#and from now on the rest of the world can wait.

[hangmanwrites]

your personal kryptonite ━ clark kent

dedicated to ━ @frivolousimagination because she’s the one who convinced me to post this ridiculous filthy mess even though i was being a coward about it, love u bestie, this one’s for you!! word count ━ 3.4k words pairing ━ clark kent x fem!reader content warnings ━ smut, mdni, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it irl unless you’re also dating superman), soft dom clark, praise, overstimulation, crying during sex (in a hot way), emotional support himbo vibes, aftercare, romantic filth, gentle but devastating author's note ━ this is only my second time writing smut so please be kind to my fragile little writer brain, i’m still figuring it out one emotionally unhinged paragraph at a time, but i really hope you enjoy it anyway and fall a bit in love with soft filthy clark, too. masterlist read here ━ we have a little discord server if you want to talk about david corenswet, clark kent, or anything in between. it’s a cosy community where we spiral together, share ideas, and help each other out with fic writing too. everyone’s welcome to join as long as you’re over 18. minors are not allowed, sorry loves!! 🩵

Today was a shitty day.

Work treated you like you were some sort of animal, not even a real person, just this empty thing people could toss problems at and expect answers from, like your brain was some kind of machine that didn’t glitch or ache or hit its limit after hours of passive aggression and sugarcoated threats and stupid bloody spreadsheets that kept crashing for no reason. 

You’d barely managed to get through lunch without biting someone’s head off, and you did snap at a printer, which definitely made at least one intern scared of you forever, but honestly, at this point, let them be scared. 

Let them think you’re heartless, because you can’t keep doing this, you can’t keep pretending it’s fine, that you’re fine, not when the train made you late and the rain soaked your socks and some stranger told you to “smile more” like that was going to fix your entire nervous system spiralling into self-destruct mode.

You almost didn’t come, almost got off at your usual stop and went home to cry into the same pillow that’s soaked up too much already this month, but the thought of being alone felt unbearable, like your body might shut down if you didn’t see him.

So now you’re outside his flat, fingers aching from gripping your keys too tight, throat thick with everything you can’t name, and the second he opens the door—

It’s over.

Your whole posture collapses like your spine forgot what holding you up looks like, like his face was the final straw, and suddenly he’s right there, stepping forward like you’re made of something delicate, like he knew before you said a single word that something was wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate and just pulls you into his chest with both arms, firm and warm and steady, and it ruins you completely.

You don’t even get a chance to apologise, because he’s already holding you like you’re not a burden at all, just tired, just human, and your fists are already curling into the front of his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping you standing upright.

And you can feel your breathing hitch against him, feel that awful stutter in your chest like a sob is waiting to break free and you hate it, you hate it so much, but he just keeps whispering, quiet and careful and close to your ear, It’s alright, I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.

And he does, one arm wrapped firm around your back as though he’s trying to hold you together by force, the other hand steady at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair in slow, soothing motions as though he knows exactly where the panic lives and how to quiet it without being told. 

He sways with you gently, barely a movement but enough to keep you present, enough to remind your body that time is still passing, that you’re still here, still held, still safe in his arms even if the rest of the world spent the entire day trying to convince you otherwise.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or question or try to coax anything out of you, he just stays there with you. He’d done this before, he’d memorised the shape of your silence and knows how to sit inside it without making it about him. 

When you finally manage a full breath, not the shallow, uneven things you’d been taking all day but an actual proper inhale that lifts your chest and makes your shoulders fall, his hand presses gently against your back as if to say I felt that, I see it, you’re doing so well.

“Come here,” he says, soft and certain, and you follow him instantly, still clutching his sleeve, still a little folded into yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just guides you through the flat with both hands at your waist as though you might vanish if he lets go.

He sits you on the edge of the bed and crouches in front of you without hesitation, his hands on your knees, thumbs brushing slowly over your tights in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, and when he looks up, his eyes are so impossibly kind it nearly undoes you again, not because he pities you, but because he doesn’t, because he’s really looking at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, gently, carefully, as if the question is something he’s laying at your feet rather than pressing into your hands, “Or do you just want quiet?”

You shake your head, not sure which one you’re saying no to, not sure it even matters, because he nods anyway, as though a quiet understanding in the way he leans forward and presses a kiss to your knee, soft and lingering.

Then he kisses you again, a little higher, just above the edge of your skirt, and his hands slide to your hips, not in a greedy way, not in a way that demands anything, just a presence, just a reassurance, just him reminding you that he’s here.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice lower now, gentler, as though you might fall apart if he speaks too loud, “Then we’ll just sit. You and me.”

You nod, barely, just once, and maybe he thinks that’s it, that you’ll stay still and let the quiet carry you, but your hands are already reaching for him, moving like they’ve been waiting all day for permission, and the second your fingers thread through his hair, your whole chest twists, as though something in you finally dares to ache now that he’s here to hold it.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets you tug him into the space between your legs where you’re still curled on the bed, and your mouth finds his before you’ve even had time to think, messy and eager and a little too much, as though your body’s just trying to survive through contact.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for it, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen the second you walked through the door, and it’s slow at first, careful, as though he doesn’t want to take anything from you that you’re not ready to give, but the way you’re pulling at him makes it impossible to keep it gentle.

You know he feels it too, the way the air thickens around you the second you tilt your head and open your mouth for him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as though he needs something to hold or else he might break apart entirely.

It’s not perfect, not neat or delicate or slow-burn cinematic, it’s messy and damp and hungry, and the exhaustion still clings to your limbs, the rawness of the day still presses at your skin, but none of it matters, not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only place he wants to be, not with that heat building low in your belly every time his thumb finds your waist or his tongue brushes yours just right.

You’re not trying to start anything, but the way he groans when your nails scrape the back of his neck pulls something up from deep in your chest that has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with want.

You press in closer, tighter, chest flush to his, legs drawing him in, and you don’t stop kissing him because you don’t know how else to ask for more.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice rough now, ragged around the edges like he’s barely holding onto restraint, forehead pressed to yours, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage, I—”

“Please,” you whisper, too fast, too breathless, too much, but you don’t care, you’re already chasing his mouth again before he can finish the sentence, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in, and he lets you, because it’s Clark and he always does, and his lips are back on yours before either of you can think.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or take more than you’re ready to give, just kisses you with that quiet, steady focus that makes your whole chest tighten, his mouth slow against yours, his hands firm and careful even when they slide under your thighs to lift you into his lap, holding you close like it’s second nature.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the heat of him pressed between your legs, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, his hands gripping at your hips like he’s trying to keep control, and for a second he pulls back, just enough to look at you again, and there’s no rush in it only that same quiet awe in his expression.

When he leans in again, he doesn’t go for your mouth, not yet, just presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then just under your ear, each one slow and unbearably tender, and when he whispers, “You’ve had such a hard day.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, quiet and steady, as if he knows you’ll try to brush it off and doesn’t want to let you.

His hands move lower, sure and careful, fingers sliding beneath your underwear like he’s done it a hundred times, not from habit but because he knows you now, knows how to move without asking for more than you’re ready to give, and when he pulls the fabric down your legs, you lift your hips for him without needing to be told.

And when he sees you, really sees you, he exhales like it knocks the breath out of him, low and quiet and almost reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him in.

“God,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath, hands sliding up your thighs to part them, not rough, not rushed, just steady, grounding, and when he sees how wet you already are, he doesn’t say anything else just leans in and licks into you like it’s all he’s needed all day.

It’s filthy, right from the first slow pass of his tongue, so deliberate it pulls a whimper straight from your throat before you can even think, and you can’t hold it in, not when it’s not just his mouth.

Your thighs twitch, your hips shift, and you’re gripping the duvet in tight fists just to stay grounded, but he just keeps licking into you, slow and deep and steady, as though this is the only thing that matters.

And when you moan his name, helpless and breathless and wrecked, he groans back into you, fingers digging in just a little harder, and it’s not for show, it’s him, it’s real, it’s yes, that’s it, let me have it without saying a word.

Then his hand slides back down, his fingers warm and slick when he pushes two of them inside you, slow but sure, like he’s done this in his head a hundred times, and the stretch is so good it knocks the breath from your lungs, makes your hips jolt into his mouth, and he groans low and keeps going, his fingers working you open as his mouth stays right there.

And you can feel your climax building already, hot and unbearable and close, because it’s him, Clark, on his knees, giving everything, and you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

You say his name again and it’s not a choice, it just happens, your mouth moving before your brain can catch up, because everything’s gone fuzzy, because your body is too full to hold anything else, and he hums in response, pleased and steady and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

His palm presses firm to your lower stomach, and his voice comes soft and ruined against your cunt as he says, “Let go for me, baby, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just let me have it, come on.”

And you do, God, you do, it hits you hard and fast and so deep you don’t even realise you’ve stopped breathing until it all rushes back at once, and your body’s jolting up into him without warning, a helpless thing. Every muscle snapping tight and letting go all at once, and your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and your fingers are pulling hard in his hair and he just groans, low and hoarse and wrecked.

He slows down, keeps his tongue soft and steady and lets you fall apart in his mouth, lets you ride it out with his hands holding you still, one on your thigh and the other pressing down gently on your stomach.

You’re shaking, breathless, too far gone to speak, not a single thought in your head beyond the crashing release still flooding your chest and hips and thighs, and your hands are still in his hair, and when he finally lifts his head it’s slow.

His mouth is red, his eyes unbearably soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s flushed and wrecked and breathing hard, but he still smiles when he sees you staring at the ceiling like your mind hasn’t caught up yet, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush your hair back, voice low and hoarse when he asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, or something close to it, and he seems to understand. Then he leans down, kisses your hip, your stomach, the centre of your chest, soft and slow and steady, like he’s still trying to take care of you even now. 

Your throat tightens all over again, because it’s him, and he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle.

His mouth moves higher, kissing along your collarbone and neck, and his hands slide back up your thighs, hot and unshaking, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. 

You can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way his body holds still like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You feel him now, still hard, still clothed, the shape of him pressed to your thigh, and you can’t help it. Your hips roll, slow and greedy, your body answering before your head can catch up. 

He groans into your skin, low and deep, and you feel him falter, feel him fight not to lose it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, quiet and hoarse and almost dazed, and it’s not a complaint, it’s reverent, it’s full of disbelief that he gets to have you like this, that he gets to stay here, and then he’s sitting up just enough to tug off his shirt and undo his belt, one handed.

And you watch him, still flushed and sensitive, still sore in the best way, but your legs spread for him automatically because your body wants this, wants him, wants to feel him everywhere, and when his trousers hit the floor and you finally get to see the full, desperate shape of him, flushed and thick and twitching with how hard he is. 

You swear under your breath because it’s obscene, it’s not fair, he’s so beautiful, and he just kneels between your legs like he belongs there.

He leans down to kiss you again, mouth still messy from everything he did to you, and you moan into it, half from the taste of yourself on his tongue and half from the way his cock presses right up against you, not pushing in yet, but it’s hot and heavy against your overstimulated cunt.

Your body jolts with it, and you hear yourself whimper, and he shushes you softly, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, not because he doesn’t know, but because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure, always so careful even when he’s wrecked and seconds from losing it completely.

You nod again, this time more definite, more desperate, and you whisper, “Please,” and that’s all it takes.

He pushes in so slowly you can feel every inch of it, feel every thick, aching stretch of him as he fills you, deeper than you thought anyone ever could, thick and hot and perfect, and you’re already gasping before he’s fully seated, already clutching at his back with both hands as your body adjusts, 

“You feel—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a soft, broken noise, and presses a kiss to your throat as his hips roll forward, just enough to make you whimper, and he whispers, “So warm, sweetheart, so soft, you feel incredible.”

And then he moves for real, pulls back just enough to drag the whole length of himself out of you before sliding in again slow and deep, and your mouth falls open because it’s filthy, the sound of it, the slick, obscene drag of his cock inside you, your body taking him like it’s what it was made for, and Clark’s still breathing like he’s trying to survive it.

Clark sets a rhythm, gentle but full, grinding deep into you with every stroke, his hips tilting just right to press against that spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach clench.

And every time he finds it again, again, he murmurs something soft into your skin, “There you go, That’s it, I’ve got you,” as though he’s guiding you somewhere, as if your body is answering him and he’s proud of it.

And it is so much, the stretch of him, the wet slide of your bodies moving together, the way your slick is dripping down your thighs now, messy and shameless, and Clark can feel it, can hear it, and instead of shying away from it he groans softly into your neck, presses his hand flat against your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, and says, breathless and stunned, “You’re so beautiful like this, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how this feels.”

His voice is wrecked, soft and rough as he shudders above you, fingers finding your clit with slow, careful circles that make your whole body jerk beneath him. He doesn’t speed up, just keeps fucking you deep and steady, every thrust dragging right through you, and your legs are shaking, your hands clutching at him just to stay grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you slow, “I’ve got you, I promise, just let go for me, sweetheart, please—”

And you do. It hits hard and hot, your body locking tight around him as everything breaks open, and you cry out without words, just Clark, just need, and he holds you through all of it, kissing your face, whispering soft things you can’t even process through the pleasure.

And he’s still inside you when it fades, still thick and hard and throbbing, just watching your face with the kind of awe that makes you ache all over again, and when you finally open your eyes, blinking up at him with wet lashes and parted lips, he leans down and kisses you one more time, deep and slow and full of everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and he’s flushed and wrecked and still holding back, and you nod, still breathless, still clenching around him, and his whole body shudders again.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, so softly it makes your heart twist, “You feel too good, I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you—”

But you’re already pulling him closer, because he needs it, because he’s holding himself so carefully, still buried in you and barely moving, arms shaking and jaw tight like it’s taking everything not to fall apart.

You press your hands to his face, tilting his head until he looks at you, and the second his eyes meet yours, something in you snaps again, because he’s beautiful and he’s yours and he’s waiting.

You don’t have to speak. He sees it in the way you nod, in the way your hands cradle him, in the way your thighs pull him in.

And he exhales, shaky and wrecked, and leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, and he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, barely audible, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say, and it’s not breathless anymore, not messy or chaotic, it’s just soft, steady, honest, because you mean it, because you know him, and you know he never could.

He starts to move again, slow and deep and careful, as if he’s trying to memorise how you feel now that he’s allowed to. It’s not rushed anymore, just warm, just full of that unbearable closeness that only he ever gives you, and when your body clenches around him he groans, low and reverent.

Clark kisses you again and again, mouth soft on yours, whispering between breaths, “So good, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and it’s never really about him, not even now, not even with his hips starting to stutter and his hands gripping tighter like he needs to hold on to something real.

And when it happens, when he finally lets go, you feel all of it; the shake in his thighs, the rough sound in his throat, the way his mouth drops open against your cheek and you hold him through it, hands in his hair, whispering his name just to let him know you’re here.

He groans your name like it’s the only word he knows, and he spills into you with his face tucked into your neck, his entire body trembling as though he’s never felt anything like this before, as though this moment, this warmth, this love, is undoing something in him he never thought could be undone.

When it’s over, his hips still and his breath evens out, and he doesn’t move. He stays close, chest to chest, mouth pressed to your skin like he’s not ready to let go, and you lie there with him in the quiet, holding each other, breathing slow and steady, hearts still racing in sync, and you know you’ve never been loved like this before.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, tangled and quiet, your legs still around his hips, his arms still tight around you like he’s afraid to let go. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you would fall apart if he stopped holding you like this, so gently, so steady, like he’s keeping you from breaking again.

When you finally shift, just enough to breathe deeper, he follows without question, tucks his face into your neck and sighs. Quiet and warm and full of peace, as if something inside him has finally gone still.

It’s a mess, all of it, your bodies sticky, your thighs still shaking, your heart beating too fast to keep up with your thoughts, but you don’t care. Not when his hand keeps stroking slow across your back like he’s soothing something deeper than skin, not when his mouth keeps finding your shoulder in soft kisses that feel more like promises than habit.

You should say something, maybe thank him or laugh or breathe properly, but all you can do is hold him tighter and hope he gets it. Hope he hears it in the way your fingers stay in his hair, in the way your forehead presses into his cheek, in the way your breathing finally begins to settle, not calm, but easier. 

And the thought hits you, not all at once but slowly, creeping in through the quiet like a truth you’d been ignoring until now;

Kryptonite could kill him, sure, it’s the one thing strong enough to bring him down, the one weakness he can’t hide, but Clark Kent on his knees, hands steady and tongue slow and eyes so full of love it breaks you, that might just kill you first.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Ooo Love! Ooo Lover Boy!

boyfriend!johnny storm x fem civilian!reader content warnings: none! all fluff! summary: a cute date day with Johnny! wc: 3.1k

masterlist.

The rooftop is loud. Not with music or fireworks, but with press questions and too many bodies pressed together in expensive suits and sequined dresses. The Future Foundation is hosting another one of its “donor appreciation” nights, which really just means Reed stands by a molecular model all night while Johnny tries to escape three women in red dresses and someone’s very pushy aunt.

You’re off to the side, perched at a high table, nursing a ginger ale and watching the whole thing unfold like it’s a soap opera you accidentally got invested in.

Johnny, for his part, is thriving.

He’s grinning wide under the warm rooftop lights, hair perfectly tousled by the wind, laughing like he doesn’t have a single real problem in the world. He lets a kid borrow his sunglasses for a selfie. He lets someone else get a photo of him doing finger guns. He blows a literal heart-shaped flame into the air when someone shouts, “Johnny, show us something hot!”

Sue looks like she’s three seconds from tossing him off the roof.

You can’t help it, you laugh into your drink.

He catches it. Mid-flirt, mid-flame, Johnny’s eyes flick toward you like it’s instinct. His grin changes. Just a little. Softer around the edges. A secret note played under the show tune.

You pretend not to notice, even though your heart skips a beat like it always does when he looks at you like that.

Later, after the crowd starts to thin and the media finally backs off, Johnny finds you standing near the elevator, scrolling through your phone like you weren’t just waiting for him to come find you.

“Hey, stranger,” he murmurs, sliding up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist like it’s second nature. “Missed you.”

“You were ten feet away,” you deadpan, but you lean back into his chest anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, nose brushing the curve of your jaw, “but that was Human Torch distance. This is boyfriend distance.”

You snort. “Are those different units of measurement?”

“Obviously. Human Torch distance is...PR stunts, bright lights, saying hi to that one lady with the big hair because she gave us half our funding this year.”

“And boyfriend distance?”

“Boyfriend distance is here. With you. Finally.”

He rocks you gently side to side, his warmth soaking through your dress, the press of him solid and grounding.

“You looked really pretty tonight, by the way,” he says, quieter now. “Tried not to be obvious about staring. Think I failed.”

You feel the blush creep up your neck before you can stop it. He rests his chin on your shoulder, humming contentedly like he could stay like this forever.

“You were handsome too,” you murmur, smiling. “You always are.”

He grins against your skin. “I know.”

You elbow him gently in the ribs, but don’t pull away.

Because this is the part the world doesn’t see.

Not the fire. Not the flash. Not the headlines.

Just warmth. Just you and Johnny.

By the time you’re back at your apartment, your shoes are off, your hair’s down, and Johnny is already halfway through making popcorn in your kitchen and pretending he isn’t waiting for you to sit on the couch first so he can immediately flop next to you.

You catch him watching you as you toss your earrings into a dish on the counter.

“What?” you ask, biting back a smile.

He shrugs, leans against the stove, eyes all heavy-lidded and sweet. Too sweet.

“Nothing. Just...you’re so pretty.”

You roll your eyes. “You think I’m pretty when I’ve got mascara smudged under my eyes?”

He crosses the kitchen in three steps, sets the popcorn bowl down, and cups your jaw like he’s holding something sacred.

“I think you’re pretty always,” he murmurs. “But especially when you’re too tired to pretend I’m not your favorite person.”

You swat at him playfully, but your fingers curl around his wrist and keep him close.

You end up curled together on the couch, legs tangled under a too-thin blanket, his chest a living heater against your back. He’s the kind of warm that makes you melt without realizing it. His fingers draw slow, lazy shapes against your arm as the movie plays low in the background—some rom-com you’ve both seen ten times but always return to.

You feel him press a kiss to the back of your shoulder, then hum quietly against your skin.

“Wanna do something tomorrow?”

“Mmm,” you reply sleepily. “What kind of something?”

“Like...date day something. No work. No missions. No having to be 'Human Torch'."

You smile. “You’re due for some romance, huh?”

“I’m due for you in a sundress holding a little iced coffee and pretending not to laugh at my sunglasses tan.”

You twist slightly to look up at him. His face is lit soft by the TV glow, eyes half-lidded, hair flopped messily across his forehead. You reach up and push it back.

“So what do you wanna do?” you ask. “Ice cream? Hide in a used bookstore until someone kicks us out?”

“Yes,” he says. “All of it.”

“You want the full rom-com date montage, huh?”

“Absolutely. I want to carry your bag. I want to kiss you in front of a fountain. I want to sit on a bench and dramatically feed you a bite of my hot dog.”

You snort. “You’re such a dork.”

He grins. “I’m your dork.”

You reach under the blanket and lace your fingers through his, already picturing tomorrow, the soft buzz of summer in the city, the stupid matching sunglasses he’ll insist on, the way he’ll hold your hand like it’s his job.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Date day. Just us.”

“Just us,” he echoes, voice like a promise.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest and his hand curled around yours, warm, steady, and already dreaming of you.

You wake up to warmth.

Not the filtered sunlight slipping in through the curtains. Not the weight of the blanket half-pushed to the foot of the bed. Him. Johnny. Heat radiating from where his arm is slung across your waist, skin hot and golden even under the sheets. His breath fans across the back of your neck, steady and soft. He’s all tangled up in you, legs knotted with yours, hand tucked beneath your shirt like it belongs there.

It does.

He makes a quiet sound when you shift, half-asleep, half-clingy, and pulls you closer like a furnace with feelings.

“Mmm. Five more minutes,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

“It’s already ten.”

“Okay, five more hours.”

You laugh under your breath, which only makes him nuzzle closer, lips brushing your bare skin.

“We have date plans, remember?”

“Mm-hmm. I remember. I’m romancing you,” he says, voice slurred with sleep. “I’m being amazing.”

“You’re currently drooling on me.”

“Love drool. It’s affectionate.”

Eventually, he stretches out like a sun-drunk cat and flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh.

“Okay. Let’s get you ready. You need to look incredible today.”

“Me?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who’ll be recognized.”

“Exactly. And I want them to see you and immediately understand why I’m completely obsessed.”

You shake your head, amused, but let him follow you into your closet anyway.

Johnny takes the job of picking your outfit very seriously. He sits on the edge of your bed like a fashion judge, watching each piece you pull from a hanger like it holds national importance.

“Too serious,” he says at one dress. “Too corporate.” “Too hot. Not hot enough. Wear that one- wait, no, I won’t survive it.”

You finally settle on something flowy and soft, one of his favorites.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he mutters, watching you twirl in the mirror.

“Already did,” you reply, smug.

He grins, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles like he’s your knight instead of your menace of a boyfriend.

You end up at this little breakfast place downtown, handwritten chalkboard sign and flower boxes out front. It’s bustling, cluttered, loud in the best way. Johnny’s a regular, apparently. The guy at the counter daps him up like they’ve been best friends since childhood.

“The usual?” the guy asks, eyeing you with interest. Johnny slings an arm around your shoulder like it’s reflex. “Two of ‘em. She’s my favorite person. Extra strawberries.”

He insists on paying. Tips too much. Picks a booth by the window and slides in beside you, not across from you, because "if I sit over there, I can’t touch you."

The food comes fast—pancakes, eggs, coffee, fresh fruit. He takes a bite of your toast and pretends he didn’t.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” he says, halfway through a pancake. “No aliens. No science emergencies. Just you and me and syrup. That’s the dream.”

You rest your chin on your hand and smile at him, messy-haired, glowing, halfway through over-sweet coffee, absolutely beaming at you like you invented joy.

“This is gonna sound cheesy,” he adds, lowering his voice just a little, “but I don’t care if we do anything fancy today. You could drag me through a dollar store and I’d still call it the best date of my life.”

You kick him under the table. He grins wider.

“Ow. Romantic violence. Nice.”

After breakfast, he offers his hand dramatically and walks you out all dramatic. Sunglasses on. Other hand in his pocket. Entirely too proud to be seen holding your hand.

“Next stop,” he announces. “Books. Because you like books. And I like watching you pretend not to fall in love with me all over again while I read dumb poetry out loud.”

“That’s not what happens.” “It absolutely is. You’re obsessed with me.”

You don’t deny it.

Because it’s true.

The bookstore smells like old paper and dust and sunlight.

You find it tucked between a flower shop and a record store, the kind of place with crooked shelves and handwritten recommendation cards. Wind chimes jingle as the door swings open. Johnny ducks slightly as you step inside, like he’s trying to contain his energy, like he doesn’t want to break the spell.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales a soft “whoa,” eyes tracing the mismatched lamps and towers of books and the sleepy cat curled on the counter like it owns the place.

“This is so you,” he says finally, already smiling.

You nudge his shoulder with yours. “You said that about the diner.”

“Yeah, but this time I mean it like...” He gestures vaguely. “You in a bookstore? This is just where you belong.”

He lets you lead the way, trailing a few steps behind with his hands in his jacket pockets, touching nothing, but watching everything. You, mostly. You, skimming the spines, pulling down titles and flipping through pages. You, biting your lip when you find something good. You, holding a book to your chest like it might float away.

He pulls a slim poetry chapbook off a shelf and follows you into a quiet corner near the windows.

“Can I read you one?” he asks, already opening it.

“Johnny…” you say, suspicious. “I can be cultured,” he insists. Then, clearing his throat dramatically, “Love is a fire.” He pauses. “Ooh. This one’s got my name on it already.”

You groan, but let him keep reading.

His voice drops when it’s not a joke anymore. Slows down. Words softer, careful. You watch him in profile, sunlight catching in his lashes, the faintest pink in his cheeks. He finishes the poem and looks up, sheepish.

“That was kinda good, right?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You should read to me more.”

He swells with pride, the way he always does when you compliment something real about him.

He buys the book. Signs the inside cover. "To the prettiest girl I’ve ever read poetry to—JS."

You lose him for a few minutes between aisles.

You’re deep in the nonfiction section, thumbing through a book on obscure cosmic history you’re pretty sure Reed wrote under a pen name, when Johnny reappears with a small stack in his arms and a crooked grin on his face.

“Okay. I took this very seriously,” he says, setting them down on the bench beside you. “Here is my curated selection for the love of my life.”

He presents the first one with a flourish: a graphic novel about time travelers who fall in love through post-it notes.

“Romantic and nerdy. I’m killing this already.”

The next, a battered, clearly well-loved paperback with stars and planets on the cover. You open it—and tucked inside is a faded, pressed flower.

You glance up at him. “Did you—?”

“Nah, found it like that,” he says, quieter now. “Felt like it was waiting for someone. Kinda like you and me.”

Your breath catches a little.

“That was gross, right?” he adds quickly. “Like...disgustingly sweet?”

“No,” you say. “It was perfect.”

He gives you a look like he wants to kiss you right there between fiction and sci-fi, but instead he just nudges your knee with his and leans back.

“Also I picked a cookbook because you said you wanted to try making dumplings from scratch.”

"Johnny.”

“And a mystery novel because I know you like to ry to solve what happens before it's revealed.”

You’re quiet for a moment, holding the stack to your chest.

“You really listen to me, huh?”

“Of course I do,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You’re my favorite voice.”

You feel your heart do another flip as he kisses your cheek.

The two of you end up in the park next, shoes off, blanket spread across the grass, half a baguette in a paper bag between you because Johnny insisted on stopping by a bakery before the park.

The sun is high, warm but breezy. Johnny lies flat on his back, one hand behind his head, the other idly playing with the hem of your skirt where it pools at your knees.

“Look,” he says, pointing lazily at the sky. “That cloud looks like the letter ‘J.’ For ‘Johnny.’ The sky loves me.”

“You’re the most humble person I’ve ever met,” you say, deadpan.

“You know it.”

A quiet falls between you for a while. Comfortable. Unrushed. His fingers eventually find yours in the grass and stay there, thumb brushing gentle circles against your skin.

“I love being with you like this,” he murmurs. “Not just in, like…the big ways. But the small ones. The regular ones. I’d do this every day for the rest of my life if you let me.”

You don’t say anything. You just squeeze his hand.

Later, when the sun starts to drift lower in the sky, you find yourselves near the ice cream truck Johnny insisted you walk past because “I swear this guy’s got the best strawberry swirl in the city.”

He orders for both of you, then adds a third cone at the last second for a kid in line who drops their cone.

“What a hero,” you say.

“My girlfriend thinks I’m cool. That’s all I need.”

You sit on the curb while you eat, your knees knocking together, your cone starting to drip. Johnny leans over and steals a bite without asking, then grins like he just won something.

“Hey!”

“What? I was saving your dress from getting icecream on it!”

You wipe a smudge of ice cream off his chin with your thumb. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You taste like sugar,” he murmurs, voice suddenly low. “No wonder I’m addicted.”

The city starts to shift as the sky turns gold.

Shadows stretch longer. Streetlights flicker to life one by one. Somewhere nearby, a jazz band warms up, their chords floating between buildings like smoke. And you’re still hand in hand with Johnny, wandering with no destination, letting the day stretch out for as long as it’ll give you.

He walks with his sunglasses on top of his head now, sweater sleeves pushed up, a paper bag in one hand filled with books and dumb little trinkets he insisted on getting “because they reminded me of you.” He keeps brushing his knuckles against yours as you walk, even though you’re already holding hands.

“Are you trying to hold my hand hand and my knuckle hand?” you ask, amused.

“I’m trying to hold every version of you,” he says, only half-joking.

Eventually, you stumble into a quiet little plaza tucked between two apartment buildings. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t show up on maps, just a stone path, a few benches, some ivy, and a fountain in the center. You can hear water trickling gently, the hum of traffic a distant hum instead of a roar.

Johnny stops walking.

“Wait,” he says, tugging gently on your hand. “This is it.”

“This is what?”

“The fountain moment. You remember. The romcom-certified romantic one.”

“Oh, right,” you say, playing along. “The one where you kiss me so perfectly I forget my own name.”

“Exactly. Very important. Very canon.”

He steps closer. Both of you smiling, soft around the edges, glowing in the amber light.

“You ready?” he murmurs.

You nod, and he leans in, not rushed, not showy, just…gentle. His forehead rests against yours for a second, breath mixing with yours. His hands cradle your waist like he’s holding something sacred.

“You’re my favorite thing I’ve ever found,” he says.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow and steady and unselfconscious. The kind of kiss that doesn't need witnesses. The kind you feel hours later, like sunlight on your skin. The water behind you bubbles softly. Somewhere, a breeze picks up and flutters the edge of your jacket.

You pull back first, but only because you’re smiling too hard.

“That was…” you start, breathless.

“Legendary,” he finishes. “Worthy of a rom-com montage.”

“It really was.”

You find a bench nearby and sit with your legs over his lap, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against the curve of his neck. It’s that hour of the day where everything softens, edges, voices, hearts.

“Can I say something dumb?” he asks after a while.

“Always.”

“I know we’ve only been dating for a few months...” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “but I think I’d be good at loving you for a long time.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are on the sky. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to charm you—he says it like a quiet truth he’s been carrying all day.

“Like, I know it’s cheesy,” he continues, “but when I think about the future, it’s just…you. Not the superhero stuff. Not the press. Just mornings and bookstores and dumb fountain kisses. That’s what I want.”

You rest your hand on his chest, right over his heart. It’s beating fast. Yours is too.

“That’s not dumb,” you say softly. “That’s perfect.”

He turns his head toward you, eyes wide and warm and a little bit vulnerable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses your forehead like a promise.

“Good. Because I think I’m already all in.”

[strayingawayy]

easy like sunday morning...

...the one where morning breath can't stop you and chan from being in love

{this is part of the stay secret gift exchange by the wonderful @starlostastronaut and is written for @fenya-scribbles. thank you so much for this wonderful exchange, teri !! i had a lot of fun writing and can't wait to see what others have written too 🙂‍↕️💗}

for someone who was easily disgusted by the idea of morning breath, you find all your mornings spent in kissing your boyfriend, chan, senseless.

you’re not even sure how it started. one minute you were blinking the sleep from your eyes, and the next, chan had you under him, palms on either side of your head, lips moving lazily against yours like you were some kind of morning prayer.

"we should really brush our teeth," you mumble between kisses, except your hands are already threading into his curls and you’re not exactly keen on stopping him anytime soon.

"mmm," chan hums, not disagreeing, not stopping either. "too far."

"the bathroom?"

"yeah."

"it’s literally what—" you tilt your head to look, "like five steps away."

"too many steps," he says, nipping at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to smirk softly. "besides, you taste fine, love."

"that is objectively false," you mumble, even as your thumb brushes his cheek and he nuzzles his face into your palm. he looks like the morning. and you're so grateful he is your morning.

"maybe i’m just in love, then. love makes people stupid."

"you were stupid before you met me, bang."

"ouch.” he grins. “but fair."

you giggle and he swoops in again, kissing you until you’re breathless. it’s slow and lazy. like you’ve got all the time in the world. your upper leg shifts to wrap around his waist lazily as he shifts and lies beside you. chan sighs like he’s never been more content.

"what’s the plan for today?" you ask, voice muffled against his shoulder. he’s moved down now, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone.

"this," he says. "you. me. this bed. repeat."

"you do know we’ve got laundry, yeah?"

"ignore it. the laundry can do itself."

"that’s not how laundry works."

"we’ll manifest it. or we'll have berry help."

you snort. "alright, mystic chan. tell me what the cards say."

he lifts his head, eyes squinting at his open palm like he’s pretending to focus. "they say… ‘stay in bed, kiss the pretty thing on your bed senseless, avoid responsibilities at all costs."

"very convenient."

"very wise."

you both giggle. chan's little squeaks in between laughs and dimples on full display have you falling in love with him all over again.

there’s a moment of silence after that. comfortable. you look at him, and he’s already looking at you. you reach out to trace the curve of his jaw, and he leans into it like a cat seeking warmth.

"you’re kind of gross, you know," you whisper.

"you kissed me first."

"i’ll do it again."

"threats don’t work on me, babe," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours. “especially not when they’re promises."

you pull him in, kiss him again, longer this time. one hand in his hair, the other resting on his bare shoulder, fingers idly tracing nonsense. he tastes like sleep and the chan you've always known.

he whispers your name between kisses, ever so tenderly.

"easy like sunday morning," he mumbles into your skin.

and you think, yeah.

you could do this every day. besides, chan would keep div1 away.

[starryeyed-apple]

gilded dreams

★pairing: king of darknight!xavier x f!reader/mc ★wc: 2.7k ★content: spoilers for where stars scatter myth. smut, throne sex, piv, praise kink, biting kink, claiming. angst, internal monologue, yearning, mutual pining, obsessive & possessive xavier, with mentions of his previous lies. inspired by the gilded dreams secret times. ★masterlist

You can't recall just how you ended up in this position. It's hard to think at all with the strong arms wrapped around your waist, cool armor pressed to your chest through the thin cloth of your dress with each slow, deep roll of his hips upwards into yours.

You know it started with the clash of steel and the strong scent of iron permeating the air. Just moments ago you ran through the halls, your heart in your throat and your staff of light materializing in your hands, only for the assassins to be evaporating to dust by the time you rushed into the main hall.

And there he lounged on the throne he had always rebuked, no evidence of a struggle other than the hilt of the greatsword still clutched in one gauntlet, the other bare hand unhurriedly wiping at a smear of dark red across his cheek.

Your king. A dream long before that, a distant light of happier memories, forgotten in centuries of darkness, of waiting. And even longer before that, he had been a companion. Your dearest friend.

"Xavier," you had breathed, just for that briefest of moments where you got to see him nearly falter from the taunt of familiarity in your tone, leaving him wondering if it was yet another dream of you.

You were by his side in an instant. Like you had been trained to do, like the instincts to never be parted from him that still sang in your pulsing blood urged from you.

"That's not my blood," he brushed aside your concerns over him, and you laughed, dark and bitter under your breath.

Like you're not used to his lies. Like you're not the only two beings in this entire world with blood still rushing through your veins.

It is a strange thing, to see him bleed. Even though he is now a familiar face once more, the feelings you'd harbored for countless ages surging up like waves to crash relentlessly against the shore of your mind each time you see him now, there are still so many things you can't remember of your time together.

Had he gotten injured before? If so, were you the one to bandage him up? To heal him with your own hands, to nurse him back to health?

That was how it had started. Fixated on his blood, still wet on your thumb when you wiped it off his chin, body tensed in tune with the subtle hitch in his breath.

The rest is still a blur, intoxication from closeness that had once been so well-known, still etched bone-deep within you when you sat yourself into his lap. Setting yourself as the perfect, pretty bait.

The King of Darknight's whispers, all temptation and dark promises, wrap around you, ensnaring you to him like he was the one who set the trap. A tether of light and darkness, forces forever at play, two halves of a whole made to move in coordination.

He leans back in his throne, gauntlet curled loosely around your waist, tightening his grip on you when you easily shift forward into his chest. Following that natural instinct to stay close, to always stay together.

You struggle with his armor, on a single-minded quest to find his elusive injuries, and he doesn't let you.

He never lets you see him without those walls, to let you have all of him. Even as he himself yearns for you, as he effortlessly demands for all of you, to reclaim every little part that had been lost to him through the cruel, relentless passage of time.

From the charming, gentle prince you'd grown alongside to this Mad King, the Sinner of Philos. A mystery that tenses under your desperate, wandering hands.

It's not fair. It has never been fair with him.

You're frustrated, and he can feel it. Xavier's grip goes lax around your wrists, allowing you to toss useless pieces of armor to the ground. He lets you feel for the soft skin of him, proof of his existence, of his promised return, his body still hidden underneath dark robes that are nothing like what the man you had once loved would've worn.

All the while, he murmurs into your ear, dark words that curl around your spine and dance in shivers down it to the base. Heat pools in your stomach as he urges you on, to take what you want from him, what you need from your king.

Your wit matches his in breathless banter as much as your swords once met in friendly duels, practice bouts to exert your frustrations out in a time long past. A failed exam or an overbearing father, things had seemed so much simpler then, like there were so many places you could still run away to.

Maybe if he had taken your hand and urged you to elope just one more time, told you once more of that beautiful, little planet just for the two of you, you would have gone.

But you're here instead, rocking forward in the Tyrant's lap, hot pleasure sparking from where your clothed core rubs over the curved edge of his growing arousal, still trapped within the dark confines of this new garb of his lonely reign.

He teases you, like he'd always done. It's both familiar and entirely unknown, looking down into sharp blue eyes that watch your every increasingly desperate move with rapt intrigue that bleeds into something darker.

His own affection you'd overlooked in your youthful, blind infatuation grows teeth and claws that dig into you with hardly contained obsession, grown in the dark of centuries without you.

You scramble for the fabric constraining him as his hands glide up your legs, lifting your skirt.

There's no pretense, no buildup when the weeping head of him catches on your dripping entrance. There is only pure relief when you ease down onto him, until you're both where you had always belonged.

It's addicting and entirely unreal, to know this is your sworn knight sinking inside of you, even with the dark crown weighing atop his head as his forehead rests against yours.

His heated breaths warm your parted lips as you eagerly accept him. Your wet heat sucks him in bit by bit until he's as far as he can get, holding onto you for dear life, like he expects to blink awake to you gone again.

He lifts you slowly, as easily as he does that monstrosity of a sword that lays forgotten beside his throne now that he has you in it. You moan in unison when he brings you back down again, sinking into you as much as the reality of this slowly sinks in, as impossible as it seems to finally have this moment.

"Listen to you," Xavier sighs, pure relief and idolatry twisted within him as you sink down onto him again under his careful guidance.

His hands are as steadfast as they had always been, even as they had seen so much more violence in your time grown apart. They are gentle again when they remember the feel of your skin against his.

"You're so wet, my queen," he praises, lips skimming your ear.

And you hear it, the squelch of your body taking him intimately under the low, heady tone of his praise.

You whimper, burying your face into his hair, tangling your fingers into the long, soft strands.

"Don't say—"

He bucks his hips up, smacking his hips against yours, loud and wet, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

You suck the air back in with a choked whine when he pulls back out almost entirely, just to sink slowly back in, grinding his hips up against yours when you're seated on his lap once more.

"What was that?" he murmurs, all dark, smug satisfaction.

You punch him in the shoulder out of reflex, hearing the taunting of a lost duel from your academy days buried underneath the ingrained arrogance of an uncontested leader of a fallen kingdom.

Your face buries against his neck, sweat beading at the nape of it from his carefully controlled exertion, even as he hangs on the edge of losing it. Your tongue laps out, mindless in your consumption of him, and you both moan again when he twitches deep inside of you.

"Don't say such obscene things," you demand, your fist curling into his robe, holding onto him when he bucks up into you again, and again, jostling you in his lap with each mind-numbing jolt of pleasure.

"You don't like it?" he taunts, and you wrap yourself around him, arms around his neck so tight that you hear him suck in a sharp breath.

You relax your grip just slightly, but he holds you closer, encouraging you to claim him, to make him yours.

You hold on for dear life with each drive of himself inside of you, as far as he could reach so as to leave a space for himself in your very being, so you never forgot him again.

His obsession is thinly veiled now that you're joined like this, with the echo of forget him in your ears even as he was unknowingly making such a demand impossible. Your mind drifts farther and farther into a golden haze, reminiscent of the way he once used to glow whenever you made him happy.

"But your entire body is responding to me so well," Xavier praises, and your head tilts back.

His lips attach to your neck to plant wet kisses along the length of it when you present him with another ripe opportunity to claim you. To leave his mark so you would remember the feel of him, the weight of his presence, the certainty of his devotion whenever you were apart—which you never would be, if either of you had a say in the course of fate, try as you both did to master it.

"Aren't you?" he urges, confident even as he yearned for your confirmation, your pleasure, for you.

You moan, quietly, then louder when the nails of his bare hand slip underneath your dress to dig into the soft plushness of your thigh.

"What did you say, my queen?" his dark voice takes on a melodic lilt, teasing again, with that newfound arrogance that sends sparks of pleasure up your spine when he was seated this deep inside of you.

"I am a queen no longer," you answer instead, clinging desperately to familiar banter, trying to ground yourself as the wet smacks of your lovemaking echo in the long, empty hall. The place you'd once waited centuries for him, and where he had waited for you long after.

"This throne belongs to the both of us," Xavier assures you, kissing along your collarbone, tugging the neckline of your dress down to suck bruises into the soft skin of your breasts. "It is yours as much as mine. Do we not make such a claim on it now?"

He lifts you up with his armored hand to yank you back down onto his throbbing cock, filling you again suddenly and completely, as if to drive any lingering doubt of his affection from your mind, and you cry out for him.

"I—" you pant heavily, searching for the thoughts that successfully scatter from your mind. "We never wedded. How am I your queen?"

"You told me you would be." Xavier tugs your dress down further and bites gently around your breast, tongue flicking across the sensitive nipple, and your walls spasm around him. Your arousal gushes out and drenches his lap further, pulling a groan from deep within his throat. "You told me you would become my only important person. Do you rescind your word now that you are?"

When you have always been so? you hear unspoken in the way he possesses you until he's all you can think of, until his love is all you've known.

"N-no," you gasp out, your thighs working to meet each of his thrusts upwards in this old competitive nature, in this new dance. Your hand fists in his hair, pulling his head back, and his jaw drops open when his blown wide pupils meet yours. "I am not the one who does so."

Xavier's brow furrows, gaze darkening as he glances over your face; the determination set in your jaw, and the longing that still lingers on you like the nostalgia of a well-loved perfume, learned for so long that it lasts even now when you are finally together.

His expression softens. For a moment, you see him not as hardened, no longer a disillusioned man cursed to live for so long alone, chained with rule that he'd never once wanted.

But somebody gentler, who once grew flowers until they bloomed. A soft soul who spoke of the power of stories, how the simple act of remembrance meant a lost loved one would always be with you.

"Kiss me," he breathes, not the command of a king, but the devotion of a knight, one that had sworn to stay by your side when this throne had once been yours.

Your lips meet his, with as much disbelief and dream-like desperation as in that field of flowers. A kiss from him still doesn't feel real, even as he gives them to you again and again, whimpering softly as his tongue presses past your lips to taste you.

You hear the wet squelching of your joining, your eyelashes fluttering when his hand slips further under your dress, thumb collecting the slick of your coupling to rub against the apex of your pleasure, your thighs twitching with your breathless cry.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes near silently, moaning into your mouth with the clench of your walls around him at the sound of his pleasure, the tangible proof of your effect on him, even with the cool air of aloofness he'd put on since your reunion. "I can't—"

"I know," you whisper, clinging to him as you roll your hips against his thumb and the grinding of his cock against that spot that makes stars spark behind your eyelids. "Xavier!"

"Please," he begs, a crack in his low tone, a falter in his carefully constructed walls as the wet warmth of you consumes him. "I need you. I can't—I can't be without you, my love. Stay with me, stay—"

You kiss down his neck, biting down onto the soft, delicate skin between his neck and shoulder as you shatter around him, pulses of your release filling your mind with the pleasure of a long sought after climax, a well fought for destination finally reached together.

You cling to Xavier, sucking and mouthing at his skin as it rolls through you, moaning when you feel him follow you over that precipice to fill you with his release at last, to claim you completely.

Your heavy breaths intermingle when you kiss him once more, your hand curled into the back of his long hair, swallowing each breathy moan that you pull out of him in this intimate state. The vulnerability of it has your limbs trembling, your drenched thighs shaking with each lingering wave of pleasure that's pulled out of you.

"Stay with me," Xavier says again, still on that razor thin edge of asking and commanding, and you laugh softly against his lips.

"I should be the one to make such a demand," you counter, breathless and still aching, satiated slightly when you feel another warm spurt of his release coating your walls. "You're the one who leaves."

His lips crash against yours again, as if he can steal the words from you, make them unspoken. Even if you both know it is the truth.

"Then ask it of me," he says, all darkness and light in one, tender and obsessive in how he clings to you and gazes up at you with the eyes of an endless starry night. "Demand it of me. Take my throne, my crown, my life."

Xavier kisses you again, and you melt into him when he whispers against your lips, "It is all for you."

"Stay," you command, rolling your hips forward slowly, a keening noise escaping you when you feel the pleasure stoked again, the urgency coming to life once more between you. "Stay with me, my king."

His hand curls around the base of your neck, keeping you to him like in the flowers when he first kissed you, devouring your every kiss as he promises gently, like all the times before, "Whatever you ask of me, my queen, is yours."

taglist: comment here if you want to be added! blank blogs will be blocked ⭐️ Xavier fics: @santaluna @itsmysmut @onigiriinthecorner @inzayneforaj @biblioth-que @needvbunni @whimsicalcup @otome-house @wonys-won 💖all fics: @frostbitten-cherry @asiatic-apple @heartyluv @floatinginaer @sweetcalebb @princessofenkanomiya @lazygelpen @deepspacebunnieblue @cherryartchaos @kireeen @stargirlygirl @draftbeerbibi @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t @slovesyouuu @ineffabl-y @grlyeetswrld @toelady @asiaticapple @aenishas @sylusgworl @lamogliedizayne @plasticcardholder @colonelkaboom @plzdonutpercieveme @syncaleb @dailydoseofanimeawesome @wooasecret @glitterykingdomangel @meofary @rchltruly @calistaxoxo24 @blushofeve @starlightyearning @mylifedoesntexist @madamecorbie

[wildflowersandvibranium]

More Than Skin [Drabble]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: A quiet knock, a sweet moment, and the kind of love that doesn’t need fixing—just reminding.

Word count: 880+

Content: established relationship , insecurity, negative body image talk , fluff comfort

a/n: your body and it’s "blemishes" and "imperfections" are the least interesting thing about you. You are smart , capable , wonderfully made and I love you and so proud of you!

my masterlist --- requests/inbox open!

The knock was soft—two light taps followed by patient silence, like always. Not the impatient thudding of a stranger , or the loud, teasing rhythm of a friend.

Just Bucky. Quiet, steady, waiting for her.

She smoothed her hands down the skirt of her dress, taking one last glance at herself in the mirror by the door. The dark blue fabric clung in the right places, floated in the rest. He’d once said she looked like a dream in this very dress—eyes slightly dazed when he’d said it, like she’d knocked the wind right out of him.

But tonight, she didn’t feel like a dream. Her fingers hesitated at her cheek again, skimming the tender skin along her jaw. She could feel it—the warmth, the irritation. Three, maybe four new clusters of blemishes. Deep and red and stubborn.

She sighed and opened the door , answering the knocks with a smile that felt half-real. “Hi.”

And there he was, standing on her porch with his hair pushed back, a navy jacket hugging his broad frame, and a slightly wrinkled bouquet of her favorite flowers clutched in his arm. His face lit up the second he saw her, like the world had paused just for him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he spoke softly, lifting the flowers with a grin. “Happy anniversary.”

She took them, cheeks heating. “Thank you babe. These are… perfect.”

“So are you.”

His words were so smooth, so unthinking, that she knew he meant them. But they landed awkwardly in her chest tonight. She reached up again, brushing her hair behind her ear—trying to hide the worst side of her face.

She tried to act natural, but her fingers hovered, brushing just along the edge of her jaw like she could erase the texture if she willed it.

Bucky’s brows ticked up slightly, but he didn’t comment. He never made things worse. He just leaned against the doorframe, studying her a moment like he was trying to read the quiet between her words.

“You okay, doll?”

She blinked, fingers freezing mid-air. “What? Yeah. Just… I’m fine.”

“Mm.” He nodded, like he accepted the answer—but not really. He stepped a little closer, not invading, just enough to drop his voice into that private, safe space he always created between them.

“You keep touchin’ your face,” he said gently. “You only do that when somethin’s on your mind. Wanna tell me?”

She hesitated, heart thudding. Her fingers slowly curled into her palm.

“It’s stupid,” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “Bet it’s not.”

A pause.

Then she blew out a breath, her shoulders falling. “I just… have been having a breakout. I didn’t want to cancel, and I really wanted to dress up and feel good tonight, but now it’s like… it’s all I can think about. I know it’s dumb and shallow but—”

“Hey.” His voice stopped her. Not sharp, not scolding—just enough to cut through the spiral.

He reached out, brushing her hand aside, and cradled her cheek in his own palm—, thumb barely grazing the irritated skin she’d been so desperate to hide.

“Nothing about this is dumb. Or shallow. I know how it gets in your head sometimes. But there’s not a thing about you that’s gross, okay? Your skin’s just… being skin. That’s it.”

She blinked up at him, throat tight, and he held her gaze with that soft, grounded warmth that always made her feel safe.

“I look at you,” he continued, “and I don’t see those things , instead I see the woman that I love. The one I’m crazy about. The one I get to take out to dinner and sit across from while pretending I can focus on the menu when all I really wanna do is look at her. Doesn’t matter what’s on your skin. Doesn’t even register, to me. You're beautiful. Always.”

She bit her lip, her throat tight with a sudden ache. The kind that came with feeling seen. Really seen.

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could stop them.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead, slow and purposeful. “Not true. I got lucky. You? You’re just smart.”

She laughed, choked and watery, pressing her face into his shoulder for a second. He held her there, thumb brushing behind her ear.

“Now,” he said against her hair, “we’ve got options.”

She pulled back, blinking up at him. “Options?”

“Yup. I made reservations at that place you love downtown. But I will absolutely ditch ‘em and sit on your kitchen floor with takeout and a slice of cake if that’s what you’d rather do.”

She sniffled, smiling. “You’re serious.”

“Always. This night’s about us. Not about a tablecloth and overpriced wine.”

She looked down at herself, then back at him. “You really don’t care?”

“Not even a little,” he said without hesitation. “You're my girl. And you’re gorgeous.”

She sighed, this time with relief, and slipped her hand into his. “Okay. Let’s go to dinner.”

He grinned, lifting their joined hands to kiss the back of hers. “That’s my girl.”

And as he helped her into his car and drove through the city with her fingers resting in his lap, she realized she hadn’t touched her face once.

Not when he was looking at her.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[taleofharrison]

Burning Love | Johnny Storm x fem!reader

Summary: It seems like Johnny can't control his powers around you.

A/N: This was requested. When I listen to this song, I think of the end of Lilo and Stitch or the end credits of The Game Plan. This song is a synonym of fun and I kinda wanted to capture that here, hope y'all like it.

Navigation

You met Johnny during an interview and photoshoot. A small local newspaper in New York wanted to get an exclusive on the “Fantastic Family” that had gained the love and support from every single citizen around the world.

Johnny was over it, interviews were often the same, nothing new, nothing interesting unless they had gone on a mission of any kind, in that context they at least had a new story to tell. Unfortunately it had been a while since their last mission.

When you walked in with your camera it was like everything lit up. You were wearing a white blouse and loose pants and started talking to the reporter who would be in charge of the interview.

“Hi! I'm Y/N I'll be taking the photos today” you said once you approached the team “we'd like some of you together for the front page and then I'll take some photos while you do the interview for the article.”

“Sure, beautiful” Johnny's comment was the odd one out from the agreed response you got from the rest.

“Alright, I'll go get everything ready. We can start in a bit.”

Johnny gave you one of his charming smiles, the ones that made him popular with the ladies, of course he would flirt with you. You knew he would try something with a woman from the crew…guess he chose you.

You smiled back. While you'd be lying if you said that smile didn't make you want to giggle, this was your job and you also had to be as professional as possible. Flirting back with one of the interviewees was not professional.

The photoshoot went as smoothly as you can expect when one of the subjects of the photographs is flirting non stop trying to get a reaction from the photographer who's just trying to get her job done.

Johnny knew you were trying to hold back, he knew women and he knew when one was into him and you were trying to fight the urge to flirt back, you would just smile at his comments and look down at your camera.

“Now that everything is over” Johnny approached you while you cleaned up your camera and helped the team pack up their gear “I would like to know when your next day off is.”

“Giving you that information wouldn't be very professional on my side, mister. Storm” you told him not looking up from your camera.

“Mister Storm was my father, please call me John” he smiled, a confident and charming smile “and I'm guessing by your smile right now that you want to give me that information."

“Next Saturday” you gave in “see you in Central Park at noon. Don't be late John.”

“Is that a date, sweetheart?”

“You'll have to show up to find out” you shrugged leaving with your colleagues from the newspaper.

Johnny was left dumbfounded not many women take the initiative the way you do, even the ones that basically threw themselves at him seemed to be dominated by the nerves eventually.

…

Johnny waited nervously for you, a look at his watch: 12:00. He was there on time and yet no sign from you, he didn't think you would stand him up and he figured a few minutes late didn't hurt anybody.

He was growing anxious with every minute, felt himself breathe again once he saw you walking towards him. A look at his watch: 12:15. You were wearing a sundress and held a basket and a bag.

“Sorry I'm late” you apologized “I had to get everything ready for today.”

“No worries, haven't been here for long anyways.”

“Follow me,” you instructed him, “I'll show you where we can have our picnic.”

“Here, let me” Johnny offered, taking the basket and bag out of your hands.

“Such a gentleman” you giggled.

You took him to a spot in Central Park not too crowded so you could have a picnic in peace. He helped you set everything and sat next to you.

Conversation flowed, sharing facts about things you loved and your passions. You really got to see Johnny, not the Human Torch, not the heartthrob that every girl loved. You only got to see Johnny.

“Wait! I brought my camera” you told him pulling out of the bag a Polaroid camera “I always try to bring this one with me.”

“So your hobby is your career” Johnny observed “You are so lucky."

“I guess we both are” you said, referencing how he became an astronaut and a superhero (although that one was an accident).

After taking a few photos of Johnny, the sky and landscape. Johnny sometimes made you laugh with funny comments or poses. At some point you sat next to him to take photos of you together.

You kissed him on the cheek for a photo and took him off guard.

“Johnny” he hummed acknowledging your voice “the grass is on fire.”

Johnny looked down at his hand and saw a small fire under it, he quickly absorbed the fire before it could spread.

“I'm so sorry” he spoke, a small blush taking over his cheeks “I swear I have control of my powers, especially when I'm around pretty ladies.”

“Guess that must mean I'm special then” you teased “come on let's pick everything up, we've had enough fun today.”

“I'll walk you to your apartment then.”

“Oh that won't be necessary I can walk home” you told him “it's just a few blocks from here.”

“I insist.”

Johnny had carried both your bag and basket back to your apartment, a short walk where conversation, jokes and flirting back and forth flowed like it was right. Johnny wasn't sure if his temperature had risen after being used to higher temperatures than usual. It was hard to tell if you were having any effects on his body like back in the park.

“If I kiss you right now, you promise not to burn my building down?” You teased him.

“Only one way to find out” Johnny confidently smiled.

You both leaned for a goodbye kiss, it was sweeter and shorter compared to the ones Johnny was used to receiving from his conquests.

“Johnny” he hummed again “your hair is on fire.”

“Oh shit, I'm sorry.” He put the fire down, his face turned red again in embarrassment.

“Thank you for not burning the building though.”

“I promise you that by our second date all this will be under control.”

“Oh so there will be a second date” a teasing tone in your voice “I thought the ladies man, Human Torch didn't do second dates.”

“Guess you're special then” he smiled using the words you had at the park.

“Goodbye Johnny” you laughed, finally opening your apartment door and walking inside.

“Shit, I'm in love” Johnny thought.

Four weeks later

There was a change in Johnny's behavior. He was no longer grumpy in the mornings, like it took his entire willpower to get out of bed, now Johnny was more upbeat.

“Mooorning Ben!” Johnny announced “what are you cooking today?”

“Uh pancakes” it came out more like a question confused at his behavior “H.E.R.B.I.E is frying some bacon.”

“Could you save me a plate?” Johnny asked, as he took his favorite cereal to eat from the box.

“Yeah, there…there's enough for all of us” Ben told him, looking at Johnny like he had grown another head “you good? You're not this happy this early in the morning.”

“I met this girl” Johnny couldn't contain his excitement “we've had three dates and I don't know it seems like since I've known her the morning sky is brighter.”

“The photographer?” Ben wanted to confirm.

“How did you-”

“You were flirting with her the entire day” Ben reminded him “I also saw you talking to her before her crew left.”

“She's just amazing” Johnny sighed “I think I'm in love.”

“Didn't think I'd see the day where little Johnny falls in love” Ben chuckled.

“I'm also seeing her tonight” Johnny beamed.

“Now your mood these past few makes more sense.”

“And you will meet her” Johnny smiled “I'm sure of it.”

“Whatever you say, flame boy.”

Later that night Johnny showed up at your apartment, you insisted on cooking him dinner. He knocked and waited for you to open the door, you welcomed him by throwing yourself in his arms and he lifted you and spun you around, like he hadn't seen you in years. You just laughed.

“I love your laugh” Johnny said putting you back on the ground “love your smile too.”

“Well if you could take a seat on the couch” you playfully told him as he made himself comfortable “dinner’s almost ready.”

“You know I can just…” he made a gesture with his hand referring to his powers.

“That would be a no, Mr. Storm” you smacked him playfully on his chest “last time you almost set my kitchen on fire.”

“I can't help it babe” he shrugged like it was nothing “you are so beautiful it is quite distracting.”

Part of you hoped he never gained control of his powers around you, it made you feel so special although you understood why him, or all people, not having control of his powers could be dangerous.

“Just sit still” you ordered “like I said it's almost ready anyways.”

“Yes, chef!” He mockingly made a military gesture making you smile.

One year later

Johnny had managed to convince you of moving in with him to the Baxter Building. You were hesitant at first, but he convinced you saying his family loved you anyways.

You were currently at the balcony taking photos from the lovely landscape that was New York City at sundown while your new family attended their superhero agendas all over the city.

“There's my girl!” Johnny’s voice distracted you, he hugged you from behind pulling you back into the penthouse “did you miss me?”

“Of course I did!” you laughed, going in for a kiss.

“You better not set anything on fire this time!” Ben interrupted the moment 

“One time! I burned the couch once and everyone suddenly expects me to do it again” Johnny huffed clearly offended. You just giggled.

A year of dating later he still had some problems with the control of his powers around you. It surprised you and sometimes worried you, but at the same time you loved it because it was a physical representation of how you've made him feel since the start. Another thing that surprised you  is the fact that even though he lost control of them time he had never hurt you, it was like even his powers knew you had to be protected.

“Do you wanna go out?” You asked him “I know you just got here, but the weather is lovely and the city looks so beautiful I need more…”

He interrupted you with a kiss “of course we can sweetheart…hey have you ever seen how lovely the sky looks from the Baxter Building’s ceiling?”

You moved your head side to side.

“No?” Johnny asked rhetorically “I'll get you there in a second.”

He carried you bridal style and jumped from the balcony, your arms wrapped tightly around his neck. The last thing Reed, Sue and Ben heard from you was a surprised squeal.

“They are getting married right?” Ben asked his best friends, already knowing the answer of what the future would look like.

“For sure” Sue replied like it was obvious “my brother is not letting that girl go.”

[yanderslutt]

❝ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈’𝐌 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐍. ❞

Summary: After a near-fatal car crash, Y/N wakes up with no memory of who she is. A quiet, gentle man at her side—Choso—claims to be her husband. As she heals in his home filled with memories she can’t recall, comfort slowly replaces fear. But when flashes of a darker truth surface and a late-night news report reveals her as a missing person… the mask shatters. And Choso? He’s not letting her go. Not now. Not ever. “You always wanted to be seen,” he whispers. “And I’m your biggest fan.”

cw: Yandere behavior, amnesia, emotional manipulation, kidnapping, psychological horror, gaslighting, obsessive love, NSFW/smut (consensual under false pretenses), breathplay, dark themes, twisted romance, Scream-inspired horror.

The first thing you felt was weight.

A dull pressure behind your eyes, like your skull was too full. Then the scratch of gauze. The slow, sterile beep of a monitor. Cold hands. A throat that burned like it hadn’t spoken in days.

You blinked.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. White. Too white.

A hospital?

The ache in your head pulsed, dull and persistent, as your eyes wandered. There were flowers everywhere. Vases crammed with soft pinks, pale yellows, and crisp white roses lined every inch of the counter by the window. So many flowers—each with little cards. Names you didn’t recognize.

A chill crept under your gown.

You tried to sit up. A sharp sting clawed at your temples.

That’s when the door opened.

Soft steps. The sound of breath catching.

Then—arms. Strong, shaking arms wrapped tightly around you like you were something sacred. Like he’d waited a lifetime to hold you again.

Your breath hitched in panic.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” the man whispered, voice raw and trembling. “It’s me, angel. It’s me. I’m here.”

You froze.

You didn’t know this man.

But he held you like he’d done it a thousand times. His grip was firm, trembling, desperate. His face—soft eyes, cheeks flushed, lips parted in disbelief—he looked like he’d been crying for days.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered into your shoulder. “I thought I lost my wife.”

Wife?

Your lips parted, confusion thick on your tongue. “I’m… sorry. I don’t—”

He pulled back slowly. His hands cupped your face like porcelain.

“You don’t remember me?”

You blinked at him. “I—I don’t remember anything.”

A flicker of devastation crossed his face, but he forced a soft smile.

“That’s okay,” he said gently. “That’s okay. The doctors said this might happen. You hit your head pretty bad.” He reached for your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the bandaged knuckles. “I’m Choso. Your husband. We’ve been married two years.”

Your pulse fluttered.

Something didn’t feel right.

But he was so gentle. So sad. Like you’d broken his heart just by forgetting.

“I’ve been here every day,” he murmured, thumb stroking over your wrist. “I brought your favorite—those white roses. You always said they looked like snow.”

You glanced toward the flowers, your head swimming.

Choso smiled again, slower this time. Like he knew something you didn’t.

“I can show you everything,” he promised. “Photos. Rings. Our home. I’ll help you remember.” He brushed a stray hair from your cheek. “And even if you don’t… I’ll love you anyway.”

Your stomach twisted.

But you didn’t pull away.

Because in his eyes—deep, grief-stricken, and full of something almost holy—you saw a man who would burn the world just to keep you in that bed a little longer.

And you were too weak to fight it.

The ride home was quiet.

Not awkward—just… quiet. The soft hum of the engine, the occasional creak of the seatbelt, the light rhythm of rain beginning to tap against the windshield. You stared out the window, watching trees blur past, your thoughts just as hazy.

Choso drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near your leg—never quite touching, but close enough to feel.

He glanced over at you. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “Just… fuzzy. It’s like I’m awake, but nothing’s clicking. Like I’m watching someone else’s life from behind a window.”

Choso’s jaw tensed, but he forced a soft smile. “That’s normal. They said that might happen.”

“Did they say… when it’ll stop?”

“They said time. Familiar things. Safe spaces.” His voice lowered just a bit. “People you love.”

You blinked at him.

It still didn’t feel real.

“Do you… have pictures?” you asked quietly. “Of us?”

He smiled, brighter now. “Yeah. Lots.”

Before taking you home, Choso made one stop.

Your supposed favorite place.

You sat across from him in a small corner booth, tucked into the window, fries in your lap and a milkshake in hand. The smells were comforting. The food was familiar. But still, your mind was a blank slate.

“I used to order this?” you asked, holding up a half-eaten burger.

He chuckled softly. “Every time. You said it was ‘ritualistic.’ And I’d always say the fries were better at home, but you’d never let me skip the stop.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “That sounds like me,” you whispered. “Or maybe it’s what I want to sound like.”

Choso reached across the table and gently brushed his thumb over the back of your hand.

“I know it’s scary. But I promise you… you’re still in there.” He looked at you like he’d die just to keep you believing him. “You’re just… sleeping. And I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to wake up.”

You nodded, eyes stinging, unsure why.

Why did this feel like a fairytale you weren’t sure you belonged in?

—

The house looked ordinary from the outside. Cozy. Suburban. Blue shutters and a small porch. But the moment you stepped inside—it was like you’d walked into a shrine.

To yourself.

Photos lined the hallway. Frames perched on every shelf. You and Choso, smiling. You kissing his cheek. You in a sundress you didn’t remember owning, laughing on a beach you didn’t remember visiting. Your handwriting on post-it notes stuck to the fridge. Your slippers by the door. A recipe book with your name on the front cover.

Your breath caught.

“I—” you turned to him slowly, heartbeat flickering in your ears. “These are all… real?”

Choso stepped up behind you, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. “Of course. This is your home.”

He led you inside.

There was a faint lavender scent, like something soft and safe. Your favorite, he said. The couch was piled with pillows. A throw blanket you didn’t remember loving. The kitchen sparkled with little domestic touches. The bedroom door was closed—but your name was etched into a wooden sign above it.

It was too perfect.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t… remember any of this.”

“That’s okay,” Choso said softly. He leaned in, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Memories are just echoes. But your body—your soul—will find its way back. I’ll help.”

You tried to smile, but something twisted in your chest.

“How long were we together?” you asked.

“Three years,” he replied without missing a beat. “We met at your old job. You dropped a coffee in my lap, and I fell in love instantly.”

You furrowed your brow. “That sounds like a movie.”

His smile deepened. “It felt like one.”

You let him walk you through the house—through your life. A life you didn’t remember, but could see everywhere. And yet… something felt wrong. Too curated. Too convenient.

Too clean.

You sat on the bed in the room marked with your name, staring at a framed photo of you kissing Choso on the cheek—eyes closed, arms around his neck.

You traced the edge of the frame.

Your fingers trembled.

“I want to remember,” you whispered.

Behind you, Choso’s voice was low. Warm. “You will.”

He walked toward you and gently sat beside you, taking your hand in both of his.

“And if you don’t,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles with a kiss, “we’ll just make new ones.”

You looked at him—at his soft eyes, his broken smile—and nodded, even though your stomach knotted in warning.

Because this man loved you.

Even if you didn’t remember why.

The house creaked with soft, domestic silence.

Choso had stepped outside for a moment—said something about grabbing the mail. You wandered slowly, barefoot, hands brushing over the backs of furniture and cool door frames like you were trying to absorb the memories by touch alone.

The guest room was plain. Neatly folded sheets, empty bookshelves, a small cabinet in the corner. Nothing personal. But the closet caught your eye.

A sliding door, barely cracked open.

Curiosity tugged at you like a thread. You hesitated, fingers lingering on the handle, before pulling it aside.

Inside—boxes. Stacked high. A few coats on hangers. Some old sneakers.

And tucked in the corner, half-covered by a folded jacket, was something that made your stomach clench.

A white mask.

Ghostface.

You stared at it, breath catching in your throat.

Your hands moved before your brain could stop them, fingers brushing the plastic cheek of the mask. It was too real. Not a cheap party store version—but thick, weighted. Like something you’d see in a horror movie.

You blinked hard. Why did your chest feel tight?

“Hey.”

You jolted.

Strong arms wrapped around you from behind—gently, but firmly enough that you couldn’t move. Choso’s chin rested on your shoulder as he looked down at what you’d found.

His voice was smooth. Unbothered.

“You found our Halloween costume.”

You stiffened slightly.

“Halloween…?” you repeated.

He nodded against your shoulder, his tone so casual it made you second-guess your fear. “Yeah. Last October. You were Sidney. I was the killer. It was a hit.” He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “You kept saying I was too convincing.”

You tried to laugh with him, but it came out thin.

“I don’t remember that,” you whispered.

Choso’s arms tightened.

“That’s okay. That’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice turned velvet soft, coaxing. “You will.”

You looked down at the mask again, its hollow eyes staring up from your hands.

Something about it felt wrong. Cold. A shiver traced your spine.

Choso slowly reached forward, plucked it from your fingers, and set it back in the closet before sliding the door shut.

“Come on,” he murmured, brushing your hair from your neck. “Let’s go get you something warm to drink. That closet’s always drafty.”

You let him guide you away, but your heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

You couldn’t explain it. But something in that mask didn’t just unsettle you.

It felt like it knew you.

And for the first time since waking up… you didn’t want to know why.

-

A few Days Later...

The kettle whistled faintly as Choso poured hot water into the mismatched ceramic mugs you apparently loved.

The living room was warm now, lit by low lamplight and the rhythmic hum of a vinyl spinning somewhere in the background—soft jazz, comforting and nostalgic, though you couldn’t place it.

You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch, hands cupped around your mug, eyes tracing the outline of Choso’s profile as he leaned against the doorway watching you.

There was something heavy in his gaze tonight. Not grief. Not tension. Just… longing. Quiet and still.

“I think I remembered something today,” you said softly.

His head turned. Eyes locked on yours instantly.

You hesitated. “I don’t know what triggered it. But when I saw the kitchen towel with the little cartoon strawberries on it… I felt something. Not a memory, exactly. Just… I think I used to hate strawberries.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You did. You said they were ‘liars’—pretty on the outside, but mushy and sour inside.”

You laughed quietly. “That sounds like me.”

You looked down at your cup. “And… I think I liked rainy mornings. And dark chocolate. And sleeping on the right side of the bed.”

Choso stepped closer.

“You always kicked me when I tried to take it.”

You smiled a little brighter. Your chest warmed in a way that didn’t feel so foreign anymore.

“I’m trying,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I really am.”

He crouched beside the couch and reached for your hand. “I know you are. I see it. Every day.”

You glanced down, fingers grazing his—and noticed something inked into his skin.

Your eyes widened.

“What’s that?” you asked.

Choso blinked, then followed your gaze to the small tattoo on the inside of his wrist. A heart. Not just any heart—one that looked split down the middle, two jagged halves that would only be whole if joined.

He rotated his arm and held it up toward you like a quiet offering.

“Matching tattoos,” he said softly. “Your idea.”

You stared at him.

“You said love should leave marks. You said if anything ever happened, this would be proof we chose each other.”

Your breath caught. Your fingers pressed gently to your lower back, near the base of your spine. And sure enough… there was something there. Small. Raised skin. Inked.

You pulled back the blanket and turned, tugging up the hem of your shirt.

The moment your eyes landed on it—your world tilted.

There it was.

The other half of the heart.

Black ink. Familiar. Faded slightly with time—but real.

A shiver traveled through you.

“Choso…”

His eyes were glassy now, a storm behind them barely held back. “I never wanted to show you too soon. But seeing you remember… even pieces of yourself…” He took your hand again. “It’s everything.”

You stared down at the two tattoos—his wrist and your back. Like a puzzle finally clicking.

Maybe he was telling the truth.

Maybe he was everything he said he was.

Maybe you really did love him.

You looked up slowly. “I think I believe you.”

Choso’s breath hitched.

And then he leaned in.

Not fast. Not forceful.

Just slow, aching closeness—his forehead resting against yours, breath warm on your lips, hand still wrapped in yours like he’d never let go again.

“You don’t have to remember everything,” he whispered. “You’re already home.”

And for the first time since you woke up, you let yourself believe it.

Even as something—deep inside—still whispered danger.

-

The bedroom was quiet.

Rain tapped gently against the windowpane, a steady rhythm that lulled the house into stillness. You lay tucked beneath a thick comforter, staring at the ceiling. Choso’s arm was slung around your waist, his chest pressed to your back—warm, grounding. Protective.

You hadn’t protested when he offered to stay in bed with you. It felt… familiar. Safe, somehow. The way his breath tickled your shoulder. The way his thumb traced absentminded patterns over your hip.

“You used to fall asleep to the sound of rain,” he murmured into your hair. “You said it was like the sky breathing.”

You smiled softly. “That sounds poetic. Did I used to say poetic things?”

“All the time,” Choso said, kissing the nape of your neck. “You were always dreaming out loud.”

You sighed.

His hand stilled over your stomach. “You tired?”

“A little.”

“Want me to stay?”

You nodded. “Please.”

A soft hum. His grip around you tightened ever so slightly.

The world faded.

The dark took over.

And then—

a scream.

Not yours.

Someone else’s.

Flashes. Your own hands—blood-slicked. Wind whipping through your hair. A loud crack. Tires screeching. Glass shattering.

You gasped awake.

Heart pounding.

The room was still dimly lit by the bedside lamp, but it felt wrong. Stale. Airless. Like someone had pressed pause on reality.

Choso stirred behind you, instantly alert. “Hey. Hey. What is it?”

You sat up, hands shaking, eyes darting to the window, the door, the corners of the room.

“I saw something,” you whispered. “It was… red. So much red. And someone screamed. I think I—I think someone—” Your voice broke.

Choso sat up behind you, gently placing his hands on your shoulders. “Shhh… you’re okay. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

“No, it wasn’t,” you said quickly, breath catching. “It felt like… like something real. Like a memory.”

His hands moved to cradle your face. “Sometimes the mind fills in the gaps with fear. You’ve been through a trauma. It makes you imagine things.”

“No.” You stared at him. “This didn’t feel imagined. I think I—” You hesitated. “I think someone got hurt.”

Choso’s face didn’t flinch.

But something in his eyes flickered.

Only for a second.

He pulled you into his chest, fingers tangling gently in your hair.

“You didn’t hurt anyone,” he murmured. “You’re not that kind of person.”

“But what if I saw it happen?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear. Too steady.

You closed your eyes, trying to hold onto the flickers. The blood. The scream. The shadow of a road that looked too narrow. The way the sky flashed white like a camera—

And then it was gone.

Like it had never been.

Choso kissed your temple.

“Lie back down,” he whispered. “Try to rest.”

You did.

But this time, you didn’t close your eyes.

And neither did he.

-

1 Month Later...

The scar had started to fade.

Where once the gauze sat like a crown of injury across your brow, now there was only a pale line—thin, healed, a quiet reminder of the impact that rewrote your life.

You stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, fingertips grazing the spot above your temple. It no longer throbbed. The bruises had vanished. The swelling was gone. But the hollow feeling in your memory remained, stubborn and silent.

A month.

Thirty days in a house that had slowly become familiar. Thirty nights sleeping beside a man you didn’t remember loving—but who never let you feel unloved. His hands always warm. His voice always calm. His touch always waiting, never demanding.

You tied your hair back and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Choso was already there, sleeves rolled up, standing at the stove as something sizzled in the pan. He looked over his shoulder, and the smile he gave you almost made you forget the emptiness in your chest.

“Morning,” he said, flipping something golden brown. “You slept in.”

“I guess I needed it.” You leaned on the counter. “You didn’t have to cook again, you know.”

“I like it,” he said, then added playfully, “And you get grumpy without food.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Sounds accurate.”

He turned off the burner and plated breakfast, sliding it in front of you. “Your usual.”

You sat across from him, picking at the edges of the toast.

“What were we like?” you asked after a quiet moment.

He looked up.

“Before the accident,” you clarified. “Was I different?”

Choso’s eyes softened. “No. You’re still you. You laugh the same. You make that little sound when you're thinking. You still hum when you eat chocolate.”

You blinked. “I hum?”

“Like a little tune. It’s cute.”

You smiled again, this time without hesitation.

It had become easier—being around him. The fear you once felt had melted into something quieter. Not trust. Not fully. But closeness. He never pushed. Never rushed you. And in his presence, things just felt… easy.

Like maybe love could be relearned.

After breakfast, you sat together on the couch. He rested his head against yours while you absentmindedly flipped through an old photo album he kept in the living room drawer. The pictures all looked so real. Your handwriting on captions. Your eyes in every smile. You tried to recall the feelings behind them, but they stayed distant, like dreams you couldn’t wake into.

One photo caught your eye—an image of you and Choso on a rocky cliffside. Your arms were thrown around his neck, your eyes crinkled in laughter. A sunset blazed behind you.

“When was this?” you asked.

“Last spring,” he murmured. “We drove up north for a weekend. You danced barefoot in the water.”

You stared at it longer.

You wanted to remember. You wanted to feel that memory come back.

“I miss her,” you whispered.

Choso’s brows furrowed.

“Who?”

“Me,” you said, tapping the photo. “Whoever she was. She looks so… free.”

He shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“She’s still here,” he said softly. “Just quieter now. But I see her. Every day.”

Your chest ached in a strange, hopeful way.

You nodded. “Thank you. For… not giving up on me.”

Choso leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against your forehead—right over the scar.

“I’d never leave you,” he whispered. “Even if you forgot me a thousand times.”

You closed your eyes and let the moment wrap around you like a blanket.

But somewhere—deep beneath that comfort—something still stirred.

Not fear. Not memory.

A tremor.

Like a door in the back of your mind trying to creak open.

You traced your fingertip over the edge of the photo in your lap, the one where you were laughing in Choso’s arms.

“So… we were happy,” you said softly.

“Very,” he replied without hesitation.

You glanced over at him, sitting beside you on the couch. His posture was relaxed, one arm thrown over the backrest, but there was a flicker in his gaze—alert. Watching.

Your voice lowered a notch. “What about… the other stuff?”

He tilted his head. “What stuff?”

You looked down at your hands. “You know. Us. Intimately.”

The air shifted.

Choso blinked once. Then again. His body didn’t move, but something in his energy leaned forward. You felt it. Like a thread pulled tight between your navel and his palm, even though he hadn’t touched you.

You looked up again, carefully. “Were we… close? Like that?”

His eyes softened, but there was heat behind them now. Controlled. Heavy.

“You really want to know?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

He inhaled slowly, like he needed to steady himself before speaking. “Yes,” he said, voice low. “We were very close.”

Your throat tightened.

Choso reached for your hand—not suddenly, not forcefully. Just a gentle, sure movement. His thumb brushed the top of your wrist in slow, reverent circles.

“You used to say I was the only one who made you feel safe in your skin,” he said. “You’d crawl into my lap after bad days, wrap your arms around me like I was gravity.”

You swallowed hard.

He leaned a little closer.

“You liked it slow,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You hated when I rushed. You said real love didn’t need to chase… just breathe.”

You were suddenly very aware of the heat radiating off his body.

“And when it wasn’t slow?” you whispered, the words surprising even you.

He paused.

His fingers curled slightly around yours.

“When it wasn’t slow,” he said carefully, voice dropping a pitch, “it was because you needed it that way. Because you wanted me to remind you who you belonged to.”

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

Choso’s eyes searched yours. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you whispered, breath catching.

He smiled. Not cocky. Not smug.

Just… sure.

He let your hand go and reached for his own sleeve, pulling it up just enough to show the heart tattoo again.

“You got yours here,” he said, glancing toward your hip. “Said you wanted it hidden. That you liked knowing something sacred was tucked where only I could see.”

You closed your eyes for a moment.

The image bloomed behind your eyelids: a memory—not visual, not sharp—but felt. A low hum. Warm breath. A mouth against your skin. The whispered echo of mine.

“I think I remember,” you said softly.

Choso leaned in, just enough that you could feel his breath fan across your cheek.

“Then say it,” he murmured, voice like velvet and lightning.

“Say what?”

He hovered—waiting, not demanding.

You turned your head slowly to look at him. “That I was yours?”

His gaze darkened, pupils dilating just slightly.

“You are mine,” he said.

You didn’t pull away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was you, maybe it was him—but suddenly his lips were on yours.

Soft at first. Just a brush, a breath. As if he were waiting for you to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The moment his mouth met yours, something inside you exhaled.

Like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

His hands cradled your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks with aching reverence as he deepened the kiss—slow and sure, like he’d mapped the rhythm of your breath a thousand times.

You gasped against him, and Choso swallowed the sound like a prayer. His tongue met yours, gentle but greedy, exploring you like he was rediscovering something he already owned.

Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until he was practically on top of you on the couch. The weight of his body, the way his hips aligned with yours, the way your breath hitched as he pressed into you—

It was all too familiar.

But not in a scary way.

In a way that made your thighs part instinctively, as if your body remembered what your mind had forgotten.

Choso’s hand slid down your side, gripping your hip, grounding you with his touch.

“I missed you like this,” he breathed into your neck. “You don’t even know…”

You whimpered as his lips trailed along your throat, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin until your head tipped back and your hips arched into him.

“I want to remember,” you whispered.

He paused—just long enough to look you in the eye.

“I’ll make you remember,” he promised. “Every inch. Every sound. Every place I used to touch you.”

You shivered.

And then his hands were under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head. His mouth dropped to your collarbone, kissing and biting his way down to the swell of your breasts. He didn’t rip your bra off—no. He unhooked it carefully, like it was sacred.

He always made everything feel like worship.

“You used to beg me to take my time,” he said, lips brushing your nipple. “You said you liked when I teased you ‘til your whole body ached.”

You moaned as he took you into his mouth, sucking gently while his hand slid beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“Still so wet for me,” he whispered, voice hoarse now. “Even without the memories.”

You rolled your hips into his touch, eyes fluttering.

“Please…”

“Please what, baby?”

“Touch me.”

Choso groaned softly and slid your shorts down, kissing the inside of your thigh as he settled between your legs. You gasped when his tongue met your center—broad strokes that had no patience for hesitation.

His grip on your thighs was tight, possessive, like he was afraid you’d disappear mid-moan. And the way he ate you out—slow, methodical, needy—felt like he was trying to memorize every reaction.

“You sound the same,” he said against your cunt, voice low and worshipful. “Still sing for me like you’re mine.”

You gripped the couch, crying out as he sucked your clit, then eased two fingers inside you, curling perfectly.

“Feels so—fuck—familiar,” you choked, hips bucking.

He pulled back just long enough to say:

“That’s because I was made to ruin you.”

And then he was inside you.

You didn’t remember how big he was—but your body sure did.

The stretch, the burn, the way he filled you up completely had your breath hitching and your nails clawing into his shoulders.

He leaned down, forehead pressed to yours as he rocked into you, slow and deep.

“I dreamed of this,” he whispered. “Of you letting me back in. Of you looking at me like this.”

Your hands cupped his face. “Choso—”

“Say it,” he begged. “Tell me whose you are.”

“I don’t remember—” you whimpered.

“You don’t have to,” he panted, thrusting harder now. “Your body knows.”

He buried himself deeper, grinding against your spot over and over until your head tipped back in a moan so loud you swore the walls could feel it.

And then it happened.

Flash.

A memory.

Your hands gripping this same couch.

Choso’s voice whispering the same words.

You gasped, eyes flying open.

“I remember,” you choked. “I remember this.”

He moaned so loud it was nearly broken—slamming into you as his rhythm stuttered, body trembling, sweat dripping down his neck.

“Mine,” he groaned. “You’re mine.”

You came around him with a cry, back arching, nails digging into his shoulder blades like you could anchor yourself to this moment.

And he followed—body jerking, arms locked around you like he’d never let go again.

Like he’d never let you forget again.

-

You woke up alone.

The sheets were still warm where Choso had been—his scent still clinging to the pillow, earthy and sharp. Your legs ached, a slow, satisfying soreness thrumming through your thighs. But the moment your eyes fluttered open, something else settled behind them.

Not comfort.

Not peace.

Fear.

It was faint at first. A flicker. A flash.

The sound of your own voice—screaming.

"Get off me!"

You sat up fast, breath catching in your throat.

The room spun.

You clutched the bedsheet like a lifeline.

No. That couldn’t be right. That wasn’t real. That wasn’t him.

You swallowed hard and dragged yourself out of bed. The hallway stretched in front of you like a tunnel. Dim. Quiet.

You passed the photo wall.

The same fake-smiling faces. The same version of yourself you still couldn’t connect to.

And then—

Another flash.

Yourself—slamming a door shut, yelling, "You’re not listening to me!"

Choso. Standing in the kitchen. Unmoved.

His voice like ice. "You’ll be quiet when I tell you to be."

Your knees buckled. You grabbed the wall for balance.

It felt real.

Too real.

In the living room, your hand hovered over the coffee table drawer. The one with the photo albums. The one he always said held your “best memories.”

But now… you weren’t so sure.

You opened it slowly.

And tucked behind the albums—beneath a stack of birthday cards—you found something else.

A torn page from a journal.

Your handwriting.

Shaky. Desperate.

"He says he loves me but he watches me when I sleep. He gets angry when I try to leave the house alone. I don’t know who I am anymore." "I think he’s reading this."

Your hands trembled.

And then—another memory.

Your voice. Choked. Raw. “Why can’t I go out by myself?”

His voice. Calm. Chilling. “Because if you leave, you might forget you belong to me.”

You dropped the paper.

Suddenly the soft walls of the house felt like they were closing in.

The matching tattoos. The photos. The romantic stories.

It wasn’t devotion.

It was a cage.

“Morning.”

You spun around.

Choso stood in the doorway—shirtless, hair damp from the shower, towel slung around his neck. He looked at you like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just crawled from the pages of your worst nightmare.

But you couldn’t unsee it now.

The eyes were the same.

Warm.

You didn’t say anything.

Not when you found the torn journal page. Not when the flashes returned.

Not even when you looked Choso in the eye over dinner and said, “Thank you. For everything.”

He smiled.

He believed you.

You played your part. You laughed when he teased you. You touched his arm. You kissed his cheek. And when he curled around you in bed later, mumbling sleepy affections into your neck, you nodded and closed your eyes.

But you didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Sometime after midnight, when his breathing evened out, you slipped from under the covers.

The house was quiet. Every floorboard creaked under your bare feet. The air smelled like lavender and clean laundry. Normal. Peaceful.

You padded downstairs toward the kitchen, whisper-light.

The glow of the TV flickered softly in the living room.

Your brow furrowed.

He didn’t turn it off?

You crossed the room, glass in hand, intending to power it down—but paused when the anchor’s voice caught your attention.

“—still no new developments in the case of the missing college student—”

You turned your head slowly.

And froze.

Your face. Staring back at you from the screen.

A photo. Brighter. Happier. Taken in a different life.

Your name.

Your age.

The words “Last seen in the company of Choso Kamo.”

You couldn’t breathe.

The anchor’s voice blurred as footage cut to your parents—eyes swollen, voices trembling.

Your mother sobbing: “Please, baby… please come home. We just want you safe.”

Your father gripping the podium with white knuckles.

A number. A hotline. The promise of a reward.

You didn’t realize the glass in your hand had started to shake.

Didn’t hear the footsteps.

But you felt the hand before you saw it.

A firm grip wrapping around your throat from behind. Not choking—but containing.

You gasped.

His breath was hot against your ear.

Slow. Calm.

Possessive.

Then—

Your blood turned to ice.

Your heart pounded so loud it echoed in your ears.

You didn’t dare speak.

Choso’s hand tightened around your throat—not enough to choke, just enough to control.

His lips brushed your ear.

His breath was calm. Too calm.

“I was going to tell you,” he murmured. “Once you were ready. Once you trusted me again.”

You shook in his grasp, eyes wide as the screen still flickered with your missing poster, your mother’s broken voice echoing through the room.

“You weren’t supposed to find out like this,” he said, almost disappointed. “You ruined the surprise.”

His other hand slid up your side slowly, deliberately, until it rested flat against your heartbeat.

And then, with the softest, most twisted whisper—

“You don’t need friends. You need fans. That’s the secret, baby.”

Your breath caught.

“I made sure everyone knows your name now,” he added, voice low and reverent. “Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s looking for you. But you’re right here. With me.”

You whimpered.

“You always wanted to be seen,” he whispered. “Now you’re the main character.”

He turned your face toward his, forcing your gaze to meet his wide, adoring eyes.

“And I’m your biggest fan.”

-

OMGGG I FINALLY GOT THIS OUTTTT WHATS URRR FAV MOVIEEEEE SIDNEY BOOMBYAHHH VIBES.

[4barbatos]

✦ the ache of eternity

xiao x adeptus reader

cw. soft angst, themes of immortality & grief, implied character death (future), quiet hurt no comfort

an. idea credit goes to @stoopycake — thank u sm for the inspo, xiaa <33 ilysm mwaa. art is from here !!

there’s a rumor that comes down the mountains during the lantern rite. a whisper carried by the wind, passing through stone and tree and dream.

they say even the immortals watch the lights.

they say, if you're lucky, you can see them — alone and far above the world, faces half-lit in golden glow, gazes cast downward like they remember something.

or maybe like they’re trying to forget.

xiao doesn’t understand why you mimic them.

he never says it cruelly. not like you’re foolish. not like he pities you.

just… curiously. like he’s watching you hold a shape that doesn’t fit.

“humans,” he says one evening, voice low like twilight sliding over the mountaintops, “are fleeting. fragile.” his arms are crossed. his gaze is distant — fixed somewhere you can’t follow, where the sky breaks apart in memory. “why do you try so hard to be like them?”

you’re holding a paper lantern in your hands, fumbling with the wax base like it’s something ancient and breakable. something precious, even though it was just handed to you by a mortal child in liyue harbor for a few mora and a soft smile.

it’s red and gold, stitched with uneven thread. a little crooked. a little real.

you smile at him. not with mockery. not with apology. not even with sadness.

just the kind of smile that knows he won’t understand. not yet. maybe not ever.

“because it helps,” you say, turning the lantern slowly in your hands, “to pretend i’m like them.”

he doesn’t speak. you don’t expect him to.

the silence stretches, shaped like something neither of you want to name.

you don’t say the rest. that it makes the ache of eternity quieter. that you’ve lived too long in temples and ruins and skies that never change, and it gets lonely in ways you can’t describe.

that sometimes, when you laugh like a mortal girl and wear human silks and buy candied haw on a stick, you almost believe you are one of them.

and in those moments — soft and fleeting and golden like the hours before dusk — it’s easier to carry the weight of everything else.

it’s easier to forget you’ll outlive them all.

the mountains are cold tonight. not the biting kind of cold, not the cruel kind — but the sort that settles slow into your bones, like silence, like waiting.

you brought a blanket anyway. dragged it up the hill, half-folded, clutched to your chest like something sacred. when he asked why, you said, “mortals bring blankets for picnics.” like that made perfect sense. like that explained everything.

xiao didn’t argue. he never does, with you.

so now you’re here, side by side on a flat stone outcrop overlooking liyue harbor, the lights below rising slow and gold into the sky. like stars in reverse.

you’ve laid the blanket down, wide enough for two, though neither of you really sit on it properly. your knees are pulled up to your chest. your sleeves are tugged over your hands. xiao rests beside you, arms draped across bent knees, his eyes catching every flicker of movement like they’re searching for something. his expression gives nothing away.

neither of you speak, at first. not because there’s nothing to say — but because you’ve both learned, over the centuries, that some things are better offered in silence.

like company. like understanding. like the unspoken i see you. i’m here.

the wind moves gently through the trees, rustling old pine needles and your hair alike. your shoulder brushes his.

he doesn’t pull away.

you watch the lanterns rise one by one, little glowing prayers released into the dark. soft gold against the ink of night.

how many years has it been like this, you wonder. how many more will there be?

“thank you,” you murmur eventually, barely louder than the wind. your voice catches a little. not with sadness — just something full. something tender.

xiao turns, eyes flickering toward you like he’s waking from a long thought. “for what.”

you keep your gaze on the sky. on the light. on anything but him.

“for coming.” you pull your sleeves tighter around your hands. “i know you hate crowds. and celebrations. and being seen.”

he’s quiet for a breath too long.

“i don’t mind,” he says, voice low. you glance at him from the corner of your eye — and he’s already looking away.

but there’s something soft about his posture now. something unguarded in the angle of his shoulders.

“i don’t mind it with you.”

and it’s not a grand confession. not even close.

but it’s xiao. and you know him. and you know what it means to be chosen, even for a night. especially for a night like this.

you offer him a sky lantern of your own. it’s simple — handmade, just like the ones in the harbor below, its pale paper sides still smooth, still untouched by ink or flame.

you hold it out between you like a peace offering. like a prayer.

“it’s custom to write a wish on it,” you say, voice light, like the moment isn’t heavy. you press a small brush and a shallow dish of ink into his hands. his fingers curl around them slowly, like he isn’t sure what to do with the softness.

xiao stares at the lantern like it’s a weapon. like if he holds it too tightly, it might vanish.

“…i have nothing to wish for,” he says at last. his voice is quiet, rough with something old and cracked.

you laugh. not to mock. not to scold.

just soft. and sad. like you’ve been expecting that answer for centuries.

“then wish for nothing,” you murmur, folding your hands in your lap. your gaze stays fixed on the lanterns in the sky, on their fading golden trails. “just do it because you can.”

because mortals do. because you want him to understand.

because you want him to try.

he doesn’t answer. but after a moment, the brush lifts. you don’t look while he writes. you don’t need to.

you know better than to ask what he’s written.

and he doesn’t ask about yours, either — three simple characters, inked in careful strokes at the base of the lantern you cradle like something fragile. words you’ve written every year since the archon war. words that never seem to fade from your heart.

愿他安 let him heal.

you don’t know if wishes work. you’re not sure the sky listens.

but the wind always carries them anyway. and maybe that’s enough.

when you light your lanterns, you don’t let go right away. you hold them steady between your palms, sheltering the little flame from the wind, letting the warmth soak into your skin. just long enough to pretend it’s something alive.

and then you let them rise.

slow and gold, floating up into the dark like lost memories returning to the stars. the kind of light that leaves quietly. the kind that never looks back.

you watch them drift upward, hand still lifted like maybe you’ll catch another one. like maybe you’ll change your mind.

and that’s when you ask it. the question that’s been living somewhere in your throat for decades.

“xiao.”

it’s barely more than a breath. softer than the wind. lighter than the flame.

he doesn’t move.

you’re not looking at him. you don’t think you could, not for this.

“after i die…” your voice catches. you pretend it’s the cold.

“…will you still come to the lantern rite?”

the words settle between you like ash.

and for a moment, the wind stills completely. as if the whole mountain is listening.

you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your lungs start to ache. until the silence stretches too long to be safe.

“no.”

his answer is immediate. not cold. not cruel. just… final.

your fingers twitch.

he exhales slowly, and when he speaks again, his voice is steady — too steady.

“i wouldn’t,” he says, “be able to watch the lights without looking for you.”

your chest tightens. that old, impossible ache.

you turn to glance at him — and he’s already watching you.

eyes the color of stormlit dusk. too much pain in them for someone so young. too much knowing.

he doesn’t look away. and that hurts more than anything.

you don’t cry.

you’re adepti. you’re beyond that. you’ve seen cities crumble and kings fall. you’ve danced through the ruins of empires and walked across centuries like they were stepping stones.

but tonight — tonight you ache like something mortal. and that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

you lean your head on his shoulder, slow and soft, like laying down a part of yourself.

xiao tenses. just a breath. just a blink.

and then — he leans back.

not much. just enough. just enough to say i’m here.

you don’t speak again. the words would ruin it.

the lights continue to rise, and from this high above the harbor, you can see all of them. golden trails flickering like stars. lanterns above. lanterns below.

and the two of you — two immortals in the quiet in-between.

pretending, just for tonight, that this is what it means to live.

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines!

[b33zlebubz]

vampire! ghost x reader

cw: implied past human experimentation & weight loss mentioned

“Best to just let him get it out of his system,” was Price’s advice to you, when Simon stormed off. Disappeared into the bowels of the building and didn’t come back up for exfil, or takeoff, or chow that night. Said with a slow shake of his head, like he’s seen this before. “He’ll be back when he’s done. Just needs to let off some steam.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you don’t know where he is?”

Price snuffs out a cigar into an ashtray. “Negative.”

“And you’re not worried? The Ghost—cut loose and starving himself?”

Price sighs, messages his temples like he’s got a headache coming on. “The muppet’s always got his ways of coming home. ‘Til then, not much we can do.”

You huff at the Captain’s unhelpfulness, but don’t press any further. If anyone knows how Ghost functions, it's the very man who took him in.

And, eventually, Ghost does show back up. Twenty-eight hours later.

You can’t sleep; your dreams too convoluted with what you saw the other day. Vials upon vials of blood taken from bleeders held against their will. Lab-rat vampires, angry. Starving. Desperate enough to lunge at the first scent of you and Soap. Doctors who didn’t give a fuck, a military presence that cared even less.

You don’t blame Ghost one bit for snapping.

Aiming to burn off some steam yourself, you go for a run while the weather permits. When you return, the sun is pink on the horizon and Ghost sits crouched in the shade. Cigarette pinched between shaky fingers, he looks almost small. Like the world’s most disheveled, overgown raven. Eyeblack from days ago still smudged across his eyes, he doesn’t look great. Worse than usual.

“You’re back,” you break the silence, tone blank as your expression.

He only grunts. Blows smoke from his nose and doesn’t break eye contact, gaze unreadable. A warm anger blooms in your chest, now that you know he’s not dead, and you clench your fists.

“A call would’ve been nice.”

He blinks. Then, a smirk twitches at his lip, “worried, were you?”

Your face floods with warmth, anger and something embarrassed, and you go to grab the door. “God forbid I’m worried whenever you fuck off to—”

“Wait,” he grunts, and you freeze. He tilts his head a little, softens up just a bit. “Stay a minute.”

You sigh and release the doorknob. Drag your feet over next to him and cross your legs on the pavement. He passes the cigarette to you and you accept it, breathing in the nicotine. Watching the sunrise over the compound.

You’ve had moments like this before. Pressed off in some secret part of base, talking. Joking. Lighter moments without the heaviness of work hoovering, the taboo of your job less grating. Those memories are sore, now, sitting with Ghost. The ache of some distant irrational betrayal in your chest only amplified by the cool of his fingers brushing yours.

“Price says you’re restless.”

You huff. Voice softening as your anger dies out to something worried. “I didn’t know you were a test subject.”

He hums, exhales smoke. “Most of us are.”

“I know,” you murmur, fidgetting with your sleeve. “Its just hard to picture you…”

He eases himself back against the wall, staring out over the landscape. Letting out a breath that screams of exhaustion, something bone-deep, snuffing the blunt nub of the cigarette on the concrete.

“What?” Ghost rumbles, “weak?”

You suppose it should be obvious, that he struggled then and still struggles now. Obvious that some of the scars on his arms are clearly from rough needles, silver, and sunlight—and others too old to distinguish. Obvious that he’s lost weight since his rations ran out and he still refuses to bite you. That he can die just like your last assignment and the one before.

The old wound in your chest aches something fierce, and you don’t respond. Just sigh out a long breath and let your head fall to rest on his shoulder. Ghost tenses underneath it.

“I don’t know. I worry,” you mutter.

He relaxes under your touch, then. Deflates, almost. Then, he chuckles, shakes his head like you’ve just said some joke. Shifts his arm around your back, pale skin refreshingly cool against your own. Squeezes just sightly, rubs your arm.

“M'alright,” he promises, quiet. A low vibration in his chest.

“Promise?”

“Mm." He dips his head, the balaclava brushing against your forehead. "Cross my heart."

You really hope you can believe him.

masterlist

[potatipejr]

Right Through The Door

Spencer Agnew x reader Summary: Spencer comes home and his partner practically attacks him. (“Can I at least shut the door before you pounce on me?” scenario) Word count: 1.2k words A/N: gonna bounce on something else, am i right

————————————————————————

Your apartment door creaked open with a familiar groan, followed by the thud of Spencer’s bag hitting the floor.

He didn’t even get a breath in before you launched at him.

Arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your momentum nearly knocked him back into the doorframe. You could feel the startled laugh vibrate through his chest as he caught you, steadying both of you with ease.

“Okay, hi,” he chuckled, his voice still hoarse from a long day of filming. “Can I at least shut the door before you decide to pounce on me the moment I come home?”

You grinned into his shirt, still clinging to him like a koala, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Nope. I’ve been waiting all day for this. Door can wait.”

His laugh was soft, a little strained around the edges. He leaned back just enough to see your face, his eyes tired but warm, crinkling at the corners as he looked at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am aware, but you like me anyway.” 

“I tolerate you.” 

“Ouch.” you clutch at your chest, where your heart was. “That hurt.” 

“Ridiculous.” He repeated, as though he needed to say it again.

“The foolery I have to deal with.” he muttered, but the way his fingers curled at your waist told a different story entirely.

The door remained half-open behind him, letting in the cold air of the night and the distant hum of traffic below. A few floorboards creaked behind you, those of quiet house noise that usually bothered him, but tonight he didn’t even bother. You could feel his shoulders dropping, inch by inch, the tension of the day bleeding out now that he was finally home.

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to. He didn’t want you to.

He had left this morning before the sun came up. One of those days where he kissed your forehead while you were still half-asleep, whispering a promise to be back “before it gets too late,” which was always a beautiful lie. Then came the texts throughout the day; quick check-ins at odd times, photos of broken prop pieces, a blurry shot of Amanda mid-sneeze captioned “send help,” and finally, as the sky darkened, the tired voice memo: “Still alive. Don’t wait up.”

But you had waited up. You had to. For him.

You lifted your head just slightly, nose brushing the side of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath layers of worn cotton. “Long day?”

He didn’t answer at first— just nodded slowly, forehead dipping to rest against yours.

“Too long,” he said quietly. “I kept thinking about this. About getting home. You.”

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and curled there, like a tether. “I don’t care if you’re sweaty or cranky or smell like cold coffee and anxiety. I just wanted you back.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I do smell like cold coffee and anxiety.”

“And yet, I remain wildly in love with you,” you whispered with a smirk.

Spencer’s hands slid up your back, one settling between your shoulder blades, the other resting in your hair, fingers curling gently into it. He held you there for a beat longer, but not to kiss you, not to talk, just to be with you. There was a stillness that only comes when someone knows you to your bones and doesn’t need you to perform or smile or explain a thing.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said finally, voice low. “You reset everything in me by doing absolutely nothing except being here.”

You chuckled gently against him. “Witchery.”

He kissed your forehead then, soft and slow, as a thank-you.

Outside, a car honked down the block. Inside, the world stayed paused with the door still ajar, air still cool, your bodies swaying just slightly in the space between welcome and relief.

You buried your face back into the crook of his neck, his skin warm, smelling faintly of the cologne you had to buy for him. “You always say you're too tired to be smothered, and then you melt into it anyway.”

“I do not melt.”

“You’re melting.”

“I’m enduring,” he argued weakly, his arms tightening around you.

You sighed, letting yourself lean into his warmth. “You really weren’t going to kiss me until the door shut?”

“I was trying to make a dramatic entrance,” Spencer said, pulling back just enough to give you an exaggerated look of wounded pride. “You know, drop my keys with a heavy sigh, maybe run a hand through my hair all tormented and broody, mutter something like, ‘I’ve had the worst day ever,’ and then dramatically collapse onto the couch like some exhausted protagonist. Then you’d come to me.”

He made a sweeping gesture with one arm, as if picturing the entire scene playing out in cinematic slow motion.

You blinked up at him, fighting a grin. “So what I’m hearing is… you had a whole sad boy fantasy ready to go, and I ruined it by actually being happy to see you?”

“Exactly,” he said, pointing at you as if you finally understood his burden. “You completely derailed my tortured character arc.”

“If it’s any consolation, you’re still very dramatic. Just slightly less sad.”

You pulled back just enough to give him a look — playful, teasing.

“Well, now I’m insulted. Here I was, being an affectionate, caring partner, and you’re accusing me of ruining your melodramatic moment.” 

Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Affectionate partner? You nearly tackled me. I’m pretty sure I’ve pulled a muscle.”

He smiled, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to let the affection show too obviously. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled.

“And you’re lucky I didn’t actually tackle you. I did hold back.”

“Wait, that was you holding back?”

“Of course,” you said, all innocence. “You should’ve seen the version in my head.”

He let out a soft laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “Maybe we’re both a little dramatic.”

That cracked something a little inside you — the honesty in his voice, the way his exhaustion didn’t dull the way he looked at you.

Your hand reached up to cup his cheek gently. “You okay?”

He nodded, slower this time. “Just… fried. Brain-dead. We ran three videos back-to-back and then I had to redo the script notes because someone forgot to include the new segment for the ad, and—”

“Shhh,” you said, coming closer to him to press a soft kiss to his lips. “You’re home now.”

He kissed you back slower, his hands sliding to your back as if your gravity was the only law he still believed in.

And then finally he nudged the door shut behind him with a backward kick.

“There,” he murmured against your lips. “Now you can pounce all you want.”

“You’ve got great timing,” you said. “I was actually sitting here waiting to absorb someone else’s emotional labour.”

“Perfect.” He exhaled, a tired smile forming. “You’re hired. Full-time.”

You leaned in and whispered, “Benefits better be good.”

“Oh,” he said, guiding you toward the bedroom with a mischievous look despite his exhaustion, “they’re excellent.”

[stargazedwinchester]

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `i noticed, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: after spending years living with sam and dean, you really think that dean hasn't noticed that you've fallen for him. he's noticed. word count: 560 pairing: dean winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You’re really good at pretending.

After all, you’ve had practice. Years of it. Living on the road with Sam and Dean; you’ve gotten good at hiding things. Bruises, scars, exhaustion. And feelings.

You can’t forget those.

Especially the big one toward the guy with green eyes who wears a cocky smile like it’s part of his outfit.

Dean makes your chest ache.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You seriously didn’t. But somewhere between midnight takeout and getting patched up in motel bathrooms, you realised that the way he rests his hand on your back lingers longer than necessary. The way he saves the last bite for you. The last sip. The way his voice goes soft when he says your name.

And it hits you like a wrecking ball.

You love him.

Naturally, you bury that truth deep. It’s safer. Because if Dean ever knew how completely you’ve unraveled him—how he owns your heart? He’d either joke it off or look at you with that distant, sorry expression. The one that says “you deserve better than me” without him actually saying it.

So… you’re careful. You hide.

Or so you think.

Because Dean’s noticed.

-

“You think I haven’t noticed?” He says, and just like that, your world tips sideways.

It’s late. 2AM. The bunker’s kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the glass settling on the counter from Dean’s drink.

You blink at him in the doorway, one hand still on the light switch. “Noticed what?”

He smirks, but there’s no humour in it. “You. Acting like I don’t see it.”

“See what, Dean?”

His eyes lift to yours. Steady and clear.

“The way you look at me when you think I ain’t lookin’.”

You remain silent. He takes another swig of his drink before sliding the glass away from him like none of this really matters, like it’s just another Wednesday night.

“I’ve seen it for a long time now. I just didn’t want to call you out on it.”

You swallow, throat dry as a chalk. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t know what the hell to do with it. If I could handle it.”

What do you even say? That he’s right? That you’ve been silently in love with him for years an were too afraid to ruin what little piece of heaven you had?

Suddenly, he rounds the counter, standing in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off of him in waves.

“You really thought I didn’t know?” he murmurs. “You think I haven’t been looking at you the same damn way?”

Your heart stutters. “Dean…”

“I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time,” he says, voice low and a little ragged. “And I thought if I said it out loud, I’d lose you. So I stayed quiet.”

You blink, stunned. “You… you love me?”

He laughs, but it’s soft. A little broken. “God help me, yeah. I do.”

So you kiss him.

You don’t think. It happens almost accidentally. One hand on his jaw and one in his hair. You kiss him like it’s the last good thing in the world. And he kisses you back like he’s been waiting forever. Like he’s starving.

And maybe now you don’t have to hide anymore. To conceal.

To be loved, is to be seen.

[berryrev]

Sniper Wifey

hanma shuji x reader

"How many guns do you have, Shu?"

The question that slips from your mouth isn’t unusual, not when it comes to your husband. You’ve always had a habit of blurting out whatever curiosity hits you, and he’s always indulged you, gladly, even.

But not now. Not at 3 AM, while he’s trying to sleep. Not when he firmly believes you don’t need to know.

Hanma Shuji—feared in the underground and respected by criminals, has one and only oath when it comes to you: keep you far away from his world.

Ironic, isn’t it? To be married to a crime boss, yet he refuses to let you experience his side of things.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t fully open with you. You’ve known him since time immemorial, and you accepted him for who he is and what he does. That’s why, even when a lot of people told you to run away before it was too late, you didn’t listen. Instead, you drew even closer, held his hand, and chose to run away with him.

Which brings you to where you are now: your head resting on his chest, fingers mindlessly caressing his tattooed bicep as you wait for his answer.

He didn’t react. Even in his half-awake, half-asleep state, he still held firm to his belief that you didn’t need to know. And if he refused to answer, if he just pretended he didn’t hear you, maybe you’d stop.

Hopefully.

“If you’re not going to answer me, I’ll get your case and count them myself.” you look up, watching to see if that threat would pull a reaction out of him. It didn’t fail—he opens his eyes and shot you a direct glare.

“How many?” you flash him a cute smile, the one you know he can’t resist. If you’ve managed to pull one reaction out of him, you know more will follow. Your best bet? He’ll keep entertaining you for as long as you want. You have that kind of power over him.

“You don’t need to know,” he mutters coldly, shutting his eyes again, ready to drift back into dreamland, where he hopes you’re in it, hopefully naked and minus the annoying question.

“Shuji—”

“God, baby, it’s fucking three in the morning. I’ll answer you later when we wake up.”

“Why not now?”

He lets out a grunt and rubs his eyes with his free hand. If one of his subordinates saw him like this, they’d be terrified, because they know what usually follows when Hanma Shuji starts getting pissed off. But you? You purposely annoy him and still have the audacity to look at him adorably afterward, like you didn’t just stretch his patience to the limit.

God, you’re annoying… and lovely, all at the same time.

“Baby, I have lots. Now sleep.” he hopes you’ll drop the question and finally drift off, but unlucky for him, you continue.

“What’s your favorite gun out of all of them?” you stop caressing his skin and shift to drape your full weight over him, lifting your head so you can face him completely. “Is it the one you always bring?”

This time, he fully opens his eyes, a serious look settling on his face as he locks his golden irises onto you.

“You’re not planning to get any of my guns and play with them, are you?” his breathing stills. Unlike earlier, when he’d rather ignore you than entertain your curiosity, this time, he’s genuinely anticipating your answer.

“Baby, you’re not getting my guns—”

“Shu, what if I ask you to teach me how to use one?” and this time, he can’t hide the slight shock that flashes across his face.

He snaps out of it after a few seconds. His honeyed irises, dilated from your question, are now replaced with confusion.

“Why’d you want to? If you’re planning to gun someone down, I’m here. I can do that for you. You don’t need no guns. I can kill for you.”

And you know he can do it. No doubt. Shuji would kill for his baby.

He’s not a crime lord for nothing, putting his life on the line for you has always been his top priority.

But that’s not the reason you started this talk. And it wasn’t a random question, either.

The purpose behind all of this is the fear of not having any power to fight back when the time comes, when you’ll be in danger, and no one, not even Shuji, will be there by your side to protect you.

"I mean, I am the wife of a crime lord. Isn’t it only right that I learn how to hold a gun too?" you ask, pouting. You already know he’ll refuse, but just in case, maybe the pout will sway him.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want, be whoever you want, go wherever you want—without a fucking gun, baby.” husky voice is laced with finality.

Shuji worked hard in the streets and underground to give you everything, to make sure you’d never feel restrained, even if his world is built on broken laws and freedom is elusive for someone like him.

But in his eyes, you’re free to do whatever you want. In his arms, you can be whoever you want to be. Except for one thing. There’s one thing he never wants you to touch, and one thing he never wants you to feel: the cold, heavy weight of a gun or the fear of standing in front of one.

With that thought, he hopes you’ll drop the topic.

However, he forgot that he also gave you the freedom to be bratty, which means… you’re not going to let this go.

“But Shu…” you whine.

He’s about to refuse you again, but your next words nearly, nearly, make him give in.

“I know you just want to keep me away from danger as much as possible, and I understand that, baby. But we live a life where risk is part of everything, especially you, Shu—you face it all the time, and sooner or later, I will too"

You say it in the softest voice, hoping it reaches his core. And knowing your husband, even the most trivial or nonsensical thing you say, he always remembers. He engraves it inside him.

“I'll keep you safe.” You feel his arms wrap around you tightly. Even now, when you're both in the safest part of your home, he feels the urge to shield you anyway. “You don’t have to, baby. I can do it.”

“Love" you call, and this time, you know it’s your last resort.

Then you hear him sigh. Not an annoyed sigh, but one that says: I surrender.

“I want to be able to defend myself… because you won’t always be here when something happens. I want to fight like you do—so I can live, too. So I can stay with you longer.”

And surrender, he does. You hear another sigh, this one followed by a tender kiss on your head.

He can never win against you.

And his solemn promise not to let you touch anything related to his world? It immediately flies out the window. Because even if he’s stronger, he’s weaker for you, and your love always makes him surrender.

He know it's still half hearted, but to make you stop he mutters his decision. “All right. But I’ll be the one to choose your gun—and you’ll only use it with my permission, and only when I’m around. Got it?”

-

Now here you are, clutching your husband's arm inside the warehouse. According to him, this place is where they stock “supplies,” and some of the rooms are for “rats”, which you didn’t ask him to elaborate on.

Dressed in your Loro Piana dress, you don’t exactly look like you’re here to learn how to pull a trigger. In fact, you look more like you’re about to attend a tea party. But Shuji didn’t have the heart to tease you, not when you’re beaming and literally pinching his arm in excitement. So he just let you. Shoot a gun in heels and lace, if that’s what his wife wants.

“So, what gun am I using?” you stare up at him, eyes sparkling, and Shuji bites his lower lip to keep himself from smiling.

Goddamn. You’re so adorable that if someone saw you from afar, they’d think you were asking where the two of you were going on a date… not what kind of gun you were about to use.

He woke up trying to pretend he didn’t remember the conversation from earlier that morning, but when you pouted, pleaded, and peppered him with kisses (even bribing him with an offer to suck him off), he didn’t have the heart to refuse you anymore.

“You’ll be using the P365,” he says, giving you a peck on the lips and tucking your hair behind your ear. “You gotta listen to me, baby. Alright?”

“Yes, boss!” you beam, and your husband couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh. He knew that answer was your playful imitation of his subordinate from earlier.

The warehouse was full of men in suits when you arrived, but Shuji waved them off with a single command. He wanted you to relax, to feel comfortable. Before they left, though, you caught him murmuring something to one of his men. You only caught two words: “rat” and “bring.” You didn’t think much of it, your eyes were too busy wandering around the massive space.

“Bring him in!” Shuji’s voice boomed across the warehouse, sharp and commanding.

Two suited men reappeared seconds later, dragging someone between them—a bruised ragged man, blindfolded and stumbling.

“Shu?” confused, you clutch tighter onto your husbands arm.

He turns to you with that crooked, amused smile. “Baby, I prepared your target.”

“H-huh? B-but—”

“Bullets are expensive, my wife.” he says coolly, his big hands wrapping around your waist.

“We don’t want to waste them. And instead of aiming at a piece of paper” he tilts his head toward the blindfolded man now kneeling at gunpoint. “Why not practice on someone who’s worth even less than that?”

He’s challenging you. Not because he wants you to bite at his taunt, but because he wants to tap into your morals and prove a point—that you can’t hold a gun.

That you’ll never pull the trigger. Not even if he himself deems this poor man less worthy of life. Not even if you’re literally married to him.

He’s not going to force you to kill anyone. That’s not what this is. He just wants to see you waver, even just a little, so he can decide, once and for all, that you, his precious wife shouldn’t have a gun, and will never need one.

But instead, you stare at him with those imploring eyes, a silent plea that you don’t want this. Not like this. Not with a shaking man on his knees. You’re here to learn how to defend yourself, not to point a gun at someone who won’t even fight back.

“Shu, I—I don’t want to—”

“Why not?” his tone is somewhere between playful and challenging.

“I thought you wanted to learn how to aim? Why not start with a target? Or… you don’t wanna learn at all?”

He still won’t push you. If you say no, that’s the end of it. You’ve known horrors just by standing next to him, and the last thing he wants is for you to carry any of it on your own. But if teasing you just a little will make you turn around and hide behind him, if it’ll remind you to leave all the danger to him, then maybe it’s worth trying.

“I don’t want to, love.”

And just like that, Shuji throws every damn conviction he had out the window again.

God, woman.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, then turns to the kneeling man. “Get him the fuck outta here.”

And just like that, the two of you are left alone again.

You gently grab Shuji’s arm and swing it a little, like a kid tugging for attention.

“I’m sorry, baby… I feel like I might be asking too much. Am I interrupting your work?”

“Not at all, babydoll. But I guess now I really do need to teach you how to use a gun.”

“Why? Weren’t you planning to anyway? Is that why you brought a man in here?”

“Just scaring you a bit to see if you’d give up, s’all.”

You jab his side gently, and he grabs your hand, presses it to his lips, and kisses your knuckles.

“Let’s see if this hand is capable of shooting.”

In front of you is a gun—a Sig Sauer P365. Hanma chose it himself because he thinks it suits you best. It’s compact, lightweight, and reliable. Unlike your husband, who prefers heavier ones just for the feel of their weight against his palm. He’s a thug, after all, and full-sized weapons have always been his go-to.

And you, you need something that fits your hand and body without feeling like a burden, something that doesn’t feel foreign or overwhelming.

“Since you don’t have a target… see that bottle over there?” he points to what looks like a bottle of alcohol perched on top of one of the crates. “That’ll be your target, baby.”

He hands you the pistol. When the gun sits snug in your grip, he moves behind you, one hand guiding your arms, the other resting lightly on your waist.

“This gun doesn’t have a safety,” he murmurs. “So it’s point and shoot. First rule? Keep your finger off the trigger till you’re ready.”

The gun in your hand is surprisingly lightweight, like you’re not carrying a gun at all, but you can feel its presence against your fingers and palm. Whether it’s excitement or fear, your heart starts to beat faster as your husband’s instructions continue.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” a shiver runs down your spine as your husband's deep voice graze right beside your ear.

“Lean forward just a little—not too much. You don’t wanna fall back when it kicks.” you adjust your stance, feeling his hand tap your left elbow.

“Both hands. Dominant hand high up on the grip, thumb along the frame—not the slide, unless you wanna lose skin.” you nod, swallowing, as he folds your fingers around the gun, wrapping your support hand over your dominant one.

His hand skims up your arm again, then down to rest at your lower back—steadying you, but lingering a little longer this time. Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your neck.

Your breath hitches. “Is this part of the lesson?”

“Sorry, got distracted,” he says with a lazy grin against your skin, then pulls back like nothing happened.

“Now, straighten your arms a bit. Relax your shoulders. Don’t lock your elbows—keep it firm but flexible.” you shift, taking it all in, trying not to think about how warm his hands are or how close he’s standing.

“Breathe in. When you exhale, gently squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it. You control the shot, not the other way around.”

You take a breath, let it go slowly, and squeeze.

The shot cracks through the air, and the recoil nudges into your arms—not harsh, but not subtle either. Then Shuji's hand steadies your back.

“Not bad.” Sin and Punishment trail down your back to your waist, giving it a light squeeze as he kisses your temple. “Again,” he grins.

-

Two weeks have passed since you learned how to use a gun. With Shuji’s additional instructions and facts, you now feel confident that you could use one even without him at your side.

Though, when your husband left for a week-long mission, he firmly reminded you not to use anything while he was gone. You have his bodyguards to protect you, his men ready to obey your every command, there’s no reason for you to be exposed to danger, and you won’t need any weapons.

Whenever Shuji is away, instead of leaving you at the penthouse, he prefers to keep you at your house in Akiruno. In this western part of Tokyo, he feels more at ease knowing you're there, surrounded by quiet streets, limited-access roads, and a tightly secured perimeter guarded round-the-clock by his most trusted men.

It’s a secluded place, and any potential threat can be tracked down easily.

Or so you thought.

You’re sleeping soundly on your king-sized bed when suddenly, you feel the urge to go downstairs. You don’t need the bathroom or a glass of water, they’re both inside your spacious room, but the instinct to go downstairs tugs sharply in your gut.

Something feels wrong.

So without hesitation, you get out of bed and walk toward the door.

Just as you open the door slightly ajar, a sudden clanging sound cuts through the silence of the home, then it goes quiet again. You think you’re still in a haze of sleep, that maybe your mind is playing tricks on you… until another sound follows, louder this time.

Footsteps.

Then the sound of rummaging.

Then a faint clang as thin metal hits the floor.

Not a dream. Not your imagination. Someone is in your house.

That’s your cue to get back inside and call your husband.

If someone has breached your home, it means the security system is compromised, because how the hell did someone get inside?

This is danger. The kind that threatens your safety.

Each slow, careful step you take is accompanied by the frantic beating of your heart. One wrong move, one sound too loud, and the burglar just one floor below will know you’re here.

You’re about to grab your phone to call Shuji when your eyes land on the pull-out cabinet tucked beneath the bed.

That’s when a sudden thought crosses your mind.

There are guns in there.

You remember your husband keeps weapons in case of emergency, so without hesitation, you crouch down, pull the heavy drawer open, and it reveals a metal case secured with a combination lock.

You’re sweating bullets now, glaring at the heavy metal case, the one thing that can save you, if only you knew the combination to the lock.

With a dry throat and trembling lips, your hands go for the first numbers that come to mind: Shuji’s birthday.

You squeeze your eyes shut when it doesn’t open.

You pause, heart pounding in your ears, straining to hear if there are footsteps nearing your door. One glance. Two. Then you try again, fingers fumbling with the dial, this time, your wedding anniversary.

You let out a quiet gasp when it doesn’t work.

You’re about to give up and just call your husband so he can alert security and send more men, when your hands, moving almost on their own, try one more combination—your birthday.

Click.

It opens.

There, lying inside the metal case, are three guns with three magazines. Exhaling, you pick up the one you're most familiar with, a SIG Sauer P365, and decide that if help will be late tonight, you have no choice but to help yourself.

You open the door and step out slowly, not bothering to close it behind you. The same hallway you were sashaying through this morning now feels eerie and unfamiliar. With your stomach lodged in your throat, you reach the staircase that leads down into the dark living room.

The sound from earlier becomes more distinct the closer you get, each step pulling you deeper into the shadows.

Just two weeks ago, you were teasingly talking about what if you ever found yourself in a situation where you'd be the only one who could protect yourself. You didn’t expect that situation to come this soon. And you thought, when the time came, you’d be brave and confident to fight for your life because there's a Shuji who's waiting for you.

Yet here you are, hands trembling tightly gripping the pistol, praying that whoever you come across in your home will be merciful enough to let you live.

Because you can’t leave Shuji like this.

Even if you end up regretting this decision to confront the danger alone, you hope this won't be the moment that becomes your last.

Your husband needs you.

You can’t leave Shuji. Not like this.

So, with a newfound determination, you cross the dark living room, your footsteps soft, your eyes straining to see. You keep reminding yourself: this is your house. And in your husband’s words, no one hunts better in a house than its owner.

When you arrive where the faint sounds are coming from, without hesitation, arms locked in and the gun raised, you open the kitchen door and fire.

The bullet cuts through the air and hits something, shattering it loudly, then suddenly, a voice booms in urgency and shock.

"Fuck!!"

A familiar one.

A voice from someone who isn’t supposed to be here until the end of a long-week mission. The one you should have called first when you felt danger earlier…

"Put that fucking gun down!"

The one you were thinking about before you risked your life, before you aimed at someone you should never be aiming at.

"Open your eyes and put that fucking gun down now.

It’s Shuji, baby."

With that, you open your eyes to see the love of your life—one hand raised, gesturing for you to lower the pistol, the trace of shock unmistakable in his golden eyes.

Your eyes sting with sudden tears, your voice cracking as you call your husband.

“Shu…”

Before your wobbling legs can betray you, Shuji takes two long strides to reach you. He gently takes the pistol from your hands, sets it aside, and cups your face. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed in a thin line, but instead of anger, his expression is full of worry.

“Baby..."

“I-I thought… I-I… there w-was a burglar a-and the s-security… they breached it, a-and… Shu, I was scared.”

He pulls you into a tight embrace. Your frame is shaking, a clear sign of how terrified you were, thinking someone had broken into your home. If you weren’t crying, he might’ve found the whole situation funny and ridiculous, but instead, all he feels is pride. You were brave enough to collect yourself and confront a supposed threat without any backup, relying only on what you’d learned from him.

“I’m sorry if I scared you, baby doll,” he murmurs. “I didn’t tell you I was coming home ‘cause I thought you were asleep. Didn’t wanna disturb you, y’know?” his strong arms wrap around you as he kisses your head.

“Did I scare you that much?”

“I thought you were a burglar.” you sniff and bury yourself deeper into his chest.

“And instead of calling me or alerting security, you opened my cabinet, grabbed a pistol, and went hunting? That it?”

You nod sheepishly against his chest, your fists lightly gripping the front of his shirt. “I—I panicked.”

Hanma chuckles, a low, warm sound that rumbles through you. “Panicked, huh? So my sweet little wife turned into an action star the moment I stepped foot in the house?”

He leans back just enough to look down at you, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “Goddamn, baby. You almost gave me a heart attack. First time you ever pointed a gun, and it’s at me.”

He’s only teasing to lighten the mood. He knows you’ve gone through all kinds of fear tonight—the kind that makes you tremble at the thought of losing everything.

“I didn’t know it was you,” you mumble. “I just used what I learned…” your cheeks are burning, partly from embarrassment, but more so from the sheer relief that you didn’t die tonight, that the supposed burglar turned out to be no one but your husband.

“And I’m impressed,” he grins, kissing your temple, then the corner of your lips. “Scared me and turned me on at the same time. How the hell do you do that?”

“Shu…” you say weakly, squirming in embarrassment, but he only laughs again, pulling you closer.

“You tryin’ to kill me or seduce me? ‘Cause I swear, I felt both.”

“I was scared,”

“I know, baby. But you were so brave, pulling shit like this. To be honest, I’m really proud of you. But...”

He pushes you slightly, just enough to level your eyes with his. The shock from earlier is gone. Now, there’s only love and worry in his gaze.

“Next time, though, text me first before you decide to go all John Wick on someone, yeah?”

And just when you think he’s about to ban you from ever touching a gun again, not that you want to, not after tonight, you feel another wave of fear crash through you. The realization hits hard: you almost hurt him.

You could’ve killed him.

With that terrifying thought, you cling tighter to him. Your voice trembles.

“I-I almost k-killed you, Shu—”

“Ah, ah.” He thumbs your cheeks gently, as he pecks your lips, one, two, three.

“Aren’t you a little too proud, Mrs. Hanma? You’re not that good yet to be able to kill me.”

And just like that, the fear dissipates, replaced by that warm feeling only he can give.

You were able to face your fear because the thought of being away from him was unbearable. The idea of leaving him was what pushed you to act. And if something like this ever happens again, you know you’ll risk your life all over again.

Even with shaking hands, even with tears in your eyes, as long as Shuji is in your mind, as long as the promise of spending more years with him lives in your heart, you’ll face any danger just to be with him again and again.

“I promise to learn more about guns so I can protect us, Shu.” you whisper, gripping the arm that’s always held you safe.

“Can’t wait to have a sniper wifey,” he grins. “But first, let’s go back to our room and calm you a little, yeah?”

And he will tell you too, again and again, that even if you become capable of protecting both yourself and him, he will still be the one to shield you, until the end of your lives.

Because in this life full of danger, you gave him a space to feel safe, too.

[aventurineswife]

hi! just reader taking care of sick pv? (idk if this is jumping the gun, so if now is not the time, feel free to delete! sorry in that case. but ty)

To Rest Without Guilt

Summary: When the great healer Pure Vanilla Cookie falls ill, it's up to you to care for him through fever and fatigue. As he battles weakness and guilt, your quiet presence helps him realize that even the strongest need rest.

Tags: Pure Vanilla Cookie x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Fluff, Soft Romance, Emotional Intimacy, Gentle Touches, Caretaking, Vulnerable Moments, Slow Burn Energy, Reader is Supportive, Mild Angst with Comfort, Established Trust.

Warnings: Mild illness (fever, coughing, fatigue), Mentions of past trauma/emotional burden, Very soft and safe atmosphere overall.

A/N: Welp... Never thought I'd ever write for this fandom, let alone a fucking cookie 💀

Rain whispered against the leaves outside the cozy little cottage nestled at the edge of the Vanilla Kingdom ruins. The land had only recently begun to recover, flowers hesitantly peeking out from cracked marble and mossy cobblestone. Life, like truth, was slowly returning.

You tucked a soft blanket tighter around the figure lying on the velvet-lined chaise. Pure Vanilla Cookie—former king, ancient hero, beacon of truth—was sick.

Not gravely, thank the stars. But the flu-like ailment spreading through the recovering kingdom had not spared even someone so radiant.

His normally serene face was flushed, his breath faintly wheezy. A cold cloth rested on his forehead, but his bangs kept slipping into his eyes—closed as always, though you could tell from the furrow of his brow that his dreams were uneasy.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped when he noticed your gentle touch adjusting the cloth. “I should be… helping rebuild, not wasting time like this…”

You hushed him gently, pressing a warm spoonful of honey-infused cream broth to his lips. He didn’t resist.

“You’ve saved kingdoms, Vanilla,” you said softly, calling him by the name only a few were allowed to use. “The world can wait a few days while you rest.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but his body betrayed him with a tired shiver. You tucked another soft pillow behind him and leaned closer, brushing your fingers over his temple in soothing strokes. The star on his forehead pulsed faintly—once dim, then steadier.

“You’re very kind to me,” he murmured.

“I could say the same to you.”

He gave a soft, hoarse chuckle that quickly turned into a cough. You helped him sit up, rubbing his back while murmuring quiet reassurances. His long hair spilled like warm silk across your arm, and you caught the faint scent of vanilla pods and wildflower honey.

When he finally settled, he leaned against you, far too exhausted to mind the closeness.

“I used to believe I had to be strong every moment,” he said quietly. “That resting was… selfish. But you make it feel safe. Like it’s alright to let go.”

“It is alright,” you whispered. “Even light needs rest, Vanilla.”

The sentient eye of his Vanilla Orchid Staff blinked drowsily from its place by the fire, as if agreeing. The sheep that sometimes followed him—his Cotton Candy companion—had curled up near your feet, its soft fluff rising and falling with every breath.

You stayed like that for a while, your fingers tracing calming circles on his back, his head resting gently on your shoulder.

He was warm. Fragile, yes—but still luminous.

And when he whispered “Thank you,” in that weary, honest voice of his, you knew he meant more than just the soup or the blankets.

He meant you. Being there. Reminding him that even the brightest souls are allowed to flicker.

[anestofmuses]

Within a few seconds, Crowe, Hitomi and Mina were safely in the living room of Lee Manor, were a very relived Yuki sprung up from the sofa and rushed over.

"Crowe oh thank fu..ffle" He quickly corrected himself at the sight of the small child. He recognised her from the photographs bit didn't say anything yet, too relieved that his sister was safe for questions. Crowe hugged him, still so very emotional. "How long was I gone?"

"About a day and couple of hours. Eaihan and Doc' tried everything so I'm guessing shenanigans?"

Crowe simply nodded and the three adults went to gather the family. Half an hour later, Crowe had finished explaining everything that transpired. Inculding her past with Heihachi..

"How apt that his only selfless action still managed to be both self serving and painful for others.." Ai Jian frowned, having an immense amount of sympathy and sorrow for Crowe and her otherworldly companions. Lookimg out to the garden were Aikko and Hitomi wrre playing. "Though the outcome is pleasent. Hitomi is such a sweetheart." The rest of those gathered couldn't help but agreee with her, it was quite the mess Heihachi left behind.

"Your mother and I will get these requests fulfilled while you get some must needed rest. I'm sure Aikko won't ming sharing his room with his big sister until we get one for her sorted." He sighed, "Let us hope that whoever gets the Zaibatsu will be inclined to lend aid too." Hayato looked over the lists that Crowe gave him. A mixture of emotions running through his head. But none that he would speaknof just yet.

"Thanks Baba, and how right you are Ai Jian. It's all such a mess. But thankfully one we can get through together. Nemo seems to be able to go back and forth. So I can send a message with him. I'll send a message..then rest. After, I'll have toget..affairs in order." Crowe sighed, she hadn't been able to finalise a divorce so she was still technically Mrs Mishima and thus had to arrange Heihachi's mess into order. Fun.

Ten minutes later Lawrence would find Nemo fluttering down and holding out a leg, with a message attached it read.

"Hey, I'd be here in person but I'm about to be buried in legal bs, between Hitomi's paperwork and Heihachi's will and other matters. But on the bright side, my folks are already on top of sorting out the medical supplies. Plus volunteers already. I've a lot to say and apologises need to be given and recived. But that can wait for when I'm back. Which should be about a week from now, give or take a few legal procedures. Nemo can slip through worlds, as can Iara. Probably because there is technically home. So if you need us, just poke the bird or spirte!

-Crowe." There are little cheering chibis of herself, Aikko, Hitomi, the summons and her parents dotted along the page too.

As they disappeared everyone got into gear, it was time. With a nod Carmen addressed the fairy trio.

"I'll need a couple powers; and help with something; we live in an airship that crashed, I'd like you to use your powers to make things operational..." After some time, where Darlene and Carmen would make their wishes to get things into motion.

They'd return home on Legs-O-Lot; Brook stood on the deck as it made its way back home, Lawrence approached her.

"You okay?" He rarely saw her blow up like that so he wanted to let her confide in him, everyone does after all.

"I just feel bad how I treated Crowe, I mean I'm still mad but...it's not her fault. I'd love to bring Dad back or even meet mom for the first time...but what if I chose and then Darlene wanted to bring someone back, or Carmen or even you? And everyone probably felt the same way. I know she was trying to help but we all have someone we want back...it's just not fair to anyone." With a slump of her shoulders she placed a hand on her temple trying to calm down.

"I know...how it feels...no one knew that would happen...I'm sure Crowe would understand...she was young once too...make sure you talk to her—and apologize. I'm sure...she'll do the same." He knew it was painful for both Andrew and her, that's why he chose to talk near the speaker so Andrew too would hear him, give him something to think about as well. "Neither of you, you nor Andrew...are to blame."

Crowe's side-------

[malsmind]

⌗ — birthday fic (2) ᯓ matt sturniolo

𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

contains➛ ⋆ established relationship ⋆ matt being the cutest mf ever ⋆

𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦!

you didn’t tell him where you were going. just tugged him out of the house early with a hot coffee in one hand and your fingers tangled in the other. he grumbled a little about the weather—gray sky, light drizzle, cool breeze—but followed you anyway. he always followed you, even when he didn’t know the why. you turned the corner, passed a quiet stretch of shops, and finally stopped in front of a place with fogged windows and a little wooden sign that read:

“A Sanctuary Cafe — open 8am–7pm”

matt blinked. then blinked again.

“wait—oh my god.” he turned to you, eyes suddenly wide, soft, so alive. “i never knew they had one here??”

you grinned. “they didn’t. it opened a few months ago.”

his whole face lit up. and it was rare, to see him like that. not just smiling—but genuinely glowing. like something inside him cracked open in the best way.

you pushed the door open. the bell jingled softly. immediately, the smell of coffee and pancakes hit you. and the quiet sounds of paws padding across hardwood. a little ginger cat wound around your legs like it owned the place. another one blinked at you from a high shelf, tail flicking. matt froze in the doorway.

“baby.”

“yeah?”

“i’m gonna cry.”

you laughed and pulled him inside.

he forgot all about the food when you were sat down and it was standing infront of you both on the table. you ordered breakfast for both of you while he knelt on the floor with a sleepy cat curled in his lap, whispering to it like it was a newborn baby.

“his name is beanie,” the barista said, setting down your drinks.

matt nodded solemnly. “he’s my son now.”

you bit back a laugh and handed him his coffee. he barely touched it. just kept cuddling the cats, scratching behind their ears, letting them crawl into his hoodie. there was one that kept climbing up to his shoulder and flopping down like a scarf. he didn’t even flinch—just let it happen, head tilted so it wouldn’t fall.

“your pancakes are getting cold,” you murmured, nudging him with your foot.

he glanced up from the cat in his lap. “i didn’t come here to eat.”

you shook your head and smiled, taking a sip of your drink. by far the best $90 you’ve ever spent.

after an hour or so, the rain had picked up a little. you left the cafe hand in hand, matt’s hoodie dusted in cat fur and his grin permanent. he looked younger like this. softer. like something had settled in his chest. you walked in silence for a bit, shoes tapping gently against wet pavement, the distant sounds of the city muffled by the drizzle.

“baby…” he said suddenly, squeezing your hand. “so that mean we can get a cat?”

you looked at him sideways. his smile was huge. hopeful. just glowing.

you snorted. “maybe for your next birthday.”

he pouted. “that’s a whole year away.”

“you’ll survive.”

“debatable.”

but he didn’t press. just kept holding your hand, swinging it slightly between you as the rain drizzled down and the world stayed soft around the edges. he didn’t stop talking about the cats the rest of the day.

showed everyone pictures. made you send him the ones you took. kept brushing fur off his hoodie like it was a badge of honor. and when you curled up together that night, full and warm and tired from the day, he whispered:

“that was the best birthday.”

you kissed his hair. “yeah?”

he nodded against your shoulder. “i think beanie changed my life.”

[venusbyline-blog]

Candy Store — Aemond Targaryen.

— summary: If he could, Aemond would spend hours there pleasuring you until you turned a blubbering mess struggling to walk to his car. However, he could be content to finger you there in the candy store, then take you his home as usual.

— pairing: soft dom!Aemond Targaryen x innocent little niece!reader

— type: smut, dark, modern AU

— word count: 2.9k

— tags/warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, naive!reader, groomer!Aemond, modern AU, Targcest (uncle/niece), underage sex, age gap (older man/younger woman), reader is 16 and Aemond is 36, corruption kink, innocence kink, public sex, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, squirting, dumbification, reader and Aemond started having sex when she was 14 and he was 34, it's briefly mentioned that Aemond lost his virginity when he was 13 with an older woman, "romanticized" ephebophilia, secret relationship, minor Aegon II Targaryen/reader, fluffy ending. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: This one-shot was inspired by an ask sent by @faithhopeandcarnage 😭😭💕💕 tysmmm sweetie!!!

— author's notes²: I'm sorry for the lack of content these last days 🥺🥺 I'm feeling kinda frustrated with my studies stuffs, and it's causing me a light writer's block, cuz I'm having the ideas but also struggling to "turn them into words".

— author's notes³: I considered this story as dark content due to the fact Ephebophilia can have themes with many possible triggers. If you don't like that or if you know the possibility of being triggered my work, so please save your mental health AND DON'T READ IT!!!!

— crossposting: AO3

A folder with five papers had been enough to ruin Aemond's mood for the last half hour of his work shift. These essays needed urgent reading, as he had forgotten to add their reviews to the spreadsheet, and the last thing he wanted was to hear five students complain about it at the end of the semester.

Most of the time, Aemond did not mind working a few extra hours. It made him look a good professional among the other teaching assistants who had been working at the university for longer. This time, however, he was not at all happy about having to stay in the office longer. On Fridays, he always picked up his sweet little niece at the school gate.

And now he was late.

You were sitting on one of the benches near the parking lot, a Jane Austen book keeping you entertained, since your phone had died, preventing you from listening to songs to pass the time.

You had been there for over half an hour, wondering why your uncle had not arrived yet, as he did every Friday.

Since your older brother Luke left for college far from the town, you had no one else to spend time with when your mother was not home. Jace was always busy with his freelance DJ work, and Joffrey preferred to spend the free time with his friends rather than with his twin sister. Considering all that, your mother did not mind letting you spend time with the rest of the family. The only rule was no "sleepovers" at your uncle Aegon's house.

But she never complained about you staying at her other half-brother's house. After all, everyone believed Aemond was more interested women who were similar in age to him — unlike Aegon, who loved getting involved with innocent girls, too younger than him.

In the end, you ended up becoming an exception to Aemond's pattern.

"I'm so sorry to keep you waiting, darling. Something came up at work."

You looked up from the pages of the book and watched your uncle coming toward you. As handsome as the love interest of the protagonist of the classic novel you were reading seemed in your imagination, nothing compared to your uncle's beauty. Dark blond hair, white dress shirt, black tailored trousers...

He was far more attractive than any other man in the whole world.

"Uncle!" Without even waiting for him to say anything more, you got up from the bench and hugged him, hands wrapping around his waist, the scent of his woodsy perfume filling your nostrils, mixed with the cigarette he had probably smoked on the way over.

Aemond chuckled softly, a surprised gasp escaping his thin lips as he heard the book clatter to the floor as you rushed to your feet. He knew how careful you were with it: a single-issue copy, given to you on your fourteenth birthday two years ago — also the date that you had innocently asked him to give you the first sex oral of your life, despite the fact that he was twenty years older.

"Hey, darling." Aemond's voice sounded much softer now, pressing a kiss to your forehead and slowly releasing you to admire your pretty face: the cherry lip gloss, the blush on your cheeks... Damn, he wanted to kiss you right there.

It was frustrating that he would have to pull you away from the curious people around the school's parking lot first.

"I had some paperwork to read." He said, straightening his posture as if he were tensing just remembering how stressed he had felt because of it. "I called your phone a few times to let you know, but you didn't answer my calls or texts."

The stern look he gave you sent a shiver down your spine. "My phone's dead, Uncle." You pouted sadly, pointing to the backpack next to where you had been sitting all that time.

Once again, Aemond sighed, now due to relief. At least you had not forgotten to check his texts, nor had you tried to leave on your own.

He still remembered the only time he had been late picking you up, also because of a work issue. You were so worried about his sudden lack of punctuality that you walked to his house in the rain, thinking he had forgotten you.

If it were not for Aegon spending the day there because of a hangover from the night before, you would be waiting outside Aemond's door, sitting on the floor like an abandoned puppy and probably catching a cold.

Although Aegon's presence had been a great help in getting you out of the rain, the price for it was spending weeks angry and jealous when he got home and found Aegon innocently in the shower with you and giving you a warm bath, claiming it was to ward off a cold. The way he was helping you soap your own pussy while you were thinking it was the kindest thing in the world...

"At least Jane Austen must have been good company for you, I hope." Aemond grumbled teasingly. He always thought it was cute how you were so into such silly books instead of anything intellectually better. He loved that, though. Of course it was so much more adorable that you remained his innocent little girl. "Well, how about we stop by our favorite candy store before I take you my home, hm? I can make it up to you with a good ice cream."

Located on an old commercial street, "Dolly's Sweetness" was a candy store that had been around for years, dating back to the 1970s. With most of the visual art featuring shades of pink and also pastel green details, you could easily say it was one of the loveliest stores you had ever visited. However, many did not think so. The place was so rarely visited that even the decor had not been changed in years, remaining similar to the past memories of your child version riding bike there and gazing at the cupcakes in the shop window.

For Aemond, the reasons for going there with his niece were anything but cute. It was a great place to let you be clingy with him. You were the only regular customers, the few other people came sporadically, and never at this hour, after school. There were no security cameras except the two focused on the counter and the shop window. The only waitress — a young redhead in her twenties whose mother had taken Aemond's virginity when he was just a little boy who had just started eighth grade, very younger than her — did not mind snooping on what was going on between you and him. She recognized you, having even slept with your oldest brother once, but not enough to know if that older man was related to you or not. And besides, it was better to keep her job and not report Aemond for dating an underage girl.

"Here we go..." The girl approached, carrying a pink tray with some peeling paint. A vanilla sundae cup, with whipped cream, strawberry syrup, grated peanuts, and a cherry on top. "Can I help you two with anything else?"

Aemond dismissed her, shaking his head. You, on the other hand, paid no attention, taking a spoonful of ice cream and humming at the sweet taste. That dessert had been one of your favorites ever since the two of you started frequenting the candy store regularly. Unlike you, Aemond did not mind ordering something to eat. He preferred to talk with you while he caressed your thigh under the table, his bulge becoming harder while he was hearing the sounds of innocent pleasure you let out with each spoonful.

"Is it tasty, little niece?" he asked, drawing your attention back to him. As expected, you giggled and nodded, lips stained with a few white drops of vanilla ice cream. A genuine smile on his face before he realized something while he was caressing the soft skin of your thigh, exposed by the denim miniskirt you wore, too short for school. "Your outfit looks kinda indecent today."

You dropped the spoon, looking up to find Aemond still staring at your outfit, lingering too long on the low-cut milkmaid top that made your breasts appear bigger. It was not unusual to see you wearing milkmaid tops, but it was unusual their cleavages looking so... exaggerated. "You didn't like it? Uncle Aegon gave me a new bra last week and he told me to—"

"Aegon did what?"

You flinched at his voice rising, not used to hearing him speaking that way. The hand that had just regained its grip on the metal spoon trembled, the utensil slipped and fell to the floor, causing Aemond to blink at the sudden, shrill sound.

A few days earlier, Aegon had shown up at your mother's house to give some gifts to his niblings after a trip to New York. It was not a big deal if his half-sister not home yet, he just visited Rhaenyra under that false pretense. Random things for young men, and of course... Sexy lingeries for his niece, in an attempt to tease his younger brother.

Which was working very well.

"It was just a gift, Uncle..."

Your tone sounded sad, your eyes filled with tears. Damn, you were so dramatic and whiny, acting more like a child than a teenager. And yet, Aemond could not help but feel guilty for being so rude. It was not like it was your fault for being so naive — since that was how he preferred you to be.

Aegon was the idiot in the situation, always trying to irritate his brother as if they were still high school boys instead of two men in their thirties.

"Listen, darling…" Aemond began, much calmer this time, trying to swallow his frustration and not let it show. "I know you were excited about Aegon's gift. But I don't want you wearing this."

"You didn't like it, Uncle?"

"Actually... It's pretty, little niece." He admitted, dark eyes focusing on the cleavage for the second time, admiring how that bra made your tits almost pop out of the top. While it was quite a sight, he did not want that to happen again. He preferred you wearing your typical delicate clothes, not those skimpy ones. You never seemed to notice when boys tried to look at your cute panties under your miniskirts. "I just don't want you wearing clothes like that, especially not if they're gifts from my brother."

The caresses on your thigh returned, an attempt to lessen your sadness over his previous reaction. There were very few times when he lost his patience with you like that. "You know who wears that kind of clothing, don't you?"

It was not news what Aemond thought of girls who allowed themselves to be so sexualized by perverted guys. "Sluts."

That embarrassed whisper made him smirk, humming in agreement. "Exactly. And you don't wanna be a slut for other men, right? Imagine if they touched you like I do... Would you like that?" You immediately shook your head and felt sick. The idea of being touched by men other than your dear uncle was horrifying. "Good girl."

A thought suddenly flashed through Aemond's mind, his heart racing as he glanced back to check if the waitress was distracted. After making sure she was busy texting someone on her phone, Aemond turned his attention to you, who had just returned to eating your ice cream.

You looked so sweet and innocent... He could not resist any longer. It would be torture to maintain that facade and wait until you two got home.

Aemond's palm moved up, passing from your thigh until it reached the material of your panties. It was a relief to realize you were not wearing the full lace lingerie set, but rather one of the cotton panties — almost childlike — he loved so much.

You let out a surprised gasp, darting your gaze to your uncle again, hearing him shushing you softly to avoid drawing the other girl's attention. "Relax..." He whispered, his fingers still on the fabric, amused by how a small part of it grew damp at his husky tone. "Umm, so you're being extra sensitive today?"

You did not answer the rhetorical question, leaning back against the upholstered bench, feeling embarrassed at yourself for reflexively parting your legs. Aemond's touches were always so assertive, never failing to pleasure you. Even though his sudden pinch on your clit stung and made you squeak softly, the arousing feeling followed right away.

"Oh, how cute..." Aemond could not help but tease, though he knew your reaction caught the waitress's attention for a few seconds. "You really love it when I do that."

It was not question, obviously. You were used to having the little bud pinched, Aemond enjoyed doing it often, loving the low crying sounds.

His hand rubbed the covered spot and then finally slipped inside the underwear, sighing at the softness of your folds, completely shaved and ready to be fucked.

If he could, Aemond would spend hours there pleasuring you until you turned a blubbering mess struggling to walk to his car. However, he could be content to finger you there in the candy store, then take you his home as usual.

Finger pads touched your plump outer lips, all sticky from your natural arousal. "Wet already?" Aemond mocked, chuckling when he felt you squirm and try to close your legs around his arm, as if you wanted to keep it trapped there so the stimulation would not stop so soon. "Don't be greedy, darling. Let me pleasure you until you cum."

You did not blink for a second, struggling to keep thighs open and to be an obedient little girl for your uncle. His two fingers played with the bundle of nerves, rubbing it in circular motions, not too fast and not too slow. Enough to elicit whimpers from you, not caring about the other person's presence.

"Uncle, please…" Wide eyes turned to him, desperate for more. "Please, I need…"

"Hm? Tell me what you need, then, little niece."

The rubbing did not stop, that intense friction against your clit growing harder as the minutes passed. Aemond continued to stare at you with a smug look, unable to control himself. It was so good to feel your wet, sticky pussy clenching around nothing, another dirty memory he would think about for days.

Ever since Aemond had begun that secret relationship with his own niece, he'd been feeling more pervert than never. And who could blame him?

"Tell me what your little pussy needs."

You surrendered before he could even consider a second demand yet. "Please, Uncle… I-I need your fingers inside…"

A sadistic smirk appeared on Aemond's face. "Oh? Inside where?" There was no answer, and he began rubbing you more roughly. "Tell me or I'll stop." He growled, the feeling of dominance speaking loudly as did the arousal.

Your legs trembled desperately, your eyes widening with the increased intensity. "Inside my pussy, uncle! Please, please, please!"

Immediately, his free hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him, and then crashing his lips against yours, preventing you from crying out when three fingers fucked inside your pussy at once. The brutal stretching hurt like hell, your legs kicking at the empty space under the table, trying to escape the pain while simultaneously trying to make Aemond's fingers go deeper.

Aemond pulled his mouth away from yours to breathe, without stopping his ministrations, sinking into your tight core and nearly tearing you in half.

The palm on your chin covered your lips right away, the skin of your face become sticky with the drool that dripped from the sloppy kiss, but also from the brainless state he was leaving you in, turning his own niece into a cute cockslave.

Feeling your pussy contract around his three fingers, Aemond began fingerfuck harder, stimulating your swollen clit at the same time, his palm hitting against it with each thrust.

"G-Gonna cum..." Your sob sounded muffled behind Aemond's other hand, and he silently allowed you to reach your high, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

A low moan burned in your throat as you finally came and squirted, your thighs closing with Aemond's arm between them, just as your pussy clenched around his digits, forcing them to stay still and making your orgasm to linger longer.

The floor beneath the table was a mess, a small puddle proving the extreme level of the Aemond's perversity.

Meanwhile, Aemond carefully pulled his fingers out, shaking his soaked hand and then bringing it to your own lips, smiling sweetly at the sight of you licking every drop of those juices, your brain already too dumb and confused to even understand what you were doing.

"How are you feeling, darling?" The words were sweet and worried, despite his failed attempt not to sound that way.

It took you a moment to register what he said. "Wanna sleep, uncle..."

He wiped the drool from your chin, cupping your cheeks. "We're going home now, darling, don't worry."

The vanilla sundae was already melted, dripping from the cup and onto the table too. Though Aemond almost felt guilty knowing the waitress would have to clean up the mix of melted ice cream and squirt on the floor, watching his little niece fall asleep like that — head resting on his shoulder and with legs spread open — was well worth it.