#the way I will never be getting married though

[so-very-small]

I am thinking about a Tiny Wife, and a Tiny Husband. they live in the walls of a human couple’s home. got married young and rushed, drifted apart in their thirties, but it’s fine. the humans are in a similar boat. they all make it work. so the Tiny Husband does the majority of the borrowing, and the Giant Husband does the majority of the cooking, and it’s only natural that their paths cross. and they hate each other.

the Giant Husband sees this little guy as an absolute pest. destroying his herb gardens and stealing his food. so he lays traps, chases him, puts all his energy into catching this tiny. he doesn’t tell his Giant Wife. and yet, he obsesses. the Tiny Husband sees the Giant as an obstacle, and takes on the traps as challenges. he steals more than he needs, makes a show of his theft now that the human is aware. his Tiny Wife worries, but he persists.

because there’s a specific little feeling he gets around the Giant Husband that he hasn’t gotten from anyone in a long time. a sharp thrill in his chest, a flutter in his stomach. and it’s wrong, and he also might die, but he goes out anyways just to see him. and he has a very, very strong feeling that Giant Husband feels the same.

(he does.)

Tiny Wife is not stupid, though. initially relived by the extra alone time, she eventually realizes Tiny Husband’s gone more than he should be and he’s bringing home more than normal. she trails after him one night, and watches how her husband has this dangerous dance with the Giant Husband. the threats, the sharp comments, the danger, but more than that, how they look at each other. the light in his eyes when he comes home.

and Tiny Wife is a little bothered by how she isn’t bothered. if anything, she’s happy for Tiny Husband. she’s never seen that spark, and she’s never held it for him. she’s happy he’s getting that, even if it’s in an atypical way. despite this, she still feels an obligation to Giant Wife, and so one night while Tiny Husband and Giant Husband are trying to kill each other, she creeps her way into the massive bedroom.

Giant Wife is having tea, her soft face lit by candles. Tiny Wife makes her presence known from her perch on the nightstand, and Giant Wife does not seem as startled as she should be. introductions are made, and Tiny Wife breaks the news that their husbands are…. well they’re not fucking, she doesn’t think, instead something much weirder, but emotionally entangled regardless.

and the Giant Wife already knows. she’s at peace with it, god, she’s happy for the quiet with her husband so busy. it was an arraigned marriage, and she’s not bothered, don’t worry little one, perhaps since you’re free would you like to stay for some tea? Tiny Wife does. she has tea in the candlelight with this giantess, and when she walks home, she has a certain smile on her face that’s never been there before.

I like to think it works out. the Husbands come clean and the Wives laugh at them. everything changes, in the sense that Tiny and Giant Wives now have tea every evening and spend the nights together, and nothing changes, in the sense that the Husbands are still trying to kill each other.

(but now they also kiss sometimes, too.)

[ronintales]

ೃ₊ 🌾 ❝ So When I Die ❞ ╰►, Gojo Satoru

𝐒𝐘𝐏𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 | following gojo satoru’s death, his ex wife is in charge of taking care of his funeral service and everything else that comes with it.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 | 4,676 words

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 | character death, possible spoilers, funeral, angst, and not proofread ;p

 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 | I did NAWT want this to be my first work on here but due to certain circumstances…. AHEM his DEATH!!!! I felt it was necessary because laik… grief LOL. I wrote this a while back tho. Enjoy.

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ♡ ༘° 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓, gojo satoru …

Your ex-husband is dead, and in his line of work, yes, you know that he has a higher risk of dying than the average person, but still, death never comes expected, does it? Even if he always says—oh wait… used to, you suppose, say that he was crazy strong and no one could ever take him down. Well, he was wrong in the end like a bunch of other things. Like how well he took care of you, how he’d give you six kids, how—you won’t ramble, noting he’s dead now and there’s no point, but also because it’s quite rude of you to talk down on someone who is dead and can’t defend themselves. Whatever.

You just… don’t expect it. Yes, you understood he was hard headed and insanely cocky, but in a way… you always believed that he would always come home alive and, even if he did get hurt, he would be okay eventually as he heals. You don’t forget it, he’s only human, you know because of the many mistakes he’s made, but still… he’s… he’s gone?

You hesitated when you heard that. Gojo Satoru, the so-called love of your life from two years ago, is dead? Impossible, you think. Gojo Satoru found death embarrassing, with all the things he said. He said that he would be okay. He was always okay. What are you supposed to say to that?

When you get the call, you wonder why you, of all the people in his life, were the one they called to inform about his status. Why did you have to go to his place and clean out all his things? Take all his belongings with you? At first, your instinct was to say “throw it all away,” because what does Gojo Satoru mean to you now? You’re not his wife! He neglected you for years and filled your days and nights with sorrows. He broke your heart. But still, he didn’t mean nothing to you at the same time.

Those precious years of being his acquaintance in middle school. When you had shorter hair and he didn’t know much about you other than you were in his class and he had bought you cute white socks for your class gift exchange on Christmas that year. The long years that Gojo Satoru pined for you after you both attended the same high school. The hard and dark times he went through losing Suguru and shutting you out, though he loved you for so long. When you turned twenty, and Satoru had gotten better, to the point where he felt he was ready to move on and continue with his pursuit for you. When you turned twenty-three, and got married to him on a spur. When you moved in and shared a bed, until the marriage got cold and most nights you spent alone.

You couldn’t say for the past fourteen years, Gojo Satoru was nothing at all to you. The news was shocking, and knowing he was dead… did you have to be careful about how you felt about him, or how you thought of him? Well, now that he is dead, should you be so ruthless and hostile toward the man who broke your heart? You don’t know, so naturally, and it really just slips out, you agree to take care of the process of his passing.

For the most part, you’re calm. You don’t actually know how to feel, and you don’t know how to be. You’re not his wife, you have no obligations to take care of him, or anything that he cared about. Yet, you’re here. In his lonely apartment that doesn’t even smell like him. He probably never even spent much time in this place, even so, he still had a lot of belongings. Pictures of you in frames surprisingly. He did take them all when you got divorced and he moved out of the house, you just didn’t expect that he’d put them up on display. He probably didn’t get many visitors to question him about the lady in his pictures. You were sure that would get annoying.

Anyway, you don’t know if you’re supposed to cry or even feel sad. You don’t know if it’s strange to feel that way or not. You can’t quite make out how you feel, being surrounded by Gojo Satoru’s personality and things. You don’t think too much about the things inside the apartment because you don’t want to be too reminded of what you used to be. What you felt about the man once upon a time. If there was still love in your heart for him.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t a slob, but he wasn’t clean either by any means. Given he probably didn’t stay here much, it made sense that you didn’t need to clean a whole lot of the apartment. You get there and you take it all in. Satoru’s little apartment, because he didn’t want to pay for such a luxurious place he wouldn’t even stay in. Maybe that kind of place made him feel more alone too. Thoughts you should not be thinking start to trickle into your brain, but you stop yourself. You shouldn’t feel bad for leaving, nor should you want to go back. You made a decision to leave and you should honor it. It was the right thing to do for yourself (hopefully).

Do you even want his things? No, not really. But you have a keep, donate, and a throw away bin anyway. Most of it keeps going to the keep bin and donation box. Somehow the feeling of someone else getting Gojo Satoru’s things is unsettling to you, but it’s even worse to think that all these things will just go to a landfill where things that were once valued are forgotten and it’s all going to be considered “trash.” Maybe that’s because you know why every item is there and the story behind that certain mug or decor piece. You don’t know it, but you’re trying your best not to care.

You sigh, the thought that this is all so strange, bothering and pestering you like an annoying fly. You tell yourself you know that already, so stop thinking about it. Maybe you’re in denial that Gojo Satoru is actually gone. You can feel him. He’s still there, you know it. That or you’re just surrounded by his belongings and that’s why his presence is here.

In your hand, you hold a big black garbage bag as you make your way to his bedroom to clear out his closet. This is a room of his that you haven’t been to, strange right? You wondered if another woman spent time here. Jealous much? You’re supposed to be clearing out your ex-husband’s apartment, not pondering about what he was up to after you two had split. The man is dead for one, what are you going to do about it? Confront his dead body? You shouldn’t be thinking about things like that, so that thought is one you shake off and ignore too.

You sigh because you’re tired from cleaning all day and clearing his things out and you’re probably only a quarter’s way done with the place. It’s not even that big, it’s just been uncomfortably hard for you to bring yourself here with your mixed and strange feelings about this whole situation. Isn’t there anyone else who cares about Gojo Satoru? How come you’re stepping up to the plate when this is how you feel—confused and unsure? What are you even going to do for the funeral? You took the task up because Gojo Satoru would probably turn in his grave knowing the higher ups organized his funeral. So while it is strange for you to do all of this, you’ve rationalized the lot of this situation that you put yourself in. Once upon a time, he loved you right? So surely he would prefer you over—you’re so silly, thinking all these things when Gojo Satoru is your dead ex-husband.

You plop on the bed with a small groan as you turn over. This is a bit inappropriate, to be laying on your ex husband’s unmade bed. It’s left in the state that it was the last time he woke up. That’s a little precious you think, freely, not even denying it. Are you ruining this precious thing here? Well, in all honesty, you’re kind of cherishing it, because this is a small piece of Satoru that is really still here in the present times. He always liked soft things and this blanket is soft. The sheets still smell like your ex-husband. The light musk of his skin and his soap is there. The thought of this bed being his is comfortable enough. Like you miss his warmth and touch, you curl up on the mattress, hugging yourself to the scent of him surrounding, and you can almost imagine that he’s holding you right now, like he used to. His detergent is faintly there too, well actually, it’s the same as yours. He asked when you two had split and he was settling into his own place all the household items you used. You supposed that it was all he knew.

You offered to go shop for household things with him and it was probably the last time you two had exchanged any kind of affection. You let him put his hand on your thigh as he drove you two to the supermarket. He let you link your arm with his, sides flush together like you two didn’t just get divorced. It was a silent message of “I miss you,” because it was and—quite frankly, still is—hard to get over someone you loved for so long. Even if he left the marriage long before you did, emotionally and physically. This was something you wanted while you married, for Satoru to present, and in your arms. For him to show you that he cared and loved you. You were even a little upset that was the only time he was doing all of that for you, but you chose not to ruin the moment for the both of you.

Funny how all these memories and things between the two of you are flooding in constantly. It makes you feel kind of sick. Nauseous and unable to breathe. You open your eyes in realization of what you’re doing right now. You sit up immediately, flustered and embarrassed as if Satoru would open the door right now and have that annoying smug grin on his face with his arms crossed, just to say as he leans on the door frame, “I knew you missed me.” Following with your name because he liked your name the best. He always said your name was pretty and he wouldn’t give you a pet name because nothing will ever be as great as calling you by your name. A nice little reminder that Satoru loved your name makes you smile a bit. Weird how all of these just keep piling up. One thought triggers another and it almost makes you itch and feel bad for the way things ended between the two of you. You almost have regrets about—

Whatever, you have a deadline to clean this place up you remind yourself. You spread your palms out on the sheets once more, feeling every thread that Satoru once laid his body on. You should take these for your bed, you think. They’re not so bad, just a plain white sheet, but it reminds you of Satoru’s hair and it would be waste.You lift yourself from the bed and open his closet, not even noticing how you keep having to make excuses for yourself to keep some of his things.

Already feeling overwhelmed because you keep holding back, opening the closet makes you feel like you’re cracking. You let out a suppressed sound. You can’t even register what it sounds like. A squeak or something? But looking at all his clothes almost makes everything so real for you. All his uniform? All his coats and sweaters? Ah, the one from high school. And then you can see all the ones you bought him. Damn, does that really test your strength.

Lined up neatly and nicely put away, it’s almost a shame to you to give these away. Your hand shakes as you hesitantly reach for one of his favorite button ups. Your skin meets the soft fabric and you only lightly touch it because you don’t want to wrinkle it. You remember when you used to iron Satoru’s clothes early in the morning before he woke up. Even until the end of your marriage, you still ironed them.

You look up, reaching for his work uniform. This is what he wore most often, you know that. So you let yourself crumble. Carefully taking off the hanger and sitting on his bed as you hold the shirt close to you. You bring it to your nose, just to smell it. You wish it smelled like Satoru more, but even so, it makes you break down.

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you take another sniff. The thought that Satoru really isn’t here anymore makes your heartbreak. It comes crashing down on you. You really miss him, and you regret that you didn’t spend as much time as you would have liked to with him. You wish you could have had the courage to tell him how much you still cared and loved him. Yes, it might not have been the same kind of love you had for him before, but you did still love him.

You let out a little sob. In frustration and despair, tears flow out as you hold his clothes close to you. The walls of your bruised heart collapses as you hold his clothes so tight as if he was still in them. Well, you really do wish he was. You’re desperate to feel him in your arms physically. Just a moment with him so you could say your last sentiments. Just a moment to see him again. Just a moment to love him.

You’re helpless as your tears flow endlessly onto his shirt. You feel silly, but you just can’t stop. You really miss Satoru, and you have been for so many months now. You stroke the shirt as you would his body, wallowing in the grief you’re supposed to feel, even if the dead man is your ex-husband. You spent so many years loving him, how could you just not feel anything to hear news of his death? How could you not feel any regret or remorse for how messy you left things with him? There’s so many things you want to say to him, and it kills you to know you will never get to say any of it to him.

You wonder if Satoru was still around, would he wrap his arms around you and tell you not to cry? Would he kiss your temple like he always did when you were down? You wish he would just do all of it. You wish you two could have tried harder. Your love for him never burned out, you know that much. It’s the reason why you’re here, alone in his room crying as you hold his clothes dearly to you. And even if you hate to say it, even if you don’t want to admit it, Satoru loved you until the very end too.

“I’m still in love with you y’know…”

“Shut up,” You mutter as you slide the eggs off the pan for the hungry man at the table.

It was the dead hours of the night when he returned from a mission, knocking on your door, telling you that he was hungry and needed a place to crash.You slammed the door on him of course, but he wedged his foot in the gap of the door (no, it didn’t hurt, he’s got magical powers that prevent him from actually getting hurt like damn maniac) and used his own strength against you to push his upper body through the door to beg you to let him stay. It was a mistake on your part, but it actually wasn’t all that terrible that night. You were just bitter.

“My bad,” Satoru said dramatically as he took a bite. “Just thought you missed me. That’s the reason you let me in, right?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, not in the mood for any of his games. His smug grin made everything even worse, because he was right. “Gojo Satoru, wipe that grin off your face.”

“Must have hit a nerve,” He teased like it was still appropriate to do so.

You actually don’t even remember what you said then after that, but you just know… Gojo Satoru has you all figured out yet… he never said anything about it to you. And that was just him. He knew well enough not to break your heart one more time, but he was selfish enough to constantly flirt with you any time he could. If he passed by, or was coming home late from a mission and knocking on your door to remind you that he existed. Not anymore.

After cleaning his apartment, it’s all empty now. Which is a little strange. You’ve never even been to his place until after he died, and yet… it makes your stomach turn and feel upset after realizing that this place is no longer where your ex-lover resides. You understand that he’s no longer occupying it. There’s no point in keeping it for him. But maybe because you don’t think it through while you’re still in the grieving process. You don’t think about Gojo Satoru being dead because you don’t want to. It makes your heart squeeze and your breath stop. You can’t face the fact that he no longer exists and you can no longer see him anymore. You just can’t, so you wonder: where will his home be? Who's going to take care of him? Where is he going to go to shelter himself from the rain or snow? Where is he going to sleep? Where can he feel safe and secure?

You sigh, rubbing your eyes. You really need to get some proper rest. You feel yourself withering in the bitter feelings you still have toward Satoru, but also the dangerous sorrow that’s sinking your whole body down. You can’t believe that you really miss Gojo Satoru after all this time hating him and wishing you two had never met when he was here and alive, waiting for you to just cave into what your heart wanted. Truth is though, you never would. You were too strong for that.

Finally, you pack up the final things, leaving absolutely nothing behind. Satoru isn’t here anymore, and it looks exactly like that. This little corner of the world isn’t his anymore, and you’d like to say that it never was because he didn’t spend much of his time in this place. It’s just sad to see it all gone, stripped to the bare white box it actually is without the fun of your late ex-husband. You shut the door, leaving this place behind and bringing this part of Satoru with you, maybe the only part of Satoru that is still worldly and able for you to have in your grasp. You leave the key to his apartment on the landlord’s desk and leave with the rest of Satoru’s things in your arms, all thrown in the cardboard box labeled “Satoru” in your handwriting with a permanent marker. Silly of you to not even realize it, Gojo Satoru’s home is not a place, it’s you.

The end of it was the funeral process. Which was much more work than cleaning his apartment. You wish somebody was worried about your well-being, but that somebody, the most likely candidate, was dead. Satoru would have told you to chill out a bit and ask you to wind down with him, but this is his funeral, he can’t really do that now, can he? But you don’t want to seem like you’re so reliant on him. You’ve done plenty of things without him, and this will be no exception. He just… sort of made the process easier and bearable. You’re on your 10th phone call with the carpenters of the coffin when you really wish you didn’t take on the task of carrying out Satoru’s dying wishes. He didn’t even have many, because he was so sure he wasn’t going to die so soon.

Through it all, you hold yourself together quite elegantly. Even through the eulogy. No one would even guess the mental strain you put yourself through to make this all happen. All the floral arrangements are beautiful, Satoru’s corpse is dressed nicely—though you grace him with a closed casket funeral because you were sure that he did not want anyone to see him so vulnerably lifeless and you simply could not handle the sight of his stale and unresponsive body. But everyone could indeed tell, Gojo Satoru was loved. They could understand your love for the man. You wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t love him. But you just deny it.

His guest list was quite large. Some people you didn't even know, and you were sure he did not want that. But the higher ups had their own agenda too, and you had to make compromises though you stood your ground quite well for the sake of your late ex-husband's well being in the afterlife. You wonder, would Satoru love you for eternity for loving and caring for him unconditionally and so thoroughly? When you eventually join him, will he thank you for so meticulously planning and giving him a proper send off? You hope so. You hope that he will continue to love you in the next lifetime, and in that lifetime, you two will be happily together. Not miserably apart like you are now.

Maybe the only time anyone can see you break is when the casket is lowered and this is the last time that you’ll ever see Satoru’s face again, except you don’t. His casket is closed and covered with all the flowers you bought to send him off beautifully. There’s a complex look on your face, and no one could quite read it, but it was clear that there was a storm going on inside of you, stirring and rumbling. Your eyebrows knitted together and your eyes glossy with a down turn of your lips. You’re just keeping yourself together for Satoru. You need to.

The only time you get to break down about it is when you get home from the long day. Crumbling down your door, as you miserably sob. How could the world be so possibly cruel that you had to bury the last man you loved for the past ten years? It never gave you time to move on. You weren’t ready to let go just yet and be content with the distance. Sure, you asked for it when he was still tangible, but now he was untouchable, not existing, and it felt so painful. You curl up in a ball, on the bed you used to share with him. The bed you two used to gossip on and the bed where you simply just held him to sleep on your good days. The bed that you laid alone for most nights wishing he’d come to hold you and not be too tired for you. All the bad and good memories come to make you think of one thing; you wish Satoru was here right now.

You lay there, contemplating if you just want to stay there for the whole week or get up and cook yourself something. You haven’t been eating with how hectic it’s been to take care of Satoru’s send off. You sigh, closing your eyes. Sleep sounds like the best thing to you at the moment. You were drained and exhausted from preserving the life of Gojo Satoru as well as commemorating it. You needed that rest.

When you drift into sleep, you kind of hope that Satoru is there for you, waiting in a field of beautiful flowers like he came to visit you in a dream. Even if it’s just your imagination. You’d like to think that he cared enough that he left you alone to deal with all of the things he left behind. He doesn’t though, because you don’t dream. You just black out and you wonder if you’ll ever dream again. But maybe you’re just being dramatic because you miss your ex-husband so much. You blink the tears out from your eyes, wiping them before getting up and pulling yourself together. You can be sad, but not miserable. You were never the type to just crumble, however, even this shook you down to the very ground and yes, it is hard to get back up. But everything with Satoru was hard, and this was no different. You should have been used to this.

Eventually, you do get yourself together. Sad, but you’re functioning. You go back to work and you continue with your daily life. Satoru’s never really been a part of your daily routine after the 3rd year of being married to him. It was no different not seeing him at all, but it was just the fact that he truly wasn't there anymore. If you were to call his cell, it would just ring on your dresser in your room and go to voicemail. Sometimes, you wait for the voicemail just to hear his voice, but most times you stay away from his contact. You’re recovering, just slowly.

People at work send their condolences, just like they did when they found out you divorced Gojo Satoru. They give you a pitiful look and tell you to be strong, but when they think you’re not listening they bash Satoru for passing and still putting the responsibility of carrying his will out on his ex wife—you. You don’t defend him nor does what they say settle well with you. They’re right, of course. Gojo Satoru has always been selfish, up until his last breath, but you just can’t seem to feel validated when you’re the one who buried Gojo Satoru. He was once your whole world, how could you just completely numb yourself to the pain of losing your connection with him, absolutely and completely?

Apparently, you’re the only person on his will too. You inherit everything of his one day, and it’s kind of overwhelming. All of his money is transferred to your bank account, all his belongings, everything is yours. You don’t even know what to do with most of it. You don’t even want to look and use anything of his. So you store most of his things in a box and label it “Satoru,” along with the other things that you took from his apartment, and you make an account to store all his money in, for what? You don’t know, just something.

When you're older, you’ll come to realize that you made Satoru a loved person until the very end, and that you were perhaps the only person that he still had love for, even if you weren’t his wife anymore. This is why Satoru loved you so much, and yes, he got very lucky with you, you will give yourself that. But you also won’t feel so bitter about having to be the person to handle his departure because you made sure to do just the way he wanted it, by you. for now, you’ll miss him lots and bring him flowers whenever the time comes. You won’t call him your ex-husband, but your late-husband. You keep some of his clothes to wear like you used to. You still sleep on your side of the bed, leaving the space Satoru used to fill empty for him. Life goes on the way it used to.

[katelynnwrites]

the prophecy | laura freigang

word count: 686

warnings: again a for angst

summary: you're in love with your best friend but she's not in love with you. it's not in your prophecy to have a happy ending with her

a/n: the second installation of my 'the anthology' blurbs series

you knew it was a bad idea from the very beginning.

but you never stood a chance against your best friend’s ocean coloured eyes, one of a kind personality and smile.

oh god her smile in particular. if her smile were to be the last thing you ever see, you would die a happy woman.

laura’s smiling at you now as she slides into her usual seat beside you, on the bus to the away game.

it makes your heart flutter in all sorts of ways.

‘want to finish the show we were watching? i resisted the temptation to finish the last few episodes on my own.’

‘yeah. thanks for waiting lau.’

‘anything for my best friend.’ she teases.

best friend. there they are again, two words that chip away at your heart every time she uses them in reference to you.

you try to grin so she doesn’t think anything is wrong.

the striker must believe you, like she has every time you pretended because she hands you one of her airpods and expectantly waits for you to connect them to your tablet so you can play the show.

swallowing hard, you do so and she leans her head against your shoulder.

strands of her blonde hair tickle your cheek as you watch the show together.

the bus ride is a couple of hours long and right as it ends, you two manage to finish your show.

‘that was good.’ laura hums in satisfaction.

‘it was.’ you agree.

the rest of your teammates are getting ready to get out of the bus now so german woman begins to get her things together too.

you pack up yours and you’re almost done when laura lets out a small ‘oh.’

‘what is it?’ you ask, glancing up at her.

‘i know we had plans to start another show on our watchlist this weekend but are you okay if we do that next weekend instead? i um, i have a date.'

the german woman blushes pink as she talks and you have to force yourself to keep meeting her eyes.

focusing entirely on making your voice level, you murmur, ‘sure. i hope it goes well.’

‘thanks! you’re the best.’ the striker brightly says.

you let her pass you, to get off the bus first just so you can have a short moment alone.

to compose yourself and desperately try to stop your heart from breaking.

it doesn’t and you find yourself metaphorically on your knees, fervently wishing that the prophecy would change. that for once, just once, someone would look at you and choose you.

someone who wants your company. not your money or your standing as a professional footballer.

just you. for you. let it once be you.

a greater woman wouldn’t beg and a lesser woman would’ve lost hope. but for laura you would keep looking to the sky, deluding yourself and begging.

you would beg her to be yours if you could.

but you can’t. and you’re so afraid that you have sealed your fate by falling in love with her. there’s no sign of soulmates and yet if she isn’t yours, who is?

a greater woman has faith but even statues crumble if they’re made to wait too long. you do not know how much longer you can keep waiting to meet yours.

would you even want your soulmate to be someone who isn’t laura?

being her best friend has given you the tiniest taste of what it is like to have her affection and her love.

though only for a fraction of a moment, like thinking you caught lightning in a bottle.

so it’s gone and all you can do is keep looking at the sky and saying please. hoping against hope that someone will change the prophecy and redo it so that you won’t be in love with someone who doesn’t return your feelings.

who do you have to speak to, to get it done?

because if your destiny is to be alone, while the woman you love goes on dates and maybe even gets married…you’re not sure you can survive it.

[emeraldspiral]

So another interesting thing about Jane Eyre is it's take on relationship inequality.

Like, Jane is 18 at the beginning of the story and Rochester is said to be something like 35-38. And it's not casually brushed aside like that was normal back in the day. It wasn't. Concerns about the age gap are raised within the text. But the story emphasizes that Jane feels comfortable accepting Rochester's proposal, despite the age difference, the class difference, and him being her boss, because Jane feels that Rochester regards her as an equal. When they converse, Jane doesn't feel any tension, like she has to impress him or try to read his mind and say whatever he wants to hear. She feels that he respects her and values her thoughts and isn't compelled to use his power against her if she says something to displease him. Around the midpoint of the story, Jane believes that Rochester is going to marry another woman, and resolves to leave because she's heartbroken, believing that because she is poor and plain Rochester can't possibly be as hurt by their parting as she is, and he'll forget her and move on long before she does. But it turns out to be the opposite. After finding out about Bertha, Rochester begs Jane to stay and insists he'll be miserable forever without her, while Jane, still thinking she's too poor and plain to ever attract someone like him again, resists all temptation and leaves him. And she does this specifically because she feels that if she were to compromise her morals and self-respect to be Mr. Rochester's mistress, then he would lose respect for her and the relationship would fall apart. It was only by maintaining her integrity that the relationship could stay in-tact when the reconciled at the end.

St. John Rivers on the other hand, I don't think is given a definite age, but I think he's intended to be a much younger man, probably in his early 20s. He is poor and without relations aside from his sisters or any other connections, just as Jane. Jane finds out they're actually cousins at the same time she learns she's come into a vast fortune that was willed to her rather than the Rivers, but decides to share her fortune equally with them. So she arguably had more social capital, even though she made an effort to put St. John on equal footing with her, because the money was hers by right and she could've presumably cut him off at any time, just as easily as Rochester could've terminated Jane from her job.

And yet, Jane's relationship with St. John is vastly more unequal than her relationship with Rochester. Even though Jane practically worshiped Rochester but only cares for St. John as a brother and is acutely aware of his faults, she still finds herself desperately craving his approval in a way she never did with Rochester. And St. John is willing to exploit that intentionally. He asks her to do things she doesn't want to and make sacrifices for him just because he knows she'll do anything to please him, and that's why he thinks she's the perfect wife for him. Where Rochester tries to explain himself and persuade Jane not to leave him by addressing her concerns, St. John basically tries to command Jane to marry him and refuses to accept her "no" as final. He withholds affection from Jane as a tactic to get her to compromise in order to reconcile with him when he's the one who should be apologizing to her and considering her needs and not just his own. Jane knows that she can't ever be happy with him because he doesn't respect her and his lack of respect only makes her want to seek his approval, which he is all too happy to exploit for his own benefit.

But Jane ultimately stays firm and rejects St. John's proposal of a loveless marriage, just as she rejected Rochester's proposal of an unlawful marriage, because both situations were doomed to fail if she didn't put her own self-respect first.

So this novel from 1847 was really saying that power dynamics aren't pure black and white. Age and class and wealth and status can be a factor in making a relationship unequal, but you can also be equal on pretty much all social axis and still have inequality in a relationship. What's really important is that there's mutual respect.

[lis-likes-fics]

aaron hotchner drabble

tw: none, fluff. 750 words

Aaron is a light sleeper. It just comes with being in his line of work. When he married you, sleep became a little easier to indulge in. He loves holding you as he sleeps, an arm around your waist, his nose nuzzled in your hair. You're a warmth he adores, and one he welcomes.

And you're also really funny.

Sometimes in a worrying kind of way.

The bed dips next to him sometime in the middle of the night, and Aaron is warmed by the movement and the chill that follows. His eyelids part heavily as he orders them to open like the agents he orders on the field. His sleepy gaze follows you out of the door of your bedroom, closing it behind you as you do. He lets out a groggy sigh, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Aaron shuffles the covers off his body and stands to his feet. He opens the door you closed and walks after you.

He comes up carefully behind you as you stand in the living room with a pillow in your hands. You're tapping on it like it's a tablet, giggling about something under your breath and then “typing” something out.

“Hey, honey,” he whispers, setting a hand on your waist so gently and he turns you to look at him. Your eyes are open, but you seem to look right through him, even as you snake a hand around his own waist. “What did you find?” he asks as he takes the pillow from you.

For a moment, he gets worried. Because as soon as you hear him, your smile drops and you look annoyed.

“I don't want to hear your excuses.” You give up the pillow, staring past him as you shake your head.

Oh?

“I'm sorry,” is what he says, wanting you to elaborate without accidentally upsetting you.

“You can't just give me wet-willies.”

Oh.

If the pillow hadn't proved it, your reprimand just did. Never in his life has he ever given you, or anyone for that matter, a wet-willy. You're sleepwalking again.

“Okay,” he chuckles lightly. “No more wet-willies.”

He rubs your back as you lean into him. You make no move to walk, so he just holds you.

“What about the baby?” you ask randomly.

He raises a brow, wondering what's going on in your head. You could be talking about Jack, but you've never called him “the baby” before. “What about the baby?” he counters.

You tilt your head. “Did you tell them?”

“Tell them what?”

You scoff, blinking strangely. “The goose bit a bug on the baby.”

Your nonsensical words amuse him to no end. Part of him feels guilty for finding this so entertaining. You've been a tad stressed lately, which is why you've been sleepwalking a little more than usual. But it's nothing the two of you can't handle.

“Is the baby okay?” he asks as he guides you slowly back to the room before Jack wakes up at the sounds of your voices.

You scoff again. “It's a baby.”

While that does answer his question, he takes it anyway. “Well, let's talk about it in bed,” he says.

You walk with him, though your words protest. “We can't.”

“Why not?”

“The zombies.”

Wow.

Aaron can't help the little chuckle that slips past his lips. He looks at you, “Where are the zombies, honey?”

“On the toaster.”

He loves you.

“How'd they get there?”

“Tap dance.”

“Tap dance?”

“On the sofa. Like this.” You raise your hand, wiggle your fingers, and then give a thumbs up. When you've finished, you drop it again at your side.

“That's really good,” he laughs, trying to be quiet as he leads you into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with his foot. You hum in response.

“Lay down,” he murmurs at your side of the bed.

“On the plank?”

He nods, his smile hurting his cheeks. “Yes, on the plank.”

“But there are sharks.”

He kisses your forehead fondly. “I'll protect you from sharks.”

“Okay.” You lay in bed, and he pulls the covers over your body and rounds to his side. When he's securely at your back, he wraps his arms around you once again and pulls you into his chest.

“Goodnight, honey,” he whispers into the back of your head. He kisses your shoulder, sighing gently. “I love you.”

“Love,” you mutter distantly, “like loaf. Bread.”

He smiles against your hair, rubbing your side. “Yes,” he says, lulling you back to sleep with soft touches. “Bread.”

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[junggunz]

13 | 🔞

summary: samuel's secret kink slips cw: fembodied!reader, smut, pwp, established relationship, p in v, light free use, mostly breeding kink tbh, dirty talk from samuel...as usual. all characters featured are 18+ wc: ~1k an: THIS PROMPT SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SO HARD. i dont have a brain when it comes to sammy. it's just pure horny. i shouldn't have been allowed to choose his kink lol.

Samuel rarely ever imagined himself getting married. And he never thought that he would be talking about planning a family. However, something just snaps within him when it comes to you. He can’t recall what triggered the change in mindset but at some point after seeing you on a regular basis, going on dates, then making things official and becoming dependent on your touch…it became all he ever thinks about.

But this is Samuel Seo we’re talking about. It’s not part of his prerogative to willingly become emotionally vulnerable and confess something like that to you no matter how long the two of you have been dating. Any displays of how he felt were the result of being pushed to his wits end. Though one could argue that he was already there as these feelings manifest as an insatiable appetite for you. 

In the middle of making your morning coffee, you feel the large hands you’ve become so accustomed to palming your hips. You barely even flinch as Samuel’s hands grope at your body through the fabric of one of his shirts draping your silhouette. Just one measly garment that separates him from your nude figure. With how needy Samuel has been these last few weeks, it comes as no surprise when you feel him pressing himself up against your backside, feeling the outline of his shaft through his designer boxer briefs.

Is it your lack of resistance or is it the way your body easily gives in to his touch that makes him excited? It’s a fleeting idea before he’s bending your pliant body over the kitchen counter, a pleased smirk tugging at the corner of his lips while he lifts the hem of the garment you’re wearing. To find you already slick and waiting to be filled sends a rush of excitement through Samuel and inflates his ego.

“Always so ready for me.” He coos softly, running his fingers along your slick folds. “Are you really that eager to have my kids?” Speaking to you in a taunting tone, his words are accented by a couple sharp slaps to your cunt.

“Just eager to please my big, strong man.” You say with a ditzy giggle, grabbing on to the ledge of the counter to brace yourself for what was to come.

Samuel’s smug grin widens, knowing that he really hit the gold mine with you. After all, he couldn’t be king without having a nice piece of arm candy on his side; willing to give him an heir without second thought. Freeing his shaft from the confines of his boxers, he rubs the swollen tip against your folds. 

“I’m gonna get this pussy so full.” Samuel murmurs, pressing his cock against your slick opening. 

Sinking his length into you all the way, the pace is fast right off the bat. It’s what he desires in this moment and that hunger is exacerbated by how you want it just as bad; maybe even more. Eyes fluttering closed when he bottoms out, Samuel can never get over how well he’s molded you to fit his cock. When the two of you first started seeing each other, you would just cry and whine about how he was too big and how he would break you. Now, you’re perfectly broken in and belong solely to him.

Hands tightly gripping your waist, he forces you into a deeper arch. Your back would hate you for it later, but right now, it has your moans escalating in volume with breathy gasps sprinkled in. The angle you feel Samuel’s cock at has your pulsing walls dripping around him as he keeps pushing into you; burying it so deep, he grazes your cervix before pulling all the way out until just the tip remains.

“Look at how wet you are,” Samuel muses, admiring your nectar coating his shaft in a thick gloss while he eases back into your heat for the nth time. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod, whimpering as he keeps thrusting into you–over and over again, the pleasure so intense that when your eyes roll back, your vision goes black for a moment. It takes a particularly rough slam into your sweet spot for you to come to, your hands holding the counter tighter as you feel your legs nearly give out on you. 

“God, I love fucking this pussy.” Samuel grunts, his feverish words make your hole weep around him as it squeezes tighter. 

One hand slipping from your hips, it grips the underside of your thigh and lifts it up onto the cold surface of the kitchen island; spreading you open for his hard strokes. Mean, brutal, and oh so addictive– your pleasure is amplified as he consistently hits that special spot within you that turns your brain to mush. The quick, maddening tempo has both you and Samuel losing your minds, desperation thick in the sex scented air.

“A-ah…fuck..Samuel, I’m gonna cum.” You whine out, tears welling in the corner of your eyes as your body is overwhelmed by a rapidly spreading heat. It starts in your core, reaching your toes and the tips of your fingers. Your palms are so sweaty, you can barely hold on to the counter to keep yourself steady. You have to rely on Samuel’s vice grip to stop you from crumbling into a heap on the floor.

“That’s right, baby. Cum all over my cock.” He gasps out, head tipping back with a low moan. 

The deep strokes that push you toward your climax have pathetic moans trickling past your lips before your jaw falls open soundlessly; shocked by the intensity of your orgasm. 

Samuel is usually one to hold back until he’s fucked an orgasm–or three out of you but today he finishes the same moment you do; the tip of his cock nudged against your cervix while he spills his load. Warm spurts of his cum fill you completely. 

But you knew better; things weren’t over quite yet.

[superprincesspea]

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 15 - Forfeit

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

When your mother and sisters break away to join the queen in the wheelhouse, you’re taken to the stable where the horse waiting for you is a chestnut mare with a little white patch between her eyes. 

“Flare,” the groom calls her, and she does not look pleased to see you. 

In fact, she snorts when you offer her your hand, her foot stamping on the hay, and you think the only thing worse than a long ride to the Kingswood, was to do it on a horse that already hated you. 

Still, it wasn’t really the riding you minded so much as the company, Aemond’s company to be precise, though you had not yet seen him. 

“Your saddle, my lady,” the groom says, interrupting your thoughts before presenting you with a fine brown side-saddle, its leather work embossed with dragons and ivy. 

“I shall be riding astride this morning,” you tell him, deciding there was no way you would ride an untested horse without the complete control of both your legs. 

“But this saddle is a gift from the Queen!” The groom retorts, looking completely aghast at your suggestion, his brow knitted and his words curt despite your rank. 

A gift? Surely not.  

Yet , the brass work is all shiny and new, the leather without cracks or marks to sully the pattern. But the most startling detail, which you’re not quite sure how you’d missed before, is the pommel, where the first letter of your name entwines with a dragon. 

For a gift, it’s certainly an extravagant one and hardly fitting for the third daughter of Borros Baratheon.  

You’ve never even had your own saddle before and refusal feels so awfully rude you hardly dare to say it, yet, if Alicent wanted you to travel to the Kingswood with the men, then you should be free to ride like one too.  

“That may be so,” you say, chin up, defiant , “but I shall be riding astride or not at all.”  

And to be perfectly honest, you didn’t want to be riding around on a lavish gift detailed for a Targaryen either.  

What would people think?  

What was Alicent thinking? 

“You heard the Lady,” Aemond’s voice causes you to start as he appears by your side, his presence enough to force the groom to submit to your wishes without another word.  

But you don’t thank him, you’re too busy trying not to think about how he’d asked you to marry him the last time you’d spoke. Yet you can think of little else. 

“This is the horse they have given you?” he says, his foot easing onto the bottom rung of the fence, his tone enough to confirm your fears.   

“Is there something wrong with her?” you ask, a sinking feeling pulling at your stomach. 

“Not if you enjoy unruly beasts.” 

You meet his eye, and a smile twitches at his lips before he glances over your shoulder. 

“Boy ,” he calls to the stable hand hovering in the background, “is there no other horse to saddle for the lady?” 

The boy shrugs, his attention darting around nervously before finally admitting, “the queen requested Flare personally , my prince.” 

“Hmm ,” Aemond’s jaw tightens, his finger drumming on the fence as the groom returns with a new saddle. This one black with yet more dragons.  

“Have my lady saddled on Ōños and I shall ride Flare,” Aemond tells him. 

“But -” the groom half protests, neither wanting to disobey his queen or his prince. 

“You'd rather my lady was thrown from the horse?” Aemond says, and it's not a question, his tone is sharp, commanding.  

Aemond gets what Aemond wants. 

“You need not switch horses with me,” you tell him, when the groom scurries away again, thinking you do not wish to have a prince of the realm thrown from a horse on your account. 

But he shrugs, unconcerned, “I am the superior rider, so it only makes sense for you to have the easier horse.” 

You can’t help but laugh, amused by the utter certainty of the words coming from his mouth and, even if you were quite sure they were true, it was such an arrogant thing to say that you felt compelled to refute it. 

“Tell me,” you say, eyes wide, “is there a reason his grace already considers himself superior when he has never even seen me ride?” 

“You have seen my dragon, yes ?” 

“Briefly , but this is not a dragon, it's a horse.” 

His eye slides to Flare then back to you, “I trained on horseback every day of my childhood before acquiring Vhagar then three times a week after that. How often do you ride, my Lady?” 

"Six times a week, when I am home,” you answer, with so much confidence you almost believe it. But you would not be bested yet again, and you were certainly no novice since your father, who’d always longed for sons, had insisted on frequent practice.  

A fresh smile quivers at Aemond's lips, his brow raised, "is that so? Then perhaps my lady will need to come to my aid when I am struggling to keep up with her?” 

You picture Aemond on a wild bucking horse and can’t help but laugh, “I must say, it shall be difficult to aid his grace if I am too busy making fun of him.” 

“Oh, I have no doubt in that regard, Lady Baratheon,” he says, seeming to almost enjoy the prospect, before the groom returns with the new horse, all saddled and ready, and certainly not what you expected. 

The horse Aemond had ridden at the tourney was a destrier, strong, fierce and entirely black. But this one is smaller, a palfrey perhaps, with a pure white coat and mane, so bright and unblemished, he almost looks as though he cannot be real. 

“What did you say his name was?” you ask, words formed with a gasp. 

“Ōños.” 

“Is that Valyrian?” 

“It means ‘Light’,” he answers, his hand pressing to your lower back, guiding you closer, “he was a name day present from my Grandsire when I was a boy.” 

“Hello Ōños,” you whisper, stretching your arm to offer him the scent of your hand and he nuzzles into you, allowing you to stroke the spot right between his big dark eyes.   

“You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, moving to pet his neck and run your fingers through the wiry bristles of his glossy mane. “And such a good boy...” you add, admiring him more with each pet, “so gentle... so calm...” 

“You offer more praise to this horse than you have ever given your prince,” Aemond says and you’re not sure if he’s scolding you or teasing you, as he moves to ensure your saddle is tight around Ōños waist. 

“Are there not ladies enough at court who praise his grace?” 

“None that matter .” 

“Very well ,” you say, clearing your throat as though your heart isn’t fluttering, “I believe my prince has the most wonderful horse.” Then you laugh, petting Ōños again, “or is that just further praise for you, sweet boy?” 

Aemond snorts and you look back at him with yet more laughter. 

“If my lady offers crumbs, I shall eat them heartily,” he says, extending his hand to help you mount. 

“I have no need for assistance,” you decide, thinking you were finding his company unbearable enough without the touch of his hand, as you take the reins and secure your foot in the stirrup. 

But Aemond grasps your waist to help you anyway. Easing you up and over, the skirt of your gown rising to the very top of your thigh with the motion, so you feel the coolness of the air as it hits the bare skin above your stocking. 

Gods . 

You look down, just in time with Aemond, who reaches eagerly for your hem, as though he is a gentleman.  

Yet , as he pulls the skirt back down the length of your leg, his progress is marked with the delicate touch of his fingers in a way that cannot possibly be accidental.  

Gods. Gods. Gods.  

He meets your frozen stare, his eye dark, and you should say something.  

Anything !  

But your breath is trapped in your chest, and you can only give thought to the almost unbearable rush of tingles which have hurried excitedly to some deep, unreachable place in your core. 

Then he smiles, and it's not a wicked smile, its content , satisfied , and you hate it, almost as much as you hate the way he takes hold of Ōños’ bridle, leading you out into the yard as though nothing is amiss.  

Yet, what was the alternative? For him to gloat? Or worse, for him to say one of the thoughts which seemed to race behind the look in his eye?  

You didn’t want that . What you wanted, was for you to say something. To react. To scold him. To remind him you were a Lady of house Baratheon and not to be treated as such.  

With all of this in mind, and the tingles subsided enough for you to breathe,  you shift forward in the saddle, so your words can reach him despite your hushed tone.  

“Do not imagine you can take such liberties with me again,” you say, and Aemond stops before he turns to look at you, his smile more wicked than you have ever seen it. 

“You give me little credit, Lady Baratheon, my imagination is far more creative than that.” 

You frown, not quite understanding his meaning, then understanding it all at once and your gasp is quickly followed by a glare.  

“If I told my father what you just did, he would have your hand!” 

“If you told your father,” he begins, the wicked look on his face turning decidedly smug, “he would give me your hand, and I’m quite willing to test the theory if you are, my lady?” 

He's right, of course , and that only adds more fuel to your temper, though in a yard brimming with people, you can only seethe in silence. Looking at anything but the prince as the morning sun beams down so pleasantly you could scream. 

Seven Hells!  

You’re beyond grateful when the groom arrives with Flare, providing you momentary relief from Aemond’s unwavering attention, as he moves to inspect his own saddle, before mounting her in one smooth motion which she does not take kindly to.  

She stomps in protest, and Aemond pulls at her reins, his hand on her neck, his words low and inaudible in the busy yard, as he gets her under control. 

“We should leave before everyone else,” he says when she has calmed, reaching for Ōños’ bridle again and pulling him in time with Flare. 

“We should wait,” you insist, glancing to where Ser Maurin is talking with some of the other men, none of them yet mounted on horseback. 

"And get stuck trudging through the droppings of a dozen horses all morning?”  

Your nose crinkles at the idea and, when Aemond smiles, you imagine he’s thinking something along the lines of, ‘that’s what I thought’ , as he continues to lead you towards the open gates. 

When you make it as far as the wheelhouse, you peek in through the slatted windows, catching just a glimpse of your sisters talking excitedly with the queen before Aemond releases your bridle and kicks his horse into a trot. 

But you don’t follow, you pull on the reins, stopping Ōños since you’re in little doubt that following Aemond will be a mistake. 

Yet, you can’t deny the part of you that wants to do it anyway. Because despite what you like to think about yourself, or honour and decorum, there’s a thrill to Aemond’s company that you find irritatingly compelling. 

Why was that? You wonder, thinking how safe and easy a ride would be with Tyland Lannister by your side. But he isn’t even invited, you realise now. It’s only your family, Aemond’s family and the guards.  

Drawing your hand across the reins, you half-heartedly tell yourself to turn back towards Ser Maurin, where you will be safe from any further improprieties or proposals of marriage, but that’s not what you do.  

Perhaps you can blame Ōños, who reacts quickly to even the slightest hint of pressure from your feet. But that would be a lie.  

It's your decision to chase Aemond, and Ōños is only too happy to gallop through the yard, as you were sure he’d done countless times before. And it's reckless to ride like this, with so many people in your path, but you seem to have left all common sense in the stable, so why stop now? 

You jump a cart filled with apples, overtaking Aemond’s lead, and he was right . You didn’t want to spend the morning trudging behind the wheelhouse. You wanted to fly, and the Kings Road stretches ahead with barely an obstacle in your path. 

Ōños, seeming to sense your excitement, picks up speed with little encouragement, dashing through the gates, his hooves pounding the earth so hard you can feel your hair slipping from its pins.  

Your horse at Storms End could never run like this , he’s far too old and far too lazy. But Ōños is so powerful he feels unstoppable, yet you must stop, knowing you will quickly leave the procession behind entirely if you keep going. 

You tighten your legs, pulling at his reins and he comes to a halt quickly, obediently, turning when you pull the rein again, so you can look back, and see that Aemond’s horse has barely run half the length of yours.  

Instead, she’s picking at the brambled hedges which flank part of the path and Aemond is trying desperately to coax her back into his command. 

You stifle your laughter, trotting closer. 

“Does his grace require my aid so soon?” you tease, more than a little pleased by the look of frustration on his face. 

Aemond bites back a grimace, his words laced with exasperation and spoken in High Valyrian as he pulls tightly on the reins. But Flare gives into his insistence at her own pace, taking one last bite of the sun ripened fruits before moving on. 

“Perhaps you should ride at the back of the procession after all?” you tease again, noticing the wheelhouse is now ambling its path through the gate. 

“Or perhaps I should abandon Flare with a squire, and we can ride pillion as I’m sure my mother intended?” 

“Ha ,” you scoff, your eyes narrowing with a dare which should not be coming from your lips, yet you’re feeling so pleased with the situation that it sneaks out anyway, “you’ll have to catch us first.” 

Aemond’s eye darkens, his hand snatching to grab your wrist before missing entirely, “is that a promise?” 

You don’t answer but you enjoy the adrenaline which pumps in your veins. Yet, why not enjoy it? For once, you’re the one with the upper hand and it feels good, you want to toy with him like he always toys with everyone else. 

Unable to contain your smile, you lead Ōños in a circle around Flare, careful to keep just out of reach before you kick him into another gallop which Aemond tries, but fails, to keep up with.  

Yet, as always, Aemond is not interested in losing. So, instead of chasing you for miles of road, he turns, heading back to the gold cloaks who are leading the procession before dismounting to switch horses with what looks like Ser Willis. 

His new horse is a deep hazelnut brown and much more obedient than Flare, so now the chase is really on, as he seems to fly towards you without any hesitation on the horse's part.  

“Come on,” you say excitedly to Ōños, adrenaline still beating in your veins as you kick him into action, charging down the road and leaving Aemond to race through clouds of dust instead of the ones you’re sure he’s more accustomed to. 

You keep your lead, all the way to where the road splits into a fork, and you’re forced to slow into a trot, unsure of which route to take. 

“Caught you,” Aemond says, grabbing Ōños’ bridle so he can pull you both towards him and you roll your eyes. 

“You didn’t catch us,” you tell him, allowing yourself to feel as smug as Aemond usually is, “I stopped.” 

“A promise is a promise, Lady Baratheon,” he tries to remind you, your horses turning in a tight circle to keep you together. 

“I don’t recall promising you anything .” 

His jaw tightens, frustrated, but his eye smiles, “you’ll deny your prince his reward?” 

“I’ll deny a cheater ,” you retort, nodding to the horse between his legs, “you were supposed to be riding Flare.” 

He releases Ōños’ bridle, a long breath blowing through his nose, “I did not wish to lose.” 

“Nor have you won.” 

He laughs, his gaze scraping across your lips, “how about a race then? First to the camp shall choose a forfeit for the loser.” 

You scoff, feeling a little uneasy at the prospect.  

You were already too far ahead of the wheelhouse and feeling quietly certain that there would have been some raised brows at the way you and Aemond had raced ahead of the procession. 

Yet, that’s not what you say, or what’s really holding you back, “I do not know the route.”  

“It’s only one road from here to camp and Ōños has done it a hundred times.” 

You give him a pointed look, “as have you .” 

Aemond bites back whatever expression wants to grace his face, “you’re afraid I’ll win? You have the better horse.” 

If you refuse him, it would be as good as admitting you thought he was the superior rider after all, and you were not about to do that . “I’m not afraid.” 

“Then prove it.” 

“Well...” your heart pounds, “what exactly is the forfeit?” 

His smile fills his cheeks, his eye looking as blue as the sky behind him. 

“When you win, you can tell me,” he says, and you pretend you’re only half considering the bet as you line Ōños up, so it will be a straight shot when you kick him into action. 

“See you there! ” you call over your shoulder, racing ahead and unable to contain the burst of laughter which cackles mischievously from your chest. 

Now was your chance to best him once and for all and you were not going to squander it, except , Aemond doesn’t follow behind. He jumps the farmers fence, racing his horse through the field and you really should have known better.  

In Cyvasse he was always ten steps ahead, so why should this be any different? 

Yet, instead of giving up, you only push harder, pressing Ōños to go faster, leaning into every turn as tightly as possible and trying to keep your eyes ahead instead of searching for a dragon. Perhaps that's what he wanted, for you to lose focus, for you to assume his victory. But he wasn’t the only one who enjoyed winning. 

You can see the clearing in the distance, see white tents and staff already milling around to ensure everything is prepared for the queen’s arrival. But you can’t see Aemond and that makes you nervous. 

You shift your weight forward, almost crouching to gain momentum, just as Aemond’s horse jumps through the trees, landing mere paces ahead of you on the road. 

But, while his horse must slow to right itself after such a jump, you and Ōños are only moving faster.  

You speed ahead and you can feel him tight on your heels as you make it right into the centre of camp. 

“Woah,” you tell Ōños, who seems intent on charging straight through the clearing and beyond, and you're grinning from ear to ear when you circle back to meet the miserable expression on Aemond’s face. 

Victory had never felt sweeter, and you intended to gloat. 

“You look quite unhappy, your grace,” you say, panting as you try to catch your breath. 

Aemond doesn’t reply, and you suspect he is a sore loser of the worst variety, as he kicks his leg over the horse with a frown, before handing the reins to a groom whose probably been standing around since dawn. 

“I only wish everyone was here to see how I beat you,” you add, determined to salt the wound but Aemond’s frown is soon smoothed into a reluctant smile. 

"Congratulations,” he says, taking your waist and pulling you from the horse so you’re securely in his embrace.  

“Though I must admit,” he whispers, still holding you tightly, “I would much prefer my lady to be the one doing the forfeiting.” 

You’d forgotten about that part, winning had been pleasure enough alone but a fresh smile brightens your face before you push his arms away. 

“Hmm ,” you say teasingly, strolling through the small stretch of camp with Aemond as your shadow, “what's a good forfeit for the most repugnant man in the world?”  

He coughs out a laugh, and you already know precisely what his forfeit needs to be, if you are to make it through this picnic with any sense of decorum, but you don’t say it, not yet .  

You keep walking, and quickly make your way past the clearing, to where the forest grows beautifully lush and dense, and if you were to choose a picnic spot, it would be this . Not the cover of a tent with servants to bend to your every whim, but here, where the trees tangle with the undergrowth and the only thing you can hear is the unmistakable chorus of the woodland.  

“Are you going to tell me or not?” he says, and his impatience makes you want to hold your tongue for as long as possible, but you take small comfort in knowing you’re just about to annoy him. 

“Your forfeit,” you say, turning to look at him, “shall be to stay at least 20 paces away from me for the duration of the picnic.”  

It might not be very exciting, but it was the only forfeit which made any sense if you didn’t want to spend the entire day wrapped up in his company. 

His eye narrows, his head tilting, “and if I don’t?” 

You laugh, half amused, half annoyed, "then you shall be obliged to complete an even more humiliating feat!” 

Aemond’s jaw ticks, “such as?”  

You glance to where the river rolls lazily in the distance and think of all the times he’s mocked you for that day on the beach, “how about a dip in the water, since you like suggesting it so much?” 

Aemond snorts, moving closer, “my lady only wishes to punish me when I think she would have found her forfeit very enjoyable indeed.” 

Now it's your turn to snort, “if my forfeit was to marry you, then you are mistaken.” 

He grins, his eye meeting yours, “I cannot marry you in the Kingswood, but I do find it interesting that you would conjure the idea so readily.”

“I -” you start, your cheeks reddening but he was right. He hadn't said anything about marriage, that was all you .  

Seeming to eat up yet another portion of your embarrassment, he unclasps his cloak, letting it fall to a pile on the forest floor.  

“What are you doing?” you say, confused , though your gaze holds a keen interest in the way his long fingers begin loosening the buttons on his doublet. 

“You said so yourself, if I cannot stay away from you, then I must take a dip in the river.” 

The blood drains from your face, your heart stopping just as you meet the determined look in his eye.  

“Because I didn’t think you would do it!” you gasp, and the smile that fills his face is made up entirely of mischief. 

“Do you not take your bets seriously, Lady Baratheon?” 

“Apparently not as seriously as his grace!” you exclaim, reaching to swat his hands away from his chest and dissuade any further progress along the buttons.  

But Aemond is resolute and, as each button comes loose, he steps closer, forcing you to back away. 

“My lady must believe I would have ensured she took her forfeit very seriously indeed,” he says, his doublet falling open to reveal the stark white linen of his tunic, the strings bound tightly at his neck. 

You take another step away from him, your back colliding with the rough bark of a large tree. 

“Do you want to know what it was? Your forfeit?” he asks, slowly loosening the long strings with a single pull. 

“No.”  

A smile quivers at the edges of his lips, and he inches right into your personal space, while the tree holds you still. And you can’t move, only watch, as his tunic unravels enough for you to see there are no bandages across his chest, only the bruise. Faded to a bloom of green instead of purple and so striking against his alabaster skin that you inhale a sharp breath.  

Yet, you’re not looking at that . At least not for too long. You're staring at his hands, as they sink downwards to slide the end of his belt through its loops, each click of his buckle making your heart jump. 

“This is absurd,” you whisper, your body tensing. 

"Really ?” Aemond’s voice is low, seductive . “When I watched you undress, I found it quite mesmerizing.” 

Your eyes flick to meet his and he must see the puzzled look on your face.  

He had found you in the water, had he not?  

“I was on the clifftop, resting Vhagar,” he says, answering the question which had not yet left your lips, “and just before I turned to leave, there you were. Wearing the black and yellow of house Baratheon.”  

He pauses, letting the information sink into your bones, and you can hear the tightness in his breath before he laughs softly and continues, “I already thought it unusual for a high-born lady to be alone, so imagine my surprise when you began to take off all your clothes.” 

He watched you. From the very first moment. He watched you.   

You remember the way your chemise had billowed from your hands, forcing you to chase it down the beach. On the cliffs, he had certainly not been close enough to see every detail, but he had seen you. Your freedom, a moment that had felt so pure, so private . 

Your temper burns and you push him with all your might, the action not surmounting to much considering the man you’re trying to repel, and his strength only serves to frustrate you further.   

“You really are the worst man that ever lived!” You say and you mean it, but Aemond only smiles, enjoying the suggestion and possessing not an ounce of shame in his actions, past or present.  

“I'd say there’s hardly a man alive who could have resisted watching you.” 

Perhaps he was right. But he was the man who had been there that day and, though he could have left without saying a single word, he chose to fly closer, to stand where you could see him. To humiliate you.  

Still, that is the least of your concerns as his belt comes free and his hand moves to rest beside your head on the tree, the hairs on the back of your neck pricking to attention. 

“You’re out of your mind!” you tell him, thinking there was no way you were going to stand around while he took off all his clothes, and when you push him again, he doesn’t budge. He inches closer, his other hand tangling in your hair. 

“From the moment I saw you on that beach, yes, ” he concedes, a spark of warmth flickering across your chest, but you ignore it.  

“I hope you jump in the river, and it carries you out to sea!”  

Aemond bites back his laughter yet he’s so close you can feel the echo of it rippling across his chest, and smell that all too familiar scent of his skin.  

“It would be most unfortunate if I were to die without first kissing my lady, do you not agree?” 

“I am not your lady.” 

“But you have no objection to the kiss?” he shifts slightly, his nose brushing with yours. 

“Yes ,” you’re barely breathing, “I have an objection. I- ” 

But Aemond doesn’t want to hear what you’re about to say, he wants to kiss you, and you anticipate the touch of his lips with more desperation than you thought yourself capable of.  

Yet , as his head tilts, and you feel the heat of his lips searching for yours, you come to your senses and turn away, his kiss landing on your cheek with a low groan.  

Still, it is a kiss, Aemond’s kiss, and even if it hadn’t intended to land as such, it was still warm and delicate on your skin, and you couldn’t ignore the way your body reacted. Wanting more, wanting so much more that you were afraid of your own desires.  

“I think his grace is forgetting himself,” you scold, your words no louder than the flutter of a butterfly wing, but really, it is you who is forgetting yourself . 

“If I am forgetting anything,” he argues, his breath hot on your cheek, “it is why I did not kiss you sooner.” 

“I'd say it’s because I do not want you!”  

“Need I remind my lady that she has the most terrible face for deception?” His voice is strained, a single finger pushing along your jaw, forcing you to look at him. 

"Need I remind his grace that I still find him the most repugnant man in the entire world?”  

Or was that just another lie to crumble under his scrutiny? Surely not. No, you find his behaviour mostly smug and sometimes downright appalling. Yet that didn’t stop the way your skin ached for his touch; it didn't stop it for a heartbeat. 

“You can remind me every day when we are married,” he promises with a slow, easy smile and, just as you think he might try to kiss you again, you hear a noise. Both of your heads flicking towards the sound. 

It’s the wheelhouse, you realise, innocently ambling its way towards the clearing, while you’re standing hot and breathless, pushed up against a tree with Aemond’s clothes half undone and decorum fully discarded. 

This was madness! Complete and utter madness! And you only had yourself to blame. 

“I’m never marrying you!” you say, resolute , before his gaze returns to yours and he stares at you for a long moment. 

“Then my lady must allow me the honour of proving her wrong,” he vows, stepping back so he has room to refasten the strings on his tunic. 

You scoff, trying not to look at anything but his face, “I have quite made up my mind on the matter.” 

“As have I.” 

“This is not a game Aemond, you will not win.” 

He pauses, surprised, delighted , “ what did you say?” 

His name, you realise. You said his name. Not his grace or my prince or even Prince Aemond, just Aemond.  

Your fingers press across your traitorous lips but it's too late to take it back now. So you don’t try. You don’t even dare to say another word.  

You’re free to move and you do so assuredly, hurrying back towards camp with your hands brushing through your hair to hide any evidence from your little misadventure in the woods.  

Seven Hells!  

If Alicent had contrived to force you into Aemond’s company, then she had succeeded entirely.  

You’d made one bad decision after another from the moment you’d laid eyes on him in the stable, and if you were being completely honest, you didn't trust yourself not to make another one. 

No, what you needed to do was find Cassandra and stick to her ladylike manners for the rest of the day. Perhaps she would even switch places with you in the wheelhouse? Yet, as you think this, you remember how you’d insisted on riding without a side-saddle. Of course you had, because you were just as Septa Orella had always told you. A defiant, ill-tempered girl.  

~~~

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list.

[mellowsadistic]

The Flower Girl - Part 1

Grace is getting married and she’s determined not to let Jessica, her husband-to-be’s ex, ruin the wedding. But if this is her big day, why is she being dressed as the flower girl?

***

Grace was walking around the reception, greeting her guests, when she spotted her out of the corner of her eye. Jessica. Grace had invited her out of politeness, but she’d really hoped the woman wouldn’t come. What was she thinking, turning up here? Surely she’d known Grace hadn’t really wanted her to be at her wedding!

She was talking with Sophie, one of Grace’s old schoolfriends, and Sophie seemed to be listening raptly to whatever it was she was saying.

Grace continued to wander around, accepting congratulations and beaming at everyone, tossing her beautiful blonde hair behind her and feeling like the prettiest woman in the room. Eventually she reached Sophie herself.

“Hi, Sophie!” she said. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

“Hi sweetie!” Sophie said, turning to look at her. She spoke in an oddly high-pitched, overly-enthusiastic voice, like she was talking to a nursery-schooler. “Are you looking forward to the ceremony?”

Grace didn’t know what to say. She’d been expecting Sophie to say ‘congratulations’. Why the hell was she talking in such a stupid way? “Uh, yes!” she managed, deciding it was best to just ignore her friend’s odd behaviour. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long! I hope it’s everything I imagined!”

“Awww!” Sophie cooed. Grace felt herself going red. Was Sophie mocking her? “That’s so cute! Are you going to wear a pretty dress, honey?”

“Uh, yes of course. I… In fact, I’d better go and get dressed now. It takes a while and I need my bridesmaids to help.”

“Of course you do,” Sophie said patronisingly.

“Well… See you later, Sophie!”

“Bye-bye, cutie!” Sophie waved.

Grace turned and walked away. What was that about?! She frowned, thinking. Jessica had been talking to Sophie not long ago. Could she have convinced Sophie to talk to her like that for some reason? Grace hoped the most special day of her life wasn’t going to be tainted by some stupid practical joke. But she couldn’t imagine Sophie taking part of something like that. Sophie had never even liked Jessica!

It was probably just nerves, Grace told herself, trying to push the matter from her mind. She needed to get her bridesmaids and go into the back to change into her wedding dress. She felt excitement bubbling up inside her. She’d never really stopped fantasising about the perfect wedding, ever since she was a little girl, and now she was finally getting it! And Rob was the most wonderful man she’d ever met. She flushed at the thought of her gorgeous husband-to-be. She wouldn’t see him until she walked down the aisle though. She wanted everything to be perfect.

“Good luck, Gracie!” someone said to her as she made her way through the crowd, and she smiled awkwardly back in the general direction of the voice. She hated being called Gracie - she wasn’t a two-year-old for goodness sake! But nothing was going to ruin her good mood today. She was determined of that.

She slipped past a group of guests and found the people she was looking for; Olivia, Caroline, and Annie. Her three bridesmaids. At least the three of them were acting normally. They hurried up to her the moment they saw her, looking almost as excited as she felt.

They put their heads together, giggling.

“Ready?” asked Olivia, grinning.

Grace grinned back and nodded.

The four of them moved through the guests and into a room in the back of the venue where Grace could get changed. Her wedding dress was hanging on a clothes rack waiting for her. She beamed at it. It was beautiful – pure white, of course, with a floral-patterned bodice and a flowing, floor-length skirt. Elegant and sophisticated, sexy but still classy. The perfect dress.

Grace would barely contain her excitement as Olivia, Caroline, and Annie helped her change into it. She couldn’t take her eyes off the mirror in front of her as she was steadily transformed into the bride she’d dreamed about being ever since she was a little girl.

She was almost done when Caroline suddenly said “Oh!”

“What?” Grace asked, worried something had gone wrong.

“Your veil! I think your mother has it. Or maybe it’s still in the car…”

“Don’t panic,” Olivia soothed, seeing Grace’s face. “The three of us will go and look for it. I’m sure it’s around. We’ll be right back.”

Her bridesmaids left the room, leaving Grace alone. But a few moments later, the door opened, and Jessica stepped inside.

“Hi sweetie!” she said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Hello Jessica,” said Grace, looking at her warily.

“Don’t you look pretty!” Jessica cooed, but her eyes were sparkling malevolently. “Looking forward to walking down the aisle?”

“Listen Jessica,” said Grace firmly, “whatever it is you’re here for, whatever you’ve got planned…”

“Planned?” asked Jessica, cocking her head.

“I just don’t want you ruining things by trying to make this all about you,” Grace said coldly. “This is a very special day for me.”

“Of course it is, Gracie,” Jessica said. Her smile widened. “The wedding couldn’t happen without you!” She let out a light, tinkling laugh, and then she turned and left the room.

Grace scowled. Gracie again. And she didn’t like the way Jessica had been smiling. Did she really not have anything planned? They’d been friends once, but Grace had got together with Rob shortly after he’d broken up with Jessica, and Jessica hadn’t liked that one bit. Grace remembered Jessica screaming at her, calling her a big-titted whore who’d stolen her boyfriend.

Grace adjusted her large breasts in her wedding dress. It was true she had a better figure than Jessica, but she hardly thought that mattered. She and Rob had been meant for each other, and that was all there was to it.

What else was it that Jessica had said to her? Stupid little girls shouldn’t steal other people’s things, that was it. Grace smirked. Rob was hers now anyway. They were getting married and there was nothing Jessica could do about it. She’d only been invited in the first place because it would have seemed rude not to invite her after Grace had invited all her other old friends – it would make it seem like she was the one still carrying a grudge.

Grace shook her head. What was she doing? She shouldn’t even be thinking about Jessica right now. Not on her big day! She admired herself in the mirror, picturing how she’d look walking smoothly down the aisle on the best day of her life.

Minutes past, and her bridesmaids still hadn’t returned. But just when Grace was starting to get worried, the door opened again. She look around eagerly as Olivia and Caroline stepped into the room, but her smile faltered when they were closely followed not by Annie, but by Jessica. She was holding something white and semi-transparent in her arms. Was that stupid bitch carrying her veil?! Hadn’t she got the message that she wasn’t wanted?

But as Jessica stepped forward, Grace realised the thing she was holding wasn’t a veil at all. It was a dress. A very different dress from the beautiful, elegant, sophisticated wedding dress she was currently wearing.

“What’s going on?” asked Grace. She’d just noticed that her two bridesmaids were looking at her rather strangely. They were both smiling, but Olivia was shaking her head from side to side, like a kindergarten teacher amused by the antics of a misbehaving toddler, and Caroline was looking at her with the same sort of sickeningly sweet eagerness that Grace had seen earlier on Sophie’s face. “What are you…?”

“Come on, sweetie,” Jessica interrupted, and her eyes were glinting darkly. “It’s time to get you into your proper clothes. That’s enough playing pretend. I need my wedding dress for my big day.” She smiled broadly. “But don’t worry. I’ve found something much more appropriate for you to wear!"

[moodymisty]

Would you be comfortable writing some courting headcanons for the primarchs?? Thank you!!

Author's note: Here you go, they're sort of random but I hope you enjoy them.

Warnings: Fem!Reader for some like Lion’el because of words like Legion Mother, A few very slightly lewd remarks

Fulgrim:

The primarch who out of all has most devoted himself to things like the arts is nothing short of overwhelming, when he first expressed his desire for you. Flowers, paintings, clothing, food, whatever it is you enjoy, all of it gets gifted to you with no small amount of theatrics. Though thankfully, Fulgrim knows when to turn it down a bit, and you can enjoy his company. Even then however he is still very intense, kisses on the hand, the lips, and gentle caresses abound as he woos you with his silver tongue. His legion is also one of the few who at the start know about Fulgrim's intentions, and actually takes it decently well. Far better than other legions, when finding out their Primarch is indulging in romance. You are the socialite, the shining star in a room and the talk of everyone there, and Fulgrim will have it no other way. But as much as he does all this, he finds it cute if you’re shy or nervous about it. Shyness isn’t in his dna, so he finds it very adorable. You often get purfumed, hand written letters when he is away. Fulgrim has quite the way with words, and many of them you’re glad the one who reads them are him and you.

Perturabo:

He might be a petulant manchild at times, but when the mood strikes him Perturabo can be a bit softer. It helps that you're one of the few people he trusts, now that the two of you are so close. Though it may often be more trouble than it's worth, with how often his mood changes. Perturabo can go from lavishing you with Olympian clothes to sulking in his workshop for hours if not days, leaving you to eventually wander down there and find him, and bring him out of his petulant sulk. A gentle hand on his own, asking if he can explain to you what he’s working on tends to help. Perturabo also becomes very possessive of you, not long after he starts courting you. If Dorn, Sanguinius or Lorgar so much as look at you the wrong way, he's more than ready for a fight. He has one person in his life who hasn’t wronged him, who actually respects him, and he isn’t losing that. Those softer moments with him as he speaks of his plans for amphitheaters and bathhouses while you lay in his arms are worth it, however.

Lion’el Jonson:

Lion'el is, complicated. Part of him wonders how he even got here, something as frivolous as romance was never a significant part of his mind. But here he is. He can’t complain, as he’s become so used to you now that often times, his nose wrinkles anytime he’s away and casts sight on an empty bed. He doesn’t say anything about it, however. Part of him laments he isn't able to give you rides on horseback, as he's far outgrown the horses he rode in his younger years. Though he can walk beside you, even if his men think it's demeaning of his position. Is painfully blunt about some things, and extremely obtuse about others. He wishes to marry you? Blunt. You get a military parade dedicated to showing the galaxy the Dark Angels new Legion Mother with no warning. He wishes for you to wear the colors of his legion and match him so when you arrive on Terra everyone knows who you are with? Vague and obtuse, he will grunt about every option until you choose the one he likes.

Rogal Dorn:

As with all parts of his life, he's extremely stoic and at first, you don't think anything's changed. He's the type that listens to the things you talk about, and silently gives them to you. For instance as a newcomer to Inwit it's incredibly cold, but your current dress just doesn't cut it for the harsh wind and un-acclimated body. You find a new one on your bed three days later made perfect and exactly how you like it, but Dorn says nothing about it. Those few late night moments alone when he brings you into his office, and you sit at his desk while he works are some of his favorite. Dorn gets to feel you safe in his arms, and while he’ll never say it out loud, he is overwhelmed in his love for you. Does not tell any of his fellow primarchs about you. The day they realize Dorn has a beloved is a stressful one, they’re all sneaking around trying to get information about you, and Dorn almost has to lock you in his quarters and shoo them all away. Is surprising talkative in written word. His letters or anything else tend to be very long, talking about the ins and outs of his legion, and their current progress. You’ve never heard him talk half that much in person, it’s sweet. Though once in a while those letters can get a bit salacious; And Dorn is nothing if not detailed.

Leman Russ:

This man's declaration that he wanted to court you was as brash and blunt as he is. You're pretty sure he was half way into sleeping with how drunk he was at the time, a massive hand on your shoulder as he smiles with a red face. Granted when he sobered up he was far more, romantic about it. By his standards. He still stunk of mjød, but at least he held your hand. From that moment on however Russ isn't a man shy of showing off, and wastes no opportunity to plop you in his lap and give you a kiss, pick you up off the ground, or say something far too inappropriate for the current locale. Whether it's day two or day two hundred, he finds keeping himself off of you too much trouble. He’s the type to make others turn away with how overt his affection is. Every one of his kisses and hugs feel like he’s treating it as the last one he’ll ever do. Loves when you comb and braid his hair. It takes awhile and he has no patience for it, but he enjoys when you do it.

Ferrus Manus:

As a recurring theme with all of these, Ferrus finds it a bit hard to show how he feels. While he has moments where he cracks a smile, often times he’s largely stoic. As such, he never really asked you to be with him, it was something that simply progressed overtime. He doesn’t invite you into his quarters and his bed if you aren’t his beloved, he assumes it wouldn’t take a genius to figure that out. Late night workshop time is a must. Ferrus can spend days in there with no issue, and oftentimes you have to come and climb into his lap if you want any time with him at all. He doesn’t mind as as long as you’re quiet; Though over time he’s begun to enjoy explaining his plans to you if you aren’t asleep. If you are asleep, sometimes he gets a bit emotional and talks or thinks to himself. He never thought he’d have someone like you when he lived on Medusa, he just needed to survive. Is actually somewhat hesitant when you first are together. Ferrus is well aware of his size (both out and in the bedroom, or any other local where he deems sex a daring and intriguing idea), and often tries to be quite gentle. It took a bit of coaxing to finally treat you like you weren’t made of glass. You get surprise gifts from Fulgrim at times. Some are sweet; Some are… They’re hidden until Ferrus returns from where ever he’s currently away to at the time and you can surprise him.

Horus:

The same as Fulgrim; Excessive and grandiose, but unlike Fulgrim, there's a tad more subtlety to it. But only a tad. Horus still is eager to show off the love of his life (and so much more that he’s kept just in his head shh), but he’s aware that sometimes you require a bit more subtlety. For a primarch, he’s quite the romantic. Though there’s only so much you can do when you have thousands of gene-sons waiting on orders and don’t exactly get why their primarch is holding your tiny hand and helping you walk down the thunderhawk’s ramp. You can do it yourself, they think. He can also be quite a bit grandiose in the theoretical sense. Horus seems to have your entire future together planned, and he’ll speak it to you during very late nights with stars in his eyes. To marry you, to bring you into his legion as the mother of his gene-sons, to give you your own child one day. He’s more than a bit overwhelming, but it helps he’s so charismatic.

Angron:

I... I hope you're patient. Angron isn’t one that is fond of things like romance. For multiple reasons. One being that it brings him pain because of the Nails, and the other being that in many ways, he doesn’t feel like he deserves it. He’s a slave, he’s a monster, he’s a man who failed his people, men like him don’t get to have someone like you. But you stay anyways despite the fear of him loosing control of the Nails, and eventually Angron supposes that there’s more annoying people to have around. He’s far more applicable to this in his early days. The Nails haven’t degraded his mental state yet, and his legion is still fresh faced and eager to prove their worth. If Angron accepts you, they will as well then. The downside is that many of the primarchs worry about Angron’s relationship and subsequent attachment to you, and the danger it brings. Some for your safety, but mostly for the fact that now that Angron is so deeply attached, if something were to happen to you it would well be within the possibility that Angron would completely loose control of the Nails, and become an unstoppable threat that would have to be put down. On the other hand, it seems that you can calm him down a bit, as much as the Nails will allow, something that not many are able to do. A double edged sword, your love is to him. Often times you have to restrain him during anything, strenuous. It’s for your own safety, though it seems like Angron doesn’t hate it either.

Roboute Guilliman:

The most traditional out of them all. He follows the 'rules' so strictly you have wonder if he's following some sort of manuscript. Your relationship progresses at a very methodical pace, which is a bit odd but you find it oddly sweet he puts so much thought into it. He does little more than hold your hand, kisses and anything heavier are strictly private; If it wasn't for the longing, puppy dog look in his eyes, no one would guess you two were anything more. He's not overt about it like Horus or Fulgrim, but you are still absolutely smothered in gifts. From jewelry to clothing to weird purfumes he's been gifted by high lords attempting to earn his favor through you (Guilliman has made it very obvious that he's not the type to be swayed by gifts but they hope you are and will put in a good word with your beloved), you quickly find yourself constantly or the receiving end of some sort of lavish gift. Roboute is very much in love, it's just hard for him to admit it. As you come to understand his own little love language is the day he's a very happy man. On a bonus note: It is very easy to get this man to completely melt for you. If it’s been a stressful time for him and he’s stressed, giving him a bit of a hand will make him a bit bashful, but overwhelmingly thankful.

Sanguinus:

As kind as he is beautiful, Sanguinius is one of the more heartfelt ones around. Romance abound, the angel and you are the textbook example of star crossed lovers the moment he proposes courtship to you. It almost makes some of the primarchs jealous at how incredibly perfect your love for each other is, like your feet don’t touch the ground He loves to pick you up and give you a hug or a kiss, wrapping you in his wings. He always says it's just so you feel safer, but he also likes the bit of privacy, hiding you from the worlds in his arms. You also enjoy playing with his wings when you’re in private, as they’re quite sensitive. A side note; He thinks it's cute that you use his fallen feathers as bookmarks and quills, and he now gifts you a few of his fallen primary feathers every now and again for you to use. You’ll know about the Red Thirst eventually when you’re with him. Sanguinius won’t ever ask for assistance, but if you were to offer a bit of blood? He’s incredibly careful, but the blood of his lover is nothing short of ambrosia and he will dutifully treat you afterward for sating his appetite.

Jaghatai Khan:

As one of the more reasonable primarchs, Jaghatai is a steal to have as your lover. He’s personable and kind, and funny to boot. He enjoys making you laugh, something his sons have picked up on. Sometimes they’ll tease you (or more likely unsuspecting commissars) when you’re in their company. If he's not able to hold your hand, he'll have a hand on your shoulder or back, always close to you whenever you're both together. He’s extremely dedicated to Chogoris, and it’s incredibly important to him that you adopt some of the culture he grew up in. You don’t have to, but it would make Jagahatai an extremely proud man if you attempted to understand Chogoran. He’s also private; His fellow primarchs don’t even know of your existence let alone close relation to him until you’re well into your romance, and Jaghatai has thoughts for no one else but you.

Konrad Curze:

Konrad’s romance is as toxic as he is. But at the same time, it’s like a drug you can’t get enough of. Because you’re fucking terrified of him, but the man is obsessed with you. Not many of the other primarchs understand the soul crushing, teeth grinding obsession Konrad has for you. He’s willing to fall to his knees and submit to you as long as you tell him you love him, and that he's worth more alive. But if you tell him you don’t?… You don’t want to tell him you don’t. Konrad is painful. He holds your hand too tight, kisses you too rough, bites you too hard. He doesn’t mean it, you don’t think at least some of the time, but he’s so caught in this obsession with someone trying to save him that his martyr complex melts away for a bit and he’s this self-loathing, sad excuse of a man. You almost pity him as much as you love him. Making him happy has become an arduous journey for you. Is the exact opposite of the others in wanting to show you off. You’re hidden for ages, until the primarchs realize Konrad has someone at his side. They worry, but they know separating him from you would cause more harm than good, and you keep Konrad’s emotions a bit more in check. And in the eyes of a few individuals, your safety serves as a good threat to keep Konrad and his unhinged legion on a leash and working towards a desired goal. A note; Konrad is surprisingly selfless in regard to more intimate matters. And he likes to bite. Your thighs don’t get much reprieve from him.

Vulkan:

Sweet as sugar, no one is as good at a proper declaration of love or desire to romance like Vulkan is. No matter how much it breaks his back he’ll always hold your hand, give you a kiss, or pick you up to bring you with him across the Flamewrought or the Terran palace. Besides perhaps Sanguinius and Lorgar, no one is as star-crossed in love with you as Vulkan is.

He’ll do anything for you, if you just ask. He often paraphrases that he would shield you from any threat, but sometimes you fear he’d do it literally. Less seriously he loves to gift you various things, your favorite being a necklace. You never thought he’d be able to work at such a small level, but Vulkan is nothing if not skilled. He got quite the reward the evening he gifted it to you.

Is one of the quicker ones to get serious. Talks of marrying you, writing you down in the history of his legion as their Legion Mother, Vulkan is quite eager to tie himself to you, and you to him.

Corvus Corax:

Corvus is private, and also quite slow to trust. Even slower to admit he likes someone, let alone enough to express that he’s in love with them. Many moments with him are often spent in his private quarters or somewhere else alone, where only you have eyes on him.

Is one of the few primarchs conscious of the fact that he isn’t really meant to exist, and that he’s forcing it by being with you. Your body often bruises and aches if he isn’t careful with you, and it secretly pains him that the one person he loves is so easy for him to hurt. Finding out about this feeling he has swiftly turns you into a mess of reassurances that quickly overwhelm poor Corvus, and while he still feels it at times, he appreciate you trying to soothe him.

Loves to write you letters. He feels like it means more to put the effort into handwriting, and when you send him one back, it’s like he can feel your touch on the paper. One time you left a lipstick kiss on the parchment and the man was insufferable that evening from how pent up he was, unbeknownst to you millions of miles away. You paid for that transgression dearly one he returned.

Lorgar Aurelian:

Lorgar is yet another primarch who is sweet as sugar. He also has quite the way with words, though unlike Horus and Fulgrim, it isn’t intentional. He’s just very passionate and verbose. Is also very touchy. Loves to pick you up and kiss you, show you off to others. He’s so stupidly in love and everyone around him is almost annoyed by it. He just loves his tiny little goddess so much, you bring him light he didn’t know he needed. Lorgar is also very affected by his religious trauma. His self flagellation both emotional and literal has always been an issue. You’ve had nights where you’ve put ice on his back after he whipped himself bloody, crying over his wounds. If it isn’t bad he encourages you to not weep over him, and if it’s worse he often times is beating himself up over worrying you. Being with him is stressful emotionally, to say the least. In another path, he often time beats himself up over the idea of corrupting you with sinful thoughts. Though that doesn’t really stop him, especially if he comes to his quarters one evening seeing you wearing all white draped across his bed. Lorgar will sin alright, but he does it while speaking prayers to save his own soul as he worships you. He’s one of the quickest Primarchs to want to marry you, to make you his own and to bring you closer and closer to his side.

Mortarion:

Mortarion isn’t an easy one to love. He doesn’t really consider the emotion valuable until one day he suddenly realizes that you mean something to him, more than just another baseline human does. Like Ferrus in that he never does the official courtship nonsense, and just upgrades your relationship in his head overtime. Someone who isn’t his lover doesn’t spend hours in the Pale King’s study watching him work, keeping one of his hands in their lap while he uses the other. Is a bit of a pushover in some ways, and takes his self loathing a bit too far sometimes. You’ve learned that sometimes he needs you to kiss him and tell him you love him more than anything else, to get him to stop sulking. Everyone is extremely surprised he found sometime. Let alone someone so personable. Fulgrim jokes that Mortarion should just send you instead of himself to Terra when the primarchs meet up to discuss things, as you’re easier to deal with. Mortarion hates when things like that are said, and he’ll hide you from the world obsessively for awhile after. He loves you, but sometimes for him love and possess get intertwined in his head when he thinks for you.

Magnus the Red:

Isn’t the worst beloved to have, but he has his quirks. He can be a bit stuffy at times, and often times forgets that relationships needs nurturing to grow. Magnus often times gets stuck in his own head and forgets everyone around him, including you. Loves to show off his warp magic to you, especially if you show literally any interest at all. He’s so used to everyone fearing it, fearing him, hating psykers no matter what, that any interest by you gives him hearts in his eyes. You’ll be up all night listening to him read you tomes. Which you don’t mind, it often helps you fall asleep. Since Magnus can change his size, he knows exactly how to make your squirm. You know you’re in for a wild ride when your beloved becomes bigger than Ferrus and starts taking off his armor.

AlphariusOmegon:

The twins are complicated. Given the primarchs consider you only Alpharius’ beloved, you spend more time with him than Omegon. As such, sometimes Omegon can get a bit possessive whenever you two are together. You don’t entirely blame Omegon for it; His other half is the one holding your hand and showing you off, joking about marrying you to his fellow primarchs. As such, those topics tend to be a minefield in your weird little relationship. They often use you to get information about the other Primarchs. It seems your smaller stature makes them almost seem like you're less of a threat, and get a bit more talkative around you than they are around whatever twin is currently frontfacing. You hate when they ask this of you, but you have no power to refuse them. As the twins are extremely meticulous and through, they've been careful to not show anyone how in love with you they really are. If they how just how much Alpharius loves you, it would be easy for you to be used against them. So affection is limited, and they put up an aura that you're not much more than an arm piece when in view of others. They eagerly make sure to show you this isn't the case in private, however.

[mixterglacia]

WARNING: VIVZIEPOP CRITICAL, STOLITZ CRITICAL CONTENT.

I get fairly mean in this one, you've been warned.

I am so sorry, Viv. You can't convince me to see Stolitz as anything beyond a toxic, doomed to fail, train wreck.

I'm SO down for a good toxic ship.

In fact, I found their pilot dynamic far more interesting than the current writing seems to be depicting.

I refuse to feel bad for a man that caught feelings for a childhood """friend""" so hard he ruined his own life. Blitz owes NOTHING to Stolas. He agreed to fuck him so he could run a business that is barely discussed, even though it was the original point of the show.

Does it suck that Stolas had to deal with an arranged marriage that he never wanted with a mean wife? Yeah.

You know what else sucks?

THAT STELLA HAD TO MARRY A MAN SHE NEVER WANTED, AND HAD TO GIVE BIRTH TO HIS CHILD. ALL WHILE HAVING A FUCKING CREEP OF A BROTHER. ALL WHILE BEING TREATED AS A MONSTER BY THE FANDOM THAT CAN'T UNDERSTAND HYPOCRISY IF IT BIT THEM IN THE FACE.

Like yes, she's a cantankerous bitch. But you can't seriously pretend like she isn't also suffering in this relationship. The only difference is she turns her pain into external anger, where as Stolas has been turned into uwu soft bird who can do no wrong.

Even though he destroyed his family in an extremely public way. Octavia is going to have to live with the impact of her father's decisions for the rest of her life. You can't seriously expect me to feel bad for a man that is the agent of his own destruction.

You also can't tell me that Blitz just needs to get over himself just so he can be with a man who's father BOUGHT HIM FOR HIS SON AS A PRESENT.

To reiterate. If this was meant to be read as a terrible toxic arrangement that just keeps happening? I'm down for that. But this is not, and will never be cute or healthy.

Blitz doesn't owe Stolas anything. He keeps up his end of the bargain. It's purely sexual, and just because Stolas can't accept that doesn't make it Blitz's problem.

Stolas needs to learn how to accept rejection and move the fuck on. He knew he would catch feelings and considering he basically has Blitz on a leash, that doesn't make this any less gross.

The fact that he knows Blitz will leave if he's given the power to go to earth on his own proves it.

Blitz has frankly done very little IF ANYTHING to warrant being subjected to this level of obsession on Stolas' part. He's just trying to make a living.

Frankly, if you wanted us to actually think Blitz was interested, you've totally missed the boat with that one. This should have been worked on ages ago and it makes it feel exceptionally rushed and out of character on Blitz's part.

At this point I'm starting to think Fizz and Ozzie are a fluke of good writing in a sea of godsawful shit. Charlie and Vaggie felt like a literal afterthought in their own show. Husk and Angel are so rushed it felt like watching a relationship at double speed. Are we even supposed to think Pen and Cherry are actually a thing? Because if I was Cherry I would have punched Pen for that shit.

Christ. I don't drink but Viv makes me feel like starting.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.

[youcouldmakealife]

KS Fill: Tonya/Vladimir Petrov, Thomas/Anton; castle in the clouds

Another of the Kickstarter fills, for the prompt: always happy for a Vinny/Tony update, especially if Tonya is involved

Even as a child, at her most idealistic, Tonya certainly never expected to live in a mansion like this. A castle, maybe. She liked castles, though she’s not sure where she expected to find one in Brooklyn. Though, it’s not like mansions were any more realistic, growing up in New York City.

And they wouldn’t live in one if they lived in New York, but in Hartford, it was barely even a splurge. And Vladimir had dreamed of castles too as a boy, wanted Antosha to live in one, or the nearest thing they could get for him. It’s massive, and impractical, and Tonya loves it.

They don’t take advantage of the benefits of it very often, however. Once, they let a production crew film the exterior while they were on vacation in Italy anyway — unfortunately, the film was terrible, so Tonya can’t rewatch it for the thrill of seeing it on screen. Or, she could, but she has to get through the melodrama and the bad acting first, and that’s a chore.

It’s the perfect place to host a party, specifically a party with gravitas — a gala, a ball. But with the exception of Vladimir’s induction in the Hall of Fame, they haven’t had any parties worth talking about, because Vladimir is…territorial, Tonya thinks the best word is. His house is his house — she’s still amazed he allowed the film crew, and is sure he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been out of the country — and he’d prefer they didn’t have guests at all, with the exception of close friends, family. Even then, it’s only Anton who doesn’t get his hackles up after a few hours, and that might just be because he still considers it Antosha’s house too, even after all these years. Which, of course, it is.

But they’ve been married for thirty years now, and Tonya thinks that’s worth celebrating, and Vladimir agrees. He didn’t agree it merited a party on the scale of the one they’re throwing today, but he caved once Tonya assured him all he had to do was show up, and that the only guests staying overnight would be blood-related to them.

Well, and Thomas, but Vladimir’s fine with that. It seems like the exception for Anton applies to him as well. She doesn’t know if that’s because Vladimir considers him an extension of Anton, welcome wherever he is, or if he’s become family in his own right. She likes to think it’s a bit of both.

With an hour to go the place reminds her the castles she dreamt of, lit up and glittering, even if they're nothing alike. The catering staff have assured her they have everything they need, and after two minor wardrobe emergencies she’s finally finished getting ready. Or, she hasn’t, but the final touches must be done right before the guests arrive.

Vladimir’s ready, he’s assured her repeatedly, which she’s sure isn’t true, but he’s his own man. She hasn’t seen Anton since breakfast, which she finds ominous, though she doesn’t think he’d go far without Thomas, and he arrives in front of her almost as soon as she thinks of him. Such a good boy that she merely needs to think of him for him to arrive, offering help.

“Can I help with anything?” he asks, hands twisting fretfully, like it’s hurting him not to assist, and Tonya takes a moment to wonder if she's developed psychic abilities. Perhaps, but it's more likely that Thomas is just unfailingly helpful.

Tonya takes his hands between hers, stills them. They’re cold, and she wants to chafe them, warm him up. What was that saying, cold hands, warm heart? If anyone fits that it’s Thomas. “I’ve hired professionals to do everything,” she says. “We’ll just get in their way.”

She knows this because she has, at every other event with catering staff, gotten in the way. She’s finally learned her lesson — no meddling this time. So far she's stayed strong, but she's not sure she'll last the night.

“Right,” Thomas says, nodding, hands still between hers. “That makes sense. Our equipment managers say the same thing.”

She bets they do. Vladimir in particular was a menace about his equipment — she’s sure they popped a bottle of champagne the day he retired.

“I know what you can do for me,” she says, and Thomas brightens right up. He really is too good a boy for his own good. She imagines people take advantage of it all the time. Look at her, doing it right now.

“Can you find Anton for me?” she says. “I worry he’s hiding.”

She doesn’t worry he’s hiding, exactly — she knows he’s hiding — she only worries he’ll continue hiding after all the guests have arrived, leaving poor Thomas to muddle his way through a room of people he doesn’t know. Not that Antosha knows everyone, and many of the people he does know haven’t seen him since he was a little boy, so it’s really more them knowing him — she’s sure he’ll be delighted to hear ‘you were just this high when last I saw you’ over and over again.

Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised he’s hiding. And she isn’t. But Thomas is a guest, though a particularly helpful, considerate one, and Anton may not be hosting the party, but he is hosting Thomas. And Tonya did not raise a bad host. Or, unfortunately she did, she thinks, but he certainly didn’t learn it from her. Thankfully Thomas is very easily pleased, and loyal enough that he’d likely tell her Anton was being an excellent host if she asked.

Thomas nods again, like a little bobblehead. She’s slightly disappointed the Canadiens haven’t done one for him, at least to her knowledge — she thinks Vladimir would be delighted to put it by the ones of him and Antosha in his show-off room. He loves them. Never tires of bobbing their heads. “Can I have my—“

“Your hands, of course,” Tonya says, letting them go. “Do you know the saying? About cold hands?”

“I do,” Thomas says, with a broad smile. She bets he does. Bets people quote it all the time. “Don’t worry, I’ll drag Anton out of wherever he’s hiding.”

“By the hair if you need to,” Tonya says, and smiles at the laugh that trails Thomas up the stairwell.

He doesn’t deserve that boy, Tonya thinks, then goes to bother Vladimir one last time. She hopes that, this time, he’ll actually get ready instead of just saying he already is. Perhaps that’s optimistic. But she thinks everyone needs a little optimism to make it to three decades.

“Tony,” she hears Thomas crooning as she walks down the hall, sounding a little like he’s trying to lure a feral cat, and she smiles wider. Perhaps he’s exactly what Antosha deserves after all.

[sissylittlefeather]

Hi Sissy! If it’s not too late, could you do a Fic of Elvis based on the song “Help Me Make It Through the Night?” Like Elvis and you know you’re not good for each other, but you can’t stay away. Can develop into smut but if you’d prefer not, that’s okay too! If it’s too late, I completely understand! Thank you! 😊

@peaceloveelvis Hi! Definitely not too late! First of all, this is one of my most favorite songs. I actually have a series planned to go with this song later, so stay tuned. But also, I haven't written anything without smut in a LONG TIME. This one came out this way and I might revisit it to expand on the smut later if there's interest, but I kind of like it without it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this ficlet!

Help Me Make It Through the Night

Warnings: none really, cussing, mentions of sex

------------------------------------------------------

Elvis has been a part of your life since you met him during his Timex special with Frank Sinatra. The only thing you did more than make love relentlessly was fight endlessly. The nights were hot, but the mornings never failed to conclude with both of you yelling and at least one of you crying. There was no end to the way you loved each other or the way you managed to drive each other insane. There was always something to fight about and you left each other every time swearing you'd never be together again. But somehow, you'd end up in the same place and before you knew it you were naked in an elevator or in his backseat or in a bathroom or a hotel bed in some sketchy by-the-hour kind of place. Even after he got married, you didn't stop. Your pattern of fucking and fighting stayed the same.

In 1969, though, you had a particularly spirited tryst that ended with both of you saying things you regretted almost instantly. But you were both too stubborn to admit it, so instead you threw a shoe at him and screamed at him to get out and he called you a name and swore he'd never end up in your bed again. This time, the pain you caused cut so deep that you both insisted you'd never give in again. It was over, for real this time. The hurt was too much to make the good times worth it.

So, you did what any self-respecting woman would do. You married someone else.

When he heard about it, he broke an end table and all the things sitting on it in a fit of rage and jealousy and something else he was afraid to admit.

On your wedding night, you cried yourself to sleep with your new husband snoring quietly next to you in the bed.

Then, in 1971, you find yourself walking down the street and come upon a loud and frantic crowd. Your curiosity gets the better of you and you look to see what all the commotion is about. The crowd parts like ill-meaning clouds and he looks up at just the wrong moment.

His blue eyes pierce you straight through to your soul, even from across the street. Something inside you jumps and your hand goes to your throat. Memories of every time you've ever been together slam into you like a freight train and you're somewhere between ecstasy and wanting to die. By the look on his face, you can tell he's experiencing something similar. Everything inside you is screaming at you to go to him, but you feel the cold little ring on your finger and know that you can't. You turn and walk away as quickly as you can. He fights to get away from the crowd around him, but by the time he does, you're gone.

******

You're pacing the floor of your living room when the phone rings. Even several hours later, you haven't recovered from your encounter. You pick the phone up aggressively, annoyed to be distracted by the call.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Presley would like you to meet him tonight at the Presidential Motel at 11pm." Your blood runs cold.

"Why?" The line clicks with no answer. He's left the ball in your court and you hate it. You won't meet him. You just won't. He's impossible.

But at 10:45pm you're in your car. You've spent the last several hours trying to remind yourself of all the reasons you hate him. You finally decide you're going to see him just to tell him that you don't care what he says; you were serious last time. This is not a thing anymore and it never will be again.

At 11:06pm, you sit in the parking lot of the motel, a battle raging inside you.

"This is stupid." You mutter, finally getting out of the car. At the desk, you ask which room Mr. John Burrows is staying in. The clerk tells you and you stomp towards his room getting more and more angry as you walk. The nerve of him to think he can just summon you like this.

You pound on the door with every ounce of rage your body can contain flowing through you. The door opens slowly and your heart skips. Why does he have to look so good?

"You came."

"What the fuck could you possibly want to say to me?! The last time you saw me you called me a whore and said you'd rather swallow a knife than see me again. So, whatever you have to-"

"I miss you."

"You... what?" He speaks again slowly and deliberately.

"I miss you." It feels like your stomach has fallen to your kneecaps. "I'm lonely, honey."

"Call your wife."

"Will ya just... no. I want you."

"Have you forgotten-"

"No, I haven't. And I'm sorry." He's never apologized to you before. You stand in stunned silence just outside the door.

"You're-"

"Sorry. Yes. Now, will you come in please?" You stand there completely lost. Finally, he grabs your arm and drags you into the room, shutting the door behind you.

"What the hell, Elvis?!" He pulls you close to him and presses his lips to yours. For a second, you melt into him. Then, you remember why you were mad and pull away angrily.

"No, I'm not-" He pulls you in again, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you more deeply this time. You fight to get away, but he holds you tightly. Eventually you're able to escape his grasp and you push him backwards. He goes to grab you again and you slap him across the face. Your hands go to your mouth in shock and he looks at you stunned.

"Oh god, I'm-"

"I guess I deserved that." He walks to the bed and sits down. "You actually hate me, don't you?"

You stand there for a few seconds before sitting down beside him on the bed.

"No. I don't. But we said this was done."

"I know. I'm just... I'm alone, honey. And I miss you so much it hurts worse than being with you." You look at him, but he won't meet your eyes. It comes to you that he must be pretty desperate to put himself in this position.

"You're alone?"

"You know how it gets for me. There's people everywhere, but I just... I miss you."

"Why me?" He rolls his eyes and looks at you finally.

"You gonna make me say it?"

"Yes. If you want me to stay here, then-"

"I love you. I've been in love with you since I met you. You're the only one I want when I feel like this and it's been so long-" You reach out and put your hand on his knee and he looks down at it, setting his on top of yours, gently wrapping his fingers around yours.

You're used to these vulnerable moments from him. They're what has brought you together over and over throughout the years. So when he breaks down and sobs, you pull him into your arms and hold him without thinking. Somehow you end up lying in the bed with him cuddled tightly against you, head on your chest. You stroke his hair and hum quietly. This is a familiar position for the two of you and you've missed it more than you care to admit.

Eventually, his breathing evens out and you realize he's fallen asleep. You kick your shoes off and snuggle in to spend the night. As angry as you were, you can't deny him what he needs because the truth is you love him too and you always have. You kiss his forehead and hold him tightly. You've missed this too.

******

In the morning, you make love and it's sweet and sensual and exactly what you've both been needing. And this time you don't fight. Somewhere in the year you were apart, you grew. The love that you have is more important than anything that might separate you.

And as you lay naked together, the world opens up for you. He talks about leaving his wife and you decide your husband will be better off without you.

Will it happen? Will you finally find a way to be together in a way that works for you both? You don't know.

But you made it through this night together. Something tells you that you can make it through anything now.

******

The end?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[avtrxxx]

Did you?

Neteyam (24) x female human reader (20)

Warnings: enemies to lovers, mafia au, forced marriage, size difference

Neteyam was a powerful mafia prince, feared by many in the criminal underworld. He was known for his harsh and ruthless tactics, always getting what he wanted through violence and intimidation. But what he didn't expect was to have you as his soon-to-be-wife. You are the mafia princess of the human mafia. And as to make a bond, both mafias decided to marry Neteyam, the oldest mafia prince and you, the youngest princess.

"This tawtute is gonna be my maye?" Neteyam tilts his head, looking down at you, his voice filled with amusement. He's gonna give you a hard time.

"Can you stop calling me that?" You asked back.

"Tawtute? What's wrong with that? It is what you are after all" Neteyam teased, still amused by your reaction.

"Yes, but I don't like it."

"Well then, I'll call you my little human" Neteyam smirked, he was enjoying you reaction way too much. "You gotta admit, it suits you"

You sighed through your nose, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Look, I'm not little, you're a freak of nature. Secondly, it doesn't suit me."

"Awww, are you mad because I'm taller than you?" Neteyam mocked, standing straight, he was more than three heads taller than you. "You are small, I can wrap my hands around your waist so easy. If that's not little then what is"

"Your dick."

"What did you say?" Neteyam's voice remained smug as ever, but now his tail was whipping aggressively behind him. He was fuming, though he'd never show it.

"I said you have a small dick. Why? Did I tell some truth?" It was your turn to smirk.

"I'd like to test that theory" Neteyam said, he was so hot-headed, he was now in your face. His voice had become harsher and more intimidating, as he got closer to the girl. He was so close you could smell his breath and see his sharp fangs.

With one arm, Neteyam picked you up like a child and pushed you against the wall, his body looming over hers. He was a big man, with muscles on each part of his body, a wide chest, broad shoulders and huge biceps that were almost twice the size of your waist. His face was close enough to you to make you shiver.

Your face flushed with a red color, your heart beat quickened. The way he was showing his dominance was so hot.

He could feel your body trembling, he was amused and delighted by how intimidated you seemed, this small human woman. With one hand, he grabbed your chin, tilting your face up so he could look into your eyes.

But you didn't. Your gaze was on the floor.

"Why are you avoiding eye contact? Am I that frighteningly handsome to you?" Neteyam said in a mocking voice. "Or are you scared? Do you just see me as this big monster? Are my muscles too intimidating, my big body perhaps overwhelming?" he looked down and chuckled, his voice returning to it's usual sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes at him.

"I thought so. Humans are so weak and vulnerable, the moment they see someone who's physically stronger than them. They lose all hope, they become scared babies. Pathetic" He lowered his hand from your face and let you down.

For the rest of the day, you avoided him. But little did you know you're sleeping with him from now on.

At night when you were back at your room, you could see a shadow standing at the door. Neteyam was standing with his arms crossed, a smug grin on his face as he was watching you without you knowing. The door was slightly open, so he was able to look in.

You changed your clothes into pijamas and let yourseld fall on the bed.

Neteyam could see every movement you made from where he was standing. He was pleased to see that you were finally done with your day and going to bed. He could hear a soft yawn before you settled into bed, he was gonna wait a bit longer before making his move.

A few more minutes had passed, the moonlight was making its way to the room where this beautiful, tiny human lay. Neteyam finally made his move, he opened the door slowly, shutting it after he had stepped in, making absolutely no noise.

He could see you sleeping soundly on the bed. He closed the distance between you quickly, he could feel the heat of your body, as he stood above you, over your vulnerable and weak form.

He then slid under the covers of the bed and placed his body next to yours, his warm body almost suffocating yours. He laid there still for a moment, just enjoying the moment of them being this close to each other.

Then he wrapped his arms tightly around you, bringing your body so close to his. He was so much larger than yours, his muscles completely overpowering you, his arm wrapped around you and the other one going across your body, trapping you in his embrace.

"what?" You mumbled, half asleep. You rubbed your eyes, looking around you.

"Wake up, little human" he mumbled out. He squeezed you tighter, his muscles now pressing you body down and making it a bit harder to breath. You gasped, the air getting kicked out of your lungs.

"You think I'm just gonna let you sleep in peace? Not a chance" He said, his deep and rough voice filled with dominance. He was enjoying every moment of his power over the little human, who he saw as no threat.

"Lose it a bit.." you struggled to breathe, lightly but repeatedly tapping his bicep.

"Oh you wanna tap me? You wanna fight me off of you? Sorry, little human, that's not happening" Neteyam squeezed you tighter and you could feel his other bicep flex as he flexed his whole muscle. He laughed as he felt you tapping. You were so weak in his eyes, and he liked it.

You tried pushing him away, pushing on him with all your strength but he wouldn't bulge. He was far stronger.

"You're so weak. I love it. You have no hope in fighting me. You really are just a small little human. You're powerless against a strong man" He laughed, tightening his grip around you. It was becoming extremely difficult for you to breathe, especially with his hot body pressed against yours.

Seeing there's no other way to escape this uncomfortable situation, you bit him, sinking your teeth into his thick skin.

Neteyam let out a muffled growl from the sudden pain. He was surprised you could hurt him, but he didn't mind it. It was actually kinda hot. He squeezed you tighter, he now wanted to see this little human fight back even harder. He liked a challenge.

You let go of his skin when you saw it didn't really have an effect on him. You wiggled around, trying to make yourself more room. In return, Neteyam tightened his grip on you, his muscles bulging with power. "Neteyam, I have a fucking dagger with me. Don't make me use it on you." you threatened him, trying to make him feel somehow vulnerable.

"You're gonna stab me? You really are a little savage. A very cute little savage" Neteyam squeezed you tighter, enjoying the thrill of this fight. "I'd love to see you try it"

When you wanted to lower your hand in your pocket and grab it, Neteyam's hand was already close to it. He lunged his hand inside and took your dagger, throwing it away somewhere in your room.

Neteyam chuckled as he saw the small dagger being thrown on the floor. It was no threat to him, but he was impressed by your attempt. The fight between you was starting to really turn him on, you were not as weak as he originally thought and that excited him.

Neteyam suddenly had an idea, and a smirk made its way on his face. He loosened his grip around you and as soon as you tried moving away, he grabbed the side of your neck, squeezing tight.

You let out a painful moan from the pinch of his fingers. Neteyam looked surprised by the reaction but he didn't care. You were weak and your vulnerable spot was your nape.. He looked into your eyes and gave you a quick playful wink. He then pulled you back towards him and squeezed her even tighter than before.

"Fuckfuckfuck!" you cursed, the pain in the nape of your neck becoming too much.

"So hot when you swear..." Neteyam's voice was deeper than before and his eyes were filled with desire. His muscles flexed with every movement he made, his grip was getting tighter each moment he squeezed her against his body. He wanted you to struggle more so he could feel the heat of your body.

"It hurts, you dumb fuck!" You said, lifting your hands up to his huge one that was holding you in your place by your nape.

"Aww, it hurts, does it?" Neteyam smirked and squeezed harder, his grip around your nape was getting tight. He wanted this to hurt his little human, he was getting really turned on by your struggling. Your neck and waist couldn't compare to his strength.

You squeezed his large hand, in hopes to get him off of you. But he didn't move nor did he want to. Then, you dig your nails into his hand, leaving marks behind.

Neteyam smirked again, he really liked it when this tiny human tried to fight him off of you. His huge body towering over yours. Your nails barely did anything to him, he didn't let you go despite you trying. Instead, his muscles flexed as he squeezed you even tighter, his grip getting tighter and tighter.

"Go on, beg me to let you go. I'm not listening till I hear you beg for me"

"I beg you! Fucking let go of my nape."

Neteyam smirked, you was begging him now and he enjoyed it. His muscles relaxed as he let go of your nape. "Good girl" his voice was deep and sarcastic, he was enjoying every second of this interaction between you, you had never made him this excited and turned on.

You quickly lifted yourself off of your bed, standing up and you went right to the door. You put your hand on the door handle and rolled it before you pulled the door towards you, opening it.

"Get out." you said calmly, not taking your eyes off of him.

Neteyam smirked again. If you thought he was leaving just because you said so, you were truly naive. "As if you can tell me what to do. I'm not going anywhere so get back in the bed"

"We're not married yet and this is MY room so get the fuck out!" you spat in his face, standing tall (short) with pride.

"Well we are going to become married soon, so this might as well start being my room too" Neteyam crossed his arms. He got up from the bed and stood beside the door, "I told you I'm not going anywhere, so you have two options here: You either accept that I'll be sleeping with you tonight or I'll drag you back to the bed and we can cuddle. Your choice."

As he spoke, Neteyam already made his way to your bed. He threw some pillows in the same spot before he laid down, resting his head on the mountain of pillows. He got hold of the blanket and pulled it over his body, covering himself.

"Hmm" Neteyam was getting more turned on by her stubbornness, he didn't like weak women, so when she kept resisting he wanted her more and more. He was laying there on the bed with a smug grin, his body stretching across it, it was so big he took the majority of the bed.

"I'm not gonna sleep with you." you said bluntly, crossing your arms over your chest. You wanted nothing more but for him to disappear from your room. Seeing him all spread out on your bed and taking all of the space made you want to slap him hard and send him across the room.

"You can say that all you want, but you know, just as well as I do, that we will be sharing this bed together" Neteyam smirked, his arms spread out on the bed as if he was claiming it for himself, and if this small human woman was gonna sleep next to him, you had to accept that he was gonna hug up on you the whole night.

"We won't." you grabbed a blanket and sat on the sofa, making yourself comfortable. You wrapped the blanket around you, it being the only source of warmth for tonight. "Go to sleep now, Sleeping Beauty." your tone was filled with amusement as you eyed him, taking in his big frame.

You were determined to make your point and it was hot. Neteyam saw you on the sofa and smirked. It was like you wanted him to approach you and drag you back on the bed. He liked the playing hard to get, you made him want to chase you and that was thrilling.

"I'm not going to sleep till you get back on the bed with me" he then crossed his arms and lifted his upper body, leaning against the wall.

"Then you'll stay awake the entire night." you whispered, already getting ready for sleep as the light was already turned off. You wanted to sleep now. You need your beauty sleep, not some jerk who annoys you only.

Neteyam had a smug grin on his face. He then folded his arms and tilted his head, "Just let me cuddle you. I promise nothing more. Just this once?"

"You won't try to kill me?" you opened your eyes and your voice was barely audible.

Neteyam smirked, his eyes flashed, he seemed to consider yoir question for a second before he finally let out a laugh. "Kill you? I'm not going to kill you. I may be a mafia prince but I'm not dumb enough to kill the woman I'm about to marry. Now get over here and let me cuddle you"

"You come and take me. Weren't you saying that you're strong?" you smirked back, wrapping the blanket around you tighter. He said he is strong, so why not let him prove it? You weren't heavy after all, but you were too lazy to get your ass up.

"Hmm" Neteyam smirked, you were right. You were daring him to come take you by force. You didn't know what you had just started. He pushed himself off the bed and then walked towards the sofa. He crouched down and got on the level with you, his eyes looking at you and his body almost bigger than the sofa itself.

"You dare me to take you by force, do you?"

"Are you deaf?"

"Alright, that was a dumb question." he let out another laugh as he stood up, he looked at the small woman's frame and smiled at the challenge, it was gonna be fun. He walked towards you and suddenly wrapped his arms around your small frame, he squeezed you tightly and lifted you up in one go, "There, I took you by force, happy?" he smirked.

"Very. Now get me to bed." you playfully commanded. His grip was suffocating but you couldn't blame him. He maybe didn't notice how strong he was.

Neteyam smirked, he could feel how strong his grip was and how you barely had enough breath to speak the words. "You are really asking me to get you to bed?" he laughed, before walking towards the room and getting on the bed with you, he then placed you gently beside him and he looked at you, he enjoyed the way you were breathing heavily now. "Happy? I took you by force and brought you to bed, I think that deserves some sort of reward, don't you think?"

"And what do you want?" you sighed. You already knew what he desired for but you wanted to hear him beg for it.

"Do I have to be so direct? You should know what I want," Neteyam smirked, he leaned next to you and he spoke softly, right next to your ear, "I want a kiss" he looked into your eyes, his bright yellow ones flashing with desire.

"You won't get one." you said so casually that it actually hurt him, but just for a moment. Neteyam liked when you played hard to get.

"What if I take it?" he whispered in your ear, his breath hot and his body heat making it even hotter, his eyes never leaving yours and his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you close to him.

"You can't force your soon-to-be-wife like that. You'll scare her away." you mocked him, your eyes flashing with amusement. You liked how easily you could turn him into a begging mess without him even knowing.

"Hmm, that may be true, but my instincts are telling me to do this anyway" He leaned closer to you, his body heating you up with every inch he moved closer and closer. Then, he stopped and he whispered, "Are you sure I can't force you?"

"It won't be enjoyable." you explained, your breath getting heavier. You thought he was just messing around but he did want a kiss. Now it was your turn to get shy. You didn't want to kiss him. No. You wanted to get rid of him...then why did the thought of kissing him trigger something inside you?

"Oh but it will be." Neteyam smirked, then he grabbed you by the waist again and pulled you even closer to him. His breath was hot on your neck and his hands slid around your body, one on your side the other on your stomach. He leaned in even more, his big body pressed firmly against yours. "Tell me how much you hate this" he whispered into your ear, his face so close to yours, he could see every detail of your features.

You could feel his hot breath against your skin and how wet he made you. His deep, raspy voice made you want to clench your thighs together but couldn't, due to him having his leg in between yours. He wanted to kiss you, to crush his lips against yours but you didn't want to...

Did you?

[aurumacadicus]

92 or 14 maybe? 🤔

Going with 14!

--

Prince Anthony was picking his feathers out again.

Steve wordlessly set his shield aside and walked over to grab his hands, yanking them down, away from his wings. "Your highness--"

"I know!" Prince Anthony exclaimed defensively. His wrists jerked in Steve's grip, though, back toward his wings, and he wilted under Steve's stern glare. "I know," he repeated miserably.

It broke Steve's heart, but he turned to grab the picking glove, and while Prince Anthony obediently stuck his hands in so the mouth could be cinched tight around his wrists, he couldn't help but think it wasn't fair. Maybe Prince Anthony wouldn't be picking himself bald if he didn't have to choose a suitor in the next three days.

Prince Anthony had always been put off by the cock parties, as he'd called them--"cockerel balls" had always seemed to lend a layer of refinement to them that they didn't deserve, he'd said. Mostly, it was young cocks approaching and trying to impress prospective hens, and as Prince Anthony had a sizeable fortune behind him, he'd been the one most flocked to. It had made him suspicious, nervous even, of anyone's attention. Steve had watched, heart sinking with every ball, as grabby kids who barely knew what to do with a cloaca fawned all over Prince Anthony for the chance at his wing in matrimony.

It had given him nothing but a dim view on mating parties and cocks in general, which was probably why he'd gotten away with his secret for so long. He was so visibly disgusted after each cockerel ball that everyone assumed even if he was pregnant, he'd get rid of it as quickly as possible. Only when the rumors about his sudden cravings for sardines and almonds got loud enough to reach the royal court did it become necessary for Prince Anthony to undergo medical examination. And, well, when it was found to be true, that a royal hatchling was on the way, an unwed, pregnant royal was deemed a hazard to... what was it they had said? Public decency and the dignity of the crown?

Either way, it meant that another cockerel ball had been set up as quickly as possible, and Prince Anthony no longer had the choice of saying no to all comers if he wanted to keep his financial backing, even if he plucked himself bare in the meantime.

Steve watched Prince Anthony begin to pace, feeling helpless. His prince was in trouble, and he could do nothing of import to stop it. Prince Anthony looked like a caged animal as he walked up and down the carpet. He wasn't even showing yet. Was the palace hoping to get him wed immediately and lie about the hatchling being early? Someone would be bound to talk. That's what had started this mess, after all.

"I suppose," Prince Anthony began, voice halting and pained as he turned to pace in front of the window, obviously hoping the sun's rays would help him feel better. "That Lady Pepper is. Nice enough. Could pass the egg off as hers if we married."

"I suppose," Steve agreed, hoping he sounded noncommittal instead of just bitter.

"Or. Or that kind--Bruce? I think?"

"The alchemist Bruce was very kind," Steve answered with a nod.

"Or I could... I could just..." Prince Anthony stopped in front of the window, staring outside. Then, as quickly as he stopped, he turned around, eyes wide and beseeching. "Run away with me."

Steve's mouth dropped open in shock. He blinked at Prince Anthony slowly, unable to comprehend what he'd just been asked. Prince Anthony was a well-loved public figure, and while Steve was famous for his work in the war, he'd never been... someone people wanted to see running the country. In fact, if anyone ever found out that he was the one who had henned the heir apparent, he likely wouldn't be able to see him again. Prince Anthony was royalty. Steve had clawed his way up from the streets. He was only Prince Anthony's personal guard because there had been several attempts on his life, and Steve was the best at what he did.

"Run... away...?" Steve finally repeated, still not quite believing it.

"I'm just a figurehead for this stupid country," Tony spat, hope giving way to anger. "They only kept royalty on as a tradition they didn't know how to quit, as a show. I don't have any real power. And that's how they can bully me into getting married, picking a cock I don't even like all that much to be the legitimate father of my egg--So. So let's run away."

There were many reasons why Steve should say no. The country loved Prince Anthony, for one--he was only behind his late mother in terms of charity, and was quickly gaining on her record; despite the fact that he had no real power, he always did his best to influence parliament to vote in favor of the people; and the whole country had collectively swooned when a tabloid had leaked a picture of him holding a baby at the hospital with the quote 'babies need to be held' splashed under it. Steve was a nobody, come up from nothing, and most people did not have good things to say about him coming up from nothing because of the war.

Prince Anthony's gaze was steady, though, when Steve met his eyes. He was certain of his decision. That was one of the things Steve liked about him--he knew what he wanted, and if he could get it, he eagerly went through with it. And if he couldn't get it, he was a gracious loser.

"Your highness," Steve began with a sigh.

"I don't care if we're poor," Prince Anthony continued before he could voice his dissent, the determination in his voice making Steve's mouth snap shut in surprise. "You'll take care of us. And I--I have an education. I can get a job to help. You helped make this egg," he added sharply. "Are you refusing to take responsibility? And could you really just let someone else raise your chick?"

If he told himself it was for the better, to make sure the chick got everything it needed or wanted, he probably could. Prince Anthony would love it enough for the both of them, even if his new spouse only tolerated the chick. It wasn't ideal, but then, neither was getting Tony laden with egg before marriage. A marriage that couldn't happen because of who he was and who Prince Anthony had turned out to be. Steve opened his mouth to tell him in no uncertain terms that he would not be taking the spot from a more deserving rooster.

But he didn't want to. And Tony was clearly showing he didn't want to either. So he looked up at Tony and nodded sharply. "Alright, Tony."

"Tony," he repeated in a whisper, shocked. Steve only ever called him that in bed; he needed the separation of work and intimacy, and it helped to remind Tony, too, that he couldn't reach out and touch whenever he wanted. Steve watched as Tony's mouth spread into a wide smile as he lunged toward him, hooking his bound hands behind Steve's neck and pulling him down for an overjoyed kiss just bordering on desperation. Apparently, eschewing his proper name was all the real confirmation he needed of Steve's feelings.

Steve threw his wings up in a mating display just to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

[lilislegacy]

For some reason though, I feel like Hera would be petty because of her and Percabeth’s history. Like in order for her to “bless” their marriage or even allow them to marry, they need to get on her good graces. A quest or something like that.

On the other hand, I guarantee that Percy and Annabeth’s wedding would be like, the event of the century. I think I saw a post saying how literally every mortal and immortal being would attend that wedding. Not to mention, if Hera refused to let Percabeth marry, she’d have to deal with the other gods.

maybe. i have an hc that percy and annabeth blackmail hera into swearing on the styx to never mess with or interfere with their marriage in any way. annabeth can be real manipulative when she wants to be lol

also yeah if hera was giving them a hard time, aphrodite would be like bitch stop messing with my favorite demigod romance #goddessdramainolympus

[teecupangel]

Tee I can't remember if I've sent this idea before, but with [insert Desmond as an animal au] of your choice (or multiple of them, or all of them)--consider Desmond stuck as an animal and getting used to that being his new life. Until. He meets one of his ancestors he spent time as (havihg sought them out of course. He could never resist). And then, maybe it's by design, or maybe it's some kind of weird crossed wires from the Bleeding Effect, the echo of a flesh and blood body given a reminder in the code of the universe what shape it's supposed to be--

Whatever it is, it turns out that as long as Desmond is in skin-to-skin contact with his ancestor, he reverts to human form.

which is to say: big convoluted excuse for lots of hugs and hand-holding.

It would be funny if Desmond was some kind of big animal so when his ancestor lets go of him, enemies would be surprised by the sudden appearance of such a beast XD

Since you gave me free rein on this, I’m going for 12th century Levant XD

.

.

Malik did not believe he was close minded.

He accepted Altaïr was in love with a mysterious man who can turn into a beast even before Altaïr had admitted it.

Altaïr didn’t try hard to deny it anyway.

Saying “this is necessary” while they were holding hands or Altaïr’s hand was on his neck or they were in each other’s embrace (and many more positions that Malik didn’t have any time to list down at the moment) was such a weak excuse that Malik didn’t really think he should even be using the term excuse in the first place.

When he sent a letter saying he was going on a ‘trip’ with Desmond after they finished the mission in Cyprus, no one in the Brotherhood was surprised.

They immediately looked for Malik to lead them as if Altaïr had planned it.

No.

This felt more like Desmond’s work. That man seemed to believe Malik could handle more things than Malik was comfortable with handling.

Yet, he persevered for no one was willing to take the mantle from him.

After the first year of his tenure as the temporary mentor, Rauf was already suggesting that he, Altaïr and Desmond should just be the mentors together.

The way he said it though made it clear to Malik that Rauf believed Malik was entangled in Altaïr and Desmond’s relationship.

Or was harboring unsaid feelings for either or both of them.

Malik wanted to vomit there and then.

He would rather lose both of his arms than be part of whatever relationship those two had.

They were the cause of Malik’s headache.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

.

Their trip lasted for four long years.

Malik’s list of complaints had turned into a journal and he was planning to read everything out loud.

But his tenure as the long suffering temporary mentor has finally come to an end for those two idiots had returned.

When he reached the courtyard to greet them, Kadar grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Brother.” Kadar’s eyes were wide and his hands were trembling.

“What is it?” Malik asked, his mind going through the many worrying fates those two idiots could have had while they had been away.

“I’m so sorry, brother.” Kadar looked like a man who had his heart broken.

… on behalf of Malik.

Oh no.

Please.

No.

“Malik!” Desmond shouted and Kadar let go of him, stepping back into the crowd like the coward that he was.

Malik turned to where he heard Desmond’s face and saw Desmond’s grinning face.

With both of his hands holding two different persons.

Altaïr was, of course, one of them.

That was a common sight by now.

The other was a woman though.

“This is Maria Thorpe.” Desmond introduced, “The mother of our first son! He’ll be born three months from now!”

Oh, it was worse.

Many Assassins behind the three currently in front of Malik were looking at him with pitying eyes.

It seemed their imagination had run wild.

And now they had cast Malik into the role of an unfortunate man who just heard the two men (or one of these idiots) he was in love with (He. Was. Not.) had married a woman while he had been waiting for them to return.

Forget reading out loud his complaints.

He was going to beat the both of them with that damn journal.