#because he felt entirely responsible for “killing” him

[toastytrusty]

i think it finally clicked what about cassian and luthen's relationship i find so compelling. when cassian officially joined the rebellion at the end of season one, he effectively surrendered all of his autonomy to luthen. "kill me or take me in." he literally put his life in luthen's hands. he clearly had very little will to live, and beyond giving luthen the choice to kill him, he gave luthen the choice to give him purpose again. and not Just purpose, either, but full control over the rest of his life, as well. he became part of the cause because he felt he had nothing else left, and was either going to effectively kill himself, or let someone else dictate every single thing he does until he dies anyway, now with a reason behind it, now able to plausibly deny it being wanted. it's simultaneously an admittance of defeat, where he is telling luthen that he won, and an act of defiance, where he is challenging luthen to discard him rather than use him. and obviously luthen would rather use him.

but then there is the bix aspect. cassian's hopelessness at the end of s1 implies that he did not, at that point, see bix as an adequate reason to keep going. not as a reason to stay alive, not as a reason to stay present in anyone else's life. it was not worth remaining an individual, for her sake or his own. and obviously a lot of that is from the insane depressive grief that the whole Ordeal of s1 + losing maarva was. but still. he was very closed off, and singlemindedly thinking about his own ability to give himself to the rebellion. which makes his protectiveness over her in s2 all the more compelling. he is repeatedly getting worked up over her well-being, and acting out in ways that are possibly jeopardizing to the rebellion. it's such a fascinating transition, and regardless of how they got there again, i think in season 2, cassian sees bix as his last place to be human. the one person in the galaxy he can be an individual with, rather than a tool. which is why, in my current, ever-evolving understanding of these characters, i think he gets so contradictory and confused about what he wants from her. he wants her to be strong and a soldier so they can go to war together, because the war is so terribly important to him, but he also wants her to prioritize her own safety over anything else and never put herself at risk, because if he loses her he loses himself. this is necessarily the conflict between them.

which comes to the incredible exchange between cassian and luthen about bix in episode 6 of s2, where we can see how much this conflcit is affecting cassian. he can't stand that luthen is potentially putting bix in danger, and can't stand that luthen is treating them like droids, rather than people. but then. then luthen Reminds cassian. he reminds cassian that he already surrendered his autonomy. he already surrendered his individuality. "we're not who we were when we started." cassian chose this; chose to change for this, chose to give up being a person for this. he doesn't get to now choose to put bix, his one haven, over it. she needs to be able to handle herself, because cassian asserting himself by worrying about her compromises their entire system. "you will have to decide when it becomes too large a problem." but cassian's response is the most important part: "no. that's gonna be up to you." he's essentially turning it back on luthen. if luthen expects him to remain compliant in the way his role calls for, then luthen needs to be fullfilling his side of it, and making sure cassian has an environment that he Can remain compliant in, without compromising anything. "you want my blood? you help me solve this." he is finally standing his ground on something to luthen, asserting himself in a way that is basically begging luthen to let him submit again. he wants to be part of the cause; he still wants to be able to lose himself in it, but he also needs bix, and will not give up the life he knows is possible to share with her.

[captain-ghost]

Unfriendly reminder that the kindest thing Owen's mother had done for him in his memory was help him pack his bags so he could move out at 16.

[dxxtruction]

Louis does see Armand for all his flaws, and yet still chooses him, and loves him, but when he sees them for what they really were, and really entailed, he no longer can. Oh, gradations of evil. Louis had in ways bought into it.

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Series Masterlist

You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[ravenclaw-for-all-seasons]

His Soft Spot - Mattheo Riddle

A/N: I’m so tempted to make a load of these scenarios because I find this trope so cute 😭 and I was definitely not inspired by that photo I reblogged…

The moment Mattheo Riddle stepped into the Great Hall, the entire atmosphere shifted. Conversations hushed, eyes flickered away, and the once lively room felt as though it had lost all its warmth.

It wasn’t uncommon for Mattheo to be in a foul mood, but today, it was different. Today, he radiated pure fury.

His dark curls were even messier than usual, his sharp jaw locked tight, and his eyes—those usually mischievous brown eyes—were stormy and dangerous.

“Don’t even look at him,” Theo muttered under his breath, nudging Enzo as they both sat at the Slytherin table.

Enzo let out a low whistle. “What’s got him like this?”

“Dunno, but I’d rather not be on the receiving end of it.”

Sure enough, Mattheo strode past a few third years who were unfortunate enough to be in his path and they practically flew backwards as he barged past them. Even the Gryffindors who would normally offer an unsolicited snarky comment chose to keep their heads down.

The only one who seemed entirely unbothered by his wrath was you—for good reason.

As soon as Mattheo spotted you at the Slytherin table, his expression shifted so suddenly it was almost comical. The storm in his eyes calmed, his shoulders relaxed, and his lips curled into a soft, barely-there smile.

“Hey, love,” he murmured as he slid onto the bench beside you, his arm immediately wrapping around your waist. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

You turned to face him, brows raised. “You look like you’re about to murder someone.”

Mattheo sighed dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “I might. Haven’t decided yet.”

Despite his words, his tone when speaking to you was so sweet, so warm, that it was almost laughable compared to how he’d just been glaring daggers at half the school.

Theo, who had been watching the entire exchange with amusement, turned to Enzo. “You see that?”

Enzo smirked. “Oh, I see it all right. Blatant favoritism!”

Theo grinned. “It’s absolutely ridiculous. He looks like he’s about to kill us all, and then the second he sees Y/N? Boom. Puppy.”

“I’m literally right here,” Mattheo muttered, pulling away from you just enough to glare at his friends. “And I will not hesitate to throw you both into the black lake.”

“Oh, we know,” Theo said, leaning back smugly. “But only if Y/N isn’t looking, yeah?”

Mattheo scowled. “Shut up.”

You giggled, reaching out to cup his cheek, drawing his attention back to you. “What’s got you so mad, anyway?”

He melted into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before he exhaled heavily. “Idiot Ravenclaws in Dueling Club,” he grumbled. “One of them kept running their mouth, thinking they could beat me. Almost hexed the bastard into next week, but Snape showed up before I could.”

You hummed in response, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “So you’re mad because you didn’t get to hex someone?”

“Pretty much.”

Theo snorted. “Psychopath.”

“Dead man,” Mattheo shot back without even looking at him.

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Alright, alright. No hexing your friends at breakfast.”

Mattheo groaned, resting his forehead against yours. “You always take their side.”

“I do not,” you argued, laughing softly. “I just think you need to relax.”

“I am relaxed,” he said, voice softer than before. He nudged his nose against yours, and for a second, it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Just you and him, wrapped up in this little moment of warmth.

Enzo made a gagging noise. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Mattheo’s hand shot out to grab a piece of toast from Enzo’s plate and chucked it at his head. “Then leave.”

You leaned in, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “Don’t let them bother you.”

His lips barely curved into a smirk. “They don’t. They’re just annoying.”

“You love us,” Theo chimed in.

“No, I tolerate you.”

Enzo grinned. “Right, but you love her.”

Mattheo didn’t even hesitate. “Obviously.”

The table went silent for a second.

Theo’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell, did he just—?”

“He did,” Enzo confirmed, looking equally stunned. “He admitted it. Just like that.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, looking at you like he couldn’t believe he had to deal with this level of stupidity. “Of course I love her.” He glanced at the other two. “What, did you think I was throwing myself at her feet just for fun?”

Theo blinked. “I mean… yeah, kind of.”

Mattheo groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “You absolute idiots.”

You just laughed, feeling warmth spread through your chest at how easily he had said it. You knew Mattheo loved you—he showed it in every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every time he softened his voice just for you—but hearing him say it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world? That was something else entirely.

He may have been terrifying to everyone else, but when it came to you, he was nothing but soft.

And honestly? You loved that.

Even if your friends never let you live it down.

[hanniebaeee]

The Runaway(s)

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy

Genre: established relationship, fluff

Summary: You run away from your husband to save his life. But your husband isn't exactly the type to let go.

a/n: Very short, but I had a dream. Blond Jinnie glaring at me. And I thought, why not. Trying to get off my writer's block.

The rhythmic clatter of the overnight train filled the silence as you sat curled up in your seat. It was dark, and your carriage was nearly empty. But your heart pounded, not just because of the creepy ambience, but at the thought of who you were running from.

Hyunjin.

Your husband. The man you had defied your father for, and had married in a whirlwind wedding. It was a dream. It was perfect. 

But now, you were leaving him. Because if you didn’t, your father, the most ruthless man you know, would make sure your husband didn’t live long enough to see your anniversary. Not that you underestimated your husband. 

You definitely knew he was capable of more than he let you know. But that wasn't a risk you were willing to take.

The overhead lights flickered. They had been all night, but just then, it felt way too ominous. Dramatic even. You had been gazing out the window into the pitch black night, your heart aching at the thought of Hyunjin.

A sudden movement at the end of the carriage had you looking up. And your breath caught in your throat.

No. No, no, no.

The figure stalked towards you, broad shoulders swaying with confidence, his long black coat billowing behind him. The dim lighting barely cast light on his features - but you knew.

You knew that silhouette. You knew that walk. 

Hyunjin.

You swore under your breath, running a hand down your face. 

"You know," his voice came smooth as silk, teasing, "for someone so determined to run, you really should’ve picked a better mode of escape.”

You swallowed. Hard.

"How did you -"

He tsked, tilting his head, golden hair catching the dim light like a halo. A very menacing halo.

"Sweetheart, did you really think I wouldn’t have someone watching you?" He asked. 

Okay, fair.

"You need to leave," you whispered urgently. "My father -"

"Is an old tantrum-thrower with a gun collection," Hyunjin drawled, closing the distance between you. "So, what? You think disappearing is going to stop him?"

You stared at him in silence. 

Hyunjin’s jaw clenched, and then, with a slow, knowing smirk, he murmured, "Ah baby. That’s not the only thing you were keeping from me, is it?"

Your stomach flipped. Your hands instinctively pressed to your lower abdomen.

Damn it. How the hell did he even know?

Hyunjin's gaze darkened, but not with the fury you expected. No, this was something else entirely. His lips parted slightly, as if suddenly breathless, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"So I'm right," he whispered, almost in awe. “You're pregnant.”

"Hyunjin-" Your throat tightened. 

"You -" His voice cracked. Cracked. "Are having my baby."

The terrifying, merciless mafia boss knelt in front of you right there in the dimly lit train, pressing a hand  against your stomach like he was touching something holy.

You had expected rage. Fury. Some kind of dramatic, chair-throwing, wall-punching response. Instead, you got a very emotionally fragile mafia lord looking like he just melted into a puddle.

His hands came up to cradle your face, his eyes wild, voice urgent.

"You ran. With my baby inside you. You left me. With my baby inside you." He sounded like he was going to punch a hole in the window. 

"I was protecting you -"

"I don’t need protection, you do," he snapped, but then his brows furrowed, and his bottom lip trembled ever so slightly. "God, I missed you. I was going to kill you, but now I can’t because you’re growing my spawn."

"Hyunjin, I swear -" You groaned. Right. Hyunjin killing you would be the biggest joke of the century.

"Does this mean I can’t stress you out? Will that affect the baby?" He grabbed your hands, placing them firmly against his chest. "Quick, feel my heartbeat. Is it too erratic? Is it distressing for the baby? Are you eating enough? Did you eat dinner?"

“Hyunjin, calm down.” you said, your hand still pressed against his chest, his heart pounding heavily against it. 

"You ran from me while pregnant. That's so offensive babe. I should be taking care of you, feeding you, rubbing your feet. Giving you baths." He ranted. 

You sighed, shoving at his chest lightly. But he didn’t budge. His lips curled into a slow, lazy smirk, that sharp edge of danger creeping back in.

"Are you done?" you deadpanned.

"Almost." Hyunjin hummed. 

And then, before you could react, he leaned in, his lips pressing against yours, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs.

He tasted like power. And devotion. And the promise of a man who would burn the entire world to the ground before letting anything happen to you.

When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your swollen lips, eyes glittering with mischief.

"You’re never running from me again, sweetheart," he murmured. "You can try. But at the end of the day?" His lips ghosted over yours once more. "You’re mine."

You exhaled shakily, and said, "Possessive much?"

Hyunjin only grinned. "Oh, absolutely."

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120

[devotedlystrangewizard]

live footage of me trying to figure out who to romance with el (he will kill them)

[bunnis-monsters]

The mating bond of a prince

Yandere!Demon Prince x Fem!Reader

Bunni’s Monstertober Event

Oct 17th

Oct 16

Oct 18

summary:

warning: dubcon, kind of angsty, breeding, mating, marking, possessive and obsessive behavior

a/n: I wanna do more with this concept, but here’s a snippet for monstertober because I’m behind ><

Demons were said to be cruel creatures incapable of love or empathy, soulless beings that fed on fear and misery… and for the most part, that was true.

But what humans didn’t know about demons was one simple fact. There is only one person that they will ever love and care for…

Their mate.

Every demon was born into the world with one thought in their mind.

To find their mate.

Soon, other thoughts would pop up from time to time. They had to eat to continue the search for their mate, tear down humans cities to help their species thrive so their mate would have a comfortable place to live once they found them.

If they didn’t fight to end human civilization, where would their mates live and raise young? Taking their beloved back to hell with them was out of the question!

This was how the demon king managed to help demon numbers increase and keep his army growing. If each demon was born with the urge to procreate and create a good nesting ground for their mate, they could be easily controlled.

He just hadn’t expected his son, the prince of hell to be bound to a human.

The prince had recently conquered a small village. As he went about killing the men, his entire body began to throb.

In the distance, he smelled something that had his head spinning. One of the small cottages was on fire, that heavenly scent coming from inside.

He felt his body being pulled towards it, so he completely ignored the humans attempting to kill him and walked towards the cottage.

Breaking down the door was easy, but being enveloped in your overwhelming scent made it hard to think.

The second he saw you, injured and barely confused as a fellow demon stood over your fragile, human body, he felt something he had never felt before.

Protective.

Within seconds he was shirking your body, his claw drenched in the demons blood from ripping his throat out. Why was he doing this? You were just some human woman, but his soul was bound to you.

He couldn’t let you die.

When you woke up, you were somewhere strange… some sort of contraption beeped next to you, the beeps increasing in frequency as you sat up and looked around… only to spot a demon by your bed.

All you felt was pure terror.

You stared at the creature whose specifies was responsible for the deaths of so many of your friends and family, who killed innocents in cold blood. Tears streamed down your face as you tried to speak.

“Please… let me go…”

But when the prince looked into your eyes for the first time, his body felt like it had been set on fire.

He loved you, and you were his mate.

Not once in his life had he ever looked upon another creature with such fondness and care. The prince made his way to your bed, kneeling by your side and taking your hand.

“My love… oh, my darling do not fear… here you are safe, you’ll be treasured for all eternity…”

He kissed the back of your hand, your gut burning with anger and shame. This thing had taken you as some sort of… bride?

“W-what about my family?”

The words finally came out after a few days in the hospital. In this time, you learned that demon society was far ahead of the human one, with machines that could monitor your heart rate and medicines that kept you from being in pain.

It was… comfortable.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and cold. “What about them? They are humans, they will be culled like the rest.”

You clutched your blanket in your fists, your eyes welling up with tears. Something about you crying made his chest ache, and the prince reached out to caress your cheek.

“Why do you cry? Are you not comfortable?”

The demon could not comprehend your feelings towards your loved ones. He simply saw them as pests that needed to be eradicated, and could only feel love for you, his mate.

“They’re my family, I love them!”

Your sudden exclamation had him raising an eyebrow, his tail twitching. Were they really that important?

The prince knew that every human from your village was already dead, there was no way your family had survived. But to placate his mate, he wrapped his tail around you, using his soft black wings to encircle you and bring you close.

“I’ll have my men escort them somewhere safe. You may not see them, but they will live.”

This lie made you relax, and you settled into his arms. You felt like you could finally rest, and slept like a baby for the first time since you had been taken away.

The prince wanted to take things slow, but news that his mate had turned out to be a human woman spread through the kingdom until it reached his father.

He was called in to meet with the King, who was displeased, but mildly amused.

“I hear you’ve taken on a human mate, my son. You know how the royal court will react.”

The prince nodded, standing tall and confident in front of his father. “I am prepared to defend my mate to my dying breath, as would any demon.”

“That’s all well and good, but a human mate is an eyesore. You should hurry up and get her pregnant, there will be less danger once an heir is produced.”

Everyone knew that demon blood was powerful, being the dominant trait in every pairing. Once she was pregnant with the heir to the throne, not a single creature would dare to touch her.

It had only been a week since you had been home from the hospital, staying with the demon prince when suddenly approached you.

“My love…”

His lips peppered across your neck, hands holding onto your waist before sliding to your hips. “I wanted to wait… to give you time to adjust…”

You froze when his tail moved between your legs, rubbing against your clothed cunt. “But this is the only way to keep you safe… please, don’t be afraid… I’ll be gentle.”

The pieces slowly came together as his tail played with your cunt, rubbing against your panties before slipping under them and toying with your clit.

His hand was on your belly, eyes darting between your face and thighs. The way he moved his hand around your stomach…

He was going to breed you.

You squirmed for a bit, letting out an uncomfortable whine, but settled down when his clawed hand danced across your chest, groping one of your breasts as his face buried itself into your neck.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, love… this life is comfortable, isn’t it? I can give you a life of peace and safety, where you don’t have to fear war or pain. You’ll be taken care of.”

The very thought of some human male touching his lover made a growl rumble in his chest. You’d be staying with him, that wasn’t an option… but he wanted it to be something you chose yourself.

It felt sinful feeling wet from the demon playing with your fat pussy. His fingers pumped in and out of your as the tip of his tail continued to stimulate your clit, your juices flowing down your thighs.

He said your family was safe… was it so bad to let this demon take you as his mate? You were tired of long nights full of screams from people running from demons, of days without a proper meal as you rationed your supplies so you wouldn’t have to leave your home.

Couldn’t you live a comfortable life? You’ve suffered enough…

So you let him pin you down, watching as his fat cock rubbed against your leg. You had never seen a man naked before, so you were unsure if the size was normal… but you knew it had to be bigger than average.

His wings fluttered as his cock rested against your thigh. It nudges you, his tail lifting from your cunt to your tits, playing with them.

“I love you… more than you could ever imagine. You never have to want for anything again. I’ll give you everything…”

The pain of him taking your virginity made you cry out, your nails digging into his forearm. It didn’t hurt him at all, and he simply cooed, his wings soft as he dried his best to comfort you.

“Shh… shh… oh, my love I know it hurts. It won’t be for long…”

His lips pressed against your forehead, sweat already beading down. It wasn’t easy trying to take something so large inside of you for the first time…

The second you eased into it a bit, he pulled back out and slammed into you. He hadn’t meant to be rough, but he had struggled to control his urge to breed you from the second he realized you were his mate.

“I love you…” he murmured, gripping your hips as he fucked you, his teeth lightly gracing your neck. He wanted to cover you in bites and hickeys, claiming you completely.

He wasn’t done with you until your belly bulged with his cum. You smelled so much like him that he was a sappy mess.

You were exhausted, sore, and in need of a bath… but your demon mate curled around you protectively, kissing all over your body.

Within a month you were confirmed to be pregnant, and were moved into the palace as a princess.

You’d live a life of comfort… but were practically betraying your species by baring the future demon prince.

The current demon prince would soon be king, and you his queen.

An honor and the biggest shame.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat

[moonlight-prose]

smut prompt #8 for logan 👀💗

forty five minutes in the closet

a/n: not me literally writing this in right where you left me ch4. hilarious and iconic timing, because i was fighting the urge to just have them fuck full on in that closet. so here's my chance to do just that. for funsies i'm shoving it into that universe. do not look at me for using that gif. i literally can't deny myself the sight.

summary: an alternative scene to what really happened in that closet.

OR wade wilson forces logan to play seven minutes in heaven. (it was longer than seven minutes if we're being honest.)

word count: 2.6k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, exhibitionism, dirty talk, logan is filthy af and we love that, spit, fingering sort of, p in v sex, quickie, rough sex, biting, he's down bad for his honey what can i say, panty gag, a formal apology for how fucking horny and unhinged this is.

The closet felt smaller than intended—even as your back was pressed to the wall hard enough to feel the cracks in the drywall that stretched to the ceiling. Laughter filtered through the thin wooden door as Wade told yet another joke about shit you couldn't discern. Even if you asked him to explain, you'd still be confused come morning.

Logan leaned heavily against his side of the closet. Approximately two feet of space between you. The tips of your shoes touched his boots. The faint scent of cigar smoke still lingered from where he ripped it out and tossed it in an ashtray. You wouldn't have cared if he smoked in here. You might have asked for a puff.

He insisted on keeping the air clean in case you had to breathe.

Wade claimed you were playing seven minutes in heaven. Seven minutes of alone time with the man who made your head spin. In a proximity close enough to feel the heat of his body from where you stood. Although you'd been standing there for four minutes (you were keeping count via the watch on Logan's wrist) and the group seemed to have forgotten about the both of you entirely.

"Do you—um—know what usually happens here?"

A smile curved on his lips—eyes scrutinizing you with a look that told you he was teasing you. "Yeah. I do. I'm old, not stupid."

"I just wanted to make sure..." In a swift move you barely saw, he rose to his full height and crossed the invisible line holding the two of you on opposing sides. "Oh–"

"Honey." His voice was low, yet you felt as if he was screaming in your ear.

"Yes?" you breathed—eyes fixed on the way his chest took up your space. His flannel was stretched across it and for a moment you wondered if you started salivating at the sight.

"Are you nervous?"

Another raucous round of laughs broke through the darkness that surrounded you. But you could barely hear them over the echo of your own heart. It hammered loudly against your chest—quickening the closer he got. The more his large frame began to engulf you in a warmth you only dreamed of. You clamored to come up with a response, to flippantly push off his advance with a tease of your own.

His hands pressing on either side of your head to the wall behind you killed every ounce of bravery you had left. All your worries and thoughts about what lay on the other side of that door were extinguished. Logan leaned down, his nose brushed yours, and inhaled deep enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

"I can smell you," he rumbled. "Sweet like honey."

A searing heat built beneath your skin, burning from your cheeks down to the tips of your toes. Your mouth opened—words still fighting to be formed—but he didn't need an answer. Not when he could smell the arousal that pooled between your thighs. How you subtly shifted to find a bit of friction in the hopes of something more.

"You mind if I kiss you bub?"

A piece of you fractured in the darkness of that closet—settling comfortably in his own chest. You might ask for it back after all of this, but Logan felt his chances of you walking out as his were growing the longer this went on.

Glancing up—eyes wide and darkened with lust—you bit back the whine that crawled up the back of your throat. "They'll hear us."

He shrugged, shifting close enough for you to almost taste the whiskey off his lips. "Good."

"Logan–"

Lips pressed to your cheek, drawing a soft sigh from your parted mouth. "Somethin' tells me they're just waiting for it." His hand left the wall to trail along your waist, dipping slowly with a kiss to the corner of your lips. "And somethin' also tells me...you like that idea."

It's not as if you were entirely opposed to the idea. Actually most nights (if not every night) was spent with you imagining what it would be like to feel him this way. To be stretched with his cock so much you would feel a delicious burn.

You craved it.

He knew solely from the wanton look on your face. The way your eyes fluttered the further his hand went.

"You gonna let me in or what honey?" he cooed, fingers dipping beneath your skirt to seek out the slick that soaked the lace of your underwear.

Surely the seven minutes had run out, leaving the both of you to make a choice. Stay here and keep going for everyone to catch you. Or walk out, find a room, and continue this in private.

The thought of waiting a second longer snapped at your heels with an air of impatience you let consume you. What the fuck did it matter if they heard you getting fucked against the wall? What did it matter if you'd never live this down as long as you lived?

How could you actually think about shame when Logan's fingers were pressed against your dripping cunt, seeking out your clit through the thin fabric that divided you.

Sagging against the wall with a soft moan, you gripped his flannel in your fist and yanked his lips to yours. He groaned, falling into your body and effectively pinning you to the wall, as his tongue met yours. And suddenly you realized...you liked how whiskey tasted off of his tongue.

He devoured you with the kiss, swallowing each moan and stunted whine as his fingers made quick work of finding your clit. Rubbing quick circles, he plunged his tongue into your mouth - licking at your teeth with a fervor that seeped down into your stomach. It was messy. His spit mixed with yours, staining the skin of your cheek. Your slick coated the inside of your thighs as he pushed the fabric into you roughly.

Yet none of it felt enough to ease the ache that spread rapidly down to the tips of your fingers. Your heart twisted as he gripped the back of your neck—leading you in a kiss that divulged down to nothing but teeth and spit.

You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, your leg hooking around his hip, in the hopes of dragging him closer. To feel the hard bulge against the rough denim of his jeans.

"Look at you," he mumbled against your cheek. "All pretty and leakin' for me."

A sharp burst of need pulled tight at your stomach—the breath torn from your lungs. "Inside–"

He smiled. "C'mon honey. Use that smart head of yours. Gimme some words."

His words were a brutal tease that scraped against your skin. Yet that coupled with his fingers that seemed to hold an edge of desperation, left you gasping for air. Fingers dug into his shirt, lips found his in the hollow darkness, and you begged for mercy. This was your penance. The altar he intended to bend you across.

Oh how you longed for him to follow through.

"Fuck me," you managed to get out between sharp intakes of breath and heady kisses. "Please Logan. It hurts.

The sound that emanated from deep in his chest could only be described as feral. You'd never heard him like that before. Bordering on the line of unhinged and sanity. A flare of want pulled at your body, echoing loudly in your chest.

You wanted to hear it again. To feel him break beneath your palms as he rutted into you with need. You ached to watch him whittle himself down to the barest of his senses. The animalistic urge of lust he kept hidden for weeks on end.

"Yeah?" His words were a snarl against your ear, teeth scraping your jaw as he ripped his hand away. "'M gonna make it better. Gonna take away the pain."

Nails scratched at the back of his neck when you heard his claws slide out—cutting through the fabric that clung to you. It was sopping wet; proof that you hadn't in fact been lying about your need. Logan felt his cock leak in his jeans at the sight—how your slick clung to his fingers as he swiped along the gusset.

"All for me," he sighed.

"Uh-huh." If you thought you sounded needy before, that was nothing compared to this moment.

He eyed you briefly. The hazel you'd grown fond of now dark and clouded with lust. The plea for more lay on the tip of your tongue—ready to be laved against his skin the longer he took. But then he brought the fabric to his mouth, his tongue running across it with a broken groan. The breath was punched from your lungs—legs shaking as a wave of slick poured out of you.

"Oh fuck–" you gasped, cupping his chin to catch his lips in a kiss.

The clink of his belt buckle echoed like a gunshot in the small space. Your heart began to race. Fingers shaking as you watched him tug his cock free; fisting the red and leaking tip with a throaty moan. Saliva filled your mouth at the mere thought of him sliding between your lips. The image of him feeding you his cock with a smile.

He fanned the flames of your simmering fire, offering you pleasure with ease.

His hand gripped your other leg, positioning it over his hip before pushing you up along the wall. The yelp was muffled by his lips; your hands finding purchase against his hot skin.

"Gotta be real quiet now bub," he mumbled, sliding his cock along your drenched cunt.

The head tapped against your clit once, twice. By the third time your teeth were dug into your bottom lip so hard copper burst on your tongue.

"I promise."

He chuckled, breathless. You joined.

The compact space stretched out before you, expanding with each joined breath and laugh. Passion intertwined in your chest, reaching for him with a tender touch of reverence. And nothing existed but the two of you.

"Hey Logan."

His cock jumped at the sound of your voice so light and airy. "Yeah honey?"

"If I don't tell you after this." Your hips canted into his, grinding towards where he positioned himself. "I had a really nice time tonight."

His heart fluttered as your words settled into his skin—soaking up your warmth. "Me too."

The laughter diminished the second he pushed forward, sliding into you with a slickened thrust that left his body shuddering. You swallowed the sob that wrenched from your chest when he kept going. Stretching you until you felt the burn begin to seep into your body. You weren't prepared for how addicting it felt; how mindless he made you.

Seven minutes had surely blended into fifteen, giving the group no doubt of what you were doing. That only solidified when he bottomed out and you moaned so loud it nearly gave him a heart attack. His fingers clamored for something in his pocket—his lips sliding against yours to silence the endless whimpers. He filled you until you saw white behind your eyes each time they fluttered closed.

"They're gonna hear ya," he muttered. You caught a flash of lace before it was being pressed to your lips—willing you to part them and hold the fabric between your teeth.

Logan gave you one minute to find your brain in the muddled thoughts that filled you, before pulling out. Only to slam back in. Your cry was muffled—eyes rolled back—and he felt a searing triumph begin to form in his chest. At the sight of you in a messy state of bliss.

His hips slapped against yours, the wet slide of your cunt a loud echo. Adding to the symphony of his groans and your whimpered sounds. Your spit soaked into the lace, fingers digging hard along the planes of his back, and he felt you gush at the feel of his teeth sinking into your neck.

"So fuckin' sweet for me," he grunted, cupping your ass to push you back and forth on his cock. A shift in the angle had you going dumb. Eyes wide and glazed with tears. "My pretty girl huh?"

Fuck you wanted to scream. You longed to hear his name bounce off the closet walls and spill into the foyer of Wade's damn apartment. To remind them that time was still passing and their limit had reached the vastness of infinity.

He pounded into you with sharp gasps of praise, words that fell on ears deafened by the rush of blood that ran right to your head. Oxygen felt secondary when his cock kissed the wall of your cunt with such accuracy it left you blinded. Enough to have you sobbing into the spit soaked lace - tears spilling down your cheeks.

"You take it like it was fuckin' made for you yeah?"

You nodded, breasts bouncing as he fucked you along his cock—his other hand pressed to the wall. You took it like it was made for you, because it was made for you. Logan belonged to you. Whether he knew it now or not.

"I can feel you squeezin' me," he gasped. "Gonna cum?"

"Mhm," you mumbled, the squelch of your cunt loud enough to block out the laughter from the outside.

"Then do it honey." His thumb found your clit, swirling it with sharp pointed circles. Your toes curled in your shoes—head falling back to the wall with a soft thud. "That's it. Fuckin' cum for me."

"Mmff–" A sob of what morphed into his name tore from the depths of your body. Rendering you a shaky mess in his arms as you clamped down around his cock.

Slick poured out of you, coating the hair along the base of his stomach in your essence. Logan growled at the sight. His eyes narrowed and teeth bared with each stunted thrust of his hips into yours. Claws punctured the drywall behind you as a way to keep his body level. To ground himself as he came with a hoarse groan he quickly muffled into the top of your breast.

Grinding into you, he emptied himself entirely. Rope after rope of his spend now filling you to the point of dripping down to his balls.

You felt the need to drop to your knees and taste him.

To clean him entirely and place him neatly back in his jeans. But the movement of your body no longer remained an option—your legs numb and back sore from being pounded into the wall.

He removed the gag with a huff, kissing you gently with his thumbs pressed to the tops of your cheeks. A soft caress. A contract to the rough way he manhandled you.

"I can't feel my legs," you sighed into his mouth, tongue swiping along his bottom lip.

"You're not supposed to." The weak slap to his chest had him laughing louder than intended.

"Don't worry. Wade won't notice if you carry me."

He groaned, his teeth scraping at the flesh of your breast. "Don't fuckin’ say his name or I won't be able to fuck you again tonight."

You giggled, running your hands through his mussed hair. "Whiskey dick?"

"Shut up–"

"He's told you–"

Lips sealed over yours, hips pushing yours until the sigh stuttered from your chest. "Don't fuckin' start honey."

You smiled into the kiss. "Or you'll finish?"

A thump rammed against the door, startling the both of you. You half expected it to swing open and expose Logan with his jeans down to his knees and his softened cock still inside you. But all that came through was Wade's laughter—his knuckles rapping on the wood.

"Did he rise babygirl?" he shouted much to the detriment of the group who booed behind him.

"I will cut you open through the door!" Logan snarled. A triumphant laugh rattled the walls as Logan lowered you to the ground. Only for Wade to get the last official word.

"HE ROSE!"

[muletia]

You were meant to be nothing more than the Autobots’ little pet.

An animal. A primitive organism. A repulsive organic whose worth extended no further than a bargaining chip. No one else. Nothing more.

But you had a fighting spirit Megatron hadn’t seen in humans before. A sharp tongue that, under different circumstances, would’ve cost you your life. You looked him dead in the optics with no trace of fear, no trembling or begging for mercy, claiming that you believed in rescue from the Autobots. That you believed in Optimus. Your eyelid didn’t even twitch when he laughed in your face.

That was supposed to be the end of you both. A failed experiment. The crushing end to a twisted, fractured connection.

And yet, under his own responsibility, you found yourself back in the Decepticons’ hideout. On his lap, while he sat on the throne, reciting human poetry he didn’t hesitate to critique. Speaking of art and the human soul. First in general terms, the one shared by all. Then yours. Your interests. Your favorite poems and books. Yours. You. [Name].

One day, he looked straight into your eyes and called you an animal. Idiotic. Primitive.

And yet he is nothing more, hammering his spike inside your tight, plush heat, praying to Primus to stay anchored in you forever.

You were supposed to be disgusting, and yet he cannot stop kissing you, bite after bite, devouring until he’s certain he possesses you entirely.

Then came your laughter, louder still when he pressed a cannon to your face. And when he kisses you again, he finally understands he’s lost your game because now he belongs. Every circuit and wire in his body is yours. Yours to ruin, to corrupt even further. Yours to lose, if you ever wished. Yours to kill, if it meant one final, sweet touch.

Lying on his chassis, asleep after interfacing, Megatron often felt the artery pulsing in your neck. Claws played with the vessel, teasing at your life, when the real game was about his own. Dependent solely on your pulse. On the rhythm of your life, which now dictated the very beat of his own.

That’s why Megatron would run, would charge on all fours after you when an Autobot soldier decided to “rescue” you, though you needed no rescue. For you, he became the animal.

In truth, you belonged to no one. A free soul dancing to whatever song was playing, unfortunate enough to have seduced the Lord of the Decepticons himself.

And that misfortune brought you back to his lap. For the last time. For eternity.

[stars-obsession-pit]

Danny is afraid of lots of things.

He’s afraid of failing his classes, of losing an important battle and leaving the town vulnerable, of his family and friends dying, of becoming like Dan, and countless other things.

But perhaps most of all, he’s afraid of his original family.

The League of Assassins.

When Danyal Danny first came to Amity Park, it was because of an infiltration mission. The League had questions about the area and a couple crazy scientists living within it.

But Danny also suspects it was a convenient way to get rid of him. They never said it, but he felt it. He was the spare heir, the weaker twin, the failure.

He had been ordered to send back reports periodically, but he has no idea what happens to them. Supposedly, his twin was responsible for them, an early lesson in the duties he’d need to take on as the heir. But considering how Danny never received a single response, he doubts the other boy ever read them. Or maybe he did, but he just didn’t care.

Maybe if he was even more lucky, they had forgotten him entirely.

Danny wants to be forgotten. If the League forgot him, it would mean he could stay with his family. His real family. The ones he had been sent to spy on, yet who had accepted him far more readily than his blood “family” ever had, even as he started to let them see what he really was underneath his infiltrating persona.

Every report sent back was a risk. A chance that someone would remember the heir’s brother and order him to return. Every time, he was on edge for days, weeks, after it was sent out. Nothing ever happened.

But he was too afraid to stop.

If someone was reading them and noticed it, the League might send someone to check on him. Make sure he hadn’t gone rogue or been killed by something that could threaten their organization later.

He couldn’t risk it.

So he lied, pretended he was still loyal. Every single report was sent out on time, all in the same cold tone even as he left out more and more details about his true circumstances. He would not risk his family. Even if it meant he could never let himself move on from what the League had done to him.

And then one day, those fears were realized. His eyes locked with a pair he’d prayed to never see again, and he felt himself reflexively still, wiping all traces of emotion from his expression.

Damian al Ghul. His brother.

“Danyal. Ahki. Your mission is over. I’ve come to bring you home.”

Danyal paused, staring back silently, then asked in a blank voice, “Is anyone else aware of this?”

Damian’s brows furrowed at the question. “No, I–”

Danyal lunged. He is never going back, and if he can take out Damian, he might finally be rid of the last person who would think to drag him there.

[empresskylo]

can you make a fix of cod guys reaction to you getting into an argument with them, which causes us to flinch and cover our face from any impact because we had an abusive ex.

featuring Ghost, Price, Soap, Gaz, Konig, & Alejandro

⊹ cod men x gn!reader

[ warnings ] domestic violence implications

cod masterlist

Ghost

He’d run his hand through his hair if he didn’t have this bloody mask on. Ghost looked down at you, his eyes narrowing in and scrutinizing your every minute detail. You tried to glare back, but you were feeling rather small with the weight of his disappointed glower. 

“You’ve got t’be more careful,” his voice boomed, though he was trying to keep it at a normal level. 

“I know, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry isn’t gonna cut it when you get someone killed,” he growled, taking a step in, closing the space between the two of you. 

You stepped back on instinct and bumped into the wall—trapped. You suddenly felt trapped. You knew that logically he wouldn’t hurt you, but something about his pissed-off demeanor and towering frame triggered something in you. Your breathing increased exponentially and Ghost watched helplessly as your chest rose and fell in rapid beats.

A bit taken aback by your response, Ghost raised a hand to grab your shoulder and you turned your head and shied away. You let out a small gasp as if waiting for him to land a blow on you. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, the entire moment passing by excruciatingly slow. That’s when you knew you fucked up. Ghost dropped his hand and his fist clenched, putting everything together all at once. Something inside him broke seeing you look at him like that—with fear in your eyes. It fucking hurt.

“M’not gonna hurt you,” he said in a much softer tone than earlier. He’d never lay a hand on you, even out of love, if you didn’t want it.

You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to look up at him, your face inflamed. “I-I know. I didn’t… I don’t know why…” The words got lost in your throat. You were so embarrassed. 

“Who?” He asked sharply.

You tilted your head, your hands squeezing at your sides. Ghost took a step back to give you room, though he wanted nothing more than to step into you closer, to pull you against him. He didn’t care how annoyed he was with you, all that drifted away, unimportant nonsense he’d come back to later.

“ Who… ?” You repeated.

“Who. Hurt. You?” He bent over slightly, aligning his face with yours as he talked, making sure you couldn’t turn your face away from him. 

“J-Just an ex-boyfriend. It’s not a big deal. I don’t know why I responded like that. I-I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Ghost sighed, his eyes dancing between yours. “No. I wouldn’t.” His voice was dark and deep again. “But I have nothin’ against hurtin’ that bastard.”

“Ghost, please.”

He straightened and rolled his shoulders, trying to suppress the bubbling anger. He looked down at you at last. “Can I touch you?” He asked softly.

You nodded, tears falling down your cheeks now. He tentatively took a step towards you and pulled you into his arms. He wrapped them securely around you and you nuzzled your face into his jacket. If he wasn’t so shocked over the way you responded to him, he’d be yelling at you to tell you who it was that hurt you so he could hunt them down. 

Instead, he clutched you close to him, trying not to think about the fear that crossed your eyes, even if it was momentarily. Even if it wasn’t because of him. He never wanted you to look at him like that again. Something rotten tugged at his heart as he felt you try to stifle your cries. Oh, he was definitely going to kill that bastard. And he was going to make it slow and painful.  

Price

You chased after Price as he made his way down the hall. “I swear I didn’t mean to—!”

He cut you off, spinning on his heels, making you bump into his chest and slam to a halt. “It doesn’t matter what you meant !” He yelled, losing his composure briefly. 

You flinched at his loud words, stepping away from him. It was a quick movement, a subtle tick of your face, your eyes squinted as you pulled your head away. You acted like this was something you were all too familiar with. 

Immediately Price’s anger shifted away from you and onto whatever bastard trained you to cower. 

His widened eyes traced your face and you slowly read his expression as he came to the realization of why you would flinch away from him when he shouted. You watched as several emotions crossed Price’s countenance. 

His voice was hushed as he edged closer to you, the deep baritone sending a shiver up your spine. “Y’don’t have t’tell me now,” his voice was so low as he spoke. “But you will tell me who, eventually.”

“John, I–”

He was always so gentle with you. But right now, the intense hatred for whoever this bastard was that harmed you, took over. He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Don’t wanna hear it, doll. You will tell me who did this to you if it’s the last thing I get out of you.”

A wave of heat crossed your cheeks, his eyes boring into yours. You nodded meekly and his face softened. “Com’ere,” he cooed, opening his arms. You stepped into them and were immediately surrounded in the warm comfort Price brought you, one hand rubbing circles on your back and the other sliding up into your hair, tucking your head under his chin. 

“S’your not mad at me, anymore?” Your words muffled by his body. 

You felt his chest rumble as he spoke. “Could never stay mad at you.”

Soap

“Blood hell,” Soap whined, annoyed with you for hiding the arm wound you got the other day. 

“It’s not as serious as it looks,” you tried to convince him, your lips quirking into a weak smile. 

He closed his eyes to collect his last remaining patience. “Not serious—” he repeated, his words rising in several octaves as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got twenty stitches in your arm! How the fuck is that not serious?!” 

He reached for your arm and you pulled it away, shuddering briefly from the brief touch of his fingertips. The two of you froze, his eyes darting to meet yours the second he saw the shift in your composure. 

“Gonna tell me why y’just did that?” He sat still in his seat, trying to steady his voice. 

“Did what?” You asked, attempting to play dumb, but the tears were already misting in your eyes. 

Soap sighed, his face dropping as he studied you. “Fuckin’ hell,” he said with displeasure. “You shoulda told me. I wouldn’t have—I woulda been more—” He lost his words, watching as a few stray tears fell down your cheeks. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said softly. His thumb came up to wipe the tears away, his hand then cupping the side of your cheek. “S’okay. M’not mad.” You leaned into his hand.. “Jus’ wish ya woulda told me.” You nodded and he gave you a weak smile. 

“Com’on, let’s get that bandage changed.” His voice was gentle as he coaxed you up, wrapping an arm protectively around you as he led you down to the infirmary. You would discuss this later. Right now, all he wanted was to make sure you felt safe in his arms.

Gaz

Gaz wouldn’t say he had anger issues… he just got passionate about the people he cared about, and sometimes that would come out in spurts of angry shouts. What he didn’t expect, was the way you reacted the first time he ever lost his cool in front of you. 

“I cannot fuckin’ believe Shepherd,” he growled. 

“Maybe we should just focus on the positive,” you said meekly, trying to help calm Gaz down.  

“Yeah? And what fuckin’ positive is that?!” He shouted as he paced back and forth. He regretted it the moment it left his lips. 

You squeezed your eyes shut at his words and brought your hands up for the briefest of seconds to cover your face. 

Gaz whispered your name and you instantly tried to compose yourself. You straightened and gave an awkward smile.

“That wasn’t at you,” he corrected, his eyes deflating as he watched you. “I-I’m sorry. I’d never hurt you,” he said wistfully, running his hand over his hair and cursing. He looked at you completely differently than he had just moments earlier. His entire demeanor shifted. He was suddenly staring at you with such intensity it made something well in your eyes. 

“No, Gaz. It’s not you.” That was the last sentence you could get out before the tears escaped. You quickly wiped them away and Gaz stepped towards you, resting both hands on either one of your shoulders. 

“Hey,” he said calmly. 

You gave him a sideways smile. “It’s just…” you tried to get the words out but they slipped away.

“S’alright. You don’t have to tell me.” His hands slid down your arms, giving you a squeeze before releasing you. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

You gave a small laugh. “I know that, Gaz.”

“Good.” He pulled you into his chest without asking, all his anger from earlier transforming into gentleness. “You can tell me when you’re ready,” he said into your hair. 

You nodded. “Thank you.” He held you a bit tighter and you closed your eyes in peace. You never wanted him to let go. 

König

He was frustrated with the way you were angry at him for insisting he do this mission alone. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!” You argued.

He had enough. He didn’t lose his temper often, but there was no way Konig was allowing you to come on a mission quite this dangerous. He pushed up from his chair, the table in front of him shaking as he did. 

He was a big guy, and you knew that, but the way he quickly took up the space of the room amazed you. “Verfickte Hurerei!” Fucking hell! he shouted. “Why are you pressing this so hard?!” He gestured towards you, his fists clenched and you winced. You cowered away, surprising even yourself with your actions. 

Konig watched you through his rapid blinking, dumbfounded by what just happened. It took him a second to process.

“Liebling?” He asked his voice back to its usual tone. “I wasn’t going to— fuck . I’m sorry.” A pang of guilt coursed through him. You thought he was going to hit you? Jesus Christ. He wanted to reach out to you but he refrained, knowing that might make things worse. 

“Konig,” you whispered and his eyes snapped to yours. He tilted his head, studying you as you regained your composure. “S’not you.” Your words were so faint it hurt his heart a little. 

He watched as you wiped away a stray tear. Your body had shifted back to how things used to be. Before Konig. 

Your lip quivered and you felt so small and embarrassed. Konig mouthed your name breathlessly and you blinked away tears before closing the distance between the two of you. You practically fell into his arms and he tightened them on you instinctively. 

“You okay, liebling?” He cooed, his hand stroking your hair. 

You nodded. “M’sorry.”

He pulled back so you had to tilt your chin and look up at him. “Don’t apologize.” His hand came up and stroked your cheek. 

“It’s not you,” you tried to reassure again, worried Konig was going to eat himself alive thinking you were afraid of him. 

“I know.” Your lips pinched together and Konig pulled you back into him. “You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with me.”

You felt tears fall; not out of terrible memories, but out of the love you felt radiating off of Konig. 

Alejandro

“Jesus, would you just listen to me?” You shouted. 

“Listen to you?! You haven’t heard a fucking thing I’ve been saying!” He yelled back. His accent was always heavier on his words when he was mad. 

He took a big step towards you, his knife still in his hand, covered in blood. You flinched when he approached so suddenly. His dark words and his fast movements made you duck in fear. 

Alejandro paused all his movements, startled by your reaction. “Jesus,” he mumbled, sheathing his knife and holding his hands up. “I wouldn’t hurt you, mi amor.” He shook his head in frustration with himself. His jaw clenched as he watched you look back up at him. How awful he felt seeing your beautiful features shrouded in fear. 

“I…” you swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. The yelling… I don’t know. It just made me think back to…”

Something inside Alejandro shifted at your faint words. “Mataré a ese bastardo,” I’ll kill that bastard , he growled. “Who was it? Who fuckin’ touched you?” 

You shook your head. “Alejandro, please. It was so long ago.”

He clenched his fist, his other hand coming up to the scruff on his jaw. He closed his eyes to try and contain himself. When he opened them, you could still see the darkness lingering behind them. “I don’t care how long ago it was, mi amor. I need you to tell me who it was.”

You frowned and he closed his eyes again before walking up to you and pulling you into his arms. “God. I swear I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”

You let out the softest of giggles at how dramatic he could be. But still, you felt so safe knowing he would go to the ends of the world to protect you. You felt him kiss the top of your head, mumbling something about being sorry for yelling. 

[circeyoru]

Love Trial _ Part 3

[Sung Jinwoo x High School Ex-Lover!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3 (here) ― Part 4 ― Part 5

Where? Where were you? You weren’t the type to miss school. Jinwoo’s anxiety shot through the atmosphere after homeroom was assigned and everyone was seated. Yet you were nowhere in sight and your seat had some other random person. With his Shadows, he had combed through the entire student body, and there wasn’t a trace of you. Where did you go? He had asked around for you, but none knew who you were, as if you never existed. You weren’t even in the school registry. It was impossible for you not to be here.

Everything had been the same. It was the same class he was in, the same classmates, the same school. Was he hallucinating back then? But it clearly saw your younger self and heard your name being called. There was no way you were gone from this world. 

He searched beyond his school. The question of where you were made him anxious. Was there an accident? Did you perhaps get hurt? These questions popped up more and more, and then ridiculous scenarios to explain your situation came to mind. Maybe he caused you to―

There. You were in another high school, studying with another class of students who weren’t his. You were diligently making notes and paying attention in class―unlike him―and by the looks of things, you had skipped grades. You were in the same grade and class as Choi Jong-In, two grades above him.

Now that he found you, there was a moment of relief. However, soon, relief turned to confusion. Nothing changed for him, even after he had been gone for two years. Why did you change? Not to sound degrading, but you weren’t the studying type. You were smart and brilliant but never liked skipping grades because you treasured friendships with the same age group.

Yet, the fact that you were with Choi Jong-In. That was all that told him this was no coincidence. He flinched when your gaze turned to the ground where his Shadows would be watching from. Your gaze was cold and indifferent, rivalling his own in his worse moments. He had to call his Shadow to go to another location. This proves it.

You, who was hurt by him, remembered everything.

.

.

.

After Choi Jong-In’s words, you listened for the deliberate footsteps that a high-skilled Hunter would otherwise be able to hide. Sure enough, you felt the imposing presence coming closer and closer. Your hand grabbed the other tightly; they shook from the strength you used. All while, your face remained as neutral as it got. 

Jong-In noticed your state easily. Although he had no idea what happened to make you have such a repulsion towards the track star, as your friend, he would stand by your side no matter what. Even with bullies who once mocked you for skipping grades or questioning your intelligence, you weren’t that agitated. It was only when Sung Jinwoo was brought up that you’d be the complete opposite of who you were.

As if Sung Jinwoo killed you in your past life.

Jinwoo paused, maintaining a close distance between the two of you, but also within your earshot so you’d hear him clearly. Your name was called with a sense of lost, maybe even regret, “Can I talk to you alone?”

Jong-In glanced to you. You still had your back to Jinwoo and he was staring longingly at you for a response. Anyone could see the tension between you two. Jong-In would say former lovers that ended on a sour note, not that he’ll voice it out. You had glanced back to him, a signal he was well acquainted.

In a swift movement, Jong-In stepped between Jinwoo’s stare at your back. With a smile and an edged tone, he told the Monarch, “My partner and I just ended classes and we’re quite tired. So if you have anything to say, you can do it here.”

Oh, look at that clenched fist. Observed Jong-In as he fixed his glasses. This would make for a good romance show, if he weren’t included in the character list.

Whatever frustration, Jinwoo forced it down, silencing his chirpy Shadows that promised to inflict the worst pain possible if and when given the order to get loose on the former Hunter that stood between their Liege and his love.

Jong-In’s eyes widened as he watched in horror at the black and purple wave-like mist coming from Jinwoo, like a thick fog but alive at the same time, threatening even. “Let’s go.” Without waiting for your approval, Jong-In dragged you away from Jinwoo. 

“Wha-?” You snapped back to reality when Jong-In brought you deeper into the hallways to another building. You didn’t care as long as you were getting farther and farther away from Jinwoo. “What’s going on? Why did you just―”

“Call me crazy, but I saw something. Black and purple. It was all around that guy.” Jong-In spoke with a shiver in his mind at the thought. “He’s too dangerous―my instincts tell me that. Your gut feeling is spot on.”

In the past, you helped avoid ’bad’ futures or events under the excuse of ’gut-feeling’. Jong-In seen it in action a few times and believed your lie. There was no way you’d tell him, “Oh I came from a past that has monsters and these superhumans that fight them inside some otherworld pocket dimension called Gates! Guess what, you were one of the strongest in this country and we were best friends before too!” Yeah, people will lock you up in an insane asylum and wire you up.

You can’t help but look back. You saw his trusted Shadows standing by Jinwoo as he continued to stare at your fading figure with his eyes glowing in a purple hue. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell the bloodthirsty Beru was suggesting something about using violence and the knightly Igris would be suggesting something like chasing after you. Though, you knowing Jinwoo, he wouldn’t do either.

Yet you wonder. Why was Jinwoo searching for you? What did he want to talk about?

.

.

.

From then on, Jinwoo would appear around you regularly, trying to strike up a conversation or something along those lines. It was easy to avoid said conversations because Jinwoo was something of a celebrity. As a single guy and talented―and handsome as much as he wouldn’t admit and you hate to admit―a number of girls were dying to be the one. Whenever you were alone without Jong-In as your meat shield, you’d just grab some random girl and introduce her to him. His reactions were fun to watch, and then you’d slip away.

Speaking of your personal meat shield, Jong-In didn’t want to be around Jinwoo as much as you, perhaps more. You choked it up to his unawakened Hunter instinct. You didn’t see anything. Well, you did see the Shadows Jinwoo treasures, but nothing about the ominous aura Jong-In mentioned. Perhaps he saw the Shadows but a blurred version, or he saw them but the lack of explanation shifted towards fear of the unknown. Either way, you understood. Ironic that you thought he’d be a good shield, but now you were better than him.

Not that you were that much better, you still chose to avoid Jinwoo as much as possible. You being in a different year level than him helped when it was all about the lectures and tutorials, since you two were in different departments, it was even better that there would be no clashes. During lunch, you weren’t even on campus. During your time at the library, you either booked a private study room or had your group of friends with you. Jinwoo had no chance of meeting you nor getting you alone.

Well, there were the times when you were heading to class and travelling alone on campus. Like you mentioned, you purposefully picked the more common routes where a number of students would be strolling around. They acted as the perfect meat shields. True to your memory, Jinwoo was not one for attention, and he was quite oblivious to social cues. Sometimes you looked back and wondered why you loved him.

You watched from a distance, on a balcony outside the library’s study room, how a girl was presumably confessing her undying love to Jinwoo in the courtyard. You didn’t know the words he spoke, but he made her run away crying. Your face crunched up in mild disgust, a bitter feeling in your chest as you recalled your little break-up. Jinwoo was as blunt and straightforward as they come.

Jinwoo was family-oriented. He loved his family and would put his life on the line for them. You admired that about him during his E-Rank days. There were moments where he was down in the dups, but he was able to bounce back one way or another, never giving up. Jinwoo treasured loyalty, not caring for fame or fortune or status of those around him. What mattered to him was their intention and if they would be good in his and his loved ones’ life.

You were once among his loved ones. You thought it would stay that way. You hoped and wished it would. However, reality is often disappointing and dream-shattering. 

At that moment, he looked up in the direction where you were. You neither flinched nor hid. Instead, your head tilted. There was no way he could do anything out in the open like that. So you mouthed to him, “Meet me at the rooftop.” And you turned to head there yourself.

With everything that happened, your repulsion and hatred of Jinwoo subsided over time. You can’t ignore that that Gate that appeared all those years ago had something to do with him. Plus, the fact that the world was at peace and no Gates or Hunters appeared proved your theory. As always, Jinwoo preferred to do solo missions and self-sacrifice just to keep his loved ones and the world safe. Whether that included you, you didn’t care, because that was what you loved about him. That heroic quality. It was there even when he was an E-Rank.

In a way, you owe your current life, peace, and happiness to Jinwoo and whatever he went through.

“Congratulations on whatever your goal was. Hunter Sung.” You turned to him when you sensed him coming, a plain service smile on your face.

“So you do remember…” A sigh came from the Monarch.

“Despite being the unnamed hero of the world…” Your smile dropped to a straight line, “I’d like for you to stop hovering around me and carry on with our separate lives.” 

Sung Jinwoo was the living embodiment of the famous quote, ‘Heroes would sacrifice their loved ones for the world, but villains would sacrifice the world for their loved ones’. He saved the world, but what exactly did he sacrifice?

The Monarch flinched at the sight of your gaze. There wasn’t malice. There wasn’t bloodlust. There also wasn’t sadness or hatred. There was just nothing. “Just. Like. Before.”

Standing before Jinwoo was the you that suffered from the heartbreak he caused. Heroes are purposed to protect and love their loved ones, you were considered one in his heart. Yet… That indifferent attitude you had. It’s haunting.

Back to the question of what he sacrificed to save the world satisfy that momentarily impulsive want?

You. 

You and your heart.

Note: If you had noticed, there would be a total of 5 parts for this series, then it's completed. No schedule for when the other 2 parts are coming out cause I'm working on other requests and my enemy Monarch series as well. I think the ending might be a bit fast, but I'll let you guys judge when the time comes~

𝕮𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖄.

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: @my-arietta @mydearestbeloved @skylar896 @o-qi-shisme @the-dumber-scaramouche @mochinon-yah @waka-babe @ditmemay1234 @mangooes @cottonbeeeeeeee @gurlie919 @rozuburedo

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

i see the light.

ft; nagi seishiro, michael kaiser, isagi yoichi

synopsis: the moment when it was only you and him in the world.

nagi seishiro

the sound of persistent hums of the heater and tappings of thumbs to screens on nagi’s phone soothed you.

due to the harsh and frankly unexpected winter, the power had went out in the school dorms. you had been horrified; it was dark out, you couldn’t even see in your dorm, and you were alone. if only you still lived with your parents like reo instead of deciding to live in the crappy school dorms because you wanted to be more mature.

when you thought of reo, that’s when a brilliant idea had wove its way into your mind. you could just go to nagi’s dorm instead! he’s too much of a pacifist to get angry at you, he lived close, and he’s got a nice heater too. you had silently crept out of your room and into nagi’s room, knowing that he thought that it was too much of a hassle to lock the door.

now you were lying down next to nagi’s figure, who was sitting up and clicking away at the buttons on his phone from the game. nagi was quiet; he could tell that you were cold and tired, and he didn’t feel the need to bother you any further. plus, it would be a hassle to.

well, that was until nagi heard the soft snores.

“hey, hey.” nagi placed his phone face down next to him, leaning down to look at you. locks of your hair was in your face, a small line of drool at the corner of your lips. “you’re asleep? hey. it’s too much of a hassle to move you away. and there’s only one bed.”

at your lack of response, nagi poked your arm. no reponse. he your cheek. still no response. nagi eventually decided to stop and just pull an all nighter; the leaks of the sequel to his favorite game was coming out tonight anyways.

nagi looked at you for a little longer, his eyes lingering at your face before zeroing in at your lips. “you’re not that bad when you’re asleep.” nagi mumbled. his eyes softened; he didn’t mind this. sure, it was a hassle for someone else to sleep in his bed, but this was you. and for some strange reason, nagi’s chest felt all warm and tight. he didn’t understand this, but the feeling was addicting, and he wanted more.

the lights and power may have been out, but the light that you beamed was enough to light up his entire world.

michael kaiser

kaiser knows that having been put in jail at age 15 definitely necessarily scream “im such a good influence and good person!” to most people.

most people.

kaiser knows that you’re not most people when he is let out of jail—due to the efforts of ray dark—and you’re right outside sprinting towards him and tackling him with a bear hug. sobs escaping you as you squeezed him. “mihya! god, you’re back! i was so worried for you in there!”

kaiser was in love with you. when you laughed, warmth pooled at his stomach and happiness filled his veins. but when you cried, kaiser felt the need to kill whatever is making you cry, to make you smile again. but kaiser didn’t know that it was love. he didn’t know that what he was seeking had been in you, his childhood best friend, all along.

“you…you’re here. why? i was in jail.” kaiser muttered. “shouldn’t you be in school or something? you shouldn’t be here.” at that, your jaw dropped, and you stepped back, hands gripping his shoulders.

“mihya! what are you saying? i could care less about day or two of school when my literal best friend is in jail for something that he didn’t even do! you worried me to death, mihya!” your eyebrows knit together, looking up at him. kaiser noticed how pale you were, the dark eyebags under your beautiful eyes as if you haven’t slept in days.

suddenly, kaiser felt as if a weight heavier than his father was on his shoulders. you didn’t sleep because of him. you looked so pale because of him. you were upset because of him. kaiser felt doubts cloud his mind again; at the end of the day, he really was no different from his father. “just because im your best friend? that’s stupid. im not worth that much.”

your eyes widened before they narrowed, and you grasped onto his shoulder tightly. kaiser knew this would leave a mark later, although he could care less. you should leave. you shouldn’t be here. you should be at school. you shouldn’t waste your life on a piece of shit like him. you deserve better than a fucked up subhuman like him. you glared at him, your hands trembling from how tightly your grip was on his shoulder. from that alone, kaiser knew that he fucked up.

“michael fucking kaiser, you’re my best friend and the love of my life, and you better not say that again. you are worth it. you are most definitely worth each and every moment of my time. you hear me?!” you shook kaiser back and forth. but kaiser couldn’t focus on your current actions, a phrase that you had called him of all people was tattooed onto his mind.

love of your life.

he was the love of your life.

and suddenly, kaiser wasn’t subhuman. he wasn’t a piece of shit. he wasn’t an accident. he wasn’t hated by everyone. he wasn’t weak. he wasn’t not worth it.

he was loved. loved by you.

and kaiser will be grateful for that even in the afterlife.

isagi yoichi

blue lock had changed isagi.

at least, that was what everyone said. his parents, his classmates, his former soccer teammates, his friends, even isagi himself. but not you. you didn’t say that or think that. blue lock didn’t change isagi, it had instead just awakened something hidden inside of isagi.

that might be why your reaction to isagi’s goal at the end of the blue lock fetuses u20 japan match was so underwhelming. you were his lover; you should have been more enthusiastic about it. instead, you only stared down mindlessly before smiling and clapping. isagi had looked up at you with a smile when he was celebrating with his blue lock teammates, in which you had waved at.

then came the 2 week break.

you had been on a walk with isagi like old times, before he had left for blue lock. a heavy silence was over your shoulders; isagi himself thinks that he’s changed, after all. the sunset painted your’s and isagi’s cheeks bright red.

“do you mind that i’ve changed?” isagi finally stammered out. he braced himself for some harsh answers and disapproving shaking of heads, but was instead met with more long silence before a single word.

“no.”

he glanced at you, shocked. “i don’t think you’ve changed at all, yoichi. im glad. i don’t think i’ve ever seen you this happy to be playing soccer.” you looked up at him, a soft smile playing at your lips. “it just awakened something inside of you.”

but isagi wasn’t satisfied. not yet. “you don’t mind that im practically throwing my life away for my soccer career? i won’t be able to just call or text you whenever i want to at blue lock, you know.” you giggled gently before sighing.

“i know you can’t, yoichi. but you’re happy, right? and you’re living your best life right now. so who am i to interfere? as long as you’re happy, then you can be whatever or whoever you want to be. i’ll always be there.”

at your words, the ice in your tension melted before isagi looked at you once again. even without the golden setting sun, you still looked like you were an angel, glowing with the most ethereal of purity and the most precious of love.

a/n: title is obviously from the tangled song. i literally love that song so much oh my god.

[choerypetal]

Their Princess / Billy Loomis x Stu Macher

Summary: Billy and Stu have one motivation for their killing spree: to make you theirs, regardless of whether you realize they are Ghostface. They will stop at nothing to achieve this.

ps; english isn't my first language so i apologize for any grammar errors xoxo

Being close to Sidney meant enduring her gossip, endless talk about boyfriends, and tantrums over the next party at Tatum's house. Now, with a serial killer on the loose and a mandatory curfew in place, you had to deal with Stu constantly trailing you. Clutching your books to your chest, you tried to focus elsewhere, only to bump into the talk of the town—Billy himself.

"Y/N..." His voice sang in your ear, just enough for Stu to rush to your side, his silhouette eclipsing your own. He leaned in close, nestling into the crook of your neck. You were fortunate that neither Tatum nor Sidney was there to witness it—unless their initial motive was evident from the first glance they shared. A glance of deceit, perhaps, when Stu’s pouty lips appeared as Billy spelled out your name, letter by letter. "Coming to this weekend’s party?" Billy asked, raising his brows while barely breaking his gaze. Stu’s sly fingers brushed your shoulder, tempting you not to react, especially under Billy’s intense stare.

You were taken aback by the question. Yes, Tatum had invited you—practically begged you to come because one of Randy’s friends would be there, and she wanted to set you up with him. Naturally, this information made its way back to Billy, thanks to Stu, who had overheard the entire conversation. His clingy hands were all over Tatum’s, trying to resist thinking about you the whole time.

"That would be great for Y/N, don't you think?" Her innocent question nearly made Stu choke on his drink that night. It was clear, the plan was to make you the grand finale. Not you with someone else. Someone who couldn’t satisfy their girl. Tatum smacked Stu’s chest, startled by his reaction, and nodded innocently with a chuckle. "Right, right," he said, obviously annoyed. "It sure would be great for Y/N." 

“Yes,” you said, your voice as soft as he expected. His lips curved into a smirk, and he bit his bottom lip, resisting the urge to devour you on sight, especially with the new skirt you had bought– thanks to Tatum. “Loving the new skirt,” he whispered, making you blush. Stu eagerly agreed. “Maybe our girl should wear that skirt this weekend,” he purred from behind you, his breath almost touching your skin. Billy quickly snapped Stu out of it with a sharp tap on the back of his neck. “What did we say about public intimacy?” Billy’s voice was almost a threat. 

Stu gulped silently. "Right," he said, smirking in perfect sync with Billy. Billy nodded, his gaze fixed on you, the main topic of this weekend's party conversation. "So," he paused, his eyes scrutinizing you in a way that made you shift uncomfortably—it was the same intense look he gave Sidney. Which you weren’t. "You'll be there?" You had almost forgotten the main question and quickly nodded, feeling vulnerable. Your swift response made him chuckle, clearly enjoying how small you felt between them. “Yes..”

Billy huffed in silence, ready to leave. Stu slid his fingers around your waist. "See you this weekend, princess," he said. Billy, anxious to avoid suspicion, muttered something under his breath, careful not to make any devious stares around the school. Despite hating the idea, he couldn't help but steal glances over his shoulder as he walked away, thoughts of you on top of him driving him nearly crazy. Unlike Stu, though, he had some boundaries when it came to sharing. 

The week flew by faster than you had expected. With the curfew in place, days ended earlier than usual, with bedtime set at 10 p.m. School was canceled until the suspect was caught, leaving you eager for some fresh air and the chance to join the Tatum’s party. The boys, especially Billy, were particularly impatient for your arrival. Particularly him, struggling to keep himself sane through the night, especially with Sidney wrapped around his finger. And you with another guy. 

"Jeez, man, if you keep pacing like this, our plan won't work. You look way too obvious right now," Stu's voice echoed in Billy's mind as he moved to the living room, leaving Sidney waiting in the bedroom. Mistake number one was to be as inconspicuous as possible around everyone. Kill, then execute plans A and B, and finally claim you as theirs. Easy, right? Billy thought to himself. But then your name was called out, and Randy’s arm was a little too close for his liking. He reconsidered. "Randy won't always have her around. Soon enough, she'll come begging for her hero’s to save her," Stu had said, and Billy appreciated the comment. After all, why would you be with a complete nerd?

He nods silently, feeling his friend’s hand squeezing his shoulder. “Deal with Sid. I’ll deal with her. Treat her like the princess she is.” And he wasn’t entirely wrong, focusing all his attention on you. While he noticed Randy welcoming you with open arms and the others happily handing you a bottle of beer. Tatum back at the garage to grab some extra beers. Billy couldn’t help but steal glances in your direction before finally trying to distract himself. He immediately needed a distraction, one with Tatum, then moved on to Sidney. “Just don’t scare her yet, okay?” Even though he was the mastermind of his own plan, he didn’t want Stu—or you—to mess things up. And he definitely didn’t want you to know they were the Ghostface. 

In a way, you kind of messed up their whole plan. Stu was doing everything he could to keep Tatum distracted and maintain Sidney’s obliviousness, as planned. Until you were completely out of his sight. Right after Randy had told you to go check up on Tatum. ‘The beers won’t be coming on their own’, he had said to you with a cocky grin. It wasn’t until you arrived at the garage yourself, hearing some muffled sounds, that you couldn’t help but smirk. With a party full of alcohol, girls, and boys, you didn’t think much of it. That is, until you heard the door swing open and came face to face with Mr. Ghostface, himself.

Billy's knife almost slipped from his hands as he saw you this close to him. Stu had just enough time to catch you, blinking twice to make sure he wasn't imagining things—Billy, and you. You, on the other hand, had a look on your face they both expected to see. "Y/N—" Stu’s voice was cut off by Billy’s stare from beneath his mask. You stood still, but the second you heard Stu’s voice, you wanted to run to him, hoping he would save you from this killer everyone was talking about. But then Billy’s grip tightened, catching you right into his trap.

“No, no, no…” Stu purrs, his sickening chuckle filling the air as he approaches you. Now in the middle, Billy had no pleasure of covering for himself. Because he knew you’d be on their side, meaning you’d do anything possible to avoid getting caught. Starting off with a proposition. “The game, only just started love,” Billy’s voice, unmistakably familiar, came from beneath his mask as he spoke and gently removed it. His face was covered in sweat, his eyes darkening as he glanced down at you. With a slight chuckle, he said, “Love the skirt,” as the knife gently touched the fabric. You could feel Stu’s breath on the crook of your neck. Just like at school, but now away from prying eyes.

You managed to exhale a few whimpers as Stu’s tongue traveled down your neck. Billy watched for a moment, sensing you had something on your mind. “Go on, spill it,” he demanded, his voice hoarse and threatening. Your muscles tensed as he gently pinned you against the wall. “Tatum—” you began, but Billy’s fingers traced down your waist and then touched your bottom lip. The tension between Stu’s pants and your skirt was unmistakable, the obvious bulge appearing beneath his pants. The friction among the three of you was undeniable. Your cheeks flushed with a shade of pink, which only made Billy enjoy it more. “I think she’s enjoying it,” Billy remarked, clearly trying to change the subject. Stu agreed, purring, “Oh, she does.” 

"Boys, boys..." Your voice sounded so vulnerable to their ears that it took them by surprise. Initially, they thought you were afraid of discovering their true identities as Ghostface. However, as you spoke, it became clear that you didn't mind at all. In fact, you might have found Billy in the costume, with a slight droplet of blood on his cheek, somewhat attractive. Stu couldn't help but comment, "Princess doesn't seem to mind?" His remark, tinged with a mix of offense and confession, revealed his surprise at your attraction. Billy's eyes widened slightly, reflecting both shock and amusement as he watched you eyeing him up and down. "Oh, I bet she doesn't, does she?" 

You hummed quietly, drawing chuckles from both men. Billy's knife glided gently down your body, stopping at your skirt to reveal a hint of your red underwear. "Loving the red on you," he remarked with his trademark smirk. Stu, unable to resist, let his fingers travel under your skirt to grip your rear. "How about we treat our princess the way she deserves?" he suggested, his tongue now exploring the crook of your neck, nuzzling and licking every inch until your soft whimpers filled the room. The sounds of your pleasure spurred them on, making them crave more. "Stu..." you murmured his name, and Billy, watching with slight hesitation, hushed you with a gentle touch to your bottom lip before leaning in to kiss you hungrily. 

"What?" Stu's obvious teasing wasn't enough. Billy soon caught your lips in a kiss, one he didn't want to end. He wanted more, more than just your lips, resisting was difficult, especially after seeing you with another boy at the party. "More..." you whispered through the kiss, and Billy, catching only a fragment of your plea, paused midway, leaving you breathless and wanting. Your face was flushed with lust, your eyes begging for more. Before you could voice your protest, Billy scooped you into his arms, gripping your arse, his fingers digging into your flesh. Stu's chuckle echoed as he followed you both to the nearest bedroom.

"What?" Stu's obvious teasing wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Billy soon caught your lips in a kiss, one he didn’t want to end. He wanted more—more than just your lips. Resisting was difficult, especially after seeing you with another boy at the party. "More..." you whispered through the kiss. Billy, catching only a fragment of your plea, paused midway, leaving you breathless and wanting. Your face was flushed with lust, your eyes begging for more. Before you could voice your protest, Billy scooped you into his arms, gripping your rear with his fingers digging into your flesh. Stu's chuckle echoed as he followed you both to the nearest bedroom.

Billy’s fingers then traveled around your inner thighs, his thumb gently brushing on your clit. Which he couldn’t stop admire. “Look how tiny it is,” he pouts with a mockery, licking his bottom lip with the resisting urge not to devour you on the spot, which he does completely the contrary. Leaning in to eat you out, his fingers now gripping on your arse, as you moans his name out. His lips curving into a smirk the you felt his tongue gently brushing your clit. “I think she likes it, Billy…” 

Stu's voice echoed in your mind as he settled beside you, his large fingers trailing down your body. He leaned in, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, his tongue tracing your skin, coaxing more moans from you. "Come on, doll. Don't be afraid... Tell me. Tell me how you like it."

"I like it..." you paused momentarily, caught up by another whimper, your back arching as Billy's tongue thrust inside your vagina. "I like it a lot!" you then exclaimed in a high-pitched voice just before Stu leaned in, cupped your chin, and kissed you hungrily.

Billy growled with a pout, “Randy will have to find someone else,” he said, his eyes filled with hunger. His thumb brushed your clit while his tongue devoured you completely. Your eyes watered, pleading for more.

"You belong to us, princess," Stu said, savoring the sight of your now-exposed breasts. He couldn't resist caressing them, pinching your nipples to hear your cute moans. Billy nodded in agreement, both of them murmuring, 

"Our princess."

[grandline-fics]

I'm so in love with your writing, I'd love to see the "one bed trope" from you! Maybe a little suggestive, as far as you're comfortable, of course.

DESCRIPTION: There was only one bed

WARNINGS:  nothing too suggestive, more on the fluff side

CHARACTERS: Mihawk, Shanks

WORDS: 2,065

A/N: Thank you so much for this request. I didn't know which characters you wanted so used the most popular form the recent poll. I had intended to do Ace as well but only had the energy to get something done for Shanks and Mihawk. I love this trope so much that i'll probably do more parts in the future. I hope you're happy with what I came up with and I'm sorry I didn't make it suggestive.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

———————

MIHAWK

You were going to kill Crocodile. Not only did he order you to the tiniest island you’d seen in a long while, were the only thing in abundance seemed to be gloomy expressions but he also insisted you go to ‘keep an eye on' Mihawk. Since you considered Crocodile your main superior-a perspective you hadn't dropped since your Baroque Works days- you couldn't exactly refuse the assignment but it just made zero sense for you to be here. For starters Mihawk worked alone and efficiently enough that he didn’t require anyone to look out for him. Plus ‘observation’ wasn’t your usual role in Cross Guild. Normally Crocodile handed you a bounty list, told you to pick one and go get them. 

This was just one big headache and to make matters worse after scouring the entire island a call came through from Crocodile saying the bounty had already been completed and just handed in. Now you really were going to kill your boss, but from the look on Mihawk’s face it seemed you would have to get in line. From the receiver, Crocodile’s laugh caught both of your attentions.  “Look these things happen so stop pouting. Just make your way back to Cross Guild.”

Mihawk didn’t offer a response and ended the call, walking out of the alley you’d both stopped at to take the call. Silently you fell into step beside the former Warlord, walking the streets of the island for what felt like the hundredth time already. You let out a sigh of relief to see the inn come into view, now the only thing on your mind was trying to get a good night’s sleep and calm your annoyance at the whole situation. You couldn’t even muster a polite smile to the receptionist at the desk. “Two please.”

“Oh.” The receptionist glanced between you and Mihawk, her expression trained with years of experience to appear calm but you both saw the flicker of nervousness in her eyes for the smallest moment. “I’m sorry but we’re booked almost to capacity.”

“You’re joking.” You muttered. Why was everything going against you today? “You have nothing left?”

“W-well we’re a small island. Rooms go fast but we do have one room available.” You and Mihawk exchanged a look, both composed. Then the receptionist had to uselessly add. “Only one bed…” With a sigh you held out your hand for the key, knowing there wasn't much choice. Muttering thanks you glanced at the number of the keyring and headed for your room for the night. Stepping inside you found it lived up to your very low expectations but at least it was clean. Silently you eyed the bed you would have to share and looked to your stoic roommate. “So which side of the bed do you want?” 

As expected Mihawk was mature and respectable about the whole thing. Calm as ever he chose his side-the one closest to the door- and settled in for the night. Mihawk’s ability to fall over to sleep at ease was enviable because in the dark you could hear his deep, even breaths as he slept facing away from you. As tired as you were and as comfortable as you normally did feel in Mihawk’s presence you just couldn’t fall asleep. While the bed you lay in wasn't the worst you’d ever had to sleep in, it wasn’t the comfiest and living at Cross Guild had practically spoiled you. You’d gotten so used to stretching out, something you couldn’t exactly do at this moment. 

Deciding to just make do with your half of the bed and not disturb Mihawk, you rolled onto your side with the intention of getting comfortable. The only problem was you’d vastly overestimated the room you had to move and could only gasp as you felt the bed disappear from under you. In a split second as you braced to hit the ground, you were instead caught by a pair of hands. With ease you were pulled back onto the bed and you tensed to feel your back make contact with the warmth of Mhawk’s chest. “Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s fine, just sleep.” He told you while pulling one arm back to tuck his hand under his pillow. You tried not to react to how sleep brought Mihawk’s voice to a lower register that made it so much more attractive to you. You only nodded at his instruction and shifted slightly, already so much more comfortable than you had been all night. The only thing now was you noticed Mihawk still had one arm loosely draped over your body, not quite holding you but still enveloping you in his touch. “This is only to keep you from falling out of the bed again.”

“I didn’t say anything…” You mused, lips curving into a teasing smile that Mihawk could practically hear in the dark. “If you wanted to cuddle all you had to do was ask.”

“Don’t make me kick you out of this bed.” Mihawk warned in your ear, despite the threat you smirked to feel his arm over you tighten just a little. 

“Relax, your secret is safe with me.” Ordinarily you would have teased him a little more but between the tiredness finally winning over you and the warmth of his body against yours being so comforting. For a moment Mihawk wondered if you were genuinely comfortable against him, ready to release you at the first sign of unease. Yet you surprised him when you yawned and lazily placed your hand over his arm and smile in satisfaction as your eyes slid closed, your breathing evening out as you fell asleep.

Mihawk had been taking his time to slowly get to know you and let you in little by little, but now watching you roll onto your other side and curl up against his chest he began to reconsider his actions. Perhaps a few more missions away from Cross Guild’s base wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

SHANKS

This type of situation should not be happening in this day and age. Not with your crew and Captain having the reputation and fame they had. Drawing names to see who was sharing rooms of all things reminded you of when the crew was only just forming and the coin to pay for individual rooms was a luxury. Some of the others on the crew shared your slight annoyance but you all knew that there wasn’t much you could do about it. The ship needed repairs after getting damaged in a ferocious storm with the sleeping quarters affected and unusable for now. You were all pirates after all and you supposed you needed to be reminded of that. 

Still though you were secretly hoping you were one of the lucky ones who got their own room. You mentally cursed when Ben pulled out a slip of paper and read your name out. Resigned to your fate you grabbed your drink and took a plentiful mouthful as the vice-captain grabbed another piece of paper to announce your roommate for the night. As you wiped the stray remnant of the liquid from your lip you spotted the man pause and fight a laugh, disguising his amusement by rubbing the lower half of his face. “Captain Shanks.” 

Your back went rigid and you ignored the burning stares of the rest of the crew as you instead turned your attention to the man in question. Even he seemed momentarily thrown by the announcement but he recovered swiftly as expected of the laidback man. His dark eyes met your gaze and he offered you a cheeky smile and a wink.

That night when all the drinking had been done you and Shanks stepped into your shared room. Without needed to consult on anything you both instinctively went to your preferred side of the bed to sleep on. You sat down and worked on kicking off your shoes and shrugging out of your coat to at least be a little comfier. You looked over your shoulder when Shanks lightly cleared his throat as he pulled back the cover to settle down on the mattress. “Problem Cap?”

“Not really.” Shanks mused with a sly smile. “I usually sleep naked is all.”

“Poor baby, I’m sure you can be brave and at least keep your trousers on for one night.” You teased, used to your Captain’s antics and knowing he was only making jokes to ease the slight tension at having to share like this. With a tired groan you settled down on your side of the bed as Shanks flicked off the light, bringing the room fully into darkness. “If not the barmaid should still be about to help you.”

“And downgrade my sleeping partner? I’d rather lose another limb.” Shanks told you dramatically, offended you’d suggest such a thing. You let out a huff of amusement and rolled your eyes as you stared tiredly at the ceiling, letting yourself grow more comfortable against the mattress. “I lost count how many of the crew wanted me to swap with them…”

“Uh-huh.“ You mused with a lazy smile before breaking out into a long yawn, sleep coming over you quickly now. “Well aren’t you lucky? Now go to sleep, ‘kay?”

“Can I at least get a good night kiss?” Shanks teased lightly, playfully tapping your nose and grinning in the darkened room to see your tired face scrunch up slightly. He’d said it as a joke, something for you to barely register in your mind as you drifted off to sleep. What he hadn’t expected though was you to roll onto your side and push yourself up with a low hum of sleepiness, not even bothering to open your eyes fully. 

He watched silently, completely overcome with curiosity as your hand reached out to skim your fingers against his face, searching for him in the dark. Your hand settled against his cheek and slowly you drew closer. With half-lidded eyes Shanks couldn’t take his gaze off of your slightly parted lips. 

“Shanks…” your voice was barely a breathy whisper but it was clear as a bell to Shanks, his attention raptly on you and only you. Quickly you pulled back just enough and opened your eyes to smirk slightly to see Shanks had leant in slightly to chase your lips he had been quietly eager to taste.

“You’re killing me here, love.” Shanks protested with a small pout, his hand dropping to the small of your back, fingers flexing slightly a gesture, to request you close the distance. He wasn’t forcing you, you had all the power here. You tilted your head and smiled at the sudden pet-name. You couldn’t deny the temptation to give in to your own idle curiosities about your handsome Captain. Given how you were sharing a bed and he'd requested a kiss you would have been foolish to throw away the opportunity you had. Still you had to at least get a little bit more fun out of it by keeping Shanks in momentary suspense. 

Finally you relented and kissed Shanks, your lips moving languidly against his; it being no surprise to you the he was already returning the action with no hesitancy. There was no fight for dominance in the kiss you shared but you could feel the power and command of Shanks’ presence over you but he left the pace, duration, and intensity entirely up to you. As much as you wanted to take it further, to push your curiosity and attraction towards the man against you for your own satisfaction you had to pull away reluctantly, knowing you wouldn’t have been able to enjoy what would follow fully with how tired you were. “Satisfied with your good night kiss, Captain?”

“You have no idea.” Shanks grinned pressing a quick kiss against your head as you settled down on the bed again. “I can now sleep peacefully and dream the sweetest dreams.”

“Good.” You grinned sleepily, opening your eyes just enough to fix him a playful smile. “I expect a good morning kiss in return by the way.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, love.” Shanks grinned at you, already counting down the hours until he got to feel his lips against yours again but for now he would enjoy the time he had to sleep beside you.

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