#small seal script

[illustrationsbychristina]

Anyone on here happen to understand Chinese seal script? I’m designing some Power Rangers for a tabletop campaign and am having a hard time trying to decode it on my own.

[simplyghosting]

I must..carve.. another…. wax seal…

[sunriseverse]

genuinely my one regret with going into academics rather than the trades is that i can’t make my own real life san’e because i’m not a metalsmith………………..but on the other hand, if i hadn’t pursued academics, i would be stuck at the level of chinese i retained from growing up and probably wouldn’t have gotten into the field of studies i did, meaning without the resources i have access to sunrise wouldn’t have expanded and flourished in my mind and in conception and worldbuilding the way it did, so……………i guess i’ll just have to save up money to pay someone to custom forge me a copy of my made up sword from my made up alternate fiction canon.

[romanofftherealest]

Bearer Of The Seed

Summary: Natasha Romanoff was a complex and dangerous woman, unpredictable, impulsive and arrogant—those are the only things you know about her. So the thought of being connected to her through a child was unsettling, to say the least. Yet you knew, as soon as the words of the scripted vows you loathed to say forcefully fell from your lips, there was no turning back.

Pairings: Targaryen Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Word count: 5.1k

Tags | Warnings: +18 HOUSE OF THE DRAGON AU, AMAB!Natasha, Targayen!Natasha, top!Natasha, bottom!r, smut, angst, forced marriage, Natasha plots to make r pregnant while r plots to deceive Natasha, lots of chasing, dubcon, breeding kink, rough sex, bleeding, creampie, fingering, overstimulation & squirting (r receiving)

Author's Note: Scheduled repost

⧗

"Father, smith, warrior. Mother, maiden, crone, stranger…"

The words felt like acid on your tongue. Each one stinging you as they leave your lips. You loathed having to say them. You loathed having to agree. This wasn't some love match. It was the voice of a prisoner accepting their fate.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Natasha, refusing to blink despite the tears forming. You will not cry. Not in her presence. You will not give her that satisfaction. So you try your best to stand tall, to be defiant. Though it's hard when you feel so completely defeated as you said the final words that will seal you both forever.

"I am yours...and you are mine. From this day...until the end of my days."

The last word was hardly out of your mouth when Natasha took a step forward and captured your lips with hers. Natasha's grip on your hips tightens as she pulls you firmly against her. Her lips are rough and insistent as they move against yours. You can feel the tension and desire coursing through her as she claims your mouth in a possessive, greedy kiss.

With what seems like great effort, Natasha breaks the kiss. She takes a step back and you notice a sly smirk slowly appear on his face as she watches you try to catch your breath and you so badly wanted to wipe that on her face. Clearly, she was enjoying the effect she had on you, but you will not make this easy for her.

You will make sure to play this game on your hands, not hers.

⧗

"Heirs…"

Hearing your now family bring up the subject of heirs, made you feel a lump form in your throat. It was something you'd tried to avoid thinking about, but you knew it was a reality you would have to face.

Natasha didn't even flinch. She seems confident and unbothered, like she has no concerns in that regard. She responds without missing a beat.

"Oh, we'll have heirs. Plenty of them, in fact."

Natasha's grip on your hands tightens slightly, you force a tight-lipped smile on your face as you struggle to appear calm.

"I will make sure that our marriage bed will not lack heat. We'll have as many children as the Gods see fit to bless us with." She added with such confidence.

You knew that the celebration was coming to an end and you were starting to feel overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd—by her. The air felt hot and stifling. Without saying a word, you excused yourself but as you stood Natasha didn't let go of your hand. So you eyed her intently—authoritatively and she immediately released your hand, you didn't miss the flicker of hesitation and fear in her eyes. Her usual confident and authoritative demeanor seemed to be gone for a moment, revealing just the slightest crack in her armor.

As you walked, a small smirk tugged your lips, it gave you a sense of satisfaction, knowing that you had the power to affect her in that way. For a brief moment, you felt like you were in control, that you had some bargaining power in this situation.

Of course you do, you will play this game right on your palm, right?

You stepped into the cool night air of the corridors outside, you tried not to let your emotions get the best of you as you thought about the fact that your family had been saved, you realized just how high the cost was. Natasha had saved you from ruin, but the price was steep. You were now the payment, a pawn in a larger game of power and politics. Knowing that you were traded like a piece of livestock in exchange for your family's safety, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

One of the foremost was the fact that you will need to carry the child of someone you didn't really know. Natasha Romanoff was a complex and dangerous woman, unpredictable, impulsive and arrogant—those are the only things you know about her. So the thought of being connected to her through a child was unsettling, to say the least. Yet you knew, as soon as the words of the scripted vows you loathed to say forcefully fell from your lips, there was no turning back.

It is inevitable or perhaps it can be avoided?

You were lost in your own thoughts, worrying about your future, when the maid servant's voice broke your train of thought.

"The celebration is over, your Grace. The King will be expecting you in her chambers."

Her words and the instructions were simple, but they sent a shiver of unease through you. But you wanted to test the waters, you wanted to test who among you holds such power to the both of you.

"Let her know that I am denying her request," you replied coldly as the night breeze.

"But your Gra—"

"Tell her that." you cut her off with a finality, "I'll be at my chambers, I'll retire early for tonight." You added, hinting that if she wished to prove the power she has on you, she will come and show you.

The night slipped away and you opted for the secret chambers that only and your maester, Wanda knew. Inside, you hoped to find solitude and respite from the pressures and chaos of the day. You stayed in the dimly lit room, the only light provided by a few flickering candles, as the night went on. You didn't know whether or not Natasha had come to your original chambers, expecting to find you there.

But you will make sure not surrender yourself, not without a fight.

⧗

Natasha was growing increasingly frustrated as she recounted different excuses from the maid servants every time she inquired about you. She hadn't seen you since the night of your wedding, and the more time passed the more suspicious she became.

Another maid servant entered her headquarters and she is for sure to deliver another excuse from you.

"The Queen is not feeling well, your Grace." The maid servant stood before the King, her hands clasped in front of her nervously as she delivered her message.

"What happened? What does the maester say the issue is?" The suspicion that she had in mind is now gone and is replaced by a deep concern for you.

"Well, you Gr—"

"I will go and check on my wife."

"I fear the Queen doesn't want anyone in her chambe—"

"I'm not anyone, I am her King. I am her wife."

Without another word of excuse, she rose from her seat and stalked out of the room. The King wasted no time making her way through the halls of the Keep, her steps were loud as she walked towards your chambers.

The moment Natasha stepped into the chambers, her eyes immediately fell upon your pale form lying in the bed. She was by your side in an instant, her hand reaching out to touch your forehead—and she could feel the heat radiating from you.

"Gods, you're burning up," she muttered, as she took in your sickly appearance. Natasha's eyes darted to the maester as she confirmed that you would be fine in time, and that you had been examined already. "And what is the cause of her sickness?" she questioned, her gaze returning to you.

Wanda cleared her throat, as she darted her eyes on your sleeping form. She breathed, shutting her eyes before she explained the cause of your illness.

"It appears the Queen has fallen ill due to stress and exhaustion," she said with a shaky voice, as she watched Natasha softly caress your body. "And it would be best for her to be left alone for a few days, allowing her body to rest and recover," she added, finally eyeing the King.

"Days?" Natasha repeated as if she didn't hear it clearly.

"Yes…"

Natasha let out a heavy sigh, her mind conflicted. On one hand, she wanted to keep you in her sight and she wanted you to be okay now so she could spend the nights with you fulfilling the obligations of making a long line of heirs. On the other, she knew the maester was likely right about your need for solitude and rest.

"Rest and heal, my sweet. And I will make sure to make up for the night we missed," she said in a soft and gentle tone, only for you to hear as you continued to lie there, your eyes closed in what appeared to be a deep and restful sleep.

"I'll have you full of my seed in no time."

She caressed your face for the last time gently before leaning down to kiss your forehead.

As she withdrew, she turned to the Wanda who was standing just outside the doorway of your chamber.

"Do everything you can to ensure that she is well soon," she instructed.

"Yes, your Grace."

As soon as Natasha left your chambers, you slowly and stealthily got up from the bed where you had been feigning sleep. Your body trembled slightly as you inhaled deep breaths, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You were grateful that your plan had worked, and that Natasha had believed your act of being sick.

Wanda, your trusted maester and ally in your plan, looked at you with a sigh as you got up from the bed.

"I told you hot water and a cloth would do the trick," she said, referring to the method she suggested to fake your elevated temperature.

"I'll have you full of my seed in no time."

"My Grace, are you alright? Are you really sick now? You look pale."

You snapped back to the present, your mind still replaying Natasha's words from earlier when she spoke to you while you were pretending to be in a deep slumber.

"I'm fine," you assured Wanda, your voice a little shaky. "Just a bit…tired, that's all."

Tired of all this.

"Well, I shall leave you alone then, my Grace."

Wanda has been the first person you became close with, and she has been nothing but supportive to cover up for you and your plans. You even heard her lie for you not since a while ago and that was not even a part of your plan. But when the King asked about your condition—your fake condition, she still did with no hesitation.

"Thank you, Wanda."

⧗

It had been several days since Natasha's visit, and you had successfully managed to avoid her so far due to your pretense of being sick. Now, you were stepping out into the gardens, seeking a change of scenery and some fresh air pretending to be sick and staying in bed is making you really sick now.

The gardens were a lovely sight, the sun shining brightly and the flowers in full bloom. You strolled along the pathways, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.

As you were walking in the garden, relishing the tranquil surroundings, your eyes caught a glimpse of something or rather, someone—in the distance. It was Natasha, standing next to Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm.

Her gaze was fixated on you and you could tell that she was surprised to see you out and about, considering the fact that you were supposed to be unwell. And now, she is making her way over to you.

Your instincts kicked in immediately, and your first thought was to run. Without hesitation, you darted through the gardens, your heart racing as you navigated the twisting and turning paths of the maze.

As you ran, adrenaline pumped through your veins, and you quickened your pace, determined to elude her as long as possible. You were dressed in a gown made of flowing silk, the fabric soft and lightweight against your skin. The hem of the dress brushed against the grass as you ran, occasionally catching on the leaves of the maze bushes. You sprinted through the maze, dodging and weaving between the high walls of greenery. As you continued running through the maze, your heart rate spiked ever higher when you caught a glimpse of Natasha through the gaps in the leaves.

Seeing her so close, so determined to find you, sent another jolt of adrenaline through your body, the fight-or-flight response kicking into high gear.

Although you were aware that she would eventually catch you, you refused to let her have an easy victory. You steeled yourself, determined to play this game in your own hands.

The twists and turns of the maze became your playground. Every time you thought she was closing in, you would change direction, taking unexpected forks that would put some distance between you again.

As you sprinted through the maze, looking back in the direction you last saw Natasha, a sudden body slammed in front of you. The force knocked you off balance, catching you off guard.

A pair of hands locked around your arms, effectively trapping you, preventing any further escape.

"Are you running away from me?"

Natasha's intense gaze was met with your fearful ones, your heart raced and your words came out in a slight stutter. "Y-your Grace…" you started to say, but your mind was too preoccupied with the situation to form a coherent response. You gulped as you looked away, and then replied with a shaky voice. "No, your Grace," you said, your eyes still fixed on the soil where you were standing. Despite your denial, there was undeniable fear in your voice.

"I was expecting that you're still in your chambers, resting. Wanda told me you're still sick."

"I wanted to go out, g-get some fresh air…"

"You should've come to me so I will go out with you."

"I…" you hesitated for a moment, wanting to be careful on how you're going to say the next words, "I wanted to have some time alone, y-your Grace."

Her grip on your arms relaxed slightly as she heard your response. "I haven't had a night alone with you since our wedding, Y/N," she said, she sounded a bit disappointed that made you hitch your breath. "Look at me." She commanded, leaving no room for disobedience. And you slowly did, as your gazes met, her eyes softened with a little fire of an intense desire, and her proximity to you made your heart race even faster.

In a swift and dominating move, Natasha closed the remaining distance between you and claimed your lips in a searing kiss. Natasha sensed your attempts to resist so she deepened the kiss, her tongue demanding entry, as her hands on your arms pulled you even closer to her.

Your resistance was a futile battle and you finally surrendered to her but you fought not to moan as her tongue explored the cavern of your mouth, leaving you breathless and vulnerable. As Natasha moved her attention towards your neck, her lips and tongue trailing along the sensitive skin, you tilted your head back, submitting to her control.

Her lips left your neck as she leaned towards your ear, her words a low, seductive whisper.

"I shall be expecting to see you in my chambers tonight."

⧗

The evening had arrived, and Natasha made her way to her chamber, fully expecting to find you there—in her bed in all your glory. However, as she entered the room, her eyes scanned the space, but you were nowhere to be seen. Her initial confusion quickly turned into seething anger as she realized you didn't follow her command.

She wasted no time and stormed through the corridors, her patience wearing thin. It has been far too long, and she is determined to have you, one way or another. Her strides were purposeful and filled with seething anger, her mind set on one mission.

To find you and bring you to her bed.

As soon as she stepped into your chambers, her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. She approached the figure lying in the bed, she leaned closer to get a better look of you, and when she dipped her knee to the soft bed, the figure suddenly moved, emitting a piercing scream. Startled, Natasha let out a gasp, quickly realizing it wasn't you but your maid servant.

"Y-your Grace!" The maid servant rushed out apologetically as she immediately threw the thick covers out her body and stood.

"Where is Y/N? Why are you in the Queen's bed?!" Natasha demanded.

"Queen Y/N noticed I-I wasn't feeling well and…well, I am fine but-but the Queen insisted that I am not fine," the maid servant's hands flew in different direction as she tried to explain herself, "and she told me…she insisted that I should rest, right here, in her bed. And she left." The maid servant scrambled, the words coming out in a rush from her lips not wanting to receive the seething anger of the King.

"Forgive me, your Grace…please."

The maid servant's continuous apologies grew quieter as Natasha's attention shifted. Her gaze moved towards the window, where she spotted a figure dashing towards the garden maze. She instantly recognized it was you, and a sly smile tugged at her lips. Ignoring the maid servant, Natasha stepped towards the window of your chambers.

Once again, you found yourself racing through the labyrinthine maze, your breath coming in short gasps as you desperately sought an escape. The twists and turns of the paths seemed to taunt you, creating a confusing web to ensnare you. Fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, your mind focused on one goal and that is to survive the night without having to spend it on the King's bed.

Natasha's voice echoed through the night, "Making a maid servant sleep in your own bed, just to fool me?"

Despite the gasp that escaped your lips at the sound of Natasha's seething voice, you refused to let it slow you down. Your legs propelled you forward, your bare feet pounding against the cool grass as you continued your race through the maze. There was no time for looking back, only the need to elude her pursuit.

"You were never ill, Y/N!"

As you ran through the maze, the tears of fear started to well up in your eyes, causing you to shut them tightly shut. The emotions coursing through you were overwhelming—fear, defiance, and the weight of the situation hitting you all at once. Yet, amidst it all, a small part of you stubbornly held onto the hope that you could somehow escape Natasha.

Just as you rounded a corner in the maze, a strong body suddenly locked onto you, arms encircling you like a vise grip. Caught off guard, you let out a gasp in surprise, struggling against the strong hold. The realization that Natasha had finally caught you struck you like a bolt of lightning.

"I knew you heard me that time…I never lied when I said I will make sure you're full of my seed."

In a swift and effortless motion, Natasha scooped you up and threw you in her shoulders, her strong grip on your thighs unyielding as she carried you to her chambers. You tried to resist, squirming and fighting against her, but her strength was undeniable. Despite your attempts to break free, it was clear that you had no chance of escape.

The game is no longer in your hands. It never was.

The guards stationed nearby stood at their positions, their eyes averted from the scene. They could only watch as Natasha carried you flailing in her arms, your screams piercing the air. Fear for their own lives kept them in place, knowing full well that they could have their heads off if they bothered to look in your direction.

"Lock the doors!" she barked, her tone leaving no room for questions. The guards obeyed, swiftly securing the chamber doors, sealing you and Natasha inside. Without a moment of hesitation, she hurled you onto her bed, the force of her throw causing you to bounce slightly upon the plush mattress.

"Strip," she commanded in a low voice that made you shiver in fear, "Remove every piece of clothing you wear. I want to see my wife before me in all her naked glory. Do not forget to remove any trinkets or tokens you may be wearing."

Your hands were shaking when you let your dress slip to the floor, revealing your vulnerable form, your body betrays you with gooseflesh. Tears well up in your eyes, spilling over and cascading down your cheeks.

Natasha watched, sitting at the bed as you stripped the last piece of clothing out of your body.

Her cold, green orbs leisurely take in every inch of your bare flesh. They linger on the fullness of your breasts, the pebbled peaks begging for her touch. Her gaze trails down to the small, dark mole at the side of your breast, a unique birthmark that she commits to memory. Her eyes continue their languid descent, taking in the slight roundness of your belly soon to be full of her seed, the flare of your hips, and the soft curls at the juncture of your thighs. She studies the glistening evidence of your fear and humiliation, the pink folds of your pussy already swollen and slick.

The shame of your nakedness burns through you like a physical touch, amplified by the fact that Natasha remains fully clothed. Her silken robes and velvet cloak seem to mock your naked form just reminds you of the game that is now holding place in her hands.

A cruel smile plays on Natasha's lips as she sees the shame and fear in your eyes. She rises once more, her tall form towering over you. Her hands go to the sash at her waist, undoing it with deliberate slowness.

The silk slithers to the floor, pooling around her feet. She begins to slowly unlace her leather breeches, her gaze locked with yours. As the garment falls away, revealing her hardened cock, you can't help but gulp, your eyes wide with trepidation.

She stepped closer to you, caressing your cheek. You didn't know why but you leaned in to her touch as she wiped the tears off your face. She looked at your glossy eyes before she leaned forward, her lips pressing against yours in a soft, yet commanding kiss. Your lips part instinctively, allowing her to sweep her tongue inside, claiming your mouth as hers.

"Open wider," she demands, breaking the kiss to gaze down at you. She tilts your head back further, forcing your mouth open wider. She kisses you again, this time her tongue probing deeper, exploring the warmth of your mouth. She sucks on your bottom lip, pulling it between her teeth and biting down gently.

Your breath hitches, a soft whimper escaping your throat as her kiss becomes more intense. Her hands tangled in your hair and you can't help but moan softly, the sound muffled against her lips.

Natasha broke the kiss and sees the raw innocence in your eyes, the moisture making them glisten like jewels. Your lips are swollen and parted, a thin string of saliva stretching between them, quivering as you suck in ragged breaths. Her gaze darkens with lust and satisfaction.

"My bed has been lacking...heat," she murmurs, her voice low and gravelly. She reaches out, wiping the saliva from your chin with her thumb. "And you, my sweet, are going to warm it tonight."

You took a step backwards and tilt your head to the side to avoid her touch.

"You make it difficult," she says, her voice tight with frustration, "to fulfill the one duty that should be simple. I have conquered cities, bent knees to mine, tamed dragons. And yet, you make it hard for me to plant my seed in your womb."

"Am I just a bearer of your offspring?" you pinched your brows together, finally eyeing the King as the tears cascaded down your face.

"Yes," she replied bluntly, undressing herself, "in this, you are." As her clothing falls away, revealing her breasts and her tanned, muscular body, she meets your gaze squarely. "But know this, my sweet, you are not just any bearer."

"You are my Queen—my own wife who dared to deceive and defy me," she says as she steps forward, her eyes roaming over your body hungrily. "And when I have won, when you carry my child, you will be the mother of my heir."

"And perhaps," she says, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she leans over you, "when this is done, when my line is secured, you will be something more." Her gaze holds yours captive. "But for tonight, you are simply the woman I must breed."

Your heart shatters in your chest as she speaks those words. The cold, hard truth of her intent cuts deep, each word a knife twisting in your soul. You are not her beloved, her equal, but a tool, a vessel to bear her child and you knew it from the beginning.

Without you carrying her offspring, you are nothing.

Natasha then grabs you roughly, flipping you around and throwing you onto the bed. She climbs over you, positioning herself behind your ass.

With a sudden, brutal motion, she thrusts herself inside you, ignoring your cries of pain as she tears through your resisting body. She groans in satisfaction, her hands gripping your hips as she begins to rut into you with merciless force, her dragon's strength overpowering any objections you might have.

"You are mine now," she growls, her breath hot against your ear. "No more defiance, no more resistance. You will bear my child, as is your purpose." Each word is punctuated by a hard thrust, her hips slamming against your ass cheek with brutal intensity.

She pulls out of you suddenly, her thick cock glistening with your virgin blood. Natasha flips you over, pushing your hips in the bed. Her body pressed heavily against yours as she positioned herself between your legs. Without warning, she slams back into you, her dragon-sized cock splitting you open.

You're screaming now, your voice echoing off the walls as she fucks you with brutal, animalistic intensity making your face contort in pleasure mixed with pain.

She moves to silence your screams and releases your mouth long enough to trail her lips down your body, pausing to suckle at each breast roughly, her teeth scraping against your sensitive nipples.

"You are so tight around me, Y/N," she groans, her voice low and possessive. "Your body was made just for my pleasure. Your virgin hole is so snug, clasping around me like a glove. You were made to be filled by me."

Her hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, allowing her to bury herself deeper. As she grinds her hips against yours, she leaned down and your hands immediately clawed at her back, your fingernails digging into her skin.

Her muscled back flexes under your desperate, clawing hands. You feel each ridge of muscle, the hard strength of her. Despite the pain she's causing, despite the brutal taking, your body responds to her, your core clenching around her cock as you feel her powerful body move against yours.

"Y-your…Grace…" you called out for her, mouth open as she tore you apart. You held her neck and the silver locks of her hair, your legs crossed at her waist.

"You're my Queen." She growled in your ear.

"Yes, your Grace!" You cried out in pleasure.

"Then you will take what I give you, you will be painted with my seed and soon enough you'll bear my heir."

Her words made your pussy clench even tighter around her massive cock. She feels it, her thrusts becoming even more powerful as she drives her seed deep into your womb.

She straightens up, her hands gripping your hips as she slams into you one final time. Her body stiffens, her head thrown back in a silent roar as she finds her release. She grinds her hips against yours, ensuring every drop is deep inside you. Then, she pulls out of you slowly, her eyes locked onto your well-stretched opening. She watches as her seed begins to leak out mixing with your virgin blood, a possessive growl rumbling in her chest. Without hesitation, she pushes the escaping seed back inside with her slender fingers.

"My seed stays inside you," she continues to push her fingers inside you, scooping up the white and red liquid, forcing it back into your walls, making sure it's as deep inside you as possible. She repeats this process several times, her fingers pumping in and out of you as she ensures her claim is secure.

The sensation of her fingers pushing into you, combined with the gentle throbbing from her earlier pumps, becomes too much to bear. You can feel yourself growing more and more sensitive, the line between pleasure and pain blurring. You moan, your voice barely a whisper.

"Your Grace...it's too much…"

She ignores your plea, her voice dark as she murmurs, "It's Natasha for you, my sweet." Her fingers continue to push into your overstimulated hole, the motion causing you to convulse around her.

"Natasha…" you stammer, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer as the intense sensation consumes you. Her name on your lips, filled with such raw emotion, makes her own stomach flutter.

You convulse violently, your body shaking uncontrollably as a gush of liquid spurts out from between your thighs. Natasha muffles her approval against your neck, her voice thick with satisfaction as she feels the evidence of your spend.

"Say it again," she demands, her fingers continuing to pump into you as the aftershocks wrack your body. "Say my name like that again, Y/N." Her own control is slipping, your words affecting Natasha more than she'd like to admit. You whimper, your voice hoarse.

"N-Natasha...Natasha...only...only you…" Each word is punctuated by a sharp breath as your body continues to spasm around her fingers. She lets out a low groan, her head dropping to your shoulder as she listens to you beg for her alone.

"You're so good for me," she praises, her voice rough with desire. She withdraws her fingers from your dripping pussy, bringing them to her mouth to clean them with a hungry suckle. Her eyes never leaving yours as she does so, drinking in the sight of her Queen overcome with pleasure.

"From now on, you will sleep in this same bed as mine so I can ensure that you remain well-bred every night."

[mapsthewanderer]

Maps headcanons

The LADS boys -

The underwear edition

Details: 3000ish words.. What do they wear? What do they get you to wear? And most importantly… how do they gift it to you? Probably fem reader, but let’s be honest, it’s strictly just a gift. They want to see you in it. Full stop. Some adult fluff, some sexual tension and implied notinoti stuff. So 18+ I guess? And umh… yea I definitely went overboard. SORRY! But I had so much fun, I couldn’t stop myself.

❤️ Sylus

What Sylus wears:

Sylus is all sharp lines, dark elegance, and control. Underneath that crisp red-streaked suit? He’s wearing tailored, jet-black silk boxer-briefs. Luxurious. Breathable. Tactical. They’re tight enough to keep everything in place during any kind of… movement, but soft enough to feel like nothing’s there—no small feat, considering what they’re working with. No logos. Just that sleek minimalism only a man would choose if he knew exactly how handsome he was, didn’t care what anyone else thought—and never once looked at a price tag.

Sylus’s gift to you:

Oh, he’s not just buying you lingerie—he’s curating a message.

It’s a two-piece set, hand-delivered in a black velvet box—while you’re at work. No return address. Just a black wax seal with a crow pressed into the lid. Then a folded note in sharp, elegant script.

If this ends up on the floor, you better not be the one who puts it there. Don’t disappoint me, kitten. —S.

And inside:

A high-leg, sheer silk and lace thong in a crimson so deep it’s almost black—just enough opacity to leave things to the imagination, but not too much.

The matching bralette: underwire-free, soft lace, with feather-like embroidery in crimson thread—subtle nods to his own red-streaked shirt and the crow brooch he gave you. It whispers danger and intimacy at once.

But here’s the kicker—he’s had both your initials and his embroidered inside, side by side in tiny, near-invisible thread. Only you would notice. That’s his way: power in the quietest touches, like branding you without ever lifting a finger.

Scene:

You don’t even have to look out the window to know he’s watching. Heat creeps up your neck as you snap the box shut, fingers fumbling slightly. You tuck it into your drawer fast—too fast—just before anyone walks by.

Your cheeks burn. Your pulse stutters.

Later you open the velvet box in your bedroom—its crow insignia gleaming faintly under the light. It smells of something expensive and sharp—amber, burnt cedar, and a lingering metallic note… gunpowder? When you look up, Sylus is already there, leaning against the doorframe like he’s been watching the whole time. His smirk is lazy, eyes glowing faintly red.

“I thought you could use something… less modest,” he says, voice like dark wine. “Consider it… encouragement.”

You brush your fingers over the crimson mesh, the featherlike embroidery. “And this is supposed to motivate me?” You glance up at him. “Sending me underwear while I’m at work?”

He tilts his head. “Everything I do motivates you. Why should this be any different?”

You narrow your eyes. “Want me to try it on?”

His grin widens. “No. I expect you to.”

You disappear into the other room—and when you return, the change is undeniable. The set clings like a second skin: barely-there lace, delicate and daring in all the ways he clearly planned. Sylus is leaned back with his palms pressed into the mattress behind him, utterly at ease—blazer still draped over his shoulders, one brow cocked as his gaze trails down every inch of you.

You turn slowly, fingers trailing along the silk at your hip, then glance back at him with the faintest smirk. An unspoken well? hangs in the air—daring him to speak, to react, to move.

“Look at you. The gift, wrapped and worn—for the one who gifted it.” A slow smile curves his lips. “You’re lucky I let you wear it at all, kitten.”

Sylus doesn’t move—just stays there on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, one ankle resting casually over his knee. But his gaze trails down your body like a hand.

“But don’t confuse indulgence for permission,” he adds, voice velvet-dark. “I unwrap what’s mine when I decide.”

You raise a brow.

Then he stands—slowly—and stops in front of you, fingers brushing the embroidery near your hip. His touch is light, almost teasing, but his voice has gone rough. “So now I get to peel this off… piece by piece… and watch your ambitions unravel.”

His fingers slide just under the strap at your shoulder, just enough to threaten movement. “I want to see how long you can hold eye contact while I take my time with you.”

He leans in close, gaze never wavering, and drags the tip of his tongue slowly along your bottom lip.

“So don’t blink, kitten.” He murmurs, voice a low drawl. “I want to watch every second tonight.”

——————————————————————————

💜 Rafayel

What Rafayel wears:

Rafayel isn’t really one for undergarments—too restrictive, too boring. He prefers fabric that flows, not hides. On regular days—when he’s in his paint-splattered studio with a half-buttoned shirt and flushed cheeks—he wears linen boxer-briefs, soft and pale pastels. But not just any linen—this is the kind handwoven by some obscure artisan, the kind that costs more per pair than most people’s monthly utilities. They cling loosely, comfortably, with a low waistband that dips dangerously on his hips when he stretches or leans too far over a canvas.

Rafayel’s gift to you:

You don’t even know it’s for you at first. He doesn’t say it.

It’s wrapped in a long strip of sheer silk, painted by hand. The gift is neatly tucked at the base of his easel, a soft rosy color catching in the early light, with painted waves in a beautiful baby blue flowing gently across the fabric. The fabric inside feels more delicate than air:

The bottom is a high-slit silk wrap, sea-blue and iridescent, that ties at the hip with a golden clasp shaped like a wave crest. The slit goes high—deliberately high.

The top is a lace halter bralette, stitched with tiny scales in shimmering threads—blues, pinks, and deep ocean violets. When you move, the color changes like it’s underwater.

And at the center of the chest? A small pearl—real, imperfect, kissed by the sea.

There’s a faint scent of paint, sea salt and saffron on the silk. You know he touched every part of it.

Scene:

You step into the studio—sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains, the scent of paint and salt lingering in the air. Raf’s crouched in front of a half-finished canvas, brush dangling loosely from one stained hand, shirt half-off one shoulder, eyes pink-blue and distracted until he notices you.

Then he blushes. Bright. Immediate. Cheeks, ears—flushed like a sunrise.

“There’s something for you,” he mumbles, looking away as if the thought of you seeing it—wearing it—is almost too much to bear. He nods toward the silk bundle. “I… made it. Thought you’d look… divine in it.”

You crouch beside it, fingers trailing along the silk wrapping, savoring the softness before carefully unfolding it. The fabric slips open, revealing the undergarments inside—shimmering, sea-glass delicate. You glance back at him then, eyes teasing.

“Should I put it on?”

Rafayel swallows hard, brush frozen in mid-air. “Yesss. I mean, if… you want to.” His voice cracks just slightly, the tip of his ear glowing like it might catch fire.

You disappear into the adjoining room—there’s a screen for changing, of course—but you leave it just slightly ajar. When you come back out, the set clings to you like seafoam. Rafayel stares—his brush forgotten, his lips parted. For a second, the artist is speechless.

Then, finally, he says softly, reverently:

“I’m never painting anything else again.”

You’re not sure if he means for the next hour, or the rest of his life.

With a small twirl, you step closer to him. The silk shifts with every movement—light, barely there, suggestive in ways that feel like poetry and sin all at once. Rafayel’s gaze follows the curve of your hips, the embroidery over your chest, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard.

His paint-stained fingers twitch at his sides. “Turn around again,” he says, quieter this time. “…Please?”

You do. Slowly. The moment stretches taut between you.

When you face him again, he’s closer. Too close. His hand lifts, hovers just above your waist, not quite touching. “I wanted it to feel like water,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, lower. “But it clings like heat. Like you’re melting into it.”

He finally touches you—fingertips tracing a line along the embroidery near your ribs. His breath stutters. “I don’t know if I want to paint you or pull this off with my teeth.”

You arch a brow. “That’s quite the choice.”

Rafayel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder, his voice a husky rasp against your skin. “Why not both?”

His hips press into you, letting you feel the full weight of his desire—hard, aching, and entirely focused on you. One hand traces the edge of your halter, fingertips ghosting along the lace before he gives it a curious little poke, like he’s testing his own creation. His lips hover just above yours, breath warm, eyes soft and burning all at once.

Then, just above a whisper, he adds—“Either way… I’m going to ruin you beautifully, cutie.”

——————————————————————————

🧡 Caleb

What Caleb wears:

In casual moments—when it’s just him and you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, cooking for you—he wears comfortable cotton boxer briefs. Black, sleek, nothing flashy. He’s practical like that. But they hug him just right, sitting low on his hips, making it really hard to focus on the food. And the worst part? He knows. You’ll glance, just once, and he’ll smirk—subtly flexing one ass cheek like it’s a reflex. Just to mess with you. Just to watch you squirm.

Caleb’s gift to you:

It comes in a sleek, dark orange box. You find it on your doorstep after a long day. Tucked on top, folded with military precision, is a tiny origami fighter jet—his old model, of course. Unfolding it reveals a single line, scribbled in his handwriting:

Try it on, or I’ll just imagine it. Either way, I win.—C.

And when you open it:

A high-cut, gravity-defying black lace bodysuit. It’s sheer in all the right places, sculpted with subtle violet shimmer threading through the seams. Where the light hits it, it reflects a dull glow—almost like a nebula.

A thin, matching choker with a clasp shaped like an apple.

And one last piece: a purple silk sash. A tie. A leash. A promise of discipline wrapped in devotion, of control you never had to ask for, of just how far he’ll go to make sure you never forget who you belong to.

Yet the fabric carries just the barest trace of his cologne and… mouthwash(?)

Scene:

You confront him, of course—he left it there on purpose, knowing curiosity would get the better of you. You don’t even try to play it cool. You find him hours later, still at work on The Fleet, posture perfect, all crisp uniform and that infuriating calm. An adjutant’s just finishing a report when you step into the room. Your eyes lock on him like a missile. Caleb doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even turn. Just gives you a quiet, knowing look over his shoulder like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“What’s the meaning of this?” you ask, holding the box like evidence, like a challenge.

His gaze drags over you from across the room, slow and deliberate. He uncrosses his arms, brushes a speck of dust from his uniform—measured, precise. Like you’ve interrupted something important, but he’s willing to indulge you.

That Colonel Caleb chill lingers in his eyes… but there’s a glint now. And the faintest curve to his lips.

“You found it,” he says, stepping closer until your breath catches. “Great. I had it made. Custom stitching. Seamless where it matters.”

You narrow your eyes. “So you just decided—?”

“I don’t ‘decide,’” he cuts in smoothly. “But if you really are mine…” his voice drops, dangerously low, “…then I want to be the only one who sees you in this.”

His gloved fingers brush your cheek, then trail down to your collarbone. The heat between you crackles like static in space.

Behind you, the adjutant clears their throat—once. A warning. A presence. Caleb doesn’t even glance their way.

“That’ll be all,” he says, voice low and firm, the kind that doesn’t invite questions. The door hisses shut behind you a moment later.

Then it’s just you. Him. And that charged space between.

“Put it on for me, Pip-squeak.”

It’s not a request. But it’s not entirely a command, either. He’s looking at you like you could refuse—but he knows you won’t.

Caleb shrugs off his coat with practiced ease, draping it over the back of the chair before pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time. He sinks into the seat in a single, fluid motion—then reaches up to loosen his tie, just enough to breathe. His legs spread, posture easy, but there’s nothing casual about the way he watches you.

You turn your back to him as you undress, the room quiet except for the subtle shift of fabric. The black bodysuit slides on smoothly, the silk sash tied loosely at your waist. The lace hugs your curves perfectly.

Caleb leans forward, forearms on knees, purple eyes trailing down your form like a scan. Slowly. Thoroughly.

“Turn around.”

You do, slowly, and when you face him, he’s already rising. He closes the distance in measured strides, hands sliding to your waist, voice low and tight.

He leans in. “You know,” he murmurs against your neck, “I wish I could deploy you in this. No one would dare touch you.”

You smirk. “Jealous, Colonel?”

“Obsessed,” he corrects, voice like a velvet threat. “And completely serious.”

You feel his lips graze your shoulder—soft, then firm. And then—his teeth sink in, just enough to make you gasp. Not to hurt. Just to remind you: you’re his.

“Do you know what I thought about every night when I designed this?”

You breathe out. “What?”

His fingers curl into the sash at your hip. “How fast I could undo it.”

Then he lifts you like it’s nothing, pressing you back against the console with stars spinning behind you—his mouth already trailing down your neck as the fabric slips from your skin. But you don’t see stars—you feel them crash.

Then, without missing a beat, the corners of his mouth curve—just slightly, just enough. “I’m betting it’ll take me ten seconds to undress you… if I take my time.”

——————————————————————————

🩵 Zayne

What Zayne wears:

Zayne is nothing if not understated excellence. Beneath his pristine three-piece suits? Charcoal-gray modal boxer briefs. Soft, breathable, structured—he’d never wear anything flashy or inconvenient. But they fit like they were measured for him, contoured to sit low on his hips beneath that crisp dress shirt. And if you ever catch him with the shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, forearms scarred and strong? The contrast of clean fabric and rough skin does things to you.

Zayne’s gift to you:

He doesn’t take you shopping. He doesn’t even mention he’s getting you something. It just… appears, neatly folded in a soft satin box inside your closet. Next to it, a small handwritten note in steady script:

The fabric’s hypoallergenic. I know how your skin reacts to lace. I hope the fit is precise—I took the liberty of measuring while you were asleep. —Zayne.

And on the inside:

A silk slip dress, cut short and minimal, in deep forest green with thin black straps that crisscross at the back. The inside is lined with cotton—soft, breathable. So Zayne.

A matching bra and panty set—subtle scalloped trim, no underwire, no push-up. Just comfort and beauty in quiet balance. He knows how to make you feel exquisite without shouting it.

And tucked in one of the folds? A thin bracelet. Jade.

Scene:

He doesn’t even bring it up at first. You only find it after he leaves for a night shift.

The next evening, you bring it up with a wry smile. “So… were you going to mention the intimate gift hiding in my closet, or were you just hoping I’d trip over it?”

Zayne blinks once behind his glasses, setting down his mug of cocoa.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says simply. “But I also didn’t want anyone else buying you something that didn’t… suit you.” His gaze drops, lingering on your wrist where you’ve already put on the jade bracelet. “So I took care of it.”

You arch a brow. “Do you want to see it on me?”

His eyes flick up, expression unreadable—but there’s a faint flush climbing up his throat. “That depends.”

“On?”

“If you want me to take it off you too.”

And there it is. The Zayne smirk—so faint, you almost miss it. Almost.

You step into the bedroom after a hot shower, damp hair over your shoulders, body wrapped in the green silk slip. It molds to you, effortless and cool. The straps kiss your shoulder blades, the hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

Zayne is seated at the edge of the bed, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows—relaxed in theory, but his eyes are anything but. Behind the silver glint of his glasses, hazel green irises rake over you slowly. Intently. Like you’re a case study he’s about to personally explore.

“You wore it,” he says, voice steady, but lower now. Tight.

“I did,” you reply, stepping closer, letting the silk sway just enough to tempt. “Are you going to examine it?”

He doesn’t answer—not with words. He pulls off his glasses and sets them aside with exacting precision, then leans forward and tugs you between his knees. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers splaying over silk and skin.

“I’m not your physician right now,” he exhales, his mouth brushing your sternum, “but I still know how to handle delicate things.”

You inhale sharply, and he shifts the slip aside—just a little—enough to make your heart race.

His lips brush the inside of your wrist—soft at first, then slower. He drags his mouth down to the base of your palm, then lets his tongue trace the curve of your finger, you like you’re his favorite candy—something rare, rich, and entirely his.

“…You realize,” he says against your skin, “you’re never wearing this for anyone else.”

You breathe out, quiet, shivering. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

And the way he says that one word, low and clinical and full of heat? It feels like you’re about to be unraveled—one practiced touch at a time.

“I’ve studied anatomy,” he murmurs, gaze unwavering, “but I’ve never wanted to memorize someone like this.”

You tilt your head, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “So what now, doctor Zayne? Want me to act like your study sample?”

His eyes flick down your body, then back up—calm, absolutely smoldering. “Mm. Slow breaths for me, please,” he says softly. “I want to feel every shift under my hands.”

——————————————————————————

🩷 Xavier

What Xavier wears:

For all his ethereal calm and delicate looks, Xavier’s body is not soft. He’s lithe, compact, and stronger than he looks—and his undergarments reflect that contradiction. Sleek. Supportive. Understated. He wears fitted low-rise boxer briefs in pale gray or lavender. Soft, seamless, breathable—so easy to move in you almost forget they’re there. And while size has never been the point, there’s no denying the quiet truth: he’s big. The waistband is low enough that when his sweater rides up while he’s napping on the couch? You catch the edge, just barely. (And no, he’s not unaware. He’s just pretending he is.)

Xavier’s gift to you:

You don’t even realize it’s a gift at first.

You find a small folded bundle on your pillow—no tag, no note, but it smells faintly of that tangy-sweet, citrusy energy drink he drinks… laced with the subtle warmth of vanilla that always seems to linger on his skin. The fabric is impossibly soft. Dreamlike.

A silk cami set, sleeveless, light violet with silvery sheen. The camisole is loose, with barely-there straps and delicate lace at the hem. It looks like starlight.

The shorts are sheer, fluttery, with a ribbon drawstring. If you move too quickly, they shift… dangerously.

There’s a tiny embroidered constellation stitched near the hem.

You realize later that the embroidery thread is pale gold. Subtle. Like he wants you to wear the stars for him.

Scene:

You ask him about it later, holding the fabric between your fingers—right after sharing a burnt pizza he insisted he had under control (he did not).

“Did you leave this on my bed?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you with that quiet intensity, like he’s still trying to figure out how you got past his walls with nothing but laughter and melted cheese. He tilts his head slightly.

“I thought you might sleep better with it on,” he says softly. “Or off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a suggestion?”

“No,” he replies, gaze dragging slowly down your figure. “It’s a preference.”

He steps closer, fingers brushing yours as he takes the fabric back from your hand—just long enough to skim his knuckles over your palm before he returns it. His voice drops a note lower.

“Will you wear it tonight?”

You swallow, pulse jumping.

“I might.”

He smiles—barely. But it’s real. “I’ll be upstairs if you need help taking it off.”

Later, when the lights are low and the house is quiet, your phone buzzes.

XAVIER: Did you end up trying it on?

You hesitate, then type:

YOU: Maybe.

There’s a long pause. Then:

XAVIER: Then I hope you’re not expecting sleep.

You stare at the screen, heart skipping.

YOU: Good night, Xav.

Another pause.

XAVIER: Good night… Don’t lock your door.

You wake to find Xavier standing in your doorway—messy silvery-blond hair, expression unreadable, sleep still tugging at his lashes. You’re wearing the silk cami set, curled under your blanket. He blinks once, slowly, as if committing the image to memory.

“…Door was unlocked,” he murmurs. “You sleep too lightly.”

“I sleep just fine,” you say, voice husky, watching his eyes flick down the curve of your thigh where the blanket’s slipped. “So why are you here?”

He walks in, slow and barefoot. “I was thinking about you.”

“And?”

His fingers brush the ribbon of your waistband, tugging lightly—just once, enough to let the silk shift against your skin. “And I wanted to see if you look better in… or out of it.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring long enough to know.”

His eyes drag up your body with excruciating calm, but there’s something darker flickering beneath the stillness. He leans down, brushing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then just beneath your jaw—lingering there.

“I’m thorough. Still deciding,” he murmurs, breath warm and slow, thick with something you feel more than hear.

He undresses with quiet efficiency, unbuttoning his pajama shirt, folding it once before setting it aside, then slipping out of the pants with the same composed ease—until he’s left in nothing but his underwear.

Then he slides under the covers, pulls you into his chest, and whispers against your ear,

“You can keep yours on—for now.”

But his hand is already resting low on your waist, fingers curling just beneath the hem of your top, like he’s giving himself permission to explore later—inch by inch, breath by breath.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and guides it along the plane of his chest, down the firm line of his stomach—slow, careful, like he wants you to feel how hard it is for him to stay gentle.

And just when your fingertips brush the edge of his waistband—he leans in, voice low and rough with need.

“This is me… trying to be good for you.”

Your fingertips slip just beneath the waistband, barely testing the edge of skin. His breath catches, and for a moment he doesn’t move. Then his hand wraps gently around your wrist—not to stop you, just to feel you there.

His voice drops. “But if you keep doing that… I won’t be good much longer.”

————————————————���—————————

Writer’s note: YE. I’m sorry. Nobody asked for this. I spent my Saturday night writing 3k words of underwear headcanon and then gave it the gentlest proofread over my Sunday morning coffee like that somehow made it respectable. Totally normal, balanced behavior. I’m thriving. Unhinged, yes—but thriving. Should I be finishing the Bear AU pilot? Absolutely. Am I derailed by one intrusive thought? Also yes. But! I will finish the pilot this week. Prrroooomise. I should touch grass… but let’s be real, that’s what triggered this spiral in the first place. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[beloveds-embrace]

(more of this, this, and this in which duchess reaches her last straw and pulls rank!)

The roses arrive in the midmorning, fresh with the crisp bite of winter still clinging to their petals. The bouquet is grand- far too grand to be anything casual. Rich, deep red blooms tied together with a velvet ribbon, their fragrance thick in the cold air as the footman carries them inside.

The staff pauses as the flowers are set on a side table in the foyer. It’s been a long, long time such a romantic gesture has entered the house that it nearly feels like a disruption, a challenge to the air of restraint and cold civility that has settled over the estate after your marriage to John and especially as of late.

But what truly sends a ripple through the house is the card that sits nestled among the blooms, thick parchment folded and sealed with gold wax.

For the Duchess.

When the bouquet is delivered to you, you receive it with the same measured grace you meet all things these days. A tilt of your head, a quiet acknowledgment, before you pluck the card from its place and break the seal with a flick of your thumb.

The words within are warm, full of deep gratitude and admiration, and your lips press together for a moment as you trace the elegant script with your fingertips.

You smile, small and private, as you set the letter gently against your lap, letting your fingers graze over the parchment once more. The flowers are stunning, yes, but it is the letter that truly holds weight.

The house may not appreciate you. But somewhere out there, someone does.

But as you lift your gaze, you see the tension that has begun to coil in the air around you.

John is staring at the bouquet like it’s a declaration of war specifically against him. His arms are crossed over the expanse of his chest, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he studies the flowers as if they might reveal the identity of the sender on their own from the sheer intensity of his gaze alone.

Simon stands beside him, unreadable, but his silence is heavier than usual. His fingers tap idly against his sleeve, betraying a restrained sort of agitation, while Johnny and Kyle are no better- both shifting uneasily, eyes darting from the roses to you and back again.

You simply turn away, setting the bouquet carefully on the nearest table before resuming your place near the window, where the pale winter light casts long shadows across the floor.

Silence stretches, and you deliberately tuck the letter into the pocket of your gown. You do not fold it away carelessly, nor do you discard it- no, you keep it. Visibly.

Their eyes track the motion like wolves scenting blood.

Then-

“Who sent them, wife?” John’s voice is clipped, controlled, but there’s something simmering beneath it.

You do not look at him, focusing once more on the lovely roses. “Why does it matter?”

Kyle shifts, clearing his throat. “Well… it’s just that… seems a bit forward. And disrespectful.”

Johnny huffs beside him, eyes narrowed like John. “Aye. Flowers like that? Someone’s tryin’ to court ye.”

At that, you let out a soft, knowing hum. You do not confirm nor deny, merely reaching out to trace the velvety petals of one of the roses, letting your touch linger.

John’s expression darkens.

Simon finally speaks, his voice low, measured. “If someone is trying to win your affections, we should know who they are.”

You tilt your head slightly, finally turning to face them. “And why is that?”

John steps closer. “Because you are my wife.” The words are firm, but there is an unspoken still hanging in the air between you.

Bitterness inside you tightens like knot, but you do not let it show. Instead, you lift a brow, gaze cool. “I do not recall that matter ever being of concern to you before.”

His jaw tightens. “That is not-”

You cut him off with a simple, deliberate movement- reaching out, tracing the velvety petals of one of the roses again, your touch lingering. It is a small gesture, but it drives a sharp knife into the tension between you all.

Johnny frowns. “Ya like them, then?”

You do not answer. Instead, you pluck a single rose from the arrangement, twirling it between your fingers as you return to your seat, legs crossed neatly, the picture of poise. Twirling it between your fingers before bringing it close, you inhale the rich scent with a faint, adoring smile.

Kyle exhales sharply. “This is ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous,” you muse, examining the bloom in your grasp. “Is your sudden concern over something so trivial.”

John exhales through his nose. “Who sent them, Duchess?”

You glance at him, considering him for a long moment, before finally answering, voice deliberately indifferent.

“Someone who appreciates me.”

The words land like a hammer.

John's expression darkens, Simon's fingers twitch at his sides, Johnny swears under his breath, and Kyle looks like he wants to sink into the floor.

Good.

Let them stew in it.

Let them feel what you have felt for so long- neglected, disregarded, unwanted. Let them understand, even for a moment, what it means to be on the other side.

The silence that follows is heavy and charged. Then, without another word, you rise, the single rose still in your grasp, and leave them there- standing in their own jealousy, their own regret.

They do not let it go, unsurprisingly.

John insists on having breakfast with you more, where before he barely spared you a glance at the table. He lingers, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

Simon begins to find more reasons to be near you, silent but present, a constant shadow. He does not speak much, but his attention is unyielding.

Johnny, ever the charming one, suddenly starts bringing you sweets and pastries with an almost desperate enthusiasm, his jokes softer, his smiles less certain.

And Kyle- he is the worst of them all, ever dutiful, ever attentive, ensuring your every request is fulfilled with a precision that borders on obsessive.

It is almost amusing.

Almost.

But you let them chase and let them fret. It was terribly amusing and vindicating, especially whenever you reread that letter.

Your Grace, We cannot begin to express our gratitude for the kindness you showed us in our time of need. When all others turned their backs, you extended your hand, and because of you, our humble flower business did not wither and die. Please accept this bouquet as a token of our deepest thanks. It is but a small gesture for a debt we will never be able to repay. May your days be filled with as much beauty as you have given to us.

With all our gratitude,

The [] Family

[realmsofdreams]

face the north

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader, cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: six moons after leaving king’s landing, you’ve found refuge in winterfell with your son, daeron, shedding the targaryen name and embracing a quieter life. lord cregan stark offers you kindness and protection, and you begin to heal, finding strength in motherhood and the north’s stark beauty. but a letter from helaena arrives, revealing that alys rivers and her newborn child, aemond bastard, now reside in the red keep, stirring up old wounds and fresh doubts.

warnings: emotional angst and themes of betrayal, lingering heartbreak and internal conflict, subtle hints of potential romantic tension (not explicit), no physical violence, but heavy emotional weight, cliffhanger ending.

@dc-marvel-girl96 @ylva-syverson @immyowndefender @palomarv @sweetstrawberrianne

part 1 - part 2

“he’s growing fast,”

cregan said, voice low, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“strong, like his mother.”

daeron, now ten months old, giggled in your lap, his tiny hands grasping at the wooden wolf carving cregan had whittled for him. the stark lord sat across from you, his dark eyes soft as he watched your son play.

you managed a small smile, though your heart felt heavy.

“he’s all i have now,” you murmured, brushing daeron’s silver hair back.

it was true, here, in the north, you were no longer lady targaryen, no longer bound to a name that carried betrayal. you were just you, a woman carving out a life for her child. winterfell had been kind, its people welcoming despite their wariness of southerners. cregan, especially, had been a steady presence, never pushing, always there, offering a quiet strength that made you feel safe.

six months had passed since you’d left king’s landing, since you’d stood before aemond and shattered his pleas with words that still haunted you. you hated bastards so much… now you’re having a child with a bastard. you’d meant to wound him, and you had but the memory of his face, broken, pleading, lingered like a ghost. you’d tried to bury it, to focus on daeron, on the snow-dusted hills and the life you were building. but some wounds refused to heal.

a servant entered, bowing low, a scroll clutched in her hands.

“my lady,” she said, hesitating at the title you no longer claimed. “a raven from king’s landing.”

you took the scroll, its wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon. helaena’s hand, you knew at once, her gentle script unmistakable. cregan watched you, his gaze steady but questioning.

“do you want me to stay?” he asked.

“please excuse me,” you said softly, though you weren’t sure why. “i’ll read it alone.”

he nodded, rising with a quiet grace, and left you by the fire. daeron babbled, oblivious, as you broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. your eyes skimmed the words, and the warmth of the hall seemed to drain away.

‘to my dear friend in the north,

i write with a heavy heart, hoping this finds you and daeron well. winterfell suits you, i think its strength matches your own. but i must warn you of tidings from the south. alys rivers has come to king’s landing, her child born, a boy, with targaryen eyes. aemond has allowed her to stay in the red keep, claiming duty to his blood. the court whispers, and i fear this news will reach you one way or another. he is a shadow of himself, torn between guilt and pride, but i thought you should know. you deserve peace, but the south has a way of pulling us back. write to me, if you will. i miss your voice.

yours in kinship,

helaena targaryen’

the parchment trembled in your hands. alys rivers, in the red keep. her child, a son, like yours living under the same roof where you’d once dreamed of a future with aemond. and aemond, letting her stay. the betrayal, months old, roared back to life, sharp and searing. you pressed a hand to your chest, willing your breath to steady, but tears stung your eyes. daeron sensed your shift, his giggles fading as he reached for your face.

“oh, my love,” you whispered, kissing his brow, grounding yourself in his warmth.

but your mind raced. why had aemond done this? was it guilt, duty, or something worse, some lingering affection for her? you’d thought leaving would sever the tie, but here it was, tugging you back into the storm.

the door creaked, and cregan stepped back in, his expression cautious.

“bad news?” he asked, reading your face.

you set the letter down, swallowing hard.

“alys rivers,” you said, voice low.

“the woman who… she’s in king’s landing now, with her child. aemond’s child. he’s let them stay.”

cregan’s jaw tightened, a flicker of anger in his eyes, not at you, but at the man who’d caused this.

“he’s a fool,” he said plainly.

“to wound you once was shame enough. to let her linger in your place? that’s cruelty.”

you looked away, the fire blurring through unshed tears.

“i thought i was free of him,” you admitted, voice breaking.

“but every time i try to move forward, he’s there, in my head. in my heart. i hate it.”

cregan knelt beside you, not touching, just close enough to feel his warmth.

“you’re stronger than this pain,” he said, voice steady.

“you’ve built a life here, for you and the lad. he doesn’t get to take that from you.”

you met his gaze, finding solace in its honesty.

“what if he comes for me?”

you whispered, the fear slipping out before you could stop it.

“what if he wants daeron?”

“then he’ll face the north,” cregan said, a quiet fierceness in his tone. “and me.”

you nodded, grateful, though the ache remained. that night, you lay awake, daeron asleep beside you, the letter’s words looping in your mind. alys in the red keep. aemond’s son. the life you’d left behind, clawing at your heels. you thought of the words you’d hurled at aemond, the venom in them, and wondered if they’d hurt him as much as he’d hurt you. part of you hoped they had. part of you hated that you cared.

the next morning, as you walked the snowy courtyard with daeron bundled in furs, a shout rang out from the gates.

“rider from the south!” a guard called, and your heart stopped.

you turned, clutching daeron tighter, as hooves thudded against the snow. a cloaked figure dismounted, their face hidden, but the sigil on their cloak, a dragon, gleamed in the pale light.

who were they?

a messenger with a summons?

or

aemond himself, come to beg or demand? the question hung in the air, sharp as a blade, as the rider approached, and winterfell’s walls seemed to close in around you.

[dreamdragonkadia]

Can I please have a Percy Jackson x soulmate reader who is also a child of Hera fic, specifically where they have each other's name on their wrist. Only if you're up to it, no pressure.

I’m full-on rolling with the adopted child of Hera route for this because of that post I made a hot minute ago (iykyk). This was such a fun piece to write, so thank you for requesting it! p.jackson x hera!reader

When the name first bloomed across your wrist in curling, ink-dark script, it hadn’t been you who noticed it.

It had been your mother.

One moment you were sitting at the marble dining table in her private quarters on Olympus, struggling to write an essay on the Greek pantheon for your mortal school (ironic), and the next, Hera had audibly gasped.

A real, actual gasp.

You’d looked up, blinking, only to find the Queen of the Gods frozen in place, her eyes locked on your left wrist. Then she was moving, uncharacteristically overly gentle, taking your hand like it was something sacred.

There, nestled in the soft skin just above your pulse point, was a name.

Perseus Jackson.

Her expression was unreadable for a moment, the goddess of marriage and family turning the wrist like it was a prophecy, her thumb brushing over the name as if to test its permanence.

Then she narrowed her eyes.

“If he hurts you,” she murmured, a glint of something ancient flashing behind her irises, “I’ll hand-deliver his soul to my brother’s realm.”

 It wasn’t exactly the most reassuring threat of maternal love, but you appreciated the sentiment. Mostly.

And for a while, that name was all you had. Just a reminder inked into your skin, a small tether to someone you’d never met. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might run into him—this Perseus Jackson—at Camp Half-Blood.

Until Silena Beauregard clocked your wrist.

You’d only just arrived at camp for the summer, backpack slung over one shoulder, when she swept you into a circle of flower crowns and idle gossip under the shade of the strawberry fields.

“I forgot,” Silena said with a little smile, reaching out to fix one of the daisies in your crown. “You haven’t been around long enough to meet Cabin Three’s one and only.”

You blinked. “Poseidon’s kid?”

“Mhmm.”

You tilted your head, adjusting the crown she placed on you. “Mom’s complained about him a few times… what was his name? Perce? Perrie?”

Silena actually giggled. “It’s Percy. And he’s kind of impossible to forget once you meet him.”

You shrugged. “I’m sure he’s fine. Probably has a sea salt ego and some tragic backstory. Don’t they all?”

That had been that for most of the day.

Between trying to nap in spots no one would bother you—your top pick was currently the roof of the Big House—and settling into Cabin Two, you managed to mostly avoid conversation. Hera’s cabin was more or less a shrine to symmetry and order, with marble floors so polished you could see your reflection in them. It was always sealed up tight unless you were there to unlock it with your presence alone. A little dramatic, but hey. Apples don’t fall far from immortal trees.

What you didn’t expect was to look up from organizing your few bags and see a shadow fall across the open door.

A boy was peeking inside, standing on the front step like he wasn’t sure if knocking would offend someone—or if the building itself might strike him down for the attempt.

Honestly, you didn’t blame him. Most campers had only ever seen Hera’s cabin from the outside—closed doors, golden torchlight flickering behind frosted windows, impossible to enter unless Hera deemed it so. And now? The doors were open, and you were there.

He looked… hesitant.

Dark hair a little damp like he’d just come from the lake, an orange Camp Half-Blood tee clinging to him, and sea-green eyes that immediately locked onto yours the second you moved.

You stared right back, unimpressed.

“Lost?” you asked, not moving from where you sat, legs crossed on your bed, unwrapping a granola bar you hadn’t even wanted until now.

He blinked, then stepped back a little. “No. I mean—no. I was just, uh… curious.”

Your brows rose.

“I’ve never seen this place open before,” he added quickly. “Didn’t mean to, like, spy. Or intrude. Sorry.”

You took a bite of your granola bar and chewed, slowly, not breaking eye contact. “You always peek into cabins you’ve never been invited into? Or is this just a special treat for the day?”

His lips twitched. “You always this hostile, or is it just your charming way of saying hello?”

You finally moved to stand, brushing off your hands. “Depends. You always interrupt people mid-snack?”

His grin broke through then—lopsided, boyish, annoyingly cute. “Only the important ones.”

You waved the boy in. “Take a look around, I highly doubt you ever will again, son of Poseidon.”

He blinked, visibly startled. “How’d you—”

“Please. You think I don’t know what my mom complains about?” You gave a light shrug and tilted your head, studying him like he was a curious painting. “You and your dad share the same eyes.”

Then you added, almost as an afterthought, “Yours are prettier, though.”

That stopped him cold. His mouth opened a little—like he was ready to fire back a flirt or a quip—but the words didn’t quite land. Instead, his gaze flicked downward.

To your wrist.

Your sleeve had ridden up just slightly when you’d waved him in. Just enough to see it—faint against your skin, the edges delicate and familiar.

He froze.

“You—” he started, but it came out rough, like his throat had dried mid-word.

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”

He shook his head like he was trying to reboot. “It’s nothing. I just—” His words trailed again, and he swallowed. “Can I ask you something kind of… stupid?”

You crossed your arms, instinctively defensive. “You really are making it difficult not to insult you with a question like that.”

He huffed a soft laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was still staring—less at you now and more through you, like something in the air had shifted and he was the only one who could hear the change.

Then, without another word, he turned his arm over and tugged his wristband down.

There it was.

Your name.

Etched across his skin like it had always been there. Like the universe had quietly stitched it into his fate and only now pulled back the curtain to show it off.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Your eyes dropped to the name inked on his wrist, and then—slowly, too slowly—you looked down at your own.

Your heart gave one single, staggering beat.

Perseus Jackson.

The name that had been on your skin for years, barely noticed, barely thought about. Something that had always felt like background noise—until now, when it matched his voice. His face. His everything.

Everything in your chest stilled.

“...Oh,” you whispered. It wasn’t eloquent. Wasn’t poised or godly. Just a breath of realization. A shockwave in syllable form.

Percy was watching you like you might bolt. Like you were a frightened deer, and he wasn’t sure whether to reach out or stay frozen.

“I—I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he said quickly, voice cracking just slightly. “I didn’t even know if it was you until just now. I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t— I wasn’t gonna say anything unless you—”

You raised a hand, and he shut up instantly.

Not because you were angry.

But because you looked stunned.

Shellshocked. Like the floor had dropped out from beneath you and you were still trying to figure out which way was up.

“You’re serious,” you said quietly, your gaze locked on the mark on his wrist. “It’s not some weird Camp prank or cosmic joke?”

Percy snorted, a little breathless. “I wouldn’t exactly joke about this to the daughter of Hera. I like living.”

You didn’t say anything for a second. The name on your wrist suddenly felt heavier than it ever had—less like a mark, more like a tether. A bond.

Fated.

“Did you… always know?” you asked, voice small despite yourself.

He shook his head. “Nah. Mine showed up when I was twelve. Thought it was some mistake. Or a curse. Then I met your mom.”

You flinched.

“She didn’t say it was you, just… glared at me. Said I’d figure it out. Someday.” He looked down at his wrist again, his fingers brushing your name. “Guess this is someday.”

You exhaled through your nose. “Gods, she’s going to love this.”

“Yeah,” he said, with all the dread of a man facing imminent doom. “Can’t wait for that meet-the-mother moment.”

And for the first time since everything had started spinning, you let out a soft, startled laugh.

Because, of course.

This was your soulmate.

Your mother’s least favorite demigod.

Figures.

[1hot-mess-express1]

Flowers in an Abyss

Non-MC Reader X Sylus

Summary: Sylus finds you again in the next life and he's not surprised at all by what you're doing with it (w.c: 598)

A/N: I want to play around with MC having more connections to her past life with each of the guys and I started here (inspired heavily by a post I saw about Sylus being a dad and remembering his babies in a past life, if you know what I'm talking about pls pls pls tag me in it)

Sylus halts mid-step, his breath catching as his gaze locks onto a young woman cradling a small child in her arms. In the overgrown yard of an abandoned school in the N109 zone stands the most beautiful woman he has ever seen—the one he never thought he would see again.

His expression softens as your laughter rings out, bright and clear, your fingers playfully dancing over the child's stomach. Even in the eternal gloom of his world, you emanate life, warmth, and something achingly familiar. In his mind, hazy memories—no, visions—unfold: you, holding a baby with tiny, nubby horns. The child nestled close to your chest, his little puffs of breath warm against your skin, while your hands caressed those delicate horns with pure adoration. Sylus aches. He longs for the moment he never had, the one stolen from him by death. He wonders what became of the child after you passed. His memories—no, your memories—stop at the child’s fifth year. He likes to believe you kept the later ones for yourself, but he is not a foolish man.

A sudden wave of children floods the field, their joyous laughter foreign to the desolate N109 zone. The sheer sound of it leaves his ears ringing, disoriented, until—

"Laoshi, who's that man?"

A small boy clutches at your side, pointing an accusing finger at Sylus, his frame half-hidden behind you.

Your body stiffens as you turn to face him, expression darkening instantly.

"Can I help you?" Your voice is sharp, guarded, and he doesn’t miss the way your hand drifts toward your hip. Your fierce gaze pins him in place.

"Forgive me," Sylus murmurs, dipping his head slightly. "Laughter is scarce here. I was simply… enjoying its warmth."

He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t need to. The moment he sees no flicker of recognition in your eyes, his heart fractures. You had cursed him to find you in every life, to love you in every life—yet here you stood, unable to remember him at all.

That, he decides, must change.

The next day, Sylus strolls into the same abandoned building, stepping into what appears to be a makeshift front office. A woman at the desk looks up, her eyes widening. She knows who he is. He’s sure of it. Knows what he does. Knows what he is. Yet, she doesn’t mention it.

Instead, her voice is cautious. "Can I help you, sir?"

His lips twitch into a smirk. "I apologize for intruding, but… what is this place?"

Her hesitation is brief before she answers, "An orphanage."

An orphanage. Of course. You, growing flowers in the desert, making miracles where none should exist. The confirmation settles something in him.

"Then I'd like to offer a donation," he says smoothly. "Something this remarkable shouldn’t be left to chance."

The woman gasps at the number scrawled on the check he hands her. He doesn’t wait for her awe to wear off before slipping a second item from the inner pocket of his coat—an ornate envelope, its wax seal unbroken.

"And," he adds, "a young woman by the name of (Y/N) works here, does she not? Please ensure she receives this."

The woman hesitates but nods. "O-of course, sir."

That evening, you return to your room, peeling open the wax-sealed envelope with careful fingers. Inside is an invitation—an auction, of all things. A formal request for your company.

There is no explanation, no context, just a single line scrawled at the bottom of the letter in elegant script:

"I can’t wait to meet the sorceress who blooms flowers in an abyss."

How peculiar.

[ghostofhyuck]

when nct dream's jealous of your interaction with a male k-idol. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

‧˚ʚ ───────── ₊‧꒰ა ୨ৎ ໒꒱ ‧₊ ───────── ɞ˚‧

AN: This time, I added specific male idols to spice up a little bit, AND in this scenario, dreamies and reader are in a secret relationship instead. ^^ I also spin the wheel in this one LMAOOO so the idols are random

Mark Lee

You had a small collab stage with Treasure's Jihoon. It's a dance performance and while it's not that intimate, (you two just danced together, that's it.) it's enough to think that you two enjoyed the collab stage because at the end of the performance, you two looked at each other and smiled. On the backstage, Mark was watching it with arms crossed, and lips tightly sealed. The Dreamies are teasing him for being jealous even though he tries to deny it numerous times.

Huang Renjun

Your group are in the same table with Enhypen. There's so much awkwardness with the two groups, when camera suddenly shifted to you and Enhypen's Jake, making the crowd screamed. You only waved and so did Jake. THEN the camera shifted to Renjun who's staring angrily at the void. Of course, the crowd screamed again that's when Renjun noticed that the camera's on him, he quickly smiled at wave, brushing off the feeling of jealousy that he's FARRRRR away from you. When you two met, you teased Renjun for being jealous.

Lee Jeno

You and Bang Chan from Stray Kids went viral because of his manners. Your group sat in front of Stray Kids, and all of you were wearing knee-length dresses. You're the leader that's why you let your members wear the blankets provided. Bang Chan noticed it and was quick to notify the staff for another blanket, and when he received it, he gave it to you. It only took the news to be viral for Jeno to learn about it. "If only we were near you, I would've give you my coat instead," he said and you only laughed because his jealousy is showing.

Lee Donghyuck

"Was the conversation fun?" Haechan taunted when you met him backstage. You raised an eyebrow, but then remember that the camera caught you and Riize's Eunseok having a conversation. You mean no harm since you and Eunseok are under SM and was close when you two were trainees. "Take your jealousy somewhere Hyuck," you taunted back at your boyfriend, knowing how to fight back with his pettiness. In the end, Haechan apologizes and admits that he was jealous.

Na Jaemin

"Here," you turned around and saw Jaemin holding a confetti. "He didn't removed all of it," he added. You suddenly remember that Ateez Mingi removed the confetti from your hair. You noticed it and thanked him as a courtesy. "He's trying to hit on you," Jaemin pouts. You only laughed at your sulking boyfriend, hugging him and assuring him that it was nothing for him to worry about.

Zhong Chenle

The Boyz was performing and when it was Juyeon's part, it suddenly shifted to you who's clapping and singing along the song. You were surprised but tried to play it off and ignoring the camera. It did sparked rumors and gain shippers, but it did made your boyfriend jealous "It should been our performance." he said. You told him that there's nothing to be jealous about.

Park Jisung

You're the host of the show along with TXT' Soobin, the script was written with the intention of you two having a lot of interactions. So during the award show, you two interacted A LOT and it did gain a lot of reactions from the public, saying that you two had a lot of chemistry. But what's surprising was that Soobin tried to hit on you after the show. "That's nice," Jisung bitterly said as you show him the text message. "But you're taken already." He teases. "Of course I am," you smiled, giving Jisung a bear hug.

[sabos-husband]

★ No Gods, No Masters

Sabo x Reader ★

Dressrosa Spoilers!! ~ Revolutionary!Reader ~ Gender Neutral ~ Fluff

You're exhausted. Your feet drag all the way from the door to your dresser. You can't help but sigh. You barely tossed your keys to the counter while you kick off your shoes.

You grit your teeth, eyes falling shut. You sigh again, deeper this time. Your fingers are heavy and numb as they undo the zipper of your jacket. It hangs loosely on your shoulders as you reach to undo your work shirt.

You hear a throat clear. You open your eyes.

You meet wide eyes. Sabo's.

You refasten your collar's button.

"Hi, chief," you say drowsily. Sabo, who was previously stuck sitting at your desk, stands up quickly. The chair clatters when Sabo's quick rise almost tosses it. His cheeks are pink. "Hey— I know it's late, but.." He trails.

You must be really tired, because for a second, it almost looks like Sabo's face is getting pinker. It's cute. He's cute.

You slide your jacket from your shoulders, tossing it somewhere into the dark room. You walk closer to Sabo, whose stunned silence speaks for him, and reach over his shoulder. You can hear how tight his breathing gets when you grab the sweater on your desk. You step back, and Sabo breathes fully once again.

"Can I help you?" You ask.

Sabo slowly sits down again. "I just need the documents you compiled for Dragon."

"Oh, those. They need a breakdown for you to understand. Let me," you yawn, "shower, then I'll explain it to you. I just need.. Fifteen minutes."

Sabo starts to stand up. "It's fine, it was inappropriate for me to show up this late anyways. I'll just head—"

You shove Sabo down into the chair again. Your palm lingers on his chest. "Ten minutes."

Sabo's stiff under your hand. "Ten minutes."

You crack a smile. "I'll be out soon," you say with a gentle pat to Sabo's cheek.

Even after you had collected a pair of shorts with the sweater and a towel from your bedside before retreating to the bathroom, Sabo hadn't moved.

He stands up suddenly. He takes large strides to the door, freezes with his hand over the knob, then turns around to walk back to your desk. Soft flames dance on Sabo's palm to light his way.

Pens, scraps of paper, pages, thick books—all sorts of clutter swept across the crowded desk. It's almost impressive to be this messy, he muses to himself. He can relate, at least. A small candle catches Sabo's eye. He picks it up, lighting it before extinguishing his palm. Its gentle gleam illuminates enough for his eyes to begin adjusting.

He spends some time rifling through drawers, driven more by his nervous compulsion to move rather than a drive to be nosey.

It all shifts, however, when his eyes land on a letter.

Sabo sinks into the seat again. His hands almost shake when he brushes his gloved fingertips over its cover. In a thoughtful, swirling script, Sabo sees his very own name penned on its cover.

On the back, the letter was sealed close with blue wax. The chief curses to himself. He almost considers heating your letter opener to pry off the preserved seal and read it secretly, but then he hears the water shut off and he shoves the letter back. He panics.

Truly, the speed he moved at deserves applause. He can barely maintain a look of casual professionalism when he flips to a random page of a random book the moment you emerge from the bathroom.

Sabo almost drops the book when he sees you. You have a towel draped around his shoulders, damp hair letting droplets roll down your neck, and a significantly more lucid look to your eyes. The look, sharp enough for Sabo to start perspiring, falls to the book’s cover. “I love that one.”

Sabo looks over the top of the page for a title… Ah, there it is. A formerly-enslaved woman's memoir—he remembers seeing its title in a list of books banned by the World Government. Fitting for a revolutionary; fitting for you.

Speaking of you, Sabo looks up. "I've never finished it." Or started it, for that matter.

When he makes eye contact, you have an eyebrow cocked. Sabo flushes. In his defense, he was never really known for his subtlety. Or his interest in reading.

Sabo shuts the book, placing it over the letter he haphazardly tossed. "So, the report?"

You smile at him, too knowing for comfort, before grabbing the chair's arms. You tug Sabo over to the bed with ease, where you sit down on the mattress and swipes the report from your bedside table. "It's nothing too confusing," you hum, thumbing through the materials. "It illustrates the different actions from the other armies, what our informants in the Marines have been seeing, stuff like that..."

Sabo... Well, Sabo stops listening after that. Can you blame him!? The way you look up at him, making sure he's paying attention—Seas, he should really be paying attention—before smiling and looking down to scan the report. The way your tongue darts out to wet your lips...

So, yeah. There's no way in hell he'd pay attention.

It bites him in the ass when you look up with those pretty eyes of yours, looking at him expectantly. He blinks at you. "...What?"

You snort. "I asked if you had any questions."

"Oh-" Sabo shakes his head. "No, no, I- um, if I have any questions, I'll find you. In the morning." He reaches for the report.

With all your kindness, you don't call him on his shoddy bluff. You just hand over the papers with a sleepy grin. He tucks them safely into his coat as he stands from your desk chair.

"Well, this was a pleasure," and truly it was, "but I'll leave you to sleep now." He absentmindedly tugs at the lip of his glove before turning around.

"Ah- Chief?" You grab his wrist just before Sabo can make his escape.

The door's just so close. Your cool palm soothes the heat boiling under his skin. Sabo turns his head. "Yes?"

"The book," slowly, you mumble, "do you want to borrow it?"

The gentle moon filters through the drawn curtains. Paired with the candlelight, You look like an angel. It addles his brain. Sabo nods without thinking.

The smile he gets in response makes the entire night of heartache worth it.

He leaves the bedroom with a mediocre understanding of the report and an overwhelming feeling of warmth.

If he were any smarter, though, he would rifle through the book's pages and find a letter with the blue wax seal slipped between the introduction and first chapter.

[sunshineangel0]

VALENTINES DAY PACT —﹙ B.C ﹚

⌁ wc 6.2k warnings nsfw content, protected intercourse, afab reader, greedy chan, childhood friends to lovers, one bed, fake dating, unresolved feelings, small town au! ⌁ part one of the "twin heart series"

Y/N stared down at the RSVP card like it had personally insulted her. Like if she focused hard enough, maybe the gold-embossed lettering saying "Save The Date, for this Valentines day, for the long anticipated Wedding of Kim Seungmins and F/N L/N!", would curl up in flames, the heart-shaped wax seal would melt into a puddle of regret, and the whole thing would vanish from the little round diner table of the "Seaside Diner" between her and Bang Chan. No such luck. It sat there, pristine and mocking, practically radiating smugness with its “You’re Invited!” script and tasteful floral border.

Across from her, Chan took a lazy sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “You’re seriously going to fake an engagement?” he asked, like he was asking about the weather, like this wasn’t the most absurd idea either of them had heard before 9 a.m.

She didn’t blink. “No,” she said slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I’m seriously going to fake our engagement.”

He choked, just slightly, and set the mug down with a thud. “I beg your pardon?”

“Unless you want me to show up to this wedding alone, in a pastel tulle dress I didn’t choose, forced to make small talk with Jamie’s third cousins while everyone gives me the ‘poor Y/N’ look and offers me consolation shrimp,” she said, voice rising with every syllable.

He blinked. “You’re not even in the bridal party.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped, then sighed, folding her arms over her chest like armor. “Sunhoo’s going to be there. With her. Because Seungmin literally invited every every single person in Summerdale, and everyone still thinks my glory days ended after prom night.”

Chan tilted his head, considering this with all the seriousness of someone analyzing a chessboard. “I mean… you did peak at seventeen.”

Her foot connected with his shin under the table before he could smirk. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her point.

Chan grinned, that easy, lopsided one he always pulled when he was trying to cut the tension. But this time, it didn’t stick. Slowly, the smile faded, leaving something quieter behind — something almost solemn.

“You know I’ll do it, right?” he said, his voice softer now. “If you want me to. You just have to say the word.”

He made it sound simple. Too simple. Like this was just another favor. Like he was offering to carry her groceries or kill a spider in her apartment, not upend their already-complicated friendship for a weekend of smiling through their teeth and pretending to be in love.

She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Because it wasn’t simple. Not by a long shot. Y/N stared into her coffee like it might offer some clarity, but all she saw was her own reflection, warped and blurry. She felt her pulse ticking in her wrist, in her throat.

Chan leaned forward a little, forearms on the table, fingers laced together. Waiting. Not pushing. That was always the worst part with him—he never pushed. He let her make the first move. The last move. All the moves, really. “You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, gently. “You could ask one of your book club girls. Or… I don’t know, that guy who sold you your couch?”

“You mean Jae the furniture perv?”

“Right, forget Jae.”

She exhaled a slow, shaky breath and looked up at him. “I don’t want them. I want—” She cut herself off. Bit the inside of her cheek. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You want?”

She hated how steady he looked. Like none of this touched him. Like the idea of pretending to be her fiancé didn’t stir up years of complicated history and one specific memory neither of them ever acknowledged: a truck parked by the beach, a humid July night, her skin pressed to his, the sound of crashing waves and a thousand stars above them that saw everything.

“You said you’d do it if I asked,” she said finally. “But you didn’t say you wanted to.”

Something shifted in his expression then. A flicker of something buried. Old. Familiar. Dangerous. “I didn’t say I don’t want to,” he replied. His voice had dropped a little, rougher now. “I’m just trying to be sure you do.”

Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—never awkward with him—but taut, like a thread pulled tight. She took another sip of her coffee, if only to buy herself time. When she finally set the cup down, she still didn’t feel ready. But she said it anyway, the words heavier than she expected.

“Okay. Be my fiancé.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just stared at her like he was reading a page in a book they’d both sworn not to open again. Then something flickered in his eyes—just for a second. Not quite a smile. Not quite pain. A memory, maybe.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Guess I better find a ring.”

She tried to smile. Tried not to think about how easily he could borrow one from his sister. Tried not to think about how it might fit. Or how it might feel. But they both knew the truth. There was no version of this that wouldn’t mean something. And maybe it always had.

The word fiancé looked wrong on her screen. Too formal. Too fake. Like she was trying on someone else’s shoes and pretending they fit.

Still, she typed it out anyway. Committed to the bit. Or maybe just too far in to back out now.

Y/N: meet me at Bella´s after work Y/N: i need a ring Y/N: bring that hot fake fiancé energy 🔥💍

The three dots appeared instantly, which was either comforting or terrifying.

Fiance (Chan): i always bring the energy Fiance (Chan): but yeah, i’m free after 6 Fiance (Chan): you paying, or am i getting the diamond discount?

She snorted, thumbs already flying across the screen.

Y/N: were going to a pawn shop, chan. Y/N: you’re getting cubic zirconia and raw ambition

A pause. Then his reply:

Fiance (Chan): sexy Fiance (Chan): see you at 6, almost-wife

She stared at that last text longer than she meant to.

Almost-wife. Even as a joke, it buzzed in her chest like static—wrong and right all at once. She locked her phone without answering and tucked it into her bag, trying not to think too hard about what they were really doing.

Fake rings. Fake names. Real feelings they’d agreed to ignore. One night of pretending had already changed everything once. What would a whole weekend do?

She stood in front of the glass case at Bellas’s Trinkets feeling like she’d just committed a felony. Everything inside the case sparkled too much. Too bright. Too knowing. Like the rings themselves were in on the lie.

They glared up at her in neat little velvet boxes—diamonds, sapphires, gold bands winking like they knew exactly what kind of mess she was walking into. What kind of mess she already was.

Beside her, Chan crouched down to get a closer look, resting his forearms on his knees like he was evaluating ancient artifacts instead of pawn shop jewelry. His expression was pure theater—brow furrowed, lips pursed, head tilted slightly to the side.

“So,” he said thoughtfully. “What says ‘I’m hopelessly devoted to Y/N, but also not actually in love with her, except maybe a little bit in denial about it’?”

She didn’t dignify him with a glance. “Probably not the heart-shaped one.”

He followed her gaze and snorted. “Yeah. That one’s giving eighth-grade promise ring. Like I should be wearing a puka shell necklace and quoting The Notebook.”

She scanned the rows until her eyes landed on something understated—a slender gold band with a pear-cut stone. Not flashy. Not loud. Elegant, but practical. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

She pointed. “What about that one?” Chan leaned in. Studied it. “Hmm. Classic. Safe. Kind of like you.”

That made her turn. One eyebrow arched, hand on her hip. “Did you seriously just call me safe?” He looked up at her, unbothered. “Yeah, but like... in the way that you always have Band-Aids and backup snacks in your purse. You’re comfort-core.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Chan.” He gave a small shrug, then straightened up slowly, closing the distance between them by half. His voice dropped just a bit, enough to shift the tone.

“Okay. Fine. You’re the kind of safe that ruins men.” She blinked. He kept going. Steady. Sure. “The kind they meet thinking they’re fine, and then suddenly they’re reorganizing their entire lives around a woman who alphabetizes her spice rack and remembers how they take their coffee without asking.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed again. It shut her up, and he knew it. Smug bastard.

Before she could fire back, Bella—the owner, nosy and beaming—popped out from behind the counter, her apron dusted with rhinestone glitter. “You two picking out an engagement ring?” she asked, clasping her hands like she’d just stepped into a Hallmark movie.

Y/N opened her mouth, brain scrambling to assemble a plausible excuse, but Chan beat her to it.

“Yep,” he said smoothly, reaching for the ring she’d pointed out. “She said yes last night.”

Bella gasped like she’d won something. “Oh, honey! That’s wonderful! How’d he do it?”

Y/N turned to Chan, giving him the your move look. He held the ring up between his fingers and grinned. “Tell her, baby.” Oh, we’re doing this, she thought. Her pulse jumped. Without missing a beat, she looked Bella square in the eyes. “He wrote ‘marry me’ on a Post-It and stuck it on my fridge. Very on brand.”

Chan chuckled. “She’s lying. I spelled it out in candles on the beach. Nearly set myself on fire.” Bella clutched her heart like she was watching a proposal at Disneyland. “Young love,” she sighed. Y/N rolled her eyes, but when Chan slid the ring onto her finger, something in her chest skipped—hard. It was just for show. Just a prop.

But it fit. Perfectly. Of course it did.

Because nothing about this was supposed to feel real. But it did. Too real. Too easy. Too dangerous. Chan didn’t let go of her hand right away. And the scary part was—neither did she. And that specific feeling, of her hand in his, let her mind wander to a certain summer night almost ten years ago...

FLASHBACK — SUMMER, SENIOR YEAR

The heat that summer didn’t come from stolen glances or fake promises. It came from sunburned skin and sticky night air, from sand stuck between toes and sweat pooling at the base of her spine. It came from the restless pulse of being eighteen and wanting something you couldn’t name—only feel.

They were in the back of Chan’s dad’s pickup, parked behind the old boat shed near Breaker’s Cove. Hidden, mostly. The kind of place only locals from Summerdale knew about, where the dunes curved like secrets and the sea whispered too low for anyone to hear.

The truck bed creaked beneath them as they shifted—bodies tangled, skin flushed, nerves raw in the salt-heavy air. The blanket underneath them was faded, scratchy, smelled like garage dust and beach bonfires. It didn’t matter.

Nothing about that night had been planned. Not the way his hand found hers when she laughed too hard. Not the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare. And definitely not this—her fingers curled in his shirt, breath catching, hearts pounding.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the ocean. Chan leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “We don’t have to.” She held onto him tighter. “I want to.”

The words settled between them, anchoring something that had always been drifting just out of reach.

It wasn’t perfect. It was awkward—fumbling and unsure, the way firsts always are. A knee bumped the wheel well. Someone laughed, half-nervous. Her hair got caught on a snap in his jeans. But when it was quiet again, when it was just skin against skin and breath syncing up like waves, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt true.

Afterward, they lay side by side in the truck bed, bare shoulders touching. The stars above them were bright and wild, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled salt. The sea murmured in the distance. The smell of driftwood and seaweed clung to the air.

She looked up and said nothing. Neither did he. Because anything said out loud might’ve made it real. Might’ve forced them to admit that this was more than curiosity or timing or heat.

And maybe they weren’t ready for real.

The next morning, she saw him at the Seaside diner. Her hair was still damp from a quick shower. His shirt was wrinkled. Their friends were loud, laughing, oblivious. They didn’t touch. Didn’t mention the truck or the stars or the way he’d held her after, like he didn’t want to let go.

They pretended it never happened. But later, when she reached for the syrup, his hand brushed hers. Just for a second. And it felt like remembering a secret no one else knew.

Back in the pawn shop, Chan finally let go of her hand. His fingers slipped away slowly, like they didn’t want to, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that this was all pretend. “It looks good on you,” he said.

His voice was unreadable—smooth, casual—but something in it tugged. Like he was trying too hard not to sound like anything at all. Y/N stared down at the ring. The stone caught the overhead light and threw it back at her in a hundred fractured angles.

“Let’s just hope your mom doesn’t recognize it from Bellas when we show up,” she muttered, trying to sound dry, detached, whatever the opposite of spiraling was. Chan chuckled, low and easy. “She won’t. But she’s definitely gonna ask how I proposed, so... we should get our story straight.”

Y/N nodded, forcing a smile. “Right. Proposal logistics. Just part of the illusion.” But her fingers were still tingling where he’d touched her.

This was fake. This was for show. This was supposed to be simple.

A weekend of make-believe. A ring. A few photos. One big lie tied in a bow.

And yet—

The weight of the band on her finger felt real. Heavy, like it meant something. Worse was the way Chan was looking at her—calm, careful, unreadable in all the ways that used to mean he was thinking too much. Or not enough. She tore her eyes away before she could start imagining things that weren’t there. But some part of her knew: she'd remember this. Not just the ring. Not just the shop.

Him. Letting go. Too slowly. Like maybe he didn’t want to.

The thing no one tells you about pretending to be engaged to your best friend? Everyone suddenly thinks your relationship is public property. They touch your hand, grab your arm, ask inappropriate questions with glossy-eyed sincerity and zero boundaries.

Y/N learned this twenty minutes after arriving at The Marigold House—a coastal bed-and-breakfast straight out of a Pinterest fever dream. Whitewashed clapboard, blue shutters, ivy curling up the trellises, and that faint, inescapable smell of vanilla potpourri and multigenerational secrets. It was charming in a “please don’t haunt me” kind of way.

They barely made it through the front gate before a cousin—Tiffany? Brittany? Something ending in -ny and wearing coral satin—latched onto her like they’d been close since preschool.

“Oh my God, look at that ring!” she squealed, catching Y/N’s left hand in both of hers. “You are so lucky. And you,” she said, pointing an acrylic-nailed finger at Chan, “locked him down? Seriously? You always gave off commitment-phobe energy.”

Chan didn’t even blink. Just smiled, that casual, unreadable smile he wore when he was lying with ease. “Guess I found the exception.”

Y/N didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around hers—subtle, firm. Like punctuation. Like backup. They navigated the social minefield of the lobby—the cousins, the vaguely familiar faces from high school, the girl who once threw up on her shoes at prom—and finally reached the front desk, where a too-cheerful concierge in floral pastels slid them a key with a wink. She made a mental note in her head to give Seungmin later a lecture on who-and-who-dont you invite to your wedding.

“One queen bed,” she said brightly. “Super cozy. Perfect for newlyweds.” Y/N opened her mouth. Absolutely not— Chan beat her to it. “Perfect,” he said smoothly. “We love cozy.” The key was already in his hand.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the performance cracked like cheap veneer. “One bed?” Y/N said, tossing her bag down like it had betrayed her. “Are you kidding me?” Chan shrugged out of his hoodie, already at ease. “You RSVP’d with a fiancé, babe. Couples sleep together. It’s kind of the whole point.”

“You could take the floor.”

“You could stop pretending you mind.” She shot him a glare. That smug, maddening, not-wrong face.

She turned away, crossing to the window to hide the flush creeping up her neck. Her hand still tingled where he’d held it. The ring still felt heavier than it should have. And her body—traitorous, inconvenient—was already very aware of the fact that she’d be sharing a room, and a bed, with someone she once knew naked under a sky full of stars.

That smug, unbothered tone. That stupidly correct face. That fucking handsome face.

She didn’t answer. Just turned away, crossing to the window to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. Her fingers still tingled where he’d held them. The ring on her left hand was just cheap metal and cubic zirconia, but it felt heavier than gold.

She had convinced herself she could handle this. Keep it light. Laugh it off. But then Chan hoisted her suitcase onto the luggage rack like he’d done it a hundred times. And maybe he had. That was the problem.

It felt too easy. Too familiar. Too them.

“Remember crashing at my grandma’s lake cabin?” he asked, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “We used to fight over who got the couch.”

“Yeah,” she said, still staring out the window.

He hesitated. “Except that last time.”

Y/N went still. Because she did remember. Just not the way he said it.

“Wrong place,” she murmured, not turning around. “What?” “It wasn’t the cabin. It was your dad’s truck,” she said quietly. “Breaker’s Cove. The summer before college.”

The air shifted. The teasing fell away. Chan sat up. “Right.”

She finally looked at him. “How could you forget that night?” He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, carefully. Like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Or maybe like he didn’t want to say the right one.

“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I’ve tried to.” Y/N let out a breath. Not a laugh. Not quite.

“That night—” she started, then stopped. “We never talked about it.”

“You never brought it up either,” he said gently. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Me either.” They were quiet for a beat.

The memory was so clear. The two of them in the bed of the pickup truck, parked just above the cove where the tide rolled in steady and slow. Salt on their skin. The blanket beneath them rough with sand and wind. Her hands tangled in his shirt, his mouth on her shoulder. His voice, low: We don’t have to. Her answer, barely a whisper: I want to.

After, they had stared at the stars like they were afraid to look at each other. And the next morning, they’d pretended it never happened. Chan leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. “If we’d talked about it back then,” he said, “I don’t think I could’ve kept pretending we were just friends.”

Her chest tightened. Because that? That wasn’t fake. Neither was the look in his eyes. And maybe it never had been.

Chan’s gaze was heavy—locked on hers like it cost him something to look, but more to look away. His voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. “If we’d talked about it,” he said, “I wouldn’t have been able to pretend.”

The weight of it sat between them, thick and electric. Something real. Something breakable. She didn’t realize she was leaning in until she felt his breath hit her lips—warm, steady, laced with mint and a hint of cinnamon from dessert. The space between them had vanished. Gone was the careful choreography of fake smiles and half-lies. Now it was just them. Bare. Unspoken. Burning.

“Chan,” she breathed, the name catching in her throat. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking. Permission? Apology? A kiss?

His eyes flicked down to her mouth like a reflex. “Yeah?”

It was right there—the moment. Teetering on the edge. Her hand twitched toward his chest, fingers aching to curl into his shirt and drag him closer. And then—

Knock knock knock. The door jolted in its frame. A muffled voice chirped through the crack, way too cheerful for what had almost just happened.

“The engagement dinner starts in ten! We’re doing a seating chart scramble, so don’t be late unless you want to sit with the kids’ table!”

The spell shattered.

Y/N blinked. The air between them popped like a soap bubble—leaving only cold, awkward space.

Chan let out a sharp breath and leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect timing.” She stood too fast. Her knees felt wrong. Wobbly. Her pulse thundered against the base of her throat. “Yeah,” she said, clutching for something to hold onto. “Great.”

The dining room at The Marigold House was over-decorated, over-catered, and overwhelmed with tension.

Long tables glowed with golden taper candles and florals that looked like they'd cost someone a paycheck. There were name cards, clinking glasses, a four-tier cake that no one dared cut, and a band softly playing something jazzy that clashed with the heavy energy in the room.

Seungmin sat at the head table beside F/N L/N, his fiance and soon to be wife.

Y/N kept sneaking glances at them between bites of lemon risotto and lies.

Seungmin looked... still. Too still. Like someone bracing for impact. His suit jacket was perfect, pressed, charcoal-gray. But his fingers tapped restlessly under the tablecloth. His jaw worked in silence every time someone toasted him.

F/N, meanwhile, was radiant. Smiling politely. Laughing in the right places. Her hand rested lightly on Seungmin’s arm like they were just another happy almost-married couple making it through a long weekend.

But Y/N saw the way they didn’t look at each other. Or worse—the way they did when they thought no one was watching.

And it wasn't nothing.

“Earth to fake fiancée,” Chan whispered beside her, nudging her knee under the table.

She blinked. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Yeah, I saw. You were watching them like they owed you money.”

She smiled faintly, but her stomach twisted. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Like, shouldnt you be happier on your wedding day.”

Chan shrugged. “It’s their celebration. I think they know what theyre doing", She didn’t answer. Just watched as F/N turned to Seungmin and quietly whispered something into his ear. His expression didn’t change, but he nodded once, jaw clenched tight.

The rest of the dinner was a blur.

Cousins. Compliments. Fake laughter with a dull ache behind it. Someone asked how they met and Chan said, “college bar fight,” just to mess with them. She’d kicked him under the table, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Someone else asked when the wedding was. Someone else asked if they’d picked a honeymoon spot. Recommending the best Honeymoon Hotels in Kauai or Maui.

Chan had rested a hand on the small of her back under the table. Gentle. Anchoring. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. But her skin burned where he touched her.

When they got back to the room, the silence hit hard.

Chan closed the door behind them with a quiet click, then flipped the lock. She stood near the bed, staring at her shoes like they were fascinating.

For a long, long moment—neither of them moved. The weight of what almost happened earlier still sat in the space between them. Pressing in. Buzzing like an exposed wire. Then she turned to him. Slowly. Controlled. But her heart was not calm “You were gonna kiss me.” Not a question. Not really. Chan didn’t even blink. His voice was low and rough and too honest. “I was kissing you.”

Her breath caught. Her hands curled into fists at her sides to stop the tremble. “You didn’t,” she said, voice hoarse. His gaze dropped to her lips again.

“I’m about to,” he said, stepping forward, “unless someone knocks again.”

The room shrank.

Two feet of space between them. Then one. Then half.

She didn’t step back. His hand came up, slow and sure, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Fingertips trailing her skin like a secret. His thumb grazed the hinge of her jaw, and she tilted toward him without meaning to.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, breath shivering. “Terrible,” he murmured. “Disastrous.” His other hand came to rest on her waist.

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he said softly, like it meant something. Maybe it did. “You’re still my fake fiancé,” she whispered. “Still want me to act like it?” Her lips parted. That look in his eyes—hungry and aching and afraid—it gutted her. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… don’t be too good at it.” He smiled. That same slow, devastating smile that ruined her back when they were kids. “No promises.”

And then he kissed her. And there was nothing fake about it.

Not the way his hands gripped her jaw like she was something fragile and vital, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding her together or holding himself back. Not the way her fingers fisted in his shirt—hard—pulling him closer like she was drowning and he was air.

Not the way his breath hitched when her mouth opened for him, soft and hungry, and he groaned into the kiss like it hurt. Like he’d wanted this for too long.

At first, it was slow. Careful. Like they were testing the edges of something they couldn’t name yet. A tease. A taste. But it didn’t stay that way.

It broke. Unraveled.

Turned into teeth and tongue and fingers digging into fabric. Her back hit the wall with a muffled thud, and he pressed into her, crowding her space, stealing every breath she had left. His hands slid down—one splayed at her waist, the other curling around her hip, pulling her against him so there was no space left to lie.

She gasped, and he kissed her like he owned that sound. Like he’d been waiting years to claim it.

Their mouths moved in sync—messy, frantic, starving. Every drag of his lips against hers felt like a confession. Every sweep of his tongue was a reminder of that summer night and all the words they’d never said after.

Her nails scraped along the back of his neck. He growled low in his throat and pressed harder, hips brushing hers, dangerous, deliberate. It lit her up like a struck match. Her body arched, met him halfway.

She felt it—him—all of him. Solid and hard and so ready to stop pretending. “Fuck,” he breathed against her lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She kissed him again in answer—deeper, dirtier, teeth dragging over his bottom lip—and his grip tightened on her waist like he was two seconds from losing control.

She didn’t care. She wanted him unhinged. Unraveled. Real. She wanted his mouth everywhere, his hands on skin, his voice wrecked and begging.

And if he didn’t stop soon—if he kept kissing her like that—she was going to forget all the reasons they were pretending in the first place.

Suddenly, her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and for the split second his lips left hers, chan licked them before crashing into her again. Hot, rough, open. His hands gripped her hips, hauling her up like she weighed nothing. She gasped as her legs wrapped around his waist, dress riding up, heat blooming everywhere.

“You have no idea,” he growled against her lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.” “Show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. He carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed, gently, but with intent. Like he was done playing games. Like he was about to ruin her in the best way.

His mouth followed, on her neck, her collarbone, teeth dragging just enough to make her squirm.

Her hands yanked at his shirt, and he let her pull it off, revealing that body she remembered too well. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. That little dip between his pecs she used to fantasize about when she shouldn’t have. “God, Chan,” she breathed. He smirked. “What, baby? You want something?” She glared. “You’re not allowed to be cocky and good at this.” His voice dropped as he knelt between her thighs. “Wanna bet?” He tugged her dress up, then paused.

“Take it off,” he said. Low. Firm.

The way he said it, not asking, made her stomach flip.

She peeled the dress over her head slowly, teasing, baring herself inch by inch until she was in nothing but a lacy bra and panties that were already soaked.

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

He kissed down her stomach, slow, wet, worshipful, while his hands spread her thighs wide. “Keep your hands above your head,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She obeyed. Because the way he said it made her want to.

His mouth dipped lower. Tongue soft, then firm. His fingers joined—one, then two—curling just right, dragging moans from her throat that didn’t sound like her. Her hips arched off the bed, but he held her down with a strong arm. “Be good,” he said against her, voice muffled. “Or I’ll make you beg.” “Maybe I want to beg,” she gasped.

That made him grin. And go harder. By the time he pulled back, she was shaking. Desperate. He crawled up her body, lips crashing into hers again, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You want me to fuck you like we’re still pretending,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers. “Or like I’ve been in love with you since that night in the truck?”

Her nails raked down his back. “Both.” He groaned. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is wearing that stupid ring and pretending I don’t want you inside me every second.” That undid him.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet, classic, infuriating Chan, and pushed his boxers down with a hiss. He lined up, dragging the head of his cock through her wetness slowly, just to hear her whimper.

“You’re so soaked,” he said. “So soeaked for me” “For years.”

Then he finally pushed in. And it was everything.

Rough. Deep. Perfect. Her legs locked around his waist, and his thrusts grew faster, harder, each one dragging a broken moan from her lips. He pinned her hands above her head again, breathing hard, teeth gritted.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grunted. “You were made for this. For me.”

He gave her more. His name spilled from her mouth like a prayer, and when he felt her tighten around him, he swore, loud, filthy, before grabbing her face and kissing her hard through it.

She came shaking. Gasping. Eyes locked with his. He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow. Not until he was right there with her. thrusts erratic, mouth on her neck, biting down as he spilled inside her. The room was silent except for their breathing.

When he finally collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, he whispered: “Still want to pretend this is fake?”

She didn’t answer. She just curled into him and held on like she never wanted to let go.

It had been three days. Three days since the last toast clinked against borrowed glass. Three days since the band played its last love song, the last boutonniere wilted, and the champagne flutes were cleared like none of it had ever happened.

Three days since Chan had kissed her like he was starving—and touched her like he might never get to again. Three days. And not. a. word.

Not about the kiss. Not about the way they fell into bed like gravity had finally stopped being polite. Not about the things he said against her skin or the way her name had broken in his mouth when she came undone in his arms.

They hadn’t talked. Not once.

They were back now. Back in Summerdale. Back in their own apartments with walls between them. Back in their routines—coffee shops, work, texts about nothing—but none of it landed the way it used to.

The rhythm was off. Everything was too quiet. Until the knock.

It was soft. Hesitant. Like someone afraid of what came next. She opened the door without thinking. And there he was.

Chan stood in the hallway like the world had chewed him up and spit him out. Hair a mess. Hoodie half-zipped. Hands shoved deep into his pockets like they were the only things holding him together.

No smile. No greeting.

Just: “I can’t do this.” Y/N’s heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.

“…Can’t do what?” He looked up at her with eyes that had stopped pretending hours ago. “This,” he said. “All of this. The pretending.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stepped closer, just one step, but it was enough. Enough to make the hallway feel smaller. Enough to feel him again—his presence, his weight, his ache.

“I told myself it was just a favor,” he said. “That it didn’t mean anything. That I could go to the wedding, wear the ring, play the part, and walk away clean.”

His voice cracked. “But I’m not clean, Y/N. I’m wrecked.”

He laughed, bitter and broken. “I’ve been wrecked since that night in my dad’s truck. Since you looked at me and said you wanted to. Since you didn’t say anything after, and I didn’t either, and we both pretended we could live with that.”

Her chest ached. Her fingers curled at her sides. He kept going, his voice raw and urgent now, as if stopping would undo him.

“I love you,” he said, the words cracking out of him like they hurt. “I love you, and I’ve loved you since you kicked me under the diner table in eighth grade for saying ‘moist.’ Since we kissed under the pier and swore it didn’t count. Since you handed me that RSVP card and asked me to lie for you.”

He swallowed hard. “I tried to lie. I really tried.”

He stepped into her space, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. “But then I kissed you. And touched you. And watched you fall apart in my arms like you were made to be there. And now—now I don’t know how to be near you and not want everything.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. Looked at his trembling hands and wrecked expression and the impossible weight of the words he’d finally said.

And then—quietly, without drama—she stepped forward. She reached out.

Gripped the front of his hoodie with both hands. Pulled him closer.

“You love me?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. He let out a breath like it had been buried in his lungs for years. “Yeah,” he said. “Completely. Stupidly. Always.”

And she kissed him. Not desperate. Not rushed. But slow. Like a key turning in a long-locked door.

He kissed her back the same way—hands on her hips, then sliding up her back, like relearning something he’d never truly forgotten. She pulled him inside, kicked the door shut behind them.

The hoodie came off. Then her shirt. Then his breath was warm against her ear, voice low and wrecked and dangerous. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Oh I’m sure.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and set her on the edge of the counter. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, down to the place that made her curse his name.

And when he touched her just right—exactly right—she gasped.

“Chan—where the hell did you learn that?” He pulled back just enough to smirk, voice smug and ragged. “YouTube. Trial and error. A wildly successful imagination.”

She laughed, but it choked into a moan as he did it again. Slower. More pressure. More heat. She gripped his hair, breath wrecked, legs wrapped around his waist like this was always how it was meant to be. And when he finally pushed into her, slow and deep and perfect, she couldn’t hold anything back.

Not the cry. Not the kiss. Not the truth.

Because nothing about this was pretend anymore. This was them. Unwritten. Unfiltered. Unstoppable.

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۶ৎ MOVIES IDEAS TO SCRIPT IN YOUR ACTRESS DR ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢𝟭 ⠀ᰋ

— because your DR deserves cinematic masterpieces.

If you are a K-pop idol in your K-pop DR, you can use these ideas for movies you would work on or turn them into full K-dramas! 🎭

1. The Mirage Market

Genres: Fantasy | Mystery | Thriller | Comedy | Drama

Themes: The price of knowledge, temptation, fate vs. free will, the power of forgotten things

Plot:

You receive an invitation—a slip of parchment tucked into your pocket by unseen hands. It lists an address and a single promise: The Mirage Market welcomes all. Bring what you can afford to lose.

Curiosity pulls you in. You step through an unmarked alleyway and suddenly, the world shifts. The market stretches before you like a dream—twisting alleyways filled with glowing lanterns, merchants selling impossible things: bottled starlight, laughter sealed in a jar, forgotten lullabies. You browse, enchanted, until you see something impossible—a trinket you recognize. Something from your past that shouldn’t be here.

You approach a vendor, but they only smile. You must trade to uncover secrets.

You make your first deal. A small memory—a childhood fear you no longer need. But the moment the trade is complete, the market starts to change. The stalls seem to move when you aren’t looking. The exits aren’t where you remember. You realize: the market isn’t just a place. It’s alive. And once you’ve started trading, it won’t let you go easily.

Major Twists:

🔮 The market feeds on lost things, and the longer you stay, the more you forget who you were.

⏳ Some of the merchants were once customers,were trapped here forever.

🕰 You learn that you already traded something important—before you even entered.

Ending:

To escape, you must make one final trade: your deepest desire in exchange for your freedom. You step through the exit… but something feels off. You can’t remember what you lost, only that it was important. And as you walk away, you hear a merchant whisper: See you next time.

2. Rehearsal for the Apocalypse

Genres: Sci-Fi | Comedy | Drama | Thriller | Psychological

Themes: Reality vs. fiction, existentialism, performance as survival, paranoia

Plot:

You land your dream role—a hyper-realistic, unscripted film where you must survive an unfolding apocalypse. The director is known for extreme methods, but this is different. The city-sized set is eerily convincing. The disasters feel too real. And once filming starts, the cameras never turn off.

At first, you assume it's method acting. Then, co-stars start disappearing. A crew member whispers a warning before vanishing. You find a discarded script… with your own handwriting in the margins, predicting things before they happen.

Then comes the worst realization: no one ever called “cut.”

Major Twists:

📺 It’s not a film. It’s an experiment designed to test human behavior in a crisis.

🎭 Some actors are in on it. Some aren’t actors at all.

⏳ The real apocalypse already happened—this “set” is the last remnant of civilization.

Ending:

You discover that the cameras are broadcasting to an unseen audience—humanity’s final survivors, watching from a hidden location. You have two choices:

Escape into the wasteland and face the real world.

Stay in the simulation, playing your role forever, never knowing what’s real.

You make your decision. The screen fades to black. But did you choose, or was this just part of the script?

3. The Seventh Rewrite

Genres: Mystery | Fantasy | Time-Loop | Thriller | Romance

Themes: The weight of unfinished stories, destiny vs. authorship, obsession, the power of endings

Plot:

You’re a struggling screenwriter, trapped in a never-ending cycle. Every time you finish your latest script, time resets, and you wake up on the same morning, remembering just enough to know something is wrong.

You try changing the ending. The loop continues.

Then, the story starts bleeding into reality. Strangers seem to recognize you. A love story unfolds, but your partner never remembers you the next day. You find pages of your script hidden in places you don’t remember leaving them. And then, you find a version of the script that isn’t yours—written in your handwriting, but with words you don’t recall writing.

Major Twists:

📜 You are not the writer—you are the story.

🔄 Past versions of you have all failed. You are just the next draft.

🖋 The final rewrite is already written. You just have to find.

Ending:

You finally uncover the perfect ending. But instead of escaping, you realize you were never meant to leave. To exist, the story must go on. You close your laptop… and wake up, once again, on the same morning.

This time, however, the story is different.

part 2!!!

[niteshade925]

April 13, Xi'an, China, Shaanxi Archaeology Museum/陕西考古博物馆 (Part 4 - Sui and Tang dynasties):

This is another star of the museum, a Tang dynasty (618 - 907 AD) bronze mirror, the back of which is decorated with carved luodian/螺钿 (mother of pearl). Near the edge are various birds, while the inner ring is arranged in a "sunflower" shape. Kinda wish I can see a modern replica of this one without all these marks and discolorations from the passage of time:

A Tang dynasty yupei/玉佩 (jade pendant). Unlike the Western Zhou dynasty yupei in part 2, this type is most definitely supposed to be hung from the waist. This one in particular was one of a set of two (both worn on waist, one on each side), and these were part of the formal wear of first to fifth rank officials during Tang dynasty:

Luo Wanshun's Epitaph/罗婉顺墓志. As mentioned in the first Beilin museum post, ancient Chinese epitaphs have a two-piece structure, consisting of a tablet and the protective covering on top. This is the protective covering on top, with the large inscription identifying this as the epitaph stone of Luo Wanshun, engraved in seal script/zhuanshu/篆书:

And here's the actual body of the epitaph. This particular epitaph was drafted by one of the "Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup"/饮中八仙, Li Jin/李琎 (he was also the nephew of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang/唐玄宗), and the calligraphy was provided by the famous calligrapher Yan Zhenqing/颜真卿:

Tang-era pottery figurines of the Chinese zodiac animals. This set is sadly incomplete, but the way these zodiac animals are partially anthropomorphized is pretty interesting. From left to right, these are tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, sheep, and dog (yep that is a dog head, apparently). Not sure why rabbit and dog figurines are missing their ears though, maybe the ears broke off and are lost?

Sui dynasty (581 - 618 AD) green-glazed boshanlu/博山炉 incense burner. Note the panlong/蟠龙 dragon curled around the base:

Left: Sui dynasty white-glazed ewer with a chicken head-shaped handle. Right: Sui dynasty white-glazed vase. The curves on this one is *chef kiss*

More Sui dynasty white glazed pottery, but the most incredible thing is the white porcelain cup in the middle. The lip of that cup is 1mm (~1/32 in) thick, and the sides are so thin, it's almost see through:

Tang-era sancai/三彩 glazed conjoined flasks that is shaped like a pair of fish. Similar twin-fish motif can be found in numerous traditional Chinese holiday decor, and symbolize auspiciousness, wealth, and surplus--especially surplus, since fish in Chinese (鱼) is pronounced yú, and "surplus" in Chinese (余) is also pronounced yú. This is why the phrase 年年有余 ("may there be a surplus every year") is often paired up with imagery of carps, children holding giant carps, or a twin-fish motif.

Absolutely beautiful Tang-era wall mural of a tiger, which was very sadly damaged over time. But from the pieces left, you can still appreciate the raw power of the tiger captured by these lines:

Another beautiful Tang-era wall mural depicting men on horseback playing "polo", called maqiu/马球 (lit. "horse ball") in Chinese. It's unclear whether the maqiu depicted here originated in China in late Eastern Han dynasty (25 - 220 AD) or was brought to China via the Silk Road at the beginning of Tang dynasty, but anyway this sport was very popular during Tang dynasty, and there were many female players at the time too.

The women of Tang dynasty as depicted by pottery figurines:

A small model of Tang-era triple que/阙 gate towers. Que gate towers first appeared in Western Zhou dynasty (1046 - 771 BC) and have been a part of Chinese architecture ever since. Que gate towers usually come in pairs, one on each side of the gate, and they were used to display status.

A map of Tang dynasty Chang'an city laid on top of the current map of Xi'an city, showing the imperial palace (top center), the East Market/东市 and West Market/西市, and the 108 districts (called fang/坊):

A Tang-era chiwen/鸱吻 (螭吻 is the original name, 鸱吻 is the alternative name, another alternative name is 蚩吻, but the pronunciation remains the same for all three) roof ornament. These are the pairs of horn-shaped pieces on the top of the roof of traditional Chinese architecture. These ornaments are made to represent the Ninth Son of the Dragon, called Chiwen/螭吻, which looks like a dragon-headed fish and has the power to control water, thus it's used in traditional Chinese architecture to ward off fires:

Sui-era gold gilded handle of a stone sarcophagus:

A pottery jar found buried in the tomb of Crown Prince Jiemin/节愍太子 (Li Chongjun/李重俊, son of Emperor Zhongzong of Tang/唐中宗 Li Xian/李显), partially shaped like a pagoda and decorated with various Buddhist motifs such as lotus petals and elephant heads. This is speculated to be a representation of a granary, which would hold grains for the crown prince in the afterlife:

And last but not least, a Sui-era pottery camel bearing sacks that have the imagery of the Greek god of wine Dionysus upon them, which shows the great amount of cultural exchange that took place back then:

[rosarykisses]

How to send a letter to your

desired reality s / o

yourself and / or your friends!

───

OKAY SO!!! I’m not an experienced shifter or anything like that— I’m still pretty new to all of this. So take this method with a grain of salt! But!!! This is something that genuinely helped me feel closer to my DR, and I wanted to share in case it helps you too.

You can write your letter however you’d like—on actual paper (which is what I did!), in a notes app, or even a Word doc. The medium doesn’t matter—your intention does.

───

STEP ONE : WRITE FROM THE HEART WITH FULL INTENT . . .

Say whatever you feel. I wrote how I was sorry I hadn’t made it there yet and how hard I was trying. You can talk about anything—how much you care for them, what you’re excited about, or what you wish they knew.

STEP TWO : TREAT THEM

LIKE THEY ARE REAL

BECAUSE THEY ARE!

Write as if you’re speaking directly to them. Be sweet, kind, respectful, loving—whatever fits the relationship. Whether they’re a slow-burn love interest, a close friend, a family member, or even your DR self, keep your connection in mind as you write.

STEP THREE :

INTENT IS EVERYTHING

Intent is the most important part of this process. If you don’t mean what you’re saying and believe it will reach them, it probably won’t. Your energy needs to be aligned with the idea that they’ll receive it. Affirm that this message is going exactly where it’s meant to.

STEP FOUR :

SCRIPT THAT THEY FIND IT !!!

Seriously — if you don’t script that they find the note or letter in your DR, they likely won’t. Be specific about how or where they find it if you want.

STEP FIVE :

ASK FOR A SIGN ( OPTIONAL )

At the end of your letter, you can write something like:

“If you receive this letter, could you give me a sign? Nothing huge, just something small like [ insert something specific but unusual you’d notice ].” Make it random enough that you’ll know it’s from them when it happens.

STEP SIX :

SEAL WITH AFFIRMATIONS

Once you’ve written your letter, say your affirmations out loud or in your mind — something like:

“This message will reach them. They will find it. They know I’m coming.”

───

WHAT TO DO WITH THE LETTER

If you typed your letter:

Say your affirmations, then delete it and try to forget about it. Obsessing over it or rereading it over and over may block results.

If you handwrote your letter:

You can burn it, rip it and release it into the wind, send it in a bottle, bury it, or even ( this sounds silly but it worked for me ) flush it down the toilet. Whatever helps you let it go with belief that it’s on its way.

───

JUST REMEMBER . . .

your belief, focus, and intent matter more than anything else. You’re not “just pretending” — you’re creating a connection that already exists in some version of reality.

Good luck, and trust the process 💌 Let me know if it works for you!

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of the Heart: Chapter 40 (Human Alastor x Married Reader)

AN: Bonus chapter brought to you by donation from @ladyadrasteia666 in honor of Woman's Day and as a part of the Hell's Greatest International Woman's Day Fundraiser, hosted by @hellsgreatestevents CW: Laurence, talk of murder

Prev__ Welcome Post__ AO3__ KoFi Show your support by leaving a tip, buy Kit a coffee!

Warm arms wrapped around you, holding you close as you each stole goodbye kiss after goodbye kiss in the shade cast by the apple tree’s canopy. Alastor said he needed to head to the station. Scripts needed writing, and he still needed to prepare for tonight’s show. Instead of taking even a step away from you, he kept sealing his lips over yours for one last taste. 

“I don’t want you to go,” you confided in him, lost in the warm brown of his eyes. Everything about him was warm, threatening to burn up the summer heat and you couldn’t be bothered to care. If his fire consumed you, so be it. 

“I don’t want to go either,” Alastor whispered, kissing you between each word. “But I must. And you’ve got a friend to call on.” 

“One more?” you asked, leaning up on your toes, chasing his lips with yours. 

“One more,” Alastor agreed, closing the distance. This kiss was deeper than the others, stealing your breath from your lungs. His fingers flexed on your hip, grip tightening. He pulled your body closer to his, ensuring you were pressed tightly against him. You gasped and his tongue slipped between your parted lips. You tasted the apple you had shared on his lips, sweet and crisp, as he held you tighter. 

“I love you,” Alastor said as his lips left yours, leaving all of you yearning for his touch. “I will do anything for you,” he promised, face serious and smile small.

“I love you too.” You leaned your head into his hand, enjoying the soft caress of his thumb against your cheek. “I’d do anything for you, too.” The words were truer than you dared think about. 

Alastor squeezed your hand in his and let his smile grow brighter. He had to leave, but he could continue his day now, having had his eyes on you. That was all he had needed. He had told himself that as he stood just behind the apple tree. Once he had set eyes on you, he needed more. 

To hear your voice, to feel your body in his arms. Then it was the taste of his kiss he needed. Now he’d had it all and still he was struggling to part from you. He sighed, stealing one last sweet kiss before letting his arms slip from around your waist, stepping away, feeling as if a part of him was ripping from his chest as the distance grew. 

“You’ll come back?” you begged, letting your hands graze his chest as the distance grew greater by the second. “You’ll let me know when I can see you again?” 

“Of course,” Alastor kissed your hand, one last fleeting contact as he moved out of reach. It took everything in you to not follow him. 

“I’ll leave a note,” Alastor promised, “let you know when I can next come by.”

“I’ll leave one too,” you swore, “With my plans when I know them.”

“I love you,” he said, as if he had never said it before.

“I love you too,” you answered as he stepped back. It felt like your feet were rooted to the ground. It was only the strength of those roots that kept you from chasing him. It didn’t matter, you could feel him taking your heart with him.

“Have a good show,” you called as he ducked between the boards in the fence. He turned and smiled at you. One last parting gift before you were alone. 

You stepped into your home, wrapped instantly in the soothing classical music that played between radio shows, records filling the dead air. The house smelled clean, though dust still clung to the surfaces. That would be a chore for another day. If too much was done, it could bring forth questions you could not answer honestly. 

Looking around, you decided the thing to bring Mrs. Montemuro was a pie. There would be plenty of dishes, creamy casseroles and rich comfort foods coming her way, but what a woman needed when she had a broken heart was often something sweet. 

As you pulled open the lid to the heavy flour bin, you cocked your head to the side. At this time of day, it wasn’t common to hear cars on your road. Even less common was for them to stop in front of your home. It wasn’t like people called on you often at all. 

Hesitantly, you stepped from the kitchen toward the living room, hand resting on the stair railing as you listened to footsteps make their way up the walkway. Alastor was the only one that called on you and he had just left. 

The fabric of your apron was rough around your fingers, scratching lightly with each twist of your hands. Every muscle in your body tensed as you stood, waiting to see what would come. Would they knock? Put some sort of delivery at the door? Was it the police coming to arrest you for being an adulteress? Only when the key slotted in the lock did you relax. 

“Laurence?” You called out, trying to force yourself to wear a mask of innocence. How well it worked, you could never know. 

“Baby,” Laurence called out, sweeping into the home. “I’m home for lunch. What have you fixed?” 

“I-” You stumbled over what to say. Laurance always told you when he was coming home for lunch and when he didn’t, you rarely fixed more than food for yourself, if that. It wasn’t uncommon for you to have a slice of crusty bread with preserves. “I wasn’t expecting you home. I haven’t made anything.” 

“Why not?” He asked as he wrapped you in arms you didn’t want touching you. “You’ve clearly been up to something.”

Panic flooded your nervous system, feeling as if lightning struck you. He knew. He saw. Someone had told him. 

“What do you mean?” Your voice trembling only slightly as you spoke.

“You’ve got flour on you, Doll!” Laurence laughed, holding you out as you felt all the strength leave your body. He was talking about the baking. Of course. How else would he know?

Something ate at the back of your mind, a memory you could catch sight of but never grasp. It felt like it was important, but it fled from you each time your mind reached out for it. Something about this morning, when his hands had been wrapped around your neck. It had to be important. 

He had strangled you; you remembered that now. The soreness in your throat made sense once you remembered the fearful feeling of being unable to draw a breath into your lungs. You thought you sobbed it raw, that your mind had checked out as Laurance finished, but his hands stole from you the memory of what was done. 

You put that memory to rest. There was no more reason to chase after fleeting fragments of it. The last thing you wanted was to remember more of what it felt like when he strangled you, when you thought he’d kill you. 

“I was making crust for a pie. Mrs. Montemuro is grieving.” You avoided looking at Laurence as you spoke, leading your way into the kitchen. He walked behind you, only lagging for a moment to switch off the radio, plunging the home in silence. 

“I… I heard on the radio, Mr. Montemuro was found killed this morning.” Killed. It was much more delicate of a word than what they had reported. ‘Murdered’ wasn’t a word for women. Neither was ‘dismembered’. Those were not ladylike words and didn’t belong in the mouths of women. Laurence wouldn’t be pleased to hear you speak in such a crude way.

Alastor wouldn’t have been bothered by it though, would he? 

“I read,” Laurence said, eyeing the neatly folded newspaper. “It was in the paper.” 

“Oh,” you feigned shock. “I- I thought I’d make his wife a pie. She’s going to be getting so many dinners in the next few weeks. I- I figured when a woman is sad, when I’m sad, I like something sweet.” 

“I see,” Laurence looked around, not really paying attention to your words. 

“I- I got a good bit of the cleaning done. The floors and changed the bedding.” You were rambling, struggling to fill the silence, to excuse away a day’s worth of chores done in the morning. “I can- I’ll make you a sandwich- there’s some bread still.” 

“That would be acceptable.”

You glanced at him as he turned, leaving you alone in the kitchen with your task while he disappeared up the stairs. Chewed your lip, wondering if there was any sign of Alastor’s presence up the stairs. A hair? A smudge? The lingering scent of him? 

You didn’t think so, but that did little to help you relax as you sliced the last of the bread. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. It left a bit of the heel of the bread for you, but that was alright. You’d eaten a lot in the last few days. It wouldn’t be a problem to miss a meal. 

“Wrap it up.” Laurence called from the doorway, startling you as you finished the simple sandwich. 

“You won’t be staying?” You asked as you pulled the pie crust from the oven before turning fetching paper to wrap the sandwich. There was an annoyance you tried to hide. If you had known he wouldn’t have been staying, you wouldn’t have dirtied a dish and would have wrapped his small meal straight away. 

“No. Business.” He sneered, “Not your concern.” 

“Right,” you forced a smile on your face as you wrapped the sandwich in butcher paper. Be pleasant. Server your husband with a smile. “Here you go.” 

Laurence took the wrapped package from you but was quick to wrap the arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. “No kiss?” 

You swallowed the bile that tried to rise in your throat, ignoring the way it burned. Laurence wasn’t often one to expect displays of affection within the home. More often than not, he ignored you unless he had need of you. 

Leaning up on your toes, you placed a soft kiss on the corner of your husband’s mouth. That wasn’t enough for him, though. Laurence pulled you tighter against his body, crushing you with the force. 

His lips met you in a kiss that demanded entrance into your mouth. Timidly, you parted your lips as his tongue fought to delve inside. Never had he kissed you like this, with the possessiveness that you’d only learned could be communicated within by Alastor. His kiss muffled your cries as he tasted you in a way only Alastor had. 

“Laurence?!” you gasped, stepping away from him as his grip slackened. The scandalized look on your face was far from a farce. Trembling fingers pressed against your mouth, feeling the wetness left behind by his kiss. 

“I simply wanted to kiss my wife goodbye.” The smile on his face had the hairs on the back of your neck raised. “Are you going to walk me to the door?” 

“Of course, Laurence.” You walked stiffly to his side. At that moment, every ache in your hips came back. Fear sent the memory of broken ribs and finger dislocations back to the front of your mind. Being within Laurence’s reach was never safe. 

You didn’t know what was going on, if anything, but you knew that something was off with your husband. 

“I’ll be finishing the pie and then bringing it over to Mrs. Montemuro. As soon as I get back, I’ll start dinner.” You forced a smile on your face as he opened the door. “I’ll see you after work?” 

You hadn’t been able to get Laurence off your mind while you finished the pie. He stalked across your mind like a demon, waiting to destroy the very thought of Alastor should he show himself. 

 Nonsense. You were losing your mind in a sea of nonsense. Laurence must have just been around and needing lunch. There was nothing more to it. You needed the reminder to be careful, but that was all there was to it.

So why did it keep nagging at the back of your mind as you stepped outside of your home, pie cooling and wrapped in your hands? 

It wasn’t a terribly long walk to the Montemuro home. You had hoped to find people there, family and friends eager to support the new widow, but there were just a few reporters milling about. They asked questions that you swiftly ignored as you made your way up the short walk. 

The knock on the door seemed too loud on the still street. The windows were open, curtains rustling in the slight breeze. It was quiet in the house. There was a distinct lack of the voices of friends and family you had expected to hear. Nothing about the home seemed to match what you expected to find. 

“Mrs. Montemuro?” You called out as you knocked again. “I thought perhaps you’d like someone to sit with you.” 

“Mrs. Latimer?” The kindly woman with dark brown hair, neatly cut short in the latest fashion, opened the door to you. She was your elder by a good ten years, but she had always been kind to you. She was dressed neatly now as she always was, clothes in order and shoes on her feet however, they were unbuckled. “Come in?” 

“I had heard what happened,” you said, stepping inside the home. It was grander than yours, more updated, but comparable in size. 

“Please, call me Sarah.” She said as she shut the door, latching the lock. It was clear she had been crying. There was a puffiness to her face and redness rimmed her eyes, but she was also smiling softly.

“Sarah.” You agreed, standing awkwardly as she slipped one foot and then the other out of her shoes. 

“Off with them.” Sarah motioned to your feet. “There’s no need to be uncomfortable right now. No one else is coming.” 

Awkwardly, you toed off your shoes. Thankfully, you’d worn shoes that didn’t have any straps or buckles today. Sarah led you through the house once you tucked your shoes neatly by the door, silence broken only by the ticking of the clock. 

“I- I brought a pie.” You offered, desperate to say something, not sure what the right thing was. 

“I saw,” Sarah said, turning to take it from you as you entered the kitchen. “Shall we share it?” 

“Oh, we don’t have to?” You looked around, waiting for some sibling or parent to jump out of hiding. 

“You wanted to sit with me, did you not?” Sarah shrugged as she set to work slicing the pie, still slightly warm. “Oh, it’s fresh!” 

“I baked it today. I used canned filling. I didn’t have the fruit on hand to make it fresh. I can go, if you’d rather be alone?” You were rambling, but it was so hard to stop it. It wasn’t often that you got to sit and enjoy the company of a friend. Sure, you had grown comfortable with Alastor, but he was something more than a friend. 

“It’s fine.” She waved you away. “Sit, sit. Tea?” 

The fork clattered on the plate as Sarah set it in front of you. It was joined with another serving on the other side of the small table and a pitcher of tea sat between you. It was summer now and the hot beverage was replaced with cold, refreshing sweet tea. 

“How are you doing?” It took effort to force the question out. You hadn’t expected to be alone with the grieving widow without anyone else’s lead to follow.

“I’m alright, all things considered,” Sarah said after a moment. “I can stay here until the estate is settled and perhaps after. That is to be determined. If the house needs selling to cover debts, then I’ll go stay with my brother, I suppose.” 

“You already are thinking of such things?” You asked, eyes wide. “I thought surely you’d have time to grieve before such decisions had to be made?” 

“I am and I do.” Sarah said. “I would rather get things settled sooner. The pie is lovely, by the way.” 

“Thank you.” You were not sure what else to say. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your husband seemed to be a great man.” 

“Did he seem so?” Sarah set her fork down neatly. “Because he wasn’t.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You’re a lovely young woman to call on me at such a time. Have you not heard the speculation? The Shadow Butcher rarely takes a victim who is sinless.” Sarah spoke casually, as if she was not disparaging her husband’s memory. “Such was true about my husband.” 

“You seemed so happy together.” Words failed you, fluttering away as you tried to catch the right ones to say. 

“As do you and Mr. Latimer.” Sarah challenged. Your body grew stiff in your seat. “But I’m not a nieve girl. I know what it means when a woman does her makeup heavier than she normally would, when her hats are pulled down over her face or when she wears far more bangles than is typical. I know what it means when she wears long sleeves on a warm day.” 

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” The tremble in your voice called you a lier before Sarah ever could.

“He hits you, doesn’t he?” Sarah’s hand reached out, wrapping around yours. “You can say it here. You can tell me.” 

The laugh you forced out was brittle and near breaking into a panicked screech. “Isn’t that the case for everyone? A woman steps out of her place and it’s the husband’s job to correct her.” 

“Not to that extent.” Sarah’s hand squeezed around yours. “Most wives are not beaten like our husbands beat us. It isn’t normal, it isn’t right. The fact that you, you think it is- oh sweet girl.” 

“It’s not?” Tears gathered in your eyes as you looked at the woman who had all the right to be the one crying right now. She was the one that should cry, had reason to be crying. It felt like you were somehow stealing that from her as a tear ran down your cheek. “I’m sorry,” you said as you wiped it away. 

“It’s not.” Sarah pressed, “The Shadow Butcher? He did me a favor. He saved me. For all the sins he has committed, he is my hero. I’m free now.” As she took a drink of her tea, letting your hand free, she shrugged her shoulders. “I will have standing, his estate and if I do not remarry, society will not fault me.” 

“You’re happy he’s gone?” It sounded absurd coming from your lips.

“I am,” she confirmed. “Don’t get me wrong, I grieve. You can’t share near twenty years of your life with someone and not feel their absence no matter the pain that they brought but, between you, me and the pitcher of tea- I’m glad.” Her smile grew wider, even as a tear ran down her cheek. “I’m glad he was taken out to the bayou. I’m glad he was hunted for sport. I’m glad a part of him is missing. I’ll never be whole again, after what he’s done to me, and now he will never be whole again either.” 

“Do you not fear hell’s fire for what you’re saying? It’s not our place-” 

“Piss on our place. It wasn’t our place to vote until two years ago. If your husband is as harsh with his hands as mine was, I can only hope that he’ll be visited by the Butcher too. Then you can be free to run around with your gentleman.” 

Sputtering protests were interrupted by choking coughs as you inhaled your tea. Sarah passed you a napkin, laughing lightly as your face burned with shame. Fear shone in your eyes. 

“I do not know what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh come now, you’re not the first to take up with a lover. Does he treat you well?” Sarah flapped her hand at you while she talked. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I don’t-” 

“Hush with that nonsense. I only know because I spotted him from Mrs. Smith’s tea room. If you want to sneak him into your back garden, he should walk closer to the wall, but Mrs. Smith won’t tell and neither will I. We’ve both had our lovers in our time. If men can have their lovers, why can’t we? Your secret is safe with us.” 

“Thank you,” you said instead of protesting, though it felt wrong to say that too. “He- Laurence would kill me if he knew. I’m sure of it.” 

“Does your fellow treat you good?” Sarah asked. 

“He does.” It felt strange to talk about Alastor with anyone. He had been your secret all spring. “He- he took care of me when Laurence hurt me real bad. Came and checked on me and patched me up. Not once has he forced me to do anything. I’m sure to go to hell, though I’ve not lain with him I’ve…” you shook your head, changing your train of thought before you said too much, “I love him in a way I’ve never loved my husband. But,” 

“You’re stuck.” Sarah offered. “Unless something happens to your husband, that is. I’m so sorry.” 

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