#I reach out a hand for you to shake in allegiance

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Get Married || Deuce Spade

You get isekai’d into a garbage novel as the villain, so you take it as a sign that morality is optional now. So, you do what any reasonable person would: you set the world on fire (metaphorically… mostly) and somehow bag your knight, Deuce Spade in the process.

Series Masterlist

You sat in absolute silence. Reeling. Processing. Dissociating. The book lay in your lap like the aftermath of a terrible crime, and you were its sole witness.

This was it. This was the literary phenomenon your friends had been screaming about. The novel they had sworn up and down was “life-changing,” “revolutionary,” and “the best thing since sliced bread.”

They had lied.

You had just spent the last twelve hours raw-dogging the most deranged piece of fiction known to mankind.

Your soul had been ripped from your body. Your IQ points had been forcefully extracted like an amateur lobotomy. You were but a husk of your former self.

A single thought floated through your shattered psyche:

I will never know peace again.

With shaking hands, you closed the book. The sound was deafening. A death knell for your last two remaining brain cells.

And then, like a corpse freshly risen from the grave, you stood.

This could not go unanswered. This could not go unpunished.

Your friends would explain themselves.

You stomped through the dark streets like a vengeful ghost, guided by pure, unfiltered spite. It was 1 AM. Civilization had long since gone to sleep. You didn’t care.

Your mind replayed the sheer buffoonery you had just endured.

The heroine: an overpowered dumbass with the survival instincts of a chicken nugget. She was supposed to be a Saintess, and yet she spent 80% of the book actively making things worse. Entire villages burned because of her holy powers, and she had the audacity to be shocked every time it happened.

"Oh noooo, I accidentally summoned divine lightning again!"

AGAIN. AGAIN.

Then there was the Crown Prince, the supposed male lead. A menace. A plague upon this world. He was in love with the villain but too emotionally constipated to deal with it, so instead, he had chosen the path of delusion. This man pursued the heroine not out of love, but out of sheer desperation

"If I can’t be happy, then no one can."

That was his entire character arc.

And let’s not forget the second male lead. The butler. The SPY. He was somehow working for both the villain and the heroine at the same time while also being madly in love with the heroine for reasons that science could not explain. This man switched allegiances like he was flipping through TV channels. You were convinced he woke up every morning and rolled a die to decide whose side he was on that day.

And then. The villain.

Your one hope. Your one saving grace.

A man who started the book as a calculating mastermind and ended it as a broken shell of a human being. You did not blame him. You were right there with him.

By the final chapter, he had stopped trying to kill the heroine. He had stopped plotting world domination. He had stopped everything.

He just sat there, staring into the abyss, wondering how his life had gone so, so wrong.

And honestly? Mood.

You reached your friend’s house.

You did not knock. No. That was for reasonable, rational people. You grabbed a rock from their garden and hurled it at their window with the force of a person unhinged.

A light flicked on. Your friend’s groggy, half-conscious face appeared.

“Holy shit, what the hell—”

“EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

You pointed an accusatory finger at them, your eyes wild, your soul fractured beyond repair.

“Explain WHAT?” They blinked, rubbing their eyes.

“The book.” Your voice was hollow. “The—thing—you made me read.”

Their face lit up. “OH MY GOD, YOU FINISHED IT?? WASN’T IT AMAZING??”

You had never before in your life wanted to commit a homicide.

You took a deep breath. A slow, shuddering inhale.

Then, in the most broken, haunted voice imaginable, you whispered:

“…I need you to pay for my therapy.”

You stomped down the street, vibrating with pure, unfiltered rage. That book—that war crime bound in paper—had single-handedly destroyed your brain cells, faith in storytelling, and will to live. You couldn’t let your other friend get away with this. No, you were going to kick down their door too and demand compensation for the IQ points you lost.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

Just as you turned the corner, a man—no, a menace to society—came hurtling toward you at ungodly speeds.

On a unicycle.

Juggling three live pigeons and a tray of scalding hot coffees.

His face was locked in an expression of sheer, manic concentration, like a circus performer who had just realized—mid-act—that he had made a terrible career choice.

You had exactly 0.2 seconds to process this before he crashed into you at full force.

The pigeons exploded into the sky, shrieking like war victims.

The coffee—boiling, lava-hot coffee—doused you from head to toe, scalding your skin and soul simultaneously.

And the unicycle? Oh. The unicycle was the true villain here.

Because as you staggered back, reeling from the assault on your dignity, the wheel rolled perfectly under your foot.

And then—

You flipped.

Like a medieval peasant being yeeted off a catapult.

You did a full midair somersault, knocked over a trash can, ricocheted off a parked bicycle, and crashed directly through the window of a sketchy pawn shop, where you landed face-first into a display of cursed porcelain dolls.

Your last conscious thought before darkness took you?

This is less painful than reading that book.

At first, you thought it was a dream.

Someone was shaking you. Like, aggressively. Like a demonic chihuahua trying to alert its owner to impending doom.

"Five more minutes," you groaned, swatting at the offending hands.

But then your barely-functioning brain remembered something very important.

You lived alone.

Unless the dust bunnies under your bed had finally formed a rebellion and achieved sentience, nobody should be waking you up.

Your eyes snapped open.

A person.

A man, actually. A very serious-looking man in full medieval armor, staring at you like he was expecting you to start speaking in tongues.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Your first thought: Wow, the Ren Faire is getting really immersive these days.

Your second thought: WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE.

Your hands flew to your face—your very much not-your-face face. Your voice, when you gasped, wasn’t your voice. The tailored nobleman’s coat draped over your body? Not your clothes. The ornate bedroom you were in? Definitely not your apartment, where your furniture was 70% discount IKEA and 30% “found on the sidewalk.”

Dread settled in your stomach like a badly microwaved burrito.

Slowly, with the growing horror of a person realizing they've walked into a live horror movie, you turned toward the giant antique mirror across the room.

And fuck your life, you recognized the face staring back at you.

It was him.

The villain.

The villain from that absolute garbage fire of a novel.

You whipped around so fast you almost took yourself out on your own cape.

"You," you pointed at the knight, brain desperately catching up to reality. "What happened?!"

The knight—Deuce Spade, if you remembered correctly—winced.

"Uh," he started, rubbing the back of his neck, "the Crown Prince tried to lean on your shoulder, but, uh… tripped and accidentally drop-kicked you across the ballroom."

Silence.

Absolute, dead silence.

Your eye twitched.

"…What."

You almost died because some love-obsessed dumbass with main character syndrome missed your shoulder???

Your soul nearly left your body, and it wasn’t even because of an assassination attempt, a duel, or a curse—but because the male lead had the motor coordination of a newborn giraffe?!

Your knees buckled. Deuce lunged forward like he thought you were about to die again.

Honestly? Not off the table.

Fine.

Fine.

If the world wanted you to be the villain, then so be it. Who were you to deny fate when it had already drop-kicked you into this absurd, brain-cell-destroying mess of a novel?

Because that was the only way to describe your new reality—an unhinged disasterpiece where the male lead had the grace of a giraffe on roller skates, the heroine had the problem-solving skills of a concussed pigeon, and the villain—you—was doomed to suffer through all of it.

At first, you'd been horrified. Who wouldn't be? One moment, you're in your normal, rational world, and the next, you're waking up as the antagonistic nobleman of a bargain-bin romance novel. The kind of villain who existed solely to sneer in the background while the male lead juggled his misplaced affections and the heroine flailed through life like a lost duckling.

And now?

Now, you were done.

If this world wanted a villain, then you would give them a villain.

You had wealth. Enough to singlehandedly disrupt the economy if you felt like it. And honestly? You were tempted. Imagine the chaos. The sheer financial devastation. Maybe you’d buy every bakery in the capital just to make sure the male lead could never have a romantic “we bumped into each other while buying bread” moment with you. Not on your watch.

You had power. Both in social standing and in actual, real-life magic. The kind that could level mountains, summon storms, or—more importantly—discreetly trip the male lead every time he tried to monologue. And who were you, really, if you didn’t abuse that privilege just a little?

And, most importantly, you had a loyal knight.

Deuce Spade. Unreasonably devoted, painfully adorable, and more earnest than a golden retriever at a job interview. The kind of guy who would probably cry if you gave him a gold star for effort. It was almost enough to make you feel bad about your impending villain arc. Almost. But hey, if you were going to be the villain, at least you had one (1) extremely dedicated dumbass on your side.

So.

Why not cause some chaos?

Why not live your best, most dramatic villain life?

You could weaponize rumors so ridiculous that even the nobility wouldn’t know what to believe anymore. “Oh, the male lead? I heard he serenades his pet goldfish every night.” “The heroine? Trained in mortal combat by a secret society of warrior nuns.” “Me? Oh, I eat diamonds for breakfast and only cry during perfectly aesthetic thunderstorms.”

You could throw lavish, over-the-top parties where instead of dancing, people had to duel for your amusement. Invitation only. Dress code: Regal Menace.

You could buy every single black horse in the kingdom just to ensure that only you could have a proper dramatic villain entrance. What would the male lead ride? A mule? A cow? His own sense of self-importance? You’d pay money to see it.

If you were going to be stuck in this nonsense world, then you were going to make sure it regretted ever summoning you.

The original villain was a man of principles.

And those principles included:

• Never lowering himself to the chaotic cesspool of idiocy that was the crown prince and his tragically uncoordinated heroine.

• Never attending frivolous social gatherings, especially ones that involved said heroine falling into desserts face-first every five minutes.

• Never acknowledging the crown prince’s deeply repressed and painfully obvious feelings for him.

But you? Oh, you were going.

Why decline when you could make things so much worse? Why ignore a golden opportunity for chaos when you could embrace your inner agent of destruction and ruin someone’s day?

So, with Deuce Spade in tow, you marched into battle.

And the game began immediately.

The second you sat down, the crown prince shoved a cup of tea toward you.

You blinked at it. Then at him.

He looked too casual. Too composed. Like he hadn’t been hovering near the tea table for the last five minutes, perfecting a custom blend like a barista going for his final promotion.

Oh, this was rich.

“Oh,” you said, already locked and loaded. “I don’t like tea.”

The prince, who had definitely memorized your preferences in secret, froze.

“Give it to the heroine,” you added, voice laced with malicious delight.

There was a moment of pure, unfiltered suffering.

He recoiled. He made a noise. The tea remained exactly where it was.

And then, after one (1) full-body existential crisis, he stood up, walked away—

And returned.

With coffee.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

“Oh,” you said, even sweeter. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t,” the prince snapped, gripping the cup with white-knuckled desperation. “I was just—there was extra.”

Sure.

Deuce, the most bafflingly wholesome person present, leaned in conspiratorially.

“You know,” he whispered, “I think he likes you.”

You turned and stared at him.

It was a look that said: Deuce. Buddy. Companion. Do you have even a single brain cell dedicated to social awareness?

“You don’t say,” you muttered, astounded.

“Yeah,” Deuce nodded. “You should put him out of his misery.”

You considered it.

You truly, deeply, wholeheartedly considered it.

And then you did the exact opposite.

With all the deliberate grace of a seasoned actor, you picked up a fork, cut a tiny, delicate piece of cake, and hand-fed it to Deuce.

With the most lovesick expression you could summon.

Deuce, completely missing the emotional warfare in progress, chewed thoughtfully. “Oh, it’s good.”

The crown prince dropped his cup.

The sound was deafening.

He stood up so fast his chair screeched.

And then he stormed away like a scorned Victorian widow.

Checkmate.

The night was young, the chandeliers were gleaming, and the ballroom floor was filled with nobles pretending they liked each other. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, political marriages, and deep-seated dissatisfaction.

And you? You were bored.

So, naturally, you decided to ruin some engagements.

You adjusted your cuffs, took a sip of your (hopefully not poisoned) champagne, and set your sights on your first target.

Victim #1: Some Poor Fool with a Fiancée and No Survival Instincts.

He was standing beside his beloved, smiling like a man who had never known fear. So you approached him, flashing your most dazzling smile.

“You know,” you said, leaning in just a bit too close, “I always thought you’d end up with someone a little… taller.”

His fiancée, standing right there, gasped.

The surrounding nobles gasped.

He gulped. “W-What?”

You tilted your head, studying him with faux admiration. “It’s just—you have the posture of a man who could sweep someone off their feet. It’s tragic that you’ll only ever lift one person.”

His fiancée immediately looked down at her shoes like she’d just realized she was, in fact, shorter than him.

Engagement status: Cracking.

Victim #2: A Woman Who Was Already Looking for a Way Out.

She was sipping champagne and ignoring her fiancé, which meant she was exactly the kind of person who would enjoy a little trouble.

“Lady,” you greeted smoothly, plucking the glass from her fingers and taking a sip. “You have the eyes of a woman who’s tired of monogamy.”

Her fiancé, standing beside her, choked on his drink.

She laughed.

“You’re terrible,” she purred.

Her fiancé, pale, tried to recover. “H-Haha, what a joke—”

“It’s a shame,” you interrupted, brushing a nonexistent speck off her sleeve. “If things were different, perhaps I’d be the one at your side.”

Her fiancé turned a frightening shade of red.

She sighed dreamily.

Engagement status: Shattered.

Victim #3: A Man Who Looked Too Loyal to Be Swayed.

He stood with his hand in his beloved’s, looking like he’d rather die than betray them. But that had never stopped you before.

You smiled. “It’s rare to see a man so committed.”

His fiancée beamed.

You reached out, lightly tracing your fingers over his palm. “A hand like this… was meant to hold many hearts.”

His fiancée’s smile disappeared as the man leaned into your touch.

The crowd held their breath.

And then.

His fiancée fainted.

Engagement status: Annihilated.

At this point, Deuce—your ever-loyal, increasingly horrified knight—had begun to sweat profusely in the corner.

You waved at him.

He did not wave back.

But just as you were about to go for your fourth victim, you noticed something strange.

The prince—the male lead—was staring at you.

And not in the way one should stare at their supposed rival.

No.

He was staring at you like a man who didn’t understand his own feelings and was handling it terribly.

Deuce noticed before you did.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “Oh no no no.”

The prince stalked toward you, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with repressed emotion and possibly indigestion.

“You,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

You raised a brow. “Me?”

“You cannot go around—” He waved his hands wildly, struggling to find the words. “—charming people!”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “Oh? Why not?”

He twitched.

A noble gasped. “Is he… jealous?”

The crowd whispered.

The prince turned red.

Deuce, watching from the sidelines, looked like he wanted to fling himself off the nearest balcony.

Then, just as the tension reached its peak—

“MARRY ME!”

The man whose fiancée just fainted, caught up in the whirlwind of drama and avant-garde societal rebellion, had dropped to one knee and grabbed your hand.

Silence.

Deuce inhaled so sharply he nearly passed out.

The prince’s eye twitched.

And you?

You smiled.

But before you could say yes, no, or something that would make the situation worse, Deuce lunged forward, grabbed your wrist, and hauled you away.

“YOU CAN’T JUST GO AROUND SEDUCING ENGAGED PEOPLE!” he hissed, physically dragging you out of the ballroom.

“Why not?” you grinned. “The nobles love it.”

“I—BECAUSE IT’S WRONG?!”

You hummed, thoughtful. Then, because you were a terrible person, you tilted your head, looked him dead in the eyes, and said:

“You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered.”

Deuce short-circuited.

The prince looked ready to challenge the concept of marriage itself.

And the night was, truly, a resounding success.

Deuce was the perfect knight.

Reliable. Strong. Steadfast. He never faltered in his duties, never hesitated to follow your orders, and—most importantly—he never questioned your absolutely necessary purchases, even when they were, objectively, not necessary at all.

Which was precisely why he was the perfect person to accompany you to the market.

The morning sun hung high in the sky, warming the cobbled streets as merchants called out their wares, their voices blending into a lively symphony of haggling, bartering, and excited chatter. The scent of freshly baked bread and spiced apples drifted through the air, wrapping around you like an old, familiar comfort.

And there was Deuce, ever-dutiful, ever-loyal, ever-patient.

The bags he carried had long since doubled in number, hanging from his arms like trophies of your victorious shopping spree. He bore the burden without complaint, as expected of a knight sworn to your service, though he did glance down at the latest purchase—a third bag of sweets—and furrowed his brow.

“That’s the third bag of sweets you’ve bought.”

You shot him a look, hugging your ill-gotten gains like a dragon hoarding gold.

“And?”

He sighed. “Nothing, I guess.”

Good. That was the correct answer. This was a judgment-free zone.

Everything was going well. The two of you meandered through the market at an unhurried pace, pausing to browse through silks, admire trinkets, and—most importantly—glare at the latest portrait of the crown prince displayed in the town square. It was a routine you had come to enjoy, something almost peaceful in its predictability.

And then—

Deuce stopped.

It wasn’t a gradual pause. It was sudden, abrupt, a full-body halt that nearly sent you crashing into his back.

“Hey—?” you started, but he was already moving, already reaching for his own coin pouch, already stepping toward—

A flower stall?

You blinked, watching as he carefully selected a single bloom, one of the freshest ones in the bunch, its petals full and vibrant. You stood there, bewildered, as he handed over a few coins, nodding his thanks to the merchant.

And then—

Before you could even begin to process what was happening—

He turned and held the flower out to you.

The world tilted.

You stared.

At the flower, at Deuce, at his outstretched hand.

At the way he looked at you, open and earnest and so painfully sincere that you felt something deep in your chest twist.

“…Why?” you asked, voice caught somewhere between confused and breathless.

Deuce tilted his head slightly, a sheepish sort of smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I dunno,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—thought you’d like it?”

Thought you’d like it.

That was it. That was the entire reason.

Not out of duty, not because he had to, not because of some unspoken obligation—but because he wanted to.

Because he saw something and thought of you.

Your fingers curled around the stem almost too tightly, as if the delicate flower might vanish if you weren’t careful. The petals were impossibly soft beneath your touch, fragile and fleeting, and your heart did something suspicious in your chest.

Deuce had already turned away, already resumed walking, already moved on as if he hadn’t just unknowingly unraveled you.

And you—

You lingered a second longer, staring at the flower in your hand, your face growing entirely too warm under the summer sun.

Then, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat, you hurried after him, grateful that he wasn’t looking back to see the ridiculous, helpless smile you absolutely couldn’t fight off.

It started with a passing insult. Something entirely unoriginal, really—one of those tired, rehashed attempts at wit that nobles regurgitated when they had nothing better to do.

You weren’t even offended.

But you were bored.

So, naturally, you smirked, sighed dramatically, and placed a hand over your heart.

“Wow,” you mused, voice dripping with mock despair. “If only I had a loyal knight to defend me. Sigh.”

Deuce didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t even pause to think.

He just whipped around, locked eyes with the offender, and threw down the most aggressive glove slap in recorded history.

“DUEL ME.”

The noble flinched. The entire gathering flinched.

Even you, for a moment, wondered if you’d just summoned an unstoppable force of nature.

Deuce stood there, rigid with unwavering loyalty and violent intent, hand hovering over the hilt of his sword like an Old West gunslinger about to end someone's bloodline.

The noble stammered, looking around as if waiting for someone to intervene. No one did. The nobles had all collectively agreed to stand back and watch this disaster unfold.

You, however, recognized an issue.

“Deuce,” you started carefully. “Buddy. Pal.” You placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture meant to calm him down.

It did not calm him down.

If anything, his conviction doubled.

“You don’t actually have to fight for my honor—”

“Yes, I do.”

He didn’t blink.

You blinked for him.

The realization sank in with all the subtlety of a grand piano dropping from a three-story window:

Deuce would throw hands for you. Without question. Without hesitation. It was pure muscle memory at this point.

You had too much power.

The nobles were whispering.

The prince was watching.

Some fool in the back had already started placing bets.

And Deuce?

Deuce was ready to kill a man.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, “I may have created a monster.”

The noble, sweating profusely, waved his hands. “I—I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Deuce gritted out, stepping forward. “You insulted them. Now, we settle this properly.”

By all accounts, Deuce had just challenged a man to medieval combat over you.

It should have been a simple duel.

Just a normal, everyday case of your overly loyal knight throwing hands because someone vaguely insulted you.

A Tuesday, basically.

And yet, somehow, by the time you arrived at the dueling grounds, it had turned into a full-blown public event.

The stands were packed. Nobles gossiped in hushed whispers. Vendors had set up food stalls. Some particularly enterprising soul was selling commemorative handkerchiefs embroidered with Deuce’s face.

And standing right in the middle of this absolute circus were Riddle and Ace—your reinforcements, arriving at maximum velocity to make your life more interesting and significantly more stressful.

Riddle’s expression alone had the same effect as a guillotine blade. His hands were clenched into fists, his face a vibrant shade of red, and the moment his sharp, judgmental gaze landed on you, you had the distinct feeling that your days were numbered.

Ace, meanwhile, looked like he was having the time of his life.

“You. Absolute. Menace.” Riddle bit out, his words dripping with disappointment and barely-contained rage. “I leave you alone for one week and suddenly you’re challenging people to duels, seducing engaged nobles, and destabilizing the entire social order?!”

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t challenge anyone. That was Deuce.”

“Because you provoked it.”

“Debatable.”

“No, it’s not!”

Ace clapped a hand on your shoulder, beaming. “Don’t listen to him. In fact, I’ll actually pay you to keep this up.”

Riddle’s head snapped toward him, betrayal written across his features. “You’re paying them?! You’re encouraging this?!”

“Duh?” Ace grinned. “I’ve never had this much fun in my entire life. If it means watching them do more insane things, I’ll move the entire city to accommodate them.”

Riddle made a noise that was somewhere between a strangled scream and an impending aneurysm.

You, feeling very smug, turned back to the main event.

Deuce, your knight, your absurdly loyal human wrecking ball, was already standing in the ring, eyes burning with righteous fury.

The poor noble who insulted you was sweating bullets.

The duel started.

The duel lasted five minutes.

The duel ended spectacularly.

Deuce dismantled the guy so thoroughly, so efficiently, that entire bloodlines were probably questioning their place in the universe.

And then, with a smoothness you had not thought possible, Deuce turned, knelt before you, and bowed his head in silent, knightly devotion.

Which was horribly unfair.

Because, up until this moment, you had been so certain that nothing in this world could ever make you weak in the knees.

But this?

This was a problem.

Because the combination of Deuce being stupidly strong, stupidly devoted, and now stupidly attractive in the aftermath of his absolute annihilation of a noble in your name was doing something deeply unsettling to your brain chemistry.

You, a seasoned chaos gremlin, had not been prepared for the sheer level of attractiveness that came from watching Deuce absolutely demolish a man in your honor and then kneel like you were some kind of divine ruler.

And absolutely no one in this arena could be allowed to witness that.

Which is why you did the only logical thing—

You grabbed Deuce by the collar and dragged him the hell out of there.

“We’re leaving.”

Deuce, stumbling after you, genuinely confused: “Wait—? But—?”

“No questions.”

Behind you, Ace hooted.

Riddle yelled something about propriety

The crowd was whispering in scandalized awe.

And the noble who insulted you?

He was probably questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.

Congratulations.

You had once again caused a spectacle.

You had always known that your butler—the tall, brooding, vaguely tragic second male lead—was spying on you.

You just hadn’t expected him to be this bad at it.

At first, you thought he was just terrible at being subtle. The way he lurked behind obvious cover, like a potted plant that was two sizes too small for him, was almost insultingly blatant.

But then, after watching him trip over his own feet and drop his little spy notebook in front of you, you had a stunning realization:

He wasn’t just bad at this.

He was disastrous.

And you—being the responsible, morally upstanding villain that you were—decided that it was your duty to take full advantage of this situation.

So when he inevitably got caught, you gaslit the absolute hell out of him.

“You failed the test,” you sighed, shaking your head with deep, world-weary disappointment.

He froze. “Test?”

“Yes, a test,” you said, folding your arms. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice one of my own subordinates spying on me?”

He blinked. “I—I don't work for the heroine.”

You smiled dangerously. “Don't you?”

The silence that followed was long, painful, and deeply existential.

“…I don't?,” he said, but there was now a distinct lack of confidence behind his words.

Deuce, who had been standing off to the side, vehemently disagreed with everything that was happening.

“You knew about this?” he asked, looking at you like you were a criminal mastermind unveiling your latest scheme.

You ignored him.

Instead, you rested a hand on the butler’s shoulder, offering him a kind, understanding smile.

“Since you are so clearly loyal to me,” you said, gently, “I’d like you to deliver a very special report to the heroine.”

Deuce let out an exhausted groan.

The butler stared at you warily. “…What kind of report?”

“Oh, you know,” you mused, smirking. “Just a few details about my daily routine. The way I conduct myself in my estate. My methods for staying eternally youthful.”

The butler squinted.

“What do you mean, eternally youthful?”

You grinned.

The heroine stood in your ballroom, pointing an accusing, trembling finger at you.

“You’re a witch.”

You grinned.

Then you turned to your butler—who looked increasingly uncomfortable—and hummed, “I see you did your job well.”

Deuce pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did you make him tell her?”

The heroine narrowed her eyes at you, vibrating with righteous fury.

“You—you bathe in your servants’ tears to stay youthful!”

You tilted your head.

“That’s an odd way to phrase ‘providing an excellent workplace with fair wages and health benefits,’ but okay.”

The heroine was not having it.

“And—and you drink phoenix blood to maintain your strength!”

“Well, now, that’s true,” you admitted. “It pairs nicely with a dry red.”

The heroine let out a horrified gasp.

Deuce stared at you like you had personally betrayed him. “You made him tell her you drink what?!”

“I was curious to see how far he’d go.”

The butler, now pale and visibly sweating, looked like he had experienced a crisis of faith during his conversation with the heroine.

And when she reached the final, most egregious offense, he seemed to finally, fully break.

“…And I was told,” the heroine whispered, voice trembling, “that you—” she took a deep breath “—have personally seduced your own knight, corrupting him with your villainous ways.”

You glanced at Deuce.

Deuce turned bright red. “What did you tell her?!”

Your butler, who had finally reached his limit, just turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

“I quit,” he muttered.

Success.

You had been accused of many things since you woke up in this absolute joke of a world as the villain.

Corruption? Sure.

Scandal? Naturally.

Inducing moral panic in the aristocracy because you decided to flirt with engaged people at a ball? Absolutely.

But today was new.

Today, you had apparently brainwashed Deuce Spade into a life of crime.

"You’ve brainwashed him!"

The heroine’s voice rang out across the royal gathering, loud and full of self-righteous fury, as if she had just caught you mid-scheme, cackling over a bubbling cauldron, weaving a spell to turn Deuce into a mindless delinquent henchman.

You, who had been mid-sip of your expensive champagne, slowly lowered the glass.

Deuce, who had been standing beside you like a human wall of pure knightly devotion, blinked in further confusion.

The heroine took a dramatic step forward, looking at him with heartfelt sadness, like she expected him to suddenly start frothing at the mouth and looting everyone in your name.

“Sir Deuce,” she said, voice trembling with emotion, “It’s not too late. I can save you.”

Deuce tilted his head, utterly lost. “Save me from what?”

“From this!” She gestured wildly at you, as if you were some demonic manifestation of lawlessness, corrupting poor, innocent knights into a life of wanton villainy and casual public indecency.

The male lead, who had been hanging around in the background like a disgruntled ex, suddenly perked up at this. “Wait, are you saying we can steal Deuce?”

“Not steal,” the heroine corrected, with the solemnity of a saint bestowing divine mercy upon a lost soul. "Rescue."

And then, in a stunning display of completely unfounded confidence, she pulled out a golden envelope and extended it toward Deuce.

“A direct invitation,” she declared, eyes shining, “to serve under His Highness.”

There was a deafening silence.

Then—

“No.”

The refusal was instant.

No hesitation.

Not even a single second of consideration.

The heroine’s jaw practically dislocated.

The male lead looked personally victimized.

Ace, who had been standing off to the side with Riddle, slowly turned to face him, nudging him with his elbow before whispering something so profoundly stupid that Riddle physically winced.

Then, as if processing a truth he had been avoiding all this time, Riddle sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Ace, meanwhile, had the absolute audacity to look like he was having the time of his life.

The heroine, still struggling to process this complete failure, managed to find her voice again.

“I—I don’t understand.” She looked between you and Deuce, visibly distressed. “Why? Why would you refuse?”

Deuce gave her the most straightforward, obvious look in existence.

“I don't want to.”

The heroine gasped.

The male lead looked like he had been personally slapped.

Ace, meanwhile, had the absolute gall to let out a quiet, knowing cackle, like he had figured out the ending of a dramatic novel before the characters did.

“I fear he’s too far gone,” the heroine whispered, mourning the loss of Deuce Spade as if he had already perished.

You, meanwhile, had been too busy enjoying the absolute disaster unfolding in front of you to process what just happened.

Not until much later, when the two of you were walking back from the gathering, and you finally turned to him with a frown.

“Wait,” you said, still trying to wrap your head around it, “Why didn’t you take the offer?”

Deuce looked at you like you had just asked him why fire was hot. “Because I’m your knight.”

Oh.

That was—

That was kind of—

Warm.

An unpleasantly warm feeling spread in your chest, like you had just accidentally drunk an entire cup of molten sentimentality.

You didn't like it. You didn't like it at all.

ABORT. ABORT. ABORT.

You cleared your throat, deadpan as possible, and said, “Right. That makes sense.”

Then, with all the grace and subtlety of a spooked alley cat, you turned on your heel and walked away at high velocity, because you were absolutely not dealing with this today.

It doesn’t matter what you do.

You could ignore him. Insult him. Dramatically throw a glass of wine in his face and accuse him of high treason.

Nothing works.

The male lead only seems to fall harder.

And tonight?

Tonight, it’s worse than ever.

Now, he was finding excuses to touch you.

You had arrived at the royal ball with the intention of causing mischief—maybe ruining a few engagements, maybe flirting with people’s spouses just for the fun of it, maybe convincing a few nobles that you were an ancient demon cursed to live among them in disguise—you know, the usual.

What you hadn’t planned for was the crown prince himself swooping in like a predatory falcon, seizing your wrist, and dramatically pulling you onto the dance floor.

There was no escape.

And the worst part?

The entire room was watching.

Which meant you had to grit your teeth and endure it.

The music began.

You stepped forward. He stepped forward.

You tried to maintain a respectable distance.

He?

He did not.

Instead, he pulled you closer—his grip firm, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable as he held you just a little too tightly.

And then—oh, and then.

You felt it.

The slight intake of breath.

The subtle tilt of his head.

The near-invisible shudder that ran down his spine as he inhaled deeply, as if committing your scent to memory.

Your entire body locked up in horror.

What. The. Hell.

Was he—

Was this bastard—

Was he sniffing you?

You immediately tried to pull away, but his vice-like grip did not relent.

“I—” His voice came out a little strangled, and his eyes darted away suspiciously. “You—” He swallowed. “I was just making sure you didn’t smell like poison.”

You stared at him.

Poison.

Poison.

He said that with his whole chest.

Like it was a normal thing to do.

Like it wasn’t the most deranged, lovesick, absolutely unhinged thing you had ever seen in your entire life.

“You think someone poisoned me?” you deadpanned.

“Yes,” he said, nodding a little too quickly. “I thought—I thought maybe one of your enemies slipped something into your drink.”

“So your first instinct was to smell me?”

“YES.”

The sheer delusion in his voice was astounding.

You pushed him off you the moment the song ended, practically flinging yourself across the room in search of sanity, reason, and possibly a priest.

The moment you reached Ace, Riddle, and Deuce, you collapsed into their presence, gasping like you had just escaped the jaws of death.

Riddle took one look at your disheveled state, grimaced, and immediately handed you a handkerchief, as if he could wipe the entire experience off you.

You snatched it up and aggressively scrubbed at your neck.

Ace?

Ace was dying.

He was bent over in laughter, hands on his knees, completely losing his mind.

And Deuce?

Deuce looks like you just drop-kicked his puppy off a bridge.

He is staring at you like you personally betrayed him, his ancestors, and the entirety of knighthood as an institution.

Ace sees an opportunity and takes it.

With zero hesitation, he grabs Deuce by the shoulders and shoves him closer to you.

“You gonna let that slide, man?” Ace teases, grinning like a madman.

“I—” Deuce blinks, still looking dazed and vaguely devastated.

Ace pushes him again. “Dude, do something! Your boss just got publicly defiled.”

Deuce finally snaps out of it, reaching for his own handkerchief—the one with his knightly crest embroidered on it—and gently, carefully wipes at your neck.

It was different from Riddle’s.

Riddle had handed you his like a noble disgusted by filth.

Deuce, however?

Deuce was careful.

His touch was light, his eyes too focused, too serious as he dabbed at the place where the prince’s lips had nearly brushed against your skin.

He was not just cleaning.

He was removing.

It was as if the very idea of another man touching you physically revolted him.

So, in a desperate attempt to make the moment less weird, you forced out a mocking smirk and teased,

“Aw, Deuce. What’s wrong? You don’t like it when he touches me?”

Deuce, sweet, earnest, painfully loyal Deuce, did not hesitate.

“No."

Oh no.

Bwcause something in your stomach flips and your face feels suspiciously warm.

It was bound to happen.

Honestly, with the way you had been leaning on him lately, whispering too-close teases in his ear, and throwing casual flirtations like daggers at his heart, it was only a matter of time before he cracked.

But you—oh, you hadn’t expected it to be like this.

You were lounging on him again today, your head resting against his shoulder, basking in the solid warmth that only Deuce could provide. He had long since stopped complaining about it—stopped stiffening up every time you got close—and instead, he had simply accepted his fate as your personal resting post.

Which, of course, meant it was your duty to push your luck.

So, you did.

With a slow, lazy grin, you tilted your head, let your lips brush a little too close to his ear, and murmured,

“Y’know, Deuce… you’re kind of my favorite.”

It was supposed to be a joke. (kinda)

It was supposed to be just another tease, another drop of fuel onto the fire just to see him sputter and turn red like he always did.

But this time?

This time, he didn’t laugh.

Instead—

He froze.

His entire body went rigid beneath you, his hands clenching into fists, his breath coming sharper, heavier, like he was wrestling with something too big to contain.

And then—he exhaled.

“Are you playing with me, too?”

The words were low.

Rough.

Like he had been holding them back for too long, like they had been simmering inside him, growing heavier with every glance, every touch, every stupid, careless flirtation.

You blinked. “What?”

Deuce shifted, just enough to look at you head-on, and oh.

Oh.

There was something in his eyes—something raw, something vulnerable, something that made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“You keep doing this,” he muttered, his voice tight, frustrated. “You flirt with me like you do with the other nobles. You—you act like it’s all just a game. But I—”

His breath hitched.

And then, with a quiet, almost desperate laugh, he whispered,

“You know I love you, right?”

Your heart stopped.

“I—”

“I do,” he interrupted, the words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. “I do. I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to be just your knight, just your friend—but every time you look at me like that, every time you say stuff like this—” His jaw clenched. “—I feel like an idiot. Because I know you don’t mean it. I know you’re just playing around. But I—”

He swallowed hard.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

The air between you went still.

Your heartbeat was too loud, your pulse a slow, insistent drumbeat in your ears, and oh.

Oh, this was real.

He was serious.

Deuce squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled sharply, and then met your gaze once more, firmer this time.

“The next time you flirt with me,” he said, voice low, steady, “I’m going to take it seriously.”

“I mean it,” he continued, as if warning you. “You—you don’t get to joke about this anymore. Not with me. Because I’ll—”

His fingers trembled at his sides.

“I’ll take responsibility for it.”

It took you a second to process the words.

Oh.

Oh, he was adorable.

Because even now—even after basically confessing, after baring his heart to you like this, he was still looking at you like he was waiting for permission.

Like he needed you to say it first.

Like he needed to be sure.

And, well—

Who were you to disappoint your favorite knight?

With a slow, lazy grin, you grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and whispered,

“Deuce.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah?”

You leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed against his cheek, and murmured,

“Do you want my last name?”

The moment the words left your mouth, his entire body locked up.

And then—

Then he kissed you.

It was clumsy, heated, desperate in the way only Deuce could be—like he had been holding this back for too long, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t take you now.

And you—

You melted into it.

Because of course he was serious.

Because of course you had always known what you were doing to him.

Because—

Because you wanted it, too.

The ballroom is packed, glittering, expectant.

The chandeliers glow like stars, the music swells in the background, and every noble in attendance is on the edge of their seat, waiting for whatever ridiculous display you’re about to put on this time.

And, oh, are you about to deliver.

You stand tall, your hand resting comfortably in Deuce’s as you make the grandest announcement of your life.

“We’re engaged.”

The room erupts—gasps, whispers, the sharp clink of dropped silverware.

Deuce, standing proudly beside you, looks both smug and overwhelmed, like he’s still processing the fact that you actually said yes and also fully prepared to duel anyone who disagrees.

Ace is counting coins, no doubt because he made a bet about this happening.

Riddle looks like he’s two seconds away from both congratulating you and strangling you for causing another scene.

And the male lead—

Oh, the male lead is not handling it well.

He’s standing there, frozen, his eye twitching ever so slightly, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form a sentence but can’t because his brain just blue-screened.

The male lead—in all his tragic, oblivious, love-stricken glory—then has the nerve to act like he’s concerned.

“I just think it’s irresponsible, the difference in your status.” he says.

The words hit you like a divine insult.

Like the heavens themselves have chosen this as your actual villain origin story.

There is a moment of stillness.

It’s the kind of moment you read about in dramatic novels—the eerie, anticipatory silence before an executioner swings his blade. The nobles are motionless, caught between the sheer audacity of your engagement announcement and the dawning horror of whatever is about to come next.

Because they can feel it.

They can feel the storm brewing inside you, the kind of apocalyptic fury usually reserved for fallen kingdoms and plagues of locusts.

Deuce grips your hand a little tighter, as if sensing the catastrophic levels of rage that are about to explode from your very soul.

And then—it happens.

You let out a slow, incredulous exhale.

And then, at the top of your lungs—

“OH, MY GOD.”

The chandelier shakes.

Somewhere in the back, a noble collapses onto a couch.

A waiter drops an entire tray of champagne glasses.

The heroine, bless her soul, gasps like she’s just watched someone get impaled.

And the male lead?

The male lead flinches.

But he does not back down.

Which is his second biggest mistake tonight.

His first was being born.

You take a deep, suffering breath, and then—oh, you absolutely let loose.

“JUST SAY YOU’RE JEALOUS, YOU PATHETIC, EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED DISASTER.”

There is an echoing thud.

Ace has fallen to the ground.

He is actively pounding his fist against the marble floor in a fit of laughter so violent that one of the nobles attempts to call a doctor.

Riddle is gripping his temples, already mourning the loss of his peace.

And Deuce?

Deuce nods along.

Like, yeah. That makes sense.

But you are nowhere near done.

You take an intimidating step forward, pointing aggressively at the male lead’s absurdly symmetrical face.

“Do you think I don’t know?!” you demand. “Do you think I don’t notice when you materialize out of thin air whenever I so much as sigh?? Do you think I don’t see you hiding behind pillars, staring at me with the same expression as a neglected golden retriever!?”

The male lead opens his mouth—probably to deny it.

But you immediately cut him off.

“DON’T EVEN TRY ME, YOU NOBLE IMBECILE.”

The heroine physically recoils.

A duke mutters a quiet prayer.

Ace has fully ascended to the next realm.

“I have proof!” you declare, waving an accusatory finger. “Every time I enter a room, you’re already there, lurking in the shadows like a deranged, overgrown bat. Do you think that’s normal behavior?! Do you think people don’t notice?! I HAVE SEEN THE TOWN CRIER TAKING NOTES.”

Riddle’s entire body twitches.

Because, unfortunately, that is not an exaggeration.

The town crier really has been chronicling the male lead’s unhinged pining in weekly installments.

You take another step forward, voice rising.

“Just admit it! Admit that you have absolutely lost your mind over me, and you’re just mad that I don’t give a single, microscopic shred of a damn!”

The male lead is visibly sweating.

But you are still not finished.

“Listen to me,” you say, voice lowering into something cold, absolute, and devastating. You step forward until the male lead is cornered against a column, towering over him like a vengeful god.

Then, with as much venom as you can possibly summon—

“I value you less than a piece of moldy bread.”

Carnage.

The room erupts into madness.

The male lead physically staggers.

His soul leaves his body.

His knees tremble like he’s about to collapse.

Ace is choking on laughter, beating the floor like a medieval peasant begging for mercy.

Riddle has his hands over his eyes like this is the most humiliating thing he’s ever been forced to witness.

The heroine is looking at the male lead like he’s a dying animal.

And Deuce—sweet, loyal Deuce—just crosses his arms, nods approvingly, and says,

“Yeah. What he said."

You smile, victorious.

You dust off your hands like you’ve just completed a particularly satisfying chore.

Then, you turn back to Deuce, loop your arm through his, and promptly walk out of the ballroom with your beloved knight at your side.

The sun melts into the horizon, casting the ocean in gold and rose, waves curling onto the shore. A warm breeze rolls through the open balcony, carrying the scent of salt and flowers and Deuce Spade trying to subtly overthink again.

Which is unfortunate.

Because you had expressly banned thinking on this honeymoon.

Yet here he is—Deuce , your devoted, beautiful, terminally self-doubting husband—standing by the railing, arms crossed, jaw clenched, deep in Thought.

You know that look.

It’s the look of a man about to say something stupid.

And indeed—

“Do you regret it?” he asks.

You blink. “Regret what?”

Deuce doesn’t look at you. His gaze is on the horizon, all noble knightly brooding, except it’s Deuce, so it just makes him look like a golden retriever contemplating the meaning of life.

“Choosing me,” he clarifies. “I mean, you—you could’ve had anyone. A prince, a noble, someone with status. Someone who actually deserves—”

You physically grab him.

Like, you latch onto him like a barnacle and manhandle him around to face you, because this is quite possibly the dumbest thing he’s ever said, and you refuse to let him say another word.

Deuce, being Deuce, just lets you do it.

He stares at you, startled, lips slightly parted, eyes big and blue and breathtaking.

And you sigh.

“Sweetheart,” you say, voice dry, “you are the densest person I have ever met.”

He blinks.

You take his face in your hands.

“I love you, dumbass.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

Deuce grins.

It’s small at first, hesitant, like he’s still processing the words—like some part of him is still convinced he’s dreaming, that any moment now, he’s going to wake up in the barracks and realize none of this is real.

But then, you thumb over his cheek, gentle, certain, grounding him in reality.

And that’s when it happens.

That’s when his grin breaks into something helpless and bright, something that crinkles the corners of his eyes, something that is so very Deuce that your heart trips over itself.

He hides his face against your shoulder.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, muffled against your skin, voice warm, embarrassed, happy.

You laugh, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him closer.

“Make me.”

His arms tighten around you, and for a while, neither of you move—just standing there, on the balcony of some faraway villa, wrapped up in each other, with nothing and no one to interrupt.

No scheming nobles.

No pushy male leads.

No ridiculous duels or political scandals.

Just you, Deuce, and the rest of your lives ahead.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[carnations-fixations]

God, listened to something the other night and I can't stop thinking about like, working a terrible office job an just totally zoning out for an hour, playing solitaire or tetris on your computer until your boss calls you into her office

And you're just like oh fuck oh fuck she's gonna fire me oh shit oh shit-

Then you finally get into her office and she's sitting at her desk, rubbing her temple and staring at her computer with pure fucking disdain

You manage to squeak out a small "You wanted to see me?" And she looks up, her face relaxing almost imperceptibly. She tells you to sit and you do, not giving your obedience a second thought. You're still terrified you'll be out of a job.

"This meeting is killing me, and I know you're not doing any work in there, so you're going to stay here with me until it's over."

You look at her confused.

"I've seen you check me out more than enough times by now, love. Now, you can absolutely walk back out that door and keep not-working, I assure you no one's stopping you, or you can stay here and earn a little bonus."

Now you understand what's happening. She points to the floor next to her and you stand, walking over and kneeling. You think about leaving. You think about quitting. But she's right, you've been very attracted to her since the moment you saw her, and you struggle to keep your eyes off her body. So maybe this isn't so bad

She starts by just petting your hair as you sit there, staring forward and feeling a cocktail of anxiety, fear, and excitement bubbling in your chest. Then she gets even more bored, and slowly turns her chair so that you're facing each other instead of being side by side

"Last chance," She says, staring lasers into your skull. You can't bring yourself to meet her gaze, but you stay right where you are, obediently making your allegiance clear.

"Good girl," She says, opening her legs. She puts your head between her thighs, not taking off her pants, at least not yet. You finally look up at her, and she's staring at you with the most intense adoration you've ever been subject to. She's surprisingly gentle, simply petting your hair and looking down at you. Her pants are starting to bulge, the sight of you between her legs enough to get her aroused.

You feel daring enough to, while keeping eye contact, kiss her inner thigh. She grins and nods.

"Go on, doll."

Your chest feels like it's wrapped around a nuclear core. Jesus Christ this is hot- you look away, blushing profusely, and she slaps you. Not exceedingly hard, but it stings and sends a message.

"Eyes up here, doll."

You nod again, looking back up at her and placing gentle kisses on her thighs, moving higher... higher... until her grip on your hair becomes somewhat sadistic, pushing you closer to her now-prominent bulge.

You kiss and nuzzle and- god she smells fucking good- it's already enough to get you feeling high off her scent. She nods and pets you, pushing you down, although you don't need it. You'd already be grinding your face against her regardless.

Finally, you get brave, and reach up to her belt.

"That's it, dolly, go ahead- You know how to please Mommy, don't you~?"

God- No one's really talked to you like this before, and it makes your head swim, forgetting the inappropriate nature of all of this. All you want is to make her happy- You undo her belt with shaking hands and unzip her pants, just pulling them apart enough to get to what you need-

She's nice enough to help you pull her panties down, and you finally have access to her long, throbbing cock. A sound escapes you, like an excited squeak.

"Aww, little puppy wants a treat?"

You feel hot and fuzzy and strange and all you can think about is sucking Mommy's cock like a good little whore- you don't even know where these impulses come from. At this point, you don't care. You just inhale and let the scent of her musk erase all your thoughts.

"Open."

You obey.

She lowers herself onto your tongue.

"Suck."

You obey.

She pushes your head down, lower, until you're gagging harshly.

"Good fuckin' girl- Mnh--fuck, you're not too bad at this, I should keep you around-- nnNNgh-"

Hearing her voice break only makes your mind break double, looking up at her and sucking like your life is on the line, She bites back loud moans, dictating your pace with a hand in your hair. As she starts to get rougher and rougher, you can't help but feel so, so needy- hitting your uvula and making you gag, something you never thought you'd like, is like heaven in her hands.

"Mmn-- God you're such a good little whore for Mommy- NHfh--"

The praise only makes you more excited, and you find yourself starting to grind on her wing-tip Oxford's, whining on her cock. She doesn't notice, too distracted by your mouth, she starts to roughly fuck your face, hold you steady as she bucks her hips.

You feel her tense, and you whine, pushing yourself down all the way as she cums down your throat. The noise you make is depraved, and she responds with a low, gutteral groan, holding you down and breathing heavily.

Finally, she let's you up, her seed dripping down your chin from what you couldn't swallow. She takes her finger and runs it up your chin, gathering up the string that's fallen out, and shoves it in your mouth.

"Good fucking girl, perfect for Mommy... Now, clean her off."

You lick and suck at the tip of her limp cock, cleaning off all of the cum you can before putting her dick away. You're still grinding on her shoe, not even really thinking about it, but you're making noises that tip her off, and now that you're not choking on her cock you notice how close you are.

"Aww, little slut got so worked up she couldn't help herself, huh?"

You nod, whining and holding onto her leg.

"Are you close, doll?"

You nod again.

"Go ahead baby, keep going. I want you to cum for Mommy, okay? Just keep going and say Mommy's name when you cum, doll"

You nod again, quickly and appreciatively, grinding and whimpering as you feel your orgasm flood closer. You manage to whine out a single word as you cum, ruining yourself in her office.

"Mnhhh- Mm-Monmy--!!"

She pets your hair and smiles down at you, clearly pleased at your obedience as you ruin yourself on her shoe.

Well, now there's a problem. You're panting and shaking on the floor, covered in her cum and your own, and you still have another 3 hours of work.

"You can clean up in my office's bathroom, darling, take your time. I want you to finish out the day in that skirt, though. Some people have been getting a little too friendly with my doll, and they need to be reminded who you belong to."

You mumble out a slurred "Yes Mommy" as you sit limp against her leg, catching your breath.

Something tells you this isn't a one time deal.

[maeintree]

the way harvey just unwinds the second he’s in your arms, the weight of the day slipping off his shoulders because you’re there. he doesn’t even have to say anything—he just melts, letting you kiss away the tension like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and that little sigh he lets out when you kiss his forehead?? pure allegiance and devotion!!!!!! he’s so in love with you it’s ridiculous. 🥲

he doesn’t need to be harvey specter, top closer, when he’s home—he just needs to be yours. and you take such good care of him, like it’s second nature, like loving him is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. (because it is..)

also the way he gets just a little needy at the end?? “only if you stay right here” HELLO?? he’s so used to the chaos of his work, the pressure, the endless expectations, but you? you’re his peace. and he never wants to be without that. without you.

the moment you hear the front door shut, you know.

it’s not a slam, not careless, just heavy. exhausted. like the weight of the world is in his briefcase, on his shoulders, in every step he takes through the penthouse.

you close the book you weren’t really reading, stretching as you get up from the couch. by the time you reach the entryway, he’s already shrugging off his suit jacket, movements slow and tired. he barely even looks up as he drapes it over the back of a chair, fingers reaching for his tie like even loosening it is too much effort.

“harvey,” you say, soft, careful.

he sighs, finally lifting his head. the moment he sees you, something in him shifts—just slightly. like the first hint of relief after a long day. but there’s still tension in the set of his shoulders, in the crease between his brows.

“rough day?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

he huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “you could say that.”

you step closer, gently pushing his hands away from his tie and undoing it yourself. he lets you, his hands dropping to your waist instead, thumbs brushing absentminded circles against your hips.

“wanna talk about it?” you murmur, carefully undoing the knot and slipping the silk from his collar.

he shakes his head. “not right now.”

“okay,” you say, running your fingers over the first few buttons of his dress shirt, undoing them without a second thought. “what do you need, then? shower? drink? food?”

he exhales slowly, eyes closing for a moment as he leans into your touch. “just you.”

your chest tightens. you nod, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. the moment he sits, he sighs, leaning back like even holding himself upright took more effort than he had left.

without a word, you settle beside him, pulling him into you. he doesn’t resist. he never does. he shifts, head resting against your chest, arms slipping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

for a while, he just breathes. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move.

you run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp lightly, feeling the tension start to ease from his body. he exhales, a slow, deep breath, pressing his forehead against your collarbone.

“you wanna hear something stupid?” he murmurs after a while, voice rough with exhaustion.

“always.”

he lets out another small huff of laughter, this one a little softer, a little lighter. “whole day, all i could think about was getting home to you.”

your heart clenches, warmth blooming in your chest. you press a kiss to his hair, lingering there for a moment.

“that’s not stupid, harvey.”

“feels like it is.”

“feels like love,” you correct gently.

he doesn’t argue. doesn’t tease. just tightens his hold on you, presses his face further into your neck, and sighs, the tension finally melting away.

you press a soft kiss to his temple, feeling the way his body slowly relaxes against yours. his grip on your waist loosens just enough to show he’s not holding himself together anymore—he doesn’t need to. not with you. 

you smile a little, shifting so you can kiss his forehead next, lingering there for a moment. his skin is warm, and he hums softly, barely audible, like he’s savoring the moment. 

“that feels nice,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, softer. 

“yeah?” you ask, brushing your lips over the crease between his brows, trying to smooth out the tension with every little kiss. 

he nods, eyes still closed, the last bit of stress in his features fading as you work your way down. a kiss to each cheek. to the tip of his nose. to the sharp line of his jaw. 

when you kiss the corner of his mouth, you feel the faintest hint of a smile forming against your lips. 

“i could get used to this,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something else, something lighter. 

“you already do,” you tease, brushing your nose against his before pressing another slow kiss to his lips. 

he sighs into it, his grip on your waist tightening again, but this time, it’s not stress holding him together—it’s you. 

“you take such good care of me,” he murmurs when you pull away just enough to look at him, your fingers still carding through his hair. 

you press your forehead against his, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns over his shoulders. “somebody has to.” 

he chuckles, but it’s soft, sleepy. “lucky me.” 

you smile, kissing him again, slower this time, deeper. he lets you, lets himself melt into you completely, no walls, no defenses, just you and him in the quiet of your home. 

and when you finally pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion but so, so full of love. 

“get some sleep, harvey,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair one last time. 

he exhales, a slow, content breath. “only if you stay right here.” 

“always,” you promise. 

and with one last kiss, he closes his eyes, finally letting go, finally letting himself rest.

[orangeblossomsintheair]

BUTCHERED TONGUE | CS55

summary : carlos is going to teach you spanish whether you like it or not.

wc: 0.9k

an : this is a thing my bf does to me so i thought it’d be cute :> non-spanish speaking reader!!

Carlos’ latest obsession is, by far, the most infuriating one yet.

Forget about his short-lived fascination with perfecting latte art or his undying allegiance to the soccer team he won’t shut up about. No, this is worse.

He has declared it his personal mission to teach you Spanish.

The most maddening part? His methods. Subtle? No. Gentle? Not a chance. He’s decided that every sweet moment between you is an opportunity to slip in a little Español.

You’re tangled in the blankets, half-asleep, basking in the comfort of a warm bed when you feel the mattress dip beside you. A soft breath brushes against your cheek, then, nothing. Silence.

Your eyes remain closed, waiting for the familiar morning kiss.

Nothing.

You frown. “…Carlos?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re just… sitting there?”

A pause. Then, his voice, far too smug for the hour, “I’m waiting.”

“For what?” you mumble, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

“For you to ask me properly.”

You crack one eye open. He’s leaning over you, grinning like a cat who caught the canary. “Carlos,” you groan, “kiss me.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, no, no, bebé. En español, por favor.” in spanish, please

Your glare could set the room on fire. “Carlos, it’s too early for this.”

“¿Demasiado temprano para aprender?” Too early to learn?

He gasps dramatically. “Nunca es demasiado temprano para aprender español.” It's never too early to learn Spanish

You groan louder, rolling onto your stomach. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a dedicated teacher.”

“You’re an obnoxious teacher.”

Carlos leans in closer, lips hovering just out of reach. “Say it. Dámelo.”

Your brain, still fogged with sleep, tries to piece together his demand. “Dámelo… what does that even mean?”

His grin widens. “It means ‘give it to me.’ Very fitting, no?”

You grab a pillow and launch it at his face. He catches it effortlessly, laughing.

“¡Violencia!” he cries, clutching the pillow to his chest. “Is this how you treat your teacher? After all I do for you?”

“Carlos,” you growl.

“Yes, mi amor?”

“Just. Kiss. Me.”

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Pídemelo bien.” Ask me better.

You let out a strangled noise. “You’re impossible!”

“I’m waiting~”

You squeeze your eyes shut, gathering the shreds of your dignity. “Carlos, dame un beso.” Carlos, give me a kiss

A satisfied hum leaves his throat. “Mmm, qué bonita suenas cuando hablas español.” Mmm, you sound beautiful when you speak Spanish

And finally—finally—his lips meet yours, soft and warm. You melt instantly, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.

But it’s over too quickly.

You blink up at him, betrayed. “That’s it?”

He taps his lips. “Your pronunciation was a little off.”

Your mouth drops open. “Excuse me?!”

Carlos laughs, dodging the swipe you aim at him. “Relax, bebé, I’m kidding. Mostly.” He settles back on his elbows, still grinning. “But if you want another one… conjugate el verbo ‘besar’ en presente.” Conjugate the verb 'to kiss' in the present tense

You groan so loudly it rattles the windows. “Carlos!”

“What? It’s very simple. Yo beso, tú besas, él besa…” I kiss, you kiss, he kisses

“Nosotros rompemos,” you snap, throwing the blankets over your head. We're breaking up

Carlos bursts into laughter. “Oh, so now you can conjugate!”

You peek out just enough to glare at him. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

He smirks, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Y tú eres muy afortunada de tenerme.” And you are very lucky to have me

You huff but can’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. What’s ‘kiss me again’ in Spanish?”

Carlos lights up like you handed him a trophy. “Bésame otra vez.”

You try to repeat it, but your tongue stumbles. “Bes…a…me otra vez?”

His eyes soften. “Perfecto.”

You hum, feigning thoughtfulness. “And what’s ‘stop being annoying’?”

Carlos gasps. “Deja de ser molesto. But that’s not nearly as romantic.”

“Oh, but it’s accurate.”

“You wound me.” He clutches his chest. “After all this effort to enrich your mind-”

“To torture me.”

“-to nurture your linguistic abilities-”

“Molesto.” Annoying

Carlos leans in, eyes gleaming. “You love it.”

Unfortunately, you kind of do.

—-

Later, Carlos continues his relentless campaign.

You’re in the kitchen, trying to make coffee, when arms wrap around your waist. A chin rests on your shoulder.

“¿Qué haces?” he murmurs into your neck. What're you doing?

You sigh. “Trying to survive.”

“That’s not Spanish.”

“I’m ignoring you.”

“That’s also not Spanish.”

You sigh deeply. “Estoy… intentando… sobrevivir.” I'm trying to survive

Carlos squeezes you, proud. “¡Muy bien!” Very good

“Coffee first. Spanish later.”

“Coffee is Spanish. Café.”

You elbow him lightly. “Stop.”

He laughs but doesn’t let go. “Okay, okay. But when you drink it, say está delicioso.”

“If I spill it on you, that’s intentional.”

“Intencional. Good job, bebé!”

You groan but can’t help laughing.

—-

By afternoon, Carlos has moved on to labeling objects around the house with sticky notes.

You walk into the living room and find the remote with a bright yellow note: control remoto.

The fridge: refrigerador.

Even the dog is not spared, a tiny note precariously taped to its collar: perro.

You stare at Carlos, who is sitting smugly on the couch.

“Really?”

“What? Visual aids are very effective.”

“You labeled the dog.”

Carlos shrugs. “Perro needs to know who he is.”

The dog glares at him and stalks off.

You pluck a sticky note off the lamp. “This is getting out of hand.”

Carlos leans forward. “You’re learning, though.”

“I’m learning to throw these at you.”

“Lánzamelos. Go ahead.” Throw them at me

You throw one at his forehead. It sticks. He doesn’t even blink.

“Wow. Fluent.”

—-

By evening, you’re curled up on the couch, Carlos half-asleep beside you.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you murmur.

“Mmm. Ridículo.”

You nudge him. “I’m serious.”

His eyes crack open, lazy and soft. “But you’re learning.”

You sigh, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.”

Carlos smiles, eyes closing again. “Te quiero, bebé.” I love you, baby

You smile against his shirt. “Love you too.”

A beat.

“Say it in Spanish.”

You groan into his chest. “Carlos-”

“Come on…”

“…Yo también te quiero.” I love you too

Carlos hums contentedly, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Perfecta.”

[kezdispenser]

FIERCE ALLEGIANCE

Chapter 10: Warpath

Summary: Tensions rise as the tournament reaches its breaking point, with unexpected victories and shocking twists shaking both sides. As alliances shift and stakes grow higher, a new challenge forces the fighters—and their senseis—to confront more than just their opponents. In the shadows, dangerous games are being played, and one wrong move could change everything.

The energy was unreal.

Tory stood across from Zara, both fighters locked in a stare-down. The Iron Dragon girl had a wicked smirk, but Tory? Tory just cracked her neck and got to work.

From the first hit, it was a war. Zara was fast, aggressive, and calculated—trained by Wolf himself—but Tory fought like she had nothing to lose. Like she was ready to break someone. And when she finally landed that last brutal strike, knocking a tooth clean out of Zara’s mouth, the match was over.

Tory Nichols was the Girls' Champion.

The Cobra Kai section erupted. Y/N barely had time to react before Tory grabbed her in a tight, bone-crushing hug. "Holy shit!" Y/N laughed, hugging her back. Tory grinned, breathing heavy. "That bitch was tough." Devon ran up, eyes wide. "Dude, you knocked out her tooth!" "I’m keeping it as a trophy," Tory joked, winking. Y/N was about to respond when she caught sight of Wolf. He was livid.

Jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, barely containing the rage simmering just beneath the surface. Zara had been one of his best, and she’d lost. Y/N quickly looked away. Not her problem. Tory was her friend, and this was her win. But the celebration was short-lived.

"Next match—Miguel Diaz vs. Axel Kovacevic!" The arena exploded into cheers as Miguel and Axel stepped onto the mat. "Shit," Sam muttered beside Y/N. "This is gonna be intense." Y/N folded her arms. "Axel’s a machine. Miguel needs to be careful."

"Careful isn’t gonna cut it," Devon pointed out. "Axel fights like he’s trying to kill someone." "Yeah, well," Y/N said, watching Miguel bounce on his feet, looking focused as hell, "Miguel’s got something Axel doesn’t."

Sam glanced at her. "And that is?" "Johnny Lawrence in his corner." The fight was brutal. Miguel and Axel were evenly matched, trading hit after hit. The crowd was losing it. But then—

"FINISH HIM." Wolf’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Y/N froze. Axel hesitated. His hands clenched. Wolf’s glare burned into him.

"You know what to do," Wolf snapped. The whole dojo went quiet. Axel didn’t move. Wolf’s fists curled. "DO IT." Axel refused. And that split second was all Miguel needed. A clean shot. Axel went down. Cobra Kai won.

The arena exploded. Johnny lifted Miguel off the ground, the team losing their minds. Y/N screamed with them, jumping up and down with Tory and Devon. But across the mat, Wolf was motionless. Axel didn’t look at him. Y/N’s stomach twisted. She knew exactly what was waiting for Axel later. Then the announcer called for silence.

“With the scores now tied, we move to the final match—the Senseis.”

Everything stopped.

Y/N turned immediately, eyes snapping to Wolf. He was already looking at Johnny. The air was suffocating. Johnny cracked his knuckles. "Well, shit." Wolf tilted his head, that unreadable look in his eyes. Then, he smiled. And it wasn’t a nice one.

Y/N didn’t know what she was thinking when she showed up at his door.

Well—no. She did.

She wanted to see him. Needed to see him.

The apartment he was renting was ridiculous. Expensive, modern, the kind of place that screamed I have money and anger issues.

She knocked once. Then again. The door swung open, and there he was—Wolf. And he looked pissed. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but the way his eyes darkened when he saw her? That said everything.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said flatly. Y/N ignored the way her stomach flipped. "Yeah, well. I am." His grip on the doorframe tightened. "I don’t wanna see you right now."

"Too bad." Before he could stop her, she pushed past him, stepping inside like she owned the place. Wolf exhaled sharply, turning to face her. "You just do whatever the hell you want, huh?" "Pretty much."

They stood there, silent, tense, waiting. And then—she grabbed him. Fingers curling around the back of his neck, pulling him down, crashing her lips against his.

Wolf grunted against her mouth, startled for half a second before he kissed her back. Harder. Rougher. Like he was pissed off and trying to prove a point.

His hands found her waist, dragging her closer, deepening the kiss until all she could do was hold onto him, breath hitching as his grip tightened. "You drive me insane," he muttered against her lips, voice low, rough, wrecked. Y/N smirked. "Good." And then he kissed her again—hard enough to steal her breath.

She pulled back just enough to catch her breath, lips bruised and swollen, a satisfied smirk tugging at her mouth.

"You miss me?" she teased, her voice light, playful, but her eyes searched his face, looking for the truth.

Wolf just stared at her, breathing heavy, his jaw tight like he was fighting something—maybe himself.

Then, without a word, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back in.

Y/N let out a breathless laugh before his lips crashed into hers again, desperate, consuming. "You’re a pain in my ass," he muttered between kisses. "You love it." He chuckled darkly, nipping at her bottom lip, making her gasp. His hands tightened on her hips. "Yeah," he admitted, voice low, rough. "I do."

The second he said it, Y/N froze.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath still uneven, heart pounding.

Wolf exhaled sharply, already regretting it. He wasn’t the kind of guy who admitted things—not like that.

Y/N searched his face, lips still tingling from his kiss.

Then, quieter this time—"What are we doing?"

Wolf’s jaw clenched.

Y/N let out a slow breath, her hands still resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath her fingers.

"I don’t know," she admitted, voice softer now. Less teasing.

Wolf’s grip on her tightened. Not enough to hurt, but enough to let her know he didn’t want her stepping away.

He exhaled, tilting his head slightly, watching her. His usual smirk was gone—no cocky remarks, no sharp edge. Just him.

"You tell me," he muttered.

Y/N blinked. "What?"

Wolf licked his lips, jaw tight like he was fighting something in his head. "You’re the one that showed up," he pointed out. "You kissed me. So what the hell are we doing?"

Y/N stared at him. "You think I have an answer for that?" "Would be nice," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face before letting it drop. She frowned, pulling back just a little. "Do you want me here?"

Wolf’s eyes flashed. "What kind of question is that?" "A fair one," she shot back. He inhaled sharply, looking away, frustrated. Not with her, not really—with himself.

"You make shit complicated," he finally said, voice lower. Y/N raised a brow. "And you don’t?" He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "No, I do. But I’m used to it."

She studied him for a second, taking him in. The way his fists clenched at his sides, the way his eyes kept flicking to her lips like he wanted to kiss her again but was stopping himself. "Complicated doesn’t mean bad," she said quietly. Wolf scoffed. "It never means good, either."

A silence stretched between them, heavy, filled with unspoken shit. Y/N bit her lip. "So what now?" Wolf let out a slow breath, eyes searching hers. Then—"I don’t know." And for some reason, that felt like the realest thing he’d ever said.

Wolf’s jaw tensed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, like he was trying not to react, trying to keep himself in check.

Y/N held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Wolf, I want this thing between us to be something, to be real, but you’re not letting that happen.” She exhaled, her voice softer now, but still firm. “Why are you so afraid of letting me in?”

Wolf scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not afraid.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Then what is it?”

His silence was an answer in itself.

For the first time, Wolf wasn’t looking at her with his usual sharp, cocky smirk. No teasing, no snide remarks. Just something raw in his eyes.

He swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders like he was physically trying to shake off whatever the hell was going through his head.

“This shit doesn’t work,” he muttered, finally meeting her gaze again. “People want things, they need things, and eventually, someone lets go. Or they change their mind.” He exhaled sharply. “And I don’t need that.” Y/N frowned. “You think I’d just leave?”

“I think you should,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “Would make things easier.” Her chest tightened at that. “For who?” Wolf let out a humorless laugh. “You.” Y/N shook her head. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” “Yes.” They stood there, staring each other down, like neither of them wanted to be the first to break.

Then, Y/N stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that if he moved even a little, their lips would touch again. “I’m still here,” she said, soft but sure. “I want to be here.”

Wolf inhaled slowly, watching her, studying her, like he was trying to figure out if she was telling the truth. Then—almost like he didn’t want to—he let out a slow breath and rested his forehead against hers.

“I hate how much I like you,” he muttered, voice gravelly, wrecked. Y/N smiled a little, tilting her head. “Good.” Wolf huffed a quiet laugh. “Brat.” And then—finally—he cupped the back of her neck and kissed her again.

A sudden knock on the door. Once. Twice. Sharp. Deliberate.

Y/N felt Wolf’s body go rigid against her, his grip on her tightening just slightly before he pulled away completely, his expression shifting into something colder—something she didn’t like.

Then— "Feng, it's me." Silver.

The voice was smooth, calm—too calm. But Y/N could hear the quiet edge beneath it, like a knife just waiting to be drawn. Her stomach dropped. Wolf didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

For the first time, she saw it—real fear. Not the kind you show in a fight, not the kind that sparks adrenaline. Something deeper. Something that settled in his bones. Y/N swallowed hard, her pulse hammering.

Wolf slowly turned his head toward the door, jaw tight, his entire body coiled like a predator backed into a corner. Another knock. More impatient this time. "Come on, open up." Y/N’s fingers curled into fists. She looked at Wolf, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was somewhere else entirely.

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

She barely registered the way her breath hitched, the way her entire body stiffened—because all she could focus on was the voice on the other side of that door.

Silver.

Something about it felt wrong. Too smooth. Too controlled. Like he already knew he was getting in—whether Wolf opened the door or not.

She swallowed hard, looking up at Wolf. He saw it immediately. The fear. The way her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, the way her breath came quicker, shallower.

His expression shifted. The tension in his jaw eased just enough for him to lean down and press a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Go hide," he murmured against her skin. Y/N hesitated, gripping his shirt. “Wolf—”

“Now.” His voice was low, rough, but not unkind. His hands squeezed her waist, just for a second—one last silent reassurance—before he pulled away completely. Another knock. Louder this time. "Don’t keep me waiting, Feng." Y/N’s heart pounded.

She took one last look at Wolf—his face unreadable now, all emotion locked away—before she turned and slipped into the nearest room, pressing herself into the darkness just as Wolf unlocked the door.

Wolf's POV:

Two knocks. Slow. Measured. I already knew who it was.

"Feng, it’s me."

Silver.

I clenched my jaw, rolling my neck once before unlocking the door. Made sure I didn’t glance back. If I did, if I saw her hiding in the shadows, I’d give it all away.

The door swung open, and there he stood—that knowing smirk, the gleam in his eye. A wolf in a suit, always ready to sink his teeth in.

"You took your time."

I didn’t answer right away. Just shrugged like I didn’t give a shit. "Was in the shower."

A slow, heavy pause. Then a chuckle. Cold. Calculated.

"You never were a good liar, Feng."

My grip tightened on the door. Steady. Controlled.

Don’t look back.

"Let’s go inside."

Not a question. A command.

I stepped back, keeping my movements loose, casual. The door shut with a quiet click behind him. And then—another set of footsteps.

Dennis.

I didn’t react. Didn’t tense. That’s what he wanted. A tell. A crack.

Silver wandered further in, running his fingers over the counter like he owned the place. Like he owned me.

"I don’t like being lied to, Feng."

Here it comes.

Dennis made a move toward the bedroom hallway, his boots heavy against the floor.

"Dennis, be a good sport and check the rooms, would you?"

My head snapped up, voice sharp. "I said there’s no one here."

He kept walking.

That’s when I moved. Just enough. Stepping into his path. Not a challenge. Not outright. But a wall.

Dennis held up his hands like he wasn’t about to press his luck.

Then—he let out a short laugh. "You’re lucky I’m lazy, man." He turned back, throwing Silver a look. "Place is clean."

I exhaled slowly.

"Told you."

Silver didn’t react. Didn’t argue. Just smiled and poured himself a drink. Unbothered. Too unbothered.

That’s when I knew.

"Come. Sit."

I didn’t move right away. Didn’t want to. But I did. Slowly. Unrushed.

Dennis leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Always watching.

Silver took a slow sip. Then he leaned forward.

"Do whatever it takes."

I didn’t blink. Didn’t react.

"Take them down."

Yeah. That much I knew.

It was what came next that almost made me slip.

Silver shifted closer, dropping his voice to something only I could hear.

"I know Y/N is here."

A slow sip of his drink. Then a small smile. Like we were sharing some private joke.

Like he hadn’t just put a gun to my head.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give him shit.

Just let the moment hang, heavy in the air.

Then Silver pulled back, his smirk widening. That’s what he wanted. The tension. The power.

"We’ll be in touch."

He stood. Dennis pushed off the wall, following. The door shut behind them.

I waited. Counted to ten. Then twenty.

I let out a slow breath.

Then—"Come out."

She stepped forward, eyes wide, breath unsteady.

And I lost it.

I pulled her in, held her tight, my hand curling over the back of her head as I pressed my lips to her hair. Eyes shut.

I could still hear Silver’s voice in my head. Still feel the weight of his words.

If he had found her—

No.

I pulled back, tilting her chin up. Her eyes searched mine. I didn’t like what I saw. Fear. Worry. For me.

I exhaled, voice rough. "You’re not leaving my sight, baby. Ever."

She swallowed, trying to play it off. "That bad, huh?"

I didn’t answer. Just brushed my thumb along her jaw.

She didn’t press. Just reached up, curling her arms around my neck.

I closed my eyes, breathed her in.

She was still here.

Still mine.

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

A/N: What do you think about me adding more of Wolf's POV's to the next chapters???

Tags- @emmagrace1328 @julielightwood @valianttyrantexpert @0ffurself @laughing-from-my-dumpster-fire

[paperultra]

space cadet.

Pairing: OPLA!Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader Word Count: 831 words Warnings: None

reverie (noun): a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream

You imagine the thoughts in your head as a forest of kelp at the bottom of the sea: dense, beautiful, brimming with life and all too easy to get lost in.

They’ve caused you trouble in the past. Countless rapped knuckles, letters sent home to your parents, walking into trees on the way home from school. But how could you resist? Empires rose and fell over the course of an hour inside your mind, mighty beasts swore their allegiance to you and the four seas were yours to explore. The childhood you had in the real world was so dull and lonely in comparison.

When you ran off and joined the Straw Hats, you finally had the excitement you had so craved. And yet, even now, your mind still wanders.

“If you swab the deck any more, we won’t have any left, sweetheart.”

Only a select few can bring you back.

You blink rapidly, the clouds dissipating as you stop scrubbing and look up. Sanji’s already smiling when you meet his gaze.

He lifts his hands; one offers a plate of shortbread cookies, the other a glass of milk.

“I’m going to guess that you haven’t had a break in a while,” he says. “Am I right?”

A break? Sending him a perplexed frown, you lean on the handle of your scrub brush and glance over your shoulder.

The side on which you had started winks back at you from afar, wood gleaming under the afternoon sun.

Oh.

“I … I guess so,” you reply slowly, turning back to him. It’s only then that you register the saltwater washing over your feet and the ache in your muscles. “I didn’t even realize …”

He shakes his head and chuckles, leading you to some nearby crates to sit down. “Too caught up in your stories again? I’m almost jealous that they get to spend so much time with you.”

“I don’t mean to make you worry.”

“Loving someone means worrying about them from time to time.”

He winks, and you smile, flustered.

“I see,” you say quietly. “Then thank you for worrying, Sanji.”

“Of course.” He hands you the glass of milk, then picks up a cookie and taps it against your lips. “Now, this is my best batch of sablés. You have no idea how hard it was to keep Luffy from eating them all in the kitchen.”

“I have some idea,” you drawl amusedly, taking a bite.

The cookie breaks with a gentle snap. It crumbles delightfully in your mouth, sugar and butter dancing on your tongue. A pleased hum rumbles in your throat before you wash it down with a gulp of cold milk.

“What do you think?”

“I think I might eat the whole plate right now,” you say, taking the other half of the cookie.

He grins. “So you like them.”

“They’re delicious.” Picking up another one, you hold it in front of his face. “Here.”

Sanji’s gaze remains locked with yours as he leans forward to take a bite of the cookie, his lips brushing your fingertips in an impromptu kiss before he pulls away. He chews thoughtfully. The action should not look as good as it does.

“My best batch, as I’ve said,” he tells you once he swallows. “But I’ve tasted sweeter.”

You tilt your head. “Where?”

His mouth curls into a smirk, and he places his fingers under your chin to bring your face closer to his. Your noses touch and you can feel his answer against your lips as he murmurs, “Right here.”

The rest of the crew may also have the pleasure of eating Sanji’s food, but they do not share your privilege of knowing just how talented he is at kissing.

He sets down the plate and lifts his hand to cup your jaw, meeting your lips and letting out a soft sigh before pressing his lips more fervently against yours. You can taste the smoke on his tongue, a constant underneath the warm sweetness of sugar and the saltiness of butter. Your eyes flutter closed, and you reach up to cradle the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly. The groan he lets out sends tingles down to the tips of your toes.

“Sweetheart,” he pants, and the longing in his voice would’ve made your knees buckle if you were standing, “I won’t be able to stop if you keep doing that.”

You put your glass of milk down so you can bury both hands in his golden hair. Your forehead touches his. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Maybe it is,” he mutters.

You bring him back in for another searing kiss that Sanji returns just as eagerly.

Yes, you value your time alone with your thoughts. They are a forest of kelp at the bottom of the sea, beautiful, countless, and wild.

But as easy as it is to get lost in your thoughts, it is infinitely easier to get lost in him.

[j-k-writes]

hi!! may i request i promised them i'd keep you safe and i should have been here. this is my fault with alicent?!

Summary - After the death of King Aegon II's firstborn son, Jaehaery's, Y/N Tyrell must face the consequences of his mysterious absence.

Warning - mentions of child death, general HOTD warnings

Y/N paced outside the room, heart pounding in his chest. He had only returned to the keep minutes ago, seeking out The Queen Dowager’s chambers. The news of Jaehaerys’ death had reached him that morning, and he had immediately mounted his horse and made his way toward the keep. He had nearly spilled his stomach over the banister of the keep at the sight of the blood stained bed sheets that were being carried out of the children’s bedchambers. Jaehaerys’ was just a boy, no more than a toddler, and yet he had become a martyr in the war between the dragons.  

Steeling himself, Y/N entered the room silently, bowing to the occupants. “My queen, my hand.” 

Otto Hightower stood furiously, rearing on the man. “Where have you been?” 

Y/N bowed his head in shame, refusing to meet the man’s eyes. 

“Well?” Otto asked again, grabbing Y/N’s face and making him meet his eyes. “The family of the king has suffered a horrible blow, and where were you? Whoring? Drinking?” 

He did not answer. 

“Father,” Alicent spoke, voice shaking. “Please leave us.” 

Otto scoffed at Y/N, releasing his face. “All this family has done for you, Y/N, and you have brought us nothing but shame.” 

Otto brushed past the man, slamming the door behind him. Y/N raised his gaze to meet The Queen Dowager’s, “Alicent I-” 

“Will you not answer the question?” She spoke. 

“Alicent I can't apologize enough.” Y/N said, voice cracking on his words. “I promised your brother I would keep you safe, and I have failed.” 

“I am fine.” Alicent said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It is my daughter and her family who have suffered. My daughter’s life was threatened and you were nowhere to be found. You promised me that you would protect this family, that your allegiance remained here no matter where your houses’ laid. Does your promise still hold true or are you to betray us as well.” 

“My loyalties have always been with House Hightower, Alicent. How can you doubt that?” Y/N took a step forward, taking Alicent’s hand in his. “You are right, I should have been here. This is my fault. But do not doubt my loyalty because of a foolish mistake.” 

“My grandson is dead!” Alicent cried out, grabbing Y/N’s face with both of her hands. “My children have lost their boy, and you cannot even tell me where you were.” 

Y/N grasped the hands on his face, “I am loyal to you and this house, please listen to me when I tell you it was a mistake, my love.” 

Alicent released him, “This is my punishment.” 

“Alicent-” 

“No.” Alicent walked away from the man. “We have sinned and my children are punished for it.” 

Y/N tried to reach out for Alicent, but she moved further away. She sunk into herself, and Y/N could only watch as the woman’s belief in him fell apart. She shook with sobs, refusing Y/N’s comforting gestures. 

“I want you to leave.” 

“Alicent please, you must believe me-” 

“Leave me!” Y/N froze, and Alicent’s face immediately fell. She turned from him, sobbing into her hand. 

“I will take my leave, your grace.” 

Y/N bowed, turning on his heel to walk out the room, Alicent’s sobs fading as he closed the door shut.

[bye-bye-sugar-blue-eyes]

As soon as Buddie becomes canon I want to see ALL the domestic moments between them:

Eddie jolts awake from a nightmare (about Shannon or his time in combat) and Buck just rolls over and holds him tight, foreheads pressed together, whispering calming words until he falls asleep.

I don't think they'd have pet names. Other than when they're teasing each other. But I do think someone (probably Buck) would try one out.

"Thanks babe." "Ew— what? No. Stop that." And that was the end of that. Yet (and Eddie would never admit this) he doesn't seem to mind certain terms of endearment during sexy times.

They still have their ✨kitchen moments✨, they're just cuter now. They talk about their problems while doing the dishes together, if one of them is doing something like chopping vegetables or stirring a pot the other most likely has their arms wrapped around them from behind with their chin on their shoulder, one of the cabinet doors is now broken due to being shoved into it while making out one too many times.

Buck LOVES when Eddie speaks Spanish. Whether it's first thing in the morning in a groggy voice or shouted at him during a fight. And Eddie has learned to use it to his advantage, getting Buck to do things by buttering him up in Spanish. Though he could literally just be reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and Buck would never know.

So they start to do little daily Spanish lessons. Starting with words or phrases of the day on the way to work (think similar to when May and Eddie would discuss the word of the day). But Buck has a hard time rolling his R's and it just makes Eddie laugh and stare at him fondly. One time he was so amused that he pulled a Fez from That 70s show: ("You know how Fez sometimes rolls his R's? Well that's what he did in my mouth!") and smirks, saying "Do it more like that." and Buck is stunned silent for a full minute. Eddie gets out of the car, opens Buck's door and had to unbuckle his seatbelt before Buck realizes where he is.

Whenever one of them is fuming from a fight with their parents the other pushes them down into a chair or the couch and stands behind them to rub their shoulders

One day Buck accidentally grabs the wrong 118 shirt and ends up wearing 'DIAZ' on his back all day and once he realizes he starts to strut around with a proud grin. Since then, he starts to purposely wear Eddie's clothes to tease him, knowing full well that it gets Eddie all hot and bothered.

Buck also gets more handsy at home since they're not allowed to show PDA at work. Sometimes he literally waits until the second they've stepped foot off the 118 property to grab Eddie's ass.

When Buck starts spiraling, going on and on about how he's not good enough and that's why everyone leaves him, Eddie will just subtly place a hand on his thigh or lower back. And it usually immediately calms him down.

If Buck can't sleep Eddie will wake up in the middle of the night and find him baking in the kitchen. He just sits at the table watching him, asking quietly, "Do you wanna talk about it?" Sometimes he does and other times Buck just shakes his head. So, while in comfortable silence, Eddie measures out the ingredients and hands them over when needed.

Eddie is embarrassed about just how many times he's tried to reach for something on a high shelf, tippy-toes and all, only to have Buck either lift him up so he can get it OR grab the item and hold it captive until Eddie gives him a kiss.

Very dramatic declarations of love or betrayal:

"I can't believe this." "Buck..." "I thought you loved me." "I do." "I once saw a long life together in the future. Now I'm not so sure..." "Okay, I'm sorry I watched the new episode without you!" "...I'm gonna need a minute."

"Buck, have I ever told you how goddamn perfect you are?" "Maybe. Might as well say it again. ☺️" "I'm serious. You can do nothing wrong and anyone who says otherwise can fight me." "Okay calm down. Do you fall in love with everyone who gives you an orgasm and then cooks for you afterward?" "...yes."

[moonselune]

hey hi! this one might be a bit too dark, but could you do one for the bg3 girlies where tav dies because of them? because of a decision they made for the party that backfired or something along those lines? xx

Ooo so sad, I only wrote teeny weeny drabbles for it but I hope you like it !

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach

Karlach’s eyes widened in horror as she saw your lifeless body on the battlefield. She had urged you forward, her confidence in your abilities unwavering. The realization struck her like a warhammer: you were dead because she had pushed you too hard.

“I told you to move forward… I thought you’d be fine,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Guilt clawed at her heart, and tears streamed down her face as she knelt beside you, cradling your head in her arms. “I’m so sorry, love. I never meant for this to happen. I'm sorry..”

The fire that usually burned so brightly within her seemed to dim as she wept, mourning the loss of the one person she truly loved. There were no flames, no fire, nothing left within her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara

Minthara stood frozen, her usual confidence shattered as she gazed at your lifeless form. She had told you not to worry about the male drow assassin, convinced that he was of no threat, dirt beneath your boots. But now, here you were, an dead testament to her misjudgment.

“I told you not to worry,” she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically soft and filled with regret. Her voice rising in a panic of unknown emotion.“I was wrong. I failed you.”

Her eyes, usually so cold and calculating, were now filled with a sorrow she had never felt before. She knelt beside you, her fingers gently brushing your cheek. “Forgive me, my love. I should have protected you.”

The fierce warrior who had always seemed invincible now felt the weight of her failure. She had lost you, and nothing in the world could ever make that right and the world would burn for it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae’zel:

Lae’zel’s heart sank as she realized what she had done. In the heat of battle, her focus had been solely on the enemy, and she had accidentally caught you in her crossfire. The sight of your still body brought her to her knees, her weapon clattering to the ground.

“No… No.. this can’t be,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to…”

Tears streamed down her face as she crawled to your side, her hands shaking as she reached out to touch you. The proud githyanki warrior was now a broken woman, her grief and guilt overwhelming. You had died by her blade, her hand. “You were my heart, my strength. How could I have done this to you?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart

Shadowheart’s heart ached as she saw you fall, the dark power of Shar’s smite still crackling in the air. She had always known that serving Shar came with risks, but she had never imagined it would lead to this. You lay lifeless before her, a casualty of her devotion to the dark goddess.

“No… not you,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Shar, why?”

She knelt beside you, her hands trembling as she tried to heal you, but it was too late. The tears she had held back for so long finally spilled over, her grief and guilt consuming her. “I’m so sorry, my love. I never wanted this to happen.”

Shadowheart realized the true cost of her allegiance. She had lost you, and the pain of that loss would be far greater than any other pain Shar could inflict on her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira

Jaheira’s heart broke as she saw you succumb to the shadowcurse. She had warned you about the dangers, but in the chaos of the fight, you had gotten caught in its grasp. She ran to you, her magic flaring as she tried to heal you, but the curse had already taken its toll.

“No, please,” she begged, her voice filled with desperation. “Stay with me, love.”

Tears streamed down her face as she held you close, her hands glowing with healing magic that could no longer help. “I’m so sorry. I should have protected you better.”

The grief and guilt overwhelmed her as she realized that she had lost you to the very thing she had fought against. She had failed you, and the weight of that failure would stay with her forever. She reluctantly pushed you away, realising that your transformation would cause you to turn on her. She couldn't kill you, not again.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Oof this was angsty, I couldn't help but add that last line for Jaheira, I was feeling especially cruel hehe - Seluney xox

[lchufflepuffcorn]

The Aftermath

Laenor Velaryon x Reader

Note: Hi! It's me (again). This time I've brought you Laenor!! And a bit of Laena, too.

Masterlist

Dragon!Hybrid Masterlist

Part One : Courting

Warning: None, children having crushes. Mild reaction to the thought of a mate bond being rejected.

“Nest?” You question before thinking better of it. And immediately, you can feel the warmth of embarrassment flood over your body when Leanor’s face started to decompose. 

“Our nest. Aren’t… didn’t you- We’re courting!” He finally manages to say, stuttering over his words. 

And right then and there, you knew that this was something way bigger than you’d ever thought it was. 

To say that Laenor was distraught by your lack of knowledge about dragonkin behaviour was an understatement. He’d spent the rest of the day shoving books and other documents about his kind into your arms so you could use your three months apart learning about it. He was adamant that you absolutely had to read them. 

His panic, you didn’t realize, was only to cover for the despair he and Seasmoke were feeling at the thought that maybe you’d reject him. When you left, the very next morning, he could barely wave your boat goodbye before crying into Laena’s arms. Shoulders racked with violent sobs and hiccuped laments of his probable abandonment of the mate he’d spent years trying to woo. 

His father was of no help. He wasn’t dragonkin; his allegiance was to the Sea™, and the Sea™ is ruled by itself only. 

“Laenor, darling.” She called from outside of his room, now wrecked by the bouts of folly that overtook him and his dragon spirit. 

The boy was lying facedown on his bed, dry tear marks on his cheeks still; his tail was curled around him like an arm protecting his insides, raw from the emotions. And his wings were draped like curtains over himself to keep the outside world out. Laenor didn’t answer his mother’s call, but she entered the room nonetheless. It’s Seasmoke that growls when she sits on the bed, too close to him for his current condition. 

“My love, I cannot help if I don’t know what ails you.” She tells him softly. Rhaenys wants to run her hands in her son's hair, to somehow relieve him from this depression he’s sunk into, but she knows better than to touch a hurting dragon. 

The boy gazed over his arms at his mother. His eyes red and bloodshot from his tears and lack of sleep. He’d look like an idol of gods long forgotten if Rhaenys didn’t find the sight of her only son so distressed; it’s heart-wrenching. “I’ve made a fool of myself.” He whines to her. 

Rhaenys can only melt at the thought. Her son, barely out of his childhood years, already thinks himself mateless, rejected. She can only imagine the war of emotion that must battle inside of his head. “My love…” She coos sweetly, leaning closer, without touching him. “They weren’t in the know. No one was made a fool.” She reassures him to the best of her abilities.

But Laenor’s gaze clouds with something akin to fury, and she’s forced to lean back as a snarl escapes him. “You don’t know. They looked horrified. And they’ve gone now, perhaps forever!” He rages, tearing another of his pillows to shreds with the taloned fingers he now has. Seasmoke is closer to control than Laenor is, Rhaenys realizes. It’s her turn to snarl. 

“They’ve not reached their destination yet; five days is a short time, and Ravens take longer.” She reminds him. Her words seem to rattle Laenor to a semblance of calmness again, and he recoils into the mess of feathers and furs that stands for his bed. 

“They were probably very surprised. Humans are not as sensible to their emotions as we are.” Rhaenys reminds the boy, running a hand through his hair finally. He simply sighs, nuzzling into his arms again. 

**

It’s two weeks after your departure that Laenor receives a letter from you. He’s nervous and shakes as he considers if he should open and read it or not. His stomach clenches uncomfortably inside of him, and cold sweat runs down his spine as if his life were being threatened. 

“Let me see.” Huffs Laena, taking the letters from him before Laenor could react. Under her breath, she insults him in some kind of way their parents would punish as she unsealed the paper. With your words, she finds a very small branch with leaves that make it seem like its from an olive tree. 

Laena giggles, and Laenor leaps from his seat to get the letter (and the branch) away from her. His heart’s beating into his ears, drowning out every other sound. Once he manages to get your letter away from his sister’s claws, his eyes are drawn to the elegant, yet still hesitant, calligraphy that he recognizes as yours. 

‘Dear Laenor,’ you write.

‘I must apologize for the way my last visit ended. It was not my intention to make you feel the way you did. I was simply surprised by your last revelation. I find now that it was not the best way to communicate it as such. I have not yet read the documents you’ve lent me, but the various titles and notes I saw whilst skimming through them make me believe it shall be very educational.’

“What are they saying?” Laena pesters him, trying unsuccessfully to read your words over his shoulders. 

“Stop it!” He warns her. 

‘You’ll be pleased to know that father expects to send me back to your side; the matters for which he wanted me home seem to have already been resolved. A raven came from King's Landing, apparently, but nobody wants to tell me what it was about or who sent it. Do you know about such a thing? Isn’t your cousin the princess? I forget myself.’

“What are they saying?” Laena pestered him again, her hands now holding Laenor still as she reads to the best of her abilities the letter in his hand. 

“Will you? It’s my correspondence!” He growls at her, wings morphing out of thin air to appear bigger than he is, trying to intimidate his older sister to back off. She responds by shifting the older, bigger wings of Vhagar out too. They glare at each other for a moment before Corlys enters the room; his face shows no emotion, except maybe annoyance, at their childish fights. 

“Do not destroy this place; your lady mother is quite fond of its decorations.” He tells them, before sitting down at the place he claimed at the head of said table. Both children retract their wings, and Laenor then flees to his room to read the rest of your words in peace. 

His heart now finally at peace and hopeful for when you'll be back again.

Taglist : @lady-dragon-rider

[reveluving]

I have another ideaaaa 👀 I imagine Santi and Benny being very flamboyant when it comes to showing their admiration for someone. Imagine Rick bringing lunch to reader’s unexpectedly just to see Santi bringing her flowers and Benny giving her the heart eyes. My poor flag baby might have a stroke just from the scene in front of hiiimmm!!

a/n: Aria, baby. it’s been a long ass time ✋🏼😔 BUT THE FIXATION IS BACK (kinda. largely because I’ve been reading fics after fics of Oscar & Pedro chars. RAAAAAH). so we’re here baby, after 1 ½? 2 years later???? ENJOY

warnings: humour & fluff; poor Rick just wants to love you in peace.

j.k. m.list (series under 'rick flag vs the triple frontier boys'), or check out my full m.list!

Oh, you know Rick’s eyes are TWITCHING. The paper bag in his hand, packed with lunch from your favourite stop, crumpling in his grasp, almost tearing at the top. Not the food though, he’s not trying to ruin his wife’s favourite. 

But he’s chill. Absolutely chill. He swears. 

Benny and Santi just had to stop by the same time he came home from work, both leaning against the white porch railing while you sat prettily on the bench. 

Benny was expressive in whatever he was talking about, likely his last boxing match from the way he was holding the air in a headlock before the three of you shared a laugh. As much of a troublemaker they were, they were your friends, after all. He’d chase them off his property or warn them with a glare any day if it meant cutting off any form of ‘allegiances’ with that horrible past, both yours and his.

Just when you were about to reply to God knows what they asked, you noticed Rick lingering by the mailbox. Your eyes lit up, and it didn’t take the duo any other hints to know that he was home.

“Rick!” You enthusiastically waved at your husband, beckoning him to sit on the bench next to you. Rick couldn’t help but smile back at you, walking over and ignoring the two until he reached the top step of the stairs.

“Boys.” He greeted them, going over to shake Santiago’s hand before Benny’s, flexing his hands as they shook to see if the other would break. None did, as usual, pulling away and somewhat putting the tension on hold in favour of you. Rick took a seat next to you, passing you the bag of food and a soft ‘there y’go, baby’ (but not really, he made sure the two would hear it). 

It took a few seconds, making sure he greeted you with a kiss before stretching his arm to lay on the backrest behind you.

“So, what’s the occasion?”

“The boys just came over to say hi. Gave me these flowers from the flower shop nearby,” You raised the calla lilies that were resting on your lap. Now, Rick was no flower specialist, but he has been to the shop countless times to buy you your own fix. 

And if he remembered correctly, they generally represented beauty.

Well played.

“And Santi was just telling me about this new Cuban restaurant just outside the neighbourhood.” You continued, turning to Santiago with an encouraging smile so he could tell Rick about it.

“Cuban restaurant, huh?” 

Santiago curtly nodded to his curiosity. 

“The best. Might even be your new favourite once you both try it.” He explained, only to glance at the paper bag Rick was holding—a look that was almost… Judgemental? Critical? All of the above? All Rick knew that the man before him was silently scoffing at his choice. 

And, well, Santi wouldn’t exactly deny that claim, either. 

Rick didn’t hide the scoff, only to pair it with a faux smile so you could take it as nothing more than a harmless banter, “Gotta be real good then. ‘Cause this here,” He cocked his head in the paper bag’s direction, “Is my wife’s favourite place. Our favourite place.”

Rick not only had to watch out for the bold claim Santi was making, but he also had to bear in mind the sight of Benny openly looking at you like a lovestruck puppy. The promising boxer didn’t even care about the passive-aggressive argument going on around him. He was just appreciating the beaut in front of him.

(Man’s just doesn’t give a shit atm).

“Hey, I’m not here to burst your bubble,” Santi huffed in amusement, raising his hands in a defensive way, “But I’m not trying to give the pretty girl any mediocre recommendations either. C’mon Flag, you, of all people, should know that we want the best for her.”

“Aw, Santi, you’re too kind.” You were touched and it showed, and Rick couldn’t argue with the statement. Without a doubt, he wants what was best for you, be it food, comfortable clothes, gourmet treats for the fucking neighbourhood cat you adore—anything. 

In the midst of their silent argument, you reached for Rick’s hand, holding his larger ones in between yours, “I’m sure Rick and I will enjoy it,” He mirrored the warm smile as you stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, only to break when you addressed the two, “And if it’s as good as you said it is, we might as well have a get together.”

Oh. 

You were growing concerned of the two’s silence, eyes darting back and forth and almost—almost asking what was wrong until Benny, as if snapped out of his trance, finally, spoke up. 

“Absolutely.” Benny raised his hand in a manner that a believer would in church. 

Abso-fucking-lutely.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

» gorgeous rose divider by the amazing @firefly-graphics ♡

[midnight-talescape]

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽(𝒵𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝓍 𝒪𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓁𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇)

Kinktober Day 15: Size Difference (sorta)

Brooooo u guys don’t understand I had like two more story planned the last two days but I couldn’t finish one and the Mewtwo one was literal garbage so I gave up 😭😭😭

So anyway heres the Zestial one that I promise, never in my life do I want to see thee thy and other similar language again I want to die.

I want to write egg laying so bad, but I shouldn’t.

Warning: egg laying, bdsm, bad use of Shakespeare language, ooc, etc etc you get the point not for kid

Genre: filthy filthy smut

Word Count: 3.2kish

｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡

Everyone have heard the rumor…

A powerful overlord who can grant ones wish in exchange for their soul and entertainment…

Zestial watched in silence, a dangerous smile on his lip as he thought back to the other overlords who have already sold their soul to you.

And how broken and shattered they become when their soul was returned.

The pain and agony they felt as they realize that they no longer entertain you, that they no longer deserve to be your toy.

When they realize that true desperation is when they can no longer feel your imprint on their soul.

As he heard the tell tale sound of butterflies, Zestial knows what he want…

As insane as it sound, he want to be own by you.

To become the most important soul you own.

｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡+☆+｡･ﾟ･｡

You hummed as you walked out of the shadow, stopping in front of him and doing a curtsy before greeting him.

“Hello, Zestial right? I’m here to make a deal with you for your soul.”

Zestial green eyes flick to you, his smile raising by a fraction, not at all surprise by your request. before he lean in closer to you. His tall, imposing figure loom over you, his black cloak billowing slightly in the choleric air of the Pride Ring.

"A deal, a pact, a contract. It is all a matter of give and take, is it not? So tell me, what dost thou offer in exchange for my soul?"

The lime green spider on his cloak seemed to dance and twitch with anticipation almost as if alive, the glimmer in his eyes matching with Zestial’s as he spoke.

Unfazed, although uncomfortable with how close he was to you, you take a few step back before answering, “What will you like in exchange for your soul? I can give you anything I can give.”

His smile grew as he watch you back away, a low chuckle escaping his throat. He took a step closer, closing the distance between you once more, wanting to be as close to you as possible.

"Thou art a curious one, are thou not? To offer such a tantalizing proposition without first knowing the desires of the one thou seek to bargain with.”

His gloved hand reaches out, gently tucking a strand of your black hair behind your ear, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“I crave not wealth, for I have already possessed much. Neither doth the power of the underworld intrigue me. No, what I do seek is something rarer than gold or gems. It is something intangible, yet just as precious."

The overlord's head tilts to the side, his gaze roaming over your form as if inspecting you, to memorize every curve of your body. "I offer thee my soul, my power, and my allegiance for as long as thou wants, if in return, thou wilt grant me one year of servitude. One year of unadulterated attention and affection from thee alone. Day and night, under thy tender care."

He extend his hand towards you, his voice lowering to a husky whisper. "Will thou accept my offer?" His eyes stared unblinkingly at you as he waited for your answer, his body trembling slightly in excitement,

“I accept your proposal.” You said almost immediately, shaking his hand without hesitation,

A year of your endless and boring existence, for a soul who will bring you entertainment. It was a deal you had no reason to decline.

With a snap of your finger, a beautiful clear crystal float out of your chest and stopped in front of him. Silently asking for Zestial to sign the deal.

Zestial reach out and gently took the crystal heart from your hand, cradling it in his large palms, studying the intricate etchings and runes etched elegantly along its surface.

"Thou art truly a generous one, to accept my offer so readily," he purred, his voice low and smooth as silk. "But know this, sweet one, I am a possessive creature, and thou art now bound to me."

He close his fingers around the crystal, feeling its warmth seeping into his skin as he began to forge the deal.

"I, Zestial, hereby pledge my soul, my power, and my allegiance to thee. In exchange, I demand thy servitude, thy care, and thy affection for one year. My signature is my binding word, sealed with my very essence."

As if on cue, a swirl of dark energy emerged from Zestial's chest, coiling around the crystal before sinking deep into its core.

Zestial let out a groan, the weight of his soul leave his body was both terrifying and exhilarating. After a few moment he calm down, his four eyes glowing and his breathing slightly ragged. In a instant as if unable to control himself, the overlord brought the crystal close to his lips, kissing it gently as if in a trance.

“D-don’t do that.” You pant out almost immediately, practically snatching the crystal back and placing it back your chest. Your skin flushing lightly as the sensation of his lip seems to be imprinted on your own soul,

Zestial doesn’t feel the least bit apologetic at his actions, finding your flustered state utterly charming.

"Apologies. Dost thou find my words unsettling, sweet one?" he asks, his eyes blinking almost playfully, "I assure thee, I merely meant to express my gratitude. For my soul is thine, and I, in turn, claim thee as mine. Mine to cherish, mine to protect, and mine to...possess."

His hand reach out, cupping your chin and tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brush over your lower lip, applying just the barest hint of pressure.

"But if thou art so easily undone by a mere glance or caress, then I fear what thou art in for during our year together."

His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you flush against his tall frame. The heat of his body seeped into you as gaze at your lips, then back up to meet your own. "Shall we seal our pact with a kiss, my dear? To mark the beginning of our arrangement?"

It was a absolutely scandalous request, especially for a gentleman like him. But he couldn’t resist. He want to know what your lip feels like under his.

Were they as soft as they look?

You look up at him, a rare moment of confusion in your eyes.

It was a odd request.

Or at the very least no one had dare ask that of you before.

But you nodded, after a moment of hesitation. You did agree to be his for a year, and you honor your deals.

You waited for hum to lean down to your height, before placing a chaste kiss on his lip, it was supposed to be quick and easy. But as you pull away, you felt him place his hand on the back of your head.

Zestial's eyes fluttered shut as he deepen the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a slow grace. He tasted of tea and something distinctly otherworldly, a flavor unique to the demons that inhabited the depths of Hell.

After a long moment, he reluctantly pulled away, leaving you breathless and flushed. He licked his lips, savoring the taste of you still lingering on his tongue, a grin spreading across his face.

"My, my... Thou art a delightful surprise," he purred, his voice husky with desire. "I cannot wait to unravel the many secrets thou holdest."

With a flourish, Zestial swept you up into his arms, cradling you against his broad chest. "Come, let us retire to my abode. I would hate for any to interrupt our little... celebration."

He carried you through a portal he summoned and you soon arrived in his bedroom. You let out a muffled groan when he dropped you onto his bed. His lip curling as he watched you bounce slightly on the plush bed, your form sinking into the silk sheets.

His knee press into the mattress as he lean down, caging you beneath his tall frame. His hands came to rest on either side of your head, his face mere inches from your own.

"Thou art as delicate as a flower, yet with a strength that belies thy fragile appearance,"

His eyes grew dark as he stare at your delicate neck. He lean down almost hungrily, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of scorching kisses in their wake as he tore at your shirt.

“Zestial…” your voice tremble as you pant out his name, instinctively arching your neck wanting to get away from his kisses.

Zestial smile against your skin as he heard the breathy moan escape your lips. He can feel your pulse racing beneath his lips, a delicious flutter that only stoke the flames of his desire. His hand trailed down your body, fingers splaying across your stomach, teasing the waistband of your pants.

"Shh, my sweet. There is no need to be afraid," he purred, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Just relax and let me take care of thee."

Without warning, a silken thread of webbing materializing between his fingers. In one swift motion, he wrap it around your wrists, binding them together above your head.

He lean back, leaving you bare before him. Your skin marred with scratches and love bite as he admire his handiwork with a grin. "There now, is that not better? Thou art positively radiant, all tied up and helpless like this."

You struggle unhappily as you were tied to the headboard. The thread was thin, but strong, holding firm against your movement and digging into your wrist.

“I don’t like being tied up…” you complain softly, trying not to tremble as you felt his sharp claw on your thigh,

Zestial's eyes gleamed with wicked amusement as he watched you squirm beneath him, your protests only serving to fuel his desire.

"Oh? But thou art so beautiful like this, my sweet," he purred, his hand sliding higher up your thigh. "Bound and helpless, at the mercy of my whims."

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "And as for liking it... Well, that remains to be seen, doth it not?"

His eyes rake over your form, drinking in every dip and curve. His hand gripping onto you, fingers digging into your thigh as he muse to himself. "I wonder... Shall I devour thee whole, or savor thee bite by bite?"

You open your mouth to say something, but he didn’t give you time. The next thing you know, his face was between your legs as you arched your back. Pressing your pussy into his mouth as you cried out, your leg wrapping tightly around his head as his tongue delved into your wet cunt.

"Mmm... Thou taste divine," he groan against your pussy as you grind into him, "I could feast upon thee for hours, days even."

Without further word, he buried his face back in between your legs. He could taste your arousal on his tongue, a intoxicating flavor that only spur him on. His tongue swirl around your sensitive bud, flicking and teasing until you were writhing beneath him.

His hands grip your hip tighter, holding you in place as he feasted on your cunt. He could feel your thighs trembling around his head, your moans and whimpers music to his ears. His actions were fueled by pure hunger, an insatiable need to taste and claim every part of you.

He want to hear you fall apart, want to feel you clench and spasm against his mouth as he drove you to the brink of ecstasy. His eyes lock onto yours, watching you with a predatory intensity as he continued his relentless assault on your cunt.

“D-don’t— too much!” You cried out, your body filled with unfamiliar sensations,

It was ironic.

As a demon who gain power through emotions, this was something you have never felt and least of all familiar with. You felt like your body was melting and all you can feel was his tongue in your pussy.

He could feel your control slipping, your defenses crumbling with each flick of his tongue and press of his lips, your body arching and writhing beneath him. Could sense your confusion and pleasure, and it only excite him further.

"Shh, my sweet," he purr, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your core. "Just let go. Let me take care of thee."

He felt your body tense, coiling like a spring ready to snap as your moans grow louder and desperate. He could feel your climax building, your walls fluttering around his tongue as he push you towards the brink.

With a final, hard suck, he sent you hurtling over the edge. Your body convulse, your thighs clamping around his head as you cried out in ecstasy. He lap and lick, prolonging your orgasm until you were a boneless heap on the bed.

As you pant on the bed, your skin glistening with sweat, he sat up licking his lip. "Mmm... Thou art exquisite when thou art undone. I look forward to doing that again... and again."

You let out a broken sob at his word, your leg still shaking as you try to come down from the high. You felt like your body was no longer yours, and the night haven’t even started.

After all this was just the beginning, and he was going to ravage you to the fullest.

With a lazy flick of his wrist, another strand of webbing shot out, binding your ankle to the footboard. He could feel the power thrumming through his veins, fed by your emotions and excitement. It was intoxicating, addictive even. You were now fully at his mercy, spread out and vulnerable before him like a feast waiting to be devoured.

"I could get used to this view," he said as he pull back, his eyes hungry as he stare at your bound form. "Thou art a work of art, my sweet. And I intend to worship every inch of thee."

His hand trails down your body, fingers ghosting over your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He could feel your body trembling beneath his touch, anticipation and fear mingling together in your veins.

You grit your teeth as you felt his cock head nudging at your entrance, the taper head forceful and insistent. You wanted to close your legs, the sheer size of it making you wonder if it will even fit, but the web left you unable to move. So you can only watch as Zestial sank deep inside you, your scream swallow by him as he kiss you.

He groan into the kiss as he felt your tight heat envelop him, your walls clenching around his cock. He could feel your body tense beneath him, your screams muffled against his lips as he sank deeper and deeper into your welcoming warmth.

He broke the kiss after a few seconds, watching you with a predatory intensity as he began to move. He started slow, giving you time to adjust to his cock, he could feel your body softening, yielding to him as he filled you again and again.

"Thou feel divine, my sweet," he groan, his pace becoming more erratic, more desperate. "So tight and perfect, like thou were made for me."

As he started to pick up the pace he could feel your body responding to his thrusts, your moans growing louder and more desperate with each passing moment.

“S-stop…” you managed to beg out, before you felt yourself cumming again,

Not even getting a chance to catch your breath before he was pounding into you again. It was only till you started losing count, did you felt his thrusting getting erratic as he get ready to fill you with his cum.

With a wail, your body tremble and shake as you felt Zestial crammed his cock into your womb, spilling his cum into you with a grunt as he tightened the web on your limbs.

You didn’t know how long it lasted, you just felt so so full. You couldn’t think or make a sound, your brain practically fried with unfamiliar sensations and pleasure.

Your face was wet with tears and your hair messy as it cling to your body. You couldn’t remember the last time you were so weak and vulnerable.

Not that you can remember much by this point.

After a few minutes, you let out a soft whine as you felt his cock still buried deep inside you. You look up at him your voice hoarse and broken as you ask,

“Are you not pulling out?”

Zestial laugh as he felt your body go limp beneath him, the sight of your overstimulated form feeding him just as much as the physical pleasure you brought him.

"Pull out, my sweet?" he repeated, his voice a low, husky rumble. "Whatever gave thee that idea? I have no intention of finishing our little... encounter so quickly."

To emphasize his point, he gave you another particularly hard thrust. You wailed and he could feel your walls fluttering around him again, your body still sensitized from your earlier climaxes.

"If anything, I intend to fill thee even further. To see thee swollen with my seed, my mark etched upon thy very flesh."

His hand slid down your body, coming to rest on your lower belly. "Wouldst thou like that, my sweet? To be bred and claimed, marked as mine for all to see?"

As he said that he ground his hips against yours again, and you felt something hard and ridged prodding at your entrance. With a sadistic smile, Zestial pushed forward, and you felt a strange, bulbous shape sliding into your womb.

Seeing the shock and confusion on your face, he stroke your belly softly, “Don't worry, my dear. These eggs are but a mere token of my affection for thee." his touch gentle compared to the brutal and lewd action he’s forcing upon you.

One by one, your womb was filled with his eggs. After a eternity, the last of them enter your womb and with a hint of disappointment Zestial pull out of you.

A whimper fell from your lip as he cut you free from his web, your body landing on the soft bed again as you immediately curl up. You can feel the eggs floating in the copious amount of cum inside your womb, pushing against each other and grinding against your sensitive wall. It was a absurd feeling, like you’re actually filled with his young.

Humming softly Zestial pulled you against his chest, his cock already hard again as he pressed it against your ass. Ignoring your instinctive struggle he whisper in your ears.

“Come now, my sweet. Be good and bear my eggs, for thou canst do that for me, canst thou not?”

Before you could answer he was already ramming his cock into your ass, his hand wrap around your throat as he begin to fuck you into oblivion.

You were going to lay those eggs eventually, but he certainly don’t mind fucking you through it. After all the night is long and you will be with him for a long long time.

[beingsuneone]

The One

SYNOPSIS: it would’ve been fun. If he would’ve been the one.

FANDOM: Harry Potter

PAIRING(S): Mattheo Riddle x Fem!Reader

RATING: G

CHARACTERS MENTIONED: Goyle, Crabbe, Draco, Theo, Pansy, Enzo, Blaise, Tom, Voldemort

GENRE/AU: Angst, Unhappy ending, Arranged Marriage Au!, reader is married to Goyle (not by choice),

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

WARNINGS: Angst

A/N: *cough* the 1 by Taylor Swift was my inspo. *cough* header and dividers made by me. I would also like to make a part two to this. Note: Voldemort/Toms son Tom Jr who looks exactly like him! (Pre-Voldemort)!AU hope this helps.

DEDICATIONS: the people who voted for him in the poll :)

CREDITS: N/A

The silver band on your finger glistens in the bright lights of the wedding hall, looking anything but enticing; instead of a symbol of love and comfort, it was like a shackle that tied you to a man you didn’t love forever.

Your eyes scan the crowd for the millionth time this evening, trying to seek out a pair of familiar brown eyes— your heart drops for the millionth time this evening, and you realize all over again that no matter how many times your eyes search for his, it will not make him appear.

He won’t come, you know that now as your new husband leans over to ‘kiss the bride’.

You try to wipe the disappointment off of your face, let go of his messy brown curls and smooth words, his rough hands and intoxicating scent.

Mattheo Riddle wasn’t yours to think about anymore; the man in front of you was.

Why your father thought a marriage alliance with Gregory Goyle would help your family, you’ll never know.

Worse, Goyle was, at one point, at least a decent friend of yours; You, Mattheo, Draco, Theo, Enzo, Blaise, Tom, Goyle, and Crabbe, used to strut around Hogwarts like you owned the place— let’s be honest, you damn near did. You and your protective group of Slytherins.

You allow your lips to touch Goyle’s for only a moment before you pull back and smile cordially; the two of you walk arm-in-arm down the aisle until you reach the doors at the end.

The moment you’re through, you push him away.

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” He says sadly. “If I could have said no, I would have.”

You shake your head, not even listening. “He didn’t even come, Goyle. I thought he’d at least try.”

Goyle sighs. “It wasn’t up to any of us. Not even Mattheo.”

Your eyes sting so you force your face to go deadpan and stare at Goyle. “I will always love you as a friend, Goyle, but I will never love you as anything more.” You say, retreating towards your dressing room.

He says nothing in return. He doesn’t need to. The feeling is mutual.

You enter your dressing room and release a strained breath, resting your head against the door after you close it.

Taking a deep breath, you allow yourself to daydream; to think what this day would be like if Mattheo was the one wearing a suit, the one saying his vows and sliding a ring onto your finger. You let yourself imagine all of the things you would’ve shared with him in this alternate reality, all the joy you might’ve felt. The future you might’ve been able to look forward to.

A tear slips silently down your cheek as your throat closes, suffocating you in the feelings you wish you were feeling.

Someone clears their throat and your eyes fly open, as your whole body snaps stick straight.

It’s your father, sitting eery and alone in a dark room. “You had to grow up one day, Y/n,” he says as his cold gaze sweeps over you. “Stop running around with that Riddle kid and risking your future.”

You shake your head. “The only real future I had was with him, Father.” You tug on the skirt on your wedding dress, and then your hair. “All this— this glamour and camaraderie is you, father, you playing puppeteer with real live people. I don’t know what status you think you’ll get from Goyle, of all people.”

Your father just sneers and pulls up his sleeve— an elaborate tattoo meant to symbolize his allegiance to Voldemort. The dark mark. He says, “You know exactly who that boy’s father is, and exactly where that puts me in relation.” He pauses. “This is what the Dark Lord wanted, Y/n.”

“…what?” Your mouth hangs open, and you wonder why the dark lord would want to torment you personally. “Why would he… I don’t understand.”

Your father just brushes past you and twists the door open. “If the Dark Lord doesn’t tell, you do not ask.”

……

“You’re going to marry him, right?” Pansy asks, smiling at you in the way that friends do when you have a crush on someone.

You shrug, playing it cool but despite your heart going a thousand miles a minute; excitement courses through your veins at the thought of Mattheo. “I think we’d have to become an actual thing first, Pansy.” You laugh.

She winks at you playfully. “I don’t think that’ll take too long, Y/n, He is whipped for you.”

You shake your head. “He is not.” Your heart still flutters.

“He is.” A new voice cuts in, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You turn to face Mattheo, who is now leaning in the doorframe.

What an entrance.

Pansy looks between the two of you and smirks mischievously. “I‘ll leave you two alone and go bug Blaise.” She slips past Mattheo.

You can’t meet his eyes as you grin stupidly at the floor, and the shirt in your hand.

“You talk about me often?” He says, settling on the floor next to you; he breaks you out of your stupor by gently tugging the shirt out of your hands.

You finally look at him. “No, only when Pansy brings you up. Which is always.” You bite your lip as you smile. “I don’t mind it though, you’re one of my favourite subjects.”

“That’s good,” he agrees, toying with a lock of your hair. “I think the guys are sick of hearing about you.”

“Of course they are,” you banter, “They already know everything about me.”

Mattheo leans in closer. “I don’t think they know everything.” His head dips down until his lips are just millimeters from yours. “They wouldn’t know what your lips feel like, would they?”

He bridges the gap and the two of you spent what is probably several minutes just kissing, and when he pulls away you’re breathless.

“No, I don’t think they know that.” Your voice comes out high-pitched, still trying to catch your breath both mentally and physically.

“I hope they never find out.” He says quietly.

You nod absent-mindedly. “Me too.”

….

You sigh deeply and set down the box in your new living room. Trying to put a positive spin on it, you think about how it won’t be terrible living with a friend instead of your parents, who were never there when they needed to be and always there when you needed them to leave.

Emotionally and physically.

You and Goyle are throwing a housewarming party, per his mothers request; so, technically this box really shouldn’t be in this room right now. It needs to be prepped for the party.

Goyle walks into the room. “Malfoy wants to know if he should invite Mattheo.”

You shrug. “Tell him to invite him, I don’t think he’ll show up either way.” Getting over Mattheo has not been easy, and when you think about him, his absence still sends several intense stabs through your heart.

You can still feel the ravines where the cracks in your heart formed. If he did show up, it would either put you on the path to healing or destroy you all over again and possibly forever.

You were fully prepared for the latter if it meant seeing him one last time.

But he won’t show, just like he wasn’t there when you really needed him just a few months ago, when some other man’s ring was being slipped onto your finger and you were near powerless to stop it.

Goyle stares at you for minutes, as if you’re fragile and need to be handled gently. “It is short notice.”

You pick the box back up and walk past him, just to stop at the foot of the stairs. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Then, you go upstairs and place the box in the guest bedroom. You have all this space in your new house and absolutely nothing to do with it.

Rooms filled with expectations and soured dreams.

….

Parties should be fun; this cake, considering it’s your favourite flavour, should taste good. You’re surrounded by the faces of your closest friends, all your family— though you aren’t fond of many of them— and all of Goyle’s family. Yet, all you feel is unfulfilled aching for Mattheo.

You feel so pathetic, always thinking about Mattheo, always relating everyone moment to your first love.

But you had wanted him to be your last. Your only. Your everything.

Draco is here, and he’s the one who asked about inviting Mattheo, so you’re pretty sure he’s not coming and you know you absolutely shouldn’t ask.

Instead, you stare at Draco as you eat the tasteless cake, wishing he’d somehow understand what you wanted to know.

Doesn’t help that he’s across the room.

“Y/n, come upstairs for a minute.” Pansy says, dragging you away from the party and into your bedroom. Or what will be your bedroom, anyways.

When the door has shut and she’s locked it, she turns back to you. “You can’t spend the whole party pining over the possibility of Mattheo showing up, Y/n; I know how much he means to you but you have to accept that you’re married and it’s over. You’re only going to hurt yourself more if you keep obsessing over this.”

You reel back, though you’re thankful for how bluntly Pansy says it. “I know, Pansy, I know. I just— I don’t know if can ever get over him. I mean…” You trail off trying to find your words. “Goyle was probably the last person out of our group that I would’ve chosen if I couldn’t have Mattheo. Truly, I think I could live if it was Enzo, or Theo, or even Draco, but not Goyle.”

She sighs. “But it’s not them, and it is Goyle.”

“So, what now?” You huff. “I’m just supposed to… I don’t know, keep his house and have his kids?”

Pansy’s eyes soften but she doesn’t respond; its a rhetorical question and there really isn’t any proper answer for it.

Then, there is a knock at the door. Pansy unlocks and opens the door, just enough for her to see who it is.

When she does, she says nothing. You watch her slip out the door before you even see who is behind it.

And then he steps in.

Mattheo Riddle.

“Hello, Y/n.” He says, so plainly as though he hasn’t just affected you in more ways than you could ever possibly count.

You look away. “You actually came.”

He clears his throat. “I did.”

You can almost picture him a few years back, standing in your dorm room door, smiling at you in that teasing way that made you knees weak.

Except he’s not smiling, and there is absolutely nothing blissful about this moment.

“There’s something I have to tell you.” Mattheo shuts the door behind him. “If it changes anything at all.”

…..

“There’s something I want to tell you, y/n.” Mattheo says one day, cryptically. “I’m just not sure if I should yet.”

You brush his hair out of his face. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, whenever you’re ready.”

He shakes his head, but he’s not disagreeing. “I’m worried you’ll see me differently.”

“There is nothing in the world that could make me see you differently, Mattheo.”

He seems sated by your words, and pulls you into a hug, resting his chin on top of your head. The two of you stay like that for a long while before he finally says, “I’ll tell you, but not today.”

You nod silently and focus on the feel of his arms around you, not wanting to take a single moment with him for granted.

…..

“What is it, Mattheo?” You say exhaustedly while you sit down on the mattress. “What could you say that would change anything?”

He takes a deep breath and sits beside you. “I know why this is happening, why Voldemort singled you out.”

You look up at him. “Mattheo…” trailing off, you stare at his sleeve in horror, dreading what you think he’s going to say. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

He furrows his eyebrows, following your gaze; when he realizes, his eyebrows shoot up again. “No! No, That’s not why I know.”

You visibly deflate with relief. He instinctively curls his arm around you but then quickly pulls it away. “Okay,”

He chuckles dryly. “My reason is actually much worse.” Mattheo pauses, blowing out a breath. “I’m his son.”

.

.

.

After a moment's hesitation, you shoot up from your spot, your eyes blown wide with disbelief. “Mattheo, you cannot be serious.”

He stands up, and sits you back down, trying to keep you calm. “It’s not like I want to advertise that my father is the most notorious dark wizard in history.” He reaches out and pushes a strand of hair out of your face, like you used to do to him so many times. “But he didn’t want you with me, Y/n, all of this is happening to you because of me.”

He sinks down to his knees in front of you and takes your hands in his.

“So,” You start. “I was personally targeted by the dark lord because you couldn’t bother to mention what’s probably a very important detail.”

His fingers tighten around yours. “I was so scared that you wouldn’t love me anymore if I told you, and then, by the time you were engaged, it was too late.”

You push his hands away. “Mattheo, I would have loved you no matter what you told me.” The hurt in your voice makes him back away from you and you can see the pain swirling in his eyes too.

“I told you. You know. Now, we can fix this.”

“No, Mattheo,” You stand up and push him towards the door. “It’s too late. You’re too late.”

He shakes his head rapidly. “No. No, it’s not.” Mattheo tries to stop you from opening the door but ultimately you push him over the threshold. “Please, Love, We can make it work— we could run away, do anything— please.”

You can’t look at him as you speak, while tears flow freely down your cheeks. “We were something, don’t you think so?”

His face falls, and you can see his heart shatter— you can feel your heart mirror his.

Perhaps, though, the most painful part is when he replies; “Yeah, we were.”

All content belongs to @beingsuneone , do not repost, copy or post on other platforms without my permission.

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, sexual assault, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 3]

(Chapter 73)

Don’t Trust Anyone

Y/N barely had time to process what was happening before Nick Fury staggered inside, breath heavy, jacket splattered with blood.

But he was alive.

Battered, yes, but not dying—not yet.

She caught his arm as he swayed. “Jesus, Fury, what the hell happened?”

Fury grunted, pulling himself toward the couch. “A rough night.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

She didn't doubt that.

Fury collapsed onto the couch with a heavy sigh, pressing a hand to his side. Y/N immediately disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a towel and a bottle of whiskey. She handed him both.

Fury raised an eyebrow. “What’s the whiskey for?”

Y/N smirked. “Pain.”

He snorted but took a swig anyway.

She sat on the armrest beside him. “So… you need a place to crash?”

Fury sighed. “For now.”

Y/N didn’t question it. Didn’t even hesitate. She had a habit of trusting the people she cared about, even when she probably shouldn’t. She knew Fury didn’t fully trust her. Her confidentiality status when they’d first met. He was unsure of her allegiance, her origins. And, although she’d proven herself he never fully trusted her since Loki. But he was desperate, and he trusted Steve.

“Alright,” she said easily. “Make yourself at home. Just don’t steal my stuff.”

Fury huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “No promises.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Y/N watched him carefully—his injuries weren’t fatal, but there was something else there, something simmering beneath his usual hardened exterior.

Something was wrong.

But before she could press further, the front door opened, and Steve walked in.

“Hey, I—” Steve froze mid-step, eyes landing on Fury sprawled across the couch, drinking her whiskey.

Y/N waved a hand. “Hey, Steve. Fury’s crashing here.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

Fury didn’t miss a beat. “My wife kicked me out.”

Steve blinked. “You’re married?”

Fury shushed him immediately, eyes darting around the room as if someone was listening.

Y/N’s amusement faded. He’s being paranoid.

Or…

He’s right to be.

Fury grabbed his phone, thumb moving across the screen, then turned it toward them.

Ears everywhere.

Y/N felt a chill creep up her spine.

Steve, ever the soldier, didn’t react. He just nodded, playing along. “That bad, huh?”

Fury grunted. “You have no idea.”

Another moment passed before Fury picked up his phone again, typed something else, then subtly turned it toward them again.

S.H.I.E.L.D. compromised.

Y/N barely had time to process those words before—

CRACK.

Glass shattered.

The air exploded with movement.

Gunfire tore through the room, sending Fury jerking forward as three bullets ripped into his back.

Y/N reacted instantly, lunging toward him, catching him before he hit the floor. “Fury!”

Steve was already moving, grabbing his shield, eyes darting toward the shattered window.

Fury gasped, hand shaking as he reached for something in his pocket. He shoved a small flash drive into Steve’s hand, gripping it tightly.

His voice was a rasp of air and blood.

“Don’t trust anyone.”

And then his body went limp.

[amber-laughs]

Jon and Catelyn: The Accidental Progeny

Survival

Catelyn saw the shadow slip through the open door behind him. There was a low rumble, less than a snarl, the merest whisper of a threat, but he must have heard something, because he started to turn just as the wolf made its leap. They went down together, half sprawled over Catelyn where she'd fallen. The wolf had him under the jaw. The man's shriek lasted less than a second before the beast wrenched back its head, taking out half his throat. A Game of Thrones - Catelyn III

And suddenly the corpse's weight was gone, its fingers ripped from his throat. It was all Jon could do to roll over, retching and shaking. Ghost had it again. He watched as the direwolf buried his teeth in the wight's gut and began to rip and tear.  A Game of Thrones - Jon VII

Reassurance

Her hand groped beneath her cloak, her fingers stiff and fumbling. The dagger was still at her side. She found she had to touch it now and then, to reassure herself. A Game of Thrones - Catelyn IV

He flexed the burned fingers of his sword hand. Longclaw was slung to his saddle, the carved stone wolf's-head pommel and soft leather grip of the great bastard sword within easy reach. A Storm of Swords - Jon II

Family

His mouth tightened. "And you see fit to loose the Kingslayer. You had no right." "I had a mother's right." A Storm of Swords - Catelyn I

“You wanted a way to save your little sister and still hold fast to the honor that means so much to you, to the vows you swore before your wooden god." She pointed with a pale finger. "There he stands, Lord Snow. Arya's deliverance.” A Dance with Dragons - Melisandre I

Vengeance

"Give me Cersei Lannister, Lord Karstark, and you would see how gentle a woman can be," Catelyn replied. A Game of Thrones - Catelyn XI

"It's death and destruction I want to bring down upon House Lannister, not scorn." A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

Pain

When Loras Tyrell unhorsed him, many of us became a trifle poorer. Ser Jaime lost a hundred golden dragons, the queen lost an emerald pendant, and I lost my knife. Her Grace got the emerald back, but the winner kept the rest." "Who?" Catelyn demanded, her mouth dry with fear. Her fingers ached with remembered pain. A Clash of Kings - Catelyn IV

Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear's best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chance was there that Mormont's letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through his burned fingers. "What of my sisters?" A Game of Thrones - Jon VIII

Intuition

"Robb." She stopped and held his arm. "I told you once to keep Theon Greyjoy close, and you did not listen. Listen now. Send this man away. I am not saying you must banish him. Find some task that requires a man of courage, some honorable duty, what it is matters not… but do not keep him near you."  A Storm of Swords - Catelyn II

All of a man's crimes were wiped away when he took the black, and all of his allegiances as well, yet he found it hard to think of Janos Slynt as a brother. There is blood between us. This man helped slay my father and did his best to have me killed as well. "Lord Janos." Jon sheathed his sword. "I am giving you command of Greyguard." A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

Inheritance

"That is as cruel as it is unfair. Jon is no Theon." "So you pray. Have you considered your sisters? What of their rights? I agree that the north must not be permitted to pass to the Imp, but what of Arya? By law, she comes after Sansa... your own sister, trueborn… " A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V

I had hoped to bestow Winterfell on a northman, you may recall. A son of Eddard Stark. He threw my offer in my face." Stannis Baratheon with a grievance was like a mastiff with a bone; he gnawed it down to splinters. "By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa." A Dance with Dragons - Jon I

Peace

"Wars need not be fought until the last drop of blood." Even she could hear the desperation in her voice. "You would not be the first king to bend the knee, nor even the first Stark." […] Robb's face was cold. "Is that why you freed the Kingslayer? To make a peace with the Lannisters?" "I freed Jaime for Sansa's sake . . . and Arya's, if she still lives. You know that. But if I nurtured some hope of buying peace as well, was that so ill?" A Storm of Swords - Catelyn IV

"If it please m'lord, the lads were wondering. Will it be peace, m'lord? Or blood and iron?" "Peace," Jon Snow replied. "Three days hence, Tormund Giantsbane will lead his people through the Wall. As friends, not foes. Some may even swell our ranks, as brothers. Now back to your duties." A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

Fear

In the midst of slaughter, the Lord of the Crossing sat on his carved oaken throne, watching greedily. There was a dagger on the floor a few feet away. Perhaps it had skittered there when the Smalljon knocked the table off its trestles, or perhaps it had fallen from the hand of some dying man. Catelyn crawled toward it. Her limbs were leaden, and the taste of blood was in her mouth. A Storm of Swords - Catelyn VII

Men were screaming. Jon reached for Longclaw, but his fingers had grown stiff and clumsy. Somehow he could not seem to get the sword free of its scabbard. A Dance with Dragons - Jon XIII

Death

"Make an end," and a hand grabbed her scalp just as she'd done with Jinglebell, and she thought, No, don't, don't cut my hair, Ned loves my hair. Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold. A Storm of Swords - Catelyn VII

Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold… A Dance with Dragons - Jon XIII

Resurrection

“Sometimes she felt as though her heart had turned to stone.” A Game of Thrones - Catelyn VI

“Instead, he blamed Jon Snow and wondered when Jon's heart had turned to stone.” A Feast for Crows - Samwell III

[kezdispenser]

FIERCE ALLEGIANCE

Chapter 4: Habitual Gestures

Summary: Y/N, a Miyagi-Do student, accidentally walks into Sensei Wolf’s training room during the Sekai Taikai. She watches him train, captivated by his raw and aggressive style. When he notices her, he doesn’t mind the intrusion, and their brief exchange leaves her intrigued. As she leaves, she’s left wondering about the man behind his cold, egotistical exterior.

Y/N was breathless, sweat beading along her collarbone as she circled Hawk on the mat. Their sparring session had slowed, but the heat of the fight still lingered between them. Hawk smirked, shaking out his arms.

“You’re getting faster,” he said, his voice carrying that usual cocky charm.

Y/N rolled her shoulders. “Or maybe you’re getting slower.”

Hawk chuckled, stepping in closer. Too close. “Nah, I think you just like giving me a hard time.”

Before she could step back, he reached up, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering a little too long. His eyes flickered to hers, waiting. Testing.

The door creaked open.

Y/N stiffened. She didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.

Sensei Wolf stood in the doorway, a wall of silence and something far more dangerous. His eyes locked on Hawk’s fingers still near her face, and though his expression barely changed, the shift in the air was instant.

Hawk, oblivious, let his hand drop. “Need the room, Sensei?”

Wolf said nothing.

The weight of his stare did all the talking.

Hawk glanced between them, picking up on something unspoken, then stepped back with a casual shrug. “I’ll see you later, Y/N.”

The door shut behind him.

Wolf still didn’t move.

Neither did she.

The air between them vibrated with something too sharp, too consuming. She could feel it creeping up her spine, tightening in her chest.

Then, in a single breath, Wolf closed the distance.

He didn’t hesitate. His hand gripped the back of her neck, firm but careful, his fingers threading into her hair. His other hand settled against her hip, fingers pressing just enough to make her shiver.

And then his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t rushed, not like before. No, this was slow, deliberate—like he wanted her to feel every second of it. His lips were warm, rougher than she expected, moving with a control that only made her want more.

Her hands found his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt as he deepened the kiss, tilting her head back just slightly. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like he wanted to memorize the way she tasted, the way she melted against him.

Then his hand slid—fingers ghosting along her jaw, down the curve of her throat, pressing lightly where her pulse thundered beneath his touch.

She exhaled sharply against his lips, and that was it.

The restraint snapped.

His grip tightened, pulling her flush against him, his breath hot against her mouth as he kissed her deeper, hungrier. His fingers pressed into her hip, anchoring her against him like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

Y/N’s head spun, her body caught between instinct and desire, logic and recklessness.

Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he let go.

Not all the way.

Just enough to make her chase the space he left behind.

His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling in the silence.

Then, voice low, rough, he murmured, “Tell me he touches you like that again, and I swear—”

Y/N’s breath caught. “You don’t own me, Wolf.”

His fingers flexed against her skin. “No.” A slow inhale, measured, controlled. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll let him have you.”

The space between them pulsed, the tension wrapping tight, unrelenting.

This wasn’t just a moment.

It was a warning.

And Y/N had no idea whether she wanted to heed it—or break it entirely.

Wolf’s fingers lingered at the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the barest circle against her skin, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Then, without warning, he leaned in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her forehead—soft, but heavy with something unspoken.

When he pulled back, his eyes locked onto hers, steady and unreadable, but there was something in them—something dangerous, something consuming. His lips quirked, just slightly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

“See you out there, mi ruina,” he murmured, voice like a low promise.

She froze.

It wasn’t just a nickname. She knew enough Spanish to understand what it meant—my ruin.

Her breath hitched, a slow realization sinking into her bones as he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there—heart pounding, skin burning, and the weight of his words carving themselves deep into her chest.

Y/N’s mind was still buzzing from the fight, the rush of adrenaline from the victory and the noise of her teammates celebrating behind her fading into the background. But her thoughts were elsewhere, focused on him.

She barely heard Robby calling after her as she darted out of the room, her legs moving on their own. She knew exactly where she was going.

The locker room was quiet, just the echo of her footsteps bouncing off the walls. She hadn’t even realized how badly she needed to be here until she saw him—Wolf, leaning against the lockers, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp the second they met hers. There was a moment of stillness between them, as if everything around them had stopped.

She didn’t think, didn’t plan it—she just moved. Before she even realized what she was doing, her arms were around his neck, her body pressed close to his, her breath shallow. The rush of victory was still there, but now it felt almost secondary to something else that had been building up for a while.

“I won,” she murmured into his ear, her voice shaky with excitement. “I really won.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tighter as she let herself sink into him. There was something about his presence that calmed her, something that made her forget about the fight, the noise, the expectations. Just him.

His hands slid down her back, fingers brushing lightly against her skin as he pulled her even closer. She could feel the heat of him, the steady rhythm of his breath, and for a moment, all the tension, all the rivalry, seemed to melt away.

His lips brushed against the side of her head as he murmured, “I knew you would.”

But it wasn’t just that. The way he held her, the way he responded to her, made her feel something she wasn’t ready to admit to herself—something that went beyond their usual games, their back-and-forth. She’d always thought she hated him, that he was nothing but a challenge, but now... now everything felt different.

Y/N pulled back slightly, her hands still resting on his shoulders, her chest rising and falling with every breath. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way he looked at her, something raw and unspoken that made her heart race.

She didn’t know what it meant, didn’t know how to say it, so she didn’t say anything at all. She just leaned in, her lips finding his again, this time slower, more deliberate. There was no hesitation, no questions. Just the quiet certainty that they both felt something they couldn’t ignore.

When they broke apart, the silence between them was thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Y/N didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, so she just let the moment hang there.

Wolf’s eyes never left hers as he brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Good fight,” he said, his voice low.

Y/N nodded, still breathless. She didn’t need to say anything more. She didn’t need to tell him what she was feeling. It was there, in the way they were standing, in the way their bodies still felt like they belonged together. And for the first time, she wasn’t fighting it.

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A/N: How do you guys like this?? My mind is swimming with ideas rn, so im using it to its max capacity and this is the result.