#and decides the war makes strangers of them all

[hrizantemy]

I believe my mutuals @kataraavatara and @litnerdwrites made a post talking about Elain, and I want to add on.

I don’t like Elain. And I say that with an understanding that she reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger—the way she makes herself small, slips into softness, plays the role of the quiet, gentle one. But that’s not why I dislike her. I think she’s survived by making herself a victim, and that survival strategy gets dressed up as innocence far too often in this fandom.

People always say “Nesta is overprotective,” or “Nesta won’t let Elain make her own choices.” But Elain is a grown woman. She has been for a while. And I’d like to call back this scene in A Court of Silver Flames:

“Like calls to like,” Amren countered. “You were Made by the Cauldron. You may track other objects Made by it as well, as Briallyn can. And because you are Made by it, you are immune to the influence and power of the Trove. You might use them, yes, but they cannot be used upon you.”

A glance to Elain. “Either of you.”

Nesta swallowed. “I can’t.” But to let Elain involve herself, jeopardize her safety—

Amren said, “You tracked the Cauldron—”

“It nearly killed me. It trapped me like a bird in a cage.”

Elain said, “Then I will find it. I might require some time to … reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today.”

“Absolutely not,” Nesta spat, fingers curling at her sides. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?”

When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”

“Then go off on adventures,” Nesta said. “Go drink and fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron.”

Feyre said, “It is Elain’s choice, Nesta.”

Nesta whirled on her, ignoring the warning flicker of primal wrath in Rhys’s stare. “Keep out of this,” she hissed at her youngest sister. “I have no doubt you put these thoughts in her head, probably encouraging her to throw herself into harm’s way—”

Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”

Nesta’s pulse pounded throughout her body. “Do you not remember the war? What we encountered? Do you not remember the Cauldron kidnapping you, bringing you into the heart of Hybern’s camp?”

“I do,” Elain said coldly. “And I remember Feyre rescuing me.”

Roaring erupted in Nesta’s head. For a heartbeat, it appeared that Elain might say something to soften the words. But Nesta cut her off, seething at the pity about to be thrown her way.

“Look who decided to grow claws after all,” she crooned. “Maybe you’ll become interesting at last, Elain.”

Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain’s face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike. Elain’s eyes brightened with pain.

Something imploded in Nesta’s chest at that expression. She opened her mouth, as if it could somehow be undone. But Elain said, “I went into the Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.”

Do I think Nesta is being overprotective in this scene? Absolutely. But she’s not telling Elain she has to stay pliable, docile, or under her wing. In fact, she’s telling her do whatever you want—have a life, make choices, be wild if you want—but don’t put yourself danger.

That line—“you only think of what my trauma did to you”—hits hard in the moment, but it’s not entirely fair. I don’t think Nesta is sitting around thinking about how Elain’s trauma affected her. No—Nesta is thinking about what she did that might have caused Elain’s trauma in the first place. Like when she agreed to scry for the Cauldron during the war, which directly led to Elain being kidnapped by Hybern. That guilt haunts her. It’s not selfishness—it’s responsibility, it’s shame, it’s regret. And that’s a huge difference from what Elain is accusing her of.

Is it healthy? No, absolutely not. But think about it like this—throughout her entire life, Nesta has consistently been shielding Elain from things. From their cruel, abusive grandmother. From the brutal reality of the cabin and the poverty they endured. From the harshness of the world, from faeries, from war. Nesta’s role has always been protector, even when she didn’t know how to do it in a way that was kind or constructive.

So when she tries to stop Elain from engaging with the Cauldron or the Trove, it’s not about control—it’s about falling back into that same instinct: protect Elain at all costs. It’s not healthy, no. But it’s deeply human, and it’s rooted in a lifetime of seeing herself as the only barrier between Elain and the ugliness of the world.

And Elain isn’t innocent in this dynamic—because she let Nesta take on that role. Time and time again, she allowed Nesta to be the shield, the angry one, the wall between her and the worst of the world. She leaned into that softness because she knew someone else would do the hard, ugly protecting for her.

That doesn’t make Elain evil, but it does mean she benefited.

In A Court of Frost and Starlight, we get this moment:

“Nesta is still a part of this family.”

“Is she?” Elain sawed deep into the next loaf. “She certainly doesn’t act like it.”

Elain doesn’t say that with concern. She doesn’t ask why Nesta’s withdrawn or what pain she might be in. She doesn’t express fear for her sister. She frames Nesta’s pain as rejection of them, and then immediately distances herself in return. That’s not support. That’s emotional retaliation.

And then in A Court of Silver Flames, we get this:

“She’s not getting any better. She’s not even trying.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared toward the distant sea.

Again, Elain doesn’t ask how she can help. She doesn’t express sorrow, or frustration rooted in love. She just makes a judgment. She assumes Nesta isn’t trying, when in reality Nesta is drowning. That’s not care—it’s condemnation, veiled in softness.

In both of these moments, Elain puts her own pain first. It’s “I feel hurt because she’s distant” rather than “she’s hurting, and that distance might be a symptom.” It’s “she’s not trying” instead of “she might not know how to try right now.”

And this is why Elain’s line in ACOSF—“you only think of what my trauma did to you”—rings hollow. Because Elain consistently thinks of what Nesta’s trauma is doing to her, and not what Nesta is actually going through.

So instead of “you only think of what my trauma did to you,” a more accurate statement would be:

“You carry guilt for the ways you think you failed me.”

Because that’s what it is. Nesta isn’t consumed by what Elain’s trauma did to her—she’s consumed by what she did, or didn’t do, that might’ve caused it. It’s guilt, not selfishness. And that distinction changes everything about how you read that scene.

And Feyre’s little line—“It is Elain’s choice, Nesta”—honestly doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of that scene. Because at the end of the day, Nesta still ends up doing it. Nesta is the one who gets pushed into tracking the Trove, not Elain. So Feyre’s attempt at standing up for Elain’s autonomy is performative at best.

If Feyre truly believed in respecting choices and protecting the people involved, she could’ve said something like, “You might not like this, Nesta, but Elain is going to do it—because you’re still recovering. You’re in a vulnerable place, and we’re not going to put you in danger.”

But that doesn’t happen. Because despite Feyre’s talk about choice, it’s Nesta who’s still expected to sacrifice, to endure, to suffer—even while in what is essentially rehab and battling untreated PTSD from war, death, and trauma.

And this line right here—“Elain doesn’t go near him,” Feyre said. “And you won’t let me near him?”—only cements my point.

Yes, on the surface it’s about who’s going to dance with Eris, but it reveals something deeper: Feyre will not put Elain in danger. She refuses to let Elain step into even a politically uncomfortable situation, let alone one involving risk.

That moment with Eris shows exactly what Feyre is willing to shield Elain from. It makes her earlier line—“It is Elain’s choice”—feel hollow. Because Feyre is quick to step in and say, not her.

Whether she agreed or not, Nesta was always going to be the one to look for the Trove.

[in-case-of-grace]

Imagine seeing the cruelty of a few and deciding you hate all of humanity now.

Imagine sharing that thought through a glass box that sends those words-- which were themselves created through thousands of years of collaborative linguistic evolution-- through the air, to be caught by rocks that then somehow share those words with potential thousands of other humans across the world. This glass box and the rocks it uses were made by humans, to talk to far away humans at a speed never before thought possible.

Imagine you do this while wearing clothes. Generations of humans worked together to find the best way to transform various fibers into something that could protect them, their families, and their communities from the elements.

Then, they figured out how to apply color to those fibers, so they could use their clothes to share ideas and feelings with other humans around them. Their descendents, continuing this conversation, have even figured out how to make machines out of rocks and plants-- driven by a language of ones and zeroes-- that produce clothes themselves. How incredible is that?

Imagine that somewhere near you, a stranger apologizes to another for simply bumping into them. The bumpee smiles politely, maybe laughs a little, then carries on their way to work-- where they use the miracles of modern medicine to better the lives of other humans.

Someone across the street smiles to a child they'll never see again. Another stops to feed a stray cat, which they do daily. There's a group of friends going out together to celebrate one landing a new job. Later that night, they'll pay for a stranger's meal.

Most people are good people. Do not let the cruelty of a few sour you to the whole of us. If you find yourself cursing mankind, stop. Take a look around you-- in the physical realm-- you'll find people being kind to one another more often than not.

We all have the capacity for love, same as we have the capacity for cruelty. Same as any social animal, really. Do you hate every chimpanzee because they, too, can wage war? No. Of course you don't. Do you see how silly it is to judge humanity differently? We're animals, too.

Animals who, working together, landed on the god damn moon.

[tennessoui]

omg time traveler ahsoka au! she gets obi-wan to leave the order for satine in the hopes that he’d be weird with someone else but anakin gets sent on a mission to mandalore and wow there’s this handsome duke he has to look after. what a shame he’s married and definitely wouldn’t leave his wife for this jedi he feels immediately weird about

hmmmmmmm this is one of Ahsoka’s closest attempts because obi-wan’s personal sense of loyalty wouldn’t let him cheat on his wife, and he’s spent so long building a family and a life on Mandalore that he would never toss it aside to be romantically involved with a kid (read: 22yo) that he doesn’t even know even though he feels a very strong pull towards him….obi-wan is adept at lying to himself

It gets easier to lie to himself when he realizes that Skywalker is also married, though secretly…..it offends part of Kenobi, but that’s just because Skywalker is making a mockery of the Jedi order with his secret marriage!! Kenobi is no longer a Jedi of course but he still has great respect for the Order!!!

That’s the only reason he feels so strange when he thinks of Skywalker’s marriage even long after Skywalker and the senator he was guarding as she came to a celebratory feast on Mandalore leave again.

(Ahsoka tenses on her reset button as anakin makes his way back to mandalore a few months later, but they’re being….normal…this anakin requests to study ancient mandalorian and Jedi texts that are housed in the capital city and it’s weird because he’s never really cared about history but he’s being very…respectful….and master obi-wan is also being very respectful if a little stand offish….he accompanied him down to read the texts and they spend hours down there together but as far as Ahsoka can tell there is nothing inappropriate happening —she has gotten very good at telling when something inappropriate is happening between her old masters—they really are just…talking and reading and they’re being…sort of weird…but sort of normal….it’s the closest they’ve come to the original timeline in fact…Ahsoka relaxes on her reset button)

War breaks out anyway of course and obi-wan lasts only a month or so after anakin is pulled to the front lines before donning an old beat up and anonymous suit of mandalorian armor and flying to fight with him. The Duchess of Mandalore offers no comment. The official story is that her husband is sick in bed from a nasty case of Flafu flu. No one knows that it’s the Duke of mandalore in the red armor, supporting Skywalker’s troops.

Ahsoka wonders if Anakin knows, up until the moment some droid gets a lucky shot in and obi-wan goes down on the battlefield and anakin levels an entire field of droids to get to him looking half out of his mind with worry and rage….then she knows he knows and maybe that he’s always known

She’s tensed up over the reset button again, but after obi-wan’s been seen to by the medic, anakin sends him back to his wife on mandalore and, miraculously, after 2 years fighting to be by anakin’s side, obi-wan…stays, but he looks so beaten down over it, so without half his heart, like he’s suddenly aged 20 years and lived in a desert for all of them. But he stays.

The war ends eventually and the Jedi triumph. Ten years later, leia runs through Anakin’s study with an old red helmet over her head as Luke runs after her, playing war. anakin gently takes it off her and sets her on the ground. He cradles the helmet though in battle worn hands, but thankfully before either of them can ask, padmes speeder arrives and they shoot off to go welcome their mom home - anakin stays for a second longer, just staring at the helmet with such a naked expression of wistfulness longing heartbreak and acceptance that Ahsoka almost wants to turn away. Before she does she sees anakin touch his forehead to the helmet’s once before rising and putting it away, turning instead to go greet his wife

and it leaves Ahsoka with such a WEIRD feeling in her own heart that she’s pressing the reset button before she can think it through because she wants them to be apart and she wants the Jedi to win the war and everyone to get their happy endings but…but not like this…not if they’re not happy….she gets 1 reset where she gets to be selfish ok she’s gone through thousands now probably.

[yoyomomiko]

I love your writing so much aaaa (⁠ﾉﾟ⁠0ﾟ⁠)⁠ﾉ

I need the monster trio's reaction to reader calling them "husband", could be an accident or intentional I just need it pls!!!! ( T﹏T )

pairings: monster trio x female reader

cw: reader is referred to as "wife", mention of suffocating/drowning in sanji's part, not proofread, probably contains grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language!!

wc: 1.3k+

— (a/n): tysm!! <33 i like writing for one piece characters so I love it when I get more requests for them >.< also, so sorry if this feels boring or short!! :(( -> m.list

— LUFFY

Luffy loves it when you introduce him to new people, but he's usually too distracted to pay attention. Until you call him your husband.

The moment the word leaves your mouth, his face lights up.

He repeats it INSTANTLY, grinning ear to ear. "Husband? That's me, right? You mean me?"

If you try to play it off and say it was a mistake, he ignores your protests and laughs. If he likes it, he likes it. And you're gonna keep calling him that, no matter what!!

He immediately starts calling you "wife" in return, but in the most casual way, like it's completely normal.

He doesn't fully understand what marriage means in a traditional sense, but to him, being your husband means you're his person.

If the crew hears about it, they all would have different reactions. Zoro snorts, Nami fights the urge to roll her eyes, and Sanji almost faints in disbelief.

Luffy, however, is completely unbothered.

If you tell him later that you only said it as a slip up, he just smiles and says "But you could mean it, right?"

He doesn't let it go. He starts using it as an excuse to do things for you. "Husbands have to share their food."

*Cue him stealing from your plate instead*

He loves how you blush when he casually refers to himself as your husband mid conversation.

If you ever genuinely called him that again, he'd get the biggest grin ever and he won't stop talking about it for hours.

He doesn't care about official ceremonies or rings. If you called him your husband once, that's enough for him.

——— ☆

You were introducing the crew to a kind old shopkeeper on an island, someone who had been chatting with you warmly for the past few minutes.

"Oh, and this is my husband, Luffy." You added casually, not even realizing it until the words were already out. You meant captain, not husband. At least that's what you wanted to believe.

Luffy blinked, tilting his head to the side, before a wide grin formed on his lips. "Yeah, that's me, I'm her husband!"

Wait, what? You froze, stiffened, locked in place. Did he seriously just agree?

The shopkeeper chuckled, a warm smile glued to their lips. "Well, aren't you two adorable? How long have you been married for?"

You opened your mouth to correct them, but Luffy beat you to it. "Long enough!" He answered confidently, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

You looked at him, eyes wide, stunned. He just grinned at you, completely unbothered. You sighed, deciding to let it go. For now.

— ZORO

Zoro is not the type to get flustered easily, but calling him your husband? Yeah, that'll do it.

He'd be calm on the outside, but on the inside, he's replaying that moment over and over again.

If you called him that in front of strangers, like introducing him as your husband to avoid weirdos, he'd immediately go along with it.

He doesn't see the need to correct you. If you called him that, then fine. That's what he is now.

If someone asked when you got married, he'll just say "None of your business." and move on.

He secretly enjoys watching you get flustered after realizing what you said, trying to cover it up and say it was just a small mistake.

"Didn't know you were that eager to make it official."

If Sanji overheard, it would be war. "YOU?! HOW DARE YOU–" "Shut up, cook. She said it herself."

He says "cook" as if it's a slur.

If you apologized later for the slip up, he would just simply shrug, saying that it's just some words, but the slight redness on his ears would say otherwise.

He wouldn't bring it up much, but if someone else called him your boyfriend or anything else, he'd correct them. "Husband." No explanation.

Zoro starts to lowkey like the title, but he would NEVER admit it.

He doesn't joke about things like this. If you seriously wanted to be with him in that way, he'd take it 100% seriously.

If you actually bring up the idea of marriage later, he's going to instantly agree.

He starts calling you "wife" just to mess with you!!

——— ☆

You were traveling through a town when an unfamiliar man started hitting on you. He was persistent, and you were quickly running out of patience.

Then, without thinking, you gestured toward Zoro. "Sorry, I'm here with my husband." You sighed as the man's gaze followed the direction you were pointing at.

You immediately regretted it. Zoro turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. The man scowled but backed off, muttering an apology before walking away.

You exhaled in relief, until you felt Zoro's gaze on you.

"Husband, huh?" He muttered, amused.

Your face burned, heart beat quickening. "I just said that to get rid of him."

The corners of Zoro's lips tugged upwards, forming a smirk. "Didn't mind it." He kept walking like nothing happened, leaving you flustered.

— SANJI

Sanji freezes completely the second you call him your husband.

For a split second, he actually imagined it. Being your husband. Starting a family. Then his brain shut down.

If you were introducing him to someone that way, he'd try to act normal, but would fail miserably. "Y-Yes, that's right, I'm her– her– her husband, yes–"

His heart would be racing.

If you called him that to avoid someone flirting with you, he'd immediately play along, but also fall deeply in love with you all over again.

If you told him later it was just a slip up, a small and meaningless mistake, he would dramatically explain the feelings he had in that very second. "For a moment, I lived in paradise."

He would start calling you "my wife" at every opportunity. "Oh, my darling wife, allow me to–" "Sanji, stop."

If someone else flirted with you after that, he's quick to place himself in the middle of you and the other person. "I'm her husband, thanks."

I swear bro this man is SO sassy.

Sanji would start daydreaming about an actual wedding. He also gets more protective than usual, standing a little closer, guiding you with a hand on your back.

If you genuinely meant it, he'd be the happiest man alive.

He swears to be the best husband in the world, treat you amazingly, kiss the ground you walk on.

Sanji will never, ever forget the moment you called him that. The moment you called him your husband. Those words remain imprinted in his mind, locked in a special place.

——— ☆

You were in a crowded restaurant, and the waiter was getting a little bit too flirty for your liking. So, without thinking, you immediately decided to shut him down, but not directly. "My husband will have the same order as me."

Sanji knocked over his glass of water, almost choking as he coughed severely. You turned to see him frozen, eyes wide, face completely red. You groaned, pinching your nose bridge. Here we go...

"Say it again, love." Sanji literally sparkled, practically glowing. His eyes held a childish shine, which you couldn't help but describe as adorable.

You sighed. "It was just–"

"Say it again."

You buried your face in your hands, already feeling your heart beat increasing. Gosh, why did he have to be so handsome?

"Sanji, stop." You mumbled, resting your chin in your palm, elbow propped up on the table.

"My darling wife, please–"

"Sanji I swear that if you don't stop this, I will hold you down underwater and watch you suffocate."

"I wouldn't mind that one bit. Dying by your hands is an honor, sweetheart." He winked, smiling as he leaned in closer, giving you a soft kiss on the lips.

He drove you insane. But in the best way possible.

★yoyomiko ★miko

[lunexsparx]

LADS: Sent them LEWDS in public

Summary: The LADS have left you feeling neglected, so you decide to teach them a lesson. What happens when you send them lewds while they're in public? MDNI! (Suggestive, not explicit.) This was a silly piece, and my first "all LADs" fic!

It had been three entire days since your usually-charming upstairs neighbor decided to treat you like you’d committed some unforgivable crime.

And for what?

A tiny, perfectly reasonable suggestion.

All you’d done was gently imply—alright, maybe not that gently—that it might be insanely hot if Xavier wore the Lumierre mask while you did things to him that were definitely, unequivocally illegal in at least six countries.

Instead of pouncing on you right then and there, like a sane person, he'd looked at you with such profound horror you'd genuinely thought for a moment you’d accidentally confessed to murder. Without saying a word, he’d turned on his heel, and left. He actually just left you standing there, mouth open, dignity bruised, libido unsatisfied.

And now it had been three full days of absolute silence.

Three days of radio static—no texts, no teasing smiles across patrol, nothing. He'd even swapped shifts just to dodge seeing you, the dramatic bastard. Last night, you'd even tried peace offerings in the form of his favorite takeout, and he’d ignored that too!

Enough was enough.

Jealous of his own alter ego? That was the most ridiculous thing you'd ever heard. But fine. If Xavier wanted to act like a sulky teenager, you'd make sure to treat him like one.

War was officially declared.

You found him at headquarters, slumped in a chair after your patrol with Tara, looking every bit as miserable as he deserved to be. He was nibbling half-heartedly on a powdered-sugar donut, his posture screaming “pathetic” in a way that almost made you soften—almost.

His eyes flicked upward, briefly met yours, and then darted away guiltily, the tips of his ears turning pink beneath his silver hair. Oh, he was absolutely not ready for the diabolical storm about to descend upon him.

"Hey there, stranger," you purred sweetly, flashing him your most innocent smile. "Thinking hot pot tonight? You in?"

Xavier stared at you like you’d grown a second head, his eyes wide and dark as he slowly drew the powdered sugar-coated tip of his thumb into his mouth, sucking it clean. For one charged, heart-stopping second, you thought he might break—then he yanked his gaze away, finger removed from his lips.

“There’s a... briefing,” he mumbled lamely, shuffling awkwardly toward the conference room door.

Your stomach dropped. Oh, he was really doubling down, wasn’t he?

Fine. If that’s how he wanted to play it, you’d come prepared. You had nuclear-level ammo today, and Xavier didn’t stand a chance.

Game on, Bunny Boy.

You followed him into the conference room, watching with disbelief as he strategically wedged himself between two occupied seats. Seriously?

With a dramatic sigh, you slid into the empty chair directly opposite him. If he thought refusing to look at you would save him, he was tragically mistaken.

The other hunters filed in, and Jenna began her usual monotone spiel about mission updates and statistics. You tuned her out instantly, your entire focus zeroed in on Xavier, whose azure eyes remained stubbornly glued to Jenna, as though looking anywhere else—especially at you—would ignite him on literal fire.

You knew him far too well for that. You knew exactly how difficult it was for him not to glance your way; you could practically feel him sweating from across the room.

Still, not even a single glance?

Well, he’d asked for it.

Carefully lowering your phone beneath the table, shielding the screen from wandering eyes, you scrolled through your collection of explicit selfies from last night. You’d planned these as playful rewards for when he finally apologized, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

And oh, the pièce de résistance.

There you were, wearing Lumiere's iconic costume, the shirt wide open to expose your bare breasts, nipples stiff and tempting. Your hand disappeared suggestively down the pants, fingertips teasingly hidden but clearly busy, eyes glassy with desire, lips parted as if mid-moan. It was raw. It was filthy. It was fucking perfect.

Smirking, you quickly typed your killing blow:

You: If you won’t be Lumiere, then I guess I’ll have to be.

Send.

Exactly five seconds passed between the delivery of your message and the moment Xavier's soul visibly departed from his body.

Across the conference room, Xavier shifted casually in his chair, pulled out his phone like it was nothing—and froze.

For a full second, you swore he stopped breathing altogether.

Then, as though hit by a delayed gunshot, he jolted violently enough that his knee smacked hard against the underside of the conference table.

THUD.

Coffee cups rattled dangerously. A rookie hunter squeaked embarrassingly. Jenna stopped mid-sentence, arching an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Xavier? Everything alright?”

Xavier opened his mouth, managed no sound, then tried again. “Fine,” he croaked weakly, voice cracking like he was thirteen again. “Just—leg cramp. Muscle...spasm. Sudden. Carry on.”

Jenna stared at him, the kind of look that clearly said she wasn't paid enough for whatever this was, before continuing her report without further comment.

But Xavier was fucked, and he knew it. Under the table, his hand fumbled desperately—obviously attempting, and spectacularly failing, to discreetly adjust his hardening cock. His breathing turned shallow, ragged, as though he’d just sliced through a thousand wanderers.

For several minutes you almost broke skin from biting your knuckle so hard, trying not to laugh. You expected to get some sort of reaction, but when it came to Xavier--you didn't expect THAT.

At last, he risked a glance in your direction.

The look he shot you was homicidal—wild, desperate, furious lust etched into every tense line of his body.

You offered him your most innocent smile.

Slowly, deliberately, you tilted your head just slightly.

Bit your lower lip.

Then, clearly and slowly enough for him to read your lips across the room, you mouthed:

“Call me Lumiere.”

Xavier’s palm slammed down on the table with a loud crack, making the rookie beside him choke on her coffee and Jenna stop mid-sentence again.

He stood abruptly—violently—his chair sliding backwards and hitting the wall behind him. “I—uh—emergency!” he stammered, voice strained with panic. “Personal emergency!”

Without another word, he practically sprinted out of the conference room, leaving confused whispers in his wake.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed violently in your hand.

Xavier: Elevator. Now. If you can still walk when I’m done with you, consider it a miracle.

A wicked grin slowly spread across your lips.

He was going to lose his mind when you showed up in the elevator already wearing his mask.

And you absolutely couldn’t wait.

You: Hey handsome. Come home and ruin my life a little? ❤️ Zayne: Saving actual lives, sweetheart. You’ll survive. Probably. You: Survival’s not guaranteed if you keep ignoring me. 😔 Zayne: Drink water. Do stretches. Think loving thoughts. You: My “loving thoughts” involve you naked and tied to a chair, FYI. Zayne: Medical emergency. Gotta go. Stop being trouble. You: No. 😇

You glared at your phone, dramatically collapsing face-first onto the couch with a frustrated groan. The cushions absorbed your grumbled curses, muffling your irritation. How many more nights had to be like this?

Fine. If Doctor Li was determined to pretend you didn't exist, you'd simply make yourself impossible to ignore.

You'd show him exactly what happened when he neglected his duties.

With determination and a mischievous gleam in your eye, you slipped into Akso Hospital, wearing your most convincing “definitely not about to do something reckless” expression. A few polite smiles later, you found yourself safely behind the door of Zayne’s private office.

Perfect.

The white coat hung invitingly from the hook on the wall, proudly embroidered with his name. With a small, affectionate smile, you ran your fingertips lovingly over the stitching. He’d earned every letter there—but he was going to have to earn you now.

You slipped out of your clothes, discarding them neatly on a nearby chair, and draped yourself in the crisp, cool white fabric. Buttoning exactly one button beneath your bust to tease rather than conceal, you placed his stethoscope around your neck, letting the cold metal rest suggestively between your bare breasts.

Then, perched casually against his desk, you carefully spread your thighs—just indecent enough—and snapped a photo.

You: I need a consultation, Doctor. I’m experiencing severe symptoms of neglect. 🖤

Send.

Meanwhile, Upstairs in the Boardroom

Zayne was enduring yet another agonizingly dull briefing on surgical budgeting, politely nodding at appropriate intervals and maintaining just enough eye contact to appear interested.

His phone buzzed softly. A quick glance to silence it, and—

He froze.

The image filled his screen with obscene clarity: You, half-naked beneath his white coat, lounging seductively on his desk. His heartbeat surged violently, blood roaring in his ears.

"—increase the budget allocation for anesthesiology—"

Zayne heard nothing.

His mind was busy unraveling.

"Dr. Li?" the hospital director asked, peering at him over her glasses. "You seem… distracted."

He stood abruptly, chair wobbling dangerously behind him. "Emergency page," he announced, voice crisp and convincing.

He didn’t even bother looking at his pager.

Without another word, he strode out, urgency radiating from him as he practically sprinted toward his office.

He burst through the door—and stopped short.

There you were, a living fantasy: draped across his workspace like an erotic muse, fingers leisurely twirling his stethoscope. You looked outrageously smug and impossibly beautiful.

"Doctor," you purred sweetly, batting your lashes with a smirk, "I've been incredibly patient, but I'm afraid my condition is deteriorating."

Zayne exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in mock-suffering. "You," he murmured with exaggerated weariness, eyes shining with reluctant amusement, "are an absolute nightmare."

He crossed the room in three confident strides, trapping you firmly between his arms as he braced himself on either side of your hips. The warmth of his body pressed intimately close, sending sparks rippling across your skin.

"But," he continued softly, voice dipping lower, "you're my nightmare."

Your grin widened, eyes sparkling triumphantly.

He brushed his nose gently against yours, mouth hovering dangerously close. "Now," he breathed, warm and teasing against your lips, "are you ready for a proper examination?"

His hands slid up your shoulders, skillful fingers hooking into the edges of the white coat. With a single swift movement, he stripped it from you, letting it pool loosely at your elbows. You gasped softly at the sudden exposure, your bare skin instantly heated under his heavy, possessive gaze.

He tugged the stethoscope gently but firmly, tightening it just enough to elicit another soft gasp from you. His lips curled wickedly.

"Because, sweetheart," he whispered hungrily, "I’m afraid I’ll need to be… extremely thorough."

Just as his mouth brushed against yours, the door swung open sharply.

"Dr. Li, I just wanted to—"

Yvonne froze mid-step. Her eyes widened comically, mouth falling open in pure shock.

You froze.

Zayne froze.

The three of you stood locked in a perfect tableau: you, nearly naked on his desk; Zayne gripping the stethoscope like a leash; and poor Yvonne wishing desperately she could melt into the carpet.

The awkward silence stretched unbearably—until you broke it with a cheerful, mortifyingly casual, "Hey, Yvonne."

Yvonne sputtered, her cheeks blazing scarlet. "I—uh—meeting—I’ll—clear your schedule, Doctor Li—sorry—!" She whirled around and fled, the door slamming so hard a framed diploma nearly toppled off the wall.

Quiet filled the room once more.

Slowly, you turned your gaze back to Zayne, prepared for irritation or embarrassment in his expression. Instead, what you saw in his eyes made your stomach clench and your knees weaken.

He looked feral.

His eyes were dark with barely controlled hunger, the curve of his mouth twisted into a dangerous smirk. A low, rich chuckle escaped him—broken and beautiful—and then he captured your lips in a fierce kiss that left you absolutely breathless.

When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

"You," he rasped, voice low and trembling with the effort of restraint, "have absolutely no idea what you just unleashed."

His fingers tangled into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your face upward, exposing your throat. A startled, eager whimper escaped you as he guided you firmly down onto your knees, the cool metal of the stethoscope tightening once more around your neck, holding you in place, keeping you under his control.

"Now," Zayne murmured roughly, gently tracing your jawline with his thumb, eyes blazing with a promise that sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, "about your consultation…"

He stroked your lower lip with the pad of his thumb, his eyes heavy and intensely focused on your form beneath him.

"Open wide, sweetheart," he whispered darkly. "Doctor’s orders."

He hadn't even noticed you were there.

Or if he had, he certainly wasn't showing it.

Rafayel moved through the exhibit like a reluctant storm—sharp smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, quick jokes tossed over his shoulder, and half-hearted acknowledgments to anyone who cornered him. He was the living embodiment of forced politeness, an artist enduring the social equivalent of nails scraping down a chalkboard.

And god, he hated every second of it.

You knew it just by watching him: the tight set of his jaw, the slight twitch at the corner of his eye every time some fawning critic called him "brilliant" or "a visionary." The fake laughter he forced out sounded so pained that you cringed inwardly each time you heard it.

He wasn't here by choice. He was here because Thomas begged him to be. Sweet, desperate Thomas—his manager, friend, and occasional babysitter—had guilted him into playing nice. Apparently, being cursed with raw talent also came with mandatory public suffering.

But still, you had shown up tonight for him.

You'd dressed up, hopeful and ready to support him, a little nervous, and just a touch eager to catch his attention. He'd been busy with this exhibit for weeks, leaving you missing him terribly. A few texts back and forth proved he'd been working himself thin, so your attendance hopefully meant a lot to him. You imagined his face lighting up, maybe an overly dramatic embrace to embarrass you in public, something to make this exhausting night worth it.

But nothing like that happened.

Instead, you lingered awkwardly at the edges, becoming increasingly invisible with each passing minute. Every time you tried to approach him, some insufferable curator or overly-enthusiastic fan intercepted. A handshake here, a selfie there, a monologue about color theory that visibly drained Rafayel’s soul just listening to it.

Your heart sank lower with every failed attempt to reach him.

It felt ridiculous—standing alone, unnoticed, in a crowd full of people fawning over him. The ache settled deep in your chest, frustration twisting alongside a quiet, embarrassed loneliness. You knew he adored you in his own chaotic way, but in this moment, you felt utterly forgotten.

Before your pride could stop you, your hand slipped into your clutch, pulling out your phone. Your thumb hesitated, hovering over the screen.

You'd taken the photo a few days earlier. You’d laughed nervously, painting your body with cheap market paints, giggling as vibrant colors ran together, messy but charming in their chaos. Beautiful hues smeared across your naked skin. A self portrait with loving marks made only for him. You'd planned it as a playful reward for him, a private gift to congratulate him on surviving this night. Something so vulnerable and silly, you just knew he'd affectionately tease you about it...

But right now, it felt more like an act of desperation—maybe even your last chance to salvage your hurt feelings.

You attached the picture, pausing only a second to consider your message before typing something hopeful and just slightly teasing:

You: If only I’d had an artist’s touch when I made this… 🎨

Send.

There. It was done. Now, you could let him have his night. Your stomach twisted anxiously as you turned toward the exit. You wouldn't wait around feeling sorry for yourself any longer. And you absolutely were not going to cry.

Definitely not.

You were halfway to the door when you heard the distinct sound of glass shattering against marble flooring.

You whipped around just in time to see Rafayel frozen stiffly, staring down at his fallen champagne flute, the shattered glass glittering beneath his shoes like fragments of a broken sculpture. His phone still glowed in his hand, the faint light of your photo illuminating his wide-eyed, stunned expression.

For a moment, the gallery seemed suspended in time. Even Thomas stopped mid-sentence, mouth half-open, staring at Rafayel with alarm.

Then Rafayel slowly lifted his gaze, eyes dark with delicious chaotic delight.

He clapped his hands sharply, making several attendees jump. "Alright, show's over, everyone!" he declared with startling cheerfulness.

Music screeched to a stop. Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. Thomas sputtered helplessly, pushing forward in a panic. "Raf, what are you doing? Are you out of your—?"

"Emergency inspiration, Thomas," Rafayel interrupted smoothly, flashing a grin that promised chaos. "Artist emergency. Clear out these art vultures before I start tossing them myself."

He began herding the stunned crowd toward the doors like an overly enthusiastic sheep dog, casually waving away protests, ignoring horrified gasps, and outright laughing at anyone who demanded explanations.

In a matter of minutes, the gallery emptied completely, leaving you alone and slightly bewildered in the silent aftermath.

Before you could fully process what had just happened, Rafayel stormed across the gallery--intense eyes locked on yours, grabbing your wrist with gentle but firm insistence and pulling you toward one of the large, blank canvases still hanging on the far wall.

"Raf—" you began, but he pressed you lightly against the canvas, caging you in with his body. His breath was ragged, eyes intense and impossibly full as they traced your features with more affection than he'd ever shown you before.

"You," he whispered fiercely, voice low and roughened with barely contained emotion, "are the only masterpiece I've ever given a damn about."

His fingers toyed with the hem of your dress, teasingly lifting the fabric inch by torturous inch. "And clearly," he continued, mouth twitching with a teasing laugh, "you're in desperate need of a professional’s touch.”

It had been a week.

Seven miserable days of cryptic texts, all maddeningly brief and patronizing:

Sylus: Stay in tonight. Sylus: Miss you, kitten. Sylus: Be good.

No calls. No visits. Not even one infuriatingly charming late-night voicemail. Instead, your only visitor was Mephisto—the world’s most judgmental mechanical crow—who showed up at ungodly hours, tapping insistently at your window like he had something important to say but was choosing not to out of spite.

You hated this.

You missed Sylus with an intensity that bordered on psychosis. You simultaneously wanted to punch him in the mouth for ignoring your messages and pull him close and kiss him senseless for texting back. He was stubborn, distant, and maddeningly secretive—qualities that normally drew you to him, but right now were driving you toward sweet, reckless revenge.

When Mephisto landed again, this time eyeing you from the balcony railing like a gothic hall monitor, you decided enough was enough.

Sylus had left you unsupervised for far too long—and it was time he faced the delicious consequences.

You picked up the sleek black helmet he’d given you weeks ago. Custom-designed, glossy, stylish, perfectly fitted—an extravagant gift he'd tried (and failed) to dismiss as "just something practical." You’d teased him mercilessly about it, delighting in how he blushed faintly at your enthusiastic reaction.

Tonight, the helmet would serve another purpose entirely.

Pulling it on, you stripped off everything else, relishing the cool air and the way goosebumps prickled your bare skin. You sprawled across the bed, posed shamelessly, legs parted just enough to tease, fingers strategically hiding the most explicit details—but only just. The helmet gleamed wickedly, a striking contrast to your exposed body.

You snapped the photo.

With a satisfied smirk, you sent it off to Sylus, accompanied by the provocative caption:

You: Your kitten needs to play. 🐾

Send.

Deep within the heart of N109’s black market, Sylus stood at the head of a long metal table, staring coolly down a collection of men who looked like they'd stepped straight out of a wanted poster. Between them sat a precarious amount of glowing modified Protocores and weaponry—dangerous, volatile, and profoundly expensive.

Negotiations were quiet. Civilized, even, in that uniquely criminal way where civility masked a very real promise of bloodshed.

Sylus’s phone buzzed softly against the metal table. He ignored it, expression unreadable, shoulders loose, hands relaxed as though he had all the time in the world.

It buzzed again. Insistent. Demanding attention.

With a subtle sigh, he flicked open the screen, casually glancing down to silence whoever dared interrupt—

And his world halted.

Your photo filled the display, bold and stunning enough to seize every thought in his head. You sprawled like an absolute vision, sleek helmet shining, bare skin lush and inviting, fingers barely covering the part of you he now desperately wished they weren’t hiding. His breath stopped in his chest as he licked his lips.

The room felt suddenly suffocating.

His energy surged, raw and unchecked, in a way it hadn't in years—and certainly never over something as trivial as a photograph.

The modified protocores, hyper-sensitive to his Evol fluctuations, immediately picked up on the spike.

Then—

BOOM.

An entire weapons crate erupted, shards of protocores and sparks exploding outward in a brilliant shower of chaos. The table overturned. Gangsters screamed and dove for cover. The lights flickered violently, plunging the room into smoke-filled confusion. Someone yelled about assassins, another fired a panicked shot into the ceiling, and Luke and Kieran hit the floor with twin yelps.

"Holy shit, did boss do that on purpose?!" Luke shrieked from behind a smoldering crate.

Kieran coughed and laughed simultaneously, cackling, "Nah, you didn't see that look? He only looks like that when she's involved!"

Amid the destruction, Sylus stood unmoving, ruby eyes still transfixed on the intimate image before him. Smoke curled gently from the scorched edge of his coat, a faint dusting of ash settling into his white hair. His expression remained as calm and impenetrable as a marble statue.

One gangster staggered up to him, pale and trembling, clutching a bloody hand. "What the fuck was that, Sylus? Are you double-crossing us? Was this a hit—?"

Sylus didn't bother replying. He simply tucked the phone smoothly into his pocket, brushed off his sleeve, and fixed the shaking man with a flat stare.

"Emergency recall," he said calmly.

While alarms screamed and half the warehouse burned around him, Sylus turned to Luke and Kieran and said:

"Handle it."

Without looking back at the smoking ruins behind him, Sylus walked away, leaving a roomful of criminals sputtering in disbelief.

At home, you’d fallen asleep waiting for a reply, curled up and still helmet-clad, when the apartment door slammed open so violently you bolted upright, startled and blinking.

Sylus stood in the doorway, looking like he’d just survived an apocalypse—jacket scorched, boots dusty, eyes blazing and utterly unhinged. He kicked the door shut without a backward glance, filling the room with his overpowering presence.

"You probably got someone killed tonight, Kitten," he drawled, voice deceptively mild.

You snorted softly, waving him off with a playful roll of your eyes. "Oh, sure. I'm deadly, alright."

His expression didn't change, though his eyes darkened with intensity that sent a sudden thrill down your spine. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, a predator approaching prey that hadn't yet realized it was caught.

"I’m serious," he said softly, voice low and edged with dangerous amusement. "Two crates of weapons and Protocores exploded, half the black market nearly burned down, and I'm fairly certain at least one idiot accidentally shot himself in the foot."

You blinked, momentarily uncertain—then burst into bright laughter, your amusement echoing brightly through the darkness of the room. "Oh please," you said, still giggling. "Sylus, that's ridiculous."

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for your helmet, carefully slipping it off and tossing it aside like an unnecessary barrier between you. His hands braced firmly on either side of you, trapping you effortlessly beneath him.

His Evol energy crackled lightly against your skin, prickling warmth everywhere he hovered close, setting your nerves alight.

"You have absolutely no idea," Sylus murmured, nuzzling softly against your temple, his voice dark and gentle as velvet against your ear, "the sheer havoc you wreak inside me."

Your breath hitched, laughter melting into something softer, warmer, undeniably affectionate.

"You came," you finally whisper into his ear. "You could have just texted me back," you teased gently, eyes dancing in the low light.

Sylus’s mouth curved into a faint, devastating smile, his gaze full of quiet adoration—and a promise of retribution. "And miss the chance to watch you try and kill me in real-time? Never."

His lips brushed yours, soft at first, then hungry—like he'd waited years instead of days. He kissed you slowly, deeply, utterly reverent, as though he’d willingly burn the entire world down just to ensure nothing stood between him and you again.

Caleb Xia was known across the fleet as a legendary figure of unbreakable discipline. Colonel Xia could hold his composure through anything—through battles, interrogations, and even prolonged stints in the punishing DeepSpace Tunnel. But tonight, back from yet another exhausting mission and desperate to dismiss his troops and finally collapse in private, Caleb was learning a painful truth:

He had absolutely zero defense against you.

It began innocently enough. Caleb stood stiffly at the fleet’s bustling command center, issuing routine post-mission orders. Soldiers marched up to him in a seemingly endless procession, saluting crisply as they reported their debriefing details. Caleb dutifully nodded, signed off on various datapads, and maintained perfect, ironclad control.

And then his phone buzzed softly in his pocket.

He slipped it out discreetly, expecting another boring update—only to find your name illuminated brightly, demanding his attention.

You: Calebbbbb. Answer meeeee. 🥺

Caleb's lip twitched. He could imagine your tipsy, adorable whine through the text. But professionalism required restraint, so he quickly typed a brisk reply:

Caleb: Working, Pip. Almost done.

But you clearly weren't feeling patient tonight.

Another buzz. Caleb checked his screen discreetly, eyes narrowing as his breath hitched involuntarily at your messages:

You: Working means ignoring me? Rude. I thought you missed me. 😭 You: You're mean, Caleb You: Ever since you joined your big bad secret club, you're no fun. 😔🍷

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose, half-smiling despite himself. He could practically picture you sprawled on the couch, wine glass dangerously close to tipping onto the floor, cheeks flushed, lips pouting.

God, he missed you.

His jaw tightened slightly, heart thudding a little harder than it should. Caleb opened his mouth to bark a quick dismissal to the approaching officer—but he had no time. The soldier saluted sharply and began a lengthy status report, forcing Caleb to slide his phone back into his pocket with a silent curse.

The buzzing persisted—insistently, cruelly—in his pocket.

Finally, mercifully, he dismissed the soldier, and checked his phone again.

You'd sent a picture.

He quirked a brow and glanced around carefully, subtly angling the screen away from view as he opened the attachment. He regretted it immediately, a strangled noise nearly escaping his throat.

There you were, sprawled out lazily on your bed, cheeks flushed from alcohol and mischief. Wearing that damned red sports bra and matching boyshorts he’d glimpsed on you just once before a few weeks ago, entirely by accident—an image that had haunted his nights since. He'd felt guilty for seeing you in such a vulnerable state, even if it was an accident.

But this? You'd posed deliberately, your bare thighs slightly parted, your body arched invitingly on soft sheets.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as heat surged in his veins. This was not happening. Not now, not here—when he had a dozen soldiers still waiting for dismissal orders.

Another officer marched toward him, interrupting Caleb’s internal panic. Caleb forced his expression into its usual neutral mask, hoping his flushed neck and pounding pulse weren't too obvious. The officer saluted, rattling off data—Caleb heard nothing, his mind racing, pulse hammering between his ears.

He nodded robotically, scribbled a barely legible signature on the datapad, and sent the soldier away with more force than necessary.

His phone vibrated again. A new text.

You: You’re ignoring me again. Baaad colonel. Do I need to try harder?

His heart skipped a dangerous beat, fingers shaking slightly as he tapped back urgently:

Caleb: Pipsqueak. You shouldn't have shown me that--you've been drinking. Caleb: I'm almost done here. Just...Not. Now.

Your reply was immediate:

You: Oopsies. Already took the pic. Too late. 💋

Caleb’s stomach flipped violently. Another soldier approached, and Caleb cleared his throat sharply, bracing himself against the inevitable.

“Colonel Xia, the mission logs—”

“Yes. Fine. Proceed,” Caleb managed, hoping he sounded commanding rather than breathless.

While the soldier droned on, Caleb made the catastrophic decision to open your new photo.

Fuuuuuck. It was…far worse. You’d removed the sportswear entirely, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin in its place. You lay on your side, a soft, fluffy blanket strategically draped over your hips, teasing him with the faintest promise of what was hidden beneath. The graceful curve of your breasts was perfectly visible, your skin illuminated by warm, inviting lamplight. Your eyes were playful, your lips curved in an achingly inviting smile, as though daring him to come home immediately and do something about it.

Caleb's brain short-circuited entirely.

For several frantic heartbeats, he forgot how breathing worked.

You couldn't possibly have—

He closed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the image was already seared into his memory. Caleb felt utterly gutted—by longing, by frustration, by the fierce and consuming need he’d kept buried for far too long.

Caleb’s mind went completely blank. Every muscle in his body tensed, blood rushing downward at a dizzying speed. He realized, too late, that his breath had hitched audibly.

“Sir?” The soldier was staring at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Caleb coughed roughly into his fist, fighting desperately to regain control.

“Sorry—repeat your last point,” he growled hoarsely, blinking hard. The soldier cautiously continued, clearly worried about Caleb’s strange, flushed appearance.

Caleb’s phone buzzed yet again, ruthlessly relentless:

You: Bet you wish you were home now, huh, Caleb. 😘

The soldier finally departed, giving him one last curious glance. Caleb quickly turned away, leaning over a console to hide his increasingly obvious predicament. If he didn't have his long officer's coat, he'd be laughing stock of the fleet.

He texted frantically:

Caleb: Careful, Pip. When I get home you're going to pay for that.

But your reply destroyed any last shred of his composure:

You: Promise?  You: Btw... My glass of wine wore off a while ago. 🙃

Caleb closed his eyes, gripping the console so tightly his knuckles whitened. His uniform felt unbearably tight, his breathing shallow and uneven. But it wasn't just the sheer boldness or sensuality of your pictures that had wrecked him—it was the raw vulnerability behind your playful bravado.

You'd actually meant it.

After all this time, after carefully dancing around each other, you'd finally risked everything and showed him exactly how much you wanted him. No more teasing. No more pretending. Just your honest, unguarded desire laid bare—beautifully, heart-stoppingly bare—and he couldn't stand another moment being apart from you.

Not now.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb suddenly barked, addressing a startled officer nearby. “Dismiss the remaining personnel immediately. I'll review their reports tomorrow.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

Ignoring the curious, whispered speculations behind him, Caleb strode swiftly toward the exit, doing his best not to stumble in his frantic rush. His heart battered wildly against his ribs, pulse thundering as he vividly imagined exactly how he'd greet you once he finally got you in his arms.

You'd completely unraveled him—and there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

Author's Note:

This was definitely a challenge—but such a fun one! I'm genuinely impressed by all the talented writers who effortlessly create amazing LAD stories. If you enjoyed these little scenarios, please let me know—I’d love to write more! Also, if you have any specific requests or prompts, feel free to drop them in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

[glow-in-the-dark-death]

Him (Them)

( So I decided 'fuck it' pitch pearl babyyy, I've seen other people do this ship and decided well why the hell not right. Anyways have fun!)

~

Phantom and his council were finally in the end processes to a peace treaty with Earth,

As years went on from what was once only the USA with their Ecto-Acts got worse. The GIW began opening in other countries without them truly realizing what they were allowing, until the Infinity Realms were at the point of declaring war on all of Earth itself.

The only reason that managed not to happen was because of Phantom finally being able to contact the Justice League and sit them down to have an actual conversation about everything that was going on.

That's where they were right now the world leaders, the 3 founders of the JL , and High King Phantom with his council arguing back and forth the peace treaty.

Phantom turned as one of the men stood up

" And just how are we supposed to truly trust you and yours to not take over or cause harm to our people?"

Others began chiming in, arguing that there was no true guarantee in what Phantom was saying.

Until a voice towards the back called out an idea

" Marriage! To truly unite our worlds in peace King Phantom must marry one of our own!"

Phantom subtly tensed the idea of a loveless marriage to a complete stranger made his core tremble with rage.

He glanced around seeing the looks of the people around him, he saw their greed for his power and status, their point for the marriage would be to control him or at least give them an advantage.

Phantom tuned out the arguing between the JL and the rest.

Thinking of what to say to get out of this situation without risking the treaty.

Snapping back to attention holding back a sharp smirk.

" Gentlemen if what you fear is the safety of your people then do not fret I have protected and saved your people and world since my creation, as for your request of a marriage to unify our world then I have wonderful news for I am already married to one of your people and even have children with him."

Phantom looked at the shocked faces around him, a couple grimacing or frowning at their missed opportunity to have control and access to him by one of their chosen.

A rather stupid man for what else could he be with what he said next.

" Then divorce him and marry someone that we find more suitable!"

Phantom's form distorted around him as he processed what he had just heard.

" Divorce? You wish for me to Divorce my husband, the one who I cherish above all else, the one I have shared my core the very being of myself with. The one who I gave my very being and soul to create our children. The one who is half my being, the one who if not for him we wouldn't be speaking at this moment because it was only his word that kept me from declaring war on your world."

"Make no mistake I do wish for peace between our worlds, many of my people are from this world and would like to continue to stay or visit especially for their loved ones, and I would like that for them without the danger of being hunted and torn apart."

"For if I wished war your planet would not stand a chance for what is a few million of your soldiers compared to my infinite soldiers that only would continue to grow as yours died."

"For him I fought and won against the previous tyrant King for daring to to cause him pain, the very King who only was defeated previously by the combined efforts of the strongest in the Infinite Realms, The very same King I defeated alone."

"So please do continue talking against my husband."

"..."

"What is his name?"

"Danny Fenton."

~

Just an Idea

[wannaeatramyeon]

Meeting Student!Gun Park for the First Time: Part 2

Please read Part 1 first! G/N. 4.6k. Remember when Gun wanted to get his GED? Well. Stranger to~ Masterlists

As far as first impressions go, yours went terribly. Gun can count on no hands the amount of people that have spoken to him like you did and lived to tell the tale.

Make no mistake, the sum total of which is zero. Zero spoke to him like that and lived to tell the tale.

It's like you have no manners and absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

But, he figures, he's finally doing his GED after the whole murderous stint and juvie and light dabbling in gang wars. Maiming a fellow classmate on the first day would leave an even worse first impression with the rest of the class than yours with him, therefore he should really try to behave himself.

Besides, he would never hear the end of it from Goo if he dropped out, or worse got kicked out, so he picked his battles and took your insults as best he could. 

Somehow miraculously managed to hold back from reaching across the screen to give you a well deserved ass whooping when you asked him if he was on the verge of a mid-life crisis. He schooled his face and took a drag of his cigarette instead.

At least, if nothing else, you're entertaining.

You also reminded him that small talk was a thing when you asked what he liked to do for fun. He couldn't remember the last time anyone asked, if anyone even did, although you don't really make this sort of conversation in his line of work and it is hard for Gun to find time to make chit chat with someone as he's usually the one brutally assaulting them in a fight.

And he had such good intentions with enrolling in school again so why not tell you he likes gaming. 

That's a perfectly Normal hobby, right? 

Even as he says those words, they stick in his throat like he's confessing something shameful and it comes out strangled and strange.

He moves on to more familiar territory by reframing his bloodlust as training and martial arts, which also sounds very Normal to Gun's ears.

A few more things that he can barely remember are mentioned to present himself as a very Normal individual and he isn't embarrassed to admit to himself he's pleased with how this has gone.

After all, the majority of his working day is spent with Goo and Goo is, to put it politely, an unhinged dipshit, and their conversations usually also have that kind of vibe. Gun is aware enough to watch his tongue in this conversation with you, and the fact you haven't looked terrified or called the police can only work in his favour.

What piqued his curiosity most of all though, is your threat to kick his ass.

(On Tekken, but still.)

So much confidence in your own ability, so much faith in your skills.

(On Tekken, but still.)

Alas, that night he finds out it's misplaced and you have severely overestimated himself and/or underestimated him.

But still. 

He remains curious about you.

You show absolutely no fear, no ulterior motive, no nothing, in the way you speak to him and seem to have latched on to him rather than anyone else in the class, and Gun is... 

Charmed.

He finds you oddly endearing.

Then when he sees the back of your head as he makes his way into the classroom for the first time and decides to sit next to you, the way you blatantly check him out doesn't hurt either.

People ogling Gun isn't anything new, but what is new is how much he likes it from you.

He makes up his mind to keep his seat next to you. Even if your gaze does linger a moment too long on his hair and makes him wonder if he used enough gel on it when he styled it that morning.

And although you caught him doodling and insult his masterpieces repeatedly - you also balanced it out by helping him with Literature, which truth be told, he is extremely grateful for. He forgives your missteps and your teasing.

Over time, Gun finds that he likes your company. Traits that would be annoying as shit with other people he finds sweet with you, including your unrefined taste in coffee.

As a bonus, you also don't balk at the tidbits of his life he shares. In fact it should really be a little troubling how grey your morals are, how easily you take it in stride for someone that seems like a normal well-adjusted(ish) civilian.

All in all, this never happens. Ever.

Never has anyone held his attention like you do, and for him to test the waters like he has done.

Gun likes to think he has good judgement, takes very calculated risks. This, he decides, is worth pursuing. Exploring.

With not so much a leap of faith but maybe just a tiny hop, Gun opens up his home to you.

.

.

.

.

You think you're in love with Gun Park.

This realisation hits you at 5am, when you're lying in his bed and he has done the gentlemanly thing of taking the sofa. It hits you because only a few hours ago, he had pulled you into his lap, looked at you and held you so tenderly then didn't kiss you.

The fact that he hadn't kissed you, and you're in love with a very questionable person sends you into a mental crisis.

Fuck.

He's secretive enough, letting you in on various elements of his life and you manage to piece together that he can only be up to no good.

There's no shades of grey in his life, only copious amounts of crimson from bloodshed, and a twisted sense of morals and principles he lives by.

You know by now he hangs around far too much with someone called Goo, who sounds like the personification of a headache and annoys him to no end but also seems to be the only friend he has. Speaks too highly of a Charles that you know is shady despite never having met the guy. There's also an Eli that he mentions like he's the one that got away.

You can live with all of that and the questionable amount of hair product he uses.

What you are in fact struggling to get to grips with is:

This man lives in a junkyard. Like some kind of violent, sexy raccoon.

A voice in your head that sounds scarily like your mother, lectures you about prospects and picking a man with no future.

Well, for one - he's back in school.

See mom, you're wrong.

He also seems to do very well for himself despite literally living amongst trash (you handwave away his blood money and unscrupulous methods to earn said money) so that's another point for Gun.

And what sort of person, who lives between piles of scrap metal and discarded appliances, has such a luxurious bed.

You're sure the bedding thread count is in the thousands. Instead of researching the cure to cancer or how to travel faster than light, scientists have researched the comfiest mattress known to man and has created this that you're currently lying on.

So maybe this violent sexy raccoon is actually a prize.

Regardless.

You seem to have hitched yourself quite willingly to this wagon and now your biggest issue, that leaves you tossing and turning into the early hours of the morning, is still-

Why the fuck didn't he kiss you.

And how could he, after sharing such a sweet moment, push you off his lap and kick your ass on Tekken for 5 straight rounds.

What a bastard.

.

.

At some point you must have drifted off to sleep and you awake to the smell of deliciousness.

Something is being fried and you melt thinking your raccoon king is cooking breakfast for you. Who knew he was this sweet and thoughtful.

What is even better though, somewhat masked by the sizzling, is if you listen hard enough, you think Gun might even be humming. Even the perfect bed can't keep you from pressing your ear up against the bedroom door when you connect the dots that he is humming a popular K-Pop song that you have listened to on loop 50 times the week prior.

You yank open the door with force, "A-ha!" and point in his direction, gleeful at catching him doing something so un-Gun like.

Gun, in the middle of plating 2 omelettes, whips his head to you and stills, looking like a deer caught in headlights or a raccoon caught in headlights, rather.

You ask him, with a shit eating grin,  if he's a big fan of the K-Pop group but it drops at his lack of reaction when he just shrugs and responds simply with a yes.

Damnit.

Of course you know it's not really anything to be ashamed of but it's so unexpected from Gun, that would it kill him to blush a little or act a little abashed? You expected something at least a little entertaining from his initial surprise, but you suppose anyone would act like that if a deranged house guest accosted them first thing in the morning after they so kindly made breakfast too.

As a consolation, after the let-down, you double take when you realise Gun had been cooking topless and remains topless this entire time.

In all his muscled glory. Pecs and abs and everything. Delicious broad shoulders and an enticing light trail of hair from below his belly button and stretching down, down, down into his sweatpants.

You gulp, trying to calm yourself down. You know you are staring so so obviously but you can't find it in yourself to look away.

Gun clears his throat as if to say my eyes are up here, and hands you a plate.

.

.

While you still have self control and before you outstay your welcome, you say bye to Gun after breakfast mentioning you have some errands to run.

It's a poor excuse but you didn't taste a bite of that omelette, brain too fixated on the man seated opposite and wondering if what he's hiding in his trousers matches the energy he gives off.

He offers to take you home and you insist on walking by yourself. You reason to yourself the fresh air after such a heady night and all the over excitement from this morning would do you good.

You say your goodbyes at his door, him leaning against the doorway, still unbearably tantalisingly shirtless and enough to distract you from the junkyard setting, with his arms folded and a smirk on his face as you stand there-

Standing and waiting and expecting.

You're pretty sure Gun wants to kiss you. There's a challenge in his eyes and you know he is teasing you.

The fact that you stared at him before like a slack-jawed moron also indicates full well what you would like him to do.

A goodbye kiss isn't too much to ask for (not that you're going to ask) but he continues to also lean and wait and smirk shirtlessly and god, this is the most awful hair-pulling frustrating game of chicken you have played.

For a moment you consider yanking him down and kissing him, hard and desperate, and making your way back inside to the most comfortable bed that has ever existed. For an even briefer moment you consider biting his pec and leaving a ring of teeth marks.

In the end, you can only muster "bye then," and to your dismay, your voice comes out whiny.

There's no hiding your disappointment.

Gun’s smirk grows wider at your tone and he relents and gives a peace offering in the form of a kiss on your cheek.

He pulls you into his body, arm wrapped around your waist and he dips down, grazes his lips featherlight to your cheek.

It's chaste. Impossibly tender and surprisingly sweet.

Damn.

You forget how to breathe and you feel like you're on fire as he murmurs bye into your ear. Later, you'll chastise yourself for letting Gun affect you like this with something so innocent.

You untangle from him and feel your legs wobble when you step off the porch and make your way back home.

Gun chuckles but you don't hear it.

You don't form a coherent thought again until that evening, when Gun beats you on Tekken and in a fit of rage and frustration, you finally break your controller.

.

.

To make things fair, Gun’s dislike of Literature is offset by how knowledgeable he is with Biology.

The human body, to be precise, and alarmingly so. Maybe serial killer levels of knowledge, with how much he knows about organs and muscles and tissues and everything in between.

He explains that it's useful for training, as if that's any explanation at all for his extensive knowledge. However, you've seen his body and heard enough about his past and yes, including his actual training, to realise that it does make sense in a way and you let it go.

Well.

Maybe you would have fought it a bit harder if you yourself was any good with biology but you're not. If he's great at it because he's a serial killer, then fortune favours the bold and you might as well take advantage of it.

Gun is a very very good teacher, which you did not predict and in a way you didn't expect.

His jaw is tense and the grip on the textbook tightens after you get the answer wrong for the 15th time and when you think he's about to whack you with said textbook, he closes his eyes and counts to ten.

When he opens them again, he tries another method with you. Then another. And another.

Truly, you did not think he had this sort of tolerance or patience.

He explains things simply and calmly (though you've noticed he has started to grit out his words). Unfortunately you still find all this theory hard to wrap your head around.

"Are you going to hit me?" You ask.

"Yes," Gun says though he doesn't. He looks more like he's going to ram his head through a wall. Neither happens and he continues to work through the textbook with you.

Hours later, it clicks.

You feel something of a genius even if Gun’s hair resembles a bird nest from the amount of time he has ran his fingers through in exasperation.

.

.

After finding out that you broke your controller, Gun buys you a new one immediately.

He's very generous and kind, you think, and it may be the first time in existence anyone has considered Gun as kind. 

Until you realise he has other reasons for doing so.

That night, and for several nights after too, Gun is merciless when he KOs you. Each match is shorter than the previous.

You register this is payback for the biology stint. It's got to be.

.

.

Nevertheless, because you're the bigger person and you take the defeats on the chin, as thanks and in an almost mirror image of Gun repaying your Literature help, you suggest taking him out for a coffee.

Getting a coffee to-go and hand delivering it would be much easier, but you can't bring yourself to order an espresso for someone even if it is their drink of choice.

You take him to one of your favourite coffeehouses. Somewhere much less lavish than the one he frequents and much more agreeable to your meagre pockets although the coffee is just as good.

"Two espressos," Gun says at the counter.

"One," you cut in firmly, holding yourself back from gagging. If you have to pay for it, you won't be drinking that bitter sludge. You rattle off your usual: a monstrosity made with double-digit syrup pumps and whipped cream and Gun flinches in your periphery.

Despite your insistence, he beats you to the punch and pays for the order anyway. Not before adding a jab that your coffee, if you can even call it a coffee, is the worst thing he has ever had the misfortune to spend money on.

"Try it," you offer, when your drink is in your hand and Gun watches every sip with mounting horror.

"No," His mouth is pressed into a thin line and he looks like he has half a mind to knock the cup out of your hand. He refrains, clenches his knuckles and rests them on his knee.

He closes his eyes and counts to ten.

You watch him, heartily enjoying your sugary drink and sucking noisily on the straw. He twitches and starts counting from one again. You feel a surge of affection.

.

.

Without any other plans, both of you amble together through the quiet streets. You window-shop as Gun smokes next to you and attempts to buy everything that you set your eye on.

You tell him thanks but no thanks and continue to look at pretty trinkets and funky decor. In the glass reflection, you notice Gun fondly looking at you.

"Hi," you smile, turning towards him. He looks more handsome than ever in the sunlight. You don't even mind the amount of gel in his hair.

"Hey," he says, low and hushed. He steps towards you, leaving only a hairbreadth of air in between and tips your chin up to face him with his fingers.

You notice his pupils are blown wide, flickering down to your lips. Gun dips down at the same time you press up onto your tiptoes, and you feel his chest against yours, his other arm winding around your waist, breath fanning over your skin-

This is it, you think, finally.

This, sadly, is not it.

"GUN!" you hear a voice screeching. You both tear your attention from each other to the shrill noise.

A blonde guy in the loudest suit you have ever cast your eyes upon is waving manically in your direction.

"Do you know him?" you ask and Gun's lips are thinner than you have ever seen.

"No."

"GUN!"  The blonde yells again and you raise an eyebrow at your companion.

His face looks pained as he tells you that is Goo Kim and when you ask if you both should go over and say hi, he snaps back absolutely not with a frown.

"Let's go," he says, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you in the opposite direction. Behind you, you hear cackling and Gun hastens his footsteps as if being chased by a deranged spirit.

You don't see the blonde again for the rest of the day although Gun’s phone seems to be going off every other minute. 

The moment you had is never quite recaptured. You can't bring yourself to mind too much though, as Gun never lets go of your hand.

And everytime he catches you smiling at your hand in his, he gives you a light squeeze and returns the smile.

.

.

If you thought school would be all cutesy and you would take turns in helping each other with topics you're stuck on, you're wrong.

Turns out, both you and Gun are equally bad at math.

You watch, face blank, at your screen as the teacher explains algebra. At least, you think that’s what the jumble of numbers and letters are because your ears refuse to make sense of the words.

You search the monitor for Gun to see how well he is faring and find him staring dead-eyed.

Not very, then.

In class, you see Gun's textbook with some attempt at notes in the margin before devolving into his lewd stick men doodles that he still insists are fighting stances.

"You shouldn't cover your page in smut. No wonder you're bad at this." You tease.

He doesn't look at you, doesn't rise to the bait. Simply rebukes, "Your book is blank and you're still shit."

"Asshole," you hiss and his dead eyed stare is replaced with a smirk.

.

.

As it happens, Gun can be very convincing when he wants to be.

A fellow student trails behind Gun in the library, and offers to help you and him out with your lack of mathematical comprehension.

You ignore that the student seems absolutely terrified and keeps giving fearful glances to Gun as he peers at them menacingly.

So what if the convincing involves some light threats of bodily harm or whatever Gun has so charmingly offered if that means you will pass. Didn’t you already establish that you have questionable morals? You’re too set in your ways and there's no point fighting it now.

Neither of you get any further after a few hours, and it doesn't help that the student gets more and more nervous each time you and Gun get a question wrong.

Explanations devolve into stammering and barely strung together sentences as if their life depends on you both understanding basic algebra.

They let out a petrified squeak when Gun snaps his fifth pen in half, noticing he has no more pens and may very well come for their neck.

Maybe he will.

"Leave." Gun commands, pinching his nose bridge when he realises this is futile and the student scarpers off.

"I hate this," You say, dejected, and you watch Gun close his eyes and quietly count to ten.

.

.

As it happens, Gun can be very resourceful too when he wants to be.

The following week, the teacher trails behind Gun to the library and offers to help you both out.

He seems equally afraid, eyes flickering over to Gun, and you choose not to focus on that, instead smiling brightly at his kindness.

The teacher, gripping the textbook white knuckled, breathes a sigh of relief hours later when both you and Gun start to answer the questions correctly and with accurate workings too.

In your mind, you have both learnt something and he has avoided an ass kicking so you're all winners here.

Nevermind the fact that Gun would have been the one handing out the ass kicking. There's no need to focus on such details.

.

.

From this distance, you find a figure chain smoking again. You’re now so familiar with his body language, with his mannerisms, that you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s Gun and clearly there’s also something playing on his mind.

He sucks a cigarette down to the filter and lights up another one immediately after.

You worry about the poor state of his lungs and if he looks like this when he’s only 20, then mid-life will actually hit him hard. His body must be running on fumes. He really should cut down on the cigarettes and the caffeine and get a better night's sleep instead of staying up all night gaming. 

Not that you’re one to talk.

Perhaps it’s due to how he’s on alert for your presence like you are to him, his eyes snap to yours the moment you start to make your way over.

“You ok?” you ask and he gives you a funny look. It’s the same look whenever you express interest in his well being, or any general interest in him at all, and you think poor guy.

“Fine,” he responds, finishing off another cigarette and flicking it onto the floor.

And another thing, he really shouldn’t litter.

You don’t hesitate to tell him so, and as your tongue unravels, you start to also mention the smoking and his health and how you’re worried about him. Yes he clearly works out but all the cigarettes and lack of sleep will take a toll on him eventually.

Gun’s eyebrows climb into his hairline at your words. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you notice that what was supposed to come across as caring is very much coming across as a lecture though you can’t seem to stop.

As you begin to mention the obscene amount of gel he wears in his hair, his expression turns from bemused to sour and he cuts you off.

“You can nag me at mine over Tekken.”

“I’m not nagging-” you start, and then you abruptly stop as your brain kicks into gear and it sinks in that he has invited you over to his again.

Oh right. His.

The junkyard. 

At some point, you’ve forgotten that you’re in love with the King of Raccoons. That this guy willingly lives in a shack in the middle of, what you can only politely describe as, garbage, and you wonder how your life has come to this.

Gun is patient as he waits for your answer and his eyes are warm. It doesn’t sway you though. You want to counter with No. Why don’t you come to mine then you remember his beautiful bed. Yes you’re getting ahead of yourself but if there’s a chance you get to experience it again, sure. You will come to his raccoon den.

You agree and he gives you the softest smile you have ever seen.

.

.

“Shit,” you say, crestfallen and hanging limply.

“Shouldn’t you be used to losing by now?” comes Gun’s voice and you want to bounce the controller off his head.

“Shut up.”

“Your combinations are weak and poorly timed. You don’t understand how to use your characters or their advantages and you have no idea how to counter my moves.”

As the killing blow to your ego and pride, he adds, "You won that time because I let you."

A part of you already knew that yet you still stare at him agape at his audacity. Sitting, manspreading, on his armchair while he casually assassinates your skills.

“I’m not wrong.” He says with a smirk.

“Shut up,” you repeat, standing up.

“I can train you.”

“Shut up,” you stalk over to him.

“Or what?” He sits back to look up at you as you hover over him. Chin lifted defiantly and his eyes daring.

“This,” you snap, gripping him by the front of his shirt and pulling him towards you. You’re sick of losing and you’re sick of waiting. 

You clash your lips together and feel Gun exhale sharply in surprise at your actions. He tenses, for a split second, before he tugs you into his lap and your legs straddle his thighs. His hand reaches under your top, sliding their way across your skin as you grind down. 

“Wait,” he murmurs, pulling away, lips glossy and gazing at you half-lidded. 

He leans back to look at you properly, removing his hand as you subconsciously chase his touch, then with gentle hands, he cups your face and grazes his thumb over your cheek.

The TV screen illuminates his features, light reflecting in his eyes and you find something you only saw an inkling of during that first night, but has grown strong and steady since.

Gun looks at you like he did then -  soft, like you might break. Holds you the same way he had done - tender and precious. 

Only this time, there’s a steeled resolve in his face as he presses your bodies together, capturing your lips against his once more and you melt into his embrace. He’s much more gentle than you were but there’s a hunger and quiet desperation as his tongue swipes over your lips and slips in your mouth.

Your fingers run through his hair, and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it soft. All this time there wasn’t too much gel at all.

.

.

Gun wakes up the next morning with you drooling into his collar bone.

You wake up after the best night sleep of your life - wrapped in Gun’s arms and in the most comfortable bed known to man.

[caramelkoo]

my soul back home. [1]

pairing : Jungkook X reader

genre : frenemies to lovers, writer!jungkook, pilates instructor!oc.

summary : your best friend receives your wedding invitation and realizes he doesn't have much time left before he loses you once and for all.

warnings : slight angst, they fight over a packet of pasta, bickering, oc is a pilates girly yayyy, Jungkook is super protective of the oc, misogyny, body positivity, strong language, hate at first sight.

a/n : heyy my besties, i just wanted to show my gratitude to all of you who read my last work. im so so so grateful to each one of you. it's almost 2am for me and i just couldn't wait to share this. Enjoy and let me know how you like it. xoxo. 💕

༺♡༻

6 years ago

Jungkook's growling stomach diverts his attention from the five page essay he's been trying to work on but barely has written a word. Blaming it on his hunger, he gets and up and decides to make himself some white sauce pasta also known as his comfort food. His mom used to make him when he was a child back in the days just so he can get done with his homework without making her work for it.

When he got into a fight in seventh standard and came back home with a nasty cut under his lip, his mom made it again. It's been his go to ever since.

"Shit" as soon as he enters the kitchen though, he realizes that he ran out of pasta last week when his friends came over.

Picking up his car keys he drives up to his closest supermarket. The lady behind the counter smiling at him as per usual. She must be around 60 year old and every time Jungkook has stopped by to pick anything up, she has been super sweet to him. Not to mention how badly she wants him to meet her granddaughter. He wonders if her granddaughter knows about her grandmother trying to set her up with a stranger.

"How you doin' today, boy?"

"Hey miss Cathy, you having a good day?"

"So far so good" Jungkook walks further inside the store and searches for the pasta packet he came here for. When he spots it, he reaches for it unaware of the hand that goes for the very same packet.

The vanilla and caramel like scent hits him like a truck and when he looks beside him, he freezes. The girl which stares back at him has brown hair which matches the color of her striking eyes. There are freckles all over her nose and cheekbones making it look like a group of stars decided to make a home there on her face. Her glossy lips are parted in surprise, her almond shaped eyes wide. Why does he feel warm all of a sudden? Is the air conditioner off?

"hello?" her voice breaks him off his trance. The girl's eyes have gone narrower now.

"I need the packet." He hears her say again. As beautiful as she might be and as badly as he wanted to get on his knees and.. no !! not going there, he couldn't let her take the pasta. Not when it's about his essay. if he doesn't finish it soon his professor is going to have his head on a platter.

"Oh no no no no no no, I need this and I saw it first so I'm getting this"

"Okay first of all that doesn't make any sense. People can see it things from outside the store, does that mean they own it? plus can you not buy it from some other store?"

now he was getting irritated. she had the audacity to look so gorgeous and on top of that she was fighting over a pasta packet?

"It does. No matter how badly you need it, I need it more."

The girl takes a step forward, "Listen, I have no idea what do you need it for and not that I'm interested but I have to make my little sister her favorite pasta with extra cheese or she is not going to leave me and my boyfriend alone."

See, Jungkook is a simple guy. He likes something and he goes for it. If it was some other place, maybe his college or a restaurant, he would have approached the gal and asked for her number oh so politely but this right here? It's a war and he hates losing. No matter how cute the opponent is.

"I'm sure you can persuade her with a popsicle or two. you can find them at the counter right there" he points towards the counter. "Now let me have the pasta because I need to eat my weight in it so that I can finish my essay and be done with it, alright?"

She scoffs, "You're infuriating you know that?"

"Heard somebody call me that once but I believe they were looking for the word 'lovable'" he shrugs and snatches the packet before making his way to the counter silently hoping miss Cathy does not mention her granddaughter again.

The pretty girl yells behind him, "HEY!! WHAT ARE YOU? 5?"

He places the item on the counter and pays the amount before walking out of the store. God, he was starving. Much to his disappointment, someone calls him out.

"Boy, wait!!!" Fuck, it's Miss Cathy again.

He turns towards her forcing himself to smile, "Yes, ma'am?"

"You know my granddaughter-"

"Miss Cathy, I wish I could give you a minute but I'm actually in a hurry. You see, my brother is visiting with his two year old and it's been a long journey for him and he's starving and I need to-"

Jungkook tried his best to lie through his teeth, he really does until a voice interrupts him. That very same voice.

"Really now? And here I thought somebody was so hungry, they started twitching just by the thought of someone else having that packet of pasta" the pretty girl in yellow sundress folds her arm over chest. "Does she know her tits push up when she does that?" Jungkook thinks.

She continues, "Grans, I didn't know you let liars into your shop?"

Wait, WHAT?! Did she just call Miss Cathy "Grans"? Would you look at that? They weren't lying about the world being small. Who would have guess that the girl he's been trying to avoid is the same girl he can't ever avoid for the life of him.

Miss Cathy's loud wheeze echoes through the store, "Trust me y/n, he's a good fella. Jungkook, this is my granddaughter, y/n. The prettiest, my girl."

She looks so proud while introducing her and rightfully so, if she were his, he would also take pride in that. Minus the pasta fight, though. The thought scares the shit out of him and maybe that's why he runs. His feet move rapidly not stopping until he's facing his car in the parking lot.

How the hell did he even let that thought enter his mind? One minute he was sneering at her and now he wanted to make her his? He began imagining what would it be like to call her, his? Quickly starting the engine he drives himself to his apartment. Later that night, he takes a cold shower and fucks his hand while thinking about the same vanilla and caramel scent.

༺♡༻

present time

Jungkook has always loved being alone, his solitude has been something which he absolutely appreciated. Being the eldest son of his family he's been the one to pick up everyone's pieces but when it came to him, nobody served that purpose so he ran. Ran away from his home, from the chaos, the noise and most importantly the responsibilities. That's not to say that he's a quitter but when you have a father sitting on your chest all the time and making it extremely hard for you to live your life, you might as well be called one. He chose his peace and he does not regret anything about it.

Unfortunately though, he left something very precious back home and as much as it hurt him to do so, he knew he couldn't not escape.

The room is quiet enough that he can hear his heart beating straight out of his chest and his breathing turning ragged. When he came back from his early morning run he did not expect to find a wedding invitation in the mail box. he wasn't even planning on checking the damn mailbox if it wasn't for the small part of him wanting to do so.

The man had the whole day planned and now he was standing in the middle of the hall feeling like somebody dropped a huge rock on his chest and said "deal with it" with a piece of paper in his hand he can't wait to burn or tear into pieces. He needs to sit down.

He unlocks his phone and finds your number at the very top of his dial list. You guys were talking last night only about your studio being renovated and it confuses him to the core as to why you didn't mention anything about your wedding.

"Hey, what's up?" your voice greets him, cheery as always.

"You're getting married?" the words seem bitter on his tongue.

"Oh my god, finally. You got the invitation" a dagger through his stomach would hurt less right now. He runs his fingers through his hair, messing them up and continues.

"Were you ever going to tell me about it?"

"No because I wanted it to be a surprise. I asked Taehyung and Cynthia to do the same as well. Aren't you glad you happened to check your mailbox, huh?"

Jungkook blinks, once and then again. He was having a hard time comprehending all of this. Hadn't he checked the mailbox, would you have gotten married and never told him about it? He was going to throw up. When he replies his voice is brittle.

"Listen, can i call you again? I need to run some errands"

"Sure, but don't-" he hangs up and runs to the bathroom before emptying his stomach.

༺♡༻

5 years ago

Sweat drips down from your forehead, your chest moves up and down from how fast your breathing has gone. A moan slips out as you spread your legs a bit wider.

"Just one more aaaaand perfect. Now release" the Pilates instructor's voice reaches to your wet ears. You place yourself down on the mat.

"Fuck, she'll kill me one of these days" Your routine has already been fucked up because of your college exams and after finally being fed up of sticking your nose in the books, you had decided to get on with Pilates. You fell in love with it a year ago.

After working your body in the gym and realizing that high intensity workouts are no good for you, you gave low intensity workouts a chance and boom! The clouds parted and now you're almost in the best shape of your life.

You have never loved your body as much as you do now and if your 13 year old self could look at you, she'd give you a pat on the back. She wouldn't believe that people no longer make fun of her for not having thigh gap or slender arms. Indeed, it took several lunges, roll ups, spine twists, ab burners to get there.

It's not like you have the most anime like body, no. But you have finally stopped beating yourself up over it, accepting the fact that people's negative opinions are just a reflection of their own insecurities.

Your phone pings with a notification and you pick it up. It's the guy you've recently began talking to on hinge. Your boyfriend, now ex, broke up few months ago because he suddenly thought sleeping with his manager would be something you'd look past. Clearly, he was wrong and now he can choke on a thorny dick for all you care.

When your best friend, Cynthia had suggested to join a dating app just for the plot, you did it. Besides, what more could go wrong? An hour of swiping left and two cups of coffee later, you came across a guy with pictures of a guitar, a black cat and a chess board. In your defense, his cat was cute.

The texts reads, "Are you free on the upcoming Saturday? My buddy said there's a new coffee shop and they sell the best hazelnut frappe in existence."

You think before replying. According to the stats, it's the ninth day since you have started talking. Isn't it too soon to be going on a date? Although, there is a small part of you who wants to say "fuck it" and go. Before your thoughts go spiraling you go with the latter.

"Sure. Hazelnut frappe is my favorite" locking your phone you prepare to take a long hot bath. After all, you've earned it.

༺♡༻

Turns out the nerdy guys possessing a hobby of playing chess are not worth it. At least this one isn't. You wonder if you killed a bunch of kittens in your past life because seriously? When you said yes to the date two days ago, the thing you expected the least was your date constantly talking about how many hours he spends in the gym, which protein shake he drinks, even mansplaining about the NHL team he's been obsessed with. Guess you should have seen it coming from the way he couldn't even wait till ten days to ask you on a date.

Honestly, whenever you go on dates you can't help but expect the other person to be on their worst behavior. For example, you can expect the guy to dress badly, smell badly, show up late or conventionally not show up at all. This guy right here is outright insane and has failed to stay in his lane. You were getting agitated at this point.

"And then BOOM!! he shoots the most legendary shot of his life. This is what happens at NHL, you-" he stops when you stand up from your place.

"Excuse me, I'll just be back in a second" you place the napkin on the table as you grab your purse hoping the washroom has a secret exit or something.

But before you could even take a step forward, his voice stops you.

"Oh I know where this is going, You'll excuse yourself politely and then run away like some coward huh? Typical escape plan for you girls?" His voice sounds so nasty and when you turn towards him he's scowling at you like YOU'RE the one who was being a twat the whole time.

you mumble, "What do you mean?"

He stands up and walks towards you. You really try to ignore people staring at you but you're only human. The sudden rush of emotions have caused your mouth to go dry. It's hard to process what's happening.

"What I mean is that you're probably gonna go in there, call your best friend and ask her to help you escape because you can't stand another second with me" he raises his right eyebrow up.

"Sir, please you're causing trouble for everyone. I suggest you to please sit down"

This is beyond embarrassing. If you were planning to give this guy another chance earlier, there's no way in hell you're going to do that now. Over your dead body. So you do the only thing that makes perfect sense. Your hands fly and you hit his cheek with so much force, you swear you hear his jaw pop.

There are several gasps around you. If you're going to get booed on, you might as well make the most out of it.

His face turns sideways before he stands up straight. He raises his hand to hit you back but suddenly, out of nowhere, a hand grabs his forearm and yanks it away. You instantly know who it is. It's the same arm you wanted to twist a year back at the grocery store.

"Get your filthy fucking hands away from her"

After an year of trying to forget about him, he's here yet again and he's saving you from this asshole. You couldn't decide if you should be thrilled about him coming at your rescue or worried about him being back.

[pedgito]

march is over and we're heading into tlou season which i am awaiting with too much anxiety, energy has been so low over here but i've been attempting to read on nights when i have some time. as expected, lots of pedro characters but a few additional blorbos that i've been obsessed with lately.

this key will help you figure out which fics are more your vibe, or if you’re just curious of the contents before you dive in:

smut = 🌶️, fluff = ☁️ angst = ☄️

total fics listed below: 24

✎ — 𝐉𝐎𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑

↝ a love so fine by @joelsdagger — ☁️, 🌶️

An evening in with your husband helps to quiet the brain noise. 

↝ little lamb by @chaotic-mystery — ☁️, 🌶️

You and Joel decide on the future of you two when he sees how well you mother the lambs.

↝ in the soft light of morning by @eupheme — ☁️, 🌶️

In the morning hours like this, the promise of spring slipping through the cracks of the curtains, it’s enough to almost make him forget. Tucking away everything he’s done, forcing it back down his throat and locking it away. Here, he’s just a man.

↝ brighter times by @gutsby — 🌶️ (DDDNE, noncon)

You’ve always been Joel’s favorite. Always.

↝ stranded by @pedroscurls — 🌶️ (DDDNE, dubcon)

Your car breaks down on the side of the road and a stranger decides to help you out...and you have no choice but to accept his help.

↝ be quiet, or i'll make you by @tobeholyistobeempty — 🌶️

The world ended in disaster. You’ve lived with that knowledge for years now, and you think you’ve finally come to terms with the kind of things you’ll get from it. Pain. Loss. Destruction. The same chaos, day in day out, just in different forms. You know that at this point you’ll be lucky if you survive until tomorrow; so you take it in stride.

↝ orange colored sky by @/eupheme — ☁️, 🌶️

A soft summer weekend is spent at the lake with Joel and his family

↝ nice and slow by @joelsknees — 🌶️

A quiet horny morning with Joel. Send tweet.

✎ — 𝐉𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐀

↝ the raid (+ steve murphy) by @toxicanonymity — 🌶️ (DDDNE)

A DEA agent finds you on a drug raid, and he and his partner take you home with them. They keep you locked up and make some changes in your life, starting with getting you off drugs. They share you and have sexual tension (at the least) with each other. You happen to enjoy them... But it can't stay like this forever, can it?

↝ that won't ever be me, bebita by @iknowisoundcrazy — ☄️

Javi and Steve go missing. With los pepes at large, you and Connie wait up and worry for your loves.

↝ the morning commute by @/iknowisoundcrazy — ☄️

In the midst of Escobar’s desperate war for control in Colombia, your morning commute is disrupted when you find yourself tangled up in his latest bomb threat.

✎ — 𝐄𝐙𝐑𝐀 (𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓)

↝ like family by @max--phillips — 🌶️

Ezra had entertained dozens of your fantasies and helped you indulge in kinks you’d never even fathomed before meeting him. You trusted him implicitly, with your body, mind, and soul. You could tell him anything, and he’d take it in stride. He’d never judge you or shame you (unless that was the agreed upon point of the scene, of course). He was older than you, more experienced; he’d seen everything and then some. The stories he told are part of what drew you to him initially. Despite all this, it did not stop the panicked fear of rejection from flooding you with one accidental slip of the tongue.

↝ more by @moonlitbirdie — 🌶️ (read on ao3, DDDNE)

You want Ezra to take you while you’re asleep.

✎ — 𝐃𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊

↝ keep driving by @thundermartini — 🌶️ (DDDNE, dubcon)

An unexpected stop in the middle of nowhere for an investigation on a Halloween Festival leads to the scariest encounter of your life.

↝ because of you by @almostempty — 🌶️ (DDDNE, noncon)

You reveal at a party that you've never cried during sex, but Dave is going to fix that for you.

↝ good kitty by @sizzlingcloudmentality — 🌶️

Dave wants a cat but ends up with you. his favorite thing to do? letting the kitty drink fresh cream.

keystrokes by @mothandpidgeon — 🌶️ (DDDNE, noncon/dubcon)

You hacked into Dave Yorks computer and found more secrets than you bargained for.

✎ — 𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋

↝ forbidden fruit by @/cavillscurls — 🌶️

Upon his return to Dorne, you give your husband a warm welcome.

✎ — 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓 (𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒)

↝ inescapable by @cavillscurls — 🌶️ (DDDNE, dubcon)

Clint always gets what he wants—this time, you’re going to give it to him.

✎ — 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐎

↝ don't give up on me by @punkshort — ☄️, 🌶️

Should you give up on the man you love when he disappoints you, or do you give him another chance?

↝ 30,000 feet by @yxtkiwiyxt

You meet a handsome stranger on a flight.

✎ — 𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍

↝ miss possessive (+ gareth emerson) by @gracieheartspedro — 🌶️

You cannot help but be possessive over your boyfriends...wait no, boyfriend. Just your boyfriend. Not his best friend.

✎ — 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓 𝐌𝐔𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐊

↝ when he's the neighbour by @jolapeno — ☁️, 🌶️

Matt hears you through the wall.

✎ — 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇

↝ late night visits by @stellamarielu — 🌶️

Somehow your neighbor is always finding himself at your front door hoping to find relief through casual hookups, but you both can’t deny your feelings any longer.

likes, reblogs, and comments keep the motivation alive, so if you’re taking a look at these for the first time, please leave a kind word for these writers or just reblog, even. support your writers <3

[gatorbites-imagines]

Sinners Remmick x male reader (preferably poc) where is a singer at the juke joint and Remmick sees him and tries to seduce him lmao. But male reader is low-key insecure of his singing tallent + kind of shy and Remmick finds out and is like "????? what do you mean" because male reader is like so good at music, and Remmick has to uplift him lmao.

you can make thiss smutty if your up to it

Remmick x POC male reader 

Headcanons 

Hate to admit, I dont know much about POC culture in America. I'm European, and we barely even mention America in history class. This also means I don't know a lot about African American culture, especially during the 30s and in the south. 

This means I won't be mentioning a whole lot about the times, cuz I don't know enough about it, and I wouldn't want to be disrespectful. I would love to read about it though, if yall know any good sources. 

Not as smutty as I had hoped, but hope it's good anyways 

You knew the Smokestack twins, as much as anyone around here did. Maybe you even knew them a little more than most, enough to know the truth about their father. 

Music had always saved you when times got tough. It started out as you simply singing to yourself, humming tunes that came from somewhere deep within. Then it became a harmonica that Stack had stolen as a gift. 

From there it advanced further, flutes, a banjo, a guitar, over the years you even learned the piano, and more devilish instruments, if Sammies father had to be believed. 

Music was all you had though, be it during the war you were drafted into it, and when you returned to the state to learn your mother had died, leaving you on your own. You didn't sing much anymore though, in public at least. 

You were still close with Annie after all this time, and you two would sing together at times. There were times she invited you over to sing for the very fact that you seemed to call only the good and wanted spirits. 

Part of you wanted to be mad when Smoke and Stack appeared, dressed as finely as they were and speaking of opening a juke joint of all things. For leaving, and all that. 

Stack had always been able to sweet talk you though, and when Sammie jumped into their truck, you followed, lugging your own guitar with you. It was old and patched in many places, but you loved that thing. 

The party was in full swing, and everything felt so alive. When you and Sammie sang together it felt spiritual, like something you couldn't put into words. It was an otherworldly experience. 

One that left you sweating and your legs shaky. It was easy to stumble over towards where Annie was serving up drinks, to let Sammie embrace all the attention for now. 

You were already known as the guy who could play most instruments, and could sing like his life depended on it, but that was all you could do. And even then, you never felt like it was good enough. 

You had been distracted with your drink and conversation to know what had happened at the door, of the white folk who claimed to hear your singing and had felt compelled to join. 

You hadn't caught how Remmick had craned his neck, trying to look above or around the group blocking his vision, trying to find “that other beautiful voice”, after he had paid attention to Sammie. 

Whatever Smoke saw on his face, he didn't like, and he had been itching to grab for his gun. It made an uncomfortable clammy feeling run down his spine, like it was something he wasn't meant to see. 

When the strangers left, the party returned to what it had been before, for the most part. You were still sweating and woozy, your shirt sticking to your back under the strap of your guitar. 

It was then that you decided that you needed some fresh air, all these people were making you itchy, and everything was starting to be too much. 

You waved at Stack and Mary as you passed them, giving them both a look up and down as if saying “just get on with it you two” as you trotted outside. Cornbread patted you on the back as you passed, as in his words, it had been too long since you let yourself go like that. 

Seeing the three white folks seated out by the front made you slow down though, there was something off about them. You were still far enough away so that you couldn't see Remmick's nostrils flare, or the way his pupils expanded at the sight of you. 

You were always weary when you knew you needed to be, you couldn't play white like Mary could. Somehow you still found yourself waved over, sitting down on the log beside the man you learned was named Remmick. 

“You must've been that other voice we heard all the way out here. You have a real gift” he said, voice almost reverent as he leaned in just a little closer, eyes boring into you in a way that made your hair stand on end. 

“Oh, nah. I'm not that good, it's all Sammie” you laugh, feeling flushed as you look down, hands messing with the strap of your guitar. Compliments always made your skin crawl, it didn't feel like you deserved them. 

“No, it was all you. Compared to him, you? You were like an angel” he exhaled, voice raw and raspy like a church goer who had been praying all day and night, Remmick's hand touching your upper back. 

Joan and Bert melted away into the night, not that you noticed, too busy staring at your feet as Remmick saddled closer, both his hands sliding over your body as he came so close. 

His breath was strangely metallic, it reminded you of the smell of old nails, or how it felt to chew on a fork for too long. “You bewitch me, how do you do it?” was murmured, his voice feeling... more. 

You should have gotten up, yelled, ran back inside the juke joint, anything. Not only were the both of you men, but he was white, it just made no sense. 

But still, Remmick's lips brushed against your neck, a shaky audible groan leaving him as he inhaled you. You couldn't have known that he was also feeling your racing pulse against his lips, and how it made him yearn and ache. 

“Sing for me?” he asked, voice thick like honey as he started kissing down your neck, Remmick's hands pulling your guitar into your own. It was sensual, the way he guided your fingers to the strings, intimate and heady. 

It was almost impossible to form words, this all felt like some kind of wild dream as Remmick's hands so expertly undid your belt and buttons, the Irishman sliding to his knees in front of you. 

Your eyes flicked from his burning look, towards the juke joint not that far away, but even as Remmick kissed at your growing hardness, nobody seemed any wiser. 

“Come on. Please? I'm on my knees beggin you and everything” he rasped, tongue flicking against your wet tip like one would a popsicle. 

All you could get out was a breathless yelp as he swallowed you down whole. Some sick part of your brain reminded you of a time where you saw a snake swallow a rat whole, that was the fervor he gulped you down with. 

Remmick held you there, throat flexing around you as he stared up at you, eyes so intense and unblinking, waiting for you to do as he asked. Sing, give him what he wants and needs so badly. 

Your fingers were shaking as you strummed the strings of your guitar. This was all wrong, this couldn't be real, but Remmick's mouth was so slick and hungry around you as the shaky words left your throat. 

If you had had any past experience, you might have noticed that his tongue was too flexible, or his mouth was too cold. It wasn't icy, but clammy, like waking up with a cold sweat.  

And it was wet, so incredibly sloppy and wet. Hearing and feeling him try to slurp up all his frothy drool around your length as you struggled to form verses and play your tongue was downright demonic. 

It seemed the more you sang, the hungrier he got. If you hadn't been shaking in your boots you might have worried about Remmick choking himself with how he gagged you down, his hands gripping the back of your thighs like a lifeline. 

There was no way the noises you were letting out sounded good, and the clumsy twitching of your fingers ruined any tune you tried, but it lit an unseen fire inside the man sucking the soul out of you, so you kept trying. 

Had you not been sitting down, you would surely have collapsed as you tumbled over the edge, your fingers scrambling at your guitar as your body locked up, a half-formed verse melting into an embarrassingly loud moan. 

But no matter how loud you got, nobody inside or outside the juke joint seemed to notice what you two had been up too, even as Remmick audibly gulped your release down, moaning like it was ambrosia and honey mixed into one. 

You hugged onto your guitar, like a blanket you would hug for comfort, as Remmick pulled back, moving slowly enough that you could feel the tight clenching of his throat a last time. 

“See? Gorgeous. Perfect” he gurgled against your thigh, looking at you the same way a cat looked at a mouse, licking your seed of his spit-soaked lips as he rose to his feet. 

“You just need to see it from my point of view, then you will see how great you are. Hold still for me” he whispered, moving closer until his lips hovered above your neck again. 

“W-whuh?” you get out, head still all steamy and thoughts all jumbled, your soft spit shiny length still hanging out of your slacks, trying to understand what had even just happened. 

You barely felt his lips kiss your neck before he struck, tearing into your sweaty salty neck like a vulture upon a carcass. Your scream as cut off with a gurgle as he pushed you back, pinning you against the ground as he feasted upon you. 

You should have trusted your gut, as much as you loved Smoke and Stack, they always brought trouble. It had never been like this though, being feasted on by a man who had just feasted on you in another way, just to hear you sing. 

A thought passed through your mind as everything was turning dark. Would you still be able to sing after the way Remmick ripped into your neck? But that was a dumb thought, you wouldn't need your voice anymore after you died. Right? 

[thewistlingbadger]

There was one line in early season two that struck such a cord in me that it immediately made me reconsider one specific character to the point where I went from not really caring about their character to them becoming one of my all time favorite characters of arcane.

"I never asked for this!" - Jayce Talis

This line took me aback the moment I heard it. It comes from such a complete moment of vulnerability and pain for Jayce, and what really captivates me is the truth behind the line. How accurate it is. Jayce didn't ask to be a little boy stuck in the freezing snow, watching his mother die, pleading to no one is a desert, being saved by magic of all things. He didn't ask to be left with that memory, he didn't ask to be stuck with an impossible dream that made everyone, even his own mother who witnessed that same event, in his life doubt and overlook him. He didn't ask for his apartment to be robbed, his illegal studies to be discovered. He didn't ask to be jailed then berated at trial, to be threatened with exile, to hear his own mother slander him in front of everyone, to be pushed to suicide, to be stopped by a stranger. He didn't ask for the overbearing responsibilities that came with his success, he didn't ask to see his partner dying with each day, he didn't ask to be made into a political pawn. He didn't ask to be made the deciding factor between peace and war, to witness death and violence first hand, to know that guilt firsthand.

And these are all just things that happen in SEASON ONE! This isn't even accounting for all the shit that occurs in season two! This line instantly won me over because it IS true he didn't ask for ANY of this shit! All Jayce Talis wanted was to prove that his dream was possible, and then use his dream to make the world a better place. You want to talk about noble intentions? Look no further than Jayce motherfucking Talis. And the only thing Jayce recieves for his troubles is more trauma and more guilt. He never gets a moment to actually process everything he's going through and having to deal with and witness. And the worst part? 80% of the things that are making his life worse are things he himself isn't responsible for. 8/10 times Jayce Talis is a victim of circumstance.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

24: THE SPACE BETWEEN US

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Summary: Bucky struggles with regret, trying desperately to communicate with you, but every attempt is met with silence— until you leave him a message of your own. As your friendships remain strained and trust shattered, Bucky takes a step toward making amends. Meanwhile, an unexpected visitor reminds you that even in grief, you don’t have to be alone.

Warnings: Angst, emotional distress, strained friendships, themes of betrayal, mentions of past deception.

Word Count: 3518

It had been a long two weeks for Bucky. He tried repeatedly to talk to you in any way possible, short of forcing himself through your door. He knocked every day, sent you text after text until he noticed that you weren’t even reading them anymore.

Finally he decided to write it all down. He sat at his kitchen table, an untouched bottle of beer sweating next to him. It was almost two in the morning and the sound of traffic outside his window had finally died down. His hand hovered over a piece of paper, the pen in his hand tapping against the page in a nervous manner. His fingers on his vibranium hand twitched softly as he resisted the urge to crumple it up and throw it in the trash.

There was already a pile of balled up pages on the floor where he had started over four times. Every time, the words felt wrong, or impersonal. Like it was too little and too late.

But if this was his last chance, he would be damned before he let it slip away.

He took in a deep breath and then exhaled sharply, forcing himself to hold the pen and write. He had never been good with words, not like Sam was now or Steve had been. His specialty in the past has been charm, but that wasn’t what you were looking for now, it was about finding the perfect thing to say— it was about telling you the truth.

With every word, every sentence, his chest tightened, making the events that had transpired feel more real. The way he had hurt you, the way you had looked at him, like a stranger instead of a friend, instead of a partner.

He pressed harder against the page as he signed his name, creating a blot of ink next to the ‘Y’. He knew he had no right to ask you anything, let alone read this letter. But he owed you an explanation.

He stared at the finished product, not daring to read the words back for fear of getting cold feet. But he could see how uneven his writing had become from how his hand shook while he wrote. Slowly, he folded the paper, his thumb and forefinger running over the crease, lingering at the edge for a moment before he stood up.

His throat felt tight, as he stood in the hallway outside your apartment door. There was silence in the building except for Alpine purring around his feet. He bent down and scooped the cat into his chest.

“What do you think, girl?”

He let the feline sniff the letter before she gave him a look of disgust.

“Yeah, girl, I know. But I don’t have any other choice.”

Alpine climbed onto his shoulder and he bent down and pushed the letter under your door before he had the chance to second-guess himself. He returned to his apartment and settled down on the floor in front of the television.

Would you read the letter? Would you tear it up? Would you ever forgive him?

He sighed. This wasn’t about him anymore.

The same two weeks were as agonizing for you as they were for Bucky. Your phone screen time had gone up dramatically as you spent hours staring at the tiny device. It wasn’t only the bright light that was affecting your sleep, it was the maelstrom of negative emotions that waged a war for dominance of your attention.

It was 11 AM on a Saturday morning, and normally you’d have already been to the gym and showered to start your day, but today you could barely bring yourself to get out of bed to use the toilet. You stared down at your phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard as you typed out message after message in the Power of Three group chat, only to delete them before hitting send.

Finally, you forced yourself to press send.

11:11 AM - You: Can we talk? Please.

11:11 AM - You: I know you guys are mad, and I don’t blame you. But I miss you both.

11:12 AM - You: I didn’t know, you guys. I swear I didn’t know. I would never have brought him if I did.

11:12 AM - You: I’m so sorry.

The messages were marked as read almost instantly, but no one replied. Aditi, the one person in your group who always had an opinion, stayed eerily silent. And Hanna, the peacekeeper, didn’t rush to smooth over your transgressions.

11:15 AM - You: I love you.

You texted before putting your phone down, a tear slipping down your cheek. Crawling out of bed, you decided to take a shower and try to work on some commission designs. But as soon as you sat down with your tablet, you couldn’t concentrate. Your mind drifting back to the way Aditi looked at you, like you were just as bad as Bucky. And the disappointment in Hanna’s eyes. It made your heart ache.

Hours passed by with nothing. And just when you were ready to give up hope altogether, your phone vibrated. You snatched up your phone to find a message from Hanna.

3:57 PM - Hanna: I’m not mad at you. Just… disappointed. I don’t understand why you thought you had to pretend. I thought we told each other everything.

3:57 PM - You: I know. And I hate that I hurt you. Please can we just talk?

Hanna didn’t reply right away, but her answer gave you some hope.

4:14 PM - Hanna: I’ll let you know when I’m ready.

Aditi, on the other hand, hadn’t said a word.

Bucky didn’t know what else to do. It was coming up to a month since you’d last spoken to him. You showed no signs of wanting to speak to him. He had stopped knocking on your door. His text messages went unanswered. Calls sent to voicemail. And on the off chance you met in the corridor, you went out of your way to take the stairs to avoid him. You showed no signs of having read the letter he had left.

In short, he was running out of options to reach you.

So he decided to go back to basics.

The little whiteboard on your door was still there— the one the two of you had shared notes and jokes on when you’d started out in this doomed venture. The last thing you’d scrawled on it was “Don’t stay up too late, grumpy pants” was still there, albeit a little smudged.

Now, it felt like the only form of communication he had left.

So, he rubbed off your writing and uncapped the marker, writing the only thing that would fit.

I’M SORRY.

It didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of how he felt… but it was all he had. He stood there in the hallway, gripping the marker so tight, his knuckles were turning white. He let out a shaky sigh as he replaced the marker and turned back to his door.

The next morning, Bucky opened his door.  There was a crunch under his feet. When he looked down… there it was. Snapped in half.

He crouched down, picking up the pieces, he ran his fingers over the jagged edges of the broken plastic.

He turned it over and saw the smudged angry writing.

One piece had the letters

TED YOU

He frowned and turned over the second half.

I TRUS

He put the pieces together with shaking hands.

I TRUSTED YOU.

The marker had bled over some of the letters where you’d pressed too hard. He could feel your rage, your hurt.

You hadn’t just broken the whiteboard. You had broken him.

He let out a shuddering sigh, holding the pieces of your shattered connection. For a second, he thought about throwing them away.

But he didn’t. He turned back into his apartment and shut the door behind him.

Bucky stood outside the gates of the Sharma Estate, fists clenched and shoved in his pockets. The tall metal gates made him feel like he was standing outside a guarded fortress. The residence looked different now, in the cold light of day, without the decorative flourishes. It felt as though the weight of everything that had transpired still lingered in the air despite three weeks having passed. He had pressed the buzzer but there wasn’t an answer yet. He wasn’t sure if they would even let him inside after what happened. Not that he would blame them. He half expected them to slam the door in his face. But none of that mattered, he couldn’t let that deter him. He owed them an explanation, he owed it to you.

What was it Sam had said to him a year ago? You go to these people and say "sorry" because you think it'll make you feel better, right? But you gotta make them feel better. You gotta go to them and be of service.

Seconds stretched to minutes as he waited, his collar popped up around his neck, shoulders tense. It was something he should be used to by now— being a man who stood outside begging for any scrap of forgiveness for the crimes he hadn’t meant to commit. But today he didn’t plan on leaving until he had said what needed to be said. 

Finally, the door swung open, and Hanna stood at the entrance, her arms crossed and expression tempestuous. The warmth that he had seen reflected in her eyes was gone, replaced with an icy fury,

Her voice was cold and commanding, almost cutting through Bucky’s resolve. “What do you want, Barnes?”

Bucky met her hard glare. “To explain.”

Hanna scoffed. “Explain? Now you want to talk? After the fact?”

Before he had the chance to say anything further, Aditi appeared behind her wife.

The feeling of guilt in Bucky’s chest deepened as she emerged from the shadows. She looked… exhausted. Not just tired, but worn down, like the fire inside her had been smothered, leaving the ashes of sorrow and disillusionment behind. It looked like she had lost the will to fight, overwhelmed by the feeling of sadness and betrayal.

Aditi pulled the oversized cardigan around her slim frame, tightly folding her arms over her chest, as if it would shield her from any further heartbreak. “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice flat and lips pressed into a thin line.

Bucky hadn’t expected to meet such little resistance, he had thought they would have raged at him. He only hesitated for a second, not wanting to lose his opportunity. “I owe you both an apology.”

A sharp, bitter laugh left Aditi’s lips, making goosebumps rise on Bucky’s arms. “An apology?” she said hysterically. “For what, exactly? For getting my father arrested? For breaking up my family? Ruining my wedding? Oh, how about lying to my best friend and making her believe you actually cared about her?”

Her last question made him flinch. He had cared… still cared. But he knew that there was probably nothing he could say that would convince them otherwise at the moment. But he would do his best. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“For everything,” he admitted, sadly. “I had no intention of ruining your big day. I didn’t think they would try to hurt your father. And I sure as hell never wanted to hurt… Y/N.”

Hanna cut in, her expression dark with anger. “But you did.”

“I know,” Bucky’s voice was quiet and filled with sadness. “And I’m sorry.”

Aditi sighed heavily. “I thought I’d be more angry at you. But it’s my dad who I’m really mad at. I just can’t believe he’d do this. I feel like my whole life has been a lie. But… I miss him.” Her voice broke and Hanna wrapped her arms around her wife.

Bucky nodded, understanding. “I asked Sam to put in a good word for him. He’ll still have to answer for what he did, but… he won’t be locked up forever.”

Aditi fought back tears, clutching at Hanna for comfort and support, as though her wife was the only thing keeping her together. “That doesn’t fix anything,” she whispered.

“I know,” Bucky said. “But.. it’s the best I can do.”

Hanna shook her head. “That still doesn’t excuse what you did to Y/N.”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, running his hand through his hair. “I didn’t—” he stopped, trying to catch his breath. “I wasn’t trying to… it wasn’t meant to be… Okay yeah, it started out as a mutual agreement… something fake. But it didn’t stay that way.” He poured his earnestness into his words. “It wasn’t fake to me.”

Hanna clicked her tongue in disbelief.

“It still isn’t,” Bucky insisted.

Hanna’s expression softened for a moment but she was still hesitant in her belief. Aditi, however, remained impassive, her body language closed off, her gaze unreadable. Bucky recognized the signs of depression, he was all too familiar with the signs, it was almost like looking into the mirror.

“I didn’t come here to make excuses for myself. I understand why you are angry at me. But Y/N—” His voice choked around your name. “She didn’t know anything… she wasn’t a part of this.”

Aditi’s lips pressed together, but she didn’t interrupt.

“She brought me to the wedding because she thought it was real. She even told me I didn’t have to come,” Bucky admitted, voice thick with regret. “But I insisted. I wanted to be there.”

He saw a flash of something in Hanna’s face and she looked away from him. He could see the moment of doubt in her resolve, the way her rigidity lessened at his words. He had to keep going.

“She’s hurting,” he went on. “And I know I’m the one who hurt her. But please… don’t take it out on her. If you need someone to be angry at, let it be me. I can take it.”

Aditi let out a tired breath, she snapped repeatedly at a hairband around her wrist. Her anger had already given way to grief. Hanna however hadn’t moved past that stage.

“She trusted you,” Hanna snapped.

Bucky flinched. He knew that. God, he knew that.

“I know,” he said hoarsely. “And I broke that trust. I don’t expect her to forgive me.” His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them to relax. “But she deserves better than to lose you two over this. Over something I did.”

Silence stretched out between them.

Finally, Hanna sighed. “You really fucked up, Barnes.”

“Yeah.” He let out a humorless chuckle and mumbled. “I know.” He looked at her wife. “Aditi?”

“We’ll see,” she muttered after a long pause, her eyes downcast, her affect totally flat.

Bucky stepped away, turning to leave. He’d done everything he could.

It wasn’t absolution, but Bucky would take what he could get.

Winnie pushed past you the second you opened the door. She was surprisingly spry for someone her age. She walked in, glancing around your apartment before settling herself at the kitchen table.

“You know, Arthur and I always liked this apartment,” she mused, setting down the box she had brought in with her. “But when we moved in, it was occupied and then once we got settled, we never had the heart to move. You’ve always kept it so cozy, not too cluttered. But… you could use a little more light, dear.” She gestured at the half-drawn curtains.

You managed a small smile, sitting down opposite the older woman. “Haven’t really been in the mood for bright or cheery.”

Winnie studied your face for a moment, humming softly. “That I can see.” She tapped on the round container she’d placed on the table. “Which is why I brought this. It’s one of my pies. Figured you could use a little comfort food.”

“A pie?” you repeated.

“Yes, dear, a pie,” she shook her head dramatically. “You know how much I love pies?”

You nodded.

“Well, it seems that my doctor has decided I can’t have pies anymore.” She folded her arms over her chest and hrmph’ed in disapproval.

“Wait, what?”

“Diabetes,” Winnie explained with a huff. “Mild, but still. They want me to cut back on sugar. No pies, no cookies, no fun, apparently.” She sighed again. “But I made one anyway. Couldn’t help myself. Then I thought— well, I shouldn’t eat it, but maybe someone else needs it.” She gave you a sympathetic look.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you answered, looking down at your hands.

“Oh, I know, my dear,” Winnie said lightly. “But I wanted to. But judging by the way you’ve been looking lately, I figured you needed it more than I do.”

You bit your lower lip lightly, a moment of silence stretched out between you, before you finally spoke. “Thank you,” you said, quietly.

Winnie patted your hand gently. “Of course.” Then, after a pause, she added, “Now, why don’t you tell me how you’re really doing?”

You let out a small laugh, reaching out for the pie container, finding it easier to occupy your hands than answering the question. “I’m fine. Just been… busy.”

Winnie snorted, making you look up at the unexpected noise in surprise. She shook her head and gave you a knowing look. “Is that what you call it these days?” She tilted her head, it was the same look your grandmother used to give you when she was working out how to address the fib you’d just told. “You know, my Arthur just used to say that when he was avoiding something. He had this way of fooling himself into thinking that keeping occupied would be easier than dealing with whatever was eating him up inside.” She tapped a finger on the table and then pointed at you. “You strike me as the same kind of stubborn.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” you grumbled.

“Mmm-hmm,” Winnie raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I’m not,” you insisted, avoiding Winnie’s gaze by prying the lid off the pie container.

“Alright, then,” Winnie went on, a little too casually. “If you’re not avoiding anything, I suppose you don’t mind me asking how you’ve been sleeping?”

“Fine,” you answered lightly, but your grip on the lid tightened.

“And eating?”

“Totally fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Winnie folded her arms. “And that big storm cloud hanging over your head— when’s that supposed to clear up?”

“Winnie!” you groaned, massaging your temples.

“Don’t ‘Winnie’ me, dear. I know heartbreak when I see it. And you’ve got that look.”

You shrugged, your throat suddenly feeling tight. “I just…” you let out a shaky sigh. “My best friends won’t talk to me. They might never talk to me again,” you voice cracked and you hated it, hated how hard it still was. “And Bucky—” You stopped, biting down on your lip again, holding back your tears.

Winnie listened and nodded as you spoke. “That’s what I thought.” Winnie leaned forward and took your hand in both of hers. “Y/N, losing people… really losing them… it’s awful. But you haven’t lost them yet.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

Winnie squeezed your hand gently. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve been around long enough to know a thing or two about making amends. But first, you have to be willing to hear the whole story.”

Her words made you stiffen, an overwhelming feeling of weariness coming over you. “You agree with what he did?” you asked, quietly.

Winnie leaned back and sighed. “I won’t say I agree with everything… but I understand it.”

“What did he tell you?”

She studied your face for a moment. “He told me how things started between you— that you wanted a date, how it was supposed to be just for show.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Did he mention that it was his idea? And he wanted me to do the same for him?”

Winnie ignored your acerbic tone. “He also told me that he thought it stopped being just a deal. How somewhere along the way, he started feeling something real. That he was too afraid to tell you how he really felt, and now… now he’s terrified that he’s lost you for good.”

You closed your eyes and sighed heavily, looking away for a moment, trying to hide your pain.

“My dear, I’m not saying you have to forgive him. But you need to figure out why you’re so angry. Is it because of what he did? Or because you think he doesn’t care?”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m angry because he lied.”

“He did…” Winnie agreed. “And he’s sorry for it. But do you really believe he never cared?”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the remains of your manicure.

Winnie stood up, patting your shoulder. “It's time for me to go. Just think about it.”

And with that, she gave you one last knowing look before heading for the door.

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[electronicwitchcollection]

~*Aizawa smut*~

Finally, the result of the jealous poll is written! While I was writing it, I had another Aizawa request and realised that request fit better with what I was already writing 🫠 so I had to rewrite what I had written and then restart this from scratch 🙃

Anyway, here it is! The first thing I’ve written that’s not about Bleach 😂

Being a pro hero was hard. Teaching a class room full of overconfident, stubborn teenagers with quirks was harder. You loved it though, found it incredibly rewarding and your heart swelled seeing those young men and women bloom into the great heros they become under your guidance. But damn, it one hell of a journey to get them to that point. That's why you've found yourself accepting the offer to join the other faculty in one of their impromptu "Let's go to the bar and get drunk before those damn kids make me reevaluate wether or not it is worth not just becoming a villain and blowing up the damn school, children and all" or whatever it was Mic had said to convince you to join them.

After some delicate and calculated persuasion, you had convinced your partner to join you. Shota was a somewhat reserved and apathetic man. His tired appearance and preference to nap above all else gave him a rather cool and unbothered disposition. He wasn't one for social gatherings nor large crowds, preferring his own company or that of a small select few. Despite this, he begrudgingly agreed to accompany you to the gathering, if only to prevent any unwanted attention you may get, given the shortness of the dress you had decided to wear.

For his usual lethargic demeanour, he was infatuated with you. He loved you irrevocably. Shota could be supportive and incredibly sweet, but he had a possessive, jealous streak a mile wide that he hadn't been able to tame in all the time he has called you his. You saw the way his half laden eyes widened a fraction, darkening as he feasted on the unobstructed view of your thighs. Saw his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach out and remind you that you and your body belonged to him and him only. It had worked though, sighing as he rubbed a tired hand down his face, muttering that he'll go and change.

As the night progressed the alcohol flowed easily, doing its job to help you unwind and relax. Inhibitions lowered, you chatted happily with your co workers, reminiscing over past missions you had participated in before you all became teachers and swapping war stories of the children in your classes. The lights were dimmed, pulsing colours lighting up the small dance floor you could see, housing inebriated strangers sensually moving their bodies to the beat. You could feel the music vibrating through your body, tempting you with its intoxicating melody to sway with the rhythm.

As your hips moved beneath you, you felt a chill run up your spine. Eyes snapping up, they immediately fell on Shota, staring at you from across the room. Sat at the bar between Snipe and Vlad, paying no mind to their conversation, his entire attention was fixed on you. His legs were spread, intoxicatingly so, foot bouncing with restless energy. A small smirk appeared on his lips before he brought the bottle of beer he was nursing up to his mouth. Your mouth went dry at the sight, flush of heat rising through your body that had nothing to do with the alcohol..

"Let's dance!" Nemuri spoke into your ear to be heard over the music, snapping you out of your trance. It felt like somebody suddenly turned up the music, brightened the lights as you broke away from his predatory stare. Nodding happily you accepted her hand and allowed her to drag you from the table. Passing the bar you locked eyes with Shota. You held out two fingers to Nemuri as she turned at your sudden stopping, letting her know you'll join her soon. You slipped between Shots's open thighs, as he raised an amused eye brow.

Laying a hand on his thigh you leaned in, the subtle masculine smell of his aftershave drawing you closer. His hand automatically went to your dress, subtly tugging down the hem to a more appropriate length before sliding up and setting on the swell of your hip. He leaned in close to your ear, gravely voice cutting through the energetic music "Do you want a drink, Kitten?"

You shook your head no, giving him your best smile. You wrapped your hand around his fingers, so much thicker and battle worn than your own, playing with them teasingly "Come dance with me"

"No" 

You pout at the short, blunt denial, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly. He was so much more reserved when not at home. Less playful and willing to engage with your energetic whims. Normally you were sympathetic to his uneasiness, understanding of his dislike for situations such as this. But you were well on your way to being drunk and you wanted to dance with your boyfriend. Wanted to feel his hard body move against your own. Using his strength to twirl and bend you to his will. "Please?"

He shook his head with a soft smile at your wide, pleading eyes and the child like reaction to being told no. His hand abandoned his drink to the bar, the chill lingering on his palm as he cupped your jaw, using his thumb to pull gently on your bottom lip, watching as it bounced back to normal "No. I don't dance"  He gently brushed the back of his knuckles over the tip of your nose before leaning in to kiss you. It was sort and discreet, yet it made your eyelids flutter close, your body lean in closer to prolong the grazing contact for as long as he allowed.

His hand sneaked from your hip to the swell of your ass, giving it a possessive squeeze and a dismissive tap "You dance, I'll watch" you just caught the subtle warning in his husky voice, so well disguised in his aloof candour you almost missed it. His eye brow raised the smallest of fractions, eyes deepening the faintest of shades darker . Have fun... but behave.

He'll be watching. Watching to ensure that dress of yours doesn't ride up too high up your shapley thighs. Watching to make sure no one gets too close to what was his. The unspoken promise sent a chill up your spine. A little put out that he denied your request, you turn to make your way to the dance floor, making sure to let your fingers slowly caress their way down his thigh as you parted. You didn't look back, you didn't need to. You could feel the weight of his stare on you, could feel the hairs in your body stand on end at his predatory gaze fixed on you.

You easily spotted Nemuri, dancing seductively in the middle of the dance floor, more than one set of eyes on her. In your absence she had coaxed Mic into dancing with her, an accessory to use to highlight her flirtatious movements. Her eyes brightened when she caught sight of you, beckoning you closer with a curl of her finger. She oozed sex appeal, her confident, hypnotic movements of her hips easily encouraged you  to succumb to the music, letting your body feel the beat,sway your hips to the rhythm.

Grinning widely, you look over your shoulder, catching Shota's eyes already fixated on you. Watching the seductive roll of your hips, the way your ass bounced under that dress threatening to ride up with every sway of your hips. He wanted to watch? Then you would put on a show for him, let him see exactly what your body could do when he isn't pressed up against you to keep you behaving.

Your fingers gently brush against your thighs, slowly dragging them up, caressing the exposed skin. Higher they climb, following the curves of your hips and waist, coming up to twist gently in your hair as your eyes close, body moving to the beat that made your heart thump in your chest. You look through your lashes, a thrill shooting through you at the hungry look on Shota's face, eyes never leaving you. You could see the faintest if smirks on his lips, he was enjoying your teasing.

You run your tongue over your bottom lip, heat pooling in your stomach at the way he looked at you, ravenously. You could see his hand flexing on his thigh, itching to get you in his grasp. You were steadily riling him up, with your flirtatious movements, pushing your limits, igniting the embers of passion that burned in every inch of his body for you. Only you. Yet he still wasn't budging. You had yet to entice him from his seat to join you on the dance floor.

You felt a large hand settle on you hip,breaking away your focus from Shota to see who was touching you. Ready to politely refuse their advances. Your eyes lit up upon seeing the cocky grin of your occasional mission partner. Blonde hair pushed back, large red wings blocking the dancers behind him. With an exited laugh, you tip toe and throw your arms around him, an inebriated display of greeting"Hawks! What are you doing here!?" 

He grinned and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him to talk into your ear "I was in the area..thought I'd stop by"  You lean back, flattening your feet to smile at him. It had been ages since you had last seen him, he rarely made an appearance around the school anymore since becoming the second hero in the ranks. He looked you up and down, lip curling into a smirk "you look good, I'm surprised that boyfriend of yours left you all alone looking like that" 

You chuckle, stepping to the side to nod at where Shota was perched at the bar"He's over there."  Hawks leaned closer, sending Aizawa an exaggerated wave. You could see Shota's jaw clench, eye brows furrow in annoyance. Hawks was not his favourite person at the best of times, but the overfamiliar way in which he spoke to you, nonchalantly touched you, made him absolutely murderous. A fact Hawks both knew and enjoyed.

You elbow him softly in the stomach, trying to hide your grin as you turned back to focus on him "Stop trying to wind him up"  the answering grin told you that you were right in your accusation , damn wind up merchant. Leaning down he spoke across your ear, eyes watching Shota as he silently fumed at the close proximity "Isnt that exactly what you were just doing? I saw the way you were shaking that ass, trying to make him jealous?" 

You couldn't deny it. That's exactly what you were trying to do. You knew how jealous and possessive Shota could be, and secretly loved the thrill you felt when he snapped and reminded you just who it was you belonged too. "A little" you admit with a guilty smile and a half shrug "he wouldn't dance with me, I was attempting to seduce him over" 

Hawks straightened up, wrapping his hand around your hip and pulling you closer to him. White teeth on display as he grinned menacingly "Let's see how mad we can make him" Before you could think of all the reasons why that wasn't the best of ideas, Hawks placed his hand in the centre of your back, using it to support your weight as he dipped you back playfully, long hair tumbling back as you laughed. He swayed you in an arch before snapping you back up straight, smirking at the joy on your face. Hands returning to your hips he pushed into you, leading you in a flirtatious to and fro.

Your hips swayed and rotated, flawlessly hitting every beat. One hand gripping his shoulder for stability, the other resting gently on his arm. You playfully flipped your hair, rolling your body into Hawks. He answered in kind, moulding himself to the shape of your body, gyrating playfully into you, eyes flicking over your head to take in the sight of Shota, steadily becoming more enraged at the display, with sadistic glee.

You moved and and swayed easily in accordance to Hawks's lead, giving yourself over to the joy of letting go of your inhibitions, simply enjoying the freedom of dance. Hawks took hold of your hand, directing you into a spin, grinning at your laugh. Spinning you the opposite way a half turn, he pressed himself into your back. Hands on your hips he encouraged you to sway side to side.

Lost in the music you didn't notice Shota's stiffening form, the tightening grip on his beer bottle threatening to smash the fragile glass. Too preoccupied with your promiscuous gyrating to see the darkening of his eyes, the clenching of his jaw. You were unknowingly pushing him to his limit and he was about to snap under the pressure. Hawks was a little more tuned in, lowering his head over your shoulder to hide his smirk so not to provoke that anger his way.

You noticed too late, the drag of Hawks hands going from your hips to your waist, unintentionally dragging up your dress with the movements, aided by your serpentining hips. Feeling the fabric of your dress bunching up too high at the top of your thighs, you quickly tugged it back down, red tinting your cheeks at the unintended, indecent exposure of your body. Hawks squeezed your waist, rumbling chuckle in his chest vibrating through your back as he muttered into you ear

"Seems Aizawa has reached his limit"  You look up to where Shota was previously sitting, only for your eyes to widen and your mouth go dry at the sight of him angrily stalking towards you, eyes flashing dangerously in the neon lights. Shit. You went too far.  "It's been fun," you could hear the amusement in his voice, struggling to contain his laughter " but that's my cue to leave" he tapped your side once in parting before backing away discreetly, mingling into the mass of dancers to avoid Aizawa's impending wrath.

You didn't look back, keeping your eyes solely focused on Shota as he neared, readying your apology on your lips for when he came within hearing distance. You could almost see the heavy waves of irritation pouring from him in droves as he stalked through the crowd, not deviating from the straightest path to you. "Shota, I..." not breaking his stride, his hand encased your wrist, pulling you silently behind him as he carried on walking through the dance floor, your attempted apology falling on deaf ears. He was pissed, and he was going to make you pay.

You teetered behind him, struggling to keep up with his long powerful strides in your heels, but knowing you would be ignored, you kept the complaint to yourself. Breaking through the crowd , Shota opened the dark wooden door that lead the the corridor where the restrooms were situated, pulling you through. The door closing behind you muffled the deafening music, your ears ringing gently with the change of decibels. The sound of your heels clacking on the floor, too soft to hide the angry heavy steps of the one leading you.

Shota walked past both the men's and woman's bathroom, headed straight for an unmarked door at the end of the corridor in eerie silence. Throwing open the last door with the same delicate care he had the first, he pulled you in behind him, turning quick to slam it shut behind you. You heard the click of the lock a mere second before you were pushed up against the rigid door, trapped by his hands planted either side of your head. Your eyes flicked over his shoulder, momentarily checking your surroundings, stacked shelves of alcohol bottles and boxes of crisps was all you could take in before Shota's hot breath brushed against your neck with every frustrated exhale.

You swallowed thickly, dry lips parting as you carefully moistened them with your tongue. The atmosphere around you was thick and tense, suffocating with his barely restrained fury"Shota, I'm... "

"You thought it would be fun to make me jealous? " He talked over your meek explanation, voice dark and thick, like raw honey dripping from his tongue and coating his words. His hot breath landed on your neck, prompting an involuntary shiver "You put on quite the show didn't you? flashing your pretty little panties to everyone in that bar " You whine breathlessly as his teeth grazed over the flushed skin on your neck before sinking in harshly.

You moan, head swimming dizzily at the rush of heat throbbing between his lips. His hot, wet tongue soothing over the mark he had made on your skin, reaffirming his claim of you. Your head lulled to the side, offering him unobstructed access as your eyes fluttered closed. Possessive kisses were pressed into your neck as large hands found your thighs, caressing over the silky skin.

Your breath caught in your throat as his hands increased their pressure, dragging up your thighs, bringing your dress up with them to bunch at your hips, exposing your panties for the second time that night  "Shota.."  he silenced you with a forceful kiss, unkept scruff adding to the sensations driving you needy with desire. He bit at your bottom lip, thrusting his tongue between your parted lips as you gasped. You surrendered easily, giving up the control he desperately craved, blindly following the intoxicating way his tongue brushed against your own, dictating the pressure and speed to suit his tastes.

You could feel his strong hands gripping your hips with bruising force, keeping you immobile against the door as he claimed your mouth. Your breath quickened when one of his hands started to wander, brushing tantalisingly slow over your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. When a finger curved against your core, following your panty covered slit, you gasped, groaning in the back of your throat 

"Shota.." 

"You love making me jealous don't you?"  You could hear the strain in his voice, feel the restraint he was exhibiting not to lose it completely. His finger brushed over you again, adding more pressure to demonstrate his intent. "Love driving me wild..." He muttered into your neck, nipping at the skin between husky words. His fingers followed up your panties to the waistline, teasing along the band "Letting another man feel what is mine" Shota pushed his hand into your underwear, slipping a teasing finger between your folds, gathering the moisture dampening your silky skin to ease his entry. You moan at the ripple of pleasure surging through you, gripping hold of his wrist in an effort to not melt into a pool at his feet. His name the only thing able to leave your lips in a breathy whine

"Can he make you feel good like this?"  He dipped his finger deeper into your core, feeling your inner walls clamp around his invading digit. Slowly thrusting it into your depths, teasing against your hidden pleasure spot as you moaned. "Can he make you moan as beautifully as this?"  You whined pathetically, knees weakening with every dirty word breathed hotly against your ear.

His finger stopped its torturous teasing, pulling away from you completely leaving you feeling empty and needy. His darkened eyes captured you in an unbreakable stare, unable to pull away from the intensity in which he held you. His hot breath coated your lips with heavy pants, usual cool demeanour replaced with unrestrained desire. "You love taunting me, don't you?..." his whispered words sent a shiver down your spine, needing no volume or intensity to make your heart rate quicken beneath your breast.

He hooked his fingers into your panties, dragging them down over the swell of your hips to your thighs where the fell down the length of your legs. He kneeled, eyes not leaving your own as he smoothed his palms down your quivering legs, lifting each in turn to remove the underwear trapped around your ankles and shoving the garment into his pocket "...Just so we end up here, with my head between your legs, every ..fucking.. time" 

You watched transfixed as he guided one of your legs to drape across his shoulder, messy black hair obscuring your view as he inched his way towards your core. You heard him inhale deeply, groaning deeply at your intoxicating scent before flicking his eyes up to yours once more to utter a single command

"Watch" 

A strangled moan ripped from your throat at the first drag of his tongue, slowly, torturously licking a wet stripe up towards your clit where he rolled his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Looking down you couldn't tear your eyes away from the sight. Shota, on his knees, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs as he lapped at your most sensitive area with possessive hunger. Your hands went to his hair, pushing it back from his face to give you an unobstructed view as he tasted you. Using him for stability as your leg started quivering beneath you.

Shota twirled his tongue over your swelling clit, flicking the tip against it rapidly with a grunt as your fingers tighten in his hair. Your breathy moans and quivering thighs feeding his possessive nature. Fingers digging into your thighs, Shota pushed his face deeper, nose pressing into your soft mound as his dexterous appendage traced your bundle of nerves. The smell of your arousal hit his nose, making his mouth water instantly.

Lavishing your clit with a sloppy kiss, Shota couldn't get enough of your sweet whines, steadily increasing their volume, making themselves known over the beat steadily thumping from the bar . Your taste was intoxicating, heady flavour coating his tongue with every deliberate swipe had him yearning for more. Subtly lingering on his tastebuds, Shota sought a thicker coating on his tongue. Parting with your clit with a gentle suckle, Shota kissed his way down to your opening, seeking to drink straight from the source.

Looking through pleasure filled, half laden eyes, you watched mesmerised as he lapped at your folds, delving his tongue deeper with every earnest swipe. Currents of pleasure rippled through your body with every flick of his tongue , pushing you closer to the edge of euphoria you were in desperate need of. Nonsensical moans fell from your parted lips, fingers tightening in his disheveled hair as your thighs quivered.

Shota grunted once at the tug you gave in his hair, not letting it distract or deter him from his intended target. His tongue pushed through your silky folds to plunder your depths. The way he stroked your inner walls was luxurious, slow and deliberate, assuring he tasted every inch of you, capturing every drop of your arousal to claim as his own. Unable to control your reactions in the midst of pleasure, your head dropped back to hit against the door, guttural moan escaping past your heavy pants, giving yourself over to the burning desire.

His movements quickened, slurping obscenely at your cunt, his skilled appendage pistoned into you with vigorous determination to get you to completion. "Shota.." you whined, sensations becoming overwhelming, needing more to push you over the edge you were teetering on. When the tip of his tongue sinfully flicked over your hidden sweet spot you gasped, thighs attempting to close together in a futile effort to halt the breath stealing sensation.

Shota growled between your legs, reluctantly pulling away from his treat to shoot you a stern look, one that has struck fear into the most ruthless of villains, your arousal glistening on his unkept scruff. Fingers tightening on your thighs, he opened them back up, keeping your thigh planted at the edge of his shoulder allowing him the room he desired "keep your fucking legs open . Im not finished"  he warned with a husky growl, leaving no room for argument or objection before eagerly returning to your core.

Quickly resuming his loud devouring, Shota drove his tongue into your depths, wetting his tongue with your arousal, his desire for you unquenchable. His grip on your legs was bruising, fingers digging into the soft plush, keeping you open for him. He could feel you quiver, your body trembling as the surge of pleasure raced through you, heating every nerve that dwelled within.

You were close, he knew the signs, had them memorised. The shuddering way you gasped between strangled moans, the way your hips jerked minutely, unsure wether to retreat or push closer to the source of your pleasure. The way your fingers tightened in his hair, hand shaking as you resisted the urge to push him closer. He wanted your release, your sweet cries, your addicting taste. The knowledge that he was the one, the only one, who could pleasure you this skilfully.

His own erection straining in his pants, protesting being confined by the unforgiving fabric of his jeans only hastened his need to bring you to completion. Eager to to feel your tight walls being split open by his thick cock, squeezing him so tight it was sinful. His calloused hand trailed up your thigh, slipping between your soaked folds as he returned to your clit, flicking his tongue over it relentlessly.

He could feel your juices being pushed out by his fingers, wetting his hand as he thrusted them into you with increasing speed. Your moans left you without restriction , vocalising the pleasure you were feeling. You were burning, pleasure coursing through your veins like molten lava, incinerating you from the inside out, searching for a way to escape. You could feel your lower stomach tightening, like a band ready to snap and release all the built up tension.

Shota swirled had his tongue around the shape of your clit before surrounding it with his lips and sucking. His fingers curled inside you, beckoning your body to its climax as they brushed over the spongy pleasure point he knew would send you over the edge. And over the edge you went, eyes slamming shut at the rush of release, you saw white behind your lids. Mouth parted in a silent scream, your body jerked and twitched as the orgasm exploded through your body.

Shota groaned as he felt you climax, your walls clamping down tight over his still probing fingers, your release getting pushed out, spraying over his hand. He kept his fingers and tongue moving to carry you trough your orgasm, pridful growl rumbling in his chest. When you were left panting over him, your grip on his hair loosening, Shota finally pulled away from you. Sat back on his haunches, he sucked his fingers clean, dark eyes taking in your appearance.

You were panting, face flushed pink. Beautiful. His. Pulling your leg from his shoulder, Shota shot up to his feet, large hands cupping your face and pulling you into a deep, frenzied kiss. You were pliant in his hands, melting into him as you tasted yourself mixed with the bitter malty remnants of the long forgotten beer he had been nursing.

 "You were beautiful Kitten... perfect"  he whispered huskily against your lips, kissing you again, then one more time "but im not finished with you yet.." his tone turned darker, tilting your head up to look into his eyes. " after that little stunt you pulled.. you're going to be screaming before I'm satisfied you've learnt your lesson.."

Your breath caught in your throat, a chill running down your spine. Shota's hand left your cheek, the sound of his belt buckle clinking soon following. You swallow thickly, tongue darting out to moisten your suddenly dry lips. You couldnt help yourself, at the sound of his zipper being pulled down your eyes drop down automatically, just in time to see his ridgid cock spring free of its denim prison as Shota pushes his jeans down to his mid thigh.

You watch transfixed as he fists himself, squeezing his thick cock as he pumps himself slowly, getting a desperately needed moment of relief. The gravely moan in the back of his throat made your clit throb, pussy aching to have him buried deep inside you. You wanted to touch him, to run your fingers over the vein that protruded ever so slightly, follow it like a road map up to the head of his cock, brush your thumb over the bead of precum. Smeer it down his shaft and wrap your fingers around him, feeling the silky hot skin under your fingers. Pump him slowly until hes thrusting into your hand...

Before you could make a move to fufil your desire to touch him, Shota released the hold he had on himself. He swiftly grabbed your hips, fingers splayed over your ass and lifted you easily, pressing you back against the door. You wrap your legs around his waist, arms circling the back of his neck as you press together. His breath was laborded with need, eyes fixed on yours. He captures your lips once again, hand leaving your hip to guide his cock to your entrance. Sliding through your lips to coat himself in your wettness.

With a rough snap of his hips, Shota sheathes himself to the hilt into you in one fluid snap. You cry out, head thrown back breaking the kiss, hearing his own guteral groan in your ear. Your nails dig into the back of his shoulders, little creaent moon indents left in his skin, proof of your pleasure. Panting lightly as you try to adjust to the thick length stretching you to its shape, you moan up at the ceiling. Not giving you time to adjust he sets a punishing pace, pistoning his cock into your velvety depths as he mouths at your neck.

 "Fuck Kitten.." he growls into your neck, nipping at your sensitive skin "always so goddamn tight.. perfect"

A series of wanton moans and breathless whines fall from your lips as you were repeatedly fucked into the door, hearing it rattle in its frame. Shota's fingers dig into the swell of your ass as he uses it for leverage, slamming you onto his cock every time he drives forward.

"Purr for me Kitten..."  he whispers into your ear, his hot breath making you shiver "let me hear those pretty little moans" 

You oblige, moaning over the lewd symphony of your debauchery, the rhythmic slapping of skin, the sinfuly obscene wettness of your cunt as he hammers into you. "Shota... ngh..." you whine breathlessy, tilting your head down to watch his face. His jaw set in concentration, trying not to blow his load too early. His lips parted with ragged breaths, trying to suck in enough oxygen to keep up with his frenzied pace.

One of his hands leaves your ass to roughly tug down the front of your dress,  cupping one of your perfect round tits, squeezing the weight. He pinches your rosy pink bud between his finger and thumb, groaning at your answering cry. Slamming his hips into your tight heat, Shota watches your breasts bounce. Lured in by the hypnotic sight, he greedily sucks your nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud before suckling. He groans around it, sucking hard before pulling off with a wet pop, pleased with the hardened result. 

His dark eyes are on yours, the heat of his gaze burning your cheeks. You can feel your climax approaching, tetering of the cusp of ecstasy. Pleasure burns through your veins, searing throughout your body, only to pool in your lower belly, a swirling, agonising flood of pleasure ready to breakthrough the dam.

"You're mine Kitten" he growls at you with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips, driving his cock deep into your sopping cunt ".. say it"

"I'm yours.."  you whimper around a desperate breath, catching in your throat as you moan "..I'm yours"

" Again!" He barks at you through clenched teeth, frenzied thrusts jutting his twitching cock into your gspot with dizzying accuracy "louder Kitten!"

"I'M YOURS!"  You cry out, nails digging into his back, clinging onto him for all your worth as your orgasm floods trough you at a rapid pace. You moan, loud and throatily as searing pleasure rips through you, stealing your breath. Your pussy clenches around his cock, reluctant to free him from your depths. Your release, hot and as sweet as the pleausre you're drowning in drenches his cock "SHOTA!" 

"Fuck, Kitten. That it.." He growls into your neck, breathing hard against your skin. His hips stuttering as he spills himself deep within you, a deep throaty groan reverberating through his throat. He grinds his sputtering cock into your fluttering walls, letting your pussy squeeze him of every last drop of his cum. "Ngh...that it.."

You're both left panting, clenching fingers slowly softening on eachothers bodies. Shota's fingers digging into your ass slowly relaxes, smoothing his large hands over the swell, caressing up to your hips and thighs, peppering soft loving kisses into your neck, whispering sweet words of praise as you come down from your high. 

"You did so good Kitten, perfect...took me so god damn well" 

He pulls up slightly, resting his dampened forehead against yours, your hot breaths synchronising between you. Shifting you slighty, Shota slowly slides his softening cock from you, hissing slightly when your walls clamp around his oversensitive flesh. He gently lowers you to your feet, holding your waist, ensuring your feet can support your weight. 

"You okay, Kitten?" He asks you softly, tenderly kissing your forehead when you nod. After tucking himself away, Shota carefully rearanges your dress, covering your boosm, pulling the hem down over your ass and down to your thighs. Hands smoothing thier way back up to your waist once you were presentable. Putting a finger under your chin, he directs your face up yo his, thumb gently cleaning up your slightly smeered lipstick while staring into your eyes "You are mine Kitten.. never forget that"

"Always" you breath in return, no doubt in your mind that you were well and truly his.

[arsenicjuice]

Evermore ♠︎ Cregan Stark x Tyrell!Reader

She smells of woodsmoke, not flowers…”

When Cregan Stark had marched South with his men, he'd anticipated bloodshed and war, not to be enchanted by long dark hair and an even longer set of enticing legs. However, with the Hour of the Wolf upon him, Cregan Stark found himself bewitched by the lady Alysanne Blackwood.

Her laugh, her smile, the way she sat astride her horse…nothing about Alysanne strayed from his keen notice. And as such, Cregan sought out her company at every opportunity he could find.

The fluttering in his heart may not have been displayed with wide, besotted grins or flowery words, but when he sat in the throne room of the red keep and uttered those famously penned words -‘I claim your hand, I ask for all of you, forever’- he'd meant them from the utter depths of his heart.

Cregan intended to pass through life with the most vibrant of women by his side, one who understood him and matched his sensibilities.

Those plans, however, were rudely shattered when a paler flower barbed with thistles tore a nasty gash through the tapestry of his love story.

An insistent Maester from House Tyrell came to him, insistently waiving around documents, protesting his attempts to marry Lady Blackwood. Cregan had been incensed, sorely tempted to oust the man from his chambers, chain around his neck or no. It was, to his dismay, to no avail. Taking the documents in hand he had only to take a cursory glance to recognize his late father's mark at the bottom of the frayed page.

It would seem his father had in time past come across one lesser Tyrell and the two men had become quick friends. Before winter had passed they'd decided in a drunken stupor that should their first born be male and female, they should wed.

Why wasn't this brought to my notice before I married my late wife?

Cregan had asked a logical question. The maester had seemed hesitant to answer the stormy eyed young man, but he'd summoned his courage and cleared his throat.

There hadn't been time, my lord, both of our betters were long gone, Seven rest their souls, and this document wasn't discovered until after you'd already wed the late Lady Stark…by that time it seemed a moot point to insist on your father, and my master's oaths, but now…

Now, it seemed Cregan would be honor bound to make good on his late father's oath. Fisting the paper in his grasp, Cregan grit his jaw as he watched his new dreams go up in flames much like the ones in the fire before him.

Visions of being wrapped up in long sinewy limbs and lush dark hair that scented of earthy woodsmoke were dashed through with the sickening scent of flowers that wreaked of artifice. That bawdy tongue that spoke to him honestly to be replaced with one that spoke pretentiously.

Cregan knew deep down he was being unduly harsh in his judgments of the lady he'd not yet seen, but it wasn't to be helped. He'd marry this stranger, and he'd be civil, but Cregan would not be deprived of his private thoughts.

He'd marry this lady…this Lady Tyrell, and he'd do his duty and bed her, but he'd not love her, of that much he was certain.

How could he learn to love the scent of flowers when it was by woodsmoke that Cregan Stark was haunted?

[azrielbrainrot]

I'll Be Here

Pairing: Azriel x Healer!Reader

Description: You feel a little out of place at a celebration in the House of Wind and a certain Shadowsinger comes to the rescue.

Word Count: 3605

Warnings: None

Notes: I had this stuck in my head and decided to just write it down. I'm not really a writer so bear with me please. Hope you enjoy!

Healer!Reader Masterlist

It's hard to keep an eye on how much wine you drink when the glasses get refilled magically. You've heard that this house has a consciousness of its own. Maybe it can sense your growing anxiety and keeps filling your glass in hopes of helping ease your mind a little. The more you drink the more worried you get, the thought that getting too drunk will only put you at a higher risk of embarrassing yourself having infiltrated your brain and pushed all the rational thoughts out. Big gatherings aren't exactly your cup of tea and the fact that this one was personally hosted by your High Lord didn't exactly help ease your nerves.

You've visited the House of Wind before but always as a part of your duties. Though it was because of your duties you were invited to this dinner so maybe you could add this attendance as part of your job. The High Lord and High Lady decided to invite notable people in Velaris for a night of celebrating the thriving city. After losing its High Lord for decades and the war that followed his release, Velaris went through some tough times but with the help of its people - most of them gathered in this space tonight - the city was once again prospering.

As a healer you usually see the High Lord and his Inner Circle in a state of emergency, when your abilities are needed and there's usually no time for formalities or worries. Every time you encounter them outside of those situations you never know what to make of yourself. You wouldn't say you're completely inept at social situations but you're definitely a lot better at handling them when they involve your patients and you have a job to do, something more important to focus on than choosing the right thing to say.

Your relationship with the Inner Circle is professional albeit friendly. It's hard not to feel your heart warming at the cupcakes the General insisted on buying you for helping heal his wings even after explaining that you actually only helped on his recovery process. Every time he drops by the clinic to pick up any herbs or ointments he insists on buying you one - though you suspect it's also an excuse to get one for himself - and when you see him out and about he demonstrates how healthy his wings are, having done it just before dinner when he was in charge of flying you up to the house. The painting the High Lady personally painted for you, as an acknowledgement of your efforts during the war, hangs right behind your desk in your office at the clinic and is one of your most important possessions.

This would be the kind of relationship anyone would kill to have with their employees - friendly acquaintances. But, since you were there for some of their most intimate moments and helped them through them, you never know how to act when you're not doing your job. You can't exactly call them your friends, even putting the fact that is your High Lord and High Lady aside, outside of work you only exchange some pleasantries whenever you bump into them. However there's too much knowledge for you to act completely professional after decades of nursing them and their family back to health. It feels awkward to shake their hands when they have hugged you with tears in their eyes, thanking you for saving their family.

There's also the tiny detail of the crush you've harbored on the resident shadowsinger ever since you first laid eyes on him. On top of trying to walk the line between friends and strangers with everyone else, you also have to be careful with not letting the observant Spymaster find out about the beat your heart skips when you see him. Making things awkward because of a silly crush is the last thing you need.

It's that reminder and the monumental effort you have to make not to let your eyes search for him that has you finally sneaking out of the room, deciding to find a quiet place to sober up. The House had fed you too much wine, and you still had to be flown back down at the end of the night. You'd really hate to throw up on Cassian's fancy suit. He probably wouldn't buy you cupcakes ever again.

You remember some of your surroundings after decades of being called in for emergencies, quickly finding one of the huge balconies overlooking the city. The fresh air grounds you almost immediately. You can still hear the muffled sounds of the ongoing party but the quietness of the mountain lets you get lost in thought. As much as you enjoy the liveliness of the nightlife in Velaris, you infinitely prefer the quietness and freedom only the woods or mountains at night can provide. When it's only you, the moon and the stars, and the world stops.

You don't know how long you sit there for, leaning on the railing and looking into the distance, wondering why your healing abilities work on some forms of poison but not on sobering you up. Your head only comes back to earth when you hear a familiar voice calling out your name behind you. You turn around fast enough to make you a bit dizzy, leaning back against the railing with wide eyes.

“Didn't mean to scare you,” the shadowsinger explained, “I just noticed you were gone from the room.” You spot the way he's bringing his wings closer to his body, making himself smaller, if that were even possible. Azriel made you feel a lot of things but you hadn't felt scared of him in decades, ever since the first time you met him. If you hadn't been already tipsy and distracted thinking about him you wouldn't have reacted so dramatically.

Realizing the spymaster of this court had just found you wandering around his house unattended, you rush to apologize and give him an explanation.

“I'm sorry. I needed some fresh air and remembered there was a balcony around here. I shouldn't have left the party without permission.” You make to move back, showing you were ready to go back to the party but he raises a hand and takes a step closer to you, stopping you before you can.

“You're not a stranger to this house. No need for permission,” he took another tentative step towards you before continuing, “Do you feel better now?” You relax back against the railing, your heart beating fast for a whole different reason now. It's not often you get to see Azriel out of his leathers and you barely had a chance to see him up close tonight, he looks mesmerizing.

“What?” Maybe you didn't sober up as much as you thought. Maybe being this close to Azriel was just an intoxicating experience in itself. Either way your brain was having a hard time catching up to his words and your chest was starting to feel warm.

“You said you needed some fresh air.” There's a glint in his eyes that wasn't there before. Probably realizing that you weren't actually going to be sick. His shadows peak behind his shoulders, following their master as they usually do.

“Yes. It was just getting a bit stuffy in there.” Aside from the butterflies creating a hurricane in your stomach, talking to Azriel feels right. His calm demeanor lets your thoughts quiet. “I might have drank too much because of the nerves.”

The Shadowsinger moves until he's leaning against the railing next to you. His eyes wander the illuminated city slowly before meeting yours. Stretched wings hang in what you assume is a less straining position after having to be pulled tighter into his body in the crowded room. Shadows start rolling off his shoulders, now lazing around him instead of covering him. The soft wind moves his hair ever so slightly, letting a few strands curl around his forehead and giving him an almost boyish look. It's not often you see the spymaster appear relaxed. You decide it might be your favorite look on him.

“Nerves?” Your eyes search his face once again after hearing the confusion in his voice. Azriel has a permanent seat at the High Lord's table not only as the Night Court's Spymaster but also as someone Rhysand considers family. This night isn't so different from every other dinner he shares with his family, just more crowded.

“I've never been to this house outside of my duties. It's a bit nerve-wracking to be personally invited by the High Lord.” As you finish speaking one of his shadows curls around his ear. You've learned they do this when they're speaking to him. The thought of it being about you has your heart speeding up. Only the Mother knows just how much those shadows can see and hear, if they can hear your thoughts. You check your mental shields just in case. They can be as terrifying as they are beautiful.

“Rhys and Feyre couldn't have thrown a party celebrating the strength and courage the people of Velaris have shown without one of our best healers. You've helped more people than we could ever thank you for.” The warmth you felt in your chest before was now spreading up your neck at an alarming rate. You had just been doing your job but being recognized for it felt incredibly rewarding. The fact that this praise came from the shadowsinger was making you especially giddy. “Rhys invited you because you're very important to this court, to us.”

“I am?” The question comes out before your brain has a chance to catch up. You try not to cringe at the surprise in your tone. It's not that you're not aware of your capabilities, the High Lord and High Lady either call for you or for Madja, one of the most powerful and wise healers you have ever seen. But old insecurities will always show their claws, indifferent to your achievements. To think that you could be important to all these extremely powerful people seemed like the punchline to a joke.

“Of course.” His body turns to you ever so slightly. Fingers uncurl as if he wanted to reach out, comfort you. “None of us would be here in good health if it wasn't for you, maybe not at all. You've helped us more times than I can count.”

“I was just doing my job. And I can't take credit for Madja, I'm usually just assisting her.”

“Even so, you've helped us through a lot.” He sounded very sincere, there was no denying he meant every word, but you still have a hard time believing it.

“I just don't think I really fit in here,” you whispered so low that if it wasn't for his fae hearing he wouldn't have been able to make out the words. The admission felt heavy in the air, it felt good to let it out. You hadn't been this honest with anyone, perhaps even yourself, in decades, you must have drank way more wine than you initially thought.

You weren't born in Velaris, but you've lived here for a century. The problem is you've spent the better part of that century waiting on feeling like you finally belonged. You never felt at home in your own court or in your family so it might have been wishful thinking that it would happen here.

“I think like that sometimes too.” As baffled as you were to hear that coming from him, he looked even more surprised than you. It seems he hadn't meant to say that out loud, but the words couldn't be taken back now.

“That's insane,” you try to level your voice after the outburst, "You're part of this family. Why wouldn't you fit in?” You couldn't let him think like that, there was no doubt in your mind everyone here loved and cherished him like family.

Rhysand's inner circle was known for how close they were, they were seen as the High Lord's family regardless of if they were blood related or not. Azriel has always been calmer and you know he likes to keep to himself but you never thought he looked out of place for a second. It's hard to imagine Rhysand and Cassian without his brother.

His eyes were trained on the city under you. His shadows had come back to him, almost covering him completely. Azriel was quiet for a while, long enough you thought he wouldn't even give you an answer. But then you feel a shield form around you, lest someone wanders in and hears his next words.

“Sometimes things and people change while you stay stuck in the same place,” his eyes meet yours as he talks and you search his expression for the rest of the story you know he won't tell. If there's one thing you hate about the shadowsinger is his ability to mask his emotions. His face was the perfect stoic mask as always.

It's not hard to understand what he meant. In less than a decade the inner circle almost doubled and some of the dynamics had likely changed with it. His brothers have found their mates, something every fae dreams of, and he was the odd one out. Even the Morrigan and Amren had found lovers in recent years.

You had heard some rumors he had taken a liking to the middle Archeron sister after pining for the lovely Morrigan for centuries, but she had also found her mate. Not even his methods of interrogation could make you admit you were avoiding the entire inner circle during that time. The hope you had felt upon realizing he wasn't looking at Morrigan like she hung all the stars in the sky was short lived and it only made you feel pathetic. You didn't understand why it had affected you so much. This was just a silly crush after all, you had never considered actually pursuing a relationship with the shadowsinger.

“I still don't understand how Amren got a lover before you.” You had meant to clear the heavy air between you but why your brain decided to use the millennia old creature to do so was beyond you. “I mean she's just…” you continue, startled by your own words, praying to the Mother that the shield he put up stopped Amren from hearing you, “Well, she's fae now but wasn't before and is still mildly terrifying, even after the transition, and you're so-” Wide eyes meet hazel and nothing could ever prepare you for the look on his face. The amusement shone bright in his eyes and in the teasing grin he wore. Just when you thought the shadowsinger couldn't get any more beautiful.

“I'm so?” He tilts his head a little as he asks the question. His shadows start almost dancing around him, like they can't wait to hear your thoughts on their singer. You clear your throat before continuing, trying to salvage some of your dignity.

“You're the Spymaster, the only known Shadowsinger. That's incredible, anyone would be lucky to have you.” Something flashes in his eyes and your mouth starts back up at the thought that it could be disappointment at the impersonal description. Azriel is much more than his role in this court and you can't let him think that's all you see in him.

“You're also one of the kindest people I've ever met. I've seen you worry over every single person in that room, putting their needs over your own even when you're also injured. You always keep your composure for them and give them your support. I've seen you around Velaris too, you're always respectful to everyone, even when they're a bit scared of you.” Eyes drag themselves back to the shiny stars in the night so you can keep going without wanting to jump off the balcony and making an even bigger fool of yourself. “Even as far as looks go... I would bet my house that if we walked down any of these streets we wouldn't find anyone that doesn't think you're stupidly handsome.”

“Stupidly handsome?” The amusement was dripping down his voice at this point. The smile was unmistakable in his tone and you couldn't hold yourself back from watching him any longer. You feel yourself relax at the grin plastered on his face. It isn't often that the shadowsinger shows any emotion at all, and you can't help the pride in knowing you put that gorgeous smile on his face, especially after the somber turn the conversation had taken earlier. You continue despite the warmth you feel in your ears, you'd compliment him for hours if it meant he wouldn't feel sad ever again.

“I've actually heard someone use those exact words to describe you.” You've thought it to be the most accurate description of the immense beauty the shadowsinger radiates ever since you heard the barista use it. Apparently she hadn't been born in Velaris and had taken up the job only a few days prior to serving the illyrian. She had barely held the compliment down long enough for Azriel to exit the building, shooting up into the sky. A few fae present couldn't contain the laugh at the fervent appreciation of the shadowsinger, but the air of agreement shared by everyone was unmistakable.

“I'll have to let my mom know,” there was laughter in his tone, “I'm sure she will be very proud that her son is receiving such compliments.” You hadn't known his mother was still alive which makes you think it's meant to be kept secret. You almost curse at the way your heart flutters. Stupid crushes.

“I'm sure she is very proud of you regardless.” He doesn't give away any hint of what might be going through his brain and it leaves you in a slight panicked fear of overstepping or having said the wrong thing. You could swear you saw a glint of disbelief but it was gone too fast for you to be sure. The idea that the Spymaster couldn't see his own mother being proud of him was ludicrous to you.

The nod he gives you doesn't give any of his thoughts away, but his shadows keep moving slowly around the balcony, never rushing to cover him.

“Why are you single then?” You know he's changing the subject but you don't have time to consider that when you realize it's your turn to answer the questions.

“Me?” You barely register the slight nod he gives to show you he's expecting an answer. If you had shadows of your own they would have wrapped around you like a blanket until only the top of your hair was peaking out. “How do you know I am? Are you using your spies on me, Spymaster?”

“I have to be well informed of what happens in this city,” he searches your face just like you did to him, “And as the spymaster I'm more than familiar with deflection. You don't have to answer my question. Tell me if I'm overstepping”

“No. It's-” you cringe, trying to find the right words. “I just never found anyone special I guess.” Even talking about this with him has your heart swelling in your chest and you pray to the mother he can't pick up on any changes in your heartbeat. You've been avoiding this conversation with family and friends, but despite all this you know Azriel will understand and won't make fun of your feelings. It feels safe talking to him. “I get really busy sometimes so it's hard to keep up a proper relationship, even with friendships. Sometimes people need more time than what I can give them.” You try not to think of all the times you didn't measure up to other people's expectations, when they didn't see you as enough for the trouble.

“They're idiots for letting you go.” You don't know if he's being polite in not mentioning how your heart keeps speeding up or if he thinks you're drunker than you are, but you thank every deity you can think of that he doesn't say anything.

“Some things just aren't meant to be.” You hope he doesn't insist on this conversation. There isn't much else to say and you'd rather not keep talking about how many times you'd gotten dumped. You consider pointing out he never gave you a reason for being single and that he was the one actually deflecting, but you don't want to push what clearly isn't an easy topic for him to discuss either. You suspect Azriel barely opens up with anyone, so you'll just treasure the brief look into his heart he allowed you before.

The rest of your night is spent with the shadowsinger, sitting in that balcony, watching the stars and talking about anything. The next day you'll sit in bed mortified, thinking about how you were doing most of the talking while he listened, but he had seemed content enough so you couldn't have been too annoying. When the party ended you had said your goodbyes to your hosts, without the previous nerves after your conversation with the shadowsinger. Feyre had even asked you if you were alright because she also noticed you leaving in the middle of the party, though something about the glint in her eyes told you she had gotten the wrong idea. Then Azriel had flown you down the steps and winnowed you to your front door - even though you could do it yourself. Maybe you'd have to rethink calling the inner circle your friends.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

It Gets Stranger

Fandom: Star Wars - The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x GN!Reader

Summary: Qimir wakes up and witnesses something that might explain why he's so drawn to you.

Qimir Masterlist

Your back and neck felt so stiff from the position you slept in. Every so often, you'd wake up and check Qimir's wound. It seemed he didn't move an inch from when he passed out from the blood loss.

You slowly and carefully slide out of bed. You tip toe to the other side of Qimir and slowly lift the side of his shirt. You gasp when a hand grips your wrist, causing you to freeze in place.

Qimir is wide awake now, eyes wide open and staring at you.

"It's okay. I'm just checking your wound. Can I do that?" he nods, slowly letting go of your wrist.

You continue your task at hand, you lift the bacta patch and peek at the cut. Nothing looks out of place, so you place it back and pull down his shirt.

"Okay. Looks like you're good to go," you stand as Qimir sits up.

"I'm sorry about all this. We couldn't make it to our ship and time," he says as he swings his legs to hang over the side of your bed.

You shrug, "It's fine. If you hadn't, you might've died or something. So I understand."

"Is Mae still here?"

"Not sure. I'll check," you exit the room to see the young woman still fast asleep on your couch. You slowly approach her but then accidentally bump into one of your chairs.

The young woman shoots up, throwing a dagger your way, but the object remains suspended in the air right in front of your face.

Mae's eyes widen.

"You're a Force wielder?" the dagger drops to the ground when Qimir speaks.

You back away from Mae, who's now on her feet looking at you suspiciously. Qimir looks at you with intrigue, a hint of a smirk on his face, "How long have you been able to do that?"

You cast your gaze to your feet. Your fingers playing with the hem of your top. You had always done your best not to use your ability, but you couldn't seem to control when it came to danger.

"Since I was young, but I was never trained."

"Why?" Mae asks curiously.

"Being a Jedi is restrictive and I didn't like that. I discovered that in my youth. My friend, Rya, we discovered we were Force sensitive at the same time. She decided to join the Jedi and I didn't get to see her for a long time. When I saw her again, she told me that Jedi were forbidden from forming attachments. I couldn't see myself going through life without meaningful relationships, so I hid this part of me away. It's only when I'm in danger that it tends to come through, hence," you gesture to Mae's dagger that was still on the ground.

Qimir's smirk widens, "You know, our Master always tells us that the Force is supposed to free you. Not restrict you." For the third time now, he approaches you with a tilted head and intrigue in his eyes, "Ever since I landed on this planet, I felt called to your shop. To you. I think I know why now."

Mae looks at her colleague in confusion, "You want to bring her to Master?"

Qimir eyes you up and down and bites his lip as he smiles, "I think your Master will find them to helpful in his cause."

You gulp, "Will he hurt me?"

Qimir shrugs slowly backing away, "Probably not since you helped us last night. But who knows."

You whip your head to Mae for confirmation and she does nothing but stare at you for a moment before gathering her things.

__________________

As the suns rose further into the sky, the busier the streets became, thus making it easier for Mae and Qimir to leave your shop.

"You won't be coming with us, but we will be back for you. We just need to discuss things with the Master first," Qimir says as he pulls up his hood.

"And if I don't go?"

"He'll come to you and you probably wouldn't want that," Mae says with finality as she pulls up her own hood and squeezes between you and Qimir with a scowl on her face.

Qimir leans in, "Don't mind her. She's probably threatened by you."

You can't help but snort, "Not even sure what she'd be threatened by. I don't know much about the Force."

"With proper training you will. You'll see," he takes your hand, holding it for a moment before turning it over and dropping some Batuuan spira into your palm, "Thank you for helping me...us."

"Sure. See you around, I suppose?"

"See you around," he lets go of your hand and follows Mae out of your shop.

____________________

It's an ongoing trend that Qimir shows up at your door at night. For weeks, you had been expecting him or Mae or both of them to appear again ready to take you to their Master.

During that time, you made preparations for whenever they arrived. You explained to the neighboring shop owner, Eudora, that you may be going on an unexpected trip some time, due to the depleting health of a family member on another planet. A lie, obviously, since you didn't want people to know of your capabilities or your new relations to Mae and Qimir.

Eudora's son, Uther, was given the responsibility of taking over your shop in your absence. You knew you could trust the young man since he's helped you around your shop before. While Batuu is a haven for those who avoid attracting attention to themselves and their misdeeds, many of the shop keepers are trustworthy and reliable. Eudora and Uther are definitely those people.

So when Qimir appeared once more, you quickly informed Eudora of your departure. With fleeting waves, you quickly follow Qimir into alleyways leading to his hidden speeder, that would take you on the outskirts of town to where his ship sits.

"You're sure this Master won't hurt me?" you ask as you hesitate at the bottom of the ramp that leads into the ship.

Qimir looks at you with a smile, "He promised me he wouldn't. He was grateful for what you did for Mae and I. You'll be safe, I swear," he holds his hand out to you, waiting.

You let out a deep breath and take his hand. He leads you up the ramp and into the cockpit of the ship.

"I'm trusting you, Qimir."

"I know," he says looking deep into your eyes, leaning closer to you. One hand still holds yours and the other reaches up and cups your face, "Sorry about this," he whispers.

"Wha-", your sentence goes unfinished as you collapse into his arms, completely unconscious.