#I KNOW my hair doesn’t look good no matter what I do with it. that’s why I got the highlights to begin with

[adverbally]

Intention

Written for the @stmarchmm prompt “courting rituals” | wc: 913 | rated: T | cw: none | tags: Steddie, Steve & Wayne, omega Steve, alpha Eddie, alpha Wayne, early relationship, asking permission to court, non-traditional relationship dynamics

———

Steve hesitates on the Munsons’ front porch. The trailer is familiar and comforting with its worn screen door and peeling paint, the warm light and organized chaos he knows to be hidden inside. This place has become more of a home to him than the house he grew up in.

He doesn’t want to lose that now.

But he thinks about Eddie nervously asking him on their first real date, hiding his grin behind the lock of hair he tugged across his face when Steve said yes; the way Eddie’s eyes had sparkled in the glow of the streetlight outside Steve’s house when he dropped him off after dinner, just before he leaned in for the best first kiss Steve has ever had; how Eddie had carefully brushed his wrist along the cuff of Steve’s sweater so he could still smell Eddie’s smoky ginger scent for the rest of the evening.

Steve wants that, all of that and more. The promise of that has to outweigh the fear of screwing everything up.

He knocks on the door.

It feels like an eternity before Wayne answers, already dressed in his work clothes for that evening’s shift. He seems surprised to see Steve, but he pushes open the screen door between them and waves him inside anyway. “Did Ed not tell you he has band practice? He should be home soon but you’re welcome to wait.”

“No, I…” Steve takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets so he doesn’t start fidgeting with his jacket zipper. “I wanted to talk to you, actually, if you have a minute?”

Wayne looks even more baffled now but gestures for Steve to take a seat in one of the mismatched chairs surrounding the small dining table. He doesn’t join him immediately, instead going into the kitchen and silently filling two glasses with water from the tap. When he returns, he sits in the seat across from Steve and slides one of the cups over to him.

“Thanks.” Steve’s mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, but he’s not sure he can take a drink without spilling or choking on it. Not until he says what he needs to say. Keeping his gaze on the scratched tabletop, he begins, “I think you probably know why I’m here.”

“I think so,” Wayne agrees. “And I think you know I need to hear you say it anyway.”

Steve nods, thinking of Eddie’s spicy warm scent to steel himself. “Eddie said you’re not very traditional. Your family, I mean. He offered to do this because he thought I wanted to do it, and I know he would’ve, but my dad…” He cuts off his rambling with a shake of his head. “Sorry, I’m nervous. Eddie said I shouldn’t be–”

“Steve. Take a breath.”

He does, then sips from his glass. Wayne doesn’t say anything while Steve gathers his thoughts for a long moment. Finally, he speaks again, deliberately. “Eddie is incredible. I care about him. I want to be with him.” It’s a gross understatement but if he starts elaborating, he might never stop. “I don’t give a shit what my dad thinks, but it matters to me what you think. Because it matters to Eddie. You’re the most important person in his life. He’s an adult and he can make his own decisions, so I’m not asking for permission, but… I wanted to inform you of my intention to court your nephew.”

Wayne nods, a slight tilt of his head acknowledging Steve’s declaration. “I accept it.”

“Okay.” He nods back, taps his fingers along the side of his water glass, listening to the quiet ping of his nails on its surface. “Thank you.” It’s almost disappointing how anticlimactic this was. He had stressed over it for days, and Wayne just… accepts him, just like that?

Like he can read Steve’s mind, Wayne leans closer. “You’re a good kid, Steve. You saved Ed’s life, you make him happy, you take care of that pack of kids. I think you’re good for him. Mellow him out some.”

“Yeah?” The compliment makes him warm from head to toe. Steve grins down at the table. “I think he’s good for me too.”

Wayne drains the last of the water in his glass. “I’d’ve given my permission, too, if you’d asked. Not that you need it.” He rises from his chair with a groan. “I gotta head to work now, but you’re welcome to wait for Ed. Make yourself at home.”

Steve stands as well, accepting the handshake Wayne offers him. “Thanks again, sir, I appreciate it.”

“Call me Wayne, son.” His mouth twists in a wry smile. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, then shrugs on his coat. “Make sure you’re being safe, now. I’m not ready to be a granddad yet.”

Wayne can surely see him blushing as Steve stammers, “No, we— I mean, we haven’t, I’m not—” When he realizes Wayne is fighting back his smile, he sighs, embarrassed but relieved to be in on the joke. “Okay, laugh it up.”

He waves to Wayne from the doorstep, watches the beat-up old truck kick up dust until it turns onto the asphalt outside the trailer park. The alpha’s scent lingers in the trailer, more woodsy than Eddie’s but still warm. Familiar.

Steve thinks he could get used to it.

[prettygirl-gabi]

A Day in the Life: Dating Azzi Fudd

Paring: Azzi Fudd x !content creator Reader

Fandom: UConn’s women’s basketball

Summary: who doesn’t love a good day in the life.

I wake up to the sound of my phone alarm blaring, vibrating aggressively on my nightstand like it’s mad at me for something. With a groan, I reach out blindly, slapping around until I finally manage to turn it off.

Before I can roll over and go back to sleep, I feel a strong arm tighten around my waist.

“Mm-mm, don’t move,” Azzi mumbles against my neck, her voice raspy with sleep.

I huff out a laugh, attempting to wiggle free. “Azzi, I gotta get up. You know my mornings are busy.”

She just hums, nuzzling closer like she’s trying to merge with me. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that yesterday, and we were late to breakfast,” I remind her, but my voice has already softened.

Azzi lets out a dramatic sigh before finally letting go. “Fine,” she mutters, rolling onto her back. “But I better see you before practice.”

“You will,” I promise, leaning down to kiss her forehead. She smiles, eyes still closed, and I take a moment to admire her before slipping out of bed.

Morning Routine + Content Creation

The first thing I do after brushing my teeth is set up my camera. My fans—my Pookies��need their daily dose of content. I prop my phone up on my tripod and hit record.

“Good morning, Pookies!” I say, flashing a bright smile. “Another day, another grind. Your favorite content creator, cheerleader, and Azzi Fudd’s personal headache is here to give y’all the vibes.”

I turn the camera toward my vanity, showing off my morning setup. “Today, we got a game, so you already know the routine—hair, makeup, and a whole lotta setting spray because I’m not trying to sweat this off during cheers.”

As I chat with my Pookies, I go through my routine, answering some of the questions in the chat from my live stream.

“How’s Azzi?” one comment asks.

I grin. “She’s good! Clingy as ever, but y’all know I love that about her.”

“Is she playing tonight?”

“Of course. Y’all already know my girl doesn’t miss a game.” I glance toward the door. “Matter of fact, if she don’t hurry up and get outta bed, she might miss breakfast, though.”

As if on cue, Azzi peeks her head into the frame, her hair wild from sleep. “Who’s talking about me?”

I laugh. “Pookies wanna know if you’re playing tonight.”

Azzi squints at the screen before waving. “Tell them to pull up. I’m dropping buckets tonight.”

I turn back to the camera. “You heard the lady. Now, let me finish my routine before I end up running late for cheer practice.”

Cheer Practice + Lunch Date

By the time I get to the gym, the rest of the cheer squad is already stretching. I quickly join in, adjusting my UConn cheer uniform as I settle into position.

Practice is the usual mix of high-energy routines, stunts, and nonstop movement. I love it, but by the time we wrap up, my legs are already begging for a break.

As I’m gathering my things, I feel a familiar presence behind me before I even turn around.

“Did I miss anything?” Azzi asks, her hands casually slipping around my waist.

I lean into her. “Just me looking cute as hell in this uniform.”

Azzi chuckles, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “You always do.”

We head to lunch together, grabbing seats at our usual table. I prop my phone up again, going live to let my Pookies in on the chaos.

“Guess who finally decided to wake up on time,” I tease, turning the camera toward Azzi.

She playfully rolls her eyes. “I always wake up on time.”

I give the camera a deadpan look. “Y’all, should I expose her?”

The chat immediately blows up with YES comments.

“Wow,” Azzi mutters, shaking her head. “Y’all just love drama.”

I grin before turning the camera off, deciding to focus on enjoying our lunch. Azzi nudges my plate toward me when she notices me picking at my food.

“You need to eat more,” she says.

I sigh but obey, knowing she won’t let it go. “Yes, ma’am.”

Azzi smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

Game Day Prep + Halftime Show

Back in my dorm, I set up another live. “Alright, Pookies, it’s game day! Y’all already know the drill—outfit check, hair check, and a whole lot of screaming for my girlfriend on the court.”

I show off my cheer fit and do a quick GRWM while hyping up the game. The chat is full of Pookies saying they’ll be watching, which makes me grin.

“Azzi better not make me look bad,” I joke. “I be hyping her up like she’s the GOAT, so she better perform.”

Right before heading out, I get a text from Azzi.

Azzi: You better cheer extra loud for me tonight.

Me: You better give me something to cheer for.

Her response is just a bunch of side-eye emojis.

The game is electric. The crowd is hype, the team is locked in, and from the sideline, I cheer my heart out. Every time Azzi makes a shot, I scream her name louder than anyone else.

At halftime, the squad performs, and I make sure to put my all into the routine. When I glance toward the bench, I catch Azzi watching me, a smirk playing on her lips.

After the game—which UConn wins, obviously—I rush onto the court, dodging people left and right until I reach her.

She wraps an arm around me, pulling me close. “Did I give you something to cheer for?”

I grin. “Barely.”

Azzi gasps, shoving me playfully. “You’re such a hater.”

I laugh, looping my arms around her neck. “You love it, though.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Unfortunately.”

Late-Night Wind Down

Back at my dorm, I prop my phone up one last time for a late-night live.

“Pookies, today was a success! UConn won, I didn’t trip during halftime, and my girlfriend decided to show out for y’all.”

Azzi, already in my bed in one of my hoodies, peeks over my shoulder. “Are you still talking about me?”

I smirk. “They love you, girl. You should just start your own channel.”

Azzi shakes her head. “Nah, I’ll stick to basketball. You’re the content queen.”

I blow a kiss to the camera. “And on that note, goodnight, Pookies! Love y’all!”

As soon as I end the live, Azzi tugs me into bed.

“You talk to them more than me,” she teases.

I snuggle into her. “You jealous?”

Azzi rolls her eyes but holds me tighter. “Just a little.”

I grin, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Lucky for you, you’re my favorite person to bother.”

She hums. “Good. Now go to sleep before I start charging you for cuddles.”

I gasp. “You would never.”

Azzi smirks. “Try me.”

I shake my head, smiling as I close my eyes. Another busy day, another W.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

---

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[grifffins]

Avis & Lilia Headcanons with an inexperienced partner 🥺🥺🥺

baby, i got you - also, I can never write it in headcanon format, my bad.

Lilia Calderu

Lilia is indulgent and endlessly patient. The first time she realises you are inexperienced, she doesn’t tease, doesn’t make you feel small. Instead, she tilts her head, reaches out, and cups your cheek in her palm, thumb stroking idly over your skin.

"Oh, amore," she murmurs, voice low and sweet, so full of warmth. "Then let me show you."

She isn’t in a rush, she has all the time in the world for you. She starts with kisses, slow and deep, never taking more than you offer. She lets you get used to the feeling of her, lets you breathe her in, lets your body relax beneath her touch.

If you become nervous, hesitant, or uncertain, she doesn’t push. She just smiles, presses soft kisses along your jaw, whispers, "We’ll go as slow as you like, tesoro."

She guides you with her hands, with her voice, with the careful, reverent way she touches you. She murmurs, "Like this, baby," as she trails her fingers down your spine, as she presses kisses to your shoulder, as she guides your hands to touch her in turn.

And when the moment comes? When you are ready, trembling, clutching at her like she is the only thing keeping you grounded? She whispers, "You’re doing so well, my love. Let me take care of you."

She is gentle, slow, utterly unhurried. She makes sure you feel everything, every brush of her lips, every warm stroke of her hands, every breathless sigh against your skin. She takes her time, lets you feel safe, lets you explore, lets you fall into the moment at your own pace.

And when it’s over? She holds you close, tucks you against her chest, strokes a hand through your hair, pressing lazy, lingering kisses to your temple. She hums soft Italian words of devotion, warmth radiating from her touch, from her voice, from the way she keeps you wrapped in her arms like she never wants to let go.

"You were perfect," she whispers, smiling against your hair. "Did you enjoy it?"

And when you nod, too blissed out to even speak? She chuckles softly, presses a kiss to your forehead.

Avis Amberg

Avis has never been loved the way she deserves. She is used to taking lovers out of necessity, used to paying for her pleasure, used to getting what she wants but never what she needs.

She doesn’t ask for softness. She doesn’t expect it.

But when she sees the way you look at her, uncertain, nervous, like you want to give her something real, she can’t pretend it doesn’t shake her.

"You don’t have to be nervous, sweetheart," she murmurs, her voice softer than usual, full of something unspoken. "I’ll take care of you."

And she does.

She takes the lead effortlessly, with quiet confidence, with patience, with a tenderness she so rarely allows herself to show.

She kisses you slowly, deeply. She strokes her fingers down your arms, over your waist, soothing, patient, never rushing you.

If your hands hesitate on her skin, if you falter, if your voice is unsure, she just smiles. She takes your hands in hers, presses them against her body, whispering, "You can touch me, darling. However you like. I’ll tell you what feels good."

She guides you with gentle encouragement, never demanding, never impatient, only giving, only offering. She makes sure you know you’re doing well, that there’s no right or wrong, only feeling, only pleasure.

"Just like that, love," she murmurs, voice thick with warmth, with devotion, with something deeper than she’s willing to name. "You’re perfect. Let me show you more."

And when you finally fall into it, when you surrender to the moment, when you let her lead you through it, slow and careful?

She shudders beneath your touch, her fingers tightening against your skin, her breath hitching in a way that feels almost fragile.

Because she’s never had this before.

Not like this.

Not with someone who wants to give to her, who wants to make her feel like she matters.

She doesn’t let herself think about that now. She just smiles, presses a kiss to your lips.

And when it’s over? When you are both spent, relaxed, glowing from the aftershocks?

She presses a cigarette to your lips, lets you take a drag, smirks lazily as she steals it back and murmurs, "See? Nothing to be nervous about at all, love."

But when she turns away, when she exhales smoke into the quiet of the room, she hesitates, because for once, she isn’t trying to convince herself it wasn’t real.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dearly Beloved 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, arranged marriage, allusions to abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After spurning one too many suitors, you wind up with the worst person you've ever met.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: inspired by the ask about a reader that wears skirts all the time but Lloyd discovers she wears shorts too and it challenged to get past them.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You swipe the wand against your lashes one last time and shove it back into the tube. You sit up as you check the overall effect. Nothing too much. You like a dewy look, natural but glowing. You have to at least look like you care about today. 

The knock at the door is like clockwork. You’ve done this too many times. You expected your parents to give up by now. All the men did. 

You yawn and set the mascara back in your makeup case. “Come in,” you call dully. 

You watch your mother enter in the mirror. She’s in one of her stiff tweed jackets and a matching skirt. If she took a few inches off the skirt, it might be cute. 

“Waiting on you,” she tuts and crosses her arms. 

“Oh, are you?” You shut the case and stand. “I must’ve lost track of time.” 

You stand and smooth your dress. The little bow accoutrements long the shallow slit of the short skirt add a touch of sparkly to the navy blue. You’ve paired the dress with beige heels and thick gold hoop earrings. You look exactly to her standards and yet there’s disappointment in her eyes. 

“He will not like you being late,” she girds as she crosses the room and reaches for you. You stop her from touching your hair. She always has to fix what doesn’t need to be fixed. 

“Mother, it’s not on purpose. I only want to look my best. As you said,” you tilt your head coyly. 

“Don’t,” she frees herself from your grasp and points at you. “I need you to start taking this seriously. You are twenty-five.” 

“An old spinster,” you sigh dramatically, “how many is this now? Eighteen? You think this one will bite?” 

“If you would try, perhaps. Don't think you are so clever,” she bristles. 

“Mother, I’ve done everything you’ve asked me too. I’ve been on my best behaviour but you simply can’t force love,” you insist. 

“Dear, I do not know why you do this. Your father will blow an aneurysm if you keep this up,” she hisses. 

“Oh yes, the steam came out of his ears last time,” you chuckle. 

“It isn’t funny. This is our legacy. You are our legacy.” 

Your smile falls. Why you? It was her choice not to have any more heirs. If they are so important, she should have, right? Why must it be you? 

“Mother, can it not wait longer? A few years?” 

“This is not a seller’s market.” 

“And I’m not property. I’m a person. Your daughter.” 

“Mm, well, a few more years and there would be concern. For... fertility,” she sniffs. 

“Yes, I am cattle. Forgive my mistake.” 

“Please, I am not—if you tried to get along, you might find a good match,” she snips. 

“They are all snobs and terribly boring. I’ve tried.” 

“You are late. You are catty. And you roll your eyes,” she sneers. “How about a smile and a ‘yes, mother’.” 

You hold back your agitation. You get your stubbornness from her but that only seems to irk her. She didn’t raise you to be a pushover but that’s exactly what she’s telling you to be. 

“Yes, mother,” you smile and flutter your lashes, “I will try to increase my price so that you and father can go on your....” you count silently on your fingers, “twentieth honeymoon?” 

“You--” she begins and makes a fist. You lean away. She glares at you. “Rein it in.” 

She spins and stomps to the door. You exhale as your cheeks pinch painfully. At least she thought not to mess up your makeup. 

You follow her into the hallway. You’re silent. You know better than to keep on when she gets to this point. You tell that crying little girl to go back to her corner and once more paint on a smile. 

You follow her down the curling stairs and your heels echo through the foyer. She takes you to the sitting room and steps back to let your through first. You barely look at the man sat in the centre of the settee. 

“She’s here. Apologies for the wait, she was having a bad hair day,” she preens. There’s silence. “Well, then I should leave you to introduce yourselves.” 

She pulls the sliding wood doors from another era. You huff, “as if. My hair is perfect.” 

The man laughs. His sole scuffs as he stands. He says your name. 

“Mm, let’s not pretend here. We both know what this is.” 

“Straight to the point,” he remarks with a snort. “Should we exchange measurements and decide?” 

It takes you a moment to get his meaning. That’s disgusting. You face him with lip curled. “I think I can guess pretty easily,” you look him up and down. You arch a brow. “Oh, well...” 

His lips thin and he squints. The crinkles around his eyes deepen. You want to wipe off that silly mustache above his lip. 

“You’re a bit older than I expected.” You shrug. 

He puts a hand on his hip, “experience. Means I know what I’m doing.” 

You smile again, only to keep from laughing. You dig a heel into the floor and check your nails. “Sure, well, we should waste about half an hour and then we can send for my mother.” 

He clucks. You look at him, your elbow against your side as you keep your hand up. His brows knit then lift. “Lloyd Hansen.” He offers his hand, “billionaire, with a whole lot more coming to me.” 

“Right,” you look at his hand and turn away. You strut around him, “look, I’m really not looking to get married. I’m just doing what they tell me so I wouldn’t bother. Save your energy.” 

You flop onto the settee and hook one knee over the other. You rock your foot as you cross your arms. He slithers after you, stopping by the arm rest. 

“Oh, I got lots of energy,” he scoffs. “Well, half-an-hour, I can think of a few ways to pass the time. I’m not really the sort to wait until marriage.” 

You grimace at him, “no thank you.” 

“Well, aren’t you a treat? I heard about you but I thought all those guys were cucks,” he snorts. 

“Heard about me?” You repeat. 

“Sure, frigid bitch it what they’re saying,” he snickers and turns to sit beside you, “but they didn’t say anything about those legs.” 

He stretches his arm across the back of the couch above you. He tries to drop it onto your shoulders and you catch his wrist and shove him away. He chuckles again and tugs on your hair. You swat him. 

“Hey, no touching,” you snarl. 

“I like this,” he pinches the little ribbon button along the skirt, “it’s cute. Nice little peek of thigh.” 

Before you can stop him, he shoves his hand through slit of the skirt and squeezes our thigh. You yipe and you grab his other arm. He pushes up against your shorts. He frowns. 

“What?” He pinches the edge along your thigh. 

“Chafing,” you push him off of you. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m here to buy. I wanna know what I’m paying for,” he sneers. 

“Ew, ew,” you shove him again and stand, storming away as you shiver in repulsion. “Ew. Firstly, you’re too old. Second, your pervy little mustache is gross. Third, you’re nasty.” 

“You haven’t really given me a chance. One, I might have a few extra years under my belt but that means I know what I’m doing,” you face him as he holds up a thumb. “Two, this mustache is there for her pleasure. Yours, if you play your cards right. Three,” his other hand rests on his thigh as you glimpse the twitching in his cream coloured pants, “tell me how nasty to be and I’ll gladly fuck that rod out of your ass.” 

“Wow, you are repugnant,” you scoff. 

“I got some extra flavour,” he leans forward, his elbows on his legs as he clasps his hands together. “Those other guys, I know they came in here like simps in their bowties, tryna lube you up with those puppy dog eyes. Well, I’m here for business. I don’t have time to waste on games and you don’t seem to like playing. It’s perfect.” 

“It couldn’t be less awful,” you assure him. 

“Right, I’m sure you’re having the time of your life with Mommy Dearest there. Does she have wire hangers? Don’t answer that,” he laughs and sits back, leaning his arm on the cushioned rest. “At least I’m honest. I’m not gonna sit here and lick your asshole. Not figuratively. I got shit to get done, namely, getting married, and you seem, well, to put it in your language ‘so over it’,” he puts on a trite voice. 

“I’m over you,” you insist. 

“I don’t mind a girl on top,” he winks. 

“Ugh, maybe you should meet a few divorcees. They might just be desperate enough.” 

“Tried that game. She cried after. Was really awkward.” 

You glare at him. He really is gross. You’re not a prude by any measure but this is supposed to be an introduction. He’s supposed to at least pretend to be gentleman. 

“I’m done with this conversation, so you can entertain yourself,” you dismiss with a flick of your fingers. 

He chortles as you turn your back to him. You clomp over to the window and distract yourself with the hedges and the sparrows rustling within. Your mother will be upset but he’s the last of the...however many men you’d choose. 

“No wonder you got them lined up, sweet cheeks, you fill out that dress real nice,” his soles scuff on the floor. “It’s cute but I’d suggest something with a bit less at the top. I’m sure you got a nice balance.” 

You ignore him and shake your head at the panes. You listen to his slow approach. You tense as you sense him right behind you. 

“You’re not the first I’ve met either, you know? The rest of them are so... flighty. The last one had a list of demands. A fucking bride price. Chanel everything. Boring,” he says. 

You wince as he touches your back. He drags his fingers up your dress and you snarl as you go rigid. He gets even closer and hums. 

“Let me pet the kitty and then you can decide. You really can’t make a clear decision if you don’t know how a man--” he snakes his hand around your neck and you dip your chin. You bite down on the webbing between his thumb and index. 

He yowls as you clamp down on him. You let him go and he staggers away. You face him and watch him with a smug smirk as he shakes his hand. He cradles it and hisses. 

“You little...” he snarls through his teeth as his eyes blaze at you. 

“I warned you already not to touch me,” you insist. “The next time, they’ll be blood.” 

He holds up his hand and examines the red bite mark. He scowls and lowers it. His glare meets yours hotly. He squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes. 

“Oh, baby girl, you don’t know what you’ve done,” he spits. 

He turns and strides to the door. You cackle as he tries to pull them inward first, then figures to slide them apart. You stay as you are as you hear his footsteps reverberate around the foyer. You turn to face the window again. 

He marches down the long stone walk toward the arched driveway. You’ve never chased one out before. To be honest, all the others were too shy to get that close. He waves at Carmen, the valet. You tisk between your teeth and shrug as you spin back. 

Your mom will probably let her fists fly now but it will be worth it, so long as you never have to see that man again. 

[ultravi0lence14]

FALLEN STAR

CASTIEL X FALLENANGEL!READER

SUMMARY: they fell in love; she ended up falling while he stayed

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

the day you fell was dark, gloomy, a vast difference from what heaven was usually like. if you were to explain it to anyone, you would say it was a utopia. a kaleidoscope of colours and light that brought forth the heavenly grace in each and every angel. god had created you all the same, from the same light source. yet you were different. his own little creation from a separate beam of light he couldn’t shake from his mind.

all angels came from the glowing white mirth in god’s palm, yet you came from a vibrant pink balm that enticed god like original sin in the garden. when you were made, he didn’t render you with the other angels. you were his own, and each and every other angel was garnered below you instead of being your equal.

though, you didn’t view castiel like that.

he was different than the rest, a beacon of hope that gnawed and ripped it’s teeth at the short leash your father held you on. god didn’t like you leaving his side, yet cas always found a way to sneak you into his arms.

as time went on, your loyalties started to change, and god saw a shift in how his little girl was acting. you were sneaky, and when you weren’t sneaky, you were secretive. god knew something was wrong, yet he didn’t know what could possibly have changed with his prized possession.

he watched you slowly, saw as you ran to castiel for any issue you had. he saw the lingering holds, the featherlight touches, and the way you looked at the angel like he hung the moon and stars. it all started to make sense, and god felt an anger he had only felt once before; when lucifer betrayed him.

“how could you?” he bellowed, watching you cower into castiel’s side. “disobey your father, run around with a lower being? you knew better, little one. i taught you better.”

“no,” you bit out, walking closer to your father while cas held onto your hand tightly. “you kept me caged, held me close because you were scared of me. you knew you shouldn’t have created me. you knew i would be too powerful, so you kept me on a tight leash. but cas doesn’t treat me like that. he treats me like i matter, dad, and that’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

sighing, god shook his head, hating what he was going to do but knowing it needed to be done. holding your cheek in his palm, god stared down at what he believed was his greatest creation, turned into his worst mistake.

“you could’ve been so much more.” he whispered, caressing your cheek as castiel’s eyes worried. he saw the malice in his creators eyes, and he knew whatever god had planned for you wasn’t good. “you could’ve been a warrior as good as michael, but you betrayed me like lucifer.”

your mouth gaped open, and before you could speak, god flicked his hand, sending you free falling from the heavens. “say hello to my son for me when you fall in his wasteland.”

the last thing you heard was castiel’s scream, the sight of him clawing and reaching for you as angels held him back burning behind your eyelids as the wind whipped at your eyes and seeped into your bones. pain emitted into your back, and you felt your wings disintegrate as you hit the earth. but instead of going further into the ruined soil, greeting lucifer in hell, you landed in a field of beautiful flowers.

god sent you somewhere worse than hell. he sent you to earth, where you’d have to adjust to being human. adjust to a life without your love.

a lone tear fell, and you just wished cas was hear to smooth back your hair and hold you in his arms, telling you everything would be okay.

the years flew by like an angel’s wing, and you found yourself adjusting decently to a human life. small town living wasn’t easy, but the decrepit town in colorado greeted you with opened arms, allowing you to open up your own flower shop. it reminded you of when you first fell, the last time you saw your lovers face.

peaceful living was what you got used to knowing. wake up, get ready, man the store. it was all so simple. until two brothers came crashing into your store, looking for refuge from a vengeful werewolf.

they weren’t expecting the sweet, timid looking cashier behind the counter to have any silver weapons. and they definitely weren’t expecting her to wield a silver dagger like a sword, piercing the werewolf’s heart like a skilled hunter. it may have been the lace cami and denim mini skirt, but sam and dean winchester were baffled by your skills.

you three got to chatting, and without giving away your true nature, you somehow ended up on sam and dean’s good side.

it wasn’t easy, leaving the shop behind. each daisy reminded you of cas. each rose reminded you of his smile and each carnation reminded you of the way his lips brushed your skin. but if you wanted to show god how much of a warrior you were without him, than leaving with the winchester’s was the best thing you could possibly do.

the hollowness in your chest broke into shards as pamela barnes spoke the name you hadn’t heard in two years. castiel seemed to be the one to raise dean winchester from hell, and you couldn’t help but hitch your breath at the sound of his name.

your cas, your sweet boy. it was all too much. when dean and bobby mentioned they were going to go out to a remote location and seek him out, you couldn’t help but spring up and agree to join.

damp air sent shivers down your spine as you waited with bobby and dean. it had been so long, and you didn’t know what face he wore, but he would still be the same to you. when lights started flickering, and rain smacked against the barn roof, you knew that your lover was finally crawling home to you.

castiel came in the space stoic, leisure steps that showed reverence and strength in his walk. but when his eyes landed on you, they faltered, hands starting to shake and eyes widening in surprise and buried pain.

“angel? is that really you?” he was an angel of the lord, a being who felt no emotions. but at that moment, cas couldn’t help the tears that sprang into his eyes. the last time he saw you, your face was fear stricken; features alight with pain as your own maker cast you out of his sight. now, you just looked ethereal, a beacon of beauty and grace.

all you could do was nod, running as fast as you could until you were wrapped in his arms. dean and bobby just stood shocked, guns at the ready yet not knowing what to do with them as their friend hugged and kissed the face of their target.

“why are you here?” he spoke through wispy breaths, hands roaming your face and body to make sure you were real. “i thought god cast you to hell?”

“god? cast to hell?” dean spoke up, shock and disbelief evident in his eyes. “okay, what the fuck is going on?”

“she’s a fallen angel,” cas spoke, hands cupping your face as he pressed his forehead to yours. “my fallen angel. and she is finally home to me.”

TAGS: @titsout4jackles @daylighted @deansbeer @bluemerakis @figthoughts @haunteres @sunsbaby @h8aaz @beausling @deanswidow @cowboysandcigarettes @j2archives @honeyryewhiskey @florchids @dulcescorderitas

NAT BABBLES: gotta give my boy cas some love!! and this also goes out to my other cass ( @starzify ) BC IT IS HER BDAY!!!

[kikyoupdates]

Made to Destroy ⭑˚💎⭑ 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑟𝑎

bnha x op!reader

op!reader, my hero academia x fem!reader, reverse harem, over powered reader, f!reader

You are the product of a series of twisted experiments, an anomaly that shouldn’t have ever existed in the first place. Thankfully, you are taken into the arms of a hero and given a new purpose in life. But as you soon discover, it isn’t easy to deny your true nature, especially when you were made to destroy.

previous | story masterlist | next

Aizawa feels bad about bringing you to the hospital again. It goes without saying that it’s not a fun place for a kid, but if the doctors are concerned, then really, what choice does he have?

“Am I sick?” you ask him. “I don’t feel sick, so why am I back here?”

He offers you a sympathetic smile. “It’s just in case. Sometimes, we need to do a lot of tests to make sure that your body’s healthy. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

As always, you go along without much protest. Aizawa appreciates that you trust him so much, but it actually makes him feel even worse about jerking you along like this. You’re a good kid, and truly, you deserve better than the unfortunate circumstances you’ve found yourself in.

Dr. Iwase examines you, does a few more tests (Aizawa holds your hand again when they take another blood sample), but all in all, it’s clear that nobody has any idea what’s going on.

“She seems perfectly healthy and functional,” Dr. Iwase frowns. “Which is why... it just doesn’t make any sense. The numbers we keep getting don’t add up. Perhaps it has something to do with her Quirk? You mentioned before that she has regenerative abilities. Perhaps that might be affecting her blood cells and overall constitution. But even so, it’s still rather strange...”

If a doctor can’t figure out what’s happening, then Aizawa sure as hell won’t be able to either.

He spares a glance at you. You’re sitting on the exam table and happily swinging your legs out, seemingly without a care in the world. No part of you strikes him as being sick or unhealthy. Scientific data aside, as long as you don’t feel any discomfort, that’s what matters most, right?

“Can I take her home now?” Aizawa asks. “I’d hate to keep her here too long. Especially if you say she looks fine.”

“Yes, I suppose. Sorry for the inconvenience. A child’s wellbeing is at stake, so naturally, I couldn’t afford to be negligent.”

Aizawa nods. “Of course. I’m just glad she’s okay. As you’re probably aware, I don’t have much medical knowledge, but at the very least, I can keep an eye on her health and look out for any concerning signs.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Dr. Iwase smiles. “Thank you, Aizawa. So long as you monitor [Name]’s condition, I feel confident that she’ll be just fine.”

Well, that concludes yet another hospital trip. Aizawa doesn’t much care for the harsh smell of antiseptic and the constant beeping of medical machinery, but he supposes he’ll have to get used to it. If it means keeping you safe, he’ll take you to dozens, no—hundreds of hospitals to make sure you’re in good health.

“So, I’m not sick,” you hum, looking rather pleased with yourself as you hold onto Aizawa’s hand. “I told you, Aizawa. I told you I was feeling just fine.”

“I know,” he chuckles. “Like I said, this is just to be safe. Adults are very meticulous about these kinds of things. We like to test things a bunch of times just to be sure that we’ve gotten it right.”

You smile. “That’s okay. I don’t mind coming back here again if it helps everyone believe I’m not sick. And since I was a good girl and listened... that means I get a burger, right?”

Man. You really, really love burgers.

Not that Aizawa minds. Quite frankly, that smile of yours is so cute that he’s ready to risk everything for it.

“One burger coming right up,” he muses, affectionately ruffling your hair.

Your smile gets even bigger. “Since I was extra good today, can I maybe have two burgers instead?”

“...let’s not push it.”

He’s convinced that if you ever do get sick, it’ll be from a burger-induced food coma.

You’re a kid. Being a kid comes with its fair share of troubles, it seems. Troubles that are only amplified by the fact that you have virtually no lived experience.

While it’s true that kids are generally ignorant about most things, yours is a different case altogether. Certain things you instinctively pick up on, thanks to the knowledge Dr. Garaki imbued your brain with, but others, you can only learn by experiencing them firsthand, and what may seem incredibly obvious to most people often needs to be explained to you in great detail.

Aizawa still hasn’t been able to figure out what the deal with you is. The police have yet to find any leads, and there are absolutely no records of you anywhere they’ve looked. Almost as if you never existed in the first place.

Whatever the case, it’s clear that his guardianship can hardly be called ‘temporary’ anymore.

For the foreseeable future, you’re here to stay, and that means that he needs to make sure all your needs are properly seen to.

This, of course, includes education.

“School?” you blink, visibly confused. “What’s that?”

As always, your response catches him off guard. Based on a rough estimate, you look to be about five or six years old. You claim you don’t know your birthdate, which is plenty horrifying in its own right, but he chalks that up to the obvious gaps in your memory. Still. To have forgotten about something as fundamental as school? It’s messed up, and it makes him tremble just imagining the horrible man who must have tormented you all this time.

You’ve been through a lot, which is all the more reason why you need to start living normally, the way other kids do.

“School is where people go to learn all kinds of things,” Aizawa explains. “I’m sure you’ll really enjoy it. And there will be plenty of kids your age there, so you can make some friends too.”

Friends...

You like the idea of having friends. Hopefully, you can meet more nice people like Izuku. That would be great. Just the thought makes you ridiculously excited.

“I want to go,” you insist. “I want to make tons of friends!”

Present Mic laughs. “You’ll have to learn too, kiddo. That’s kind of the main focus of school. Well, you seem like a smart kid, and you’re good at following instructions, so you've got all the qualities of a model student.”

Your face flushes with pride. School hasn’t even begun yet, and you’re already being praised. It seems like a rather promising start.

And so, while you eagerly await your first day of school, Aizawa and Present Mic attend to all the bureaucratic details. They’re able to find a good public elementary school in the area, and thankfully, after explaining your unique circumstances, your enrolment is approved.

That’s how you find yourself equipped with a cute cat-themed backpack, lips parted in awe as you stand in front of the school gates.

Aizwa pats your head. “How are you feeling? It’s okay to be nervous, but just remember to take a deep breath, and everything will be fine—”

“I’m so excited I can barely stand still!” you exclaim. “I want to go in, I want to go in, I want to go in!”

Well, then. He had a whole speech prepared in case you were getting cold feet, but this certainly saves him the trouble.

“I’m glad you’re looking forward to it so much.” Aizawa crouches next to you and smiles. “Mic is busy with hero work, so he couldn’t be here to drop you off, but he wanted you to know that he’s rooting for you.”

“I know,” you beam. “Even when you guys are busy, I know you’re still thinking of me. Just like how I always think of you.”

Goodness. Aizawa is convinced you must be a tiny little angel that fell out of the sky. Perhaps that’s why most things are so foreign to you.

He chuckles weakly at the thought. No, of course not. Your past is far too grim for that to be the case. Still, it’s nice to dream.

“Have fun,” Aizawa encourages, patting your head one last time. “Make sure to listen to your teacher and you’ll be just fine. And play nice with the other kids. I’m sure they’d love to be friends with you.”

You hesitate before trickling past the gates, where the crowd of other kids is passing through. Aizawa wonders if you’re finally starting to feel nervous, but before he can pose the question, you jump into his arms and give him a big hug.

“Bye-bye, Aizawa,” you say. “I’ll miss you while I’m at school. And you’ll miss me too, right?”

He blinks in surprise, but it doesn’t take long for him to wrap his arms around you.

“I will. I’ll miss you a lot,” he mumbles. He’s not just saying it for show, either. As he holds your tiny body against his, he realizes that he’ll miss you like crazy these next few hours.

It’s strange how he hasn’t even known you for very long, but already, you’ve become so deeply ingrained in his life.

He finally waves goodbye to you, and you scurry off excitedly, following behind the rest of the students. Aizawa could have easily walked with you all the way to your classroom, but you insisted that you wanted to figure it out yourself. You’re a big girl, and you want to prove to him that you’re plenty capable on your own.

Thankfully, the school isn’t terribly big, and you’re able to find your way just by copying where most of the other kids are headed. Your eyes scan the signs above the doors, searching for the classroom that you were assigned to.

Ah. It’s that one!

You grin proudly. Look at that. You figured it out just fine, even without Aizawa’s help. Of course, it’s not like you have any qualms about relying on him, but it’s nice to do something on your own every once in a while.

You step inside the classroom and take a few moments to assess your surroundings. So, this is school, huh? There are desks and chairs all over the place, there’s a blackboard at the front, and the walls are covered with all sorts of educational posters; mainly catchy slogans or words of affirmation. There’s a map of the world too, and a big clock.

But best of all, the classroom is bustling with excitement. There are kids everywhere you look. So many of them! So many potential friends! You’re itching to go up to them and introduce yourself right off the bat, but before you can, someone beats you to it.

“[N-Name]?”

Huh? That sounds like...

You whip your head around, and sure enough, there he is. The nice curly-haired boy you met not long ago, and who you quickly hit it off with.

A grin spreads across your lips.

“Izuku!”

You bound over to him and take his hands in yours, despite the fact that it makes him yelp out of embarrassment. You’re too excited to take note of how violently red his face is. You just can’t believe how lucky you are, to have met him again on such short notice. And best of all, you’re classmates now, which means you’ll get to see each other all the time.

“Yay, Izuku’s here!” you beam. “I’m so happy to see you again! I didn’t realize you went to this school too. It’s my first day, and I was already excited, but now that I get to see you, I’m even more excited!”

The poor boy’s head is spinning. He’s so flustered that he can hardly keep up with what’s happening, and the fact that you’re still holding his hand in yours doesn’t help in the slightest.

You frown a bit, having finally picked up on his embarrassment. “Hm? Izuku, are you okay? Your face looks kind of—”

“No way is this happening right now.”

Ah. There’s yet another familiar voice.

Except this isn’t one you’re all too thrilled about.

Katsuki grits his teeth. “I can’t believe it. You seriously have the nerve to show your face here, after all the crap you said to me? You really must be an idiot. You made a big mistake coming to this school.”

He balls his hands into fists, an act which is clearly meant to intimidate you, but all the while, you just stare at him without uttering a word.

Then, you blink.

“Sorry, what was your name again?”

More chapters are available on Quotev or Wattpad!

⊱.⋅follow + post notifications on for story update announcements or join the author's discord!⋅.⊰

💎 main masterlist ♡ oneshot masterlist

[mia-can-yap-too]

interwoven with webs (part 1)

Who?:- Isagi Yoichi x spider-girl! reader

Warnings:- very bad descriptions of violence, kinda crack, fluff will come in part 2

♫ :- Honeypie— JAWNY

Your name is Y/N L/N, and you are Tokyo's one and only spider-girl. How did this come to be, you say? Well, you would definitely like to say that you got bit by a radioactive spider while graffitiing on subway walls or something like that. But, no, life must work in cruel ways.

You got bit while coming out of the shower. Adorned in nothing but a towel, you had screamed your lungs off when the spider inched closer. You did manage to end up killing it, with the back of a hair brush too, but by then it was too late. The spider had crawled up your leg and bit you.

So yeah, it's not exactly the best story of the birth of a hero but that doesn’t matter. Soon enough, you became accustomed to the changes in your body, albeit you were slightly weirded out when spider webs started shooting out from your wrists. And now, you fight crime and keep Tokyo's streets safe as the one and only spider-girl.

The tabloids love you, especially because you always pose for the photos,even mid-fight. The people love you. Some post you on their socials whenever theysee you and comment many wonderful things like, 'who is this DIVA', '#needthat', and the ocassional 'MOMMY'. It's such an ego boost. And yes, some do have their controversies about you but those are just haters. Some put out conspiracy theories about you, too. You heard one about how you are actually a robot made by the government so that police officers could take a break or some shit. Lmao,no way.

Regardless, with your unrivaled charismatic charm and spidey senses,you can do anything!

Except AP physics, apparently.

"Yeah, no, I don't get it," you say as you turn to look at an exasperated Chigiri. He had been trying to help tutor you, not that he was much better.

"This is it, you are failing," he runs a hand through his hair.

"Hey! It's not my fault I don't understand! It's probably because I have a horrible tutor." You expertly dodge the pencil he throws your way, yet you do let out an overly dramatic gasp at his audacity.

He rolls his eyes at your antics. "If that's the case, then why don't you get a proper tutor? You know, someone who's actually good at this?"

"I don't know anyone from that class, else I would've had one by now," you sigh. "Hey, I know a friend who takes this class too, but I do not know if he tutors as well. I'Il ask him the next time we meet and if he's willing to help then I'll pass on your number," Chigiri's tone is nonchalant, as if he weren't just solving the worst of your problems.

"Thanks but I wasn't aware you had other friends," you joke. Another pencil isthrown at you.

Suddenly, your phone lets out a 'ting'! You pull it out to see the latest notification, from a news channel.

'Bank robbery on the U-20 street. Three people taken hostage.Police are ontheir way.

Eyes widening, you quickly start to shove your stuff into your bag. Chigiri looks over with concern. "What's wrong, did something happen?"

"Yes, I gotta go, I'll tell you later, okay? See you, and sorry for ditching you, too!" You run away, leaving a baffled Chigiri in your wake. Truthfully, he should be used to this by now. You've always got urgent stuff to do. I wonder why.

You run into the nearest alley, doing a quick check to see if anybody was there. Once you confirmed it, you take your suit out and begin stripping to wear it. Why the hell is this shit so hard to wear?!

Discarding your bag in a corner and sending a quick prayer that nobody steals it, you shoot spider webs into the air and swing away. Soon enough, you reach the crime scene. No police yet, maybe that one conspiracy theory had some truth to it.

The doors are locked, so instead you must climb the walls and sneak in through a window. Quietly hiding behind a comically large vase, you assess the situation.

Papers are strewn about and tables have been overturned. Three men in skimasks each hold guns. One is shouting at the hostages, keeping them at gunpoint as he orders them to stay still. Another has a gun aimed at a banker, forcing her to take out as much money as she could. The last one shoves said money into a black duffel bag.

Thankfully, this wasn't a very popular bank, so not many people got caught up in this robbery.

Right, so if you took out the one holding the hostages via sneak attack, you couldeasily deal with the other the same way. And if things went wrong, well...you’d figure it out as you go. You're known for being heroic, not smart.

Keeping your steps light, you sneak up behind your target. The hostages, however, see you, which makes their eyes widen with hope. Unfortunately, the man notices, and turns around. While you are quick enough to disable him and stick him against the wall with your webs, his gasp alerts the other two."Uh oh," you mutter as one of them starts charging at you. He swings at you, but of course, you dodge. Landing a harsh kick to his side, you barely dodge the bullets the remaining man shoots at you. Ugh, you'll have to deal with him later. The one you had just kicked groans as he stands up. After some amateur hand-to-hand combat, he somehow manages to hold the banker at gunpoint with his arm around her throat. "Stay back! I'Il shoot her!"

"Calm down, dude, you wouldn't hurt a lady, would ya?", you chuckle nervously.

Ah, shit. You can't sense the last guy either, he might have made a run for it. You inch a little closer, arm stretched out. "I said stay back!", he barks. His goldfish brain could have never guessed your next move. Moving faster than light, you shoot web from your outstretched hand, not at him though, but rather at the vase behind him. The recoil makes the vase shoot forward, hitting the man at the back of his head. He slumps forward, unconscious.

Unfortunately, your job here isn't done yet. After sticking him to the wall with his

companion and making sure the civilians were fine, you swing out of the bank. He couldn't have gotten that far, could he? You stand on the roof of a building, eyes darting here and there, trying to locate the robber. Fortunately for you, running through a calm crowd in all black attire makes you stand out, so you find him in no time. When he notices you, he tries to get rid of you by darting into a maze of alleyways. You don't stop, as persistent as a pest. What kind of hero would you be if you let him get away?

Soon enough, he is cornered in a dead end. He knows he is fucked. He used all his bullets trying to shoot you in the bank. "No way out, might as well give yourself in," you say with a cocky grin.

He gets into a fighting stance. Battle ready and teeth bared, he is not going down without a fight.

Or that's just what he tells himself.

He doesn't even get to swing his fist before you knock him out with a punch tothe jaw.

Chuckling, you dust off your hands. Heh, you were so cool. The guy behind the dumpster thinks so too.

Wait...the guy behind the dumpster?!

Both of you let out shrill screams when you finally notice him. How long had he been there?!

He tries to say something but the only thing that comes out is a series of gasps."Y-you...l-l..."

"What the hell, dude?! Do you even know how creepy this is? Why were you even there in the first place?!"

He somehow composes himself when you accuse him of being a creep."I was hiding because I have self preservation skills. The guy could've held me at gunpoint!"

"Oh wait yeah..."

Point proven, his awe comes back in full glory. "And...oh my God...you're actually spider-girl?! Woah...that was so cool! You totally kicked his ass!" His deep blue eyes are gleaming with admiration.

"Uh, thank you? And of fucking course I kicked his ass, I am spider-girl, after all." Your wonderful-ness truly has no bounds.

"Hey," he starts shyly, "can I get an autograph? To brag to my friends, you know, that l met the greatest superhero of all time." He was obviously buttering you up, as you were the onlysuperhero ever, but it boosted your ego nonetheless. No way would you turn down a fan, after all.

And so, you comply. He finds it a bit weird that you draw the dots on your 'i's as a small little circle, instead of a dot like normal people, but he doesn't have the courage (or a death wish) to call you out on that. 

After signing his notebook, phone and calculator (weird but okay) you walk him out of the maze of alleyways. Once you make it back to the street, you turn to look at him. "This is it, fanboy. Stay outta trouble, okay? And don't scare people by hiding behind dumpsters, that shit is just weird."

He gives you a deadpan expression. "I told you I didn't mean to do that."

Chuckling, you wink at him. "Sure you didn't. See ya!" 

And with that you swing away, leaving behind an awestruck boy. 

'I am so bragging about that wink,' thinks Isagi.

--

The next week went by pretty normally. No crimes to fight and no fans to awe. But that was okay, because Chigiri did end up convincing that friend of his, named Isagi, to tutor you (for free too!) and now you finally get a chance to deal with the pain in the ass that was AP physics.

You got to the library ten minutes earlier than your tutor. You didn't want him tostart charging you if you were late.

And so you sip your mocha, waiting for your now academic knight in shining armor to save you. Though, your thoughts did end up going back to that guy you met before. I mean, can anyone blame you? He was kinda cute, and getting you to sign his calculator of all things? Total nerd behavior. Y/n approved.

A tap on your shoulder pulls youout of your thoughts. You turn to look at theculprit, ready to go off. What annoying bitch dares to interrupt my daydreaming of fine sh--What?!

You recognized his deep blue eyes. That little sprout on top of his head. It was really him!

Isagi was...the fine shit?!

Authors Note:- This was originally supposed to be one part but it ended up being wayy too long. And my ipad decided to be a bitch and wouldn’t let me airdrop this to my phone so i spent three hours uploading this. Many mistakes were made so if you find any typos please tell me! Also, just because i wanted to say that whenever i put a song in ♫ i don’t mean that i associate the song w the fic, it just means that i listened to it while writing it, unnecessary but still.

[snowysosturn]

Miss Possessive - Chris Sturniolo

Pairing : Boyfriend!Chris x Girlfriend!reader

Summary : You usually don’t mind the attention Chris gets, but when a girl stares for too long, you have no problem putting her in her place.

Warnings : jealousy, possessiveness, toxicity

It's 1 am at the crowded house party, music is thumping, shaking the kitchen floor beneath my heels. I’m a few drinks in as I stand next to Chris, his hand resting on my lower back, making it known he’s mine.

I don’t usually mind the attention he gets, I mean it comes with his job. But Chris isn’t just good looking, he’s the kind of guy that turns heads without even trying. The effortless confidence, the laid back smirk, the way his dark hair falls over his forehead like some artist painted it there.

But most girls admire from a distance. They whisper, giggle, maybe steal a glance too long. But they know better. They know he’s mine.

Except for her.

She’s been circling him all night, her baby blue eyes trailing over his frame like she’s undressing him with her gaze. A little too close, a little too comfortable. And she thinks I don’t notice.

But I do.

So I wait.

And then she makes her move.

Walking toward us to strike up a conversation. She stands right infront to him, placing a delicate touch on his arm, fingers grazing his skin.

Get your hands off my man.

I watch the way she leans in when she speaks, the way her lips curl around her straw like she’s performing just for him. Chris barely reacts, but that doesn’t matter. She’s testing me.

I step between them, pressing my body into Chris’s, my hands trailing up his chest, slow and deliberate. His arm immediately wraps around my waist, pulling me close, but I don’t look at him. I look at her.

And then, she turns to me.

“Oh my god, I love your dress!” she says, her voice sugary sweet. 

I almost laugh. It’s a smart move, acting like we’re friends, trying to get on my good side first. “I swear, I’ve seen you before?” she says, tilting her head.

I blink slowly, pretending to search my memory. “I don’t think so.”

She laughs, a little too airy, a little too performative. “Maybe not, but you have such a vibe. Where do you shop?”

She’s playing the long game, trying to get comfortable, trying to weasel her way into the space between us that doesn’t exist.

Instead of answering right away, I shift my weight and turn around, pressing my back against Chris’s chest, letting my body mold into his like a second skin. He doesn’t hesitate, his arms draping over my shoulders, his chin grazing the top of my head as he pulls me in.

The message is loud and clear, leave me and my man alone.

I glance at her, my lips curling into something just short of a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I say, my tone playful and teasing. “But I don’t think it’d suit you.”

Her smile tightens, but she tries to hold her ground.

I tilt my head slightly, gaze sharpening. “You should go find something else to stare at.. the floor, the ceiling.. literally anyone else in this room.” I pause, letting the words sink in. “Just keep your eyes off him.”

Chris huffs out a quiet laugh against my hair, and I feel the way his grip tightens, his amusement vibrating through me.

She stares for a second, then swallows, forcing a laugh. “I was just being nice.”

“I’m also nice, up until I’m not.” I say smugly, taking a sip of my drink, already bored of her.

She doesn’t have anything else to say. She turns, disappearing into the crowd, and just like that, the air feels lighter.

Chris leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “Damn, baby.”

I smirk, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. “What?”

His grin is cocky. “I love when you do that, Miss Possessive.”

I just smile, stealing a sip from his drink this time. “I know.”

a/n: this song has been STUCK in my head since last week, i needed to write something inspired by it

taglist: @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @m4gz-png @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel  @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @chrisstxrnsaxe @sophand4n4 @vickytaa @marrykisskilled @bxtchboy69 @yourfavsturniologirl @julisturn @sydneyylainn @sturnslux3 @dexterswifey @yourmother29 @trevorsgodmother @yourebeautifulqueen @spaghettislut1 @anonymouslyachrisgirl @lizzysmith110 @lovesturni0l0s

[vanilladollette]

Can you please write part 2 of yandere headcanons for Jae Jun and yandere headcanons for do yeong?

(If it's comfortable for you can you please write nsfw headcanons for them too?)

Yandere Jeon Jae-Joon, Ha Do-yeong Headcanons

Pairing: Jeon Jae-Joon x reader, Ha Do-yeong x reader (Separate)

Author's note: I had to go back and edit it because I forgot it was a gn reader 😭🙏🏻

Jeon Jae-Joon

Jae-joon is insanely possessive of you. You’re not just his spouse—you’re his everything, and he makes sure the world knows it.

If another man so much as looks at you, Jae-joon is already sizing him up, deciding to beat him senseless.

He doesn’t believe in boundaries when it comes to you. Where you go, who you see, what you do—he wants to know everything.

Jae-joon thrives on control, but he’s not subtle about it. If he wants something from you, he’ll demand it.

He hates when you disobey him or try to push him away—it makes him desperate, and desperation leads to dangerous actions.

If you ever tried to leave him, expect him to hunt you down, drag you back, and make sure you never think of leaving again.

“You’re mine. I don’t care what it takes—you’ll always be mine.”

If he sees someone flirting with you, he will immediately react, whether it’s throwing punches or making sure that person loses everything.

He has zero remorse about ruining lives for your sake. If someone tries to take you from him, they’ll simply disappear.

He’ll remind you that no one else can love you the way he does.

Soft for You Only

You are his only weakness. He can be a monster to the world, but to you? He just wants to be loved.

When you hold him, when you kiss him, he melts. He lives for your affection.

The only time he lets his guard down is when you're with him, safe in his arms.

NSFW

Jae-joon doesn’t hold back in bed.

He’s aggressive, passionate, and absolutely obsessed with making you feel owned.

He grips your hips so tightly they bruise, bites your skin to mark you, and growls into your ear, reminding you that you belong to him.

He hates the idea of anyone else even imagining you this way.

The only name you’ll be moaning is his, and he’ll make sure of that.

He forces eye contact, making you say his name over and over.

After he’s absolutely wrecked you, he pulls you into his arms, running his hands through your hair, pressing soft kisses against your skin.

Ha Do-yeong

Do-yeong isn’t loud about his yandere tendencies—he’s silent, patient, and suffocating.

He watches you closely, controlling every aspect of your life without you realizing it.

You’ll never escape him, not because he’ll chase you, but because he’s already planned so far ahead that there’s nowhere for you to go.

Do-yeong doesn’t rely on threats—he uses guilt, persuasion, and logic to make sure you stay.

“Why would you leave, my love? I’ve given you everything. Are you unhappy?” His tone is gentle, but the message is clear—you can’t leave.

He makes you feel like you need him—even if deep down, you know he’s the one trapping you.

He doesn’t get violent—he doesn’t need to. If someone tries to take you from him, they’ll find their entire life ruined overnight.

He ensures that no matter what, you always end up back in his arms.

“You don’t need to fight me, sweetheart. This is for your own good.”

Do-yeong worships you. You’re his perfect spouse, his greatest treasure.

He doesn’t love you normally—his love is overwhelming, inescapable, and eternal.

No matter what happens, he will never let you go.

NSFW

He takes his time, building you up slowly, whispering how much he loves you, how you’ll never belong to anyone else.

He makes you beg for him. He’ll tease you endlessly, dragging out pleasure until you’re pleading for release, making you say, “I’m yours, only yours.”

He never raises his voice, even in the bedroom. But the way he commands you—low, deep, and unwavering—makes you shiver. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. That’s it….”

He decides when and how you come. He holds your wrists, keeps your legs open, making you take everything he gives you.

He decides when and how you come. He holds your wrists, keeps your legs open, making you take everything he gives you.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your forehead, and holds you close. But his grip is firm, his touch lingering—a silent promise that you’ll never escape him.

Taglist: @petersasteria

[blowndrip]

A DAY WITH YOU

fluff 💭

pairing: kylian mbappé x reader

summary: When Kylian has a day off, all he wants is to be with you. From lazy mornings to stolen kisses, this is a day filled with love, and laughter.

A/N: soft kylian one-shot fluff. Enjoy ☺️

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the room. I stir awake, feeling the warmth of Kylian’s arms wrapped securely around me. His breathing is steady, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that’s become so familiar, so comforting. I tilt my head slightly to look at him, his face relaxed in sleep, his dark lashes brushing against his cheeks. Even like this, he looks effortlessly perfect.

I don’t want to move, not when he’s holding me like this, but as if sensing I’m awake, his arms tighten around me. His voice, still rough with sleep, breaks the silence.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my forehead.

“Morning,” I whisper back, a smile tugging at my lips.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His hair is messy, his eyes still half-closed, but the way he’s looking at me makes my heart skip a beat. There’s something so tender in his gaze, something that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world that matters to him right now.

“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice low and warm.

“Always, when I’m with you,” I reply, my cheeks heating up at the honesty in my words.

He grins, that boyish, heart-stopping grin that always makes me weak in the knees. “Good,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

///

We stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside feeling miles away. Eventually, Kylian sits up, stretching lazily before turning to me with a playful glint in his eyes.

“What do you feel like doing today?” he asks, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm.

“Honestly?” I say, smiling up at him. “I just want to stay here with you. No plans, no distractions. Just us.”

His smile softens, and he leans down to kiss me again, this time longer, sweeter. “I like that plan,” he murmurs against my lips.

///

We spend the morning in bed, talking and laughing about nothing and everything. Kylian tells me stories about his teammates, his voice animated as he mimics their expressions and gestures. I can’t help but laugh, the sound filling the room and making his eyes light up with pride.

At one point, he grabs his phone and starts playing some of his favorite music, the soft melodies blending perfectly with the warmth of the room. He pulls me to my feet, his hands resting on my waist as we sway gently to the rhythm.

“You know,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “you’re not a bad dancer.”

I laugh, resting my head against his chest. “And you’re not so bad yourself.”

He hums in response, his fingers tracing circles on my back. “Only for you,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’d do anything for you.”

///

Later, we move to the couch, a blanket draped over us as we watch a movie. Or at least, we try to. Kylian spends more time watching me than the screen, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm.

“You’re not even paying attention,” I say, glancing at him.

“I am,” he insists, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m just… distracted.”

“By what?”

“You,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I feel my cheeks flush, but before I can respond, he’s pulling me closer, his lips finding mine in a kiss that’s slow and sweet and full of everything he doesn’t say out loud.

///

That night, as we lie in bed, his arms around me, I feel a sense of peace I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. His breathing is steady, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm against my back.

“y/n?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” he says, his words soft but sure.

I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “I love you too,” I reply, my voice just as quiet but just as certain.

He smiles, pulling me closer, and I know that no matter what happens, as long as I have him, I’ll always have this. This warmth, this love, this feeling of being exactly where I’m meant to be.

[pinksugarscrub]

Strawberry Milkshakes

Skater! Hobie Brown x Ballerina! Reader

He was a punk. She did ballet. What more can I say?

Thank you for your patience! Le college has been kicking my ah so I immensely appreciate it and of course a special thank you to my beta reader @hyperfix-wip

word count: 1508

warnings: feelings? snooty ballerinas?

~

Your limbs are sore but you find no complaint on your lips as you sit next to Hobie. The pain isn’t unbearable. Not in the way it usually is after hours of being in your pointe shoes. The leather of your skates somehow isn’t grating compared to the silk ribbons.

You never quite liked the quiet before. Yes the streets were full of cars and birds were chirping- but between the two of you not a word was said and it felt ok. No…expectations.

Adorning the pink leather bracelet he had given you, (that you haven’t taken off since first period) you trace the studs. Wondering what to say just to hear his voice again because though you may like the silence, you like the space he fills in your heart. 

“I don’t think I fit in.” Spills from your lips and you’re not sure you’ll regret it until you see his response. 

Hobie shifts his attention to you at the sound of your voice. He’s confused but more than willing to listen as he gestures for you to continue. Gravel crunches underneath his shoes. Beat up, bleached, and hidden under torn jeans.

“I know it isn’t true but it’s like all of these thoughts in my head are real possibilities.” You continued, tugging on a blade of grass. “I know I have a place here but what if that doesn’t matter? What if that changes and I’m left behind?” Rolling your feet back and forth anxiously you look toward the setting sun. You spent all afternoon with Hobie and yet it didn’t feel like enough. The hours went by too quickly for your own liking. 

“I have friends but what do they think of me? Why do I feel so left out? Why am I always so scared they’ll pick someone else over me.” 

When Hobie’s hand falls over your own you want to tug it away. You don’t want to be comforted. It makes you feel weak.

“What if I’m not good enough for anyone?”

Hobie taps on the back of your hand. Lips pursed. The sound of laughter mixes with the city noise. Kids playing on slides that still burned from the sun and created static that made their hair stand on end.

“It’s lonely.” He finally adds onto the conversation and judging by the look of confusion he receives it’s your turn to listen.

Hobie pulls his hand away. Setting his hand on the grip tape of his board. It digs into his palms but it distracts from the lump in his throat. “I mean, for everyone. No matter who you are, you never stop feeling like that.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he nods.

A shriek of glee causes you to turn your head but your eyes are back on Hobie within a second. You want to hold him. Indirectly comfort yourself by being able to support him.

You’ve seen so many different sides to him ever since you started meeting here.

From an outside perspective Hobie always seemed so confident and self-assured. Like he didn’t need anyone. You guess that’s why before the start of your friendship it was easy to follow along with your friends. Laugh at his expense. Joke because you were too much of a coward to express yourself the way he did. You’ll never forgive yourself for being so close minded but you’ll spend the rest of your time together making up for it.

“It’s complicated, for me.” His voice grew thicker. Like honey. But instead of the sweet taste meant to soothe it's the way it uncomfortable sticks to your fingers and clothes. “I’m so used to people bashing on me it’s just easier to block them out. So I don’t have to think about it.”

The sky grows pink and suddenly it’s harder to see but that doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

“I don’t want to think about it.” Hobie says in a quiet voice. “All I’ve ever needed is me. Don’t want to admit I want more than that, y’know?”

“Yeah,” you answer. Eyes glossing over as you look away. “I do but…I don’t feel that way about you.” 

Hobie’s chest feels tight while yours feels like it’s about to combust. 

Hobie could fade out of existence or more specifically, your life after graduation. Less and less texts until he becomes an unknown number on your contact list. It’s just—Hobie Brown would never pretend to be something or hide from you. He was honest and kind and smart and oh…so wonderful.

What could he say in response to that? Hobie doesn’t know but he slides a hand around your waist and tugs you closer and this time, he doesn’t question what you are. He doesn’t guess what these frequent meetings have meant when you’ve answered his questions so perfectly.

Hobie presses his nose to your hair. He wants to kiss you but he doesn’t know if he should. So he settles for this. 

He doesn’t want to go home and what can he do to prolong the inevitable? He perks up suddenly as he inhales your scent again. “Hey, want a strawberry shake? On me?” 

Under the fluorescent light Hobie still looked beautiful to you. You find yourself wishing every night would end with the two of you under the stars even in this light polluted city. 

“Yeah, sounds perfect.” 

Hobie smiles. That lopsided smile that isn’t like the ones he normally gives at school. 

He almost slips and you try not to laugh because he must have forgotten he was sitting on his board. You take his hand and slowly roll to his car. Let him sit you on the trunk and unlace your skates. 

Your watch ticks five minutes past eight o’clock but you don’t care. Hobie is worth breaking your curfew. 

-

The air conditioning hits you in a wave as you step foot inside the dinner. Reaching behind you, you already find Hobie’s fingers intertwined with your own.

“How many?”

“Two please.” Hobie responds to the waitress. Grinning, he notices the older woman glancing down at your hands. “Thanks Joan.”

She giggles and grabs a few menus. “Right this way.”

‘Joan?’ You mouth once her back is turned. You wouldn’t have pegged Hobie to have enough of a sweet tooth to be on a first name basis with her but to each their own you suppose. 

“Written on her name tag love,” Hobie whispers. Tapping a finger of his chest and smiling when you falter in your step.

He’ll definitely be calling you that more often.

Before you can sit in the chair as opposed to the booth Hobie’s coaxing you into your seat. Squeezing your hand before sitting across from you in that same rocky chair that makes your back hurt.

You aren’t hungry and neither is Hobie so strawberry shakes are all you order and fries after you think about it for a moment.

You argue about the salty sweet combo of shakes and fries while Hobie pretends to gag. Nudging your foot under the table.

The sugar is the most satisfying thing you taste after such a long day. A tall glass of pink decorated in whipped cream and a cherry. Two, once Hobie plops his into your melting and quickly depleting shake.

It’s like you said, you don’t think about fitting into a mold or expectation. You just enjoy the happiness in his eyes and relax.

Someone plays the same song on the jukebox in the corner of the room for the second time. Chatter fills your ears and then voices you recognize. 

Turning your head you spot your friends. Freshly out of practice. You can already feel their curious gazes. Questions upon question coupled with disbelief cleverly hidden under the guise of concern. You won’t shy away if they walk up, you aren’t ashamed nor will you ever be of Hobie Brown.

“You should go say hi.” Hobie chuckles while nudging your foot again to grab your attention.

“Mm, I’m happy right here.” You answer as your eyes meet again before you burst into laughter.

“What?” Hobie’s eyes widened, caught like a deer in headlights.

“You’ve got-” You wheeze as you tap your lip. 

“Here?” He slowly grins. Purposefully missing when he wipes his thumb over his cheek.

“No,” you laugh harder.

“Here?”

“Oh my- hold still.”

Hobie leans forward happily on his elbows for you to clean the whipped cream on his lip.

“Thank you lovie.”

“Mhm.” 

You don’t move your hand away. Instead you cradle his cheek. Looking at him like he was the only thing worth paying attention to in the room.

You’re startled when he scoots back abruptly. Even more so when his voice cracks as he asks for the check. Then he’s taking your hand and running out of the diner. It’s all so fast it’s enough to give you whiplash.

“What-?”

“I couldn’t do this in there.” He cuts you off before crashing his lips onto yours.

‘There is more that meets the eye, I see the soul that is inside’ - Avril Lavigne (sk8tor boy)

-

taglist: @insideoutjulie

[rosenbraut]

Anyhow. Outfit!

[vrystalius]

Not saying “I love you“ back to the Squid game men.

How will they react if you don‘t say it back? In what scenario would they not say it back to you?

Pairing: The Recruiter, Thanos, Nam-gyu, Dae-ho, Gi-hun, In-ho x gn!reader

Summary: Them not saying “I love you“, their reaction to you not saying “I love you“

Genre: fluff, a lil bit of angst sprinkled on top

If you’re interested, here’s more fluff! Calling the Squid Game men some weird petnames and their reaction to it!

(Pre-Squid game)

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

Gong Yoo // The Recruiter // The Salesman

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It barely ever happens, really. He adores everything about you, from your face, voice, body and the ground you walk on; that man is ready to worship you like a devoted follower would to the most merciful goddess. Therefor he would always be aware of how to make your day a little better, even if it‘s just a small “I love you” or a gentle kiss here and there.

The first thing you hear from him in the morning is a groggy voice mumbling a small “Good morning love...” into your ear while warm kisses were trailed down your back.

While standing in the kitchen and searching the fridge for any signs of a tasty breakfast, a small “I love you, I‘ll be back later!“ would echo slightly through the apartment as the front door closed.

Once, he did forget to say his usual I love you on the way out. He thought about how he possibly could forget? You‘re probably overthinking everything now and think what you might‘ve done wrong or do to offend him. You didn‘t, though! He was just too caught up in perfecting his appearance because his damn hair refused to obey and submit to his meticulous styling.

The poor man was almost scared to come home. As some sort of peace offering, he bought some of your favorite take-out food alongside some dessert, flowers and a new bracelet he thought you might like. Anything to try and make you know that he does really love you.

“Apologies, it completely slipped my mind. It will never happen again my sunshine. I love you.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

His face may be neutral and his expressions calculated but his features soften up immensely when you show even an ounce of affection. His smirk shifts into a dreamy smile, the crinkles around his mouth shifting and becoming bigger, his eyes twinkling just a little. He just can’t suppress when you even look at him.

Your kisses and words energise him, gift him life, so whenever you don’t give him that little boost of dopamine, he gets visibly more tense in a way.

The silence that followed after his usual “I love you my darling, I’ll be back later!” was almost eerie to him. He stuck his head back into the kitchen to check if you even heard him. You glanced back at him for a moment and gave your husband a dismissive head nod. So you did hear him?

Silently, he left the apartment and went on with his usual day during that time of the year. For some reason, today he is especially looking forward to slap his elders for loosing a damn children’s game. His face remained neutral and had his usual smirk on his face, but deep inside, he’s offended, confused, worried, stressed; all the negative emotions someone can feel after their spouse doesn’t reincorporate ones affection.

Do you want a divorce? Because hell no, he’d never let you go no matter how hard you

But once he got a little text message on his phone that read a simple: “Need cuddles in bed later pls. Got some snacks too. Love you.”, all of his worries washed away in an instant. You probably were still too sleepy to answer this morning.

A smile spread over his face as he thought about slipping into your arms tonight. Isn’t it ridiculous how he melt like putty in your hands?

“You forgot something this morning and it did worry me a lot. But it doesn’t matter, it’s silly anyway.”

Thanos // Su-bong // Player 230

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It’s actually quite rare to hear Thanos say “I love you” word for word. He still feels awkward committing himself to the relationship you have and those three magic words feel so heavy on his tongue, so he’ll rephrase them to suit his level of comfort. “Love ya”, “Thanos loves you” and “Me too” are his ways to dodge the action to reincorporate those sweets words you shower him with.

Thanos only really says “I love you” if you two are alone, sober and you holding him in your arms. To be cradled by someone he admires, cares and loves so much makes him want to cry for some reason, but he suppresses those emotions and instead buries his face in your shoulder as your hand soothingly runs up and down his back.

Those are the times you hear a small “I love you…” being mumbled against your warm skin.

So quiet it’s almost unnoticeable, yet it was there. You know Su-bong needs time to get used to everything, so you’ll settle with a small audio message-rap in reply to your usual “I love you” text message.

“Back to the kitty ‘cause she kinda pretty, I can’t stop looking at her ti- ti- ti-face.. Anyways, thinking of you babygirl. Iloveyatoo.” (You barely caught him saying this the way how quietly he mumbled it into the mic)

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

It’s fine. It’s cool. You don’t have to reassure him every day that you love him, it’s totally fine. You still love him like you did the day before.

It causes a deep panic inside of Thanos when you don’t give him his usual “I love you” text in the morning after he had woken up. He kept checking his phone like a madman, while he was brushing his teeth, peeking his arm and head out of the shower in the middle of shampooing, staring at his text messages while microwaving himself an convenience store meal. Nothing.

Not wanting to reach out first and appear clingy, he decided to write you like he is not having a full blown eternal panic attack. A small voice message here, a picture of his food there, a selfie from the bottom to show off his double chin, anything really.

You replied like normal but still, his eyes searched for the three key words. I. Love. You.

Thanos doesn’t want to admit to himself or to anyone for that matter that your calls, texts, hell, you coming over is like the most addictive drug to him. And he had his share of all kinds of colourful drugs.

His foot was nervously tapping the ground while his finger kept ringing your poor doorbell until you were forced to answer. He gave you a close look up and down, his lips formed into a pout of sorts.

“You okay? You didn’t text me you love me this morning. It’s totally cool and all but like… do you want to break up with me or something?”

Nam-gyu // Player 124

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Similar to Thanos, at first, Nam-gyu barely ever told you how much he loved you, liked you even. He just assumed you already knew and his actions were enough. A small side hug there and ruffling your hair here had to be enough for the rest of the week anyway.

He is guarded, afraid of commitment and to be frank in belief that you’re using him for the longest of time. Maybe you’re just “dating” him to get access to high-end drugs, all kinds of clubs or whatever else reason there is there to date him but for love.

You had to say those three magic words first for him to get comfortable with the thought that you are actually just want to date and love him. It came to him in the middle of a night shift at a random club he was supposed to promote. A moment of enlightenment.

Nam-gyu hid in a bathroom stall with his phone and ignored whatever the couple was doing next door, writing you a whole paragraph about what he was thinking, feeling, before deleting everything again because he thought he’d come off as some kind of pussy if he’d sent that.

His first time telling you how much he loved you was at your place. A casual evening watching some random movie you picked out while being arms deep in a bag of chips and dressed like a homeless person, Nam-gyu was staring up at you as if you were the most beautiful person in the universe even during this ungraceful moment of yours, admiring you in silence until finally…

“I love you.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you…

Did he fuck up again? Do or say something wrong? Don’t you love him anymore? Was there someone else?? His thoughts go ballistic as he stared at the screen of his phone with a deadpan-expression, trying to shake the crippling fear and nervousness off while looking nonchalant.

Nam-gyu’s finger kept hovering over the call button to check on you in case something happened because there could be a whole other person talking to him by how there were no affirmations at all.

He doesn’t want to appear clingy or too attached to you as that may scare you off or even disgust you, so Nam-gyu’s casually mention that one time you didn’t say “I love you” while fidgeting with his ring, trying to appear indifferent about it while intensely watching your facial expression shift to try and detect if you’re lying about your reasoning or not.

Your boyfriend is afraid to not be good enough, too much, too little. Your little affirmations give him reassurance, every day a little more until he’s full convinced that you do really, really love him.

“Hey, uhhh. Did you forget anything today?… No? You sure? Mkay.”

Dae-ho // Player 388

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Never happens. Either he is dead and not able to reply to you or already said it multiple times throughout the day. Dae-ho has separation anxiety and gets nervous when he doesn’t have you in line of his sight or not around him in general, that’s why he always tells you how much he loves you whenever he can.

Off to the bathroom? I love you. Bringing the trash out? I love you. Getting dressed? You’re gorgeous and I love you. You could be simply existing and Dae-ho would bury his face in your neck and mumble a soft I love you into your warm skin, his lips planting a soft kiss here and there.

Dae-ho is just a little scared about saying his usual affirmation in front of his family, mostly his father. He’s a very affectionate and physical man but he still wants to look like the tough-marine-son his dad wants to see.

His sisters know better though, they see how their brother’s eyes twinkle in delight when you help his mom out in the kitchen with the dinner.

He does make it up to you after coming home though. Your boyfriend will stuff the leftovers his mom gave him into the microwave and usher to you made yourself comfortable on the couch while he makes some preparations to completely pamper you for the rest of the evening.

Sometimes Dae-ho’ll even try to flirt a little but he’s still a little awkward in that department.

“Hey, do you want some snacks with that? A drink? O-Or am I enough of a snack…?”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you…

Every time Dae-ho tells you that he loves you, you always reply with equal enthusiasm. How could you not? That golden retriever of a man gets that almost childish smile of his whenever you kiss his cheek or just tell him that he looks handsome today.

Once, you tested how he’d react when you don’t give him his hourly dose of dopamine by deflecting or ignoring his touches.

As his arms securely snaked around your waist and gently pulled you against his torso, you paid him no mind and continued to stir the ramen in the food container. He watched the noodles move in circles and gave your waist a gentle poke, trying to pull your attention to him. Dae-ho’s eyes slowly dimmed and the edges of his smile turned downwards.

The silence made him seriously nervous. You could feel his rapidly increasing heartbeat drum against your back.

“Hey… is everything okay? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry. Can you talk to me?…”

Gi-hun // Player 456 (post s1)

♡— Him not saying I love you…

Gi-hun always reassures you of his love, even during arguments. He wants you to know that he cherishes and loves you for the rest of his life and that you are his everything. Whenever he doesn’t say I love you, something must’ve happened.

He has been missing for a whole week and you had no idea where your boyfriend went. Gi-hun didn’t leave a note, a voice mail, no nothing!

And after he returned and suddenly began giving you expensive gifts, the same boyfriend that used to ask you for money to get himself an convenience store dinner, now began buying you new headphones, bracelet and whatever else you even eyed.

It was nice, sure, but you were more worried about his mental state. He was paranoid and quiet, kept checking his whole body for some kind of tracker and barely ever spoke what was on his mind. Gi-hun began having panic attacks and you were barely able to leave his side because of how terrified he was to leave you alone.

He barely touched you, gave you kisses or affection. He changed after whatever happened during that week he went missing.

While running your fingers through his hair, trying to make him fall asleep after being awake for two days straight, he sleepily stared up at you through his dyed-red hair. His voice was quiet, broken almost.

“I’m sorry. Please… know that I love you. I love you so much.. Don’t leave me, please… please...”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

Your boyfriend called out to you but you didn’t quite hear what he said, so you replied with an “yeah!” and just hoped that that’s an appropriate response to whatever he tried to tell or ask you. It wasn’t.

Gi-hun stood there for a couple of moments, waiting on your reply to yelling “I love you!” across the whole apartment. When nothing came, he didn’t call out to you again. You were probably busy with something or don’t want him with your right now, he gets that.

Later though, thoughts of self-doubt began to cook up inside his mind. As he bit all his nails to shreds he overthought about how you had enough of him now. Maybe you are falling out of love now after how the death games fucked up his mind and body. You’re surely fed up with his paranoia and secretive behaviour, how much he has been obsession over finding a weird salesman. Surely.

The metallic taste that spread inside his mouth after biting the skin surrounding his nails began to open and bleed finally pulled Gi-hun out of his self-destructive thoughts that continued to circle like a toy train. Picking up his throwaway phone and choosing the one contact he saved on every single burner phone he had as “Reason to smile ❤️” and pressing the call button.

“Gi-hun? What’s wrong?” Your voice forced a small smile to form on his face. He hesitated

“Hey. Just wanted to ask if I should bring some take out home tonight. That’s all.”

In-ho // The Frontman // Player 001

♡— Him not saying I love you…

It’s purely just to tease you. When bored, In-ho will make you his greatest entertainment.

He likes making you annoyed and flustered, so he’ll intentionally ignore you just to make you react and pout at him adorably while he was trying so hard to keep his stone cold face and not break into a shit-eating grin and maybe even pull on your cheek to make you whine even more.

In-ho adores your whole being and cherishes all of your affections, so he’ll let himself get showered in them any tome he can.

Expect you to he cuddled up on his lap while he was leaning back in the leather chair, mumbling a complaint about how you covered his whole face in kisses but managed to miss the bridge of his nose. He will not allow you to move off his lap until you covered his whole face in kisses again as compensation for that mistake of yours.

So, In-ho’ll intentionally not give you affection so you pay even more attention to him. He is like a cat in that way weirdly enough.

Once you finally break his facade, the flood gates will open and you will be showered, bathed, drowned in his affection, physical and verbal.

“Fine. I’ll say it just because you’ve been so good to me today. I love you, my dearest, lovely darling.”

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳

♡— You not saying I love you back…

In-ho has a dedicated frequency on his walkie-talkie for you, so he can call in and ask you to come to his office for a kiss that cannot wait, to inform you that he is in the bedroom and retiring for the day or just to tell you that he loves you randomly throughout the day.

Of course, you’d always reply back with your own gadget, but to pay back his infinite teasing he has done to you, you decided to ignore him the way he sometimes does to you. Payback.

Your husband called into your frequency. “Dove, are you free right now? Come to my office, I miss you.” and so your game begins. You simply ignored his request and continued getting comfortable in your bed and all the sheets surrounding you, grinning to yourself as you awaited the next time In-ho calls in again, for which you don’t have to wait long for.

“Darling, I am waiting. Do you want me to send someone to pick you up?” Your grin widened as you heard how impatient he was slowly getting with the lack of your response. “I can see you in the bedroom.” That one caught you off guard. Did he install cameras in your shared bedroom??

Almost on cue, your bedroom door opened, revealing the masked Frontman. His shoulders were tense and you could feel his intense state through the mask. You stared back, not expecting how quickly your husband would cave in and visit you himself. Innocently, you batted your lashes at him.

In-ho slipped his mask off and carelessly tossed it on the nightstand. “Why are you ignoring me? Are you upset or just moody?” Unimpressed, you silently glared at him. He gave you an equally uninterested look and leaned down to your face to give you a small peck on your cheek. “Not enough. More.”

A chuckle escaped his lips as his lips cracked into a smile.

“Demanding, aren’t we? Fine. As you wish.”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading <3

Watch me announce that I’m going to post In-ho’s yandere profile and proceed to get hit with the most ungodly group-assignment in Chemistry. Anyways, take this as an apology! Had to write a little fluff for them since the only thing I’m finding is smut 🙏😭 I’m not complaining but this fluff prompt came to me like a truck during a class of mine. It was originally inspired by this post and I made a similar one before for the Demon Slayer hashira. Check it out if you’re interested!!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

[starkeysbunny]

tears [rafe cameron]

pairing - rafe cameron x reader

summary - rafe was a busy man. but, when his girl knocked on the doors of tannyhill with tears streaming down her cheeks—nothing was more important than her. and he’d fix whatever was bothering her. or whoever. he hated to see his girl cry.

warnings - none rlly, hurt/comfort, protective and attentive rafe

rafe sighed into his phone call when he heard a knock on the door. he stood in his father’s office—which was now his—pacing the room.

“hey, hey man, just hang on a sec, sorry.” he muttered to the potential investor before he put him on hold. he set his phone down on the desk and marched out of the office, curses and mumbles leaving his lips.

“somebody always fuckin’ needs something.” his hand rubs over his buzzed hair as his other hand curls in and out of a fist at his side. “goddamn. probably fuckin’ sarah and her stupid—“

his mumbles come to a halt when he opens the door and sees his girl standing there, tears staining her flushed cheeks. “rafe..” she whispers weakly, her frame shaking as she looks up at him.

“hey, hey, baby.” he says quickly, completely forgetting the phone call waiting for him as all his attention, worry, and concern is shifted to her. “what’s wrong, c’mere.”

his hand reaches for her wrist, pulling her into his chest. she lets out a quiet sob as she buries her face into his chest, stepping inside. he haphazardly pushes the door shut as he keeps her close to his chest and walks them both inside and through the foyer.

he whispers shh’s, and coos at her in his arms as he heads for the living room, sitting them both down. he softly pulls her from his chest, his head dipping down to her level. his hands come to her cheeks, wiping the tears off her soft skin.

“hey, baby, what happened? talk to me.” he says, his eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“i-i-“ she stammers, unable to get words out as she chokes on cries. her breathing quickens, getting close to hyperventilating. when she cries, she goes too fast, losing control of her breathing.

“hey, hey, no. don’t do that. c’mon baby, you know better. breathe, baby, breathe.”

she begins to slow down, her breathing coming back to normal. she keeps her eyes on rafe’s, slowly calming down.

“there ya go. atta’ girl. good job. breathe.” he praises, his head nodding softly as he watches her. once her breathing fully calms, she takes one last deep breath and wipes the last of her tears.

“now, gonna tell me what’s got your pretty little head so worried, hm?” he coos, his head tilting slightly. “what’s bothering you? who do i have to kill, huh?” he jokes with a grin. but to be honest—he probably wasn’t joking.

she sniffles, her eyebrows furrowing. “my uterus.” she whines. “i’m on my period. my cramps hurt like a bitch. and my mom is pissing me off.” she sniffles, stumbling over her words slightly. “and i’m hungry. and you weren’t answering, i know you’re busy. but i just really needed to see you, i’m sorry—“

“hey, hey, it’s okay.” he nods softly. “i’m here, it’s alright. i’m not busy, doesn’t matter.” he says matter-of-factly. he wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. “what do you need? hm? i have that heating pad in my room i bought for you a couple months ago.” he whispers sweetly. “i can make you somethin? buy you stuff? i dunno, what do you need?”

he was willing to do anything, he didn’t care. when his baby cried, he’d move mountains to make her feel better. he’d go to every store in town, run up his credit card, do anything. as long as she got a smile on her face at the end of it.

she nods against his chest, looking up at him. “yeah.. the heating pad. and—and can you make me a grilled cheese? you make em’ so good.” she asks sweetly, her voice gentle and weak.

he smiles softly, looking down at the sweet girl in his arms. “yeah, baby, of course. i don’t know if they’re that good. everytime i make them, you’re usually drunk and it’s three in the morning. that might be why they taste so good.” he jokes.

she shoves his chest playfully. “i don’t care, you can’t fuck up a grilled cheese. please?”

he grins. “yeah, yeah. grilled cheese, heating pad. got it, baby. anything else?” he says thoughtfully, his fingers coming to push strands of hair off from where they stick to her tear strained cheeks.

she shakes her head. “just you.”

he smiles. “okay.” he kisses her forehead. “i’ll be right back, gimmie a few minutes to get all that.” he stands, making sure she’s laid comfortably on the couch. he grabs the blanket from the end of the couch and drapes it over her. his eyes search the living room, landing in the remote, he hands it to her.

he leans down, placing another kiss to her cheek this time. “put on whatever you want. i’ll be back, promise.”

he leaves her at the couch and heads back to the office. he picks up his phone and takes it off hold. “hey, gotta go. somethin’ came up. i’ll give you a call later.” he hung up before the guy could even get a word in.

nothing came before his girl.

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[lovelybucky1]

Ain’t as Good as I Once Was

warnings: old man!logan x AFAB!reader, riding, bratting, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, age gap, punishment, degradation, 18+ minors dni, divider from @strangergraphics

“C’mon, girlie, if you want it, you’re gonna have to take it yourself,” Logan’s gruff voice says from below you.

You’re sitting on his lap, trying desperately to fuck yourself on his cock as he sigs back and watches you. Despite your begging, Logan refuses to do the work for you.

“I’m too old for this shit. If you’re that fuckin’ horny, you can take care of it yourself,” he told you smugly.

You sank down on his cock and have been trying to bounce on it, but the strain on your thighs is too much to reach a satisfying pace.

“Please, Daddy, can’t you just fuck me?” you whine pathetically. Logan smirks a bit and chuckles through his nose.

“I ain’t as good as I once was, dollface. I doubt my old bones can fuck you the way you want me to,” he says, not seeming apologetic in the slightest.

You know he’s full of shit. He may be old and gray, but his healing factor keeps him in peak condition. He’d be able to fuck you just fine, he’s just a crotchety old man who wants to see you suffer for his entertainment.

He places a large hand on your hip and starts gently guiding you, urging you to rock back and forth. You follow his movements and while it’s better than what you were attempting, it’s still not what you want.

“You’re a spoiled fuckin’ princess, that’s the problem. So used to Daddy takin’ care of ya, you forgot how to ride, is that it?” Shamelessly you bite your lip and nod.

You wouldn’t call yourself spoiled. Well cared for is a better term. Logan never lets his girl go to bed unsatisfied, and now he’s suffering from the consequences of his actions.

“C’mon, flip me over and fuck me,” you say.

Logan raises an eyebrow at you.

“Who do you think you are, givin’ orders? If I want you to ride my cock, then that’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna fuck that pretty pussy with it until she’s had her fill.”

Logan lets go of your hip but you keep up with the same pace he set. With his hand now freed, he reaches over to the nightstand to grab his cigar and lighter. He lights up and smokes it as if he were at the bar, not in bed, deep inside his girl.

He looks up at you, bored, as smoke pours out of his mouth. You’ve been riding the edge of just enough for the past fifteen minutes and you’re getting increasingly frustrated with Logan’s lack of help. You briefly consider being more of a brat in hopes of egging him on enough to punish you with a hard fuck, but with the kind of mood he’s in, it’s likely that the punishment would be stopping entirely.

You let your head hang down as you brace yourself with your hands on his chest. The solid muscle covered in gray hair is hot, unnaturally so, under your touch and you desperately want to feel that heat on your back while he fucks you from behind.

“Daddy,” you plead quietly.

“What’s the matter, dollface?” he asks, playing dumb like the tease he is.

“I can’t do it.”

Logan smirks around his cigar like you just said the magic words he’s been waiting to hear this whole time.

“What’re you saying?”

You pout down at him. “I can’t make myself cum. I need you to do it for me”

Logan, surprisingly, grins at you. “Bet you regret calling me an old man now, huh?”

You furrow your brows in confusion, but you quickly realize what he’s talking about. Before this all started, you pounced on his lap and asked him to fuck you. He told you he was busy reading his book, and in your usual bratty fashion, you replied, “What, you can’t get it up, old man?”

“I didn’t mean it, Daddy,” you whine. “I swear, I was just teasing you.”

Logan hums but makes no effort to move. “Guess you better start behaving if you want something from me.”

“I promise I’ll be good. I won’t talk back anymore,” you attempt to bargain.

You both know that’s about as empty of a promise as you could give, but Logan doesn’t seem to care. He prefers when you’re trouble anyway; it’s the game you play. He’s the grumpy and mean and you’re the spoiled, demanding princess.

Logan stubs his cigar out in the ashtray on the nightstand and places both hands on your hips. He lifts you off of him with ease, something that never fails to amaze you, and sets you on the bed next to him.

He moves so he’s kneeling between your legs and holding them up around his waist, his cock lined up at your entrance.

“Spoiled fuckin’ rotten, you are,” he mutters as he pushes inside.

Logan always makes sure his girl goes to bed satisfied, no matter how much of a brat she is.