#and now he's doomed to never be with the likes of

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Winter (Cregan Stark x Reader)

Summary: As a Princess, you aren’t used to rejection. But Cregan, your husband, has vowed to only ever love one woman, and it isn't you. Right?

Warnings: Mature language. Grief. Toddlers. Unreliable narrators. Miscommunication.

A/N: I was so excited about this chapter! These scenes are the ones I wrote first. Also, the biggest hug to anyone who is reading this. I had not expected the amount of love my first chapter got, and I am so grateful!

THERE WAS AN old northern superstition —more like an old wives’ tale, really— that said if there was snow on the wedding day, the marriage was doomed to be a cold one.

It hadn’t been snowing the day Cregan had married you, but his marriage was proving to be icier than the lands beyond the wall. You weren’t interested in spending time with him at all, and you actively tried to avoid him. He had tried to convince you to share rooms, trying to foster some intimacy, to no avail.

Cregan had hoped that if not a loving wife, he would get a caring mother to Rickon. The boy was too small to grow without one, not yet having reached his third nameday. But you hadn’t shown interest in that either. Instead, you pretended the two of them didn’t exist.

He would like to say that the days went on the same way they did before he wed you, but it would be a lie. Winterfell ran much better now there was a lady present. Cregan had been wrong about you. It seemed like you could run a keep, and you did so with ruthless efficiency.

The castle had never been warmer, the meals so well planned. Even the servants seemed happy, now that they didn’t have to follow Cregan’s too broad instructions. It seemed that asking them to clean and cook was a little too vague for their tastes.

As for you, grief still followed you around, like a too long shadow that refused to budge even in the face of Winterfell’s brightest light. Sara had befriended you, with little success. While you had been far more welcoming to her, you still looked constantly tired and sad.

The lack of sunlight had made you lose your southron tan, leaving you with a look of quiet frailty that made Cregan want to wrap you in a thousand blankets and keep you safe. He just was unsure of the execution.

You scared him. He was man enough to admit it. People were often afraid of things they didn’t understand, and Cregan was no exception. You were made of absolute ice. There was no better description. Cold, but as fragile as glass.

He was running out of ideas on how to bond with you. Invitations to tea were denied, nor did you want to ride with him to see his tenants. You seemed at ease enough around Sara, and some other northern ladies, so social interaction wasn’t what you disliked. It was him.

Never had Winterfell’s corridors been filled with so many women. The northern lords already called you Queen Alysanne’s second coming, with your all female court. The only thing missing was your husband. You didn’t have Cregan’s ear, simply because you didn’t wish to. He would support your endeavors if you asked him to. He had offered his help with your attempts to establish a charity, since the North didn’t have Septas to take care of it, but you had proudly rebuffed him.

There was no pleasing you. He was at his wits’ end. Hence, the awful choice he had made that day.

To try to force you to be in his company.

“Why are you ordering my servants around?” You complain, barging into his chambers. While usually the kitchens were the domain of the Lady of the household, Cregan didn’t know you took it so seriously. “Do you not think me capable enough?”

“I do!” Cregan sits up in his bed, bewildered. He had given the orders around lunchtime, hoping you would not find out, yet here you were, less than half a day later. Far more soon than he had expected. “I just want to throw a feast to honor you.”

“You intend to honor me by giving me more work?” You place your hands on your hips, highlighting your figure, and Cregan is but a man. He cannot help himself, his eyes lingering for a second too long, and his brain coming with no response to your statement.

You seem to take his silence for affirmation.

“Seriously? Do you at least have a guest list?”

And your tone is so haughty, your words betraying you believe Cregan to be an absolute imbecile, he cannot help but give a heated retort.

“Of course I have. Truly, I am more than capable of organizing it on my own. Arra let me do it a few times, and I was unmarried for quite a while. I am experienced enough to…”

It is the wrong thing to say. You bare your fangs then, and Cregan has a moment of absolute and utter clarity. You are not a seahorse. Such a puny creature could never hope to deliver the utter destruction that you cause with your next words.

“Yes, and your precious Arra is dead! She is gone! Why can’t you understand it?” You turn on your heel, face absolutely thunderous, and go to rush out of his chambers.

Cregan loses his head fully, then. He grabs you by the arm, hard enough to hurt, and forces you to face him. For a frightening moment, he fears himself. Fears the wolf, the one screaming for him to strike you and remind you of your place.

How dare you come in his chambers, uninvited, after rejecting all his offers of companionship, to lecture him on grief? As if he could forget Arra was dead. It wasn’t so long ago that Rickon cried for his mother still, unable to understand why he didn’t have one. It wasn’t so long ago that Sara had to take over the role of Lady of the House, and suffered mockery from it. And it wasn’t so long ago, Cregan woke with a scream choked in his throat, reliving that awful morning in every dream he had.

He still did, sometimes. Less, now that he had more urgent matters to occupy himself with. Cregan was ashamed to admit it, but before Jacaerys and your arrival here, Winterfell had been far too empty to keep the ghosts away.

Now, with the war, and the flurry of activities that seemed to follow you, Cregan had little time to dwell much in his dark thoughts. Throwing himself into his work had allowed him to begin healing a wound he wasn’t even aware existed.

And wasn’t that a terrible thought? That Cregan was a man who thrived on war and hunger? Winter was coming, after all. It wouldn’t catch him unprepared.

He had sworn a vow to protect you. As long as Jacaerys had no children, you were third in line to the Iron Throne. To think of hurting you was not only to think of staining his honor, but to think of treason.

Cregan holds you there for a second longer, curious about your reaction. His grip must be bruising on your arm, he can feel the delicate bones under your flesh shift with how hard he is holding you. Yet, you show no fear. Your hands are balled into fists.

Were he to strike, you would strike back. Your face is the very picture of anger, your body coiled and ready to tear him apart.

He throws the feast. You sit next to him in icy silence and somehow manage to speak and dance with all the guests but him.

Cregan does no longer dream of trying to hunt a seahorse. Instead, he sees the world at a much lower angle than usual, and runs for his life. Somehow, in the dream, he knows a dragon is hunting him.

OF COURSE IT is today. The only day you actually wish your Lord Husband to be in the castle, and he is not.

You had spent many of your days fervently praying for him to leave on an errand, and yet, the day he does, you cannot even enjoy it.

Because the boy has gotten sick. And look, you have visited the nursery before, it is a part of your duties. You also cannot deny that you had been curious about the tiny version of your husband that will inherit everything.

The boy is cute, you suppose. In the manner all babes are. He is well-behaved, and quiet, and takes well to his teachings, even if they involve only naming things aloud.

Had you not hardened your heart to it already, you would want one of your own. You know, though, that their only inheritance will be tears and petty squabbles over land, so it’s best they are not born at all. It had been so between your husband’s father and uncle, and it was being so between your mother and your uncle Aegon.

The only assurance a woman has in a life spent as little more than property is her children. They are to inherit their father’s lands, and that is supposed to be enough. But for the second sons, said promise is always broken.

You had never, not once, thought you would come to understand Alicent, yet here you were.

You reflect on this as you hurry to the nursery, worried the damn boy will die before you reach it. When you get there, you feel the urge to scream. There is not one, but three serving girls hovering by the door, and the Maester is mixing some herbs in a chalice.

The child sleeps peacefully, unaware the surrounding turmoil. He looks impossibly small in his bed of furs, shirt open and chest covered in strange poultices. The boy… No, Rickon, had taken ill after the first snow. Perhaps he had been spending too much time playing outside, or he lingered too much in his wet clothes. You wouldn't know. You tried to avoid him as much as you could.

After this was over, you would have a stern talk with his maids. They shouldn’t be this careless. This was your husband’s heir. Someone had to care about him.

Not you. Never you.

“Will he be alright?” You ask, as the Maester places a wet cloth on his forehead. You have never liked children, never having had the chance to be one yourself. Your mother’s constant quest for the Iron Throne and her love for Daemon had often left you in the hands of the help. And when you were old enough, you had to take the role of the mature sibling alongside Jacaerys, helping raise your brothers.

Jacaerys. You hoped that wherever he was, he was suffering. You despised this place, and he had dared plot with your mother behind your back to get you here. With your beast of a husband, and this child of a previous marriage, whose existence would forever ensure your future children would inherit nothing.

You weren’t going to have children. Despite loving children, you despise your husband too much to ever lay with him. But most of all, you are beginning to fear you will become a damn Hightower. You feared that if you had children and faced the prospect of them only being second sons, you might be tempted to start a war too.

“He will, Princess.” The Maester, unaware of your inner turmoil, places a reassuring hand on your arm. He surely believes in the gentle hearts of women, or some nonsense like that. “The fever will lower with the tea we gave him, and the cool cloth on his forehead. His lungs are strong. He will breathe normally soon.”

The boy’s chest flutters oddly. His ribs show with each inhale, depicting his trouble breathing. You cast a dubious look at the cool cloth. If this was all they could do, it was no wonder your grandfather had been rotting alive.

“Is that all you have to say? Why do his ribs show?” You do your best to channel your mother, tone imperious. “If this is truly…” Before you can insult him by calling him the worst the Citadel has to offer, a boy comes in. You let out a sigh of relief, your desire to berate the Maester subsiding. It’s the same boy you had sent to Castle Cerwyn to retrieve your husband.

“Princess!” He says, extending a hand to you. Much to your astonishment, he hands back the message you had sent to Lord Cregan. “I have grievous news. The road to Castle Cerwyn is fully blocked. I couldn’t get past the river. I cannot go over it either and avoid the forest, for it is not fully frozen.”

“This cannot be!” You say, crossing your arms over your chest. Cursed your husband, and his plans to visit the Cerwyns’ tenants today, of all days. “You have to get Lord Cregan. Send a more experienced rider.”

“My lady, I would advise not to.” The Maester says, meekly. “Even if the rider does manage to get past, it is very likely Lord Stark is in the village, snowed in.”

“Well, then send a damn search party!” You yell, uncaring your language is unbecoming of a Princess. You cannot be here while the child… While Rickon dies. The child has a parent, and it is your husband, you do not even care for him!

“It is not as simple.” The Maester cringes when you turn on him.

“Of course it isn’t. The only simple thing is the cure for the child’s malady, isn’t it?” You growl. “Do something useful, if you think a rider cannot reach my husband. Get me someone who can, and fix the boy.”

It would be easier for you if the boy died. You could have the children you so craved. The obstacle would have removed itself. Relationships between half brothers are never as strong as between full ones. At the very least, this child could cast out you and any children you birth when Lord Cregan passes. At the very worst, he might have them killed, as your mother intended with her usurper brother.

But you are not so craven as to let an innocent die. He is still a boy, no older than three namedays. He is vulnerable, and his father is not here.

You sit next to the bed, eyes fixed on his chest. Rickon will not die on your watch.

THE SOUND OF a door opening jerks you awake. Disoriented, you sit up on your chair, and check that Rickon still breathes.

He does. He has awakened with the sound of the door opening, just as you did. But unlike you, he has begun wailing. You get him. You would like to cry too.

“What is it?” You snarl at the serving girl who dared enter in such a manner. The sound of Rickon’s cries grate in your ears, shrill and loud, awakening you fully. You try to coax him into laying back down to no avail.

“Milady…” She stammers, holding a breakfast tray. The reason for her interruption becomes clear. Had it been so long already? You remembered standing vigil over Rickon until sundown, and changing the cool compress a few times after, but no further. By the Seven, you were a terrible caretaker. “I… There are…”

Rickon wails harder.

“Father! Father, want father!” He cries. He then attempts to remove the cool cloth from his forehead, and get up, escaping the furs laid over him.

The serving girl stares at the boy. You stare at her. Rickon continues to squirm. When it is clear she is expecting you to soothe him, you sigh and turn to the child.

“Rickon, you have to lay down again.”

“Father! Father!” He wails, face beginning to turn red, his breathing labored. You are unsure if it is his distress or the sickness, but it worries you nonetheless. The child cannot die. You are not prepared to deal with it.

“Shh, Rickon, I know you are hurting.” You tell him, as you pick him up. “Father is not here. He is trapped by the snow.”

At this, he cries harder. You can hear him gasping for air as he squirms in your arms and kicks at you. His snot is getting everywhere. Good Gods, what if he dies? Would your husband actually force you consummate the marriage if he loses his heir? The thought alone is enough to force you into action.

“He is not trapped. He is snowed in, just as when you cannot go out and play. Happens all the time.” You reassure him, rubbing his back. You know your words to be a lie, but the boy doesn’t. The weather has been especially rough this season. The snow storm is unusual in its fierceness. “He will be back soon.”

Rickon perks up at that.

“He will?”

“As soon as he can.” You promise, hoping it is the case. In truth, you do not know. Your husband is unaware Rickon is ill, and holds no fondness for you. You doubt he will be rushing once the road clears. In fact, you think he might be celebrating the weather and praising his northern gods for the excuse to get a respite from you.

Well, too bad. You would send men each hour to check if the storm waned and the road was accessible once more. He would have to come and tend to his child.

“Where is father?” Rickon asks you, a suspicious look in his little face. He is eerily similar to your husband. His sobs have turned more subdued.

“With Lord Cerwyn.”

“Why? Hurts! Father!” The boy demands, petulantly. He is clearly feeling better if his lungs allow him to shriek like that. You are no healer, but his agitation is worrying you. What if he has a fit because he overexerted himself and then dies?

“I want your father too.” You mutter under your breath. “You do not see me wailing.”

“I love father.” He sobs. “Want him.”

And you are not made of stone. You have never been, no matter how hard you pretend. He is still a babe, hands chubby, face round. He still smells like one, a mix of the nursery, and sweet innocence.

Without even realizing it, you have cradled him into your arms and begun rocking the two of you. He keeps wailing, so you begin singing.

“I loved a maid…” There is no need to be a good singer to soothe babies. You are unsure of what they like about it, but you know it works. It had worked for Aegon and Viserys, why not for Rickon? “As fair as summer, who had sunlight in her hair….”

You begin to rock him as you pace through the room. As his tears begin to subside, and he begins to grow curious about the soft song, you realize he is not the threat to your future children you had envisioned. Rickon is beautiful in the manner all babes are, soft and sweet. His little fists cling to your wool cloak, gray eyes meeting yours with fascination.

Charmed by him, you keep singing. Seasons of my love is enlarged and repeated ten times over, and now includes verses about northern babies who look exactly like their father.

“I loved a boy…” You hum, softly. It feels like hours have passed when Rickon’s eyes finally begin to drop. Of course he would enjoy the verses about winter the most. “As white as winter, with moonglow in his hair.”

The door opens, slowly. You hear the wood groan as it does, but Rickon takes no notice. He burrows his head next to your heart, yawning.

You turn to look at the newcomer, pleased that having put the fear of the gods into the maid who had dared enter before had proven fruitful. The pleased smile drops from your face when you realize it is your husband.

Lord Stark is drenched to the bone. His hair is stuck to his head and shoulders, dripping water onto his furs. The cloak he had worn is wet, and he is quick to remove it, leaving him in simple breeches and a jerkin. His face is the picture of worry.

“I rode as hard as I dared.” His voice is low, pleasantly so. You had never considered the northern accent he sported attractive, but when his voice is gruff, and pitched low, you might see the appeal. “How is he?”

He shouldn’t have bothered with the low tone. Rickon would recognize his voice everywhere because he perks up considerably.

“Father! Father!” Rickon claps. He attempts turning in your grip to look at your husband, which makes you fear he might fall, so you perch him on your hip so he can do so.

“The fever has broken.” You hand Rickon back to him, feeling a hint of embarrassment when his eyes linger on the way you had been holding him. “He’ll live.”

“Thank you.” And his voice is earnest and soft, and it makes you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. Is it her still? Does Arra Norrey stand in this room with you, too?

The embarrassment from earlier, and the anger at the thought of your husband being soft because you remind him of her make you snap at him.

“It’s fine. I missed my siblings.” You cross your arms over your chest, awkward. Why does he keep staring at you? Is he… Oh, by the Seven, he is smiling at you? So softly? You cannot stand it. “I will send for a bath for you and Rickon, after washing myself. Less I catch a cold too.”

Look, princesses do not flee. They simply walk hurriedly. Very hurriedly.

[matzarchives]

there's so much to say about this fic OH MY GOD??@#?@?$

let me just.

HGHHH THE NUMBER OF METAPHORS IN THIS IM GONNA BE SICK. the stove failing to ignite. them having the entire argument not facing each other. don't even get me started on mc's "like when you take" comment. just kill me already oml

i love how sporadic and almost psychotic mc's thoughts are because they so clearly reflect her anxiety and worry. she's got a million thoughts going through her head and all of them lead back to the fear of this impending doom.

there are SOO many absolutely god-tier lines in this but my favourite has to be:

You don't know what to do with your hands. Not now, not before, and never after he leaves

i'm actually going to jump out a window op. what is she without chan? what happens when all you've ever known is to give? what do you do you've given everything that you are to someone and they take it and leave? god this line. everything about this fic is amazing but this line. i will be laying awake thinking about it.

keep me. bang chan (18+)

There’s uncertainty in his voice. A crack, an opening he doesn’t intend. He wants this, too. You know it. Anything you could give, he wants it. And he will take it.

PAIRING. bang chan / f! reader GENRE. smut, angst, break up fic WORD COUNT. 8.7k WARNINGS. 18+ mdni — explicit content, very emotional sex, light d/s dynamics, fingering, oral sex (m! receiving), a little face fucking, unprotected sex (it’s a long established relationship), a little bit of manhandling, use of petnames (baby, love), dirty talk & praise (good girl), shower sex, color system, subtly toxic relationship

NOTES. i’m very excited to share this with you all, it’s the first i’ve written after a very long time ♡ writing this was an emotional rollercoaster lol let me know if i missed any tags or warnings! happy reading ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ

It’s three knocks on your door that finally sink the heartbreak into the pit of your stomach.

Only Chan would do that—knock on your door softly, wait for you to let him in despite being told that the door is unlocked. Despite you leaving it unlocked for him, every time.

I’m free today, he had written in the text. Can I call you? But you had invited him to your apartment instead, and you shouldn’t even have to ask him to come over. Wednesdays were always for you and him.

Silly, you don’t even have to ask, you had told him, a half-empty laugh following after.

You had heard the sound of his breathing for a moment, and with the silence just a hitch away becoming too uncomfortable, too tense, he had said on the other side of the line, right. I know that.

���It’s me,” he knocks on the other side of the door twice more. “Can I come in?”

You stare at the coat hanging on one of the hooks by the door for a moment, feeling a sigh in your chest. You try to hold it in, reaching for the knob instead.

“Of course it’s you,” you tease when the door opens. “Of course you can.”

Chan seems worn out and tired, but he offers you a smile anyway. It’s warm and familiar and… and something else you recognize but can’t begin to think about. He holds his hand up by your ear and tucks your hair behind it.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You nuzzle into his hand, subconsciously stepping forward, further, responding in the same manner, “Hi. I’m cooking dinner for us.”

It’s so easy to fall into step with him. He finds his way into the middle of your apartment, immediately setting down everything in his hands down the old coffee table. You glance at the paper bag (“That’s just some leftover snacks, if you want it!” he says without you needing to ask), crumpled at the top where Chan had held it, his phone beside it. His small pouch rests at the corner of your small couch.

(He sets them down gently, carefully, methodically, in the same way he set down his heart, some years ago, in the middle of the street after a few drinks at a small, snobbish club. I love you. You held onto his arm, seeking warmth. I love you.)

“It smells good,” he sniffs exaggeratedly, walking towards the stove. “What are you cooking?” he asks as he lifts the glass lid, steam wafting through the air and the aroma of the food becoming stronger.

“Just some veggie soup. The temperature’s starting to drop, don’t you think?” you tell him, chuckling to yourself a little. “Are you hungry? It’ll be ready in around ten minutes. Could you wait a little longer? I have some snacks in the fridge, if you want.”

His lips break into a grin, and you think it’s beginning to form a small laugh on his tongue. You rambled again, and years ago you would’ve been embarrassed, covering your mouth in shame. I love the way you talk, he had told you. You don’t have to hold anything back. I hope you can be comfortable with me.

“It’s fine,” he shakes his head, cheeky and teasing. You sigh jokingly, and he puts the lid back onto the pot before turning back to you. “I’m actually less hungry and more—icky? I need to wash up, I mean. S’been a long day.”

“By all means,” you nod, gesturing to the bathroom. It says a lot more than, yes, you can do that. It also says, your clothes have been in the same place they’ve always been. Your toothbrush, the soap you specifically use because your skin is a lot more sensitive than mine, your towels, everything… they’re still here. “Food’ll be ready by the time you’re done.”

Chan scratches the back of his head, looking down at his feet before he looks back at you, sheepish. He takes a few steps towards you until his hands could reach your shoulders—he does just that, rubbing his thumbs on the exposed skin of your collarbone before tilting his head.

“Help me wash up?”

Your face immediately burns up, lips tensing at the suggestion. He knows you weren’t one to like showering together; it’s cramped, a waste of water, and overall impractical. You’d sometimes join him, sure, but majority of the time you’d politely decline. Chan respects that. He always does.

There’s something about this suggestion now. Something different, something… greedy. A plead, almost. You think he starts to breathe a little heavier with each passing second of your silence, and his hooded eyes wait for the answer on your face.

You think you need this, too.

You nod at him, quickly closing in the gap and placing a small, brief kiss on his lips. He immediately gets his arms around you, but before he could make anything out of it, you pull away. You don’t know if he realizes it but you feel the way his lips chase yours when you move back. Your chest swells at your realization.

“Ten minutes, Chan,” you tease, placing another kiss on his cheek. “Don’t wanna burn the apartment down.”

“I don’t like the veggies too cooked, though,” he clicks his tongue. “Here.”

He suddenly squats down, pulling you by the back of your thighs before carrying you in his arms. A small squeal leaves you before you could even process a reaction, and you had immediately grabbed onto his shoulders in fear of falling. He buries his nose into the skin of your neck and places his warm lips on it.

“Bang Chan! What the hell,” you scold him, hitting his shoulder with furrowed brows. “Impatient.”

Wriggling your way out of his hold proves no use. He holds onto you so firmly that you could only wrap your arms and legs around him tighter. You slap his back weakly, still startled from him carrying you without warning. He laughs onto your skin and you feel its tickle down your spine, flinching slightly with a laugh of your own. You feel his arms pull you tighter.

“We can do all that we need to do later,” he mumbles. “It can wait.”

There it is again. You hear it. A plead, but only subtle. Smooth in his voice, soft and supple. Like the thumbs that rub the skin on the sides of your thighs. He hikes you higher up his torso, and another breath leaves at the sudden little movement. You’re so tempted to give in.

“No. We eat first, then we wash up,” you insist, words leaving no room for argument. You hear a soft whine so you steady yourself with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek. “Okay?”

He presses his lips on yours in response, deep and heavy. Its plushness move against yours, and suddenly you’re down in your worn out barstool, back in the kitchen. The metal of the old seat creaks and Chan pulls away from you, breathless.

“Stay there, I’ll take care of this,” he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know,” Chan starts, as if you just know. “Cooking for me. You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t turn to you when he says it. The clicks of the stove struggling to reignite its flames resound and deep within your chest you think also hear the same. Click click click. He grabs the wooden spoon just beside the sink and he stirs the soup, lifting it up once just to let the liquid dribble back down into the pot. You rest your cheek against your hand, elbow propped on the countertop.

You stare at his back and wonder how much of its dips and curves you’ve already memorized—how much of it you need to get to know more, the way they move and twitch and tremble under your touch. Beneath his black, slightly tight-fitting shirt, his shoulders visibly loosen up. He grabs two bowls from the cabinets above him and carefully spooned a hearty amount of soup into each.

It doesn’t take long before he sets up your dinner and finds himself on the stool beside yours. Neither of you say a word, tension still warm in the air, comforting—but toeing the line of awkward. The skin of his thigh brushes against yours sometimes, and you’re almost tempted to ask if it’s intentional. If he means it.

Contrary to his earlier impatience, Chan takes his time eating. He smiles when he catches you looking, and you laugh when he hums in satisfaction of a pleasant, albeit simple, dinner. The anticipation is prickling the skin on your shoulders, but you can’t seem to say a word. Chan finishes with a kiss on your cheek and a quiet mumble of another ‘thank you’ before he gathers the dishes to clean up.

It’s awful, thinking about this. You have no any idea what’s on his mind right now, and you’re so close to breaking. This won’t do. You have to say something, or he has to say something. What was that all about earlier? What happened? Is he mad? Is he disappointed? What should you—

“Baby,” he calls gently, snapping you out of it—whatever it was. A detachment from the moment, from reality? A fear, maybe. Overthinking.

You barely realize that he’s in front of you again, standing between your knees, dishes forgotten in the sink. He brings a hand to your head and rubs a finger between your brows.

“I can almost hear you thinking,” he clicks his tongue. Then he presses a firm kiss on where his touch lingered. “I’m sorry. We’re fine. You can get in the shower and I’ll be with you in a second, hm?”

No words come out of your mouth. You shudder at the implication, at the tone of his want.

Maybe you’re thinking too much about this. Maybe it’s just another Wednesday of yours, just another time he’s here. A sharing of each other’s company in the quiet routine you’ve fallen into, built over the years. So you nod at him before padding over to your bathroom.

One by one, you strip off your clothes. It doesn’t take long; you’re in the your most comfortable, anyway, since your plans were to just stay home. You never needed to impress Chan either. Whenever your fingers brush against your skin, a shiver crawls beneath your bones. There is warmth pooling in your chest—a desire that would burn you if it boils over.

But something feels… different. Like it’s all building to something neither of you is ready to name. The shower opens with a stutter and it’s hot the moment it touches your skin. You don’t mind, though—but Chan will, and you know that. You twist the tap ever so slightly, knowing exactly where it should turn for it to be warm enough to his liking. The temperature should calm you, but it doesn’t.

The way the water thrums against your skin, the tiled floor, the glass door… it’s all too much. It irks you—feeling every drop, reminded of his touch: gentle, deliberate, lingering. Then, you hear your blood pulsating in your ears. You tilt your head back, letting the water cascade over your face. It should calm you, but it doesn’t.

The door creaks open and you feel a slight breeze of chill from behind you, like a wind passing, carrying with it an odd mix of anticipation and vulnerability. It’s not like Chan is trying to be quiet. He knows you’d expect him. He asked for you to be there. There’s a moment of stillness, save for the water pattering around you. Then, the faint rustling of clothes, a slow whistle of fabric sliding down the floor. Your pulse quickens.

It doesn’t take long before you feel him behind you, close enough to stir the air around but not yet touching you. You don’t turn to look at him—your breath catches as if doing so would make the moment too real, too raw, like everything would cease to exist with one wrong move. But you feel him. His warmth is unmistakable, radiating through the steam, undeniable and grounding, a stark contrast to the chill that had briefly brushed your spine. It couldn’t be anything or anyone else. It’s him, always him, cutting through the steam like sunlight through fog.

And maybe that’s how his presence has always been, how he really is: sun, sunlight, sunshine. A warmth you can’t help but lean into, even when it burns.

Chan is the first to break the silence. “Hi,” he simply says before he kisses the skin where your neck and shoulder meet. His hands soon follow, soothing the soreness of your muscles with a gentle massage. You whimper quietly.

“Hi,” you manage to respond moments after.

Chan rests his forehead on the back of your head, stopping you from turning around when you made that first little step. He pulls you closer to his body, your back flush against his chest and you feel it heave in along with his breathing. With every exhale through his nose the air grows heavier.

“Don’t,” he breathes. “Stay there. I’ll wash you.”

“I want to see you, though,” you try to complain, but the words fall weak on your tongue. “Chan?”

“Later.”

You feel him stretch his arm to the side, and your peripheral catches his hand reaching for the bottle of liquid on the small shelf mounted in the corner of the shower, just a bit of an arm away from your head. You lean innocently onto him but his breath hitches, taking you a bit by surprise.

As if that would stop you.

You continue to rub your behind onto him under the guise of needing warmth and seeking softness, and his breathing falters with each minute. He rubs his hands together, soapy and slippery, before rubbing it all along your body in seemingly random but nonetheless tender patterns. He starts with your arms, then he moves to your shoulders, your back, your legs, from back to front—leaning forward to reach further, then to your waist. His hand inches to your center, where you need it most, and you could almost feel the tease in his touch. He reaches for another pump of soap before he brushes his fingers onto the skin of your abdomen. It twitches with the gasp you couldn’t catch before it’s out of your mouth, and you suddenly jolt your hips back towards his, a movement you couldn’t control.

And Chan whimpers. It’s low and hushed, almost too quiet if his lips weren’t all up in your ear. The moment halts and the warmth that pooled in your chest moves down and you like it. So you do it again, pressing back into his body further. And again, wiggling until his cock catches against your lower back. And again, feeling him holding himself back.

Then he grips your arms to steady you. That doesn’t stop his hardness from pushing against the dip of your lower spine. Then you whimper. He still keeps you turned away from him.

“Stop moving,” he grits. “You’re so needy, aren’t you?”

You don’t even try to deny that. How could you, when he moves his right forearm to wrap around your chest, his left hand just below your abdomen. Close, but not enough. He toys with the skin that it frustrates you. It’s so close. You try to stand on your tiptoes, moving yourself closer to where you need his hand to be but he holds you with his arm firmly enough to keep you in place. His hand leaves your abdomen to catch the water from the shower, washing off the soap.

“I said,” he whispers into your ear, tone rough, “stop moving.”

Then he finally, finally touches you. His finger trace your slit lightly, the stroke almost too subtle to feel. Your legs immediately draw close together, and Chan supports you when you almost lose balance. He sighs in your ear, a short, small laugh following the prod of his finger into your core.

In a desperate attempt to stop his teasing, you could only cry out his name. “Chan,” your voice shakes, and you hold onto the arm around your chest in attempt to ground yourself, to keep yourself together. “Please.”

“Just a little more, my love,” he starts, still moving a single finger—God fucking damn it, only a single one—up and down your folds. “And I’ll give you what you want.”

Your chest quivers with deep, uneven breaths. You hold out as best as you can, keeping your desire from bursting and it burns you. Please. There is only a word in your head, clouded and hazy. Like a mantra, a chant. Please. Please.

“So good,” Chan praises, and you swear you could hear the smile in his voice which only sharpens the greed clawing at your core. Desperate to feel more, to take more.

But between you and him, it’s not your job to take more. That’s Chan’s. That’s him, since the beginning.

So he takes.

He pushes a finger into you and right then and there you feel that you could just give everything you could ever offer for his taking. It feels as if he belongs there, as if you are shaped for nothing but his touch. He pulls his finger out a bit before pushing it back deeper, into a place you’ve never reached for the past month on your own, or the past year, or ever.

Chan finds a steady pace, slow and deliberate strokes exploring your wetness. Still only a single finger, and you are so tempted to curse him out, to demand more—but you know how patience drives pleasure. There is no choice but to wait. He recognizes it and he whispers another praise in your ear, “You are doing so good, baby.”

You feel another finger teasing your sensitive bud, and not long after there are two fingers parting your slick folds with practiced ease. Your knees buckle in surrender to the pleasure. It feels so hot, as if each movement fans the flames in your core and with every touch Chan leaves trails of pleasure. You’re almost gasping, like you’re running out of breath.

It’s not your job to take more, but this is something only Chan could give. He is giving it to you right now. What else are you supposed to do but take it?

You move your hand from his forearm around your chest to the nape of his neck clumsily. He shifts slightly, letting go of your torso and gripping your thigh to hold it up and oh. Your grasp falters and his fingers remain relentless in giving you the rhythm your body demanded. He curls them inside you and you almost choke.

Despite still having your back flushed to his chest, you crane your neck to at least feel his lips against your cheeks. Soft moans are hovering at the edge of your month, cries on the verge of slipping out. You struggle to find your voice, lost among the steam, but you try nonetheless.

“Chan–ah,” your voice wavers with a moan. “Please, Chan… I– kiss. Please, kiss.”

You feels Chan’s body tremble behind you, hips bucking that his cock brushes against the curve of your ass. You whimper, and you let it out freely this time.

“Fuck, you’re so…” Chan falters, fingers erratic in your heat. “How sweet you sound, begging like that.” He presses himself against your back, again and again, a desperate attempt to chase his own pleasure too. His breath is hot against your skin, hovering your jaw. The water from the shower doing nothing to regulate the temperature of your body. “I just can’t get enough of you.”

Then he kisses you. It’s a little awkward, with your lips not fully slotting or fitting, your necks turned as much as you comfortably can but none of that matters. It’s all teeth and spit and some water gets into your mouth and none of that matters. He kisses you and he curls his fingers in you and you’re almost at your limit. A moan vibrates in your chest, wanton and needy, then Chan pulls away to let you breathe. As if that helps, as if his lips and tongue moving to your jaw doesn’t leave you breathless and writhing in want.

He pulls your thigh closer to him, opening you up further. A guttural sound leaves you and you would be embarrassed at how dirty it sounds but you’re reaching the highest peak of your desire—the roar of the flames in your core now at its full.

“Chan,” you cry out. “Chan, I’m near—ah… please. I’m cumming, please.”

The air is filled with steam and the sound of water, his skin on your skin, his fingers not stopping. Your hips buck against his hand and it drives deeper. He holds it there and you tremble in his arms. You whimper, again and again and again.

“Good,” he coaxes. “You’re almost there, my love. Come on.”

His voice is heavy and rough. He licks the shell of your ear and it sends you over to the edge. His fingers twist inside you and he just takes, drinking up your cries with his lips just hovering yours.

There is a gradual, methodic way in which he slows his fingers, letting you ride out your high until your lungs find a steadier pace, each breath more controlled. He kisses the top of your head before he gently holds your chin—with the very same hand he used to bring you pleasure—turning your face to his.

How filthy, him rubbing your slickness on you. So filthy, and it’s arousing you. It’s surprising because you just got fingered out of your damn mind and you still want more. You’re still willing to give more.

Chan captures your lips in a soft kiss, biting your lower lip lightly before he pulls away just enough to speak, “You did so well.”

He reaches upward to cup water in his hands, using it to wash your chin and your neck. Then again to wash your abdomen and center. You gasp at the touch, and he whispers an apology immediately.

“I know, I’m sorry. Sensitive, hm? Let me just wash you, okay?”

You nod at him, closing your eyes and choosing to rest your forehead on his shoulder as he rubs you clean. When he finishes with a soft pat to your thigh, your eyes open only to be greeted by the sight of his cock, rock hard and almost flushed red. God. Fuck. You pull back, searching his face for something—anything, whatever it is, and he just offers you a lopsided smile.

“Hmm?” he hums in question, curious about the way your brows furrow. “What is it?”

“You,” you simply say. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He brushes it off like it’s nothing. He has given you pleasure and he has taken your pleasure. You want to do the same to him. He shakes his head, “I swear. It’s fine.”

But he doesn’t stop you when you go down on your knees, facing his cock with a hunger you couldn’t fathom. He caresses your hair, whatever he could reach, but he doesn’t even pull you away. “You don’t have to. We can take this to bed,” he still says.

There’s uncertainty in his voice. A crack, an opening he doesn’t intend. He wants this, too. You know it. Anything you could give, he wants it.

“But I want to.”

And he will take it.

He places a finger under your chin to guide you and raise your head, looking you in the eye. You could almost see yourself in the depths of his gaze, a reflection of something shameless, almost jarring. You couldn’t believe you’re liking this—let alone getting intoxicated in arousal for this. It’s like something changed in him in a blink.

“You do?” Chan laughs, almost mockingly. A shiver runs across the expanse of your shoulders, the sound sending another spark of heat through you. Deeper this time, scorching. “You want my cock that badly, huh? Suck me off ‘til your lips grow tired?”

His finger moves, grazing your skin until it reaches your ear. He tucks your wet hair behind it, just like he did by the apartment door when he arrived earlier. His gaze holds you captive, and that feeling of being exposed, vulnerable, it surges again.

Your breath catches as you nod, unable to form any word. He’s always had that effect on you—making you forget your own control, like you’re just a thing for him to take. In the absence of words, you hold his length with a hand and he inhales sharply at your touch. It doesn’t take much to arouse him; with a few nimble strokes his shaft gets hard again. Perhaps even more so.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, firm but gentle, and pulls you closer.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise, laced with an almost indistinguishable amount of contempt, has you reeling. You lick a bit along his tip, testing the waters. His fingers weave through your hair with a slow sigh. “Show me how much you really want it. Give it to me.”

You press a kiss to the side of his cock, soft at first, as if tasting the moment before plunging in. His body shudders. The saltiness lingers on your tongue as you part your lips wider, slowly taking him into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word barely audible, more an exhale than speech. His hand slightly tightens in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself. You hollow your cheeks, sliding further forward, and the groan that rumbles in his chest sends a thrill through you.

The weight of him is heavy on your tongue, and you let yourself sink into a languid pace, drawing him in, inch by inch, savoring the way his body reacts. His hips jerk, just a little, involuntarily, and you can’t help the slight moan that leaves your throat. The sound and vibration seem to undo him.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Chan grunts, his voice rough around the edges, raw with need. His hand cups the back of your head, guiding you—not forcing, but encouraging—as you take him deeper, working with a mix of tongue, lips, and a shit ton of spit.

Water slides down your cheeks and occasionally finds its way to your mouth. Not that you care. You glance up, catching his gaze. A carnal glint is in his stare, and he smiles. Fuck. The sight of him nearly takes your breath away. His jaw falls slack, his lips part, and his eyes lock on you—heavy-lidded and burning with something primal.

The tension in his thighs grow as you continue, a gradual acceleration in the way you take him in. The soft, wet sounds fill the air, almost louder than the water hitting the walls and floors, mingling with his labored breaths and low groans. His thumb brushes your cheek, a fleeting touch that feels oddly tender amidst the heat.

“Just like that,” Chan murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t stop. You’re—perfect.”

You give an experimental hum, letting it thrum in your mouth. Chan whimpers and it’s an absolutely beautiful thing to hear. You hum again, louder this time. Your chest heaves at the limited breathing but Chan is slowly losing his sense of control and it rouses you. There is another pool of warmth in your core, and you’re trying your best to rub your thighs together in your position, hoping to relieve a little bit of your need.

“You’re killing me,” Chan laughs to himself, head thrown back, words thorny with lust. His hands move to your shoulders, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fights the urge to thrust into your mouth. “I won’t last if you keep going like that.” His voice cracks, betraying the thin line of self-control he’s holding onto.

You pull back slightly, just enough to take a breath, and your lips glisten with the evidence of his pleasure. A mischievous smile tugs at your lips and you glance up again, locking eyes with him. The hunger and greed in his gaze sends your mind into a frenzy of heat, something deep and wild, as though you’re caught in the storm of his desire.

“Do you want me to stop then?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, teasing in its softness. There is a scratch in your words.

His lips curl into a grin, but it’s strained, the desperation clear in the way his eyes darken. “Hell no,” he clicks his tongue. “Just–don’t stop. You’re so fucking good at this, baby. You know what to do, right?”

There is no need for words. You nod at him, eager and wanting.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Good.” His hand finds its way back to your hair, pulling just enough to keep you in place. His cock lingers on your lips, and you open your mouth wide, waiting for him to push it in. “Hold on tight.”

He waits for you to gain a steady grip on the back of his thighs before he thrusts forward. The tension in his body snaps as you give and give and give. The taste of him, the sound of his labored breaths, the way he tenses under your touch—your lips, your tongue, the wetness in your slit. You give and give and give and he takes and takes and takes.

Just like he did earlier, when he indulged you. Your pleasure laid out, vulnerable and he just takes. Or the past 3 years, with your heart out in the open, unguarded and he just takes.

It all becomes a blur, this moment. He fucks your face so lewdly, desperate to reach his own high. One hand of yours moves downward, to your own clit. You rub in frantic patterns, aroused out of your damn mind.

His movements begin to stutter, thrusts sloppier. You hum in pleasure, of yours and of his, as your fingers move faster on your wet skin. Chan doesn’t even try to stop the filthy sounds rolling off his tongue and you’re sure he is nearing his limit.

He thrusts a few more times before he pushes in deep—reaching farther than he ever had for the past ten minutes of his cock being in your mouth. His tip brushes against the back of your throat and he stays there for a moment. You couldn’t help the obscene moan and Chan’s whole body shudders. His cock throbs in your mouth before he pulls you away, letting his cum release all over your chest.

Your mouth remains open, breathless and trembling. The moment falls heavy between you, and Chan takes a second before he brushes his fingers through your hair and guides you to stand up. He doesn’t say a word, immediately beginning to wash his cum on you. He grabs another pump of soap, letting it bubble in his hands before cleaning you with it.

“Chan,” you begin, the silence getting to you.

“Hm?” he hums simply. He doesn’t stop his hands, but he raises his head to look at you, pupils still blown wide. His breathing is slowly coming down. He offers you a gentle smile before leaning forward to kiss your cheek. “You did so well. I’m sorry if I went a bit rough.”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around his waist in an almost embrace. “It’s okay,” you assure him. “I like it.”

“You like it?”

His hands stop and his attention is now fully on you. He raises an eyebrow at your statement, confused. You feel a bit of shame but you continue. “I like it when you… when you just—take.”

Chan stays silent. He doesn’t react, or say a word. It’s hard to read his expression when it’s almost blank, and he continues washing your body until he just says, “Get on the bed and wait for me. Don’t bother putting anything on.”

Then it dawns on you. Whatever you just told him was dangerous. You’re not quite sure how, and to what extent, but something weighs on your chest when he turns the shower off and waits for you to step out. You don’t even need to be told twice.

You take your time drying yourself off with your towel, lingering for a minute on your slit. Still fucking wet. Heat creeps up your face at the realization and you immediately throw the towel into the basket of dirty clothes. There are extra towels, fortunately, stashed inside the small cabinet by your bathroom sink. You hang it up the shower door for Chan to use, not needing to inform him because you know he knows.

Stepping out of the bathroom bare naked lets you feel the temperature change in full. You realize how warm it was when you were in the bathroom with Chan. You shiver, feeling cold—the loss of a warm body, a presence, the slow decrease of arousal.

You walk your way to your bedroom, making sure to keep your feet light. The shower opens and you hear the water pattering again, then suddenly your arousal comes back in full force. Your bed is cool and unmade and you have half the mind to start toying with your pussy again, to feel at least half of what Chan had made you feel with his fingers. But that’s not what you were told to do.

The sound of the shower persists, steady and hushed, a stark contrast to the chaos in your chest. You spend the next minutes staring at the ceiling, waiting. It feels excruciatingly slow. Time doesn’t feel real, when the bathroom is right next door and you still hear Chan in there. You bite your lip, trying to focus on anything but the ache between your legs or the growing weight in your chest. It feels like he’s taking forever, like the space between you is widening with every drop of water hitting the floor.

Your mind betrays you, replaying the way his hands had felt on you, the way his voice dipped when he whispered praises in your ear. You wonder if he’s thinking about this. Thinking about you. You wonder if he regrets it. Or worse—if he doesn’t.

You close your eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grow louder. What does this mean? What are you supposed to feel? The heat of desire clashes violently with the icy grip of doubt, and suddenly you’re not sure which will win.

When the water finally stops, you sit up abruptly, heart pounding as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong. The sound of the door creaking open makes you swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You hear his footsteps, soft but deliberate, and then he’s there, standing by the doorway of your bedroom.

Chan doesn’t say anything first, just looks at you, his gaze unreadable. He’s towel-drying his hair, the damp strands sticking to his forehead, droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. You can’t look away, even though every part of you feels like you should.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” he says finally, his voice low and teasing, but there’s something in it—something wavering, like he’s waiting for you to tip the balance, unsure if he should pull back or push further.

You manage a weak laugh, though it feels hollow. “Not exactly.”

He steps closer, the tension in the room thickening with every movement. “You okay?” he asks, his tone softer now, almost gentle.

The question lingers in the air and for a moment, you think about lying, about brushing it off like you always do. About giving what he wants to take. But the words are stuck in your throat, you feel. You lean back on the pillows, enough to be comfortable but not fully lying down.

“I don’t know,” you admit, palms up on your thighs. The answer comes out frail and delicate.

Something shifts in his expression—concern, maybe, or guilt. He sets the towel aside, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and sits beside you on the bed. His hand hovers for a moment before he places it on your knee, his touch warm and grounding.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you hate how earnest he sounds, how much you want to believe that he cares.

You don’t doubt that he cares a little bit. Not as much as you do about him, though. Not as much as he thinks he does, nor as much as he did before, in the middle of the street. I love you, he said then.

“This isn’t going to change anything, is it?”

Such weight hanging heavy in the air feels suffocating. It feels like you have to grasp for air. For a moment, he looks like he might say something, but he closes his mouth, jaw tightening, and you choke.

It’s unbelievable, really. After all that, he just kisses you. His lips are on yours without warning and you melt into his arms. The kiss is careful at first, tentative, like he’s trying to find the words he can’t say in the press of his lips. But it’s not enough—not for you, not for what’s bubbling up inside you. Your hands grip his shoulders, turning your torso to him for a more comfortable position. You pull him closer, as if proximity could mend this. His hands move up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.

He guides you to sit on his lap, and you feel his hardness on your bum again. You swallow a sob back and Chan pulls away in surprise.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss but keeping his forehead pressed to yours. His voice is shaky, not like the teasing confidence from before. “Talk to me. Please.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper. “Not without…” Your voice trails off, but he seems to understand.

He presses, though. “Without what?” His tone is urgent yet gentle, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“Without losing you.”

Your body betrays you as you feel the heat back in your abdomen. It’s a filthy mix of hunger and misery. It boils down into something you’re all too familiar with: desperation. You roll your hips onto him and he whines. You harshly wipe away your tears with the back of your hands before pushing Chan’s chest down onto the bed. He seems taken aback, hesitant with the way he pulls his hands away. You had to grab it yourself, place it on your hips for him to hold onto.

“Make me feel good, Chan,” you plead. Another roll of your hips has you keening, his tip catching just by your entrance. “Please. Take me. Take everything that I am, I will give it to you.”

His eyes meet yours, searching, as if he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. You lean forward to let your hands touch his back, taking your time to go over every dip and curve. Then he nods, his hands moving to slide under your thighs and pulling you closer before flipping you over. He lays you down on the bed, and his gaze roams every bit of your face before he dips to kiss you again, until there is no more space left between you.

What follows isn’t rushed or frantic. It’s deliberate, every touch, every kiss, every movement laden with meaning. It’s like he’s trying to piece together what’s been fractured, even if it’s just for a fleeting moment. A hand slips between your bodies until it reaches your pussy once again. He feels your slick, not needing to prod as much as he did earlier.

Then he leans away, stroking his cock a few times, his head thrown back with the contact. It doesn’t take long before he lines it up on your entrance, and he moves down, almost putting his whole weight on you.

It’s raw, it’s tender, it’s everything you’ve been longing for and everything you know will never last. Not anymore. Funny it took you three long years to feel this. Funny it would the first and last you’ll ever get this from him.

There is no resistance when he thrusts inside you, deep and slow and whole. He stays put for a minute before you tap his back, letting him know you want him to move—you need him to move. He doesn’t deny you of that, so he pulls back until only the tip lingers inside you before pushing in again heavily.

A visceral sound leaves your lips as your jaw slackens. Chan continues his pace, growing faster with each passing minute and he keeps whimpering in your ear that it sends your mind into haywire. You’re not quite sure how to handle the crashing wave of lust your body is being washed over so the best you could do is hold onto him, fingers gripping the flesh of his back tight enough to feel hot. He moans louder.

Whether it takes thirteen minutes or three years doesn’t matter. It all comes down to the warm tears you feel on your jaw, and you’re not even sure if it’s still yours or if it’s already his. Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, pulling him back to your lips. This time, the kiss isn’t soft or tentative—it’s consuming. It’s every unsaid word, every broken promise, every ounce of love that lingers between you.

He withdraws, lips finding your ear instead before placing a chaste kiss on it. You’re sure now, his tears dropping onto your skin, burning and heavy. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. It comes quickly. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. He whispers it in your ear, like a prayer. What you once had with him felt sacred, untouchable, and yet here you are, unraveling it thread by thread. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou.

A long, drawn out cry sounds in your ear as Chan comes undone. You feel every bit of him inside you, and you body twitches as you finish with him. You hear a choked out sob from the man on top of you, and your chest tightens impossibly. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Not now, not before, and never after he leaves.

He stays inside you, cock tucked in your warmth, twitching a little. His cries continue for an amount of time you can’t even comprehend. Your eyes have long dried out now, but the space between your neck and shoulder remains wet with his tears. Your hands try to comfort him by rubbing his back, drawing circles in patterns you hope he recognizes. Soon, he turns quiet.

You feel his chest heave with yours. He stays on stop of you, putting his full weight but careful not to suffocate you. As if this whole thing wasn’t suffocating enough. It takes a moment for him to calm down completely, then he pulls out. He falls back away from you, sitting on the edge of the bed by your legs for a moment before you see him visibly relax.

He stands up to walk outside of the room. You don’t even dare to ask, to look at him and follow his movements. Chan comes back before you could even piece back your head with a towel in his hands. The bed dips where he sits before he leans forward to wipe the slick moisture on your folds. You hiss at the contact, realizing that the fabric is damp. He shushes you gently, continuing his ministrations with utmost care.

When he seems satisfied, he sets the towel away in the same place he did with his earlier. Silence lingers and you almost wish you were still in the shower, where at least the sound of water would fill in the empty air.

Chan returns to the bed, but he remains seated, his back facing you. It feels like a wall—strong, unyielding, and unreachable. You think it’s ridiculous now, realizing that there is a wall. There has always been a wall, hasn’t it? There is no way to climb it, to move past it. Invisible that it might as well not exist, yet it stands, separating you. You bury yourself under the blankets, the chill in the room seeping into your bones. You feel so small and cold and fragile. You could only stare at the ceiling, his presence beside you frustratingly overwhelming, yet so distant.

You’ve grown so accustomed to seeing his back facing you. You’re always behind him, following him along, wherever he goes and whatever he does. Always in front of you, always leading, but never turning to face you unless he’s searching for reassurance. You realize now how much you’ve relied on those fleeting glances back. They were your only proof that he still cared, still saw you. He looks back to take and you give. Sometimes you wonder which part of you is yours anymore.

You stare at his back and wonder how much of its dips and curves you’ve already memorized—how much of it you need to get to know more, the way they move and twitch and tremble under your touch. You stare at his back and wish he would just turn to face you.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he says, very quietly, like almost to himself in realization.

You almost don’t realize he said something. You heard every word, but your mind refuses to process it until a second later. And when it did, the room stills.

His words hang dull in the air, filling the room with a bittersweet ache. It’s like every sweet moment this room witnessed for the past three years disappears and there is only grief and misery in it. You want to reach for him, to cross the divide and tell him something—anything. But his back remains turned, and all you can do is fixate on the outline of his shoulders, tense and unmoving.

You mustered a small, mocking laugh. It’s weaker than you intended, but you’re in utter disbelief regardless. “You just fucked me on this very bed, Chan. I came twice today. Is that the only thing you came here for? A quick fuck?”

There is no use in making sharp remarks, but there is nothing else you could say. You’re grasping at straws and you know that.

“No, I…” Chan starts, then he sighs. He roughly ruffles his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry.”

Then it goes quiet yet again. Your mind is scrambling for words, but then, after a minute, you could only really ask, “Do you mean it? Is that what you really want?”

“No,” he answers almost immediately, shoulders heaving. Then he slackens again, almost like he’s curling into his own body, making himself small. “I don’t know what I would do if I look back and you’re not there.”

His voice is withdrawn, as if he’s confessing something he hadn’t admitted even to himself.

“Then why?”

“You’re always behind me,” he continues, words strained. “You’ve always been the one thing I could count on.” There’s a pause, and it feels like the weight of the moment is crushing him. “But what if you’re gone one day? What if I look back and you’re not there anymore?”

His admission stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. The vulnerability in his tone should comfort you, but instead, it exposes a deep-rooted wound. He only looks back to make sure you’re still following, doesn’t he? Never to meet you halfway, never to let you stand beside him.

And as fucked up as it seems, you’re willing to let that be until you can no longer understand what distance means. You’re willing to do all that, over and over again, just so he could stay.

He takes and takes and takes. And you give.

“Then why are you pushing me away?” You couldn’t help the bite in your words, angry and confused. “If you’re so scared, why leave?”

You want to scream. You want to clench your fists and punch a wall and hurt. Yourself, him. But it doesn’t come. The exhaustion overcomes you, and an ache in your chest swells. You wonder if it’s already too late.

“Because you’re like this!” he raises his voice, now matching your exasperation. “I’m giving you a chance to save yourself from me and you’re not taking it!”

Chan’s words hit like a slap, sharp and final. Your chest tightens in a mix of emotions you’re far too dizzy to comprehend. Hatred? Grief? Love? It’s all warring within you. You sit up, the blanket sliding off your shoulders and exposing your vulnerability as much as his words have exposed his.

“Save myself?” you scoff, incredulous. “I think I am way beyond saving, Chan.”

He stiffens. You don’t even give him a chance to respond before you continue, “And what about you?” you ask, your voice trembling. “When do you save yourself, Chan? When do you stop running from everything? From me?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “I’m not running,” he mutters, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than you.

“You’ve been running this entire time,” you counter, voice threatening to rise again. “From us. From what this could be. Three years. And now you want me to be the one to end it? To carry that burden so you don’t have to?”

His head drops, shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. For a moment, the silence between you stretches unbearably, like the final frayed thread of something you both know is about to snap.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he whispers, hoarse. “I thought… I thought letting you go would hurt less than holding on and breaking you completely.”

You let out a bitter laugh, louder this time. You meant for him to hear the distaste in it. Tears sting your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Chan. You don’t get to decide how much I’m willing to give.”

His head lifts slightly, and for the first time he turns to face you. His eyes are glassy, full of a pain you’ve rarely seen him allow himself to show. It breaks something inside you, seeing him like this. It breaks you even further, realizing he turns just like he always did: to see if you were still behind him, following.

“Then what do you want me to do?” His voice cracks when he asks.

You pause, your heart hammering. What do you want? The truth is, you don’t know anymore. You want him, but not like this—not as someone who sees you as a safety net, as a fallback. You know that now, regretting the thought of tolerating his bullshit just to keep him with you.

“I want you to want me the way I want you,” you say finally, voice soft but steady. Resolute. “Not as someone to hold you up when you’re falling. Not as someone to look back on when you’re scared. I want to stand beside you, Chan. I want to move forward with you, not be left behind.”

He shuts his eyes tightly, and your resolve almost falters when a tear slips down his cheek. “I don’t know if I can give you that,” he admits.

The words shatter the last bit of hope you were clinging to. You nod slowly, the realization settling over you like a cold, heavy blanket.

“Then maybe you’re right,” you say quietly. “Maybe I do need to save myself.”

And this time, you turn your back on him. You shift in your bed, lying on your side and staring at the clock by your bedside table. It’s hard, trying to pretend your legs aren’t shaking under the covers, trying to hide the quiver of your lips. Chan doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out to you, and that, more than anything, feels like the final nail in the coffin.

You pause, thinking of any words to say. For finality, for an end. All you could muster is, “I hope one day you stop running, Chan.”

If he leaves later that night, you don’t even know. It’s not like you could feel past the weight of the whole ordeal to even feel anything else.

That’s for you to find out tomorrow.

[ill0usainte]

Imagine Delinquent!Toji, who is busy discussing his plans for his men. A serious look on his face as he explains every detail on how they're going to raid a gang who tried to mess with them.

As he continued discussing-- his phone then rang. Making him stop talking, his men whispering to each other saying, "Dang, they're so doomed to call the boss during important meetings" They shared whispers, as they await for Toji's next move.

They knew damn well that their boss doesn't like being interrupted-- especially, if he's doing something important.

Toji's hand reached for his phone-- with a cute hello kitty charm attached to it, in the pocket of his pants.

People never really dared to ask him why he has that-- just assuming that it's probably a freebie attached to the phone case Toji bought.

What they didn't know is that his lovely girlfriend you gave that to him on your first date <3.

As he pulled out his phone, he looked at the caller ID-- it was you.

You've always been an exception to Toji-- his beautiful kick-ass girlfriend.

Toji knew he needed to answer the call-- if he doesn't, he'll be getting an hour of you scolding him when he gets back to your shared apartment.

Toji cleared his throat-- making his men straighten their backs as they stopped sharing whispers.

Toji stepped back from the table as his back faced the men behind him. His thumb swiping the accept call.

He doesn't turn the call into speaker-- like hell, he would.

He's the only one who can hear your pretty voice. The call continued for a few minutes-- just asking him when he's going home and that he should bring some food on his way home.

Toji's men couldn't help but exchange glances-- wondering who's the person their boss is talking to.

Moments go on, and you said goodbye to Toji-- adding a soft I love you and a sound of a kiss. Making the male's heart flatter inside-- of course! He doesn't want to show this side of his to his men--- he'd rather die.

"I love you most, sweetie" He said through the call-- a tone that only you can hear it. Only you.

"I think you're missing something" You answered back, Toji can tell you're probably pouting while on the call.

"Sweetie, my men are here" Toji chuckled, making you pout even more as you let out a soft "hmph" causing the raven-haired to shake his head in defeat.

"i love you" He repeated again, closing his eyes-- as he paused.

"-I love you most, sweetie" --adding a light kiss sound at the end-- loud enough for you and his men to hear. You giggled on the call, as you bid your goodbye to your boyfriend and ended the call.

His men couldn't believe what they just heard-- Toji slipped his phone back inside of his pocket, as he turned his body to his men. Facing them, as his serious demeanor came back.

"Now, which one of you punks heard me?"

[scribblesofagoonerr]

𝑀𝑜𝓃𝓀𝑒𝓎 Our Girl: Growing Up | 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐿𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼𝓈 𝒟𝒶𝓇𝓀

summary: monkey's dad has the social worker convinced everything is fine when the reality couldn't be further from the truth.

our girl: growing up masterlist

The entire ride to your dad’s house felt like a waking nightmare. The fear gripped your chest so tightly it was hard to breathe, and the closer you got, the more your stomach twisted into painful knots.

Every mile felt like you were being dragged further into something dark and suffocating, an inevitable doom you couldn’t escape.

Your social worker chatted idly in the front seat, her cheerful tone grating against the terror building inside you. You barely heard her words. All you could focus on was the rising dread of stepping into that house - a house that wasn’t home, and never would be.

“Alright, looks like we’re here,” Your social worker announced the words you had been dreading since you climbed in the car, “Ready to say hi to your dad?” She chirped, turning to you with a forced smile.

You shrank into your seat, desperately wishing you could disappear. The pit in your stomach grew heavier with every second, your hands clutching at the fabric of your jeans as if grounding yourself would keep you safe.

The memories came flooding back, vivid and sharp – The stench of alcohol on his breath, the cloud of cigarette smoke that clung to everything, the bruises he’d left on your arms when his temper flared. You remembered it all, every terrifying moment that made you flinch at loud voices and slammed doors.

And yet, somehow, he’d convinced everyone that he’d changed. That he was better.

You weren’t fooled – not entirely – but what could you do? You were just nine years old. To the adults around you, your voice didn’t carry the weight it should have. They saw your fear as uncertainty, your hesitation as resistance to change. 

No one wanted to listen to a kid. Nobody wanted to listen to you. 

Your heart pounded harder as the car came to a stop in front of the house. You stared at it, willing it to disappear, but it stood there, looming, mocking your fear.

Every part of you screamed not to get out, to stay hidden, to make the nightmare stop. But you knew you couldn’t.

Your social worker turned to you, her smile still there, but it wasn’t comforting. It felt forced, like she was trying to convince both you and herself that this was fine.

“Come on now,” She said gently, her voice warm but insistent, “It’s okay, It’s going to be fine. I’ll be right there with you,” She waited for you to move, but you just sat there, frozen, staring ahead.

Your body was tense, every muscle locked up in protest, “I… I don’t want to,” You whispered, so quietly you almost couldn’t hear yourself. Your throat felt tight, your words barely able to escape.

Your social worker’s expression softened, and she sighed, her patience unwavering, “I know, I know you might feel scared, sweetheart, but everything is going to be fine.” She told you in a gentle tone of voice, more patient than she was earlier when pushing you to say goodbye to Leah, just like she was coaxing a frightened animal out of hiding, “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Your hands were clammy, your palms sweating against the cold seatbelt. The world outside the car felt distant, unreal like you couldn’t quite make it through the fog of your own terror.

With a shaky breath, you slowly unbuckled your seatbelt, feeling your stomach twist in tighter knots. You hesitated before pushing the door open, the chill of the outside air only adding to the dread. 

Your social worker’s reassuring hand rested on your shoulder as she stood beside you, “You’re doing great,” She said, guiding you to the front door.

Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the earth itself was trying to drag you back. You could feel your heart pounding in your ears as you approached the door, the sound of the knock feeling deafening.

It was as if every second stretched out into eternity.

The door opened with a creak, and there he was. Your dad.

He looked different, but not by much. His scruff had greyed, and his eyes carried the weight of exhaustion, but the unsettling smile that tugged at his lips was the same – a smile that tried too hard to be convincing, like he was fooling everyone, even himself, into believing everything was fine. It made your skin crawl.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my kiddo,” Your dad, Mark, greeted you, his smile cold and forced as you stood frozen, clutching your bag, “You’ve certainly grown since I last saw you, haven’t you?”

His voice was too bright, too fake. It was like he was desperately trying to make everything feel normal, like this moment wasn’t suffocating you. But you saw through it. You always had.

“What, no hug for your old man?” Your dad joked, crouching down to your level and spreading his arms wide, expecting you to step into them.

“Hello again, Mark,” Your social worker stepped forward, her tone professional, yet polite, “I’m here to ensure everything goes smoothly with this transition,” She said, her eyes scanning your dad for any sign of something she might need to address, “How have things been, uh, since we last spoke?”

Your dad chuckled, the sound grating on your nerves, “Things have been good, real good,” He said, his hand resting on the doorframe as if were trying to look casual. But you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes flickered nervously toward you.

“You’ve made progress, right?” Your social worker’s voice held a touch of caution, and you could feel her eyes watching him, weighing his every word.

Your dad nodded quickly, too quickly, “Of course. Everything’s under control. She’ll be safe here. I’ve changed,” The way he said it, the words falling from his lips like they were rehearsed, made your stomach churn.

You didn’t believe him, not for a second.

But your social worker seemed to buy it. She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes, and gave a nod, “Good, we’ll be checking in regularly to make sure everything stays on track for you both.”

You stood there, your body trembling, wishing you could disappear, wishing you could escape, but all you could do was stare at the door and wonder how long it would take for the fear to come rushing back, like it always did.

“I see you are still into football, huh? I bet you’re the player of the match every game,” Mark tried to make conversation, his attempt at interest ringing hollow.

You turned toward the social worker, fear flickering in your eyes, “I… I don’t want to be here. I want to go back to Leah’s. Why can’t I stay with her?”

“This is your new home now, kiddo,” Mark cut in quickly, crouching to your level. His voice was gruff, trying to sound kind, “We’re gonna make it nice. Just you and me, yeah?”

“I… I don’t want to be here,” Your voice wavered as you shook your head, “Why can’t I go back?”

“It’s lovely here, Monkey–” The social worker began with a cheerful tone of voice.

“Don’t call me that!” You snapped your head toward her, her voice trembling with anger, “Only Le and Jordy get to call me that!”

The social worker’s smile faltered, her face flushing slightly, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Mark sighed heavily, placing a hand on your shoulder, “Come on now, there’s no need for that,” He said, his grip firm, “Hey, how about this? I’ll put up some goalposts in the garden. We can kick the ball around. Sound good?”

“No, thanks,” You muttered, pulling away from his hand.

“That’s alright. There’s plenty of time for us to figure things out, right?” Mark said with forced cheer, glancing at the social worker.

“Right,” Your social worker agreed, smiling faintly, “Well, I’ll leave you to get settled in. I’ll come by in a couple of days to check in and make sure everything is okay.”

“I… I don’t want to be here,” Your chest tightened as panic set in, “Please… Please don’t leave me here,” You begged, your voice cracking.

Your social worker knelt down beside you, “This is your new home now, sweetheart. You’ll be happy here with your dad.”

“Yeah,” Mark chimed in, straightening up, “It’s just me and you now, kiddo. We’ll be alright, won’t we?”

Tears prickled your eyes as you shook your head, “No, I… I don’t want to be here. I want Le,” You whispered, clutching your bag tighter as the reality of your new life began to sink in.

But you didn’t want to be here. You wanted to be with Leah and Jordan, where you felt safe, where things still made sense.

“Take a seat kid. The match is kicking off soon,” Your dad’s gruff voice cut through the silence, “I’ve got a good feeling about this game, you know? Those so-called Gunners are about to get a reality check.”

Your stomach dropped. Football games meant pain. The outcome of each match determined the mood of the night, and you knew your dad’s moods could turn in a dime. The thought of sitting through another night like this terrified you.

You didn’t want the social worker to leave, but soon enough, it was just the two of you in a house that felt cold and empty. Your dad didn’t waste time in turning his attention back to the TV, flipping through channels until he landed on the match he’d been waiting for.

You lingered in the doorway, the silence of the house pressing down on you, suffocating you. The hum of the television filled the space, but the victorious cheers from the screen only made you feel more alone.

The game between Arsenal and Chelsea – Your dad’s team – and it didn’t take long for it to become painfully clear that Chelsea was dominating. Arsenal was losing badly. Your dad, a lifelong Chelsea fan, was practically glowing with joy as the goals piled up.

When Chelsea scored yet another goal, making it 6 - 0, your dad threw his hands up in the air, grinning from ear to ear and shouting in triumph, his mood shifting into something unusually bright and triumphant as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“That’s how it’s done, eh?” Your dad grinned, not even looking over at you, “6 nil, that’s how you crush them. Gotta love it.”

You flinched at the sound of his voice, the sudden loudness making your heart race. He was too happy, too loud. It felt like the rest of the world had fallen away as he celebrated his team’s victory, oblivious to the fact that you were standing right there, desperately wishing to disappear.

Your dad glanced over at you, a wide smile on his face, “You used to watch the game with me, remember? Not gonna get upset about this, are you? It’s a big win for Chelsea.”

His words hit you like a weight, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t know how to respond. His cheerfulness felt fake, like he was trying to force normalcy in a moment that was anything but. 

You wanted to ask if you could leave, go back to Leah’s, to somewhere that didn’t feel so wrong or so… heavy.

But you stayed silent.

Your stomach twisted as you watched him bask in his victory, the scoreline a stark reminder of how powerless you felt in that moment, how trapped you were.

“Come on kiddo, sit down. I’m not gonna bite,” He said, motioning to the sofa, but you stayed frozen in pace, “Come on. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” His voice was warm, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You stood there for a moment longer, the sound of the game in the background like a cruel mockery of everything you wanted. You didn’t want to be here, not with him, not with the victory that felt more like defeat to you.

But what could you do? What could you say?

With a deep, shaky breath, you turned away from the doorway and shuffled toward the sofa, but everything about it felt wrong. Just like the house, just like the victory.

You didn’t belong here, and no matter how hard he tried to make you feel like you did, you knew the truth.

As the night fell, the house seemed even colder. The shadows in the corners of the room stretched long and lonely, creeping along the walls. You sat there, staring at the walls, at the empty space around you, feeling every inch of the house pressing in, suffocating you.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional muffled sound from the TV in the living room, where your dad continued to watch the game highlights.

This wasn’t your room, this wasn’t your home. You didn’t want to be here, it felt wrong, like you were living in someone else’s nightmare, trapped in a place that wasn’t yours.

The walls, the furniture, the way everything felt too still – This wasn’t your home. Home was with Leah and Jordan, where you felt safe, where the air didn’t feel thick with the weight of expectations and disappointment.

You pulled the blanket tighter around you, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. The cold seemed to seep into your bones, making everything feel even emptier. You needed something – someone – but no one was there.

And then, it hit you.

You didn’t have your stuffed monkey.

The realisation made your chest tighten. You hadn’t even thought about it until now, but the weight of not having him there with you was like a knife in your heart. Your stuffed monkey was your comfort, your safety, the thing that always made things feel just a little bit better, no matter how bad things got.

But he wasn’t here, and it felt like you were missing a piece of yourself.

The tears came before you could stop them. They started slow, and then built, faster and faster, until your face was wet with them. Your body trembled with silent sobs. 

You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to be weak, after all, you had promised Leah that you could be brave, but in this cold, empty house, with nothing but the distant sounds of a victory that didn’t matter to you, you felt more alone than you ever had before.

You curled up tighter under the blanket, hoping somehow the warmth of it would stop the tears. You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, but it didn’t stop the pain.

The ache in your chest. The fear.

And as the tears kept falling, you realised there was no escaping this – no running back to Leah and Jordan.

You were alone.

The next morning, it was like your dad was trying to show you he could be different, to convince both himself and you that things were fine. He seemed determined to act like everything was normal, maybe even better than normal.

“Hey, kiddo,” He said as you walked into the kitchen, “I was thinking, you’ve got that football thing coming up, don’t you? A match or something?”

You blinked, surprised, “Uh… Yeah, next weekend.”

Your dad nodded, his smile awkward but genuine enough to catch you off guard, “I’ll come. Watch you play. Haven’t done that in a while, right? I reckon it’d be nice for both of us.”

You didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, you wanted to believe him. But on the other, you knew how easily promises could feel apart. Still, the thought of him showing up gave you a glimmer of hope, “Okay,” You said softly.

“That’s the spirit,” He grinned, ruffling your hair, “Hey, I meant what I said to the social worker. You’ll still see Leah and… Jordan, is it, yeah? I’m not trying to keep them away from you.”

That part, at least, made you feel a bit better, “You promise?”

“Promise,” Your dad said, holding up his hand like he was swearing an oath, “I’ll even drive you over there myself if I have to.”

The day passed in a strange sort of normalcy, with your dad asking about football and school. It felt forced, but you didn’t want to question it. You clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

By the evening rolled around, you were jittery with anticipation. Leah had promised to call, and the thought of hearing her voice was the only thing keeping you from completely shutting down. The house still felt cold and unfamiliar, but knowing Leah could be on the other end of the line made it bearable.

When the phone rang mid-afternoon, you darted to the living room, “Is that her?” You asked, her voice trembling with excitement.

Your dad raised an eyebrow at your eagerness, but he handed over the phone without comment, “Yeah, it’s her,” He said, stepping back.

“Le?” You said, clutching the phone tightly. As soon as you heard her familiar voice, the knot in your chest loosened, “Le!”

“There’s my girl,” Leah’s voice warm and bright, like a hug over the phone, “It’s so good to hear your voice! How’re you doing? Are you settling in okay?”

You sat down on the sofa, a small smile creeping onto your face, “It’s… Okay,” You said, hesitating, “I miss you, and I miss Jordy!”

“I miss you too, Monkey. We both miss you so much,” Leah replied softly, sounding like she was trying to hold her tears back but you could hear the quiver in her voice, “I’ll see you soon, yeah? And you can call me anytime. I’m always going to be here for you. We both are.”

The conversation went on for a while, with Leah asking about your day and telling you about hers. It was the most you’d smiled since you moved in, and for a moment, you forgot about how empty the house felt.

When the call ended, you handed the phone back to your dad, your heart feeling lighter than it had been earlier that day, “Thank you for letting me talk to her,” You said.

Your dad gave you a tight smile, “Yeah, no problem, kiddo. Glad you’re happy,” But there was something in his tone, a tension you couldn’t quite place.

Over the next couple of days, your dad seemed to watch you more closely, especially whenever you brought Leah or Jordan up in conversation. You didn’t think much of it, too focused on the small bursts of joy her calls brought.

A few evenings later, Leah called again. You were in the kitchen when the phone rang, and you hurried into the living room, eager to answer. But your dad beat you to it, lifting the phone before you could reach it.

“Hello?” Your dad answered, his tone casual. 

You hovered nearby, waiting for him to pass it to you.

“Oh, yeah… No, she’s already in bed,” He said after a pause. His words stopped you in your tracks. You weren’t in bed. It wasn’t even your bedtime yet.

A chill ran down your spine. Why didn’t he let you speak to her?

Leah’s voice was faint, but you could hear the confusion in her tone, “Already? Isn’t it a bit early for her?”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long day,” Your dad said smoothly, his tone light but firm, “I’ll let her know you called.”

Your stomach sank, a deep unsettling feeling settling in your chest, “Dad,” You whispered his name, your voice trembling, “Dad… Is that Leah?”

Before Leah could say anything more, your dad quickly hung up the phone. He turned to face you, still smiling, but there was something behind his eyes that your skin crawl, “Nah, just someone from work,” He said, brushing it off, “It’s getting late, go get ready for the bed.”

You stood there for a moment, staring at the phone, confused and hurt, “But… I thought she was gonna call.”

“She probably forgot, kiddo,” Your dad said, waving a hand dismissively, “Now, go on. Don’t make a fuss.”

You stared at him, unsure of what to believe. Your heart felt heavy, and the unease gnawed at you, “Are you sure it wasn’t her?”

Your dad sharpened his gaze, and his voice became more firm, more final, “I said it wasn’t her. Now drop it.”

The finality in his tone made you flinch and without a word, you turned and walked back to your room, the unanswered question hanging in the air. The disappointment pressed down on you like a weight, and you felt a familiar coldness creep back into your chest.

Your social worker’s next visit came in the middle of the following week, a day like any other but still somehow heavy with anticipation. You tried to keep yourself small and hidden, out of the way, as your dad greeted the woman at the door, offering a forced smile that made your stomach churn.

The entire time, it felt like a blur, a series of questions and answers that passed by too quickly for you to catch your breath. You didn’t like the way your dad pretended to be someone he wasn’t, and it didn’t feel right.

There was something off about it, like he was trying too hard.

“Hey, kiddo,” Your dad called from the living room, where he was sitting with the social worker, “Come on in and say hi. They want to know how things are going, right?”

You shuffled into the room, eyes downcast as you felt the uncomfortable weight of the situation. Your social worker smiled warmly at you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her gaze. 

You didn’t feel you belonged here. Not in this house. Not with him.

“So, how have things been going?” She asked, looking between you and him.

“Oh yeah, they’ve been great!” Your dad’s voice was too loud, too eager. He sounded like he was trying to convince both himself and everyone else that everything was fine, “We’re having a fantastic time together, right, kiddo?”

You blinked, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, and you knew what he expected from you. You had no choice but to force a weak smile and nod, the words too thick in your throat to speak, “Yeah…”

 “That’s wonderful to hear!” Your social worker smiled, unaware of the tension in the room, “Mark, you seemed to have really changed.”

You could hear the pride in your voice, and it made your stomach twist. 

Your dad’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was too eager to play the part, to act like the father he thought he should be, “Having my Monkey here makes me become the better man. A better father to her.”

The words struck you like a slap to the face. You couldn’t hide the discomfort that spread through you.

Monkey.

The nickname Leah and Jordan had given you, the one that meant something real, something safe. And now, he was using it, twisting it into something it was never meant to be.

You wanted to argue, to say something, but you couldn’t. You knew better than to challenge him, especially not in front of the social worker. You stayed quiet, your hands shaking in your lap.

“I’m really pleased to hear that, Mark,” Your social worker said, her voice warm, “And sweetheart? Are you happy here?”

The question should’ve felt like a lifeline, a chance to finally speak up, but it felt like a trap. The house was cold, everything about it felt wrong, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

Instead, you forced out the words, the ones you knew your dad wanted to hear.

“Yeah,” It came out hollow, but you couldn’t help it. You were too scared to say anything else. The fear of what would happen if you told the truth was too strong.

The social worker didn’t seem to notice. She smiled and jotted something down in her notes, “Well, it seems like things are improving. I’m happy to hear that. It’s really good to see you two getting along so well.”

As she stood up to leave, you felt a knot of frustration in your stomach. You had to sit there, nod and smile, even though everything inside of you screamed that this wasn’t right.

Why didn’t you just speak up when you had the chance?

Your dad’s act had worked. Your social worker was completely fooled. You were stuck, unable to say anything that would make it stop.

When the door closed behind your social worker, the silence was deafening. Your dad stood up, his posture stiff, as if he was proud of what he had just pulled off. You could feel his eyes on you, watching for any sign of resistance. You kept your head down, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to give him any reason to lash out.

That same evening when he called you into the living room to talk, you couldn’t escape the tightness in your chest. You had to keep playing along, or it would all fall apart. 

Your dad didn’t seem to notice your hesitation as he sat down, a forced smile still on his face, “See, kiddo? Everything’s fine now. The social worker thinks we’re doing great.”

You nodded, the fake smile still in place, but inside, everything felt wrong. The house felt colder now, the emptiness more suffocating.

And then you said it. The wrong words at the wrong time.

“I miss Leah. I… I wish I could go back,” It was a slip of the tongue, but it was enough for your dad’s anger to return.

His face shifted instantly, his eyes narrowing and the smile slipping off his face, “You want to go back to them, do you?” His voice was scarily low and dangerous, laced with venom, “You want your precious Leah and Jordan? Too bad. You’re stuck with me.”

Before you could even try to explain, he stormed off, his footsteps heavy and fast. You heard the sound of the kitchen cabinet slamming, then the unmistakable clink of glass. Your stomach dropped when he returned with a bottle in hand – whiskey.

You could feel the terror building up inside you. Whiskey meant he was no longer the man he pretended to be. It meant anger. It meant violence. It meant fear.

Your dad wasn’t a nice man when he drank at all, and the bruises were enough to show for that in the past.

“You see this bottle?” He hissed, holding it up like a weapon, “You’re the reason I drink, you little brat. Always whining. Always complaining. Now you’re asking for Leah and Jordan all the time. I can’t take it anymore.”

Your body went cold. The words stung, but you couldn’t fight back. You just sat there, frozen in place, watching as he raged on. The fear kept you silent, kept you from speaking, from fighting.

“You want them? Too bad. You don’t get to have everything your way,” Your dad’s cold voice sneered, and there it was.

That haunting familiar tone of voice that sends a chill down your spine, and left you cowering in the corner of the room.

The anger in his voice was suffocating. You stared at the floor, blinking back tears, but they came anyway. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You had tried so hard to keep the peace, to make everything okay, and now it was all falling apart.

When he finally left the room, slamming the door behind him, the silence that followed felt more suffocating. Broken and alone. The house felt even colder now, the emptiness more pronounced. You wanted to scream, to run to Leah, to have her hold you and tell you everything would be okay.

But you couldn’t.

Your dad was right, and you were stuck here, stuck with him, and pretending that everything was okay when it clearly wasn’t.

© scribblesofagoonerr

[bitchface24-7]

bestie do you happen to know of you could find it in your heart to write for my FAV senior citizen. Silco. (I MISS HIM)

The tiktok ban has made me deprived. Please let me know at your earliest convenience. I will now go back to fighting my demons and missing my shayla. (I hope you are having a good day!)

YOUR DAD’S KINDA HOT… - SILCO X READER

synopsis: you've been friends with Jinx for years now, you're a few years older than her but you two are as thick as thieves. So don't ask how this conversation came up… you have no idea.

warnings: age gap (silco’s like late 30s to early 40s, reader is early 20s), teasing, banter (jinx makes fun of you), overheard conversations, fear of discipline, flirting, suggestiveness

genre: m/f or m/m

p.s. SILCOOOOO 😩😍 I've been down bad since S1 but people would jump down your throat if you said anything about him. The art book definitely spoiled us

You have no idea how your conversation took this turn. Here you are, sitting with Jinx as she works on her bombs in her little lair, having a good time when all of a sudden she asks, “Do you think Silco is hot?”

A sputter is heard as you cough and thump your chest, trying to unchoke yourself from your drink going down the wrong pipe.

“What?!” your voice is whiny in incredulous. No seriously… what?! Where did that come from?!

Jinx casually shrugs, “I won’t be mad y’know. You're not very subtle, just tell the truth toots.”

Your lips thin in contemplation. I mean… you’re not blind? You have eyes? Should you honestly tell his daughter that you think he's attractive?

Jinx appreciates honesty, and loyalty; the same as her dad. She's your best friend, you've never lied to her. And you're not gonna start now.

Even if it’s an uncomfortable topic.

You sigh, face scrunching up is displeasure, “Yes Jinx. I think your dad is hot… I’m not blind, duh.”

She cackles at you, “Seriously?! You could have any guy ya want, and you go for him, my old man?! Finn’ll be heartbroken.”

“He can stay heartbroken! I've got much a finer taste than… that. Silco’s strong, level-headed, and handsome. He values honesty and loyalty. Finn’s… Finn.”

Jinx’s reply is cut off by a deeper voice, “That you do my dear, that you do. Jinx, continue working on your bombs. The ones I see so far are perfect. You, come with me.”

It’ Silco.

Fuck, it’s Silco!

You gulp as Jinx just smiles at the praise, you slowly raise from your seat and follow the kingpin. A frantic look is shot Jinx’s way as you mouth “Help me!”

Jinx giggles at you and winks. You'll be getting no help from her. She's taken too much time planning this moment, she's not letting all her hard work go to waste!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The walk back to Silco’s office is tense, you're tempted to jump out a window and hopefully die in the fall to escape this cloying feeling.

It’s too late, you're doomed.

Is your only thought as Silco opens the doors to his office, ushers you in, and locks the doors behind him. You're trapped with a lion, and you’re nothing but a beetle.

He's gonna kill you.

“Sit.” Is all he says as he walks to his drink cart and pours you both two fingers of bourbon. You sit down immediately and fidget lightly. Ok… so maybe he's not going to kill you.

Yet.

He plops a cup into your hand and gracefully walks around his desk and sits down. He's not wearing his coat you realize. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms and you get to see how tiny his waist is.

God he so hot.

In your appreciation of Silco, you don't see him take a swig of his drink and look you over as well. Hmm, looks like you were telling the truth.

Time to make things interesting.

“So, you find me attractive?”

You gulp looking down to your lap as you quickly bring your glass up to your lips and take a large swig, “Yes sir.”

“Hmm. How curious, you find a man old enough to be your father attractive. What's that say about you?”

“It says I prefer things that have aged finely. Like how you feel about this burboun.”

Silco chuckles, you’re quick. Smart as a whip. Loyal. Honest. Attractive.

He's noticed you for a while now, always on his radar due to Jinx. He appreciate’s your care for his daughter, how you’re with her constantly and protect her. He knew you as a teen, he knew you'd grow up into a attractive adult.

He knew he’d be right.

He knew that you have denied all advances made on you. No partner, no romantic or sexual relationships. The main reason why he knows that is you essentially live with him and Jinx.

He knows how you've looked at him over the years, ignoring their heat. But now… you're an adult. You've finally admitted your attraction.

He's going to take what’s rightfully his.

He's going to see what you've been hiding under your clothes, he's going to take you apart piece by piece. He's going to have you on his desk, his bed, in front of the large window in his office. He's going to feel your lips, how soft your skin is. How nice your hair would feel in his grip.

(You’re going to deeply enjoy it.)

(The two of you hope Jinx won’t be hiding in the office in the rafters as her dad devours you.)

(She wasn’t, thankfully. But she did have a knowing look on her face for like a week.)

(She still pats herself on the back to this day.)

He's a bad man but fuck is he hot! Hope y’all enjoyed this ❤️❤️ also I think the US has tiktok again? I saw the sad goodbyes last night, no Americans this morning on the app, then I took a nap and creators from the US were posting again?? I was so lost LMAO

[sweetchillipeppers]

Jason Todd x Reader - Teacher AU

Pairing: Jason Todd x Gender Neutral!Reader

A/N: Y’all what if I actually got back into writing fics? I didn’t know I could do that. But write what you want to see. And I want to see English teacher by day, Red Hood by night Jason Todd with History teacher reader so sue me. More importantly, I want to see Damian in reader’s classroom at lunchtime bitching about his brother. I already have part two, so that will be posted soon. (And y’all get to have a look at the Red Hood!)

Also I believe this is gender neutral if anyone sees gendered language let me know and I'll fix it.

Tags: Rivals to lovers, kind of mutual pining, Teacher AU Word Count: 3368

Pt 1 Pt 2

You were warned that teaching would be just like high school all over again. The same cliques and bullies and drama that plagued the halls when you were 15, to be repeated now that you’ve returned to the school as an adult. To think that fully grown human beings are still caught up in the same scandals, doomed to the same behaviour 10 years after they should have grown out of it. You never would have believed it until you saw it yourself. Until even you devolved to your teenage years, developing a deep hatred for a fellow colleague. Okay. Hatred was a strong word for the rivalry but the dislike you held for a certain English teacher was real. And right now, he was the reason you’ve had to delay a test for your students. The email you’d received less than 10 minutes before your class was due to start did nothing but add to the rage you felt.

“10th grade English stream A2 is running over. 7 kids still need to present their projects. They’ll be late for their next class. Sorry for the delay.” 

Attached was a list of students in the class who would be late. All unsurprisingly in your history class. Mr Jason Todd had no respect for you, no respect for your time and no respect for your subject.

As the two youngest teachers at the school, you were often paired together: volunteer work, lunch duty, after school workshops. It didn’t help that your two departments, history and english, also worked closely with one another. You hated that the kids adored him. You hated that the other teachers still adored him, especially after all his flakiness. You knew that he hadn’t appeared at over half the after school volunteer work you had to do, and that he likely had an active social or dating life that was the cause, something you missed since becoming a teacher. So maybe, the hatred was all just jealousy. NOT. As if you’d be so petty.

When you first met Jason, you liked him. Like really liked him. He was pretty and smart and you are oh so attracted to competence. You trapped him in literary discussions from the Brothers York to the Odyssey but he never minded. You threw a couple joint trip ideas around to go see a local Shakespeare play after Christmas or the early 19th century writers exhibition at the museum. He was also the rugby coach and his practice on the field coincided with your volleyball team’s in the hall so twice a week you tidied the equipment cupboard together. You were so certain the two of you would be fast friends. Maybe more. So when the librarian went on paternity leave in October and Jason needed help re-cataloguing the entire library onto the new system you volunteered. A chance to spend time with someone you liked and helping out the school: a win-win. What you hadn’t expected was that what should’ve been a couple hours at most after school for a week turned into a month-long endeavour for you. Only you. Jason would stay for at most 20 minutes before running away with some kind of excuse and vanishing for the rest of the night. By the third week, you’d started cataloguing during your lunch breaks to try speed up the process (and to avoid spending any time with him while your temper simmered under pleasantries). After that you distanced yourself. He clearly had no respect for your time and you by extension. No more literary discussions in the staff room. No more joint tidies in the equipment store and no more library cataloguing. Mr Jason Todd was the most unreliable colleague you had. The bane of your existence. And yet, everyone seems to forget this fact when he flashes a smile or starts talking about classic literature. But not you. No, you could see through his gorgeous face, past those good looks into the depths of his terrible personality. And unfortunately, the only person who agreed with you was a child.

“Todd irritates me far too often. I put in a request at the start of the year that I would not be in any of his classes.” Damian states matter of factly. The two of you were sat in your classroom eating lunch. The youngest Wayne opting to spend time surrounded by history displays instead of braving the lunch hall and eating alone. And, as the teacher, it was your responsibility to encourage him to make friends. After the two of you bitch about Jason of course. 

“I wish I could put in a request to stop seeing him in the staff room. But no, he wanders in with his fancy books and his fancy teas-”

“Those would be Pennyworth’s” He confirms.

“-Flashes a smile and expects me to be nice to him after how flakey he’s been. Can you believe it?”

Damian swallows a bite of his sandwich and nods solemnly. “I can.”

“He’s incredibly unreliable. I mean how do people give him any responsibility after this?” Your arms gesturing wildly.

“Perhaps this is weaponised incompetence. I always say to Father that he is too incompetent for his job.” Damian suggests, shaking his head. “But Father says that he is one of the most competent people he knows”

It’s not too hard to be competent in front of ‘Brucie’ Wayne. But you don’t tell Damian that.

“No, he's definitely competent enough. I know he’s incredibly intelligent and I sat in for one of his classes. He clearly just has zero time management skills.”

“And he lacks respect.”

“And he lacks respect!” You shout, then realise you should probably calm down and sheepishly rub the back of your neck. Although it seems that Damian hadn’t cared about your outburst.

“I am the blood son, he should at least be respectful to the rightful heir. But no, he and Grayson make a habit of tossing me about like a basketball.”

That sounds quite sweet to you, that Damian’s older brothers treat him so nicely and the disagreement must show on your face because Damian scoffs.

“Pennyworth tells me it’s ‘Sibling Bonding’. I do not wish to think of those two imbeciles as related to me.”

“The curse of being the youngest.” you offer in response, “Although it sounds like they want to be playful with you. That they want a good relationship.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending Todd right now.”

You huff at that, changing the subject. “Maybe you should make some other friends, that way you can spend less time with your brothers. Think of it as an escape plan.”

“Are you not my friend?” 

“Um well, yes, but I meant some kids your own age.”

“Ah. Father agrees. He says that Jon is not enough. That I need more than one friend. How many friends do you have? I will achieve the same.” Damian looks determined, which means you’re at least getting through to him. You, on the other hand, feel like a deer in headlights. Honestly you can count the number of friends you have from outside work on one hand. 

“I have lots of friends.” You brag. Damian does not look convinced. “How about you aim to make two more friends? Maybe you should join a club. Ms Song says you excel in her art classes. The art club meets on Tuesday lunchtimes and after school on a Wednesday.”

“I enjoy my lunches in the history room.”

“But this would work for both of us Damian. I start lunchtime duty next week on Tuesdays. I won’t be in my classroom.” A lie, of course, but you really want Damian to make some friends and be more social amongst the other students. You’re not sure who’s timetabled for Tuesday lunchtime duty but you’ll find a way to swap. And luckily, Damian doesn’t call your bluff.

“Fine. I shall join the art club. I suppose it is only fair that I do something uncomfortable as well.”

You have no idea what Damian is talking about but he’s joining the art club so that’s a win for you. He’s putting himself out there socially and that’s all you can hope for. The bell rings and Damian packs up his things, leaving you to get ready for your next class. 

By the end of the day you were still thinking about how much you hated Jason. It’s not like he was the only thing on your mind though. In all honesty the only thing you had learnt from the earlier half of your conversation with Damian is that you were acting like a 14 year old. Not to say neither of your grievances were invalid but you suppose you should maybe give Todd slightly more grace than you do currently. Especially if he already has one enemy in Damian. You think back to the incident this morning. Maybe it really was an accident. Sometimes projects and classes over run. You have to be flexible in teaching. You gather your materials together when the bell rings and your last class rushes out the door. 

“For those of you coming on the trip on Saturday, meet outside the school bright and early!” You call, “The coach leaves at 8.30!”

You sit back down and stretch your arms out as you log into your emails, sending one to the maths teacher asking to switch to her lunchtime duty on Tuesdays. She replies yes and you smile in success. Plan ‘help Damian make friends’ has finished stage one. Wonderful! Scanning the latest reminder from your principal, someone knocks at the door, drawing your attention away. You figure it might be Janice, one of the cleaners or Alejandro the receptionist. “Come in.” you say, and turn back to your emails.

“Where’s good to start setting up?” You would recognise that grating voice in a heartbeat. Jason Todd. You swivel so fast in your chair you almost fall out of it. 

“What are you doing here?” You try to sound as neutral and as unaffected by his very presence as possible. 

“Parents' evening. We’re sharing a classroom. The email went out three weeks ago and a reminder today?” You turn back to the monitor. The last unread email. Damn. You’d agreed to share a classroom when you were still on good terms. 

“I must’ve missed it. I’m ready to start setting up right now.” You smile through gritted teeth.

You were so wrong about giving grace. That man has done nothing but step on your toes all afternoon. That display should be changed, these books should be out, example essays from each subject should have no overlap. And the worst part is that he was right on most counts. But you don’t take lightly to being ordered around by a man who does nothing but infuriate you. In less than an hour the parents will be walking into your room and judging you and the school and you again and Jason still isn’t back. He better be in the toilet having a case of explosive diarrhoea or so help him god, the principal will have to scrape his remains off the teacher car park. It’s been 20 minutes. You suppose the classroom is prepped and ready for the parents so you could just wait anxiously by yourself. You suppose nothing was tethering him here when the displays were done as long as he made it back before the parents. You suppose he wouldn’t want to spend time with someone who had become so hostile and jagged towards him. Maybe he was talking with some of the other teachers, you reasoned. He hadn’t abandoned you again. Not after the promises about turning up and being here. And certainly not after the principal’s second reminder email that seemed more like a warning. Perhaps you should go see if any other teachers needed help last minute as well. To keep your mind busy and away from the failure Jason was setting you up for. You lock your classroom and walk towards the art room.

Jason was running late again. Dick had called in an SOS and he was closest. And to make up for it he figured it wouldn’t matter if he stopped to grab a coffee for you each as a peace offering. He did enjoy your company after all. He knew that your iciness these past few weeks had been well deserved. He didn’t mean to miss all the cataloguing but it was a particularly active week for Black Mask and Penguin and then the week after that he was recovering from a stab wound he’d gotten during a routine drug bust. Getting a second job had taken some getting used to. So he could hardly blame you for your hostility. He knew he deserved it. So in order to make amends, he grabbed you a drink from the cafe two blocks from the school before he joined you in your classroom, ready for parents evening. He signed back into the office before catching a glimpse at the time. Shit. You were going to be so angry if he was late again. So he sprinted like a madman, ignoring all his very new teacher instincts about running in corridors. As Jason rushed towards your classroom he didn't notice the art room door open and you step out, waving goodbye to Ms Song. 

The apology coffee ended up all over you. Seeping through your sweater and your shirt. Your nice, white shirt, ironed and pressed for parents' evening. You take a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to-” Jason starts.

“It's okay Jason, really.” You swallow and turn to keep walking to your class. You were trying not to lose it. Not to cry or yell, when parents could walk through the door at any moment. Jason trailed behind you. When you walk into your classroom he calls your name. 

“What?” You snap. You have run out of patience and out of grace for him. He takes off his knit jumper, passing it to you.

“It’ll help cover the stain.”

“It’ll be weird though won’t it?” You question, eyebrow raised. You knew exactly what the staff room would sound like on Monday if anyone saw you. 

“Is that worse than letting the principal see you talking to parents covered in coffee?”

You don’t reply. He was right, per usual. You take the jumper, unenthusiastically and pull it on. It smells like him. Not that it would mean anything to you of course, it’s just a smell. It has absolutely zero effect on you. Jason was also not faring too well. Seeing you in his jumper was quite endearing. But it had no effect on him either. Everyone looked good in knit. Thankfully, you both hear the parents walking around the corridors and are able to break the awkwardness. 

“Ready to go?” He asks.

“People will like history way better than English.” You promise in response, looking at your display on ancient civilisations, matching your 9th grade class’s current topic. The bright colours and big posters were sure to catch everyone’s eyes.

Jason smirks, “More people like Shakespeare than you think.” He references his own display: a large, badly drawn, picture of Shakespeare with literary technique thought bubbles surrounding him. You roll your eyes, desperately trying to stop any trace of a smile. You were still angry at him. But right now, the parents need your attention.

The two of you finally finished the evening. It had been taxing, no thanks to your revived rivalry. You spent the entire evening one-upping each other to parents, as subtle as possible of course. When the principal had checked in on your pair, you were sweet as saints. No matter how much you disliked the man, even you couldn't deny how well you worked together. He apologised multiple times about the coffee. He really did feel bad about it all. The spill really was an accident. He also apologised for his flakiness, but gave no explanation as to why he had abandoned you for weeks on end. You found no reasonable explanation incredibly hard to believe. So you still didn’t trust him. 

When the final parents left and the two of you began the tedious task of tidying, you walked up to him. “Just because we’ve worked well together tonight does not mean I forgive you. I know you’ve said sorry but until you prove it I don’t believe you.” You used your teacher voice but kept it low enough that the few listening ears wouldn’t have the chance for any gossip. Jason nods, gulping. You continue to work in silence. When the two of you finished packing everything away, highly efficiently you might add, you knew you ought to talk to Jason about Damian. No matter how much his brother disliked him, you knew you needed to talk to him about Damian. You wanted his family to encourage his creativity as both an outlet and a means to relax and socialise. You casually leant against a desk and spoke up. 

“This might be too personal-” Jason perked up at your voice. “-but I was wondering if you could ask your family to encourage Damian’s art and creativity. I’m aware he doesn’t really have many friends-” Jason scoffs and you stare him down. He was a grown man. He needed to act like one.

Jason breaks the silence, “He has one friend, Jon. He lives in Metropolis. They see each other pretty regularly.” Jason shrugs. “Does he really need more?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You need to think like a teacher. Stop looking at him like your kid brother and see him as a child having trouble connecting with his peers. I want him to have someone to talk to while at school. Someone who is not me. And not you.” You add, even though you know Damian likely ignores his entire existence. “I’ve asked him to join the art club and go on Tuesday lunchtimes. I’m sure Ms Song has told you about how talented he is.”

“She hasn’t. You’re the only teacher who knows we’re related.” Jason shrugs again. His nonchalance was getting on your nerves. 

“What?”

“The school board and principal know, obviously. But we thought it would be better that his peers didn’t. We didn’t want him being accused of favouritism.” You suppose that makes sense. That could have isolated him further. Jason stepped towards you. “And you only know because of your bitching sessions.” Your eyes widen. “Yeah I know about those.” Jason taunts. 

This man. The nerve! And after you had graciously half-forgiven him. Surely Damian had not spilled the beans to his asshole brother. No. Jason probably found out by spying or some very nefarious plot. Why would he care anyway? Everyone else at this stupid school adored him. You were indulging his kid brother and helping him talk about his feelings. You were not in the wrong here. Jason was. And he was also far too close to you now. You don’t even know when he got so close. So close to one another that you could see every freckle. Every scar. Every pore on his gorgeous face. You were too close. And you knew you were flushing. You felt so hot. FROM REVITALISED LOATHING AND HATRED OF COURSE. Not from embarrassment. Or any other emotion. You steel your eyes. He would not know how much he affected you. Stupid smirking men do not get to win. You stand up straight and look him eye to eye. “Encourage Damian’s creativity. Your brother deserves more friends.” You dodge past Jason and grab your bag from under your desk. You motion for him to grab his shit. He does so and walks out, heading straight for the office to leave. Allowing you to lock up your classroom by yourself, in the empty school, not thinking about how close the two of you had been. Never thinking about his eyes or his hair or his lips. Peeling off his jumper and staring down the ugly brown coffee stain on your shirt, only thinking about the ways Jason had wronged you.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[qinchez]

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ PAIRING: myth/dragon sylus, x female mc ( mc’s name is surina ).

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ SUMMARY: tidbits of conversation have an immediate effect on sylus, making him reminiscent his earlier days with his beloved.

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ GENRE: very myth focused. heavy angst. no comfort.

━ .ᐟ₊⊹ NOTES: i started writing only recently and english isn’t my first language so take this with a grain of salt. quotes mentioned are not mine but canonically in the game.

“i made it while you were getting your marshmallows. i didn’t have a lot of time, so the final product is rough around the edges …. are you satisfied with it, my beloved?”

ruby eyes facing iridescent ones. warmth being spread along one’s face and through their hearts, the source of heat not caused from the bonfire but the blossoming feelings exchanged between them both.

“yes … i am.”

it seems that she liked the flower crown he made for her. good. it made him happy that she did, but little did she know that wasn’t the first time she was given one from him.

she had forgotten, all memories of him gone, and it hurt more than expected. he didn’t blame her per say, but having to act as if she was a stranger, as if she wasn’t the one he loves, the one he longed for after waiting for so long to meet her hurt.

glimpses and flashbacks of were all he had of their doomed past.

surina was the sole reason for his humanity. the girl who named him. sylus, the ruthless, decisive, cruel, and merciless leader of onychinus, named by his beloved. even after his death and even without her remembering anything, he still chooses to go by said name. kindly welcoming the remaining fragments of her instead of nothing at all. the feeling of her being a part of his life is something that he has always longed, sometimes even, begged for.

she had taught him to be human. having such a profound effect on sylus. she was the one who gave him a purpose and a sense of humanity, these no longer welcome fragments still remaining a part of him, accepting whatever parts of her remain. her influence on him so deep that he chose to continue living under the name she had given him. her lasting impact on him was so significant that sometimes he yearned for her to be there, even in just some small capacity.

he had always clutched onto his humanity, in his own words, mistakingly believing he was a normal person. growing up and thinking he was one and trying to bend his identity into something he is not, refusing to come to terms with the fact that he is not human anymore, but a monster instead. he was scared. not only was his appearance changing, but his entire view of himself. who is he? who has he become? the very way he saw himself was now tainted.

her love acted like a balm over his injuries. as if she’s wiping away the blood from injuries caused by his own self. the act is so tender, a stark reminder of the way she viewed him, the way he wished to be viewed. like her equal, her companionship, and her love. he would love to simply exist as the man she loves.

accepting his identity as a monster also meant the fact that he always had a soft spot for animals. dragons have long been depicted as mythical monsters with powers and a fearsome presence. they are creatures of legend that inspire fear and awe in those who hear their name, always associated with destruction and chaos, yet symbolizing creation along with destruction. sylus had always been aware of this perception, sometimes even choosing to bask in it all. after all, he is strong, fearsome, and capable of unleashing destruction. although sometimes, that perception couldn’t be more different than what he is or wanted to be. people often thought of dragons as cursed animals. ones that should be locked away and are incapable of any love and affection, not knowing that said deemed impossible human love would be the cause of this dragon’s demise. a creature that is always perceived incapable of harboring such emotions, and an animal that could never be human, falling utterly in love. a love that made him thought he could live as a human too, and one that couldn’t last long.

a dragon’s curse that consists of killing his beloved. one that the two fated lovers … two star-crossed lovers whose fates and souls are entwined, could not escape, no matter how much they tried. no matter how many tears were shed and no matter their relentless efforts, it would always be futile. doomed by the narrative, the two lovers’ unwavering fight against their fate will never suffice. fate will continuously plunge the two lovers into the abyss as was written. the blood-red greatsword constantly reappearing, longing to be thrust into the dragon’s ruby like chest.

his heart, gleaming and vulnerable always seemed to beckon the blade. as if it was begged to be destroyed, as if his death was the key to some greater truth. she, his lover, was doomed to forever be his arch-nemesis. continuously finding herself the unwilling hand of fate, and the wielder of the cursed sword.

“….. you must press on. because if you don’t … there’s no going back.”

no matter how much she tried, how much she strained her own body to stop it all, it’s as if her body had a mind of its own, refusing to be controlled by her. agonizing screams pierced the abyss yet fell upon deaf ears. and to make matters worse, he was the one further plunging the sword further into his own chest. she knows him well enough to recognize that this is his last act of rebellion against their predestined fate, and a final laugh in the face of the curse, ending it on his own terms.

her hands and body were trembling, every gasp of pain from him resulting in a guttural sob escaping from her, tearing through the void. she could feel his pain and she wishes she can make this stop somehow, but all her attempts were futile, the curse merely mocking her for even trying to defy it. his ruby eyes, always the most gentle with her, were still filled with love and warmth but they now shimmered with a bittersweet resolve — a sight that broke her even more. the eyes that she adores, ones that always shone with an outwardly brilliance, that could put even the shiniest of gem stones to shame, were now getting dimmed as life was seeping from them.

he was bound to this blade, his soul burning with it. their sacred love now destroyed, and the stars weeped for them over and over. stars that have always shone so brightly were now dimmed with sorrow, mourning the tragedy of their love. every flicker of their light seemed to carry the grief of love once shared, an eternal lament to a love that couldn’t defy its cruel destiny.

the sword that was now pulsing, was ready to engulf him whole. he was slipping away between her fingers, the love of her life, dissolving into fragments, every shard carrying a piece of his soul, along with her own. even the stars that were weeping, their light flickering out one by one, the pain and suffering exhibited being enough to fully extinguish their light. it was as if the stars were paying tribute to the grief and agony that transpired.

she embraced him with all the strength she could muster, arms fully wrapped around his body, begging to anchor him to this world, to her. he was her other half, their souls and hearts bound forever. fingers were now desperately clinging onto him, as if to etch her love into his very being, and whispered pleas were being uttered.

“stay. please … please stay. don’t leave me, not like this, not again …” her voice was breaking, carrying the weight of their agony and the weight of a thousand lifetimes of loss.

she didn’t know who she was praying and begging to, but it didn’t matter. she would pray to every god that existed and kneel before every god and beg and beg and beg, if it meant she can have him next to her. she would scream her desperation to the heavens if she had to, move mountains, and commit every sin known to mankind if it meant he would not leave her side. she would beg until her knees buckled and her body gave up on her, knees bleeding from the ground’s cruel embrace, just so they can live the simplest of lives together. she wishes she could rewrite the stars and undo their doomed fates, no longer wanting anything else from the world, except his presence, because a world where he does not exist was one she could not endure.

she pressed her forehead against his chest, feeling his erratic heartbeat of his heart — possibly for the very last time. the heart he gave to her without a second thought as it was hers since the beginning of time. he was merely returning it back to it’s rightful owner. with the last of his strength gathered, he kisses her forehead and whispers a goodbye, his eyes brimming with tears and love for her. her body shook, wracked with sobs that echoed the depth of her anguish as she listened to his heart as it stopped beating. as he slipped away, she was left with her own self, and an incurable tear in her heart. after all, no matter how much she longed for it, her love alone would never be enough to defy the cruel narrative that bound them.

[hoseoksluna]

THE END OF THE WORLD | pjm

pairing: best friend!jimin x f. reader

genre: fluff

rating: 13+

summary: when you thought your period cramps would bring in the end of the world, you didn't realize your feelings for jimin would get reciprocated in the middle of it all.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: reader is on her period; brief mention of period blood, jimin has a cute (non-sexual) fixation on reader's feet, kissing, anxiety, the problematics of heavy thoughts, insecurities and feeling not worthy of good things.

luna's note: this little thing literally came out of nowhere. i started writing this at work on friday when i had severe cramps and i felt soft enough to write a little fluff. where my jimin girls at? i've been heavily fixated on jimin lately, seeking comfort in him, buying pcs from muse photoshoot bc it's my favorite. the jimin i wrote about is an older, buffier jimin with blond hair bc that's my weakness. i hope you like this figment of my imagination and that it makes you as soft as it made me. i love you all, sending kisses mwah.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster, 

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, 

@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo

@ririkookiemonster, @perfectiondazesworld, @kookienooki, @rrosiitas, @kooloveys

@junecat18 @deepops79 @notsevenwithyou @futuristicenemychaos @psychicjellyfishalpaca

@mar-lo-pap, @perfectiondazesworld @blackswanpt2 @rpwprpwprpwprw

The pain that coursed across your lower tummy felt like the world ending, and your boy friend carried more beauty than a mere mortal could ever achieve. Too bad there was that doomful space between those two words that speak of his role in your life, even though his current position suggests such closeness that those letters could easily melt together. 

Jimin rests the side plane of his face on the middle of your thigh. You repose on the left side of your bed, seemingly bloodless while you exude liters upon liters of the carmine liquid, which makes you wonder how you’re still alive. The wings of your ovaries constrict and constrict, right under his face, reflecting the membrane of his own pair that you’ve watched grow into those of an archangel throughout the trajectory of your life with him. You try to ignore the pain, even as your features twist in helplessness, and instead imagine the colors that could swift through those feathers. 

Pistachio green. Brown that fades into a soft pink. Maybe a little subdued yellow. 

You’ve always thought he was an angel by the way his presence in your day simply made it better. More joyful, more loving, more gentle. But the more you blossomed into adulthood with him, and your frontal lobe developed as well as your unconditional feelings for him, the more you comprehended he was your angel. And not just an ordinary one. 

He was your archangel. 

He would protect you from people that had no space in your life, no luck or love to pepper your nose with. On the packed public transport, he would cover your knees with his hand so no male strangers would touch you with the back of their legs. If a guy came to make a mess out of your life, he would deal with him in a way that would force him to apologize to you and never bother you again. If someone, no matter their gender, caused you sadness in any small or big form, he made sure they regretted it. And, more often than not, your archangel bought you boba. 

You must’ve tried all the flavors from your favorite bubble bar by now. And by all means, crème brûlée was your favorite—only because when you drank it for the first time, you realized that you irrevocably loved the boy with the faux blond hair, pillowy lips, kind heart and confidential tattoos. And when this dawned upon you, it seemed as though Jimin knew—because he blushed and didn’t say anything for a while. The unspoken information, kept safely in the cores of yours and his being, not born into this world. That’s why it’s your favorite. 

It’s the one that is set on your nightstand right now, unopened, with the straw still captive in the translucent foil. It took only one response to his daily how are you text for him to drive to your usual bubble bar on his way to you, and upon seeing the beige peek through the cup, along with the brown sugar syrup, it’s a miracle your knees didn’t give out on you. The fact he chose this drink over all the other ones you love fed your heart the delusions that maybe, just maybe he loved you back. 

That he wasn’t just a kind boy, whose love language was physical touch, and that’s why he’s laying in your lap. 

Maybe, if you did any good in your life, Jimin gazes at you from this lower position while fondling your aching tummy because he feels something deeper than a sympathy for you. 

The pain almost forces you to ask that life-altering question for clarification. Almost. It is on the tip of your tongue, perfect and fluid, breathless and fearless, but you hold it back because Jimin extends one finger and traces patterns on your bloated belly. 

And not just any patterns.

He’s drawing wings. 

His own flutter in the air. Green, brown, pink and yellow. As if he’s giving life to them by drawing a miniature version of them on your clothed skin. And as they flutter, they open and close, open and close. They lift him, leave him hovering above you for a mere second while his hands find a good spot on the mattress outside of the lines of your body, until he settles. His body plops down onto yours, bringing in such heat that you softly gasp and close your eyes at the impact, and you don’t know what to feel, what your hands are doing as they lift, too, and interlock behind his neck, and you don’t know what this is. 

Is this what friends normally do? 

You wouldn’t know. Jimin has been your only boy friend since… forever. And you can’t think properly because the heat penetrating you mingles with your cramps and his body weight messes with your brain, emptying it out until there’s only two sentences that linger. 

One: I love you, Jimin.

Two: We are connected beyond the laws of this world, through strings which are transparent. 

The second sentence only expands, in metaphorical terms, on the first one.

Jimin’s cheek is reddened by his former position in your lap. A circle of soft and wrinkly skin that must be as warm as the rest of him. His blond hair is a bird’s nest, which an entire league of lesser angels must take care of. And his mellow smile gives off such snug light that it reaches his eyes, dissolving there like sparks of a dying fire. 

You love him, and you fail to understand how it has come to be—him laying on top of you. Did you smiling at the cashier in the grocery stop while you paid for your pads earlier get you this blessing? If the world ended in the next minute, you’d be happy, you wouldn’t mind at all because this, this is everything to you. You’re afraid to speak, to break the spell of the moment, and you feign an absolute calmness, not daring to move an inch, despite the fact your internal organs are colored by fireworks that burst and burst as soon as his breathing syncs with yours. 

It’s not that your lungs copied his—his lungs copied yours, and there’s something terribly intimate about that. 

You can’t halt the scarlet tinge rushing through your cheeks, one of the flower-shaped fireworks flung through you. Jimin’s tender eyes fall to them, one by one, and his mouth cracks the tiniest of smiles, as if he, too, held himself back from ruining the moment. The room is saturated with rosiness that feels light, and you wonder how long has it actually been since you’ve put on these rose-colored glasses. 

How strange it is in reality, to love someone without them knowing. 

You’re a slave to things hitting you all of a sudden. You tend to live in a dreamy headspace, walking through life seeking the arts, the poems, the book lines that cut through your heart without any ounce of pity, and when reality infiltrates that fog like the winter’s sun, the rosiness loses its hue. 

Just like right now. 

What are you doing? What is Jimin doing and why is he doing it? It’s not right, it shouldn’t be like this, you haven’t done anything to deserve this. You don’t think smiling at a cashier would make you deserve—

“Is the pain any better?” 

His tender voice percolates into your anxious thoughts like a pyrotechnic with colors inside its throat, the very fireworks inside you, and they meet in the middle of your sternum, connecting, clicking, never to be torn apart—at least not for a while. Their bond erases your fear, making space for a clean frame of mind, and your brain cells focus on your aching lower belly. The pain has lessened due to the heat radiating off Jimin’s body and seeping into yours, you let out a long breath that caresses the shorter pieces of his hair, and your muscles loosen, your senses returning to you. 

You can smell Jimin.

Apple shampoo, the sweet vanilla of his fragrance, laced most delectably with the manly spice of his aftershave. And the savoriness of his natural scent. 

A moment of physical serenity. 

Your fingers twitch behind the nape of his neck, pining to play with his hair. You take a lungful of the whole essence of him, your pining dilating as your instinct begs you to fist the downy material of his cashmere sweater, drag him up and bury your nose in his neck. 

You do none of those things, however. Your fingers keep on twitching, and so you close them into a fist, holding your thumb for comfort, willing the blackness of your thoughts away. 

You nod your head and suddenly, your body does as it pleases. For a reason unknown to you, your free finger taps the center of the back of his neck, and you’re not sure if it was that brief touch that cast such light in his eyes, or whether it was the fact that he’s helping your cramps. 

You wish you’d stop thinking at all. It’s exhausting, fighting and analyzing all the fucking time. You wish you could just live in the moment, experiencing the beauty of your senses quietly without any intrusions of your thoughts, and as Jimin sizes you up with all that light glossing over his irises, it seems as though he knows the ins and outs of your daily struggles. 

You don’t know that he’s been paying attention all this time. A very close one, at that. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, throwing you off balance enough that your eyes widen and the blood in your veins turns cold. The pain in your belly stops at once as all your concentration is fixed on the call-out. “You haven’t touched your favorite boba. You haven’t said a full sentence since I came over and you keep frowning. What’s wrong?” 

His chest lifts and he reaches over to your bedside table, grabbing the drink he spoke of and placing it on your swollen tummy. His teeth rip off the plastic foil over the straw and he plunges it with utmost expertise inside the large cup, setting off the fireworks inside you all over again as if it was New Year’s eve. And maybe it is—maybe Jimin has fast-forwarded the time and given you a chance to make a change in your life, a new year resolution that could make everything better. 

If only you weren’t such a coward—a wolf of bravery in a foolish, timid sheep’s skin. 

But the tears that rush through when Jimin tilts the cup and the straw to your lips while holding it steady, they have the power to clean you off the old and the ostensibly innate structure of your insecurities. And when they roll down your cheeks and Jimin’s mouth parts in abrupt shock molded by compassion, you sense that their power is bigger than you. 

Your lips wrap around the thick straw and suck in the saccharine, creamy delight. It suffuses all of your senses, and once the black, squishy tapioca plops into your mouth, a soothing tendril of joy overwhelms every inch of your being. To such an extent that you begin to bawl. 

And splutter out the contents of your mind. 

“My mind is always running and I’m so tired of it, like I can’t catch up anymore,” you sob, chewing the boba while your tears freely fall. Jimin continues holding the cup and when your hand wraps around his, the other one encloses around your wrist—the gesture propelling you to spill out more. “I’m always analyzing, always thinking if I’m worthy of this and that. If it’s okay, if I should stop, if I should do something or not, if I—” You sigh, not able to find the words to describe what you’re experiencing. Frustration latches onto you, inciting your anger that begins to ooze out of your every pore. “When you were laying down on my lap, all I could think about was—” You stop yourself, slapping your mouth, realizing that you nearly said too much. 

But Jimin knits his brows, and the hand that held your wrist tugs away the limb that halted the flow of your words. “Keep going.” 

Your heart pounds, violently. The moment feels too severe, and yet your mind is oddly… silent. As if the anger that washed over you scrubbed it completely clean—clean enough that you perceive this to be an interruption rather than a saving. Your mouth wants to continue to speak and your heart… it pushes the words up your throat. 

You feel like puking your guts up, although there’s a strange determination prickling the ends of your fingertips. 

You swallow and in the middle of the interlude, Jimin sits up. Sets your boba on the hard surface of your closed laptop nearby. The sudden distance pulls you, as if by a string, to a sitting position as well, and both of you simultaneously criss-cross your legs while your heart threatens to leap out of your esophagus. You’re stomaching the feeling that you’ve done something wrong, which caused him to exit the closeness you were in, and you tense up and nearly tremble with the need to fix it. 

Jimin opens his mouth, about to say something, but you’re quicker. You’re going to give him what he asked you, just so you can have him close again. 

“When you were in my lap, I couldn’t believe it,” you start softly, graced with the attention of his eyes as they flick up to you in surprise. Your nerve endings sizzle, giving you the words to continue, no matter how devastatingly acute this situation is. “I tried to think of all the things I did that made me deserve having you this close, but I came up short every time. I didn’t understand how our closeness happened to begin with and I didn’t think I was worthy of it. Still do. That’s all.” 

You exhale loudly, detecting no heaviness on your chest, but absolute freedom, out of which blades of grass grow, a perfect home for wildflowers. But a cloud extends over it and it begins to rain as you watch Jimin’s natural expression break into a vivid canvas of dolefulness. The eye contact breaks along with it. The faux-blond boy hangs his head low, his long eyelashes flitting, and you think the world is ending right now as you’re taking small, careful breaths, knowing they’re the last ones. 

But Jimin’s forefinger finds your big toe, and he plays with it. Moves it back and forth, fondles it, squeezes it. Makes the last seconds of this life a little more bearable before it collapses over your head. Ponders something unknown, seemingly prolonging this end. And when he’s had enough and he fists all of your toes and looks up at you, it’s not that he stops this finale. 

He snatches you and takes you to the other world.

“I have something to tell you as well,” he says, his voice coated by that sadness and regret his whole energy is permeated with. He blinks rapidly, running his tongue over his bottom lip inside his mouth, gathering courage or perhaps waiting for your full attention because you’re dipping your gaze in and out of the intimacy of the way he’s holding your foot and the nipping graveness of this moment. 

Everything is too much at once.

“I’ve been a fool,” he starts, similarly like you did, biting the bottom lip he moistened as if to punish himself while busying his eyes on your pink toenail. He strokes the lacquer, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve done all of those things and I still do them without telling you the truth, without confessing.” He flicks his eyes up at you from his downward position, elbows propped on his knees, his stature hunched and buffy. Stops the beat of your heart with that brief look as you anticipate his next words. Sighs, the sound loud and heavy, bearing the kind of guilt and affliction that gnaws at the flesh he owns. Your brain turns off and every morsel of your feelings desires to help him, to make him feel better, but the following words that come out his mouth are the last stop to the other world, and everything is born anew. “I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you. Soaked like a puppy in the rain, waiting all alone for your friends to finish flirting with the guys outside of the club in Hongdae. I’ve loved you since that moment because you were just like me. You weren’t in the mood, you didn’t want anyone to talk to you. I’m still surprised you smiled your beautiful smile at me when I waved at you, that you let me talk to you.”

The memory sails before your eyes like a murky cloud. All of your friends standing under the roof, smoking and talking to guys, not leaving any space for you to hide yourself from the rain. Jimin finding you in that crowd, waving at you, perceptibly softening when you waved back and smiled because you felt lonely, overlooked and profoundly depressed and he was the only one who saw you. The memory ends at the scene when Jimin walks towards you, takes off his jacket and holds it over your head while getting soaked himself.

Your cheeks were dry from your tears, but they get stained all over again as new tears begin to pour, your heart tender, beating hard but quietly from his confession. Jimin moves your foot over to his lap, drifting his fingers over it, and the tickling sensation prevents your anxious thoughts from reappearing. You breathe in his words, letting them in, letting the change in, all while you squirm and hushedly giggle from his tickles. 

Strange, strange emotions, towering over you, but they feel right—they feel like heaven, and you think that’s where your archangel has taken you.

He loves you. 

You love him and he loves you back.

He loves you.

“I’m sorry that I confused you. I should’ve told you sooner, but I was… afraid,” he says, boring his eyes into yours, sending out the authenticity, with which he covered his words, and the regret he deeply feels. “I was afraid you were comfortable with us being just friends, but still I couldn’t physically keep my distance. It was a mistake on my part, so again I’m sorry I made you feel this way.” 

Your heart grows and your body is too small to cage it inside, ferocious and wild with all the love it feels for the faux-blond boy. You feel constricted and you rid yourself of the iffy sensation by inching a little closer and enveloping your arms around his shoulders. And this time, you have the freedom to sink your fingers into his chamomile-colored hair. You have the freedom to feel the softness, to hear his quiet, confidential purr of pleasure from your touch, which essentially spurs you on to move a little further upon this trail of freedom. 

“I’ve loved you for a long time, too,” you confess, and it’s the easiest thing your mouth ever emitted. No dark thoughts ruin it, but instead you understand that everything Jimin has done for you was through the strings of love that connect you to him. Your delusions weren’t delusions; they were all true conceptions and they were broiling, begging to be let out. “I fell in love with you because of your actions, because of the way you took care of me, because of the way you treated me. No one has ever treated me like you did. You’re a beautiful person with a kind heart—”

Jimin interrupts you with a cry of your name. He yanks you fully into his lap, wrapping your legs around him to make you comfortable, and he embraces you. Tightly, heartfully. You fit into him like petals to disc florets, and you never want to leave. An ardent awareness of safety swallows you whole, especially when he scrunches up your hair and nuzzles his face in your neck, breathing against you so heavily that your entire world spins. 

And then he pulls you away, and asks you the kind of question that deprives you of everything you ever knew, romantically. 

“Can I kiss you? Please, let me kiss you. Jebal.” 

The smile that stretches over your face aches as you vehemently nod and Jimin doesn’t waste a singular second. 

He smashes his mouth against yours, igniting hundreds, if not thousands, of butterflies with a loving fire that they spread across every inch of you. The kiss is deep, and unlike any kiss depicted in any kind of art that you ever longed for. Your mind is gone as soon as Jimin breaks the kiss for a millisecond and goes for another one, seizing your lips, owning them, doing to them whatever he wants. The past world is gone, heaven is in full bloom, with a legion of lesser angels celebrating the kiss of the ending century. The time is gone, too, as both of you kiss until your lips get numb, and the look you give to each other makes those innocent winged creatures cover their eyes in shyness. 

The kissing doesn’t stop there. 

With every turn of the head, with every peck and with every brush of the tongue, it fulfills everything you ever lacked. You forget every poem you learned. The colors of the paintings you liked pale in comparison. And every book scene you envisioned before you went to bed is filled with emptiness. Jimin becomes the center of your new life that stands above the fictional one you so earnestly wanted, and you tell him of it with every kiss you reciprocate.

With words, too, later when you’ve caught your breath and Jimin is spooning you with his hand on your lower belly, occasionally stretching his neck over your shoulder to take a sip of your delicious boba. And you tell him again in your dreams, where the comprehension that you no longer have to live in your headspace in order to be happy and fulfilled unfolds. You make friends with the angels and tell them as well, watching what they do as they run their fingers through his hair, making mental notes, folding them into your heart. 

You do what you learned in the bathroom the following morning, even through the excruciating pain of your cramps. Jimin kisses your feet for it, orders you to rest as he massages them, having brought you some painkillers. And when they take effect and you can function like a normal human being, you note down your first life full of art with him.

And title the first page—“THE END OF THE WORLD, THE BEGINNING OF MINE”.

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

[thatonesonicfanfictionwriter]

ANGST SHADOWXREADER IDE BC I CRAVE FOR ANGST LIKE A B★TCH

Hey I was wondering if you could do a shadow the hedgehog x reader fanfic where Reader gets corrupted by black doom (not possessed)

(Side note: I got this idea for the fact we know shadow HATES black doom and the black arms and was really shown in sxsg)

Reader acts more cold,apathy,untruthful and cruel

their fur now with a notice able fade of black,dark red and red, Their pupils now the same as black doom, they wear the same golden chains with a set of gold-spiked medallions possessing a gem, and a double black cord necklace with red, blue, yellow, and purple ornaments on one and golden and silver pendants on the other that resemble the Black Arms' insignia,their fingers? More like demonic claws, Voice? Cold and uninterested., rest of their outfit? Robe like Just like black doom’s and shows of uneasy aura and power

“Where it Hurts Most”

Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog x Corrupted Mobian Reader

Requested: Yes (by an anon).

Description: Never did he think Black Doom would be back. And never did he think would he use the person that he loves most to hurt him–you.

Notes: I decided to set this during Shadow Generations so I hope you don’t mind! Hope you enjoy it regardless!

(Reader will be gender-neutral.)

(Not proof-read/beta-read.)

– – – – – – – – – – – –

“(This white space is weird,)” you thought to yourself. “(I haven’t seen anyone in here!)”

You had been transported here suddenly on your way to Sonic’s birthday party, and you hadn’t even seen any sign of Sonic.

Or Shadow, for that matter.

Or…anyone.

It was beginning to worry you.

When you next take a step, something wraps around your foot, causing you to yelp out of surprise.

It…seems to be this black-colored goop.

When you take a step back, the goop attaches itself to the ground and pulls you further.

“Nononono, I’m not dying like this!” you yell, trying to pull yourself free.

“FOOLISH FLESH,” you hear a voice say. “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DIE. NO, IT’LL BE MUCH, MUCH WORSE.”

You let out a loud scream as you’re dragged into the goop, it surrounding your body, a burning sensation covering you until your vision goes black.

When you next awake, you feel…better.

Stronger.

Perfect.

Looking down at your body, it seems you’ve undergone some fantastic transformations.

Your fur is now black and red, with gold chains littering your body, with a gold medallion placed near your neck, like a better necklace.

Different colored ornaments are strewn about the chains, and oh my Doom, your claws.

They seem to gradient into a black on your fingers, with your claws being ever-so-slightly red.

You also appear to be wearing a robe similar to your new overlord.

Black Doom.

Before you can admire your new form any longer, a set of footsteps causes your now dark-red-tipped ears to flick.

You turn around, looking at the mobian responsible for these footsteps, only to find fear in his eyes.

Shadow’s eyes.

…

Good.

“[Name]? What the hell happened to you?!” Shadow asks.

You let out a chuckle, an echo in your voice.

“I became better, Shadow,” you tell him. “And you can become better, too. Join me on the side of the Black Arms, and we’ll never be apart again.”

Shadow lets out a growl, getting into a defensive stance.

“I don’t want to fight you, [Name],” Shadow says. “Just snap out of it.”

“Snap out of what, exactly?” you ask him. “My glorious new overlord’s control?”

“Let them go, Black Doom! Right this instant!” Shadow demands.

“I’M AFRAID I WON’T BE DOING THAT, SHADOW,” you and Black Doom say at the same time. “THEY’VE BECOME BETTER, STRONGER, DON’T YOU SEE? YOU CAN BECOME JUST. LIKE. THEM.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…I’d NEVER join you!” Shadow states.

“THEN HAVE FUN GETTING YOUR PRECIOUS [NAME] BACK,” Black Doom spats. “YOU MAY NOT BE ABLE TO BREAK THEM OUT OF THEIR CORRUPTION.”

“Go on then, Shadow,” you start with a mocking voice. “Attack me.”

“I’m sorry for this, [Name],” Shadow mutters to himself. “But I’ll get you back. I promise.”

[hannahssimblr]

Odd sensation, the tattoo gun. On the internet, they said the forearm wasn’t bad. One of the least painful spots, which is why I try to suppress my wince as the needle buzzes over my skin. 

“It’s more painful when you’re tired or dehydrated, by the way,” says Kwan, the artist, her chewing gum smacking in her mouth over the sound of thrash metal. 

“Right, right. I guess I’m always dehydrated a bit.”

“He never drinks water,” Jonas pipes up from the sofa. “I remind him of it all the time, but he won’t.”

“Everything wrong with my life probably comes back to that,” I grin at Kwan, and the corner of her mouth ticks up. 

“You’re cute,” she says. “Pretty little face. How old are you guys?”

“Twenty,” Jonas says. “At least me. Jude is still nineteen.”

“Wow. Little babies,” Kwan wipes pooling black ink with a tissue, revealing a thin curved line along my forearm. Weird, I think, looking at it. That’s there forever now. Every day until I’m dead, I’ll look down and there’ll be something on my arm. 

“And what brings you to Phuket?” 

“Well, to be honest, Kwan, we came here just for you,” I say. Her eyes flick to my face, and she sighs with resignation. “You’re good, you know that? You’re going to go far. Going to break some hearts.” 

“We’re backpacking,” Jonas clarifies. “Bangkok for a week, Phuket for another, then we’re going to the Phi Phi Islands and Koh Samui. Jude is acting on complete impulse with this tattoo. I think he is probably trying to flirt so that you like him.”

“And the mango,” she says, now delicately inking the leaves. “Is it personally significant?”

“No, I just liked it. Your art is nice. Never thought I’d get a tattoo because I thought they were all, you know, big thick lines and shit, but yours…”

“Thank you.”

“And like, I guess the mangoes here taste really good, so I could say it’s a memento of my time in Thailand.”

Kwan exhales a laugh. “And not too much between your ears, I see, which is good. Otherwise I think you would doom womankind.”

I grin. “God, Kwan, I love when women insult me. It’s my bread and butter.”

The tattoo gun hits a nervy patch of skin near my inner elbow and I hiss through my teeth. “Ah!”

“Too much?” 

Then I laugh. “Yes. No. Maybe it depends, doesn’t it? I hope this is worth it.”

Later, strolling the beach, I take a photograph of my arm wrapped in plastic and send it to my mother. 

Look what I did.  Why would you do that to your body???? 

She gets back. 

Is that permanent??? 

I cackle. 

“What are you laughing at? Did you send that to Astrid?”

“No, to my mom. She doesn’t approve.”

“Oh,” Jonas frowns, as though this is of deep concern. “Doesn’t her reaction disappoint you?”

“No, I knew she’d hate it, and now she’s going to show my dad and he’ll hate it even more. It was the same when I pierced my ears on holidays. He doesn’t think men should do things like that, and whatever.”

“And you like that he is outraged?”

“Yeah, it’s funny. He hates everything I do regardless, so like, might as well lean the whole way in, you know?”

“You should send the picture to your dad.”

“Nah, I don’t really… I don’t, like, text him… or anything like that.”

“Never?”

“Nah. He wouldn’t respond, anyway. It’s better to get a reaction from my mom.”

He hesitates, getting ready to attempt some conversation, no doubt, that I haven’t much interest in having. I feel my defences rise before he opens his mouth. A blanket of emotional exhaustion settling over me. “You haven’t spoken too much about your father before,” he says. “I assumed you are not close, but—” 

“Please,” I say. “Let’s not.”

“But I am just thinking about how—”

“Jonas, it really doesn’t have to be like this. It’s really not a fun conversation to have.”

“Right. It’s just that you’ve even had dinner with my stepfather when he came to visit, and you know all about my father and my half brother and–”

“Yeah, I know. Max was a nice man. It was a nice dinner, but just because you’ve shared stuff with me doesn’t mean I have to share back.”

“But don’t you think since we’ve known each other for months now, and we are friends, that you should tell me something about your family?”

“You telling me personal things doesn’t make you entitled to know things about me.”

“Yes, but just some basic facts. What is your father’s name?” 

“Chris.”

“Christian?”

“Topher. Christopher.”

“And he is American.”

“Yes.”

Jonas leaves space for me to elaborate, and I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. How old I do feel when people ask me about my dad? Twelve, every single time. Twelve, and destroying his stupid rare collector’s book purely for attention. He lost his mind and whacked my face with the back of his hand. Wedding ring rapped across a cheekbone. Was exhilarating to see him display an emotion. I remember laughing on the floor with hysterical glee among the shredded pages. A vindictive little winner. 

“He was born in California. He has four brothers. He studied dental medicine at the University of New Mexico, then he got my mom pregnant and married her.”

Another pause. “I see it was difficult for you to say that.”

“It was fine.”

“He was in university when you were born?”

“Yeah. He was twenty-one.”

“And your mother?”

“Nineteen.” 

“Your age.”

“Yes, my age. Terrible for her, I suppose. I don’t know. She’s fine. They’re both fine.”

He nods. “So you are determined to remain a mystery.”

“I’m determined to enjoy my trip, to be honest.”

“Well, thank you for sharing facts about your father.”

My arm is already sweating under the layers of plastic, beaten by the sun. Kwan said I shouldn’t expose the tattoo to sunlight. Then why did I get this thing? On holidays by the beach, about to spend another two weeks island hopping, and how hot is it? Thirty-seven? Forty? Sometimes my own reasonings are mysterious to me. 

“Let’s do something else,” I say, agitated by myself and everything around me. “What’s next?”

“You just got a tattoo, and now you are already looking for more excitement?”

“Yes, come on, I’m bored.”

“Okay, okay, let’s think of something.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[gaywarcriminals]

I am so obsessed with PIDW Bingning; they’re like if tragic yaoi could be hetero. Neither of them could give the other enough but they were still too important to each other not to try, not to keep reaching for the echoes of a relationship that effectively died when LBH was shoved into the abyss.

In SVSSS, the two people we see LBH truly love are his mother and SQQ: both are relationships characterized by protecting him to the point of putting their lives over Binghe’s. This interpretation was solidified for me by how quickly LBH switches from unsure of his shizun’s change of heart (though perhaps warily hopeful) to fully and unquestioningly devoted to SQQ. As miserable as LBH is each time SQQ dies or is grievously injured for his sake, it undeniably lights something up in his brain that makes him feel cared for.

Bingge never gets that. As an adult, I think that Bingge is doomed to remain eternally ignorant of this desire, because how could the emperor of the three realms need protecting? He’s no longer a little boy who has to hide behind a woman’s skirts.  In his discipleship, NYY is in a strange grey area with that where she does want to take care of him, but just is a child herself and does so clumsily, incompletely, and often makes things worse. She is the in it person who cares for him while he’s an abused disicple on QJP, and for that he loves her, but she does nothing— can do nothing— to change his circumstances, while sitting in the seat of favor herself, and for that I think he also resent her a bit. He would feel guilty and ungrateful for such and emotion, but burying it only lets it take seed for the future and grow a further wedge between their adult selves.

For Ning Yingying’s part, she fell in love with a sweet, hardworking, and yet to be fully blackened young man. The Binghe who leaves the abyss no longer resembles her childhood sweetheart. He uproots her entire life, kills people she grew up with and burns the place she’s called home longer than any other, and she can’t even truly begrudge him for it because she’s no longer a naive child and hindsight gives the past clarity. How can she listen to Binghe’s stories and claim he is not owed justice? He is not the cute boy who would’ve tried to devote himself to her as her husband, but she still sees parts of him peeking through. Is it wrong to want to care for him now that it’s too late? Now that she’s just one of many?

[novaursa]

Legacy (friends at heart)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware of unspecified time-jump.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the others

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

Jon Snow sat at the head of the table, his grey eyes scanning the faces of his siblings. Sansa, regal yet weary, sat to his right, her hands clasped in her lap as she gazed pensively into the fire. Arya, ever restless, leaned back in her chair, idly twirling the point of a knife against the table’s surface. Bran, seated at the far end, looked calm but distant, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, as if seeing things none of them could.

The weight of their discussion pressed heavily on all of them.

“How did they get through the Wall?” Arya asked, her tone filled with disbelief. “The Wall has stood for thousands of years. It was supposed to be impenetrable.”

Jon exhaled, his jaw tightening as he looked toward Bran. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Bran, sitting unnervingly still, finally spoke. His voice was soft but carried an unsettling certainty. “The Wall was not built to last forever. The magic that held it is ancient and fragile. Something… someone… broke it.”

Sansa frowned, her brows furrowing. “If the Wall has fallen, then we’re truly out of time. Winter is here in full force, and now the dead march freely.”

There was a heavy pause, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.

“I wish Mother and Father were here,” Sansa said softly, her voice breaking the silence. “I wish they could see us together like this. They would have known what to do.”

Jon’s expression softened at her words, his dark eyes filled with unspoken emotion. “They would have,” he agreed quietly. “And so would she.”

Arya glanced at Jon, catching the shift in his tone. “Y/N,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. “How is she? You’re the one who saw her last.”

Jon hesitated for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “She’s... the same as she always was,” he said finally. “Strong. Fierce. But…” His voice trailed off as he looked into the fire, his expression clouded. “There was something heavier about her. It’s been years since she’s been here, and I think she carries that weight with her.”

Arya’s gaze softened as she set the knife down, her fingers brushing against the table’s edge. “The last time I saw her was at High Heart,” she said, a faint smile playing at her lips. “She arrived on the back of a dragon.”

Sansa glanced toward Arya, her own expression softening. “I last saw her at Joffrey’s wedding,” she murmured, her voice heavy with memory. “She tried to keep me close, but there was nothing she could do. It wasn’t safe.”

Jon looked between them, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “She never stopped trying to protect us.”

Arya’s voice was quieter now, her gaze fixed on Jon. “Do you think she’s happy? With her new family?”

Jon nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “She has two sons now. Damon and Maelor. She loves them fiercely.”

At the mention of Damon and Maelor, Sansa’s expression warmed. “She always wanted a family of her own. She deserves that.”

There was a pause before Arya leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Do you think she ever misses us?”

Jon’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the question. “She does,” he said finally. “I know she does.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air. Bran, who had been quiet for most of the conversation, finally spoke, his voice calm but certain.

“You’ll see her again, Jon,” Bran said, his gaze fixed on his brother. “One more time.”

Jon turned toward Bran, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Bran’s gaze seemed to pierce through him. “You’ll see her again before the end.”

The cryptic nature of Bran’s words left the room feeling colder, the fire’s warmth doing little to chase away the chill that had settled over them. Jon held Bran’s gaze for a long moment before finally looking away, his thoughts his own.

Sansa sighed softly, her voice breaking the tension. “We should rest. There’s much to do tomorrow.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he rose from his seat. “You’re right. But this isn’t over. We’ll figure this out.”

As the others began to leave the hall, Jon lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. The memory of the woman who had raised him, the woman who had been his mother in every way that mattered, weighed heavily on his heart. No matter what came next, he knew Bran’s words would linger with him.

“One more time,” he murmured to himself, the flames casting shadows across his face.

The night was blacker than pitch, with no moonlight to pierce the endless winter darkness. A brittle wind swept through the craggy terrain surrounding Casterly Rock, howling through the narrow passes and scattering dry snow across the frozen ground. Beric Dondarrion dismounted his weary horse, his breath visible in the icy air as he surveyed their makeshift camp.

“Here,” he said gruffly, his one remaining eye scanning the area. “It’ll do for tonight.”

The others in his small company, five in total, nodded silently, their movements stiff from days of hard travel through the frostbitten landscape. Thoros of Myr dismounted as well, his red robes standing out starkly against the snow. He adjusted the sword strapped to his waist, his usually jovial demeanor replaced by a grim focus.

“The cold gets into your bones,” Thoros muttered, rubbing his hands together before pulling a flask of firewine from his belt. “A drink might keep us warm, eh?”

Beric shot him a look. “Save it. We’ll need your wits about you if anything finds us out here.”

Thoros smirked faintly, his weathered face lined with exhaustion. “What could be worse than what we’ve already seen?”

“Plenty,” Beric replied darkly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

One of the other men, a young scout with a face partially obscured by a scarf, began gathering sticks from the sparse brush nearby. “Should we light a fire?” he asked hesitantly, his voice muffled.

Thoros glanced at Beric, who frowned but nodded. “A small one. We’ll need it if we’re to keep from freezing.”

As the scout worked to kindle a flame, Beric crouched low, examining the map he had spread out on a rock. The flickering light of the fire illuminated his face, highlighting the scarred flesh and the tired determination in his lone eye.

“How much farther?” asked Lem Lemoncloak, his gruff voice cutting through the quiet as he tightened his cloak around himself.

“Half a day’s ride, maybe less,” Beric replied, tracing his finger across the map. “Casterly Rock isn’t far, but the roads are treacherous.”

Thoros crouched beside him, taking a swig from his flask before offering it to Beric, who shook his head. “Do you think they’ll even let us through the gates?” Thoros asked, his tone skeptical. “Lannisters aren’t exactly known for welcoming the likes of us.”

“They’ll let us through,” Beric said firmly. “Lady Y/N will see to it.”

Lem scoffed, leaning against a tree. “And you’re so sure she’ll even remember us? It’s been years since High Heart. She’s a Lannister now more than a Targaryen—married still to the man who all but destroyed her family.”

Beric’s gaze hardened. “She hasn’t forgotten what she saw. None of us have.”

There was a moment of silence, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. The memory of the visions Y/N had witnessed at High Heart—the endless night, the armies of the dead, the dragons circling above—was seared into their minds. They had followed her then, believing she was key to what was coming. Now, they sought her out again, hoping to lend their swords to the fight they knew was inevitable.

The fire crackled softly as Thoros leaned back, staring into the flames. “That dragon is with her,” he mused. “And not just any dragon—a dragon clad in Lannister armor, if the rumors are true. Do you think she’s changed?”

Beric’s expression was unreadable as he replied, “She’s changed because the world has changed. But she hasn’t forgotten who she is.”

“And what about her husband?” Lem asked, spitting into the snow. “Tywin Lannister doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to entertain a band of outlaws.”

“He doesn’t have to entertain us,” Beric said evenly. “We’re not going for him.”

The wind picked up again, sending a chill through the camp. The men huddled closer to the fire, their faces shadowed and tired. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the flames and the distant howl of the wind.

“You think she’ll even let us fight?” Thoros asked quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind. “She has a dragon. What could we possibly offer?”

Beric turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the faint outline of Casterly Rock loomed in the distance. His voice was steady as he replied, “Faith. Resolve. A sword is only as strong as the hand that wields it. She’ll need us—just as much as we need her.”

Thoros nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

As the fire burned low and the men settled in for the night, the darkness pressed in around them, bringing with it an unsettling quiet. Beric sat with his back against a tree, his sword resting across his knees, as he stared out into the shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a low, guttural sound echoed—a reminder that the night was far from safe.

He didn’t wake the others. Whatever was out there, it wasn’t coming for them yet. But the unease lingered, a constant reminder of the world they now lived in.

The night passed slowly, the fire burning down to embers as the men kept watch in turns. Morning was little more than a pale night light barely breaking through the heavy clouds, but it was enough to get them moving again.

As they mounted their horses and set out toward Casterly Rock, the wind carried with it the faintest scent of smoke—an omen, Beric thought grimly, of the battles yet to come.

The warm glow of the hearth cast flickering shadows across the grand dining hall of Casterly Rock, making the dark stone walls seem almost alive. The long oak table was set with an array of dishes—roasted meats, fresh bread, and steaming bowls of hearty stew, a rare luxury in the enduring winter. The room was quiet save for the gentle clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh from your children.

Damon sat to Tywin’s left, his small hands gripping a spoon as he eagerly dug into his stew. Maelor was seated to your right, his little legs swinging beneath the table as he munched on a piece of bread. You sat across from Tywin, your gaze shifting between your sons and your husband, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“Slow down, Damon,” you said gently, watching as your eldest son wolfed down his food. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Damon paused, looking up sheepishly with a smear of stew on his chin. “I’m just hungry, Mother.”

Tywin, seated at the head of the table, raised an eyebrow, his tone stern but not unkind. “Your mother is right. Eat properly, Damon. A future lord must have composure, even at the table.”

Damon straightened in his chair, nodding solemnly as he picked up his spoon with a bit more care. “Yes, Father.”

You hid your amusement behind your goblet of wine, exchanging a knowing glance with Tywin. Despite his strict demeanor, there was a warmth in Tywin’s eyes as he observed his family.

Maelor, meanwhile, was busy tearing his bread into small pieces and dipping them into his stew. “Mother,” he piped up, his voice bright, “when can I ride Viserion?”

You chuckled softly, leaning over to brush a strand of Maelor’s hair from his face. “When you’re older, my sweet. Dragons are not toys.”

Damon, ever curious, chimed in. “But Father rode Viserion, didn’t he? You told me.”

Tywin glanced at you, the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips. “I didn’t ride her. I simply climbed on her back to avoid being eaten by those creatures in the dark.”

Damon’s eyes widened. “That sounds brave.”

Tywin’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “It was necessary, not brave.”

You reached for your goblet again, your eyes glimmering with fondness as you looked at Tywin. “Your father is underselling himself,” you teased lightly. “He’s braver than he admits.”

Tywin gave you a look that was both exasperated and amused, and for a moment, the weight of winter and responsibility seemed to lift from the room.

The conversation turned to lighter topics—Maelor’s eagerness to ride horses, Damon’s growing interest in history, and stories of your youth. Laughter filled the hall, warming the cold air like a fleeting glimpse of summer.

But the warmth was interrupted when the heavy doors to the hall creaked open. A pair of Lannister guards entered, their expressions grim as they approached the table.

“My lord, my lady,” one of the guards said, bowing deeply. “Apologies for the intrusion, but a group of men has arrived at the gates. They claim they’ve come to offer their services to Lady Y/N.”

Your brows furrowed, and you exchanged a glance with Tywin, whose expression darkened slightly. He set his goblet down with deliberate care. “Who are these men?”

“They didn’t give names,” the guard replied. “Only that they’ve traveled far and wish to speak with Lady Y/N directly.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your mind racing. “How many are there?”

“Five or six, my lady. They seem... weathered. Warriors, perhaps.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to you, his tone firm. “We’ll see them together. I’ll not have strangers wandering into my home without scrutiny.”

You nodded, your expression thoughtful. “Of course.”

Before rising, you turned to your sons, your voice softening. “Damon, Maelor, stay here with the servants. Finish your dinner.”

Damon’s brows knit together in concern. “Are you going to see those men, Mother? Are they dangerous?”

You smiled reassuringly, leaning over to press a kiss to Damon’s forehead. “No, my darling. Stay here with your brother. We’ll be back shortly.”

Tywin stood, his presence commanding as he adjusted his cloak. You rose beside him, brushing your fingers over Maelor’s hair as you passed. “Eat your stew,” you told him gently. “We won’t be long.”

As the guards led you out of the hall, the laughter and warmth of the meal seemed to fade, replaced by the chill of winter seeping through the castle walls. Your mind buzzed with questions as you made your way toward the gates. Whoever these men were, they had chosen a perilous time to make their journey.

And as always, Tywin’s keen gaze missed nothing. “You have an idea of who they might be,” he said quietly, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. “Perhaps,” you murmured. “But we’ll know soon enough.”

You stepped into the cold night air, the stars barely visible through the dense clouds, as you prepared to meet the unexpected visitors.

The chill of winter clung to the courtyard of Casterly Rock, the snow crunching beneath boots as Tywin and you stepped into the open space. Torches lit the area, casting low light on a group of riders standing with their horses near the gate. The wind carried the faint scent of frost and the sea, the air biting against exposed skin.

Your gaze immediately locked onto the group of men, their weathered faces illuminated by the torchlight. There was something familiar about them—the way they stood, the way their eyes scanned the courtyard with quiet vigilance.

And then your breath hitched as recognition struck. Beric Dondarrion stood at the forefront, his one-eyed gaze fixed on you, his battered armor bearing the marks of countless battles. Beside him, Thoros of Myr held the reins of his horse, his red priest’s robes looking as worn as the man himself. Others stood behind them, cloaked figures with hardened expressions and the quiet confidence of those who had seen too much of war.

“Beric,” you breathed, stepping forward before you could think better of it.

Beric inclined his head, his voice gravelly but warm. “Lady Y/N.” He glanced at Tywin, then back at you, a faint smile playing on his lips. “It’s been some time.”

Tywin’s gaze darted to you, and his tone was cool as he spoke. “You know these men?”

You nodded, your voice steady despite the flood of memories. “Yes. These are the men I rode with in the Riverlands. When I was… missing, all those years ago.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable, though you caught the faintest flicker of something—irritation, perhaps jealousy—in his eyes. “You never mentioned any men,” he muttered, his tone low but unmistakably pointed.

You glanced at him, your brow arching slightly. “There wasn’t much time to recount every detail, Tywin,” you said evenly. “But yes, I owe my life to them. They sheltered me after wounds from riding Viserion started to get worse.”

Beric stepped closer, his gaze flicking between you and Tywin. “We came to offer our aid, my lady. The Long Night is here, and we remember what you told us at the High Heart. What we saw.” He glanced at Thoros, who nodded solemnly. “We believe it’s time to fulfill that promise.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes betrayed his calculating mind. “And what promise would that be?”

Thoros of Myr spoke this time, his voice deep and steady. “To stand against the darkness, Lord Lannister. To fight for the living.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “A noble sentiment, but not one I take at face value. You come uninvited to my gates in the dead of winter, claiming allegiance to my wife. What exactly are you offering, and what do you expect in return?”

You placed a gentle hand on Tywin’s arm, your voice softening as you spoke. “They’re here to help, Tywin. They’re not our enemies.”

His gaze flicked to your hand, then back to Beric, his jaw tightening slightly. “Help,” he repeated, the word laced with skepticism. “And how do a handful of men plan to help against creatures we’ve barely managed to hold at bay?”

Beric’s one good eye met Tywin’s unwaveringly. “We’ve faced them before, my lord. And we’ve lived to tell the tale. You may find we’re more useful than you think.”

There was a tense silence as Tywin considered Beric’s words, his mind weighing every possibility. Finally, he inclined his head, though his tone remained cold. “We’ll discuss this further inside. For now, you and your men will be fed and given quarters. I trust you’ll behave accordingly.”

Beric nodded. “We’ll not give you reason to regret it.”

Tywin turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he began walking back toward the castle. You lingered for a moment, your gaze meeting Beric’s. “Thank you,” you said quietly. “For coming.”

Beric offered a faint smile. “It’s the least we could do, my lady.”

You gave a small nod before following Tywin, who was already a few paces ahead. His silence was heavy as you walked, and you could feel the unease radiating from him.

When you reached the castle’s inner halls, Tywin finally spoke, his tone clipped. “I don’t trust them.”

You sighed, glancing at him. “I understand. But they’ve earned my trust, Tywin. They’re good men.”

His gaze flicked to you, his expression unreadable. “Good men or not, they’re an unknown variable. And I don’t like surprises.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “I wouldn’t have survived without them. They helped me when I was lost, when I was vulnerable. That has to mean something.”

Tywin’s eyes softened slightly, though his jaw remained set. “I don’t doubt their past actions, but their presence here complicates things. We’ll see if they’re as honorable as you believe.”

You gave him a faint smile, your hand lingering on his arm. “Thank you for allowing them to stay.”

His gaze held yours for a moment before he nodded curtly. “Don’t thank me yet. This isn’t a courtesy—it’s a test.”

You couldn’t help but smile despite his tone, knowing that beneath his guarded exterior, Tywin’s decision to allow Beric and his men to stay was, in its own way, a gesture of trust in you.

The soft glow of the torches lit the chamber where Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a long table. The room was quieter now, with the bustling noise of Beric’s men settling into their quarters fading into the background. The air was warm, unusually so for the middle of the relentless winter. Across from Tywin sat Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr, their rugged appearances stark against the polished surroundings of Casterly Rock.

Tywin’s gaze was sharp, his presence as commanding as ever, as he leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands on the table. “Your men have been given food and shelter, but I expect discipline. My castle does not tolerate disruptions.”

Beric inclined his head, his expression neutral but respectful. “You have my word, Lord Lannister. My men understand where they are and the gravity of the times.”

Thoros took a swig from a flask he’d kept at his side, his eyes scanning the room. “You’ve got a strange warmth here, my lord,” he remarked, his deep voice tinged with curiosity. “Unusual for such a winter.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but his tone carried a measured edge. “It’s not unusual when you understand the cause. There are two dragons sleeping beneath this castle, warming the Rock with their presence.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Tywin’s statement hanging in the air. Thoros set his flask down, his brow furrowing. “Two?” he repeated, his tone quieter now, almost reverent.

Beric leaned back slightly, his one good eye studying Tywin closely. “So it’s true, then. Not one, but two dragons sleep beneath your home.”

Tywin met Beric’s gaze, his voice steady. “You’ve heard correctly. The larger of the two is Viserion, my wife’s dragon. The smaller one hatched inside Dragonmont years ago from one of Viserion’s eggs.”

Beric’s lips pressed into a thin line as he exchanged a glance with Thoros. “And the second dragon—has it bonded with anyone?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Not yet. It’s young, temperamental, and untested. But it remains here, under my control.”

Thoros chuckled softly, though there was no humor in his voice. “Control is a fragile thing, especially when it comes to dragons. They answer to no one unless they choose.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “You misunderstand. I don’t need to command it. Its presence alone is enough to deter threats. Dragons are weapons, and I wield them as I would any other.”

Beric leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Weapons they may be, but they’re also fire made flesh. They’re alive, with wills of their own. Do you believe you can truly keep them beneath the Rock forever?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained impassive. “The dragons are not your concern, Dondarrion. They serve my purposes, nothing more.”

The anxity in the room grew thick as Beric studied Tywin carefully, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t mean to question your methods, my lord. But the fire beneath your castle is a reminder of what’s at stake. If the Long Night has taught us anything, it’s that we cannot take such power for granted.”

Tywin leaned back slightly, his cold green eyes never leaving Beric’s face. “I don’t take anything for granted. That’s why I’m still here, holding this castle, while others crumble.”

Thoros chuckled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “And yet, it’s the dragons that make this place a haven in the dark. The warmth, the life—it’s not entirely your doing, Lord Lannister.”

Tywin’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps not. But I know how to use the tools at my disposal. That’s the difference between survival and ruin.”

The room grew quiet again, the crackle of the torches the only sound as Beric considered Tywin’s words. Finally, he nodded slowly. “You’ve prepared well, Lord Lannister. But preparation only takes us so far. When the true storm comes, we’ll see if even dragons are enough.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Dragons are enough, as long as they’re wielded wisely. And here, they are.”

Thoros picked up his flask again, tipping it toward Tywin in a mock toast. “Then let’s hope your wisdom holds, my lord. The Long Night is not kind to those who falter.”

Beric rose from his seat, inclining his head toward Tywin. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Lannister. We’ll do what we can to aid you in the days ahead.”

Tywin stood as well, his gaze cool and assessing. “See that you do. You’ve been given a chance to prove your worth. Don’t waste it.”

As Beric and Thoros left the chamber, the weight of their words lingered in the air. Tywin remained standing, his mind already working through the implications of their conversation. The warmth of the dragons beneath the Rock was a source of power, but it was also a reminder of the unpredictable forces at play in the world—a world growing darker with each passing day.

The cold, dark void of the endless winter stretched across Damon’s dreamscape like a suffocating shroud. Snow blanketed the ground, heavy and unyielding, as he wandered through an unfamiliar forest. The towering trees loomed above him, their skeletal branches twisting into grotesque shapes against the starless sky. The air was heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness that pressed against his small frame.

Damon's breath came in shallow gasps, his feet sinking into the snow with each hesitant step. His heart pounded in his chest, the only sound in the oppressive silence. Somewhere in the distance, faint whispers danced on the icy wind. They were unintelligible but sinister, wrapping around him like tendrils of shadow.

“Mother?” Damon called out, his voice trembling. “Father?”

No answer came, only the rising chill that gnawed at his skin. The whispers grew louder, now resembling mocking laughter. Fear rooted him in place as a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. At first, it was unrecognizable—a towering form cloaked in swirling blackness. Then the shadows receded slightly, revealing Tywin’s face, his piercing green eyes devoid of life, staring at Damon with an unseeing gaze. Blood trickled down from a gaping wound in his chest, staining the pristine snow at his feet.

“Father!” Damon screamed, his small hands reaching out, but Tywin's figure crumbled into ash before his eyes, the wind scattering it into nothingness.

“No, no, no!” Damon’s cries echoed in the void, but they were swallowed by the darkness. He spun around, searching for something, anything, to ground him. His mother’s voice—soft, soothing—called his name from somewhere far away.

“Damon...”

The sound filled him with fleeting hope, and he ran toward it, the snow beneath his feet now feeling like ice-cold quicksand. Each step grew heavier, the effort immense, but he pushed forward. The voice grew louder, clearer, until he saw her. Y/N, his mother, stood a few paces away, her silver hair gleaming even in the bleakness of his dream. Relief washed over him.

“Mother!” he cried, rushing toward her.

But as he approached, her form shifted. Her warm, comforting expression twisted into one of pain and terror. She reached out to him, blood dripping from her fingers, before her body collapsed to the ground. A shadow passed over her crumpled figure, and Damon’s eyes snapped upward to see a monstrous spider, its grotesque legs spanning the entire forest. Its countless, soulless eyes glimmered like dark stars as it descended upon her, its fangs dripping with venom.

“No!” Damon screamed, his voice breaking. He tried to run to her, but the ground beneath him gave way, and he plummeted into a pit of darkness. His mother’s scream echoed in his ears, merging with the guttural growls of unseen creatures.

He fell endlessly, surrounded by whispers, laughter, and the sound of snapping jaws. Just when he thought the darkness would consume him entirely, a thunderous roar shook the void.

Viserion.

The she-dragon’s roar shattered the oppressive silence and chased away the darkness, her powerful cry like a beacon of light in the nightmare. The shadows recoiled, retreating into the void as Damon felt himself pulled upward, the chill replaced by warmth and the suffocating stillness lifting.

With a start, Damon’s eyes snapped open, his small body drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved as he sat up in his bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the frosted window, and the familiar warmth of the castle walls slowly brought him back to reality.

Another roar echoed in the distance, fainter this time but unmistakable. Viserion’s presence seemed to reassure him, her cry a reminder that she was near, guarding them.

Damon’s wide, frightened eyes darted around the room, settling on Maelor, who was fast asleep in the bed beside him, his small form rising and falling peacefully under the blankets. Damon swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He clutched his knees to his chest, trembling as the vivid images of his dream lingered in his mind.

“Mother... Father...” he whispered, his voice shaking.

He couldn’t shake the sight of their lifeless forms or the monstrous spider that had loomed over them. The fear gnawed at him, but deep inside, a spark of resolve flickered. He couldn’t let those nightmares become reality.

Outside, the faint cry of the dragons echoed once more, a comforting sound that kept the darkness at bay.

[ashes-writing-corner]

Welp I said I was gonna update before going to work so here it is! Hope you guys like it ^^

Taglist: @exactlyelegantwizard, @xenoanamorph, @hoeia-strigoi, @arwenkenobi48, and @xanth420

Exile: A Nosferatu Fanfic

Chapter 2

I think I've seen this film before, and I didn't like the ending…

The halls were all too familiar to him. He knew this place still like he knew the backs of his hands. The castle, the prison, he grew up in, lived in, and was imprisoned in. Whether imprisoned by duty, or by that wretched curse, it was a prison. Of course, Orlok knew he only had himself to blame. He had done this all to himself. His usage of dark magic, his deal which, in hindsight, was doomed to fail from the start.

Întristare, another one of his wolfhounds, followed him out to the dining room. Always staying at his side. Fitting, considering her name. Durere was most likely patrolling the grounds, though there was no serious danger here. But he couldn't explain that to his canines. He doubted they were even truly aware of the situation…

This new world was so alike to the one he knew before. The world of the living, but it seemed to be in a state of eternal winter. A place built of memories, mostly painful ones, it wasn’t quite hell. Honestly Orlok was expecting to go to that place of fire and brimstone, he’d been ready for it for centuries. Death was better than a state in between, having to live off the lifeblood of others to maintain his own. Immortality wasn’t worth it. He knew if he had a chance to go back and undo it, he would’ve.

So many regrets…too many. And for what? What was left when one lost everything that mattered? What was left after…

Orlok stopped his thoughts right there. No. No. He would not dare speak her name again. Or dare to think of her ever again. He didn’t deserve the momentary, fleeting comfort the thoughts of her brought, the memories of better days long, long since passed. Days of warmth, days of comfort…

He didn’t deserve them. Didn’t deserve to remember them. For him, submersion into the waters of chaos would not have been a relief but a punishment. If anyone deserved to be forgotten, it was Orlok himself. And he damn well knew it.

But just like in life, the vampire couldn’t bring himself to let go. He clung to whatever shred of life he still had like a man drowning. And yet, he took no comfort in it. He never had. Regret had been fast coming, and now it was mostly all he could feel.

“Perhaps I should’ve called one of you Căinţà” his long fingered hand pet the head of Întristare, “I would’ve had all of those…emotions made flesh following me. Truly following me”.

He thought he had a chance to gain a semblance of that ever elusive humanity back. He laid in unrest for centuries in the dark, his spirit wandering restlessly, seeking something to rise again for. And he found it…well…to be more accurate, it had found him. He and Ellen had met spiritually, like two souls at a crossroads, standing opposite of one another, going in different directions. He could’ve ignored her. He probably should have now that he thought about it. But Orlok…couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to ignore her. Her voice was like a sad little spirit reaching out to him through the darkness, through time and distance it seemed. Unfortunately, he still had an appreciation for beauty, and her nature had reminded him so much of her…Orlok didn’t dare think to ignore her call at the time.

And like an obedient dog, he answered. Taking control, he made the pact with Ellen. She would be his and his alone, ever eternally. Orlok thought that perhaps through this sweet soul, he could gain back a little humanity he so desperately craved. He needed to feel…something. Anything! Anything other than anger, sorrow, and grief! It was maddening.

But a pure being like her couldn’t love a monster like him for all that he was. A vampire’s love was...dark, frightening to most. Dominating. Suffocating by human standards. But he was there. He was there for her whenever she called, faithfully. Be it in dreams or in that strange crossroads realm. He was there for her. He listened, learned all he could about her, but kept his secrets his own. There was an attachment, but Orlok could not dare bring himself to call it love.

Love was for humans. For the living. Not for monsters like him, or pure beings like her. Love was Inferior to them, as he told Ellen. At least inferior to her, but Orlok? No…he didn’t deserve it. Lust was easy though. Lust was better to feel, drowning out the pain and regret that plagued him.

But not the anger. The anger was the most regrettable part of all of it. His fury had taken over him, and he had taken it out on Ellen eventually. The first time he lashed out, the first time he got a taste of that power over her, Orlok was addicted. Finally he had control over something, someone. He had effectively taken his pain, his regret, his sorrow, turned it into anger, and inflicted it on someone else.

Inflicted it on Ellen.

The vampire closed his eyes hard, his clawed hands balling into fists. It wasn’t an excuse. There was none. He harmed her, he liked hurting her. He got away with it. And Ellen had been helpless to fight back, her own power practically ineffective against him and his. He became cruel, became more selfish and possessive. There was still a tiny part of him that hated it, hated himself.

So Orlok pulled away. It wasn’t easy, but he did for a time. And during that time, Ellen met Thomas. When he felt she found someone else, it sparked that rage, that possessive fury once more. Like a wildfire, it burned through him. How dare this boy, this…insignificant mortal, try and take what was his? Why did HE get to enjoy what Orlok himself was long since denied?

Even now, his clawed hands balled into fists at the audacity. Thomas was a fool, stepping into matters which he knew nothing of. Nor was he ever supposed to know. Useless little mouse of a man…

The wolfhound whined softly, pressing her head against his balled fist as if asking for pets. Her master willingly gave, letting himself just feel the softness of her fur against his cold hand. They were good hounds, all three of them. He definitely should’ve named them better, now that he was thinking about it.

“There has to be a better way than this. Some way we can…learn to just exist around each other until Chaos calls for us” Orlok thought aloud.

He was still figuring out what this world was. There were rules, ones they both had to abide by, but it was figuring them all out that was proving to be a problem. The biggest one was the one she exploited: A private space couldn’t be entered without the owner’s permission. Orlok still had his powers, but didn’t seem to have the vampiric tendencies anymore. He didn’t need to feed, and the day no longer affected him. He felt almost human again, back to just being what he was before a vampire: a sorcerer and nothing more. Every room seemed to hold a piece of them both, something important from both of their lives.

Currently, there were lilacs on the table. Lilacs were important to them both, but this was something important to Ellen. Orlok glared at them, realizing what they were: Her wedding bouquet from when she married Thomas. The bouquet was there, dead set in the middle of the table as if to mock and taunt him. Orlok growled, feeling that possessive anger drive him again. He raised a hand and the bouquet burst into flames, making Întristare bark and snarl in surprise. The count watched the flowers burn to ash, glaring the whole time. The fire eventually died, leaving nothing but the scent of burned flowers.

Orlok watched. Waited. Dared…

Only to be a mix of angry and disappointed as the bouquet brought itself back to life, the ashes reverting back to their original arrangement. The Count raked his claws down the table in fury, swearing in Dacian. He hated this arrangement, absolutely despised it. It was like the very realm itself was taunting him at this point, not just the memory of Thomas. Lilacs were fine; they were his and Ellen’s flowers, but dammit why did he have to suffer these in particular?!

At the same time though, he realized something interesting. Looking at the table, his claw marks stayed as they were. Orlok realized he discovered another rule: They could not destroy each other’s memories, but they could destroy or damage their own. Interesting…he wondered if they could destroy them together…

“That’d be…cathartic. In a maddening sort of way” Orlok thought aloud.

The idea of going around and breaking everything, letting all that pent up anger out…it was tempting to say the least. No doubt Ellen had a lot of pent up anger herself, and to see all of that unleashed? The thought alone made him shudder in the most delightful way. Plus the prospect of angry sex afterwards was…enticing.

The count growled and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now was not the time for that, definitely not the time. He needed to focus, and focus on something that wasn’t enticing right now.

“That woman is going to be the third death of me, I swear…” he sighed in annoyance.

She was already his second death, so of course Ellen would, unknowingly, go for a third. Orlok glanced up again at the bouquet of lilacs, and glared. At the very least he could burn them over and over again for some quick anger management.

But honestly, how long would that last? Honestly, he wondered, how long any of this would last before disaster, once again struck?

It always did.

Eventually…

If you guys enjoyed please comment, like, and reblog! Also if you wanna be added to the taglist let me know ^^ your support means the world to me! Thank you so much! 💜🖤💜

[jackoshadows]

The only difference between Jon and Robb is Jon's special bond with Arya. It's not about Jon and his 'sisters'. It's about Jon and Arya.

I wish this fandom would stop diluting Jon's bond with Arya to shove Sansa in there when it does not exist in the books.

No, Sansa's 'ghost' does not linger over Jon! 5 mentions of Sansa in 42 POV chapters including one about how Sansa always reminded him he was a bastard is not Sansa's ghost haunting Jon's narrative.

Robb put his duty to the North above his family. Jon put his love for Arya above his duty to the realm. The only family member that Jon will break his most important sworn oaths for is Arya - and even there he spend an entire book angsting over whether he can save Arya until the very end where he snaps. That's how important his duty/oaths are to him.

Who was right? I can't say. Robb put his countryman above family. Jon put Arya over the realm. I can't criticize either one of them.

And Robb certainly loved Sansa more than Jon. He was so angry about Sansa's forced marriage to Tyrion that he wanted to behead Tyrion and kill him so that Sansa would be a widow.

It was just that Robb was helpless to assist Sansa in any feasible way that wouldn't put his campaign at risk. Catelyn releasing Jaime doomed Robb's campaign - this was what Robb was preventing from happening. And Sansa always had faith in Robb and knew he was trying his hardest to win back for the Starks.

Jon meanwhile was more concerned for why his friend Tyrion is now a kinslayer. We read no concern or worry for Sansa who has been forcefully married off to the enemy. The difference in his reaction to the marriages of Sansa and Arya is very telling.

I would also suggest that you read Jon ASoS XII to understand why Jon refuses Stannis' offer. (Please everyone, JUST READ THE BOOKS before spouting off fanon like how 'Sansa's ghost lingers over both boys')

Jon refuses the offer to be Lord of Winterfell because Stannis demands that he burn down the Winterfell Godswood and convert to the Lord of Light. As Jon considers the pros and cons of the offer, Ghost turns up with his red eyes and white skin and reminds Jon of a weirwood, the Old Gods and his oaths sworn in front of the Old Gods.

Jon then remembers how Ghost is a gift from the Old Gods and there is no way that he can burn down the WF weirwoods and accept Stannis' offer. His place was at the NW.

The direwolf had no answer, but he licked Jon’s face with a tongue like a wet rasp, and his eyes caught the last light and shone like two great red suns. Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one. And he alone of all the direwolves was white. Six pups they’d found in the late summer snows, him and Robb; five that were grey and black and brown, for the five Starks, and one white, as white as Snow.

He had his answer then - Jon, ASoS

The difference between Stannis' offer and Robb's decree is that the latter is from a much beloved brother who has no demands for Jon, like burning down the Godswood and giving up the Old Gods. It means all the world to Jon Snow that it's Robb who is naming him King in the North and Lord of Winterfell. The same brother who once told him he can 'never be Lord of Winterfell' is now legitimizing him as Stark and giving him Winterfell. This is closure for Jon and a resolution of his relationship with Robb. Of course he is going to accept Robb's decree!

And when Jon becomes Lord of Winterfell/KITN in the next book, he will do so as Jon Stark - it will be in 'Stark' hands! He doesn't have to pass it on to anyone else for it be in 'Stark' hands. As per Robb's decree, Jon's now one as well. And if his siblings love him, they will support him as leader of the North - considering he is the oldest, wisest and most experienced of them all.

Also remember that it was BOTH Robb Stark AND Catelyn Stark who decided that Sansa is disinherited as long as she is married to Tyrion. Why is it always just Robb getting the blame for this? The only disagreement between Robb and Catelyn was over who they would chose to be the new Lord of Winterfell - Catelyn wanted some distant cousin from the Vale and Robb wanted Jon.

So it is not just Stannis. It is a political decision. Jon used Sansa as an excuse to get Stannis to stop nagging him about accepting when he had already made up his mind. Jon also suggested that Stannis make Crowfood Umber Lord of Winterfell. Does that mean that Jon loves Crowfood Umber and Umber's ghost lingers over Jon?

So again, Sansa getting disinherited is plain politics. No one in the North wants the Lannisters getting control over Winterfell. NO ONE. Until Sansa requests and gets an annulment from the High Septon in KL she is out of the game for the Northerners. The only person who wants her as Lady of Winterfell is Littlefinger and I doubt anyone in the North is going to support him.

As a savvy politician familiar with the game, Jon would certainly understand where Robb and Cat where coming from wrt Sansa and the Lannisters and he is not going to make any decision different to theirs. If the North sides with him and wants him to be KITN/Lord of Winterfell as per Robb's decree, then he is going to accept. It's not a Southron king offering him Winterfell anymore. It's the North. It's Robb.

The only other opposing faction is Rickon supported by the powerful house Manderly. It's going to come down to between Jon and Rickon. That is until Arya and Bran makes a appearance.

You know what makes me feral? Robb Stark making Jon Snow his heir. From every single possible angle, it's just too good.

Robb's unfailing trust in his brother. His willingness to fight his mother for Jon, even after the Theon fiasco, and insist that Jon is different. Robb's love for his bastard brother is one of my favorite things about him, and the moment where he decides to make Jon his heir is truly Robb at his best.

And Jon never finds out. He turns down Stannis's offer of legitimization and Winterfell, not knowing that everything he ever wanted is already his. It drives me crazy, because it would mean so much to Jon. Even if he wouldn't abandon the Wall for it, he would want to know that Robb loved him enough to make him a Stark.

And Sansa! The way her ghost lingers over both boys. The way Robb and Jon think about their sisters is one of the major differences between them. Robb wouldn't give up his honorable war or his prisoner the Kingslayer to save two little girls. He disinherited Sansa when she was married to Tyrion, which is good military strategy to keep Winterfell out of Lannister hands, but would hurt her immensely if she knew.

And Jon is the opposite. Jon dies trying to get to Arya, because he will give up his honor and prioritize one little girl over a war against a literal army of the dead intent on annihilating all the living. (Not good military strategy, but Jon and Arya's bond is so important). And Jon won't take Winterfell when there's a chance Sansa will claim it. Even when Stannis calls her Lady Lannister, Jon does not dream of usurping Sansa's claim. I truly believe that Jon would sooner have Lady Sansa Lannister rule from Winterfell than claim it while she lives to keep it in "Stark" hands.

The politics of which Stark sibling holds the North is endlessly fascinating to me and I wish they could know what their siblings are doing for them. Jon should know that Robb made him a king. Sansa should know that Jon refused to take her home.

[bonesxbows]

Once Upon A Dream - Chapter 3 (Lucifer X Reader)

My Masterlist

In a sleeping beauty-inspired AU, a curse is placed over you when you strike up a deal with Heaven to protect baby Charlie, causing you to lose your memory. You remember nothing once the curse takes over; not your marriage with Lucifer, not the family you had with the two of them, nothing. So when a strange smiling demon offers you a place to stay when you can't remember where 'home' is, you take him up on his offer. 

(WARNINGS)

Heavy depressing themes

Loss of a parent (temporary)

Minor assault - Chapter 3 only

Link to Chapter 1

Link to Chapter 2

Banners by @strangergraphics

The palace was empty, eerily quiet. Deserted. He was a ghost walking his own halls, looking as dead on the outside as he felt on the inside. Hollow, scooped out like an orange peel and left out in the sun to rot. 

He was by your side, again. He always seemed to end up back here, his feet mindlessly bringing him into your room. He didn’t know where else to go. It had changed so much over the years; the curtains became drawn at some point, blocking out all possible light in the room, your fingertips had turned a worrying shade of blue, your body was so cold to the touch all the time now, and all memories of your time spent with Lucifer had been erased from the room, pictures being flipped over and trinkets the two of you had collected together shoved into a box deep within the closet. The room looked empty and uninviting now, it had lost that personal touch you had brought with you when you had moved in with him, but it was all too painful to look at. He had to be rid of it all. 

His arms were folded on your lap, his head tucked into them as he stared up at your sleeping face, his red-filled eyes brimming with tears as his yellow pupils trailed over your delicate features. His tail flicked angrily behind him. “She’s gone, ducky.” His voice was hoarse from disuse. In truth, it had been months since Charlie had left, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at you and tell you he had failed. The fact that you were unconscious and in no position to look down upon him made little difference in his mind, he would fill in the blanks for you. You had thought the world of him, uplifting him about what a wonderful father he would be when his doubts would get the better of him, and yet now here he was. Surely you would have been disappointed in him had you still been awake. Would you have left him too? Like Charlie had? Was he doomed to drive everyone away? 

He sat up, grabbing a hold of your hands in his, dragging his clawed thumbs over the backs of your knuckles softly. “I…I’m so sorry.” He gave them a slight squeeze, praying for a reaction from you, but of course, none came. “You should have never gotten tangled up in this mess…” tears were freely flowing down his face now as he spoke, his mind a whirlwind of emotions and negative thoughts, all aimed at himself like spears and swords.

The dam finally cracked, a shiver running down his spine as an awful thought stung his brain, the epiphany of his rumination hitting him like a lightning bolt sent down from the sky. “You…you would have been so much better off if we had never met.” He sobbed, refusing to look away from your face as he told you what he considered to be the truth. Maybe Heaven had been right, with what they had told him all those years ago, repeatedly spitting it into his face until they knew it was stuck in his brain. 

Maybe he truly had been a mistake. 

The thought made his body want to shut down. Made everything want to shut down inside of him. He leaned closer to you, shakingly placing a gentle kiss on your lips before he pulled back abruptly, dropping your hands into your lap and forcefully removing himself from your personal space as if mere contact with you had set him ablaze. That was all the affection he deserved after all he had done, all the pain he had caused. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself if he didn’t put distance between himself and you. He sighed, shaky fingers aggressively running through his blonde hair, pulling at the strands. 

Maybe he deserved to be alone, selfish child that he was. 

He had stopped seeing you after that night, vowing for that to be the last time. He didn’t deserve you, whether you were sleeping or awake. He deserved to be alone, just like Heaven had wanted him to be. 

But something had changed within the walls of your room once he shut that door for the final time. 

A mistake. A failure. A disappointment. 

These words rattled around your skull, whispers tugging at your subconscious until they roared into screams. 

Disappointment. FAILURE. Selfish, SELFISH child. Mistake. Mistake. MISTAKE. 

Your head began to pound from the words, your lungs kicking into overdrive as you gulped in air, your eyes flashing open. You coughed, the inside of your mouth feeling as if you had swallowed a mouthful of cotton, and you were grateful it was so dark in this room you were in. Your head still ached, pounding behind your eyes, those awful, awful words echoing around your skull. You tried to sit up, but you were met with excruciating pain zinging up through your bones. Your whole body was sore, muscles cramped and limbs weak. Just what the Hell had happened to you? And where were you? This room was unfamiliar; a bed covered in dull-colored, but soft, blankets, empty and blank dressers and shelves, surfaces covered in a thick layer of dust. This place wasn’t home. It looked too dreary, too sad, too much in despair to be your home. Where was the color, the personality, the energy you loved to bring to your spaces? No, this certainly wasn’t your place, it didn’t have your mark on it. And whoever it belonged to you weren’t sure you wanted to meet. 

You threw the blankets off of your body, swinging your legs over the bed and standing up, albeit shakingly. But you were determined, and you stayed upright. You surveyed your choices, a door across the room and a window closer by. A few small, and slow, steps later and you were by the window, throwing back the heavy curtains. Well, you were still in Hell, so that was at least a good starting point, the hellish red familiar sky greeting you up above through the panes of glass. But everything else was strange to you. Lush gardens laid out in intricate paths, rows of apple trees dotting the landscape, with a faint golden spiked-tipped metal fence surrounding it all. Certainly this was not your home…but where was your home? You couldn’t seem to recall, racking your brain for details led to nothing but static between your ears. Wherever it was, it wasn't here, and you felt an urge to leave.

Your body moved before your mind could rationalize, your fingers prying at the bottom of the window, trying to get it to open. It creaked and groaned, clearly having been disused for a while, but you managed to open it a foot before the rusty gears gave way, halting all progress. It would have to be enough. So you led with your feet on the sill, attempting to slide but practically throwing yourself out of the window as your limbs were still stiff. You tumbled, somehow landing face-first into the dirt and getting a mouth full of grass on contact. A groan hissed through your lips but you picked yourself up quickly, not wanting to risk being seen by whoever lived here. Scurrying across the yard as fast as your unacclimated legs could carry you, you arrived at your next obstacle; the fencing. 

No gate, not enough space between the bars to squeeze through, and the spikes adorned on top would prevent you from climbing. You mulled the inside of your cheek between your teeth. This may have been a bigger problem than you anticipated. But the thought of going back into that strange and unfamiliar room was enough to spur you forward. You thought, and thought hard, willing a way out to appear, somewhere. Pleading with anybody listening. “I want out. I don’t want to go back.”

You honestly had doubted anything would come of it, so you nearly jumped out of your skin when a circle of golden and blue light appeared in the middle of the metal bars, creating a straight shot through to the other side. A tunnel that led into the streets of Hell, all you had to do was step through it. 

You didn’t hesitate. 

You soon discovered that whatever had happened to you had left your memory fragmented. You knew this town, these streets, these houses and buildings. But yet your feet didn’t know where to go. The location of home was fuzzy, no matter how hard you tried to focus. Surely you had one, Hell itself still felt like home, you were meant to be here, but beyond that the details were jumbled. Did you have a family down here? Were they looking for you? Just whose house had you been in? And what exactly had happened to you? The amount of questions and lack of answers was making you nauseous. 

You walked aimlessly, hoping something would trigger a memory inside of you if you continuously walked these familiar streets. But with your mind a mess you were preoccupied, an easy target for the more criminal citizens of Hell. It wasn’t long before someone tried to rob you, threatening you to give them what you had in your pockets ‘or else’ and becoming increasingly aggressive when you accidentally ignored them, too caught up in your own thoughts to hear them. You were pulled out of your contemplations when a hand violently yanked your hair from behind, almost pulling you down to the ground from the force alone. 

“Are you stupid or something, you bitch?! Can’t you hear when someone’s talking to you?!” the man behind you screamed in your ear, his fist still entangled in your hair. Tears began to prick in your eyes as pain burned at your scalp, his pull relentless. 

An anger flared in you that you didn't know you were capable of. 

“Fuck off! Leave me alone you piece of shit!” you yelled, twisting in his grip and kicking behind you, aiming for his feet and hoping to stomp on his toes. His hold loosened and you wiggled free, whirling around with your fists balled and raised, two seconds away from decking this bastard straight in the nose. But your arms fell limp to your sides, your mouth falling open in shock when you saw the scene before you; someone had beaten you to it. He was lying on the ground, body thoroughly bloodied and broken, limbs twisted in odd angles as a large pool of blood began to form, bones glistening with sinew in the light. A puff of black smoke dissipated into the concrete around the splintered man as a faint clicking noise came up from behind you, making your ears twitch toward the sound. 

“I believe they asked you to leave them alone.” the clicking noise stopped as someone came to stand right behind you, their voice pitched with a thick layer of static. You turned around on your heels and came face to face with a leering smile, red eyes staring down at you with imposing curiosity. His arms were outstretched to his cane in front of him, his hands resting on the microphone box on top and his weight leaning on the accessory, diminishing his true height by a good deal. He wasn’t quite at eye level with you, but he wasn’t quite towering over you either. 

“I…um…thank you. But I could’ve handled him myself.” You stood tall, not exactly sure what to be expecting from this obviously threatening, but oddly charming, demon in front of you. 

His smile grew impossibly large on his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Well of course you could, dear! But who can’t use a little help now and then, hm?” 

“…right. Well uh…I appreciate the help mister…?”

“Alastor, dear. Pleasure to meet you.” He shifted his weight, standing up straight and swinging his cane to one hand as he held out the other towards you. You took it, hesitantly, but he was having none of your timidness, firmly grasping your hand and giving it a sturdy shake. “And you are?”

The question was simple, but it struck a chord in your mind, making electricity shoot through you right down to your toes. Your name?…What was your name? Why didn’t you know your own name?!

“I, ha,…I don’t know?” you couldn’t help but laugh dryly. It was funny, in a pitiful way. How could someone not know their own identity?

He hummed, eyes squinting as his gaze seemed to consider you. Whether he was scrutinizing you or feeling sorry for your predicament you couldn’t tell. His plastered-on smile hid everything. But his observing only lasted for a few moments before he suddenly sprung up, his eyes lighting up as his ears perked upwards. He let go of your hand, wagging his finger in the air pointedly. “Well that just won’t do! Say, I know of the perfect place for someone like you, run by the most charming gal this side of the Pentagram who just loves helping those down on their luck. Sound interested?” His hands found their way to rest atop his microphone again as he proclaimed his offer, his grin growing twice in size. 

You didn’t trust him, something about him just seemed…off. But what other choice did you have? If you followed him you would at least have a roof over your head, a bed to sleep in, a place to stay and rest while you figured everything else out and pieced your fractured mind back together. You nodded curtly, “Alright, Alastor. Lead the way.” 

“Splendid, dear! Simply splendid!” He hooked an arm through yours excitedly, his height making it a little awkward but you had no time to oppose as he began swiftly guiding you down the street. “Oh you’ll love it there, I guarantee it! She hosts one of the best hotels around!”

To be continued in Chapter 4...

Taglist - Let me know if you would like to be added!

@kyo-kyo1

[shadowthehedgehcg]

Things I noticed in my Sonic 3 rewatch now its on digital

-Maria wearing the same goggles Ivo does when she's skating with Shadow

-The pod Shadow comes down is shaped like Black Doom's logo (which makes me think we're DEFINITELY getting that Shadow spin-off)

-Sonic echoing Maria's "look out!" during the Tokyo chase scene

-Stone and Knuckles' beef (gets me every time)

-The "No Grown Ups Allowed" sign in Maria and Shadow's room

-Shadow never learns Sonic's name...like ever.

-Gerald wearing the silver glasses he wears in the games during the Halloween part of the "Wouldn't it be Nice" Montage

-The icons used when they're talking about the London plan are the classic models of Tails, Sonic, and Knuckles.

-Sonic's fall when he's on top of the London Eye is the same fall when you get an E rank in Sonic Unleashed

-the arm Tom put in a sling for the Commander Walters disguise is the opposite of the one that gets hurt after Shadow punches him.

-You can see the wheels in Robotnik's head begin to turn when Gerald says "infusing the core with chaos energy"

-KNUCKLES IS FUCKING TEARY-EYED WHEN HE GOES TO SAVE SONIC AND TAILS, MY BOYYYYYYYYYY

-"I am having the love" being a callback to Knuckles saying "I am having the fun" in Sonic 2

-AMY'S LITTLE COCKED EYEBROW WHEN SHE MEETS SONIC AHHHH IM SO EXCITED FOR SONIC 4 LETS GOOOOOO

-I'm not entirely sure about this, but I'm pretty sure there's an orchestral version of "I Am...All of Me" playing as Shadow picks up his limiter ring in the end credit scene