#thread: task board

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part Nine: The Expo

Your eyes widen to saucers as you climb out of John’s work van. The event hall in front of you is huge - the largest in the city. A big, glass dome with a high-end hotel attached. It glows in the morning sun. Lines of people have already formed out front. You passed them on your way around to the vendor entrance. It’s the twentieth anniversary for the Tattoo Expo, apparently, which means they expect massive crowds.

“I hate that Kyle couldn’t come.” You frown as a security worker hands over your badge. It’s fancy - heavy weight with brightly colored, neo-traditional graphics. Something about having the word VENDOR hanging around your neck makes your heart skip.

John sighs, heaving one of the boxes of his books onto your dolly. “Yeah. He tried but he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to do much of anythin’.”

You wrinkle your nose. Apparently he had caught some nasty stomach bug, poor guy. You thought about calling and checking in on him, but you worried that was too clingy. After… everything, you don’t want to come off as anything other than normal about it. Which you are. Totally normal.

At least Johnny was home for the day to help him out.

“Has Simon ever come?” You ask, titling the dolly pack to push into the convention hall.

John’s arms flex as he fights with his rolling tool box to get the handle back out so he can pull it. He just had to wear a sleeveless muscle tee, didn’t he? It’s rude, frankly. You look over his more rarely exposed shoulder and upper arm pieces - some more faded than others. Some more colorful, some better crafted. Part of you wants to reach out - to trace them the same way you want to with Simon. You want to ask him in detail about each one. Maybe he’ll let you, someday.

“Can you actually picture Simon in a convention hall?” He chuckles eventually, finally getting the toolbox rolling properly.

You laugh. “Guess not.”

The 141 booth sits in the center of the floor, surrounded by a few other big-name shops and figures in the community. You glance around at them, only recognizing a few. You don’t get much time to look around. There are only a couple hours designated for set up and you have to help hang all the flash options, get the cash box sorted, and be ready for the flood when it comes. You’ve mentally prepared for chaos, reading through pretty much every reddit and twitter thread you could find about convention disasters. You know that won’t happen here, and even if something did, John wouldn’t abandon you to it. Still, you feel better being mentally prepared for anything - no matter how unrealistic.

“Why do you still do these?” You ask, pinning one of the large flash sheets to the display board. “I mean - you don’t exactly have to get your name out there.”

“I enjoy them- the community. I was here when this was still bein’ held underground in an old warehouse.” John looks around, eyes scanning the rows of artists. He doesn’t share his thoughts, just stands there quietly for a moment with his hands on his hips. After a few beats he grumbles quietly, “Gettin’ old…”

You focus on setting up the front table where you’ll be stationed. John brought a few prints of work as well as several copies of his book. He brought a few signed ones as well, only selling them for about twenty more bucks than the usual price. You asked why he doesn’t mark them up more, but he just shrugged you off with a mutter of ‘I’m not all that’ before moving on to another task. You decided it was best not to argue that he is, indeed, all that. His books are literally filled until the late fall.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of setting up a decently aesthetically pleasing display all on your own when you’re surrounded by real artists, but you still grin wide with your hands on your hips. It’s simple, with cards for each of the boys lining one sit and a roll of tattoo tickets for the day beside the cash box. The table cloth with the shop’s name looks nearly identical to the sign. One might call it lazy marketing, you find it charming.

“Somethin’ happen with you and Kyle?” John asks suddenly, back turned as he messes with something in his rolling tool box full of supplies.

You freeze, eyes wide and mouth dry. Did Kyle say something? You thought you’d been normal about it. Kyle hadn’t acted any differently - which shouldn’t have hurt your feelings - and you were sure you’d met him with the same level of normalcy. The past weeks race through your mind. Every moment, every interaction, picking each apart into threads in milliseconds.

“Uh, no? Why?” It comes out squeaky. Unsure. Lord, you really are a terrible liar.

John hums. He’s quiet for barely a beat, a moment that seems to stretch for lifetimes. You can almost feel your cells aging while you wait. “You’ve been quieter than usual around him. Just wanted t’make sure.”

“Oh.” Had you? You thought you’d been the same as always. Both of you totally moved on from… the incident. Well, except for those few times you caught yourself staring - zoning out while thinking about the way his lips pressed to yours. Imagining Kyle pulling you into the back room again. Another kiss with less nervousness and more heat. Actually bending you over the desk properly-

“Y’with me, love?” John snaps you back to reality.

“Yeah!” You jump and stutter. “Yeah. No. We’re fine. I’m… fine.”

You wonder if the giant guy in the weird homemade mask at the booth across from yours would smash your head in if you paid him. Let him free you from the torment of embarrassment. It had been eating away at you, if you’re honest with yourself, and now lying right to John’s face just feels… awful. He’ll find out. You know he will. Maybe he already knows as that was a test. Fuck if it was, you totally just failed.

The clock turns to nine, and you have no choice but to let that be a problem for your future self.

Something you realize rather quickly as the attendees begin to flood the hall is that John is a god here. People don’t meet his eye. They speak meekly, even to you, with voices low and faces flushed. The line for your booth stretches down the walkway as soon as the doors open - appointment tickets practically flying out of your hands. You overhear a pair of friends muttering about sleeping outside overnight to get in early enough for John’s booth. It makes your head spin.

You wonder if they’d still act that way if they saw him snoring open-mouthed at the desk in the back room mid-afternoon.

“Thought I heard 141 got a new front desk girl.” A syrupy southern accident lilts above you just as you finish selling tickets. He’s handsome. Blonde and blue eyed with a little scar gracing his cheekbone. Not much younger than John, you don’t think. Probably around Simon’s age.

You slip on your usual customer service smile. “Hello! How can I-”

“Graves.” John grunts behind you, not even looking up from the work in front of him. “What d’you want?”

“Just wanted to come see how you were.” The man - Graves - grins wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to meet your new front of house. Philip.”

You take the hand he holds out, giving a perfunctory shake and your name. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that John doesn’t like this guy, whoever he is, and you’re inclined to trust his judgement. You opt for basic small talk. “Are you an artist?”

Graves nods. “I own Shadow & Co. It’s a few blocks over from your place.”

Oh. You’d heard of them. They came highly recommended when you were looking for artists in the area initially. In the end you opted for John based entirely on vibes. The Shadow building is far too modern - to minimalist - for your liking. Too corporate.

“Y’know, we’re looking for a new desk girl as well.” Graves smiles. You do your best not to sneer at his use of desk girl. “We’re growing pretty quick - even if you wanted to split your time-”

“She’s full time with us.” John snaps - blatant irritation lining the edges of his voice. He still doesn’t turn around.

The blonde man pauses, glancing between you. Something passes over his eyes - some implicit knowing that you don’t quite get - but it’s gone just as fast as it came. He digs into his pocket, flipping open a too-new wallet and pulling out a business card. “Well, if you ever want to work somewhere more exciting-” you nearly laugh at that. “-give us a call, hm?”

You glance up to his face, then back down at the card. John’s tattoo gun continues to buzz behind you, but you can tell he’s slowed down. He’s listening. Before even really thinking you extend your hand, pushing the card he holds away from you.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy here.”

Philip scoffs, dropping the card on the table. “Keep us in mind, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd easily - blending in just like his shop’s namesake. Your nose wrinkles. You snatch up the card and tear it in two. “Dickhead.”

You think you hear John chuckling behind you, but can’t be sure over the roar of the convention.

The day flies by - people bustle by your booth. You run out of signed books just over halfway through - prints not long after. Your voice feels hoarse from talking to so many people. The hall has grown quite hot and you’re sure that your hair looks insane at this point. Either way, you’re having a great time. You get to talk to a with full body trash polka that you like for some reason. You get to meet one of the people involved in the stage competition - her massive thigh piece holding some of the best color work you’ve ever seen. All in all, despite the discomfort, you think this ranks in your top ten favorite days. Maybe top five.

“Excuse me?” Murmurs a voice so soft you almost miss it entirely over the roar of the convention. When you look up, you’re met with a painfully young face. Definitely not old enough for the 17+ entrance requirement.

“Hi!” You put on your warmest smile. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh, I was just…” They stutter, shifting in place. “I- Are there any signed copies left?”

You look them over, a too-familiar pang in your chest. You know those eyes, that anxiety. The jumpy way they look around at the people passing by and tug at their sleeves. Your teeth sink into your lip and you look over at the three blanks that make up your entire left over stock. Glancing over your shoulder, you see John finishing with his current client - giving the man a firm handshake before turning to clean up his station. There’s a fifteen minute break until the next one - his last for the night - and as much as you don’t want to take up his precious little time to set up…

“Let me check!” You squeak, shaky as you grab one of the blanks with all the subtlety of a brick over the head and cross the few feet over to where John sits. You lean over to speak in his ear, low enough that the kid won’t hear you. “John?”

“Hm?” He hums, turning slightly on his stool.

“Can you sign this one?” You chew your lip. “I know you had a set amount but this kid looks so…”

He glances behind you at the teenager in question, bashfully staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry, I know you need to set up for the next-”

John cuts you off by taking the book from your hands and standing.

“Thanks, dove.” He gives you that lovely, warm smile and rolls his shoulders before making his way over to the front table.

The teenager’s eyes go so wide you think they might pop out of their head. You decide to hang back and not interrupt their moment. John sets the book on the table and grabs a sharpie from your back up stash of pens. The kid mumbles something you can’t understand. John’s voice lowers as well. You can’t hear them, but you watch John scrawl something in the book and hand it over. He pushes away the crumpled, messy wad of cash the teenager tries to give him, shaking his head and saying something else that you don’t catch. The kid looks like they’re about to cry, a wide, wet grin splitting their face as they say goodbye and practically prance away.

You melt, shoulders slouching and what you’re sure is a very stupid smile breaking out across your lips. You don’t know why you doubted him for even a moment.

“What’s that face?” John scoffs, cocking a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You shake your head and re-take your spot at the table.

The ending of the convention is rather uneventful. Some of the other booths begin clearing up early. You take the time to count the cash box - which is absolutely stuffed to the brim. John rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck about five times in the span of a few minutes. Maybe you could convince them to do a company yoga class. It’s easy to see how tense and tired they get. You file that idea away for later.

Luckily most of the booth set up belonged to the venue and, since you sold out of books and prints, you don’t have haul those back to the van. All you have to take is John’s rolling toolbox and tattooing table. All things that easily fit in your bag and dolly. Thank god. Neither of you speak much on the drive back to the shop - opting for comfortable silence. Your ears ring ever so slightly from the noise of the convention hall. When you were in it, you hadn’t realized just how loud it was. John’s eyes are locked on the road, the slight glow from the setting sun warming his skin.

The sun just disappears over the horizon as you put the last of the equipment in the backroom - stacked rather messily but that’s another problem for future you. You’ve been working for a grand total of fourteen hours and, somehow, it still has yet to hit you. Adrenaline and excited energy still pulse under your skin.

John sighs loudly, crossing each arm over his chest to stretch them out. “Could really go for a scotch right now. You want a nightcap?”

Your cheeks warm, still riding high from the excitement of the day you agree easily. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He gives you a gentle smile, softened further by the low street lights. “Let me show you a spot.”

The place John leads you to is small. Local. You sit at the bar and take a moment to look around. Three pool tables take up half the floor space. It looks like a small tournament is going on - a white board showing the matches and who will go against who next. Two ski-ball machines are tucked in a corner beside the bathroom, currently taken up by two younger men who you aren’t completely sure are drinking age. The lights and music are both low. One of the bartenders is posted up on the opposite end of the bar with two other people watching Shin Godzilla on the mounted television. It’s cozy and oh-so very John Price.

You get an easy sipper, something fruity and sweet as a treat for the long day you’ve had. It’s nice against the warmth of the summer evening. A heat that’s only aggravated by the one that settles in your spine whenever the guys are around. John especially.

“Think that kid was a little young for the event…” You blurt in a poor attempt to make conversation.

John nods along. “Definitely.”

“That was really nice of you. I didn’t want to… I don’t know.” You murmur, unsure why exactly the words won’t stop. You blame the drinks and exhaustion. Seems realistic enough. “They just seemed so sad.”

“Wasn’t nice. Just the right thing t’do.” John shrugs. His words come slow, almost as if he’s unsure if he should say them. Though, you find it hard to believe he has ever been unsure about anything in his life. “I know what its like… to need t’escape. Lied about my age just to enlist.”

Your eyes widen. “R-really?”

He hums. “They didn’t care much back then.”

For some reason you never thought about John’s childhood - his homelife. You know he has a mom somewhere. Kyle let it slip a couple of times - said she’s a really good cook. John doesn’t volunteer information about himself often, you gathered that much. He’s worse than Simon, somehow, which says a fucking lot.

“Did-” you mull over your words. “You didn’t grow up around here, yeah?”

It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk, but it works well enough. He nods. “Hereford. My mum’s still out there.”

Score. “Do you visit her much?”

John shrugs, chuckling. “When I can. I could move back home and it wouldn’t be enough for her.”

You snicker.

“She’s the best woman I’ve ever known…” He murmurs, eyes far away. It’s only for a moment, but they look past you. Defocused in a way that seems to out of character for the hyper-aware man.

Your faces are close. Hunched in like school kids exchanging secrets and gossip during recess. Your eyes dart from his to his lips and back. It’s confusing. All of this. The intimacy you have with each of them in these moments is overwhelming. You like Kyle - you liked kissing Kyle - you really shouldn’t be wanting that from your boss, though. A co-worker is bad enough but John… John is off limits. You know that. Even so, you find yourself subconsciously leaning just a bit closer, eyes roving over the freckles you don’t see standing further away and the grey flecks in his eyes. You think, for barely a millisecond, that he leans in too.

Until he sits up straight, tossing back what little is left of his drink. “Let’s head out. Could go for a smoke.”

You nod, swallowing down your thoughts and following him out of the bar like a lost puppy. You’d follow him to the end of the earth, you think. Even if it hurts that you can’t get as close as you want, you’d go anywhere for him. Yeah, that’s definitely the drink and tiredness talking. Part of you also knows that it is undoubtedly true.

John rounds a corner to the side of the bar. It’s moderately lit, a single street lamp just down the way giving you just enough light to see. You lean against the wall beside John, the exhaustion beginning to cling to your eyes.

“Are you?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?” You hum, unsure of what he’s asking about.

“Happy here?” He cuts the end off a cigar he pulled from the silver box that lives in his back pocket.

In the low light of the alley, his pupils overtake most of his irises. Dark and intense as he looks you over from head to toe. You see it, suddenly. The god that the others do. He’s not as physically large as Simon, or as loud as Johnny, but he fills every inch of any space he enters regardless. You suppose you became so used to being in that radius that you forgot just how much presence he carries. You’ve wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. A shield.

Your cheeks warm and you shuffle your feet. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” John sighs out a cloud of smoke. “It’d be a pain in the arse to replace you. The boys care about you too much.”

You stare up at him. You can feel something on the edge of his tone - some weight that you don’t understand. There always seems to be another layer to the things he says. Implications that you can’t understand, context that you’re missing. Part of you wants to ask, needs to ask, but the words get stuck in your throat. What would you say? You’re not even entirely sure what you need to ask. You know they care about you, and you care for them in turn, so why does it feel like there’s something missing?

“Does the boys include you?” You blurt, one again wishing that big guy from the convention was here to smash your head in like wile e. cayote and the anvil.

He looks you up and down, slightly taken aback while you debate on bolting. “Thought that was obvious.”

You scoff, still flustered. “You’re hard to read.”

“Am I, now?”

You nod. A comfortable silence falls over you, despite the awkwardness surely emanating from you. Your lip catches between your teeth, eyes on your feet. “John?”

“Dove?” He tilts his head, once again leaning ever so slightly closer to you.

“Thank you. For everything.” You murmur, voice low and unsure. “It’s… it’s really good here.”

“Think nothin’ of it, love.”

You look up at those pretty blue eyes. They always make your chest ache with some deep hole you haven’t been able to pin down. At first you could blame it on wanting to do well - to be a good employee. It’s more than that, though. It starts in your chest and seeps it’s way through the rest of you. A want. A craving. That’s the word. You crave those eyes on you. The weight of his hands, the fortitude of him.

You’re not sure who closes the gap - whether it’s you or him - but either way it closes. It’s too natural for the context of your relationship. You slot together too well. It’s not like with Kyle. John carries an intensity with him that Kyle never could. His beard scratches not unpleasantly. His lips are warm - you can taste hints of scotch and his cigar. He smells of spice and earth. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders - unsure of where to put them.

This is wrong. It’s messy. You already lied about Kyle, which he’ll surely find out. If he hasn’t already. What about Johnny? Or Simon? Will they think less of you? Are you less for this? For impulsively kissing your boss in some back alley? Will Kyle be angry if he finds out? Your thoughts surge, all chaotic waves crashing against each other in an attempt to make sense of this situation you find yourself in.

John’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms drape around his neck as you push onto your tips toes to meet him.

That’s a problem for future you.

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to escalate it or not but I want to get a move on with these boys

[2b4st4r]

Can you do Zoro x female reader where they are hit with a devil fruit power and are now brainwashed into believing that chopper is their child for a couple of weeks. Like actual blood child, as if they birthed and raised chopper themselves. Reader and Zoro already had feelings for each other, but havent confessed yet, and are now having to deal with this mess. Poor chopper having to deal with his "new parents" till this wears off, and the crew being hysterical about the whole situation.

Forced Family

Zoro x Reader

Words: 9,041

Warnings: Temporary Mind Alteration, Implied Non-Consensual Actions (due to mind alteration), emotional distress, and mild violence, and use of y/n, FEMALE READER.

Requests open

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

The Thousand Sunny sailed under a sky painted with the vibrant hues of a new day, the salty spray of the Grand Line a familiar kiss on Y/n's face. As the Straw Hat Pirates' Quartermaster, their days were a symphony of organized chaos – ensuring supplies were stocked, negotiating with eccentric island merchants, and meticulously logging every berry spent and earned. Yet, their role extended beyond the ledger and the storeroom. As the Master-at-Arms, Y/n was responsible for the maintenance and readiness of all weapons on board, a task they approached with a quiet intensity that mirrored their own formidable skill.

Y/n’s relationship with each Straw Hat was a thread woven into the very fabric of the crew. With Luffy, it was an easy camaraderie built on shared dreams and an understanding of boundless freedom. They often found themselves laughing at the captain's antics, a quiet smile playing on their lips as they watched him chase a new adventure. Nami and Y/n shared a pragmatic bond, often poring over charts and supply lists, their shared sense of responsibility a grounding force amidst the crew's eccentricities. Y/n admired Nami's unwavering determination and sharp wit, and Nami respected Y/n's meticulous nature and unwavering loyalty.

Usopp often sought Y/n out for advice on new weapon designs or to boast about his latest invention, finding an appreciative and discerning ear in the Master-at-Arms. Y/n, in turn, found Usopp's boundless creativity and occasional bursts of unexpected courage endearing. Sanji always ensured Y/n had a steaming mug of their favorite tea during late-night inventory checks, his chivalry extending to a respectful acknowledgment of their tireless work. Their banter was light and frequent, Sanji's flamboyant compliments met with Y/n's dry wit.

Chopper would often bring Y/n newly gathered medicinal herbs, a silent offering of his care, and Y/n would always make time to listen to his latest medical discoveries. Y/n's calm demeanor was a comfort to the easily flustered doctor. Robin and Y/n shared a quiet understanding, often found reading in comfortable silence on the deck, a shared appreciation for knowledge and history binding them. Their conversations were often profound, delving into topics that went beyond the immediate adventures.

Franky and Y/n frequently collaborated on ship upgrades and weapon enhancements, their combined mechanical prowess leading to some of the Sunny's most ingenious features. Y/n appreciated Franky's unbridled enthusiasm and innovative spirit, while Franky admired Y/n's precision and attention to detail. Brook would serenade Y/n with a melancholic tune, often leading to a shared moment of reflection or a burst of laughter at his skull jokes. Y/n enjoyed Brook's unique perspective and his unwavering spirit. Jinbei, the newest addition, found a reliable and steadfast presence in Y/n, often exchanging quiet observations about the sea and the crew. Y/n respected Jinbei's wisdom and strength, and Jinbei recognized Y/n's quiet resolve.

But it was with Roronoa Zoro that Y/n's connection hummed with an unspoken electricity. Their interactions were often clipped, a language of nods and shared glances, yet each held a depth of unspoken understanding. They sparred together with a brutal honesty, the clang of steel on steel a familiar rhythm that resonated deep within them. During these training sessions, their eyes would meet across crossed blades, a spark igniting in the silent space between them. Y/n admired Zoro’s unwavering dedication to his dream, his formidable strength, and the surprising moments of genuine care he showed, often disguised beneath a gruff exterior. Zoro, in turn, was captivated by Y/n's quiet confidence, their sharp mind, and the fluid grace with which they moved, whether wielding a weapon or meticulously organizing supplies. A mutual, unspoken admiration simmered beneath the surface, a delicate tension that added an intriguing layer to their already intricate dance aboard the Thousand Sunny. Both were too stubborn, too focused, and perhaps, too afraid to acknowledge the blossoming feelings that pulsed beneath the surface, a silent promise hanging in the salty air of the Grand Line.

The anchor dropped with a familiar thud, signaling the Thousand Sunny's arrival at yet another uncharted island in the New World. This one felt… different. The air, though carrying the usual salty tang, held a stillness that was almost unsettling. From the deck, you could see a small, clustered town nestled amidst strangely twisted trees, and the few figures moving about had a languid, almost detached air about them.

"Something feels a bit strange about this place," Nami murmured, her brow furrowed as she scanned the island with her keen eyes. "Keep your guard up, everyone."

As Quartermaster, the need for resupply was always on your mind. "We're running low on a few key items," you announced, consulting your meticulously kept list. "I should head to town and see what they have." You were generally comfortable handling such tasks on your own, your skills with a blade more than sufficient to deter any opportunistic trouble. You were kind by nature, always willing to lend a hand or offer a comforting word, but you were also fiercely capable and self-reliant.

Nami, however, her observation skills honed by years navigating treacherous waters and even more treacherous people, didn't seem entirely comfortable with the idea of you going alone this time. "Y/n," she said, her gaze thoughtful, "this island… the people seem a little… off. Maybe it's just my nerves, but I'd feel better if Zoro went with you."

Zoro, who had been honing his swords nearby, his movements as precise and deadly as a striking viper, paused, his dark eye flicking towards you and then to Nami. He didn't comment, but you could sense a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

"It's alright, Nami, I can handle it," you started, not wanting to pull Zoro away from his training, especially since you knew how seriously he took it.

"Humph," Zoro finally grunted, sheathing Wado Ichimonji. "Doesn't matter to me. Lead the way, Quartermaster." There was a subtle shift in his stance, a readiness that spoke volumes despite his seemingly indifferent tone.

Nami sighed in relief. "Thanks, Zoro. Just… be careful, both of you. Something about this place gives me the creeps."

You met Zoro's gaze for a fleeting moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. A small, almost imperceptible warmth spread through you at the thought of him accompanying you. It wasn’t just the added security; there was a quiet comfort in his presence, a feeling of unspoken understanding that always lingered between you.

"Alright," you said, a subtle nod to Nami. "Let's go see what this town has to offer." As you turned to head towards the shore, you could feel Zoro falling into step beside you, his large frame a reassuring presence at your side. The familiar weight of your own weapons at your hip felt a little less significant with him there, and as you both set off towards the peculiar little town, a strange mix of anticipation and unease settled over you. You couldn't shake the feeling that this seemingly simple resupply trip might turn out to be anything but.

The path from the shore to the town was overgrown with thick, unfamiliar foliage, some plants sporting vibrant, almost unnaturally bright blossoms, while others were a dull, sickly green. The air grew heavier with a strange, sweet scent the further you walked, a fragrance that was both alluring and vaguely unsettling.

"You smell that?" you asked, turning your head slightly to Zoro. Your voice was low, a natural caution in your tone.

He grunted in response, his hand already resting on the hilt of his Wado Ichimonji, his single eye scanning the surroundings with a familiar intensity. "Something's off," he echoed Nami's earlier sentiment, his voice a low rumble. "Smells like… too much. Like it's trying to cover something up."

You nodded, a shiver tracing its way down your spine despite the warm, humid air. "My thoughts exactly." You picked up your pace slightly, eager to get to the town and finish your business.

As you walked, the silence between you was punctuated only by the rustling of leaves and the distant, indistinct sounds from the town. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, not with Zoro. With him, there was a shared understanding, a sense of quiet companionship that transcended the need for words. Still, the underlying tension of your unspoken feelings thrummed beneath the surface, a constant, subtle hum in the air around you.

Suddenly, a small, dark shadow darted across the path ahead. Your hand instinctively went to the hilt of your own blade, but Zoro was quicker, his sword half-drawn before the shadow even registered. It was just a small, scurrying creature, resembling a large, dark rodent.

"Relax," he muttered, though his eye remained sharp. He re-sheathed his sword with a soft click.

"Just a little jumpy, I suppose," you admitted, offering a small, sheepish smile. You dropped your hand from your weapon. "Nami's warning got to me."

Zoro let out a low "Hmph," a sound that could mean anything from agreement to amusement. He didn't look at you, but you felt his presence, a solid, reassuring anchor beside you. The air around him always felt… steady. Strong. It was a feeling you found yourself increasingly drawn to.

As you neared the town, the strange quiet deepened. The small, wooden buildings looked like they'd been built haphazardly, leaning at odd angles. The few villagers you saw were indeed "off," as Nami had put it. They moved slowly, their eyes vacant, and they didn't seem to acknowledge your presence, even when you passed directly by them. They were like puppets on slack strings.

"This is really strange," you whispered, pulling your list from your pocket but feeling less and less inclined to actually shop. You glanced at Zoro, and for the first time, his gaze met yours directly. There was a rare intensity in his eye, a hint of concern that was rarely visible.

"Stay close," he said, his voice softer than usual, barely a whisper. His hand, subtly, moved closer to yours, almost brushing your fingers as you walked. The unspoken current between you flared, a brief, hot pulse. You quickly looked away, your cheeks warming, but you didn't move your hand. The almost-touch was a tantalizing, frustrating, beautiful thing.

You continued through the deserted-feeling streets, the tension between you and the unnerving atmosphere of the town building with every step. You needed to get those supplies, but something here felt deeply, fundamentally wrong. And with Zoro by your side, the air was thick with more than just the sweet, cloying scent of strange flowers. It was thick with unspoken words, with a silent yearning that neither of you dared to name.

You and Zoro pressed on, the unsettling quiet of the town amplifying with every step. The main street, which should have been bustling with activity, was eerily still. Shop doors hung ajar, revealing interiors that appeared perfectly preserved – baskets overflowing with vibrant fruits, shelves stacked with colorful fabrics, tools glinting in the dim light. But there was no one. Not a single soul.

"Hello?" you called out, your voice echoing strangely in the deserted space. You felt a prickle of unease at the lack of response. "Is anyone here? Shopkeeper?"

Zoro, ever pragmatic, strode directly into what looked like a small grocer's. You followed, your eyes scanning the shelves for the items on your list. A display of bright red apples caught your eye. They looked perfectly ripe, glistening under a shaft of sunlight that somehow seemed too artificial.

"Seems like everyone just… vanished," you murmured, reaching for an apple. You pulled your hand back just before touching it, a strange intuition stopping you.

Zoro, meanwhile, had been peering intently at a stack of what looked like freshly baked bread. "This is a waste of time," he grumbled, his voice cutting through the silence. He picked up a loaf. "Just take what we need. They're clearly not here to sell it."

"Zoro, no!" you protested immediately, your quartermaster's ethics kicking in. "We can't just steal from them, even if they're not around. That's not how we operate." You might be pirates, but you had your own code, and wanton thievery wasn't part of it, especially when no direct threat was present.

He sighed, dropping the bread with a soft thud that seemed overly loud in the quiet shop. "Fine. But we're not waiting around forever. This place feels wrong."

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the vibrant apples. The silence stretched, the air growing heavier, almost suffocating. Something compelled you to try, just to confirm. With a deep breath, you reached out and firmly grasped for one of the red fruits.

Your fingers passed right through it.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. No resistance, no tangible form – just air where the apple should have been. You looked around, your heart beginning to pound. The vibrant colors of the fruits, the intricate patterns on the fabrics, the solid-looking walls of the shop – they all seemed to shimmer, ever so slightly.

"Zoro," you breathed, the word barely a whisper, your voice laced with sudden urgency. You grabbed his arm, your grip tight. "Zoro, it's an illusion! This whole place… it's not real!"

As if on cue, the world around you began to waver. The edges of the shop, the shelves, the apples, even the street outside, started to blur and distort, like a painting melting in the rain. The vibrant hues faded, replaced by ghostly, translucent outlines. The sweet, cloying scent vanished, replaced by the faint, familiar smell of the sea.

The unsettling quiet of the town morphed into a chilling, echoing silence as the illusion peeled away. You could feel Zoro's muscles tense under your hand, his single eye now wide with realization as the fabricated reality dissolved around you. The seemingly solid world was dissolving, revealing whatever lay beneath.

You looked around frantically, the dissolving town a swirling vortex of shimmering light and fading colors. Panic clawed at your throat. The perfectly arranged shops, the cobblestone streets, the peculiar villagers – all of it was dissolving into thin air, replaced by what appeared to be a vast, oppressive darkness.

Then you saw it – a flicker of movement, a deeper shade of black against the already encroaching gloom. A shadow.

A sharp pinch on your hand ripped a gasp from your lips. You looked down, your eyes wide with confusion, and saw nothing. No bite, no sting, no mark. Yet, an immediate wave of nausea washed over you. The world tilted, the faint outlines of the illusionary town spinning around you. You felt lightheaded, the ground swaying beneath your feet.

"Zo... Zoro..." you mumbled, your voice thin and reedy, your gaze fixed on your hand as if it held the answer to this sudden, crushing weakness.

Zoro’s worry was immediate, a tangible force that cut through the lingering traces of the illusion. His usual stoicism shattered, replaced by an raw, urgent concern that painted itself across his face. His hand instinctively shot out, steadying you as you swayed. "You're okay, you are okay," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble, far softer than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t seem to be talking to you as much as trying to convince himself, his grip tightening around your arm.

Your knees buckled. You went limp, your vision tunneling. Zoro moved instantly, catching you before you could hit the ground, gathering you into his arms. The scent of salt and steel, uniquely his, filled your senses even as darkness threatened to consume you. He knew he should let you go, knew he should be drawing his swords, ready to confront whatever unseen assailant had struck you. But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to just drop you. His resolve to fight warred with an overwhelming need to protect you, to ensure your safety above all else.

Just gently, he told himself, just put her down gently.

He lowered you carefully to the ground, his touch surprisingly tender despite the urgency of the moment. Your head rested on the strangely coarse earth beneath the dissolving illusion, your eyes fluttering closed. He straightened, his body instantly coiled, ready for battle, his hand already on the h hilt of Wado Ichimonji.

That's when he felt it. A sharp prick on his neck, mirroring the sensation you'd described on your hand. His fingers instinctively shot to the spot, but there was nothing there. Just a sudden, searing pain that quickly gave way to the same sickening lightheadedness that had stolen your strength. His vision blurred, the last vestiges of the illusionary town fading into an oppressive blackness.

Zoro felt the world tilt, the oppressive darkness pressing in on him. His muscles, usually steel-hard and responsive, began to go limp, betraying him. His vision blurred, the last flickers of the dissolving illusion replaced by swirling shadows. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the haze of confusion. Protect her. The thought roared through his mind, a primal command overriding the sudden weakness.

With a monumental effort, he managed to pull Wado Ichimonji from its sheath, the familiar weight of the sword a faint comfort in his failing grasp. He tried to take a fighting stance, to brace himself against the unseen assailant, but his limbs felt heavy, distant. Numbness crept insidiously from his neck, spreading rapidly through his arms and legs. He swayed, his formidable balance deserting him. The ground, which had been solid just moments before, seemed to lurch beneath his feet.

He staggered, his resolve to fight warring with the relentless advance of the unknown poison. His grip on his sword loosened, his arm trembling uncontrollably. Every instinct screamed at him to stay upright, to defend Y/n, but his body was failing him. The darkness swelled, threatening to consume him entirely, and with a final, desperate lurch, he lost his footing. He collapsed, Wado Ichimonji clattering uselessly beside him as the blackness swallowed him whole.

A dull ache throbbed behind your eyes, a constant drumbeat against a canvas of unfamiliarity. Your eyelids felt dry, glued shut, but with a monumental effort, you forced them open. Your body was a symphony of soreness, every muscle protesting, every joint screaming in protest. You blinked, attempting to clear the haze from your vision, and as your surroundings slowly came into focus, a wave of confusion washed over you.

This wasn't the strange, fading town. This was the infirmary aboard the Thousand Sunny. The familiar scent of antiseptics and Chopper's unique medicinal herbs filled the air. But something was profoundly, terrifyingly wrong. A hollow ache bloomed in your chest, a feeling of searching for something, someone, vital. Where was Zoro? Was he okay?

You tried to sit up, a sharp wince escaping your lips as pain lanced through your side. Your limbs felt heavy, sluggish, but the desperate need to find Zoro spurred you on.

"Y/n! Please sit down! You'll just injure yourself more!"

The familiar, small voice cut through your muddled thoughts. Your eyes, still swimming with concern, met those of Chopper. He was standing by your bunk, his little hooves fidgeting with a clipboard, his face etched with worry. But as your gaze locked with his, the world shifted. The lingering confusion solidified into something else, something intensely, unequivocally real.

"My child," you whispered, the words escaping your lips before you could even process them. A profound, overwhelming love flooded your heart, a fierce protective instinct unlike anything you'd ever known. You reached out a trembling hand, a deep, maternal yearning gripping you. "Are you alright, my little one? Are you hurt?" The notion that this small, adorable reindeer was anything but your flesh and blood, your very own child, simply didn't exist in your mind.

The memory of a strong, steadfast presence, of calloused hands and a comforting scent, flickered through your altered mind. "And… your father?" you continued, your voice laced with fresh worry. "Is your father well? Where is he?" You were certain, with every fiber of your being, that Roronoa Zoro was not just your crewmate, but your devoted husband, the other half of your family. The concern for him was a desperate, agonizing knot in your stomach.

Chopper stood frozen, his little hooves gripping the clipboard so tightly his knuckles turned white. His wide, innocent eyes blinked rapidly as you, Y/n, a fierce and capable pirate, reached out and gently cupped his furry cheek. Your touch, usually firm and reassuring, was now impossibly tender, filled with an emotion that utterly bewildered him.

"There, there, my precious one," you murmured, your thumb stroking his fur. "It's alright. Mama's here."

Chopper’s jaw dropped. Mama? His brain, usually a whirlwind of medical knowledge and panicky deductions, seized up entirely. He was a reindeer! A doctor! He was definitely not a "child," especially not your child. And "Mama"? That wasn't even… He felt a flush of heat rise to his face, a mix of profound confusion and genuine fear.

Then, you leaned in, pressing a soft, maternal kiss to his forehead.

GASP!

Chopper literally levitated a few inches off the ground in sheer, unadulterated shock. His fur bristled. This was beyond odd. This was beyond a concussion. His mind, scrambling for a diagnosis, whirred through every medical text he'd ever read. But no fever, no head trauma, no obvious injury could account for this.

A Devil Fruit! The thought hit him like a cannonball. It had to be! Some insidious power, something they'd encountered on that strange island, had twisted your mind. Or… or was it a severe case of amnesia coupled with a delusion? But the way you looked at him, with such overwhelming maternal affection, felt too real, too deep to be just a simple bump on the head. He frantically searched his memory for any information on mind-altering abilities, his tiny heart pounding in his chest. His beloved Y/n, his sensible, reliable Y/n, was calling him "my child" and looking at him like he was her son. It was terrifying, and he had absolutely no idea what to do.

Chopper stood frozen, his little hooves gripping the clipboard so tightly his knuckles turned white. His wide, innocent eyes blinked rapidly as you, Y/n, a fierce and capable pirate, reached out and gently cupped his furry cheek. Your touch, usually firm and reassuring, was now impossibly tender, filled with an emotion that utterly bewildered him.

"There, there, my precious one," you murmured, your thumb stroking his fur. "It's alright. Mama's here."

Chopper’s jaw dropped. Mama? His brain, usually a whirlwind of medical knowledge and panicky deductions, seized up entirely. He was a reindeer! A doctor! He was definitely not a "child," especially not your child. And "Mama"? That wasn't even… He felt a flush of heat rise to his face, a mix of profound confusion and genuine fear.

Then, you leaned in, pressing a soft, maternal kiss to his forehead.

GASP!

Chopper literally levitated a few inches off the ground in sheer, unadulterated shock. His fur bristled. This was beyond odd. This was beyond a concussion. His mind, scrambling for a diagnosis, whirred through every medical text he'd ever read. But no fever, no head trauma, no obvious injury could account for this.

A Devil Fruit! The thought hit him like a cannonball. It had to be! Some insidious power, something they'd encountered on that strange island, had twisted your mind. Or… or was it a severe case of amnesia coupled with a delusion? But the way you looked at him, with such overwhelming maternal affection, felt too real, too deep to be just a simple bump on the head. He frantically searched his memory for any information on mind-altering abilities, his tiny heart pounding in his chest. His beloved Y/n, his sensible, reliable Y/n, was calling him "my child" and looking at him like he was her son. It was terrifying, and he had absolutely no idea what to do.

Just as Chopper was about to launch into a full-blown medical panic, the infirmary door creaked open. Zoro stumbled in, leaning heavily against the doorframe for support. His face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and his movements were sluggish, like a marionette with tangled strings. But his eyes, though still a little glazed, immediately found you and Chopper.

The sight of you, your hand gently caressing Chopper's fur, ignited a familiar, fiercely protective instinct within him. The subtle influence of the unknown power had woven itself into the very fabric of his being, replacing logic with a profound, unshakeable conviction. This was his family. His wife. His child.

"Y/n," he rasped, his voice rough with lingering weakness but laced with an undeniable tenderness. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a shaky step towards you. "Are you alright? What happened?" His eyes, filled with a deep, loving concern, swept over you, searching for any sign of injury. He then looked at Chopper, a softer, almost proud glint in his gaze. "Is our son okay?"

Chopper, who had been on the verge of tears from confusion, froze again, his tiny jaw hanging open. "Our... son?" he squeaked, looking from you to Zoro and back again. The sheer, compounding absurdity of the situation sent his mind spiraling. Two of his most reliable crewmates, the toughest ones, were now completely convinced he was their child and they were married.

You, however, beamed at Zoro, a wave of relief washing over you at the sight of him. "Oh, Zoro! Thank goodness you're alright, my love," you said, your voice thick with emotion. You quickly tried to get up again, extending a hand towards him. "I was so worried about you, husband. I woke up here and you weren't with us. Our little one here," you gestured to Chopper with a loving glance, "was just telling me what happened."

Zoro’s eyes softened even further, a rare, gentle smile gracing his lips as he saw your outstretched hand. He stumbled the rest of the way, his large hand enveloping yours. "Never worry, Y/n. I'd always come back to you. And our son." He pulled you gently into a sitting embrace, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, a silent promise of protection in the gesture. He looked at Chopper again, a flicker of something akin to fatherly pride in his eye. "What exactly happened, Chopper? Are you both truly well?"

Chopper, trapped between two doting, completely deluded "parents," felt his fur stand on end. He was a doctor! He needed to figure this out! But how could he explain to his "Mama" and "Papa" that they were both victims of some bizarre, mind-altering attack? The air in the infirmary, usually a sanctuary of healing, now felt thick with a bizarre, familial delusion that only he seemed aware of.

As Zoro settled beside you, his arm a warm, solid weight around your waist, his gaze, usually so intense, softened to an almost unbearable tenderness. His eyes, in their altered reality, saw you not just as his crewmate, but as his beloved wife, the mother of his child. Leaning in, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It was a kiss born of a deep, comfortable familiarity, as if it were a daily ritual performed hundreds of times, a silent promise of enduring love.

When he pulled back, a rare, genuine smile stretched across his face – a smile that usually only made an appearance when he was fighting a truly challenging foe or indulging in a particularly good nap. He looked at Chopper, his smile widening. "You're a strong one, aren't you, little guy?" he rumbled, his voice laced with an affection that made Chopper's fur stand on end. "Just like your dad."

Chopper, his small brain reeling, felt a fresh wave of panic. He had to make them understand! "No! Zoro! Y/n!" he squeaked, jumping up and down on the bunk. "You're not my parents! And you're not married! We were attacked! Remember? On the island! Something happened to your minds!" He waved his little hooves frantically, trying to gesture towards the distant memory of the strange town.

Zoro let out a deep, chesty chuckle, the sound warm and full. You, still leaning into Zoro's side, laughed too, a light, melodic sound that filled the infirmary. "Oh, Chopper," you said, reaching out to gently pat his head, "what a funny joke! You always have the wildest imagination." You exchanged a fond look with Zoro. "He's always been a bit dramatic, hasn't he, love?"

Zoro nodded in agreement, his rare smile still firmly in place. He tightened his arm around your waist, pulling you closer against him. The infirmary, meant to be a place of healing, was now transformed into a bizarre, heartwarming domestic scene, utterly oblivious to the true nature of their altered reality. Chopper, left staring at his "parents" nestled together, could only gape in dismay.

The rest of the day was a bizarre, bewildering spectacle for the Straw Hats, and a nightmare for poor Chopper. He spent most of his time trying to subtly avoid his two deluded "parents," hiding behind Franky's legs or attempting to blend in with a pile of spare cannonballs.

The full extent of the situation became undeniably clear at lunch. Chopper, still reeling from the morning's events, sat at the long table, glumly poking at his sandwich. "I hate the crust," he mumbled, pushing the offending edges away.

Across the table, your head snapped up. "Oh, my precious one," you cooed, instantly reaching for his plate. With deft movements, you quickly and carefully sliced off the crusts, just the way he preferred, your movements as natural as if you’d done it a thousand times. "There you go, sweetheart. Mama knows you don't like the crunchy bits."

Luffy, mid-chew on a massive bite of meat, paused, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Shishishi! Y/n, you're acting just like a mom!"

You smiled, a genuine, loving warmth in your eyes as you looked at Chopper. "Well, of course, Luffy. He is my baby, after all."

A collective gasp rippled through the table. Nami's jaw dropped, her eyes wide with shock. Usopp choked on his drink, nearly spraying Franky with cola. Robin, usually unflappable, raised a hand to her mouth, a rare flicker of surprise in her elegant features. Sanji spluttered, dropping the plate of food he was carrying, his usual suave demeanor completely shattered. "Y-Y/n-chan?! A mother?!"

Before anyone could fully process this bombshell, the mess hall door swung open. Zoro strode in, his lingering stiffness barely noticeable as his gaze immediately found you. Without a word, he walked directly to your side, leaned down, and pressed a deep, unhurried kiss to your lips.

The mess hall erupted.

Luffy burst into roaring laughter, slapping his knee. "SHISHISHISHI! ZORO'S A DAD! AND Y/N'S HIS WIFE! THAT'S HILARIOUS!"

Nami practically shot out of her seat. "WHAT?!" she shrieked, pointing an accusing finger. "Zoro! Y/n! What is going on?! You two have never even looked at each other like that!"

You, however, were completely unfazed, a soft smile on your face as you pulled back from the kiss. You leaned your head contentedly on Zoro's shoulder. "That's my husband," you stated simply, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. "We've been together for years, haven't we, dear?"

Zoro grunted in agreement, a rare, fond light in his eye as he looked down at you. "Of course. And this noisy little one," he gestured to a horrified Chopper, who was now attempting to burrow under the table, "is ours."

Sanji, looking utterly devastated, dramatically clutched his chest. "IMPOSSIBLE! Y/N-CHAN, MY SWEET ANGEL, MARRIED TO THIS MARIMO?! AND A MOTHER?! MY DREAMS ARE CRUSHED!" He began spiraling into a maelstrom of despair and self-pity.

Usopp, still recovering from his cola incident, spluttered, "But... but how?! When?! We've been on this ship together for years! We would have known!"

Robin's eyes, though still surprised, took on a thoughtful glint. "This is certainly... unexpected. It would appear a powerful external force is at play."

Franky, ever the dramatic one, pounded the table. "SUPER! Our Quartermaster and Swordsman, secretly married with a SUPER doctor son! This is the most UNEXPECTED romance of the seas!"

Brook, ever polite, bowed his head. "Yohohoho! My deepest congratulations on your matrimonial bliss and your adorable child! Though, forgive me, my eyes are but sockets, so I had no idea of such a grand secret!"

Jinbei, ever the voice of calm reason, stroked his chin. "This is highly unusual. Y/n-san and Zoro-san are clearly under some kind of influence. Chopper-san, did you notice anything peculiar on the island before this began?"

Chopper, finally emerging from under the table, his face a mottled mix of red and blue, pointed a trembling hoof at you and Zoro. "They're not my parents! They're not married! Something from that island did this to them! They were stung by something!"

You and Zoro just smiled at him, a unified front of delusional parental affection. The rest of the Straw Hats exchanged worried glances. This was going to be a long day.

Days bled into a bewildering week, a constant, low hum of anxiety settling over the Thousand Sunny. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a grim determination among the Straw Hats to find a cure. It wasn't just Chopper freaking out anymore; it was everyone. Sanji still occasionally keeled over dramatically, muttering about the sanctity of love, but even he, alongside Nami and Robin, worked tirelessly with Chopper to research every known Devil Fruit ability, every strange plant, every rumored curse of the New World. Luffy, while still finding the situation amusing, also worried, sensing the underlying wrongness. Even Jinbei, calm as ever, acknowledged the gravity of the situation, constantly looking for any subtle changes in the afflicted duo.

What truly unnerved them all was the chilling accuracy of Chopper's assessment: this wasn’t the natural progression of Y/n and Zoro’s unspoken feelings. This was a forced reality, a complete overwrite of their personalities. Their quiet, subtle affections had been replaced by a saccharine, domestic intensity that felt utterly alien. They still looked like Y/n and Zoro, but the essence of who they were, those distinct quirks and personal rhythms, felt stripped away, subsumed by this imposed familial role. And Chopper, the unwitting "son," was the primary victim of their relentless, if affectionate, parental delusion.

The little "parent things" were constant, a bizarre new routine for the crew.

One evening, Chopper, exhausted from another day of frantic research and dodging parental overtures, finally managed to sneak into the infirmary for some rest. He'd just pulled his blanket up to his chin when the door gently creaked open. It was Y/n, her eyes soft with a profound maternal love.

"My little one," she whispered, tiptoeing to his bunk. She carefully tucked the blanket tighter around him, smoothing it down with a tenderness that made Chopper's fur prickle. She then leaned down, humming a soft, unfamiliar lullaby, and gently brushed his forehead, a gesture of almost ethereal affection that made his stomach churn with discomfort. "Sleep well, my precious deer. Mama will watch over you."

Another time, during a particularly stormy night that had Usopp huddled in fear, Zoro, instead of his usual silent contemplation of the raging seas, found Chopper shivering under his blanket. "You're a strong boy, aren't you?" Zoro rumbled, his voice low and comforting, completely devoid of his usual gruffness. He sat on the edge of Chopper's bed, gently ruffling his fur with a large hand. "No need to be scared, son. Your father's here. Nothing's going to hurt you." He stayed there for a long time, a silent, unwavering presence, until the storm passed and Chopper, despite his internal turmoil, actually drifted off to sleep, feeling oddly safe.

Mealtimes, previously a chaotic free-for-all, now featured Y/n meticulously cutting Chopper's meat into bite-sized pieces and even, to Sanji's utter horror, attempting to spoon-feed him a few times. "You need your strength, my big boy," she'd insist, her voice laced with a warmth that was undeniably genuine, yet utterly misplaced.

Even during training, Zoro would often call out to Chopper, his voice booming with pride. "Look, Y/n! Our boy's got good reflexes! He'll be a fine fighter!" He'd then demonstrate a simplified sword movement, urging Chopper to mimic him, completely oblivious to the trauma he was inflicting on his "son."

The crew observed these moments with a mixture of heartbreak and desperation. They knew these actions, while outwardly loving, were not truly Y/n and Zoro's. They were manifestations of a cruel, forced illusion, turning two of their most formidable members into doting, oblivious parents, and their innocent doctor into the bewildered victim of their warped affection. The clock was ticking, and they knew they had to break this spell before their nakama were lost to them forever.

The breaking point arrived during one particularly surreal dinner. Zoro had just demonstrated how to properly polish a sword to a bewildered Chopper, referring to it as "something a son should learn from his father," while Y/n meticulously arranged Chopper's vegetables into a smiley face. The sight was too much.

"Alright! That's enough!" Luffy suddenly roared, slamming his fists on the table, his usual jovial expression replaced by a stern, determined frown. "This isn't fun anymore! Y/n and Zoro aren't acting like themselves! We're going back to that island! We're gonna find whoever did this and kick their butts!"

A wave of relief, potent and almost palpable, washed over the crew.

"It's about time, Luffy!" Nami exclaimed, her eyes blazing with resolve. "I've run every diagnostic, every environmental scan, cross-referenced every Devil Fruit, and nothing explains this! We need to find the source!"

"My dreams of chivalry are shattered, but my loyalty to my nakama is not!" Sanji declared, lighting a cigarette with a dramatic flourish. "I shall unleash the full force of my kicks on whoever dared to sully Y/n-chan's precious mind!"

Usopp, though visibly nervous, clutched his trusty slingshot. "Yeah! They messed with our friends! And our doctor! That's unforgivable!"

Robin's usually calm voice held a rare edge of intensity. "This 'Kokoromi no Mi,' as Chopper has tentatively identified it, is a truly insidious power. Its effects are deeply unsettling. We must locate its user."

Franky pounded his chest. "SUPER! Time to bring back our SUPER serious swordsman and our SUPER organized Quartermaster! No one messes with the Straw Hat family!"

Brook strummed a mournful chord on his violin. "My heart, though I have none, weeps for their altered state. We must restore their true selves! Yohohoho!"

Even Jinbei, who had maintained a stoic front, nodded gravely. "We cannot allow our nakama to remain under such a spell. This is a task that requires our full attention."

Zoro, his arm still around your waist, merely grunted, his gaze fixed on Chopper. "What are they talking about, Y/n? Are they going somewhere without us?"

You smiled sweetly. "Oh, dear. Perhaps they're just planning a little outing. But we have our little one to take care of."

Luffy, however, had already sprung to the deck. "Alright! Set sail for that weird island! We're gonna find out who did this and make them regret it!" He turned to Zoro and you, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And Zoro, Y/n! When this is all over, we're gonna tell you all the funny stuff you did! Like how you two were kissing all over the place!"

You and Zoro exchanged a loving glance, completely oblivious to the crew's exasperation. "Kissing?" you murmured, a light blush dusting your cheeks. "But we do that all the time, don't we, husband?"

"Hmph. What's wrong with that?" Zoro added, completely missing the point.

The rest of the crew groaned, a unified wave of frustration washing over the deck. This was going to be a tough fight, not just against the Devil Fruit user, but against the sheer awkwardness of their friends' delusion.

Hours later, the Thousand Sunny once again dropped anchor off the strange, silent island. The twisted trees seemed to loom even more ominously in the twilight. The crew disembarked, their faces grim and determined. Luffy led the charge, his voice echoing through the eerie stillness. "Alright, you weirdo! Show yourself! We're here to get our friends back!" The hunt for the Kokoromi no Mi user had officially begun.

The Straw Hats fanned out, their usual boisterous energy replaced by a focused, almost grim determination. The island, which had seemed merely "off" before, now felt palpably sinister. The twisted trees clawed at the perpetually overcast sky, and the sickly sweet scent intensified, clinging to their clothes and hair.

Nami led the charge, her navigator's instincts honed by years of charting treacherous waters. She pulled out a small, intricate compass, its needle spinning wildly at first, then settling on a distinct, unsettling tremor. "The magnetic field is completely warped here," she murmured, her brow furrowed. "Whatever's causing this... it's radiating a powerful, unnatural energy."

Robin walked beside her, her usually serene expression thoughtful. She used her Devil Fruit ability, sprouting eyes and ears on the strange flora, extending their sensory reach far beyond their immediate vicinity. "The 'villagers' we saw earlier," she observed, her voice low, "they appear to be little more than echoes. Residual projections, perhaps. The true source of this illusion must be nearby, manipulating these phantoms."

Chopper, still reeling from his "parental" ordeal, pointed a trembling hoof. "That smell! It's stronger over there!" He had noticed the distinct, sickly sweet aroma was more concentrated near certain clusters of the gnarled trees.

Usopp, ever the sniper, climbed one of the taller, less stable-looking trees, his scope scanning the bizarre landscape. "I've got nothing! Just more weird plants and... wait! There's a clearing up ahead, deeper in the woods! And something's shimmering there!"

As they pushed through the dense undergrowth, the air grew thick and heavy, the sweet scent cloying, almost suffocating. The ground underfoot became strangely soft, spongy, as if they were walking on a rotten carpet of leaves.

Suddenly, Franky let out a shout. "SUPER! Look at this!" He pointed to a patch of ground where the strange, colorful flowers seemed to glow with an ethereal light. As he approached, the flowers seemed to shimmer, and for a fleeting moment, he saw faint, transparent images of the town's buildings flickering within their petals.

"It's a resonance," Robin deduced, her eyes narrowing. "These flowers... they are somehow amplifying and sustaining the illusion. The user must be at the epicenter of their concentration."

Following the increasingly strong scent and the subtle shimmering of the flora, they eventually stumbled into a circular clearing, strangely devoid of the gnarled trees. In the very center, seated cross-legged amidst a vibrant bed of the glowing flowers, was a thin, almost frail-looking man. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped, and a faint, almost invisible aura of shimmering light emanated from him, pulsing in time with the faint distortions in the air around him. The air here was so thick with the sweet scent it was almost difficult to breathe.

Luffy saw him, and his usual grin vanished, replaced by a dark, intense fury. The image of Zoro and Y/n, so utterly unlike themselves, flashed through his mind. His fists clenched, steam beginning to rise from his body.

"So you're the one," Luffy growled, his voice low and dangerous, "You'll pay for messing with my nakama!" Without another word, he lunged forward, stretching his arm back, ready to unleash a devastating Gum-Gum Pistol. The fight for Y/n and Zoro's true selves had finally begun.

Luffy's Gum-Gum Pistol shot forward like a compressed spring, aiming directly for the man's serene, unsuspecting face. But just before impact, the man's eyes snapped open, revealing pupils that seemed to swirl with iridescent colors. The air around him shimmered violently, and Luffy's fist passed through him as if he were made of smoke.

"An illusionary body!" Nami shouted, instantly grasping the situation. "He's projecting himself! The real one is somewhere else, maintaining the illusion!"

"Then we just have to hit everything!" Luffy declared, not missing a beat. His arms began to flail, a flurry of Gum-Gum Gatling punches raining down on the entire clearing. Each punch dissolved a part of the shimmering landscape, tearing away at the illusion, revealing glimpses of rougher, more mundane reality beneath.

Sanji, meanwhile, was already in motion. "Diable Jambe!" he roared, his leg igniting with flames. He launched himself into a searing kick, aiming not at the man's image, but at the very ground beneath the glowing flowers. His kick tore a fiery trench, disrupting the delicate network of roots and earth that seemed to anchor the illusion.

Robin's hands sprouted from the glowing flowers, from the bizarre, twisted trees, even from the man's illusory form itself, seeking a physical connection. "Dos Fleur!" she commanded, her eyes fixed on the man's true body which, she surmised, had to be tethered to the focal point of the illusion. Her hands probed through the shimmering air, feeling for any point of resistance, any solid form.

Usopp, perched on a higher branch, loaded a special Pop Green. "Sleep Star!" he yelled, firing a small, spherical projectile that exploded into a cloud of soporific pollen. The pollen, however, seemed to simply phase through the illusionary man, wavering and dissipating. "Damn it! He's not even real!"

"We need to disrupt the source directly!" Jinbei bellowed, his powerful fists slamming into the ground, sending shockwaves through the earth. He targeted the clusters of glowing flowers, recognizing them as key components of the man's power. "Ryugu Kawarajima Seiken!" His attacks sent plumes of dirt and pulverized plant matter into the air, each impact causing a visible ripple in the illusion.

As the Straw Hats unleashed their assault, the man's calm demeanor began to crack. His face contorted in a sneer, and the illusions around them became more aggressive, spectral figures rising from the dissolving trees, attempting to swipe at the crew. But the Straw Hats, focused and determined, ignored the phantoms, concentrating their attacks on the central figure and the glowing flora.

Suddenly, Robin's eyes widened. "Found you!" she exclaimed, her hands appearing on a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in the air behind the illusory man. She had found the true, vulnerable body, hidden deep within the illusion's core. "Cien Fleur: Wing!" Hundreds of arms sprouted, forming massive, powerful wings that slammed down, shattering the last vestiges of the illusion.

The shimmering veil ripped apart, revealing the man's actual body, frail and shaking, hidden behind the dissolving mirage. He was small, cowering, and utterly exposed.

Luffy, his face still etched with anger, didn't hesitate. "Gum-Gum... RED HAWK!" His fist ignited with flames, a powerful, haki-infused blow that struck the man squarely in the chest. The man crumpled, unconscious, the glowing flowers around him instantly wilting, turning to ash. The air cleared, the sickly sweet scent dissipating, replaced by the natural smell of the island's damp earth and the distant sea. The illusion was completely, utterly broken.

Back on the Thousand Sunny, in the infirmary, Zoro and Y/n lay peacefully, their eyes closed. As the Devil Fruit user on the island fell, a violent shiver ran through both of them. The warmth that had enveloped their minds, the loving conviction of their marriage and parenthood, abruptly shattered. It was like waking from a vivid, beautiful dream into a stark, bewildering reality.

A gasp escaped your lips as your eyes snapped open. The familiar ceiling of the infirmary came into focus. A sharp, disorienting ache pounded behind your temples, and your body felt strangely heavy, intimately connected to something else. You tried to shift, but something held you fast.

You looked down, your eyes widening in shock. You were not alone. You were lying pressed against a broad, muscular chest, an arm thrown possessively over your waist. Your head was nestled in the crook of a strong shoulder, and your legs were tangled with another's.

Zoro.

His eyes, still a little unfocused, blinked open moments after yours. His breath hitched as he, too, realized the intimate proximity. His vision cleared, taking in the soft, dark hair against his cheek, the curve of a familiar waist against his side, the warmth of a body pressed against his own.

A rush of heat flooded your face. This wasn't the false warmth of an illusion; this was raw, undeniable embarrassment mixed with a dizzying current of something else, something thrilling and terrifying. You were in Zoro's arms, your bodies intimately connected, closer than you had ever been in waking reality.

He stirred, his arm tightening around you almost imperceptibly, his body stiffening with a mixture of confusion and dawning realization. His gaze met yours, wide with shock, a deep blush slowly creeping up his neck and dusting his ears. The unspoken tension that had always hummed between you now roared, a deafening silence filled with mutual, profound mortification. Neither of you moved, caught in the sudden, undeniable reality of your entangled forms, the remnants of a powerful illusion leaving behind a very real, very awkward truth.

A wave of disorienting clarity washed over you and Zoro, replacing the comforting delusion with a sudden, searing awareness of your intertwined limbs. The softness of the infirmary bed beneath you was undeniable, as was the unmistakable heat of Zoro's body pressed against yours. Your face burned, a deep crimson flush spreading across your cheeks.

"Wh-what the hell?" you stammered, trying to shift, but his arm, still possessively draped over your waist, held you firmly in place. Your mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory: the strange island, the illusion, the prick on your hand... and then, a horrifying, vivid recollection of calling Chopper "my child" and Zoro "my husband."

Zoro's single eye, wide with a mixture of shock and mortification, met yours. His usual stoic composure had completely evaporated. A deep blush, so rare it was almost unheard of, crept up his neck and stained his ears. "What in the…?" he grunted, his voice rougher than usual, betraying his utter bewilderment. He too, was clearly grappling with the sudden, jarring return of his true memories. The image of Y/n, his crewmate, his Quartermaster, his... you, calling him "my love" and then that kiss... it slammed into him with the force of a cannonball.

The awkward silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the rapid thumping of your hearts. The air crackled with a tension that was both mortifying and, inexplicably, electric. You were acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his skin, the scent of him – salt, steel, and something uniquely masculine – filling your nostrils.

"We… we were on the island," you managed, your voice barely a whisper, trying to make sense of the chaos. "And then… that man… the illusion. And then… this." You gestured vaguely between your tangled bodies, then to the infirmary around you. "Did... did they bring us back here?"

Zoro groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure exasperation. He finally managed to pull his arm back, creating a sliver of space between your bodies, though the warmth where he'd been lingered tantalizingly. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the last vestiges of confusion. "That damn Devil Fruit user," he muttered, his voice laced with annoyance. "They hit us with something. That's why... that's why we were acting like that." He paused, a fresh wave of mortification washing over him as he recalled his own actions. "Calling Chopper our kid... and you..." He trailed off, unable to voice the word "wife."

You instinctively drew your knees up, covering yourself with the blanket, suddenly acutely aware of how disheveled you both must look. "And you! You were acting like... like you've been my husband for years!" You couldn't help but feel a flicker of indignation, despite the heat still flooding your cheeks. It wasn't fair that he was the only one allowed to be embarrassed.

He shot you a rare, exasperated look. "Don't look at me like that! You were calling me 'my love,' and 'husband'!" He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the green strands in frustration. "And that... that kiss... we've never..." He trailed off again, the unspoken truth hanging heavily in the air.

The memory of the kiss, though under the influence of the Devil Fruit, sent a fresh jolt through you. It had felt so natural, so right in that warped reality. And the way he had looked at you, with that deep, loving concern... a part of you, a very quiet, secret part, had actually liked it.

You both lay there for another long moment, the silence thick with the unspoken tension of your mutual feelings, now magnified by the bizarre circumstances. The illusion might have been broken, but it had stripped away the comfortable layers of unspoken understanding, leaving raw, exposed emotions.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh that seemed to echo the very depths of his embarrassment, Zoro groaned again. But this time, instead of pulling away, he shifted. He leaned back into you, his large frame settling comfortably against yours, his arm subtly sliding back around your waist, his hand coming to rest just above your hip. He lowered his head, nestling into the crook of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin.

You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat. Every nerve ending screamed in awareness of his proximity, of the subtle weight of his head, the familiar scent of him now intoxicatingly close. For a split second, panic warred with an overwhelming wave of something else – a deep, almost primal comfort that settled over you. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, you relaxed into his embrace. The awkwardness was still there, a buzzing undercurrent, but beneath it, a new, fragile warmth began to bloom. The illusion had been a lie, but the connection, the undeniable truth of your intertwined feelings, was very, very real.

[valalice]

⭑ pretty face for riding ( aka riding lara's face ).

cw. smut nsfw. fem!reader. established relationship. face ridding. d1 muncher lara croft. lowkey british slander. banter-ish.

it's routine now whenever lara comes home she'll quickly find her way to you wherever you may be. demanding for you to abandon whatever task you were doing prior to her return back to you—you tease her most days, like this one, telling her that her british entitlement is starting to go to her head to think she can just always whisk you away to your shared bedroom. she'll grumble under her breath, something about not testing her limits (you don't really pay any mind to those comments) and about needing to take her mind off her things for awhile. and without fail she always somehow wounds up between your thighs, her face buried in your cunt, and you somehow always give in to her.

you thighs are plush against lara's ears. her hands smooth down the curve of your ass, blunt nails sinking into the plush flesh, a tight grip pulling your weight further onto her face. a muffled grunt, similar to a noise of content, is released from the woman's throat. your body jerks, puffy clit knocking against the perfect point of lara's nose. crying out, the hands threaded through her hair tightens into fist at her roots, her messy ponytail no longer confided to its hair tie, now free as her hair is sprawled out around her head and in your tight grasp.

"shit—fuck, lara." body crumbling on top of her face. "don' think 'm gonna last long." you mewl. your words enacting lara to grip tighter on your ass, you'll be sure to make her rub ointment on it later.

upon looking down at her, lara's eyes have been shut tight for the most part, soft lashes brushing against her blushed cheeks. nose pressed up against your clit, tongue lapping at your entrance—does this woman not need fucking air?

the grip she has on you allows for her to maneuver your body, moving both you and her face to take your clit in her mouth, swirling the hot muscle around you sensitive nub, coming off of it with a pop. it's not even a few short seconds before her mouth is back on you, taking you clit once more, simultaneously sucking and moaning while shaking her head. shrieking, and trying to use the hands in her hair, now placed on her forehead, to push her head further into the mattress so you could let up, she remains persistent. the obscene squelches and splutters of your cunt are enough to keep her set on her goal.

her eyes open to be graced with the view of you shuttering and moaning out above her. its amusing to her at your miserable attempts to get her to stop, a harsh grip in her hair, she's sure if you wanted to you could pull a chunk out, and your other hand, its palm pressed against her forehead. she thinks you're trying to pull yourself off of her but her arm strength overpowers you and interesting enough your hips are bucking into her mouth. you're close, like close, close.

and just as predicted, the band in you tummy snapping. arching high, throwing your head back, eyes rolling to the back your skull. lara soaks in your pronographic wails of sweet release.

chest heaving, you calm down from your high. body relaxing, fist relaxing and relaxing her locks from your grasp. lara's mouth still remains on you, she attention focused on lapping up your juices from your entrance. "c'mon lara, y're gonna suck me dry." flicking her forehead, and her eyebrows furrow eyes slanted up at you. one last lick she lets up. her hands have also released your ass from the shackles of their brutal grip, and they make their way up, gliding to rest on your hips. just before rolling off her face she pulls you abruptly back down to place a sloppy kiss to your cunt. you just lift an eyebrow at her and she just shrugs. "you can get off if you want now." you scoff at her words, pulling yourself off and slumping against the head board and resting your eyes.

lara shifts next to you. "so, about british entitlement."

"lara—"

[jikookncity]

Soldier!Jaehyun x Princess!Reader

Captain Jaehyun of one of the most elite task forces is assigned to protect princess Y/n...he also just happens to be her ex-boyfriend. 

WC: 7.9k, oral sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, nothing TOO crazy I think

The gilded doors of the war room closed with a soft thud, sealing in the tension that already laced the air. Security briefings weren’t usually so dramatic, but nothing about this moment was normal.

Political tensions were high.

Princess Y/N sat straight-backed in her chair, her royal silk dress cascading down to her ankles, the gold thread catching the overhead light. Her chin was tilted up—poised, powerful, unreadable.

At least, until he walked in.

The moment her gaze landed on the tall man in tactical gear at the back of the room, something in her froze.

Jaehyun.

Broad-shouldered. Stoic. Deadly. Exactly how he looked in her dreams. Exactly how he looked when he disappeared.

Her breath caught, but she forced her lips into a hard, neutral line. She would not give him the satisfaction. She was a princess now. Not the girl he left behind without so much as a goodbye.

But god, why did he still look like that?

He wasn’t shocked to see her. No twitch of the brow, no hitch in his breath. He stood with arms behind his back, boots planted firm, like he had no past. Like he hadn’t once whispered filthy things into her ear in the dark corridors of their boarding school. Like he hadn’t taken her virginity in the back of a library while she clutched his dog tags and moaned his name like a prayer.

The head of the Royal Guard continued speaking, oblivious to the molten storm unfolding in her chest. “Each family member will be assigned one member of the Special Elite to provide round-the-clock protection. These soldiers are the best of the best—trained for surveillance, defense, and close-quarter combat.”

Her father nodded solemnly. “And the soldier assigned to my daughter?”

There was a pause. Then:

“Captain Jeong Jaehyun.”

Every head turned toward him. Every hair on Y/N’s body stood up.

“Your Highness,” he said, stepping forward, giving a slight bow—measured, professional.

Her jaw clenched. “Captain.”

It tasted foreign on her tongue, like venom. His eyes flicked up—dark and unreadable—but that smirk she used to hate was threatening the edge of his lips. Barely there. Just enough for her to notice.

The meeting continued, but her heartbeat was a pounding echo in her ears. She couldn’t focus. Not with him so close. Not with the way her thighs pressed together under the table, her body reacting the way it always had to him—traitorous, desperate, feral.

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

Later that evening, in the private wing of the palace, Y/N stormed into her suite and slammed the door shut. She paced across the velvet carpet in a haze of fury and heat, her fingers twitching to throw something. Anything.

The click of the lock was soft, but it echoed like a gunshot.

Y/N whipped around, already knowing who it was. Only four people had access to her wing. Her parents and loyal handmaid weren't exactly known for making unannounced visits. It had to be her new personal bodyguard, Jeong Jaehyun.

Jaehyun stepped inside slowly, his heavy boots making dull thuds against the palace marble. The door clicked shut behind him.

He looked infuriatingly calm. Still in uniform, black cargo pants and tight tactical shirt molded to his body, jaw sharp enough to cut through the ice between them.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said flatly, standing stiffly near the fireplace, her silk nightgown barely brushing her knees. “This is my room.”

“I’m your protection detail,” he replied, voice low. “I go wherever you go.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So you’re just going to follow me around now? Pretend we don’t have history?”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he stepped forward. Slowly. Measured.

“Don’t,” she snapped, holding up a hand. “Don’t get closer. I swear, Jaehyun—”

“You deserve to hear the truth.”

She laughed bitterly. “Little late for that.”

“I didn’t leave you because I wanted to,” he bit out. “I left because I had to. I enlisted in special forces because it was the only way I’d ever be qualified to protect someone like you. But if they knew we were together—if anyone knew—I would’ve been disqualified. Removed from the list. You would’ve been assigned someone else.”

“And that’s supposed to make it okay?” she hissed, voice rising. “You ghost me for years. You didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t even say goodbye. You disappeared, Jaehyun. Like I was nothing.”

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he growled. “Every day. Every fucking mission, every scar, every sleepless night—I was doing it for you.”

“I didn’t ask for that!”

“Yeah? Well I didn’t ask to love someone I couldn’t have!”

The air between them snapped. Tense. Furious.

She glared at him, chest heaving. “Anyone could’ve protected me, Jaehyun. It didn’t have to be you. You didn’t have to destroy me.”

“I wanted it to be me!” he shouted.

The words stunned her into silence.

He took another step. She backed up until her spine hit the wall.

And then he was there—towering over her, eyes dark, lips parted like he wanted to say a hundred things but couldn’t choose one. His hands came up to brace against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in without touching her.

Their bodies didn’t touch, but god, it felt like a spark might ignite between them at any second.

“It wasn’t easy,” he said lowly, his voice shaking with fury. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

She clenched her fists at her sides, trying not to shatter.

“But deciding to protect you?” he whispered, face inches from hers now. “Easiest decision of my life.”

Her breath hitched.

“My whole life… it revolves around you, Y/N,” he murmured, almost broken now. “And it always will.”

She could barely breathe.

For a second, neither of them moved. Neither of them blinked.

Everything they hadn’t said—all the hurt, the ache, the years of silence—hung between them like a live wire.

Then she shook her head, blinking away the burn in her eyes.

“You don’t get to do this,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t get to come back and say things like that. You can’t break my heart and then barge into my life like none of it ever happened.”

He stared at her, jaw clenching.

“I’m not barging in,” he said quietly. “I was assigned.”

“Well, tell them to reassign you.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m your personal bodyguard now,” he said, his voice calm again. Controlled. Final. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence.

She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, lips parted in disbelief.

He leaned in just slightly closer, so close she could feel the heat of him, smell the clean scent of his skin and sweat and faint leather from his gear.

“We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other,” he murmured.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her skin was on fire.

She hated him. She wanted him.

And they both knew it wasn’t over.

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

The morning air was crisp, still heavy with dew, but Y/N felt flushed the moment she stepped onto the garden terrace overlooking the courtyard.

She hadn’t meant to look. Had only gone for a walk to clear her head after a sleepless night of tossing between rage and longing.

But there he was.

Jaehyun.

Shirtless. Sweat-slicked. Panting through gritted teeth as he slammed his fists into a padded training dummy with lethal precision.

His muscles rippled with every punch—scars and bruises painting his golden skin like war medals. His black cargo pants hung low on his hips, and veins ran down his forearms like roads she'd once traced with her fingers in the dark.

She swallowed thickly.

He didn’t notice her. Too focused, too deadly. But god, she noticed him.

She turned sharply on her heel, it was time for breakfast, not to fantasize about her ex.

Y/N sat between her mother and father at the long dining table, swirling her spoon in her tea, trying not to let her thoughts drift back to the courtyard—or the sound of Jaehyun’s breathless grunts that were definitely not stuck in her head.

Her mother dabbed her mouth with a napkin delicately. “Y/N, don’t forget, the unity ball is next Saturday. Ambassadors from all three provinces will be attending.”

Y/N nodded. “Right. To remind everyone the country isn’t falling apart.”

Her father frowned. “It’s important, Y/N. Symbolism matters. We need to show strength and unity.”

“And I have to wear a corset for six hours to prove that?” she muttered.

Her mother sighed. “A beautiful dress. And a smile. That’s all we ask.”

She didn’t reply. Her stomach felt full of lead.

-----------

Jaehyun was already waiting in the meeting room when Y/N arrived, now back in uniform, composed and unreadable. She hated that he could flip a switch so easily. Like he hadn’t nearly broken down in her room last night. Like her body didn’t still remember the warmth of his breath against her face.

“We need to go over your security protocol for the ball,” he said without greeting.

She dropped into the chair opposite him and raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to babysit me in a ballroom now?”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “The guest list is over two hundred. Half of them are politicians with agendas. We’ll have plainclothes officers embedded in the crowd, but your movements will be tightly monitored. You don’t leave the ballroom without alerting me. No private conversations with unfamiliar guests. No stepping outside, even to the terrace.”

She scoffed, standing abruptly. “I’m not a prisoner, Jaehyun. I know how to handle myself.”

He stood too. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about safety.”

“I’ve survived worse than champagne and small talk.”

She turned to walk away.

He moved fast—grabbing her hand, firm but careful, his fingers wrapping around her wrist.

She froze.

“I need you to listen,” he said, voice low and stern. “Not for protocol. Not for appearances. But for your safety.”

She turned to look at him, their faces close again, tension snapping in the air between them like a live wire.

“And for my sanity.”

His words were tight. Controlled. Almost desperate.

She stared into his eyes.

There was fire there. Not anger—something rawer. Fear. Want. Everything.

Her fingers twitched beneath his grip, but she yanked her hand away.

“You should’ve thought about your sanity before you walked out on me,” she said, quietly, coldly.

Then she turned and walked off down the hall, back straight, chin high.

But Jaehyun just stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched—watching her go.

She could feel his eyes burning into her back the entire way.

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

Y/N rolled her eyes as she stood just inside the private training chamber, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her silk blouse and slacks were hardly suited for combat, but Jaehyun had insisted she attend.

“Is this really necessary?” she muttered, as the heavy door shut behind her.

Jaehyun, already standing on the padded mats in a fitted black t-shirt and combat pants, didn’t even glance at her.

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You have a dozen guards posted at that ball. You don’t need me to run drills.”

He turned to her then, gaze cool and steady. “If something happens, they’re not going to get to you fast enough. I will. You need to learn how to move with me.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You mean let you throw me around like a ragdoll?”

His jaw ticked. “You think this is a joke?”

“I think you like bossing me around a little too much.”

He exhaled sharply, clearly biting his tongue. “Just come here.”

She took slow steps across the mat until she was in front of him. He towered over her—broad shoulders, sweat-slicked neck, veins thick on his forearms.

He nodded at her. “Try to get past me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Pretend you’re escaping. Try to run.”

“I don’t need—”

“You want to prove you can take care of yourself?” he said tightly. “Do it.”

Her pride bristled instantly.

Fine.

She lunged to the left, trying to dart around him—but his arm shot out, catching her waist easily, dragging her backward. She struggled, twisting in his grip, but he barely moved.

“I’m not the enemy,” he murmured near her ear, voice low. “But they will be.”

“Let go,” she snapped, pushing against him.

“You’re dead already,” he said.

She kicked at his shin. “You're insufferable.”

He finally let her go, and she spun around, panting, face flushed.

“Again,” he said.

“Go to hell.”

But she did it again.

And again.

And again.

He caught her every time, until her blouse clung to her back and her breath came short and sharp.

On the last round, she managed to twist free, fingers brushing the door—but Jaehyun grabbed her from behind, arm across her waist, the other gripping her wrist. They crashed to the mat, her back pinned beneath him, breath stolen from her lungs.

His thighs bracketed her hips. His hands were locked tight around hers.

They both froze.

Their chests heaved. Her hair was a mess across the mat, eyes wide and staring up at him.

His face was just above hers—close enough that she could see every freckle, every scar. His eyes flicked down to her lips for just a second.

Then back up.

“Still think I’m just here to boss you around?” he asked, voice gravel.

She glared at him, but her body betrayed her—she didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He felt it.

The tension between them shifted. Thickened. Her legs, tangled with his. His breath ghosted over her cheek.

“You shouldn’t be on top of me,” she whispered.

“I should be anywhere you are,” he said, the words coming out like a confession.

A long pause.

“I hate you,” she whispered, but it didn’t sound convincing.

His lips curled, barely a smile.

“No, you don’t.”

His fingers loosened. But he didn’t move. Neither did she.

Then she turned her head sharply to the side.

“Get off me.”

He did.

But not before she saw it—the look in his eyes.

That whatever was about to happen between them… it wasn’t over.

It was just getting started.

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

Y/n remembered her first time with Jaehyun like it was yesterday.

It was snowing the night she gave herself to him.

The library was dimly lit, golden sconces flickering against rows of mahogany bookshelves. Far in the back, hidden behind the historical archives, Jaehyun had pulled her in by the hand — hearts pounding, breaths visible in the cool air seeping through the old glass panes.

She wore a white silk dress that hugged her frame delicately, the lace sleeves barely covering her trembling arms. She looked like a dream. His dream. Always had.

Jaehyun’s school uniform was half-undone, tie loose, white button-down slightly wrinkled from earlier. Around his neck: dog tags. He always wore them, said they were a gift from his father. She’d never asked more than that. But now, the sight of them resting against his chest made her pulse flutter.

“I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he murmured, thumb grazing the inside of her wrist. “If someone sees—”

“I don’t care,” she whispered, stepping closer until her chest brushed his. “I trust you.”

His eyes closed for a moment, as if that hurt and healed him all at once.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked around her name. “I’ve never— I mean, I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” she said, looking up at him through lashes, breath soft. “I want this. I want you.”

His mouth found hers before either of them could speak again — tentative, reverent, lips molding together like muscle memory. It was different tonight. Slower. More desperate in the quiet kind of way, like they had all the time in the world but no idea how to spend it fast enough.

Jaehyun’s hands moved to her back, sliding down to her hips, fingertips trembling as they toyed with the zipper of her dress. She helped him, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, exposing warm, tan skin beneath. Her palms pressed to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering under her touch.

The dog tags swung forward, cold against her skin as she kissed down his neck.

“Fuck,” he muttered when her tongue dragged over his collarbone. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Her dress slipped from her shoulders, the silk puddling at her waist. She stood in delicate white lace — matching panties and bra, soft and untouched.

He stared at her like she was sacred. His gaze dropped to her thighs, then lower, and his hands didn’t move for a long moment.

“You’re so beautiful it’s unfair,” he breathed, voice raw.

Y/N stepped closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Then do something about it.”

That broke him.

He picked her up easily, setting her gently on the small reading table in the corner — the one tucked away under the stained-glass window. The snow outside made the room glow blue and gold.

Jaehyun knelt between her legs, dragging her panties down with shaky hands, pressing reverent kisses to the insides of her thighs.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised against her skin.

But his mouth said otherwise.

He licked a stripe up her center, tongue teasing her clit before sucking it into his mouth, groaning softly as her fingers fisted his hair.

“Oh, fuck—Jae…”

She hadn’t expected this — his mouth so hungry, so focused, licking her open like she was his last meal. Her hips rocked against his face, his grip firm around her thighs to keep her steady.

When she came — with a shudder, his name whispered in a cracked voice — he pressed kisses up her stomach, her chest, her throat. Until he was over her, lips flushed, eyes wild.

“Are you okay?” he asked, even now, even like this.

She nodded, breathless, reaching for his belt.

“I want all of you.”

He stripped the rest of the way quickly, and when he finally slid into her — slow, thick, filling her inch by inch — she gasped and clung to him, body trembling.

“Shit,” he groaned into her neck. “You feel—god, baby, you feel so good.”

She wrapped her legs around him, hips lifting, meeting his every thrust.

It hurt — for a second. And then it didn’t.

Then it was just Jaehyun.

His hands in hers.

His dog tags clinking softly with each roll of his hips.

His breath stuttering as he kissed her jaw, her chest, her lips between broken moans of her name.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered, fucking her just a little harder now, sweat beading on his brow.

“I’m yours,” she gasped, eyes wet. “I’ve always been yours.”

He kissed her fiercely then, hips grinding into hers deep and slow, until she clenched around him with a loud cry, dragging him over the edge with her.

“Y/N—fuck, I’m coming—shit, I love you—”

And then the silence.

Just their bodies, tangled. Her fingers tracing the chain at his neck. His lips pressed to her forehead, murmuring her name like a prayer.

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

The palace buzzed with preparations. Staff hurried with arrangements, guards tested their comms, and Jaehyun stood near the ballroom entrance, stoic and unreadable in his full black tactical suit, earpiece in place, hands behind his back.

Until she walked in.

He turned his head—casual at first, then—

He froze.

Completely.

His jaw flexed.

His eyes darkened.

The white dress was unmistakable. He hadn’t seen it in years, but the second it appeared, his mind short-circuited. The soft lace, the way it curved over her hips, the memory of it bunched around her waist while he was inside her, whispering I love you into her neck—

Y/N smiled.

Not sweetly.

Not innocently.

She saw his reaction — the way his breath hitched, the flicker of something deep and carnal behind his eyes — and she smirked.

“Something wrong, Captain?” she asked, voice saccharine as she approached, her heels tapping lightly over the polished floor.

His throat bobbed. “That dress.”

She tilted her head, feigning curiosity. “This old thing? I figured… why not? It’s just been sitting in my closet.”

Jaehyun stared at her, speechless for a second. Completely blindsided.

Good. For once, it was him caught off guard.

Y/N leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, “You’re not the only one who remembers everything.”

Then she pulled back, turned, and walked toward the ballroom — hips swaying, white silk catching the light, leaving him wrecked in her wake.

His hands clenched at his sides.

And for the first time in years… he didn’t feel in control.

The chandeliers sparkled with a thousand points of light, casting a golden glow over velvet gowns and polished shoes. Government officials mingled with aristocrats, string music weaving through champagne laughter and whispered politics.

Y/N looked every bit the royal vision — white dress hugging her waist, a soft slit up one side revealing a hint of her thigh, hair pinned elegantly but with that deliberate softness Jaehyun remembered. The way she used to wear it when it was just him she wanted to impress.

He watched from a respectful distance — straight-backed in his suit, ear-piece in place — his face unreadable to everyone except her.

So of course she decided to test him.

A young official approached, handsome and eager. He introduced himself with a bow, offering his hand with a crooked smile and charming tilt of his head. Y/N smiled politely, allowing herself to be led to the center of the ballroom.

Jaehyun’s eyes followed, but the smirk on his lips was calm. Relaxed. Amused.

He wasn’t jealous.

And that pissed her off.

The official spun her around, chatting lightly. “You look stunning tonight, Your Highness. Has anyone told you that yet?”

“Just you,” she replied with a coy smile, eyeing Jaehyun over the man’s shoulder. Still nothing.

“So, tell me,” the man said as he guided her gently across the floor, “has a woman like you ever been in love? Someone serious?”

Y/N’s eyes flicked once more to Jaehyun, standing at the edge of the room like a statue.

She smiled brightly. “Nope. Not at all. You know how men are.”

The second the words left her mouth, Jaehyun’s expression shifted. Slightly. Just enough for her to see it.

She almost grinned.

The moment y/n excused herself to use the restroom, Jaehyun grabbed her hand.

He tugged her down the dim hallway with a quiet urgency, away from the guests and music, until they were behind the tall wooden shelves lined with royal archives.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed.

Y/N blinked at him innocently. “What was what?”

His nostrils flared. “That little show. ‘Nope, never been in love’? Really?”

She gave him a slow smile. “Why? Were you hoping I’d say your name?”

Before he could respond, footsteps echoed — close.

Too close.

Jaehyun cursed under his breath, spun her around, and pushed her against the wall. One hand slid over her mouth, the other gripped both her wrists, pinning them tightly to her chest.

The shelf beside them blocked the view perfectly. Hidden in shadow, pressed so tightly together she could feel every muscle of him.

Her breath hitched.

She tried to twist away, heart pounding, but he pressed her harder to the wall, eyes narrowing. “Don’t move.”

Her chest heaved against his. His thigh was slotted between hers. The heat from his skin, the scent of his cologne, the memories of how his body felt over hers — inside her — it all came flooding back too fast.

She stopped struggling.

She stared at him.

Their faces were so close, if he dropped his hand, their lips would touch. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth, then back to his eyes. Her breaths were deep now. Shaky.

Jaehyun’s gaze darkened.

Then the footsteps passed.

Still, he didn’t move.

He stared at her like he was drinking her in.

Then finally, his hand slowly slid away from her mouth.

“This reminds me,” he said quietly, voice low and dangerous, “of the library.”

Y/N’s pulse spiked.

She pushed him back hard enough to create space between them, her chest still rising and falling as she fixed her expression.

He didn’t follow immediately — just watched, his own jaw clenched, hands fisting like he needed to keep them to himself.

She turned and walked back into the ballroom.

And Jaehyun followed. Close behind.

Like a shadow.

Like a flame about to reignite.

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

The private royal beach was a stretch of sand untouched, protected on all sides by natural cliffs and patrolling guards far out of earshot. The water shimmered under a golden sun, small waves crashing in intervals against the jagged rock wall near the edge.

Y/N stood at the shore, eyes scanning the crashing waves. Her black bikini clung to her skin like it had been painted on — the sharp contrast against her soft skin making Jaehyun grit his teeth where he stood, arms crossed near a shaded tree line.

She didn’t say anything when she walked toward the rocks.

Didn’t look at him once.

She simply sauntered into the water, dipping below the surface with a low sigh of contentment.

Jaehyun narrowed his eyes.

The waves around the rocks rolled stronger now, lapping aggressively against the stone. Still, Y/N stayed there, hands trailing the surface, eyes closed as if she was the only person in the world.

“Princess,” Jaehyun called out, voice firm.

She ignored him.

“Y/N,” he tried again, more stern this time. “Water’s getting rough. Come out.”

“I’m fine!” she called back, a slight bite in her tone. “You’re not my babysitter.”

His jaw clenched. “Y/N, don’t be reckless.”

“I’m not.”

A particularly sharp wave shoved her a step back, and Jaehyun snapped.

He stormed into the water fully clothed — boots, shirt, cargo pants and all. His strides were fast, cutting through the surf like a predator. Water soaked his thighs, then his waist, then his chest, his shirt going nearly transparent and clinging to every defined muscle.

Y/N gasped as he approached, backing up toward the rocks instinctively.

“What the hell are you doing?” she said, eyes wide.

Jaehyun didn’t answer at first.

He stopped just in front of her, water swirling around their waists. His hair was wet, dripping across his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes… dark. Furious.

He leaned in close.

Too close.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” he whispered harshly, his voice low and threatening.

Her heart thudded violently in her chest. “Why should I ever listen to you?”

His gaze dropped — slowly, shamelessly — dragging down her dripping neckline, the curve of her breasts peeking above her bikini, the water beading on her flushed skin. And then it snapped right back to her eyes, daring her.

The tension between them crackled. Jae leaned down just a little bit.

Their lips brushed. Once. Light. Too soft.

Then again — firmer.

Her breath caught, and something in her snapped.

Y/N fisted his collar and yanked him down, slamming her mouth onto his in a rough, filthy kiss that left no space between their bodies. He groaned into her mouth, hands immediately grabbing her thighs and lifting her like she weighed nothing.

She gasped, legs wrapping around him as he pinned her back against a sun-warmed rock just out of the waterline.

“You have no idea—” he growled against her mouth, “how many fucking nights I’ve dreamed of your mouth… your skin… your taste.”

“Then do something about it,” she whispered, breathless.

Jaehyun’s control snapped.

He dropped to his knees in the water, hauling her onto the elevated rock surface, spreading her legs with strong, soaked hands. Her back arched as he pulled the thin fabric of her bikini aside and devoured her like a man possessed.

With Y/N’s legs spread wide over Jaehyun’s broad shoulders, she let out a loud gasp. Her fingers gripped the edge of the rock—until he flattened his tongue against her center, and then her hands flew straight to his hair.

“Fuck—Jae!”

His groan vibrated straight through her core.

“You taste even better than I remember,” he rasped, breath hot against her slick folds before diving back in, tongue working with practiced hunger. “God, baby, you’re soaking. Did getting me wet make you this wet?”

Y/N whimpered, her hips jerking involuntarily.

“Still such a brat,” he muttered, licking a long stripe up her pussy. “Still act like you hate me, but the second I touch you, you fall apart.”

She couldn’t speak—could barely breathe. Her thighs trembled as he sucked her clit into his mouth, tongue swirling, lips messy, devouring her with obscene, wet sounds. Her fingers fisted in his dark hair, pulling hard, nails scraping his scalp.

“Jae—oh my god—”

“Say it louder.” He slapped the inside of her thigh, teeth grazing her swollen clit. “Let the whole fucking ocean hear who’s making you come.”

Y/N’s back arched off the rock, her body pulsing with every flick of his tongue, every filthy word.

“Been dreaming about this pussy for years,” he growled, two fingers pushing into her tight heat as she gasped. “No one else better’ve touched you. I swear to god, princess, I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

“No one,” she breathed out, barely coherent. “No one but you.”

That broke something in him.

He latched onto her like he was starving, moaning into her folds, fingers pumping deep and fast. Y/N’s body writhed, legs shaking uncontrollably, one hand clamped around his hair, the other digging into the rock above her head.

“Good girl,” he praised darkly, licking her like she was the only thing keeping him alive. “Come for me, baby. Come all over my fucking mouth like you used to.”

She shattered—legs locked around his head, a sob ripping from her throat, body convulsing under his grip. Jaehyun didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, tongue dragging through her release, drinking her in like he’d never get another chance.

By the time he finally came up for air, his lips were red and shiny, hair a mess from her hands, eyes wild.

Y/N was still trembling, barely holding herself up on the rock. He climbed back up her body, kissed up her thigh, her stomach, her collarbone—until he was nose to nose with her.

And then he kissed her.

Filthy. Tongue in her mouth, hand tangled in her hair, swallowing her moans like he hadn’t just wrecked her.

His teeth nipped her bottom lip. “I’ll never fucking stop tasting you now,” he muttered against her mouth. “You hear me?”

Y/N nodded, dazed, breathless.

“Good,” Jaehyun growled. “Because we were never done.”

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

Y/N stepped out of the waves, her skin glowing in the low sunlight, legs visibly trembling from the wreckage Jaehyun left behind. Her breaths were shallow. Controlled. Barely.

Jaehyun trailed behind her in silence, shirt clinging wet to his chest, hair damp and pushed back. His gaze never left her — laser-focused on the sway of her hips, the twitch of her fingers at her sides, the heat still radiating off her.

His tongue dragged across his bottom lip, tasting her, savoring her.

The guards outside kept their respectful distance, stationed along the property’s edge. The beach house itself was quiet, cool, empty.

Y/N reached the front steps, entered through the wide sliding doors with Jaehyun close behind. Neither said a word.

They crossed the living space, floorboards creaking beneath their bare feet. She led him down the hallway and stopped just outside her bedroom. Her hand reached for the doorknob… but didn’t turn it.

Instead, she glanced over her shoulder — her lashes low, her mouth still swollen from their kiss behind the rocks.

Jaehyun’s chest rose.

That one look was enough.

He surged forward, grabbing her hips and slamming their mouths together like he’d been holding back his need for years — because he had.

Their bodies collided, wet skin meeting wet skin, her back hitting the bedroom door until she fumbled it open. Jaehyun shoved them through and kicked the door shut behind him, the thud echoing in the silence.

They collapsed onto her bed, a messy tangle of limbs and moans. Y/N gasped into his mouth, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging hard. Jaehyun’s hands roamed her bare waist, her hips, trailing fingers beneath the strings of her black bikini, thumbs rubbing slow circles along her skin like he had all the time in the world.

They kissed everywhere—desperate, heated, soft in moments, then hungry again the next. Jaehyun groaned when she arched under him, when her nails scraped his back through his soaked shirt.

“Fuck,” he murmured against her jaw, lips brushing her cheek, her throat, her collarbone. “I missed your skin… your taste… your sounds.”

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no space between them, just heat and pressure and breathless panting.

And then he slowed.

He kissed her once—slow, deep, intentional—before pulling back just enough to look into her eyes.

His voice dropped low, almost reverent.

“You’re sure?” he asked, breath ragged, brushing her hair back from her face with shaking fingers. “I need to hear it, angel. Like the first time.”

Y/N stared up at him, eyes wide and glassy, chest rising and falling in soft pants. And then she nodded, her voice barely a whisper:

“I’ve never been more sure.”

Jaehyun’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

And then he leaned in.

“I’m going to make you feel everything I’ve held back for the last five years.”

And with trembling hands and aching hearts, they let the past melt away under the weight of touch, breath, and everything that was never forgotten.

Jaehyun was over her again, soaking wet shirt peeled off and flung somewhere across the room. His body hovered above hers, golden and firm, water droplets trailing down his chest like they were meant for her mouth. Y/N’s bikini top was the next to go, Jaehyun’s hands shaking slightly as he tugged the ties loose.

He paused when her chest was bare—his lips parting, reverence painted across his face.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a thumb gently over her breast, “I used to dream about this. About you.”

Y/N arched into him as he leaned down, mouth finding her nipple, tongue swirling slow and warm. Her breath caught, fingers immediately in his hair, tugging gently. His name fell off her lips like prayer.

“Jae…”

His hands slid down, gripping her waist with care as he pressed kisses down her stomach, across her ribs, over every patch of soft, untouched skin. He untied her bikini bottoms next, eyes locked on hers the entire time.

When she was bare, he looked at her like she was the moon and every star he’d ever wanted to reach.

And then, he took off his pants, revealing how hard he already was—completely, achingly undone by her.

“Are you sure?” he asked again, even now, his voice hoarse with restraint.

Y/N reached for him, eyes wide and honest. “Please, Jae. I want you.”

He groaned, bending down to kiss her again—slow and deep, tongue stroking hers as he guided himself between her legs, the tip just brushing her entrance. He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together and pinning it above her head into the pillow. His other hand held her waist steady, grounding her.

The first push was slow.

They both gasped, her body arching as he stretched her open, filling her so intimately it knocked the air from her lungs. Jaehyun buried his face into her neck, whispering her name like it was holy.

“You feel like heaven… like you were made for me.”

She wrapped her legs around him, urging him closer. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved in slow, deep rolls, dragging his cock through her heat over and over again, his forehead pressed to hers, every inch of him focused only on her. Y/N ran her hands down his arms, over his strong back, clutching his biceps as her thighs trembled around his hips.

Jaehyun whispered the filthiest, softest things into her ear, breath hot and voice wrecked.

“I dreamed of this.” “Every night I trained, I imagined your hands on me.” “No one has ever touched me the way you do.” “I’ll never let you go again.”

Their mouths met between each moan, his thrusts never faltering, every stroke hitting deep and slow and perfect. Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him down for another kiss as her back arched off the sheets.

She clenched around him suddenly, a cry tearing from her throat.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted, picking up the pace just enough to push her there. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”

She came with a breathless sob, holding him close as her body fluttered and tightened around him. Jaehyun groaned into her shoulder, hips stuttering, then spilling into her with a low, trembling moan.

They stayed like that—linked hands, tangled limbs, their hearts thudding in sync.

Jaehyun brushed the damp hair from her face, kissed her temple.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes soft, voice barely a breath.

“I never stopped.”

And neither did he.

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

The rest of the day passed in a dream-like haze.

Jaehyun stayed professional—never touching her without reason, never saying anything suggestive. But it was in the way he looked at her: soft, deliberate, lingering like she was still beneath him, wrapped around him, whispering his name.

And Y/N… couldn’t stop stealing glances.

It happened again in the hallway. She tripped slightly coming down the marble steps, her foot slipping.

Jaehyun was on her in a second.

His arms wrapped around her waist, steady and firm, his face suddenly too close to hers. “You okay?” he asked lowly, voice gentle, hand firm against the small of her back.

Their eyes locked. Neither moved.

“Fine,” she breathed, too quiet. Too full of meaning.

His hand lingered an extra heartbeat before slowly releasing her, his expression unreadable—except to one pair of watching eyes.

**

That night, as the palace quieted and the guards made their rounds, Y/N sat in front of her vanity, hair let down in soft waves, nightgown clinging to her still-warm skin. Her handmaiden, Mira, carefully brushed through the long strands, just like she had since they were children.

But something was different.

“You’ve been… glowing lately, Your Highness,” Mira said softly, her tone teasing but curious. “More than usual.”

Y/N bit her lip, smiling despite herself.

Mira set the brush down gently. “And the way the Captain caught you earlier... It was more than reflex. He looked at you like he’d burn the world for you. And you…” She stepped in front of Y/N, voice dropping, “You looked at him like your heart was already in his hands.”

Y/N closed her eyes, cheeks flushing.

“You saw all that?” she whispered.

“I’ve always seen you,” Mira said gently. “Since we were girls. I know what your eyes look like when you’re hiding something. Or someone.”

There was a beat of silence before Y/N slowly nodded.

“I love him, Mira.”

Mira’s breath hitched, her expression softening instantly.

“Since we were teenagers,” Y/N added. “Before he ever wore that uniform. He left without a word and I hated him for it. But now I know he left to become the man who could protect me.” Her fingers tangled nervously in the silk of her nightgown. “It doesn’t erase the hurt… but I never stopped loving him. Not really.”

Mira kneeled in front of her, taking her hand. “I’ve never seen anyone look at you the way he does. I’m happy for you… so happy.”

Y/N blinked, surprised.

“You’re not going to tell me it’s foolish? Or reckless?”

“It is both,” Mira said with a small smile. “But love always is. The question is… how will you make it work?”

Y/N exhaled, long and slow.

“I’ll talk to my parents. Soon. I have to. I can’t keep pretending we’re nothing—because he’s everything. And I won’t lie to them. Not about this.”

Mira smiled warmly, brushing her knuckles over Y/N’s cheek.

“You’re braver than most queens ever were. And if they can’t see what he means to you… they never deserved to make that choice for you anyway.”

Y/N blinked back tears, touched by her words—and terrified by the truth of them.

Because she wasn’t just in love with Jaehyun.

She was going to fight for him.

No matter what came next.

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

The doors shut behind Y/N with a soft thud. Her hands twisted nervously in front of her silken dress, her heart pounding as she stood in front of the large windowed room where her mother sat reviewing papers.

The Queen looked up, warm smile instantly forming. “Darling. Everything alright?”

Y/N hesitated. “Can we talk? Privately.”

The Queen dismissed the nearby guards and staff with a wave, giving her full attention to her daughter.

Y/N walked closer, took a deep breath, and sat across from her, eyes flickering with nerves.

“Do you remember when I said I had a boyfriend back at boarding school? The one I never named?”

The Queen’s brows lifted ever so slightly in interest. “Yes, I remember.”

Y/N swallowed. “It was Jaehyun. Captain Jeong Jaehyun. He’s the boy I fell in love with.”

The Queen didn’t look surprised.

Y/N’s eyes searched her mother’s. “I love him. I think I always have. And he loves me. And I know it’s complicated—with politics, with the Guard, with the world watching. But I… I’m not going to marry someone I don’t love. I won’t. And I don’t know what to do because everything feels impossible, but I’d rather be alone forever than marry someone who isn’t him.”

She didn’t expect the silence to be so soft. So understanding.

The Queen exhaled, a small smile forming. “Y/N… I’ve known.”

Y/N blinked. “You what?”

“The headmaster informed me back then,” she said gently. “Technically, he was required to report any ongoing romantic relationships—especially between royalty and other students. I told him I didn’t care.”

“You… didn’t?”

Her mother chuckled. “You were seventeen, full of fire and heart. I always believed my children had the right to love who they wanted. And Jaehyun… he was already top of his class, serious, smart, quiet—but I saw the way he looked at you. Like you were the only thing keeping him breathing.”

Y/N’s mouth parted in disbelief, emotion rising.

“When I heard he’d been placed on your protection detail,” the Queen continued, her smile bittersweet, “I recognized the name immediately. And I felt relief.”

“Relief?” Y/N whispered.

“Because I knew no man alive would protect you more fiercely than someone who’s already given you his heart. And because… I knew he still had yours.”

Y/N’s vision blurred. She stood shakily and moved toward her mother, throwing her arms around her neck, burying her face in the curve of her shoulder.

“I thought you’d be angry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “That I’d have to hide it forever.”

Her mother stroked her hair gently. “Never. You’re my daughter before you’re my princess.”

They held each other for a long moment. When Y/N pulled back, her eyes glistened. “How are you so understanding?”

The Queen’s eyes softened, but the sadness in them was unmistakable as she glanced toward the window.

“Because I wasn’t allowed to marry my first love.”

Y/N froze.

“I married your father,” the Queen said, her voice quiet. “And he’s a good man. A great king. We became friends… partners. But I was in love with someone else once. And I let politics win.” She met Y/N’s eyes again. “There is nothinglike a first love, darling. It stains your soul, marks your heart. And if you get the chance to keep it? To fight for it?”

She cupped her daughter’s cheek tenderly.

“You don’t let that go.”

Y/N’s chest tightened with emotion. “We’ll need to figure out PR.”

“We will,” her mother promised. “We’ll make it work. I’m sorry you thought you had to keep it hidden. But you’re not alone in this.”

A tear slid down Y/N’s cheek, and her mother wiped it away.

“You’ve got me,” she whispered. “Always.”

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

Y/N barely heard her mother call after her as she bolted from the room, skirts fluttering around her legs, her feet flying down the grand corridor. Her heart thudded in her chest—not with fear, but with the kind of joy that made her dizzy. She didn’t even know where Jaehyun was exactly. She just knew she had to find him.

And then she crashed right into him.

“Whoa—Princess,” Jaehyun laughed, arms instantly wrapping around her waist to steady her. “Where are you running—”

Y/N cut him off by standing on her toes and pulling him down into a kiss.

A soft, real kiss. One that tasted like joy and tears and triumph. Her hands clutched the front of his uniform as she kissed him with everything she’d kept bottled up, and Jaehyun’s arms tightened instinctively around her, heart slamming against hers like a drum.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, her cheeks were flushed as she grinned up at him.

“She supports us,” she said softly, eyes shining. “My mother. She knew all along. And she said she’s with us. That we’ll figure it out.”

Jaehyun stared at her, stunned for just a second. Then a slow, impossibly wide grin broke across his face, the kind she hadn’t seen since they were young and reckless and completely in love.

“Are you serious?” he whispered.

Y/N nodded.

Jaehyun let out a small, incredulous laugh and buried his face into her neck for a moment, breathing her in like she was air. “We’re just… meant to be, aren’t we?”

“We always were,” she whispered, holding him tighter.

He pulled back, gently brushing hair from her face. “Should we go back in?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You should meet my mother properly.”

Jaehyun took her hand in his without hesitation—openly, proudly, fingers intertwining with hers—and they walked together back through the palace halls.

**

The Queen looked up when the doors opened again, a small smile already pulling at her lips when she saw them hand-in-hand.

Jaehyun stepped forward, standing tall in his pressed uniform, his expression respectful but earnest as he bowed.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice steady, “It’s an honor. I am Captain Jeong Jaehyun of the Royal Guard, and Y/N’s assigned protector. But more than that…”

He glanced down at Y/N, who gave him the tiniest encouraging nod.

“…I love her. I’ve loved her since we were kids. And I intend to keep protecting her for the rest of my life—not just as her bodyguard, but as her partner. If you’ll allow it.”

The Queen looked between them, eyes warm but sharp with wisdom. She stood, walked toward them slowly, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

“I don’t need your titles to know what kind of man you are, Captain,” she said gently. “I can see it in her eyes. And now, in yours. Take care of each other.”

Jaehyun gave a deep bow, hand still in Y/N’s.

“I will. Always.”

And Y/N smiled, eyes wet with happy tears, realizing for the first time that this—this future—was real.

She wasn’t just his secret anymore.

She was his everything.

And now, the world could finally know it.

---------

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[millersfinest]

the thing in your chest that beats ⁴ | e.w

santa barbara!ellie williams & ex-firefly!reader

wc: 5.9k

mini-series: california | oregon | idaho | wyoming (you’re here)

tags: @elliecoochieeater

blurb: you put up a good fight with those rattlers, but it wasn’t good enough—all it got you was strung up near a beach where the sun scorched you dry. abruptly, their set-up gets fucked by their own prisoners, saving your life by only a thread. but the wrath that lingered under your skin was immense, and you’re not the only one to experience that phenomenon. when another damaged soul encounters your brittle state; the dreams that put you in a tough position manifest into reality. along with a few extra miscellaneous things…

cw: healing!reader, healing!ellie, vulgar language, ellie being avoidant as hell, slow-burn romance, little jj, reader being really depressed at the beginning, little time jump, sexual content but not smut per se, pure sugary sweet ending (almost pissed ME off)

note: omg final chapter!! i didn’t really know how i wanted to end it, so i went through scenic route. i hope you guys enjoyed my little series, because i had fun writing it.

wyoming

For the first time in a long time, you were cozy—absolutely bored and comfortable, and what a delight that was! The settlement in Jackson was everything that you had hoped for. It was warm and welcoming. Not by everyone, but by enough to want this place to feel like home. When the moon replaced the sun and the stars trickled over the night sky, warm yellow lights flickered on. Draping over the center of the settlement, where the establishments flourished. Lighting up a path that was being adorned by the first snow of the year.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen snow in all its icy glory; you were nothing but a child then. Waking up from a troubled sleep, in a spacious home that you could call your own, you shuffled to a frosted window. With your arms wrapped around your body, looking to see minute flurries fluttering from the sky. Collecting in piles on the outer edge of your windowsill.

After a month of already being in Wyoming, at the settlement, reality had set in. You were no longer a soldier, or a slave, or a traveler. Finally, you have made it to the place that was nestled in your mind for endless days, weeks and months.

Relief. Solace. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Except for one thing.

The house was a two-story home, with beige striped wallpaper; mahogany wood accenting arches separating rooms, cabinets, bannisters and floor boards. Upon your arrival, it was already furnished. A long, soft maroon couch. Decorated with quilts and knitted blankets from neighbors. A square wool carpet laid flat under a mahogany coffee table. Lamps in various places, warmly illuminating the room.

A dark wood dining table. Iron cookware. Upstairs, a quiet bed frame with a decent mattress and comforter on top. A couple of pillows. Two dressers. A proportionate closet—this house looked like a home. Minus the adjustments and additions you were planning for. However, it didn’t quite feel like a home.

It was empty… Or you were empty.

Since your arrival, talking with Ellie became a challenge. You rarely saw her; it was like she handed you off to the officials of Jackson’s and dusted her hands from you. It was dramatic to ruminate over a woman who’s only obligation was to get you to Wyoming—to this community. That’s what you tried to tell yourself to stay in line, but it wasn’t working. Even after busying yourself with different jobs and tasks to start earning your keep, you still thought of her.

Hell, you caught glimpses of her. Jackson wasn’t that big. She’d be walking hand-in-hand with a small child, a toddler, talking intimately with a dark-haired woman. You saw them together often. It could only be assumed that they were important—her ex-girlfriend and son. Well, now, you were uncertain if that was her ex-girlfriend… But, again, you shouldn’t be ruminating. You got what you wanted, remember?

It was an early morning when Maria had asked to meet with you, at a coffee shop in the middle of the square. Dressed in an insulated coat with a hoodie underneath, a pair of trusted light-wash jeans and black leather boots; you began a trek from the corner of the settlement in a light layer of snow. The asphalt wasn’t cold enough to let it fester just yet, but the grass held onto the ice. Headphones rested over your ears, playing a tape gifted to you as a housewarming gift from your young neighbor.

Some old rock band from the 90s. Nirvana’s About A Girl played in your ears as your boots crunched the snow.

It took about four songs off the album for you to get to the coffee shop. Pulling the flimsy headphones down to rest around your neck, you entered the shop looking for a head of sleek blonde hair. An aroma of burning coffee beans and sugar infiltrated your nose. Small chatter was heard from people holding warm mugs, looking at old newspapers, reading novels.

From a table in the far corner of the shop, Maria stood to wave you over. A friendly smile spread across your lips, taut and plastered, as you approached the square wooden table. “G’Morning, Maria.” You reached your hand out to shake her hand, professionally.

She looked down at your hand, snickering. Impressed by your insistence on professionalism. After all, she basically was your employer. It was the one thing the fireflies taught you well—respect your superiors. “Good Mornin’,” Maria firmly shook your hand, taking her seat.

The heaters in the shop toasted up your exposed skin, causing you to remove your jacket before sitting down in the seat across from the older woman. Two cups warm mugs were put in front of you, almost on cue, by a young girl with a maroon apron. “Thank you, Melissa.” She smiled at the barista. “I wasn’t sure if you liked coffee, so I just ordered you a hot chocolate. Hope that’s all right.”

“Oh, it’s fine. No complaints here.”

“Good.” Maria curtly nodded her head, pulling a black binder from a bag hanging on the back of a chair. “You’ve been sleeping well in that house?” Dabbing her middle finger on her tongue, she sifted through the pages and hand-written documents.

You blink, wrapping your hands around the ceramic mug. “There’s good nights and bad nights…” Nodding, you attempt to take a sip of the hot beverage, but it was too scolding. “Not the fault of the house, just me.” The ends of your lips curl as a softener to your words. Being negative in the face of someone who granted you a place to stay felt like a crime.

Maria hummed, looking up at with genuine blue eyes. “Well, I hope there are more good nights than bad nights.”

“Yeah, of course!” You shrugged, answering entirely too quickly. Which certainly gave away the fact that you telling the truth. Her icy blues were intimidating, although you’ve seen much worse than a pair of eyes.

Falling asleep alone, in the dark was another challenge you had to face. After spending months on the road with someone, knowing they’re there… It was an eerie feeling being far from them—being along. Especially, those last few weeks leading up to knocking on the community’s door. Whenever you found a place to camp out for the night, her arms would be wrapped around you. Or your arms wrapped around her. Relishing in each other’s clothed or bare bodies; it had become a tragic comfort.

Your skin burned for her like it did on that fucking pillar. It tingled, ached and wanted for her touch. Her lips. Her eyes. Her hands.

The nightmare’s of your traumas persisted when you closed your eyes. You wanted to blame it on Ellie’s absence, but they rarely surrendered with her around. But at least when you woke up, boiling, sweating and heaving like you’d just run a marathon, a pair of arms were there to lull you back to sleep. Kissing the back of your neck to remind you that you weren’t there anymore—that you were safe.

And, when she had her moments, shooting up from your arms with tears rolling down her cheeks. You coaxed her back to sleep with her head on your chest, and affirming whispers.

You couldn’t help but wonder if those moments meant as much to her as they did to you.

She hummed at your response, pursing her lips. “If you’re having any problems let me know. I have some great remedies to help with sleep.” The blonde woman offers, a soft smile spreading on her lips. You nodded, chewing on the soft skin inside of your lip. “Now,” Maria begins. “I see that you’ve had some time to try out some of the positions we offer. Have any taken your interest?”

Flipping through a couple of pages, she continues. “I’ve heard great things from Ava Marin, she manages the patrols. Uhm, and Mrs Hayworth, from the gardens and greenhouse…”

“Mrs Hayworth is a very kind woman. I enjoyed working with her— she’s great at explaining things.” You compliment, thinking about the few days you spent with her planting vegetables and fruit. Her salt and pepper hair puffed in coils around her cherubic but wrinkled face. Crowd feet leading to a pair of squinty hazel eyes. Mrs Hayworth treated her plants like they were her children, and she enforced you to do the same.

“She is— wonderful woman.” Maria agreed.

Humming, you think about all the jobs your tried—which was a lot. Patrol was something that you were used to. Being out in the world wasn’t a grand change. However, you weren’t certain that you wanted to go beyond the walls so often. You’ve spent lots of time patrolling, surveying, killing infected—you wanted to hang that up. Every once in a while wouldn’t hurt, though. “If I were to sign up to help out with the gardens… Would that mean that patrolling would be off limits?”

The blonde woman shook her head, pursing her lips. “Not at all! For patrol, it’s in a sign-up basis. If you were to mainly do patrol, it would mean going out every other day. If you were to mainly work the gardens, that would be more of a consistent job— but you could still sign-up for patrols if you wanted.” Maria informed. “As long as you’ve been approved to go, and you have.”

“Hm…” You thought, weighing your options. The inner rage that you harbored had remained dormant since you arrived. It had been replaced with rumination and sadness for things out of your control. “Gardening full-time seems serene… I’ve spent enough time out there.” Nodding, with a subtle curl to the corners of your lips, you admitted.

Maria begins to scribble with a pen on a sheet of paper, connected to the rings in the binder. “Sounds fitting. But, of course, you can change your mind anytime.”

After you deal with business, Maria continues conversation with you. Casual, of course. You could tell she was trying to pry without being obvious—wanting to know more about you. Willingly, you gave in, because why not? It’s been a long time since you’ve had a real conversation with someone. Maria Miller seemed genuine enough.

However, when she brought up Ellie, the air stiffened. And you could tell she noticed it.

“You and Ellie… Have you spoken, lately? It’s been hard getting a hold of her— it’s like she’s everywhere and nowhere at the same time.” She chortles, taking a sip of her coffee. Pressing her lips together at the bitter taste.

Stunned by the mention of her, you shook your head. Fingers growing numb around the warm, untouched, hot chocolate. “Uhm, no I haven’t…”

She hummed, leaning her head to the start. “That’s odd.” Maria scoffs, bunching her eyebrows. “She made it seem like you two were very close— being that you traveled so far together…” It’s like she was thinking out loud, making you want to bolt from the wooden chair holding onto you. “I mean, she made sure that you got the best house in Jackson… I would assume that she would’ve at least visited—“

“Well, she hasn’t.” Sternly interrupting her, you inhaled, sharply.

Noticing the mistake, she sighed, looking at with blue eyes filled with pity. It irked you. Trying to fix it, Maria plastered a bittersweet smile on her lips. “She’s more like Tommy than I thought.” Bunching your eyebrows, she continued. “My husband— ex-husband— I don’t know… It’s complicated.”

You know the feeling… Kind of.

Ellie had told you about Tommy Miller. He was a very ambitious man, to say the least. Ambitious enough to send a grieving girl to kill someone in his absence—feeding off her own despair. You caught that much. But, if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have ever met her. What a selfish thought. “They’re both hermits in their own right, but they always come around.” She released a wistful sigh. “Ellie will come around… Just give her some time to get all her ducks in a row.”

With tight lips, you nodded. How much time? You desperately wanted to ask, but you didn’t. Instead, you stood up, pulling your jacket over your shoulders. “Thank you so much for the hot chocolate, Maria, but I have to go.” Speaking quickly, you slid your arms into your puffer jacket. Maria abruptly stood to her feet with an inquisitive expression.

“Oh, well, uhm,” She began, rubbing her hands together. “Of course. You’re schedule should be out in the next few days. Consider the meantime your sabbatical.” Her eyes drifted over your frame like a concerned mother. “It was a pleasure talking with you, y/n. I’m glad you could join us here.”

Sending another tight-lipped smile her way, you stuck your hands into your pockets. “I’m glad you let me. See you around.”

Leaving the coffee shop, the cold air was a smack in the face. Pulling you from shackles of solemnity—briefly. Raising your headphones back around your ears, you resumed the tape inside of the Walkman clipped to your hip.

Thin flurries of snow began to fall from the bright grey clouds. Trickling over the strands of your hair, melting in contact. Stuffing your hands back into your pockets, you walked down the icy path of the square.

The main square in Jackson was littered with people. Some were standing around conversing, with cigarettes in their hands. Some worked pulling supplies in large wooden carts, moving them to another establishment. You seen a man on a ladder fixing a broken light on the outside of a pub. And a woman walking a train of small children holding hands—like they were on a field trip of some kind. They laughed and giggled under knit beanies, bundled in their jackets that may have been too big for some.

A smile appeared on your lips as you watched them march by you.

You stopped at an art store, looking up at the wooden sign. Quoting Maria, you were on sabbatical; so, you wanted to use this time to fully explore the settlement. In the month that you’ve been in Jackson, you have visited the local pub more often than you’d like to admit. Entering the store, a bell sounded, and you smiled at the few people walking around the decorated shop.

Organic paints and brushes were located in the back corner of the store, taking up two walls and some floor space. While the rest of the store harbored artwork from the people who lived in the community. And some refurbished work found outside the wall. A sign on the wall read: talk to an attendant for group and private classes. You hummed, impressed by the normalcy. Perhaps, you could sign up for one.

Meandering around, your eyes survey the paintings and drawings. Thinking about your home, it could use some personalization. You came across a landscape portrait of two women. The strokes emulated grass—olive tones—that they were lying on—intertwined with each other. Arms and legs entangled. Lips grazing each others cheeks. The strokes that were made were intentionally blurry and messy. Who were these women? Was their relationship as unofficial and indifferent as your own?

Fingers grazing the canvas of the painting, you couldn’t help but think of that freckle-faced woman you’ve grown to adore.

“You interested in that one? Nice choice.”

Even though your headphones played Nirvana in your ears, you could still recognize the outsourced voice. Her voice was like honey. Soft, warm honey. Luring you like a spell spoken by a witch or warlock. God, you missed the sound of her voice. “Funny thing is… The woman who painted this actually has a husband.” She chuckled, glancing at you with a nervous glint.

You froze at the sound of her voice, eyes glued to the art before you. Just blinking. Buh bum. Buh hum. Your heart beat in your ears, in your chest, in your hands—everywhere! Skin growing hot as if you were sat in front of a furnace. Were you mad or just upset? It was hard to tell, even for yourself.

The smile on her lips faded, immediately. Fiddling with her fingers—she always did that. “How’re you settling in—?”

“I’ve already settled in…” Your voice was eerily calm, side-eying her as you spoke. “I haven’t seen you in five weeks, Ellie.”

She sighed, adjusting the knit cap over her hair. Licking her lips, nervously. “I know—“

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t.” When you finally look at her, she notices the irateness in your eyes. Crowding over the feelings of yearning and sorrow.

“Can we talk? Please, just let me explain.”

Gritting your jaw, you peer at her. Thinking about hashing it out within a small walk. But, you were tender, sensitive—you couldn’t be sure that your reaction wouldn’t be explosive. What if she told you she was getting back with Dina? Going back to her family. That alone could send you into ruins. And you too far from your house to escape the public once you unleashed hell upon that woman. “You know where I live.” You told, with a pinched expression.

That was your cue to leave the store, pulling your hoodie over your head. Maybe, today wasn’t the day to tour the community. Another day. Plus, you had to spend the rest of the day anticipating a knock at your door.

It was a glum walk back to your place. You had put your Walkman on pause, walking in a depressive silence. Each step you made up your porch was deliberate and slow. An old swing chair swung in the wind, bolts shaking once you put your weight on the porch. It wrapped around the entire front of the house, and it definitely needed more décor.

Entering your house, you hung up your jacket and kicked off your shoes at the door. Stalking up your staircase, leaning in the railing, you made your way to your bedroom. The un-made bed beckoned you; so you kicked the door closed, and jumped under your covers. Hopefully, getting some shut eye could ease your nerves.

The sleep was rocky—you were in and out. In the moments when you awoke, you pulled a book from your bedside table to read—George Eliot—hoping to fall back asleep. But the novel only intrigued you for hours. Distracting from that anticipation long enough for it to come sooner than you expected.

It was dark, but it was no later than six-thirty.

You approached the door with a heavy heart, sliding your fluffy socks across the wooden floor. The reveal of the woman on your porch caused your body to heat up once more. She turned around, still dressed in the clothes from earlier.

“Hey,”

“Hey…”

Pressing her lips into an awkward line. “Nice porch.”

Scrunching your eyebrows at the compliment, you abandoned the door while it was ajar. Telling her to enter without losing your dignity. Ellie stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. “Shoes off.” You tell her, waving a hand, carelessly.

Walking to the kitchen, you threw onto the stove a metal kettle filled water. While your innate anger was healing, there was still pridefulness about you. You had to have some sort of control over any situation that you’re in. Ellie came to your house; this conversation was on your terms. And it was going to stay that way.

Ellie had navigated around your living room, feeling the softness of the carpet under her feet. I did good. She thought. Ellie taking part in the decision making for your accommodations was true. She wanted to give you the absolute best, because she knew she was going to need some time alone.

Appearing from around the corner, you leaned against the mahogany frame lining the entrance to the living room. With your arms stubbornly crossed over your chest. “You have about seven to eight minutes before that kettle goes off, and when it does, this conversation is over.”

She slid the hat from her head, dragging it down to the place over her belly button. Kneading the fabric with her thumbs. “Do you not want me here?” Her voice cracked, hands smacking down at her sides. “Because we can talk another time—“

“Six minutes.”

Her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “You know, what?” Ellie scoffed, striding past you toward your kitchen. Irritation rushing through her nerves. It confused her how she could be so obsessed with someone who might’ve been more stubborn than herself.

You followed her into the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing?”

The woman reached for the kettle, taking it off the small flame. Flicking off the fire, she turned to look at you. “You’re not gonna give me six minutes to explain myself— I’m not gonna let you rush this.”

“I’m not rushing anything.”

Narrowing her eyes, she crossed her arms. Leaning her back against the counter, coolly. “Are you seriously insulting my intelligence, right now?” Ellie raised an eyebrow, mocking words that you’ve said in the past.

Squinting your eyes, glaringly, you scoff. “Just… Talk, Ellie.” You waved your hand, leaning on the threshold bordering the kitchen and the small foyer. Perhaps, you were pushing it a bit too far.

The auburn-haired woman sighed behind speaking. Placing her hands on the edge of the counter. “When I left… It was an immediate decision— made in the middle of the night in a farmhouse I shared with my girlfriend, now ex-girlfriend, and my kid.” She began, eyeing you intently. “I left my family behind, y/n, including Maria and Tommy and anyone else in this fucking community that I knew.” Her hands moved as she spoke, passionately. “In that moment, I don’t think I ever planned to come back. There was nothing to come back to…

Then, I met you. When I thought I traveled so far for nothing— I met you.” Her olive eyes looked to the ceiling, thinking. While your heart blundered under your ribs. “Coming back was never my intention, and I left that way. So, when I walked through those doors… I had a lot of work to do. A lot of bridges to mend and gain the trust of again— which I’m still doing, by the way.”

Her hand jutted out, before slapping against her thighs. “I didn’t mean to ghost you like that. Truthfully, I was overwhelmed.” The woman confessed, scratching the back of her head. “For the first two weeks, I was begging for Dina to let me see JJ, my son. For the next, I was arguing with Tommy for letting Abby go— it was a lot. And I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to put any of that on you.” Pursing your lips, you nodded. “You’ve been through enough… I was protecting you. I wanted you to just focus on settling in.”

“Well, it was hard settling in without you.” It almost came out like a whisper—a little louder than a whisper. Followed by a dry, stubborn chortle. “I spent months on the road with you, and it’s like you just hung me out to dry. That fucking sucked.” Averting your eyes, you peered at the shining floorboards.

She nodded, frowning at your downcast expression. But, there was an element of proudness. Give or take a few weeks back, you’d argue her down over anything. However, this time, vulnerability leaked from you. Poured from your words and demeanor like liquid gold. “I know, and I’m really sorry. It was fucked up. But it will never happen again— I swear to you.”

“What if something else comes up?” You question, chewing on the skin inside your lip.

“I’ll clue you in— every time.”

You hummed, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the status on you and Dina?”

Ellie rubs her nose with her index finger, ready to answer your rapid-fire questions. “Cordial co-parents.”

“Does she know about us?”

A goofy smile spreads across her plump lips. “We’re an us?”

Narrowing your eyes at her, fighting a little grin, you responded. “Answer the question, Ellie!”

“Oh, my God! Yes, she knows about us, and she’s happy for me.” With amused features, she begins to slowly approach you. “Now, are you done with the twenty questions game? Because you haven’t accepted my apology once…” She pouted, sliding her hands over your arms, pulling them from their crossed position.

Batting your eyes at her, feigning thought. The touch of her fingers on you sparked a fire, setting your skin ablaze. Even if it was in your best interest not to accept her apology, you probably still would. The way her eyes looked into you with such gentleness—it couldn’t be replicated by anyone else. “I accept your apology…” You admit, grazing your fingers up the sleeves of her flannel.

“Fuck, yes!” She wasted no time to embrace you, wrapping her arms around your neck. Tightly, you wrapped your arms around her back, leaning your head over her shoulder. “I missed you. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you?”

“You have no choice but to make it up to me.” You spoke against her exposed skin, pecking the side of her neck. “For the sake of lost time.”

Ellie giggled at the brush of your lips, pulling away with raised eyebrows. “Oh, shit. I almost forgot— be right back.” She runs to your front door pulling it open, and leaning to the side to grab a flipped canvas that was leaning against the outside brick wall. It was the portrait you were considering buying at the art store. “Housewarming present!” She grinned, presenting it in front of herself.

You matched her smile, reaching out to take it from her. “That woman is totally gay for making this.”

“So gay. I feel bad for her husband.”

Sharing a laugh, you look back at her, setting the canvas to the side against the wall. Walking up to her, you grabbed her face, caressing the skin of her cheeks. Musing at her earthy features, taking them all in like you’d never see her again. The last time you saw her, it’s like you took it for granted—not knowing if it was going to be a while before you got to look at her the way you wanted to. Leaning into her, you pressed your lips against hers, unabashedly. Her hands found comfort at the divot of your waist, pulling you flush against her.

Sliding your hands down to the nape of her neck, the kiss deepened. You whined into her mouth when she slipped her tongue between your lips. With the combination of her grip on your waist and the taste of her lips, you wanted to merge your bodies—so she could never leave your side again. You’ve survived enough tragic loss; was it so bad to want this one thing? The touch of your troubled lover.

Ellie backed you against the wall, muttering against your lips. “I wanna take my time with you…” She began to trail hot kisses over your cheek, down your jaw, to the sensitive parts of your neck. “Show you…” Smack. “Just how much…” Smack. “I love you.”

Under the waistband of your jeans, you throbbed, but the thing beating inside your chest swelled and beat louder. “Y— You love me?” The tips of your fingers scratched at her scalp, comfortingly. As she pulled her face from your neck, her freckled cheeks flushed.

“Yeah, I do.” Her thumb came up to caress your jaw. “I really do.”

That was your cue to completely devour her. You pulled her upstairs, into your bedroom, to ravish her—to ravish each other. Stripping from your clothes to come unto one another with a sickening love. Her lips traced every part of your body; suckling, nibbling, tonguing down the most sensitive parts. Pulling moans from your diaphragm, seamlessly. She cooed for you and spoke filthily in your ear while touching you with a gentle firmness that only she could replicate over and over—making you come undone hard. As if the universe came from within you.

Stars, planets, galaxies—celestial bodies!

You and Ellie were two halves of one whole. Everything that led up to that beach happened with the purpose of bringing the scorned together. To cancel it out, blossoming something much greater. Somehow, you proved to each other that you were both worth saving. No matter the sin. No matter the guilt. It was all worth it to end up wrapped in her arms, skin to skin, caressing her battered epidermis.

As months progressed, gearing up for the spring season, Ellie had long moved her stuff in. Her easel and unfinished works nestled in the guest room. Her clothes were stuffed beside yours in the drawer before your bed, and the closet beside your door. Bringing in sunrises with sleepy, feathered kisses and innocent touches. It was a dream you both got the chance to live out.

This wasn’t enduring or surviving—it was living. Experiencing life.

With your hands covered in dirt, replanting a radish, joyful voices were behind your back. Looking over your shoulder, a tiny frame was trotting toward you, calling your name. Ellie in his trail, with her hands in her pockets.

Gasping, you turned around with a grin. “Hey, buddy!” You opened your arms for him to promptly land in them. Keeping your hands far from his jacket so the soil wouldn’t dirty him up.

“Careful, JJ, she’s working!” She tried, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, Ellie, it’s fine.” You waved a dirty hand, sliding them off your fingers, dropping them onto the grass. So you could reach under his arms to hoist him onto your hip. The sun landed just right on his little head, sparkling off his small growing teeth.

Ellie’s lips curled at the sight. “He wanted to come visit you at work before I dropped him off.” She meandered toward you, pecking your lips.

“Just JJ? Or you, too?”

“Both of us, whatever.” Playfully, she rolled her eyes. “Plus, I had to remind you of our dinner date tonight— its mandatory. You can’t be late.” Her fingers pushed fallen pieces of your hair from your forehead.

Once you had gotten into the grove of gardening, time flew by. It would go from seven in the morning to eight in the afternoon like it was nothing. Causing you to miss out on some of the plans you made with your generous lover. “You’ve been reminding me since I got up this morning. Trust me, I remember, Ellie.” You squeezed his chubby cheek, cooing at him. “Ugh, I love him.” You gushed, peering between him and your girlfriend.

“Oh!” You pulled a folded-up paper from your back pocket. “JJ, you wanna do me a big favor?”

His eyebrows lifted, grinning.

“Give your mama back this recipe for me, all right?” He takes the paper in his hands, preparing to unfold it. “Promise me you’ll give it to her…”

“I promise!”

“Okay, bud. Tuck it tight into your pocket until you get there.”

Instead of unfolding, he pushed it into the pocket of his coat, messily. Patting it, to let you know it was inside. Kissing him on his cheek, you put him back on the ground. Eyes glancing at the watch on your wrist. “Well, I gotta get back to work.” Your hand found hers by her side, leaning your body toward her arm. “Thanks for visiting me, babe. Letting me see that beautiful face of yours.”

Ellie blushed, averting her glazing eyes. You leaned your head closer to hers, warmly kissing her cheek. “My pleasure…”

“I’m sure.” You teased, inconspicuously biting her ear. Quick enough that it went unseen to the surrounding people, and JJ as he played with the leaves sticking out of the garden. Ellie released an airy sigh, narrowing her eyes at you. She whined your name as if she were embarrassed. “Don’t be like that— you know I love you.”

“I love you more… But you have to chill. Mrs Hayworth is right there.”

“You don’t know Mrs Hayworth like I do.” You snicker, waving a hand to the older woman a few bins away. The salt and pepper haired woman waved, sending a teasing wink. Ellie looked back at your with confused, and slightly horrified, features. “I’ll tell you about it later. At the dinner I’m not going to be late to.”

“And you better not.” Ellie poked you, with pouty lips.

“Ellie, I won’t.”

“Okay, I believe you.” She kissed you one more time. A little longer. A little deeper. “I won’t keep you from the vegetables anymore. JJ, say buh-byes.” He jumps from a squat, waving his hand with a smile. “I’ll see you later. C’mon, kid.” Ellie hoisted him up into her hip and began walking back the way she came to deliver him to Dina’s. Leaving you with metaphorical heart eyes, pulling your gloves back onto your hands.

And, when later came; over a hearty chicken dinner prepared by Ellie Williams herself, a shiny silver band was presented to you in the pages of a book. Laying over an underlined and highlighted excerpt of the book—something you highlighted. It was a novel you had finished sometime between the end of December and early January.

“‘What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to feel that they are joined for life–to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?’” Ellie had recited, evenly. With not a speckle of wavering, or awkwardness, or pause—unless it was intentional. “Adam Bede. Your favorite book… I hope it’s your favorite book.”

Jumping from your chair across from her, you leaped into her arms after placing the book into the dinner table. Pecking your lips across her face. “Yes! Yes! Ellie, a million fucking times, yes!”

“I didn’t even ask the question.” She laughed in your ear, looking up at you with dilated pupils.

Pulling back, you narrowed your tearing eyes at her. “You don’t have to. I already said yes.”

“But isn’t that the exciting part… Popping the question?”

You scrunched your eyebrows. “I thought the exciting part was me saying yes to marrying you…?”

Ellie spent days studying George Eliot, hours setting up the dinner, and minutes shaking with anxiety. Working herself up to saying those magic four words, only for your to swipe the chance right from under her. And, honestly, she loved you more for it. “All right, can I at least put the damn ring on your finger?”

“‘Course, you can, Els.” You pull the book toward you, opening it up on the page with the ring. Ellie takes it from your fingers, glancing at you with opalescent olive eyes. She slid it onto your ring finger, delicately twisting the band around. You grinned, hopelessly, with your bottom lip between your teeth.

Her hand trailed up your arm, squeezing. “My lucky charm…” She muttered, thoughtfully.

“I’m all yours.” You lean close to her lips, glancing at them. “And you’re all mine.”

Neither of you were able to finish the dinner while it was hot.

[clubsoft]

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⠀ ⠀ CHILL , BABY ⠀ ⠀ ROMAN REIGNS / POC ! F ! READER⠀⠀

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GAME ⋆ send me a ask with a prompt following this guide && i'll write u short story !! i am still accepting two more submissions !! SUBMITTED BY @DAYS1 : * 15 / all - too familiar coconut shampoo * R / a thick knitted sweater * 𓃢 / a tropical storm

SUMMARY ⋆ mother nature is raging outside , but roman's house is full of love , especially for his wife . WARNINGS ⋆ fluff galore / roman is in luuuuuuvvvv / pet name ( baby ) / tropical storm / points 2 size difference / hurricane party / 3rd person POV ; no use of Y/N WORD COUNT ⋆ 1 . 2 k NOTES ⋆ ( vampire voice ) u ask foooorr fluuuuufff i giiiiiveee yooooooouuuuu fluuuffffff * wheeze *

Hurricane parties can only be labeled successful if the participating bunch takes up the most impertinent task — partying.  The Anoa’i family has long since failed, a Tetris board of sleeping bags arranged throughout the vacated home theater of Roman’s lavish mansion. Stoic voices of news anchors and weathermen muted as soon as the first child fell asleep hours prior, the glow of the large screen served as a source of light, illuminating the beloved, sleeping faces of the company. To much relief, the direction of the storm had changed, now traveling away from them, and the power had returned as soon as the intense flurry of raindrops eased into a less harsh blur. It’s been close to an hour, but Roman had purposefully left the lights off. It isn’t always that he gets to witness his family so at peace, so safe and comfortable in a place of his provision, and he plans to cherish it. 

Among those cherished is his love, the one whose idea it was to turn a tropical storm into an unconventional family function. She’d fluttered about the house all day, gathering snacks, cooking, arranging all the food and drinks on the home bar in the theater. If Roman even attempted to help, she’d dismiss him with energetic waves of her small hands and force him back down on the couch, claiming she could handle it all on her own as the big girl she is, that he needed his rest. He hadn’t let her leave without promising she’d call for him if necessary and a peck to her lips. Like clockwork, she’d called — shouted for him from upstairs, found buried under a pile of sleeping bags, blankets and spare pillows as they spilled from the closet. Roman had laughed and laughed, his ribs sore and the pout on her lips growing beyond resistibility with each deep chuckle, kissed away until it was all in the past. If it weren’t for her, his few days off would’ve passed in a low, static hum of boredom, and as always, he’s eternally grateful. 

The plastic rim of the water bottle presses to his lips, but he doesn’t drink, staring at the petite slumbering figure tucked below a homemade quilt of reds, blues, and pinks. His mother’s wedding gift to the couple, and his wife’s most cherished item — after him, of course. If a stitch was to appear loose, she’d be seen kneeling on a chair, bent over the granite kitchen island, graceful cursive marking her trusty notebook with another errand, one of the utmost priority: mom’s house; get quilt fixed. She couldn’t take her mid-day naps on the couch without it, and warming up after a shower would be impossible. If the quilt wasn’t in commission, she’d become languorous, stripped of her routine. She’d claim it was the familiarity, the comfort of the same thing every time she felt tired or needed warmth. A conversation about it, though not his proudest moment, once sparked jealousy within Roman, and he’d yanked it away. What was meant to be playful had ended in chaos; a gem on her nails snagged the fabric and tore a thread. His love didn’t speak to him for six hours and thirty two minutes after, no matter how profuse his apologies were, no amount of pleas sufficed. In the end, he found himself on his mother’s couch, watching her repair the damage, sullen with regret. 

“Am I not enough for when she needs comfort and warmth?” He’d grumbled the question after eating a third peanut butter cookie in a single bite. “Am I not familiar?” His mother, bless her heart, reached over to brush crumbs away from his beard. Almost forty, Roman kept still and let her. 

“It’s because it’s a reminder of you,” she remarked with such casualness that the weight of her words took almost half a minute to reach Roman. When it did, his chest stung. “You’re gone the better half of the week and the poor girl can’t sleep without you. She looks at the blanket, she sees your wedding, it reminds her that you love her, brings her ease… but I wouldn’t put it past an emotional buffoon like you to notice.” A gentle smack to his cheek, she folded up the quilt, set it in his lap and sauntered to her kitchen, oblivious to the shift her words caused. At home, he set the repaired quilt at his darling’s feet, and sat down with a sigh. 

“I didn’t realize…” he began, instantly cut off by the press of her cheek to his pec, slender arms snaking around his torso. 

“I know,” she whispered, brushing a tear unnoticed by him off his cheekbone.

“I steal your pillowcases.” The blurted confession paused her movements. Her laughter cut the silence, flustering him further, strong arms sweeping her up so his nose could bury itself in the curve of her neck. “They smell like your shampoo and make me feel like I’m sleeping beside you when I’m on the road. Is that weird? That’s not weird right—” Through endless ramblings and infinite kisses, they were good as new. 

A hardly audible crinkle of plastic, the thud of the now empty bottle of water hitting the trash can, and the shuffle of Roman’s broad frame as he travels back to his wife are the only signs of life in the room — if the snoring of his cousins doesn’t count. Roman lifts his side of the sleeping bag, a king sized one the couple used a singular time during a camping trip hosted by the twins, and slips under the double layer of the quilt. Worn from her productive day, his wife doesn’t even stir, her breaths puff out steadily, her hair frames her head like a halo. Even with the thin strap of her top halfway down her bicep, she’s the image of perfection. With care, Roman takes the fabric between his fingertips and shifts it back in place against her collarbone. If it were up to him, he’d have tugged it down further, but that could wait until they were alone. 

His nose buries itself into soft tufts, senses flooding with the all-too familiar scent of coconut shampoo. The scent of love, of a messy bed slept in till early afternoon, the rustle in the kitchen of a time-inappropriate breakfast, the steam of a hot shower, the effort behind fitted sheets ruined by a day spent making up time. Home. Fingers sneaking under his thick knitted sweater, the tip of a cold nose nudging his neck, a lovable set of grunts filling his ears serves as a gentle interruption from his train of thoughts, and he shifts carefully to glance down. 

“Ro?” Her sleepy voice tugs a grin upon his lips; he hums quietly, his chest vibrating. “You ‘k?” Another hum. Groggily, her fingers travel up and curl the knit fabric into her little fists. Roman brings one large hand to cradle the back of her head, guiding her back into his chest, his lips near her temple. “S’the power back?” Pausing, he glances up at the light switch, the glowing tiny green square indicating his answer.

“No, baby, still out. Go back to sleep.”

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⠀⠀ ⠀ © CLUBSOFT⠀⠀ ⠀

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TAGLIST ⋆ @days1 / @luvrsluxe / @uceyliyahh / @uceypunk / @punksyeet / @chasssssworld / @ctinadiva / @bookuce / @bratzzzdoll / @mselenalovebug / @sheaabuttaababyy / @partypoison00 / @meemee444u / @pr0wlerpunk / @queeny23 / @mingisfavgf / @brianochka if u would like 2 be added 2 my tag list 4 my wrestling fics , pls like this post !!

[huuuugestmoney]

Haaaaaa...

It shouldn't be surprising that his nose for treasure's got Sampo tangled up in yet another bout of trouble. Nothing new there.

That strange old man begging to be freed… He'd gone off about keys and chests (that couldn't be opened with keys??) and how, if these hapless souls Sampo found himself alongside wanted to escape their fates, their goal would be to find the right key to the lock on the fence...

Okay. Piece of cake.

Sampo turns to the three (four, including the old man sitting against the alley wall, refusing to further speak much of anything cohesive) next to him with a bright ol' smile. Hands on hips, he stands tall. He's not afraid! None of these three fox-trot with Belobog's law enforcers, last he'd checked.

"Ladies~! And..."' ...whatever this metal guy's supposed to be. Ah. Whatever. ''Ahem.'' He dips into a bow, rising with an expert flourish.

"The name's Sampo! I don't think I've seen any of you three around?" They kind of. All stick out in their own way, after all. He's sure he'd remember faces like theirs. Hook would probably approve of the kiddo. (Maybe.) ''Our objective is pretty clear, right?'' The sooner they're about their business, the sooner they can, I dunno, find a comfy lounge to sit back in, maybe better get to know one another.

(Sampo can afford to be picky with his clients, but like. Oddballs like this group have gotta have something to 'em, right? Maybe not money, but connections, at the least...? His nose is rarely never wrong, you know.)

''We should probably stick close by one another though, just in case, hm? That said, I'll head out straight ahead, that way, just a bit! Hm, hm!''

Satisfied with that, Sampo strikes out into the ruined streets first.

They'll get this over with in no time flat!

THE GREAT BELOBOG ESCAPE

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter Five: Hope Is A Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, canon typical sexism, allusions to smut. Word count: ~7.5k

Chapter summary: Otto returns to Oldtown and the rift between Lia, Rhaenyra and Alicent grows wider.

Author's note: Header by @foxinthegodswood who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

Otto’s missive to Gwayne had been short and to the point, much like all of their interactions – “I have been relieved of my post as the King’s hand and shall return to Oldtown forthwith” – more like a steward barking orders to a page than a father talking to his son. It did not bother the young knight, he had grown used to his father’s curtness. The kind words Otto had to spare were saved for Alicent and his mother. Since his mother had passed, his father’s capacity for kindness seemed little and less. He now moved through the world strategically, not viewing people as anything more than Cyvasse pieces to be moved across a board. Gwayne had often wondered what piece he might play in Otto’s mind, and since the news of his imminent return he considered whether he would be discarded from the board entirely for his failed betrothal to Lia.

Gwayne had been surprised when he had learned that Lia was already aware of Otto’s return, but when she had revealed Rhaenyra’s unannounced arrival and abrupt departure, it had not been difficult for him to surmise that the princess had played a part in his father’s dismissal. Lia did not offer further details, so Gwayne did not ask. He had tensed as she had clutched at his jerkin, wetting the leather with her tears as her slender frame was wracked by sobs. He had seen his would-be wife in many an unpleasant state in the time that he had known her; angry, irritable, impatient, inebriated, thick headed after a night of too much wine, but he had never witnessed her experience such anguish before. He had never seen her cry. It was the heartbroken weeping of mourning. Whatever had transpired between Rhaenyra and Lia had devastated her, and Gwayne hated it. Such sorrow did not suit a woman as strong as she was, it was like lighting a brazier and watching it spout ice—unnatural. He had half a mind to take her by the shoulders and shake her, to tell her this was unbecoming of someone of her calibre. Instead, he awkwardly wrapped his arms around her and remained still until she quieted. 

The next day, she conducted herself as though nothing had happened, and so he was happy to pretend it had not. It was better that way; a world where Lia did not cry was a world with more certainty, where his Cyvasse piece may yet be moved back from the brink of being cast entirely from the board.

The time spent awaiting the return of his father placed the Hightower into a strange sort of oblivion. Gwayne attempted to continue life as normal but every task had a foreboding sense of finality to it.Even the jaunts into Oldtown were tinged with it. Lia, who would usually be well into her cups come the hour of the bat, now sat listlessly with her fingers tapping gently against the same cup of wine she had been nursing since they arrived at this particular inn. If Gwayne were a less intelligent man, he would interpret her behaviour as dread. However, perceptive as he was, he could see the gentle bounce of her knee beneath the taffeta of her skirts;she did not dread the return of Otto, she was impatient for it. He was certain that if he pondered upon it for long enough then he could uncover the reason why, but there was a part of his mind that kept that particular current of thought locked firmly away, an unsavoury thread that if pulled at hard enough would reveal truths that Gwayne did not want to know. Instead, he leaned conspiratorially across the sticky tavern table, causing Lia to startle, her eyes widening before she blinked, quickly composing herself.

“I think you will find that that wine has had time enough to ferment in barrels upon the Arbor. You do it no favours by allowing it to linger in your cup,” he quipped with a playful smile.

“You drink it then,” she sighed, sliding the cup towards him, careful not to let the contents spill over the edge, not that it would have made any difference considering the table’s surface appeared coated with at least the last hundred beverages before theirs.

Gwayne studied Lia carefully. He had not even managed to coax the ghost of a smile from her. He drew back, a feeling of resignation settling over him. “I think it best we return home.”

Lia brokered no argument to that suggestion and they returned to the Hightower in silence.

Gwayne watched, transfixed, as he worked the lemon half over the blade of his sword. There was something soothing about the simple task of rust prevention; the firm feel of the rind beneath his fingertips as he held and squeezed it ever so gently, the glitter of the residue of juice against the steel as the flesh of the fruit moved over it. It was simpler here, the earthy smell of the training yard that lingered even here in the armoury, among the dim light and silence. Here he was simply a knight tending to his weapons, not a son awaiting inevitable disapproval from his father.

“I am supposed to do that for you,” Leyton’s voice came softly from behind Gwayne, his slender fingers coming to rest atop his as they grasped the citrus fruit. 

Leyton had such pretty hands, a rarity for knights and squires who rarely escaped the disfigurement of scars and callouses. Leyton’s hands were that of a painter or musician;the skin was smooth, soft, unmarred, his fingers long and dexterous. They were one of his favourite things about his lover. They looked beautiful wrapped around a sword, a wine cup, the neck of a lute, his–

“I am happy to do it myself,” Gwayne uttered, pulling away and clearing his throat, as if the action would rid the beginnings of the illicit thoughts from his mind before they could fully take root.

As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a look of hurt upon Leyton’s delicate features, his emerald eyes downcast at the rebuff of the knight he served so loyally.

“Forgive me,” Gwayne sighed, wiping his hands on his breeches before coming to stand before his squire and placing his hands upon his shoulders. He felt himself soften, the tension leaving his body at the familiar sensation of Leyton’s muscles beneath his palms. “My father’s return is imminent and it would be wise for us to be cautious.”

Leyton scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he shook his head, causing a sandy curl to fall loose from the leather binding that held it fastened at the back of his head. He shrunk away from Gwayne’s touch as the knight attempted to brush it back, and both of Gwayne’s hands dropped uselessly to his sides. “He is not even here yet and already you seek to sever what is between us. Do I mean so little to you?”

“You mean everything to me,” Gwayne uttered in disbelief, his words strained by the emotion that constricted his throat, “and that is why we must be careful.”

“I understand that, but he has yet to ride through the gates, so your distance is premature. Even Lia is behaving strangely. What exactly is happening?” Frustration radiated from the shorter man as he stared at Gwayne, his brow furrowed and hands balled into fists.

The Hightower knight raked a hand through his hair, moving to stand at the bench upon which he had been cleaning his sword and placed his palms flat against its surface, leaning heavily. To explain this to Leyton would be akin to flaying himself alive for his squire’s benefit, and yet he knew if he did not try then Leyton would lose all faith in him. “I have never lived alongside my father,” he began, choosing his words carefully as he held eye contact, “at least not at an age that I can remember. He has always served as Hand to King Viserys, and so I have enjoyed the freedom – relative freedom – to live as I please. It will not be the same once he returns, there will be expectations placed upon me, obligations I must fulfil. He cannot, I will not allow him to know about us, because he would put an end to it. Do you see? I am doing this for us.”

No sooner had Leyton opened his mouth to respond than Ormund barrelled into the armoury, panting with exertion, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Gwayne wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had always thought his cousin possessed the crumpled features of a root vegetable that had been pulled from the ground before it was quite ripe for harvest—an unfortunate trait he inherited from his mother, Lynesse. 

“I have been searching for you everywhere,” Ormund gasped out, swallowing down lungfuls of air as he steadied himself against the stone wall.

“Would this not have been the first place you thought to look?” Gwayne asked irritably, with a lift of his eyebrow, annoyed by the interruption.

Ignoring, or simply not perceiving his cousin’s displeasure, Ormund composed himself, straightening and moving away from the wall as his breath came back to him. “Your father has been spotted riding this way. It is expected he will arrive within the hour.”

Gwayne’s heart lurched, his stomach seizing with dread as his eyes locked with Leyton. Whatever discussion was to happen between them would now be placed upon an indefinite pause. 

Grey clouds loomed overhead, blanketing the sky. The air was thick, suffocatingly so, and the quilted doublet that Gwayne now wore felt much too heavy. He was beginning to sweat and longed to be back in his shirt and breeches, in the cool, dank sanctity of the armoury. Instead he stood at the foot of the steps of the courtyard that led up to the Hightower’s main entrance. Gulls circled above, their anguished squalling an outward representation of the turmoil he felt within. He ought to be fighting to reassure Leyton, to continue their earlier discussion and placate his worries. But here he stood awaiting the return of a man who likely reciprocated his displeasure at the prospect of their reunion.

Gwayne pulled himself to his full height, shoulder to shoulder with his uncle, Hobert. Lynesse was stationed dutifully at the other side of her husband, with Ormund lingering listlessly to her right. A small and somber welcoming party, rather fitting for the disgrace in which Otto would return. Lia’s absence seemed like a crater in the earth beside him, and impatiently he wondered where she might be, why she was not here to share in his discomfort. While the last few weeks had not been the happiest in their friendship, they had at least weathered the lingering sense of unease together in strained and stoic silence. Now that it had reached its pinnacle, she was nowhere to be found.

‘Traitorous harlot,’ he thought to himself, before realising he was scowling and fought to school his features back into an expression of neutrality.

Hoofbeats,a single set of hoofbeats,sounded Otto’s approach, heard in the distance, drawing nearer, until eventually he rode through the gates, utterly alone. The solitude in which he returned was striking in its solemnity. If Gwayne thought about it, he supposed there would be no reason for his father to have a retinue with him. However, to see the lone figure in the flesh was proof of just how far from his station he had fallen. He still cut an imposing figure, even alone on horseback, tall and regal, unchanged since he had last seen him at Alicent’s wedding. 

As attendants moved forward to help Otto dismount, Gwayne turned at the sound of hurried footsteps upon the stone staircase and saw Lia rushing toward him.

‘About time,’ he thought, pursing his lips, taking stock of her appearance. She wore an emerald green gown of brocade, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. Gwayne had seen the gown before, when he had rifled through Lia’s armoire, helping her to choose a dress for a tedious dinner that the pair of them had attended with his uncle’s family. When asked about it, she had told him that Otto had had it made for her to wear to Rhaenyra’s proclamation. It seemed an odd choice for her to wear today, considering she had refused all other instances that Gwayne had suggested she might put it on.

As Lia scurried forward, the hair not pulled away from her face streaming around her shoulders in glossy, raven curls, Gwayne crooked his arm out expectantly for her to take. Instead, the air rushed past him with the faint scent of honeysuckle, and he watched in shocked confusion as she ignored him entirely, running instead towards his father. The moment that Otto’s boots landed upon the gravel with a heavy crunch, Lia flung herself at him, rising up on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck as she crushed her body to his. Gwayne fully expected him to push her away, and demand to know what had come over her. Instead a leather gloved hand cradled the back of her head tenderly, while his other arm wrapped around her waist. The thread that Gwayne did not dare to pull at was beginning to come unravelled of its own accord. He stood with his mouth agape, frozen in horror, until Hobert’s muttering brought him back to the present.

“What on earth is she doing?” his uncle groused under his breath, shooting Gwayne a sideways glance.

“My betrothed is nothing if not spirited,” Gwayne replied, forcing a huff of disingenuous laughter. He felt silent once more upon hearing Lynesse click her tongue in distaste. 

Lia had not meant to disgrace herself in front of the majority of the Hightower family. She had laboured perhaps a little too long over readying herself—there were particular alterations that Marybel had to make to her dress, as her body had changed in the years since she had first worn it,but she knew how much it would please Otto to see her in the gown that he had given her. She reasoned that he would be in low spirits, having been relieved of his position at court, so it was a simple gesture to bring him happiness, however small that may be.

She had fully intended to take her place at Gwayne’s side and play the part of his dutiful wife-to-be, however, upon seeing Otto ride through the gates, something inside of her had snapped. All of the pent up longing had bubbled to the surface;he had raised her, after all, been more of a father to her than her own had ever been. She was greeting a family member that she had missed dearly, that was all. He had surprised her when he had returned her embrace, enveloping her in the smell of riding leather, briny sea air, and his distinctive scent of sandalwood. She wanted to climb inside of that moment and stay there forever, it was the most comfort she had felt in months. However, all too soon, Otto was pulling away, telling her to meet him in his study at her earliest convenience, before striding towards the rest of his family to exchange curt greetings.

Now Lia stood before Otto’s desk as he sat behind it—in the same chair that she had curled up in on the few occasions she had dared to sneak in here since arriving in Oldtown. He leafed through the various missives that Hobert had left for him to tend to and it bothered her that he allowed her to linger here while he seemingly ignored her. His affection had melted away like early morning dew, but there was no warm sun to follow it. Lia felt cold. She pretended to look occupied, allowing her eyes to scan the bookshelves, until finally he spoke.

“Do not think it has escaped my notice that you and Gwayne remain unmarried,” he said evenly.

Lia turned to face him. He now reclined in his chair, his hands loosely grasping the arms of it as he eyed her expectantly. Though what he had said was not posed as a question, the silent demand that she ought to explain herself was more than apparent. In their time apart, Lia had almost forgotten how silently demanding Otto could be. Faced with it now, she felt she may wither beneath the weight of it.

“Well, with Septon Rowan being so ill, and Gwayne and I wanting to ensure that we–”

Otto waved a hand dismissively, silencing her. “It matters not. The wedding shall take place upon your return from King’s Landing.”

Lia narrowed her eyes in confusion, lacing her fingers together in front of her. “What am I to go to King’s Landing for?”

Otto furrowed his brow, leaning forward as though explaining to a child. “Princess Rhaenyra is to wed Laenor Velaryon imminently, and I expect you shall wish to be granted leave to attend–”

“I do not!” she interrupted, the words leaving her before she had time to fully consider them.

Ordinarily, she would have leapt at the chance to return to the place she considered home, to be reunited with Alicent and Rhaenyra, and celebrate with them both. However, her and Rhaenyra had parted on unhappy terms the last time they saw each other, and she could not bear the idea of leaving Oldtown, not now. Not when Otto had only just returned to her.

He seemed surprised by her answer, his hazel eyes widening slightly before he sat back again. “Hobert and Lynesse will be in attendance, they will be taking Ormund with them. Gwayne could accompany you.”

“I think it best I stay here,” she insisted, twisting the emerald ring upon her index finger, anxious he may insist she go anyway. She did not want him to send her away. Not again.

“Very well,” he conceded, staring at her thoughtfully.

Eager for the conversation to not fall once again upon the matter of her and Gwayne’s betrothal, she turned abruptly and headed for the door. She paused as she opened it, looking back over her shoulder at him. “I am glad you are back,” she said quietly, before making her retreat.

Rhaenyra grasped the railing of the ship, the wood rough beneath her palms as she gazed out upon the rolling waves of the sea—an empty gray expanse as far as her eyes could see, of utter nothingness. She longed for such peace. Despite how rarely Rhaenyra travelled by boat, she never experienced green sickness, unlike her father, who she had watched empty his stomach over the side for most of the outward voyage. He had not left his cabin since they had departed High Tide. The journey from King’s Landing and subsequent visit to Driftmark had been too much for him, and he needed to rest. She was glad of it. She did not want to be probed with questions about what she thought of Laenor, and was content to simply focus upon the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath her feet.

She had enjoyed seeing Laena. The two of them had walked the clifftops arm in arm, feasted upon oysters and gossiped about which men at High Tide her cousin found most comely. Laenor had been another matter entirely. Walking the beaches and hearing about the men he enjoyed the company of did not feel quite as lighthearted when it was discussed within the context of agreeing that their marriage would be for duty and nothing more. The prospect of it had excited her at first, being given leave to continue with Ser Criston as she pleased. However, much to her disappointment, her sworn protector had not shared her enthusiasm. It made her heart ache to see his brown eyes, so earnest, as he had implored for her to run away with him, to marry him instead, turn sad and then angry as she had declined his offer.

“The Iron Throne looms greater than any of us,” she had told him, but he had not understood. 

How could she accept a marriage proposal and the promise of oranges and cinnamon in exchange for her birthright, her legacy? She knew her father had defied tradition in naming her heir, that there were noblemen and commonfolk alike across the realm who had little respect for the notion of a woman ruling the seven kingdoms. She would prove all of their suspicions regarding her perceived unsuitability to right if she threw away her crown on a whim and ran off with a knight.

Perhaps it was wrong of her to tempt Criston so, to allow physical intimacy to blossom between them when it broke every oath he had sworn. However, it had never occurred to her that he would want to pursue anything more substantial than a simple enjoyment of each other. She had not meant to hurt him. Casting aside his love of her was the sacrifice she had to make to ensure she stayed the path laid out for her.

Criston’s absence at her side was a noticeable one. He remained below deck, no longer feeling the pull to dutifully shadow her. She did not love him;she could have, she supposed, but it was not that which stung. It was the fact that he had brought about an end to what was between them before she felt ready to. She was a Targaryen princess, he should have felt honoured to be her chosen paramour, to be the one who warmed her bed—not out of duty but for desire.

Rhaenyra wanted Alicent, she wanted Lia, the two people who meant most to her in the world, who could comfort her in her time of need. However, Alicent had always been mired in propriety, even more so now that she was queen and she would be horrified by anything Rhaenyra dared to confess to her. Lia would have been more understanding, but they had not spoken since she revealed to her that she had Otto removed as her father’s hand, and she was unsure if she would want to hear from her. For the first time in a long time, Rhaenyra realised how utterly alone she was. She had not had Alicent since she married her father. Lia was lost to her the moment she learned the truth of Otto’s dismissal, and now Criston was beyond her reach too. Why did they all believe that their sense of duty somehow took precedence over her own? She was to be queen one day, surely it was for her to dictate what could pass in secret. It seemed unfair that everyone she held dear used their own inflated sense of morality to push her away, to try to portray her as a bad person. Her solitude would deepen further with her marriage to Laenor—a husband in name alone, whose touch she would never know. Suddenly, Rhaenyra wished for green sickness, it would be a welcome distraction from the pit of emptiness that bored its way through her chest. No sickness came, only the gentle rise and fall of the waves that carried her home.

Otto watched as the attendants loaded trunks into the wheelhouse that made up part of the two carriage retinue that would carry Hobert and his family to King’s Landing for the royal wedding. He had been back a mere two weeks before his brother had to depart, however, he knew all too well that the journey from Oldtown to the capital was a long one, so they must leave with haste to ensure their timely arrival. It heartened Otto to know that Alicent would have a Hightower presence around her, even if it could not be him.

Ormund, eager to leave, scrambled into the frontmost wheelhouse ahead of his parents, and Hobert offered a hand out to Lynesse to help her up and inside after her son. She lost her footing on the first step, and was sent sprawling, her knees landing heavily upon the steps and her hands planted on the floor of the carriage. Otto grimaced, wishing for the entire ordeal to be over, for the carriages to pull away, so he could put King’s Landing and the wretched matter of Rhaenyra’s farce of a marriage as far from his mind as possible. He watched as an attendant clumsily attempted to aid Hobert in hauling Lynesse upright, and he closed his eyes briefly against the embarrassing display—it was unsightly. It was in moments such as these that he missed Alyrie the most. She had always conducted herself with such care, the embodiment of dignity and grace. Since arriving back in Oldtown he felt her absence more; there was less to distract him, but also reminders of her everywhere—the bellflowers that she had adored so much were in full bloom in the gardens, the dresses she had not taken with her to King’s Landing still hung in the armoire. Alicent looked so much like her. It made him wonder how Alyrie would have dealt with the threat that Rhaenyra’s succession posed if she was in the same position as her daughter.

Gwayne and Lia had joined him to see the family off, and he glanced over to see Gwayne murmuring quietly to Lia from behind his hand. He could not hear what was said but whatever it was made her raise her handkerchief to her mouth to hide her laughter. There was no denying they made a fine couple. They both possessed a wicked cruelty that shone in their eyes only in moments of mirth. It was clear for all to see that they enjoyed each other’s company, so Otto could not work out why they remained unmarried. He had not spoken to Gwayne about it. He knew his son was too cunning, too calculated, possessed such a gift with words that he would be able to cleverly dismiss it and explain it away in a manner which left no room for argument. Lia, however, was another matter. She could not lie to him, had never been able to, and he knew that if he pressed hard enough he would have his answer.

Time had not yet allowed for such an exchange to transpire, however. Since returning he had been busy with the duties required of taking over ward of the Hightower in Hobert’s absence, and had been involved in much of the planning needed for his brother’s trip to the capital. The little time he did have to himself, he spent watching Gwayne spar in the training yard. Despite the distance between them, he was proud of his son;he was an accomplished knight, his swordsmanship both graceful and fierce in equal measure. He had anticipated feeling melancholy, perhaps even irritable upon his return to Oldtown.However, the bracing sea air was a welcome respite from the cloying, polluted ichor of King’s Landing, and seeing Lia again—the shine of her curls, the impish flash of teeth when she smiled—was so familiar that he did not feel as if he had left anywhere. It was like coming home.

Gwayne kicked softly at the door of Lia’s chambers,two cups cradled in one hand and a jug of wine held in the other. There was the soft shuffle of bare feet against the stone floor on the other side before she opened it. She was ready for bed, a soft, golden coloured robe draped over the white cotton of her nightdress. Her obsidian curls were loose, falling almost to her waist. He would have said she looked beautiful were it not for the impatient scowl that was etched across her delicate features.

“Let me in then,” he demanded playfully, not waiting for a response as he shouldered past her and into the room, setting the wine jug and cups down upon the table in the sitting area.

“I was just going to bed,” Lia complained, though made no attempt to force him from the room. Instead, she came to sit upon one of the couches situated around the table by the fireplace, tucking her legs beneath her.

“I do not remember you ever being such a bore. Does my father really have such a hold on you?” Gwayne asked with a raise of an eyebrow. He sat on the couch opposite Lia’s and poured a generous serving of wine into both cups.

“Well, us continuing our jaunts into Oldtown is out of the question. What else is there to do?” she asked, leaning over to snatch up one of the cups and brought it to her lips.

“You do not seem sad about it,” he commented, spreading his arms out as he leaned back against the cushions. “I wonder why that could be.”

Lia swallowed, her blue eyes narrowing as she looked at him like an animal deciding whether to attack or flee. “Whatever it is you are here to say, just say it.”

Gwayne took a long drink of his own wine, relishing in the tartness of the ruby liquid against his tongue. He had to be careful with how he approached this, the wrong tone or choice of words and she would close herself off to him, effectively ending the conversation. “You seem happy that my father is back.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked, a little too quickly. Gwayne could see from the tensing of her shoulders she was growing uncomfortable, but he pressed on anyway.

“There is something there, I am no fool,” he insisted. “I saw how you behaved on the day of his return, and I am not here to cast judgement.However, I believe you made a mistake in refusing his offer to return to King’s Landing, even temporarily.”

Lia huffed, rolling her eyes as she placed her elbow upon the arm of the couch and rested her chin upon her upturned palm. “You know I am not speaking to Rhaenyra.”

Gwayne wanted to laugh. How petulant she was. He clenched his fingers into the plush material of a couch cushion, watching it dent and spring back beneath his touch, before shifting his eyes back to Lia. “And what of my sister? Does she not matter to you any longer?”

Lia sneered, snatched up the wine jug and hastily refilled her cup, before setting it back down heavily. “Do not pretend that that is what you care about. Speak plainly.”

“How can you be so blind? If we had gone to King’s Landing, it would have given us more time. You know that with us here, my father will continue to impress the need for a wedding upon us. Or does that not matter to you?”

Gwayne knew he was no longer being tactful, he was allowing his temper to get the better of him. He could not help it. He had so much more to lose than Lia, and she did not seem to be treating the situation with the severity it was owed.

“He is too distracted by the perceived threat of Rhaenyra to his grandchildren to care about whether we marry or not,” she sighed, shifting position to stretch her legs out upon the table.

“And what about when he is not? Lia, I–I cannot lose Leyton. Please.” Gwayne’s voice grew strained with emotion, and something in Lia softened, her blue eyes looked upon him with sympathy.

“I will not let that happen, whatever it comes to. I promise.”

Out here in the gardens, with the floral scent that was carried on the gentle sea breeze, Lia felt freer, she had more room to think with only the expanse of the sky above her instead of an oppressive stone ceiling. She twirled a delicate yellow flower between her fingers as she walked the garden path. She had plucked it absentmindedly from a bush she had passed, enjoying the soft velvety feel of its petals. She had awoken earlier that morning feeling guilty, and not just because her and Gwayne had managed to polish off an entire jug of Dornish red between the two of them the previous evening. His anguish as he had implored for her to not reveal his true nature to Otto played on a loop in her mind. She had no intention of revealing his secrets, but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered what she would say when it came to it. It seemed unfair to have the burden placed upon her. Gwayne was Otto’s son, surely he could speak to him? 

She gasped as large hands grasped her upper arms, tugging her behind a hedge, and looked up into the honey brown eyes of Alyn. She had all but forgotten his existence since Otto had returned, and felt immediately annoyed that he had deigned it appropriate to not only follow her into the gardens, but to manhandle her behind a bush too. He grinned at her before leaning in and Lia turned her head. His lips caught her cheek instead, leaving behind a moist residue that repulsed her. She immediately reached up to swipe it away.

“Stop that, not here!” she hissed, scowling up at him.

It was like attempting to scold a hound; he still looked pleased to see her, his gaze void of any intelligent thought. “We have not been together in ages. I am beginning to miss you,” he confessed with a gentle smile

A few short months ago, those words would have been enough to earn him an invitation back to her chambers. Now she felt only impatience, a desire to be away from him as quickly as possible. The flower she held fluttered to the ground as she pressed her palms flat against his chest, pushing him backwards out of her space.

“It is different now. We cannot continue with Ser Otto here,” she explained exasperatedly.

“Why not?” Alyn asked, frowning slightly as he tilted his head. “Leyton and Gwayne still see each other in secret.”

“Leyton and Gwayne love each other. I do not love you.”

She knew she was being unkind, but she could not help it. She had little patience to coddle his feelings, simply wanting Alyn to leave her alone. He had satisfied an urge, and served his purpose. That urge did not linger at present, so she had no further use of him.

“Oh…” he began, as his features twisted into confusion then sadness, “I see. So I should…”

“Leave me alone,” Lia finished for him, crossing her arms against her middle.

If Alyn had not resembled a hound before, then he was every inch the kicked puppy as he bowed his head and walked slowly away. Lia watched him retreat, expecting to feel a pang of guilt. She felt only relief, saddened more by the yellow flower that he had accidentally crushed beneath his foot. Her hand lifted briefly to her hair, stroking over the braid that fell over her shoulder. Marybel’s plaiting technique was painful on a good day, but she fully expected her handmaiden to scalp her now that she had broken her brother’s heart. She chuckled at the thought and continued to walk.

“My dearest Lia,

While I understand your absence on this day, it saddens me that I will look out across the room and not see your face among the crowd. This wedding means nothing to Rhaenyra. She holds her duty in so little regard, doing exactly as she pleases while the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces she leaves in her wake. I have heard that you have not spoken to her since her last visit to Oldtown, due to her involvement with the removal of my father as Hand of the King. You have my eternal gratitude for your loyalty, and I trust that my father is keeping well. He has not written to me since departing King’s Landing and I miss him dearly.”

Alicent’s eyes scanned over what she had written so far, and with a sigh she dropped the quill to the writing desk, crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the lit fireplace. They were not words she could send. They were treasonous, even for a queen, even if they were truthful. Betrayal had simmered hotly beneath the surface of Alicent’s skin since Larys had informed her of the fact that Rhaenyra had been given moon tea, after she had sworn to her that she remained a maiden, that Otto’s accusations were baseless lies. Her father had been cast out on the basis of Rhaenyra’s deceit, and now Alicent had no one but her two infant children;her own husband would never take her side against his eldest daughter. Betrayal had boiled to rage upon learning that the person the princess had taken into bed was not her uncle, Daemon, but Criston, her sworn protector. She had chosen not to have him executed, instead taking the knight into her own employment. It was Rhaenyra’s recklessness that had sullied his white cloak, why should he pay the price for that when she would suffer no consequences whatsoever?

She was late, and it was no accident. She could hear the gathering in the Great Hall, even in her apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. A wedding feast that she had no desire to attend, but must do so out of duty. A pity she could not be more like her stepdaughter and shirk that responsibility altogether. Alicent rose, stepping towards the floor length looking glass and appraised her reflection in its surface. She wore one of her mother’s gowns,a Hightower green brocade, with sweeping bell sleeves and a plunging neckline that was held together by gold clasps. She would ensure that tonight Rhaenyra felt every part of the Hightower influence she had attempted to snuff out.

Rhaenyra had wondered all day about what her wedding night with Laenor would be like. She could not imagine him crawling atop her and rutting into her to consummate their union. In answer to her question, they now spent the evening apart in separate chambers. It was an arrangement that no one would question, considering how horribly their wedding feast had ended. Criston had beaten Laenor’s lover, Joffrey, to death in the middle of the feast for all to see. Rhaenyra was glad of Laenor’s absence. His grief for his lover was a private matter, one she had no desire to intrude upon. The events of the day had exhausted her, and she did not have the energy to provide the comfort he would likely need. She was better off alone, in her own bed.

Though she knew Criston’s violent act was one of jealousy, and she should feel flattered, she was instead annoyed by it. Daemon had used the distraction of the chaos that had ensued to slip away, even after she had propositioned him to marry her instead. He had abandoned her. She had little to complain of with regard to her rescue, however. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she clutched the bedsheet to her chest and thought of how Ser Harwin Strong, commander of the city watch, had thrown her so effortlessly over his shoulder and carried her to safety when the feast had descended into violence. 

It was not the first time she had encountered him. He smiled whenever she walked past him, catching her eye in a way that gave her pause. He had not given up her secrets upon the night that she had ventured into Flea Bottom with her uncle, and had even helped her home when Daemon had abandoned her. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the commander’s strong arms encircling her thighs as he had lifted her as though she weighed nothing. Thinking back to the night that she had invited Criston to her rooms, she wondered if Ser Strong would accept such an invitation. Harwin had a pretty smile. She would like to see more of it. 

The summon to Otto’s study had come so suddenly, the page impressing upon her the urgency with such insistence that Lia barely had time to finish pinning her hair into place. Her dark curls had been braided into a halo around her head by Marybel, who was mercifully gentle despite what had transpired between her and Alyn.

“He is too thick headed to be sad for long,” her handmaiden had commented as she had twisted Lia’s hair into an intricate plait.

Lia kept her gaze downcast, watching the swish of her powder blue skirts around her legs as she walked the length of the corridor. She had been anticipating another invitation from Otto, though had not expected it to arrive so soon. He would pressure her to set a wedding date, and she would have no explanation for why she and Gwayne could not.

‘I could simply turn and flee,’ she thought, and yet her treacherous feet continued to carry her forward.

To her surprise, Otto was standing in front of his desk, rather than sitting behind it when she entered. She hovered by the door, once it was closed behind her,a means to keep a safe distance from his scrutiny, but to also provide an easy escape should she need it. He loomed tall in the gloom of the study, regal in a doublet of crushed forest green velvet.

Besides calling out “enter” when she had knocked, he had yet to say anything, and it made Lia nervous. She could sense something building beneath the surface of him, an energy that was barely concealed but she could not quite place it. She cleared her throat, smoothing her hands over the satin bodice of her gown before speaking.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked. Her voice sounded reedy to her ears, betraying her nervousness, and she hated it. She clasped her fingers in front of her, to stop her hands from shaking.

“Gwayne has been spotted leaving your bedchamber on several occasions,” he stated, his stare accusatory, his spine rigid as his hands remained positioned behind his back.

‘So?’ Lia thought. ‘Gwayne is always in my bedchamber, I do not see why—’

Oh.

And then Lia realised how that must appear to Otto. She bit back the urge to laugh at the ridiculous insinuation, shaking her head. “We just drink wine and talk, that is all.”

Otto inhaled deeply, advancing upon Lia slowly, maintaining eye contact. She had not realised that she had shrunk away until she felt the solid surface of the door collide with her back.

“It is not appropriate for you to be entertaining such visits,” he explained evenly. “If he has taken your virtue before you are wed then—”

“He has not!” Lia protested, her voice raising as her eyes widened, incensed at such a thought.

“You must know how it looks, Lia!” he argued, his own volume increasing to match hers, though his boomed off of the stone walls with its depth, and she wondered how much of this anger had originally been intended for Rhaenyra and her indiscretions.

“We are friends,” she pleaded, her blue eyes imploring as she gazed up at him, now so close that she could reach out and touch him should she want to. “It is innocent, I swear to you.”

“Why entertain such visits while continuing to delay your marriage?” 

There was still anger in his voice, and yet his eyes searched hers in desperate confusion. He would not have the truth from her, he could not. She would not betray Gwayne’s secret, she owed him that much.

“We…we are simply getting to know each other, that is all.”

It was a feeble excuse, and she knew it. Otto was utterly unconvinced, his voice growing quiet and concerned.

“Lia, if he has sullied you and is now refusing to marry you then you must say something.”

Her heart ached at the suggestion. Gwayne would never do that, yet she was touched all the same by Otto’s worry for her.

“He has not, I swear. We have never touched each other.”

“Then what on earth has caused such a long delay of your wedding? Why do the two of you remain unmarried?!”

He was growing angry again, and Lia could feel desperation unfurling in her ribcage, the truth upon her tongue begging to be set free. She could not tell him, she had promised.

“Because…because…” she stammered, before lurching forward, rising up onto tiptopes as her fingers curled into the soft fabric of Otto’s doublet, tugging gently as she tilted her face upwards and pressed her lips to his.

This was as good a reason as any.

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[forgingtheblade]

DID YOU KNOW THAT MINECRAFT HAS LOOMS???, aka, THE WEAVING WRITEUP

part two: get that bad boy ON THE LOOM

part 1 part 3

weaving is, at its core, a series of incredibly tedious yet incredibly meditative tasks.

i don’t think i can make this post be a fully comprehensive how-to of those tasks, especially considering it’s been almost a year since i wove on a floor loom, but i will try my best :’)

the first part is tying the yarns on. when taking the warp threads off of the warping board (which i talked about in the last post!) i tie them into bundles of a specific amount of threads, evenly distributed across the full amount. each of those gets tied on individually to the back of the loom, which i forget the name of. these are spread out basically across 2 inches of finished width per bundle, or in my case 24 strings per. ish. since I was working with 200 warp threads.

After tying those on, they get cranked on to the back of the loom and pulled across the back to the front though the harnesses under tension, where it’s now time to thread the loom!

This style of loom works by lifting different combinations of threads by lifting each harness with a pedal. Raising different combinations of threads will create different designs, changing where the horizontal thread or weft is going over and under.

My plan was to create two banners on the same warp, and in order to not have to entirely rethread the loom after the first one, I threaded it in such a way that different patterns were possible. This was, perhaps predictably, tedious. I don’t really know exactly how to explain weaving drafts, but this is the one I was using to thread the loom. The horizontal row at the top corresponds to which of the four harnesses each thread goes through, while the vertical column on the right shows which combinations of pedals need to be pressed at what time to actually create this pattern.

(Weaving draft via Liz on Handweaving.net in 2004)

due to the nature of this draft, it’s also possible to use this threading to create a plain weave—a simple one thread up, one thread down pattern that’s probably your first thought when it comes to weaving. I wanted to create one banner in plain weave and one in the pattern weave above.

Threading was very tedious, but ultimately as long as I was paying attention and keeping meticulous track of where in the 46 thread wide loop I had left off when I had to leave, it wasn’t that bad.

After threading, the threads are individually pulled though the slots or dents on a reed, which serves as both the beater to knock threads into place and as a means to keep them perfectly spaced out while actually weaving.

Then, the threads are tied to another bar at the front of the loom, and you’re ready to weave!

Here’s the two different weave patterns I used for this project!

Each of these I created the V shape at the bottom by just progressively leaving more and more threads out of the weave as I worked my way back and forth. After taking them off the loom, the top and bottom were turned and hemmed on a sewing machine. i tied some of the excess threads on each banner into tassels!

My next post will be sharing some about the embroidery process to create the emblem itself, and my future plans for the pattern woven banner that still doesn’t have any embroidery on it.

[melk-maid]

warnings: everyone is aged up 21+, afab/gn reader, major canon divergence, wet dreams, piv sex, dream sex, oral, alcohol consumption, mentions of an accident and injuries, mentioning of character death synopsis: you can't stop dreaming everynight about fucking an incredibly handsome and beautiful man, feeling an intense connection to him but you can't seem to place where you know him from.

note: this is a reupload! enjoy~♡ minors & ageless blogs dni - you will be blocked

The mind is a funny thing. It controls everything you do, dictates everything you say, feel, think. It’s a core part of everyone and works in such mysterious ways. 

It feels like you’d just opened your eyes from sleeping, yet already awake. There’s no drowsiness but you hardly remember anything that happened until now. Your mind is hazy but everything feels so light and airy.

When you begin to focus, the room bleeds with details that feel familiar. Colourful posters decorate the plain, cream walls, a cork board that’s home to photo booth cards and various hanging trinkets. 

Moving is difficult for some reason but you don’t fret. It feels like your body weighs a ton, as though your blood was made of concrete and trying to lift your torso to sit up was a strenuous task you couldn’t achieve. Normally this would be cause for concern, enough to send you into a state of panic, however your heart remained calm. 

There’s not much else in the room you can see from this position besides a desk and closet doors. You’ve come to realise you’re laid in bed and finally you can feel the sheets beneath you. So soft and comforting, they too feel oddly familiar but you can’t seem to pinpoint why.

When you focus again, you notice the thrum of dull pleasure that flows through your body. Waves of ecstasy wash over you, the feeling slowly amplifying the more you think about it. Then you realise there’s a weight on you, hands that hold you in place and a body between your legs. 

Oh.

It doesn’t matter who’s pleasuring you with their mouth but you’d love to interact with them, even if it is only a dream. It’s mildly embarrassing (only to you) that you’d noticed so late, though you try and acknowledge your realistic dream in hopes you’d gain a semblance of control — only your mind doesn’t cooperate and it’s still impossible to move. 

You want to thread your fingers through their hair, to tug on it and hear them moan into your clit, grind your hips into their face as they suck on your clit. They’re doing a good job so far and you can’t seem to express that. Opening your mouth was the easy part, getting something out was hard. It’s on the tip of your tongue; praise, gratitude, instructions, a moan. Much like your veins being full of concrete, it feels like your lungs are suffering the same fate. 

Eventually, the stranger makes an appearance leaning over you. A man with long, dark locks and gorgeous purple eyes hovers in your line of sight and your heart just about stops. The ends of his hair tickle your chest, cascading over his shoulder like a waterfall, eyes forming crescent moons as he smiles. He too feels familiar, but you can’t say you’ve ever seen him in your life. 

The weight of him pressed between your legs is just as delicious as his mouth, rocking his hips slowly into you to keep that spark of adrenaline going. You think he’s warm, even if it’s a dream. When he leans in to kiss you, it might be one of the greatest moments of your life. 

Warm, comforting, you can taste a tinge of yourself on his tongue. You move together naturally, you knew his every move like it was common knowledge. The act made your heart swell, a happiness you haven’t felt in so long. Nothing matters beyond this moment, this man is everything to you, even if you don’t know who he is. 

Finally you’re able to moan into his mouth as his tongue slides across yours, a noise that seems to encourage him. He shuffles between your legs, lips still pressed together as he guides himself into you. Another noise the man swallows is your pleasant gasp, sparks of lightning thumping through you at the feeling of utter fullness. 

You feel breathless. Airy, light, so completely and utterly—

Awake from the sound of your alarm. 

It takes a moment to realise what has happened, what is happening. Your thighs are sticky and the thrum of pleasure still lingers in your fingertips. A grown adult and you were having a wet dream, how shameful. 

Some people dream and others don’t — alongside the fact some people remember their dreams and for others they’re a distant and foggy memory. Typically you don’t dream and on the odd occasion you do, it’s the latter and you move on with your day. 

Except you couldn’t get that damn man out of your thoughts. He plagued you all morning as you showered away your sins, commuted to work and sent out a handful of boring emails that had been waiting for you overnight. You’d be falling asleep at your desk if it weren’t for him and the periodical pulse of your clit at the thought of pleasure. It feels like you hardly slept a wink last night — probably because your brain was too busy conjuring up these images to excite you while you slept. 

Your computer monitor buzzes as the Word document before you blinks, half empty and begging you to do your job and send it away for someone else to look at. If you thought you’d get away with it, you’d sneak away for a power nap in the bathroom. 

It nags at you that you know that man from somewhere — you must have seen him before. You read somewhere that your mind can’t create new faces, everyone you see in your dreams is someone you’ve seen before, even those you’ve passed in the street once. He feels familiar though, like you have a connection somehow. It’s as though you’ve seen that face hundreds of times before, felt his touch and tasted those kisses, committed it all to memory. Yet it feels hazy and untrue, you can’t seem to find the correct files in your mind to determine who he is. 

You texted your friend for a pick-me-up when no one was looking. All you need is someone to talk to, maybe indirectly air out your dream just to laugh about it. Nanami was quick to respond and agree, which you expected because it’s his favourite place to eat. 

“Didn’t sleep last night?” He comments before you could even take off your coat, causing you to huff and reluctantly smile. 

“Do I look that bad?” You ask as you hang your coat on the back of your chair, sitting down with a sigh and pulling the menu book towards yourself. 

Nanami smiles behind his coffee. “Would it be impolite of me to say yes?” 

Looking up at him from behind the menu and under your brow, you hum in disapproval but he takes it in stride. You are quick to decide what you want — your usual — and stop pretending you’re interested in anything else. 

“I was dreaming all night so I didn’t get much rest.” 

“Nightmares?” He raises an eyebrow when you shake your head. 

“No…” Your heart flutters at the images that flash through your mind, the memories of a story your mind created. “Just…Dreams.” 

Nanami is quick to drop the topic after your cautious answer, of which you are and aren’t grateful for. You thought it would be easier to slide the topic past him, to laugh at such a crude thing, but now that you’re here and his harsh yet soft features unintentionally bore into you, you’ve grown nervous and embarrassed. 

Instead, the conversation moves to your office jobs. He works elsewhere to you, though you met when you were both in school. You don’t remember much of anything from your teenage years but you do know you’ve been friends for a long time. It’s easy to talk to Nanami about your office woes, the emails and incapable workers and insane deadlines and so many emails. 

Frustratingly enough, the man of your dreams (literally) was still lingering in the back of your mind as you ate. 

“Do you dream, Nanami?”

While you expected him to raise an eyebrow at your question and respond with one of his own, he seems to be in deep thought contemplating an answer. In an attempt to ease the anxiety that sits in your chest, you avoid his eyeline and stuff yourself with food just a little too fast. 

“Not often.” He finally responds and it’s enough to satisfy you just a little. “When I do, I'm usually tired, just like you.” 

You never did mention any of the details about your dream, nor did the topic come up again for fear of being judged. 

You didn’t think you’d be back so soon. 

As though you’d blinked and awoke again, you are looking over at what seems to be a common room. It’s too big and casual to be a personal living room, the kotatsu adorned with too many mugs and glasses to house a couple of people. Everything feels familiar again but it sits on the tip of your tongue. The half drank glass of soda feels like it’s commonplace, along with the novelty cat mug on the other side. 

Soon you realise you’re leaning over a kitchen counter, purposely bent over with the pressure of someone else right behind you. The pleasure sets in again much like it had before; dull, slowly growing with intensity the more you think about it, pieces falling into place the more you focus. This time moans fall easily from your lips, a natural reaction to the feeling of ecstasy that flows through your veins. Dropping your head between your shoulders and leaning against the cool counter, you arch your back and move to meet the rhythm of the stranger behind you. 

“Fuck…��� You moan – the sound was distorted, barely a whisper and you wonder for a moment if you actually vocalised it. 

The person behind you leans over, draping their larger body over yours. It’s an act that brings warmth into your chest, makes you feel safe and comforted, like a warm and sexy blanket that’s fucking you in short strokes. It feels real this time compared to the last. You feel like you’re actually being fucked into the kitchen counter like this, even if you don’t know where these ideas have come from. 

When lips lean in to find your neck, you instinctively move to give them more access, tightening around their cock when they suck on your sensitive skin. You hiss and moan, moving your hips back and leaning further into the counter below, relaxing your whole body and letting them take control. 

After they pull away and begin kissing your cheek, you take your opportunity to look at your mysterious sex partner – somehow shocked to see the man from your dreams again. 

You expected it to be him– no, you were hoping it would be him. All through the day you couldn’t stop thinking about him or the dream, the softness of his eyes and his sharp nose, the way his tongue glided over yours – he was sickeningly addictive, so this would be the best outcome, right?

Moving took a lot of energy but you managed it, pushing back with little resistance from your dream man. It still feels like your body weighs a ton when you’re moving on your own accord. You gasp and groan to yourself as you stand up, turning around in the small space you’re trapped in between the counter and the mystery man. 

He’s just as gorgeous as the first time you saw him, and the second time in your head, and the third and the fourth…

Your mouth hangs open to speak but this time nothing comes out. It feels like your voice box has been removed, furrowing your eyebrows in frustration. His touch is soft around your waist and the motion brings sparks of life with him, a comfort that feels natural, even when it shouldn’t. You still can’t place him in your life but you’re sure he’s been with you forever. 

The man before you chuckles, a sound that creates butterflies in your stomach, using gentle fingers to press your mouth shut with a soft click.

Those hands around your waist tighten for a moment, pulling you up from the floor with ease and sliding you onto the counter where you were once leaning. Strangely enough you don’t fight him. There’s a sense of safety in this man’s arms and it’s not solely because this is your dream. Something about him is eating away at you, the sense of familiarity, as though you’ve played out this scenario before; a memory rather than a something you’ve created. 

He slots himself between your open legs, feeling his hard cock brush against your thigh and tickle your stomach, you flex and giggle at the sensation. It’s natural when your arms wrap around his neck, hanging loosely over his shoulders with your lips so dangerously close. His hot breath fans your face and you gasp quietly as his cock slides into you again, a delicious and welcomed stretch, and he takes the invitation to slide his tongue into your mouth. 

Despite the tiredness in your bones, you’re having a good time at the karaoke bar with friends. Your work clothes cling to you after the long day, mildly uncomfortable no matter how much you try to relax, attempting to physically and mentally let your hair down. Friday evening and your work week is over. 

You watch Gojo belt out lyrics of a song you don’t recognise, completely free and uncaring of anyone else in the room — especially Utahime scowling in the corner. It’s amusing that he’s the only truly sober person here and the most willing to utilise the microphone, putting on the performance of a lifetime for the others who are trying to get drunk and wind down or ignore him completely. 

The room is full of friends you’ve known for years, including Ijichi, Shoko and Nanami; you met everyone in high school as teenagers and have been a friend group since. All five of them spend almost everyday together working in the same office — you never got the memo apparently. Still, you were invited for a few rounds and some songs at the karaoke bar to wind down with them all, even if your workplace was a little further than around the block. 

Taking a sip of your drink, your mind finds itself wandering back to the man of your dreams. 

Every given moment he’s on your mind. If you relax for a moment without any distractions, he’s there again, smiling at you and creating a tight knot in your abdomen. Everyday this week you’ve seen him overnight in different scenarios, yet they’re always the same; you wake up, you realise you’re being pleasured sexually, you see him again and that same sense of comfort washes over you until you wake up. Having wet dreams is great when they’re not every single night. You’re tired and it feels like you haven’t slept at all. 

Through the flashing rainbow lights that dance along the room, you catch Nanami’s eye from the adjacent couch, smiling when he visibly sighs and finishes the rest of his drink then and there. 

He had almost a full glass. 

Without thinking about it, you move to sit next to him, a little drunk and a little too close as you brush your thigh against his and lean into him to talk over the music. “Can I tell you something?”

Nanami looks at you from the corner of his eye with scepticism — of which you responded to with a sleazy smile. You already laid down the groundwork of your problem to him earlier this week, so giving him an update shouldn’t be too jarring. 

“I’ve been having non-stop wet dreams all fucking week.” 

Sputtering on the empty drink, Nanami almost drops the glass in his hand and quickly sets it on the table to avoid disaster. He hadn’t anticipated that or for you to say it so bluntly, caught off guard by your confession, he composed himself but can’t seem to look at you. 

“Okay. Is that a good or a bad thing?” He asks cautiously, trying to remain polite but his eyes can’t seem to find yours as he speaks. 

You laugh and nudge his shoulder with yours, you were hoping the couple of beers would’ve loosened him up just like you. It wasn’t serious or a suggestion, just maybe looking for some support or guidance from another person who knew the brief history. 

“It’s good, I think.” You finish off your drink, watching as Nanami orders both of you another round on the tablet. “It’s been nice but…I feel like I recognise the guy in the dream but I don’t know where.” 

He nods briefly, trying to think of how to respond. You’re not sure what you expected since he’s not living in your head and what you’re looking for is unclear to even you. 

“A movie or show? New coworker you’ve only seen in passing?” 

You immediately know the answer, but indulge in Nanami by looking like you were thinking it over, shaking your head briefly with a dramatic sigh. “No, I don’t think so. It’s not often you see someone like him, so I would recognise him, I would’ve thought.” You continue. “He has really long dark hair, it’s half tied up with a cute little bang hanging down in front of his face — oh and he has the most gorgeous purple eyes and the softest smile I’ve seen on anyone.” 

It takes a moment for you to notice how stiff Nanami had gotten, frozen on the spot as his heart raced from your description. How do you not remember who the man is, yet you’re dreaming about him? It doesn’t make sense…

“Nanami? Do you know who I’m talking about?” 

Staff had entered the room with a drink delivery and Nanami almost threw away all his manners to grab his glass from the tray as quickly as possible. He mutters an apology as the woman bows after her surprise, leaving the room after setting down all the room's orders. You watch as Nanami gulps his drink, as though he needed the distraction, something to ease his conscience. 

The glass is lowered with an uncharacteristically loud hiss, placed back on the table and Nanami leans in close to your ear. “You should talk to Gojo.” 

And with that, he left the room after bidding a speedy farewell to the group. 

Burying your hands deeper in your pockets and dipping your nose behind the soft scarf wrapped around your neck, you lock your jaw to suppress a yawn and wait for Gojo’s lead. 

Despite the continued satisfying dreams, you’re still so fucking tired. Even without work and trying to catch up on sleep, it feels like something — or someone — keeps stealing your good nights rest. Last night you slept for twelve hours and it feels like you hardly got four. The dream man has been weighing heavily on your mind since Friday evening when you mentioned it to Nanami, still confused and worried with the way he left so quickly — he assured you it wasn’t anything you’d said or done, but it was definitely related. 

A chilly Sunday afternoon spent with Gojo isn’t the worst, though you’d rather be hanging out in a quiet cafe or shopping for something fun instead of wandering around the city for a stamp rally. “Where else do we need to go?” You ask passively, looking at the leaflet in Gojo’s hand out the corner of your eye. 

For a few moments he doesn’t respond, hardly even moves to show you he’s alive. Dark, square glasses are perched on his nose to shield his eyes from the world, and for a second you wonder if he’d even heard you. “There’s a couple more Family Mart locations we need to go to on the other side of the city,” He says finally with a smile, “Then I should have redeemed everything possible.” 

The leaflet is quickly folded again and slid back into his pocket, allowing him to lead the way towards the next location. Neither your mind or your heart was in the activity, and Gojo knew that from the start. Still, you trailed beside him and weaved through the busy streets of Akihabara, desperately trying to stir up a flawless plan that will get you the answers you want. The dream man didn’t seem like much of an issue at first, just something your mind had made up, until Nanami had such a strange reaction to your details. At worst, Gojo will have an equally weird response and dodge your questions – an act he is a master of. 

Inhaling deep and as quietly as possible, you start, “I’ve been having dreams lately…” It’s a good sign when Gojo hums in response, clearly half interested when beelining towards the next location. “I mentioned it to Nanami the other day and he told me to talk to you.” 

He huffed a laugh, glancing over at you from behind his glasses. “I can’t imagine why. I don’t dream about anything; it’s not like I’m an expert on the subject.” 

“I don’t know,” You respond a little defensive, “I told him I’ve been having dreams every night and it’s always the same guy in them.” Gojo wiggles his eyebrows over his glasses, a stupid grin spread across his lips. You scoff and nudge him with your shoulder, dipping your head in mild embarrassment. “Shut up.”

The conversation doesn’t progress as you both enter the Family Mart, greeted with the familiar ding and call from staff welcoming you to the store as they tend to their duties. Thankfully this location is tucked away and less busy than some of the others, easing the embarrassment of someone unintentionally eavesdropping on your conversation. 

Gojo finds the stamp set up by the door, pulling out a different piece of paper from his pocket and flattening it for inking. You watch with a pit in your stomach, hoping that he would’ve given you a proper response rather than brushing you off with his stupid, childish demeanour. He’s your friend and he’s supposed to be supporting you in your time of need, not focusing on his goddamn stamps to collect free sweets and stickers. 

“I told Nanami what the guy looks like and then he got weird with me.” You continue, leaning into the station and in turn Gojo, looking around to make sure no one could hear. “Long black hair, it’s always half up in a bun with a side bang, big black earrings, purple eyes…”

It happened again. 

Gojo visibly stiffens, a shift in the air. He holds onto the stamp against the paper longer than necessary for a small, round design and you furrow your eyebrows at him. He knows something, the same as Nanami and neither of them will tell you what any of this means. It’s too strange and consistent to be a coincidence, but you can’t figure out why you can’t get any answers on who this guy is. You’re beginning to worry he’s a criminal or worse, a long lost relative. 

A switch flipped and Gojo moved again with natural fluidity, like he wasn’t paralysed for a solid thirty seconds. The stamp is removed to show an overly inked design and slotted back into its holder, the sheet of paper held up to be admired. “I have no idea.” 

You sigh, literally deflating and clenching your fists in your pockets, holding yourself back from grabbing him by the collar and demanding answers. You should’ve expected this. 

“It sure doesn’t seem that way…”

“The brain is weird.” Gojo says with a smile, though it’s clear he’s trying to act as normal as he possibly can. There’s an inclination in his tone that’s just a little off; he definitely knows something. “It makes up everything for you, even stuff that’s not useful or meaningful to you – you know that, right?” He blows on the splotchy ink to dry it as quickly as possible. “Dreams are just your mind making up stories to keep you entertained while you sleep.”

Before you could mutter another word, Gojo was quick to leave the store with the dried stamp sheet in his pocket. He didn’t care if you had kept up with him or not – it seemed like he would be grateful if you didn’t care to follow anymore. You frown and frustration bubbles within, unwilling to give up as you rush to follow. Although not convinced of his answer, you refrain from bringing up the subject again. 

Like clockwork, the man of your dreams is here again.

This time, you're sitting in his lap, hips rocking slowly as you bounce. It fills your heart with warmth, that connection you feel to this mysterious entity is greater than before — you'd dare to say it might even be love. After fucking in your dreams every night and haunted by his presence in your memories throughout the day, it shouldn't be much of a surprise you've grown fond of him, but it doesn't feel so artificial. Maybe your mind is telling you that you do know him, there's a reason Nanami and Gojo are acting so strange.

For a moment you allow yourself to enjoy bliss. Big, strong hands hold you at your waist and let you move as you wish, though his grip reminds you he's still in control. A little too slow or a little too fast, he's squeezing supple flesh and guiding you how he needs you, hips thrusting up to meet yours with a delicious slap of skin. At this angle he's hitting every sweet spot you have, buried so deep it feels like he can reach your lungs. The room feels familiar again, still unable to place exactly where you are; it's an office, that much you can be sure of with the large desk in the centre of the room and abundance of shelves and books. It feels formal, an important space where maybe you shouldn't be on the couch fucking.

Your dream man smiles at you when you turn to him again, a sweet and sultry sight. Every dream you try to talk to him, to say something worthy of a response — instead, all you can ever muster are moans of pleasure as your pussy is fucked and eaten over and over again. Your mouth hangs open, trying to speak but the words are lodged in your throat, stuck behind the boulder that seems to appear whenever you try to focus. He's never spoken to you either, but it's unlikely that he has the same struggle as you.

His mouth is slotted over yours with ease, tongue licking into yours and you swallow his angelic moan with great enthusiasm. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you pull him tighter into you — chest to chest, clothed this time, embracing the dream-like warmth as he remains buried deep inside of you.

When you pull away, you try again and again. The man watches with almost smug glee as you try desperately, opening and closing your mouth and swallowing down the large obstruction that keeps you from talking. He raises his eyebrows with a grin, squeezing your waist in a form of encouragement. Holding his breath and mouth agape, your dream man watches and waits to see if you'll finally mutter something out.

"Who are you?"

It falls from your lips unnaturally, stuttered out like you were speaking for the first time in centuries. Foreign to your ears but it's undeniable that those were your words. Your dream man laughs, holding back a cheer that you did it.

"Suguru." He purrs and it feels like a stab to the chest — you have no idea why.

"Suguru…?" You parrot back to him, holding back a moan as he shifts ever so slightly inside of you, hard cock brushing against your walls and sending dull waves of pleasure through your hazy mind. The name doesn't feel as strange on your tongue, rather quite natural; as though you've said it thousands, maybe millions of times before.

He hums, "I love hearing you say my name." Suguru's voice is like silk, so luxurious and soft. "You're so beautiful when you say it."

One of the hands around your waist comes up to pet your hair, so gentle that it sends pleasant shivers down your spine. The way he threads his fingers through your locks is so easy, thumb pressing against your cheek while he takes in your visual. You can't help but lean into it, smiling and holding onto his wrist to keep him in place. There's so much love shared between you that it feels impossible to have only just learnt this man's name.

Turning to kiss the palm of his hand, you mumble against his skin, "Suguru who?"

His grin widens from the adoring smirk he wore, all teeth and secrets, his eyes remain as soft as ever when they look at you. "You should ask Satoru, baby."

'We need to talk NOW'

The text burns a hole through Gojo's phone almost literally — he can feel your unbridled rage through a few words and after inviting you over, tries to recall what you could possibly be so upset with him about. Even when he opens his door to you with a bright and cheeky smile, you glare up at him with the fury of a thousand beasts.

"You can only come in if you give me a smile."

"Gojo I will kill you, infinity be damned I will find a way — now let me in." You growl and Gojo doesn't tempt fate more than he already has, relenting and stepping aside for you to walk through the door, still smiling and hoping to casually charm his way out of whatever he did this time.

"Who is Suguru?" You blurt out once you'd stormed your way into the living room, standing in the centre and folding your arms across your chest. Bile threatens to emerge just speaking his name aloud — there's something about it that brings about pleasant yet horrible feelings, boils your blood with frustration because you can't seem to figure out how you know this man.

The name bounces off of the walls and into Gojo's ears as he follows you, struggling to hide his features without any obstructions over his eyes or a tall jacket to hide the upturn at the corner of his lips. "Tea?" He offers, instead of an explanation.

"Answers, Gojo."

His face falls, stiff as a board and visibly closing up on you. While he remains in the living room, you are full of so many questions and frustration it's hard to get anything out.

"I…I keep dreaming about this guy, Suguru is all I know. I don't know if this is some — stupid weird shit going on in my head or I'm actually insane or there's a ghost that talks to me in my sleep but…!" You release the breath you'd been holding, filling your lungs again instantly. "I didn't think much about it until both you and Nanami freaked out when I mentioned what he looked like. Why do you guys know him and I don't?" Watching as Gojo avoids your line of sight, you groan and run your hands through your hair in frustration. "He — my brain, my dream, whatever told me to ask you specifically. Suguru said specifically 'ask Satoru'; I'm begging you to tell me what you know."

You expected Gojo to fight back, keep his lips sealed so tight that not even the temptation of his favourite sweets would get him to talk. Nanami's number was ready and waiting on your phone screen for when you leave, determined to get an answer from either of them one way or another.

Instead, he laughs. Shoulders deflating and head hanging low, he laughs to himself.

"I knew this would happen someday but not like this!" You blink once, twice. Is this all a joke? "Come with me, I want you to see something."

When you came here you were expecting a verbal (and possibly physical) brawl. You were pumped up and ready to fight for what you want, but since Gojo isn't matching your energy in a way that makes sense, you're left just as deflated — the difference is that you're nervous and scared, rather than his relaxed demeanour. Gojo disappears into the hallway, waiting by one of the doors for you to follow. Standing at the doorway to the living room you eyed him suspiciously, looking more like a scared child than the brazen bull you entered as. He didn't mind much, not bothering to tease you about it and instead offered his typical cheeky smile as he called for you to follow.

You watch at the entry of what looks to be a spare bedroom turned office as Gojo clambers through various items in the closet. He mumbles to himself as he slides things back and forth, looking for something on the top shelf he can easily reach. "Found it." Gojo announces, dragging out a big plastic box deep within. He huffs with its weight, readjusting his grip with it balanced on his knee for a moment and seeming to juggle with the item by himself — he'd tortured you enough that he doesn't deserve your help.

"Take a seat, relax." Gojo nods his head towards the desk chair, throwing the items that fell in his search back into the closet.

Despite your apprehension, you sit where instructed and watch Gojo drop the plastic box in front of you. Looking up at him, he motions with his hands for you to open the box yourself, taking a step back and leaning against the adjacent wall. You're scared to look inside — you trust Gojo as your friend but something about this makes you uneasy. The secrets, the feelings, what will you find out opening this box?

Part of you expects there to maybe be a dead body, even corpse pieces or a reptile or mouldy food inside. Shaky hands pop open the plastic lid and you're greeted with a bunch of paper. A layer of it scattered across the top of the box, sheets folded in numerous ways and some more worn than others. Picking one up, you recognise your handwriting instantly. It's a letter it seems, addressed to 'Sugubear' and signed off by you. The first line feels familiar but you can’t place it, a distant memory but you recognise it, almost like when you first started seeing Suguru in your dreams. You open another folded piece of paper and another; most of them are someone’s handwriting you don't recognise but it's far better than yours, elegant and practised, always addressed to you and signed by Suguru.

There's a strange feeling in your chest that's so difficult to describe. A flurry of emotions, all of it bundled together inside a bottle of confusion — you don't know what to think. You don't remember any of these letters and at the same time you do, it feels like you should remember them. Much like a word on the tip of your tongue that you can't seem to find, you feel like you should know these letters.

Beneath the paper are birthday and new years cards, all signed by Suguru. That same intricate handwriting wishing you well, signing his name with such elegance it would make anyone jealous. It feels like you're getting closer. The golden tassels of a red card are delicate under your fingertips and you know this feeling more than any other time you've given and received cards. There's happiness in your heart, flashes of glee.

Your heart races to the point it aches. A part of you doesn't want to look anymore — curiosity killed the cat and you're no longer as curious as you once were. There's so much love and happiness in all these letters, why do you feel so much grief looking at it all? Without reading everything one by one, you already know that you were in love with this man, what happened?

A large photo album sits in the centre of the box, one that has been staring at you since you uncovered the first letter. Black leather, it's sleek and expensive looking, a cherished item that's been rotting away in a plastic box. Your chest grows tight when fingertips dance along the edges of the book, scared to find out what's inside.

The first photo that greets you is one of you and Suguru, the man in your dreams. Smiling at the camera cheek to cheek, it looks like a selfie before phone cameras were such a staple. You both look younger in this photo, almost like you were teenagers. Flipping through the book, there's multiple photos of you both in here. Another is a candid shot that someone else took, you sat in Suguru's lap at what looks to be a party, based on the alcoholic can in your hand. Other pictures you're feeding each other in a restaurant, grainy photos but it seems smart phones had evolved since the first dozen pages. More pictures of you and Suguru show you both wearing what look to be school uniforms, tailored a little differently to one another but you’re still a little old to be students.

You furrow your brows when you see the next photo; it's a group shot that includes Gojo, Shoko, Nanami and all your other friends with you and Suguru. At least that explains why Gojo and Nanami reacted like they did, however you're still frustrated with their secrecy. The answer is on the tip of your tongue, the memories of this man are so close within reach.

It clicks when you see the cherry blossoms. Suguru stood before you cradling your cheek, that loving smile on his face while you laughed at the gust of wind that blew pink petals across your face. It was a sweet moment — you felt like you were in an anime. You loved this photo Utahime had taken so much that you framed it and kept it on your nightstand for years.

Clearly Suguru was your boyfriend and all the puzzle pieces clicked into place. The memories of this moment come flooding back into your mind, an overwhelming sensation that draws tears into your eyes. It's hard to breathe but you can't stop looking, even if teardrops land on the clear plastic protecting lost memories. Your boyfriend who you'd spent your late teens dating, continuing into your early adult life together. Forgetting such a big part of your life is harrowing but you're grateful to have them back.

Closing the book you return to the box, picking out a little plushie tucked in between other various memories. It's an animal mascot from an anime that was popular at the time, but you remember it was so fluffy and soft. Suguru won it for you in the arcade, the first thing he'd ever gotten you since you'd begun dating, worn and squished because you'd sleep with it whenever Suguru was away on missions.

On missions.

They don't work at a fucking office. None of your friends work at an office, they work at your old school where you met. You used to work at that school — a school for jujutsu sorcerers. You're a jujutsu sorcerer, born with a unique ability and you're working a fucking office job because you forgot everything. Everything continues falling into place the more you look, the more dots you connect and realise just how much was lost. It's hard not to be angry at your friends for lying to you, but they'd hidden such a huge part of your life for what reason?

You're fully sobbing now, burying your face into the worn plushie and savouring the comfort it offers. It's painful how different your life used to be.

"There was an accident." Gojo finally speaks up, though it's not exactly the best time, you hold your breath. "Both you and Suguru." You don't recognise his voice, so low and serious it's almost like there's pain behind it. He had made peace with what happened long ago. "All three of us were out on a mission and it was too much. If it weren't for Suguru, you'd be dead."

Fragments of the incident try to make their place in your mind; all you can claw at is the feeling of grief, fear that tore through you, although you can't be sure if that's a memory or something you made up. Much like everything else, it feels familiar but distant.

"He sacrificed himself for you but you still took a serious hit to the head, one that Shoko couldn't salvage." He continues and finally, you look at him. Leaning against the wall, his head is low and arms crossed over his chest. You don't remember any of this, so you can only begin to imagine how painful it is to recall it all. "You were left with memory loss that only worsened over time. Whenever any of us brought up Suguru or being a sorcerer, you'd lose it."

That…you kind of remember. The accident is still a hazy fog, you're not sure if you even want it back. All the emotions still linger in your heart.

"You'd get angry and isolate yourself, it had all of us worried when you'd threaten us or yourself so, we pretended like none of it ever happened."

You brush your thumbs over the sewn in thread that decorates the plushie, soaking worn fur with your hot tears. It doesn't matter anymore, but you're full of regret for putting any of your friends through that.

"That box was yours. I found you a few times going through everything inside of it and it only drove you further away from us, so I kept it here with me instead." There's an apology on your lips, whispered into the plush you buried your face into. "We all pretended to be regular people like you, just so you could keep going like Suguru wanted."

Your uncontrollable wails return, shutting off any more information from Gojo entirely. It hurts, all of it hurts so much but it’s so freeing. As though you're grieving your lost love all over again, you fall into Gojo's arms when he approaches and pulls you into a hug, allowing you to get everything out of your system much like he had years prior.

"I'm sorry," You hiccup between pitiful sobs, "I'm so sorry."

Gojo laughs because that's all he can do with tears in his eyes, swallowing thick as he strokes your arms and tries to keep his own emotions tempered.

When you fall asleep that same night, you meet Suguru again. This time it was much different.

You weren't in the middle of an intimate act, no thrum of pleasure shooting through your body or comforting warmth of your love. Instead, he appeared in his teacher's uniform standing beneath a tree, pink cherry blossoms lazily drifting around him. Never have you been so excited to see him before.

"Suguru!"

He turns but he already knew you were there, smiling so sweetly and opening his arms for you. Running as fast as you could, you leap into him with a giggle, wrapping your limbs around his body and squeezing tight. You never want to let go again.

"Satoru told you." Suguru states, voice muffled by the press of your shoulder against his lips. Pulling back, you pepper his face in as many kisses as you could.

"I'm sorry I forgot about you."

Suguru chuckles, creating a flurry of butterflies in your stomach. "It's okay, I'm just glad you remember." He kisses your cheek all the way to your lips, sweet and purposeful. "I love you."

"I love you too. I'm never going to forget you again, promise."

[tinytalkingtina]

If anyone wants a tutorial on how to make stuff in canva I recommend thecutestgrotto's very helpful guide

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP. No limits to the amount of emojis you can request, please feel free to send multiple!

Thanks for the tags @turinspeachjam @hbyrde36 @cloudsurfing42 and @madaboutmunson!

✨ My steddie BB "Cursed Prince Steve and Bard Eddie" fairytale AU is at 12k now! working on the task of strength this weekend, so having fun making familiar faces pop up

🏴‍☠️ Eddierotica: "Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. They're not dating" now features plot and an actual set up outside of the erotica! Going to aim to have the first two chapters done for the Switch Eddie week event, so be ready for pirates and vampires!

👽 Back this week to actively working on my Star Trek AU Enemies to Lovers! Gonna do my usual hopping around writing chapters concurrently, so you may get various stages as Eddie and S'tevan's relationship evolves

Tags and a SFW snippet of ✨ under the cut:

Shockingly, the prince didn’t call for the guard as he expected. Instead, he gestured for Eddie to come closer, beckoning with a gloved hand clad in fine leather.

As he drew near, Eddie raised an eyebrow. The prince had a chessboard set up halfway through a game. A quick glance around showed no one else around to play against.

Maybe he was trying to figure out how the pieces moved in private?

“If you’re looking for a job at the palace you’ve come to the wrong person. Try the kitchens instead.” With that, the prince turned his attention back to the board.

Eddie clutched at his makeshift disguise.

“I uh, have no need for a job, I am of noble blood!”

“No you’re not.”

Curses.

“I beg your pardon, of course I am!”

“No, you’re not.” The prince finally moved a white pawn. He then got up and sat down on the black side of the board while pointing towards Eddie’s feet.

“Putting aside how worn your boots are, your footsteps are light and quick. The only nobles who walk with the same pattern are either away from the capitol for the season or taller than you. Except Sir Brenner, but Sir Brenner walks with a limp. Besides, your clothes do not bear the colors of any noble house in the region.”

“I...I could be visiting!” Eddie retorted, grasping at any thread he could to get out of this alive. The prince tilted his head. Eddie could have sworn the mask had taken on a smug expression in the last thirty seconds.

“Hmm, a visitor who was not present at this afternoon’s royal luncheon for the king and queen to interrogate? Or did you mysteriously fall ill during those exact hours.”

Eddie blinked. Was the prince mocking him? Before he could reply, Stephen moved quickly to ensnare his hand. Eddie’s heart beat out a wild staccato as the prince proceeded to slide his glove off and trace the calluses on his palm.

“No one of noble blood would work with their hands uncovered enough to grow these, would they stranger,” the prince said smoothly. His tone, so self-assured and full of himself, grated on Eddie’s nerves.

Stephen then lifted the edges of Eddie’s mask and pressed a finger into the space where his neck met his shoulder.

“Odd how your skin is burnt here too.” Eddie didn’t dare breath. This close, he could see the prince’s eyes peeking out from his mask. The last few rays of the setting sun caught shimmering flecks of gold and green as they crinkled in amusement.

“Let’s see. We’ve proven you’re not a noble. And the fact that you tried to continue with this honestly terrible disguise means you’re not in search of a job. Which just leaves the obvious: you want something from the Crown Fool. So tell me stranger, what do you wish for me to do for you?”

Tagging a few folks to join in and work on their own WIPs!

@queenofshenanigans @queenie-ofthe-void @runninriot @apomaro-mellow @augustjustice

@vthx @pearynice @lingeringmirth @kikidoesfanfic @sunflowerharrington

@bellandora @wynnyfryd @zombiethingy @fkinkindagauche @scoops-aboy86

@little-annie @just-my-latest-hyperfixation @onirislanding @strangerthingswritersguild

[acapelladitty]

thinnest thread, sown together

Summary: After an accident, Cooper leaves Lucy to patch up his leather duster for him but when he returns he finds that she's used his absence as an opportunity for a private indulgence (AKA: Cooper walks in on Lucy masturbating). [3.2k words]

(tw: voyeurism, vague threats, teasing, masturbation, mentions of drug use, orgasm, coming in pants)

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

"Try not to fuck this up, vaultie. I'm fond of that coat, you hear me?"

"Heard you the first three times, boss."

An unfortunate and somewhat embarrassing accident involving wooden boards and a protruding scrap of sheet metal had proven too much for Cooper's coat, the leather duster having almost split in half due to the pressure of the metal cleaving its way through the material as he descended in a undignified heap.

Lucy was a smart enough girl to know not to laugh, but the noise which escaped the ghoul as he had fallen sat somewhere between a deflating balloon and a startled deathclaw so the effort it had taken for her to not bust out into a giggle was borderline heroic.

The fault was Cooper's own, his footing misstepping due to his attention being pulled away by the distant sound of gunfire - the origins of it unknown but never anything good. It had been enough to throw him off though, and Cooper had sworn up a storm as he tripped on a loose board and smashed through the rickety walkway with such an undignified noise.

Not the end of the world but the genuine distress which seemed to briefly touch at Cooper's face as he recovered from the fall and examined his tattered jacket before his eyes had moved Lucy to offer to fix it up, knowing that he already owned a rusted needle and thread among the various practical belongings he had strewn around his person.

Presumably, they were the same ones he'd previously used to sew the top of her finger onto his own to replace the missing digit she'd torn off with her teeth. She didn't regret it since he'd deserved that and worse for treating her more shittily than that dog that followed him around at times, but she was curious.

More than once her gaze had lowered to her displaced finger, the lightened tone of her smooth skin a stark contrast to his own, and she wondered how it must feel. To have her as a part of him. Did it feel any different? The sight of it made something odd roil in her chest; a stunning mixture of curiosity, vague disgust, and a pleasant warmth that no matter what he did or how their partnership ended, he would always carry that little part of her whether he liked it or not.

However, that was a discussion which she hadn't broached yet but it was always there ticking away in the back of her mind.

Despite knowing that he was perfectly capable, Lucy found her offer of her sewing skills being met with quick acceptance and Cooper had moved like hell itself as he sourced her a table and room to work, securing their accommodation for the night in an old storage unit which was little more than two rooms filled with old, empty crates and not much else.

She set to work as diligently as she had the rest of the miserable and shitty tasks he assigned to her, each designed to test her skills or teach her a valuable lesson in survival. This though, she had taken to with a small smile, the repetitive and willing task remindering her of a more simple time back in her vault. Sewing circle with the others had been a blast of fun and constant gossip and she did miss it at times.

A memory stirred as Cooper watched her from his standing position a few feet behind her turned back. He saw Barb, sitting at their kitchen table doing much the same as she mended the tears in his pants after he'd taken a tumble off one of the more unstable stallions. But, just as quickly as it arose, he banished the memory away as he often did with thoughts of his ex-wife - the hurt which accompanied them making him instantly sour and grow more volatile than he would like.

Since discovering his previous life as an actor, Lucy's attitude and actions around him had been different and, more than once, he had caught her staring at him with those big, doe eyes of hers. What was surprising more than anything was that the attention didn't irritate him as much as he thought it would and he wasn't ignorant to the slight blush that stained her cheeks when he caught her making a moon face at him.

Seemed that Lucy Maclean had developed herself quite the little liking to him and he had taken that discovery into his stride with a smug gleefullness. He had always been a proud man and to have such an attractive thing interested in him had cracked open a facet of his personality that had long since closed itself off to the world.

Cooper Howard had always been a flirt, incorrigible in his prime, and those mean little teases which he afforded Lucy punished him as much as her as he refused to follow up on them. He hadn't lied when he said Lucy Maclean wasn't ready for him and that same pride refused to allow him to take any real advantage of her, knowing that in the long run, she'd probably thank him for not poisoning her with his own bullshit.

But still, he lived for the game and this was just another way to play. A bit of fun to pass the time until they had dealt with her daddy and he had found the truth of his daughters' whereabouts.

If he were honest with himself, a feat in its own given his choices, something unfamiliar and warm tugged at his stomach every time he considered the fact that Lucy's fancies had taken root with him as he was now. Not Cooper Howard, famed movie star, but Cooper Howard, ghoul and scourge of the wastelands. It was a feeling locked away with the end of the world he had known and better left by the wayside.

Besides, it was much easier to channel that warmth into some playful teasing.

Pressing himself firmly against her as she leaned diligently over his coat, his stomach was flush against her back and he felt the shiver which rolled down her spine as he engulfed her senses. She hid it well, could have easily passed it off as a natural reaction to a monster forcing its way into her personal space, but Cooper knew better.

"Don't take an attitude with me, vaultie. Your damn fault it ripped in the first place. Lucky for you that I'm a kindly man and I ain't ripping your shirt off to keep us on that equal streak we've been enjoying these last few weeks."

Her head snapping up vertically to face him as he loomed over her, Lucy's expression was as open as ever to him as he took in the torrid mixture of irritation, focus, and mild arousal which his determined positioning was causing her.

And just like that, there was that little flush of colour, sitting high on her cheeks and making him hold back a smirk as he at played her like an old fiddle.

"My shirt wouldn't fit you." Was her impressive comeback after a few silent moments of intense consideration, her mouth set into a proud line as she made her point.

"Never said I'd be wearing it, sweetheart." Cooper answered, pushing her head even further back into his stomach with the pressure of a single finger on her forehead. "What I did say is that you would be losing it. I mean, that's your golden rule, after all. Do unto others what you'd have done unto you? Hrm?"

"I never took your jacket." Lucy defended hotly.

"Well it's between your hands, ain't it?"

"Only because-"

"Enough arguing, darling." Cutting her off to frustrate her evern further, Cooper dropped his hands to the pockets of his filthy slacks. "Now I'm gonna leave on a scouting trip for five, maybe six hours, so you get that jacket all patched up and looking pretty and I'll see about forgetting what I was talking about."

Silently seething but perking up at the thought of getting to enjoy some alone time as her back felt wickedly hot from Cooper standing flush against her skin, Lucy did everything in her power to not think about the slight bulge which pressed between her shoulder blades nor the infuriating man it belonged to.

"Whatever." Lucy announced after a pause, nodding her head forward once more as she went back to mending his coat with dexterous fingers. "Try to pick up something freshly killed on the way back because your latest batch of ass jerky tastes like shit."

Having taken to calling anything Cooper hunted and cooked 'ass jerky', Lucy had yet to actually try any of his cannibalistic delicacies and, even more surprising, Cooper had never actively offered her any; appearing to almost go out of his way to find excuses for her to be denied it.

Chuckling at the rare swear from her, a sign that she was truly annoyed with him, Cooper tutted his disapproval with a soft headshake.

"Sounds good to me, valutie. Maybe you should see about washing that filthy fucking mouth out with soap before I return, huh?"

x-x-x-x-x

Arriving back from his scouting trip a few hours earlier than he expected to, Cooper heard nothing as he silently entered the first room of the storage unit. A quick hunt had pulled up nothing too fresh so shit-tasting ass jerky was back on the menu for another night for the little food critic vaultie.

Cooper dropped his gun and holster to the top of a nearby storage box, the lock rusting and clearly having been opened through sheer brute force many years previously. Against all odds, he had found himself actively missing his coat as he traversed the vast dusted grounds which surrounded the storage unit.

So used to its presence, the absence of the familiar feel of the softened leather pressing against his shoulders had made him feel oddly vulnerable as his fingers flexed and twitched towards phantom pockets. He had been quick to the trigger, gun pulled and pointed at the slightest noise as his heightened senses refused to allow him to relax on the small trip.

And, as much as it irritated him, the thought of the little vaultie hunched over his coat and fixing it up like a kept housewife amused him in a way which he found hard to pin down.

Speaking of the little vaultie, her absence in the main room was odd; particularly since the table she had preciously occupied with his coat was abandoned. It was an absence which made him curious rather than worried as she would not have left without him or without having achieved their shared goal of knocking her daddies teeth down his smug throat.

No.

She was too smart to leave.

So that would mean...

Peering in through the rounded window which sat near the top of the door that led to the second room, Cooper had to press his lips together in an instant as his cock stiffened in his pants and his eyes widened at the filthy sight which awaited him.

Unaware that Cooper's scouting trip had been cut shorter than anticipated, Lucy Maclean had apparently taken his absence as a rare excuse for some self-pleasure and, god-fucking-damn, did she seem to be enjoying herself.

Her upper body reclined against the metallic wall, her ass resting on a wooden crate as one leg hung loosely down the side of it, the other pulled up so her foot also sat atop the crate. Her knees were spread wide, the angle enough to allow her easy access to her dripping cunt without having to bend. Head tipped back against the wall, her fingers moved quickly between her slickened folds and Cooper couldn't bring himself to turn away even as shame at his own voyeurism trickled down his spine.

Falling loosely around her shoulders, Lucy's hair was in a wild state of disarray as the constant roll of her head against the wall had messed up any sense of order in the dark strands.

The only sounds in the immediate vicinity came from her, muted gasps and whimpers slipping free of her lips as her other hand split its attention between pressing against her mouth to muffle anything louder than a whine and pinching at her breasts; slender fingers rolling across her darkened nipples as they remained peaked in the warm air.

She was fucking beautiful and, as much as filthy shame continued to creep across his skin at watching her like this, Cooper found he couldn't tear his eyes away as his gaze filtered over her creamy skin, imagining how soft it would feel under his calloused hand and blunted teeth.

He knew that she had quite the little sex drive, her crossed arms having more than once demanded time or space to indulge her needs. In those moments, where she was commanding and confident in her expectations, an aspect of her personality that she didn't indulge nearly enough, he found it maddeningly endearing and it drove him more wild than she ever needed to know.

Snatching her fingers away from her left nipple, her hand dropped to something by her side and Cooper almost gave the game away as a lustful growl was quickly caught by the back of his gloved hand as his cock jerked within his slacks.

There, clenched between Lucy's fingers was his goddamn jacket; the mended leather bunching up between her digits as she simultaneously rode the fingers on her other hand - the fingers there moving in tandem and they stroked and pinched and fucked into her cunt with a steady rhythm.

"Cooper." She muttered and a sensation, not unlike freezing cold water being shucked across his body, tensed Cooper's spine as he realised he'd been caught. However, the panicked feeling passed just as quickly as Lucy's soft voice followed up with a very breathy. "Please."

She was thinking about him and that revelation was almost enough to have him shooting off in his pants like a schoolboy. Her eyes remained closed, fingers moving even more quickly as they slipped from steadily pumping within her to circle around her clit, teasing herself as she imagined him.

Thought about him.

Pictured his fingers in place of her own.

Feeling very hot under the collar and fighting the urge to say 'to hell with it' and announce himself, Cooper dropped the heel of his gloved hand to his groin - rubbing at his trapped cock through the fabric as he watched her. Fresh shame, hot and heavy, swept across his irradiated skin as his tongue slipped free to lick as his dry lips.

There had been an old fling, a women he'd met on a hunt about a decade before the whole shitshow with Don Pedro had gone down. A ghoul like him, she was hellfire in a handbag and quicker with a gun than most of the slingers he'd met.

She'd caught him at a sloppier time in his past and he had taken full advantage of their whirlwind mess to indulge his own worst traits. The chem flowed easier in those times and the other drugs she scored made the hard days all the sweeter as they snorted and fucked and inhaled themselves into a proper mess.

However, even that didn't last and one day he had awoken from a stupor to find that she had disappeared and moved on without him.

Fuck, he couldn't even remember her name, but what he could remember was the feeling of her lips on his cock and the way she could perfectly balance a powdered line on his chest as she bit her way down his skin, occasionally drawing blood and making him gasp.

She had been as rotten as him, just two ghouls numbing themselves to the state of the world for a couple of weeks as they waited for the inevitable to take them.

Hell, some of the shit they got up to would probably blow the vaulties head clean off if he described them to her. But then, she was so different to the rest that he couldn't help but wonder how she liked it.

Would she grit her teeth and moan through the pain as he fucked himself inside her, stretching her out to accommodate his size? Or would she grin that little feral smile he'd seen playing on her lips when she achieved some bloodstained victory and push back at him to demand more?

His cock twitched against his palm, the length feeling more uncomfortably trapped as he rubbed himself through his slacks, not quite trusting himself to pull it free. It was torture but, lucky for him, he was used to that by now.

Goddamn Lucy Maclean and her wicked ways had him pawing at himself like a mindless beast. Like one of those mutated things that roamed the outskirts of the desert with nothing but base desire guiding its thoughts.

Rolling his tongue against his teeth, he could imagine how good she would feel under his mouth. Her soft skin, pillowy and firm between his teeth as he teased the strength of it; biting enough to threaten the unblemished creaminess as she arched her back and pressed harder into his mouth. The taste of her sweat, fresh and mounting, as he trailed his mouth lower, lips teasing their way along her hips and inner thighs until she was a trembling mess ready for him to consume her like she knew he wanted.

In her panicked babble as she had first offered him sex, she had tried to offer the use her mouth and he gazed at her lips now, plump and wettened by her own tongue, and he could almost feel the wicked softness of them wrapped around his cock; her greedy tongue pulling him deeper as he gripped her hair within his hand and met her eyes while he buried his cock deep within her clenching throat.

Lost in the fantasy, his thoughts boldened by his voyeurism as he watched her curl her fingers expertly within her cunt, Cooper came with a muted grunt - the disgrace of his release instantly trapping within his pants as the sticky mess quickly irritated him with how heated and uncomfortable it felt.

Lucy still wasnt finished, her casual edging of her own pleasure only making her move more slowly as she built herself back up to the point of release. Her grip on his coat flexed with each pump of her fingers as she enjoyed herself, still unaware of the struggling ghoul who observed her with heated eyes.

Backing away from the door with regret etched in the lines of his features, Cooper silently exited the storage unit once again as he recalled a nearby barrel of water - the stagnant liquid probably decent enough to allow him to clean off his mess and hide all evidence of his unexpected show.

Her innocent question rattled through his mind once more, the weeks old offer still as fresh as ever in its casualness.

Do you want to have sex?

And, after that little taste, Cooper felt a weight lift off his shoulders as he settled on the fact that, yes, if Lucy Maclean - with her big eyes and busy fingers - asked him again, then he would take her up on her very generous offer, consequences be fucking damned.

Links to the rest of the series:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

[aj-crafts]

A little over a month ago, @dangerphd posted a craigslist loom for sale. I bought it.

It's a 30 inch weaving width, 4 shaft table loom. The shafts are controlled by levers on the sides, which is really nice for my particular body problems.

I was finishing the tablet selvedge project on the loom which is also the warping board, so I couldn't start playing with it yet. Which means some pressure built up. I needed to be weaving.

This led me to skip over any potentially easy project, which might have helped me get accustomed to table loom weaving. So when I started winding the warp, I decided to make something 24 inches wide. Using 8/2 tencel (22 threads per inch). 2x2 twill.

I probably should not have started this way. Whatever.

Mistakes so far:

Bad at counting while winding the warp

Didn't have enough heddles

Measured the raddle section width wrong

Lots of heddle threading mistakes

Lots of reed sleying mistakes

One broken warp thread (so far)

Selvedge problems

After Such a long time warping and then fixing all the fixable mistakes, I am finally actually weaving.

You can definitely tell there are some remaining warp issues. The way I sleyed the reed initially turned out to be totally wrong because of another measuring mistake, and then I fixed it in a hurry, leading to More mistakes.

I fixed a lot of them in the beginning when I was just trying out a tabby weave. In this picture you can see where I've pulled threads out to re sley them and then tie them back down.

You can also see in both details pics that the warp spacing is inconsistent. It irks, but I will not fix it.

1- I don't know how - 22 threads per inch and 10 dents per inch means I can't put the same number of threads through every reed hole.

2- it looks enough like it's on purpose that I can kind of ignore it.

Now that I'm weaving, I'm really trying to focus on my selvedges. I'm also having to learn how to throw a shuttle correctly.

I clearly have to put in some more practice.

Altogether it is a relief to finally be working on this loom, and the problems I'm running into are teaching me a lot! Stay tuned for many more inches of twill.

I'm taking bets as to how long I can stay on task and keep working on the left leaning twill.

[tinypeckers]

It's not bro time, it's show time

Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) | Pairing: Buddie (Evan Buckley x Eddie Diaz)| Words: 3,881 | Rating: Teen and Up

Tags: Established Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Idiots in Love, Eddie Diaz Loves Evan "Buck" Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley Loves Eddie Diaz, Cute, Fluff, Silly, Brad Torrence is a Menace, Magic Mike Live, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Grinding, Possessive Evan "Buck" Buckley, If You Squint, Evan "Buck" Buckley Has Golden Retriever Energy, Vacation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, but it's brief and supposed to be humourous

Summary: London is a big place with lots of places to see - and boy, is Buck determined that he and Eddie see them. All of them. After several days upon his feet, Eddie is quite grateful to hear that Brad Torrance has gifted the couple free tickets to a West End show. Only maybe Eddie should have asked more questions before he'd said yes... (Or the fic in which Buck and Eddie go and see Magic Mike Live)

Read on AO3

Eddie had many things to say about Brad Torrance: Loud, arrogant, a little dim. But he was also, under all of that - way, way, way underneath all of that - kind, helpful and above all generous. Eddie couldn’t exactly fault the man at present, given he and Buck had avoided paying exorbitant hotel rates thanks to Brad offering them free board at his “home back home”. Eddie had expected a townhouse, a cottage in the country (so he wanted his Cameron Diaz moment, what of it), or even just an apartment somewhere in the vicinity that was Greater London. He should have known that Brad’s so-called “humble abode” would actually be a sprawling penthouse that overlooked the Thames.

There was nothing humble about it. It wasn’t as large as a penthouse in LA, maybe, but it was large enough for London’s standards. It was large enough that he couldn’t hear Buck as he took his shower, as Eddie might have done at home, and the kitchen had enough space that Eddie had to take several steps from the cupboard he stole a mug from to get to the Hildy coffee maker. Who put their mugs as far away from the coffee maker as possible? Brad, that was who. Eddie huffed as the wretched thing beeped into wakefulness, cringing at the robotic voice that greeted him.

“Coffee,” he grumbled when it asked what he wanted, only to roll his eyes as Hildy listed off all the fun and creative ways he could have said coffee. “Black coffee.”

The machine seemed just as put out as Eddie felt that it had been set such an easy task. It sputtered to do as asked, regardless, and Eddie turned just in time to see his boyfriend shuffle into the open-plan living area.

“Mornin’,” Buck murmured from beneath a towel that had the highest thread count Eddie had ever felt. Buck had always had nice towels at his loft, and now Eddie had nice towels at their home, but these towels were heavenly. He already knew if when they got married the towels would be at the top of the registry. The probability that they’d already be waiting for them on the stoop when they returned home was also quite high.

“Good morning.” Eddie made grabby hands for his boyfriend. He ached to touch the still slightly damp chest in front of him and to tease the tentative knot around Buck’s waist so the towel that hung there would drop right onto Brad’s pristine, expensive tiling. Buck gave into half of Eddie’s desires as he stepped into his space, but his free hand held firm to his towel skirt.

“We don’t have time,” Buck reminded him.

Eddie sighed. Ah yes, the never-ending Buck agenda. Eddie loved it, truly, he did. He couldn’t imagine experiencing London in anyway other than how he had thus far: trailing behind Buck, linked by their clasped hands, and bathed in an unending fountain of information.

“Where are we going today?” Despite Buck’s warning, Eddie pulled him into a not-so-chaste kiss which Hildy rudely interrupted with a panicked beep behind him. Eddie grumbled when Buck pulled back, clinging to as much of Buck’s pale skin as he could before his boyfriend used the counter island as a buffer between them.

“Your coffee’s ready,” Buck prompted. Eddie pursed his lips and grabbed it. Hildy’s melodic grumbling ceased immediately. Eddie blew gently into his mug. It hadn’t gone amiss that Buck had avoided his question.

Throughout their entire, gruelling trip Eddie had been a good sport. Mostly. He could handle the never-ending steps, the sweltering heat of the London Underground and the molasses-brained shufflers that were his fellow tourists. They were fine. He couldn’t really handle Buck’s habit of falling prey to every gift shop, however. Eddie side-eyed the second suitcase he’d had to buy to cater to Buck’s whims, open and already almost half-full despite their trip’s infancy. What Eddie really wanted to do was to spend a day lazing around the apartment. To just bask in the beauty that was Buck and not have to ooh and ah over stolen artefacts in overcrowded museums. But that was a waste of the trip, apparently, and Buck seemed quite determined to cover every inch of Britain’s capital (and then some, actually. Eddie had seen Buck researching the possibilities of day trips to Brighton and beyond).

“Buck, where are we going?”

Buck sighed like it was some hardship to share the day’s agenda.

“The zoo.”

Despite himself, Eddie smiled. The zoo. Even here Buck couldn’t resist the draw of the animals.

“Exciting.” Eddie meant it, too. He liked the zoo. He had fond memories of the zoo – of him, Buck and Chris spending hours in the LA zoo. He was sure to create more at London Zoo. It would mean more walking, but Buck had never, ever rushed around a zoo. Not even the one Eddie was pretty sure he could draw a map of in his sleep. It would be a slow day. A gentle day. So close to what Eddie had wanted-

“And the Sherlock Holmes Museum.” Buck bit at his lip. Eddie’s smile wavered. Okay. Maybe not quite as leisurely as Eddie had hoped, then, but it was only two things. Knowing Buck’s meticulous planning, they were likely close together. “And then we have to go back to Leicester Square-”

“No.”

Absolutely not. Eddie cringed at the thought. He could still smell the M&M store, sure that it was some kind of PTSD. It was probably the actual M&Ms (and skittles) that Buck had decanted into one of Brad’s many decorative bowls and placed on the counter between them.

“We’re going to see a show, Eddie,” Buck insisted. “A theatre show.”

Eddie tried not to show his interest. He had wanted to see a theatre show. When in the West End, and all that, but why did it have to be back in the cesspool that was Leicester Square? And, more importantly, weren’t theatre shows expensive? Eddie knew that Bobby had been so kind (or stupid) to send Buck some “extra spending money” after he had complained about the whole M&M debacle but surely that covered a couple of Queen Elizabeth II bobbleheads and not seats to a west end show? Buck must have seen Eddie’s thoughts play out across his face for he closed the distance between them once more, cupping Eddie’s cheeks in his warm, still kind of wet hands.

“It was free. Brad gave us the tickets.”

Oh. Well then. Eddie smiled in Buck’s hold. What was it he was saying about Brad again? Oh yeah. Kind, helpful and generous. If there was any money left after their trip, Eddie was going to buy him a gift basket. Or maybe even some very expensive M&Ms.

+

Eddie couldn’t wait to sit down. His arms ached from all the bags he had been forced to carry – more souvenirs he would have to cram into their suitcases – and his feet felt more like lead blocks than feet. He held as tightly as he could onto Buck’s hand through the throng of people that created a human wall in the passage between Leicester Square station and the square itself. Eddie wanted to get as far away from it as possible, so he was quite surprised when Buck stopped abruptly in front of the Hippodrome casino. Eddie crashed into his back.

“Buck, what are you doing?” Eddie hooked his chin over Buck’s shoulder to see what the problem was. Buck’s shoelaces were tied, and his phone was, thankfully, still buttoned into his shirt pocket. There was no reason Eddie could see why Buck should have stopped other than to torture him.

“We’re here.” Buck gestured in front of him to what Eddie now realised was another queue. Great.

“I thought we were going to see a show,” Eddie reminded him. He hadn’t come all this way to gamble. If he wanted to gamble, Eddie would have booked them flights to Vegas. Or just dragged Buck on another poker date. Yes, another. Hindsight was a funny thing. Eddie’s cheeks and ears had gone red when Hen had called them out for their official ‘first date’ being years after their real one. Still, Eddie shuffled forward behind Buck.

“We are.” Buck squeezed Eddie’s hand as the line continued to move. He used his free hand to fish his phone out from his chest to get the confirmation Brad had sent over to them.

Eddie sucked on his tongue in thought. What kind of theatre show was held at a casino? He had seen advertisements for a theatre show that imitated a courtroom, so maybe it was an immersive thing? Still, Eddie had hoped for something more artsy: Les Misérables, or Hamilton maybe. He opened his mouth to ask the show’s name, only for the building to tell him before Buck could.

Magic Mike Live.                                                                                                                                                                     

Eddie swallowed around saliva that wasn’t there. His eyes darted to the wall behind a menacing looking bouncer where images of shirtless men haunted him even when he closed his eyes to blink.

“Buck,” Eddie hissed into his boyfriend’s ear. “Buck. This isn’t a theatre show. It’s a stripper show.” Of course. Of course, Brad Torrance had booked them into a male stripper show. Eddie could imagine it now: Brad, priding himself on being an ally, had thought it the best gift ever. He was, after all, a little bit dim. Or a lot, maybe. And Buck – Eddie’s sweet, oblivious, Buck who had seen only a handful of movies in his life – had accepted without thinking, or probably even knowing, what he’d signed he and Eddie up to. His clueless little huh was drowned out by a pretty woman with kind, yet kind of judging, eyes as she greeted them.

“Chuck Buckley, and Eddie Diaz, right? Come this way.”

Oh. Oh no. Even better worse, Brad had sprung for the VIP seats. Buck seemed enamoured with it all, grinning at Eddie as they bypassed the peasants who had to wait in line for their seats.

“Isn’t this fun?” Buck asked on their journey to be seated in Eddie’s personal hell. Buck’s grin was genuine, and his eyes twinkled with excitement. Eddie sighed. He nodded dutifully. At least he could sit. They passed a sign that warned them that the show was 90 minutes long with no interval. Eddie gritted his teeth. It was just 90 minutes. He could withstand 90 minutes. Then he was going to call Brad and give him an earful. Eddie sunk into his seat like a condemned man. They were so close to the stage. Too close. He shuffled closer to Buck and rested a possessive hand on his boyfriend’s thigh. The lady who had brought them to their seats came back – Eddie hadn’t even realised she’d left – with prosecco for them both. Buck thanked her loudly as Eddie helped himself to a big, very necessary sip.

The show was… not what Eddie expected. He’d braced himself for 90 minutes of shirtless men, awkward grinding and holding onto Buck for dear life. There were shirtless men, yes, but their dances weren’t half as vulgar as Eddie had expected and it was balanced out by a genuine good show of talent amidst other dancers and some acrobatics. There had been a bit of awkwardness at the start when a dancer far too handsome for Eddie’s liking had cupped his boyfriend’s cheek, but following Eddie’s utter death glare they had been quite left alone. Let the drunken bachelorette party to the right have all the fun, Eddie thought. He was quite content to enjoy the cocktails that were being brought out to them, however. Maybe VIP wasn’t quite so bad after all. Buck was certainly enjoying it, beaming wildly and hollering a little too loud on occasion. Every time that happened, he glanced at Eddie, cheeks flushed even in the low light, and they’d shared a laugh. Eddie thought that they might survive the night, even when the dances grew a little more provocative.

And then Brad Torrance took to the stage.

Eddie had taken a rather liberal mouthful of his second cocktail when he appeared. It took everything in him to keep from spitting it out onto the stage. Eddie heard Buck’s gasp clear as day despite the roar of the crowd. Eddie had seen Brad shirtless many a time – Hotshots tended to have him lose his shirt in one way or another – but he hadn’t ever seen his chest so close, or quite so shiny. Eddie felt his heart plummet into his ass when Brad spotted him. His grin was Cheshire-like and his eyes wholly predatory as they homed in on Eddie.

No.

Please.

God no.

“Yes,” Buck cackled when Brad offered his hand to Eddie. Buck stole Eddie’s cocktail and sat up straighter in his seat as he took a sip. Eddie was too late to take his hand back before Brad took it, hoisting him up onto the stage egged on by thunderous cheers. Eddie wanted to die. Brad pushed and prodded him to take a seat on the lone chair in the centre of the stage, quickly following him down onto it. Eddie cringed when their thighs met, thankfully clothed.

“Hey, Eddie,” Brad said as if he hadn’t begun to grind against Eddie’s crotch.

“Hi.” Eddie’s voice came out as nothing more than a squeak. He looked past Brad’s glistening chest to his boyfriend, begging for mercy. Buck held his hand up, curling his fingers into an ‘okay’ gesture as he winked. Eddie looked to the ceiling and prayed for the lord to smite him. He didn’t believe he was a sinner for being gay, nor for half the stuff he’d done that would bring shame upon his very Catholic family, but if all the bigots were right, he begged that the lord would cast him from the earth that second. He would meet Buck in hell… eventually.

The lap dance went on for far too long. Throughout it all Brad spoke to Eddie as if they were sat back in the firehouse sharing a coffee. He asked how the trip was going, if they’d been anywhere special, if they were engaged yet. Bobby must have said something. Eddie could hardly muster words, but he glared up at Brad for that one. Surely the bulge in his jeans – no, not that bulge. There was no bulge of that sort. In fact, Eddie was sure his dick had withered up and died somewhere around the time Brad had nosed at his neck – answered the last question. Eddie had never wanted to be this close to Brad. Ever. That people paid for this experience made him shudder. He practically leapt from the stage when Brad released him, grateful for the cocktail that awaited him when he sat back down. He downed as much of it as he could immediately. The lady to his left leaned into his side as he did so, sighing dreamily.

“You’re so lucky,” she breathed. Eddie arched his brows up at her. Sure, if that’s what she wanted to call it.

By the time the 90 minutes were through, Eddie was sure that he’d aged 90 years. The show was not over, not fully, however, as their hostess brought them into Magic Mike’s exclusive Permission lounge. Eddie wished for permission to leave but was quickly won over by another complimentary drink and the canapes.

“That was so fun,” Buck gushed. “You looked so funny up on that stage.”

Eddie glared at him over a mouthful of something far too small and too chewy.

“Brad Torrance grinded on me, Buck.” He waited for the flash of jealousy, or the wrinkle of Buck’s nose. If it had been Buck who had been brought up on stage Eddie would have saw red. Actually, Eddie would have been thrown out for racing up there after him. But Buck only laughed and nudged up against Eddie’s side, the brush of his nose against Eddie’s ear much more pleasant and familiar than Brad’s had been.

“What did that woman say, again? Lucky.”

Eddie elbowed him in the side and snatched Buck’s cocktail for such cheek.

Eddie’s luck had not run out, apparently, for their VIP package also granted them a meet and greet with two of the cast. Naturally, the last person Eddie wanted to see would be one of them.

“You know, boys, you could have just called. You didn’t have to go through all this effort to meet me,” Brad joked as he approached, his coworker smirking and obviously in on his ploy.

“What are you even doing here?” Eddie asked, a little bitter maybe. Buck clicked his tongue at him. Eddie huffed. “I mean, thanks for the tickets and the… uh…” no. Eddie refused. He would not thank Brad for that violation. Brad’s coworker nudged his arm, pleased as punch.

“I’ve never seen someone go as red as you up there. It was cute.” He poked at Eddie’s still-pinkened cheeks and, finally, Buck’s eyes narrowed.

A spark ran through Eddie’s fingers when Buck grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the offending dancer. He missed Buck’s touch when he disentangled their fingers, though it was not gone for long as a sure and possessive hand tucked itself around Eddie’s waist. The dancer smartly stepped back and put more space between them. Brad seemed oblivious to it all.

“Got some time off between shooting, thought I’d come back to the ol’ hometown. Try something different,” he answered Eddie’s earlier question. Eddie didn’t see how being shirtless on a stage was much different than being shirtless on a TV show. Although, he supposed, one was live. “Plus, my third wife is taking me to court again. You know how that is, such a ball ache.”

Eddie frowned. No, he did not know, actually. His wife had died before they’d managed to initiate the divorce and when he and Buck eventually tied the knot, he planned to superglue it together so that it would never unravel.

The tension of the night dissipated as they continued to talk, Brad perhaps spending much longer at their table than he might have at other normal meet and greets. There was just so much to say. Between Buck and Brad Eddie found himself going mute, not daring to indulge the other dancer in conversation and piss off his boyfriend further. Eventually he left with a polite nod and Eddie settled for ordering more drinks at the bar. He stopped calculating the cost after Brad told their hostess he’d cover it. Eddie’s slight fear that Brad might ask to crash at his penthouse was soothed by Brad’s admittance that he was staying in a smaller, more cozy home nearby. Closer to the kids, he’d said, but Eddie was sure the ‘kids’ were closer to he and Buck’s age than Chris’. Plus, if the gossip magazines Eddie definitely did not read were to be believed, they’d all but disowned Brad entirely.

Eventually, though, the night had to end. Brad hardly batted an eye at the bill when it arrived, even as Eddie’s overpriced cocktails congealed in his stomach with guilt, and he offered them a ride in his sleek car. Eddie took it in a heartbeat. Better the clean, fresh seats of Brad’s car than the stinky, dust-covered seats of the underground. They were home in no time – the streets of London a little easier to navigate in the dead of night – and soon Eddie was tucked up in sheets that were ridiculously soft with his equally as soft and snuggly boyfriend tucked up into his side. The ring had been safely transferred from his jeans to the fanny pack Chris had called lame when Eddie had bought it. Eddie found it extremely useful, at least. He had just gotten comfy, hands tracing idle patterns across Buck’s exposed arm, and was ready to dream of spa days and fluffy clouds, when Buck turned toward him and murmured something into his chest.

“What?”

Eddie threaded his hand into Buck’s curls and used his grip, gentle as he could be, to lift Buck’s head so that when he repeated himself it was clear as day.

“Sorry,” Buck said with slightly wet eyes. Eddie frowned. What was Buck apologising for? He was the one who had had a lapful of Brad Torrance. “For dragging you to Magic Mike. I didn’t know it was a stripper show, Eddie. Honest.”

“It wasn’t just a stripper show,” Eddie countered, just to make Buck a little better. Buck shifted and Eddie’s grip in his hair eased, letting Buck’s head drop onto his shoulder. “It was… something, that’s for sure.” Eddie shuddered with the memory of Brad and Buck laughed softly into the nape of his neck. “I had fun though. And a lot of cocktails.”

Good, expensive and yet free cocktails. Eddie wasn’t going to complain about anything free.

Buck huffed, slightly bitter that he hadn’t thought to take advantage of Brad’s generosity.

“Still, we’ve been doing a lot of what I want to do. What about you?” Buck pressed his finger right over where Eddie’s heart beat beneath his skin.

“Whatever you want to do.” Eddie dropped his lips to the top of Buck’s head and pressed a kiss there, only to laugh when Buck huffed again.

“Seriously, Eddie. What do you want to do?” Buck looked up at him, utilising those big blue eyes that had Eddie falling (metaphorically) to his knees every time. Eddie stood no chance.

“I want a do-over,” Eddie admitted. Buck scrunched up his face and Eddie knew instantly what he was thinking. “No, no, no. I want to see a show. A real West End show. My pick.”

Buck nodded against Eddie’s chest. His finger drew a cartoon heart over Eddie’s real one.

“What were you thinking?”

Eddie’s lips twitched upwards. They had seen so many posters for so many shows on their many journeys through the underground, there were so many to choose from, but Eddie had his heart set on one production he’d been familiar with for decades now.

“You’ll see,” he said, just to tease Buck a little. The whole trip had rested on Buck’s shoulders and Eddie wished to ease some of that weight, a little, and give Buck something to look forward to that he hadn’t planned himself. Buck looked oddly at Eddie but didn’t prod, only hummed his acknowledgement. Eddie also had a plan to cover the price, too. He glanced out the corner of his eye to his phone. It had lit up a short while earlier when he waited for Buck to brush his teeth, a chain of texts confirming what he had already guessed: Bobby had known about Magic Mike and, as expected, had pushed Brad to interrogate him regarding anything to do with a proposal. He hadn’t accounted for the lap dance, admittedly, but Eddie knew exactly how Bobby could make up for that. His smile widened when his phone lit up again with an email Bobby had forwarded, confirming his and Buck’s ticket to the show. After all, what were future father-in-laws for if not for making their kids happy?

[serenas-dawnsinger]

Daily Writing Challenge (May 2025) 5/26, Day 2 Placate / Graceful

(Warning for manipulation, mild gaslighting via shadow magic I suppose?)

Morning found Serenas entering the Sojourn’s walking gardens as she usually did to meet her young guide, Seon. A thread of nervousness made her heart flutter in approach, but she had long learned how to mask her nerves with composed grace and elegant stature around a table of judging nobility. She strode to the humble mistweaver with the same trained presentation, smiled as the fuzzy face turned to greet her.

“Are we ready to take this show on the road?!” Seon asked with his typical charged energy. He’d been tasked with accompanying her around Pandaria, and they had made quite the adventurous pair. But the writer desired a different outcome today, and she gently turned his words in on him.

“Ah, but Seon, I think you have forgotten. I’ll be going to the Market on my own today,” Serenas blinked innocently into her own charade, feigning surprise.

“…huh?” The pandaren seemed minutely confused. Then skeptical. “Really?” He chuckled. “So when did the plan change, Miss Serra?”

The gentle smile curved her lips, placating his confusion, the skepticism. “Oh, I know we’ve gotten ourselves into a little habit,” she replied with a cant of the head in respectful apology, and continued to let her words flow with soft intention. A melliflous shift of tone, every word fed as suggestion to touch the mind with the shaded delicacy of a swallow’s wing. “But mother mentioned it just yesterday, do you remember? She said you needn’t take me to the Market this time. I do know my way after all.”

The mistweaver’s eyes clouded over with the mental nudge, smiling dazedly under the swaying thrall. “Oh, yeah…” It made all the sense, after all. Serenas certainly knew her way to the markets.

A soft blink of dark lashes, and she gently released Seon from the enthrallment, and further placated any rise of doubt with an offering. “But tomorrow maybe you would like to take me to the ruins you spoke of before? In the mountain here? We can talk to mother about it tonight and see what she thinks?” She gasped softly, sweeping him into the idea. “Let me surprise you with something from the Market in the meantime!”

“Heh!” Seon was fully on board, and waved the little writer in farewell as she started her exit from the walking gardens. “Sounds awesome!”

As Serenas made her way to the Tavern of the Mists by herself, she bit into her lip to contain the flutter of excited laughter. She had used the Shadow. She had actually done it. The Dawnsingers had always forbade the use of the Shadow, and she had lived in fear of their horror stories all of her life. But Nia was right: the Shadow was only the other side of the Light, and her draenic friend had all the faith in her that no Priest of the Living Flame had ever shown. It had been easy as carrying a melody to tell it true, to shade Seon’s mind and implant the false memory. A harmless veil, really. In the evening, he’d think nothing of it when she would guide him into conversation with her mother. Thoughts moved on. At least when they were not penned to paper.

Serenas could not wait to meet Nia as planned, and tell her everything.

{ @daily-writing-challenge }

[taweretsdagger]

"we can use a mirror, kate can hold it"

lost's tragic, (probably) autistic doctors: part two. this time with some fraught gender dynamics!

so it turns out once you start reading jack and juliet as autistic, you can't turn it off. it takes over your whole life and suddenly your mind is just a big cork board with a bunch of red thread and push pins. and in the center of the chaos is the following image:

this is part two (of three... probably, hopefully only three!) of my jack and juliet analysis series. if you haven't read part one of this analysis, you can find it here!

in this post, i'll focus on autistic traits which present differently in each of them and discuss how gender may be contributing to those differences. but before we get into all that, i want to spend a moment (maybe two) talking about food.

food, autism, and gender

the grilled cheese above is something of a celebrity in this series--it's what links juliet to jack the first time we see them interact. food in general is an important part of their relationship while jack is being held prisoner, since juliet is tasked with delivering his meals. by a few episodes into s3, the two of them have become friendly and familiar as a result of these interactions. juliet brings jack a cheeseburger, and climbs up to sit on the table in his cell while she jokes about making the whole thing from scratch. it's an adorable exchange, and a far cry from jack attacking juliet at the start of s3.

after juliet is taken prisoner by the others for killing danny, we see jack complain when tom brings him a sandwich (because juliet used to be the one to bring his food). later in the episode, she does so once again, and jack treats her brand with an aloe plant--another sweet moment, which ends with him promising that they'll make sure ben lets them leave the island.

i started this post with this topic because the motif of food and nourishment displays both the autism and gender stuff between jack and juliet really succinctly. getting enough to eat is a common challenge for autistic people--sensory sensitivities can make certain foods or preparation methods intolerable, and it's common for autistic people to eat the same few meals over and over again and/or be particular or "picky" eaters. it would make sense for two autistic people engaged in some serious hero-savior/captor-prisoner projection to bond quickly over meals and food preferences.

in the first part of this analysis, i mentioned differences in how jack and juliet are positioned among their respective societies. let's go back to that. both characters are (gifted, brilliant) doctors, but we are first introduced to juliet in a domestic/support role, and will continue to see her portrayed as the designated "food delivery other," as well as a sidekick to ben's various plans and antics.

there are certainly narrative reasons for these choices, but it is a notable role for the single doctor among an isolated society to play. especially so when compared to how infrequently we see jack interacting with the crash survivors' food systems such as fishing, hunting, and gardening (or being positioned as a supporting character in any sense).

along the same lines of how two doctors might be positioned in their societies based (in part) on their gender, the same autistic traits or tendencies can present differently in two people depending on their specific personal experiences and identities, gender included. we do live in a society, after all!

here are a few signs of autism we'll examine more specifically in jack and juliet using this lens:

stimming/sensory processing issues

masking (and not masking)

meltdowns and associated coping mechanisms

some info that's relevant to discussion of each of these traits is that autistic behaviors are likely to be "toned down"/experienced more internally in (cis) girls as compared to (cis) boys. more than anything, it's suspected this is due to patriarchal expectations of how girls should behave in childhood. it also contributes to the under-diagnosis of girls with autism (and other forms of neurodivergence), since they are more likely to experience punishment for these traits and may learn to hide them as a result.

stimming:

in jack's case, i'd argue drug/alcohol use is the most salient example of stimming. substances are commonly used as a sensory-seeking behavior, and something we specifically see jack turn to when a situation is out of his control (more on his control issues later).

the one example that's front of mind for me with juliet is the shot of her waiting to talk to ed, where the camera zooms in on her hands and she's tugging at her fingers. but as the shot pans up, we see that her expression is neutral and placid. this is a much less overt example of stimming as compared to jack's, which could tie in the gender dynamic stuff i mentioned earlier.

masking:

as alluded to above, autistic girls are often high-masking, especially if they are punished for displaying behaviors which might be tolerated to a greater degree among boys. i think one area we see differences in jack and juliet's use of masking is in their respective bedside manners with patients.

it's a running joke that this isn't a strength of jack's (though i don't think his bedside manner is as bad as it's made out to be). meanwhile, we see juliet interact very comfortably with sun when giving her an ultrasound, both in s3 (when there's still a LOT of distrust between them) and in s6. being a healthcare worker is emotionally demanding for anyone, but the expectations on women working in this field to perform emotional labor are likely to be higher, based on patriarchal ideas of women being "natural" nurturers.

we also watch juliet actively mask in her very first scene on the show, when she is on the edge of crying and quickly pulls herself together to get ready for book club. yet she's still clearly *struggling* to keep it together throughout the rest of that scene--burning her hand on the muffin pan and responding irritably to adam, only really coming into her own once the plane crash causes something like an earthquake in the barracks and she jumps into emergency response mode.

meltdowns:

like with stimming, we have a lot more data available with jack than we do juliet, and this fact can be interpreted as evidence of gender influencing their specific presentations of autism in and of itself. (however, i do think there's more to juliet than meets the eye when it comes to meltdowns.)

jack has a LOT of emotional outbursts, usually when things are out of his control. he definitely has issues with anger, and expresses it inappropriately often. confronting christian at an AA meeting, blowing up at sarah/kate/cindy/etc. even over small things, the way he treats locke and sawyer during disagreements... i'm sure there are more examples. in addition to his substance use, i think jack's need to be in control and have all the answers are things he uses to help regulate himself and avoid going into a full meltdown. which works sometimes, and other times not.

so, moving to juliet. we do see her have emotional outbursts and use violence, but the way these behaviors occur in her is much different to me from how we see them in jack. i think juliet's meltdowns are more internalized, usually presenting as self-destruction that's driven by her morbid curiosity, her abandonment issues, or both.

when things start getting out of hand--again, even in small ways--juliet has a tendency to dive in headfirst, even if doing so puts her in harm's way. i always think of her chugging the juice richard gives her (not to mention the BOMB, which i'll hold off on discussing until we get to part three), but there are also several examples where juliet's fear of being abandoned makes her push people away before they can leave themselves. she says as much to jack before they kiss outside the tempest (though at that time she has ben available as a very reasonable excuse), giving us yet another example of these characters being receptacles for the other to project their issues and desires onto.

season 4 and the bootleg appendectomy

okay, let's pick up the story where we left off in part one!

in general, the dynamic between jack and juliet is positive throughout most of s4. we see juliet operating like a co-leader of the group that stays with jack on the beach; she is armed basically the whole season and regularly goes on expeditions to find/direct/check up on people, both other beach crew members as well the new "outsider" threats of daniel and charlotte.

however, despite the two getting along well on the surface, juliet and jack are on opposite development trajectories throughout the season. i mentioned juliet continuing to grow as a community member and leader among the survivors; on the other hand, jack starts out s4 pointing a gun at locke and pulling the trigger. that act, coupled with the final fracture of the survivors' group (in a BRILLIANT scene, in the dark, in the rain, RIGHT BESIDE the oceanic 815 wreckage!!!), shows that we have left behind jack's "live together" era and entered his "die alone" one.

let's close out this part by discussing the appendectomy, as this clearly shows the schism in jack and juliet's respective arcs. it's a really important event between them, not the least because jack 100% would have died had juliet not been there or not been capable of performing the operation.

in part one, i described viewing jack and juliet's relationship like two mirrors reflecting against each other. i'm going to follow that metaphor here (and will continue to do so in part three of this analysis), since it helps show that the two are no longer in sync by the back half of s4.

the appendicitis development is, of course, a nightmare for jack's control issues. but, one might think he'd be able to let go of these since juliet is a doctor who has performed quite a few appendectomies. sure, she's not a surgeon; sure, it's not ideal. but i think jack's reaction displays his misogyny just as much as it does his need to be in control, since he goes to extreme lengths to make clear he doesn't trust juliet to get the job done.

demanding to be awake during abdominal surgery is ludicrous enough. specifically demanding that someone *without medical training* be present to hold a mirror so you can watch the surgery is a degree of absurdity only jack shephard could bring to the situation. and i mean, how significant i personally find this demand might already be clear based on the title of this post, but through his inability to trust juliet, jack literally projects out the mirroring camaraderie he and juliet have previously experienced onto kate!! (gahhhh, it's just so so good!)

at first juliet goes along with jack's demands, but after it becomes clear she won't be able to perform the procedure successfully with him awake, her growth as a leader is made clear to us. juliet stands up to jack, orders bernard to knock him out, and orders kate to leave. she pulls it all off expertly--no self-destruction on her part, no one gets hurt, nor are there any gratuitous displays of anger/aggression. everything goes smoothly, as soon as juliet steps up.

as if that's not enough, we then see her make amends with kate and open up about her kiss with jack (knowing jack is awake, basically playing matchmaker between them). it's very similar to when jack lets go of kate at the end of s3, but in juliet's case it's a step forward we actually see her follow through on.

like their positions among their societies and the autistic traits discussed in this post, juliet's approach to leadership is markedly different from the one we typically see jack take. this idea comes back around in the leadership struggle between jack and sawyer later on in s5, and it would makes sense for both juliet and sawyer to have strategies that are disparate from jack's, and/or that sawyer relies on juliet as an advisor/comrade in his position of leadership among the dharma initiative.

(hey, is anyone else consumed by the symbolism of juliet taking out jack's appendix? a vestigial organ that's part of the digestive system? one he doesn't need anymore, because his ancestors evolved to cook their food and prepare it in more palatable, digestible ways?? anyway, i think i'm gonna make a grilled cheese for lunch.)

i will see you all back in the meta-analysis verse for jack and juliet part three: bomb and death edition! <3 :')