#muffin stash

[vanillemi]

does anyone still like them? because i do

[terabyte-teddybear]

stardew valley marriage candidates 2/12: penny

X X X X X X X X X

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter four

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: jack’s feelings for you grew in the dusk. then, a whispered incident shatters the stillness, and he realizes too late that something’s already broken.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.8k

Jack first saw you exactly four years ago during shift‑change—him coming in for the ER night grind, you stalking out after twelve hours in Surgical with three lunch boxes stacked like ammo. Two interns are nipping at each other’s heels until you raise a single finger; the quarrel dies in mid‑air. He watches, amused, then watches again a few minutes later when those same interns turn up in the break room wolfing down a mouthful of poppy-seed muffins that smell like pure comfort.

“Who baked that?” he asks.

They point after you with crumbs on their cheeks and fingers: a hard‑headed nurse from Surgical.

He notices you in passing—but the meeting comes much later, high above the noise.

It is barely dawn, once again shift‑change o’clock. As usual, he takes the stairs to the roof for a hit of cold air before plunging into his ER night. You are already there, arms folded on the railing, watching the river steal the first light. He almost turns back, but you don’t glance over, and the quiet feels too good to waste. So he stands a dozen paces away, breathing steam into the sky. Neither of you speaks. Five minutes later the freight elevator clangs below and you disappear down the stairwell, a ghost in gray.

That becomes routine: his night beginning where your day ends, both of you claiming the same ten minutes of sky. At first it is silence—two strangers dividing the dawn. Then a nod. Then, on a morning whipped by sleet, you mutter, “Coffee? Again?” Jack snorts, raises his styrofoam cup, and admits it is sludge. You offer no sympathy, only a sideways grin that feels like permission.

Conversations creep in. You talk about nieces who mail you science‑fair photos, about Jack’s improbable knack for fixing malfunctioning IV pumps, about cilantro storage and the best pierogi on the South Side. He learns you feed residents and med students like stray cats. You learn his leg squeaks in the rain and he deals with it by over‑tightening the socket and cursing under his breath. That way, the roof becomes neutral ground, a borderland between the hospital’s fluorescent chaos and the city’s slow river.

Jack falls for you in increments—not all at once, not with fire, but in the way late sun warms cold bones.

The first time is maybe a dry joke you lob over your shoulder in passing. The second, the way your eyes soften when a helicopter banks in low, shadows flashing across your face as you pause mid-chat. And after that, it’s everything.

He hasn’t let himself feel something like this in a long time. Not since… and even that name, even the memory, doesn’t ache like it used to—but it has left behind a hollowed-out space where nothing has taken root since. There have been flings, sure. Company here and there, something easy and understood, but nothing that lasts beyond the night or the need. He hasn’t wanted anything to last.

Until you, that is.

And so, he begins hinting—carefully. A stupid pun scrawled in the margin of a half-finished sudoku you’ve been grumbling over all day. A couple of lumpia he manages to snag—somehow, without losing a limb—from Princess and Perlah’s fiercely guarded monthly stash. A quiet confession, offered one chilly morning, that sunrise feels less sharp with company. Each gesture small, deliberate, afraid that pressing too hard might crack the quiet, steady rhythm you both come to rely on.

Because the roof has become necessary.

And still, he can’t lie to himself: the feeling scares him. The possibility of caring again, of wanting something that can’t be controlled or triaged or explained—it unmoors him a little. But it also makes him feel alive in a way he hasn’t let himself feel in years. You make the hours between dusk and dawn feel less like a stretch of survival and more like something to look forward to.

And that… that is terrifying. But it is also good. Very good.

Then, four dusks in a row, you don’t show.

On the eve of the fifth night, he types a message he doesn’t plan to send: Haven’t seen you on the roof. Everything okay?

Ten minutes tick by before your reply arrives: I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Something is off, and it isn’t the hour. He fills his thermos anyway and snags a terrible slice of cafeteria pound cake—knowing you’ll roast him for it if you ever find out—and promises himself that if dawn doesn’t bring answers, he’ll start asking better questions.

For now, he simply shoots back: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

And you, a simple but earnest confirmation: Sunrise tea.

Jack can be reckless, but war zones and widowhood have taught him this: when the strongest person in the room starts acting skittish and absent, you step closer and keep watch—especially if the room is a rooftop at sunrise, and the person is the nurse who once turns five minutes of shared silence into the best part of his day.

. . .

He arrives at the hospital, stepping through the double doors with his usual resolute gait, one hand hooked casually under the strap of his tactical backpack. His expression is calm, composed, shaded by that habitual, guarded optimism he wears for years.

But something is off.

It’s not loud. In fact, that’s what makes it strange. The usual din of residents bickering over charting, wheelchairs squealing across tile, interns nervously chugging coffee—muted. Not gone, just… held back, like the The Pitt is holding its breath.

Jack’s eyes scan the room, already sharpening beneath the calm. He catches sight of Dr. Ellis—one of his best senior residents—cutting across the ER with purposeful steps. Not rushed, not panicked. But something close to tight. Her face is unreadable, grim where it’s usually brisk.

“Jack,” she says as she reaches him. No Dr. Abbot, no pat on the arm, no idle quip. Just a quiet, urgent gesture for him to follow. “Come with me for a sec.”

His brow lifts, but he doesn’t ask questions. Not when she’s looking like that.

They weave past triage, through a set of doors into the cramped staff room. The door clicks shut behind them, and instantly the world narrows. The light feels a little too bright. The hum of the fridge too loud.

Jack leans against the counter, arms folded, expression even. “Alright,” he says, not unkindly. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Parker doesn’t answer right away. She shifts, visibly uncomfortable. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just that rare, uncertain edge Jack only sees when things are about hit the fan.

“Something’s wrong up at Surgical,” she says finally. “Trauma Surgery, specifically.”

Jack doesn’t move, but his gaze sharpens. The inside of him goes still. You work Surgical long enough that his mind jumps without permission.

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice steady. “Is it about a patient? A case?”

Parker shakes her head. “No. It’s personal. It’s… her.”

She doesn’t say your name. She doesn’t have to. The second she says it—her—Jack knows. The knot that’s been building for days, through missed rooftop meetings and clipped, careful texts, cinches tight, pressing into his ribs like a vice.

Of course he’s heard the way people talk. The way the nurses elbow each other when he walks past. Even Parker, just now, had paused like she expected him to flinch at the mention of you. 

But Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t correct anyone, either. Let them talk.

It’s not that anything’s happened—not really. Not yet. But something’s there. Has been for a while now. He just doesn’t have the time or energy to pretend otherwise.

His jaw ticks, barely. He fights the instinct to reach for his phone, to scroll through that last short message—just tired—and see if it reads any differently now.

“She’s been dealing with something,” Parker continues, lower now. “Something bad. I don’t know the whole story. Not really. Nobody does, I think. But… word’s spreading fast.”

Jack doesn’t breathe, but he listens.

“She broke down in the middle of her shift. Not just a bad day. Panic—real panic. Security got called in. So did Gloria.”

The weight of it settles hard. He turns his eyes to a crack above the microwave. It’s been there for years, a small fracture in cheap cabinetry, but tonight it looks like a fault line.

“She alright?” he asks.

Parker gives a vague nod. “I think so. But here’s the thing—no one’s talking. I mean, not even the nurses.”

That gets his attention.

Parker goes on. “You know how they are. They could tell you what kind of gum a new hire chewed three floors down before HR finishes onboarding. But this? They’re locking it down. Close. Fierce. Like they’re closing ranks over her.”

Jack runs a hand down his face, slow. Subdued, yes—but not at peace.

“Do you know why?” Jack asks, voice low and even.

Parker hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. Not really. Just bits and pieces. Like I said, no one’s giving the full story. Not even the nurses, and you know how they are—usually you can’t get them to stop talking. But now? Radio silence.”

Jack watches her carefully. She’s being honest. He can tell.

“I can poke around,” Parker offers, almost reluctantly. “Ask some questions, feel out what’s being held back—if you want.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow through his nose, as if weighing what kind of damage that might do. His fingers drum once against the thermos in his hand. Then he shakes his head, once.

“No,” he says. “Leave it. Maybe it’s not for the best.”

That stops her cold. She studies him, really looks—and the silence between them sharpens.

Because Jack never says leave it. Not when someone’s in trouble. And the line of his jaw, the way his shoulders lock down… that’s not calm. That’s containment. Worry wrapped so tight it’s just short of boiling over.

She doesn’t press. Not now.

Jack straightens, but his expression doesn’t change. If anything, it stills into something harder. More focused.

His name hasn’t come up, and that almost bothers him more. If you’d talked to someone—anyone—why not him? And now that’s too late. The missed rooftop meetings, the clipped texts, the careful way you said “I’m just tired.” It all slides into place with a sickening click.

He tugs his backpack strap a little tighter over his shoulder, eyes distant but burning behind the quiet.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he mutters. “Let’s get to work.”

Parker only nods. She doesn’t add or ask another thing.

And when they walk out of the staff room, there’s no storm in his step, no rush in his pace. But the tension radiating off him—quiet, coiled, dangerous—is enough to make two med‑students step out of his way without a word.

Something’s wrong. Someone’s hurt you. And someone else is going to regret it.

divider credit

[ssscatola]

task force 141 headcanons pt. 2 (+ a bit of ghoap)

Simon has absolutely never lost at arm wrestling

Johnny cannot wait to retire so he can adopt 150 dogs, 70 cats and 36 bunnies (he'd probably get a snake or two and a gecko or turtle as well)

Gaz really likes photography. I know this man has a shelf full of vintage analog cameras. ALSO he definitely has a collection of at least 250 polaroid photos stashed under his bed of his family and friends

Gaz also know so much shit about art and art supplies. Every medium, brand, the name of every color, every paper weight and is a master when it comes to color theory

Price is such . . . a fish guy. He loves fishing. He loves sending pictures to the force's groupchat every time he catches a huge fish and gets an ego boost when the boys reply with "nice catch, cap" along with a thumbs-up emoji from Simon

Speaking of . . . they 100% have a group chat. It's called 'Ghost's Therapists' or 'Price and the Lads' or just 'The Council'. Johnny and Gaz are the ones who spam with pics and videos and memes

Their nicknames in the chat? I'm glad you asked. Johnny: either 'SCOTLAND FOREVER' or 'Soup'. Gaz: 'Gazpacho'. Price: Mutton Chops Final Boss. Simon: Skull Boi (spelling done by Johnny)

Simon and Price prefer vanilla. Gaz and Johnny will always pick chocolate

Gaz goes to sleep by putting on ambient sounds of rain

When at the beach, Johnny and Gaz LOVE tanning. Price goes for a long swim, eats three nectarines and takes a two hour nap on his towel. Simon walks along the shore, drenched in SPF and collects tiny iridescent seashells and gives them to Johnny later

Simon Riley who likes pottery and does it as a hobby when he retires……he makes new plates and mugs for Johnny (let me have this) (i’ll write a separate post about this i have so much to say)

Not really a headcanon but Johnny and Simon at the zoo. or at a botanical garden. or having a picnic (i’m very normal about all of these ideas)

Price is a sleepy drunk. Johnny is horny/aggressive drunk. Simon is sappy drunk but hides it as much as he can. Gaz is everything is hilarious drunk

Simon WORKS a grill

Every single handyman is terrified of Gaz because he just know EVERYTHING about fixing ANYTHING

Price’s favorite fruits are strawberries and peaches. Gaz’s is passion fruit and cherries. Johnny would kill for kiwis and figs and Simon would be on a diet consisting only of oranges and raspberries if he could

ALL of them have a sweet tooth but Price and Simon are the worst

Did I mention Simon not knowing who Shrek is? No? Well, he doesn’t. Johnny remembers this and next time they’re all on a mission together, he starts quoting the dialogue (mimicking the voices, of course) from the “Muffin Man” scene into his comms and Simon is yelling at him to shut the fuck up. Gaz and Price are crying laughing

[bluesylveon2]

Chocolate Muffin Drama

A/N: So i'm on the olympic chocolate muffin tiktok and then this appeared lol. Everyone is aged up, sports/countries are not specified (except for Vil, Rook, and Rollo), and Yuu/Reader is a female

Everything starts when Ace wants to get breakfast at the Olympic dining hall and his eyes land on Yuu eating about 10 chocolate muffins

Yuu literally has crumbs on her face and the chocolate filling (or sauce? Idk) on her fingers. She looked like a hot mess that someone from the German team showed up to "clean the potato"

Ace is both surprised and confused

Later on, while sitting in the audience for a sport, he watches Yuu destroying the opposing team. Gold medal worthy, in his eyes

Ace rn: "is that the same girl who devoured those muffins in one sitting?"

Yes, yes, it is

Anyways, Ace is SMITTEN by Yuu and is determined to win her heart

How does he do it? He grabs a muffin at the dining hall and tries to give it to Yuu, but she is not there.

He comes back the next day to find out there are no more muffins! (gee I wonder why???)

Plan B: give it to Trey

Ace: I need you to tell me what ingredients are used to make this muffin

Trey: okay....

Eventually, Trey cracks the code to the muffins and even writes down the recipe for Ace

If only all's well, ends well

Meanwhile, a muffin thief was currently bringing the muffins back to the Village

Ruggie drops off his stash to Leona (while also taking one or two for himself. Leona pretends to not see it) so he can give it to Yuu later that day

See, Leona has been doing this for a few days now, but he waits until Yuu gets her servings before taking the rest to avoid suspicion

Yuu caught Leona's eyes at the same event Ace went to

He would have gone for more had a certain Frenchman not sat by him

Leona: there are other seats, ya know?

Rook: au contraire! These are the best seats to watch Madame Trickster perform!

So Leona repeats the process and basically plays hide and seek with Rook while Ruggie works.

He ends the day by being Yuu's prince charming (literally) and gifts her the muffins

He knows about the redhead who is trying to recreate the muffins.

It would be bad if the recipe got stolen...

Except, it wasn't Ruggie who took it. It was a bat

Lilia is grinning like he won the lottery. He saw how the muffins became viral on MagicTok and he just had to make some to share to all of his fellow athletes

(Little did anyone know that Lilia would accidentally end the Games if he succeeded)

Luckily, Silver is there to save everyone

He recognized the muffins from the dining hall and Malleus mentioned his new friend loved them

So he goes out to the nearby shops/places in Paris to buy the ingredients, unaware of a group of six guys currently on a goose chase to find a recipe

(tbh idk if the athletes can explore the city but let's pretend they can)

Silver has never met Yuu, but according to Malleus, she was a nice person.

Malleus suggests that Silver makes Yuu some muffins (it's a miracle he was able to at the Village). Silver gives some to her as a thank you for befriending his brother

What he doesn't know is that Malleus is trying to set the two up, so he talks about Silver when he's around Yuu and recruits Sebek to stop Lilia from adding his "secret ingredient" to the muffins

Bonus:

Malleus also drags Silver to Yuu's sporting events, sitting away from Ace and Leona

Except he has his own problem with someone from the French team

Rollo: why must you sit next to me? go somewhere else

Malleus: hush, Flamme, I am trying to get a sister-in-law here

Silver: trying to fight sleep

[thedancingcostumeyoungadult]

Lemon Muffins - E.M.

Camp counselor!Eddie x camp counselor!Reader

Your co-counselor commits a grave offense and you want fair payment

Contents: Fluff, bickering, friends with vibes?? coworkers with vibes maybe? mention of weed and smoking, gn reader in this part but might become fem reader if I do other parts

Part 2 here

You do not have the energy for this, you so do not have the energy for this.

"Eddie-" A warning flashes in your tone a split second too late, the last lemon muffin already whisked away from you and into the mouth of your fellow troupe 6 counselor, Eddie Munson. You watch as your poor muffin disappears in a bare few bites, your face no doubt a showcase of frustration and dejection.

"Sorry Boots," he speaks mid-chew, disgusting, disrespectful of the beautiful muffin, "too slow." You want to hit him, you're going to hit him. He flashes you what you're certain could be a show-stopping grin if not for how bad you want to hit him.

"I'm not sharing my bug spray with you anymore." Disdain seeps into your voice as you stand, snatching the bottle from the middle of the table and storming out of the kitchen, pointedly ignoring the soft clamor of the lanky boy scrambling after you.

"Hey wait-" You can tell he got caught on something by the soft string of curses and a loud clatter that fades behind you as you push through the door into the early morning. The light is still little more than a bluish haze at the tips of the tall pines that surround the camp, a collection of squat cabins and a path that leads to the lake, still and shimmering in the hush. A hush quickly shattered for you by the creaking of the kitchen door and a rushed Eddie.

"Boots, you coulda told me the stakes were that high on that muffin back there." He sounds slightly winded as his own boots crunch on the layer of needles covering the ground, covering the distance in a few strides to come shoulder to shoulder with you. "I didn't know you were so committed to them."

"First of all," you stop short, letting him wheel to face you as his momentum takes him a step further than you, the bug spray bottle in your hand leveled accusingly at his chest "I am deeply committed to any pastry that contains lemons, and second!" You keep your voice low, not at all wanting to start your camper's days with that kind of energy but too tired to retain much rationality past that, "It was already on my fucking plate, Eddie!" There's a third, though it's useless at this point to bring up the fact that he wears the exact brand of boots you do so he really has no grounds to declare a nickname out of it, it's always fallen on deaf ears.

"Okay, okay, I violated the rules of breakfast engagement, I'll give you that." He raises his hands as if in surrender, though it's paired with another of those dumb smiles and a head tilt that softens your displeasure even as you fight to retain it. "What can I do to make amends?"

You regard him for a long moment, taking in long dark curls pulled into a messy bun (using a technique he'd stolen from you, by the way), wide, earnest eyes, the bright camp t shirt sitting just a little tighter across his chest than it had last summer and contrasting with the dark jeans he preferred even in the dead of summer. Eyes narrowing, you offer your terms of peace which he takes in with rapt attention.

"You owe me two muffins by the end of the week."

"Lemon muffins."

"Lemon muffins." He nods like a seasoned negotiator and your gaze sharpens again, deciding in that second to throw a final condition in the mix.

"And you smoke me out." You cross your arms defiantly as you speak, a challenge. It catches him off guard and you can tell, a swift blink and raised eyebrows betraying him even through quickly feigned innocence.

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean." You roll your eyes at his act.

"I know you have a stash, Munson. You took something precious from me and now you've gotta pay up." You find yourself slipping into more dramatics with him, his theatrical nature bleeding into your own speech in a way that you can't quite find yourself bothered by.

He stands in the silence of the morning, a stalemate dragging out for a few long heartbeats before he concedes, another one of those smiles overtaking him.

"You're a real cutthroat negotiator, Boots, but you've got a deal."

~~

Hi I hope you enjoyed!! I'm so in love w camp counselor Eddie and i'd love to get requests for him! Likes and reblogs are so so appreciated and comments are welcome :)

[rubycruzin4abruzin]

Forbidden Crown - VII

Summary: You and Kit prepare for your escape, everything seems to fall apart at your engagement party, and your mother reveals a shocking truth…

Pairing: kit tanthalos x princess!reader

Contains: kissing, angst, reader prepares a murder, some boob touching, non-explicit mention of vomiting, medieval partying, drinking, drunk behavior

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: hope this one knocks your socks off

“Strike once. Through the heart.” Kit instructed, handing you a sword before stepping back.

You stood over the training dummy lying on the stone floor of the armory, the tip of your sword hesitating over its straw chest. The dummy was made to mimic a human form, and while its thatched figure was less than realistic, the very idea that it could one day be Kit filled you with a deep sense of dread. “I… I c-cannot…”

She frowned, crossing her arms. “You promised me…”

“Suppose I don’t intend to keep my promise?”

“Then we can’t go.”

Your face crumpled in defeat as your shoulders slumped, the sword dropping to your side. Kit softened her stance, placing a hand on your shaking shoulder. “Don’t… don’t think of it as me, alright? Because it won’t be. It’ll be… a walking infection, with an ashen face and lifeless eyes. Nothing but an ensorcelled servant to the Wyrm.”

She repositioned the sword in your hands, helping you hold it properly before stepping back again. “Protect yourself, Princess.”

You took a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut before plunging the sword straight through the dummy’s heart. Straw flew up at the impact, drifting around you and making you sneeze. You dropped the sword with a loud clatter, body trembling as you stumbled back into the armory wall. Tears began to spill down your cheeks, and Kit was quick to comfort you.

“It’s alright,” she wrapped her arms around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head. “You did perfectly.”

You spoke between ragged breaths. “I don’t… ever… want to have… to do that… again…”

Kit’s thumb wiped your tear-stained face. “Perhaps you won’t have to,” she said, though her words rang hollow, and deep down you sensed she didn’t believe them either.

The fortnight that followed was filled with planning, mapping, and gathering for your escape. Kit regularly pilfered smaller weapons from the armory, stashing them at the bottom of storage chests, beneath her bed, or anywhere she knew a chambermaid would overlook. You were tasked with securing food—a much more difficult endeavor, as stealing from the kitchen without arousing suspicion from the staff proved quite challenging.

It was Kit who had the brilliant idea to procure the help of the kitchen maid. However, the one she called ‘Muffin Girl’ held you both in little favor—Kit due to her relentless teasing, and you for more… obvious reasons. The only one she did seem to favor was her paramour, Airk, so it wasn’t long before he was enlisted as an oblivious pawn in your scheme.

“Remind me why I’m sneaking you extra provisions?” Airk inquired one evening, delivering a basket of bread and fruit preserves to your chamber.

You accepted graciously. “I’d simply like to… fill out my bridal gown a bit more,” you lied.

Airk’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “You mean to say you eat all of this? Each night? By yourself?”

You shrugged innocently. “Kit intends to fill hers out as well.”

He remained puzzled, but a quick mutter about ‘a secret matter of womanhood’ had him bidding you goodnight and taking his leave. It wasn’t a lie, per se—you and Kit were both women with a secret, after all.

As the days passed, your diligent efforts began to bear fruit and your journey was well underway. Of course, your meticulous scheming was not without consequence. Sex became nonexistent, as you both were so preoccupied with getting your affairs in order that it was the furthest thing from your mind. That's not to say either of you wouldn’t benefit from some physical release—coordinating an escape could be vexing—but there was a time and place for everything, and you two would have ample opportunity for such matters once you reached Nockmaar.

Eventually, all packing, planning, and preparations were complete, and right in the hour of necessity, as your parents had arranged an engagement party just two nights before the weddings.

You stood in your chamber, gazing at your reflection in the mirror, clad in the golden ball gown your mother insisted upon. It was a fine dress—you would surely be the envy of every maiden at the party—but it had been awhile since you’d worn a gown of such opulence, and truthfully, it was not to your taste. Your everyday dresses were simpler—looser, allowing a wider range of movement—and never so ostentatious.

“Gold,” your mother had emphasized when she presented the gown earlier that day. “It signifies wealth, luxury, nobility.”

It was difficult to fathom why your mother had been so insistent upon a color denoting status. Azarenth might have been a smaller realm than Tir Asleen, or even Galladoorn, but it was a kingdom nonetheless, and you a princess. Perhaps your mother was overcompensating, simply seeking to appear at equal stature with the other kingdoms.

Suddenly, the sound of a doorknob turning jolted you from your reverie. You smoothed your dress one last time before leaving the mirror to find your mother in the doorway, donning a rust-red gown.

You should have known; your mother wouldn’t knock, nor have any regard for your privacy.

“The guests will be arriving shortly, you’re needed in the ballroom,” she proclaimed.

String music from the consort echoed through the lofty ceilings of Tir Asleen’s grand ballroom. Long tables encircled the dancing area, with place markers clearly labeled for each guest. You were stationed at the front of the hall, joining your parents, the Tanthalos’, and the Hastur’s in greeting the guests as they arrived.

“Thank you for coming. “A pleasure to meet you.” “It’s an honor,” each phrase rolled from your lips, spoken with the practiced formality of routine. Despite your efforts, your wooden smile couldn’t reach your eyes, and a glance at Kit showed she wore a similar mask of indifference.

Kit had worn a dress. You shouldn’t have been surprised; it wasn’t as if Sorsha would have allowed her daughter to wear breeches to one of the most important events of the year. But you had never seen Kit in a dress before, at least not that you could remember, and it certainly was a sight to behold. The fabric hugged her figure in a manner foreign to her usual tunics, and its v-shaped neckline dipped low enough to reveal a bit of cleavage—a stark reminder of the recent lack of intimacy. A metal asymmetrical corset enveloped her waist, complementing the silver motif that adorned the rich green fabric.

Green. The color associated with Galldoorn, and also known to symbolize fertility. You could vomit.

Once the concourse was seated, the feast began. At the high table, you watched as servants poured wine and served roasted meats to the guests. Among them was the one Kit had dubbed ‘Muffin Girl,’ her long blonde hair secured with a linen coif. She kept her head bowed among the other cupbearers—ashamed to be working at her forbidden lover’s engagement party—but occasionally cast furtive glances at the high table, her gaze lingering on Airk.

“Muffin Girl has her sights set upon your betrothed,” Kit whispered from beside you. “Are you prepared to duel for his hand?”

You snorted, quickly concealing your amusement behind your goblet. “Have you spoken to your intended yet?”

“I have,” she replied, her lips curling in amusement. “I even curtsied. Like a real lady. And he sort of… grunted… and shuffled his feet. Like a real… winner.”

“So he’s a mouse,” you said, turning to look at Graydon, who sat with his father at the other end of the table. The way he choked on his wine, sputtering it down the front of his doublet, spoke volumes; much like your father, he was a royal only by blood. Otherwise, he was a meek, reticent man—undoubtedly lacking the ability to keep up with a headstrong woman such as Kit.

As you and Kit exchanged giggles and gossip throughout the meal, Sorsha rose, tapping her silverware against her goblet and commanding the room's attention. “For many moons,” she began. “Tir Asleen has maintained civility with both Azarenth and Galladoorn. Three kingdoms, joined together, but ruling separately… until now.”

Kit slipped her hand under the table and rested it upon your upper thigh. You shivered at the unexpected contact, quickly ensuring no one saw before returning your attention to Sorsha.

“In two days time,” she continued. “My son and daughter shall wed the Princess of Azarenth and the Prince of Galladoorn, respectively. At last, our three kingdoms shall be united—strengthening us and ensuring a harmonious future.” She raised her goblet. “To the brides and grooms; may they rule wisely, and justly, and foster unity and strength within our kingdoms!”

The crowd raised their glasses, clinking them together amongst cries of “To the realm” and “Hear, hear!” You turned towards Kit, studying her expression for any sign of guilt at forsaking her kingdom, but her lips were curled in a celebratory smile as she tapped her glass against yours.

You stood to the side like a hawk perched in the rafters, watching as Graydon awkwardly led Kit around the dance floor. He was a dreadful dancer, unable to meet Kit’s eye as he watched his own feet stumble over here. As humorous as the display was, your gaze focused solely on the hand he rested at Kit’s waist. You shouldn’t have been jealous, you had no reason to be; Kit barely tolerated this poor-excuse for a prince. Yet, the way he was able to hold her close, to take her hand in public without hesitation, ignited a burning envy within you.

The goblet in your hand was nearly empty, and the song had just begun. Visiting the wine table for a refill sounded tempting, but your gaze refused to stray from Kit. You told yourself you were protecting her, simply ensuring Graydon’s fingers refrained from wandering, though you knew it was senseless; Kit could take care of herself, and she would if she deemed it necessary.

Brief visions of Kit drawing her sword at the mere twitch of Graydon’s thumb crossed your mind, and you couldn’t suppress the snort that escaped.

Your amusement caught Kit’s attention, and she turned from Graydon momentarily to face you. Her eyes softened with pity; Kit had been your companion for fifteen years, and as much as you tried to hide it, she could recognize how bothered you were watching her dance with Graydon.

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed. Her face shone with concern before crumpling into another wince as her partner stepped on her toes once again.

“In need of company, Princess?”

You spun around to find Airk facing you, his lips curled in a sympathetic smile. Airk had always been handsome—a trait perhaps the reason he was so popular with the ladies—and tonight was no exception. His usually loose brown curls had been slicked back, highlighting his sharp features and piercing green eyes. A doublet the color of coffee beans decorated his torso—understated, much less ornate than Graydon’s grandiose gettup, but Airk didn’t need magnificence. Unlike Graydon, who would likely disappear into the walls of the castle if it weren’t for his crown and jewels, Airk stood forth without assistance. He was simply… Airk, prince of Tir Asleen—all the young women pined for his affections, and you were the one to marry him.

Perhaps if things were different, if you were different, you would be the happiest maiden in all the land.

”You appear lonesome,” Airk spoke again. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were completely disinterested in this entire ordeal.”

You smirked, taking the last sip from your goblet. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re referring to, there's nowhere I’d rather be.”

He chuckled, offering his hand. “Care to dance?”

You accepted his invitation, grateful for the distraction, and let him lead you to the floor. Kit caught your eye as you made your way, her face scanning yours for any sign of trivial revenge, but your warm smile reassured her and she turned back to her partner.

Airk kept his hand in yours, but moved his other to sit at your waist, while yours rested on his shoulder. Neither of you were very interested in dancing properly, so you simply swayed to the tune of the consort’s playing. As you enjoyed the silent comfort of Airk’s company, you caught sight of your mother across the room, standing with your father and Queen Sorsha. You began to realize why she had insisted you wear such a fanciful gown; the brick-red of her own garment seemed dull in comparison to Sorsha’s deep crimson one. If it wasn’t for the splendor of your golden attire, Azarenth would appear poor in comparison.

While you pondered the monotony of your mother’s attire, Airk suddenly moved closer, mere inches from your face. Your breath hitched, shoulders tensed. He wasn’t, no, he wouldn’t…

He smirked. “Surely you didn’t think I was going to kiss you, did you?” He whispered in your ear with a chuckle. “I know where I stand.”

You sighed, relieved. He wouldn’t. “Of course.”

“I was simply going to ask if our parents were watching,” he whispered again.

You peered over his shoulder, locking eyes with your mother. She wore a beam of approval you hadn’t seen since you inadvertently agreed to marry Airk as a child. It pained you, somewhat, that smile. From her viewpoint, her daughter was dancing intimately with her betrothed while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. It was all she’d ever wanted. And it was a lie.

“At last, I’m the daughter she’s always wanted.” You muttered solemnly. Airk’s mouth formed a straight line of sympathy, squeezing your hand in an attempt at comfort. “You should see their faces.”

Airk spun you around so he could see for himself, and as he did you met eyes with the blond servant tagged as ‘Muffin Girl,’ clearing tables with the rest of the staff. Her glare wasn’t as cold or threatening as it usually was towards you; instead she just appeared… sad, defeated even. You couldn’t help but feel pity towards her; you knew how it felt to watch your lover dance with another, to be promised to another.

”They do seem quite pleased,” he commented.

“Unlike your mistress,” you spun him back around, shrinking under the weight of her unbearable stares.

He glanced over at her, a momentarily flickering of longing in his eyes before turning back to you. “Is your paramour present this evening?” He asked, scanning the hall. “Wherever he may be?”

You forced a smile, fighting back the urge to correct his pronoun misuse. “Closer than you might think.”

Before Airk had the chance for further inquiries, the music ceased, signaling the end of the dance. You broke away from each other, joining in polite applause with the rest of the partygoers. He bowed, bidding you adieu before exiting the floor—perhaps in search of closure from his forbidden lover.

The dancing area was nearly empty when the consort began to play a new song—still slow, but far less somber than before. Sounds of a vielle’s plucked strings filled your ears, giving the emerging melody an almost romantic air. Your eyes met Kit’s—who had also been abandoned by her partner on the far side of the room—and you exchanged glances full of unattainable longing.

In the center of the floor stood two women, close companions from a nearby village, caressing each other with cheeks rosy from the flush of wine, their laughter louder than the music as they swayed. They drew little notice, these ladies, dancing together in their tipsy states; they appeared as merely two friends, carousing as their husbands were elsewhere.

Husbands. Surely they had arrived with their respective spouses. No one would question a married woman dancing chaste with her female companion.

Your gaze returned to Kit, and an unspoken understanding passed between you. Slowly, you moved towards each other, each step forward echoing within you like a heartbeat. Your breath caught as you finally stood face to face, skin mere inches apart, the closest you had been, had been allowed to be, all night. She didn’t speak. She had no need. Her hands moved to sit at your waist, while your arms floated up and draped around her neck.

In every story, all the romance novels you’ve read, this was the moment when the world around you was meant to melt away, only leaving you and Kit together in its sanctum. But as hard as you tried, as much as you longed to lose yourself in the arms of your beloved, you were acutely aware of your surroundings. Whispers from the concourse seemed to drown out the music, filling you with a pertinent dread. It was one thing for the two commoners to dance together at a party, but you and Kit were royals—yet to be wed—and your closeness perhaps breached propriety more than the women you sought to emulate.

“Are you well?” Kit whispered, sensing your trepidation.

All you could do was nod, mind still absent. The arms you had wrapped around her neck trembled as you buried your face in her shoulder, desperate to block out the world.

Kit chuckled. “I’m not complaining, but you needn’t hold me so tightly, Princess. You have no reason to be so envious of Prince Graydon.”

You pulled back, mouth agape, but giggled upon catching the glint of mischief in Kit’s eye. “I most certainly am not.”

“You most certainly were,” she countered. “Enough so you engaged in dancing with my brother to enact your revenge.”

“I was simply dancing with my betrothed,” you retorted with a grin. “Just as you were.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “I saw you, watching me from afar. Envy practically radiated off your body, green as my array this evening.”

“You forget yourself, Tanthalos,” you laughed, smacking her shoulder.

And in that moment—the moment where Kit held you close, her nose scrunching and eyes sparkling as she laughed with you, where you had momentarily forgotten your environs and allowed yourself to be silly with the person you loved, the one who loved you—that was the moment the world around you finally seemed to melt away, leaving only you and Kit together in this melodic bubble. Even so, you could feel your mother’s eyes boring into you from across the room, but for once, you could cast all cares and worries of her judgment aside. She had gotten what she wanted; you had danced with Airk. It was your turn to indulge.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Kit said, drawing you from your thoughts.

You gave her a small smile. “You have nothing to make up for.”

“I do,” she argued. “And I will.” Her thumb stroked the plush of your sides as she leaned in closer to whisper. “And if it weren’t obvious, you are a much better dance partner than Graydon could ever be. I haven’t checked yet, but I’m sure my poor toes are as bruised as they feel.”

You winced in sympathy, but then chuckled along with her until the song came to an end. Applause filled the hall once more, you and Kit joining in after breaking away from each other. With an exchange of curtsy’s, and a final squeeze of your hand, Kit turned and exited the dance floor, vanishing within the crowd like the last note of the consort’s melody.

As the night wore on, bottles of wine seemed to disappear from the tables, replaced only by the staggering and raucous laughter from the party guests. Servants bustled about, clearing empty bottles and mopping spills, while the retinue danced to lively music.

You were no exception to the tipsy merrymakers, the apples of your cheeks tinted pink from the mixture of claret and revelry. Strands of hair had strayed from your once-neat pinup, clinging to your forehead and the sides of your face through beads of sweat. You took another sip from your goblet as you swayed out of sync, comforted by your boozy blur and the warmth in your belly.

Kit had faded from view long ago—not that you were particularly concerned. The gathering was quite large; she could have easily merged with the throng. Although it was unlikely, given that Kit—much like her brother—was difficult to lose in a crowd, it was still a possibility. Moreover, it seemed Graydon had little taste for festivity, choosing instead to hover in the shadows or remain close to his father, as if he were a lost youth amidst a horde of strangers.

As long as Graydon didn’t wish to be seen, Kit had no need to be seen.

The night was certainly alive with the company in high spirits, but for all the sport it provided, you were beginning to grow weary. Finishing your drink, you sought solace near a window at the far end of the hall, partially concealed by heavy velvet drapes. You leaned back, catching your breath while allowing the cool glass to temper your heated skin.

As you began to relax, your breath evening out, a disembodied hand emerged from behind the curtains, seizing your arm and pulling you out of sight. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, but another hand quickly covered your mouth, stifling your cries of protest. The dense curtains eclipsed any light, and fear coursed through your veins as the shadowy figure loomed over you, overpowering your struggles…

“Shh… shh… My lady, it’s me.”

The familiarity of the whispered voice immediately calmed your nerves. You blinked, allowing your eyes to adjust to the darkness until Kit’s sweet face came into view.

“Kit, what are you…”

“I promised I’d make it up t’ you, didn’t I?”

Even in the dim light, the flush of her cheeks was evident. Her hair, once elegantly arranged, now hung about her head in a tangled mess. Each word she spoke reeked of fruit and spirits, her sentences punctuated by giggles and hiccups. Kit was thoroughly inebriated, perhaps even more so than you.

“Yes, but, I…”

Before you could finish, her mouth was on yours. She kissed you sloppily, her hands lazily gripping at your waist to pull you closer. Her lips, the heat of her breath tasted flammable, almost, yet still so intoxicating. You wanted so badly to give into her, to melt under her burning flame, but you pulled away.

“Kit…” you breathed. “Not here…”

“Why?” She groaned. “S’ been so long.”

Your eyes flickered down to her chest once again, gulping at the sight of her bare décolletage. She had a point—a dangerously tempting point—but her invitation posed too great a risk.

“If someone from the party were to find us…”

She dismissed your concern with a wave of her hand. “They’re all b’scotted. Utterly foxed. ‘S fine.”

“Kit,” you giggled. “You’re quite muddled yourself.”

“You’re one t’ speak,” she snorted. Her hands tangled in your hair, destroying what was left of your pinup as she stumbled. You had to laugh, despite yourself; although your soused stupor was much more relaxed than Kit’s, it was far from negligible.

“Alright,” you held onto her hands. “Perhaps we should retire for bed.”

“Fin’ly…”

“Kit,” you blocked her advance, despite every inch of your body screaming to give in. She groaned again, and you sighed, struggling against thoughts of what those groans might sound like under different circumstances…

No. “Surely they’ll notice our absence.”

“Graydon ‘s busy in the corner,” she slurred. “Airk ‘s gone ‘s well. We won't be missed.”

You frowned, knowing just how right she was; with your suitors missing, no one would be searching for the two of you. Beyond that, every moment spent with her in this pocket of darkness only made you want her more—to feel her on you, her mouth against your skin, her hands roaming your body. It truly had been too long, and the sight of her in that bedeviled dress did nothing to soothe your desires.

Almost as if she could sense your thoughts, as if she had planned on interrupting them, Kit pressed her lips to yours once more. This time, you didn’t resist and allowed yourself to burn under the heat of her body. You could never tire of her taste, her touch, her feeling; you could get drunk off her alone, even without the vine’s blood plaguing her breath.

The world seemed to spin faster with your oxygen now compromised, but Kit remained your anchor. You reached for her shoulders to steady yourself, but your hands inadvertently fell at her breasts. A soft whimper escaped her throat, almost inaudible over the roar of the party, but still resonant in your ears. Your fingers slid down her skin, dipping lower, lower, until they grazed the edge of that plunging neckline that had tortured you all night. She only spurred you forward, seizing your hips and pressing them against hers as your touch ventured beyond the fabric of her dress, fingertips exploring the delicate flesh that lay beneath it.

God, she was soft. How was she always so soft?

Her breath quickened, the hot air tickling the skin around your mouth. You took it as an incentive to lose yourself further and further in the arms of your lover, drowning in her warm embrace and the taste of Falernian wine that still lingered on her tongue. She was all-consuming, and the way she gripped at your sides told you she felt the same way about you.

You were both so absorbed in each other, so immersed in the private world you had created, that neither of you noticed the blinding scourge of light that intruded upon it.

Followed by a shrill scream.

That you did notice.

Pulling back, you ignored Kit’s whines of protest and squinted at the disruptive brightness. There, in front of you, was none other than Muffin Girl, clutching the velvet drapes and wearing a look of terror. Behind her stood an equally-stunned Airk, and you swore, for but a fleeting moment before they separated, their hands were intertwined.

You were frozen in place; her scream had alerted the party’s multitude. All eyes fell unto you as the music ceased, the hall became as still as the private chapel during prayers. Your gaze surveyed the room, taking in the varied facial expressions of your party guests—shocked, horrified, disgusted, perhaps even some lascivious interest from a few less-than-respectable individuals. Sorsha’s visage was different, however—still aghast, but not directed towards you, rather slightly lower, and that’s when you felt Kit tugging at your wrists.

Realization hit you like the strike of a battering ram; you had yet to remove your hold on Kit’s breast. Queen Sorsha of Tir Asleen, your hostess, your future mother-in-law, had just happened upon you with your hand down her daughter’s dress.

Immediately, you stepped back and let your hands fall to your sides, yours and Kit’s faces flushed and fear-stricken as you desperately tried to smooth yourselves out. But when you looked up for the final time, catching sight of your own mother’s face, you knew then and there you had reached far beyond the point of no return. You expected her to yell, to scream as Muffin Girl had, or to react with the fury of a siege engine, but she did not. She merely composed herself, turned on her heel, and walked briskly out of the hall. Your father trailed after her, and you knew you were expected to follow as well.

The rest of the party wasn’t far behind. Never before in Tir Asleen had a gathering disbanded so quickly.

Your mother didn’t bother to escort you to your guest chamber, nor even to her own. The first private place outside the ballroom happened to be the solar, so that’s where you ended up. You hadn’t been in the solar before, but it left much to be desired; tall wooden walls matched the floor, nearly barren save for a lone table in the center with benches on either side.

It was ironic, almost, that they called this room the “solar;” it was practically as frigid as your mothers demeanor.

She paced about, waiting for your father to shut the door behind you before dropping her pretense. “Do you loathe me?” She asked, taking you by surprise. “Do you? I can’t fathom what I’ve done. My own daughter, to hold such malice…”

“Mother…”

“I chose a fine young man for you to wed,” she interrupted. “I even granted you fifteen years to grow accustomed to him. I thought it would be cruel, then, to force my daughter into marriage with a stranger, but I now see that would have been best.”

“Mother…”

“After all I’ve done for you, after everything your father and I have done for you,” she turned towards him, seeking his support, but he merely shrunk under her piercing gaze. “Is this how you repay us? Such grievous betrayal…”

A storm of conflicting emotions roiled within you—anger, guilt, fear—but none of them were for your mother. “It is not about you!” You shouted, catching her off guard. She did nothing but stare back; mouth agape; never before had you raised your voice to her. “It was never about you.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, as if she was choking on her next words, before her eyes narrowed. “I never held her in good favor, I’ve always been wary of her influence on you.”

“Pardon?”

“That wretched friend of yours, she has corrupted you. Brought you to the ways of this unnatural lifestyle…”

“It was not her doing,” you snapped. “And we are not friends!”

“How are you not ashamed to speak such words?” She exclaimed, her face twisted with a frenzied fury you were unfamiliar with. “How are you not as abashed as I am? My daughter. Princess of Azarenth. Consorting with her betrothed’s sister, and at her own engagement party no less!”

You hung your head, not ashamed of your love for Kit, but at having been discovered. She noticed your change in bearing and sighed, casting her eyes to your father as she wrestled with her thoughts. “Perhaps… perhaps Airk could still agree to marry you. You were quite wine-sodded tonight, yes? As was Kit? If we offered that as an excuse, and an apology, of course…”

“I do not intend to wed Airk, Mother,” you confessed, your gaze still lowered.

That made her freeze. A tense silence hung in the air before your father’s voice broke it, his tone cautious and uncertain. “Princess… do you mean to say… you intend to wed Kit?”

“Of course not,” you replied; though the idea was compelling, you knew it wasn’t feasible. “I do not intend to stay here at all. And neither does Kit.”

Your parents' faces twisted in confusion, and your pulse quickened as the weight of your words settled over them. As you stared back at them silently, defiantly, their expressions slowly shifted to terror, despair, and… fear?

“Darling…” your mother hesitated, her eyes wide with panic. She displayed a vulnerability you had never seen before in your usually imperturbable mother, and it filled you with unease. “You must stay and marry Prince Airk. We need our alliance with Tir Asleen!”

“Why?” You demanded. “There are many kingdoms with which we could ally, some where I wouldn’t need to marry at all! What could Tir Asleen provide that is such a necessity?”

As your mother stammered, desperate to find the right words, she turned to your father for help, but alas, he tucked his head like a turtle retreating back into its shell. She sighed. “Princess… Azarenth is penniless.”

“Pardon?” You exclaimed, shocked. “Penniless?”

She nodded. “As a poet without a patron. Fifteen years ago, Queen Sorsha agreed to offer financial aid in return for your engagement to her heir.”

You looked to your father for any sign of jest, but his eyes softened only with pity. “Without your betrothal, our union will be severed, and our people will surely starve.”

The world seemed to crash down upon you as everything suddenly made sense—your parents’ insistence on abiding with Airk, how they always seemed to sycophantize with him and Sorsha, the size of Azarenth and how it lacked resources compared to Tir Asleen, how you always seemed to visit the twins and rarely the other way around, your mother’s dress, and how she was so importunate about your appearance, insisting that you look as wealthy as possible.

Your head swam, feeling as if the floor were slipping from underneath you. You pushed past your parents and collapsed onto one of the wooden benches. “Impoverished…” you whispered to yourself, contemplating where your priorities truly lay—your loyalty to your people, or your loyalty to Kit…

It didn’t take long for the Tir Asleen ballroom to clear, but if inquired, Sorsha would swear she spent years of her life stationed near the doorway, cheeks afire as she bid farewell to each scattering guest. The King of Galladoorn barely paid her any mind as he stormed off to his guest chamber, Graydon in tow, both visages aglow for varying reasons.

While his mother busied herself with mending the falloutl, Airk moved his sister to a nearby table, handing her a goblet of water to dilute the alcohol in her stomach. Kit groaned as she sipped from the goblet. Her head pounded; even while seated the room still seemed to spin. She lazily tugged at her corset, its constriction suddenly becoming too much for her to bear.

Airk sighed, reaching back to relieve his twin of the restricting garment. “I must say, I’m intrigued to see how you plan to explain this,” he whispered as he gently undid the laces. “I haven’t seen Mother so enraged since she caught me reading the lewd literature as a lad.”

Though the corset was loosened, Kit still felt her stomach clench as she glanced at her mother. Sorsha’s calmness, though eerie, was intensified by her flushed face, as crimson as her gown. As soon as the last guest departed and Sorsha closed the ballroom doors, the atmosphere shifted to one of unease. Airk noticed immediately, and busied himself with clearing tables, determined to stay out of his mother’s line of fire. Kit gulped as her mother approached, the dread forcing her mind out of its drunken haze.

“I’m not sure why I’m surprised,” Sorsha began, her expression stoic. “Twenty-one years I’ve endured your antics. I once thought it was mere childish theatrics, that you’d surely mature beyond it, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Kit also remained expressionless as she continued to sip from her goblet. She was used to being scolded, berated by her mother, to the point that it had lost its sting long ago.

Sorsha, however, was far from finished. “I just never imagined my own daughter would go as far as to make a mockery of her own kingdom, and for what? To thwart a betrothal? To evade your royal responsibilities?”

Her voice grew louder with each sentence. Kit groaned, clutching the side of her still-throbbing skull.

Sorsha knelt to her daughter’s level until Kit could feel her breath warming her face. “Goblet’s ache? You should give thanks to the gods above for your intoxication tonight,” she continued. “Without wine’s influence, the inquisition would surely have your head after your misdeed this evening!”

Kit’s earlier dread settled like a pit in her stomach at her mother’s words. Sorsha was right; in her lustful, wine-soaked stupor, she had risked not only a scandal, but possibly your lives as well.

Nausea bubbled inside her; she clutched her stomach, desperately fighting back the bile that threatened to rise. Airk quickly noticed his sister’s disposition, and rushed over after grabbing a maid’s bucket off a nearby table.

Sorsha scoffed at her son’s compassion, watching in disbelief as he held Kit’s head over the bucket. “Honestly Kit, did you ever stop to consider how your brother might feel about all this? If I were him, I’d leave you to wallow in your own excretion.”

Upon being mentioned, Airk’s head lifted to look at his mother. As betrayed as he knew he should have felt, as shocked as he was to learn his intended’s paramour turn out to be his own sister, he couldn’t deny, he had been keeping his own secrets. And if Kit’s was so harshly exposed against her will, perhaps alluding to his own could alleviate her burden. “I care little, mother…”

His words grabbed Sorsha’s attention, drawing it away from Kit momentarily. “How can you not?”

“I don't love the princess,” he admitted. “And she doesn't love me.”

Sorsha merely waved off his confession as if she were flicking away dust. “Marriage isn’t about love, Airk! Few engagements begin with love, you learn to love!”

“I have been in the princess’s company for fifteen years,” he argued, beginning to raise his voice before using her own choices against her. “I have not grown to love her, and you and father’s union was not arranged!”

“I married a reckless man because I was ‘in love’ with him, and look where that got me! I ruled a kingdom alone while raising two children, and he’s dead in a ditch somewhere in Nockmaar!”

“That’s where I shall be, too,” Kit interjected.

The raspy sound of her voice took Airk and Sorsha by surprise. They slowly turned to face her. “Kit…” Sorsha began. “What do you mean, that’s where you shall be?”

Kit glanced up from her bucket, her eyes red and watery. “Nockmaar,” she gurgled. “The princess… we’re not staying…”

Both Airk and Sorsha’s jaws dropped in horror at Kit’s remark. Airk was the first to speak. “Kit, you’re not serious…”

“Nockmaar?!” Sorsha cried. “B-but your father… and the Wyrm…”

“Safer than here…” Kit muttered, dropping her face back towards the bucket.

It was Sorsha’s turn for her head to spin; visions of the dire fates that might befall her daughter danced in her head—nightmarish scenarios her mother had long foreseen. She could practically taste her own heartbeat; she knew her daughter better than most, and recognized her obstinacy derived from her father. When Kit had her mind set on something, there was no stopping her, regardless of the peril; Kit would willingly risk everything—even her own life—if it meant being with her beloved.

Without another word, Sorsha turned on her heel and exited the ballroom, leaving her twins behind as the doors shut behind her.

Tag List: @chloepricesgirl @canmargesimpson @yourelliewillms @valenftcrush @camilleee222 @prettygirlfemme @slaytillieswooo @lovinglynny @joanvisitsrome @athenalive @mih11 @j-pacifica @everybodyhatesari @vii-ofswords @sofi4v13 @detmarmalade @at1nyzen @ikyk-leeknow @ingigisworld @willowthegremlin

[ninyard]

I can literally picture Andrew tweeting something at the Olympics like “the food here is eh and the chocolate muffins really fucking suck” and then Neil just comments “Andrew is hoarding the muffins. He stole them all off the table, ate ten immediately, and is hiding the rest in his nightstand drawer rn”

I just love the other Olympians now posting tiktoks like “I can’t find any muffins the muffin man stole them all” meanwhile he’s stashing them next to his bed. That’s soo Andrew my sweet tooth king

I also saw someone do a tour of what the grocery store in the Olympic village is like and they have ice cream so I KNOW that boy is buying so much ice cream

[denpa-dere]

house arrest 4

afab!mc x asmo description: NSFW, you are confined to your room for your own protection. But how long will that last when the only thing standing between you and your housemates is a door and some willpower? Asmo knows you need a break.

warnings: breeding kink with talk scents/scenting, afab reader with she/her pronouns. dubcon warning!!! This one turned out sounding kind of sketch in places, but actions depicted are intended to be consensual. spoilers: aphrodisiac used.

|| Intro || Mammon || Asmo (mini) || Levi || Satan (mini) || Beel || Lucifer (mini) || Asmo || Belphie (mini) || Belphie || Barbatos (mini) || Satan || Diavolo (mini) || Purgatory I ||

Asmo:

Asmo: I heard what happened. 

Asmo: If you need a little something for those love bites, come see me. It's incredible what Devildom cosmetics can do. 

Asmo:

You puffed a little laugh watching the messages roll in. Leave it to Asmo to be so sweet under such ridiculous circumstances. 

Turning your phone face down on the pillow beside you, you folded your hands over your chest, staring up at the ceiling and taking inventory of the situation at hand. In the motion, your hands briefly brushed against a stray bite mark, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain throughout your body.

You had, by your estimation, about three more days under the microscope. The halfway point had snuck up on you amidst a flurry of seemingly nonstop activity. Until now, you hadn't had a chance to breathe, let alone strategize. 

Responding to those messages meant walking straight into a trap, of that much you could be certain. Truthfully, his distance thus far had surprised you. Asmo was something of a dark horse; an unpredictability bubbled just under his surface. Surrounded by his sin, comfortable and in his element, there was no way of knowing how his behavior would manifest. 

Well, there was one way. 

___

“Aww, muffin! You came!” Asmo cheered, swinging the door open before you could even knock. He flung his arms around your neck and pulled you into a tight hug. 

He paused to take a good look at you, lightly chiding: “You're a mess, you poor thing! Come on, let's get you fixed up.”

Linking his arm in yours, Asmo led you inside where he left you waiting at the edge of his bed while he broke away to dig through a readily prepared stash of bottles and assorted sundries.

“Brutes, all of them,” He clucked his tongue, “You’ll have to tell me all about it, obviously.”

You laughed, settling back amongst the pillows, “They’re not so bad. They’re trying.”

“Please. You coddle them,” The demon teased, rolling his eyes at you, “Meanwhile, you look like a chew toy.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No need to worry, Asmo-chan is here!” He sing-songed, joining you on the bed with an armful of products, “And I’ve got just the thing- I brought my most powerful arsenal.”

This seemed… normal? Too normal, you thought. Asmo chattered on happily, laying out his choices one-by-one and explaining the benefits of each. All else aside, it felt like any other spa day. Perhaps you shouldn’t have been surprised that The Avatar of Lust remained unfazed in the face of something that may very well be considered a mundane part of his domain. After all, Asmo had been the one to keep a cool head back when…

“Sounds good?” He chirped, holding up a jar in the shape of a deep purple crystal, eyes glittering with excitement.

“S-sure!” You nodded, hoping your eagerness covered up the fact you had entirely zoned out during his presentation.

“Yay~” He unscrewed the lid, “Then we can start with ones on your neck.”

You tried to relax, craning your head to one side. Asmo gathered some of the lightly-scented balm between his fingers and you sighed when he softly traced the sensitive marks.

“This stuff works quickly,” He assured you, extending the motion down to your collarbone, “I didn’t think Beel would be so bitey. On second thought, I guess it does make sense…”

With a practiced familiarity, you reached to pull your shirt overhead, “I think he got me on my back, too.”

“Ooh, lemme see!”

You rolled onto your stomach and buried your face into one of about a thousand silk pillows. Asmo gasped. Chuckling to himself, he wasted no time getting to work on your shoulders, and although you jumped at his touch at first, you soon found yourself sinking into its warmth.

You were feeling pretty warm. 

“They're fading already,” Asmo said, sounding impressed with himself. He positioned himself over you, straddling your hips for purchase, ministrations straying closer to a massage than a cosmetic treatment. 

“Is that why I'm so warm?” You asked, groaning in appreciation as he helpfully teased out a knot between your shoulder blades. 

“That's probably the magdalena extract,” He giggled, breath tickling  the shell of your ear, “Like I said, this stuff works fast.”

You rolled the name over in your mind, trying to remember where you had heard it before. A fog was encroaching on your thoughts, swaddling your head in a thick haze reminiscent of being wine-drunk. 

“Do you like it?” The fifth-born's voice stayed soft and playful as his hands glided down the small of your back. You set your remaining thoughts aside and sighed again, feeling yourself become putty in his hands. 

“Good,” He cooed, nuzzling your neck and nipping gently at your ear, “Then, do you want to turn over so I can get the rest of you?”

You hummed in agreement, turning underneath him when he rose up on his knees enough for you to move. Once situated on your back, Asmo lowered down to sit on you, again; his lithe frame light enough to not cause any discomfort, but heavy enough to keep you in place. You studied him through lowered lashes– he truly was beautiful.

“Ah, there you are,” He said as if seeing you for the first time. He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, tangerine gaze raking over your flushed body.

Magdalena extract. 

The name continued to echo somewhere in the back of your mind. 

Asmo collected a generous amount of the salve, warming it between his hands before tenderly cupping your abused chest. His tongue poked out cutely between his lips in concentration, perfectly manicured fingers trailing feather-light over fading teeth imprints and rapidly stiffening nipple peaks. 

It's an aphrodisiac. An alarm bell sounded somewhere in the distance. You were too far away to pay it any attention. 

“I swear, these boys have no idea how it's done,” He murmured, more to himself than to you, and leaned in to take one of your nipples into his mouth. He lapped around the sensitive bud, sending you reeling. Your eyes rolled back as your body exploded in sensation, arching off the mattress. 

What the fuck was that? You wouldn't have time to think too hard about it. 

“Shh,” He lovingly shushed you, stuffing two fingers in your mouth, “You don't want to get us caught, do you~?”

You whimpered around the digits’ probing–  even their intrusion was starting to feel good. Asmo turned his attention back to your body. He trailed his free hand down your side, tracing the hem of your waistband. 

“Can I?” He looked up at you with a hopeful smile. You nodded, eager to shed the remaining clothes covering your feverish skin. Asmo removed his fingers from your mouth to help shimmy you out of your bottoms. 

“You know,” The demon said, parting your legs to sit between them, “Your scent has been driving me crazy for almost a week now.” He pouted, “It's pretty rude.”

Goosebumps cropped up along your thighs, following the path of his hands applying more healing balm. You lifted your hips for him, allowing space for him to slip his hands under your ass.

“Besides, everyone's been paying attention to you,” Asmo huffed, kissing each of your hip bones. Your eyes watered. “That doesn't seem fair.”

“ -‘m sorry,” You managed to whine, rolling your hips against your will. You ached for more. 

He giggled again, placing a few more kisses along your stomach, “Aww, that's okay. We'll have plenty of time for you to give me attention. Lucifer thinks I left the house hours ago.”

The words hardly registered. Asmo offered you two of his fingers again, which you readily accepted into your mouth. You twisted your tongue around them and sucked, and he looked at you like you hung the stars. 

He was right. There was plenty of time 

to be spent lavishing one another with affection– and what more perfect place to start, he thought, than playing with your adorable puffy clit until you cried that you loved him. 

You had all night, after all. 

[vanillemi]

some love for our favorite valentine ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡

[angel-of-the-moons]

Mr and Mrs Knight

Steven Grant (Marc Spector + Jake Lockley) x Curvy!Fem!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, body dysmorphia, smut, suit kink, glove kink, fingering, PiV sex, creampie, squirting, misuse of The Suit™ (and truncheons), cosplay, established relationship, fluff

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I am unashamed to admit that suits are fucking hot and the shit they do to me is what I imagine straight men feel when they see a VS model in lingerie. And Steven is hot. So is Marc. And Jake and Oscar in general you get the rest. Imagine the Mrs Knight suit looks something like this. (Also featuring the headcanons by @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction for Jake's craftiness!)

Taglist: @mundivagantsoul @belle-oftheball34 @steven-grants-world @denile-xo @whatevenisagrapefruit @hagridnmegamind @sapphire-and-ruby

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It had been a banger of a night. A fun Halloween bash at the museum, amazing costumes, great food. Donna even seemed to be in a decent mood. But of course that woman could have been faking it.

You and Steven decided to go with matching costumes. In a gross abuse of Steven, Marc, and Jake's status as Moon Knight, you'd convinced him to use his "Mr Knight" suit as his costume.

Jake helped you make yours to match. Finding the majority was easy enough at thrift stores (despite Marc's insistence that you should buy a new one), the mask was what was the pain.

That's where Jake's expertise came in. Sure his main skill was in knitting, but that didn't mean the man wasn't nuanced in other ways to make clothes. You couldn't count how many times Jake would stitch up the seams of your favorite jacket that you just refused to throw away, or how many times he'd hit you with that smug smile when you blubbered about how awesome he was for giving extra life into your jacket so you could wear it juuuust a bit longer.

Your mask turned out to be almost a perfect replica of his, complete with glowing lenses to match Steven.

You were nervous when you got dressed, looking in your floor-length mirror at your reflection.

Your hair was pinned back neatly to allow you to pull the mask on or off (because unlike Steven's, which was magically suited--pun intended--to be comfortable) without much problem, and you would still appear "flawless" as Steven put it.

But right now, you were having second thoughts. You weren't sure you liked how the skirt fit you. Or the blazer.

The waistband of the skirt squeezed your waist and the rolls of your tummy, the creases in the fabric seemingly emphasizing every imperfection you saw in yourself.

Your transparent white stockings were not helpful either, the bands squished the fat of your thighs in a way that made them look like muffins, even moreso than your tummy. They kept rolling down so much you had to buy garters to wear beneath your skirt just so they'd stay up...

You frowned at your reflection as the skirt rode up your legs, showing off the cute lace trim of the stockings and your squishy thighs; honestly if you weren't careful, or you bent over the skirt would bare your ass to the whole party.

You were tempted to go and grab that last minute shitty vampire costume you had stashed away, when Steven walked in, already dressed immaculately in that gorgeous white suit of his.

He adjusted the tie, not looking at you as he does so.

"Hey, luv, I'm fairly ready. I can help you with your makeup now, if..." His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth feels suddenly very dry at the sight of you all dressed up.

His tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip, moistening it as he clears his throat.

"You look good."

"Oh.... Thanks." You mumble shyly, trying to pull the edges of the blazer down to cover the rolls poking out of your skirt a bit more.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong, beautiful?" He said softly, moving up to you.

"I... I look like a marshmallow." You sigh hesitantly, your tone full of self-deprecation.

"Hey, now." Steven smiled sweetly, wrapping his arms around your waist as you tucked your face into his lapel.

"You're the most gorgeous marshmallow on the planet if that's the case." He told you, kissing the top of your head.

He felt something press down on him, and he looked up at the mirror, getting a full view of your back, but he saw Marc's face staring back at him with a cringed expression.

(Dude, that was the shittiest compliment ever. What woman wants to hear her being compared to a marshmallow??) He hissed.

Steven was about to retort, before you started bubbling out on laughter at how silly his compliment was.

"That was so corny." You snicker.

Steven gave a smug smirk at Marc before looking down at you with a soft, lovesick smile.

"Yeah, well, you love my sense of humor, eh?" He winked.

"Yeah... I guess I do." You smile back.

"Now, then! Your makeup. Let's sit you down so I can work on it for you!"

Whenever you had your doubts about your appearance, Steven, Marc, or Jake would pipe in and alleviate your worries. Sometimes all three at once, though rapid switching would often cause problems for them (like migraines).

You kept your eyes closed as Steven carefully applied your highlighter to your cheekbones, the brush tickling your skin, his shaky breaths ghosting over your face.

He would mumble some curses when he messed up, but would correct his mistake.

When you had asked him where on earth he learned to contour and highlight he shyly admitted he watched half a dozen tutorials on YouTube to get it perfect for you.

You felt the coldness of the liquid eyeliner as he painted on the wings with the white liner, the silver and gold glitter further adding to your look.

"'Kay luv, open your eyes so I can apply your mascara." He murmured, looking down in your makeup kit for the said cosmetic.

Once he did, he pulled out the black tube and made sure there was no excess before he carefully combed the white creamy substance on your eyelashes, lightening them up to enhance the face he'd helped apply for you.

Once he was finished with both eyes, he leaned back and allowed you to blink, smiling that puppy dog smile of his in satisfaction at his handiwork before placing the mascara tube back in the kit.

He lifted his hand and shook the bottle of setting spray so you wouldn't accidentally sweat it off or wipe it off with something during the night (or god forbid it rub off on the inside of your mask).

"Close em again for me."

You couldn't help but smile at his level of gentleness and politeness.

You restrained from physically recoiling as the cold setting spray hit your skin and quickly dried.

"Now, do you want to put on lipstick now or when we get to the party?" He asked as he watched your sickeningly gorgeous lashes flutter open. All the white, silver, and hints of gold on your face enhanced your eyes and their color, the very depths of them stealing his breath away.

"We can do it now. I have liquid matte and regular lipstick." You reply, smiling once again.

"Which would you prefer?" Steven asked you.

"Whichever you think would look best."

He sucked in a breath that his lungs were suddenly starving for, and grabbed the liquid tube.

His hand gently cupped your chin as he brushed the satiny lipstick onto your lips, carefully lining them so it wasn't too much. He'd even dipped his finger in your cosmetic glitter and applied a very gentle amount.

"Gorgeous." He breathed.

"Aww..." You giggle, thankful for the glitter and makeup that hid your blush at his praise.

"Now then... Let's go, shall we?" He said, taking your hand to help you stand and slip in your white heels.

As the two of you left, Steven could hear Jake in the back of their headspace.

(Que hermosa... Be careful, hermanito. If she bends over, I just might take over for the rest of the night and have that ass for myself.)

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Mr and Mrs Knight. That's what you two went as for the party. You two even won the prize for best couples costume!

Sure it was just a gift card to some restaurant, but it was exhilarating to hear how people adored your matching outfits.

And you couldn't help but notice all night that Steven simply couldn't keep his hands off of you.

He would get like that sometimes; working himself up like that, but trying to be subtle. You knew it was only a matter of time before an awkward boner would be the cause for the two of you to leave early, so you excused yourself to the restroom under an excuse to check and see if your makeup needed retouching or if you could go the rest of the night without your mask.

But you got a little nervous when two women went into the lavatory after you, and you felt trapped within your stall. You simply couldn't stand the glances from other women you were getting all night. You were afraid these two women who were clucking at each other like hens were amongst the ones judging you.

And your fears were confirmed.

"I can't believe that such a handsome guy would pick a blimp to be his girlfriend." One of them scoffed as she applied a fresh layer of brick red lipstick. As if she didn't have enough on already.

You felt your heart sink further inside of you as the other joined in.

"I know, right? It's gotta be her tits, only thing I can imagine. Maybe her ass, too." The other laughed as she touched up the false blood on the corners of her mouth.

"Either that or she gives good enough head that he can overlook the fact that if she ever got on top she could crush him." The first one snickered.

Your hands knotted in the mask you held in your hands, threatening to tear the stitches Jake so lovingly sewed in for you to wear tonight. You bit the inside of your cheek harshly as the two gossiped further.

"Ugh, and the sad thing is, he's cute, for a bookworm who won't shut up." The second sighed.

"Ugh, I know... I can look past the blabbering if I can see what he's packing."

"Right? I wonder if he's as good with his mouth as he is with his stupid history facts." The first giggled.

You gritted your teeth. You couldn't take much more, you knew that. Insulting you, you could take and bottle up to deal with later, probably in the heat and privacy of your shower.

But talking about Steven like he's some kind of... sex toy? No. Hell no. If you were anything, you were insanely protective over your boys. Even bordering on possessive at times (of course the same was true for the boys about you).

You were done.

You slammed the stall door open and sort of enjoyed how startled they seemed when they saw you, their jaws dropping when it hit them that you heard everything.

You hurriedly wash your hands and slip your gloves back on, gripping your mask in your hand tight as you spare them a backwards glance before leaving the lavatory to find Steven.

You felt sick to your stomach and you wanted to go home...

When you found him, his brows knitted upwards in concern at how tight-lipped and tense you were when you gripped his sleeve tight.

"Ey luv, what's wrong?" He murmured to you, leading you away from the crowd.

"I... I just want to go home." You say, the words those women said about your body weighing down on you, and the things they said about Steven burning hot in your gut. You weren't sure what to feel with this cocktail of emotions.

"Hey hey, okay we can leave." He says, kissing you on the forehead.

"Let's go."

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The walk back to your flat was... Difficult. You could barely hold yourself together, suddenly hyper-aware of every roll and stretch mark on your body, even the slight double chin you had when you moved your head a certain way.

It wasn't until you were in the lift of your building that you finally broke down, your reflection staring back at you in the walls of the tiny space, crushing down on you with every imperfection you saw.

You couldn't keep in the bubbling sobs, or the fat tears that rolled down your cheeks and ruined the makeup Steven worked so hard to put on you.

He cradled you against him and cooed to you, saying sweet nothings and whispering nothing but praise for your looks, rubbing your back and kissing your hair.

In the various angles of the reflections, and the oppressive feeling weighing down on Steven... He could see and feel Marc and Jake.

Both looked pissed. Marc almost looked violent.

(If anybody talks like that about our muñeca again...) Jake trailed off.

(Oh trust me, I'll do the honors.) Marc growled.

The walk back into your flat felt horrid. You didn't just cry, you ugly-cried. You ruined your makeup, your hair fell out of the pins, and your skirt rode up more with every rushed step you took to hurry up and get in to get into some baggy clothes that didn't showcase your body.

You didn't feel cute or sexy anymore, you felt... ugly.

And Steven didn't like that one bit. Marc and Jake retreated, knowing that their anger at your injured self-opinion wouldn't help. This kind of situation was a Steven situation. He knew best how to be the sweetest person on the planet with you.

But right now he wasn't feeling particularly sweet. Sure, you were upset. But he couldn't help but get a good look at you as you walked ahead of him, the skirt riding up so much that he could just barely see the black and blue panties you wore beneath, your cheeks peeking out from the edges of the fabric, the garter straps clinging desperately to your stockings in effort to keep them up your gloriously plush thighs to keep them up.

He felt hot beneath the collar, his trousers getting uncomfortably tight as blood flowed straight to his cock.

The moment the door closed behind you, your hands, trembling and rushed, went to unbutton the blazer to get it off of you quicker, sniffles and tiny sobs sneaking out of you in the process.

However, your actions were halted when Steven placed his hands gently on your shoulders from behind, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your blazer, trying to soothe you.

"Love. You're gorgeous. Beautiful." He breathed, resting his forehead against the back of your head, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo.

"Steven, I'm... I'm not." You sniffle. "I'm fat, I can barely squeeze into a pair of jeans, I can't even shop at normal clothing stores for women. I get looks when I wear anything tight, and--and the things I hear people say about me--"

Your voice is broken off when you hiccup, feeling another sobbing fit try to get out of you.

"You don't understand what I'm sayin', luv." Steven smiled into your hair, ever patient.

"You're the prettiest girl in the world to us. You don't need a flat belly, or toned thighs to be pretty. You're funny, you're warm, and you're soft."

You made a shocked squeak when his hands snake around you, his gloved hands gripping at your belly and squeezing the plushness there through your clothes.

Your denial died in your throat when Steven rolled his hips into you, his hard cock throbbing as he rutted into the curve of your ass.

"You wouldn't be able to get to me like this if I didn't find you the most gorgeous woman on the planet. You wouldn't get Jake to say the filthy things he tells you in bed. You wouldn't have Marc snuggling you and resting his head in your lap or on your belly..."

His breathing got heavier as he rocked his hips into you further, a bitten-back whimper dying as he swallowed hard.

"S-Steven--"

"You've been driving me insane all night. This skirt looks so good on you." He says hotly in your ear, his fingers rolling up the hem of your skirt to reveal your panties and garters, making you gasp again.

"Those stockings huggin' you so tight. Been thinking about how badly I want to have my head between your legs, tonight." He growled.

Before you could say anything else, his gloved hand went up to your mouth and he tapped your lips, begging for entrance. Powerless to resist him, you let him press his fingers into your mouth, your tongue wetting them effectively before he pulled them away, and slipped down into your panties

He dragged one of his fingers up your puffy lips, parting your folds before he turned his attention onto your clit.

"S-S-Steven--" You whimper when he starts to circle the little nub.

"Hush, now. Let me show you, eh?" Steven said, biting at your earlobe softly.

You couldn't fight it, you couldn't fight the warm nectar that gushed out from you at his words and affirmations. All your mind could focus on was how wonderfully his fingers toyed with your cunt, deftly rolling, pushing, and pinching your clit in every way he knew that brought you the best pleasure, the fastest.

Your mind practically went blank when he curled two fingers into your weeping hole, the leather around his digits making them thicker than they normally would be, and providing a luxurious texture to your clit as he massaged you with his palm. His mouth trailed down your neck, breath hot on your skin as he bit down and sucked.

It wasn't like when Jake did this to you, no. Every one of them had different methods, different touches...

And Steven was particularly good at balancing out the sweet and the hard, paying more attention to your own pleasure than his. Sometimes, he would get so lost in pleasuring you he'd cum in his pants without even being touched.

This time was no different... in no time at all, he had you cumming so hard you almost fell to the floor, your slick gushing out and soaking the glove.

He smiled sweetly into the skin of your neck as he eased you forward, so you could press your palms on one of his desks, thighs quivering as you recollected yourself.

You barely saw through your haze clearly enough to catch Steven licking his glove clean through the reflection in the mirror on the desktop, his eyes closing in satisfaction at your savory taste.

You half expected him to drop to his knees and eat you out, next, but he doesn't. He just stands there for a moment, staring at you with a lidded and loving gaze, curls falling forward over his forehead as they always do.

That's when your self-consciousness rears its ugly head, and you pinch your legs together, and try to wiggle away from his gaze, to retreat to the safety of the bathroom and escape from his heated staring.

But in a flash, Steven is on you again, his hands gripping at your hips and that's when you feel the hot, heavy weight of his leaking cock slap against the barely clothed flesh of your ass as he rolls your skirt up completely over your hips.

"Steven!" You squeak.

"Hey, now... 'M not done showing you yet." His voice croaks out, heavy and barely coherent as the silk fabric of your panties brushes the head of his dick.

He groans, giving one more roll of his hips against your ass, smearing more precum on the fabric and skin, there; before he gripped the base, lining his cock up to your weeping hole.

"Fuck, luv. So soft. So wet f'me." He said, voice strained from barely contained arousal.

You squirmed, still feeling inadequate despite Steven's words and assurances.

God, you wanted him. You wanted him so badly. But right now you just felt so... so...

Your thoughts cut themselves off when he reached behind him, and from beneath his coat pulled out one of his engraved truncheons.

Placing it in front of you and gripping it with his other hand, pulling you tight against him as he thrust sharply into you, sheathing himself in one whole go, the tip of his cock slamming upwards so suddenly you felt his tip smush your cervix before he eased back.

"B-baby--" You whine, despite yourself.

"Not runnin' away, luv." Steven grunted into your hair as he thrust into you, his hands gripping tightly on the truncheon, using the bar to squeeze against your belly and hold you against him while he fucked you raw.

You couldn't fight the snapping of his hips or his raw need for you, right now. You couldn't hold back the moans and whimpers he wrenched out of you with each punctuation of his hips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--" You hear him wheeze as his thrusts get more and more desperate.

There is a metallic clang as he tosses the truncheon to the floor in favor of gripping your thigh and lifting your leg so your knee was on the desktop.

You let Steven guide you so you're practically laying face down on the desk, his cock still spearing you open, pussy fluttering around him at the change in position.

You were taken by surprise when he grips your wrists next, ripping off his tie before slipping it over your hands, before tying them together at the curve of your back. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but tight enough you couldn't squirm free.

He hesitated a moment. As nice as it would be to watch the soft flesh of your ass bounce and ripple while he fucked you... He didn't want to do it like this.

So, without further hesitation on his part, he gripped you, lifting you off your feet and rolling you so you were laying with your upper half on the desktop, pulling your legs up so your calves rested on his shoulders, all without dislodging from the warm tightness of your cunt.

You whimpered as he does this, and try to wriggle from his tie so you could cover your face, your running makeup and smeared lipstick.

Your pitiful, chubby face--

"Hey, hey..." His voice is soft and shaky as he leans in, cupping your cheek with one hand as your thighs squish against the both of you.

He caresses your soft cheek with a thumb and he smiles.

"Don't hide from me, sweetheart. You're gorgeous and I want to see you."

"Steven, I..." You whimper as your pussy clenches around his shaft, making it twitch inside of your tight, gummy walls.

His eyes rolled back with a groan.

"I'm not gonna stop until you see what I see." He grunts, dragging his cock out slowly until only the tip remains inside of you, the rest of your cunt squeezing desperately around nothing.

You're barely given a moment of respite before he snaps his hips into yours again, fucking you relentlessly and hitting your sweet spot over and over withe every arch of his hips.

Some of Marc's precision was bleeding into him as he aimed the tip of his cock like a weapon against your g-spot, pounding into you hard and fast, stoking the fire in your belly so hotly that you felt the embers scatter throughout your veins, every nerve in your body aflame in pleasure.

His left hand kneads the soft skin of your thigh, squishing and rolling the plush flesh beneath his gloved fingers before he slips his other hand between you, circling your clit mercilessly, making you shriek with every sharp thrust of his hips.

He loved how your body jiggled and bounced with every thrust; how your tits were bouncing so hard that they were spilling out of the top of your bra cups, your blazer falling completely open around you, now.

Despite still being fully clothed, you felt utterly naked beneath his gaze. Fresh tears burned in your eyes as he crammed his cock into you over and over again, his fingers working your second orgasm out of you faster and faster with every swipe of his fingers.

"It's okay, luv." Steven moaned, turning his head to plant a kiss on the inside of your knee, the leg he was squishing in his fingers.

"Cum for me, yeah? Show me how pretty you are." He pants, his thumb pressing hard into your clit.

That was all it took, the friction of his fingers, the thrusts of his hips, and each jab of his cock, plus his words? You were on cloud nine, brain fried and all sense gone as drool dribbled down your chin and you cum with a choked cry, babbling out his name over and over as your body clamps down, gushing around his cock, spraying out and soaking his hand and the front of his suit.

Steven, poor, loveable, goofy Steven could never hold out too long after you came, the squeezing and milking of your pussy was simply too much for him to bear.

Your eyes rolled back and you felt yourself spasm in an aftershock as you felt the hot ropes of his cum painting your walls a milky white, flooding your hungry cunt with everything he had to give you.

He drops your leg, wrapping them around his waist as he leans in and kisses you roughly, his tongue pushing past your lips to twine with yours and steal your recovered breaths.

"See... You're fucking beautiful. Wouldn't do this to us otherwise." He mumbles against your lips.

"Oh... God." You whimper.

Your mind ticks back into sanity and you realize the two of you are still clothed. Your outfit was of course mussed, but Steven was almost completely immaculate. The only thing he was missing of his suit was his tie, and the only sign of mess was the wet stain on his front, and his cock still sheathed inside of you.

"Hmm." He hummed softly, looking down at you with the softest gaze he could fix on you.

Steven gave you a sweet kiss to your forehead before he moved his mouth to the shell of your ear.

"And if you still don't believe me... Jake and Marc want to have a word with you."

[ghosty-zero]

Sonadow one shot number #17: The Easter Bunny

Sonic loved a lot of things—chili dogs, freedom, adrenaline rushes—but there was something oddly magical about Easter.

It was a sunny spring morning, the kind that made the world feel alive again. Blossoms were blooming, birds were singing, and Sonic was practically vibrating with excitement as he zipped through his little stash of pastel-colored decorations.

"You're telling me this is a holiday," Shadow said flatly, arms crossed as he watched Sonic string up paper eggs across the trees. "For a rabbit."

Sonic grinned, not looking up. "Not just any rabbit! The Easter Bunny! He sneaks into your house, hides candy everywhere, and gives you excuses to eat your body weight in chocolate. What's not to love?"

Shadow blinked. "Sounds like an intruder with poor strategic priorities."

Sonic laughed, twirling a plastic egg between his fingers. "C'mon, lighten up, Shads! You've had birthdays, right?"

"...Tolerated them."

"Well, this one's like a birthday for everyone. But with baskets, neon grass, and egg hunts! We're doing one later."

"An egg hunt," Shadow repeated, tone void of amusement. "You're willingly hunting down hollow ovals of artificially colored sugar bombs."

"Exactly!" Sonic said, looking far too pleased with himself.

Shadow stared at him in silence for a long moment. "Why."

"Because it's fun!"

Shadow sighed and glanced up at the sky, as if praying for strength. "Why must everything you do be fun."

"Because everything you do is broody," Sonic teased, elbowing him playfully. "That's why we balance each other out."

Shadow looked like he was considering teleporting far, far away.

Sonic zoomed inside the house with a blur of blue and an armful of tulip garlands, humming a cheerful tune that didn't seem to have a consistent rhythm—or key.

"Okay! Front door's got the bunny wreath, the kitchen's got pastel napkins, and this—" he held up a disturbingly pink banner that read Hoppy Easter! "—is going right over the fireplace!"

Shadow narrowed his eyes at it like it was a weapon. "That's grammatically offensive."

"You're grammatically offensive," Sonic quipped without missing a beat as he hopped onto the couch and tacked the banner above the mantel with a swirl of ribbon.

Shadow stood off to the side, arms folded, gaze flicking around the room that was rapidly transforming into a springtime explosion of glitter and commercialized joy. Little bunny figurines now stood guard beside the TV. A decorative wooden sign that read Egg-cited for Easter! leaned precariously on the bookshelf.

He said nothing.

But as Sonic zipped into the kitchen, babbling something about carrot cake muffins, Shadow moved.

First went the creepy glass-eyed bunny near the TV—tucked swiftly behind the couch cushion. Gone.

Then the hideous pastel garland wrapped around the stair railings—slipped off in one smooth motion and stuffed behind a potted plant.

By the time Sonic returned with a tray of sugar-coated chaos, the room was about 20% less offensive to Shadow's sense of order.

Sonic blinked. "Huh. I thought I put a bunny next to the TV."

Shadow shrugged, poker face in full effect. "Must've imagined it."

"Hmm." Sonic eyed the bookshelf. "And wasn't the 'Egg-cited' sign crooked earlier?"

"Perhaps it fell. Tragic."

Sonic frowned for half a second... then brightened. "No biggie! I've got ten more decorations in my room!"

Shadow's jaw tightened.

This was war.

***

By noon, Sonic's house looked like a seasonal store had exploded inside it.

The table was covered in a pastel tablecloth covered in glittery eggs. The couch was now home to at least six plush bunnies, all with lifeless button eyes and unsettling smiles. One wall proudly displayed a crayon drawing of the Easter Bunny wearing sunglasses, giving a thumbs-up.

Shadow stood in the kitchen doorway like a ghost.

"I've lost control of my life," he muttered.

Sonic, meanwhile, was practically glowing. "The gang's coming over soon! Amy's bringing dyed eggs, Tails has this machine that launches jelly beans, and Knuckles... well, he's bringing fists, but that's just kind of his thing."

Shadow's expression didn't change, but a small flicker of distress passed through his crimson eyes. "How long will they be here?"

"Till sundown!" Sonic beamed. "Oh man, I should make little bunny ears for everyone. Hold on!"

As Sonic zipped off, the front door flew open—thankfully not kicked in by Omega this time—and the chaos arrived in waves.

Amy stepped in with a basket of vibrantly dyed eggs, grinning ear to ear. "Happy Easter!"

Knuckles followed with a confused look and a fistful of chocolate eggs he was definitely not supposed to be eating. "Is this like... a fighting holiday or something?"

Tails trailed behind with a metal contraption strapped to his back that whirred ominously. "Don't worry! I fixed the jelly bean cannon after last time!"

Shadow stood in the kitchen like a statue, arms crossed as pastel madness multiplied in real time. Omega had been stationed discreetly on the lawn—surveillance only, for now—but Shadow's eye twitched as someone (probably Sonic) stuck cotton tails on all the chairs.

Rouge appeared next to him like a stylish angel of reason. "Ready for the takedown?"

"I'm moments from snapping," Shadow said quietly. "The eggs have faces, Rouge. Faces."

"Chill," she said, tossing him a black duffel bag. "We do this clean, fast, and quiet. No one notices the decorations are disappearing until it's too late."

The operation began. While Sonic and the others launched jelly beans at targets in the backyard, Shadow and Rouge moved like trained professionals—sweeping through the house, swiping bunny plushies and egg wreaths like they were defusing bombs. One by one, the crimes against minimalism vanished.

And then it happened.

Shadow turned a corner into the hallway—

—and came face-to-face with a six-foot-tall human in an Easter Bunny costume.

Big pink ears. Wide, glassy cartoon eyes. Puffy white cheeks and a frozen, dead smile.

Shadow froze.

The Bunny waved. "Happy Easter!"

Time stopped.

Shadow's pupils shrank. "What—what is that," he whispered, backing up.

Rouge peeked around the corner. "Oh hey, Sonic invited a guy in a bunny suit for photos. Pretty sure he's paid by the hour."

Shadow stumbled back like the floor betrayed him. "It's real. The Bunny is real."

Rouge raised an eyebrow. "You okay, handsome?"

"No," Shadow said, clutching the wall. "He's just standing there. Watching. Smiling."

The Bunny gave a cheerful thumbs-up and waddled past them with slow, exaggerated steps. Shadow pressed himself against the wall like it might absorb him.

"See you later, little guy!" the Bunny chirped at Tails, who smiled and waved.

Shadow's eyes narrowed. "It speaks."

"Yeah," Rouge said casually, sipping a mimosa she absolutely smuggled in. "You act like it's a demon summoned from the depths of a spring-themed hell."

"It might be," Shadow growled. "Why is it always smiling? Why does it know my name?"

"It didn't say your name."

"It thought my name."

Rouge didn't even bother arguing.

Over the next hour, the Bunny roamed freely, spreading joy and terror in equal measure—depending on who you asked. It handed out chocolate eggs, posed for pictures, and tried to hug literally everyone.

Shadow, meanwhile, moved through the house like a paranoid ninja, keeping a strict five-foot radius between himself and the Bunny at all times. The moment the costumed figure entered a room, Shadow casually exited it. If the Bunny turned down the hallway, Shadow phase-jumped to the kitchen. When the Bunny sat on the couch, Shadow perched on top of the fridge like a gargoyle.

Sonic eventually noticed.

"Hey, Shadow, you haven't gotten a picture with the Bunny yet!"

"I'm good," Shadow said immediately, already backing up.

"Oh come on, I think it likes you!"

Shadow's jaw clenched. "It watches me when I'm not looking."

The Bunny turned from the group photo it was posing for and waved again.

Shadow bolted. Rouge, biting back laughter, followed him out onto the porch.

"Wow," she said, flopping into a lawn chair. "I've seen you punch gods in the face. But the Easter Bunny? That's your limit?"

"It's the teeth," Shadow muttered darkly. "They're too... perfect."

Rouge cackled.

"No one else sees it," he muttered. "No one questions it. They just accept it."

"Accept what, exactly?" Rouge said, now sipping her drink just to hide the grin on her face.

"The eggs," Shadow said grimly, pausing mid-step. "They're everywhere. Hidden. Planted."

Rouge raised an eyebrow. "Planted. Like—like traps?"

"Exactly." Shadow snapped his fingers, pointing at her. "Disguised as innocent pastel candy, but what are they really hiding? Surveillance devices? Explosives? Psychological warfare? Mind control jelly beans?"

Rouge nearly snorted her drink.

"And another thing," Shadow said, eyes gleaming with too much intensity for a sunny afternoon, "why is it a bunny? Why not a chicken? Chickens lay eggs. That makes sense. But instead? It's a rabbit. With eggs. That it didn't lay."

Rouge stared at him. "You think the Bunny... stole the eggs?"

"Or worse." Shadow leaned in, voice dropping. "Maybe the Bunny lays them anyway. Somehow. And no one questions it. That's not festive—that's unnatural."

Rouge was crying from laughter now. "You've officially lost it."

Shadow didn't flinch. "This isn't a holiday. It's an operation. A coordinated attempt to normalize the abnormal. The smiling costume. The random egg-laying symbolism. The candy that tastes like regret."

"Shadow," she wheezed, wiping her eyes, "have you ever tried just... enjoying a holiday?"

"Have you ever considered the implications of a species that doesn't lay eggs doing so with a smile and a bow tie?"

"Accept what, exactly?" Rouge said, now sipping her drink just to hide the grin on her face.

"The eggs," Shadow said grimly, pausing mid-step. "They're everywhere. Hidden. Planted."

Rouge raised an eyebrow. "Planted. Like—like traps?"

"Exactly." Shadow snapped his fingers, pointing at her. "Disguised as innocent pastel candy, but what are they really hiding? Surveillance devices? Explosives? Psychological warfare? Mind control jelly beans?"

Rouge nearly snorted her drink.

"And another thing," Shadow said, eyes gleaming with too much intensity for a sunny afternoon, "why is it a bunny? Why not a chicken? Chickens lay eggs. That makes sense. But instead? It's a rabbit. With eggs. That it didn't lay."

Rouge stared at him. "You think the Bunny... stole the eggs?"

"Or worse." Shadow leaned in, voice dropping. "Maybe the Bunny lays them anyway. Somehow. And no one questions it. That's not festive—that's unnatural."

Rouge was crying from laughter now. "You've officially lost it."

Shadow didn't flinch. "This isn't a holiday. It's an operation. A coordinated attempt to normalize the abnormal. The smiling costume. The random egg-laying symbolism. The candy that tastes like regret."

"Shadow," she wheezed, wiping her eyes, "have you ever tried just... enjoying a holiday?"

"Have you ever considered the implications of a species that doesn't lay eggs doing so with a smile and a bow tie?"

"...Okay, that's kind of fair."

Just then, the Bunny popped its head out the door. "Photo time!"

Shadow didn't even blink before vanishing in a blink of red light.

***

A few minutes later, after dodging the Bunny three separate times and phasing through two walls, Shadow found Sonic alone in the backyard, lounging beneath a tree with a fistful of marshmallow chicks and a big dumb grin on his face.

Shadow appeared beside him in a flicker of red light, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

Sonic blinked up at him. "Whoa, you okay, Shads? You look like you saw a ghost."

"I saw something," Shadow muttered, glancing warily toward the house. "And I have questions."

Sonic popped a marshmallow into his mouth. "Shoot."

"Why," Shadow said, slowly and deliberately, "do you love this holiday so much?"

Sonic paused mid-chew. He looked up at Shadow, the wind catching the tips of his quills.

"...Because it makes me feel like a kid again."

Shadow blinked.

Sonic smiled—soft this time. Real. "I don't know. Something about the colors, the candy, the egg hunts... It reminds me of the days when things were simple, y'know? When the only thing I had to worry about was whether I'd find the golden egg before Knuckles did."

Shadow was quiet. The wind blew again. Birds chirped.

Sonic shrugged. "I guess it's dumb, but I like feeling like that kid again. Just for a day. Like the world's not so heavy."

Shadow stared at him, arms slowly lowering. His scowl eased just a fraction.

"...I'm terrified of the Easter Bunny."

Sonic choked on a marshmallow chick. "Wait—what?"

Shadow's ears flattened slightly. "Its smile is unnatural. Its eyes are hollow. It's a bunny that lays eggs, Sonic. Eggs. It defies logic, biology, and everything I hold dear."

Sonic burst out laughing. Full-on, head-thrown-back, stomach-clutching, can't-breathe kind of laughing.

"I'm glad my trauma amuses you," Shadow deadpanned.

"Oh no, no, I'm not laughing at you," Sonic gasped between wheezes. "I'm laughing at the mental image of you, the Ultimate Lifeform, running from a dude in a fuzzy pink costume."

Shadow crossed his arms tighter. "He cornered me in the hallway. He said 'Happy Easter' in a tone that suggested it was a threat."

Sonic doubled over. "I can't—Shadow, buddy, please—he was literally handing out chocolate eggs—"

"That could've been bait," Shadow snapped. "You don't know."

Sonic wiped a tear from his eye. "This is going in my memory vault forever."

Shadow scowled. "I've faced alien overlords, time gods, and chaos-fueled warlords. But this is the thing that breaks me."

"Look, I get it," Sonic said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "He's got weird energy. Like, Chuck E. Cheese meets fever dream. But he's harmless."

"He tracks my movements," Shadow muttered.

Sonic laughed again. "I'm never gonna let you live this down."

"I will destroy every egg in this yard."

"You won't," Sonic smirked. "Because deep down... you love me."

Shadow narrowed his eyes. "That's emotional manipulation."

"Yup," Sonic grinned. "And it's working."

Shadow grumbled something low and bitter, but didn't pull away from Sonic's arm.

Not even when the Bunny waved from inside the window.

Not even when Sonic whispered, "He sees you."

Shadow flinched.

Sonic cackled.

[rockspider556]

Fence Headcanons :)

Nicholas Cox

Literally survives on spite and protein bars.

Always forgets to do laundry until he has one sock left and has to go rogue.

The first time Seiji complimented Nicholas’s form, Nicholas actually dropped his sword.

Cries at sports movies. Don’t ask him about Cool Runnings, it’s a sore subject.

Secretly really good at baking? Like, his muffins slap. It’s the only thing that calms him down before matches.

Is one step away from writing in his diary, “Dear Diary, Seiji said my lunge was ‘adequate.’ I’m in love.” He can’t handle compliments, and Seiji’s deadpan delivery makes it even worse.

Seiji Katayama

Has a secret Pinterest board titled “How to Be a Normal Person.”

Pretends he doesn’t know Niccholas’ schedule. Knows exactly when Nicholas eats lunch, does cardio, showers, breathes.

Thinks “small talk” is talking about fencing footwork at brunch.

Keeps accidentally complimenting Nicholas. “Your form is... improving.” (Translation: “You look really hot when you lunge and I hate how flustered that makes me.”)

Sleeps exactly 7 hours and 43 minutes every night. No more, no less.

Definitely has a Spotify playlist called “Fencing Focus” and it's just classical music and anime OPs.

Harvard once caught Seiji watching a slo-mo video of Nick fencing. When asked why, Seiji said, “Tactical review.” Sure, Jan.

Harvard Lee

Can and will carry 7 grocery bags in one trip to prove a point.

Keeps trying to play wingman for Nicholas and Seiji and doesn’t even realize he’s in a rom-com subplot himself.

Binge-watches reality TV with Aiden and insists it's “cultural research.”

Brings snacks to practice. Everyone likes Harvard. He probably brings homemade trail mix.

Literally the only person Jesse can’t successfully intimidate. Jesse tried once—Harvard just offered him trail mix.

Aiden Kane

Sleeps in until 3 PM and still looks flawless.

Gives off “I have a secret” energy constantly. Spoiler: the secret is just that he has feelings. Ew.

Smokes clove cigarettes for the ✨aesthetic✨ but never inhales.

Secretly writes poetry that would make Lord Byron blush.

Hoards a secret stash of Harvards favourite candy, just in case

Totally flirts with Nicholas just to make Seiji uncomfortable.

Bobby Rodriguez

Has never minded his own business. Wouldn’t know how even if you gave him a manual. He’s the team’s self-appointed romantic consultant and professional meddler.

Has an outfit for every possible occasion, including “dramatic rooftop monologue” and “accidental kiss in the rain.”

The best at comforting people. Like, instant emotional support in a crop top.

Ships Adrien x Harvard like it’s his full-time job. Makes PowerPoints. Adrien has seen one slide and walked away in horror. Harvard gave it a standing ovation.

Made a meme calendar of all the fencing boys. It’s iconic. It circulates every month.

Knows all the drama in the school, even the stuff that hasn’t happened yet.

Jesse Coste

He says he’s over Seiji, but the second Seiji smiles at Nick? Suddenly Jesse’s in a bad mood all week. "I'm just tired," he says, while death-staring a wall.

Has dreams where Nick messes up so badly Seiji gives up on him. Wakes up smug. Realizes it didn’t happen. Gets grumpier.

Every time Nick does something well, Jesse gets this flash of “That should’ve been me.” Then feels gross about it. Then sass-bombs practice to compensate.

[the-most-humble-blog]

You want to know one of the most pride‑igniting, chest‑puffing things a man can hear once he’s absolutely certain you’re his?

---

It isn’t “I love you.” Hell, it isn’t even a “good morning, handsome.” It’s something far more elemental:

“Hey, [Corny Pet Name], can you grab me some pads from the store? The [Ancient Sanskrit‑sounding FemPantyLiner™], please. Here…” hands him the money “...and I’ve got things to do.”

That’s it. No fanfare. No rose petals on the bedroom floor. Just a quick request—and the trust to let him handle her most private necessities.

---

1. The Power of the Simple Ask

Think about it. You call him “Loki,” “Muffin-Flinger,” “My Dangle‑Low Sausage with Balls” (don’t laugh—it’s endearing in your head). You hand him a few crumpled bills, sigh, and walk away, as though fetching feminine hygiene products is the most mundane chore on the planet.

In that moment, he’s not just your errand boy; he’s your provider. You’ve handed him a piece of your vulnerability—a token of trust—and invited him to step into your world. He doesn’t gripe. He doesn’t sulk. He doesn’t try to turn it into a “manly” macho contest about brawn or disdain. He accepts it.

---

2. The Feminine Hygiene Aisle: A Masculine Catwalk

Now imagine him in the store. He approaches the feminine hygiene aisle with the solemnity of a general entering the war room. He stands there a beat too long—deliberately—pretending to study the shelf tags. Maybe he hums under his breath. Maybe he shoots a glance at a woman nearby to telegraph: “Yeah, I’m here for her. Proudly.”

This isn’t embarrassment. This is peacocking—subtle, macho, profoundly satisfying.

He’ll pretend he’s deep in thought: scanning options, comparing ABSORBENCY RATIOS, memorizing UPC codes like they’re the Rosetta Stone of love. All the while every man and woman in that aisle knows what he’s doing: “Yeah. He’s got pussy waiting at home.”

---

3. Denial and Male Solidarity

Most men would never admit that this small act lights up their entire day. In the locker room, you’ll hear “Oh, she wanted me to buy tampons?” followed by snorts and jokes. But deep down? Every man in that aisle past understands. They remember the spark when they first fetched her “emergency stash” at midnight. They recall the burners they had to hide in cereal boxes.

We all carry this secret pride to the grave. Denial is the silent oath we swear to each other—never let her know how much this means to us. We’ll brag about the car we bought her, not the box of pads. We’ll talk about the vacation we funded, not the tampon heist at CVS.

---

4. Provision as Proof of Love

Why? Because for millennia, a man’s worth was measured in his ability to protect and provide. In the modern world, fetching a box of panty‑liners might be less glamorous than fending off wolves, but the principle is identical: you saw a need, you answered it, and you did so without question or complaint.

Whenever she unwraps a fresh liner, she thinks of his hands—strong, steady, willing. That tiny strip of cotton becomes her daily reminder that he’s there, watching her back in ways no one else sees. That’s love. That’s partnership. That’s devotion.

---

5. Hot and Bothered All Over Again

And let’s not forget the other side of the coin: last night’s heat. While he stands in that aisle, his mind drifts back to her skin, her gasp, the way she twisted around him until both of them trembled. In the shower this morning, the hot water can’t wash away the memory of her back arching, the scent of her hair, the way she cried his name.

He’s half‑mast under the spray because she is the force driving him from dawn to dusk. The simple act of caring for her body’s needs only fans the flames of desire flickering in his loins. Every pad he tucks under his arm carries the echo of her moans, the promise of her laughter, the covenant of their shared nights.

---

6. Wolves in the Chest

But the wolves are howling now. Not outside, but inside—the deep‑down hunger that only she tames. He must never let her see that beast prowling in his eyes when she bends over to tie her shoes, or when she drifts to sleep on his shoulder. She must always find him the stoic lover, the impossible puzzle she’s determined to solve.

Because the moment she peeks behind his calm facade and sees the raw hunger… she might realize she’s not safe with him. And a fate worse than death for any man is for her to walk away, convinced that he’s a monster, not the hero she needs.

---

7. The Line Every Man Walks

Every relationship dances on a razor’s edge: pull her under your shield, bring her into your world, let her see your scars—or risk pushing her away forever. If he guards too fiercely, she chokes. If he reveals too much, she trembles. So he balances, day after day, blending strength with tenderness, distance with closeness, hunger with reverence.

Fetching those pads is one of the tightestrope’s steps. He leans in to prove his love, then straightens, letting her glimpse only the hint of that lean, never the full plunge into his passions.

---

8. Denial as Honor

He’ll never text her, “Hey, getting your pads makes me hard.” He’d rather die than admit that. Instead, he’ll call it “running an errand,” stand a second longer in the aisle, and grin like a proud warrior returning from battle. He’ll hide behind normalcy so deep that even he forgets how badly his heart stutters at her happiness.

This is the code: love through provision, devotion through denial. He honors her trust by never making her question his intentions. He honors his hunger by never letting her fear it.

---

9. Universal Male Truths

There are a handful of truths most men keep to their graves:

We measure our worth by her well‑being.

We define our masculinity by the sanctuary we create.

We find our greatest pride in caring for her smallest needs.

We love her through actions she might consider trivial.

Fetching feminine hygiene supplies tops that list. It’s intimate. It’s unglamorous. It’s perfect.

---

10. Final Word: Pride in the Mundane

So yeah. Ask him to grab her pads. Use your dumb pet name on him. Slip cash into his palm and walk off like you’re headed into battle. Watch his chest inflate, his stance harden, his eyes gleam.

Because nothing says “I love you” more than trusting him with the parts of you you can’t show the world. And nothing sets a man ablaze like the chance to prove his loyalty in the flaming crucible of everyday life.

He’ll stand there, in that aisle, pretending to compare brands—but every second is a victory lap. And when he hands you that box of liners, he’s not saying, “Here’s your protection.” He’s saying, “Here’s my heart.”

---

🔁 Reblog if you’ve ever felt that warrior‑pride fetching her feminine needs. 🛡️ Save this for the mornings you want to remind him what that small act means. 🔥 Send to the man who stands a second longer in the hygiene aisle just to show he’s yours. 💭 Comment with one word: Shielded. 📌 Bookmark if you’ve ever watched him peacock in pads and loved him for it.

Reblog if you know that true love is measured in the mundane.

⚖️ BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ DISCLAIMER This isn’t etiquette advice. It’s psychosexual cadence warfare, mythic loyalty doctrine, and emotional battlefield architecture disguised as relationship fluff.

If you’re offended, you were never meant to hold the shield— you were meant to watch it break.

[ifitmeanslosingyouthenno]

hold on (you must be hurting)

day 15 whumptober prompt: childhood trauma | painful hug | “i did good right?”

david was tired of his kids having to confess their darkest secrets for the entire world to judge and know and scrutinize

first it was the twins during aaron's trial, now it was neil for nathan's

it was fucking unfair to have his kids have to relieve their nightmares for the sake of proving they were only trying to save themselves

at least, with the twins, they had their small and unconventional family, they had nicky, they had their respective partners, they had betsy (andrew had betsy)

david could at least breathe knowing that they had someone to rely on, someone who could hold them up when they felt like falling, someone who could get them back together after it was over

after aaron was declared innocent thank fuck

david can't have the same reassurance about neil

not after his resident danger magnet decided he didn't want anyone with him during the trials up in dc, not even andrew

something that andrew obviously didn't appreciate

but david tried to understand him, even if his motives are stupid, tried to understand how hard it is for him to relieve every one of his father's crimes he remembered, tried to understand how he didn't want them to look at him and see his father, or worse, see his father's son

he was going to be there for the kid when he got back and innevitably broke down, when he forced his exhausted body on the court to get all that stress out until he couldn't go any longer

he was going to make sure both him and andrew were okay and well and safe

at least that was his plan until the redhead himself calls him one night before he's meant to return, voice shaky and smaller than he has sounded in years

"hi coach, i know it's kinda sudden, but can you come to dc tomorrow?"

it brings back harsh memories, of a new years eve turned sour in the form of a beat up neil, of a marked neil against his will

"what time do you want me there kid?"

he says kid out of habit, but neil hasn't ever felt quite as child-like as he does when he sighs out of relief loud enough the phone picks it up

"i have to be at the court at 8"

he doesn't have to say it, david hears the "can you be here before that?"

"text me the address kid"

david just lets matt know he's going to have to act as coach and captain for tomorrow, avoids answering why, just tells matt he'll give him a bottle of whatever he wants when he gets back

he has the decency to let andrew know as well, that he's had an emergency with one of his recruits out of the state that he needs to take care of

david knows that andrew suspects something is going with neil, but is counting on his refusal to ask for things, not to mention his deep respect for neil setting a boundary

he gets two of hours of sleep at most, and leaves just at midnight, making the seven hour drive up to DC with enough coffee in his system he doesn't even feel tiredness pull at him

neil is waiting for him in the lobby of the shitty hotel they stashed him in, a couple of too obvious feds around him, failing to pretend they aren't there to protect him

it makes david's blood boil

neil looks small sitting on a too big chair, picking at his cuticles hard enough that david would bet he's bleeding

at the motion of his entrance, neil looks up, and david's heart clenches in his chest at the sight of his bloodshot eyes and the deep bags under them. he's practically swimming in andrew's oversized jersey, and despite it not making sense, he looks as if he's lost weight in the past 4 days

neil's hands are twitching, and it takes everything in david not to reach for him and hold him close, but instead he thanks his foresight of buying him a breakfast muffin and a fruitcup in a diner he found on his way, and he hands neil the takeout bag

neil takes it with shaky fingers, silent, but his eyes speak enough in his stead

david doesn't push him

"i see the feds still suck at blending in"

that brings the smallest of smiles to neil's face, and he opens the takeout bag, staring at the muffin and the diced fruit with eyes bright and emotional, before taking a deep breath

"tell me what i've missed"

it's the only words neil speaks the entire time they're in that hotel lobby or on the ride over to the court, but david is more than happy to distract him with talks of practice the last 4 days

he makes sure to also let him know about how andrew and his foxes have been doing, about how they've been safe

the next thing he knows, they're entering a courtroom, mood somber and cold and wary

david sees the change in neil, sees the way he doesn't seem like he's there at all, but somewhere else entirely, and he talks over the things he's been and the horrors he's lived through as if they happened to someone else, as if it doesn't affect him still

if nathan wesnisnki and his circle weren't dead, nothing would stop david from going after them himself, not after everything they put neil through, not after they hurt him as bad as they did, not after they tortured him as a literal fucking child

he can't ever imagine being so cruel, being such a fucking piece of trash as a human, that you willingly abuse and torture and almost kill your own fucking child

he wouldn't imagine killing your child's mother in front of them, just for daring to want to get a chance at a better life, away from violence and crime and everything the wesninski and moriyama families did

(even if to david's knowledge, mary hatford was no saint either)

he's shaking with anger once they let neil walk off that stand, looking defeated and half gone and suffering

he wants nothing more than to jump that wooden barrier and get to neil’s side as he sits by the fbi agents protecting him

he has to stop breathing when almost shily, neil looks up and searches for david's gaze, meeting his eyes just enough that his shoulder lower oh so minutely, but it's everything

they go on a break, one where neil silently sits curled up in the corner of the bathroom, one of his guards with his back to the door, and one of david's cigarettes clutched tightly between shaky fingers

david himself aches for one, but he knows neil needs them more than him, even if he doesn't actually smoke them

from then on, neil is only called up to the stand one last time, and he looks so bone deep exhausted david is trembling with rage

how dare they make his kid tell them all of this again? hasn't he been through enough? hasn't he told them enough? what more could they possibly need?

and how dare they demand this from him?

by the time they let him stand, his legs are shaking so bad he stumbles once and has to catch himself on the stand, leaving the judge to stare at him with pity

where was that pity when they were forcing him to retell the worst moments of his life?

the moment the judge announces that nathan wesninski is found guilty of first degree murder of at least 34 people, at least the same amount of kidnappings, torture, fraud, withholding information from a federal investigation, and many other things, david is sprinting towards the flimsy doors separating him from his kid

he has no idea what neil needs right now, but whatever it is, he's going to be by his fucking side, he's not letting these bastards torture him any longer

neil is looking for david too, and it makes something in him break when he looks at those eyes brimming with tears

neil surprises him when he throws himself at david's chest, all but collapsing with his arms around his waist before david can even blink

neil josten is hugging him

neil josten who once upon a time flinched away from him when he moved too fast, neil josten who has the worst things in life associated to men old enough to be his father, neil josten who has never seeked out support this explicitly

the same neil, his neil

it's not until he notices neil's shuddering breaths, that he breaks out of his shock, and pushes past the discomfort, pushes past his own walls, pushes past his hurt, and he throws his arms over neil's shoulders as gently as he can

he feels neil trembling, doesn't know if it's out of grief, or pain, or shock, but he does his best to be what he needs, awkwardly soothing him with gentle movements

it doesn't last more than a minute or two, before neil is pushing away softly, gathering his strength to stand up on his own, breathing steady despite it all

his voice remains soft, softer than david has come to associate with him, closer to a whisper than anything else, and neil can't quite stop the waver in it

"i did good right?"

and david wants to scream, wants to curse the world who has hurt his kid so badly, wants to scream at the fbi for being unable to find proof of everything that bastard ever did before it was this late, wants to scream at them for not protecting neil sooner

he takes a deep breath and doesn't do any of that, doesn't let his expression be true

he places a hand on neil's shoulder, easing some more of that tension off his small frame

"yes you did kid, i'm really proud of you, you know?"

neil doesn't quite smile, but his eyes finally soften, finally ease

david doesn't understand how anyone could never hurt his children

because they were his, even if he didn't dare admit it, even if some were the biggest assholes on the planet, even if some were problematic beyond repair, even if some just couldn't stop themselves from tauting the literal fucking mafia

they were his children, david's, and he would rather chop off his own hands than hurt them

he would give his own life to keep them safe

he would do anything for them

"come on kid, let's go home"

(he would never admit that his bond to neil was different than that with anyone else, not even to himself)

idc if it's ooc for neil to hug wymack, they're father and son to me and neil wants to hug wymack and who am i to stop him, you can pry dadmack from the cold hands of my corpse title from son by palace (hugely recommend it for the purpose of this day's vibes)

[halfarchived]

🗝️ 𓂅 regressor love quinn headcanons ( 1/2 )

cw : death mention, spoilers for you s2 + s3

🥧 . . . Love involuntarily regresses around 0-4. she's especially tiny after high stress, major events. when she slips, she becomes quiet and clingy, often quietly seeking out warmth and physical contact.

🗝️ . . . Forty was the first person to know about Love's regression. she never had to tell him; he knew without an explanation. she once asked him how he knew, and he simply shrugged and said, "it's a twin thing."

🥧 . . . Joe figured it out after Forty's death, when she struggled to control her regression after the stressful events. she kept it completely hidden before, though Joe had noticed some signs. he cares for her in his own detached way -- offering comfort, reading to her aloud.

🗝️ . . . Theo picked up on it over time. unlike Joe, Theo noticed because he paid attention. he didn't need years with Love to see how her demeanor changed when she was overwhelmed. he saw the way she softened, how she'd go non-speaking, and how she seemed to shrink into herself. he doesn't call her out on it, but he subtly adjusts -- speaking more gently, offering small reassurances and hugs, never making her feel like she had to explain.

🥧 . . . when Love regresses, she often goes non-speaking or struggles to string together the right words, so she relies on sign language to communicate. Forty understood it all; Joe takes longer to catch on. while Theo isn't fluent, he can catch on to enough key words that help him figure out what's going on

🗝️ . . . even regressed, Love insists on baking and cooking, determined to prove she's capable. she clumsily measures ingredients, forgets key steps, growing increasingly frustrated when things don't go as planned. if someone tries to take over, she pouts and huffs, arms crossed in stubborn defiance. it's only when she's too overwhelmed that she finally let's someone help

🥧 . . . when Love accidentally regresses at work, she instinctively heads to the basement, where she keeps a small stash of comforting things -- most importantly, her pacifier. the cage, meant for trapping dangerous situations, becomes her quiet hideaway. she's frustrated and fussy when she's trapped someone inside the cage and she can no longer access her hidden pacifier, the thought of leaving behind her precious comfort item too overwhelming.

🗝️ . . . Love will sometimes bake with her regressed self in mind. she prepares soft, comforting treats (fluffy muffins, rice krispy squares, sometimes even cupcakes) knowing that they'll soothe her when she inevitably slips. it's one of the few ways she cares for her smaller side

🥧 . . . she'll sometimes force a small tea party upon Theo -- bringing out the treats she baked that day and a small pot of tea. he humours her, complimenting the baked treats and watching her beam