name popping up drives into him an anguish deep enough to burn, moreso when he checks your phone, sees it just as inert since the day you died.

He shouldn't, but he answers.

When you say, "Simon," he's thinking about how he'd most like to kill these people: sure, get a number, hook up some voice changer, real convincing. It's going to fall apart when you beg him to send you a couple thousand dollars, or when you dig into him for some bit of intel: he won't be tricked, won't allow grief to break his last bit of dignity, sell his soul for a bit of false love.

And then, you tell him the last words you ever said to him. Same voice, same tone. Murmer more, as he sits there, shock dripping down every vertebrae in his spine. All the things you would whisper to each other in the dead of night. End your speech with a short, "It's me. I love you. I found a way..."

So for a week or two, it's almost enough: he spends every waking hour on the phone with you, sends you all the pictures he can think to take. It's fine that you never respond with any of your own. It's fine that, sometimes, on those phonecalls, you sound scared or sad or start halting, unfinished sentences with, I wish, or, if only. He can pretend that you're off on a trip, that this is some temporary fever.

Only, he can't, not really. Something about truffle pigs, something about pitbulls: something about the desire to dig, to sink his teeth into the meat of the matter and rip until bone is caught between his jaws. Whenever he asks you about how, or where, or, can I ever see you, you sound like you're crying while you deftly avoid answering.

Really, you have only divulged two things: one, you dying won't help. Two, when he visited your grave for the first time since your death: I'm not down there anymore, Simon.

A fantasy grows, some reversal of the five stages of grief, denial come last: he imagines that maybe you aren't dead, that maybe you were captured by some nebulous force of evil, are currently holed up in some dark basement. Got your hands on a phone somehow, sure, if it doesn't make sense then it will when he rescues you, when you explain it to him between kisses.

He gathers the rest of the task force at his - your - house, despite your pleas not to. Tells them. Almost relishes in Johnny's look of disbelief, in Price's evident concern - because he'll be proven right. Right, when he clicks the call button, when...

When it rings, and rings, and rings, and goes to voicemail. He swipes to your messages, but all are gone, all your responses wiped away to apepar one sided.

He's not a stupid man. Anticipated something like this, maybe - but the screenshots he took are nothing but black space, and the recordings of your voice carry naught but the sound of his own breathing, and before he can do something, anything, to prove this, Price has a hand upon his back and Kyle is saying something and he tears away, shuts himself in your room. Calls you four times, while they talk quietly outside. It's not until the fifth - after the front door closes - that you pick up.

"I'm sorry," you say, "I'm sorry, Simon, I... I came back for you, just you, came back..."

The wave of reality ebbs, flows. It's not all bad, eventually. Some days, he spends curled around your old pillow - which smells more like him, than you, at this point - while you whisper filthy words through the tinny speakers, rutting into the fabric. He tries to do the same to you, but you never make the same sounds you used to, and when he tries to ask about your body, your pleasure, you devolve into low notes of grief.

Maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's worse. Something about the carrot and the stick, something about Tantalus, ankle-deep in water.

Something about the inability to move on: about you, stuck wherever you are, ephemeral, blind and senseless but for your voice. About him, hand perpetually upon the phone, ignoring the calls of his team, caught upon the half-death he's able to live.

About a hunger and a pinprick of light and the world as it darkens, the crepuscule of existence.

[vxxxxed]

I'd love to talk about Butcher!Simon. >u<

He's my favorite fucked up special boy. I like to think he has a set of Damascus knives that he keeps perfectly sharp.

Maybe he sees the reader coming in, buying the cheap stuff, barely talking to the cashier, scared when the package bleeds at the edges. He watches for them again, sending the cashier on break so he could talk to them finally.

Maybe they hand him a crumpled wad of bills. He notices the bruises on their arms. So what if the cut of meat he gives them is worth more than they paid? Can't have his shy birdie going hungry.

Maybe they come home one day to him sitting on their couch. Their abusive partner is gone. The tub is a little pink, but that's okay.

Maybe he reassures them through their tears that he's nothing like the meat he cuts up.

[TWs for idek how to tag this, brief implied cannibalism and kinda mentions of how you'd butcher your lover to eat them but it ends there and none of that actually happens and no one's intending for it to you're just talking about it?]

I was gonna say I don't have anything to add to this but if I may go off on a tangent (excerpt from a fic I'm working on), Ghost who is in the 141, left his old life behind (not like he had a choice when it was all taken from him anyway), but he retained all the stuff he learned when he was younger. You see a couple YouTube shorts from hunters explaining how to cut up their kills, and get interested about the process. And maybe that turns into some sort of weird form of intimacy between the two of you. (Alternative working title: Autism be Damned, That Boy Can Meat)

..."Bloody 'ell, watch the pet names there, luv. I might start thinkin' you fancy me or somethin'," he teased, his voice a low rumble that was honestly weirdly satisfying to listen to now that your cheek was pressed to his sternum. "If you wanna learn about cuts a' meat, might as well 'ave a quick lesson. You got a pen and paper there?" He asked dryly, his own form of humour as he rubbed circles against the back of your neck with his thumb.

"Start with the basics, yeah? Prime cuts are gonna be the tenderest, 'cause they come from the least-worked muscles. Ribeye, sirloin, that sorta thing. Gotta keep 'em cold to preserve the fat, though. You let that melt, and you lose flavour."

As he spoke, Simon's hands moved almost unconsciously, mimicking the motions of breaking down a side of beef. His slightly chilly fingers traced invisible lines across your back, mapping out different sections, trying to remember. "Then you got your secondary cuts - brisket, short ribs, that sorta thing. Tougher, but full o' flavour if you cook 'em right. Need time and low heat to break down all that connective tissue."

He hesitated, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he tried to remember more specifics. "Ah, you got your off-cuts too. Offal, bones, all'at. Nothin' goes to waste in a proper butcher shop. Even got some fancy restaurants that'll pay good money for that stuff nowadays." Another pause, "Well, used to, anyway."

---

"Trying to figure out how you'd butcher me, Simon?" You'd giggled at the feeling of his fingertips tracing your ribs, but there was nothing but trust and love in your eyes.

Like his own perfect little lamb.

[gamerbot-22]

Spending Valentine's Day with the Trigang!

GIF by the-princess-cinnamon

TW/CW: Written with a combination of traits from across Trigun versions, written with the idea that they and reader are in a relationship (separately), lots of pet names!!! (Mayfly, Angel, Honey, Sweetheart), I am aiming to make y'all's teeth rot on how sweet these are, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks!

Characters Included: Vash the Stampede, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Meryl Stryfe, Milly Thompson, Millions Knives/Nai

Recommended Listening: my love, mine all mine . a short playlist

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I hope you all are having a wonderful day, whether you have a partner to spend it with, a friend, or just your lovely self <3

Likes and Reblogs appreciated (reblogs > likes) and Requests are Open! It’s all under the cut!

Dividers in this post were made by @/strangergraphics ☆

🥀 Vash the Stampede

GIF by kvroko

He is the most lovesick man in the world on this day, let me tell you.

You wake up and see him in bed next to you just absolutely whipped. He wraps an arm around your waist and nuzzles in close and his first words are "Happy Valentine's, Mayfly..." before just drowning you in kisses.

Originally the plan was he would get up and make you breakfast in bed but he got all caught up in being close to you. So you're making breakfast together! It turns out nice, even if you two struggle to get it right.

There's not really flowers on Gunsmoke, but he knows what they look like. So you get a drawing of all sorts of flowers, with meanings only half-remembered from books he used to pour over as a kid.

If you got him anything it takes all of his effort not to fall apart on you. (Please get him something sweet, he deserves it!!)

He wants to take you dancing so baaaad. Like serious bad. There is nothing he loves more than getting to just be close to you and spin you around.

Vash spends all day trying to find a place to take you dancing, but it's a little hard to do that when you're an outlaw and an outlaw's partner. The effort is there but it just doesn't pan out.

But you know? There's something special about slow dancing with Vash by the fire out in the desert while he hums a song to you under the stars <333

🍭 Nicholas D. Wolfwood

GIF by mine-loves

I don't think Valentine's Day had been on his radar in a very very long time, so it's probably either day of or immediately upon waking up where he realizes "Oh shit, I need to do something--"

You're about halfway through the morning thinking that you're not getting anything from him when he nearly goes ass over teakettle rushing over to you. He has a half-crushed box of sweets in one hand and a bottle of something bubbly in the other and the most embarrassed look on his face.

He mumbles out a "Sorry, Angel, I almost forgot--" and holds both gifts out to you with his head bowed, like a shy kid or a nervous dog. But you take them in your hands and give him a kiss on the cheek and he doesn't feel as bad.

You two end up sharing, and while the sweets and drinks might be cheap, the time isn't. Hell, maybe you two even end up feeding each other like those sappy couples in those newspaper ads.

He's not a man of flowery words, but he did learn a lot about the saints as a kid. I don't think Wolfwood would frame it as a gift or anything, but when there's a quiet moment he tells you the story of St. Valentine if you're willing to listen.

"He used to perform weddin's for people 'n secret," he tells you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders. "People weren't too big on the Man Upstairs back in the day, so what he was doin' was pretty dangerous. Didn't stop him, though. Or the people he married."

Then he turns his head away from you to save some face. He doesn't want to put too many ideas in either of your heads, but... the idea is kinda nice. For the future.

Once he gets past the nerves though, you get all the kisses you could want. From the crown of your head to your eyelids to your cheeks to your lips. He has a new favorite holiday <333

📸 Meryl Stryfe

GIF by mine-loves

"Ah, honey! My birthday was yesterday! You already got me a gift; you didn't have to get me anything, really!"

She says that, but honestly she's really happy that you would go out of her way to give her a gift a second day in a row. Like! You didn't have to!! But you did!!!

So she takes it and gives you a kiss and when she pulls away her face is so pink. It's precious, and with her soft cheeks she looks a bit like a sweet all on her own.

And you get such a nice gift in turn. I think she's the type to get you something to wear or decorate yourself with, so she gives you this really beautiful pendant on a chain to wear either around your neck or wrapped tight around your wrist.

She also does her damndest to have a nice dinner reservation lined up, if you're in a part of Gunsmoke that allows. She wants to get all dolled up with you and just have a nice evening in whatever luxury an insurance agent/newspaper reporter's salary can get you.

And after dinner, if you still have energy, maybe you can go to a show together! Surely somebody has to be doing something on a stage nearby, right? And if they serve food too, you can share a dessert while you listen.

I think you two end up at a comedy show and have a great time, either laughing until your sides get sore or sharing some amused-if-sympathetic if the person on stage is floundering.

By the end of the night, Meryl's pretty beat and ready to just prop herself up in bed with you. I don't think she even makes it out of her clothes, she just lays her head on your chest and drifts off on the spot <333

💼 Milly Thompson

Breakfast! In! Bed! For! Her! Sweetheart!!!

You get the absolute gentlest wake-up call. She puts her hand on your shoulder, kisses your temple, and chimes "Good morning, sweetheart! Happy Valentine's!"

While you eat she gives you her big plan for the day: Nothing! She just wants to stay in with you and relax all day. And she seems so genuinely excited for that it's nigh impossible to tell her no, especially when she assures you that she still has special things to do in mind.

Once you're both ready to be up and out of bed, she gets the radio tuned to you guys' favorite music station so there's a nice backdrop to all your activities.

Then you spend the whole day just. Making things together. Poetry, stories, silly songs for just the two of you, and all the while there's that lovely music playing and a batch of cookies in the oven for later.

And once the cookies are done and cooled, it's time to ice them! You have so much fun mixing colours and making all these pretty patterns that look absolutely nothing like the book you're using for reference.

At first, Milly is a little upset she's not as good as the pictures, but you help her realized two very important things: no one else could make patterns exactly like she is, and they'll taste delicious either way!

Your evening is spent feeding each other cookies and going over all the things you've made together, and when you kiss each other goodnight you both taste like icing <333

🔪 Millions Knives/Nai

WE'RE PLAYING IN THE SPACE HE'S HERE TOO!! Nai lovers I see you and I love you!!! /p You deserve some time with your man on the holiday, too!

I don't think he would really mention the holiday or observe it in any special way, but like...

If he's playing his piano and you come in and be quiet, he won't stop. Even when he sees you sitting on the floor or leaning against the piano out of the corner of his eyes.

He has that one piece he plays all of the time, Visitation of a Calamity/Memory of a Piano, but it's not the only one he knows. After he's finished with that one for this bout of practice, he shifts into another one.

It's calming by some definition. It's still very powerful, and it reverberates off the ceiling and in your ribs, but it doesn't feel like the usual posturing that the other piece evokes.

It's sweeping still, but less a torrent and more a breeze that catches the folds of your clothes and the air from your lungs. It feels a little like flying, you think.

He doesn't say a word to you until he finishes the suite, then without even looking at you, he asks "Is there something you needed me for?"

And I mean... is there? <333

[bizbat]

your jason todd hcs are sooooo good omg!!! do you have any hcs specifically for when he has a crush on the reader, like how he might act, specifically if the reader is oblivious and really doesn’t think that she’s his type / thinks he’s joking if he says anything flirty?

When They're In Love - Jason Todd (Crush Edition)

🕸️Spiderverse Masterlist🕸️

🐼JJK Masterlist🐼

~ Fem terms + Pet names used for reader.

~ You can find part one of these hcs here, and part two here.

~ You can find more of my works here.

~ These can be read as a sort of part three/prequel kinda.

~Fic at the end.

~ Tw for : Blood, Knives, Needles, Vomit. (All slight)

~Thank you for asking! Hope you enjoy, sorry this took so long :(

You would never know that Jason has a crush on you.

For the most part, he wont talk to you any differently than he will anyone else.

Maybe he won't jokingly insult you, or be super sarcastic around you, but I think that's kind of as far as he'd go.

Unless you're a close friend or family member, you'd probably have no clue he had a crush based on the way he talks to you.

But the little actions and things he does for you are so obvious.

He's the type to hold open doors for you, all the while staring other people dead in the eye as it shuts in their face.

He somehow always just "randomly" has your favorite snack on hand, or a whole collection of books by your favorite author.

I think he'd be touchy, unless he knows you don't like being touched.

If you like or don't mind it, he'd have his arm constantly thrown over your shoulder, always be leaning against you, always resting a hand on your hip.

If you're shorter than him, he does that super annoying thing where he rests his elbow on your head.

He is so lame omg.

But bc he's kinda like this with everyone, no one would fault you for not understanding his hints.

He's like the opposite though.

You said hi to him this morning? You must be in love with him.

You smiled at him today instead of Dick? He's already planning the wedding.

What's that? You said he smells nice? Have his babies. (If you can/want to)

Our delusional king.

He doesn't think you don't get his flirting.

He'd think you're fully aware and are flirting back.

Again, our delusional king.

You probably won't get it until something really serious happens and he comes to you instead of Bruce or Roy.

He'd probably try to get into things you're interested in.

Listens to all your favorite songs, reads your favorite books, etc.

And he's not subtle about it bc he is in fact, a loser.

He'll recommend a song by your favorite artist and then be like "idk why but this just reminded me of you lol"

LOSER. Can you guys tell i'm a big believer in the "jason todd is secretly a massive loser" agenda? Cuz I am. :|

And then he listens when you go on rambles about how great the things you like are and how much they mean to you.

I said he'll do things just to hear you talk about them, and I think he'd do that when he has a crush on you too.

He just loves your voice and likes hearing you talk.

He smiles at you so softly when he thinks you aren't looking.

You could be bumming out and he'll look at you with heart eyes like yeah, future spouse right there.

I don't think he'd be a big user of social media, but if you were, he'd get a whole account just to like and comment of your pictures.

user94820860038466 commented: You look very pretty in this picture.

Comments like an old man bc he has very little understanding of the internet.

He'd probably help you take pictures and fight with other people in your comment section if they're too down bad or creepy.

He doesn't strike me as the jealous type bc once again, he's so delusional he pretty much already thinks you're dating.

Nicknames nicknames nicknames.

Calls you so, so many nicknames.

Angel, doll, sweetheart, maybe even babe.

He constantly talks about you when you aren't there.

Lian and Roy know so much about you before they even meet you.

He'd do anything for you.

The store is actually about a mile in the other direction, but yeah he can get you your favorite drink.

He does not like that food at all and the owner of the store despises him, but he will not return to you empty handed best believe.

He was actually going to wear that hoodie today, but it looks so much better on you you should keep it!

~ Drabble Starts Here. ~

It's just like every other night in Gotham City. It's cold, and wet, and it smells like smoke and garbage that's been left out in the sun.

The only barrier between you and the chilled, musty air outside is a single sheet of glass; the fire escape window of your fifth floor apartment. It's comforting. The glass is, of course, bulletproof, and the seal around the sill is tight, so no gases ever manage seep in. It pays to have a decent landlord, especially in Gotham.

It's funny, but you really never think about that window. You mostly keep it shut and locked, except in the summer, when you can smell your neighbor in the building next door cooking all types of delicious aromatic dishes, or when it's just too hot and you decide the risk of heatstroke is greater than the risk of airborne psychosis. It never occurs to you just how well it keeps you safe, just how well it keeps things out.

It occurs to Jason, though. In fact, it's the only thing on his mind as he's gripping his side, frantically trying to prevent too much blood from seeping out of his body.

He'll probably chastise himself later for not being more gentle or respectful, but he's lost too much blood to be thinking straight. With his free hand, he bangs on your window, praying that you're A) at home, and B) not listening to music. He's not too worried about the first one, he knows you never leave your lights on when you're away, but the second one, he's not too sure about.

He bangs, and bangs, and bangs on the glass, a loud, thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk that immediately rouses your from your sleep. You jump up from your spot on the couch, an open book falling from your lap as you dart into your room to grab the knife Jay gave you for protection, before returning to your living room, keeping your back to the wall.

You hold the blade in front of you, nervously gripping the hilt as you listen to the banging, making sure to stay just out of sight as you cautiously creep closer and closer to the noise. It isn't until the banging dies down that you finally get close enough to see the cause.

You gasp at the sight, dropping the knife and trying to tug the window open, before mentally yelling at yourself to unlock it. You drag the weakened behemoth of a man into your apartment, carefully placing his upper body on the floor in front of your window and removing his helmet. Your hand moves to his side, firmly pressing down on his wound, as you stare at him, mouth agape and eyes flooding with concern.

He laughs, a dry chuckle that just sounds like it hurts. "What took ya' doll?" You wanna smack him, but you can do that when he's not bleeding all over your hardwood floors. You tell him to wait, as if he could go anywhere in the state he's in, before rushing to grab the emergency kit he forced you to keep.

"Let-ngh- let me do it." He groans as he attempts to sit up, trying and failing to pull the tweezers from your hand. He doesn't even have the strength to sit back up when you gently push him back down. You clean his wound, all while he holds back winces and groans. You don't hold back, focusing on cutting and cleaning and stitching and wrapping, berating Jason for coming to you of all people.

"What d'ya mean? Of course I'd come to you?" Jason manages between harsh breaths. "Who else would I go to?" He seems genuinely confused, you're his girlfriend, you always come to him when you need help. Why wouldn't he come to you?

"Oh, I don't know, Jason, maybe Bruce, or Roy, or literally anyone else with training to handle this kind of thing!?" It comes out mean, but through his pain he can tell it's coming from a place of true care. You're worried. One of the strongest, most skilled people you know is bleeding out on your floor and you're panicking. Of course you are, you've never had to sew someone up, or dig a bullet out of someone, or try to hold down bile from the heavy smell of blood.

Your hands are shaking like crazy. This isn't a slight graze you can put a bandaid over and seal with a kiss, this is a life threatening wound on someone you care about, and all they've been doing since they came to you is make stupid fucking jokes and try to take things from your hands.

Jason can tell it's getting to you.

It should be the other way around, what with him bleeding out in your living room, but he quiets down, gripping your wrist with his non-blood covered hand. "Hey," He gently strokes your skin with his thumb, repeating himself when you don't move your eyes from his wound. "Hey, look at me Y/n." It's just stern enough to make you obey, without sounding like he's mad at you. "It'll be okay. I'm in good hands." Jason smiles at you, tired and reassuring. It calms your nerves just enough for you to finish sewing his wound shut.

You sit back when you're done, taking in your work once you wrap his stomach with gauze. Jason turns just enough to catch a glimpse, smiling up at you with his stupid, charming smirk. "Not bad, doll. Told ya you had it covered." He lays back, smiling up at you as he lays his head on his arm, the one on his non-injured side. Though he doesn't seem to bothered by the end of it all, you can't say the same.

He takes in your features, your tired, glossy eyes and your pouting lips. It makes his smile drop. You look away, your sad eyes not meeting his own. "I . . . what? What's wrong Y/n?" Jason winces, moving to rest on his elbows to get a better look at your face. "Was it the blood? Or the- was it the window? I'm sorry about that, by the way." You shake your head no at all of his suggestions, taking a breath before turning back to face him.

He can feel his heart hurt at the sight of unshed tears in your eyes. "I . . . I was scared Jay." He pushes himself all the way up when you take your lip into your mouth. He ignores the pain shooting through his side when he pulls you into his arms. "Hey, hey, hey, scared of what? I'm okay. You did good." Those tears finally spill when your arms wrap around his waist, loose as to not further irritate his wound.

"You could've died Jay, a-and I wouldn't be able to-to help you! I can't help you!" You sob into his shoulder. He holds you tightly, pressing his lips to your head as he rubs your back. "Please, please don't cry. I'm okay now, you helped me. I'm all better now." He rocks you both gently, trying to console you. "Sides, if I was gonna die, I'd be happy if it was with my girl."

What?

You freeze in his arms, and he knows he said something wrong. He just doesn't know what. His brain moves a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what it was before you get even more upset. Though, his brain completely shuts down when you stare up at him with those cute, confused eyes. The tears have slowed down, and he's at least thankful for that. "Your . . . girl?" Now he's confused too. "What-what do you mean by that?"

He has to do a double take. "What do you mean? You're my girl, like . . . girlfriend, you know?" Every second that passes only confuses the two of you more. "I'm your girlfriend?" "Ar-aren't you?" You blink at him. Were you? Are you? "Am I?" Somewhere there was cognitive dissonance, Jason just doesn't know for who. "Yeah, we're dating, I thought?" Though, he doesn't feel so confident about that now.

"Oh," You feel your ears grow warm, for the second time now your eyes don't meet his own. "I . . . I didn't know that." You wish you could hide right now, but he's still got his arms wrapped around you. "I mean, unless you don't want to, then-then I'm sorry-" Jason feels maybe even more embarrassed than you as he finally drops his arms, grabbing his helmet and moving to crawl back out the window he came in through. His bullet wound is completely forgotten by now.

He stops when you grip his jacket, shyly staring at the floor as you speak. "No! I w-want to." Your eyes darty up to his, before losing confidence and dropping back to the floor. "I want to be your girlfriend," It comes out a whisper, and when he's silent for a beat too long you worry he's suddenly changed his mind.

"Good. Great. Yeah." He drops back to the floor, sitting cross legged beside you. Internally, he's doing backflips in his mind. "Cool." Later on, he'll ask more questions, but for now, he's satisfied. "Yeah." You shyly play with your clothes, twiddling your thumbs as you sit in silence. You feel like a little girl who just admitted to her crush that she likes him. "Are you-" "I didn't-" You interrupt each other, both of you gesturing for the other to continue. It's a bit of a fight, but Jason makes you go first.

"I was gonna ask if you were hungry. I have some, um, pretzels and stuff. If you want." Jason nods. He follows you into your kitchen, where the two of you quietly and contently eat the iron rich foods you looked up. "What were you going to say, by the way?"

Jason looks up from his plate, the haphazardly prepared meal helping him feel better, though his heart feels pretty good right now anyways. "I didn't know that you didn't know. I thought," he laughs nervously. "I thought, we were dating this whole time." He laughs again when you shake your head. "I didn't know! I thought . . . I don't know, that I wasn't your type, or something."

That's probably the most surprising thing he's heard you say today. Okay it's not, but it's the thing that most catches him off guard.

"Of course you are! You're so sweet, and cute, and nice, and pretty, and you smell really good, and you're funny, and I like your voice, and the way you d-do things . . . and . . . other stuff." Jason stops himself before he can ramble for hours about every single things he loves about you. You wouldn't mind if he did, though. You hide your pleased expression with your hand.

"Me too." It's quiet, but no longer shy. "I like all that "stuff" about you too."

[modernwarfarelover]

Bleeding Heart... Literally (UNFINISHED)

Crying and banging my head on the wall bc I can't find a Slashers!141 au with M!Reader. THEY'RE ALL FEM!READER BRAH >:( I have to do everything myself... Anyway, Slashers!141 who meets Assassin M!Reader and decides to recruit him. This is still a work in progress. Posting this now bc if I don't I'll never finish.

TW: Swearing, mentions of killing, blood, etc

Being an assassin for hire probably isn't the best job for morale, it's basically just a mercenary except all you do is kill people for anyone who wants them dead, unlike a lot of mercenaries who do a lot of other stuff. Most people you get hired to take out are criminals or some sort of wealthy guy trying to take over the world or something. At this point, guns and knives are all you know. But hey, it gets the bills paid.

Tonight is another job done. Another night visiting a dear client and getting your damn money. You sigh behind your neck gaiter, looking at the motionless body of your target lying on the ground of the alleyway. It's not like he was important to the world anyway, just some gang member who's probably killed countless innocent people. You couldn't care less about the reason he was doing it, you had a job to do.

You put your gun away and hoist the corpse over your shoulder. Walking through the back alley, you spot something move from the corner of your eye. Probably just a cat or something. You continue walking but there's an uneasy feeling in your gut.

The feeling of being watched.

Better to get this done quickely so you can get paid. Well, maybe it's better to be safe than sorry. You decide to use the fire escape ladder on the side of a building, climbing up with your legs and one arm while using your other arm to hold your dead target. Damn, this guy is heavy. Some might question how the hell you do that, well, you're used to doing stuff like this.

Once you get onto the roof, you drop the body and stretch your arms. As you're about to pick it back up, everything suddenly goes black. The last thing you remember is the feeling your body hitting the roof.

Your eyes slowly flutter open. A soft grunt escapes your mouth when you feel a painful headache set in. You don't recognize where you are, it's like an abandoned shed or something.

"What the hell...?" You mutter to yourself, trying to move only to realize you're tied up. Great. Who did you piss off this time?

"I see ye're awake." You hear an unfamiliar what seems to be a Scottish accent. They sound close. Too close. Your head turns to see who it is, only to be met with blue eyes just inches from you.

"Ye can call me Soap, what's yer name, darlin'?" The mohawked man leans back from you, sitting with one knee propped up and an arm resting on it. He's wearing a white tank top and red shorts that just about reach mid-thigh.

"Where the hell am I?" You practically growl, annoyed by the sudden situation you somehow got into. The man, Soap, chuckles at your obvious iritation. As if he finds this nothing more than a little joke.

"Nothin' ta worry 'bout." He grins, resting his chin on his palm. "Soo, ye gonna tell me yer name or not, pretty boy? That was some impressive aim ye had there." You slightly raise an eyebrow. Impressive aim..? How did he- Wait, where's your gun?

"The fuck? Were you watching me or something?" You snap. Soap simply smirks at your reaction, finding your attitude entertaining. "And where's my damn gun?"

Before he can answer, a large man wearing a skull mask walks in. Only his eyes, hair and lower part of his face are visible from this angle. Damn, you were going to get tacos for dinner. There goes that plan.

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: Angst, cussing, knives, blood, tension.

Part 3

Gilded Façade - Part 4

The room is vast, but warm—gold and cream drapery spilling from the tall windows, soft with age and light.

Along one wall, bolts of fabric rest in shelves like precious tomes in a library, rich velvets, silks, and ethereal weaves that shimmer even in shadow.

Frigga stands beside you, regal and serene in deep blue robes threaded with silver stars.

She smells faintly of lavender and something older—like parchment and spell smoke. Her presence is soothing, her movements graceful.

She doesn’t command the room. She settles into it, like she’s always belonged.

You, by contrast, feel painfully small. The seamstresses whisper in Asgardian, taking measurements in floating light-ribbons that tickle your arms and waist. Your reflection shimmers in a hovering mirror that adjusts to show you from any angle.

Frigga watches you quietly, hands folded at her waist. When you glance at her with uncertainty, she smiles.

“You do not need to choose what is most Asgardian,” she says gently. “Only what feels most you.”

You swallow. “I… don’t know what that is... here.”

Frigga moves to your side. “Then let us discover it together.”

The dress you choose is unlike anything you would have worn on Earth.

Soft pale champagne, weightless as air. Sleeves that drape like falling water. Intricate emerald embroidery curling across the bodice like vines of starlight. There are no zippers or buttons—a selection of ties instead, whispered into the fabric by the seamstresses, so it fits like it was born for you.

Frigga gently places a circlet atop your head—delicate silver filigree with a single pale gem at its center.

You look in the mirror and hardly recognize yourself.

“I look like… someone else.”

“No,” Frigga says, adjusting the circlet with motherly care, “you look like yourself, beloved and seen.”

Your eyes sting, you do not feel like either of those things.

Once the seamstresses withdraw, Frigga leads you to a smaller antechamber—filled with light and flowering vines that trail from the ceiling like blessings.

She pours tea from an intricately carved urn, the steam carrying hints of wild herbs and starlight.

“The ceremony,” she says gently, “will feel overwhelming. We do not rush our unions in Asgard, but we do celebrate them with great intensity.”

You nod slowly, sipping the tea. “That’s… what I’m afraid of.”

Frigga tilts her head. “The convergence?”

You look down at your cup, cheeks warm. “Yes, Your Majesty. I don’t— I didn’t grow up where that sort of thing was… expected.”

Frigga reaches out, resting a cool hand over yours.

“You are not a prize to be claimed, Child,” she says softly. “You are a person to be cherished. My son knows this, even if he struggles to say it.”

You look up at her. “He scares people.”

Frigga’s smile doesn’t falter. “Yes. Because he does not let them close.”

A pause. Then, warmly:

“But he lets you close, doesn’t he?”

Your throat tightens. “…He showed me butterflies.”

That earns you a real smile. “Then he’s already given you more than most have seen.”

You catch a glimpse of Loki at the edge of the corridor as you and Frigga exit the seamstress hall. He’s leaning in a shadowed alcove, arms folded, expression unreadable.

His eyes sweep from the circlet on your head to the faint shimmer of the dress under your robe.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then—

“You’ll stun them all,” he says, quietly. “Even the stars will look down and wonder.”

You’re not sure what to say. His voice is smooth, as ever, but his posture is different. Guarded. Careful. He doesn’t come closer.

You offer a nervous smile and a tiny nod.

It's the kindest thing he's said since you've arrived.

It had been too much.

Too many stares, too many murmurs as you passed down the corridors in your formal silks. Asgardians with fine cheekbones and starlit eyes looked at you as though you were a curiosity in a gallery, a painting hung beside one of Loki’s darker stories.

Some with thin smiles.

Some with pity.

Some with expressions you couldn’t even read.

"Such a timid little thing"

“A Midgardian bride?”

“Does she even know who he really is?”

You had kept your chin up. Spoken softly. Smiled even when your voice trembled.

But now, with night blanketing the golden towers, you slipped from your rooms—barefoot, wrapped in a simple robe, needing air, needing something that didn’t watch you like prey or like porcelain waiting to crack.

You found yourself in the library.

It was quiet.

Vast marble shelves stretched endlessly upward, filled with books older than your world. The air smelled like parchment and starlight dust.

The only light came from flickering sconces and the grand fireplace in the heart of the reading chamber, its flames cool gold instead of orange.

You curled into one of the large armchairs, knees tucked to your chest.

The firelight kissed your skin gently, your eyes rimmed pink from trying not to cry.

You just wanted to breathe.

To not feel like a creature on display.

You didn’t hear him come in.

A shift in the room's magic preceded him—subtle, like the way a shadow changes when clouds pass the moon.

Loki walked in soundlessly, dressed in gold and forest green, his steps quiet against the polished stone. He didn’t speak at first.

You looked up, startled.

“I—” your voice wobbled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I thought no one would—”

He raised a hand gently, not to silence but to soothe.

“You’re not intruding,” he said, voice calm, velvet-smooth. “This is the only room in the palace that doesn’t judge.”

He crossed the room, long coat trailing behind him like a second shadow, and sat in the chair opposite yours.

But not too close.

He leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on his knees, hands folded together.

“You looked like you were about to vanish,” he said softly. “So I followed.”

You stared into the fire for a long moment. The crackle of flame sounded more like chimes than wood. Everything here had a kind of... strangeness to it.

“I don’t belong here,” you said finally.

Loki didn’t laugh. Didn’t deny it.

“Neither did I,” he replied.

You glanced up at him. His gaze was steady, not unkind. His features softened by the low light, the sharpness of his jaw less intimidating here. He seemed... quieter in this space.

“I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow,” you whispered. “And the way they look at me. I don’t know if they want me to fail, or pity me because I’ll be your wife.”

That made something flicker across his face—not anger, but... pain?

“Is that what you think this is?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

He leaned back then, folding one leg over the other, watching the fire.

"They see what I make them see,” he said. “What I let them see.”

Then, softly, Loki reached out—only a little—his fingers brushing the arm of your chair in the barest of touches.

“I won’t let them tear you apart,” he murmured. “And I won’t... become what they expect, just to prove them right.”

You blinked fast. “But the wedding—”

“I will handle it,” he said simply, with just a note of sharpness.

“And the ceremony? The—convergence?” The word was awkward in your mouth, like something ancient and ceremonial and terrifying.

Loki's expression darkened for a moment.

“I said I would take care of it,” he repeated sharply.

Sharp enough that you flinched.

Loki's eyes narrowed, his tall frame suddenly very still in the dimly lit library.

"You, flinch. As though I were about to strike you." his voice deceptively calm as he took a measured step toward you.

"Tell me, is that what you expect of your future husband? That I would resort to violence at the slightest provocation?"

His expression hardened, something raw and wounded flashing behind his eyes before the mask of cool disdain returned.

"You think me a monster," he stated flatly, the words hanging in the air between you. "A beast to be feared and appeased."

He closed the distance between you with deliberate slowness, until you could see the faint flecks of darker green in his irises.

"Is that what Midgard teaches about the God of Mischief? That I am nothing but teeth and claws and cruelty?" A bitter smile curved his lips.

You tried to shake your head, but Loki’s sharp words made you still.

"Tomorrow, you wed a monster then. How... unfortunate for you." He turned away sharply, his shoulders rigid beneath his attire.

"I wonder, Pet" he spat the endarement as if it had rotted in his mouth "which is worse—to be feared as a monster, or to know that your own bride trembles at your mere presence on the eve of your union."

The palace windows flooded your chamber with golden light, the kind that glinted off every polished surface and filtered through translucent silks hung from the ceiling.

Outside, the spires of Asgard rose against a perfect sky—but inside, you sat silent, the weight of centuries-old tradition pressing into you.

You were barely breathing.

Frigga stood behind you, carefully arranging the final touches in your hair. Her hands were warm, steady. She had braided fine gold-threaded cords through your hair, twining them with delicate beads that caught the light like starlight.

The gown—chosen only yesterday—fit like it had been dreamed of by someone who knew you long before you ever stood in this realm.

Champange-colored silk with green accents, the colors of Loki’s house, but subtle… not overwhelming.

“You look like a dream, my dear,” she said softly, gazing at your reflection in the full-length mirror. “Like something the stars would envy.”

Your hands fidgeted in your lap. “What if I trip? Or say the wrong words? Or—” You swallowed, voice trembling.

Frigga met your eyes in the mirror. Her smile was gentle—but there was a steel beneath her softness.

“Then Asgard will adjust,” she said firmly.

She touched your shoulder, grounding you.

“And as for the ceremony… just walk forward. Everything else will come.”

Two golden guards opened the doors with solemn precision, and the hum of a distant choir echoed down the long marble corridor ahead.

Your heart thundered.

Each footstep was a betrayal of your nerves, your pulse fluttering in your throat as the weight of hundreds of eyes waited somewhere just beyond.

You clutched a bouquet crafted from Asgardian star-blossoms—so luminous they almost looked unreal. Your fingers trembled around the stems.

And then you stepped through.

The grand ceremonial hall had been transformed into something ethereal. Vines of silken greenery drifted above, suspended mid-air by unseen magic. Light filtered through floating crystals, casting soft prisms on the white marble floor. Pillars lined the path, each wrapped in silver and pale green.

And at the end of it—

Loki.

He stood tall, regal, and untouchable.

Clad in his gold and green ceremonial armor, gleaming and fearsome. The horns of his helm curled upward like a crown meant for tricksters and gods of old.

The golden glow of the hall made the green of his cape shimmer like a serpent's scales.

His face was unreadable.

Lips pressed into a line. Eyes flicking across your form, lingering—but giving away nothing. He did not move toward you.

Did not smile. He stood as if carved from cold marble, a man sculpted by war, betrayal, and duty.

Something in your stomach twisted.

He felt so far away.

But Loki didn’t notice your panic.

Or perhaps he did—and chose not to react.

You reached the platform, every step careful, rehearsed a dozen times in your mind.

Loki looked down at you—not unkind, not cold exactly, but… distant.

Formal.

His hands were clasped behind his back, posture perfect. You felt very small standing beside him, full of nerves and covered in silk next to a god in full ceremonial armor.

Your voice nearly failed when the priest asked if you were ready.

But then—you felt it.

A flicker.

A pulse of warmth—brief, deliberate. Loki’s fingers brushed yours. Barely. A whisper of skin on skin.

Perhaps it was accidental.

The vows were spoken in Old Asgardian, translated gently for your ears. You recited your part softly, afraid of mispronouncing every word. Loki spoke his flawlessly, of course—voice deep and smooth, his gaze never leaving you.

But you couldn’t read him.

And that terrified you more than any crowd.

When the ritual ended and the ceremonial binding of hands began—glowing green threads curling around your fingers—your chest was tight. You expected Loki to say something. To lean down and whisper a quiet reassurance.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he simply looked at you.

After the feasting the whirlwind  of congratulations, Solem robed women. Led you away.

The corridors leading to Loki’s chambers felt longer than any corridor should.

Torches flickered low against the golden stone, casting dancing shadows across your path as the elders—robed and solemn—led the way.

They said little, their faces stone masks of tradition, but you felt every glance.

Behind them, the ceremonial guards kept their distance. Behind you, the murmur of old customs and whispered expectations chased your steps like ghosts.

You clutched the soft fabric of your nightgown tight to your chest. It was Asgardian in cut, but lighter—meant for the night, the had insisted you change in a side room at the start of a corridor.

You weren’t cold, and yet you trembled.

The elders halted in the entry chamber—an antechamber, you now realized—meant to receive the soiled sheets. You saw a silver tray placed on a side table beside them, elegant and waiting.

You had to fight the bile that seemed to climb your throat

One of the older women gave you a nod—gentle, but firm.

You stepped inside.

The ornate door to Loki's chamber closed with a resonant thud that seemed to echo through your very bones.

You stood frozen, watching as Loki locked it with a casual flick of his wrist, magic shimmering briefly around the edges.

As your eyes adjusted to the dim light, Loki's chambers gradually revealed themselves in all their princely splendor.

The space was vast, far larger than any bedroom you'd seen on Earth. Polished marble floors stretched across the chamber, reflecting the golden glow of scattered lanterns.

To your left, an imposing fireplace carved from black stone dominated one wall, flames dancing lazily within its depths, casting moving shadows across the room.

Bookshelves lined another wall, stretching from floor to ceiling, filled with ancient tomes, scrolls, and artifacts collected from across the Nine Realms.

Many appeared worn from frequent handling, their spines cracked and pages marked.

A testament to Loki's scholarly nature.

A least there was something you had in common.

Near the far corner, partially concealed behind an ornate silk curtain, you glimpsed the edge of a sunken bath large enough for several people, its marble basin inlaid with gold veins that shimmered with latent magic.

Steam rose gently from its surface, scented with unfamiliar Asgardian herbs.

Tall arched doors led to a sprawling balcony where elegant cushioned benches waited beneath the stars, positioned for contemplative views of the eternal cosmos beyond Asgard's edge.

The night air whispered through sheer curtains that billowed gently at the threshold.

At the center of it all stood the massive bed, draped in linens of the finest silk, its pristine white sheets a stark canvas awaiting the completion of your marriage bond.

Four intricately carved posts reached toward the vaulted ceiling, supporting a canopy of deep emerald fabric embroidered with golden threads that formed delicate vines.

"So," Loki said, his voice startlingly soft in the silence, "the final act of this charade."

Your heart hammered against your ribs as he approached, each step measured and deliberate. Despite the elaborate Asgardian nightgown adorning your body, you felt utterly exposed under his piercing gaze.

Hours earlier, he had stood beside you before all of Asgard, his face an impassive mask as vows were exchanged. Now, alone, that mask remained firmly in place, though something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

"My Prince," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

A bitter smile twisted his lips. "Look at you little one, playing the dutiful Midgardian bride."

He circled you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey.

Your breath caught as he stopped directly behind you, close enough that you could feel the chill emanating from his body.

You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for his touch.

It never came.

Instead, the distinctive sound of a blade being unsheathed sliced through the air.

Your eyes flew open as panic surged through your veins. You whirled around to find Loki standing there, an ornate dagger gleaming in his hand, its blade catching the lantern light.

"Please," you gasped, stumbling backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed. "Loki, I—"

"Quiet," he commanded, but without the usual venom. He approached steadily, dagger extended. "Remove your left slipper, and sit down"

Your hands trembled violently as you obeyed, fingers fumbling with the delicate clasp.

The floor was cold beneath your bare foot as you looked up at him, confusion warring with terror, as you lowered yourself onto the edge of the bed.

"This marriage is a necessity," Loki said, his voice low and controlled. "But even I have certain... boundaries."

He knelt before you in a fluid motion that sent your mind reeling—the God of Mischief, on his knees.

Without warning, he grasped your ankle with surprising gentleness, lifting your bare foot.

"Hold still," he instructed, all business now. "This will sting, but only briefly."

Understanding dawned just as the blade's edge pressed against the underside of your foot. A sharp pain, quick and bright, made you gasp. Blood welled from a shallow cut, dark against your skin.

Loki's fingers were cool as they guided your foot, pressing the wound to the sheet, leaving a unmistakable stain on the pristine white fabric.

"There," he said, satisfaction evident in his tone as he released your foot.

He stood in one fluid movement, wiping the blade clean before vanishing it with a gesture. "The evidence of our union is provided. The servants will find what they expect to find, and this farce will be complete."

You stared at him, bewildered, your foot still throbbing with pain.

"You didn't..." you began, unable to finish the thought.

"Force myself on you?" Loki completed, arching an eyebrow. His voice was still cold, but lacked the cruelty you'd come to expect. "I may be many things, but that is not among them."

He gestured toward the stained portion of the sheet. "Sit there. Briefly."

"What?"

"Your nightgown must match the sheets," he explained with clinical detachment. "The servants will expect... consistency."

Hesitantly, you lowered yourself onto the blood-spotted area, feeling the dampness seep through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

A blush heated your cheeks at the implications, but you understood the necessity of the ruse.

After a moment, he nodded, seemingly satisfied with the small stain now marking your garment. "Sufficient."

Loki approached once more and surprised you by kneeling at your feet again. He extended his hand over your wounded foot, and a soft green glow emanated from his palm.

A tingling sensation replaced the sharp pain as his magic knitted your flesh back together, leaving no trace of the cut that had been there moments before.

"There," he said quietly, his eyes focused on his work rather than your face. "No lasting damage."

He rose and moved to the bed, deftly stripping the sheet with precise movements. He folded it carefully, making certain the bloodstain was prominently visible.

"It's complete," Loki announced, his voice suddenly projected with regal authority. He handed the folded sheet to the older of the women, whose eyes widened slightly at the visible evidence. "See that the Elder's receive confirmation of our union's consummation."

The servants bowed deeply, exchanging knowing glances as they accepted the proof they had been sent to collect.

"Fresh linens," Loki commanded, and the younger servant hurried off to comply. Once new sheets were brought and the bed remade under Loki's cold supervision, he dismissed them with a wave.

The door closed once more, and he turned back to you, his shoulders tense beneath his formal attire as he gazed out the window at the stars above Asgard.

The silence stretched between you until finally, he spoke without turning.

"You thought that I would take what I wanted regardless of your consent?" His voice was deceptively calm, but undercurrents of frustration rippled beneath the surface.

"How predictable. The fearsome, cruel God of Lies, surely he would force himself upon his unwilling bride." A bitter smile twisted his lips as he paced a few steps closer.

"But contrary to what Thor or Odin or all the realms might believe—" He stopped abruptly, his tall frame casting a long shadow over you.

"I do have limits. Lines even I will not cross." His voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper.