#always singing in the back of your mind : the fates

[rkiveslibrary]

Chapter 1

Summary: You finally achieved your dream of writing and publishing a book and it goes well. It goes so well, your publisher wants you to write a second book. The only problem is the fans want it to be spicier and you have only had one very lackluster sexual partner in your life. Enter Kim Taehyung the cocky fuckboy of your past who is willing to lend a hand to a “friend” in need

Word Count: 4.5K

Paring: Taehyung/Reader (Side Jikook)

Rating: 18+

Tags: teasing, use of nicknames, POV switch, Taehyung's behavour is kinda gross in this one sorry, flirting. (Not much to tag because it's the first chapter)

Authors Note: I started this story in March and the fact that it is finally being posted is making me kind of emotional! LOL. As always thank you for reading!

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“Hi, welcome to The Oasis. What can I get…you?”

Your voice trails off as you see the couple standing in the doorway, taking in the small café with its warm brown tones and earthy greens.

Your eyes fall on the man with the dark, fluffy hair, and you recognize him immediately.

Your hands curl into fists at your side, blunt nails digging into the skin as you wish you could evaporate on the spot.

Cocky fuckboy, past captain of the soccer team, Kim Taehyung, and his flavour-of-the-week girlfriend just stepped foot into your workplace, and you had no choice but to serve them because you promised to take over for Morena, who needed to take an important phone call.

This must have been a cruel twist of fate, a punishment for something, because normally, you didn’t work the front counter.

You were much more comfortable in the back, rolling out dough and singing along to songs from the small old-school radio Mi-Suk graciously provided to give you something to listen to while you worked.

Every once in a while, you would choose to listen to music on your phone, opting for songs from your high school and university years that would throw you into a comforting wave of nostalgia.

The man in front of you was a very unwelcome wave of nostalgia, and when his dark eyes finally connected with yours from across the store, they widened in shock for only a brief moment before he was sliding up to the counter with a cocky smile on his face and his girl in tow.

You had not seen him in almost three years, but he still looked the same. Fluffy brown hair that was always a little messy in an endearing way, deep brown eyes, a small freckle on his nose, a wide, boxy smile, and pouty lips that got him out of a lot of trouble.

People tended to bend over backwards for Kim Taehyung, and it infuriated you to no end.

He was just a guy. Sure, he was handsome, but that didn’t give him superpowers or make him important.

But throughout your university years, you watched countless girls fall over themselves just at the mere presence of him walking around.

It was annoying.

“Well, hello. I didn’t know you still worked here.” He said in a smooth baritone voice that reminded you of old jazz music.

“Yeah, I do, though usually I work in the back. So what can I get you?” You ask, trying to get this interaction over as quickly as possible.

Taehyung’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and you know he isn’t going to let that happen.

Lovely.

“Come on, BabyBlue, work with me here. I haven’t seen you in ages, and that’s all you give me.” He croons with a pout on his lips that makes you roll your eyes.

In the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t roll your eyes at customers, but you figured someone as infuriating as Taehyung was the exception.

“Don’t call me that ridiculous name, Taehyung.” You bite out as he grins at the furious look on your face.

You thought he would have grown up in the years since you graduated, but it seemed he still was the same pain in the ass as he was back then.

“Oh, sorry BabyBlue, I didn’t know you hated that name. My bad.” He teased in a sarcastically sweet tone as his eyes flicked down to your chest.

That nickname was all his fault anyway.

Taehyung was drunk at a house party and tried to peel you from your very comfortable spot leaning against the wall to dance with him, only to accidentally wobble on his feet and spill his drink all over your favourite baby blue cropped shirt, which was very thin and very see-through, meaning in a matter of minutes everyone in your vicinity could see your nipples poking through the damp fabric.

Taehyung never once apologized; instead, he said, “Oops,” with a boxy grin, and you had to leave the party early before the stain could set in.

While everyone moved on, Taehyung adopted the nickname BabyBlue for you to commemorate that night.

“You know I hate it, Captain.” You shot back as his eyes widened in surprise, but a grin was still plastered on his lips.

You knew you wouldn’t wound him with that name.

Especially since he was the one to come up with that himself.

“Um, do you two have a history or something?” The girl next to him asks as you finally tear your gaze away from his dark eyes and focus on her.

She is shorter than Taehyung, with long curly hair and full lips, which are frowning as she looks between the two of you.

You look at Taehyung to explain, but he seems to be enjoying the chaos as he leans against the counter and doesn’t bother answering her.

What a great guy.

“Yeah, we went to university together a couple of years back. Took the same program. Had the same classes.” You explain.

Her eyes narrow, and you can practically see the gears in her head turning.

“Nothing happened between us, believe me. We just ran in the same circles, unfortunately.” You continue.

The only reason you were stuck with Taehyung as long as you were was because your best friend Mira had to go and fall in love with Taehyung’s friend Hoseok, which made you all a big happy group.

You couldn’t hate Mira for it though; she found the love of her life, and Hoseok was a great guy. He popped the question last year, and Mira accepted. They were getting married in four months, which felt crazy to you because you still remember Mira as the small girl with braids in her hair who offered you half of her snacks at recess one day.

“You mean, fortunately. I’m a delight to have around.” He boasts as the girl next to him giggles and loops her arm around him, snuggling into his shoulder, pleased you were not an ex-girlfriend.

“I wouldn’t call it that. But sure.” You respond.

“Ouch, you wound me. And here I was thinking we were friends. Besties even.” He croons with an exaggerated wink, and you can’t help it as your eyes roll up to the ceiling once more.

“We aren’t besties; you just pretended we were so you could cheat off me in class.” You reminded him.

“And yet you never once let me cheat. So rude you know. It’s always nice to help a friend in need.” He shoots back, enjoying this.

“We were never friends, Taehyung; we just ran in the same circles.”

He frowns.

“Is this because of the Baby Blue incident? I said I was sorry.”

You scoff.

“No Taehyung, you never did apologize for that one.”

His eyes widen.

“Well, you did look hot in that shirt. So hot, I just wanted to cool you down.” He recovers quickly, shooting you a playful smile.

The girl next to him huffs, and you cross your arms over your chest.

“Kinda gross to be talking to me like that when your girlfriend is right next to you.” You point out as he finally looks down at her and back at you, like he forgot she was even there.

“Oh, she’s not my girlfriend. We just fuck. A lot.”

She playfully smacks his arm and scolds him, as you feel heat rise to your cheeks.

“Anyway, what can I get you?” You say falsely bright, trying to change the subject, as you press the screen in front of you to get it to wake up.

“Can I get a latte macchiato with extra foam?” She says as you smile and punch it into the computer.

“And you?” You ask Taehyung, who is still blatantly staring at you.

“What is good here?” He asks, drumming his long fingers against the counter, seemingly more than okay with wasting your time.

“Everything. Now please, just order.” You almost pleaded.

“You never answered my question.” He quips as you fight the urge to strangle him.

Why can’t he just make your life easy and order something so you can move on and hopefully not see him again?

Or at least not see him until Mira’s wedding.

“You never answered mine either. What. Can. I. Get. You.”

Taehyung finally seems to accept you won’t give him any more information as he straightens up and finally takes a peek at the menu.

About freaking time.

“I’ll take a green tea and whatever dessert you think is best.” He orders with a smile.

“All desserts are the best; I’d know; I make them.” You respond before punching in his order.

His eyebrows shoot up.

“Impressive, BabyBlue,” he teases as his eyes scan the desert case to the right.

You don’t bother to answer him; instead, you turn your back and begin to make the drinks, focusing on deep breaths and not letting him get to you. He won’t ruin today. You won’t let him.

However, it seems the girl next to him isn’t having it, as the second you turn around, she begins to argue with him under her breath.

“What the fuck was that Taehyung?” She hisses as you work on the drinks and try your best to focus on the soft music overhead and not their conversation.

“What do you mean babe?” He asks as you see out of the corner of your eye her slip out of his embrace and cross her arms.

“You were flirting with her. Openly flirting with her in front of me.” She hisses under her breath.

“Baby, I was not. That’s just how she and I talk. We banter,” he explains as you finish making her drink and decide to leave it on the back counter while you work on his. You don’t want to be in the middle of this.

“Calling her some stupid nickname? Calling her hot? Openly eyeing her up and down. You just fucked me half an hour ago, and you already have sights on another girl. What is wrong with you?!” She says, unable to keep her voice down, so you hear everything.

“Baby, all you and I do is fuck. That’s the point of fuck buddies. I wasn’t flirting with her, but I’m also a free man.” He defends putting his hands up.

She promptly loses it, and honestly, you don’t blame her.

“You are disgusting, Kim Taehyung! I thought you would grow up and mature, and want to settle down. And here you are drooling over some minimum wage-making barista.” She shouts as her gaze whips over to you.

“Syd, I already told you when this started, I wasn’t looking for anything serious. We went over this, and you were okay with the arrangement.” He reminds her.

You are caught between them like a deer in the headlights, unable to move as you turn around and watch it all go down right in front of you.

“You are twenty-seven for fuck's sake, and you don’t act a day over seventeen! There clearly is some unresolved chemistry or some shit going on between the two of you, and I deserve better than to be tied up in it. Have a nice life Tae. Don’t bother calling me for pussy when you get bored of her.” She snaps as she turns on her heel and storms out of the café, slamming the door on the way out, making the wall décor shake.

The silence that follows is so loud you almost wonder if Taehyung could hear your heart beating under your shirt and apron.

“Are you going to…go after her?” You ask meekly as he turns away from the door and once again leans up against the counter, putting on his cool-guy persona.

“Nah, I don’t chase after women. I laid it out very clearly for her, and she thought she could change me. Don’t need to be running after that.” He responds as he runs a hand through his fluffy hair.

“I don’t know what to say here. Sorry? I guess?” You stammer as Taehyung shoots you a grin.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. The last week or so she had been getting clingy, and I was going to talk to her about it anyway. She saved me from an awkward conversation, so that’s good.”

“Um, okay. So the drinks. Uh….” You trail off, not knowing what to say.

“You never answered my question from before, you know.” He reminded, and all the tension in the room seemed to evaporate as he put on his charming smile and fluttered his eyelashes at you.

“Which one? You asked so many I lost track.” You asked him as you brought both drinks to the front counter.

“The one about you working here. You were top of our class, the smartest person I know, and yet you work here. Nothing against people who do. I have high respect for retail and food workers. I just… Don’t get it.” He explains as you push his drink towards him and pick out a chocolate chip muffin from the case.

“When I graduated, I knew I wanted to be an author, but those things take time. So I asked the owner, Mi-Suk, if I could work full-time while I write. Well, it’s been years, and I have a book published now, but I like working here. I like baking, so I decided to keep it as my main source of income while I write.” You say to him as you place the muffin in a small brown box and close the lid to keep it fresh.

You weren’t sure why you were telling Taehyung all this. Maybe you felt bad that he had just gotten broken up with. Maybe you knew telling him the truth would finally get him to shut up.

All you knew was this was one of the first times you actually had a conversation with him, a real one without teasing and being at each other’s throats, and it was…well. Nice

“You wrote a book? What’s it called?” He asked, clearly impressed, as you wiped your hands on your apron.

“Why? You want to leave me a bad review. Payback for not helping you in university?” You tease as he grins and runs a hand through his hair once more.

“Nah, I want to know what genre you ended up picking. You were undecided back then.”

You are taken by surprise that he even remembers that. You weren’t necessarily close in university. He spent all his time trying to mooch answers off you, and you spent most of your time trying to pretend he didn’t exist.

“Uh, it’s called The Tangled Web of Love and Friendship… I ended up going with romance.” You say nervously.

Before Taehyung can respond, Morena bursts through the back door and immediately apologizes about how the doctor's call was not supposed to take that long and how they lost her files, so they had to put her on hold for an extra ten minutes to find them.

She is talking so fast and in such a hurry that she doesn’t notice Taehyung standing there.

Until she does.

“Oh. Um. Hi.” She says, her demeanour immediately changing as she smooths a hand down her apron and tucks her long hair behind her ears in a shy kind of way.

“Hi. How much do I owe?” He asks, turning back to you as Morena is staring at him in the way most women stare at Taehyung.

Starstruck.

“I’ll pay for both drinks; don’t worry about it.” He says as you ring him through.

He takes both drinks and his muffin and shoots Morena a small, polite smile before turning to you.

“Good to see you again, BabyBlue. And, uh, sorry about the shirt.” He says with a wink before turning around and exiting the cafe.

You watch him go and aren’t sure how to feel. Sure, he was still incredibly cocky and arrogant, but that small civil talk you had was…nice.

“Okay, tell me everything. That man is so hot, I just about melted to the floor. How do you know him?” Morena squeals as she jogs behind the counter to stand next to you, eyes full of excitement.

“It’s just Taehyung. We went to school together.” You say, moving behind her to let her take her spot at cash.

“Is he single? He’s so hot. Wait, are you interested? I don’t want to overstep if you are.” She chirps excitedly.

“I’m not interested; believe me. He’s all yours.” You say as you start to head back to the kitchen, already putting the interaction with Taehyung behind you.

-----

Taehyung stretched his arms over his head and groaned when he felt a pop in his back.

He knew he should have painted at his easel in his spare room, but the light in here was too perfect to miss out on, so he shoved his blankets off his bed and set down a towel before sitting cross-legged and getting to work on painting the dazzling sunset in front of him.

Painting was a way for him to calm down after a long day or to silence all of the thoughts that were buzzing around his head, and he was forever grateful that his mother introduced him to it at a young age.

While his father was all about working hard and being a rough and tough man, his mother let him explore his softer side through photography and painting.

Taehyung found a healthy balance between them, though his softer side often pulled more ladies.

What lady can resist a soft, kind, artistic soul?

Taehyung fumbled around for his phone and saw he had sixteen unread messages in his group chat with his friends, so he stood up, collected his things, and cleaned his room.

He knew if he opened the chat, he would get lost in it for hours, so he took a quick shower before even touching his phone.

The hot spray felt great against his skin, and he tilted his head back and let the warm water trickle down his scalp as he lathered his shampoo.

Taehyung took his time in the shower, letting his fingers dance along his skin and letting the water relax his tense muscles from being hunched over a canvas for the last two hours.

His cock began to harden, but he didn’t bother jerking off. He already had sex twice today with a girl he would never have sex with again, and he didn’t feel the need to touch his cock and get himself all riled up.

Instead, he tugged it a couple of times, then let the warm water wash away his body wash as he turned off the tap and stepped out of the shower, towel-drying his hair as he went.

He completed his skincare fully naked to let his body air dry, then he pulled on a pair of soft grey sweatpants; he didn’t bother with a shirt because half the time he slept only in boxers or completely naked anyway.

He turned off most of the lights around his home and settled into the warmth of his bed, pulling the covers back on and scooping up his phone to see what he missed in chat.

Jungkook and Jimin were sending pictures and raving about the getaway they just came back from.

They went to a cabin in the woods for five days, and even though they kept sending pictures of the wildlife, Taehyung knew they got away to fuck like rabbits in a secluded cabin where no one could hear them.

Those two were some of the horniest men Taehyung had ever met.

Jimin and Taehyung grew up together and became instant best friends. While everyone thought Taehyung was Jimin’s platonic soulmate, there was no doubt that Jungkook was Jimin’s romantic soulmate.

They met on the first day of university and have been inseparable ever since.

Hoseok rounded out the group chat.

Smiley, Funny, Sunshine in human form. Hoseok, whom Taehyung met through Jimin, got along so well with everyone that he became a permanent fixture in their group.

He was a year older and often seen as the go-to person for advice, as he was always open and ready to listen.

Hoseok met Mira near the end of their first year and started dating her.

Mira had it all. She was tall and smart and honestly made Hoseok so happy.

With all these couples around, you would think Taehyung would want to settle down and find his own forever person, but he liked being single.

He liked the freedom to do what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. Sydney’s little outburst today reminded him once again why he didn’t date. It was just too much work.

Taehyung was snapped from his thoughts when another message came through, and he figured he should answer instead of staring off into space holding his phone.

Taetae: Looks like fun, guys! Glad you made it back safe!

Kookie: Whoa, he lives!!!

Hoba: We thought we would have to call someone to check on you.

Jiminie: Where have you been Tae?

Taehyung leaned back against his headboard and let his legs sprawl out as he typed.

Taetae: Had a busy day then came back here and painted.

Hoba: Painted?

Jiminie: What happened?

Taetae: Nothing. Why?

Kookie: Nothing? Yeah, except you only paint when something has happened or you need to get out of your head.

Taetae: Australia and I broke up. Not why I painted though. The sunset was just pretty.

A rule of thumb for Taehyung was that he never gave out his hookup’s real name. He knew his friends well enough to know they would go on a cyberstalking spree, so everyone got codenames so they couldn’t be found.

Jiminie: What happened?

Hoba: Oh no.

Taetae: Nothing major. She wanted us to be more. I didn’t and she caused a public scene. She stormed out, and I let her go.

Kookie: You told her you just wanted a hookup, though, right?

Taetae: I always do.

Hoba: A public scene. Where were you? I thought you guys only fucked.

Jiminie: Are you okay, Taetae?

Taetae: I’m okay Jimin. I was going to talk to her anyway because she was getting clingy so it worked out for the best.

Taetae: Yes, we fucked Hoba but we both got hungry so I took her to a café like the gentleman I am.

Taehyung trailed a hand down his bare torso as he thought back to the incident at the café. He didn’t mean to bring his friends with benefits into your café specifically… It was just the one that had the best reviews.

And he could see why. The muffin you gave him was phenomenal.

Jiminie: I'm sorry that happened.

Kookie: And in public? Please tell me it wasn’t busy.

Taetae: She got mad because she thought I was flirting with the barista.

Hoba: Were you flirting with the barista Tae?

Taehyung barked out a laugh. His friends knew him well.

Taetae: For once no. But Hoba you have been withholding information, you know.

Jiminie: Wait, what? What info?

Hoba: Huh?

Taetae: You didn’t tell me BabyBlue still worked at The Oasis. Imagine my surprise when I see her behind the counter.

Kookie: Oh shit.

Hoba: What did you do Taehyung? She is my fiancé's best friend, please, for the love of God, leave her alone. Mira is stressed enough from wedding planning.

Taetae: Nothing! We just talked then Australia flew off the handle

Kookie: So you were flirting then?

Jiminie: I think you can’t help but flirt when you are around her Tae. You’ve been like that for years.

Hoba: Please tell me you didn’t call her that stupid nickname to her face. You know she hates it.

TaeTae: Oops.

Hoba: Oh my God Taehyung.

Taetae: What? She called me Captain right back! And it was not flirting you two! So stop it! We do not flirt.

Jiminie: Yes but you appointed yourself the “Captain Taehyung” title in university because you thought it would get you more women.

Kookie: Did that ever actually work?

Taetae: I’ll have you know I got laid plenty of times because of that name thank you very much!

Hoba: So you flirted with her and your girl stormed out. Classy Tae.

Taetae: We did not flirt. It was playful banter besides, Australia knew she and I were never going to be serious.

Kookie: I agree with Jimin. I think you can’t help but flirt with her. She doesn’t fall for your charms and it makes you mad

Taehyung sat back and bit his lip. He wasn’t flirting with you. He didn’t like you like that. He just liked the flustered look on your face when he teased you. It was…adorable. Plus, you were one of the only girls who didn’t immediately fall at his feet, and something about that always made him want to work harder around you. It kept him on his game because he took pride in the fact that everyone seemed to adore him.

Everyone except you.

Hoba: Please just leave her alone Tae. I’m serious! With the wedding coming up I don’t need you two at each other’s throats.

Taetae: Believe me, I was just as surprised to see her as she was to see me. Did you guys know she is a published author?

Kookie: ...Yeah?

Jiminie: Duh.

Hoba: Yes.

Taehyung frowned.

Taetae: Hoba you don’t count because you are marrying her best friend. Jimin? Kook? How did you know?

Jiminie: Because we ask about our friends we went to school with. We don’t spend our time trying to get under their skin.

Kookie: Jimin and I bought her book. I could loan it to you if you want.

Taetae: I do not spend my time trying to get under her skin. She’s just very easy to rile up.

Hoba: Oh god.

Jiminie: You mean flirt with?

Taetae: Nope. Good try though. And yes Koo I will take a look at her book. Can I come to pick it up after work tomorrow?

Kookie: Sounds good.

Taehyung dropped his phone on his chest and stared up at the ceiling. He felt weirdly proud that you did something with your degree instead of him, who ended up working an office job for his father.

Taehyung quickly pulled up his search engine and searched for your book.

His eyes widened when he saw that it was number fifteen on trending and received a lot of praise. He kept scrolling, reading review after review of people saying it was one of the best love stories they had read in a long time.

Taehyung was pleasantly surprised, as he knew you only dated one guy in university named Simon, who was an absolute pompous dickhead.

When he found out what went down between you and Simon, Jimin had to lock him in the dorm so he didn’t storm down the hall and punch Simon right in his ugly ass mouth.

He was just… protective of one of Mira’s friends, that’s all.

Taehyung set his alarm and turned out the light. He shucked off his sweatpants and pulled the covers over his naked frame.

However, sleep wouldn’t come because all he could think of.

Was you.

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Inspired by Taylor Swift's Enchanted.

It was a grand night, or a dreadful one. You couldn’t quite tell.

On one hand, the celebrations were in full swing for the crowning of the new clan head. On the other, an air of uncertainty hung thick in the room. No one knew what this new leader would bring, what promises the future held, or what fate awaited the clan under his rule.

Same old chatter. Same old people. The only real news was that the son of Shingen Yamazaki, born of Somi Park—was to be crowned the new head.

Whispers rippled through the gathering like wildfire.

He has UI. He’s terrifying. He’s a monster. An Oni.

You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man he had become. You were curious to see him, and the rest of the members. They weren’t exactly the heroic kind, nor the stereotypical Yakuza. But since one of your cousins had forged an alliance with the Yamazaki clan, you were safe. At least, that’s what you told yourself… until he arrived.

Dressed in an all-white suit, you first caught sight of him from the back: tall, broad, carrying himself like the weight of the entire world rested on his shoulders. And yet, he stood firm. Effortlessly commanding the attention of the room.

Everyone was in awe.

You, however, were bored to your bones. Everyone already knew how powerful he was. This ceremony felt more like a display of strength wrapped in the pretense of tradition. You yawned, and that’s when you felt it. A piercing gaze on you. Heavy. Sharp. Watching.

When you turned your head, you saw him.

The new clan head.

Gun Park.

He was staring right at you.

Then, a subtle smirk curved his lips before he looked away.

Your breath hitched.

Was it a smirk? Or a smile? Did he raise his eyebrows? Was your mind playing tricks on you?

You’d seen him before, back when he was younger. Just another local gangster. But this… this version of him was different. Gone was the boy you remembered. In his place stood a man, confident, composed, dangerous. A man who had seen the world. A man who had changed.

You only truly noticed how much he’d grown when he took his place at the center of the ceremony. Something about him stirred something in you. A need, to understand that smirk, to make him notice you again, to knock some sense into him because honestly, that behavior didn’t suit a clan head.

You looked up again.

His eyes were on you. Again.

And in that moment, the music faded, the chatter dulled, even the slurping of soup and laughter of children seemed to disappear. It felt like the entire room had melted away, until it was just the two of you, standing across from each other in silence.

That smirk again.

A raised toast in your direction.

You almost moved toward him. Almost.

But then your mother’s voice broke the moment.

“It’s time for the men to have their celebration.”

You tried to ignore her and scan the room for him, but he had already disappeared into the swarm of guests.

Just once, you thought, just once if I could talk to him…

Instead, you were pulled into idle gossip and praise being heaped upon Gun Park. Everyone was singing his glories, saying he was the rightful heir, the future of Yamazaki. And before long, the conversation twisted into the matter of marriage.

Marriage?

Isn’t he too young?

But then again, wasn’t this always the way things worked in your world?

According to the gossip, Gun had no interest in marrying, but his brothers had already begun scouting potential brides from other clans. Some had even been contacted. Your mother pointed one out, an elegant lady in a delicate floral kimono. She was breathtaking.

Your stomach churned.

So they had already shortlisted candidates.

Efficient. Ruthless. Just like always.

You excused yourself, needing to escape, to breathe. You found a secluded spot and tried to calm the storm within. You reminded yourself why you were here: to observe, to be careful, to keep your eye on the prize, the FOOD.

But your heart betrayed you.

The real prize is Gun Park, isn’t he?

Ugh… NO. Absolutely not!

“...What the hell?”

That deep voice caught you off guard. You turned, and your heart sank. There he was. Right in front of you.

The same man you’d been having a mental breakdown over.

Oh no. Kami Sama, please bury me now.

You straightened, fixed your hair, adjusted your posture, and bowed.

He waved it off. “No need.”

Then lit a cigarette in silence.

A calm silence settled over you two. You found yourself stealing glances at him, unsure what to say. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Got any questions?” he asked, exhaling a puff of smoke.

You blurted, “Have we met before?”

He studied your face intently before replying. “No.”

You felt foolish. Maybe you really were overthinking.

His cologne filled your senses, equal parts smoke and spice. You scoffed, trying to dismiss the tension.

“Great celebration you’ve got there.” A weak attempt at small talk.

“There’s no need for small talk,” he replied. “I’m just here to catch a break.”

Your shoulders dropped. Of course. He was high-ranking now, the head of the clan. You were just an alliance member. Should you say more? Should you stay silent?

He turned to leave, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“When can I see you again?” you asked suddenly.

He paused, smirked again, then tossed his cigarette.

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Whenever you want.”

Ohhhhh

Oh no !

That probably crossed a line. You started bowing, trying to apologize, but his calm, deep voice pulled you back.

“It’s fine.”

And yet, before you could stop yourself, another question escaped your lips.

“But… what about your mistresses?”

His expression hardened. The playfulness vanished. He lit another cigarette.

“That’s none of your concern.”

You didn’t know what to say. A part of you accepted this, this was the Yakuza world after all. Things didn’t work the way they did elsewhere. But deep inside, a quiet, selfish voice prayed:

Please don’t fall in love with someone else. Please don’t have someone waiting for you.

He was gone after that. Just like that.

But that two-minute conversation? It stayed with you. Twisting, turning. You couldn’t sleep. You kept replaying the night in your mind, asking yourself:

What if?

What if he felt it too?

What if he was also enchanted to meet you?

[wendichester]

Hi hello I’ve just found you and I was wondering if you could do a Dean x reader where you’re the only other person allowed to play music, because even though it’s not classic rock, he’d take any chance he can get to hear you sing?? Bonus points if there’s yearning, extra bonus points if at some she does sing along to some of Dean’s music and it drives him insane. Thank you!!!! I love your work so much!!!!

₊˚⊹♡ passenger princess,

summary. driver picks the music, passenger princess has driver wrapped around her finger.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluffy fluff

wordcount. 662

notes / warnings. heavy yearning, dean trying not to combust. also i might've giggled writing this.

There’s a golden rule in the Impala: Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.

You’ve seen Dean swat Sam’s hand away mid-reach like a damn cobra strike. It’s sacred territory—you don't touch the music. Everyone knows that.

Everyone except you.

Because you’re the only one he lets break the rule.

“You got something you wanna hear?” he asks casually, one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the back of the seat like he’s not trying to make your heart do cartwheels.

You blink, halfway through sipping your gas station coffee. “Wait. Really?”

Dean shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Sure. Go for it.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just…” He glances at you, and something flickers in his expression. “You’ve got good taste.”

You scoff. “Dean Winchester letting someone play something besides Led Zeppelin in Baby? Is this a trap?”

He chuckles. “Don’t make me take it back.”

You grin, flipping through your phone until your favorite playlist clicks to life. Something soft, dreamy—definitely not classic rock.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just drums his fingers on the steering wheel like the beat’s already part of him.

You start singing under your breath, and that’s when it happens. His fingers pause.

You don’t notice at first. Not until the next chorus, when you let your voice carry a little more, windows down and breeze in your hair.

Dean doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t dare look at you.

But his grip on the wheel tightens. His jaw flexes. He shifts in his seat like suddenly everything’s too much and not enough.

And you—oblivious, or maybe just playing dumb—keep going.

He lets you queue up another. And another.

Somewhere in the middle of the third one, you lean your head back, eyes closed, and sing a little louder. Nothing performative, just honest. You’ve always loved singing in cars. It’s the safest place in the world.

Dean thinks so too.

Which is probably why he’s completely and utterly wrecked by it.

You don’t see the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye. The way his tongue runs over his bottom lip, slow and involuntary. The way he looks like he’s listening to his favorite song and losing his mind at the same time.

But then—because fate loves a well-timed punch to the gut—his playlist kicks back in as the GPS reroutes. A familiar guitar riff floods the speakers: Zeppelin.

You smirk. “Ah, the king reclaims his throne.”

Dean grins, relieved to be back on home turf. “Damn right.”

You drum your fingers on your thigh, then—on a whim—start singing again.

Not perfectly. You don’t know every word. But you know enough.

And that is when Dean’s grip on the steering wheel goes white-knuckle.

“You okay there, champ?” you tease, catching the corner of his expression.

“Peachy,” he chokes out.

You bite back a smile. “Is the great Dean Winchester flustered?”

“Not flustered,” he mutters, eyes on the road. “Just—distracted.”

You lean in a little closer, voice low and sugary. “I thought you liked being in control of the music.”

“I do.”

“But now you let me touch it. Even sing over your sacred Zeppelin.”

Dean glances at you then, quick and sharp. “Yeah, well…”

“What?”

He exhales like it costs him something. “You sound better than Plant, anyway.”

Your heart stumbles. “Dean.”

He shrugs, suddenly shy. “I mean it.”

It goes quiet for a few beats. Not awkward. Just thick with something unnamed. Something that’s been humming between you both for longer than either of you will admit.

And then, like the devil he is, he adds: “Besides, I’d take any excuse to hear you sing.”

You stare at him, throat tight. “You’re such a sap.”

Dean grins. “Only for you.”

You don’t say anything. You just cue up another song—and continue singing.

Dean hums along under his breath this time.

And though he’ll never say it out loud, you’ve officially become his favorite singer.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[catsteeth]

Cold Steel Hot Skin

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem Stark Reader 

+:✿ Request ✿:+ : part 2 - part 3

Request: “Jacaerys and FemStark!Reader have been betrothed during the whole war. Team Black wins the war and Rhaenyra is crowned queen. After Jace and the Reader are married, the night is filled with celebration. Reader pulls Jace away and gives him head while he's sitting on the throne. Sub!Jace with lots of praise and reassurance.”  CW: MDNI, SMUT, oral sex (m rec), afab reader, arranged marriage, NSFW themes, misogyny, mention of death, praise, sub jace, dom reader, mention of parental death.

Word Count: 5k

You were prepared to marry a high-born son, you were prepared for it all your life. You were taught how to make a man happy. Watch your tongue, speak little, and never your mind. Do whatever your husband commands of you, give no resistance. Smile and stay amenable. Only you were not your mother's idea of a perfect wife by nature. 

No, you were raised alongside your brothers. You favored horse riding to sewing, archery to singing, and hunting to practicing your courtesies. 

However as the threat of war drew closer, the need for the North’s strength grew more desperate. The house of the dragon did not know whose head ruled it. Aegon the drunken prince or Rhaenyra the king's firstborn. Both the greens and the blacks came to your brother, Cregan Stark who now ruled as warden of the north. They wanted the North's strength to earn their power. 

Cregan only bent his knee to Rhaenyra after he spoke with Prince Jacaerys. The men were similar in age and he felt the Prince would be better suited to the throne than his uncle. 

Though armies and power are not handed to anyone for free, in return for the North’s support, Cregan asked that his sisters be considered for one of the Queen's sons to wed, or perhaps one of his brothers for one of her nieces. 

You hoped desperately that you would be spared from this fate. You never had any interest in men or marriage. Your septa’s always told you to obey your husband. That if you didn’t perhaps he would hit you, or take you by force. Honestly, you feared a husband, they sounded like horrid creatures.

It took time to hear back, but soon a raven arrived. It said what you feared it might. The crowned prince himself would take the north’s eldest daughter to wed. 

You practiced holding your tongue and putting on a smile. You found it easy not to speak, speaking would do you no good anyway. But forcing a smile was a difficulty. 

You fidgeted with the beaded embellishments of the embroidery on your dress. Biting your cheek you stood by the door of your house's great hall. Listening to your brother and the prince speaking. “My prince, my sister Lady Stark.”

You looked at the prince cautiously. Though he was not as frightful as you thought he might be. He was quite handsome. But that did not mean he was kind. You curtseyed as you were taught to do hundreds of times. “I hope I do not disappoint you, my prince.” You spoke in a higher and softer tone than you did naturally. 

Jace took your hand, kissing your knuckles gently, “You could never, my Lady.”

He seemed gentle, and kind. 

Your fears did not rest, however. He was kind in front of you brother, a large and imposing man. That did not mean he would be kind when away from peering eyes. 

The ride in the carriage felt uncomfortable. You were frightened by him in honesty. You knew that you would wed a high-born man but never did you think you’d marry a prince, and never did you think you would become a queen.

You were unsure of him, unsure of what he was like. Would he hit you? Would he yell? He was to be the king, surely he could do whatever he liked. 

Your unease only worsened when your eyes fell back onto him, noticing that he was still looking at you. 

As soon as he noticed your uneasy gaze, he smiled to himself and looked down “I apologize I am staring.” he said shaking his head. 

You shrugged, “That’s alright. I am to be yours by law, you may stare at me if you wish to.” You were trained for this moment, this was your first willing submission.

Jace’s eyes looked up at you, his gaze narrowed at you in confusion, “I do not own you, my Lady.” He leaned forward towards you, “If I do something to displease you I wish to know.”

You felt surprised, not only was this man willing for you to be your own person but he encouraged it. He wanted you to be a participant in his life and this marriage. 

You took a breath, then dropped your doe-like expression. Replacing it with your natural stern demeanor, common in the North. “Why are you staring at me?” You asked plainly now in your natural tone. It made Jace smile. “If I do truly disappoint I have other sisters-” 

“You do not. I did not lie.” Jace interrupted you, it almost made you flinch. Perhaps you were too bold with your words. Though his eyes softened towards you, letting you relax in the warmth of his gaze. “I do not want your sisters or any other woman.” Once again he surprised you. How could he say such a thing when he did not know you? Even if he believed you to be the most beautiful woman in the world, for all he knew you could have been the most cruel woman alive. “I am staring because I am taken by you.” He finished with a soft grin.

You blushed slightly. Feeling a grin beginning to tug at the corners of your mouth, you looked away from him. “You do not know me.” You said, shaking your head.

Jace chuckled to himself, “You are skeptical. I know that now.” 

You smiled slightly at his amusement, “People should be.” you said with a raised brow. 

He smiled as he bit his lip, “And now I know you are intelligent.” he said with a nod. 

You could not hide your smile this time. You scoffed a laugh as you looked outside your carriage, noticing the large green beast in the sky flying above you. “I thought you would be on your dragon.” You said looking towards Vermax in the sky. 

“I wanted time to speak plainly with you, and Vermax is not yet big enough for two,” Jace said earnestly. You felt yourself beginning to relax in his presence. 

You looked back to Jace, “Not sure how I would fare on a dragon's back.” you said with a stifled laugh. 

“I think you’ll do fine considering you’re a skilled horse rider,” Jace said with a smirk as your eyes widened. 

Once again this prince had surprised you. You narrowed your eyes at him and leaned in forward, “You do know about me.” 

Jace smiled, stifling a laugh as he looked down, “I confess I might have read quite a bit about your family before coming here.” He looked back at you, “And then I found that I was reading quite a bit about you.” He said as if he were admitting a great secret. 

He was not lying either. When prompted with the offer of marriage, Jace was hesitant. He even suggested wedding his little brother Joffrey to one of your younger sisters. But once he began to read of your family, he found himself wanting to know more and more about you. He found himself fascinated by you, and once there was nothing left to read about you he decided he’d rather marry you. 

You felt heat dash across your cheeks as your blush revealed how much he’d flattered you. “A dull read for a Prince, I am sure.” 

He shook his head, “Far from it.” He said earnestly, his eyes looking at you as if you were a beautiful and extravagant painting. 

You and he talked the entire ride to the ship to Dragonstone. He continued to ask you questions about yourself throughout the ride. You did not ask him any in return. You did not know what to ask, what could you ever have in common with a prince? 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

Once at Dragonstone, most of your days were spent completing errands for the queen, or if you were lucky, sharing a thought or opinion at the small council. She thought it was important for you to participate as you were to be queen one day.

You also spent much of your time avoiding the prince. You caught him staring at you many times, and his gaze lingered on you as you walked through a room. 

But you hardly had a moment alone to yourself. You had nary a moment to ride a horse, practice your swordplay, or even read. So once you were able to be alone, you decided to practice your archery. Although you did not know that the prince also shared that desire. 

At The top of a tall hill, was a training field. It had tall wooden targets made specifically for practicing your arrow's aim. As you made your way up the steep path to the top, you were caught off guard by the sound of an arrow hitting a wooden target that stood mere inches from where the path ended. 

You continued up the path, peering behind the wooden target to see Jace pointing his crossbow at that same target. “My prince.” You said calmly despite his aim. 

“My Lady!” Jace said surprised, and pointing the crossbow away from you, “My apologies.”

“No need.” You shrugged, “I am not maimed.”

He stifled a laugh, “I should hope not.”

You approached the wooden target, looking at the arrow that had pierced it with clear ferocity as the wood splintered and broke from the impact, “That’s quite the shot.” You said as your fingers trailed along the arrow.

“Thank you-”

You leaned against the wooden target, “Whom did you imagine it to be?” you asked looking back toward Jace.

Jace hesitated unsure if he should say, “A green.” You could tell by his tone he was holding back the truth.

“Liar.” You said with a grin. Jace looked at you surprised, never had anyone dared question him other than his family. It was refreshing to have you challenge him, “I am sure it was a green but it was more personal than that.” You said pushing yourself off of the wooden target and walking towards Jace.

“Aemond Targaryen.” He said almost immediately. You stopped your steps, feeling somewhat guilty you forced him to divulge such a personal matter. You knew of what happened to his brother. 

You looked at him gently, “Aemond should be frightened.” You said earnestly. 

“They all should be.” He said, attempting to direct his attention towards anything else, “My mother's armies are fierce and unrelenting.” 

“As are you.” You said softly as you continued to walk closer toward him, “Grief is a powerful thing, the want for vengeance even more so.”

Jace felt emotion getting the better of him. But seeing as he was to marry you, he might as well feel able to confide in you, “I miss him.” Jace said weakly.

You were silent for a moment. Unsure of how you could comfort him. But soon you spoke, “I lost mine own sister.” Jace looked at you, “She too was younger than I.” You said with a nod stepping towards him, “I am sure you read about it. It was the cold that took her. The cold wind brings sickness. It makes us northerners stronger, we suffer each sickness so that we never suffer them again.” You stopped speaking for a moment, unsure of how you could continue your story, “But for those who are too weak, too small, too fragile… The cold wind kills them.” You looked at Jace with understanding, another name for love, “I spent years angry at any gust of cold air I felt. I cannot imagine how you feel. To have a face and a name to place that anger.” Jace only looked at you, he never had someone who could understand him so well. He didn’t have the words. But you didn’t need them. You approached him, getting close to his side as you adjusted his grip on his crossbow. “You should hold the stock closer to your shoulder.” you said pushing it to the correct position for him. 

Jace looked over his shoulder to you, “I think I am in love with you.” He spoke earnestly, and softly. 

You looked back at him, “I know you are.” you spoke as earnestly as he did. 

Jace dropped his crossbow. He put your face into his hands, cupping your jaw gently. He looked at you for just a moment. He was going to ask for your permission to kiss you but you pressed your lips to his before he could. “I don’t know how I was ever frightened by you.” You smiled as he stifled a laugh and kissed you again.

You and he from that moment forth, were nearly inseparable. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

After the war was fought and over, the Blacks were victorious in their goal to retake Rhaeynra’s rightful throne. Blood was shed of course, but now that it was done with it was time for celebration. And what better way to celebrate than for a royal wedding? 

Your gown was heavy, and although you had little regard for fashions even you could appreciate how beautiful it was. 

You never thought you’d feel so proud to wear another man's cloak, adorned with the symbol and colors of his house. But you wore the black and red three-headed dragon on your shoulders with great pride and honor. 

Your pride did not subside the whole evening. After your vows and kiss were performed, you and your now husband danced in the great hall as the rest of the guests ate, sang, and danced about the room.

Jace held you closely as you danced slowly. Your eyes locked onto his, and both of you were simply dazed with happiness and love. “My husband, the dragon.” You said sweetly with your forehead pressed against his. 

Jace’s hand ran over your hair gently, careful not to disturb your intricately braided hair, “My wife, the wolf.” He said with a proud and love-drunk smile. 

Your eyes roamed the room, you could see each high-born girl looking at you with jealous eyes. It made you grin, “I think I have made every girl in the seven kingdoms green with envy.” you said leaning into Jace, your eyes still scanning the room. 

“And I have driven every man to a jealous rage.” He said with an amused smile as his eyes roamed the room as well.

“Because you’ll be king over them all.” You said gently as you closed your eyes, laying your head against his shoulder. 

He leaned in closer to your ear, “Because I’ve married the most beautiful, intelligent, and fierce woman in the known world.” He said sweetly. 

You raised your head from his shoulder, looking into his eyes. You could see the love he had for you just by his look. You did not care if it would be considered polite or not, your lips pressed against his own. He did not care either. His hand held you at the nape of your neck. 

“Daughter,” A voice called out, it startled you slightly. Daughter was a title you had not been called in years now with your parent’s cold in the crypt. You looked over to see the Queen herself. Rhaenyra looked towards her son, still holding tightly onto you. “Might I have a moment, Jace?” Jace nodded and gave you a small kiss on your temple before leaving you and your mother to speak. 

Rhaenyra took you by the arm, walking around the ballroom. “Well, I know your mother could not be here today and I suppose I wanted to give you a word of motherly advice. Political marriage can be a difficult thing to adjust to.” She said with a sigh, “Though it seems my son has had no difficulty in that regard, nor you.” She finished as she looked at you with a warm smile.

You smile back at her, though feeling somewhat embarrassed, “Your son is an honorable man, and I am honored to be his wife.” You said with a nod.

She rubbed your arm gently with her hand, “I have no doubts you will serve our house well.”

“I can only hope so. Your house has been most gracious-”

“Your house.” She corrected you, “It is your house now, my dear.” 

You did not know what to say, you’d not felt a motherly touch in so long. “Thank you, your grace.” You said with a smile and respectful nod.

“Seven blessings to you, my dear.” She said smiling, before leaving you. 

Afterward, you tried your best to reunite with your new husband, only he was nowhere to be found. As you walked around the great hall you were approached by many guests, all high-born lords and ladies who never paid you any mind before today. They all congratulated you with great respect and spoke oh so highly of you and your family. No doubt attempting to gain favor in the eyes of their future queen. Between this sudden overbearing attention, you now could not help but notice how grand this wedding was. It was far more extravagant than any wedding in the north had ever been. 

You drowned your nerves with wine. But you wouldn’t feel any better until you found Jace again. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─

Once the party was dying out like an exhausted candle, you were determined to find Jace once again.

Somewhat angry and somewhat concerned you attempted to hunt down the prince without causing concern. Soon you were pushing open the large heavy doors to the throne room.

Pushing the door open just enough to look in, you signed as you saw your husband standing in the room staring at the throne.

“I thought you ran away.” You said pushing the doors to the Throne room open. 

Jace looked over his shoulder at you and held out his hand towards you, “From the festivities. Not from you.” 

You grabbed hold of his hand, “I was quite miserable without you.” You said in annoyance with a pout as he pulled you into his side. 

His hand trailed up and down over your back soothingly, “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have left you, I won’t again, I swear it to you.” He said as his hand then snaked around your waist holding you even closer.

You nodded in agreement, “The celebration was generous, far more generous than I am used to.” You said trying not to sound ungrateful. Your fingers trailed over the lavish embroidery of dragons and fire on Jace’s overcoat. “I was happy to hear there would be no bedding ceremony,” you said casually just to tease him, your eyes still following your finger as it traced the intricate stitching of his coat.

Jace’s eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed, “You think that I would allow that?” He said with a slightly aggressive tone as he held you by your chin forcing you to look at him, “Allowing men to paw at you?” 

You couldn’t keep up your facade and your grin gave away your intentions. Jace let your chin go as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Such a protective husband you are proving to be.” You said as you kissed the corner of his mouth, “Still even if there is no ceremony-” You kissed the sensitive bit between his jawline and his neck, making him hiss, “I was rather excited for what comes after the wedding.” you said with a luscious gaze.

Jace couldn’t help but widely grin as he stifled a chuckle, “No one is more eager than I am.” He said caressing your cheek, “I just,” He sighed, “I find myself overwhelmed.”

“The war is over, and won.” You said softly, “You should be happy.” 

“I am happy.” He said assertively, not wanting you to think otherwise. Then he sighed as he looked towards the throne, “The burden is a heavy one.”

You looked towards the throne as well, “The crown was never meant to be light.” Your eyes then went back to Jace, “Those who are best fit for it proceed it in caution, not enthusiasm.” You already spoke with the wisdom of a queen.

“Are you so comfortable to assume the position of queen?” Jace asked defensively, he did not always like being proven wrong.

You were not upset by his question, “No. Quite the opposite.” You said with a shake of your head, “I always valued my privacy. Never liked having eyes on me, never liked people talking about me.” 

“Perhaps you would have been happier to marry a different man.” He sulked.

You narrowed your brows, “Is that how you feel?” You questioned him assertively, sick of his self-pity. 

His demeanor changed, becoming softer, “No.” He said holding your jaw gently, “I do not want anyone else.” 

You placed a hand on his that held your face, “I know this marriage was arranged but I am happier for it. You are an honorable man, who will make a great king.” You spoke gently.

Jace shook his head, “I have no doubt you will be a beloved queen. You are wise and caring. Born of a noble house.” He said looking at you with admiration.

“As are you.“ You said, wanting him to see himself worthy of his inheritance. 

Jace shook his head and looked down as if he were ashamed, “You know what I am.”

You rolled your eyes, “I care not for such trivial matters. You are the son of the rightful queen.” 

“And a bastard.” He said frustrated  

“And I thank the gods for it.” You said stoically, “I have a taste for men with dark hair.” Your hand combed through his dark curls.

“Funny.” He said without amusement, “But what will people think of a bastard as their king? What will they think of our children-”

“When you take the throne you will no longer be a Velaryon. You will be a Targaryen. That is not a lie. Our children will be Targaryens, that is not a lie.” You interrupted him, already defensive over your future children, “You are a dragon rider, a brave and… handsome man.” You said, trailing off in the end as your eyes admired his features, “I think you just need to get adjusted to the role is all.” You said as you took Jace’s hand, pulling him towards the Throne. “Sit.” You commanded, and be obeyed, 

Jace sat on the throne, and you were overcome with desire. He looked so powerful, and he fit in it so perfectly. There was no one else better suited to it. 

Jace however did not share your feelings, “This is foolish-” He began about to push himself out of the throne.

“Wait,” You said, placing a hand on his chest, pushing him back onto the throne. You smirked at him as you stepped closer towards him, now standing between his legs, “I quite like the look of you in this chair.” You said as you ran your hand through his hair somewhat roughly, making him look up to you. 

Jace grinned, “I quite like the look of you in this gown.” He said as his eyes trailed over your body in the ivory gown.

“Do you like it like this?” You asked as your fingers pulled at the laces of your gown, making it loosen around your shoulders, “Or like this?” You asked as your bare shoulders became exposed and you hiked up your skirts and straddled Jace’s lap.

Overcome by desire, Jace’s hands roamed your body with an untamable want, and his lips found yours with a deep hunger. Since your time in the training yard, you and Jace had kissed many, many, many times. But this was desperate, this was longing. His tongue found your own, and you never knew the warmth that would come with it. This kind of kiss was new. 

You moved your mouth to his neck, kissing down until you were unbuttoning his shirt desperate for more skin to kiss. 

He could not help but lean into your affections. His hands grasped harder onto your sides, his lips found your exposed skin. The pleasure sent a chill through your spine. You felt a candle light between your legs. Desperate for more, you began to grind your clothed cunt against his mounting excitement.

You smirked as you heard Jace gasp at your bold movements, “We can’t, not in here-” He said breathlessly.

“Why not? You’re the king.” You said softly with a gentle kiss to his neck, “My king.” You smirked at him as you opened his overcoat and blouse, admiring his body that was new to you. “You’ve kissed me before have you not? You are to fuck me tonight are you not? Why can I not sample you?” You asked sweetly, but darkly as you kissed down his chest, over his stomach, until you were kneeling in front of him between his knees as he sat on the throne. 

As your hand gently grazed over his thighs, he cupped your cheek gently. “You make me weak. I can’t contain my urges.” He said with a weak smile, too love-drunk to think.

You shook your head, “I don’t want them contained.” You said as you kissed the bulge his throbbing cock was creating beneath his constricting trousers. 

Jace tried but failed to conceal his moan of pleasure, “I’ll do whatever my queen commands of me.” he spoke breathlessly, his eyes already begging to roll back in ecstasy though he tried to maintain his composure. 

You rested your head against his thigh, teasingly close to his cock. Your eyes were that of a siren of the sea as you looked up at him, “I only wish to serve…” Your hand began to trail over toward the silk laces of his trousers, “My king.” you said as you began to free him from the confines of his clothing.

He gasped again as he watched you, “Gods be good.” 

You pulled the expensive fabric of his wedding attire down and his cock eagerly sprung out. You smirked as you looked at it, “Fit for a king.” You said with a smirk, reaching for his length, but stopping just inches before you could touch him, “Can I?” You wanted to be certain before you did it, and he eagerly and desperately nodded. As you took him in your hand he groaned in pleasure. You stroked it slowly, almost painfully slow. With each stroke, you were fixated on the noises you were drawing out of him. Desperate for more, You licked up his shaft before taking him in your mouth, or as much of him as you could take. Sucking slowly and gently, his moans and the lewd sounds from your mouth echoed throughout the empty throne room. As you released him from your mouth desperate for air, you continued to stroke him, “You taste so good.” You said breathlessly. 

Jace mewled, and took a deep breath, trying his best not to finish right then and there, “You feel so good, your mouth feels so so good.” He whined beautifully, throwing his head back against the cold steel of the throne.

You began to kiss the tip of his cock, savoring the taste of his precum as it leaked from him, “You like it?” You asked teasingly innocent. 

“Y-yes.” He stammered as he groaned

You suddenly stopped your movements, ceasing all attention you were giving him, it was enough to drive him mad as he groaned in agony, “Have you ever had a woman touch you like this?” You asked leaning your head against his thigh, as if you were completely unaware of the torture you were putting him through. 

He shook his head eagerly, “N-no, only you.”

You smirked as you took him back in your hand, “You truly are an honorable man.” You gave his cock a final kiss before you turned your attention towards his balls, taking one in your mouth. You were unfamiliar with what you were doing but somehow it came naturally. Your desire drove you in the right direction. Sucking on him as you stroked his cock.

This sensation was all too new for Jace, he threw his head back and moaned erratically, “F-f-f” he stammered

You released him, followed by a lewd noise, “You can curse.” You told him, knowing what he wanted to do. 

“Fuck…” He said as if he had resurfaced after being drowned, He looked down at you longingly, “Can I touch you?” He asked desperately. 

You couldn’t help but smile at his sweetness, “Of course, my king.” you said with a nod, taking him back in your mouth again.

His hands went to your head, petting your hair sweetly, being sure to keep your hair out of your face. His moaning only got louder, “Awh, thank you- thank you.” He whined, “You’re so beautiful.” He said as he watched you lovingly stroke and suck on his throbbing length. You squeezed him in a particular way that made his muscles twitch, “Awh! I love you-” He said, his mind empty, but meaning every word. 

You released him for just a moment to breathe, “Say it again.” you commanded before taking in your mouth again. 

You could feel his grip on your hair tightening, “I love-” He nodded, and you began to stroke fast, suck harder, “Awh!” he moaned out in pleasure as your moments picked up, “I love you, with everything I have.” He spoke breathlessly, “My wife, my queen.” 

You could feel his body tensing underneath your touch, you could feel his cock throbbing when harder, his breath and moans more erratic. You knew what was coming, so you did what he hoped to all the Gods that you wouldn’t do, and you stopped. You released him from your mouth and your touch. “Uh-uh.” You said standing up, and pulling your gown back up around your shoulders.

Jace looked at you with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows, “You tease me?” he asked desperately, attempting to catch his breath. 

You smirked at the sight in front of you, he sprawled out on the throne nearly fully exposed, “I want you to spill inside me. How else am I to give you children?” You said in a teasing tone. 

Jace huffed but smirked, knowing his release was going to be something he earned. He pushed himself back into his trousers and stood. 

He smirked at you as he began to rush you out of the throne room, no doubt towards your now shared chambers. Stopping for a moment to push you against the throne room doors to kiss you, tasting himself on your tongue. 

As your kiss was released you smiled at him, “I love you, you know?” you spoke gently.

He stifled a laugh and nodded, “I know you do.” he said before kissing you once more before pushing you out of the room and chasing you toward your chambers. 

[tellingtell5]

Poor Wayfaring stranger: 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

Remmick x femreader

A/N: Thank you for the support on the first part—I honestly didn’t expect it. Here’s what’s been haunting my mind ever since I wrote it. Hope you enjoy!

Just a hungry greedy soul crossing paths with another.

The parting glass: part 2. (part 1)

Angst. Lost.

You heard your father’s voice as if it were coming from another room—muffled, dulled, like grief had taken up permanent residence in his throat.

“This is my final word, Brady.”

You wondered if it would always be like this now—his body broken in ways that wouldn’t show on the surface. Wounds he couldn’t stitch shut.

“You need to understand”, voice cracking like something ancient. “He was my only son. If only we could say goodbye, just once more—”

“She’s not going to sing again.”

That landed with the weight of a final verdict. No room for argument. Not even from the person whose name still hung unspoken in the room.

You held your breath as silence descended. You didn’t want to be noticed. You just wanted to listen. As if by hearing their words, you might learn what would become of you. What the gods of your fate had decided behind closed doors. The air was thick, suffocating. You almost gasped for breath. Neither of them spoke. They were measuring each other in that heavy quiet.

“There are whispers, you know that?”

You shifted a little closer to the door, trying not to put your full weight on the wood, afraid it might creak. The man’s voice dropped into a hush—low and grave, like even he feared what he was saying might be true. “They say Maud was there, when she sang.”

“Don’t you dare say my mother’s name.”

You flinched. Your father’s fury came like a blade, and you felt it in your chest—tight and unbearable. The grief didn’t go away. You’d have to learn to carry it. To live with the way it twisted inside you, threatening to turn your own body against you whenever it was stirred.

You thought you’d mourned once already, when you were small and your mother left too soon. But that sorrow had been different. Maybe you were too young back then to understand. Your grandmother had stepped in, taken her place, filled in the gaps with quiet resilience.

You didn’t know when your feet had started moving. Lately it happened more and more—you losing control of your own limbs. Since the funeral, you’d begun sleepwalking, rising in the night like some lost specter. Your father no longer slept so he’d stop you each time you drifted toward the front door, eyes wide open but soul elsewhere. Sometimes, he caught you just in time. Other nights, he found you already standing in the doorway, staring into the dark like you were waiting for something.

He gave you a little bell to tie around your ankle. To hear you coming. To stop you.

You never remembered anything when you woke. Just a strange pressure at your temples, and a restless current running under your skin. Mornings were the worst. Your blood simmered like it didn’t belong in your veins. Your heart raced as if trying to pump more than your body needed.

When you reached the room, both men looked at you—startled, almost guilty.

You wanted to speak. To confess. To tell that grieving father that it was your fault. That, broken by pain and despair, you had done something forbidden. Something you never believed would have consequences until it did.

Would he think you were mad? Maybe he'd think your song was a delusion meant to bring his son back. And maybe that would make him more willing to believe. But what would he do when you told him that you were also the reason the town was cursed now?

Since the arrival of that stranger—his words still echoing in your head—every fourth night brought another death. Always the same: bodies drained, some torn apart. People formed search parties, desperate to catch the beast they were sure stalked the night. A curfew was enforced. No one left their homes after sundown.

And you hadn’t told them the truth. That the wolf they hunted wore the skin of a man. That your grandmother’s funeral had damned them all. That your disobedience had summoned the Devil himself.

The man’s eyes were hollow. You fought the instinct to step back. But something changed when he looked at you. A flicker of understanding. Pain mirrored yours.

You knew exactly who his son had been. You weren’t close, but you’d gone to school together. You recognized the curve of his brow, the shape of his mouth. That guilt sat heavy on your chest.

They said he left home before sunrise, the moon still high. He was on his way to work when something found him, tore out his throat. You’d heard they struggled to piece him back together for the burial.

“I’ll do it,” you said. Because you owed him. Because you needed to give something back.

Your father turned toward you like he'd been struck. His face tightened in horror.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

You saw something shift in his expression. Maybe he understood. You hadn’t spoken of it, but you both had come to the same conclusion. Your grandmother hadn’t told ghost stories just to scare children. She had believed every word. And your family had realized too late.

Brady wrapped his arms around you then—sobbing like a man who'd forgotten how. You didn’t know how to comfort him, only that your father watched it all in silent dread.

You almost told him the truth. That this wasn’t just about bringing the boy back, not really. That you had a plan. But instead, you said nothing, only offered him a broken apology through your eyes.

You asked for permission to sing at the wake—at night, not during the funeral. The family had a special pass to be out past curfew. You needed the twilight. Needed that thin veil between light and dark. You claimed your gift worked best at dusk. That the dead listened more clearly when the sun slipped away.

The truth? You had no idea what you were doing. But neither did they.

You excused yourself to prepare. To choose a song. One that might reach him. One that might call him back.

In your grandmother’s room, you counted floorboards, found the loose one you’d discovered weeks ago. Beneath it: journals. Pages and pages of secrets, halted the day she gave birth to her first child.

You picked the one that had sparked your plan. Fingers trembling, you traced the faded ink. The paper was stiff with old tears. You read, your breath shallow:

Remmick grows hungrier by the day. A week’s blood no longer satisfies him. I went to the village witch—we’ve just arrived—and she had no answer. I fear the pact cannot be undone, and I am running out of time. He feeds more often now, though he promised to let me rest. My blood makes him ravenous, not sated.

He doesn’t see how the exhaustion is severing my connection to the ancestors. Fewer come when I sing. Perhaps they’ve turned from me, ashamed I’ve made a deal with a monster. But what choice did I have? I had to stop the killing. Even if it meant losing everyone I loved.

At least they’re safe—from him. From what I’ve become. I write this to bleed the truth out of me. I think he reads me through my blood. I fear he knows I’m looking for a way to destroy him. But here, in these strange lands, no one truly knows what a vampire is.

If I manage to kill him, I won’t use my gift again. I’ll miss my mother’s voice and the warmth of my brother’s love. But I won’t damn anyone else. I won’t tie more souls to this song, this curse that’s brought as much sorrow as joy.

You swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the knot of fear and grief tightening in your throat. Your blood had stirred the moment you read his name—that demon you'd called without knowing. You would finish what your grandmother had begun. You hadn’t only inherited her eyes, but also a gift so dangerous it could summon death itself to your doorstep.

At dusk, you said goodbye to your father. It felt final, though you had no intention of dying that day. Still, it was as if you were heading to your own funeral—the wake of your soul. Maybe it no longer even belonged to you.

When you arrived, every eye turned to you. You couldn’t tell if it was awe or fear. Maybe both. You were sure some of them blamed you, though they wouldn’t dare say it aloud. Not that they tried to stop you—grief had worn them thin, desperate to reach their lost ones, no matter the price. What did a goodbye cost? Would they call you a witch once they'd had their final words?

You refused to look at the boy's body as you took your place near the wooden box. Clearing your throat, you felt the room hold its breath. But you didn’t sing at once. Just like at your grandmother’s funeral, you started with a whisper—a shapeless hum meant to prepare the air for what was coming.

The atmosphere thickened, and the hum you once craved now grated against your skin.

I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger

Traveling through this world below

There is no sickness, no toil, no danger

In that bright land to which I go

I'm going there to see my father

And all my loved ones who've gone on

You had found that song alongside the one you sang the day you chose defiance. A sudden thought lit up in you like lightning—how many funerals had your grandmother sung through? Every song she passed down was a farewell.

I'm just going over Jordan

I'm just going over home

You sang for the family, weeping over a boy who never got the chance to grow up. You conjured memories of the days you'd played together—how you ran until your ribs ached from laughter. And before you realized, you too were crying, your voice unraveling into a raw, aching lament.

I know dark clouds will gather 'round me

I know my way is hard and steep

But beauteous fields arise before me

Where God's redeemed, their vigils keep

I'm going there to see my mother

She said she'd meet me when I come

That’s when you felt it—another presence. One that didn’t belong. The crying faded into soft murmurs, quiet farewells meant to ease the path of the departing. You kept singing, though your voice trembled. You wanted to apologize. To make him understand you were trying to fix things. Then pain bloomed in your chest—gratitude so sharp it bent you over. Somehow, you knew the Brady boy had forgiven you. He was the one comforting you.

You ended the song with the same soft murmur you had begun with, and others joined in—a final attempt to wish him safe passage.

When you opened your eyes, your breath came in ragged gasps. Your gaze locked with that of one of the older women in the crowd. She didn’t look away. Her eyes shimmered, and her lips formed a word you didn’t know. Banshee, you thought.

You apologized for not staying longer. My father will be worried, you told them, though you had no real plans to go home.

You followed the familiar path from the Bradys’ house to the meadow where you used to sing in secret during spring afternoons, the wind stealing away your words.

That’s where you found him—waiting. He wore the dusk like a second skin, his silhouette outlined against the fading light. You wanted to run when a glint of crimson caught your eye. He was watching you. You ordered your heart to stop, to settle, to stop trying to break your ribs with each frantic beat—but it didn’t listen.

When you reached him, he looked calm. Hands tucked into his pockets, the same smile he'd worn on your doorstep still curved his lips.

“Was wonderin’ how long it’d take ye t’break,” he said, the low rumble of his voice thick with that unmistakable Irish lilt. It vibrated straight through you, like it knew the way to your bones.

“What do you want from me, Remmick?” you asked.

You wanted it to come out firm, defiant—but it escaped more like a plea. A yearning you hadn’t meant to reveal. His eyebrows softened at the sound of his name on your lips, and you swore something in his stance shifted. Was he shaking? No—he was perfectly still.

He stepped closer, slow, testing, like dipping his toes before plunging into deep water. When you didn’t move, he stopped just shy of you—your shoes nearly touching.

His scent hit you like a wave. Your skin prickled, and something deep inside cracked open, releasing a hunger you didn’t know you carried.

“I want it all.” His hand lifted, reaching for your face—but it paused, trembling in midair. You were startled by the pull, that primal tug urging you to lean forward and close the distance.

“I came to…” Your thoughts scattered, his eyes pulling you under. Crimson gleamed in their depths and you had to breathe, hard, to keep from drowning in the sensation. “I want to make a deal.”

That grin spread wide again—feral this time. He didn’t bother to hide his teeth this time. You couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a promise.

Why did it feel so natural to offer him your soul? To give him everything? You told yourself it was to end the killing, to quiet the monster smiling inches away. But what if that was just an excuse? You remembered all those nights you’d woken unknowingly, waiting—hoping—for him to come.

“And what have ye got t’offer, darlin’?”

“My voice.” It broke as you said it, and he let out a low, amused sound—almost a laugh.

This time, he didn’t hesitate. His hand reached for you again, and his fingertip traced the base of your throat. The smile vanished. His mouth parted in awe, jaw slack, as if you were something holy. He nodded slowly to himself, lost in thought. You had to stiffen your spine to keep from shivering under his touch.

“And my blood,” you whispered.

At that, his eyes snapped to yours with inhuman speed. His pupils blown wide, brows drawn together, intense.

“Tha’ already belongs t’me.” The words came rough, like smoke and heat. You felt them in your gut.

The caress became a grip—his hand encircled your throat, firm, not cruel. Just enough to claim.

You remembered your grandmother’s faded pages. A deal. She had already offered him her blood—the same blood that now ran in your veins, caught beneath his fingers.

You swallowed, and your throat moved against his palm. The pressure increased, a strangled sound escaped him.

“Tell me, lass… what is it ye’re after, mm?”

His face had softened again, but not his grip. You lifted your hand, gently wrapping your fingers around his wrist, as if searching for some scrap of humanity beneath centuries of monstrous intent.

"Leave my people alone. No more deaths. I'll sing for you. I’ll sing your songs—just stop tearing them apart."

You don’t know why you said it like that. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was a memory trying to claw its way to the surface. But it didn’t matter—he didn’t seem to understand a word. Remmick tilted his head, eyes narrowing like you’d just spoken in tongues.

"Yer people?" His voice was slow, heavy with that deep Irish rasp, like smoke curling through ancient stone. "Do ya even know what ya are, lass?"

Now you’re the one confused. You feel your brow wrinkle, your heart hammering against your ribs in that hollow way that only comes when the truth starts to feel foreign. There’s a whisper of an idea at the edge of your thoughts, half-formed, shifting like fog.

And then he hums—a low, guttural sound in his chest that drags you back to him. He’s watching you now, with a strange, wounded softness that doesn’t belong on a creature like him. Pity, almost. For you.

"Maud kept too many secrets," he murmurs. "Poor thing."

His hand lifts, calloused fingers cupping your cheeks with a tenderness that borders on reverence. He wipes away the tears you hadn’t noticed falling, the pads of his thumbs soft, patient, almost like he’s savorin’ the salt of you.

"Yer granny made a deal with the Devil, and I don’t mean meself. Nah, I was just an afterthought—a mild headache, if ya will. But her grief... it led her to trade her soul, just for a whisper of reunion. And you, m’love... yer what was left behind. The collateral."

Your confusion cracks wide open, heat crawling beneath your skin like fire beneath ice. You open your mouth to speak, but he hushes you with a shudder of sound that coils low in your gut, calming you against your will.

"Yer a song born of sorrow. A creature of mourning," he whispers, and his voice dips—dark velvet, sinful. His thumbs trace over your lips, slow, deliberate. "A banshee."

You’ve heard the old stories—women who keened for the dying, harbingers of grief. But you hadn’t wept for anyone. You had screamed. You had howled. You had fought. And still… something about his words settles too easily inside you.

"I’ll take yer offer," he says at last, voice so close now it grazes your skin like a prayer. "Yer voice, for their lives. I won’t touch another one of yer precious mortals. But yer blood, mo chroí... that was always mine. I’ve come to claim what’s owed."

He leans in, so close you can feel the shape of his smirk before you see it. You tilt your head without thinking, offering. And he chuckles, low and secret, like he’s just unwrapped something meant only for him.

"I never liked touchin’ Maud, y’know. She reeked of hunger—not the good kind." His breath brushes your jaw. "Never once sank me teeth into her. Just had her fill jars for me. But you—"

His voice drops, almost reverent, and his mouth traces the shell of your ear. His fangs graze your skin—sharp, cruel, perfect—and your breath hitches.

"Yer soul begs me to tear ya apart, doesn’t it, pet? Begs me to devour ya whole."

You want to deny it. You should. But no sound escapes. Instead, you tilt your neck further, exposing the soft line of your throat. He growls low, the sound so intimate it coils inside you.

"Do ya know how long I’ve waited for this?" His nose drags up your neck, slow, almost obscene. "I’ve been thirstin’, starvin’—and nothin’ satisfies."

You shiver when his fingers slide into your hair, pulling it gently aside. A sound escapes you—deep, desperate—when his lips meet the throb of your pulse.

"I’ve felt nothin’ since her voice faded from me ears, since her blood stopped callin’. Everythin’ tastes like ash, darlin’."

He drags his tongue over your skin, lazy, languid. Not a kiss—just a claim. You close your eyes, and your knees weaken.

Then he pauses.

"Such a curious creature..." His breath teases your collarbone, and he smiles against your throat. "Don’t hide those sounds from me, mo chroí. Let them loose. Yer voice is too rare to smother."

His fingers tilt your chin, and your mouth parts with a gasp. He slips his thumb across your lip. You almost kiss it—almost—but then another sound escapes you, raw and feral, and he shudders.

"That’s it."

"Are you going to destroy me?" The words break from you, shaky—not with fear, but want.

He hums again, like you amuse him. His mouth brushes the hollow beneath your ear.

"Destroy ya? Nah," he breathes, in that thick Irish rasp. "I’m gonna ruin ya. But not the way yer thinkin’. I need ya alive, love. Wouldn’t do me much good if ya had a hole in yer throat, now would it?"

Then, sharp—his teeth graze your skin, and your knees nearly give. Your hands move without asking permission—one tangled in his hair, the other pressed to his back, pulling him closer. He groans, deep and hungry, and finally—finally—his fangs pierce.

It’s barely a scratch, but it’s enough. Blood beads and rises. Before it can cool in the night air, his lips seal over it, drawing you into his hunger with a sound so guttural it steals the ground from beneath your feet.

You gasp, fingers twisting in his hair as warmth pools low in your belly. It isn’t pain. It isn’t fear. It’s something else. Something more dangerous.

Then panic sears through you, cutting through the haze. You pull at him, suddenly desperate to stop, but he misreads it—thinks it’s pleasure—and sinks deeper into you.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth is stained red, lips slick with your blood, and for a moment—just one brief, heart-stopping moment—you forget how to breathe.

He tilts his head to the moonlight, the silver glow catching on his jaw, glinting in the wet curve of his mouth. His face is lit with something unholy, yes—but it’s more than that. It’s divine. He looks like a ruined angel, something the heavens regret banishing, something too glorious to be forgotten by time.

You can only stare.

He drinks slowly, licking the blood from his lips as if it were the finest wine. Every flick of his tongue feels like a sin you’re complicit in. He savors it—savors you—with a quiet, obscene delight that makes your insides twist.

And still, all you can think about is sinking your own teeth into him.

Your mouth parts. Not to speak. Just to feel the air between you. To taste him on your own lips. Your fingers ache to touch him, not gently, but with hunger. To rake through his hair. To feel the press of him, the weight, the warmth. To see if his blood would taste like the fire you feel now blooming behind your ribs.

"Smart girl," he murmurs, licking a stray drop from your neck, the words a caress. "Knew ya had some bite."

Then, without warning, he yanks you against him. No space. No breath. His claws lift your chin, and you see the monster behind the man. Fangs bared. Heat on your lips. His breath, like smoke and sin.

"Next time ya try to kill me, sweetheart," he whispers, voice like cracked velvet, "make sure yer little scraps of knowledge are worth a damn."

It hadn’t worked. Not even a little. Your grandmother’s journals said verbena would slow him, poison him—had let her escape. You’d filled yourself with it for weeks. Had hoped your blood would be lethal.

That’s why you were scared. Because now... you don’t want him gone.

"Remember this, mo chroí. The Devil knows more ‘cause he’s old—not ‘cause he’s damned. No more verbena, aye? Sours yer taste. And we don’t want that, now do we?"

He laps at your mouth in a single obscene stroke—quick, hot—and you open to him before you can stop yourself.

He grins. Pleased.

"We’ll have to work on that greedy nature of yers."

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ green is the color of envy (and poison)

type of post: fic characters: neige, vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, vague possessiveness maybe angst idk, oooh drama author's note: I wanted a break from headcanons and had this strange urge to do a character study for neige. here I am, writing this at midnight

Neige Leblanche does not hate Vil Schoenheit.

The thought had not even occurred to him.

In fact, if you had even asked as much, his wide, doe-like eyes would fill with pretty tears, and he would ask you, in a trembling voice, if you really thought of him so cruelly.

Neige Leblanche did not hate anyone. On the contrary, he had so much love, it practically overflowed from him, touching the ground at his feet and imprinting itself on everything he held.

He was, for all intents and purposes, a vision of loveliness, a sunrise, morning dew on the petal of a white lily. He would have gladly, if you asked him, plucked each star out of the sky for you, written you a thousand songs, laid himself at your feet in adoration.

He was cupid, a chubby-faced, blushing cherub.

He had been content, for a time. Happy, even, with his little life, the family and career he had built with his own two hands, though you wouldn't know it from their softness.

Then, there was you.

You. You. The magicless prefect of Night Raven College. An otherworldly being. A hero.

You. So kindhearted, always gentle with the first years and animals. So polite, with him and his friends. So brave, facing danger and coming out unscathed. Your hope and gratefulness despite your circumstances reminded him, in a way, of himself.

There was no other explanation for it. You were sent for him.

Neige had simply never been so sure of anything. It felt right. It felt perfect. You were the one he'd been waiting for. You were his.

After the VDC, he couldn't stop thinking about you. You! You were perfect for him, his soulmate, and he didn't need to know you to know that. He'd never felt like this before, after all. It must be love.

You feel it too, don't you?

Limb by limb, he sews together a ragdoll of you in his mind. Something simple. Soft. Beautiful. Something for his thoughts to play with. He gives you a sword, one day, and he makes you a knight. He dresses you in the finest of silks, and he makes you a noble. He pushes up the corners of your sewn-together mouth, and he makes you smile back at him.

You're kind. You're brave. You're loving. You're loyal. You're chivalrous. You're anything he could want or need, anything at all, because you're his.

Why would fate lead him to someone who wasn't already perfect?

And, oh, how he wants to pick you flowers. Neige will make you breakfast in bed, and sing for you. Everyone loves him; and he loves everyone. But it isn't enough. You're his soulmate. Don't you know?

Why do you keep looking at each other like that.

You're so friendly, just like Neige, always so eager to please. Right? That's what it is. Right?

There could be no other reason for you and Vil Schoenheit to look at each other like that. As if you know something that Neige doesn't. As if you're having a conversation with only your eyes. What is that? What does it mean?

Why does he feel so comfortable touching you?

A hand on the small of your back, an arm around your waist. He corrects your posture with both hands on your shoulders. He taps your thigh when you're distracted. He holds your face in both palms to scold you for smudging the eyeliner he had so tediously put on you before coming here...

Why do you smile at him when he lectures you? Why does he smile back?

This strange, dizzying feeling, this tightness in Neige's chest, this unwelcomed weight, can't just be confusion.

He can only lie to himself for so long.

You feel it, too... don't you? Don't you get butterflies when you look at him? Don't you feel dizzy? Don't you think of him?

Vil murmurs something in your ear with a sly smile, and you laugh.

And you haven't even looked at Neige once yet. The thought makes him clench his fists under the table.

As this new, painful weight settles in his stomach, a dizzying thought sits with it.

Neige Leblanche is jealous.

Of Vil Schoenheit.

[uglysandwich84]

Obsessive!Jinx x Reader

Warning: Possessiveness, obsession, implied stalking, psychological tension, unhealthy attachment

She doesn’t remember your name when she first hears it, only the shape of it, the hush and pull, the way it lingers on the air like a half-breathed prayer. But the moment her eyes find you, the world seizes, taut and trembling, as if a wire has snapped inside her, singing with the unbearable knowledge of you.

Jinx never believed in fate. She barely believes in anything beyond the hot bloom of gunpowder, the symphony of chaos thrumming in her veins. But you, oh, you are something unholy, something ruinous. An affliction she cannot claw from her skin, a whisper threading itself into the marrow of her bones.

She watches you when you do not know, when the city swallows you whole, and you exist only in glimpses between the frayed edges of her mind. You move like an unsolved riddle, a poem missing its final line. The first time she takes from you, it is not out of need, nor greed, but hunger, some aching thing, raw and unbidden. A jacket abandoned, a scarf left draped carelessly over the back of a chair. She presses the fabric to her face, breath hitching as your scent floods her, thick and dizzying, winding around her lungs like ivy.

She keeps them, of course. Tucks them beneath her pillow, presses them to the hollow of her ribs, wears them like a second skin. She drowns in you, in the ghost of your warmth, the intimate echo of your presence. It sickens her, how much she craves it. How much she craves you.

And oh, she imagines you knowing. Imagines your gaze catching on the fraying edges of her obsession, watching her tremble beneath the weight of it. Would you run? Would you stay? Would you trace the hunger in her eyes with your fingertips and whisper that you understand? That you, too, feel the walls of the world closing in without her?

Jinx is unraveling. She can feel it in the fevered pulse of her breath, in the way your name begins to taste like something sacred on her tongue.

She does not fight it.

She lets it consume her, lets it rot through the fragile architecture of her self control, lets it bloom into something terrible and exquisite. Because you are already hers. You always have been.

And soon, soon you will know it, too.

[valeisaslut]

COLLIDE, my final words.

I started imagining Collide the first time I watched The Voice back in 2022. I didn’t know how to sing, not even a little, but that didn’t matter — because in my head, I was a popstar. A girl who made it out. A girl who had the world watching. A girl who walked onstage like she was made for it. And somewhere in the back of that same head, another image popped out on my tumblr for you page: a fanart of Ellie Williams in a band with Jesse and Dina.

And just like that, it all began.

Ellie became a rockstar. Jesse was her drummer. Dina played bass. Their band was called the Fireflies. And somehow, I was a popstar in their orbit — and Ellie and I were in love. The very first scene that ever came to me was the Grammys. I saw it so vividly, like a memory from a life I hadn’t lived yet. Then came the club. Where they met. Where it all began.

Eventually, the popstar in my head detached from me and became her. Her own person. With her own pain, her own spotlight, her own story.

That’s when Collide stopped being a daydream and started being a universe. That’s when it became real.

This story has lived in my mind every time I performed in front of my mirror like I was Beyoncé or Ariana, every time I heard a song and thought, this is so Ellie or this is so popstar. It lived in the way my heart clenched at lyrics, the way my eyes lit up when I imagined the stage lights hitting Ellie’s face.

It lived in me.

The idea to write it all down came one summer afternoon in February. I was bored. My friends couldn’t hang out. And maybe that was fate. That day, I listened to “She” and thought, God, this could be one of their songs.

I opened a Google Doc, named it Collide, and wrote the very first outline.

That doc now has 472 pages.

I don’t think I could’ve chosen a more perfect name. Collide. It’s exactly what this story is — a crash, a spark, a heart splitting open. Her and her. Me and this story. Every single second I spent writing it, every hangout I canceled, every night I stayed up just to get one more scene out — it was all worth it.

When I uploaded the prologue and it got less than 30 notes, I told myself, I don’t care. I would keep writing it even if it got two notes, and one of them was mine. I was doing it for that little part of me that always dreamed of seeing herself plastered across a page. And I did. I really did.

And then something extraordinary happened: you all found it. You turned it into something living. People made moodboards and playlists and fanarts and edits. They sent me essays after every chapter. They set alarms for 4 a.m. in the middle of exam season just to read it with me or even when they had work in 2 hours. They wrote to me about the songs they heard and thought of Ellie and the reader. They cried with me. They screamed with me. They lived it with me.

It became something with a soul. Something that filled people’s minds while they were living their lives. Something that made them feel — deeply, messily, beautifully.

I can’t describe that with words. Not really.

It’s the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever done, sharing this story. But I did it. And I’m so fucking proud that I did.

To every person who walked this journey with me: thank you. For real. For everything.

I wrote this with every single part of myself — my joy, my grief, my hunger, my hope — and now I’m mourning it like a widow in a Greek tragedy. I genuinely need pain medication for my fingers because I typed so much and so fast for 3 months. But I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Collide will never truly end. Not really. It’ll live in us forever. Just like their story will.

Thank you for seeing it. Thank you for feeling it. Thank you for carrying it with me. This was my heart. My soul.

And now — it’s yours, too.

With everything I have, Valentina

[amoreva]

A SAD SONG

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of apollo!reader

summary: in which the gods and goddesses were hungry for something new.

warnings: not proofread! tlt/tlo spoilers! major character, death, angst

a/n: inspired by @basicrese post!! i did use some hadestown lyrics/lines from the show, so credit to anaïs mitchell & Rachel chavkin.

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

The seeds of doubt sprouted: grasping at his mind, tangling itself through his hope. The Fates whispered in his ears, step after step. It was cold and dark. He never felt more alone.

Where is she?

Where is she now?

Orpheus gripped his guitar tighter. Every step he made felt like he was getting further and further from the surface. He chastised himself at every turn.

Why would he let me win?

Why would he let her go?

Why am I to think that he wouldn’t deceive me just to make me leave alone?

Where is she?

Where is she now?

Eurydice’s words fell on deaf ears. She was desperate to let Orpheus know she was here. Right behind him. She’d always been. She kept staring at the back of his head. It brought immense comfort as they walked and walked out of the Underworld.

They were so close. Eurydice could taste the surface, until she saw the contours of his face and his warm eyes filled with affection. A soft gasp fell from her lips.

“It’s you.” Relief filled his heavy heart when Orpheus saw her. His love. What had he done?

“It’s me.” She committed his face to memory, the warmth of his gaze comforting her. “Orpheus—” Helplessly she reached out, hoping to embrace her love once more. Instead of the warmth she wanted, cold hands grasped her arms, dragging her back to the Underworld.

“Eurydice.” His voice cracked. Frozen, staring at the place where she was.

Thus ended the tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice. Hermes told tales to entertain Olympus, but the gods and goddesses were growing tired of the same old tales: the same old tragedies. They craved something new.

Hermes gave a small smile and shook his head to the stars. He gave them what they wanted as a new tale formed in his head. It was a sad tale, but he was going to tell it anyway, even if it involved his own son.

Luke Castellan was a hungry young boy. A runaway from everywhere he’d been. He was no stranger to the world. No stranger to the wind.

The daughter of Apollo was a poor girl, but she had a gift to give. She could make you see how the world could be. In spite of the way that it is.

Yet, the son of Hermes had seen how the world was. When he fell, he fell in spite of himself…

In love with the daughter of Apollo.

It was the height of spring when Luke and you fell in love. He was scorned and pitied after failing his quest. Feelings of abandonment, fury and betrayal simmered below his lighthearted jokes and his composed smiles. He learned he could only fend for himself. To hell with the rest.

Until he met you, your sole being made him feel alive and when he fell—he fell hard. He was enamored your bright smile and optimistic personality. You’d caress his hair gently while singing a small tune. He learned to lean on your shoulder when nightmares passed, hoping your light was enough to shine through the darkness that overtook his head, plagued his sleep.

It wasn’t enough.

You awoke to the sound of shuffling. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, Luke was sitting on the edge of his bunk. His shoulders tensed as he held his head in his hands. “Luke…?” Your voice hoarse.

He turned his head towards you. An apologetic smile graced his lips. “Hey…” His voice low, raspy from underuse. He stretched over to give you a kiss on the forehead, keeping you from sitting up.

“You okay?” Your arms wrapped around him. He melted, burying his head in your neck, hiding his turmoil.

“Mhm.” And for a night, your light clouded the promises the deep voice in his dreams offered. It was a temporary distraction, one that wouldn’t last long—one he couldn’t keep relying on.

You should’ve known. Blinded by your ignorance and his empty reassuring words of his health, Luke disappeared from camp. Hit with the reality, you did everything in your power to find him.

But, he did not want to be found. Not by you. He knew if he saw you again, your eyes, your smile—your light would melt his purpose, his mission, leaving him putty in your arms (he missed it.)

Your original camp songs disappeared from the nightly bonfires. Your light faded ever so slightly. Regret, worry and guilt simmering beneath your smiles.

You swore you’d catch glimpses of his curls or his broad frame when you were in the city. You were chasing a ghost—holding onto the love you had for him. The restless nights plagued you, but instead of Kronos’ words, music notes coaxed you to stay up and write.

The sheets of music hidden beneath your bunk. The song for your and Luke’s hearts only. You were holding onto something you should’ve let go.

But, like the tragedy tale of Orpheus and Eurydice you met once again, but not under joyous circumstances.

The Battle of Olympus was treacherous. You kept catching glimpse of Luke—but instead golden eyes replaced the ones filled with affection you used to know.

You saw how the world could be, no longer naive to the truth. Your siblings perished in the battle. Cabin Seven went from being the largest cabin to the third smallest in the span of—gods knew how long. In spite of it all, you saw the beauty after it ended.

A bright light flashed. Exhausted from fighting hellhounds, empousas, telkhines, etc, you trudged your body to the Hall of Gods. Bone collided with the marble floor.

After all these years, you saw your love. Without the golden eyes or scorned look in his face, albeit bleeding, it was him. Your eyes filled with relief and warmth when you saw him, finally.

A soft gasp fell from his lips. He expected hatred, frustration—but found nothing but affection from you.

“It’s you.” You whispered, cupping his face with your battle-worn hands.

Luke leaned in, knowing it was the last time he would feel your touch, your light, your love. He committed your face to memory, so that when he goes—he goes remembering your face forever.

“It’s me.” He reassured, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand.

So many words were on the tip of your tongue, but they kept themselves from forming properly. All you could do was stare at Luke, at last, after so long. Tears blurred your vision. Luke reached up to caressed your cheeks. Remembering your face with his eyes wasn’t enough.

“My love.” His voice so soft, gentle like he was admiring your light again: getting lost in your songs, melting in your arms and loving like the Underworld was shining.

Luke knew you had a lot to say. Words laced with frustration, concern, confusion, but all meant to be said with love.

“Luke.” You whispered as if your heart wasn’t breaking into a million pieces. Communicating in a silent stare, he felt your words, taking them to heart.

You couldn’t leave him with that and so you hummed.

The familiar notes that plagued your nights emitted from your lips. Luke’s hand dropped form your face with a thud. He shut his eyes and smiled as he listened. And for a moment, just for a moment, it felt like you and him were back at Camp. His head in your lap as you caressed his hair. The sounds of the forest accompanying your singing.

His breath stilled. The cold hands of the Fates grabbed him after you said your goodbyes, but his dead body held your warmth, your light. He remembered your face long after he made it to River Styx.

And you?

You sang your private song again for the world to hear. To keep him alive and you were going to sing it again with your love so full for the runaway.

Thus ended the tragedy of the son of Hermes and the daughter of Apollo. The gods were throughly entertained asking to hear it again and again. Until, it was an old song and they craved something new.

Hermes shook his head up to the stars. Heart stricken with grief and sympathy. It was a sad tale. A tragedy. And he was going to tell it again. The gods and goddesses of Olympus knew how it ended, but they were going to listen again and again as if it might turn out this time.

See, the daughter of Apollo was a poor girl, but she had a gift to give. She could make you see how the world could be. In spite of the way it is.

And the son of Hermes was a hungry young boy. A runaway from everywhere he’d been. He was no stranger to the world. No stranger to the wind.

Yet, the son of Hermes had seen how the world was. When he fell, he fell in spite of himself…

In love with the daughter of Apollo.

It was the height of spring when Luke and you fell in love.

—– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —–

[kinbedo]

A/n: In honour of the upcoming interlude quest where Albedo is the main convict character :D

Fluff, pining (sorta), wc: 1.5k

Thinking of being academic rivals with Albedo right now.

He isn't your stereotypical academic rival that's always at your throat making snide remarks until he falls in love or something. You don’t even realise you were “rivals” until you accidently met his family. Instead, he leaves his rivalry only for your classes.

He doesn't even need to ask whether your grade was better or worse than his, he gets his measure of your intelligence through your class discussions and debates. He couldn't care less about your score on a test.

You often find him hanging out with Sucrose and Timaeus and he often finds you by yourself, occasionally being approached by some of your peers.

Fate works in weird ways to ensure that you and him are always in close vicinity. But you don't mind it because that means it was easier to find him and talk to him if you needed any clarifications regarding a topic. And he was always happy to help (though he does occasionally slip in a "oh? need my help do you?" or "aww I'm honoured I can help you").

How did you realise you were supposedly “academic rivals?” Well, some people did tell you that you and Albedo always seemed to be at each other’s throats during class, but he was respectful in general that you didn’t believe it was that serious.

Well, at least not until lunch that one fateful day.

You had finished lunch rather early and decided to head out for some fresh air. The corridors were still pretty empty, considering the others were still at lunch, so it was very peaceful.

Just then, two women walk in with a small girl holding one of their hands. You were about to ignore it when the realisation hit you— that's Alice and Rhinedottir! Two of the most renowned researchers in the world.

You stop in your tracks, completely taken aback when the little girl holding Alice's hand runs up to you. "Hello!!! Have you seen my brother? He's about this big, has blond hair like me, he did my hair actually hehe.” She says, enthusiastically pointing at her pigtails. “Oh and a really soft voice that he for some reason doesn't use for singing. He sings well too but I rarely get to hear him." The little girl pouts. You smile and bend down to her level, before nodding shyly at the two researchers behind her.

The little girl in red doesn't even wait for you to respond before gasping and pointing at the book tucked under your left arm, "That's the same word I see on my brother's books too! Are you in the same class?"

You're about to answer but you're cut off again, not by the girl this time, but by a certain male coughing to let his presence be known.

"Albedo!!!" Your head snaps back to see Albedo leaning against the wall behind you, a sheepish look adorning his features.

"You both actually brought Klee here. I thought you were only joking."

Klee runs into Albedo's arms and starts tugging at his legs. With a sigh, the blond picks her up. You had to hold back a giggle at how he seemed to struggle with her weight, despite her tiny frame.

He seems to have caught you though. He turns his attention to you, a small frown turning into an apologetic look on his face. "I hope my sister didn't cause you any trouble [name]."

"No no, not at all."

"So this is [name]? I'm not even surprised. You're dazzling, my dear." Rhinedottir says, her voice sounding much more mature than she looked.

Alice hummed in response, dramatically adding, "I can see why Albedo's so fond of you. Did you know? You're his source of motivation that keeps him going in class. He really appreciates having you as a rival."

The male only coughs in response, his cheeks tinted red from embarrassment. "Your choice of words surely is something..." he mutters under his breath. Alice laughs in response while ‘Gold’ only nods, a smirk adorning her features.

You can only smile shyly at your predicament, unsure of what to say to two big researchers claiming that Albedo sees you as a rival.

Oh wait…

Oh.

“Rivals, huh?” You think, turning your head to see Albedo carefully adjusting Klee in his arms.

He seems to notice your glance and returns it with an apologetic smile. “I will text you.” He mouths, and you nod in acknowledgement.

Later that evening, you receive a message from Albedo.

18:36: Albedo: I would like to apologise for any misunderstandings created today. My mom and aunt tend to get a little too excited when they are interacting with people.

You stare at the message for a little while, unsure of what to ask him first. Should you ask him about his relation to two of the greatest researchers in the world? Or about you being his ‘rival’? Or the impression his family has on you because what did they mean? Or were their words even supposed to be taken so literally? Scientists have all been known to be pretty eccentric…

It seems you were pondering for a bit too long, because Albedo had to send you another message to snap you out of your thoughts.

18:39: Albedo: Feel free to ask me any queries you may have. I hope that would make up for them making you uncomfortable.

18:40: You: Don’t worry, they didn’t make me uncomfortable at all.

18:40: You: I was just a little baffled at their sudden appearance.

18:40: You: Your sister is very cute btw. She said that you did her hair? You’re quite talented.

18:41: Albedo: I’m glad :)

18:41: Albedo: And thank you.

18:42: You: You never mentioned being related to Alice and ‘Gold’.

18:43: Albedo: Ah right. That’s because I want my academic achievements to be attributed to me as a person, and not my relation to someone else.

18:44: Albedo: Besides, I don’t suppose people like hearing someone brag about personally knowing two celebrities.

A smile creeps onto your face at the last statement as you type out your response.

Turns out, Albedo was even easier to talk to out of classes. Previously, all your conversations had been related to academics, but now, you were getting to know him more as a person. You also realised that he never spoke about himself or his achievements often in general. Not only were you unaware about a lot of things he shared with you, but he also seemed to be eager to talk about it.

You both end up on a call, since typing started becoming a hassle after a while. His voice seems much softer right now than it does at school. You let his words guide you as you go about your evening routine, listening to him talk about the various topics in your conversation.

On the other side, Albedo was paining. Delicate, precise strokes filling up the canvas. The only other sound in the background was the occasional creaking of the easel.

He indeed does see you as academic rival, he says, trying to explain Alice’s words. Although “academic rivalry”, to him, didn’t mean comparing scores and trying to outwit each other. He enjoys the debates where you both are pitted against each other, sure, but he likes it even more when you’re subtly competing to identify errors and point them out to the teacher in the middle of class.

He never asks you for your score on a test because he doesn’t believe they are accurate enough. “Any mishap can lead to inaccurate scores. Rather, I try to find out the topics that you’re good at, and make them the line I want to cross to get even better.”

And why is he so willing to help you with subjects you might find difficult? “Shouldn’t you be weary of helping your rivals? But you always seem eager to help me with difficult questions.” You question.

“You can provide interesting view-points I may not have considered before. Sometimes, I realise that you’ve approached a problem in a way that I didn’t even think about. Other times, I practice topics by talking about them with you. You catch on quickly, and it helps me revise and improve my own knowledge on the matter.”

“And what about the ‘dazzling’ part Ms. Gold mentioned-”

The blond hitches, the brush in his hand momentarily stopping as a few drops of paint fall to the floor.

“That’s just the way she tends to talk. Nothing too special, really. It probably didn’t mean anything other than a simple compliment. My mom just likes to use big words even in casual situations. Or perhaps that was just the first word that came to her mind when she saw you. You’ll have to ask her directly for the exact meaning.” He cuts you off a bit too eagerly, and mutters the next few words, “Though I sincerely hope she doesn’t elaborate.”

Huh, that’s a bit too many words spoken together. He usually only speaks so much when he’s explaining a topic.

Or wait, didn’t he just over-explain (himself) Rhinedottir’s wording?

Perhaps it meant something else after all.

----------

[naffeclipse]

Charm Brought It Back

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

I am so excited to present this Hocus Pocus inspired AU requested by the lovely @jackofallrabbits! The boys star as the witchy brothers who return once a fated reader lights the starry candle. They simply must show their gratitude! And what better day to post such a spooky and fun fic than on Friday the 13th?!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, and heavy touching.

———

You turn the key and cut the engine of your car. With a flick, you turn off the headlights. The beginning of a sunset swoops down onto your ill-adjusted vision. The horizon is drenched in purples and oranges as shadows begin to crawl off of trees and their yellowed leaves. It will take a minute or two for your sight to adapt, but you have tilted and revolved the structure waiting just at the edge of the forest within your mind’s eyes for days now. It’s beyond the dirt road you’ve pulled onto the shoulder of.

Blinking slowly, you find the house’s dark silhouette through the boughs of clustered trees, and you sigh at the beauty of its preserved history.

The building is an artifact dating back roughly to the 1630s. A post-medieval English-style home, it contains two stories with an overhanging jetty and stunning clapboard siding that has survived a little under four centuries of existence. Your eyes catch on the windows and your heart sings at the sight. Diamond-paned casement. And there, decorative pendants of celestial bodies, including iron-casted suns, moons, and overlapping symbols of the two. The steeply pitched roof is common for the era and is more renowned in its descendant the saltbox form, but this style boosts its spooky aura.

The Puritan colonists were the ones responsible for importing the style to America as they landed here on the eastern coast. 

It’s no stretch of the imagination to think of witches and execution trials while gazing over the beautiful home. You’re particularly intrigued by the history of the Salem witch trials, and as a historian, you couldn’t deny yourself the chance to enter the building and feed the gnawing need to stand within a piece of history.

Stepping out of your car, a gust of wind carrying the bitter edge of autumn cuts through your brown sweater. You shiver and shut the door as quietly as you can manage. This is hallowed ground. This will supply your ever inquisitive mind which is always looking to the past with a curiosity most insatiable.

You face the home. A footpath lightly serpentines between the trees. Hooligans with destructive tendencies and teenagers on dares will venture here for a spooky, fun time, but are usually caught by the police because the building sits on private property. You asked for permission from the owner of the hundreds of acres of forest land that includes the so-called “Witch House” if you might enter the premises. Given your credentials, you were certain the owner would trust you with exploring the home.

Much to your relief, the owner agreed. 

You look up, arms clutching your knitted sleeves to fight the chill of an October breeze, in awe and reverence. 

From your pocket, you slip out a wrought-iron key with the symbol of the moon overlapping the sun to form a black eclipse and marvel again at the intricacy of ancient beauty. Your fingertips grow chilled in the late hour. The sun shifts from orange to dark, bleeding red like blood from a heart spilled across the horizon. You walk towards the home. 

Perhaps you should have arrived sooner. You were caught in another historical journal depicting the specific timeframe of when this home would have been occupied by its original inhabitants. 

The rumors even now speak of curses and cursed artifacts within the building. Some of it is true—you have confirmed with your own scholarly sources. The original owners were a trio of brothers. They were accused of witchcraft and hanged for the crimes. That much is historically documented and verified. 

What is fantasy is the tale of the brothers casting a curse with their dying breaths, declaring they would one day return if a virgin lit a starry candle on the anniversary of their executions.

Superstition. Most likely, the fear of the townspeople transcended to their children, and their children, down and down until it became a tale to spin on Halloween night around these parts. 

The door is black as you approach it. A stray branch catches on your sweater, pulling on a thread, and you yank yourself free and silently mourn the roughen fabric before returning your attention to what really matters. You must be careful. This entire place is iconic and in need of preservation. 

You slip the key into the lock hole and turn it with a thick, heavy click before the black wood door groans and slides inwards as if inviting you into its sphere. You take a breath. Your boots cross the threshold and you enter the home. 

As is typical of some homes built in the early seventeenth century, an open hall greets you. In the far back is the fireplace with a cauldron still sitting upon an ashy bed. An original wood-carve table and chairs are set to one side as a staircase climbs up into the darkness of the second level. What little red light leaks inside is narrowed and cut up into diamonds by the panes. To one wall, shelves contain dusty and forgotten cooking utensils, once glimmery copper pots, and dinner dishes with designs considered much too gawky in the Puritan era but it causes you to softly gasp.

Your hand covers your mouth as you gaze around you, overwhelmed with the beautiful intricacies of metallic chandeliers holding half-burned tallow candles, and to the other wall lies a bookshelf covered in cobwebs as if the spiders refuse to let anyone examine such precious reads. Your fingers already itch to gently pry out one manuscript and gaze at the original script of whoever wrote it.

But the light—it’s far too dark now. The red has given way to blue and pale indigo. You squint. You reach into your other pocket for a lighter and flick it on. The tiny flame spouts a delicate light. Never would you dare admit this out loud to a living soul, but you so desperately wish to see the home in its authentic state, lit only by the technology the brothers had at the time: fire.

There are thick, yellowed candles lying on the table and clustered together on the narrow window sills. You have no hope of reaching the metal chandeliers but you do spy a candelabra positioned near the bookshelf on a small end table. You light it first with a careful touch of your lighter flame. The wick catches, even after all of these years. You smile softly, your heart warm within your chest as you bask in the essence of this beautiful place.

A few more candles should suffice. 

You slip to the table to light the thick and tall candles. The flames bloom and warm the space in rich light, casting thick shadows from support beams. You almost set your lighter away when you spy one last candle set upon a golden candle holder. The fashioned metal twists and twines with elaborate engravings of shooting stars and slices of sun rays were placed in the corner of the room almost out of sight. The curiosity within you urges you to take a step, then another, and another. You stand in front of the almost forgotten candle.

The tallow is black as midnight. Strange. How did they color this? Embedded within the darkness are speckles of white, splattering the candle like an array of stars. Your eyes stray in search of constellations before shaking your head.

It’s true. There is a starry candle. Perhaps the brothers did dabble in the occult, playing with cards and fortune telling, and being punished with death for their interest in unholy magic. 

The wick is dark and untouched as if it were never lit before. You bring the lighter flame closer. Superstition might worry another, but you concern yourself with logic and reason—explanations of humanity rather than inexplicable forces beyond comprehension. 

Something stirs from a nearby corner shelf. Two long ears twitch. You catch a glimpse of a rabbit with creamy white fur just before it leaps off of the shelf and directly onto your arm. You yelp. Nearly dropping the lighter, you scramble back as the rabbit hits the floor, collects itself, and sits on its haunches.

Green eyes glare up at you. The rabbit, small and bunny-like, stays firmly between you and the starry candle.

You stand with your chest heaving and your lungs scraping out air, almost burning your thumb on the lighter flame before turning around yourself. Where did the woodland creature come from? Did it crawl its way inside like a rat and become trapped within the colonial home? The shot of adrenaline still flowing through your veins leaves your hands shaking.

The rabbit is still watching you with uncanny eyes. Prey animals so rarely stare back at bigger, larger threats. Perhaps it’s a pet. A runaway pet that somehow ended up here, of all places.

You slowly offer out your hand, keeping the lighter away in your other, as you take a step towards it.

It thumps a foot once, as if in warning, then bounds away. You watch it disappear into the house, still reeling from the fright it gave you. 

If Michael was here, he would have laughed and told you to leave with him, now. He never wanted you to go here, especially alone, but you shake such ominous warnings away. He said curiosity killed the cat. You disagreed. This house is a part of history, not a curse. Witches are mere stories, conjured out of historical unrest and the longing to blame bad luck and tragedies upon an individual or three. 

There’s always an explanation for fear superstition or mistrust. It’s far more sad than it is spooky.

You shake your head, smooth out the creases in your sweater, and face the starry candle again. The lighter flame flickers softly as you draw near it.

It is the anniversary of the brothers’ executions. You remember now as the shadows from other candles drape over you like a veil. You are also a virgin.

You laugh to yourself, covering your mouth as you do so. Look at you! You’re getting so worked up because a rabbit jumped at you.

It’s only hocus-pocus.

You tilt the lighter until it engulfs the wick. The flame catches, and you at last snap the lighter shut and return it to your pocket. Your eyes squint slightly at the candle. The wick snaps and bursts into sparks. The flame is not yellow or orange or even blue—it’s pure white like a comet streaking across the sky.

A crack of thunder splits the night sky with a bellow so monstrous, you feel like a child again, fearing a storm. You drop low to the ground, shielding your head as if the very world was going to fall upon you. A spark cracks in the fireplace, conjured out of ash underneath the cauldron before it burns hot and bright. The cauldron immediately begins roiling and bubbling with water. Laughter, great and terrible, and filled with the most jester-like joy sweeps over the room.

The pulse in your ears drowns at any sense but the need to hide. You scramble into the corner, tucking yourself behind the stand of the starry candle and hunker down. Holding your breath, you grab a fistful of your sweater while clutching your chest, and watch the door to the almost 400-year-old house fly open.

Three figures stride inside, looking about the place with wide eyes and disk-like heads framed in jutting adornments not unlike sun rays or shrouded in a heavy, dark blue hood.

“Brothers! We’re home!” The first one, tall and dark with deep red hues to his form, accent in sharp orange sun rays and an eclipse upon his face, turns to face his brother with bright, cat-like yellow eyes. “Isn’t it glorious?”

Another figure steps forward, yellow and off-white. Pale eyes beam. His head is crowned in bright sun rays as well. His spindly fingers twindle together in exuberant energy while he glances about the room eagerly. “Oh, yes, yes! More than anything! It’s as if we weren’t gone for more than a day—though the dust and cobwebs beg to differ.”

He draws a claw—you suck in a sharp breath—along the table’s edge and rubs his taloned fingertips together in disappointment. 

“We must get to cleaning at once.”

“No,” the last figure fixes his hood with silvery digits. Golden jewels hang down the back of his unusual skull, the last and most prominent adornment a thick, golden star pendant. His eyes cast around the room, scarlet, and searching. “We must thank the little mouse who lit the candle.”

He flashes sharp teeth within his wide mouth, shaping it into a hungry grin. You gulp.

“Where are our manners?” The red and dark one twists back to the room with a flourish of his arms. His yellow gaze sweeps over the shelves and floors with a blade-like glint. “Of course, we must thank one so lovely.”

A dark cape drapes about his person. Underneath, a white flowing shirt hangs loosely to his lithe and slender figure, causing you to balk upon staring at such an exposed chest. The other two are no different, wearing similar shirts and dark trousers, but the hooded one bears a thick, longer cape while the sunny figure shares a cape similar to the first.

The yellow one lifts his wrists and frowns at the red ribbons tied around them. Golden bells jingle softly in an ominous chord. 

“How terrible a reminder of our current impermanence,” he growls low in his throat, all cheerfulness lost and causing you to squeeze your ribs in fear.

“Patience, Sun,” the red one speaks, though he too casts a narrowed glance to the black ribbons and golden bells adorning his wrists. “We will affix ourselves back to this world in due time.”

“Eclipse, what a delicious creature I smell.” The hooded figure steps deeper into the home. Blue claws scratch at equally blue ribbons knotted to his hand bones but his attention is terrifyingly fixed on the candle stand just above your hiding spot. 

You shrink further into the corner.

“Yes, Moon? And how lovely?” Eclipse, you assume, asks. His yellow eyes flash.

“As lovely as the stars,” Moon answers.

You watch claws curl around the wooden side of the candle stand, scratching deeply into the wood before a half-moon face emerges from behind, teeth set like a predator’s upon the sight of a wounded animal. Your heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.

“Hello, little mouse. Won’t you come and play with us?” 

You scream as he leaps behind the candle stand, takes you by the arms, and pulls you to your feet. You struggle to free yourself, crying out as he grabs hold of your wrists and fixes you firmly in place. 

“My, how sweet,” he purrs in a dangerously low voice that rolls in the back of his throat. “You are the darling virgin who lit the candle, no?”

“Let me go!” You thrash but Moon grins in delight, as if you’re simply too precious. 

“You deserve proper thanks,” He lowers one hand, forcing you to submit with slightly bent knees. “Here is my gratitude, little mouse.”

You freeze as he brings your hand towards his mouth, and a hundred, horrifying visions of him biting your fingers off or sinking his teeth in your palm send your blood into a frozen sludge of fear.

The witch, however, presses a kiss to the center of your palm. The softness catches the gears in your mind and jerks them to a halt.

“Thank you for allowing us to return once more,” he rasps. His scarlet eyes find yours between the space of your thumb and forefinger, and a strange stirring takes hold of your middle.

“This isn’t real,” you breathe. Dizziness begins to take hold.

This must be a dream, a thought gone wild, or inhaled bacteria triggering hallucinations.

Moon’s grin widens. He lowers your hand, loosening his hold for one precious moment. You rip your hands free of his grasp. A low growl escapes him but you’ve already slipped away, your eyes upon the door and spilling with the need to rush out into the night, away from the impossibilities standing before you—

Arms snatch your waist and lift your feet from the ground. You gasp. 

Held in the air, you squirm before a hot breath dusts the shoulder of your sweater. You fall still, your throat bobbing as a mouth presses into the corner of your neck and lays a kiss on the sensitive spot. Gooseflesh prickles up and down your body.

“I assure you, I’m very real, little mouse,” Moon purrs. His hands squeeze your hips once. “And as nice as this… attire is, I would dress you in blues and silvers. You would look proper and powerful, like my brothers and I.”

A squeak escapes you. You shrink against him, caught in his embrace.

“Brothers?” The word rattles out of your throat. 

“This is our home,” Moon whispers. “And you are our most honored guest.”

You manage to pry off his hands from your waist. With a sinister chuckle, the blue and silver hands release you. Without looking back, you run, ignoring the twinge in your stomach that whispers it was too easy to get away.

You hardly get a few steps before the sunny one—Sun—steps into your path. He catches you in his arms and spins you in a waltz at breakneck speed, your feet never touching the ground, before stopping without warning as he dips you low. He looms above you, his smile filled with sharp teeth.

“Let me get an eyeful. Oh, yes, you look good enough to eat,” he simpers. His hand splays along the small of your back and you gawk up at him, still trying to regain your balance after the sickness-inducing whirl. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”

“I just want to leave,” you whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Sunshine,” he laughs, and it echoes with all of his heart—do once-hanged witches have a heart? There is no historical journey to give context to this very moment, you fear.

He lowers his sultry gaze to you. “I wish to only thank you. And I intend to.”

He pulls you back to your feet. You’re still clasped in his embrace like lovers on a ballroom floor. His hand hooks tight to your hip, and his other catches the side of your face. Heat spreads through the marrow of your bones.

On the tabletop beside you, something white moves across the plane of its surface, hunkering behind the thick stack of candles still burning.

His head lowers to your neck. You stiffen as he tilts your head away, opening you to his parting teeth. A tongue, dark and sinuous, flicks out of his maw. A gasp slips from your lips at the wet lick up the column of your throat. Eyelids fluttering, you start to sag as weakness fills your knees. He drags his tongue higher to taste your jawline and finishes at your cheek with a swipe for good measure. 

Your hands find him and clutch tightly to his slender arms. He presses his lips to your ear and with a misty warmth, whispers.

“Thank you for—Gah!”

The white rabbit leaps up from the table, squirming directly between you and his chest, breaking you apart. Instinctively, you jump away just as Sun snarls. The heart-wrenching sound shakes your entire frame as he snatches the rabbit by the scruff before it can scramble back from his wretched claws.

“I’ll boil you alive!” he thunders. He steps towards the cauldron, back where Moon leans against the wall, watching the spectacle with an amusing twitch of his grinning maw. Behind you, Eclipse stands at the door like a sentinel, his eyes still hungry and even furious as he follows his brother’s movement to the cauldron. 

Sun dangles the rabbit, now struggling and kicking but unable to find purchase against the witch’s hold, above the boiling water of the caldron.

“No!” you cry.

Sun’s eyes widen. He turns back to you just as you close the distance and scoop the rabbit in your arms. His claws, pale-boned and wickedly curved, clench around emptiness. Without thought, you turn and run again though there is little hope as you come to the door. Your boots stamp against the wooden floorboards.

The rabbit in your embrace turns its face up to you and mutters in a woman’s voice, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

You gawk, stunned before hands catch you by the shoulders. You’re brought to a dead halt. The rabbit leaps from your arms, drops to the floor, and races away into a shadowy corner of the room with only one glimpse of its fluffy tail before you’re left alone.

You twist and face the eldest witch’s attention. Eclipse. His yellow eyes go up and down your body, and you watch in muted shock as two additional arms emerge from the shadows of his cap. He forces you backward, one step after the other until your back is pinned against a dusty wall.

You stare into his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your pulse pounds in your eardrums.

“I don’t believe this is happening,” you utter.

The witch tilts his head with a wicked grin.

“We’ll make you a believer yet.” He promises, and his deep cords vibrate through your form. “My dear, we simply must thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”

His claws slip over your collarbones. Your breath quickens, a stirring you cannot name unfolding deep within your middle. His extra set of hands fall to your hips and begin caressing the bones. Daintily, carefully, his warm fingertips slip just underneath the hem of your sweater, touching your bare flesh. A shiver runs down your entire body, leaving you to squirm.

“Be a good little comet,” he says softly, “Let me pour my gratitude all over you.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it was true,” you stare into his face, marked with a red crescent over a dark shadow, and his eyes pierce into the very nature of your being. “You’re back.”

“Because of you,” he rumbles softly in his chest. His grin pulls higher at the corners.

His claws slip over the nap of your neck and card gently into the small, sensitive hairs at the bottom of your skull. You breathe in. His eyes brighten in pleasure before he slips his sharp but controlled talons over the shells of your ears and follows the arch of your cheekbone. His gaze drops to your lips. Your heart thumps and thumps against your sternum so powerfully, you fear he may hear it.

His lips pull over his razor-sharp teeth and you stop breathing.

His other set of hands begins working up the sides of your torso. He rubs slowly and gently, but you squirm despite this. He touches you far too intimately when you have never experienced such affections before. A mewl escapes your lips. You wriggle as he refuses to relent. 

In answer, his upper hands lower and capture your hands together in one, and pin them above your head to hold you in place. He coos, chastising. A great roil starts in your stomach and expands upwards until your face becomes pink and flushed.

“Hold still, little comet,” he chuckles, and you whimper. “I’m not finished with showering you in all my adoration.”

“Eclipse,” your breath is harsh and hot.

“It is good to hear my name upon such lovely lips,” his voice lowers, husky and scorching. “I knew a virgin would light the candle. I swore it to my brothers as they set us on the gallows and draped nooses around our necks. You are our light, our savior. How could I ever thank you?”

In his words, his burning stare that singes with sincerity, it clicks into place. All at once, you believe what you are seeing with your own two eyes. 

It’s true. He’s back. He and his brothers have returned with magic.

“I have questions,” you say hesitantly in your demureness, “I want answers.”

“Of course,” Eclipse agrees easily. “But first…”

A dark claw brushes your hair back from your face. The flutter in your heart can’t seem to hold still. Eclipse’s grin widens and his eyes soften.

“You have freckles like constellations,” he murmurs in the manner of one gazing at the night sky or one studying an ornate painting.  

Before you can shape words to reply, to say anything that might free you from his grasp, his mouth is upon yours. A sound softly catches in the back of your throat. You fall still under his caressing hands still moving below your sweater. He traces the row of your ribs. You have just enough mind to wonder if he feels your skin prickle in your sensitivity. His other hand clasps your wrists tighter. You gasp against his teeth. 

He pulls gently, hungrily, taking you as if a bite of honeycomb. You become melted honey, easily malleable between his teeth and then molded by his mouth. His tongue invades you. You moan softly at the claim he lays upon you until you become weak in the knees and almost fall. His kiss seals your fate.

He releases you from his maw. You sink slightly, and his arms fall out from under your sweater to properly catch you. He lowers your wrists, returns your hands, and brushes your hair once more from your face.

A chuckle emits from his lips, and you burn.

“You’ll stay with us, won’t you?” he asks, but he waits for no answer as he scoops you into his arms. Feet dangling, you have no choice but to cling to his shoulders and endure his brothers’ attention as he twists around and faces them.

The rabbit’s right. You are in trouble. Michael warned you. He said curiosity killed the cat.

But charm brought it back.

[peachbubbless]

can i request the joestar family discovering there s/o is pregnant (reverse for Joleen)

Telling the Joestars you're pregnant

Word count - 5.7k

Characters: Jonathan, Joseph (Young), Joseph (SDC), Jotaro, Josuke, Giorno, Jolyne, Johnny, Gappy/Josuke (Part 8)

Jonathan Joestar

There’s golden light pouring in through the windows, warm against the old wood of the Joestar estate, and the whole world smells faintly like ink and tea. He’s in the study, fingers stained with ink, halfway through reading something ancient and dusty. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, just smiles softly like he always does when he senses you’re near.

Then you speak.

“Jonathan… I need to tell you something.”

Something in your tone makes him freeze. Not visibly. But his shoulders go still, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly on the edge of the desk.

He turns to you.

Sees your face.

And he already knows.

He stands. Slowly. Reverently. Like you’ve just handed him a living fragment of the divine.

“…Are you certain?” he asks, voice low and steady, as if he’s afraid to shatter the moment by speaking too loud.

You nod.

That’s when it happens. The shift.

Jonathan Joestar - the gentleman, the fighter, the scholar, the man who’s stood against monsters without blinking - falls to his knees in front of you.

Not out of shock. Not out of fear. But with the grace of someone witnessing a miracle and choosing to honour it.

His large, callused hands reach for yours, then pause. Hovering. Always gentle. Always asking for permission.

When you lace your fingers with his, he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, then rests his forehead there for a long, still moment.

“I-” His voice cracks. Just barely. “I don’t deserve this. But I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy.”

You can feel his heartbeat thudding under his skin - fast and anxious and so full.

That night, he doesn’t sleep much.

Not out of fear. But because his mind is racing. He’s thinking about everything - cribs and lullabies and how to make sure the Joestar legacy is something his child will want to inherit. He gets up at least three times to check on you. Not in an overbearing way, just… quietly. To make sure you’re warm. Comfortable. Safe.

“They’ll need a protector,” he murmurs, watching you sleep. “Someone who knows what it means to stand for something. I’ll teach them that.”

In the following weeks:

He reads every book on pregnancy and parenting he can find: medical, spiritual, emotional, and even outdated alchemical nonsense just in case. You catch him taking notes at one point.

He starts writing letters. To the baby. For the future. In case he’s ever gone. Because deep down, Jonathan Joestar has always known that fate doesn’t play fair.

He talks to your belly every night. His voice is soft, his stories endless. Sometimes about adventures, sometimes about his hopes. He sings, too (badly) but with so much heart you want to cry.

When you’re nauseous, he’s beside you. Holding your hair, soothing your back. Whispering, “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

When you cry over nothing (and you will), he doesn’t tell you to calm down. He holds you. Kisses your forehead. Let’s you vent or sob or curse the world.

And when you’re asleep - curled into his chest, breath slow and even - he doesn’t move.

He just watches you.

One hand resting gently over your stomach, the other brushing your hair from your face like he’s afraid to wake a dream.

He’s smiling. Not his usual polite smile, but something smaller. Softer. Like joy made quiet.

“I wonder if they’ll have your smile,” he whispers. “I hope they do.”

He leans in, voice barely audible, like he’s telling a secret to the stars.

“You’re already so loved. You don’t even know. But we love you. I love you. Every piece of you. Always will.”

Then he presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead. And one more to where his child sleeps beneath your skin.

“I’ll be here,” he promises, voice warm as candlelight. “Every step. Every moment. I’ll be here.”

And when he finally closes his eyes - arms wrapped around his whole world - Jonathan Joestar sleeps with a smile.

Joseph Joestar (Young)

It’s late when you tell him.

Not dramatic. Not romantic. Just you, in the kitchen, standing barefoot by the sink with a glass of water and a knot in your stomach. He’s rambling about something - some prank he pulled on Caesar, something involving a dress and two bottles of tequila - and he’s so full of noise and motion it makes the silence between your words feel like a chasm.

“I’m pregnant.”

The world stops.

Literally. It’s like the air skips a beat. Joseph freezes mid-step, mid-story, hands halfway to gesturing some ridiculous reenactment.

“……You’re what now?”

His voice cracks at the end. You can see his brain grinding like it’s buffering at 2%. His eyes dart down to your stomach, back to your face, and then he does the worst thing imaginable.

He laughs.

Loud. Nervous. Completely out of pocket. Like he’s waiting for you to break character and yell “Just kidding!” like it’s all part of a bit.

But your face doesn’t change.

The laughter dies.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait - seriously?”

You nod. Quiet. No tricks. No backup punchline. Just the truth.

Joseph Joestar has fought Nazis, Pillar Men, and literal abominations.

Nothing prepares him for this.

He sits down. Hard. Kitchen chair creaks under him. He runs both hands through his hair, muttering “Oh my god” like a prayer or a death sentence. Then again, louder:

“Oh my god, I did that?? I did that?!”

You’re half a second away from leaving when he jolts upright.

“Wait - no, not like that! Not - shit! I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I just - holy shit, I’m gonna be a dad?! ME?!”

He’s spiralling. Hands flailing. Pacing now.

“Okay, okay, we can do this. I mean- I can… I can barely keep a cactus alive, but this is fine. This is fine! Babies are just loud potatoes for the first couple months, right?”

You stare at him.

He stops pacing.

“…Okay, I’ll read some books.”

That night, he’s lying flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms flung wide like he’s trying to take up all the space his thoughts are spilling into.

You’re not sure if he’s asleep until he says - quiet, raw:

“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

It’s the first real thing he’s said all night.

You shift, curling beside him. He flinches when you rest your hand over his chest - like he’s worried you’re going to take it back, take everything back.

“I’m scared,” he says. “I joke when I’m scared. You know that.”

You do. Of course you do.

He turns to you then. Really turns. No mask. No grin. Just those stormy, wild eyes full of fear and wonder and more love than he knows how to hold in one body.

“But I want this. I want you. I want…” He swallows. “I wanna be there. For everything.”

He reaches out. Presses a shaky hand to your side.

“…I’m not gonna run. I promise.”

In the following weeks:

He tells everyone. Immediately. The mailman knows. Speedwagon knows. Caesar hears it through a window and nearly drops his espresso.

He becomes insanely protective. You so much as sneeze and he’s fussing over you.

Reads exactly half of a parenting book before getting distracted.

Invents “prenatal Hamon sessions” that are 90% fake science and 10% sincere attempts to “boost the baby’s Hamon potential.”

Leaves you notes on the fridge like: “Good morning, gorgeous + also the adorable parasitic lifeform inside you.”

Says things like “It’ll probably be huge like me. Sorry in advance.”

He’s dramatic. He’s terrified. He’s not perfect.

But he loves you so hard it radiates off him in waves.

And every time he stares at you, like you hung the stars and then casually told him you built a second solar system, he means it when he says:

“I’m gonna be the best dad this kid doesn’t know they need yet. Just wait.”

Joseph Joestar (SDC) 

You don’t even get the whole sentence out before he chokes on his drink.

You were aiming for casual, maybe “Hey, I’ve got some news” or “So, funny thing about my doctor’s appointment…”

Instead, what comes out is a very dry, “Joseph… I’m pregnant.”

And then it’s like you detonated a bomb made entirely of “WHAT?!”

He coughs. Flails. Nearly knocks over the table. There’s peach iced tea on the floor and lemon slices stuck to his shirt and he’s already halfway to standing like he’s about to physically square up with the concept of your pregnancy.

“YOU’RE WHAT?!?”

You blink. “Pregnant.”

“I-” He gestures at you, then himself, then vaguely at the air like he’s trying to solve an invisible equation. “You – me – how-?!”

You fold your arms. “You know how.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points a finger. Drops it. Then finally sits down like his legs gave out.

“…You’re serious?”

You nod.

He leans back, hand over his heart like he’s just been hit by a Hamon beam.

“Oh my God. I still got it.”

You stare. “That’s what you’re leading with?”

He grins, roguish and infuriating. “C’mon, sweetheart. Sixty-two and still got it? You’ve gotta admit that’s kind of hot.”

You reach for a pillow to throw at him. He narrowly dodges it, laughing until it dissolves into something quieter and a little softer.

He looks at you again. Really looks.

“You’re sure?” he asks. Not doubting - just… hoping it’s real.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

And Joseph Joestar - smartass, war vet, drama king - sits very still for a second too long.

Then says, too fast:

“Okay. Okay, okay, we can make this work. I mean, we have experience… even if it was years ago. Holy turned out fine, right?”

He’s up again, already pacing.

“Do we need to move? We should move. Tokyo’s stressful. Do babies get stressed? Do I get stressed?!”

You say his name once, twice.

Then, finally, he stops in front of you. A little winded. A little wide-eyed.

A lot in love.

“I’m scared,” he admits.

Your breath catches.

“I’m scared I’ll screw it up again. That I’ll miss things. That I’ll be too old, or too busy, or too Joestar to get it right.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“…But I want this,” he says, quieter. “God, do I want this.”

And then, classic Joseph, he ruins the emotional tension by immediately announcing:

“We’re gonna need to hide this from Jotaro. I can already feel the judgment.”

In the following weeks:

Absolutely uses the pregnancy as an excuse for more affection. “You’re carrying the next Joestar! You get foot rubs. That’s in the rules.”

Comes up with terrible baby names every day. 

Can’t decide between things so just buys everything.

Tries to convince you the baby might inherit a Stand in utero and brings out tarot cards to test your belly.

Jotaro finds him talking to your stomach and immediately walks out without comment.

Buys a ridiculous number of books, reads zero. Claims he’s going to “wing it with style.”

Has one night of complete meltdown where he panics about being older, about making mistakes and you hold him while he spirals, until he falls asleep muttering, “I’ll be there. I swear it.”

He’s dramatic. He’s inappropriate. But he shows up. He loves fiercely, makes mistakes loudly, and keeps coming back. He may not always get it right but he’s never going to stop trying.

And when he holds your hand, when he presses his palm to your stomach like he’s making a pact with the future, he whispers-

“I’m gonna love the hell out of this kid. You better believe it.”

Jotaro Kujo 

You tell him the way you have to.

Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just… plain truth.

You don’t plan it. There’s no romantic setup. No flowers. No “World’s Best Dad” mug waiting on the kitchen table.

It’s late, the lights are low, and Jotaro’s halfway through reviewing marine data, glasses perched low on his nose, a pencil tucked behind his ear. The room smells like coffee and salt air. He’s quiet. Focused. Calm.

And then you say it.

“Jotaro… I’m pregnant.”

His hand stills over the paper.

A long, thick silence settles between you. Not awkward. Not cold. Just heavy. Full of something that doesn’t have a name yet.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t move. You wonder if he heard you.

Then-

“…Are you sure?”

His voice is low. Level. But not unfeeling.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve taken three tests.”

He finally looks at you.

And you’ve never seen that look before.

Not fear. Not joy. Not even shock. Just… stillness. Like he’s caught between the version of his life he’d planned - and the one you just gave him.

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours. And then, softly:

“…Okay.”

It’s not dismissive.

It’s not distant.

It’s a promise.

He stands up. Walks over to you.

His hands hover for a second, then settle on your shoulders - warm and steady. The space between you closes.

You expect more questions. More reaction.

What you get is his forehead against yours. Steady.

Just that. No words.

Just breath. Contact. Connection.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, lit by starlight, staring up at the sky like it’s suddenly got answers. His coat is draped over your shoulders—left there without a word.

You sit beside him. Don’t press.

Eventually, he says:

“I don’t know what kind of father I’ll be.”

You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I think you’ll be better than you think.”

And the silence that follows feels like belief settling in.

He doesn’t look at you but he squeezes your hand. Hard.

In the following weeks:

He doesn’t talk about it much. Doesn’t announce it. But you catch him pausing longer in the baby aisle at stores quietly reading labels.

Buys parenting books. Science-based ones. Annotates them like marine biology research and cross-references sources. 

Rewrites his entire schedule. Late nights out? Gone. Conference travel? Postponed. Patrol shifts? Shortened. He doesn’t say why. No one dares ask.

Every time you so much as wince, he’s there. Doesn’t say “Are you okay?” - just is there. A hand on your back. A glass of water. A calm, firm “sit down.”

Keeps a medical file for you thicker than his thesis. Tracks vitamins. Memorises everything. Subtly corrects the doctor once.

Starts researching the safest bassinets and strollers like it’s his final Stand battle. Refuses to settle for anything with fewer than five-star reviews.

You wake up from a nap once to find his hand resting over your belly. Not moving. Not even fully touching. Just there.

You pretend to be asleep. Because if he’s letting himself have this moment, you won’t take it from him.

One night, he hears you talking to the baby - and later, when he thinks you’re not listening, you hear him murmur: “You’re safe. I promise.”

He never screams. Never breaks.

But you feel it. Every day.

The way he walks a little slower now when you’re by his side.

The way his gloved hand hovers before finding yours.

The way he says, in the dark, half-asleep:

“If anything ever tries to hurt them… I’ll stop the world.”

And you know he means it.

He’s not loud.

He’s not flashy.

But he’s already a father in every way that counts.

Josuke Higashikata 

You don’t mean for it to come out the way it does.

You’re not sure how you meant to say it, honestly. Maybe with a little more prep. A lead-in. Some grounding. Not while he’s halfway through trying to microwave his supper, still in his uniform undershirt, badge clipped to the counter, and humming along to the Morioh radio jingle like the most chaotic domestic golden retriever known to man.

But you’re watching him - hair a little tousled, sleeves rolled up, gold chain catching the light - and your brain just… says it.

“I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t even turn around at first.

Just kind of nods like you said something casual. Nice weather today or the mail came.

Then he freezes.

Real slow.

Turns.

Stares.

“…You’re what now.”

You swallow. “Pregnant.”

His face goes through all five stages of grief in under two seconds. Denial. Confusion. Visibly questioning his own fertility.

“Like - baby pregnant?!”

“Yes, Josuke. That’s… how pregnancy works.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Points at your stomach. Points at himself. Points back at your stomach. And then:

“Oh my god.”

He takes a step back like the concept physically hit him. His brain is racing - you can see it. There are so many thoughts colliding in his skull that nothing is coming out of his mouth except-

“Do you need water?! A chair?! A chair and water?! What if you pass out?! What if I pass out?! Okuyasu’s gonna pass out when he hears!!”

You sit him down. He’s flailing. Verbally. Emotionally. 

“I - shit, okay, no - this is good! I’m not saying it’s not good! It’s just like… wow! That’s a person. Inside you. That we made. That’s not important. I just - whoa.”

He rubs his face with both hands. Still wearing his patrol belt like that’s going to help.

You wait.

Then, quietly:

“…You’re sure?”

You nod.

And the second he sees that, the panic fizzles.

He exhales hard. Eyes wide. Heart full.

“…I’m gonna be a dad.”

He says it like he’s trying the word on. It fits. Too big right now. A little terrifying. But… right.

He grins. Big, shaky, earnest.

Then completely breaks down into happy tears two minutes later while hugging you. Still smells faintly like coffee and traffic stops.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, wiping his face on the back of his wrist. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I’m just - shit, you’re so cool. You’re so cool and you’re pregnant and you still wanna be with me?! Like, this is my kid too? Really?!”

You kiss his forehead. “I’m very sure.”

In the following weeks:

Buys so many toys for the baby.

Googles “how to be a good dad” while Okuyasu hovers behind him eating chips and yelling, “DUDE! DUDE! You gotta teach it how to fight!”

Starts keeping a second notepad in his patrol car - one for ticket logs, one for baby name ideas and “things I wanna teach them someday.”

Tells every coworker in the precinct that he’s going to be a dad. Every single one. Including his supervisor. Multiple times.

Panics over every little sound you make. Slight groan? Crazy diamond is ready.

Spends literal hours talking to your stomach. Tells them about the arcade. How to dodge punches. Who to trust. Which diners in Morioh are the best (Tonio’s).

Is lowkey insecure. He tries to hide it, but one night you catch him sitting at the foot of the bed, whispering, “I’m not my dad. I swear I’ll try harder than he did.”

Rohan finds out and starts sketching a crazy one-shot called “The Hair Heir”. Josuke prepares to torch his house. 

His mom is THRILLED. Starts crocheting blankets within minutes.

Josuke insists on building the crib himself. It’s crooked. He cries. “I can’t even fix it with Crazy Diamond.”

He’s not ready. God, he’s not ready.

But he shows up. Every day.

Pompadour perfectly styled. Badge on his belt. Lunch packed with too many snacks. Ready to protect Morioh with one hand… and hold your hand with the other.

And when he looks at you?

It’s not just love. It’s awe. It’s joy. It’s you’re my whole world now and I’m gonna be the best dad in this town.

“…You know,” he says one night, curled around you in bed, voice soft and full of wonder, “if they’re anything like you… they’re gonna be amazing.”

You smile into his chest. “They’re gonna be half you, too.”

And he just pulls you tighter.

“I hope they get your laugh,” he mumbles.

You tell him they probably will.

And if they get his heart?

They’ll be just fine.

Giorno Giovanna 

You don’t say it like it’s a confession. You say it like you’re handing him a mission briefing. 

Something final. Important. Irrevocable.

“Giorno… I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air between you, quiet and clean.

He doesn’t speak at first.

He just stops what he’s doing, his pen frozen mid-signature over a document marked for Passione territory logistics, and lifts his eyes to meet yours.

Still, calculating, but never cold. 

“…How long have you known?”

You answer. Calmly. He listens. Silently. Then finally, he sets the pen down. He crosses the room in three slow, even steps.

You brace for anything.

He’s the boss of Passione.

You’ve seen how he handles problems.

People kneel before him.

But you think of Trish.

The way she was stolen, pursued, nearly carved up just for being her father’s daughter.

And the man who let it happen wore the same crown Giorno wears now.

But this time?

He doesn’t turn away.

He doesn’t calculate risk.

He reaches for your hand like it means something, like you mean something.

His fingers wrap around yours.

Steady, warm and real.

And when he speaks, it’s not just certainty. It’s something softer.

“…I see.”

A beat. Then gentler:

“Thank you for telling me.”

And it makes your chest ache.

That night, he doesn’t sleep.

You wake once to find him on the balcony, overlooking the city, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled. The moon turns his hair to molten white, his eyes sharp in the dark.

He doesn’t hear you at first.

Then says, “The world isn’t kind. I’ve worked every day to change that.”

He turns to you.

“But I have a new reason to succeed and I won’t stop until this city is safe for our child.”

In the following weeks:

A quiet shift rolls through Passione. Nobody speaks of it, but things change. Layers of extra security around you. Routes rerouted. Meetings relocated.

Your doctor receives an anonymous “gift” of new equipment, better staff, and the silent understanding that any failure will be unacceptable.

Giorno never says the word “Papa” out loud, not at first. But he makes space for the role in his world: time in his schedule, protection in his plans, softness in the places no one sees.

Gold Experience becomes hyper-responsive to your state. Once, when you stumbled, it moved faster than either of you - Giorno caught you, and Gold Experience stabilised the ground beneath your feet with vines.

He builds a nursery hidden within his villa, soundproofed, sunlight filtered. Quiet. Secure. Untouchable.

At night, he begins speaking to the child - not with soft lullabies, but with truth. “The world will challenge you,” he says to your stomach. “But you will not face it alone.”

Giorno doesn’t fall apart.

He doesn’t shout. Or cry. Or spiral.

He recalculates.

He reorganizes.

He adapts.

Because to Giorno Giovanna, being a father is not just a title.

It’s a new kind of mission.

And just like he swore to defeat Diavolo and end suffering from the inside-

He swears now, in quiet moments between breath and heartbeat:

“No harm will come to you. Not while I’m still breathing.”

And you believe him.

Because this is Giorno Giovanna.

And when he decides to protect something?

The world shifts to let him do it.

Jolyne Cujoh

She tells you while walking.

Just blurts it out while crossing the living room, pulling on a hoodie, tying her hair back with fast, restless fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy so they don’t do something else, something stupid, like shake.

“I’m pregnant.”

No buildup.

No soft lighting or pastel sweaters.

Just: “I’m pregnant.” Said like a dare.

You blink. “What?”

She stops. Doesn’t turn around. Just lets the silence hang there for a few seconds too long.

“…I said I’m pregnant.”

When you don’t respond right away, she does turn - arms folded, jaw tight. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes: not anger, not quite. Bracing. For judgment. For abandonment. For anything but support.

You step closer, slow. “Are you okay?”

That catches her off guard.

“What? Yeah. I’m fine.” “Well - no, I’m throwing up like every morning and I’m pretty sure my boobs are trying to murder me, but other than that - yeah. Totally peachy.”

You almost smile. She notices and scowls.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna cry. I’m not.”

“…Okay.” She pauses. Then: “…I might.”

You sit down. She doesn’t follow.

“I didn’t plan this,” she says. “And I’m not gonna pretend I’m one of those people who always wanted to be a mom or whatever. I didn’t.”

You nod. You wait.

“But it’s here now. And I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. And…”

She stops.

She breathes.

“…I wanna try. I wanna do better than what I got.”

You stand. Take her hand. Her grip is tight - like she’s afraid if she lets go, the ground will open up and swallow her whole.

You don’t say much.

You don’t have to.

And when you finally pull her into a hug, she sinks into it like her body’s been waiting for permission.

In the following weeks:

Jolyne insists on doing everything herself. Carrying groceries? Climbing ladders? Lifting furniture? You have to beg her to sit down.

Refuses to read parenting blogs. “They all sound like they were written by rich suburban yoga weirdos. That’s not my style.”

Starts researching genetic Stand inheritance like a college thesis. “If this kid ends up with a string-based power, I need to prepare for that. I didn’t inherit my dad’s but it’s possible”

Keeps pretending she’s fine, then collapses onto the couch with a heating pad and a bowl of mac and cheese. “Don’t say anything. Just let me die for twenty minutes.”

When the nausea gets bad, she talks to the baby like it’s an annoying roommate. “You better come out cool, or I swear I’ll put you back.”

You catch her late at night, hand over her stomach, eyes unfocused. She’s whispering something soft. You don’t interrupt.

Tells her dad eventually. Pretends not to care what he thinks. But she doesn’t stop pacing until he says:

“You’ll be a great mother. Just like your mom was.”

Keeps your sonogram photo tucked in the back of her phone case. Pretends it’s no big deal.

Jolyne doesn’t change overnight.

She’s still fiery. Still loud. Still the girl who’d punch someone for looking at you wrong and then complain about how sore her knuckles are.

But there’s something gentler in the way she carries herself now.

Not softer.

Just… stronger. In a different way.

And when she curls up next to you at night, one hand resting on her stomach, she murmurs into your shoulder:

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You press a kiss to her temple. “Neither do I.”

She breathes.

“…We’ll figure it out, though.”

And you believe her.

Because if there’s one thing Jolyne Cujoh knows how to do - it’s fight for what matters.

Johnny Joestar

You don’t plan how to tell him.

Because how do you prepare someone who’s survived what Johnny has?

You can’t soften this kind of truth.

So you just… say it.

He’s out on the porch when you find him. Hat tilted low, boots kicked up on the rail, something unreadable in his face as he watches the sky go gold over the horizon. There’s a calm to him lately - not peace, but the kind of stillness you get after years of running.

You sit beside him.

He doesn’t look at you, just shifts slightly to make room.

“Johnny,” you say, carefully. “I’m pregnant.”

He doesn’t react.

Not visibly.

Just lowers his boots to the porch floor with a quiet thunk.

His eyes are still on the sky.

“…Say that again?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Long and full of gravity.

His hand curls against his knee, knuckles pale. Then-

“…Huh.”

You wait.

He finally turns his head, slowly. There’s no panic in his expression, but it’s not blank either. It’s focused. Serious. Like he’s just been handed a question he doesn’t know the answer to yet.

“You’re sure?”

You nod.

He breathes out through his nose, slow and controlled.

And then he says, very quietly:

“Okay.”

You’re not sure what you expected. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t flinch. Just sits with it. Like he’s testing the weight of this new future in his hands and deciding whether or not it’ll crush him.

He leans back against the wall. His gaze drops to the floorboards.

“I thought I wasn’t the kind of person who get this,” he says after a minute. “Family. Future. Normal stuff.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to outrun who I was. And then trying to prove I’d changed. And now this…”

He finally looks at you.

There’s no fear in his eyes.

Just something raw.

“…I want to get it right.”

In the weeks that follow:

Johnny doesn’t tell anyone right away. Not because he’s hiding it—but because he’s keeping it close. Letting it be real before letting it be public.

He starts making lists. Quietly. Supplies. Books. Things to fix around the ranch.

You catch him once, in the barn, practicing how to hold a newborn with an empty feed sack. 

He builds the crib himself. Doesn’t ask for help. It’s a little crooked, but steady.

When you feel sick, he doesn’t panic. He just gets up, makes tea, rubs your back, and mutters, “Alright, kid. Go easy on ‘em.”

Once tells a horse, very seriously, “You’re not the baby anymore,” before giving it a carrot anyway.

Starts whittling random shapes out of spare wood and leaving them on the windowsill “for luck.” One ends up looking vaguely like a baby with a cowboy hat. He pretends it doesn’t.

You catch him dancing in the kitchen with his shirt halfway unbuttoned, holding the laundry basket like it’s a toddler. He doesn’t stop when you walk in, just gives you a lopsided grin and keeps going.

It’s not easy for Johnny to be hopeful.

It never has been.

But he shows up. Every day. Even the hard ones.

And one night, as you’re getting ready for bed, he slips a hand to your stomach and just… stays there. Not saying anything. Just holding on.

Eventually, he murmurs:

“I think I can do this.”

And you believe him.

Because underneath everything - the anger, the hurt, the things he’s done and the things he’s lost - Johnny Joestar is someone who fights to move forward.

And now, he has someone new to carry with him.

Josuke Higashikata (Part 8) 

You don’t think it’ll be a big moment. You don’t plan to say it while he’s rinsing off a bunch of fancy grapes in the kitchen sink, humming that off-key little tune he picked up from TV commercials, sleeves rolled up and face slightly flushed from the sun.

But you do. You say it.

“Josuke… I’m pregnant.”

He looks up, blink-blink, fingers still tangled in the grape stems. His shoulders go rigid, like someone just hit a switch in his spine. He blinks again. His lips part - like he’s going to say something. And then?

“…Hold on.”

He very calmly puts the grapes back into the bowl.

Wipes his hands on the dish towel.

And turns to face you, dead serious.

“You’re being serious?”

You nod. “Completely.”

“…You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you for a second longer, then turns around and walks directly into the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Okay – ow - okay,” he mutters, putting a hand on his hip like that’ll help. “Okay.”

He doesn’t freak out. Not exactly. But you can see it in his eyes: the math scrambling to finish itself, the swirl of how? and what now? and am I ready for this?

And then:

“…I thought you were gonna tell me you smashed a plate or something.”

You snort. “Nope.”

“I mean. This is… kind of better.”

“Kind of?”

He rubs the back of his neck, flustered but smiling. That weird, soft, sheepish smile he gives you when he’s trying really hard to look cool and emotionally balanced.

Then he says it - quietly:

“I’ve never really thought about stuff like this before. I was so occupied with my past I never really looked forward.”

You don’t say anything. You just take his hand, and he squeezes it like he’s trying to ground himself in you.

In the following weeks:

Starts carrying a little notepad with reminders like “prenatal vitamins,” “don’t let them carry heavy stuff,” and “ask what a onesie is.”

You catch him reading a baby book with a totally blank expression. “What the hell is a swaddle? Is that a Stand?”

Asks you at least five times, dead serious, “Do you think it’ll have four balls, too?”

Asks Yasuho for help picking out baby-safe shampoo. She immediately starts crying. He panics.

Draws a “baby Stand” design and shows it to you like it’s a science fair project. It’s weirdly cool. 

Touches your stomach like it’s the most delicate thing he’s ever seen. Doesn’t always say anything. Just… rests his palm there.

Mutters, “I’m gonna protect you,” half to you, half to the baby. Says it again when he thinks you’re asleep.

Gappy is still a bit fuzzy about who he used to be.

But he knows who he wants to be now.

He wants to be steady. Safe. Someone who shows up. Someone who figures it out, even if he stumbles.

And when he looks at you now - your fingers linked, your breath slow, the weight of a new life between you - he says softly:

“…This is real, right?”

You nod.

He exhales.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

[zephyrnes]

𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 —

mydei ⋮ honkai star rail

warnings: some angst wc: 0.8k notes: ok was feeling a lil dramatic at the end but !

castrum kremnos is quiet. its ruins lay shrouded in a light layer of fog that settles around mydei, sinking into the shadows and crumbling stone. it’s a sort of quiet that he feels unsettled by. there’s a gathering storm behind him, the incoming black tide that he swears he’ll hold back for as long as the chrysos heirs need. he can feel a hum for battle stir within him, though whether it’s a product of his bloodline as a kremnoan or the new burden of strife, he’s not quite sure. either way, it sings a deadly lullaby that draws him towards that jagged throne he’s accepted as his fate. his hands brush over fragmented stone and he sighs.

“you know, if you keep frowning like that your face will be stuck like that forever,” your voice comes from behind him. mydei closes his eyes and lets out a huff, feigning irritation. without having to turn around, he knows that there’s a wide grin across your face. you’re always teasing him, even now.

“don’t you have better things to do than bother me,” he grumbles. you laugh lightly and come to stand next to him, shoulder bumping into his gently. he glances over at you, his anchor amidst a memory of carnage. your presence beside him is warm and comforting, a reminder of why he has thrown himself towards an unwinnable battle. 

but even then, he doesn’t like the thought of you surrounded by what is left of castrum kremnos, a place you both once called home. his memory of you is framed in gold. it is snapshots of your lives as young warriors and friends and it is your triumphant grin as you stare down at him with the tip of your weapon pointed at his face. it is the warmth of your skin against his, stolen kisses between people who weren’t quite sure where the line between friends and lovers became blurred.

you shouldn’t be here, he thinks, not surrounded by the ruins of his legacy.still, he’s thankful that you’ve joined him up to this point. there are few he trusts these days.

you scoff. “please. you know you don’t mind having around.” you know you love me is what he hears instead, and he hates that you know him a bit too well, that despite the way he brushes off your words, he looks over at you rather fondly. it’s a fatal flaw, perhaps, for warriors to let down their guard and let one another in. 

mydei’s story is one narrated by loss. he watches people slip through his fingers, his dreams plagued by the sight of faces he fears are slowly started to escape his memory. immortality is not as kind to the soul as one may think, and mydei finds that the humanity that has led him this far may begin to fade with time as well if the heirs cannot quell this incoming storm. he wonders what will become of him if strife wins. 

“have you come to see me off at death’s door?” he asks quietly and watches as your expression sinks into something melancholic. mydei hates that he’s brought down the mood. 

he doesn’t like the smile that’s on your face, something sad but understanding. his pride burns deep within his chest, spilling out in the form of sharp words and sarcasm, bleeding from the wounds and scars that he wears proudly. whether he knows it or not, mydei is exactly the king you imagined him to be. 

you reach up and take a deep breath, brushing your fingers against his cheek. he wants to sear your touch into your memory, let it burn his skin until it’s the only thing he can feel. but your fingers leave his face too quickly for his liking, trailing down to catch the braid that falls onto his shoulder. you linger at the gold plated ring at the end of his braid, thumb brushing over the cold metal. on the inside is an engraving, hidden to the world, only for mydei to see and feel when it rests against his warm skin. 

“are you afraid?” you ask instead. he scoffs but doesn’t answer.

mydei knows that the longer he lingers here with you, the less he will heed strife’s call. so he steps away, lets your hand fall back to your side, and raises his head higher.

you smile softly at him. “i’ll be waiting for you.”

his fingers brush over fragmented stone again and the memory disappears. you disappear.

and mydei is left with the mist and the ruins, and an old kremnoan battle hymn singing in his blood. he closes his eyes and imagines your touch one more time. 

if castrum kremnos is quiet, then a storm is about to come. and if his home is going to crumble into the ruins and sink into amphoreus’ memory, then aeons above he will too, falling into your waiting embrace.

notes: the concept of the fragments of recollection and angst and with prideful characters and with the concept of home and and and!!

[kxsagi]

"𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢"

isagi yoichi has been your childhood friend since the end of grade school. 

the two of you met as pen pals, paired together by your teachers in a random classroom exercise. at first, it was just an assignment, another task to complete, but writing to isagi quickly became something more that never stopped. he had a way with words that made every letter feel effortless, as if the two of you had known each other for lifetimes. 

you were polar opposites – he, the athletic dreamer, chasing soccer with everything he had; you, the studious one, always lost in books and ambition. but even in your differences, there were bridges you crossed together – shared music tastes, the same love for certain foods, the way your minds met in a space only the two of you understood. 

despite living an hour’s train ride apart, in entirely different cities, the two of you agreed on three simple rules: 

no social media. 

no phone numbers. 

no pictures. 

letters were your only means of communication – old-fashioned, tangible, and filled with a mystery that neither of you wanted to shatter. isagi never minded. in fact, he loved it. he loved the way your cream-colored envelopes always arrived with a gold-stamped lotus wax seal. the way your handwriting curved in distinct strokes, familiar yet mesmerizing. even the navy blue ink, scented faintly of blueberries, became something he cherished, something uniquely you. 

and somehow, through those letters, he had fallen in love. 

fate, it seemed, had its own plans. 

at his favorite café in saitama, isagi stood just a few meters away from you. unaware. 

he entered as he always did, stepping through the glass doors, eyes scanning the menu out of habit before deciding, as always, to stick with his usual order. after paying, he moved to the side, waiting near the pickup area, his mind drifting to thoughts of soccer strategies, until something pulled him back to the present. 

a song. 

infrunami by steve lacy. 

a song the two of you had once raved about in your letters, one you would occasionally quote to each other like a secret language. 

and then, accompanying the melody, was a soft voice, almost absentmindedly singing along from a nearby table. 

he turned instinctively, ready to start a conversation with this stranger about the song, only for his breath to catch the moment he laid eyes on you. 

you were absolutely gorgeous. 

the way loose strands of your hair fell as you leaned over your notebook. the subtle gloss on your lips, the same brand of balm you once mentioned using to keep them from drying out. but also, the navy blue pen in your hand, identical in shade to the ink that stained the letters he reread too often. the curves of your handwriting… your handwriting. 

it had to be a coincidence. he blinked, rubbed his eyes, convinced that maybe he was just imagining things. but then, he heard your name called. 

and the nickname. his nickname for you. 

you glanced up at the sound, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment. to you, it was just another awkward moment of unintentional eye contact with a stranger. you brushed it off, stepping up to the counter to collect your matcha, offering a quiet “thank you” to the barista before turning back toward your table. 

but as you passed by him, the supposed stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all, you heard him say something, something so soft, so filled with disbelief, that it stopped you mid-step. 

“this whole time… you were right in front of me." 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

a/n: infrunami is my favorite steve lacy song guys (let’s not talk about how i mispronounced this song name for months until someone called me out on it)

[yourlittlegoblin]

{How Venti Shows His Love} Venti x Reader

Yellow hello mellow with shits and giggles mother fuckers because I am totally not pretending to be high for shits and giggles while watching a video in the background as we speak so guys live laugh love because shits about to go down and sorry not sorry but its long

Venti doesn’t just say he loves you—he sings it

In the middle of town, in the fields even in the middle of a battle

Wakes you up with soft melodies playing his lyre outside your window like some windborne bardic Romeo

Sometimes the songs are sweet, other times they’re absolute nonsense he made up on the spot

If you hum a tune absentmindedly you will hear it later that day

You will either being played in the tavern, whistled by passing NPCs, or woven into a full song

He loves the way you laugh

Pls laugh at his jokes he uses it to cover how hes crippling inside because he feels like you're attracted to the persona he plays and for the body of his dead friend and not who he truly is

If you ever laugh at one of his dumb little songs, he will absolutely repeat it forever

You have doomed yourself

Whisks you away on a breeze when you least expect it

Trust me it is always unexpected

You’ll be mid-conversation with someone, then suddenly—whoosh—now you’re on the rooftop of Angel’s Share with a beautiful view of the sunset

“We can talk here. It’s more private. And romantic. And your hair looks pretty in the wind.”

Randomly twirls you around in the middle of the street

Writes poetry for you but disguises it as just another one of his usual songs

“Oh, that song? Just a little something inspired by my muse~” winks obnoxiously "Ehe~"

Leaves tiny wind-blessed trinkets in your pockets. A feather that never gets dirty, a little carved Anemo sigil that hums in the breeze, a scrap of parchment with illegible but undeniably pretty handwriting

If you ever get lost in Mondstadt, don’t worry—Venti will literally send a breeze to guide you home

Hates walking

Loves floating

Sometimes he just… picks you up with the wind and carries you along with him. It’s an honor really

“My dear, walking is so boring! Let me show you the joys of soaring instead~”

Has an uncanny ability to appear the moment you think about him

You sigh his name in frustration while struggling with something? Boom. There he is

“Ah, you called for your beloved bard? Fear not, for I have arrived!”

Pouts dramatically if you don’t give him attention

He will sigh and flop onto you like a lifeless doll

“Ah… I am but a forgotten wind spirit… abandoned and neglected… only a single kiss can bring me back to life…”

If you kiss him you will break him for like 3 seconds before he proceeds to pull you into a make-out session that lasts like 30 mins

Steals sips of your drinks without asking

Writes love notes and literally sends them on the wind

You could be minding your business, and suddenly a scrap of parchment flutters into your hands: “Meet me at Windrise~”

Always, always holds onto you when flying together. Not because he needs to—he just likes it

Oh and do I have to mention that hes clingy?

Whispers sweet nothings in your ear when no one’s around

The kind that make you wonder if he’s just being a flirt… or if there’s something more beneath it

“The wind is jealous, you know. It wishes it could carry you like I do.”

Turns even the smallest, most mundane things into a grand romantic gesture

Walking to the market? Now it’s a romantic stroll. Sitting under a tree? Now it’s a fated meeting of souls

Knows exactly how to fluster you. And he lives for it

But beneath all the playfulness, his love is as deep as the winds that have carried him for centuries

He doesn’t just love you in the moment—he loves you as a song, an ode, an everlasting melody that will never fade

And when he holds you close, when the mischief in his eyes softens into something warm and unguarded, you know—he truly means it

[marvolos]

a song between us — k. hongjoong

fate and music reunite two souls who once dreamed together, stirring memories and unspoken feelings that still linger.

pairing: idol hongjoong x producer reader

genres: slice of life, nostalgia, fluff

words: 1.3k

warnings: not proof read ig?? english isnt my first language either

notes: (requested by anon) pls pretend this is the last song of the day and happened at nighttime and that somehow no fan saw him sneak somewhere with a woman

divider by: fairytopea

The cold breeze of Munich’s autumn air swept through the streets, carrying the sound of music with it. The square was packed, a mix of locals, fans and tourists alike gathering to watch the live performance. Hongjoong sat at the side, mic in hand, his voice melting seamlessly into the harmonies of Jongho and Sohyang as they covered "Lucky."

From behind the cameras, you watched, breath caught in your throat. It had been so long since you had seen him like this—fully in his element, lost in the music. The way his fingers trembled slightly over the mic, the way he smiled, the way his eyes softened when he sang—it was just like high school, when he used to hum melodies between classes, teasing you for always scribbling down beats instead of notes.

It felt like just yesterday you were both in the practice rooms after school, his worn-out notebook filled with lyrics he never let anyone else read, your laptop overflowing with half-finished instrumentals. You had been inseparable back then—best friends, partners in crime.

But life had taken its course. You found your footing as a producer at SM, working closely with aespa, while he had skyrocketed to fame with ateez. Busy schedules and different paths made communication scarce, but not once had he faded from your mind.

And now, seeing him again under the golden hues of the streetlights, it was like time had never passed at all.

Hongjoong, in the middle of the song, finally noticed you. His breath hitched just slightly—a nearly imperceptible falter in his voice—but he quickly recovered. Still, you saw the way his eyes kept darting back to you, how the corners of his lips tugged up just a little more but he kept singing, kept pouring his heart into the lyrics.

Your heartbeat somehow pounded louder than the music. It felt like he was dedicating the lyrics to you, that they had a different meaning only the two of you would understand.

When the song ended and the cameras cut, Hongjoong wasted no time making his way toward you, weaving through the crew. On the way, he briefly turned to Jongho.

"Hey, I think I’ll stick around for a little while. You go ahead without me," Hongjoong said, adjusting his mic pack as the staff began wrapping up.

Jongho smirked. "You mean you’ll stick around with her?"

Hongjoong rolled his eyes but didn't deny it. "Just catching up."

Jongho let out a knowing chuckle. "The manager knows something is up. He’s going to come talk to you in a bit. I managed to save you some time to make up an excuse—just warning you."

Hongjoong groaned. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I did," Jongho said with a teasing grin. "Just don’t do anything that’ll get you in trouble."

"Yeah, yeah," Hongjoong waved him off. "Tell the others I’ll see them later."

As Jongho left, Hongjoong turned back to you, a playful glint in his eyes. "What, no hi, hello? Just standing there staring at me?"

You crossed your arms, smirking. "Yeah, I planned to be in Munich just to track you down. Totally intentional."

He chuckled. "I wouldn’t be surprised if you did."

Before he could say more, his manager approached, giving him a pointed look. "You’re free for a bit, but keep your disguise on. Be back within an hour. And be careful."

Hongjoong nodded quickly. "Got it, hyung. Just sightseeing."

The manager glanced at you, eyes assessing before sighing. "Don’t make me regret this."

And just like that, the two of you fell back into rhythm. You walked through the quieter streets of Munich, stopping by a late-night café. As you sat down, Hongjoong pulled the hood of his jacket lower and adjusted his mask.

You smirked. "You look like you’re about to commit a crime."

"Hey, I have to be careful!" he defended before narrowing his eyes at you. "Wait—why don’t you have a disguise?"

You shrugged. "I don’t need one. It’s one of the reasons I chose production over performing. I love music, but I don’t need the spotlight."

He hummed at that, nodding slowly. "Yeah, you always were the one making magic behind the scenes. And you’re damn good at it."

"You think so?" you asked, smiling softly.

"I know so."

There was a pause before he leaned forward slightly. "Do you remember back in high school? When we snuck into the music room after hours?"

You laughed. "Which time? We did that way too often."

He grinned. "The first time. You were freaking out because you thought we’d get caught."

"That was your fault!" you accused. "You left the lights on!"

"Because I didn’t want you working in the dark!" he argued. "But then the janitor saw and chased us out."

You shook your head, grinning at the memory. "We ran all the way to the park near my house."

"And we spent the whole night sitting on the swings, talking about our dreams," he added. His voice softened. "We promised we’d make it in music, no matter what."

You nodded slowly. "It feels like those days were a different lifetime."

A brief silence settled over the two of you, but it was comfortable—familiar. You both shared a quiet understanding in the unspoken memories that lingered between you. The nostalgia settled between you both, warm and bittersweet. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw that same boy from all those years ago—the one who had always been so passionate, so determined. And somehow, despite all the time and distance, he still felt familiar.

Hongjoong cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze meeting yours. "I’m glad we’re talking like this again. It’s been way too long."

"Yeah," you agreed, a soft smile forming on your lips. "It’s nice, isn’t it? Not having to catch up on years of life all at once."

His eyes softened, a hint of something deeper in his gaze. "I’ve been thinking a lot about… us. About how we were, you know? And I guess I’ve just been wondering..."

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued. "Wondering about what?"

"Are you seeing anyone?" The question slipped out almost casually, but there was a tension in his voice you hadn't expected.

You blinked at the sudden question, then shook your head. "Nope. Not for a while now."

"Huh," he mused, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. "Same here. Been a bit too busy."

"Let me guess—your last relationship ended because of your schedule?" you teased.

He laughed. "Bingo. She was great, but it wasn’t fair to her. What about you?"

You sighed. "Yeah, something similar. We just… wanted different things. It happens."

"Yeah, it does." Hongjoong exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know, when we get back to Korea… maybe we should, um—" He paused, exhaling sharply before trying again. "We should hang out more. Like, really catch up."

His fingers toyed with the edge of his sleeve, a nervous habit you had always found endearing. He was Hongjoong—confident leader, creative genius—but right now, he was just the same boy who used to get flustered when asking you to stay behind after school to listen to his latest song.

You tilted your head. "Are you asking me out, Kim Hongjoong?"

His ears turned pink. "I mean—! Not like— I just thought, you know, Valentine's Day is coming up and—wait, no, not that it’s because of that, just that we could—" He sighed in defeat, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Maybe I am."

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. "Then I guess I’m saying yes."

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise before they softened, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face.

And just like that, the space between you closed, filled with unspoken words, shared laughter, and the quiet promise of something more.