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mourning-sapphire · 17 days ago

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Little Flame | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond’s life was incredibly dim after the war, a bottomless carven he’d sunk himself into with his own actions, until one by one, little flames came into his life.

Pairing: king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader (AU)

Fic warnings: nothing, just FLUFF, there’s mentions of past angst and trauma, but... GIRL DAD AEMOND!!!

Word count: 8.2k

authors note: happy fathers day to girl dad aemond <3

masterlist

If someone had told Aemond during the war that he’d even live to see past that fateful day at the Gods Eye, he would snarl and tell them that he’d rather die gloriously than whatever else fate had from him. But as the war ended, and the ashes from his discretions dimmed, he was left with a hole in his life so vast that he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to fill it.

But the war had eventually ended.

The fires died down, the roar of familiar dragons faded into bitter memory, and the ashes of his many discretions settled into quiet ruin, not forgotten by anyone but not brought up. What remained for him was not peace, but a yawning emptiness that he could almost feel cramping at his own jaw. An empty abyss so vast that he doubted it could ever be filled. War had changed Aemond, irreversibly, and in ways he hadn’t expected.

His mind, had been twisted by the whispers of a woodswitch, and now he bore the scars of unnatural influence on his mind, and traumatised by the things he’d seen within the damp walls of that cursed land. He had watched those who wronged him meet their end—some by his own hand, others by the hands of chaos during—but he had also lost more than any amount of revenge could ever restore.

His family, his blood, his brothers and sister were gone—burned out as swiftly as it had been forged. And what remained was hardly anything to sing about, his mother, was now so entangled in her own delusions that speaking to her felt like reaching through smoke.

His reign as Prince Regent had never been meant to last, although he begged he knew that it was a borrowed title, a duty taken up in the name of his fallen kin, something of his own doing to some degree. But when the last of his brother's children succumbed to the cruel winter fever that swept through the city, everything changed.

The Targaryen line of succession thinned from a rope to a thread, and suddenly, the burden of kingship shifted squarely onto his shoulders permanently. While Aemond has prepped himself for being King all his life, his short time leading during the war, and the task he was to take on after were two completely different monsters to fight.

The war had been a monster he understood: it roared, and he roared back ready to fight, it was two sides; Green and Black, family and hate. But peace? Peace was a stranger in fine robes to him, a subtle, insidious thing that demanded he be whole when all he felt was broken and alone.

Aemond sat the throne not as a conqueror, not like his ancestors, but as a ghost wearing a crown feeling as dead as the people who created it.

Aemond truly had little to enjoy in life, getting everything that he wanted and longed for, was a double-edged sword that left him wounded more than losing his eye ever had. He had to navigate his grief along with taking on a new task, a realm, something his small council had wasted no time in reminding him about.

“You cannot rule alone, Your Grace.” He could still remember the pain behind his eye as he heard from one of his small council members during one of his first permanent meetings as King, “The Realm needs unity and you need a wife.”

That much, he could not deny. He needed a queen—whether he wanted one or not.

But where others might have seen an opportunity for alliance, for legacy, for strength, Aemond saw only chains.

His cousins Rhaena and Baela were the obvious suggestions from everyone, names whispered in the corridors of the Keep like half-formed prayers that he could salvage the Targaryen line that way. But he dismissed the thought outright. No number of empty words or desperate pleas could convince him—or them—to pretend they could mend what had been broken, that he hadn’t killed their father.

The blood spilt between them was too deep, too fresh, and even if it hadn’t been, he would never entertain such a farce. He would rather have perished that day at the Gods Eye than bind himself to a woman he deemed a pretender.

That decision, however, left few other paths.

The great houses of Westeros wanted little to do with the remnants of House Targaryen. The Baratheon’s, once staunch supporters of his cause, had turned their backs in bitter silence, scorning the memory of oaths made before the war. The Lannister’s were quiet, too busy rebuilding their own strength to entangle themselves in dragonfire politics. The Riverlands still wept for their fallen. And the Reach had closed its gates.

As for the witch—the strange, beguiling witch—she was long gone. Dead and buried beneath marshlands and silence, leaving behind nothing but half-remembered whispers and a ghost of betrayal that stung a little more than others.

There was no one left to marry.

No one suitable. No one willing. No one alive.

He often stared at the list the council had delivered—daughters of lesser lords who still had weight to their name, some barely past their maiden years, others hardened by politics and ambition. But they were all names with no meaning, no faces to haunt his thoughts. It felt like choosing a sword from a room full of dull blades—serviceable, but uninspired.

Still, he knew he would have to choose eventually.

The realm would not wait forever, winter was creeping further south, and with it, uncertainty. If the Targaryen line was to endure, it would need more than one scarred prince with a dragon and a crown. It would need heirs. It would need strength.

And he… he would need to become something more than the broken man left behind by war.

For a while, all hope had truly been lost that Aemond would find someone to sit beside him for the rest of his life, that was until he met you.

You arrived at court in the quiet aftermath of war, the daughter of a minor Reach house—one that had bent the knee late, but wisely, avoiding the full wrath of dragons. Your family name was known only in passing, and your presence at the Red Keep was unremarkable by court standards: part diplomacy, part observance, part subtle reminder of House Targaryen’s waning influence over the once-loyal South.

And yet, to him? You were unforgettable.

You did not shimmer like the daughters of the Great Houses, nor had a presence that filled rooms with pointed laughter or political ambition. You moved like a whisper through the Red Keep—gentle, observant, seemingly delicate. But Aemond, trained to read silence as keenly as sound, sensed something else beneath that soft exterior. You were not weak, just quiet. Tempered, and in that calm restraint, there was strength.

At first, he ignored you—or tried to. You were one more face at a banquet, another name offered with a bow too low. But there was a steadiness to you that made him linger. When you spoke, it was never to impress. When you listened, you truly heard everyone around you. And when you met his eye for the first time—you did not flinch.

That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He began to notice things. The way your hands folded in your lap with practised grace at the sept on the 7th day. The way you walked alone in the gardens rather than crowding into courtly gossip that the ladies often held during afternoon tea. The way your voice never rose to chase attention, and yet somehow always carried when you did decide to speak. You were not like the others, not moulded for power in the way the council would prefer, but neither were you afraid of it.

There wasn’t steel in you, but bone, something raw and natural, hidden beneath linen and courtesy. And gods help him, Aemond found he preferred it to the glittering blades the lords kept offering him.

He first spoke to you in passing, a cool exchange in the library over some half-forgotten history that Aemond knew by hand, but for you, he’d pretend he just learned. You had corrected him on a minor detail—a date, a name, he couldn’t recall and he didn’t care—and while his brow had creased in irritation, you had not withdrawn from talking to him. You had looked up at him, unwavering, and said: “Even dragons can be mistaken, my King.”

He should have been offended, usually, people often sought to offend him when correcting him. But instead, for the first time in what felt like years, he’d laughed—just once, just enough to startle himself. Just enough to remind himself that he wasn’t made of dragon glass inside.

He found excuses to see you after that.

A letter asking for a stroll through the Queen’s gardens, a conversation in the sunroom where you sat reading in the warmth. A dinner were seating was rearranged at his subtle command. He never confessed to it, not even to himself, but every encounter seemed to leave behind something he hadn’t felt in years: quiet, peace, possibility, and warmth.

And yet, he knew it could not last—not easily at least.

Aemond knew that while he was king, the council still had expectations. A wife from a lesser house was not the alliance they envisioned for him and his reign, hence why your name was never uttered on any list he was ever given. Even those loyal to him would question it if he was to indulge, you had no great army behind you, no sprawling coffers of gold to offer the fading riches of the crown. You offered no guarantee of peace beyond the boundaries of your small domain.

But what you did offer was something Aemond had never expected to find: someone who did not look at him with fear, worship, or loathing—but with a tender understanding that he hadn’t seen since he was just a boy. Eyes damped with calmness, with a softness that neither threatened him but instead, welcomed him as he was—the scarred, bitter, dangerous man he had become.

That terrified him more than he could say.

He still hadn’t told the council. Not yet. The list of eligible brides remained untouched on his desk, curling at the edges and gathering dust on the ink. He stared at it some mornings, all while he felt the weight of the crown settle like a shackle around his throat.

But then, by some play of his hand he would see you in his mind, see you wrapped in your soft pink shawl as you walked the paths of the godswood, your breath misting in the cold morning air, your eyes soft and watchful as you mumbled to yourself in the heart of the Keep. Walking towards something, walking towards him.

And for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder—not about duty or strategy, but about what it might feel like to choose something not out of obligation, but desire, to have you walk towards him and never stray.

He didn’t want a political bride, he didn’t want an allegiance, his days of mindless duty were gone.

He wanted you.

But Aemond was not a man who made decisions lightly, even at the notion of wanting you left him at war with himself for weeks. His mind trapped in a web of what-ifs and imagined consequences if he proceeded.

Every quiet moment was filled with them.

What if the realm turned against his family once more? What if his choice fractured already tenuous alliances? What if he proved, in the end, no better than the fools who had once ruled with their hearts instead of their minds?

And yet, the louder those doubts became, the more persistent his thoughts of you grew. Through your time together, you had taken no action to sway him, offered no subtle seduction or plea for affection from him, or even want to be Queen. You had merely remained—as you were—calm, honest, composed while he stewed in his turmoil. He admired that.

Gods help him, he needed that.

The war had left him surrounded by ghosts and obligations. His own mother wandered the halls, half lost in her own memories and mumblings, more in common with his late sister than he ever thought. His council muttered constantly about names and lineages, numbers and heirs. Every path he was offered felt like a negotiation with fate—a stupid compromise wrapped in silk and laced with poison.

Except you.

You were the only path that didn’t feel like a betrayal of himself.

He wore himself down with the weight of it.

He never was one for sleeping well but it got worse. He grew short with his council, his temper fraying. He stopped attending the hunt for a bride altogether, letting names pile up like snowdrifts in the throne room. And when he finally made his decision, he did not announce it with any bite or snarl like he would have a year ago. He simply rose from his chair in the council chamber one bitter cold evening, the candlelight catching on the silver of his hair, and said, flatly:

“I will not marry for the crown, I will marry for the future, and I have chosen my queen.”

The chamber had gone silent as soon as the words had passed his lips.

There were objections, of course. Predictable ones. His master of coin was the first to speak—pale with shocked fury, citing precedent and strength and alliances to fill the pockets of the crown. Others followed, half in shock, half in fear of what it meant that Aemond Targaryen—scarred, cold-eyed, terrifying Aemond—had done something unexpected.

But it didn’t matter.

He had made his decision, and for once, it was not for war, not for vengeance, not even for power. It was for something simpler, something that had somehow become more terrifying than all three.

It was for you, the woman who accepted him and his hasty proposal that same night.

The wedding ceremony was small by Targaryen standards, the crown too depleted for anything extravagant but neither of you wanted that. It modest, almost private, exactly what the two of you were. There had been a intimate ceremony with just the two of you on Dragonstone as well, a small Valyrian ceremony that Aemond had wished to honour himself and his family.

But as soon as it was announced there would even be a wedding whispers flitted through the court like restless birds. Some called it a disgrace, others a political blunder. But none dared say it to his face. And as you stood beside him in the Great Hall that day, draped in the soft colours of your house, your hand small but steady in his, Aemond felt the world fall quiet for the first time in years.

No gold-braided noblewoman could have steadied him like you did. No courtly-trained bride could have met his gaze the way you did, unflinching, calm, knowing. You had not been born to be queen—but somehow, you became one the moment you chose him in return.

And at that moment, with your fingers intertwined in his, and you shared your first kiss, Aemond finally understood. The realm could hate him, the council could doubt him, the histories could question him.

But for once, he had chosen something not for House Targaryen, not for the throne, not even for the realm.

He had chosen peace.

And he had found it—in you.

Marriage did not make Aemond easier to love.

He was not cruel—not in the way many feared he would be—but he was still distant. Guarded. Silent in ways that words could not mend. He had spent so long surviving by himself—gripping tightly to his rage, grief, and discipline—that the new peace felt unnatural. Softness felt dangerous. Love… even more so.

He knew bedding you was never going to be an issue, the two of you clicked in ways he wasn’t sure was possible with someone, but loving you was a beast he did not know how to tame.

Aemond still carried the war inside him like it was bound to his soul, and even now it clung to him in the darkest hours of the night. It lingered in the shadow under his eye, in the way he sometimes flinched from your kindness as if it were a trap. And though the crown was now firmly upon his head, and the halls of the Red Keep no longer echoed with the cries grief.

He still remained ever vigilant—watchful, restrained, cold.

You had not walked into the union with rose-tinted hope. You had seen him before the vows were ever exchanged, truly seen him. The way he moved like he bore chains only he could feel. The way his eye, so sharp and calculating in court, would sometimes lose focus—drawn back into memory or regret. You had not been chosen to heal him. You had not expected to.

But even so… you hoped.

The early months of marriage were difficult.

You learned the limits of his affection by accident—what could be touched, what should be left alone, what you shouldn’t ask about. He rarely offered compliments, he never asked for comfort. And in truth, he seemed unsure of what to do with your presence at all.

Some days, he left before sunrise and returned after dusk without a word. Others, he sat beside you in silence during meals, eating little, his thoughts miles away as you mindlessly tried to fill that silence. You tried not to take his attitude to heart, you told yourself it was not you, but the war, the ghosts, the boy he had been and the man that had been shaped in his place.

Still, there were cracks in the armour.

He would watch you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was subtle glances over books, across the courtyard when he was walking, from the balcony as you walked in the garden. And sometimes at night, when sleep came extra uneasily, he would rest his hand just close enough to brush yours between the sheets, not holding it, not quite that.

Simply close.

And then, there were the words. Sparse, but honest. When he spoke to you, it was never idle. No flattery, no pretty courtly lies. But when he told you something, he meant it. A memory of his brothers, a thought he had while flying, a single low-voiced admission after one of his many sleepless nights: “I do not know how to be what you deserve. But I will try.”

That was the first time he looked at you not as his wife, but as something more. Someone real. Someone he could not pretend to keep at a distance forever.

And then came the change.

It was not sudden—not the sort of shift that others noticed straight away—but you did. The way he lingered longer at your side. The way his hand found yours without hesitation, the way he began to listen when you spoke of your family, your home in the Reach, your childhood. He asked questions—not out of obligation, but interest as though he was trying, in his own quiet way, to build something with you.

Then one morning, not long after the first thaw of spring, you told him you were expecting.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just stared at you with something unreadable in his lone violet eye. You wondered if you’d done something wrong—if the news had stirred the wrong ghosts, if he truly regreted you in that moment. But then he stepped forward, hands unsure as they hovered just above your waist.

“Truly?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

You could only nod, and something in him broke.

Not in grief, but in wonder.

He sank to his knees before you—Aemond, Prince Regent, second son of Viserys the Peaceful, kinslayer, oathbreaker, dragonrider—and rested his forehead against the swell of your stomach that barely existed yet.

For the first time in your marriage, he wept. Not like a king. Not like a warrior. But like a man who had never believed he would feel anything again but cold.

After that, things began to change—not all at once, and not without effort. He still had sharpness in him, still vanished at times into thought or memory. But he returned to you quicker now. He sought you out without excuse, he placed a hand to your belly every night before sleep, and when he dreamed, he dreamed aloud to you—of flying, not for war, but for the sake of showing his child the sky.

He began to show up, not just as a ruler, or a husband, but as a man trying to build a life.

He spoke to you more freely, asked after your health, dotted on you in ways you didn’t think you needed, and read over the old Valyrian texts on childbirth and naming customs to better understand as your belly swelled. He took to escorting you through the Keep himself, one hand hovering protectively at your back, untrusting of the new guards. When you sat, he sat beside you. When you stood, he offered his arm to take the weight off. And when you smiled—when you truly smiled with teeth—he watched as if trying to memorise it.

At night, he would lie with his hand spread over your belly, his eye half-lidded with thought, whispering things he couldn’t say in daylight to anyone else but you.

“They will know your strength,” he murmured once. “Not just my blood, but yours too.”

He began to speak to the babe as if it could hear him—sometimes in High Valyrian, sometimes just in soft, uncertain words. He told stories he thought they’d like, he made promises. And when the council dared ask again about heirs and alliances, he answered with a calm finality that allowed no argument: “My queen carries the future, that is enough.”

Even the court—always gossiping, always watching—grew quieter in regards to the two of you. There was something different about him now. Aemond still walked like a sword unsheathed, but there was purpose behind it. Peace in the tension. He smiled more in the privacy of your quarters—not often, not wide, but real. And when he looked at you, it was with something unmistakable.

Not possession.

But sheer devotion.

And so, the man who had once been war incarnate now sat with a hand on your swelling belly, speaking softly of futures he had once believed would never come. And you—who had never expected to hold a broken dragon’s heart—held it nonetheless, steady and true.

For the first time in a long, blood-soaked history, Aemond’s life was no longer rooted only in violence, but in love. In life. In the quiet strength of a woman who had refused to flinch from him.

The day your daughter came into the world, the Red Keep was cloaked in storm clouds and the threat of rain. The wind howled over the walls, and thunder rumbled over Blackwater Bay, echoing off the water and straight to the Keep.

You had been in labour since the early hours, having woken up that same morning with a gush of wetness down your leg and a cramping that had you yelling for your husband instantly.

At first, customarily, Aemond had remained outside the birthing room. Left to pace the corridor like a barely contained dragon. But as the day dragged on, every scream that escaped the chamber sent a jolt through him—each one more violent than a sword to the gut.

He stood motionless at times, staring down the corridor with his jaw clenched so tightly that blood rose in his mouth and teeth threated to crack. The servants and maesters that would update him gave him a wide berth, and no one dared speak to him beyond that. Not even his mother, who watched him from a shadowed alcove, whispering prayers to the Mother and nonsense he couldn’t even listen to properly.

He tried to reason with himself, that this is nature, this is what women were expected endure. That his wife was strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever known.

“She will be fine, they said she would be fine.” He could hear rattling around his head.

But reason meant nothing when it was you crying out in pain behind that door.

And when the fourth hour passed—and then the fifth—and when he heard your voice break on a scream that sounded like it had been torn from your very soul, Aemond finally snapped.

Without a word or a care, he shoved open the heavy wooden doors that locked him from you, and stepped into the room.

The midwives gasped instantly, panicked on what to do as one of the maesters stumbled backwards. The heat of the room hit him like a wave—thick and metallic with blood, with sweat, with the scent of pain and your tears.

You lay on the birthing bed, hair damp and curling, cheeks flushed and streaked with tears, your body bent in the throes of another contraction as your hands grasped at the bedding. You didn’t see him at first, you were too far gone in the storm of labour to see him or hear his entrance.

He had never seen you like this, never seen anyone like this.

You looked like a goddess at war.

“Your Grace, you must wait outside,” one of the Maesters protested.

But Aemond didn’t hear him. He had gone utterly still by the door, frozen as he took you in.

You turned your head then—eyes meeting his—and in your gaze was something he’d never known how to name. Pain, yes, but also defiance. Love. Trust. Help.

“My love,” you rasped. Just one word, one breath. That was all he needed to know you needed him by your side, to stay.

And he did.

He crossed the room slowly as if the floor itself might collapse beneath his boots and knelt at your side. He was careful in taking your hand, unfurling it from the soaked cotton bedding, as it trembled with exertion. You gripped his fingers so tightly it hurt, but he didn’t flinch.

His pain, he could take. Yours, he could not.

“I’m here,” he said gently, voice cracking as he spoke only to you. “I’m here, my flame, I’m here...”

The next hour blurred into one, as you screamed, as you pushed, as you wept.

And Aemond—Aemond shook beside you like a boy who was trying to keep it together. He wiped the sweat from your brow with a trembling hand, he cursed the gods under his breath which each pushed. He pressed his forehead to your temple and whispered in High Valyrian a promise that no harm would come to you or the child.

And when, at last, the child emerged into the world—small and wailing, pink and perfect—Aemond was the first to move.

The maester, pale with exhaustion, offered a nod as he looked over the child. “A daughter, Your Grace.”

He watched, stunned, as the midwife cut the cord and wrapped the bloodied child in linens. His legs unsteady as a doe beneath him as he reached out for her.

She had barely opened her eyes, but he could see that they were as violet as starlight, and she cried.

Aemond Targaryen had never known such feelings.

He turned to you—your face radiant with exhaustion as the maid attended and cleaned you up, your smile fragile but victorious—and said the only thing he could.

“She’s perfect.”

You let out a weak laugh. “She’s ours.”

He stepped toward you then, laying the child against your chest, his hand still cradling her tiny back as she nuzzled your bare skin; her mother and her kin. Tiny fists scratching against your skin as she finally settled down at your touch.

“Her name is Vaella,” You whispered looking down at her, and he nodded once, reverently.

“Vaella,” he echoed, like a vow.

And as he knelt beside the bed, one arm wrapped around you, the other holding your daughter to your heart, the storm outside finally started. Rain lashed the windows, the wind howled across the stones.

But within the chamber, all was quiet.

Aemond had faced every horror the world had to offer, but nothing had brought him to his knees before quite like watching you bring life into it.

And from that moment forward, he was no longer just a kinslayer, or even a king.

He was a husband.

He was a father.

He was hers.

But, Aemond was not prepared for how small Vaella would be.

He had held her once in the birthing chamber—his body shaking, reverent—but in the days that followed, he found himself returning to that feeling again and again: awe, laced with something deeper. Something almost like fear. She was no larger than a bundled loaf of bread, with curled fists and rosebud lips, and yet she held more power over him than any blade ever had.

He had faced dragons and battlefields and traitors in the dark. But holding Vaella? That required a different kind of courage.

Now he woke each morning before the servants, before the sun itself kissed the sky. Not to train, not to talke with his council, but to sit in the chair by the window where the light fell soft and golden.

Sitting with Vaella cradled in his arms, her head tucked under his chin. Listening silently as she would grunt softly, stretching and kneeding like a kitten. Her fingers finding the edge of his tunic, touching and feeling the leather, her tiny breaths warming the skin at his throat.

He had never known peace could come in such small, perfect packages.

You watched him quietly in those first days, your body still aching from birth but your heart full and close to bursting. There had been a time—not long ago—when he would barely meet your gaze in the morning, when his grief still made a fortress of him and turned him into a hallow man who was still learning to be a husband. But now he stood barefoot by the cradle, his long silver hair unbound, softly whispering High Valyrian lullabies to your daughter as she blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Is she not the most beautiful thing in the world?” he asked you once, voice hoarse from wonder.

You smiled from the bed, your own arms aching from the days of holding her, feeding her from your breast, soothing her while he attended his kingly duty. “She is, and she has your temper.”

“She does,” he murmured, looking down at her with what might have once been a smirk, but was now something gentler. “She screams like a dragon, so I’ve heard.”

He began to learn her sounds—what each soft noise meant. Hunger. Discomfort. Sleepiness. He insisted on watching her himself more often than not when his duty didn’t call, despite the protests of nursemaid who were too terrified to object aloud. More than once, you caught him swearing softly under his breath as he fumbled with trying to do something with her in his arms, only to go quiet when she stared up at him, calm as the moon.

He was different with her, his daughter, his little flame, not softer, exactly—Aemond would never be completely soft—but he was present. More present than his own father had ever been. Intentional too, his sharpness, once honed for war, was now turned inward, focused entirely on keeping her world safe.

When she cried in the night, it was he who woke first.

You would wake and turn to find him already halfway to the cradle, arms reaching for her instantly. He would scoop her up like she weighed nothing and pace the room with to calm her. A far cry from his regality with his night shirt wrinkled, his eye heavy with sleep, whispering low comforts that made no sense to you and yet always calmed her.

And sometimes, when she finally drifted back to sleep against his shoulder, he would wait before putting her down. Choosing to sit at the edge on your side of your shared bed, just watching her, watching you, eye bright and thankful.

“You are... everything I did not know I needed,” He had said once, voice barely audible in the quiet night, watching intently as you fed your little Vaella from your breast. “Both of you.”

Those words echoed in your chest long after he spoke them.

You had not expected him to take to fatherhood so completely. He had never been raised with much gentleness, never been shown what it meant to be loved without condition. But somehow, with Vaella, he had figured it out all on his own, something in him that would never make the same mistakes that had been made to him.

Still, not everything was perfect.

There were nights when the weight of it all seemed to press too heavily on him—when Vaella’s cries stirred something deeper in him, something wounded and scared. You would find him staring out the window on those nights, unmoving, with her in his arms. Her little fists beating on his chest as he tried to keep calm, his jaw clenched tight as if holding back some ghost he couldn’t name. You knew not to speak then, you wouldn’t ask, you knew he would tell you in time, instead, you would only press your hand gently to his back, and after a moment, he would breathe again.

You never pushed him, for your dragon always came back to you.

One evening, you found him asleep by the fire, slumped in the armchair with Vaella curled against his chest like a dragon hatchling. His silver hair had fallen over his face. Her tiny hand was tangled in it, holding tight even in sleep.

You stood there a long time, watching them not keen to wake either dragon from their slumber—father and daughter, fire and breath—and felt the world settle.

Aemond had once believed he would die with nothing but rage and honour to his name. But now, in the quiet of this new life, he had something far greater: A child who trusted him completely, and a wife who had never flinched from him.

And a future—fragile, yes, but finally his to hold, some tangible prize that somehow made the last few years’ worth all the pain and grief.

By the time Vaella reached nine months, she had mastered the art of wrapping Aemond Targaryen around her tiny, chubby fingers.

She was crawling now—fast, determined, always after something, or trying to look for someone.

Usually waiting her father. It to the point that she so much as heard the distant sound of his boots in the corridor, her little hands would slap against the stone floor as she scrambled toward the door. Little body shuffling and bubbling out excited noises that only grew louder when her father finally appeared in the doorway.

And even after a long day of meetings and holding court, he still had the energy to share his daughter's excitement with a smile that he'd never share anywhere else.

Aemond was as soft as melted butter in the sun when it came to her.

He made never let her cry or wait for long, not if he could help it. The moment her lip wobbled or her hands reached for him, he was there—scooping her up with a tenderness so at odds with his reputation that even the most hard-hearted of courtiers would be shocked to see him.

But peace in your home, as always, was temporary.

The Riverlands were stirring again.

It wasn’t war—at least, not yet, not if he could help it—but there were disputes between old houses, tension still thick in the air from the burning at Aemond’s hand barely buried. And the lords had requested the presence of the crown itself to remind them who ruled, to build amends with them for everything he had done. Aemond had resisted at first, he had trained stewards and sent emissaries in his place, even some of his small council. But in the end, it had to be him.

Him, with his dragon’s shadow again covering the Riverlands.

Him, as a symbol of the realm’s new stability, despite terrorising the Riverlands just years previously. He had lamented to you in the dark of the nights, the both of you curled in bed as he whispered that I didn’t feel like he could ever go back, for as fearsome as your husband was, then the crown was off and the court was away, he was just as scared at the young boy he had hoped he had grown out of.

You knew he had to go, and he knew it too, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“She won’t understand,” he murmured to you the night before his departure, holding Vaella tightly against his chest as she babbled sleepily, her fist clutching strands of his hair. “She’ll think I left.”

You reached for him, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you sat beside him on your shared bed, curled affectionately towards him. “She’ll know you’re coming back, my dragon.”

His eye flicked to yours. “Will she? She’s just a babe.”

“She’s your daughter,” you said gently. “And your daughter is brighter than all the men on your council combined, she’ll know you won’t be gone for long.”

That earned you a quiet smile, a tired one, a grateful one.

“She tried to say dada today,” you added softly, your hand smoothing over her little back, feeling the breaths under your palm.

“She did not.” He tutted softly, amused at you.

“She said ‘Dahhh’ and pointed at the sky. I’m counting it.”

He laughed, truly laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest.

The morning he left, Vaella was still drowsy when he pressed a kiss to her downy hair and another to your lips. She clung to his tunic as if she knew something was different, that something wasn’t right, letting out a soft protest when he tried to pass her back to you, her tiny legs kicking instantly, anxiously.

“I’ll return before the next moon, but hopefully sooner,” he promised, resting his forehead gently against yours. “And I’ll bring her something—perhaps a river pearl, or a little sword she can’t use yet.”

“She’ll want your boots and your rings and nothing else,” you said, smiling despite the ache in your heart, bouncing the babe who looked confused as to why her father was so sad.

“I’ll give her all of it.” He murmured softly, promsing.

And then he was gone—Aemond, King, Protector of the Realm, husband, father—swept away by duty once more.

The Keep was quieter without him.

Vaella adjusted better than you had feared, though she grew restless in the evenings without her father to sing to her. Her eyes would always flick to the door, and she’d crawl toward it whenever heavy footsteps of a guard passed, as if expecting to find her father there again, arms open, waiting.

Only to be saddened when the door never opened, her tiny bottom on the floor in waiting.

At night, you held her a little tighter than usual, cuddling her as tight as Aemond did, trying to sing the songs that only his tongue could muster. And when she said "Dada" for the first time—clear, strong, insistent as she looked at the door—you wept.

You wrote to him every day, though you knew the ravens could not always keep pace with his travels. Still, you did it anyway. You told him of Vaella’s teeth beginning to finally push through her gums, how she began to bite at everything and anything to numb the pain of it growing.

How she tried to mimic your laugh and clap when she’d sit with you, or copy the words you’d say in tiny babbles. How she discovered her reflection and seemed convinced it was another babe, a friend, a sibling.

And Aemond, despite his busyness, wrote back when he could, his letters were short but warm. You could tell he wasn’t indulging the stress of being in the Riverlands and dealing with them, trying to make amends and put out fires that had long continued to burn over the years, he never wished to stress you, but he always left ending with a line for his darling girl:

Tell Vaella her father dreams of her laugh every night.

It was three long weeks later when he returned.

It was not a grand return, not heralded by trumpets or banners. Just the soft thunder of Vhagar’s wings against the clouds, circling once above the Keep before landing outside the gates as the sun began to set. Closer than he would usually land, but he was anxious to return to you, to his family.

You were already waiting with Vaella in your arms, wrapped tightly your soft pink cloak, her little eyes squinting against the fading light as the two of you stood just outside the city gates, surrounded by modest amounts of guards.

The moment Aemond dismounted Vhagar, Vaella let out a loud, delighted shriek, her legs kicking in your hold as her tiny fists flapped about, eager to get out of your arms and to him.

“Dada!” She shrieked into the early evening.

Aemond froze at the sound, and for the briefest second, his composure cracked where he stood—lips parted, chest heaving, eye glassy with stunned emotion. And then he was pacing towards you, his hand and his councilmen forgotten as he b-lined for his flames, his girls.

He reached you without hesitation, arms wrapping around both of you at once. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your lips, and finally, carefully, he took Vaella from your arms and held her as if she were something sacred.

“Let me see you,” he whispered, cupping the back of her head with one long-fingered hand. “Gods, let me look at you.”

She babbled at him, delighted, hands tugging at his collar, and he just laughed—low and hoarse and full of something ancient and overwhelming.

“She’s heavier,” he murmured. “Has she grown this much in just three weeks?”

“She never stops moving,” you said, smiling, fingers brushing her soft cheek. “And she said ‘Dada’ for the first time this week.”

Aemond pressed his forehead gently to hers. “She saved it for me.”

“She did.”

He didn’t let go of her as he walked with you back through the Keep.

The servants bowed deeply as he passed, he was still their king, but he scarcely noticed them. His world had narrowed to just two: the child in his arms and his wife at his side. And for all his grace and poise, there was something nearly boyish in the way he kept glancing down at Vaella, as though afraid she might disappear if he blinked.

That night, you did not dine in the Great Hall.

You stayed in your private chambers, just the three of you, with a fire that burned low in the hearth, casting golden light across the stone walls, and the air was filled with the scent of violets and cinnamon from the oils your maids had used earlier in your bath.

The room was made ready with dinner upon your arrival; plates of meats, fruits, and cheese, and a small bowl prepared just for the baby. The servants slipping away quietly as you entered, leaving the three of you in peace.

Aemond wasted no time as he sank down into the chair with a weary exhale, pulling Vaella into his chest again and watching her explore his face again with tiny, curious fingers, poking and prodding.

“She has two teeth now,” you said, handing him the tiny silver spoon to feed her with. “But don’t let her bite you, she keeps trying to take fingers and nip at them.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, amused, letting her gum at the spoon before attempting to feed her.

It was clumsy, but he was out of practice. She spit half the food onto his sleeve and herself, but he laughed, there was no anger to be had in a happy baby.

“She’s perfect.” He mumbled again, neglecting his own food while his girls ate.

You sat across from him, watching the two of them like a dream made real. The fire crackled. The Keep was quiet. And the King who once spoke only of war and vengeance now gently wiped mashed pear from his daughter’s chin, letting her smear a sticky mess on him as she found a way to nibble at his knuckles too, all without flinching.

When she was finally full and drowsy from food and milk, Aemond pulled her close against his chest, rocking her slowly. He had refused to let the nursemaids take Vaella for the night and denied entry to every servant who came to the door.

Tonight was not for the crown. Tonight was for him and his family. In that quiet moment, Aemond was not a king, not a ruler—he was simply a father and a husband.

“I hated being away,” he admitted quietly. “Even when I was doing what had to be done. It felt… wrong. Empty, without the two of you by my side.”

Your heart thumped a little harder at that, your footsteps quiet as you rose and knelt beside his chair, your hand resting on his leg.

“You came back in one piece,” you said. “That’s what matters, to both me and her.”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your brow, and then another to your lips—slow, lingering, grateful.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve either of you,” he said against your skin, “but I swear to the gods I’ll never take this for granted.”

Eventually, it was time for bed, and he undressed slowly, carefully, comfortably for the first time in weeks. He wore a simple black tunic and breeches as he took Vaella from her cradle once last time, settling into the large chair near the fire to sing to her like he did before he left, his long legs stretched out, her tiny form curled on his chest.

You sat nearby, dressed softly in your own nightwear, hands carefully undoing your hair as you sat and watched him. He was staring at the child like she had become his religion.

“She crawls faster now,” You said softly, brushing out your hair from the day. “Sometimes I swear she’s trying to find speed and fly.”

“She’ll ride before she walks if I have anything to say about it,” he replied, his voice low. “She’ll have Vhagar, one day.”

“She might not want Vhagar.” You smile softly.

“She’ll have any dragon on Dragonstone that she pleases when she’s older,” He hummed softly, lips pressing to her hair.

“But for now, I’ll build her a saddle for your lap, and we’ll fly together on Vhagar,” he said with a faint, wistful smile. “I will never leave her or you again—not like that, not for that long.”

“She understood,” you said gently. “She missed you, but she never doubted you’d return. I think… in her own way, she knows who you are.”

“Who I was,” he corrected quietly. “But she changes everything.”

You watched as Vaella’s fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic. Her lashes fluttered, already falling into sleep. Aemond looked down at her, as if in awe that something so perfect could find rest against him.

“She is the best of us,” he whispered. “Because of you, I look at her, and I see the man I left behind… and the peace that I took and almost didn’t believe I deserved.”

He looked at you then, eye soft in a way only you had ever seen.

“Thank you,” he said. “For waiting. For keeping her whole, for keeping me whole.”

You rose from your vanity seat and came to his side, sitting on the arm of the chair, your hand resting lightly over his on her back, and the other on his neck as you kissed his hair. Vaella slept between you, her warmth binding you both tighter than any crown or vow ever could.

And in that firelit room, for the first time in years, Aemond did not feel like a prince returning from war. Or a King out of his element.

He felt like a man who had finally come home.

434 notes · View notes

ruinix · 1 month ago

Note

Can you please write a smut story of Quinn Hughes and Y/n in a pool?

Hello, my lovely. I took so long again. My bad. Do you remember Quinn’s photo in the hot tub (one of those he posted)? Yes? No? (I attached a photo at the end of this drabble) Safe to say, i wanted to join him when he put it out. He is just so cute. It's nearly 3AM...so no proofread. sorry. Also I wrote this with midseason in my head and I forgot that it could be winter (or fall?)…let’s ignore that plot hole. I beg. Please. Let's just think is a heated pool. (I keep forgetting about seasons and I am so used to private hot spring pools, my bad. sorry).

Fairylights and Wildflowers

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, (mention of) Exploration of Hobbies (shopping, crocheting, puzzles), lots of Kisses, Semi-Public sex / Pool sex (it's a private pool in a rented airbnb...but it's outside so...🫣), Unprotected sex (use protection, lovelies)

Count: 3737 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You’re taking long. Quinn learned not to bother you when you’re preparing—or whatever it is you’re doing now when you insist on surprising him—a long time ago. Who is he to deny what you want? If you want him to wait in the damn pool by himself until he’s a prune, he’ll do it.

Although, maybe, he thinks that you’re going to surprise him with a bikini. He wonders what bikini you’ll wear. He tries to keep up with your online purchases. It’s easy to track over because you ramble about them over dinner, over calls, over texts, over anything. You like your “retail therapy”—that’s what you called it. Not just bikinis. You buy a lot of things you come across. Honestly, it’s so cute.

One time, you decided to learn how to crochet, so you bought several balls of yarns and crocheting needles. Your first fruit of labor is a misshapen bear. The ears are lopsided. One arm is more stuffed than the other. The eyes are currently mismatched, because one of its eyes fell and got lost, so you replaced it with a different button. Still, it’s a bear. A unique looking one. You love it so much and so do Quinn. When you jokingly said it is now your and Quinn’s first child, he was quick to buy it a small Canucks jersey and hat that is definitely too big, so now it rests on your bookshelf, sitting inside the upside-down hat, right next to your favorite books.

Quinn always finds himself staring at it while he dusts your books. It has grown on him. A clumsy start of a hobby, for sure, but an amazing memory. Since then, you’ve made a couple more stuffed animals then you transitioned to blankets, scarves, and sweaters. While you insist you are still a beginner with the hobby, Quinn views you as an expert, especially when you kept giving him cozy items. They are all so perfect in his eyes.

You’ve inspired him to try to make his own, but his hands cramp up. He always ends up sulking in his armchair, gripping his yarn and needle so tightly, watching you do your own project or read your books. After minutes, you’ll notice him then you’ll be on him, holding his cheeks after you take away his basket of yarns and needle, kissing him to distract him further. What a distraction. It works every single time. So, whenever you pick up your basket of yarns, he will too, patiently waiting—sulking or not—for kisses and more.

Another time, you went all out with puzzles. Some of your game nights with Quinn turned into completing said puzzles. Quinn ends up dozing off after he takes a brief break, for the sake of his aching back, on the couch. He will wake up with you in his arms, blankets over both of you. Every time he just watches you sleep, cursing whenever he can’t reach his phone to kill his alarm, trying his best to close his hands over your ears, but you’ll also wake up, rubbing your face into his chest.

Every time, you’ll greet him, not hiding your greedy inhales of his scent, your hand running down between you two, down over his aching cock.

That’s how you get him.

Fuck morning skates. Fuck meetings. Fuck anything else.

He’ll spend his morning buried deep inside you until you demand breakfast.

Beyond those tiny hobbies, you’ve also been rampant at buying clothes. From pajamas to everyday dresses to evening gowns. You’ve braved several sites. Your experiences are either a hit or a miss. Quinn knows what it’ll be. If you like it, you’ll show it to him. If you don’t, you’ll be huffing as you process a refund. He’ll try to be understanding and mature, but the way you huff and puff makes him laugh.

“Stop laughing!” You are on him, lecturing him about not laughing at you. “Quinn!”

Your whines only push him to laugh harder, teasing you that he wants to see the dress, poking his finger on your tickle points, grinning widely when you squeal and run away. He’ll be hot on your heels, needing to get your mind off your failed purchase, because he rather has you irritated with him than sulking over things. Just for those times, he won’t be talking about how any piece of clothing you put on will take his breath away, because he knows it won’t help with the dilemma.

Now, after he reminisces your online purchases, he settles on the submerged sitting area.

He runs his hand over his face, shaking his head slightly, splashing water everywhere. No one will care about the splatter. It’s a pool. You will care though. You won’t police him into not doing so, no. You will be delighted. You will be amused. You will shake your own head, laughing in your silent amusement, then you will splash him with an expert swipe over the water. It’s fucking amazing.

You’re amazing.

Of course, you are. You planned this little getaway so quickly after you heard that his maintenance day follows a weekend where he doesn’t have any scheduled game or plans. It will be just the two of you. That thought excited him. He didn’t even think of inviting anyone for this getaway. In fact, he never even thought of anyone else joining the two of you. Except for now. What if you invited someone? Well, shit. If you do, then…whatever. There’s lots of room in this place anyway. He’ll make it work.

He looks up to see a glimpse of you from a window. You’re wearing a white fluffy robe. From what he can see, you are skipping. You must be having so much fun. You can be so animatic, so adorable, so excited. He still remembers how your eyes shone when you told him about your successful booking over videocall, smiling so widely as you typed in the address he should drive to, jumping when you greeted him as he arrived. He likes that. He likes seeing you having a ton of fun with your own spending. He loves being spoiled right back.

Although, he wishes that you’ll finally come down.

He’s getting bored.

A little bit.

No.

He’s extremely bored.

He’s already done several laps. He wants to see you now. He misses you when you’re just there. Sighing, he stretches his arms over the edge, half-slouching further on the sitting edge, half-floating. He takes his time, embracing the silence of the night,

He hopes that you didn’t invite anyone else. It’s already getting late. If you had guests, they would’ve been over by now. However, he also knows your friends. Some of them are always so down to last minute hangouts. Tonight, he hopes they’re not.

Or whomever you invited.

Can’t he just have you to himself?

He’s not really up for socializing this weekend. Can he just be alone with—

“Hi, Quinn,” you greet, suddenly there, leaning over so your face will be in his line of sight. “Having a good time?”

For someone who has gotten impatient, Quinn finds himself unable to speak as he looks up at you, absently nodding and watching your smile widen. He really can’t speak. He almost forgets to breathe. Because the fairy lights are casting a soft glow around your head, perfectly illuminating the strands of your hair that you’ve styled, shining on the pretty skin on your shoulders, your waist, your hips, your legs, and everywhere else. Like every bit of your being is touched by the heavens.

Like you’re a star that’s gazing and twinkling just for him.

You take his breath away.

How can someone be so beautiful? So majestic?

“Did it hurt?” He asks before he can stop himself.

“Hurt?” you echo, frowning before lowering yourself to sit next to him, dipping your legs into the pool.

Quinn follows every movement of your legs, how the water parts and waves over them. The light and shadow patterns look wonderful on your skin as waves move, refracting every light that hits its surface. It looks wondrous. He glances at his own, not liking how the patterns look on him. He likes it better on you.

Before he gets trap in his head, his cheeks burning white-hot, he finishes, “When you fell from the sky.”

Your grin widens, your eyes crinkling at the sides. A giggle escapes you. “Is that a pickup line, Quinny?”

He looks away. He brushes his hand over his face then up through his hair to push away the wet strands away from his burning face. He nearly chokes as he says, “Yeah. Kinda.”

“I like it.” Your voice sounds closer, so he turns and immediately receives a kiss, making his heart tumble all over the place. “Thank you. I appreciate it. Don’t be embarrassed.”

He nods, reaching to touch your leg, his thumb softly making circles on your calf, adding pressure to massage your muscles. You let him do it, fully facing him, offering him your other leg too. He takes it with his other hand. He’s focused on nothing but the task on hand. That is, until you raise your feet up, your toes wiggle, so he notices your painted toenails.

“You like ‘em?” you ask, biting your lip. “I got them to match my nails.”

Quinn slowly tracks his eyes up your legs, over your thighs, over your tummy, your shoulders, your neck, your face. He inhales and catches the soft powdery and flowery scent of your lotion and body oil. You smell divine. Then he looks at your delicate hands, at your nails that are painted a shade of pink, that compliments your skin tone, with white tips. While your toenails only have those, you have small flowers on your nails and dainty gemstones for their centers.

His heart beats harder as his need to kiss you arises. So, he does. He kisses every decorated nail, his hands holding yours tenderly like he’s afraid that you’ll pull away even when he knows you won’t. He can’t help it when you look like a fairy that may vanish in the blink of his eyes. He can’t afford to lose you. Never. With every kiss on your every nail, on every knuckle, on each of the backs of your hands, he breathes his desperation to keep you.

Can you feel it?

He overturns your hands, kissing your palms. One by one. Even softer yet firmer, his lips pressing down. Despite wanting to taste your skin, he doesn’t. It can wait. He needs you to feel his love. His affection towards you.

He gazes up, meeting your eyes. He holds your hands, his thumbs soothingly rubbing over your palm. He realizes that you are wearing the swimsuit he bought you months ago. It’s simple. A white triangle bikini top and its matching bottom. The white strings in bows look beautiful on your nape and your hips. You’re finally wearing it. It looks so fucking good on you.

If this is your surprise bikini, he’s delighted. Very much so.

“I love everything,” he gulps the lump in his throat, gazing up your eyes like you hung the moon and stars and everything else above, because he bets that you did. Maybe you are a goddess who became human or is pretending to be human. Maybe that’s the reason why you look ethereal. “I love you.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks, leaning back as if you need distance from him. “You’re doing it again.” You almost take your hands away from him, but he holds them firmly.

“Don’t pull away,” he murmurs, coming closer. “What exactly am I doing?” He wraps his arm around your waist. Instead of pulling you which would hurt because of the pebble details, he moves—crossing the little distance between you two—until your lips are mere inches away from his. “My Love,” he urges, repeating, “What am I doing?”

“Looking at me with those eyes, like,” you pause, gulping as you look into his eyes, “like…like you want to consume me.”

Because he does.

He wants everything that you’ll give him.

Everything that is you.

You are everything.

He has never loved someone as deeply as he loves you. You’re it. His forever.

“Do you want me to stop?” His other hand finds your neck, his fingers running through the softness of your hair near your nape, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw.

“No,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to his lips. You inhale, licking your lips as anticipation buzzes the air. “Never.” Your hands graze over his chest, tracing over his collarbone. “I love you too, Quinn.”

He kisses you like his life depended on it, because it is. Ever since he met you. His love only grows and grows, blossoming like wildflowers of mixed variety. They litter the grass as they dance with the wind, flourishing with every drop of rain, every ray of the sun, every nutrient drawn from the soil. Resilient and thriving. He truly loves you. Every piece of him is devoted to you.

He kisses you harder, letting you feel how deep his love has rooted in his soul. His tongue glides with yours. He can taste the mint of your toothpaste and the sweetness of the fruits you were munching on while you’re getting ready. Berries. Apples. So much apples. He deepens the kiss to taste more of it, savoring how wonderful it mixes with you.

“Oh, Quinn,” you murmur into his lips, mounting his lap, the water sloshing against your bodies.

He also whispers your name. It spilled out of him like a prayer. He kisses you deeper, hungrier, thirstier. He holds you tighter, his fingers firmly pressing into your skin, keeping you to him. He fears if he lets go, you will go away even when your hands slide through his hair, tugging and angling his head. Quinn follows, not stopping the kiss, focusing on how your lips feel against his, your tongue against his, your pussy against his dick despite the existence of your bikini and his trunks.

“Tell me something.” He draws his kisses to your jaw, smelling the scent of your perfume you sprayed behind your ear. “Are we expecting guests?”

“Just us,” you pant, grinding against him. Your actions still, your eyebrows meeting. “Do you want guests?”

“No. Just want you all to myself right now, my Love.” He grips your hips, urging you to move again, groaning when you do. “I was just thinking how I’ll steal you away.” He smirks when you giggle, the sudden worry that you felt falls away. “You’ll like that, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” you say, your tone light, your fingers scratching over his beard. He can see the mischief shining from your eyes. “I love it when we sneak, but I made sure it’s just us.”

“Thank you,” he gasps as you grind down on him. “Oh, my Love. We should go—”

“No,” you cut him off, tilting his chin up, your lips grazing over, making him chase you. “We can do it here.”

Whatever you want.

Your lips are once again touching. Now, he swallows the moan you let out while you swallow his—each of you spurring each other on with the noises that escape you two—as pleasure seeps down his bones, right from his cock. His skin rises with goosebumps, shivers running down while also up his fucking spine. He’s utterly gone and he’s not even inside of you yet. This is what you do to him.

And he loves that.

His hand snakes over your lower back, pressing down to glue your midsection to him. Then while you nip his lower lip, he curves his hand over your ass, squeezing your flesh, making you bite down on his lip harder that he swears your broke skin. You are so close. He sees how your pupils swallow your irises. How your eyelashes fan down with your blinks. How your brows curve upwards and furrowing together. His eyes are getting drawn to the beaty marks you have on your face. All while his fingers slip into your bottoms, sliding between your ass, down to your pussy, feeling your arousal.

“Quinn,” you whine. You bury your face on his neck.

“Someone’s getting needy,” he teases. His finger sinks into your quivering pussy. He adds another. He licks his lip, not tasting any copper which means you didn’t break skin. It disappoints him a little, but that’s not important, because your pussy squeezes around his fingers. It feels fucking amazing. “Is it here, my Love?” He prods the spongy spot that has you squirming.

“Yes,” you sob. You keep grinding down against his cock, up and down, putting pressure against your sensitive clit. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

“Have I ever stopped?” He asks, fucking you with his fingers. You shake your head, desperately meeting his every thrust. “Look at me.” You did, panting with your cheeks bright red. His other hand comes up, undoing the ribbon of your top. Your tits spill out. Your nipples are hard and begging to be touched, so he does, softly feeling and pinching the pebbled peak. “How are you so pretty?”

You don’t answer him. Instead, your hand slides down between your bodies, pushing down his trunks. Your teeth clench down on your lip.

Quinn pulls your bottoms to the side, just in time for you to lift your hips. His cock hits your pussy so perfectly. He helps you move down his length. Inch by inch. Both of you moan and are getting so overwhelmed by the feel of each other. Your hands hold his shoulders, sinking those pretty nails into his skin, while his hands hold your hips so tightly that he might leave fingerprint bruises later.

He wants that. He wants to leave his marks on your body, but he craves yours on his. He loves when you leave scratches down his back or just on his shoulder, which you are now fucking doing. Those pretty fucking claws. He curses from the sting, from the excessive need for more, more, and more.

“Harder,” he grits. His hand finds your hair, tugging to crane your neck, so he can kiss and suck your skin, leaving his own bruising marks. “Mark me up, my Love.”

“Oh, fuck, Quinn.” You whine your hips as you sink down cock. Again and again. You whine, whispering his name like it’s a plea, “Quinn. Quinn. Quinn.”

Quinn starts to meet your thrusts, feeling himself touch deeper inside your pussy. The slight tremble of your walls tells him you are close. So close. He is too. His cock aches, needing to release right fucking now, but he holds himself back because he needs to feel you come first. He needs it.

He continues teasing over your nipples, his thumb running on the line of the underside of your tits. Desperately, he nips on your earlobes, sloppily licking his way down to your collarbone to mark everything he can reach. Your movements turn sloppier, your back arching, your moans turning into eager whimpers.

“Let go, my Love. I got you.” Quinn kisses your lips, just enough, pulling away to hear your sounds then kissing you back again. He’s almost playing, teasing, taunting you, making you make more sounds that had his cock twitching in your pussy. “Just let go.”

You do. A breathy scream pours out of your lips, your pussy squeezing so tightly that he can’t hold back. He doesn’t want to hold back. Why would he want to? Your pussy is way too perfect not to fill with his hot cum. He holds your hips down as he spills deep, deep inside you. Panting, he kisses you fully, needing to taste you on his lips, needing to feel more connected with you.

Fuck, you feel so good. Your arms wrap around his torso. Your legs come around him, clinging onto him. You fit around him so perfectly. Like pieces of wood carved specifically to join without nails or screws. Just carved to perfection for a seamless joinery.

“Wow,” you sigh, resting your forehead against his. “This is so nice.”

Quinn hums, savoring your feel. His head is slightly spinning. He blinks slowly as he’s in a daze, marveling how you glow after sex, the fairly lights glinting on your skin. You can’t be real. You’re just so pretty. Incredibly so.

He moves after you when you part from him, mindlessly following you out of the pool, watching you fix your bikini, so he tugs his trunks on to fix it, inhaling sharply as it grazes his sensitive cock, gritting his teeth when it twitches at the mere sight of your ass. He should fucking stop or else he might die because he’s a horny fuck.

He quickly swipes his towel from the bench, helping you dry off, kneeling on one knee so he can dab water from your shins. He looks up, his heart booming against his ribs. He realizes how gorgeous you look from below. He already knows this, but the position is making him think about the future, about him holding a velvet box with a ring that he will have custom-made, about him asking for your hand. To be your forever. Your partner. A possibility for so much more.

The way you’re looking down at him tells him that he might not be the only one thinking about it.

Yet, he stands.

No matter how perfect the moment is. He won’t take this away from you. You’ve made this getaway happen. Your surprises still wait to be discovered even when the surprise of you wearing his chosen bikini for you is already more than enough. He knows you’ve done more. You’ve made this all happen for him. For him.

When he asks to be your husband, the day will be for you. Not him.

He will plan everything out. As perfect as he can. All for you. This can all wait.

For now, he’ll take everything you’ve prepared.

Besides, there is way too much room in this place. He needs to claim you on each surface, after he receives the gifts that have your eyes sparkling with mischief as you grab his hand and pull him towards the house, after he makes you dinner and more.

Here it is (from his post)

Silly boy in the hot tub, we must join him. Jk. (...unless???)

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fayesia · 2 months ago

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Greasin' the engine shaft pt.2

pervyold!Joel x younger!reader

Part 1: here

Music blasted through the workshop, your head bent under the hood of a car while you hummed along to the song. Lifting your head, you let out a yawn. This week had been long, and you couldn't wait to get drunk at the bar and rot in bed through the weekend.

Passing the front of the shop in search of a rag, you saw Joel talking to a customer, over their shoulders, your eyes locked. His eyes sharpened, and the corner of his mouth upturned into a smirk, lowering your head you sped past.

To say things had been awkward between the two of you would be the understatement of the century. At least on your side, Joel seemed to be revelling in this situation. Meanwhile, you wanted to die in a hole every time you came to work.

"Everything all right, honey."

The nickname stung harsher after that night.

Every endearment gave you flashbacks, the memory replaying in your mind.

His fingers twisting in you as his palm slapped against your clit.

His big hands tangled in you hair holding you in place while he fucked your face.

You wanted to feel disgusted, even mortified by it, but currently standing in the shops storage room, your highs shifted together to quell the rising pressure. Sifting through the numerous boxes of files and paper towels, you spotted a box of new cloths in the back of the shelf.

Reaching into the middle shelf, your body bent forward, fingers brushing against the edge of the cardboard as you tried to get a grip on it.

Jolting in shock, your movements stilled at the presence of someone behind you.

"God, now you're just teasin' me hun"

"Joel. Quit it."

You tried turning your head but the space of the shelf was too tight.

A shiver ran through your spine as Joels calloused fingertips, ran down the sides of your waist, his cold skin coming in contact with the open space between the hem of your tight singlet and jeans.

"Let me go, Joel, come on, don't be a dick"

"Oh baby, don't act like it's not on purpose, the whole shy act."

He scoffs in annoyance.

"A few days ago, you were falling apart on my fingers. Don't try to deny it. Had you moaning for the whole block to hear."

You wanted to reply with something quick and snarky, but your brain went blank as Joels hands caressed your ass. His fingers feeling you up through the denim, dangerously close to your crotch.

"Please, Joel,"

"What is it, sweetheart?"

His condescending gentle tone contrasted the harsh rubbing of his groin against your ass. You could feel him hardening, and you hated to admit, but for a second, the memory of him in your mouth flashed in your head.

His thick, heavy cock, the veins running down it. The tip was so pretty, dripping with precum, you couldn't forget the taste of him even if you wanted to.

Kicking your feet out, you tried pushing Joel, but the weight of his body against you only got heavier.

He now stood between your legs, his foot kicking at your ankles to push them apart.

One of his hands slid under your shirt, and you felt sick. The guilt in your head fought with the need of your core. The coldness of his fingers as they groped your chest pebbled your nipples.

He groaned as he practically humped your ass while fondling your tits.

At this point the friction of his bulge pushing the denim material of your jeans against your clit left your mouth open, fighting the release of any sounds.

But he'd heard that one whine of yours, and he knew.

You were fucked.

Joels hands tugged your jeans down to your knees, his pupils dilated at the sight of your pink lace thong clinging to your pussy. The material damp enough for him to basically see through it, the cloths material shaped to your pussy.

You tried to wiggle away from his touching, but that only spurred him on.

One of Joel's hands came down to slap your asscheek, the sting followed by his fingers digging through your soft flesh. He wanted to mark you, make you never forget who truly owned your body.

Tears ran down your face by now, mumbling for him to please stop, but Joel could barely hear over the blood rushing from his head to his other head.

Multiple slaps rained down on your behind. The skin was hot and flushed, definitely marked red. Joel slapped hard. Working with his hands for more than forty years gave him more strength than he could control.

It hurt, but not as much as it aroused you.

You hated it.

Hated that even though he hurt you like this, your pussy would still be wet when he checked.

And he did.

When he ripped your underwear down to your jeans, he saw the strands of wetness splitting off the material. The way your pussy shined under the sharp white lights he installed into the storage room just this weekend.

His groan almost sounded like a growl.

"Been waiting for this baby"

"Spent all weekend thinking about this dripping pussy, bet you thought about me too huh"

You had. You had gone home after that night, and in the shower, your mind drifted back to it. Under the shower head, you climaxed.

The water washed away the dirt from the shop and the dirty thoughts from your mind.

"Ngh no..didn't-didnt think of you"

"Oh sweet girl, you wound me, can't even give your old man a second thought"

His verbage reminded you of the truth. The reality that he was far too old to be doing this to you. For goodness sake, he started the shop before you were even conceived and celebrated its 20th anniversary when you were born.

It was wrong.

Disgusting and wrong.

So why were you dripping down your thighs.

Why, when Joel's fingers ran through your folds, were you leaving a mess behind.

Hearing the buckle of his belt and the zip on his jeans, you braced for what was to come.

Or rather for you to come.

His tip rubbed through your folds, it hit your clit and you couldn't help but moan.

Joel kept thrusting through you, prompting more high-pitched noises out of you, whines and moans mixed into one.

His fingers had a bruising grip on your hip, and his head fell back in pleasure.

Leveraging on your hips, he pulled you from the shelf, your feet ungracefully tripped on your jeans around your ankles, without Joel's arms holding you up, you were sure to have fallen.

Sweat dripped down from your forhead from being in such a tight space for so long that your breathing was heavy and eyes widened with desire.

"Ok baby, deep breath for me"

You wanted to shake your head, fuck, you wanted to scream no, but before you even had the chance his dick was inside you.

Just halfway in, before Joel had to tighten his hold around you to stop you from stumbling forward.

A cry left your mouth but no one else was working to hear you.

"It's ok sweetie, relax for me, make it easier for both of us if you just breathe a little."

"Nghn I can't, too big Joel please"

Your hands held onto the edge of a shelf, Joel's grip returning to your hip to drive himself deeper in you, the other one made its way to your clit. His fingers came in contact with the wetness collected around his base and your opening, collecting it to rub your clit.

His fingers had you fumbling for words, only noises able to leave your mouth.

Finally Joel's greying pubic hair was flush with your pussy, he stilled to let you get used to the stretch, and tangled his hand into your hair.

You pulsed around him before slowly moving forward and back, thrusting yourself upon his dick in small motions.

"Yeah, just like that baby, use me, use your daddy, can feel you enjoying it"

In any other situation, with any other person, the nickname would've disgusted you.

But with Joel.

It was different.

Because Joel was daddy.

With his broad shoulders and strong arms. The salt and pepper hair both on his head and downstairs.

His deep southern accent as he spoke.

But most specifically, his age compared to yours.

You could still be in college, and he was just about reaching the age of retiring and settling into a nursing home.

The image of him sat beside a grandma knitting almost made you laugh, except a shift in Joel's hips had you shutting up quickly.

His grip on your hair tightened and forced you to arch your back while his other hand gripped tightly onto the flesh of your ass. He'd sped up now, sharp thrust that reached deep inside you, hard enough that his balls slapped against your clit, the noises of skin against skin filling the room.

God, you hadn't thought about Joel's balls since that night, the way he had them stuffed in your mouth, your spit making a mess everywhere. You could only recall the weight of them holding all that cum which he covered you in a few moments later.

Snapping you back to reality was a hard slap to your ass. Unconsciously, you had been moaning, and each thrust of Joel's hip bought a new noise out of you.

Pulling you upright flush against his chest, Joel's hands mauled at your tits, he loved watching them bounce while he fucked you. Something he thought about often when you were bent over the hood of a car. A sight he'd gotten used to remembering at night with his jeans unzipped while he lay in bed.

His beard scratched into the side of your neck, the mostly grey hair tickling your ear as he whispered dirty words to you.

"That's it, baby, so tight, sure you ain't a virgin, sweetheart?"

"Best fucking pussy I've been in, means a lot from an old man like me"

"Yeahhhh keep clenching around me, she's just tryna suck me in ain't she"

"Fucking come for me baby, come for daddy"

Mewling back your arms wrapped around Joel's neck, his hand bent over your shoulder to snuggle into your neck while he ferociously thrusted upwards into you.

With one hand playing with your nipple, the other rubbed quick circles onto your clit.

"Godd, I'm coming fuck please-please"

With a outcry of daddydaddydadddy your eyes shut tight, flashes of white, and mouth hung open as you orgasmed. Joel licked a path up the side of your neck, his cock stilling deep in you as he felt your pussy clench around him.

"Yeah baby, daddy's gonna fill you up, nice and full of his cum, make me a real daddy huh"

You nodded, in all honestly barely understanding a word he said, your mind was broken, and your limbs like jelly.

So you could only stay limp in Joel's embrace as he pumped his cum in you, waiting for it to end for what felt like too long.

"So perfect sweetie, such a good girl for daddy"

Nodding along a whine left your lips when Joel pulled his soft dick from you, his release dripped down your thighs with some landing on the store rooms floor.

A stain. A tarnish. A reminder of what had happened.

Joel let go of you, your legs were weak, and you stumbled before softly kneeling on the ground, too weak to pull your jeans up. He had already returned to a state of dressed, simply zipping his jeans up and buckling his belt, while your thong and jeans were still tangled around your ankles. Your hair was definitely a mess, and you felt the trail of drool from your mouth down to your chin. He scratched the back of his neck, looking down at you.

"Uhh, I'll get some tissues. Let ya get dressed"

You didn't say anything.

He was a fucking dick. With a dick you loved fucking.

You closed your eyes, hearing his steps fade, pulling up your underwear and pants, before reaching to get that box of rags, tears stained your cheeks as you tried to wipe them. But more came rushing down, blurring your vision.

He could be a literal grandpa, and you've had more than enough trash hookups that ended worse than this.

So why the fuck were you feeling like this about your old pervy boss Joel fucking Miller?

#smut #oneshot #joel miller smut #the last of us #tlou2 #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller #the last of us smut

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2kiran · 11 months ago

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18+ FTM!LOGAN H. X M!READER | AFAB TERMS USED

There’s no doubt that LOGAN HOWLETT is a certified brat. If you think work is the only thing that gives you stress on a daily, you’re nothing but wrong. He likes to act out; suggestively bending over in front of you, standing too near, roaming his hands needily—all of it. He’s similar to a feisty cat, one that demands high maintenance.

He should’ve predicted it. Should’ve known your restraint would crumble the second he retorted a bit too bitchy, too offensive.

You have LOGAN sitting on your lap, both of you facing the mirror, devoting to memory at how his pretty hole continued to drool arousal as it’s stretched open on your cock. His thighs are quivering, one hand of his clinging onto your nape, and yet he won’t take the fucking hint. “This all ye’got for me?” He grinds his hips down to envelop you in deeper with a tongue-twisted gasp.

His sloppy walls are gripping you tightly, wetly squeezing around your equally leaky length. His clit aches, yearning for the attention he’s dumbly convinced he’s entitled to receive. He reaches for it, meeting your gaze through the mirror. Oh fuck, that heated look he catches - that you gave him, makes his entrance weep of pre.

You slap LOGAN’S hand away, gifting your ears with his objecting whine. “R-really, yer gonna deny me? You ain’t even doing shit.” He’s about to expand on his complaint, tell you how cruel of a man you are, until he’s met with two of your fingers pulling the hood of his nub back. Your other hand pries his thigh wider, the pad of your middle digit directly applying pressure on his clit. He cries out, his attention beginning to fade away from the lewd scene painted on glass as his thighs attempt to lock around your hand.

You don’t give him the time to process anything. Your wrist rocks, roughly sliding your finger up and down. You feel him clench around your length, and you have to remind yourself that you have to resist the urge to pound the attitude out of his system.

“Mfnnnngh! It’s too much!” LOGAN wails, getting wetter and wetter. Slick graces his inner legs, a climax building low within his belly. He leans forward, a fruitless intention on running, really. “Gonna make you cum on my cock first,” you dismiss, pressing down on the glans before rubbing circles. You twitch inside, and he thinks his heightened senses are both a blessing and a curse.

“and then I’ll fuck you.” Continuing on, your pace increased. Wetness pooled on your finger, the sight making you impossibly harder. The intoxicating pull of submission encompasses LOGAN HOWLETT as he listens to you talk. It has him regretting his behavior towards you, a whimper passing through his lips. His mouth falls agape with a silent scream, suddenly creaming on your fat cock because it’s the only ‘sorry’ he’s willing to give you.

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lonesomedovescry · 4 months ago

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to arthur, a ring was a curse.

the first ring he bought, the one for mary, had sealed the first fracture of his heart. it was the first of many promises that made him sick with heartache and yearning for a simple life he could never live. a ring was a damnation.

so when he realized he wanted to marry you, he felt a strange sort of panic. the insatiable urge to see you in a pretty white dress with a bundle of wildflowers in your hand wrestled with the fear of never seeing you again. the idea of having only letters to remember you by made his old heart ache with a vengeance.

how foolish mary made him seem. how pathetic.

the morning arthur left for Saint Denis from the quiet of Clemen’s Point you stopped him with a smile. “where you going to in such a fuss, cowboy?” you asked, hair messy from sleep and eyes soft with fatigue. you clutched a tin mug of coffee and stood on the outside of your shared tent, finally risen after arthur woke you with his dressing.

“that’s for me to know, honey.” arthur replied with a smile. he reached out to brush his thumb against your cheek. “ill be back this evening.”

he rode off with the sight of you asleep on his chest in his mind and the fear of god in his heart.

he wandered the streets of san denis in search of a perfect ring. bands of gaudy jewels and metals winked at him from all directions of the many shops and stalls he visited, all too much and not enough all at once.

once he found the perfect one his hands almost shook with apprehension. it seemed to burn a hole in his chest pocket as he rode back to camp through water and woods. years raced past in his head, a flood of memory and fear.

he prayed he wasn’t about to curse the last bloom of the summer.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 fluff #rdr2 #rdr2 blurb #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan angst

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idiotmf · 1 year ago

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Alien who loves your skin

NSFW, MDNI

Content: Fully gender neutral reader, slow fucking

Alien boyfriend who is obsessed with touching your skin. Bonus points if you have skin imperfections for him to be amazed about.

He gets super excited when you shave because “it's so smooth!!” But he also doesn't care if you don't, because, look! You can grow fur!

He endlessly traces scars, as if he's trying to feel every little thing, committing it to memory.

Sometimes he touches your skin, then his own, and then yours again, marveling at how different you are. You're so soft, squishy, and cute!

He'll trace your skin while slowly thrusting into you, his claws carefully teasing your sensitive spots, making you writhe in pleasure and frustration at his slow pace.

He's not an aggressive lover most of the time, but he does enjoy teasing you quite a lot—the look on your face when you can't get enough, the way your hips shake to try and get his alien cock deeper into you.

He'll let you wriggle for a while but then grabs your hips, his thumb-like claws softly stroking your skin as he holds you still for more slow torture.

He loves the way your skin flushes as you moan out, and your voice is another thing he loves about you.

Sometimes, he'll flip you over and fuck your hole from behind; it's something you showed him in the hopes he would go feral on you. It turns out he does love the position, but only because you make such cute mewling sounds when he doesn't give you what you want.

These days, he just slow-fucks you while sensually tracing your beautiful back and watching those cute goosebumps erupt all over your skin.

He revels when your orgasm builds, your body writhing in need, trying so desperately to get more but he's denying you, pounding into your puffy hole for hours with excruciatingly slow movements, almost carefully so, but deep enough to hit all of your favorite spots.

You don't know if it's despite the painfully slow pace or because of it, but every orgasm feels more shaking than the last, leaving you not only panting but wanting more, and he'll give you exactly that. His pace switches quickly, leaving you just enough time to let out a small yelp before he starts that punishing pace that makes you see stars, just before he cums inside of you, the slightly bioluminescent seed painting your beautifully smooth thighs, as he makes sure to touch your skin some more and let you know just how pretty you are, calling you his favorite star in the galaxy.

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odileeclipse · 3 months ago

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In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 11

<<<Previous Next>>>

“Your friends are an amusing bunch,” he remarked, his tone light, but you could hear the hint of genuine amusement beneath it. You huffed out a small laugh. “Yeah, they are. They always keep things interesting.” His golden and blue eyes flickered with something unreadable before he nodded. “A lively group. It is good to have such company.” You smiled at that, looking ahead as you walked. It really was nice, wasn’t it? But right now, you were somewhere else entirely walking beside him, about to see where he worked. That was something beyond nice. The idea of stepping into his world, into the space where he uncovered truth itself, sent a thrill through you. Walking with him like this almost felt like a dream, and maybe it was a strange, wonderful dream you hadn’t quite woken up from yet. As you and Shadow Milk Cookie walked through the quiet halls of the Scholars’ Wing, the air between you felt… different. Not quite formal, but not entirely casual either. A strange in-between. You stole a glance at him as you walked, his long strides effortlessly measured, his presence as composed as ever. Still, this felt surreal. You were walking with him not as a struggling student fumbling for understanding, but as someone he had invited along. Your fingers fidgeted at your side before you finally broke the silence. “I can’t believe this is how my morning turned out. I woke up thinking I’d be in Professor Almond’s class, but instead, I’m here. Following the Sage of Truth to see his mysterious research.” You nudged him slightly with your elbow just enough to see if he would react.

He did, but only with the slightest lift of his brow, his expression unreadable. “Mysterious? You make it sound more dramatic than it is.” You gave him a skeptical look. “Oh, come on. You have an entire wing of the Academy hanging onto your every word. Half the scholars here probably think you’re holed up somewhere unraveling the secrets of the universe.” He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “And what do you think?” You considered that for a moment. “Honestly? I think you’re probably the type to leave behind cryptic notes just to see if anyone can figure them out.” That earned a soft hum of amusement from him. “A compelling theory.” “So you do leave cryptic notes?” “I never confirmed that.” “You didn’t deny it either.” His golden eyes gleamed with amusement. “And what would you do if you found one of my so-called cryptic notes?” You grinned. “Solve it, obviously.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave you a sidelong glance, something almost thoughtful behind his gaze. “Would you, now?” You scoffed. “You sound doubtful.” “Not doubtful,” he mused. “Merely curious.” Before you could respond, you turned a corner, and the atmosphere shifted. The once-familiar halls of the Scholars’ Wing were quieter than usual. The further you walked, the more removed you felt from the bustle of the main halls. That’s when you realized where you were heading. You blinked, slowing your steps. “Wait… this way…” You frowned slightly, glancing around. “I’ve been down this hall before.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave a knowing nod. “Have you?” Your brows furrowed as the realization settled in. “Yeah. A while back. I was just wandering around and” Your words caught in your throat as the memory hit you. Oh. The slightly open door. The small, dimly lit room. The cryptic cards. The notes scattered across the desk. Your eyes snapped to Shadow Milk Cookie. “Wait. This is your research space?” He tilted his head, lips twitching in amusement. “You sound surprised.” “Well, yeah! I thought this was just some abandoned study room or something.” His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “You thought knowledge would simply be left to gather dust?” “…Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.” He let out a quiet chuckle. “Come. Since you’ve been here before, you should have no trouble finding your way.” You swallowed as you followed him toward the door, your heart beating just a little faster. The last time you had stumbled upon this place, you had felt like an intruder. But now? Now you were stepping into it beside him. And somehow, that made all the difference. Stepping inside, you were hit with the same scent of parchment and candle wax, the same quiet hum of knowledge lingering in the air. But this time, the space felt different. Less like a hidden corner of the Academy you weren’t meant to find and more like… an invitation.

Your eyes immediately flickered toward the desk, and there they were the cards, still stacked neatly, waiting. Shadow Milk Cookie’s presence beside you remained poised as ever, but there was something knowing in the way he watched you. “Strange, isn’t it?” he mused, clasping his hands behind his back. You turned to him. “What is?” “To find yourself here again.” His gaze swept over the room as he walked further inside, trailing his fingers along the edge of a shelf before looking back at you. “Though, I suspect this time, you’ll stay longer than before.” You cleared your throat, willing away the heat creeping up your neck. “I, uh… wasn’t planning on running out this time.”

“Good.” There was an unmistakable glint in his golden eyes. “That would be terribly inconvenient.” You exhaled a soft laugh before your attention was once again drawn to the desk. Hesitating only a moment, you reached for the stack of cards, flipping one over. The same strange, fragmented writing greeted you. "What cannot be created, yet always exists?" The memory of your past confusion came flooding back. You had tried piecing together these riddles before, turning them over and over in your mind, but never quite grasping them. Shadow Milk Cookie stepped closer, peering over your shoulder. “Still pondering the answer?” You frowned at the card. “It’s… vague.” “Most truths are.” You glanced up at him, his expression unreadable but patient, as if he were waiting to see how you would approach the puzzle this time. “…It’s not something simple, is it?” you asked, more to yourself than him. A soft hum. “That depends. What do you consider simple?” You rolled your eyes. “Oh, don’t start that.” His lips curved ever so slightly. “And here I thought you wanted to prove you could solve my ‘so-called cryptic notes.’” Your fingers tapped against the desk, mind churning. You weren’t about to let him win that easily. You turned the card over in your hands again, then hesitated. “It’s… truth, isn’t it?” For a moment, there was silence. Then, Shadow Milk Cookie smiled not his usual unreadable smirk, but something softer. “Well done.” Your heart skipped. You blinked at him. “Wait, I was actually right?” “Are you surprised?” “…Yes.” Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled, stepping around the desk to take a seat. “Then perhaps you should start having more faith in your own reasoning.”

You stared at him, then down at the card still in your hands, something warm settling in your chest. Maybe you were meant to be here. Your fingers tightened around the card as you exhaled slowly. The warmth of his praise still lingered in your chest, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the small weight of guilt pressing at the back of your mind. You glanced toward the desk, eyes flickering over the neatly arranged notes and books no sign of the scattered mess you had left behind that day. He must have cleaned it up himself. You swallowed, shifting your weight before clearing your throat. “By the way…” You hesitated before meeting his gaze. “I, um… I’m sorry. For the mess I made last time.” Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow, his expression unreadable. “When I was here before,” you explained, rubbing the back of your neck, “I knocked some stuff over. A stack of parchment, some quills… I panicked and, uh… bolted.” You winced at your own admission. “I was afraid of getting caught.” A quiet moment stretched between you before he finally spoke. “I know. Well not of you being the one but I knew of someone’s presence here.” You blinked. “You? Wait. You knew?”

His lips twitched in amusement. “You think parchment scatters itself? I didn’t suspect you of course but…” You felt your face grow warm. “Well I was hoping maybe it was already like that and I just… made it slightly worse?” Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled, resting his chin against his hand. “It was not.” You groaned softly, covering your face with one hand. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.” He regarded you for a moment before shaking his head, his tone light. “I will admit, when I returned and found everything in disarray, I briefly considered that I had unknowingly discovered a very mischievous ghost.” You peeked at him between your fingers, incredulous. “You thought a ghost did it?” He gave an elegant shrug. “It seemed a reasonable hypothesis at the time.” Despite yourself, you laughed. “You would sooner believe in mischievous parchment-scattering ghosts than consider that some poor, lost student accidentally stumbled in here?” “It appears so.” He leaned forward slightly, golden eyes glinting. “And yet, here you are, proving me wrong.” Your breath caught slightly, not at his words, but at the way he was looking at you measured, observant, expectant. You cleared your throat, willing yourself to hold his gaze. “So… you’re not mad?” He hummed in thought. “Not mad.” His gaze flickered briefly to the desk. “However, next time you drop something, I expect you to pick it up.” The warmth in your face returned full force. “Right. Yeah. That’s fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back in his chair, a satisfied expression on his face. “Good.” You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course, of course he had known something was off. And yet… he hadn’t scolded you. Hadn’t lectured you. Just waited for you to acknowledge it on your own. And somehow, that made the guilt ease just a little.

Shadow Milk Cookie watched you carefully, as if assessing something unspoken. Then, without a word, he turned, stepping toward one of the many shelves lining the walls. His fingers trailed over the aged spines of books before he carefully selected one, setting it down on the desk with a soft thud. "You came here expecting to see my mysterious research, did you not?" His voice was even, but there was something else beneath it subtle amusement, perhaps. Or maybe something more patient, more knowing. You straightened slightly, feeling a mix of nerves and anticipation. “Well… yeah. I mean, if you don’t mind showing me.” He gestured toward the desk, an invitation. “Then come see for yourself.” Hesitant but eager, you stepped closer, peering at the pages as he flipped the book open. It wasn’t filled with endless paragraphs of dense text, as you had expected. Instead, the pages were lined with diagrams arcane circles, constellations, and something that looked like alchemical formulas, though far more complex than anything you had studied. Notes were scrawled in the margins, some in neat, precise handwriting, others hastily written as if recording fleeting thoughts before they vanished. "This," Shadow Milk Cookie began, his voice smooth and measured, "is a study on fundamental truths the forces that govern our world. Why magic bends to certain principles. Why some theories hold, while others crumble." He tapped a particular passage, drawing your attention to a line of text. "Even what we accept as 'fact' can sometimes be a matter of perception. And when perception changes… so too does truth." You swallowed, eyes flicking over the words. Some of it made sense. Some of it might as well have been in another language. “This is… way beyond anything I’ve studied.” "For now," he agreed. “But that does not mean it is beyond your reach forever.” You turned to look at him, confused. “What do you mean?” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment before he leaned back, folding his arms. “Tell me… what is it that drives you to learn?” The question caught you off guard. “I uh” You hesitated. “I guess I just… want to understand. I want to be better. I don’t want to feel so lost all the time.” His expression softened, just slightly. “A good answer.” He glanced toward the notes scattered across the desk. “Far too many pursue knowledge for the sake of recognition. Status. They seek to be known rather than to know. But you…” His golden eyes met yours once more. “You remind me of what true scholarship is meant to be.” Your breath hitched. “What?” He exhaled lightly, his voice calm but certain. “Someday, if you reach the upper levels, you could study alongside me.”

Your heart nearly stopped. Study alongside him? You stared at him, sure you had misheard. “You’re joking.” “I do not joke about truth.” His lips twitched slightly, just enough to suggest amusement. “I have been seeking a student with drive, one who values knowledge for what it is, rather than what it can give them.” He tilted his head slightly. “You are not ready. Not yet. But if you continue forward, if you refuse to let failure turn you away… then, perhaps one day, you will be.” Your chest tightened, warmth flooding through you. Shadow Milk Cookie the Sage of Truth someone you had admired from afar, someone whose knowledge felt leagues beyond your own was telling you that you could get there. That you weren’t hopeless. That maybe, just maybe, you had something worth cultivating. You lowered your gaze to the notes before you, your hands tightening slightly at your sides. “I… I won’t let you down.” He hummed, thoughtful. “That remains to be seen.” You looked back up at him, determination burning in your chest now. “Then I’ll just have to prove it.” A slow smile curved at the corners of his lips. “Good.” The moment had started simply enough. He had pulled another tome from the shelves one filled with old scrolls he had painstakingly deciphered over time. You had leaned in, careful yet eager, as he carefully unraveled one of the delicate parchment sheets, revealing intricate script and faded diagrams.

And then you had recognized it. “Oh wait. I know this one!” Your voice was filled with excitement before you could think to temper it. “This is about the ancient celestial inscriptions, right? The ones found near the ruins past the Ghost City?” Shadow Milk Cookie stilled for a moment, his golden gaze flickering toward you with interest. “You’ve studied this before?” “Well not studied exactly,” you admitted, still staring at the scroll as if it might slip away from you. “But I read about it on my own time. I was curious about old magic that isn’t commonly used anymore, and” You sucked in a breath. “This was your research?” He gave a small nod, though he said nothing, as if waiting to see what you would say next. And oh, you had plenty to say. Without even thinking, you launched into everything you had pieced together on your own. How the inscriptions weren’t just decorative but functioned as a form of magical theory condensing entire formulas into elegant, flowing symbols. How some scholars debated whether they were meant to be read like a language or understood intuitively, like music. How his research had been the most compelling out of everything you had read because he had found connections no one else had. And you kept talking. The excitement in your voice grew as you dove into your thoughts, into what you had thought you understood, where you had gotten confused, what theories had fascinated you the most. Your hands gestured as you spoke, pulling from half-remembered books, from fleeting ideas that had once captured your curiosity. It wasn’t often you let yourself talk like this not in front of someone like him. But Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t interrupt. He didn’t stop you, didn’t correct you, didn’t give even the slightest sign of impatience. Instead, he listened. Really listened. His golden eyes never left you, his expression softer than usual, his usual air of detached wisdom replaced by something else. Something… sincere. You didn’t even realize how long you had been talking until you finally stopped to take a breath, your cheeks feeling a little too warm from how animated you had become. You hesitated. “Ah sorry. I just”

“Why are you apologizing?” His voice was quiet, but there was something almost gentle in it. You blinked. “I don’t know. I just” You rubbed the back of your neck. “I guess I don’t usually get to talk about things like this.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment, then with the same patience he had shown you all along he carefully placed the scroll between you both. “You understood more than you realize,” he said, his voice measured but sincere. “Your thoughts were unrefined, but not incorrect.” You swallowed, unsure how to respond to that. Then, slowly, he tapped a portion of the parchment, his golden eyes still watching you. “Shall we refine them together?” Shadow Milk Cookie tapped his fingers lightly against the ancient parchment, his golden gaze flickering with quiet amusement. "You mentioned the celestial inscriptions functioning like a language or music an interesting comparison. However, there is a crucial distinction." You leaned in, eyes locked onto the elegant symbols, their flowing script like waves across the parchment. "A distinction?" He nodded. "Music is interpreted. Language is deciphered. But these inscriptions… they are neither. They do not seek to be understood in the way we process spoken words or melodies. Rather, they are realized." You furrowed your brows. "Realized?"

A small smile ghosted his lips at your curiosity. "Here." He pointed to one particular symbol, the ink faded with time. "This symbol what do you see?" You studied it carefully. The shape was familiar, something you had seen in your readings, but putting it into words felt difficult. "It looks… almost like an equation, but more fluid? Like a cycle rather than a fixed answer?" His smile grew just a fraction. "Not a bad observation." He straightened slightly, regarding you with measured patience. "This inscription represents a concept rather than a direct statement. If one were to translate it conventionally, the meaning would be lost." Your lips parted as realization slowly dawned. "So… it's not about reading it literally. It's about understanding what it embodies?" "Precisely." He tapped another inscription, this one branching off from the first. "This is why traditional methods of translation have failed. Scholars who sought rigid definitions overlooked the way these symbols are meant to function. They are not passive words on a page they interact, shift, and reshape meaning depending on what surrounds them." Your mind whirled, the weight of what he was saying sinking in. "Wait, so does that mean each symbol isn’t fixed in meaning? They change based on their placement?"

A satisfied glint crossed his eyes. "Exactly. Just as the position of a star in the sky changes its significance in navigation, the placement of these inscriptions alters their purpose. One symbol alone may suggest balance but paired with another, it could indicate interruption, or even conflict." Your fingers traced the air above the parchment, hesitant but intrigued. "So… how do you realize them? If there's no set definition, how do you know if you're understanding them correctly?" Shadow Milk Cookie's gaze lingered on you for a moment before he spoke again, softer this time. "That is the heart of the challenge. There is no singular truth written within these inscriptions. They require patience. Insight. A willingness to abandon absolutes in favor of comprehension."

You exhaled, the weight of his words settling in. "No wonder scholars struggle with this." He chuckled. "Many do. Those who seek only clear answers rarely find them here. But those who persist who learn to listen, uncover knowledge that cannot be attained through conventional study." Something about the way he said that made you pause. He wasn’t just talking about research. He was talking about you. Your voice was quieter when you finally spoke again. "Do you think… I could ever learn to do that?" Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you carefully. Then, with a certainty that sent warmth through your chest, he said, "If you have the patience to refine your thoughts, and the courage to challenge what you believe you know… then yes. You could." You swallowed, a slow breath escaping you. He believes I could. For the first time since arriving at this academy, the idea of learning truly learning felt less like a battle you were destined to lose. And more like a path you had just begun to walk. The rest of the morning passed in a blur of parchment, ink, and quiet exchanges. Shadow Milk Cookie took his time guiding you through the intricacies of his research, pausing whenever you had a question, indulging your curiosity with measured explanations. It was unlike any lesson you’d ever had less structured, more organic. It felt as though, for the first time, you weren’t just memorizing knowledge. You were understanding it. Eventually, though, the moment had to end. Shadow Milk Cookie straightened, rolling up the scroll before placing it back into its case. “I have other matters to attend to,” he said, his tone composed but not distant. “A lecture to teach, among other responsibilities.”

You nodded, still processing everything you had learned. “Right… Of course.” You hesitated before offering him a small, earnest smile. “Thank you for showing me all this. I really appreciate it.” Something flickered in his gaze not amusement, but something softer. “It was time well spent,” he said simply. “We will meet later for our usual tutoring.” Your heart swelled just a little at that not only because you were grateful for the tutoring, but because it meant today wasn’t the last time you would share a space with him like this. As you turned to leave, Shadow Milk Cookie gave you a final nod. “Be well.” You walked away, still replaying everything in your head. The research, the way he had looked at you when you’d spoken with excitement the way he had said, with absolute certainty, that you could understand it someday.

For the first time in a long time, you felt… hopeful. Until you turned a corner. And stopped. A few scholars stood ahead, lingering near one of the grand arched windows, their robes pristine, their demeanor effortlessly composed. They belonged here. You could immediately tell upper scholars, the kind who spent their days buried in debate and research, the kind who wouldn’t spare you a second glance under normal circumstances. Yet they were looking at you now. One of them, a scholar with neatly combed hair and sharp, unreadable eyes offered a small, knowing smile. “You’re the one who’s been spending time with the Sage of Truth, aren’t you?” Your stomach twisted, but you nodded cautiously. “Um… yes?” The others exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them before another stepped forward, tilting their head slightly as if considering you. “That is interesting,” they murmured. “We’ve seen you coming and going from his office quite often.” A third scholar, this one leaning casually against the wall sighed dramatically. “I suppose it is kind of sweet,” they mused. “You admire him. That’s understandable. He’s… inspiring, isn’t he?” There was something off about the way they said it. You forced a small, wary chuckle. “I mean, yeah, of course. He’s brilliant.” The first scholar hummed in agreement. “He is. Which is why he has so many responsibilities. So many things that require his attention.” Something cold settled in your chest. The second scholar nodded, smiling just a little too kindly. “It must be exhausting for him. Having someone constantly trailing after him.” The words weren’t harsh. There was no outright cruelty in their tone. But that only made it worse. Because it was careful. Deliberate. Another scholar sighed, shaking their head with feigned sympathy. “We’ve seen it happen before, you know. Students who latch onto a figure like him, thinking it means something more than it does.” Your throat went dry. The first scholar gave a small chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, no need to be offended. We’re just looking out for you. Wouldn’t want you to get too caught up in something that isn’t… realistic.” Another nod. Another too-kind smile. “It’s admirable, really,” one of them added. “But you must understand, he doesn’t have time to entertain every student who clings to him.” The weight of their words pressed against your chest, something heavy, something suffocating.

Is that what it looks like?

Is that what he thinks?

Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure what to say. What you could say. One of the scholars tilted their head. “Just some friendly advice,” they said lightly. “It’s best not to mistake patience for personal interest.” Then, just like that, they turned back to their own conversation, as if you had never been there at all. You stood frozen for a moment, your thoughts swirling into a storm of doubt.

Were they right?

Had you been foolish to think he saw anything in you beyond another student in need of guidance?

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move, to walk away before your thoughts could betray you any further. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself you wouldn’t let it bother you. But as you made your way back through the halls, their words echoed in your mind, refusing to leave you alone. Your footsteps felt heavier with each step, their words lingering in your mind like an ink stain you couldn't scrub away.

It’s best not to mistake patience for personal interest.

You clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself not to let it get to you but it was too late. The seed of doubt had already taken root. Then, a memory surfaced the second time Earl Grey warned you. "You should be careful," Earl Grey Cookie had said, his voice low as you sat beneath the Academy Gardens’ grand archway one evening. The lanterns had been lit, their glow flickering against his contemplative expression. "Careful?" you had asked, confused by the sudden warning. He had sighed, swirling the tea in his cup. "I’ve heard whispers. Some of the upper scholars have been talking about you. Not cruelly, exactly… but not kindly either. They’re wondering why the Sage of Truth is spending so much time tutoring you." Your stomach had twisted at that, but you had brushed it off with a nervous laugh. "That’s ridiculous. I’m just a struggling student, and he’s… well, he’s the Sage of Truth. It’s not that deep." Earl Grey had given you a pointed look. "You might think that. But people like them? They see patterns where none exist. And they don’t take kindly to outsiders gaining attention from someone as esteemed as him." "Outsiders?" you'd repeated, the word cutting sharper than you expected. "You’re not like them," he had said simply. "You’re not here to climb the ranks. You don’t care about prestige or titles. That makes you different." "Is that a bad thing?" "To people who have spent their entire lives clawing for status?" He had taken a slow sip of tea before sighing. "Yes. Yes, it is." You had scoffed at the time, unwilling to believe it would matter. But now? Now, you wondered. Had those scholars been the ones whispering about you before? Had they always been watching, waiting for a chance to remind you of where you stood? You swallowed hard, forcing yourself forward.

Maybe you were overthinking. Maybe they were just passing scholars with nothing better to do than meddle in the affairs of those beneath them. But deep down, you knew better. They had chosen their words carefully calculated just enough to plant a thought that would fester in your mind. And it was working. The thought of sitting through another lecture after lunch where nothing of value would be taught made your stomach twist. What was the point? History of Food? If you weren’t going to learn anything, wasn’t it better to just… not go? One day won’t kill me. You let out a breath and changed direction, heading toward the dining hall instead. Lunch wasn’t exactly something you were looking forward to, but it was better than sitting alone, stewing over the scholars’ words. Besides, you hadn’t seen Chai Latte, Hazelnut Biscotti, or Earl Grey since the morning. Maybe being around them would help shake the unease clinging to you.

The dining hall was already bustling when you arrived, the midday rush in full swing. Students and scholars alike gathered in their usual groups, some poring over notes between bites, others lost in heated debates. The comforting aroma of fresh bread and spiced soup filled the air, but even that wasn’t enough to lift your mood entirely. You spotted your friends at your usual table near the grand windows, where sunlight spilled in and painted golden patterns across the stone floor. Chai Latte Cookie waved as soon as she saw you, her bright smile faltering just a little when she got a better look at your face. “You look like you lost a debate,” she said as you sat down. Hazelnut Biscotti raised a brow. “Or like you just had a really bad lecture.” Earl Grey, ever perceptive, simply studied you in silence, waiting for you to explain. You sighed, poking at the food on your plate. “I ran into some upper scholars.” That got their attention. Chai Latte leaned in slightly, her expression curious but cautious. “Oh?”

“They were… nice.” You frowned, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. “Or at least, they pretended to be. But they said some things that just” You shook your head, pushing your food around with your fork. “I don’t know. They made it seem like I’m just bothering the Sage of Truth. Like I shouldn’t be following him around like a lost puppy.” Hazelnut Biscotti made a disgusted sound. “They actually said that?” “Not directly,” you admitted. “But that was the implication. That I shouldn’t waste his time.”Chai Latte frowned, crossing her arms. “That’s ridiculous. He offered to teach you, didn’t he? It’s not like you forced your way into his lessons.” “Yeah,” Hazelnut Biscotti agreed. “And honestly? They’re probably just jealous.” Earl Grey, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. “That doesn’t mean their words won’t get to you.” You looked at him, and he met your gaze with something knowing. “You can tell yourself they’re just being manipulative. That they have their own reasons for trying to shake you,” he continued. “But that doesn’t make it any less effective, does it?” Your stomach twisted. You hated how easily he saw through you. “…No,” you admitted. Earl Grey sighed, setting down his cup of tea. “I warned you that they’d talk. That they’d start to wonder why he’s spending time on you.” “I know.” You swallowed. “But I thought I could ignore it.” Chai Latte’s expression softened. “Hey. You can ignore it. You don’t have to listen to them.”

“But what if they’re right?” The words slipped out before you could stop them. “What if I am just wasting his time? What if” You clenched your jaw. “What if this is all just… charity?” Hazelnut Biscotti shook his head. “That’s nonsense.” Earl Grey, however, remained steady. “Then ask yourself this has he ever made you feel like you were wasting his time?” You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Because the answer was no. Shadow Milk Cookie had never once acted as though you were a burden. If anything, he was the one who had extended the invitation, who had encouraged you to keep going, who had even suggested that, someday, you could research alongside him. That wasn’t pity. That wasn’t obligation. That was something else entirely. “…No,” you said quietly. “He hasn’t.” Earl Grey nodded. “Then don’t let a few jealous scholars shake you.” Easier said than done. But still… You felt a little lighter. You nodded at Earl Grey’s words, but the uneasy weight in your chest didn’t disappear. Because deep down, hadn’t you always feared this? Hadn’t you always wondered why someone as brilliant as Shadow Milk Cookie would waste his time on you? Maybe you had been able to push those thoughts aside for a while lost in the excitement of learning, of finally having someone patient enough to guide you…but hearing it confirmed by others, seeing how it looked from the outside… It made your stomach churn. You stared down at your half-eaten meal, your appetite gone. The laughter and conversation buzzing around the dining hall felt distant, muffled, as if you were listening through a thick wall.

Chai Latte Cookie must have noticed because she reached out and placed a gentle hand over yours. “You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?” You swallowed hard. “I just… I don’t know. It’s not like what they said was wrong” “Yes, it was,” Hazelnut Biscotti interrupted, his voice firm. You flinched slightly, and he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I get it. If someone says something you’ve secretly feared all along, it feels true. But that doesn’t mean it is.” Chai Latte Cookie nodded. “Think about it. If the Sage didn’t think you were worth teaching, do you really think he’d waste his time? He’s Shadow Milk Cookie. He could spend his days debating with scholars who actually do care about status and recognition. He doesn’t need to humor you.” Earl Grey added, “And he certainly wouldn’t have invited you to his research space if he didn’t think you were capable of understanding it.” The thought made you pause. He had invited you. He had shown you his work, let you ramble excitedly about the parts you recognized, watched you with something that had almost felt… sincere. Would he have done that if he thought you weren’t worth his time? “I guess,” you mumbled. But doubt still gnawed at you. “But what if I am just a distraction? What if he just feels obligated because he offered?” Chai Latte Cookie groaned, exasperated but fond. “Okay, fine. If you won’t believe us, then ask him.” You blinked. “What?” She gestured vaguely. “If you’re so convinced that you’re a burden, then ask him why he’s teaching you. Why he keeps spending time on you. If he says it’s out of pity, then fine, we’ll drop it. But I bet he won’t.” The idea made you feel sick. Ask Shadow Milk Cookie directly? Ask him if he truly thought you were worth teaching? Could you even handle the answer? “…I don’t know if I can,” you admitted.

Earl Grey tilted his head slightly. “Then at least pay attention next time you’re with him. Really pay attention to how he speaks to you, how he teaches you. Does he treat you like a burden?” You bit your lip, hesitating. You wanted to believe them. You wanted to believe that Shadow Milk Cookie saw something in you that it wasn’t just obligation, that you weren’t just some helpless scholar he felt responsible for. But that fear, that doubt, had been with you from the beginning. And now, it was clawing its way back to the surface. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Alright, listen. If you do run into them again, don’t let them get into your head. They don’t outright insult you because they can’t not without consequences. Instead, they make you doubt yourself, make you do the work of tearing yourself down.” He tapped his temple. “Don’t give them that power.” You nodded slowly, but truthfully, the words felt hazy, slipping through your fingers even as you tried to hold onto them. Maybe if you saw those scholars again, then the advice would come back to you.

For now, though, that gnawing feeling in your chest refused to leave. Earl Grey Cookie, who had been watching you closely, sighed. With his usual grace, he picked up a napkin and unfolded it with practiced ease before gently dabbing at the corner of your sleeve, as if straightening it. It was a small, refined gesture, but something about it felt… grounding. “You are more than what they make you out to be,” he said simply. “And if they can’t see that, then it is their shortcoming not yours.” You swallowed thickly, his quiet confidence in you settling in a place deep within your heart. Before you could dwell on it too much, Chai Latte Cookie huffed and scooted closer, sliding onto the bench beside you. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around you in a warm hug, resting her chin on your shoulder. “You so need this right now,” she mumbled. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie laughed at the sight, then grinned and pulled both of you into an even bigger hug. “Oh, we’re doing this? Great.” You let out a muffled noise of protest, but your heart swelled at the warmth surrounding you. And then, just when you thought the moment couldn’t get any more ridiculous, Earl Grey Cookie. Earl Grey Cookie, who rarely indulged in such casual affections sighed, exasperated but fond, and leaned in just enough to place a hand on your shoulder. His version of joining in. The three of them surrounded you, a barrier against your doubts, your fears, against the whispers that threatened to drag you down. And since that awful encounter, you felt something close to safe. Slowly but surely, the weight in your chest began to ease. The warmth of your friends, their unwavering presence it was enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie was the first to break the silence. “Alright, enough of that. Time for something much more important.” You tilted your head. “Like what?” He smirked. “Gossip.” Chai Latte Cookie gasped, immediately perking up. “Oh! Finally!” She let go of you just enough to turn toward him. “What do you have? Who’s in a secret relationship? Who got caught sneaking out after hours?” Earl Grey Cookie let out a quiet sigh but didn’t protest. Even he knew there was no stopping them now. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie leaned in conspiratorially. “You will not believe what I overheard in the library this morning.” Chai Latte Cookie clasped her hands together. “Tell me.” You couldn’t help but smile as he launched into some absurd tale about two upper scholars caught bickering over who had the true interpretation of some old text apparently, it had gotten so heated that one of them had threatened to “challenge the other to an academic duel.” Chai Latte Cookie gasped dramatically. “Not an academic duel!” You raised an eyebrow. “That’s just… a debate, isn’t it?” “Not when they bring out the enchanted quills,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie said, shaking his head. “You’d think they were getting ready for a real battle.” Earl Grey Cookie, who had been stirring his tea with the utmost patience, finally spoke. “It is always the ones with the least to prove who act with the most decorum.” He took a sip, then added, “The rest simply enjoy the theatrics.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you before you could stop it. The tension in your shoulders had all but disappeared now. Chai Latte Cookie grinned. “There you are. I was worried we lost you for a second.” You sighed, shaking your head but smiling nonetheless. “You guys are ridiculous.” “And you love us for it,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie said smugly. You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed. For the rest of lunch, they made it their mission to keep your spirits up, bouncing between gossip, jokes, and dramatic retellings of completely mundane events. And by the time you had to part ways, you felt lighter than before. The once-lively warmth of lunch faded as you sat alone in the dining hall, flipping through your notes in an attempt to focus. The din of other students around you blurred into a meaningless hum as your eyes scanned the ink on parchment, but your mind wandered elsewhere. No matter how many times you reread a sentence, the same thoughts crept back in.

"Shouldn’t follow the Sage like a puppy dog."

"Coming and going from his office like you belong there."

"You shouldn't bother him with trivial matters."

The words weren’t new, not really. They had existed in the back of your mind before, faint whispers you had long since ignored. But now? Now they echoed loud and clear, no longer just insecurities but opinions spoken aloud, given weight by others who seemed to confirm what you feared deep down. You tried to shake it off, but the longer you sat there, the heavier it became. Eventually, the clock signaled the end of your skipped lecture. You gathered your belongings, tucking your notes under your arm, but the usual anticipation that accompanied your walk to his office was absent. Instead, a quiet discomfort settled in its place. For the first time since Shadow Milk Cookie had taken you under his guidance, you found yourself wondering; Was this really okay? Was it fine for you to keep following him like this?

You swallowed hard and stepped out of the dining hall, forcing your feet to carry you forward. Each step felt heavier than the last. The path to his office was familiar by now, but today, it stretched before you like an uphill climb. You weren’t sure if you were looking forward to this meeting anymore. The knock against the door was softer than usual. Almost hesitant. Shadow Milk Cookie glanced up from his desk, setting aside the parchment he had been reading. “Enter.” You stepped inside, carrying your notes as you always did, your expression composed or at least, you tried to make it seem that way. He did not speak immediately, only observing as you settled into your usual seat. From the outside, nothing seemed amiss. You sat with the same posture, your hands resting over your notes, your eyes focused forward. But the silence between you felt… different. It was in the way you hesitated before placing your things down. In how your fingers fidgeted ever so slightly before stilling, as if you had caught yourself. In the way your responses normally natural, sometimes even eager felt just a touch more rehearsed. “Shall we begin?” he asked smoothly, as if nothing was out of place. You nodded. “Of course.” And so, he began the lesson. At first, you did your best to keep up, nodding along, forcing yourself to listen. But your mind was foggy. The words from earlier clung to your thoughts, unshakable. Shadow Milk Cookie was nothing if not observant. From the moment you entered his office, he knew something was amiss. You greeted him as usual, polite and eager on the surface, but your voice lacked the natural ease it carried earlier that morning. You moved with careful precision, placing your notes on the desk without the absentminded fidgeting you usually did when settling in. And when he spoke, explaining a concept with his usual thoroughness, you nodded at the right moments but there was a hollowness to it, like you were following a script rather than truly engaging. He did not mention it at first. Instead, he allowed the lesson to unfold, watching you closely. You were trying. He would give you that. Your posture remained attentive, your hand gripped your quill as if poised to take notes. But the ink never met the parchment. And your mind, he could tell was elsewhere. Minutes passed, his voice filling the space between you, but your responses were lackluster at best. He posed a question, expecting the usual spark of thought from you. Silence.

Your fingers twitched. You blinked down at your notes, as if trying to recall the words he had just spoken. “…Could you repeat that?” you asked, attempting to sound casual. Shadow Milk Cookie did not repeat himself. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, golden eyes scrutinizing you in that unreadable way of his. “You are distracted,” he observed, tone impossibly neutral. You inhaled sharply. “I-I’m not.” He said nothing, simply watching you. Your grip on the quill tightened. “I mean, I am listening,” you insisted, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I just… I just lost track of that one thing you said, that’s all. It won’t happen again.” A pause. Then “What is clouding your mind?” The directness of his question nearly made you flinch. “Nothing,” you lied instantly. Shadow Milk Cookie did not look convinced. You forced a smile, flipping a page in your notes as if to move on. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night. That’s all.” His gaze remained steady. He did not believe you. “…You were not like this earlier,” he finally said. Your throat tightened. “I’m fine.” He leaned back slightly, considering you. “You would not attempt to deceive me if you were.” You exhaled through your nose, gripping the edges of your notes as if they might ground you. You could not talk about it. The words from earlier still clung to you, wrapping around your thoughts like vines. That you didn’t belong here. That you were only wasting his time. That you looked like a lost cause following him around. Hadn’t you thought that before? Hadn’t you always feared that deep down?

You had pushed those feelings aside for so long. But hearing them aloud, spoken by scholars who did belong here, ones who didn’t struggle like you had twisted the doubt into something worse. And now? Now it sat like a weight in your chest, pulling you down, making it hard to focus. But you couldn’t tell him that. So you did what you always did. You tried to push through. “I just need to focus,” you muttered, shaking your head as if to rid yourself of the lingering thoughts. “Can we…can we just keep going?” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a long moment. Then, at last, he nodded. “Very well,” he said, though his tone had shifted softer now, almost careful. And so, the lesson continued. But he was still watching you. He had memorized your mannerisms long ago, and no matter how well you tried to hide it, he knew.

The soft scratching of your quill against parchment filled the quiet of Shadow Milk Cookie’s office. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the tomes and scrolls stacked meticulously on the desk between you. You were trying. You really were. You had been working through the problems he assigned, listening to his explanations, and responding when prompted. But your words lacked their usual conviction, your responses coming slower, your handwriting more uneven. And Shadow Milk Cookie noticed. He always noticed. “Your approach here is not incorrect,” he said evenly, tapping his finger against a section of your notes. “But your application of the theorem is inconsistent. Tell me why.” You blinked, staring at the equation as if the answer would materialize on the parchment. You knew this. You had done this before. But your thoughts felt tangled, clouded by lingering doubts. You hesitated, gripping your quill a little too tightly. “I… must’ve made a mistake somewhere.” His eyes didn’t leave you. “Then correct it.” You swallowed, nodding stiffly as you tried to retrace your steps. Your fingers twitched against the quill, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move, your mind faltering over the simplest steps. Shadow Milk Cookie observed you carefully, his sharp gaze taking in every small hesitation, every misplaced breath. Then, he spoke soft, yet unwavering. “You are elsewhere.” Your breath hitched. You shook your head quickly. “I’m fine. I just need a moment to-” “I expect honesty from you.” The words settled over you like a weight. You pressed your lips together, suddenly feeling unbearably small beneath his gaze. “I am being honest,” you tried. His expression did not change. You exhaled shakily, your shoulders curling inward. Your fingers twitched against the parchment, ink staining the tips where you had pressed too hard. He waited. Patient. Unyielding. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until you finally broke. “…Some scholars stopped me earlier,” you muttered, not quite meeting his gaze. Shadow Milk Cookie remained still, listening. You hesitated, gripping the edges of your parchment. “They… they said I shouldn’t be bothering you. That I’m just following you around like some lost cause. That I don’t belong here.” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “And maybe they’re right.” A stillness settled between you. Shadow Milk Cookie did not immediately respond. Instead, he studied you his golden eyes sharp, contemplative. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, resting his hands atop the desk. “And you believe them?” His voice was quiet, but there was something beneath it something firm, something undeniable. You swallowed. “I don’t know.” His gaze did not waver. “Then tell me. What is it you seek?” You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “I…” You fidgeted with your sleeve. “I just… want to understand. I want to learn.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a long moment. Then, he asked, “And do you know what they seek?” Your breath stilled. “…No.” A flicker of something unreadable crossed his expression. “So enlighten me,” he mused, “why do you measure yourself against them?” Your lips parted then pressed together.

You had no answer. Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze softened, just slightly. “It is a most curious thing,” he murmured. “To allow those whose motives remain unknown to dictate your worth.” Your fingers twitched. “…I just don’t want to be a burden,” you admitted. He exhaled quietly, closing his eyes for a brief moment before regarding you again. “Do you know what I seek?” You blinked. “…Truth?” you offered weakly. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Indeed.” His voice dropped slightly, steady and assured. “And I do not grant my time frivolously. If I believed you incapable of learning, you would not be here.” Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, unraveling something tight within you. “…Thank you,” you murmured. Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a moment longer, then slowly, almost hesitantly he did something unexpected. He reached for the parchment before you and, with a graceful flick of his wrist, tore away the section where your ink had bled through. You startled slightly. “Wait, what are you” “You will redo it,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “With clarity of mind.” You gaped at him. “But-but that was…” “Incorrect,” he interrupted smoothly, setting a fresh parchment before you. “And you are capable of better.” Your throat tightened. It wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t dismissal. It was belief. You swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “…Alright.” Shadow Milk Cookie hummed approvingly. Then, after a moment’s pause, he added, “If it will ease your mind, I will inquire into these scholars myself.” Your eyes widened. “You...wait, no, you don’t have to” “I will.” His voice left no room for argument. “I would not see a bright mind discouraged over whispers in the dark.” Your heart pounded. This was… more than he usually offered. More personal than he usually allowed himself to be. You weren’t even sure what to say. “…I don’t really remember who they were,” you admitted, shifting slightly. “I didn’t recognize them.” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Then I shall find out myself.” You inhaled deeply, still reeling from all of it. “…Thank you,” you said, voice quieter than before. He regarded you once more, then gestured toward your fresh parchment. “Now,” he mused, a familiar knowing glint returning to his gaze, “let us see if you can solve this correctly.”

A/N not to crush anyone's hopes but these scholars are just petty they won't try anything tbh only nasty words...well not even just spreading doubt it's not a super important storyline but I need it for the realism it's suspicious if nobody questions the mc and why they're going to his office so often... okay that was all 9 chapters left until the kiss scene

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

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ceilidho · 5 months ago

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fear of god

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 9 masterlist

Knock until something answers or until your knuckles pass straight through.

After Gaz leaves your lab, you spend the rest of the afternoon working on your research, doing your level best to ignore the blood samples sitting in the refrigeration unit on the other side of the room. You normally wouldn’t have to wait very long before running your tests, but you do because you can’t shake the feeling that you are on the threshold of some atrocious becoming, the bloodletting preceding destruction.

You hadn’t thought of your life up to this point as some prelapsarian time, but the fall seems imminent.

The tedium of day gives way to the disquietude of night, when all else settles down and the ship hums itself to sleep. You skip supper and head back to your room instead, whittling away the hours with a word search book that ends with you circling the same word over and over again like you can’t find another one. You find yourself writing it even in the margins of the book.

Alien.

And it is a whisper quiet thought because you know that if you look at it too hard, you’ll only end up doubting yourself. Write off all of the strange occurrences happening around you as coincidence or all in your head when you know that they are not.

There’s no chance you’ll sleep with the worries weighing on your mind, so instead of trying, you slip out of your room when the ship slips into the deepest part of its night cycle.

The door to your room slides shut softly behind you. It is quiet in the hallway.

For as many times as you’ve been in space, it’s never felt as alien as now. Perhaps because you’ve always regarded the inky darkness surrounding the ship with a careful, neutral ambivalence. Also perhaps because, consciously or not, you’ve always assumed that there was nothing else out there.

But in the days since Gaz first knocked on the porthole and asked to come inside, your perspective has shifted.

One of the lights flickers on your wall down the main corridor and you pause for a moment to watch it flicker. It goes out entirely for a handful of seconds before coming back on.

Down the hall you go, the long isthmus between bow and stern, stopping every once in a while to examine the walls and metal flooring. You even sit on the staircase leading down from the orlop deck to the cargo hold to stare at the rusted metal grates. When you test it with your finger, the rust feels real enough. It has that rough, grainy texture, and when you pull your finger away, a faint residue transfers to the pad of your finger.

Strange. All this time you’ve lived on the ship and yet not once have you noticed anything like this.

The stairs aren’t rusted enough to warrant reporting it this very second, but you make a mental note to mention it to someone in the morning.

In the cargo hold, you crouch behind a pallet stacked with crates of supplies on the far end of the hold and stare at a corner of the wall. The interior panelling has started to chip away at the bottom of the corner, chunks of it flaking off when you dig your fingers into the hole. You find more as you scan the hold, even the fire baffles on the ceiling looking a bit rusted when you squint your eyes.

You wrack your brain for some memory of ever noticing these defects before but nothing comes to mind.

It’s almost as if, in small, nearly imperceptible ways, the ship has been slowly starting to corrode. The materials themselves seem to be breaking down at an exponentially increasing rate, as if something were sucking the vitality from them. While you can’t deny that the ship is still as functional as the day it left Earth, the longer you stare at some of the finer details, the more things that you remember previously looking adequate enough now seem to be on the verge of decay.

Can you trust what’s in front of you though? You press harder into the gouge in the wall with your finger, wincing when it slices through the skin and a bead of blood wells up. Can you trust what you’re looking at?

And what does it mean if you’re right?

The longer you stare, the more your head hurts. The bubble of blood on your fingertip swells when you press your nail into the skin beside it.

It would be better for your sanity if you could stop questioning everything, but you can’t change what you are. You exist in accordance with your nature like all things do.

Another time around the cargo hold before exhaustion starts getting the better of you. You won’t find anything that you haven’t already found.

The walk back to your quarters feels twice as long, winding through dimly lit corridors that echo with the sound of your footsteps.

Your footsteps echo behind you for a beat too long, as if the ship were bigger than its true size, or as if there were someone following behind you, beat for beat except for the occasional slip.

When one rings a bit too loud, you stop and turn on your heel, staring into the darkness, waiting for something to emerge or the footsteps to keep following you down the hall.

Apart from the ever present hum rumbling through the ship, the corridor stays quiet. You let out a breath. Everything seems menacing at this time of night. Just the mind playing tricks on itself.

You keep walking towards your room, ignoring the way your footsteps echo behind you again, just a beat off.

In the morning, you run Gaz’s blood through the centrifuge and wait for the solid and liquid components to separate while you putter around on the other side of the room. Your coffee is cold before you manage to take your first sip.

Nauseous from skipping breakfast, your empty stomach grumbles, hunger pangs shooting through you. Better that you don’t eat though, for fear of losing the contents of your stomach at a moment’s notice. That’s the overwhelming feeling that you’ve been carrying with you since sneaking back to your quarters early in the morning—that anything might make it all come up.

The coffee goes down bitter and ice cold. It makes your mouth taste somewhat stale, thick on the back of your tongue no matter how many times you clear your throat and swallow. It might’ve tasted better had you lingered a bit longer in the galley to find the milk capsules, but you’d been in a hurry to rush back to the medbay, not interested in running across Gaz or anyone else.

Then the centrifuge beeps, and you realize that you can’t get up from your chair.

It’s not that you can’t physically get up, it’s just that every molecule in your being is fighting the urge to do so. All of your anxiety is pressed right up against your sternum, gathered tight beneath your bones; a terrible sense of foreboding that accompanies everything you do these days.

Eventually, you summon the nerve to rise to your feet and cross the room, hesitating in front of the centrifuge for only a moment before opening the lid.

It looks normal from the outset, the liquid and solid components separated in the tube with the platelets forming a layer between the red blood cells and plasma. You carry on with removing the supernatant fluid with a pipette and transferring the liquid component into a new test tube, getting everything ready for your tests.

Under the microscope, you look at what seem to be normal, human blood cells. Biconcave discs; mostly red blood cells, with a stray neutrophil floating around under the topmost slide. They behave and move so normally that at first you just observe them as you might anyone else’s blood sample, checking for any abnormalities or deficiencies.

And then, you find them.

It isn’t easy to make sense of what you’re seeing at first, and the longer you look at it, the less sense it makes. A neutrophil with a fat nucleus swims leisurely around until it encounters a group of red blood cells. The blood cells, stained in order to make them visible, swarm and then part, behaving perfectly normal until the second they don’t.

You can’t make sense of what you’re looking at because what you’re looking at defies sense. It almost looks like cells cannibalizing other cells, but not quite, the cells not quite consuming one another so much as amalgamating and disappearing entirely. Warping into increasingly strange shapes.

Cells merge with other cells and then split again, trapped in an endless cycle of death and rebirth, and the only thing you can think of is a tesseract folding in on itself. You’re losing something crucial, something invisible to you—invisible because it transcends your ability to perceive it. A shape turning in a higher dimension.

The dread builds the longer you look. Your excuses keep piling up—bad samples and lack of sleep—but they feel flimsy, even paltry in comparison to the larger suspicion that has been hounding you these past few days.

You push your chair away from the table and back up as far as you can until it hits something behind you. Short of breath. Heart pounding in your chest, but this time it’s almost painful. You’re not strong enough to stand at first, at least not without holding onto the back of your chair.

The medbay door glides shut behind you as you leave, slowly breaking into a run as you head down the main hall, looking for someone else to verify what you saw under the microscope. The mess and galley are empty when you check them, much to your consternation, but you find Hadir in the tiny fitness area a few minutes later, sweating through a round of overhead presses.

“Morning,” he greets when he spots you from out of the corner of his eye. “You’re not working out in that are you?”

He’s referring, of course, to your lab coat and uniform pants, which are hardly appropriate gym wear. Your ability to joke around is nonexistent though. Hadir must register that from the look on your face though because his arms slowly come down to his sides, a sweat-drenched brow arching in question.

“Hadir, you went to med school, right?” you ask him.

“I was in nursing school before I dropped out, but—” he corrects, only for you to cut him off before he’s able to add anything else.

“That’s fine—I need you to look at something for me. Do you have a sec?”

He goes quiet for a moment and then nods, racking the weights before following you out of the gym.

The walk back to the medical unit feels like a death march, with you leading the way. Your steps echo through the hall, each one louder somehow. Deafening. The pit in your stomach is bottomless—no matter how far down you go, you keep falling. You’ve done this with Hadir before, leading him towards something that you know in your gut is wrong without the confidence to call it what it is.

The microscope is still there on the table when you walk back into the medbay. The hair on the back of your neck lifts when you lay eyes on it.

“There.” You point towards the microscope, not taking a step towards it.

Hadir’s eyebrows furrow. He looks over at it and then back at you. “Okay.”

He crosses the room silently and pulls up a stool, settling in before adjusting the chair and microscope for his height. A tense few seconds pass while you wait for him to adjust everything to his measurements before he leans in to look through the eyepiece.

Then all is quiet.

You don’t know how long it’ll take for him to notice what you noticed, so all you can do is wait anxiously until he does. Or until he doesn’t—another possibility that hangs over you like a guillotine’s blade.

Hadir looks through the eyepiece for what feels like an hour, so focused on the slide in front of him that you can hardly even hear him breathe.

“What are these?” he asks when he finally pulls away from the eyepiece, looking at you from over his shoulder.

“Blood cells.”

“You’re sure these are only blood cells?”

“Yes.” You don’t make mistakes, especially not with a simple procedure like this.

“These…these don’t look like blood cells.” He bends his head to look again, staring more intently this time. “I mean they do, but… Where did you get these, doc?”

“I pulled those from Gaz yesterday during his physical,” you admit quietly.

Again Hadir pulls away from the eyepiece to look over his shoulder at you. The look on his face is inscrutable, much like his sister. You wish you could see behind it and read his thoughts somehow. If only you didn’t have to guess every time. If only his gaze didn’t make you feel so raw and vulnerable, exposed belly ripe for vivisection.

“This is Gaz’s blood?”

“Yes.”

Another prolonged moment of silence.

“Doc, I don’t know what this is, but this can’t be someone’s blood. I may not actually be a nurse, but I’ve seen enough blood to know what it should look like.”

“I promise you it is. I drew those yesterday and no one’s been in here since.”

Hadir rolls away from the table, turning to face you fully. “What’s your opinion then? Why’d you ask me to come look at this?”

Here’s where it gets tricky. Because coming to the conclusion that you have internally already come to is one thing, but actually putting it to words is a much more laborious task, one requiring a kind of delicacy and cunning that you have never exactly possessed.

“I think—” you start, struggling to get the words out. “That if…that if that is inside of Gaz…we need to start having a different conversation.”

“Doc, if anything, I think maybe he’s just sick.” There it is again. That whisper of condemnation. A glimmer of suspicion so faint that you would almost doubt yourself if your mind wouldn’t stop screaming why can’t you open your eyes? Why won’t you just believe me?

“You know that’s not true,” you snap, too severe. “He’s not sick—I’m not even sure he’s a person. This is—this is beyond fucked up. Those cells aren't human.”

He just stares at you, deeply unnerved by your outburst, like his fear is stretched so thin that he can’t see it for what it is.

“At least let me—can you at least just—” The right words keep slipping from your grasp, too slippery to catch them. “Can you—…just…I need you to just believe me this time…” You trail off completely as it gets harder and harder to breathe.

“Hey, hey, okay, take it easy,” Hadir says soothingly, getting to his feet, his hands outstretched like he means you no harm.

He moves until he’s right in front of you, hands braced on your shoulders to centre you. Whatever his intention, it doesn’t help.

“He’s doing something to us,” you breathe, throat so tight that your voice breaks on multiple words.

“Doctor, he’s not doing anything to us—he just looks sick. Or there’s just something wrong with the blood sample.”

You shake your head. “No. No. Hadir, it’s not just this, it’s—it’s everything.”

“What do you mean ‘everything’?” He sounds almost baffled.

“How he got here—the tests—his smell—the way everything’s like…fucking falling apart. Even Farah promised to keep an eye on him.”

He blinks. “Farah said she’d keep an eye on Gaz?”

You know you promised to keep it between the two of you, but you can’t help blurting it out when there’s a chance it might make Hadir take you seriously. “Yes! Because she knows there’s something wrong with this. We shouldn’t have found a man out in the middle of space when there’s no one else around for millions of miles!”

And you can’t understand how no one else seems at all suspicious when every single thing about Gaz’s sudden appearance on the ship is making alarms go off in your head. It’s like you’re inhabiting a separate reality from everyone else and perceiving things that aren’t really there. Like you are being pried away from their world.

Hadir’s hands tighten around your shoulders. “Let’s just—let’s take a breath, okay?”

You’re reluctant to acquiesce, but the look in his eyes tells you that it’s not up for negotiation. He leads you through a simple breathing exercise. Four seconds in, hold for seven, and then exhale for eight. You repeat it until the room stops swimming.

“We both agree that there’s something wrong with those samples,” Hadir finally says, trying to reassure you. “I’m on your side, okay, doc?” You nod, swallowing. “Why don’t you just redo the test then?”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” you whisper.

“I know, but things happen, right? Maybe the lid wasn’t sealed properly or you didn’t swab Gaz’s arm before taking his blood—”

“I did swab his arm,” you object, but your throat is too tight and the words come out too soft to make an impact. Hadir breezes past like you didn’t say anything.

“The point is—it’s not your fault. It’s completely normal to make mistakes. Just destroy these samples and ask him to come back so you can take new ones. I can even help if you want—I’ll be your second pair of eyes.”

You want to protest. You want to take Hadir by the shoulders and shake him until he admits that what’s in front of his eyes is actually there—that you can’t keep pretending like everything’s normal. It would be a pointless battle though. He simply doesn’t believe you.

The worst part is that you’re grateful that at least your eyes haven’t failed you. At least Hadir saw what you saw, his own conclusions aside. At least you have that reassurance, despite how hopeless everything else feels.

You take a step back, his hands falling from your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll get a new blood sample and run the tests again.”

“Doc—”

“No,” you cut him off, forcing a tight smile. “It’s fine. You’re right. I’ll let you know when I have Gaz come in again and we can look at the new sample together. Sorry to pull you from your workout.”

Hadir’s lips flatten as he stares at you, searching for something to say that never materializes. Maybe he sees the pointless battle in your eyes as well.

“Okay…ping me when you do,” he says, letting it go. “Remember, I’m on your side.”

There’s a fine tremor in your hands when he leaves. And though embarrassment keeps you from meeting his eyes on his way out, you tell yourself again that he’s done you a service in confirming what you saw, that at least this has given you new footing to stand on.

You remind yourself of that as you feel your feet begin to slip from under you.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz/reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick/reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #gaz x you

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yoonjae20 · 6 months ago

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Bruce is (secretly) married [Bruce/Danny; Spirit Halloween]

I got sucked into the DPxDC crossover rabbit hole. I have read too many fanfics despite not knowing the source material.

I randomly got the idea of Bruce being secretly married and the Batfam finding out about it after Duke poses the question of why Bruce wears a ring. (Also how Danny's influence would have subtly changed things.)

Read this on ao3. Masterpost

Next.

Bruce had always worn the ring, long before Dick came around – at least that’s what the boy had told Jason when he asked about it.

They had looked through the records one night – bonding over finding out when he started, but he had already worn the ring once the man returned from his seven year long journey of training. The media had speculated it to be a family heirloom – either his father’s or mother’s wedding ring. Bruce neither confirmed or denied when they asked about it.

The man never took it off, not even when he stalked the night as Batman and neither of them had been brave enough to ask about it, after they watched clips where the media asked and his Brucie mask slipped into something uncomfortably blank.

Jason had quickly forgotten about it after Bruce had benched him from being Robin after Felipe Garzonasa’s death. He had been furious, questioning if Bruce didn’t believe him that he didn’t push the man.

“Of course I believe you, chum,” the man had said, but Jason didn’t trust the man’s words. “But you just saw a man die. That’s not something we should brush over.”

He had sent Jason to bed for the night, but the boy had sneaked out, believing Bruce to go back to patrol after dropping him off. He instead found him in his office, talking to someone on the phone.

“...You have better experience with stuff like this than me…” the man said. “Do you think I should have never given Jason Robin? I know Dick agreed, but…” Bruce trailed off and then paused to hear the other person’s response. “I know.” He let out a deep sigh. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow about it. Are you still planning on visiting for the anniversary? I would appreciate if you tried talking to-”

Jason didn’t wait to listen for more. He knew it. Bruce was going to take Robin away from him.

He remembered the picture he had found of his birth mother. He initially had wanted to tell Bruce to get his help to find her, but now he isn’t sure if it’s such a good idea. If the man was gonna take Robin away from him anyway, he didn’t want to be there for the moment.

With that goal in mind, unbeknownst to Bruce, he disappeared that night, setting out to the Middle East to find his mother.

Bruce finds his corpse several weeks later. Dick breaks down in space when he receives the call from Bruce. They attend the funeral together, neither of them talking about it, even years later.

Jason returns several years later, dead set on revenge on Joker and on Bruce for never avenging him. What he doesn’t expect is to stumble over a newspaper celebrating the anniversary of the Jason Scholarship Foundation along with pictures of his funeral, showcasing both Bruce and Dick crying.

He never stumbles upon a memorial with his battered Robin suit and the description “Jason Todd, a Good Soldier” and beats Tim Drake, the third Robin half dead for replacing him. Instead he returns to the Manor, overwhelmed at Bruce’s breakdown and reaction. Red Hood debuts several months later – with the Bat symbol on his chest. They still have their conflicts, but Jason never has to fill a duffel bag full of heads for his debut.

It’s only once Damian arrives, Cass becomes Bruce’s daughter and Duke his ward that the topic of the ring gets brought up again. It’s Duke who asks what they all have been thinking.

“By the way, why does Bruce wear a ring?”

Finding no information online and not managing to get anything out of Alfred, they break into Bruce’s office while he’s on patrol getting distracted by Damian and Cass. It’s Tim who finds it, in a locked drawer, sealed carefully.

A marriage certificate.

“Who the hell is Daniel Fenton?” Jason questions gruffly.

“My husband.”

Jason startles, turning to the doorway. Bruce is standing there, his arm crossed and he cringes at the displeased raise of Bruce’s right eyebrow. Behind him Cass shrugs at Tim’s questioning gaze while Damian clicks his tongue.

“Why haven’t we met him? And, wait, does Dick know about this?” Tim asks.

Bruce lets out a deep sigh as he fiddles with the ring - the wedding ring.

“Let’s go somewhere else for this.”

They all shuffle to one of their smaller living rooms. Duke sets up a voice call so Dick, who is back in Blüdhaven, doesn't have to miss out. Tim is on his own computer, no doubt researching everything he can find on Daniel Fenton. Or would he be Daniel Wayne?

It’s Damian who breaks the silence.

“Father. Explain.”

The man presses his lips together as he stares down into his tea. Alfred squeezes his shoulder behind him.

“The reason you haven’t met Danny is because he’s dead.” Bruce pauses while his kids pale. “Technically.”

Before either of them can question that, suddenly a young white haired boy appears, sitting on Bruce arm’s chair, eyebrow raised and wearing a black and white hazmat suit.

“Shouldn’t I be here for this?”

In an instant all of them sans Bruce and Alfred are on alert, Tim has a Batarang in hand, Jason one of his guns and Damian a knife poised to the unknown boy’s neck.

It’s Bruce who diffuses the situation.

“Danny?” Bruce sounds disbelieving and Damian twitches, knife still in hand.

“In the flesh.” The boy does jazz hands, neck grazing the knife, but it doesn’t draw any blood. “Or ectoplasm. Whatever.”

“How wonderful of you to surprise us with your presence Master Danny,” Alfred says, tone slightly sarcastic and Damian finally steps back, eyebrows knitted together.

Danny winces.

“I would have warned you, but Clockwork just dropped me off, telling me that it’s finally time.”

“This is your husband?” Duke bursts out.

The boy bows playfully.

“Danny Fenton-Wayne. King of the Infinite Realms. Half ghost and-” Suddenly he transforms, white rings traveling over his body and leaving behind a middle-aged black haired man. “-Half human.”

“GHOST?”

“HALF HUMAN?”

“KING OF THE INFINITE REALMS?”

“Thank fuck I thought Bruce was a pedophile for a moment.”

Everyone turns to stare at Duke.

“What? I just said what everyone thought,” the boy defends himself.

“Actually that would be ephebophilia,” Danny corrects. “Although he would still classify as a necrophile.”

Bruce punches the man’s forearm, rolling his eyes with a fond look and Danny yelps, rubbing the spot.

“Hey! If anyone is allowed to joke about it, it’s me!” the man complains with a pout and Bruce shakes his head.

“Another reason why you never met Danny is because – believe it or not – he’s the King of the Infinite Realms, which means he is quite busy.”

“So much paperwork,” Danny groans. “If I get Constantine’s ass, I swear to the Ancients that he’s gonna die. Half a decade lost because I had to bargain for his soul pieces!”

“After I returned to Gotham to become Batman, the Infinite Realms unfortunately fell into war following a coup attempt, leaving Danny to deal with the mess.”

“And Clockwork prohibited me from visiting the Gotham until a certain point, claiming that I would change the timeline too much with my influence,” Danny finishes for Bruce, all of Bruce’s kids watching with fascination how seamlessly they seem to fit together as the man leans his head against Bruce’s shoulder while Bruce runs a hand through the man’s black hair. “Considering I would have never let Bruce run around with child vigilantes, he’s probably right.”

“I forgot you know about that,” Bruce sighs.

“Jazz kept me updated,” Danny says smugly.

“That’s a break of patient confidentiality,” Bruce grumbles.

“She may be your therapist, but she’s also my sister.”

“Mr. I-Rather-Chew-Nails-than-Talk-About-My-Feelings?“ Jason exclaims. “No way!”

“I have been vocal about the fact that I go to therapy.” Bruce frowns.

“I thought you were joking!”

“Where do you guys think I go every Sunday evening?” Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Justice League meeting?”

“Golfing?”

Once again everyone stares at Duke and he flushes at the attention.

“I thought it’s a rich person thing!”

Danny snorts.

“He got you there, darling.”

“When and how did you guys meet?” It’s the first time Dick actually speaks up, having observed everything – or as much as he could – through the web camera.

“At a gala when both Bruce and I were teens,” Danny answers. “My godfather dragged me into it. At least one thing I can thank him for.”

Danny smiles while Bruce grunts in agreement.

“The wedding?” Tim follows up.

Both Danny and Bruche pause to think.

“Did we do the civil registration in Paris or Las Vegas?” Danny turns to Bruce. “I can’t remember.”

“We were quite drunk,” Bruce agrees.

Danny snips his fingers like he remembers something, but then he shakes his head. He puts a hand to his chin, tiling his head.

“Or was it Brazil?”

The rest blink at the pair before Danny shrugs with an apologetic smile.

“We had the real wedding in the Infinite Realms though,” Danny explains, “Once Bruce got finished with his training. The citizens wouldn’t have accepted it otherwise. Alfred would have taken pictures, but technology doesn’t work in the Infinite Realms.”

“Such a shame, it was quite a nice wedding,” Alfred affirms.

“Alfred knew?!” is the consensus complaint.

“Does Mother and Grandfather know about this?” Damian asks stiffly.

“Considering Ra’s used Bruce’s and your mother’s DNA to artificially create a baby despite knowing – he doesn’t care,” Danny says just a tad-bit too cheerfully.

The revelation leaves everyone reeling.

“Okay, now that all questions are answered-” Danny doesn’t give them time to inject. “Can we talk about the stinking elephant in the room?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow as Danny gestures to Jason. Jason almost would feel insulted if Danny didn’t sound so genuinely surprised that nobody else said or noticed something.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Jason complains as he discreetly tries to sniff his armpits. Considering Tim’s and Dick’s snickering, he doesn’t succeed.

“Your Ectoplasm reeks like-” Danny grimaces as he flails his arms. “Like you took a bath in spoiled eggs.”

Danny turns to Bruce with an angry look in his eyes.

“Especially you should have noticed, considering you are liminal! His core is completely malnourished.” Bruce winces. “Did you forget that I gave you a way to contact Frostbite?”

“Without the ambient ectoplasm you radiate my ability to see ectoplasmic entities and speak and read Ghost Speak slowly degraded over the years,” Bruce explains. “I wasn’t aware Jason had been a type of ectoplasmic entity.”

“His eyes literally glow green when he’s angry!” Danny chides. “He returned from the dead for revenge. He’s clearly a Revenant. That’s Ghost 101!”

It’s amusing to see Bruce get scolded by someone else other than Alfred. Alone for that fact Jason has to admit that he begrudgingly likes Danny.

“Alright-” Danny stands up and tugs on Jason’s arm. Bruce moves to follow him like second nature. “You are coming with me right this instant.”

Before anyone can stop them, Danny transforms back into his Ghost Form, Jason’s hand in one and Bruce in the other and steps through a glowing green portal, it vanishing shortly after. Silence follows.

“So well that just happened.”

This time everyone agrees with Duke.

937 notes · View notes

yourownutopia · 6 months ago

Text

Ultraviolent Heart

╰┈➤You know how it ends. From the very beginning, you carried that knowledge like an inescapable burden, a quiet ache that shaped your every choice. Yet you stayed—for him. Jin Woo—your confidant, your light in a world of darkness—could never walk with you to the very end. But you couldn't take it anymore. It was too much to bear. So, you leave - knowing your place by his side was never meant to last.

Left behind is Jin Woo, with questions no one will answer and a gaping void where your presence once was. You are gone, and yet the emptiness you leave lingers longer than any memory. ༊*·˚

Crywolf - ULTRAVIOLENT [adrenochrome] ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚--~

Your heart is torturing me.

Knock.

The dull sound of his fist striking hard stone echoed through the air.

Once—not too hard.

Twice—with more force.

Three times—before the rigid concrete wall could no longer withstand the immense power of the Shadow Monarch. Cracks spread across the structure, and where solid stone once stood, now a large, gaping hole remained, with Jin Woo’s hand at its center—much like the gaping hole in his heart.

The overwhelming anger he felt threatened to consume him entirely. Beru flinched violently, fear creeping up his limbs as his master’s eyes glowed dangerously. He had brought bad news—perhaps the worst Jin Woo had received in a long time.

"Search more thoroughly."

The black-haired man’s voice cut through the silence like his blades through flesh. Yet, despite his usual composed demeanor, his voice quivered with rage.

Beru wanted to point out that it was a pointless endeavor. If you were still there, he would have already found you. But his master would not accept that answer.

"Yes, my king," Beru replied reverently before retreating into the shadows, leaving Jin Woo alone in his fury.

This couldn’t be true. No one could simply vanish without a trace. And yet, it seemed that was exactly what had happened.

A thousand miles an hour again.

It had been a week, and none of his shadows could locate you. Even the Hunter’s Association had been unable to find any information about your current whereabouts. There wasn’t even a hint that you had left the country.

But giving up the search would mean it was over. It would mean that a part of him was gone forever and that the memories you shared were nothing more than illusions.

He clung to the last shred of hope he had because, no matter how furious he was with you, he desperately wanted answers.

And all that stays with me

How could you do this to him? He had trusted you so much, and you had abandoned him in the most cowardly way possible—without a word. No goodbye, no note, no message—as if you had never existed. And with that, you had torn a massive hole in his heart.

The anger began to ebb, only to be replaced with a suffocating fear—a fear that had gripped him time and time again in recent days.

Is the fear inside my gut.

It felt as though he was bleeding out, choking, drowning in place. As though his heart was overflowing with pain, longing for your warmth and softness, and all the things he had never been able to say—the things you had denied him. The fear that he would soon no longer remember you gnawed at his soul.

Memories were all he had left of you, yet even they were beginning to fade. What did your voice sound like again? Your beautiful face, once so vivid in his mind, was now blurring. Were you only a beautiful dream from which he had now awakened?

You're the fear inside my gut -‘๑’-

Two years had passed since you had been pulled into this world—the world you knew so well, almost like the back of your hand. The world that had accompanied you through so many sleepless nights as you eagerly read each chapter on your smartphone.

But just as you were about to finish the story, with the last chapter ahead of you, the universe intervened. You were pulled into the story yourself, long before Jin Woo set foot in the double dungeon.

You became Player 2. The system welcomed you like an old friend, and you quickly adapted. At first, you wanted to return home, but the system refused your departure with a single window:

[You can only leave the game when you truly want to.]

And, evidently, you didn’t truly want to leave. You wanted to stay, to experience firsthand the world you had come to know so well. And so, you stayed—with the goal of making life a little easier for Jin Woo, as though that was your purpose.

Starting as a C-rank mage with a few healing spells, you participated in every raid Jin Woo was involved in, which quickly made you friends. He had admired your strength from the beginning, just as you had admired his courage and determination.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t always lend him a helping hand. Every time something story-relevant occurred, no matter how you tried to intervene, it would inevitably happen anyway—only the timing or the path there would show minor deviations.

Whenever this happened, the system would display a message:

[The story will not change.]

The system made it painfully clear that you had no influence over key story elements. And though you had never had issues with the system before, these moments felt like mockery—a cruel reminder of your limitations.

No matter how heavy your heart felt or how deeply you wished you could change things, events unfolded as they were meant to. Ultimately, all you could do was make Jin Woo’s journey a little lighter, which he accepted with gratitude. The two of you were like light and shadow—one could not exist without the other.

You’ve been my reason to breathe

Not only were you an incredible team in battle, your abilities complementing one another seamlessly, but everyone who knew you—or even those who didn’t—could see that you belonged together. He trusted you; you were the light in his life. The lifeline that kept him from drowning in a sea of darkness. The one who reminded him he was still human whenever he no longer felt like one. The one who had held his trembling hands whenever he needed it—even after those hands had taken lives.

You were the one who stayed with him through so many nights, just to keep him from being alone with himself. The one his shadows respected and whom Beru grandly referred to as "his queen."

His shadows had known from the start how Jin Woo felt about you. But he feared telling you, terrified that it might drive you away. No heartbreak in the world could compare to the thought of you no longer by his side.

Of course, you had noticed, probably much sooner than anyone else. How his behavior changed—how his cheeks would flush whenever you complimented him. How he sought your company more often, how his voice would falter when you came close. Things that had always been intimate but normal between you suddenly left him flustered.

How deeply you wished you could give in to it, but you knew better. There was no happy ending for the two of you. You knew it, and the system knew it—perhaps that’s why it had never responded to his advances. Only Jin Woo remained blissfully unaware, while you locked your feelings away and buried them deep.

The gravity that pulls me in

Despite your efforts to keep him at arm’s length—to keep yourself at arm’s length—those moments grew more frequent. Moments when your gazes lingered a second too long or his hugs lasted just a little longer than necessary. Moments when his hand found yours, and your fingers intertwined. Moments when the two of you lay side by side, silently watching the stars, just to have an excuse to share the night.

It was almost impossible to push him away when he looked at you with such tenderness, smiling at you as though you were all he needed. The thought that the two of you didn’t have a chance began to fade into the background, and as long as the system didn’t intervene, everything felt fine.

I can't escape the weight of your ultraviolent heart

Until that day.

-‘๑’-

The Jeju Island raid had been about two weeks ago, and life had returned to normal. People mourned the fallen S-Rank hunters but celebrated the victory of reclaiming the island. You hadn’t participated in the raid yourself, only watched from a distance—at least until the moment when Hunter Cha was injured and Jin-Woo rushed to her aid.

The thought sent a pang straight to your gut.

What disgusting and pathetic thoughts to have. After all, Cha had nearly died—you knew that all too well. And yet, you struggled to ignore the stabbing pain in your chest, which worsened when she showed up at the guild's office building.

As usual, when there was nothing to do, you lay sprawled on the couch, your head resting lazily on Jin-Woo's lap while he scrolled through his phone.

At first, Jinho had been a little taken aback by the closeness between you two. But he’d quickly adjusted to the fact that his two best friends behaved like a couple—despite not being one.

Suddenly, a knock came at the door, and Jinho looked up from his computer.

You were momentarily confused before realization struck. You’d spent so many days here that you’d completely forgotten about when Hae-In was supposed to arrive. If it were up to you, you would’ve bolted; the less interaction with her, the better. But that would’ve raised too many questions.

You felt Jin-Woo shift, and you immediately sat up, unwilling to give the wrong impression. The black-haired man gave you a confused look as your warmth left his lap—though he made no move to get up himself.

“Who could that be?” Jinho asked, heading toward the door. You could already hear her soft voice as he opened it.

“Is this Mr. Sung’s office?” she asked quietly. When the door opened fully, all eyes fell on the blonde beauty in the doorway.

She wasn’t just pretty; she was immensely strong. Not stronger than you, but far more graceful in everything she did. She was perfect in every way, much to your dismay.

Her eyes widened briefly when she saw you, but she quickly masked her surprise with a polite cough.

Jin-Woo had now risen as well, his gaze cool and appraising as he looked at the young Hunter whose life he’d saved.

“What brings you here, Miss Cha?” he asked, his tone cold—devoid of the softness he reserved for you.

The blonde hesitated for a moment before stating that she wanted to join the guild.

Jin-Woo’s expression didn’t change, though Jinho looked like he’d just been hit with a bombshell.

This wasn’t a surprise to you, of course, but the words still felt like a blow to the stomach.

Less than five minutes later, you found yourself sitting across from Hae-In on the sofa. Jin-Woo sat beside you, once again asking why she was there. The blonde reiterated her desire to join the guild, causing Jin-Woo to frown in confusion as she sipped nervously on a cola. She dismissed his speculations, her cheeks growing redder with every passing moment as she avoided eye contact.

It was almost ironic how Jin-Woo, despite his overwhelming senses, had no clue that Hae-In was flustered. Of course, you knew better. She wanted to be near him because, unlike others, he smelled good and intrigued her. And you had to accept that.

When her face turned beet red and she began fanning herself nervously, Jin-Woo paused and asked again why she was going to such lengths to join the guild.

“I want to live a comfortable life. Is that so wrong?” she replied softly.

Jinho popped up behind you, whispering, “The Hunters Guild must’ve overworked her.”

Jin-Woo’s eyes darted to you, silently asking a question: What do you think?

Of course, you hated the idea. You didn’t want to lose him to her—but what could you do?

Your contemplative expression and brief hesitation were all Jin-Woo needed. He turned back to Hae-In and rejected her request.

Your eyes widened, staring in disbelief at the black-haired man. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go—the conversation wasn’t over yet.

Hae-In lowered her head, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“I understand,” she murmured, looking utterly dejected.

Panic surged through you. What was happening? A deviation?

“W-wait!” you blurted out, drawing everyone’s attention. Hae-In’s gaze flickered with hope, while Jin-Woo raised an inquisitive brow.

“P-please give us five minutes, Miss Cha,” you said, quickly standing and grabbing Jin-Woo’s hand to drag him into the adjacent room.

Almost disappointed when you released his hand, Jin-Woo looked at you as the door closed behind you.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, hands on your hips.

He seemed genuinely confused by your question.

“What?”

“Why are you rejecting her?!” you demanded.

Jin-Woo shrugged, his expression indifferent.

“I don’t want her in the guild,” he said flatly, his gray eyes avoiding yours.

He wanted to tell you that you were more than enough for him—that she was unnecessary. But saying so might’ve been too much in this situation.

“This is a one-time opportunity!” you argued, hoping he’d use his brain for once.

“I have you. We don’t need anyone else,” he countered, his cheeks tinged pink.

What the hell was he saying?

No, things couldn’t go this way—it would disrupt the entire timeline. Your thoughts spiraled.

“Then… have her fight Beru!” you blurted out. Jin-Woo stared at you, dumbfounded.

“And why would I do that? She’ll lose,” he said, still not understanding why this mattered so much to you.

“Then it’s a win-win. She doesn’t feel rejected, and you… get rid of her.”

He seemed to consider your words for a moment. From his shadow, the winged ant manifested.

“What do you think?” Jin-Woo asked.

The insect clicked its mandibles excitedly.

“Kekeke, that’s a wonderful idea, my queen,” it replied, clearly far too enthusiastic.

Why could you understand it? No clue. It was probably because you were also a Player, and Jin-Woo had drilled it into Beru from the start that he should listen to you as well. Besides, you liked him—and he liked you.

You looked expectantly at the Shadow Monarch, whose lips curved into a smile as he turned back to you.

“If it makes you happy,” he said, placing a hand on your head. A soft blush spread across your cheeks.

-‘๑’-

"Why the hell?!" you asked the moment your feet touched solid ground again.

You, Jin-Woo, and Hae-In now stood in the middle of the training arena. You hadn’t wanted to be part of this situation in the first place, and when the black-haired man had pulled the blonde closer, it had sent a sharp pain through your chest. You wanted to leave. But Jin-Woo had grabbed you by the wrist and brought you here, knowing that words alone wouldn’t convince you to stay. For once, he had chosen to be selfish.

Clearly irritated, you pulled yourself free from his grip and moved away from the two of them, seeking refuge at the edge of the arena. You trusted Beru to avoid accidentally hurting you, but the ant could be reckless in battle.

Jin-Woo watched you walk away, his mouth opening as if to stop you, but you were already storming off. This would have consequences later...

While Jin-Woo and Cha retreated to the armory, you were finally alone with your thoughts for the first time that day. Worry gnawed at you. Everything was unfolding differently than the story you remembered. Was it your fault? Had you interfered too much? If so, why hadn’t the system reacted? And if not... then what was the reason? Something was terribly wrong... but what?

Your mind drifted back to the manhwa, trying to recall the exact details of the events. Yet they eluded you. Meanwhile, the two hunters returned. Cha was now equipped with a weapon, and Jin-Woo stood several meters away. It wasn’t until Beru’s overwhelming aura enveloped your senses that realization struck.

This wasn’t right... She was supposed to face Igris first.

Before you could voice your concerns, the battle had already begun.

The fight went horribly wrong. Beru had lost control, and if Jin-Woo hadn’t stopped him, he would have torn Hae-In apart. The arena lay in ruins, and the black-haired man stood protectively in front of the blonde, while Beru fell to his knees, apologizing profusely.

Slowly, the conversation from the manhwa came back to you. She would tell him that she was interested in him.

I’ve been splintering apart

Badump.

Your heartbeat grew louder in your ears as the other sounds faded into the background.

Badump.

Your heart clenched as your eyes remained fixed on the two of them. They looked good together... too good.

Badump.

Panic slowly but surely crept up your limbs. You didn’t want to be here when she said it. You didn’t want to see it. You didn’t want to face the truth. You had known it all along, but you had willingly ignored it. They were meant to be together.

Badump.

Breaking open from the start

Your breaths became shallow, and your pounding heart grew louder as you watched Hae-In’s cheeks flush pink. Soon, you would see his eyes light up as he realized why Hae-In had taken on all these burdens. The pain in your chest made it hard to breathe, and you felt tears welling up in your eyes.

Badump.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You didn’t even hear the black-haired man call your name as you bolted out of the arena. The cold air outside whipped against your face.

But you didn’t get far. A warm hand gently grabbed your wrist and pulled you back, forcing you to stop.

“Hey!” His voice was both frustrated and worried—clearly not understanding why you had left without a word.

“Let me go, please,” you said softly, tugging lightly to reinforce your words. But Jin-Woo didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he held on tighter to keep you from walking away.

You bit your lower lip, holding back tears. You avoided looking at him, unable to face the concern in his eyes.

“Hey... it’s not your fault this happened. I shouldn’t have let her fight him in the first place,” he said, his voice quieter now. Was that it? Did he think you felt guilty?

The evening continued its quiet work, slowly but surely extinguishing all the colors. Deep blue blended with pale orange where the last warriors of the sun made their final stand.

Gates of heaven are closing

Much like your emotions, fighting against the encroaching darkness—the images of the two of them vivid in your mind.

“That’s not it,” you replied, your voice strained.

Jin-Woo’s concerned expression hardened further. Was it... because he had dragged you here against your will?

But that wasn’t it.

Your throat felt tight, and you swallowed hard.

“That wasn’t fair of me... I’m sorry, I—” Jin-Woo began, but when he saw your face, the words caught in his throat.

Your expression was equal parts hurt and angry. Your [E/C] eyes, usually so bright with joy, were brimming with tears.

Why was this idiot here and not with Hae-In? Had he left her standing there? Why was he making it so hard for you to do the right thing?

His eyes widened, and his heart sank into his stomach as he took in your pained expression. What was wrong? What had he done?

“Why aren’t you with her?” you managed to ask, your voice trembling. Jin-Woo reflexively released your wrist in shock. What? Who?

You seized the opportunity and ran, leaving Jin-Woo momentarily speechless as his mind raced.

Did you mean Hae-In? Why should he be with her? That made no sense to him at all.

Until suddenly, realization struck. Could it be that...? No. That couldn’t be it.

He quickly caught up to you, your gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

“Stop,” his voice was calm, and his tone commanding, but you had no intention of listening.

When you ignored his second plea, he firmly grabbed your wrist once more.

The protest died in your throat as he pulled you into his chest, trapping you in a warm embrace.

What did you do in my head?

His scent filled your nose, and the warmth of his body spread through your limbs as hot tears streamed down your cheeks.

Why?

Jin-Woo held you tightly against him, one hand on your waist—the other buried in your hair.

“Wha—” you began, your voice trembling, but he silenced you with a soft sound.

“Because I want to be with you,” the black-haired man murmured into your hair, before gently pulling you away to look into your eyes.

The cool gray of his eyes softened, as it always did when he spoke to you, catching your [E/C]. But this time, there was nothing playful in his gaze. He was serious.

Jin-Woo noticed the confusion written on your face.

One of his hands found its way to your cheek, a warm tingling spreading across your skin as he cupped your face.

What are you doing?

“You asked me why I’m not with her,” he explained, gently wiping away a tear that had escaped from the corner of your eye. He had never seen you cry before, and he didn’t like the sight. Especially not if he was the reason.

Weren’t you laying in my bed

He had never intended to tell you, but he couldn’t keep it inside any longer. It had to come out. You needed to know how much you meant to him—that she didn’t matter and that you were everything he had ever wanted.

“I just want to be with you,” he repeated, his voice trembling ever so slightly. He leaned down slightly, as if even this close wasn’t close enough. His breathing quickened as the sun’s rays fought valiantly against the darkness creeping over the sky.

Your heart pounded wildly, and your thoughts raced. Your palms grew sweaty, and you felt as though you might faint at any moment. The tension between you was palpable, begging for resolution.

You wanted to bridge the remaining inches, to tell him how you felt—to throw all your plans out the window.

Jin-Woo took a deep breath.

“[Y/N], I lo—”

[The course of the story remains unchanged.]

The window that flickered behind the black-haired man for a fraction of a second was a knife in your heart, now riddled with cracks, as you reflexively pressed a finger to his lips, stopping his sentence.

He fell silent immediately, looking at you in confusion, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. Had he misread the signs after all?

Telling me I was chosen

“Don’t,” you whispered softly—your voice barely audible, but he heard it clearly.

If he said those three words, it would be over—there would be no turning back. If he said those words, you would break. If not now, then eventually—when fate ran its course. Because if you had learned one thing, it was that the system would find a way.

His throat tightened, and his chest constricted.

"I can’t—" you began haltingly, stumbling over your words. You couldn’t think of a single sentence that would make this situation any less painful for him.

You lowered your gaze, feeling Jin-Woo give up. His embrace loosened, and his arms fell limply to his sides.

You didn’t want to do this, but you had no choice. There simply wasn’t a happy ending for the two of you. Happiness together wasn’t meant to be.

Jin-Woo was hurt—he couldn’t believe how wrong he had been.

"I’m so sorry," you whispered before daring to look into his eyes one last time—eyes filled with anguish—before you turned and walked away.

-‘๑’-

The following weeks were quiet. Too quiet.

Jin-Woo and you hadn’t spoken since. Both of you were waiting for the other to take the first step, but neither of you dared to break the uncomfortable silence.

For Jin-Woo, the situation was clear: you didn’t return his feelings and wanted distance, just as much as he did. Yet it still felt wrong.

Your presence had taken over his life; he saw your shadow everywhere. Your absence had left a gaping hole, and the simplest things no longer brought him joy. Even Jinho was dejected. His shadows, too, felt the emptiness your absence had created in his heart—his inner turmoil and recklessness as he threw himself into battles reflected it.

Beru, in particular, wasn’t happy about your absence and kept asking after you until Jin-Woo firmly explained that you wouldn’t be coming back. The insect accepted it, albeit with a heavy heart.

Now I don’t even know you, and that’s the best part of it

Weeks turned into months, and Jin-Woo had regained much of his strength. He had grown more ruthless, focused solely on his goals. He had achieved so much, but none of it mattered if you weren’t there to cheer him on.

Neither the recognition from the Hunter’s Association nor the countless media articles praising him to the skies brought him any satisfaction. It wasn’t your recognition, so he didn’t need it.

He buried his heavy heart behind a wall of indifference, but he realized he was drifting further and further from any semblance of a normal life. He was rarely home, found himself in increasingly precarious situations during battles, and noticed how little he cared.

No matter what he did, nothing could fill the void.

It simply couldn’t go on like this, so he decided to do something he usually resisted.

He resolved to ask Hae-In on a date.

All I know, you’re the only thing that I see in color

While Jin-Woo threw himself into leveling up, you had shut yourself away at home for some time. Jin-Woo’s wounded face was burned into your mind; after all, it was the last thing you had seen of him.

Guilt gnawed at you, sapping your strength and will to move forward.

You had lost weight, only left your home for absolute necessities, and spent most of your time sleeping. You cried so much that you began to believe you had no tears left.

Every fiber of your being missed him.

His voice.

His scent.

His laughter.

Even his reprimanding tone when you and Beru got into trouble.

Everything about him. Your heart cried out for him, whether you were awake or asleep.

This heart is torturing me

A sigh escaped your lips as you stared at your phone screen—the numerous missed calls from Jinho had gradually become fewer, but he never gave up.

More guilt.

But what could you do to fix this? Calling Jin-Woo? Just tell him the truth? Maybe that would be the fairest way…

Countless times, you had typed his number into your phone, only to stop yourself at the last second. The fear that he wouldn’t believe you was too great. Or was it the fear that he would believe you?

You shook your head and stood up. This couldn’t go on. You had to talk to him, at least one last time—to come clean before you returned home.

You couldn’t bear the silence between you anymore.

The only pain I understand

Your eyes widened as you stared at the TV screen. A photo had just appeared on the display—your hands instantly dropped the paper cup you’d been holding, spilling the hot coffee it contained onto the ground.

With your mouth slightly open, you stared at the screen, which was displayed in the shop window of a store you had just been walking past.

You had stopped in your tracks as the image suddenly changed, revealing a paparazzi photo.

It showed Jin-Woo and Hae-In, with his arm around her shoulders.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything—maybe it was all just a big misunderstanding—but in your current state, you didn’t want to hear any of it.

Your heart had already cracked when you had to reject his feelings, but this time it felt as though it had shattered into a thousand pieces.

Your mouth went dry, and you couldn’t form a single coherent thought.

You stared at the picture as if hypnotized.

You half-expected a spiteful inner voice to appear, taunting you and telling you it had been right all along—but it stayed silent.

I can't escape the weight of your ultraviolent heart

You tore your gaze away from the screen, and your legs started moving on their own.

Faster.

Much faster.

As if you could somehow run away from it, as if these images wouldn’t follow you for the rest of your life.

Your body instinctively reacted to the pain in your soul, numbing it.

The pain ebbed away, leaving behind an emptiness that took over, shielding you from breaking down—at least for the moment.

When the door to your apartment finally closed behind you, shutting you away from the public’s eyes, every bullet hit you at once.

Your stomach churned, forcing you to vomit into the sink.

Your body doubled over, and you clung to the edge of the counter until the shaking subsided, until you rinsed your mouth and collapsed to your knees, clutching at your chest in anguish.

Your body trembled uncontrollably as you screamed out the pain you had been holding back for so long. You screamed until your voice grew hoarse, until no words could escape your throat anymore.

How had it come to this? Why had he entered your life if he was never meant to stay? Why was the universe so cruel? What had you done to deserve this?

It’s a poison in my gut

It took an eternity for your body to stop trembling and the sobs to subside. Your tears dried up, your body too exhausted to produce any more.

You sat on the floor, your back against the wall, drained of all strength. Your head throbbed, and every trace of willpower had left your body.

Weakly, you lifted your hand and swiped downward in the air.

[Do you really wish to leave the game?] [Yes] / [No] [Yes]

Jin-Woo woke with a silent scream from his nightmare, his hand outstretched, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. His breath came in ragged gasps as he sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes darting frantically around the room.

A few seconds passed before he realized he was in his bedroom. The full moon shone through his window, bathing everything in silver light.

It was just a dream…a damn nightmare. But it had felt so incredibly real.

His hand clutched at his chest, which ached under the crushing weight of emotion. He had seen your tear-streaked face as you looked at him, whispering a faint, “Goodbye.” Relief washed over him as he realized it had only been a dream. He rubbed his eyes, only to notice the glimmer of tears on his hand under the moonlight.

But it still felt so real - he felt so hollow, as though a giant hole had opened in his chest. As if something was terribly wrong. His mind wandered to you once again, missing the warmth of your Presence once more. He was sure you had seen the News, the speculations and rumors about his relationship with the blonde S-Rank - but they were all false. He only wanted to shield her from the Spotlights, since it was him who dragged her along in the first place. The Date with Hae-In was a welcoming distraction from fighting in a Dungeon, but it felt all wrong. It just made him realize once more, that it was you he wanted by his side - as lovers or friends, he couldn't care less. He just wanted you.

His resolve hardened: tomorrow, he would visit you and ask for your forgiveness, hoping you would be willing to forgive him. Hoping the empty feeling would finally disappear, that he would be whole again.

With that thought in mind, he drifted back to sleep. But the emptiness remained.

You’re the only thing that I see in color.

[part 2]

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ꨄ︎ ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶ Wow, this story just came to me while I was on the bus, listening to music…what can I say—I had to write it down before it was too late!

English isn’t my first language! I hope everything was understandable and legible.

since y'all are just suckers for drama, there will be a part two~ But first, feel free to read my series! A Jin Woo x Shadow! Reader story. [Shadowborn] Thank you for all your support! likes, reblogs & comments or just reading <3 .'*•.¸♡ I really appreciate it <3 ♡¸.•*'

♡¸.•*' ˋ°•*⁀✎ 𝑢𝑡𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑎

#Solo leveling #solo leveling x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #angst #jin woo x reader #songfic #one shot

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iannmin · 6 months ago

Note

what kinks do you think mingi would have?

KINKS MINGI WOULD HAVE ✮ | 송민기

TAGS • WARNINGS: smut, implied smaller reader x large!bf!mingi, dacryphilia, size kink, ddlg, breeding kink, marking, filming, use of toys, overstimulation (if you squint), use of nicknames, intentional lowercase in writing

A/N: girl i had to dig up some videos of mingi i watched on twitter to see what his possible kinks might be and,,, safe to say, mingi is the nastiest ahh man who only has two extremes - he's either your girliest babygirl princess or the daddiest freaky dom that mankind has ever possibly seen. so today i present to you the side of dom mingi <3 (•ө•)♡

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ ⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆ ⁺₊❅⋆

DACRYPHILIA

it’s not that he will purposefully make his s/o cry but it’s just that every single time he pounds into them, tears just can’t help flowing down their cheeks. and have you watched the video of mingi melting ice in his hands and staring so deeply at the PD-nim behind the cameras? im just imagining the same thing but when his s/o is crying from the overwhelming pressure, feeling all embarrassed at their tears and trying to cover them up with a pillow but mingi just throws the pillow away and grabs them by the chin and stares at them like that while he’s absolutely rearranging their guts O_O and he can just cum untouched by watching his s/o cry for him and only him. omg also to add on, mingi won’t lose the opportunity to place soft kisses on their tear-stained cheeks just because :)

SIZE KINK + DDLG

okay okay so mingi of course being a big ass giant has size kink just like yunho and san, the three nasty trio but anywayss his size kink it a little different from the other two as in he doesn’t really pay attention to himself but more on his s/o,, like how small their fingers are, how every human feature on his s/o seems to be a miniature version of his,, nearly like a human doll…and that’s where the little ddlg kink starts kickstarting for him. like bro, he’ll absolutely relish at the sight of his s/o sitting on his thighs wearing a thigh-high dress, and also,, there may or may not have been once where his s/o accidentally called him “daddy” the first time, and you could tell from the way his ears reddened, cheeks flushed, movement stuttered that he was gonna say “fuck, say it again”

BREEDING KINK + MARKING + FILMING

let me explain this trio combo kink killer. mingi loves marking. absolutely loves telling people that their s/o belongs to him, but oh poor mingi, because he has got a reputation as an idol to uphold so he can’t just possibly go around giving people hickeys right? so how does he do it? simple. breeding. filling them right up to the brim or maybe even spilling over, who will possibly know? so that’s where his breeding kink starts going absolutely bonkers and it just can’t be helped. and then he starts having this brilliant idea — filming. every time he gave them a little creampie, filling up their wet little tight pussy, he films it, and keeps it in his locked gallery for himself when he’s on tours. and just imagine there comes a day when he breeds you for real, and he films it. “f-fuck, baby m’gonna film us making our first child, hmm? gonna be such a precious memories…nnngh” but of course he shows it to no one.

SEX TOY

(bonus) umm…this is so mandatory like don’t you know those flesh light that looks like cylinders? those transparent silicone ones? if he’s feeling extra freaky he’ll probably slip it on, and thrust into his s/o’s hole WITH the fleshlight on to stretch them out to the fullest,, and have a lil size training session. of course it hurts but mingi’s soso good at convincing people to do things for him so of course you can’t deny when he comes to you all pouty like bbyeongming <3

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svelish · 7 months ago

Text

⭑.ᐟ 𝗟𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗻 pt. 2

G!pBillie x fem!reader

⭑.ᐟ 𝗟𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗻 (here is part 1 :p)

"Take your pants off, princess," Billie grins, and you nearly moaned at the nickname—the one that she usually used teasingly had a whole different effect on her under these circumstances. "I wanna see you."

You complied uncharacteristically obediently, a huge contrast from their non sex activities. You made your way out of her rather tight shorts with help from Billie, who chucks it across her room.

Billie's smirk grows wider when she sees your cute pink panties, so soaked with your arousal that it was nearly see-through. She caresses it with her finger, making sure she was grazing over her clit, leaving you mewling.

Billie slips off your panties rather easily, licking her lips as if she hasn't eaten in days at the sight of your bare pussy, glistening with your slick and looking oh-so-welcoming.

"Someone's been missing me," Billie chuckles as she whips her cock out from inside her briefs, stroking it languidly and spreading her precum all over her length as her other hand inserts a finger into you, who claws at the sheets, already feeling overwhelmed. "You're a waterpark, and I'm an excited kid on holiday."

Maybe Billie being normal and talking dirty normally is too much to ask.

"God, fucking—Billie, please just fuck me already," You groaned in exasperation as your hole clenches desperately around her finger, which was far from the usual girth that you've grown accustomed to. "You're so annoying."

"Geez, okay, I was just trying to prep you," Billie frowns as she pulls her finger out of your hold, drenched in fluid, putting it into her mouth and sucking. "You taste decent."

You rolled your eyes, but you find your eyes rolling far back than you'd intended when Billie's length rammed into you at full strength, hitting the deepest part within you that none of her toys had managed to reach.

"So tight," Billie growls grabbing your waist and readjusting herself before moving her hips, and you whined when Billie's length plunges in and out of you, grazing against your walls, white hot pleasure flowing through your veins.

"Fuck—Billie—ah!" You whined when Billie tugs at your ankles, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed and throwing your legs over her shoulders "Oh my god—"

They've done this enough times for Billie to know you've enjoyed taking it rough—you loved to have the living daylights fucked out of you, to be manhandled and dominated like the slut you were, to be marked everywhere with dark hickeys as a fond reminder to the person who has you begging and screaming every night—but Billie couldn't know that.

Of course, Billie had her secrets too—she couldn't deny that the only person who came to mind whenever she needed to blow off steam was You, the girl whom she resented with her whole being, her biggest weakness. Soft grunts leaving her lips as she tugged herself to those soft lips, the bratty attitude, the infuriatingly pretty face with brow doe eyes to match, the small hands that clawed at her back or grabbed desperately at her arm every time

She gets hard just at the memory of you under her, whimpering, writhing, begging, sobbing as you gave in and let your pride at the door, leaving the most vulnerable part of you out for Billie to bathe in—the one that screamed her name for everyone to hear; the one that grabbed tightly onto Billie, pulling her close, the one that allowed Billie to do whatever she wanted to you.

Billie—please, i need you—

Fuck me harder, I'm yours...

"How long have you waited for this?" Billie asks, her voice huskier than usual, making you gush just a little more. "I know Eileen Giselle must've been humping everything she could see while waiting for me to come back... Horny little whore."

You were shameless, anyone who knew you knew this, but Billie was privileged—or not—enough to see the most shameless side of you, the side that casually asked for her to send dickprint pics, full dick pics, and even videos of herself jerking off with the sound on so you could touch yourself when Billie was away at some interstate tournament.

Billie was more than happy to comply—it was the second-best option, unless Billie was okay with chopping her dick off and shipping it back to your house.

You reciprocated too, sending Billie the most lecherous, debauched pictures of yourself when you knew Billie had practice or was in class with a teacher that targeted specifically her for whatever reason—a picture of your bare body, porcelain skin boasting all the marks Billie had left on you previously; a mirror picture of yourself wearing Billie's oversized shirts or hoodies that you loved to steal, the both of them knowing full well that you had nothing on underneath; a selfie of yourself in the shower, soapy tits in full view with the caption 'if only you were here' paired with a vomiting emoji.

People don't usually send nudes to the people they hate, but people don't usually have sex, with their enemies on a daily basis, either.

Leave it to these two to be in denial. And

"N—No," You huffed, face flushed from how hard Billie was pounding into you, fingers clawing at the sheets to keep yourself grounded. "I'm—not that—ah, fuck, right there, please—"

"Yeah?" Billie smirks, taking one of her hands off your hips to tug your blouse and bra up, revealing your perfect perky tits, and you couldn't help but giggle at Billie's expression, eyes wide open as if it was her first time seeing boobs, but for Billie, seeing your tits never got old.

Billie dips down, sucking on a nipple and drawing a loud moan from you. It's no secret that you enjoyed having your tits sucked on—especially if it was Billie Eilish (only if it was her, actually)—and you screamed when Billie lightly bites, so overstimulated you could cry.

One thing you liked about Billie that wasn't her cock, was that she paid equal attention to both your tits, one of her hands messaging a boob while she suckled the other, all the while her thrusts never fathered, maintaining the same steady pace that you writhing.

One of your hands moved to tug at Billie's hair while the other clawed at the fabric of her hoodie, which you were disappointed she hadn't taken off. Billie looks up from sucking her tits, and your heart flutters when you see the puppylike expression on her face, her chin wet with saliva and pupils blue eyes.

They had established several unspoken rules ever since the start of this arrangement, with one of them being no kissing, for obvious reasons, but now, with Billie's face so close and so kissable, you had to physically restrain yourself from pulling her stupid face into a stupid little kiss.

You can kiss someone without meaning!

Right.

Billie, meanwhile, was impossibly hard, and the sight of you still donning her letterman while getting pounded makes her somehow harder than she'd already been.

There was something so arousing about seeing the bane of your existence to you whilst simultaneously submitting her body for your use. With Billie's name on her letterman, it felt as if you were branded, reduced to simply a belonging, a toy that Billie owned.

Finally opening your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, you felt yourself become impossibly more aroused at the sight before you—Billie's eyes squeezed shut and her head thrown back, sweat pouring down her face and nails digging into the skin of your thighs as she rammed her cock into you over and over again with commendable stamina—she wasn't the star quarterback for no reason, anyway.

If only you had the strength and flexibility to rip that stupid hoodie off her—which fucking loser wears a hoodie while fucking one of the hottest girls in school?

Billie Eilish, apparently.

Your back arches off the back when Billie huts that one spot inside that has you whimpering, and that spurs Billie on, her climax just at her fingertips. The jock grunts as she pushes your legs up to her chest for a better angle, making sure not to hurt the girl as she continues pounding away like nobody's business.

"Shit," Billie grits her teeth, breathing harshly beside your ear. "Ah fuck—"

"Gonna cum for me, baby girl?" You still managed to tease despite being in the midst of getting railed to filth, and in response, Billie just fucks you harder, making the smaller girl jerk with every movement.

"Shut up," Billie hisses, sinking her teeth into the side of your neck, earning a choked cry from the latter.

"Don't—no marks, Bil—lie—shit!"

"I don't care," Billie borderline growls, making you feel scared and aroused at once. She continues to nip at your sensitive skin, licking over each bite to soothe. "Let people see what a slut you are—I want them to know who you belong to."

That was the tipping point for you—you cummed, loud and hard, your thighs shaking from the sheer intensity of your orgasm as she screams into Billie's neck, fingers clawing at her back when Billie continues moving her hips, sending you into overdrive.

"Fuck shit oh my god—" Billie groans as she finally reaches her climax, plunging her cock deep into your womb before unloading, hot semen splattering all over your walls.

Billie finally goes limp flopping onto you with a whine, her heartbeat racing in her chest.

"Oh my god," you rasp, your voice almost completely gone from all the wild fucking. You grunt, pushing Billie off of you and making her roll unto her back. "You came so much."

Billie lifts her head just enough to see your ruined pussy, white liquid dripping out of your hole, and she smirks to herself in satisfaction.

"Please tell me you're on the pill," Billie groans, her limp cock sticky and uncomfortable against her stomach.

"What if I wasn't?"

"I'd pay for plan B, I'm not about to become your baby daddy," Billie teases, earning a weak slap on her shoulder from you.

"Also, I've been meaning to ask," you turns to face Billie, who seemed to be experiencing post-nut clarity, a blank look in her eyes as she stared up at the ceiling. "What does the number on the back of your letterman mean?"

Billie flushes, and a look of panic enters her face at the unexpected question.

"It's random," Billie simply responds, shrugging. "It's—a nice number, but it's nothing. Really. I think you should go to sleep."

You merely scoffs at that—usually you'd taunt Billie 'till she gave in, but the post-fuck tiredness was creeping into your system, and it wasn't long before you eventually gives in to the shackles of slumber. You roll onto your side, inching yourself closer towards Billie before snuggling up against her chest, much to the Jock's surprise.

"Uhm," Billie coughs, blushing at the sudden affection—as if she wasn't just inside you not one minute ago—but she doesn't make a move to push you off her, oddly comforted by the gesture, albeit foreign.

"Good night, I guess."

Billie just lies there in silence, still half naked, a million thoughts running through her mind with at least a quarter of them being you.

Thankfully, she doesn't have time to wallow in her current crisis as the sound of a car pulling into the driveway snaps her out of her thoughts, reeling her back into reality.

It was eight in the evening, your parents were home, and their daughter was naked in bed with the daughter of their business partners.

Fuck.

Billie quietly makes her way out of bed, carefully not to wake you, and begins straightening herself up, trying her best not to make it obvious to Your parents that she'd just banged their daughter. She covers you with a blanket before standing there and watching you somewhat awkwardly, the only noise filling the room being your soft breathing.

For the first time, a room was quiet while they were both in it.

Billie's eyes trailed over your sleeping form, still draped in her letterman, the red fabric eye-catching as ever, but Billie decides to leave you be—she dosen't have the heart to take it back.

"See you tomorrow," Billie whispers before turning off the light and leaving the room.

"Oh, Billie! Fancy seeing you here!" Your mother greets her as she descends the stairs. "Working on another project again, I suppose?"

"Ah, uhm, yes," Billie stutters, putting on her most parent-friendly smile she could muster. "We didn't even realise how late it was, Sorry about the disruption."

"It's all fine, how's Eileen?" Your father pipes in, taking off his coat by the front door.

"She's asleep already," Billie replies, hoping they wouldn't question why their eighteen year old was already asleep at eight in the evening.

"Wow, this early? Must've been a rough day, yeah?" Mr. Castillo laughs, and Billie flushes. "Well, you should probably get on your way, I bet your parents must be worried."

"Oh, for sure. See you soon Mr and Mrs. Castillo," Billie nods, not waiting for a response as she bolts out the front door.

What a night.

...

cumdump <3

can't believe ur considerate enough to not leave me naked

Didn't expect that from you

Still expecting some water or something and here I thought you'd give me aftercare

asshole <3

u fell asleep right afterwards

ur parents came home

Wtf was I supposed to do

cumdump <3

douchebag

Last time im letting u fuck me in my room

asshole <3

ok whore

Billie smiles to herself after sending the last message, but she doesn't even get a second go to her senses and wipe the stupid lovesick grin off her face before Eithan, a junior she was close with, came slithering up to her.

"You didn't tell me?" Eithan shrills, eyes open wide and hands gripping her shoulders.

"Tell you what?" Billie blinks, a million possibilities running through her mind. Are all her past mistakes coming back to bute her in the ass? Did the security guard snitch? Did the principal finally find out that she was the one who called him a 'pedo wanker'?

"You and Eileen Giselle are a thing?" Eithan blinks back, and Billie was equally as surprised as she was.

"What—what makes you think that?"

"She came in with your letterman!" Eithan practically screams at her face. "Your name and all—I thought we were friends, Billie. You said you'd tell me anything! But it's honestly about fucking time. I'm glad you came to your senses."

Billie didn't register anything past 'letterman', and before she could properly respond, she saw none other than Eileen yourself strut into her line of sight, proudly sporting her letterman which was far too big for you, making heads turn for more than one reason now.

Despite being partially out of it, Billie swears she could hear the hushed gossip of the student around her—

The star quarterback and hottest cheerleader are banging?

I called it!

They're probably the one who fucked on the stairs that time.

I mean, they look good together.

I thought they hated each other!

Plot twist?

"Hey," You were donning a smirk on your lips as you approached Billie, who was looking you up and down as if she's never seen the girl in her life. "Good morning."

"Good—morning," Billie stutters, too shocked to realise that Eithan had scrambled away to give them 'privacy'

"You don't look very happy to see me," you frowned, tilting your head and revealing the dark marks Billie had left on the left side of your neck from last night. Billie shivers at the memory, still fresh in her mind.

"My letterman," Billie were the only words she could manage, her tongue feeling like it's been tied into a hundred knots—she's never felt like this before, what the fuck was happening?

"You left it at my place last night," you grins, and Billie winces at the sheer volume of your voice, as if you want everyone around them to know. "You can tell me if you want it back."

"No," Billie blurts out, surprising both herself and you. "Uhm, I mean, you can... Keep it."

"How sweet of you," you purrs, settling yourself onto Billie's lap so naturally it's as if you've done this a million times before (you had).

Billie's mind is completely blank, but her cock was reacting for her, starting to harden underneath you, who could obviously feel it, your smirk widening.

Today was going to be a long day.

Credits; oatbowl

#billie eilish smut #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish #billie ellish lyrics #fanfic #wlw #fem reader #billie #eilish #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish oneshot #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish lyrics

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