#but shes the same in each one..... and that is comforting in some way

[sparrows4bats]

Dick Grayson sets Jon and Damian up, Completely accidentally.

So, years from now, Damian has finished his degree, med school, and is starting his residentancy. Jon is Superman, and his career as a science researcher is in full swing.

Both grew apart after Jon took up his fathers mantel, and Damian left crimefighting to pursue medicine. They are still friends, but nowhere near as close as they once were. ( Jon still listens to Damians' heartbeat every day, and Jon is one of the few people outside his family that Damian puts on the cape for now.)

Dick has been Jon's mentor for years, and he and Damian have only gotten closer as brothers (father and son) over the years. One day, after seeing Damian and Jon meet by chance, when Dick is injured and he makes Jon fly him to Damian to be patched up, Dick decides to get them to be best friends again.

Dick doesn't know why they grew apart, but they still seem fond of each other if the friendly greeting he witnessed is anything to go by. And both of them need more friends, each having been isolated by their responsibilities over the last few years.

So, he hatches a plan.

If they are going to be Best Friends again, they need to spend time together one on one. The few times he hung out with both of them at the same time, Jon and Damian tended to focus on him or a larger group activity.

So, Dick starts asking Jon to drop Damian over food or coffee after long shifts. Tells Superman how worried he is that Damian will overwork himself because he is doing so many extra hours in Peadatrics and the NICU. Jon happily agrees, armed by Damians' favourite vegan meals and a smile. Damian is confused at first but is so tired that he doesn't question why his childhood friend is suddenly feeding him a few times a week.

Next, Dick tells Damian about all the humanitarian work Jon is doing, and wouldn't it be so nice to go with him? The next time he heads off to refugee camp, Damian can come to provide free health care. Damian likes that idea immensely and asks Jon when he next shows up with food.

Jon and Damian start spending more time together, but only during times when they are too busy or exhausted to actually talk to one another. Neither have mentioned anything other than how tired and busy the other seemed.

So Dick enacts stage three and attempts to get them to actually hang out and relax together. Since they both desperately need it. So Dick asks them both to come over for pizza and movies at his place, and then just doesn't show up. Damian is always early and has a key to his apartment so he can let Jon in. The plan is foolproof.

He sends them a text 30 minutes after they were supposed to meet and tells them Barbara needs him for something, but go ahead and order the pizzas he will be there in a few hours.

After about four hours of celebrating his success and annoying Babs. Dick finally goes home to check on the besties.

What he did not expect was to find Jonathan Kent defiling his baby on his couch.

Some of their clothes are off and strewn around the space, and thank God all Dick sees is Jons naked back and Damian kissing him before he runs out of the room.

Only after he calls Babs in horror and she laughs in his face, does he gather the courage to confront them again.

When he enters the house this time, Jon and Damian are waiting for him, thankfully fully dressed.

Dick doesn't get a chance to speak before Damian is apologising for impropriety and looking like he did at ten when he didn't know how Dick was going to react to his mistakes. Jon takes his hand to settle his nerves, and it works.

Dicks feels like he fell down the rabbit hole.

"So, you two are a thing?"

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"Since I saw Damian save 10 children in Sudan a few weeks ago."

"Oh."

"Jon was good with them, comforting and gentle." Damian sounds dreamy in a way Dick has never heard before.

"Is it serious?"

"I love Damian, and I plan to marry him as soon as he will let me." Jon is so confident and serious when he says this, Dick almost doesn't believe the words coming out of his mouth.

"WHAT?!" The pair ignore him choking on his own spit. Rude.

"You do?"

"If you want?"

Damian nods and smiles. "We could go to vegas tomorrow?"

Jon smiles back so wide Dick is sure his face is going to split in two."Or we elope tonight?"

Damian kisses him before whispering yes against his lips

He then turns to his brother.

"Richard will be our witness!"

Dick doesn't know how he ends up in a chapel in Las Vegas at 3am,on a Tuesday, giving his baby brother away. But they look so happy Dick decides he doesn't care at the moment.

Damian had rings already, for some reason, and Jon and Damian get married in jeans and hastily thrown on shirts. All three of them cry at sappy spontaneous vows.

Afterwards, Jon thanks him for helping him realise he already knew the love of his life. Damian just hugs him tightly and says something in a language Dick doesn't know.

It occurred to Dick in that moment that Bruce was going to kill him. Probably after he killed Jon.

He can't even stage a shovel talk because this is all his own damn fault.

Barbara and Stephanie never let him live it down. (But they can suck it, Jon and Damian name their first kid after him and make him godfather.)

[wosov]

Not tired, just done

word count - 3k

trigger warnings - very poor mental health, autistic burnout, self harm mention, suicide attempt - do not read if you will be triggered -prioritise your own mental health please-

summary - you are a young breakthrough star for both Arsenal and the Lionesses but nobody truly knows how far your demons go.

______________________________________________________________

The roar of the crowd was a symphony you had learned to conduct. Each cheer, each groan and each drumming beat of expectation. You used it, you channelled it and turned it into fuel that spurred you on in big games. At eighteen, you were already a force to be reckoned with, a standout academy player and rising star within the Arsenal women's first team and a breakthrough player in the Lionesses squad. 

But behind the fierce exterior, fancy footwork and ability to break down plays in seconds was a struggling teenager. For years you had built a mask, a personality that would see yourself protected from hurtful comments or judgemental looks. Your parents had been the first people to make her realise that the world is unkind to people who are perhaps different to the norm. After you were told to leave your childhood home after your diagnosis of autism and adhd. 

The exterior everybody else sees is a carefully constructed algorithm of observed behaviours, a constant calculation of what to say, how to react and ways to blend in. The only person who truly understood who you were, was the psychologist employed by Arsenal football club. Dr Greene was her name and she had known you for just over 3 years, when you first made the transition from academy to professional football. 

The routines were the anchors in your life. Everyday was meticulously planned; wake up at 06:00 and make a protein shake (same bottle every time) then go for a light jog - same route, past the park every time. Back home for breakfast using the same oat milk with cereal to then get in the car with your pre-packed training bag to drive to training. Park in the same spot and walk through the doors for exactly 08:00 to enjoy some quiet time before the rest of the team walk through the doors ready for training at exactly 09:30. 

The pressure of expectation, the relentless media scrutiny nitpicking every aspect of you apart. It was all becoming too overwhelming and lately the familiar comfort of your routine had begun to feel less like an anchor and more like a heavy weight. A weight that dragged you below the surface and drowned you. 

You weren't quite sure when you had actually started to spiral. The self harm, a dark secret you have battled since your early teens had started to resurface. What had started out as pinches to your arms and thighs had turned into cuts. Strategically placed so as to not arouse suspicion. And your teammates were none the wiser. 

You couldn’t really blame them you supposed. Afterall, you had dedicated your life to blending into the background, to being a figment of the crowd and you were good at it. You gave the odd smile at your teammates' jokes and spoke when you were spoken too. But you never started a conversation yourself unless it was about football tactics or strategies. 

However there was one teammate who managed to see more than the others.

Beth had been there learning how to coach in the academy when you were still playing there. She was the one who brought your name up with Jonas and set the ball rolling for you to come up into the first team. She saw the talent in you and knew you were gonna go far. 

The beginning of the end started on a regular monday. You had woken up with the usual weight crushing your chest but for some reason you couldn’t get out of bed. 

You reached for your phone and invented a fake illness to buy yourself a few days with your manager. But that was it, no other messages to any of your teammates. You didn’t really feel the need to, which is why you were shocked when you received a message from Beth asking how you were. 

You were a little confused, but nevertheless you replied. Brief but concise, saying you just needed some time to rest and get better, which seemed to settle Beth’s mind a bit. 

She was the one teammate who was overly concerned when you suddenly broke your routine. You hadn’t a day off for the first time since coming up into the senior team and maybe since playing in the academy (but Beth couldn’t be absolutely certain about that). What made Beth even more worried was the lack of messages from you. Knowing you were the type of person who would stress about being late and missing the first five minutes of practice. 

“She’s probably just come down with a cold or something. You are being way too dramatic” Lia joked. After noticing Beth staring at her phone whilst chewing her nails.

“Yeah or she is hungover and being sneaky about it! She is 18 afterall.” Kyra rebutted back trying to put Beth’s mind at ease.

It wasn't until Dr Greene came looking for you after you had missed your weekly session on Thursday morning. It was something so out of character for you that it had Dr Greene extremely worried for your wellbeing. Especially when she found out you had been missing from training due to ‘potentially eating something gone off’ according to the message Jonas received.  

So worried that she headed to the gym whilst the rest of the team was in there stretching and asked for a word. It was as if by some good luck that on her way there she found Leah, Beth and Kim walking down the corridor. 

Dr Greene, bound by confidentiality, couldn't reveal much but the tremor in her voice spoke volumes. “I think someone should check on her… Just in case.”

Panic instantly surged through Beth, knowing she should have trusted her gut feeling and when Leah was being given her address by Dr Greene, Beth was already halfway to Kim’s car, running as if her life depended on it, or yours.

Pulling up to your house was weird. It made Leah, Beth and Kim realise that they had never actually been there. You had never invited the team around for bonding nights nor just a quiet dinner. 

Beth was the first one out of the door and the first one to reach your front door. Hammering her fists on it as if to open it. Kim and Leah soon followed and Kim soon got to work searching for a spare key. 

Leah was the first to shove Beth out of the way and start kicking the door down. On any other day it may have been seen as dramatic but the therapists words were on repeat in all of their heads, and within 3 hard kicks your front door was off its hinges. 

Your house was quiet, eerily quiet as the three players made their way through your living room. Your living room curtains were drawn and everything was meticulously tidied away, likened to a showroom. Your name was shouted out by all three women as they split up to cover ground quickly. It was Kim who found your letter. The beautifully tragic letter that was sure to break the heart of anyone who read it. But what stunned Kim the most is the way you had addressed it. There was no name, nobody you wanted it to go to, just written on the front on the envelope was ‘To whomever it concerns’. 

That put the fear of god into Kim as she screamed for Leah and Beth to join her. 

They found you in the bathroom, eyes vacant, skin pale and an empty bottle of pills on the side to confirm their worst fears. Leah was the first person to run to you as Kim rang the ambulance. Meanwhile Beth was stood, frozen in shock.  

The ambulance arrived quickly, sirens shattering the quiet atmosphere of your suburban neighbourhood and it was quickly confirmed that it was too late. Too late for any hopes of saving you. You were gone. 

The news spread like wildfire through the team and staff first. Nobody was left unscathed by the news of your death and left the team in particularly grieving in different ways. 

Leah, for example, used self reflection a lot and sometimes after training she would sit and stare at your old spot in the changing room, particularly at the peg where your football kit used to hang. She would think about the person you would’ve grown up to be, the footballing accolades you would’ve achieved. 

Kim became a mother of sorts, helping everyone else out and organising rotas for everyone to have multiple sessions a week with a therapist. She organised for there to be a memorial garden for you at the training ground. A quiet place of reflection staff and players alike could go to, to sit, remember and talk about you. 

Beth was more willing to bury her head in the sand and pretend everything was fine. Like you weren’t dead, like you were just on holiday and coming back soon. She kept everything you had left at the training centre in the place you left it. Down to your favourite water bottle. 

It hit the newspapers and social media next, and soon posts of sorrow were made online. The outpouring of love, the memorial messages and the candlelit vigils outside the Emirates. 

The interviews with your former coaches, tear-streaked fans in the stands, the silence held before kickoff and black armbands at the next match all held the same message. It was just too late. 

The funeral was a sorrowful affair. The streets were lined with faithful football supporters and fans of yours. 

Afterall, the news of your death had travelled far and fast. It had made front pages across the UK and appeared in foreign headlines as well. “England’s Star Girl Dies at 18,” read one tabloid. “Arsenal Prodigy Found Dead in Tragic Circumstances,” another. Journalists scrambled to piece together who she was, to trace the arc of your career, and speculate on the causes behind the tragedy. Everyone wanted a piece of the story — not because they knew you, but because it sold.

There were some young girls clutched footballs and photos, their wide eyes betraying confusion, as if trying to make sense of the fact that you were no more. As the team pulled up to the church where your service was being held, Beth couldn’t help but admire just how many people had come out to pay their respects. But the thing that caught her eye the most was the fact that there were several people clinging football shirts in one hand and a permanent marker in the other as if to demand a signature like they were at a football match.

For a week or two, you were the talk of the town. You were everywhere, 

Social media was flooded with tributes: edits of your goals and special moments from both club and country, photos of you celebrating in red and white, quotes pulled from post-match interviews and promotional campaigns. Hashtags trended. Influencers posted about mental health. The club released a carefully-worded statement, followed by a sombre montage that aired before kickoff at the next match. There was a minute’s silence. A black armband. A tweet from the FA.

But after a few weeks of apparent mourning online, things had gone back to normal. The posts dried up. The headlines turned to new transfers, league standings, the next rising star. Your name began to fade from the trending list, pushed down by the algorithm’s ever-churning hunger for fresh content. The digital mourning soon became archived, another “memory” in people’s feeds.

But for those who knew you personally, nothing had returned to normal. And in truth, it probably never would. 

Not for Dr Greene, who couldn’t stop replaying every session, every sign she might have missed.

Not for Kim, who had read the letter more times than she could count, searching for something she could have done differently.

Not for Leah who still couldn’t drive past your street without feeling sick.

Not for Beth, who believed deep down she truly could have saved you. 

And not for the empty chair in the dressing room. The peg that remained untouched. The silence that followed every mention of your name.

In the days following the funeral, the team returned to training, as beyond your death the football season was still continuing, but something fundamental had shifted. The energy was fractured. Conversations were shorter, silences heavier, and your absence felt like a gaping wound no one could stitch shut.

Although Kim, bless her heart, would try. She took it upon herself to become the glue of the team. She organised group check-ins on Wednesdays — nothing mandatory, just space. A quiet room in the training centre with tea, a selection of biscuits and a stack of blank cards where players could write memories or just sit in silence. Some days it was full. Other times, it was just her.

As well as that, she also arranged for the club psychologist to offer more one-on-one sessions, and created rotas for the players to sign up.  She sent check-in texts. She stayed late to talk, to listen, to hold space. If someone cried during a drill, she didn’t flinch. If someone snapped during a meeting, she absorbed it, as if to stop the grief from spreading.

Beth, however, was the first to unravel.

At first, it was subtle, she stopped staying behind to joke in the changing room, and stopped replying in the group chat. Then came the silence. Cold, echoing silence when her teammates tried to check in. She couldn’t bring herself to look any of them in the eye. Because every time she did, all she could hear was that moment in the locker room — “She’s probably just come down with a cold or something. You’re being dramatic.”

The words haunted her. They followed her around like a persistent shadow.

The argument happened in the carpark after training, breaking through the quiet that usually followed after a session full of silent drills and strained conversations. Beth was already halfway to her car, keys clenched in her fist, jaw tight, when Leah called out.

“Beth, wait—can we talk?”

Beth stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “What’s there to talk about?”

“I just…” Leah took a few steps closer, her voice soft but urgent. “I want to be here for you.”

Beth let out a bitter laugh and finally turned. “Now you do?”

Leah flinched. “Beth—”

“No,” Beth cut her off, her voice rising. “You don’t get to be here now like that fixes anything. You don’t get to act like this is something we’re all getting through together. Because it’s not. She’s gone. And you—you—talked me out of checking on her when it could have made a difference.”

Leah’s eyes widened, but Beth kept going, her voice trembling with fury and guilt.

“I knew something was wrong. I felt it. She never missed training. Never took a day off. I told you something didn’t feel right, and you made me feel like I was being overbearing. Like I was just paranoid.”

“Beth…” Leah’s voice cracked.

“No,” Beth snapped. “I should’ve gone to her house the first day she called in sick. I should’ve trusted my gut. But I listened to you. To all of you. And now she’s dead.”

Leah stepped forward, desperate. “You think I don’t blame myself too? You think I don’t go over every conversation I ever had with her, every moment I brushed something off, laughed at the wrong time, stayed silent when I should’ve asked more?”

Beth’s expression didn’t soften. “You didn’t know her like I did.”

“I know I didn’t,” Leah said, her voice almost a whisper. “I didn’t see her the way you did. But I cared. God, Beth, I cared so much, and I didn’t show it in the right way. I know that. But don’t push me away because I made a mistake. We all did.”

Beth shook her head, eyes full of grief and rage. “It wasn’t just a mistake, Leah. It was her life. You all acted like I was being too intense, like I was smothering her. And now you want to sit with me in grief, like this is something we all share?”

She stepped back. “You don’t deserve to grieve for her the way I do.”

Leah froze. The words landed like a slap. Her throat tightened, but she didn’t walk away. She refused to leave another of her teammates and friends alone in their pain.

“Just let me be here,” Leah said, her voice hoarse. “Please. I wasn’t there for her. And I will regret that for the rest of my life. Don’t let me make the same mistake again with you.”

Beth’s eyes flickered. She wanted to scream again, to throw the guilt back in Leah’s face — but her chest just hurt. Everything just hurts.

“She died Le, she fucking died alone thinking nobody cared about her.” Beth managed to whisper out.

She didn’t say anything else. She just turned, opened her car door, and got in, and Leah stood there in the fading light. Staring at the empty space where your car used to be.

And for the first time in days, she let herself cry.

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Hope you guys enjoyed it!

sorry for the sudden hiatus, I just had a lot of stuff going on in my life but I am hoping to be back now and taking requests.

[reidscherrygirl]

೯⁺ 𖥻 𝓗 𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 𝗜'𝗠 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ! ᰋ

ꨄ︎ 𝒫 airing : : 𝒮pencer reid x female!reader

ꨄ︎ 𝒮 ynopsis : : you get drunk on a night out and gush about your boyfriend━━SPENCER REID. he picks you up, takes care of you, and reminds you that you're deeply loved.

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ontents : : drunk!reader. female!reader. jj and reader are friends since high school. fluff. spencer being the most boyfriendest boyfriend ever & ever. both are down bad for each other. mentions of having sex. boys of tommen quote mentioned!! johnnyshannon quote mentioned!! cringe. cheesy. grammatical errors. ooc(?). reader wears a dress and heels. reader is part of the bau but isn't mentioned. english isn't viana's first language. not proofread.

ꨄ︎ 𝓦ord count : : 1.4k

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ase file shelf.

ꨄ︎ 𝒲hispers of viana : : so... it's always drunk! spencer,, what about drunk!reader, chat!?!?( joksies, i love love love love your works sososo much,, i haven't read the nsfw ones but i love them because yes. they're definitely good. ) going back to my oldoldold writing style because i miss it. anyways, this is probably like, my first , first, first s.reid fic in months. the ones i've posted yesterday were made in,,, february-ish,, so this is probably bad-bad-bad. i'm vv sorry in advance!! + how do you guys make friends here lawd. oh, oh, and again, english isn't my first language,, so forgive me !!

the dress you chose wasn't exactly comfortable, and the heels were the type that made you wonder every step of the way. they were cute in the mirror━━of course, but after standing for about ten minutes, it seemed like your feet were dying. nonetheless, you'd promised jj you'd attend. and when she mentioned that some of your old high school friends would be there━━the ones she still kept in contact with━━you thought it couldn't hurt. it had been an eternity since you let loose, and jj promised you'd be home before midnight. besides, SPENCER said he didn't mind.

"go," he said to you that morning, stroking his thumb over your knuckles the way he always did. "you need a break. and besides, you're with jj, so i'm not concerned.

you weren't even going to drink. really. that wasn't the intention. but then more and more drinks would come and there would be low lights and everyone would laugh and laugh and laugh like it was time machines and it was senior year once more and there were no bills to pay or the need to procrastinate school projects or heartbreak or anything like that. only music and giggles and sparkly eyeshadow and glossy lips.

jj laughed next to you, her wedding ring glinting in the bar lights like a miniature disco ball. they were congratulating the girl for getting married and having kids.

one of the girls leaned in, already a little drunk, her voice teasing. "so what about you?" she said. "you dating anyone?"

you blinked at her, wobbling a bit in your seat, your drink halfway to your lips. "mmhmn," you hummed contentedly. "boyfren. beautiful. so, so intelligent. like, utterly intelligent. my spencer."

jj gagged on her drink. "oh boy."

your friends leaned in, curious now. "wait, that's his name? spencer? is he cute?"

you breathed in sharply, eyes wide. "cute? noooo. he's celestial. like.. a star. with a phd. and fluffy hair. and cheekbones. and when he speaks, it's like... sexy wikipedia."

you laughed, tugging jj's arm for support. "he knows everything. and remember everything i say. even the stupid things. like one time i said birds don't have knees? and he said they do, but he said it all soft and sweet like i hadn't just said the most wrong thing ever."

"he has, like, eighteen phds! it's insane. but it's spencer, so it's not insane."

jj snorted. "he's got three phds."

you brushed her away. "three is basically the same as eighteen. he totally has eighteen."

everyone at the table burst into laughter. jj leaned over and whispered, "you're so gone."

“mhmn. 'm so gonna marry him.”

soon, the heels became your worst enemies. you dropped your chin dramatically onto jj's shoulder and groaned, "jayjjjeey. my feetsies hurt. the heels are murdering me. it's, like, medieval battles down there."

“maybe remove them?" jj suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"then i'll be short," you huffed, offended.

jj rolled her eyes and got out her phone. "i should probably call your boygenius before you start rambling about his hands again."

"his hands are so nice though!"

"yeah, yeah. i know." she began dialing.

spencer answered on the first ring. "jj?"

"hey━━" she began, but didn't get a chance to finish.

"spencer!" you yelled into the phone. saying the “e” in his name longer than it should be.

he stopped in his tracks. "is she━━?"

"she's drunk," jj answered, half-sorry, half-amused. "she's fine, though. just. ridiculously drunk. here."

you pulled the phone away from her like it was your personal offender. "hi, hi. hi again" you drawled, stretching it out like the best song. "guess who?"

"hmm," spencer muttered, tone gentle. "i'm going to go say the love of my life?"

you squealed. loudly. "oh my god, you're so cute. spencer. your voice is like.. silk. but, like, smart silk. is that a thing?"

he was grinning into the phone now, though he was already getting up to grab his jacket. "did you have fun tonight?"

"mhm. so much fun. they asked if i have a boyfren and i was like 'duh' and they were like 'is he cute?' and i was like 'no. he's an actual greek god with brown eyes and a brain that could take over the world.'"

you were slurring more now. even over the phone, he could hear how your words tangled together.

"do you want me to come get you?"

you stopped as if you needed to think very hard. then you spoke softly but loud enough, "yes. yes. come and get me. please. i want to see your face. want to touch your hair. want━━to━━wait. jj! jj, he's coming!"

behind him, he heard jj say, "alright, just sit down and don't trip over, please."

twenty minutes later, spencer entered the bar, eyes sweeping until they found jj and the table of your old friends. he nodded at jj as greeting.

one of the girls blinked. "oh wow. you didn't say he looked like that."

"he's like a hot professor," another whispered.

you saw him. stood up way too fast. stumbled right into his chest.

"spence!" you cried, arms flinging around his neck.

he caught you quickly, his arms tight at your waist. "careful," he breathed, his nose buried in your hair.

you whirled away to your friends as if you'd just won a prize. "he's taken! so taken. all mine. back off."

they all erupted into laughter. jj put her hand across her face, trying so hard to prevent herself from losing it. "okay, casanova. let him breathe."

you didn't listen. your lips began leaving kisses on his cheek, his jaw, the edge of his neck, and his face flushed deep red.

"let's get you home," he said softly, scooping you up into his arms like you were nothing.

"bye guys!" you waved extravagantly. "jj i love you! and you're all so pretty!"

you wrapped both of your arms around his neck even as he attempted to put you into the car.

"baby," you mumbled, holding on. "don't go."

"i'm not leaving. i'm just buckling you in."

"you sing," you commanded as he removed your heels.

he hesitated. "sing what?"

"science lullaby."

"you want me to sing. the laws of thermodynamics?"

you nodded seriously. "yes. they comfort me." his voice did. but the same thing.

when you did finally get home━━well, technically his place but now it felt like your home as well━━spencer attempted to get you to put on your heels again so that you wouldn't dirty your feet and so he could lock the car. you complained but wore it anyway.

once inside, you kicked them off like they'd personally offended you. "they betrayed me."

he stooped to put them down tidily beside the door. when he stood up, you were propped against the wall, bottom lip protruding.

"come on," he groaned lovingly, sweeping you up into his arms.

you breathed onto his shoulder. "you're so strong. do you work out? or are you just. spencer-y?"

he chuckled, carrying you into the bathroom. "let's get you cleaned up."

he sat you down on the side of the tub and picked up your makeup wipes. "close your eyes."

you did, scrunching up your lips. "kiss me."

"after i remove the mascara," he grumbled.

his hands were soft, tracing slow, gentle circles. "you always get this little smudge right here," he said, swiping under your left eye. "you never see it. but i do."

"you notice everything," you sighed, in awe.

"i do," he said again, softer.

he handed you your toothbrush then and stood over you like a hawk. "don't swallow it."

"you're like a sexy dentist," you said, toothpaste running down your chin.

he wiped it away. "you're going to regret all the things you said tonight."

after brushing, he put you into one of his large shirts and carried you to bed.( after making you urinate ). you held onto him like a koala, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"love you," you breathed.

"love you too," he whispered, sweeping your hair aside.

you kissed him, slowly and deep, your hands fumbling with his shirt.

"baby," you muttered on his lips. "i want you."

he pulled away, his breathing ragged. "you're drunk."

"so?"

"so i'm not doing anything until you're sober."

you pouted. "but i want to."

"i know. and i love you. all of you. not drunk-you. tomorrow, okay?"

you scowled but nodded. "for keeps?"

"for keeps."

you wrapped into his chest, exhaling as your body relaxed into the blankets.

and even when your breaths grew slower and your hand remained tucked over his heart, spencer didn't sleep━━not yet. he simply watched you, drawing invisible shapes on your back, committing to memory the precise curve of your smile even in sleep.

even drunk, you loved him.

and god, did he love you too.

© reidscherrygirl

[kerosenee-kisses]

Friend You Can Keep | Zayne

summary: while preparing for final exams, you ask Zayne if you can study his anatomy lol

cw: 18+, mdni, college au, afab reader, loss of virginity, oral sex (receiving), vaginal sex, fingering, lots of kissing, this is literally just self-indeulgent love-making

wc: 3.7k

a/n: I started playing lads a few weeks ago after a lot of resistance (I'm afraid of spending money on them!!) I started playing for Sylus but Zayne really came out of nowhere and assumed the role of my husband. I'm obsessed with him!!

In my mind, I wrote this with a five-ish year age gap between Zayne and reader (reader a freshman/sophmore in college, Zayne in the first years of med school). That isn't explicitly stated here so choose your own adventure. I'm also of the opinion that Zayne would make sweet, sweet love to you to the soundtrack of true yearner R&B. Just me?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Songs from your favorite R&B playlist emanate from your roommate’s speaker. You thought listening to the calm crooning from the nest of pillows and blankets that is your bed would help you study. But the music is more effective at lulling you to sleep, as are the sparkling fairy lights strung around the room’s perimeter. Maybe you should suck it up and turn the horrendous, overhead fluorescent lights on for this. Because the words in your textbook swim together the longer you try to focus on retaining them.  

You rub your eyes hard; flashes of color undulate in the darkness of your closed eyelids beneath the pressure of your fingertips. When you open them again, somehow, the words rearrange themselves even more chaotically. It’s like looking for a prophecy in a bowl of alphabet soup. 

“Is it possible I have late-stage dyslexia? Is that a thing?” you ask. 

Zayne chuckles from his place at your desk. “I believe that’s an indication that you need a short break. And right on time, too.” 

The timer on his phone goes off then, which he shuts off before it can complete one full blare of sound. He opens the desk drawer and takes out two candies. One for each of you.  

“A reward for our diligence,” he says as he deposits a sweet into your hand.  

“What? Where did these come from?” you ask as you unravel the foil wrapper. Candy didn’t survive in your dorm room long enough for you to have a stash to dip into for emergencies like today. 

You have two more finals to study for before you can officially begin a much-deserved winter break. Your roommate had been your study buddy up until her first and only final yesterday. She left for home immediately after she’d submitted her exam, having decided that the papers assigned could easily be completed from the comfort of her own home. And while you were so happy for her and not at all jealous, it meant you were short a study buddy.  

But Zayne, always dependable, offered to swing by and study with you when you’d met up for lunch earlier and bemoaned the fact that you would have to stay focused all by yourself. A herculean task if there ever was one.  

“I managed to hide them while you were fiddling with the speaker. Otherwise, I doubt they would have survived more than ten minutes had you seen them.” 

“Don’t be a hypocrite. Your sweet tooth can be just as bad,” you say. 

You observe Zayne as he delicately pops his candy into his mouth, pushes his glasses back up, and continues to study through your break. He has some biochem final to prepare for. While he had told you he felt more than prepared for it before your complaints about being abandoned, he’s sitting here reviewing alongside you all the same. Your heart warms at how thoughtful he is. Sure, he loves to help everyone, but he always goes out of his way for you. Does he go out of his way for anyone other than you? You're too curious.  

So curious, in fact, that you ask without thinking, “Don’t you have a girlfriend? Or someone you’re kinda into?” 

Zayne blinks at you, slow and deliberate like a house cat, then shakes his head. Embarrassment and relief coalesce in your stomach. In an ideal world, you would shut the fuck up and go back to studying too. 

But like the glutton for punishment that you are, you sit up on your knees and keep talking. 

"Oh, ok. Good. Well, not good as in you should die alone but good in the sense that...well...You know what, can I ask you something without you freaking out? Like, you have to promise not to.” 

Zayne swivels in the desk chair. A gift from him to you actually. Ergonomic and expensive, he’d replaced the standard rocking chair that the room was originally furnished with since he was concerned about the health of your spine as your future primary care physician.  

Once he’s facing you completely, he says, “I would prefer not to promise something if I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to follow through. That would not be fair to you.” 

“You know what, you’re right. I’m sorry. You're always calm anyway so I have nothing to worry about. I think.” 

Zayne watches you expectantly as you reach for a plushie to hold. Your mouth feels dry now that his attention’s on you. You’re not sure why you feel so nervous, he normally goes along with your schemes. This won’t be so different, right?” 

“So, I was wondering if maybe you’d be...willing to have sex with me?” The words leave you in one breath. 

Zayne stares at you blankly. You might have successfully broken the most collected person you know.  

“Zayne? Did you hear me? I said would you–” 

“I heard you the first time,” he says. His expression hardly betrays anything, but color spreads across his face, up his ears. If he didn’t have a turtleneck on you imagine his neck would be just as pink. “I apologize. I’m a bit taken aback. I certainly didn’t expect that to be your question.” 

“It’s just feels like everyone my age has lost their virginity already. Obviously, I don’t need to have sex, but I’m intrigued, I guess.  And I don’t want to do it with just anyone. And you’re not just anyone so–” 

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I want to make absolute sure I’m understanding you correctly.” He clears his throat before asking, “You want me to take your virginity?” 

You hug the plushie for dear life. “Well, yeah. You would be my first.”  

Zayne takes a deep breath. You begin to worry about the state of his heart the longer you sit in silence. Because your own is pumping so hard you fear you’ll succumb to cardiac arrest if you’re lucky. Or maybe the earth will miraculously swallow you whole before that happens. You’ll even accept death by wanderer if it means escaping this conversation. 

“May I ask why you wish to lose your virginity to me?”  

Not a flat-out rejection. You can shelf the death wishes for now. 

“Since you’re basically a doctor you know all about anatomy; safe to assume you know how it goes. And you’re hot so...why not?” 

Zayne averts his gaze at your blunt assessment, and you can’t help but tease him a little.  

“I thought we were working on accepting compliments.” 

Zayne smiles faintly but still refuses to face you, “I have to say when it comes to accepting compliments, I’m not very good in front of you. But I suppose there’s a chance for you to teach me.” 

“First lesson starts now. All you have to do is say ‘thank you’ or something.” 

Your breath hitches when his eyes meet yours again. He’s caught you in his gentle yet captivating green gaze. In it, you see acknowledgment of what your relationship to each other could be. A desire to explore a new dimension of intimacy, one that goes beyond childhood friendship. 

“I accept your compliment,” Zayne murmurs. His eyes drift to your slightly parted lips and you feel your skin prickle. 

“This will be an opportunity to learn each other’s bodies together,” he says, almost distracted. He plucks the plushie from your grasp and carefully places it on the back-killing rocking chair beside your desk. “I only hope I can measure up to your expectations." 

“Oh. Ok,” you manage to whisper. You didn’t think he would say no per say, but considering his immediate response you expected a little more resistance to the idea than this. And now you feel nervous, more than you had anticipated. This was your idea after all. 

You go to remove your pajama bottoms, a seemingly imperceptible shake in your hands. But of course, nothing gets past Zayne. He stops you with a reassuring squeeze on your thigh.  

“There’s no rush. This requires ample preparation. I would never want to hurt you,” he says, caresses the hinge of your knee. “Just, let me kiss you for a bit. Like this.” 

Zayne brings the chair up to the edge of your twin xl and gives you a sweet peck. He gives you a few more before he brushes his lips against yours. You follow his lead, revel in the plush feel of his mouth as he kisses you. He rubs his palms along your thighs, squeezing them every so often. His tender touches embolden you as much as they relax you. You hesitantly touch your tongue to his bottom lip and Zayne moans into your mouth. The vibrations of such a gentle yet erotic sound travel through your whole body. You cup his cheeks to pull him closer, and Zayne gladly follows. He rises to his feet and crowds you into the corner of the bed until you’re on your back. He kisses you so thoroughly that you can taste the lingering sweetness of candy on his tongue when he licks into your mouth.  

You slip one hand under his sweater, trace the ridges of his tight abdomen, no doubt the result of all those pull ups he does on the rare occasion you work out together. Zayne’s breath shudders against your mouth and you shiver in response. His receptiveness to your touch makes you desperate to feel even more of him. You grab the hem of his turtleneck and yank it upwards. He pulls away, reluctantly you think, grabs the shirt from between his shoulder blades and tugs it off. The action leaves his glasses askew and you remove them from his face with a giggle. 

“I hope they’re not messed up now,” you say as you carefully put the lenses on yourself. They blur your vision some, but you clearly see Zayne swallow thickly when you smile up at him.  

“I have an extra pair,” he says breathlessly before he removes them and goes right back to kiss you. More of his warmth seeps into you now that he removed his sweater. He presses his thundering chest against yours, and the delicious weight of him renders you pliant beneath him. You smooth your hands along the muscled plains of his back and moan. You can’t think straight in the face of such overwhelming affection. He hasn’t even touched you yet, really, and you already feel so ready for more.  

But for some reason, a pang of guilt lances through your gut. Did you pressure Zayne into this? Are you taking advantage of his goodness, his kindness? You said it yourself, he goes above and beyond for you in all things. You would never forgive yourself if you ever made him do something he didn’t want to.  

“Wait,” you say, and weakly push at his chest.  A gossamer thread of your saliva stretches between both your lips, and your thoughts empty out of your head for a moment. Zayne’s eyes are as unfocused as yours as he looks down at you, cushioned in your fluffy pillows. 

“Are you sure you’re cool with this?” you ask quietly. 

Zayne takes hold of one of your wrists to drop a kiss to your palm that you feel in your clit. Does he want to kill you? 

“Why don’t you touch me and find out.” 

He most certainly does.  

You gasp when he guides your hand to his hardened length. The fact that you could do this to him with just a few kisses turns you on immensely, makes you feel powerful. You squeeze him gently and he groans. You flick the button of his pants free, but he stops your second attempt at undressing before you can even yank his zipper down. 

“Let me take what I desire first,” he says.  

Zayne carefully unbuttons your pajama top, until your chest is fully exposed to him. You sit up slightly to remove it, and no sooner is it off than Zayne starts to knead and kiss at your breasts. He sucks one of your nipples into his mouth and you arch into him, mewling at the spike of pleasure that zings through you. He licks and teases it into a stiffened peak while he pinches and rolls the other between his fingers.  

Once your nipples are wet and taut from his ministrations, Zayne trails deep kisses down the center of your spasming stomach. He grasps the waistband of your pants and tugs them down along with your underwear.  

While most guys would look at you with lust clouding their gaze, Zayne looks at your naked body like he loves it. It’s enough to make you feel sheepish.  

Zayne fits his broad shoulders beneath your slightly spread thighs and puts his mouth to your dripping core. You’re so stunned by the sight of his head between your legs that your brain goes fuzzy. Obviously, no one has kissed you here before. But you’d still be inclined to say that even if the opposite were true. Zayne full on makes out with your pussy. He licks and sucks at your clit with the sole purpose of making you cum hard. And your entire body sings with ecstasy.  

He eases his index finger inside of your wet heat and you whimper at the intrusion. He searches for that spongy patch inside of you that has your back surging upward. Zayne coaxes more of your arousal out of you with his tongue on your clit and his finger massaging the soft walls of your cunt. You feel strange, like you need release, but you’re almost terrified. Your thighs close around Zayne’s head and he groans into your sex. The sound vibrates through you until you’re a quivering mess. 

Zayne blindly reaches for one of your hands and squeezes. He licks and kisses you as you cum on his beautiful face with a loud cry of his name. He laps up as much of your essence as he can, and you twitch and whine all the while. 

Your back falls onto the mattress once you come down from your high, the first orgasm that someone else has ever given you. You lift yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him. He kisses your thighs, your hip bones, back up along your stomach so earnestly. 

 Zayne settles himself over you again and now pumps two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. They curl against your sweet spot with the skill and precision of a surgeon, and you moan his name. When his thumb swipes at your clit you cum for him again, still so sensitive from your last climax. He kisses you through it. The taste of yourself is a little strange, but you don’t hate it. You deepen the kiss as you cum around his fingers. You didn’t think you could cum again so quickly, but Zayne is nothing if not efficient.  

He removes his fingers from you so he can lay in between your twitching thighs. He rolls his clothed hips into your bare ones, and you meet his thrusts readily. The friction of his pants against your clit makes you feel delirious. Enough to remember what you had first asked of him.  

“Zayne,” you sigh as he moves to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Do you have a condom?” 

He exhales against your ear; you just barely hold in a whimper. 

“No, unfortunately. I haven’t had a need for them before now…I suppose we’ll have to reschedule,” he says, but makes no move to pull away from you.  

“No! It’s ok!” You wince at your frantic tone. Way to go, Desperate. “I, um, grabbed a handful from the resource center before you came here. They’re in my bag.” 

While he had thoughtfully replenished your stash of candy, you had shoveled way too many condoms into your backpack only an hour after your lunch date with him. Now he’ll probably think you're some sex-crazed degenerate or something. How embarrassing. 

Regardless, you feel a teeny, tiny thrill at the knowledge that he doesn’t have any on him.  

Zayne nods, presses one lingering kiss to your lips and goes to retrieve a condom from your backpack. You feel even more embarrassed when he returns with one embossed with a heart and the words ‘wrap it before you tap it.’ He doesn’t seem to pay much attention to that, however. Zayne removes his pants and his boxer briefs. His hard cock springs up against his abs and your mouth waters at the sight of it. Long and flushed and too pretty, you think. He settles back into bed, kneels in between your spread legs and tears the wrapper open.  

You watch, wide eyed, as he rolls the latex over the glistening head and down the length of his cock. He lines himself up with your stretched entrance and makes eye contact with you. Despite the heat pulsing through your veins, you shiver. This does not go unnoticed.  

“Anxious?” Zayne asks. He runs his fingers up and down your arm. Slow touches that soothe your frayed nerves. A reassurance, a reminder that he won’t let you feel anything you wouldn’t absolutely enjoy.   

“Only a little,” you admit, “but I trust you more than anyone, so I think I’m more excited than anything.” 

Zayne smiles down at you, small and sweet. You feel even more shy now.  

“You know we can stop at any time,” he says even though his cock is straining against the condom. “You need only tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” 

You place a hand on his smooth cheek and smile up at him. His breath leaves him on a shaky exhale.  

“I know that Zayne. Thank you. But I think I’m ready now.”  

There’s a slight discomfort. A foreign pressure, a pinch, that he lets you acclimate to. There’s so much tension in his body as a result. You can’t help but feel endeared by how considerate he is of you always. Especially now.  

He places his palm on your belly, and you jolt.  

“Try to relax your muscles,” he says. 

You slow your breaths, try to do as he says until the fullness of his cock feels less invasive, almost comforting. You focus on the intimacy of this moment, of your bodies connecting. Of him being the first person to ever give you pleasure of any kind.  

“Mmm, good, just like that,” he groans. Who knew a voice could get you so hot. And not just his voice, those green eyes of his. He stares down at you so intensely you feel like you’ll melt into a puddle. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask meekly.  

“You’re beautiful,” he says matter-of-factly.  

You hide your face behind your hands and whine for him to stop. Zayne laughs lowly and pulls your hands away. 

“You helped me accept a compliment earlier,” he says, kisses one wrist. “And even teased me for being nervous.” A kiss to the other. He rests them on the back of his neck and regards you with an almost mischievous smile. 

“Now it’s my turn to return the favor. Say ‘thank you’.” 

Your chest is heaving. You can’t believe how seductive he’s being. And so effortlessly, too. Where did this side of him come from?  

He lowers his face into your neck and all the air in the room vanishes when he kisses it.   

“Won’t you accept my compliment? Or should I continue to tell you how lovely I find you? Say that your beauty is beyond measure? That you are my greatest treasure.”  

Zayne lightly sucks on your pulse point. How does he expect you to speak? You can hardly function as is. 

“I’m not as patient as you think I am.” He nips at your neck, and you tense up.  

“Thank you!” you yelp. 

You feel his lips pull into a grin. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Or should I give you more compliments so you can practice?” 

“Y-you can move now!”  

Zayne kisses under your ear before he pulls his hips back and slowly grinds into you. His pelvis meets your sticky clit every time your bodies meet. He thrusts into you until your moans and sighs fill the humid air between you both. 

You experimentally squeeze around his cock as he pulls away from you and he moans in concert with you.  

“Did you want to see my like this?” he asks, voice hoarse as his cock pushes deeper into you. You arch up against him, your nipples grazing his chest. Zayne dips his head to take one of your pebbled nipples into his mouth again, sucking and biting at it affectionately. You wrap your legs around his trim waist and try to pull him even closer to you. He’s making you feel so good that you can hardly stand it. All you can focus on is Zayne. The way he fits so perfectly between your legs, the feel of his biceps under your hands. His crisp, clean scent sends your eyes rolling into the back of your head. You want even more of him.  

You bury your hands in his hair, thick silk between your fingers, and tug. Zayne pulls off your breast with a wet pop and kisses you. He plasters his chest to yours as he rolls his hips into you. Your walls tighten up around him and he grits out your name. He wraps his arms around your waist tight and fucks into you so deep that you swear you see stars. So bright that you clench your eyes shut as pleasure takes hold of your whole body. It’s an ecstasy like no other.  

“I love you, Zayne. I love you,” you babble mindlessly as you cum harder than before. 

Zayne moans and ruts into your body erratically, desperately, until he seizes up and cums with you. Maybe you’re too caught up in the romantic atmosphere you accidentally created– sultry love ballads and low lighting–but you almost wish he had painted your walls instead of the condom.  

He looks ethereal as pleasure contorts and relaxes his features, his muscles. Zayne takes your face between his hands and kisses you hungrily. Like he’ll never have another opportunity to. You’ll make damn sure that’s not the case.  

"I adore you,” he says before he steals another kiss and your breath along with it. You both grip and pull at the other as if you could get any closer. You want to nestle in the marrow of his bones, dwell in the cavern of his heart. 

“I want you to be mine. Only mine,” you whisper between kisses. 

“I have always been yours. Only ever yours.” 

[silens-oro]

We’ve heard of velcro babies, but have we heard of Velcro dads? Because that’s what Pope is—no he’s not putting the baby down, and he’s absolutely not handing the baby over to anyone. They are attached to each other at all times.

YES

The baby is carried on his chest everywhere, but he’s also conscious about how much time he keeps them in it so it’s not to their physical detriment -as much as it kills him to be detached.

Walks? Babybjörn

Grocery store? Babybjörn

Going to Hawk’s store? Babybjörn

Lena’s soccer games? Babybjörn

Smurf’s house? Babybjörn

Planning jobs at Deran’s bar? Yup, babybjörn.

And if they aren’t in the babybjörn, then that’s because Hawk had to physically pry Pope and the baby apart with a crowbar so she could put the baby down for a nap, change a diaper, or to feed them.

Pope did all the research while Hawk was pregnant on what he can and can’t do with the baby, so much so that he has timers set on his phone so he didn’t exceed recommended times in the goddamn thing.

That being said, if the baby isn’t in the babybjörn, they’re being held in some fashion. If they’re not being held, the he is on the floor with them for tummy time, or hanging out on the sofa while they’re propped up on their u-shaped baby pillow while watching some kind of nature documentary. Pope was adamant on not having the kid become addicted to bright flashy things that eventually led to an iPad baby. Not his kid, and not in this lifetime.

The first time Hawk walked in on them in the middle of an episode of Planet Earth, her eyes flashed between Pope and the baby, who were both watching with the same pinched brow expression as they took what they were watching. Pope’s hand would unconsciously move over to gently rub the baby’s head or let them grab his fingers when they started to fuss and they’d immediately calm down and continue watching.

But the physical comfort that the babybjörn brings to Pope? Unparalleled. The warmth that radiated between himself and the baby was soothing and knowing this baby wanted to be around him and wasn’t afraid of him? Someone who repelled most people for the majority of his life? This little tiny baby loved Pope and Pope would make sure they always knew he was there.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Thalia babbled from her usual spot at Pope’s chest. Both father and daughter found comfort in being strapped to one another as they navigated the world she would be a part of.

“Gotta put her down at some point, babe.” Hawk said with a grin as she made a quick lunch for the two of them. “Tummy time is very important.” Pope brought his index fingers up for a Thalia to hold, her tiny hands still too small to even wrap around one single digit of his. Pope bounced lightly as she held onto him, coos coming from her as he walked around the kitchen.

“She’s gonna start walking before we know it.” Pope said as a half excuse. “I want to do this as long as I can before she does.” Thalia reached for Hawk, more baby babble leaving her lips as she blew spit bubbles. Thalia twisted her head to the side to try looking up at her dad and Pope automatically tilted his head down and gave her a kiss on her forehead, making the baby giggle. They had somehow trained each other in a Pavlovian way with that one move and Hawk was absolutely delighted to see it.

[aphroditelovesu]

Hi, I would like a Yandere request. Would the Targaryen family react if the baby reader were abused?

tw: mentions of sexual abuse and death/torture.

I assume you're talking about sexual abuse, right? If not, then I'm sorry, but I'm going to answer as if you were, which is how I understood it! 🥰 Btw, I choose just some characters because I thought they'd more interesting than others in this scenario.

This scenario, in which bby!reader would be abused, is one of the few moments in which the entire family, the Targaryens, the Hightowers and the Velaryons, would come together. For the first time, the rivalry between the Greens and the Blacks would give a truce for you.

The priority is bby!Reader and discovers who was responsible for a horrendous act against his ward, the baby of the family. And how the hell did your guard, the person who was supposed to protect you, let something like this happen to you? Your sworn protector will be executed for his incompetence in protecting you.

Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Rhaenys would be very busy trying to comfort and help the Reader in any way they can. Offering space and peace if the Reader wants it, but also, in a way, never leaving the Reader's side. The women would make agreements among themselves to check on you one by one so as not to scare you too much or overwhelm you. And they would be very strict about other men, even family members, getting close to you.

Rhaenyra is completely shattered that her baby was a victim of something like that. She will not stop until she figures out who did it and avenges you. If she was already an overprotective mother, this would get worse. She will become increasingly suspicious of everything and everyone and will not trust anyone with you beyond herself.

Viserys, if he is alive, would be giving orders to everyone to find out who hurt you, find out who abused you for him to kill them himself. Otto will act according to the king's orders but will also use his resources and riches from the Hightower House to find the culprit and will not rest until he finds the culprit. Corlys will also not be different, using the richness of his house for the benefit of the Reader and justice. Nothing can stop them.

They will try to give you comfort and support, although not as directly as the women are very cautious about other men getting close to you.

Daemon and Criston, who hate each other deeply, would have formed a kind of alliance, an agreement between them, to discover and find the guilty person. Any hatred that the men may feel for each other will be put aside for the good of the bby!Reader.

Both men are your fathers (although there are differences of opinion), they want to help you and avenge you at the same time. Daemon will burn the whole of Westeros with his dragon until he finds the bastard and he will find him. He will spare no effort and brutal methods to get what he wants. And he will not stop until he finds it. He may even end up allying himself with Otto and Corlys since the motive is you. Anything for you.

Criston is in an explosive fury from the moment he finds out what was made to his baby, his child. Although alone he can not do much, he has the whole family next to him and he will do whatever it takes to protect his baby and make sure to destroy the one who dare to hurt you. He will beat, kill, and torture those who get in his way.

Just like his mother, Criston will try to find better ways to keep bby!Reader safe. Whether it's with new, trustworthy guards by his side at all times or he won't leave your side, since he'll be so paranoid and worried that he won't trust anyone to keep you safe.

Aegon and Aemond will be together in their quest for revenge. They will be by your side, offering you comfort but also looking for the culprit first and foremost. They will stop at nothing to find him and I imagine they will join forces with Daemon to do so. As mentioned, rivalries will be put aside for now.

And once the person is found... He will never have been born. He will be tortured for months and months, begging to die but death will take a long time to come, that is, if it comes at all. Everyone in the family participates in the torture, especially Criston, Daemon, Aegon and Aemond. They will insist on it.

Aegon may want to feed the abuser to his dragon, but this may depend on whether others let the bastard dies.

Bby!Reader will receive all the support and care possible from everyone and can be sure that her abuser will never come near her again and that nothing like this will happen again.

Never again.

[delilahsturniolo]

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . none!

EPILOGUE: AFTER THE STORM

read other parts here!

it’s been a year.

the world doesn’t look the same anymore. not even close. the landscape has changed, twisted by the chaos, by the storms of the apocalypse, and by the hands of those who tried, and failed to survive. but in the ruins, there’s something else growing. something stronger than the fear that once gripped you all. the bunker has turned into more than just a shelter. it’s become home. a home built from blood, sweat, and tears. but a home, all the same. matt and you rebuilt it, piece by piece. the others? they each found their role.

nick’s the scout. never strays too far, but always brings back something useful. sometimes, he comes back with nothing. sometimes, he comes back with enough to last weeks. he’s unpredictable. but you’ve learned to trust him.

chris? he’s a fighter. the one who keeps the peace when things get tense, but also the first one to jump into action when the horde gets too close. and now, he’s also found a strange sense of responsibility to lieutenant whiskers, who follows him around like a shadow.

lana is the one who changed the most. once, she was just a scared child holding a key that would change everything. now? she’s a fighter in her own right. smart, fearless, and surprisingly capable of holding her own against any threat that comes her way. she’s learned the way of this world and, in doing so, taught you all how to adapt.

and then, there’s you and matt.

you never stop fighting for each other. never stop loving each other, even when it feels like the world is stacked against you. when the days get dark and you start to lose hope, it’s matt’s hand in yours that keeps you grounded. and you do the same for him. you’ve seen him at his worst. and at his best. but now, the best feels like this, together. alive.

the little victories are what keep you going. today, you found a clean water source. tomorrow, you’ll figure out what to do with the extra food. every day, it’s about survival, but also, something else.

hope.

you and matt walk side by side, hands clasped, the silence between you more comfortable than it’s ever been. “do you ever think about the world before?” you ask. “all the time,” he says quietly. “but not in a way that hurts anymore. just… wondering.”

“wondering what?”

“if we can make it better this time.”

you stop walking. turn to him. “do you think we can?” he pulls you in close. brushes a strand of hair from your face. “maybe not all of it. but we’ll start with what we have.” you smile, leaning against him. “and what do we have?” he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“each other.”

and in that moment, the world is a little less broken. a little less cold. because you know, deep down, that you’ve found something worth fighting for, something that will keep you alive long after the storm has passed.

and whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

welcome to the end of the world, things can get pretty chaotic here. try not to fall in love,—oh wait…you already did. it’s the end of the world after all

© delilahsturniolo

💌: wowowwow hiii!! i can’t believe this series has come to an end! i literally feel like i actually lived this whole thing and i was so sad writing this :( this was such a change from what i usually write, i decided to be more creative and add some of my own humor and comedic twists into this so thank you all for being so supportive and letting me experiment!! i seriously hope you guys enjoyed this just as much as i did, i love you all so so much, lemme know if you’d like a spinoff of some sort in the future? 😉

xoxo, delilah.

[littleapplle]

change. 𝐈.

melancholy and the bitter taste of homesickness fill each corner of his brain when you're away. between broken sobs, stormy skies and lost pearls, rafayel is glad he can still find comfort in what is left of his long forgotten home and loved ones.

cw: nothing really. fluff, angst if you squint. mentions of fem!reader. weird way to describe jellyfishes... bare with me. 2.1k w. mermay event masterlist.

note: first chapter for mermay out! this was so fun to write<3 talking about lemuria and writing about it are one of my favorite things. i hope you all enjoy it. also this turned out a little angsty?? it wasnt the intention really LOL.

There are some days where getting his hands dirty with paint isn't enough to drown the feeling of being homesick. The days where you're away and his melancholy gets the best of him. 

There are days where Rafayel’s eyes match the dark stormy skies and he doesn't bother to pick up the solidifying tears that quickly turn into pearls and bounce on the floor.

And like a toddler in search of comfort, his limp body crosses the sand, getting soaked by the rain in the process. He doesn't bother to take his shirt off, nor his watch and jewelry. As soon as he's knee-deep in the water, Rafayel lets the following harsh wave swallow him entirely.

The scene would make anyone witnessing it panic. A man, apparently out of his mind, mindlessly walking towards the ocean while a storm roars in the skies and creates turbulent waves that crash against the shore violently. His figure is engulfed entirely in a single breath, leaving no traces behind.

Rafayel does not fight against the raging waters. Instead, he lets them guide him to wherever they want as a punishment. Shame hits his bones with the pain of a gunshot, crawling up his spine like an itch he can’t scratch.  His wish was for the waters that created him to eat him from inside out, filling his insides with salt and sand and devouring him whole. 

An unfortunate, hypothetical end that was impossible for the lemurian to reach. How would the waters of fate, that sculpted him with prayers and devotion, fill the lungs of the god of tides with  agony  and disrespect and take his last breath?

God of what now? Rafayel scoffs in his mind.

Rafayel would trade his royalty, adoration, praises, people, everything, for you a hundred times again and never look back. He'd wait for you, alone, looking for you in every corner of the world, more than a thousand times. Rafayel would trade the whole sea for the bond you two made all those years ago but still – his heart aches with loneliness. 

With his pale arms holding his tail close to his chest, Rafayel lets his body sink as deep as it can. He no longer can hear the raindrops stabbing the surface, just the misery haunting his mind.

He misses home. His studio is right there, the white curtains on his tall windows are probably waiting for him to get back and close them so the rain doesn’t soak the fabric. The painting he started earlier, a frustrated attempt to soothe his troubled mind, still waits for him to be finished, or burned. Everything he has achieved as Rafayel Qi is right there but he misses home.

He misses Konche and Algie’s rare banters, where he’d pet their heads with a hearty laugh and make both go quiet in the blink of an eye. He misses being surrounded by art, his culture. He misses his aunt brushing his hair while singing him praises, he’d puff his cheeks and say she’s family and he’d rather be viewed as a nephew than a god. Talia is alive, Verona is a flight away. He should call her later. She’d listen and if he cried for a lullaby, she’d fulfill his wish. But it’s not the same.

He isn’t sitting on his vanity while Talia plays with his hair. His luxurious room, where he’d lock himself in and silently curse the tome of the sea god that everyone expected him to follow strictly, does not exist anymore. The mothers with their chubby babies cradled in their arms that would stop him in his tracks and ask for a blessing — not an actual one, but the comfort of being seen by their leader — vanished. Corals dyed in crimson are the only things proving they once existed.

If Rafayel didn’t care for the pearls leaving his eyes and hiding in all the tricky and messy spots back in his studio, then he definitely doesn’t care for the ones slowly sinking in the deep. Maybe humans would find them years later and sell his suffering. They did it before, they’d do it again.

He does not dare to move, only sobbing and hugging his tail closer, maybe in an attempt to shift into something smaller and dissolve like sea foam.

The world is quiet around him, nothing dares to move.

“Is that him? Is he back?” At a chirp from afar, his ear fins twitch.

Another voice joins, answering the first one with a ‘pruuu’  sound. “Of course it is him. Who else would swim this deep?”

Rafayel’s inhumane eyes dart to the direction of the noise. He isn’t scared. It is not fear that fills him. Maybe some embarrassment for being acknowledged by the, apparently, unknown in such a weak moment.

His body relaxes once he realizes it’s no human language. It is fish language he hears. Rafayel does not know what goes through his mind at the moment but relief washes over every scale in his body. Maybe it was the quick distraction from his desperation, maybe it was the comfort to not have his mistakes pointed out by the first thing his sharp hearing could focus on in the deep. He doesn’t know. 

Swimming closer, his long body moves flawlessly to the direction the voices come from. 

“Ouughh!! He’s coming closer! Do my tentacles look okay?” The first voice fusses. To human ears, if they were ever capable of listening to the voices of the abyss, it’d sound more like a bunch of high ‘mimimi’s’. Rafayel is already certain of what he’ll find.

Taking shelter under a few large rocks that made it impossible for the human eye to see anything, he finally finds what has silenced his cries. Two jellyfishes ‘stare’ at him. The color of their tentacles almost drain out comically from being caught stalking the merman they’ve missed so dearly.

“Stalking is a crime on the surface, you know? You two are lucky my bodyguard isn’t here.” He teases but his stuffed nose fails to make him as intimidating as he wished to be. 

“Oh, we are so very, very sorry mr. Rafayel! We did not mean to intrude!” The pink jellyfish, Mimi, apologizes with high pitched chirps. Kiki, her lilac friend, swims in slow circles in agreement. “Yes, ‘ayel. We meant no harm but there are barely any visitors that swim this deep.” She sleepily adds, helping her friend out. “Only you.”

Tiny, misshapen pearls leave his eyes as he closes them tightly and laughs softly at their antics. 

Kiki, once stuck in the sand thanks to the high tides, was saved by Rafayel, who was taking a walk for inspiration. In gratitude, all the following times Rafayel’s body sinked into the dark abyss trying to find some comfort in what was left of his world, Kiki, and her loud friend Mimi, would make an appearance. Today wouldn’t be different.

“I’m not mad.” He chuckles and sniffles, cleaning his red eyes with his wrist. Mimi’s thin, pale pink tentacles twitch. “Were you crying mr. Rafayel? What troubles your mind?” She squeaks, worried ‘mimimi’s’  buzzing in his ears.

Everything. Rafayel thought. The absence of lemurian children that would love to play with you two, he’d like to say. Algie would adore them. The pair acts just like the siblings sometimes. Another tear falls from his bicolor eyes and quickly solidifies into a shiny, white pearl. 

He sits down on one of the rocks with a sigh, like a father that was about to give them the biggest and most valuable advice of their lives. The two delicate bodies rush to his sides like little kids, frightened to see a rare display of weakness of their guardian. 

“Back on the surface, I messed up one of my paintings,” he tries, “A commission. I did everything the clients asked for, but once I tried adding another person to the picture, the paint I used blended into everything else and it turned into a big mess.” 

His voice softens, he talks to them like they were toddlers. “And it made me really, really upset since the person I tried to paint was beautiful. The prettiest lady I've ever seen.” Rafayel’s does not care if he is making any sense or not. Well, venting to jellyfishes wasn’t already something common but he does not feel like being direct and say ‘I want my home, Lemuria. The one you two didn’t have the privilege to be born in. Algie’s favorite color was lilac, you’d be her best friend, Kiki. I miss my people.’ 

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier.”  

Another whistle like, ‘pruuuu’ noise escapes both jellyfishes in acknowledgment.

“She must be really pretty then!” Mimi chirps but Kiki turns her translucent crown to the side in confusion. “Can’t you start again, ‘ayel?” She whispers with her tired voice.

Rafayel bites down on his already bruised, pink under lip in an attempt to stop it from quivering. “I can’t.” A pitiful whisper. 

They all remain silent for a long time. The pair spins around him in gracious, slow circles. Their long tentacles tickle his face and sides by accident. He chuckles.

“Well!” Clapping his hands, he gulps down a weak sob. He has been busy lately and did not have enough time to visit his little friends. The little ones shouldn’t be fussing over him while he drowned in his own pearls. “I’ll paint something prettier when I go back to the surface.” A peaceful life with his bride.

“How have the two of you been?” A webbed finger pokes Mimi’s pale crown, she whistles as a response. “Good! But the water has been colder and it makes Kiki too sleepy.” The pink one chirps, whatever sound a jellyfish could make closer to a giggle. Her lilac friend fights back, her crown pushing Mimi away weakly, “Not true…”

‘Mimimi’s’ and ‘pruuuu’s’  escape the pair while they discuss in whispers Rafayel’s ears can’t really catch a glimpse of. He chuckles anyway. Mimi, as energetic as a jellyfish can be, is the first to snap out of their argument, tentacles going static when she suddenly remembers something. 

“Oh! Mr. Rafayel! With spring coming soon- did you find your mate?” Not ‘a’ mate, your. Lemurian’s mate with someone they are completely devoted to and their bond is sealed with the ocean’s approval. At the subtle mention of your name, his usual smug smile returns to his face.

His back hits the cold rock and his arms rest behind his head. If he had to be honest with himself, he has been holding back since you two started dating, afraid his ‘inhumane’ side would overwhelm you. Lemurians love with fervor, it’s intense, they’d trade everything for their soulmates in a heartbeat. He doesn’t want to scare you, really. It’d break his heart in a thousand pieces if he ever saw you shy away from his touch.

He smiles, looking fondly at the animals that acted more like little children. How could he not get baby fever with two little ones that clinged to his arms every time they spotted him underwater? His grin grows bigger, a ‘Yepppp’ leaves his pretty lips, his mouthing making a ‘pop!’  sound for the dragged p’s.

They giggle at his silly smile, multiple tentacles twitching with their tiny, breathy laughs. “Lucky fish…” Kiki murmurs and swims closer to Rafayel’s tail like a lapdog. “Indeed! Are they pretty, mr. Rafayel?” — “The prettiest.”

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier, Mimi. Like an angel.” Prettier than anything in this world, was his sincere answer but maybe the concept was too complex for a jellyfish.

He laughs as they have the same dialogue once more. Kiki does not intrude nor does she try to keep up with the conversation, quietly resting on the lilac and blue scales on Rafayel’s body.

An understanding ‘ohhh’ sound escapes the little one as she swims in circles. “Mr. Rafayel! You must show them to us! What could possibly be prettier than a lemurian?” 

“Do not fret, silly.” Again, a finger, glossy with mucus, pokes her crown. “I plan to, but she’s a dummy. Does not trust me when I say she won’t drown with me by her side. Humans are a pain, Mimi, do not talk to them, ever.” Rafayel sighs dramatically.

Misery and torment let go from his scales and bones and sink alone into the abyss, swallowed by the darkness they once came out of. Comfort is found in the silliest and strangest places. 

Rafayel sighs in relief as his eyes close, he keeps chatting to the energetic, pink child, entertaining her as much as he can before he has to come to the surface once more and deal with the, most likely soaked, curtains and maybe burn his half finished painting. 

His only wish now was for you to be able to understand fish language. Oh how delighted you’d be to chat with a jellyfish that acts like a four year old. The pair would love you, too, he thinks. He finds his mind in peace, the storm no longer suffocates him and pearls no longer try to choke him.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

[munsonsmixtapes]

Falling For Ya (1)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

You meet Benedict and after falling in front of him in a game of tag, you continue to fall for him in more than ways in one for the rest of your lives.

will contain eventual smut so MDNI (18+)

Age Eight

Sun streams through the trees and down onto the garden where the Bridgerton children are giggling as they chase each other in a game of tag. You watch them from afar, holding onto your mother’s hand as she and Viscountess Bridgerton lead you over to the children to introduce them. 

Daphne notices you first, racing over to introduce herself and you hide yourself behind your mother, terrified to actually speak to another child. Your whole life has been spent around adults because you are an only child so you’re not even sure actually sure how to speak to someone your own age.

“I’m Daphne,” she says, peering around your mother but you shut your eyes tight as you press yourself further into your mother’s back as she tries her best to get you off of her. She’s finally able to peel you from her body then forces you to stand in front of her as a boy who looks to be a bit older stands next to her, sticking his hand out for you to shake. 

You hesitantly take it and give it a shake, feeling your anxiety lessen only slightly when he smiles at you. You shyly smile back and even though you feel a little more comfortable, you’re still grabbing hold of your mother’s hand when she and Violet turn to head back towards their husbands leaving you alone with the other children. 

“I’m Anthony,” the boy introduces himself. “And you are?”

“Y/n,” you reply, your voice barely audible. This is uncharted territory and you’re not entirely sure how to go about speaking to them. You don’t want to come across as too mature because then maybe they won’t want to spend time with you. 

“We’re playing tag if you want to join!” Daphne calls out and you nod your head, growing quiet again as you go over and sit on the grass to watch. 

You feel safe here in your little bubble. You’re so used to being on your own that it would feel weird playing with anyone besides yourself. It looks fun though, watching the six siblings chase each other around the garden, their giggles picking up again. 

They even stop every so often to encourage you to play with them despite the constant shakes of your head. You want to, you really do, but you’re far too clumsy for it and just know that you’ll fall if you partake in their game. 

But you join anyway, mostly because your parents are watching. Anthony has decided that you are “it” and now you’re chasing after him, holding your dress up higher than you should so as to not trip on your dress, but it’s deemed rather pointless when you trip anyway in some of the mud that’s still wet from the rain last night. 

The giggles suddenly stop and everyone just stares as you lie there, too embarrassed to get up. Well, everyone but Benedict who’s quick to help you to your feet. He wipes what he can off of your dress and when you sink to your knees again because of the pain, he scoops you in your arms and carries you over to where the adults are having tea.

He grabs an empty chair and sets you in it before hurrying to fetch the proper supplies to clean up your scraped knees. He presses a cloth with warm water to your skin and begins to wipe away the dirt from your knees. 

This boy doesn’t even know you yet is doing everything in his power to make sure that you’re okay. It warms your heart but at the same time, you feel your cheeks burn as the adults watch the two of you, definitely already planning your wedding in their heads.

“I’m Benedict, by the way,” he introduces himself with a smile. It’s from that moment that you just know that you’re going to be the best of friends.

Age Sixteen

The Bridgerton study is empty besides you and Benedict. You are by the window reading your favorite book again, while he is sitting across from you, sketching his favorite subject, but you keep moving, making it hard for him to get it right. You’re not actually reading, though, talking non-stop which is something that Benedict loves. Especially because you only do it with him. 

Over the eight years you have been friends, he has been the only person who you let see the realest form of yourself. He understands you in a way that not everyone does and he feels the same exact way about you. 

He feels like he can tell you anything and you won’t judge him. You’ve spent so many days doing exactly this, talking about everything and nothing as you skim your book and Benedict works on a sketch. He’ll never show you what he’s drawing though, and you respect that. Just because you’re friends doesn’t mean he owes that to you.

When he slams the book closed, though, your curiosity gets the best of you. You suddenly have to know what’s inside it, what he’s been drawing this whole time and why he’s been so secretive. So you make a beeline for him, reaching for the book which he holds out of your reach. It starts off aggressive but then becomes progressively more playful as you try to get the book from him, desperate to see what’s on the pages. 

If he lets you see it, though, then you’ll know that he’s been drawing you for years and he’s not sure how you’re going to take it. He’ll have to explain that he’s been in love with you for half of his life and he’s afraid that he’s going to ruin the best friendship he’s ever had because of it. 

He doesn’t let up, though, holding it out of your grasp and racing around the study, maniacal laughter falling from his lips as he holds it just out of your reach as you continue to call after him. You’ve got him pinned to the desk as you continue to reach for the book, completely oblivious to how he’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon.

You’re so close that he can smell your perfume. He’s always close enough to smell it, but this is different. Your body is pressed against his and if anyone was to come in here and find you in the position, you’d be in huge trouble. But you can’t stop staring at each other’s lips, desperate to know what they feel like even though you know it’s wrong. But that’s what makes you want to do it more. 

As soon as your lips are about to meet, the door bursts open and Benedict is so caught off guard that you’re able to steal the sketchbook from his hand and race out of the room, straight past Anthony who is probably the only person who you’d want to catch you like this since he doesn’t ever seem to care. 

“So it seems you haven’t told her yet,” he says as he closes the door, making his way over to his younger brother. 

“No, and I never will,” Benedict sighs as he turns towards the desk, leaning his palms against it to try and figure out what just happened between the two of you. 

Anthony thinks his brother is silly for not telling you the truth. If he had been in his brother’s shoes, you would have known long ago and the second the two of you were able, you’d be engaged. He just can’t understand why Benedict is dragging his feet. A woman as beautiful as yourself will be snatched up as soon as you’re available so he thinks Benedict should be acting fast.

“It would save you from the marriage mart.” Benedict does like that possibility, but he’s not even sure if you feel the same way and too afraid to actually find out. 

“Even so, I’m taking this information to the grave.”

“As if the sketchbook she’s got in her hands won’t tell her everything that there is to know.” Benedict’s eyes widen and he’s quick to race out of the room to chase after you to which Anthony just chuckles to himself. He’s so easy. 

Age Twenty-Three

You sit at your pottery wheel, grateful for some peace and quiet, working on-well, you don’t exactly know what you’re working on. You just needed to get away from Benedict, especially with having those inappropriate thoughts about him that just won’t go away. Seeing him briefly at the ball only made it worse and now you just need to be alone so you don’t do something you would regret. 

The door shuts behind you and you roll your eyes because you know exactly who it is. You can tell just by his footsteps and really wish you could get the courage to tell him to go away. Funny how the very person you’d want to talk to about this is the one you want to ignore. 

You don’t deny him, though, as he sits behind you, trying your best to focus when he rests his chin on your shoulder. He’s done this exact thing more times than you can count but this time it feels different. He wraps his arms around your waist which you would normally love, but having him this close is making you feel hot, nervous. Your heart is beating so fast and hard and you really hope he can’t hear it. 

“You left,” he says and you feel your heart break a little at how disappointed he sounds.

“Just needed some air,” you reply, trying your best to not sound like your heart is beating out of your chest. 

“I missed you.” He scoots even closer so that his chest is pressed to your back and now your skin is on fire. He always says that, but this time, it feels different, like there’s more weight to it and you’re beginning to wonder if he feels the same way even though he probably (definitely) doesn’t. “You left me all alone and I hate to dance with someone else.” 

“Oh no, poor Benedict had to dance with a beautiful woman.” 

“She had two left feet,” he corrects and your blood is boiling just hearing him talk about another woman. It makes you so angry but little do you know that he has always only had eyes for you and will continue to until he takes his last breath.

“So do I.” You both know that, but Benedict always likes to use it as an excuse to pull you closer. But the one he was dancing with just kept stepping on his feet. His toes still hurt.

“I just like to dance with you. Is that such a crime?” Your skin is burning even more at his compliment and part of you just wants to show him exactly how you feel about him. But you can’t. Not only are you just too shy, but it would also alter your friendship. Not to mention if you were both caught, there would hell to pay. You just can’t risk it. But god, are you dreaming about it. 

You’re about to excuse yourself when you feel him push the sleeve of your dress off your shoulder. You let out a gasp but you don’t dare stop him. You’re too stunned to do anything and you also just want to see what he’s going to do. 

A foreign sound leaves your mouth when he eventually presses a feather light kiss to the skin. Benedict seems to like it because he continues, peppering your shoulder with kisses, slowly making his way to your neck. He helps you lean your head to the side to give him more room as he hesitantly begins to suck. 

Another sound falls from your lips as your pottery wheel stops. Benedict’s hands reach for your now free ones, not even caring if they’re covered in clay. He just wants to feel them in his. This is nothing like you’ve ever experienced before. There’s a strange feeling pooling in your stomach and you have to lean forward to put a stop to it. Just when Benedict’s afraid that he’s made you feel uncomfortable, you turn fully on your stool to face him, your pupils dilated as you scoot closer to him.

“I just don’t want anyone to see it,” you tell him and he nods. 

“Good point. Now come here.” He helps you sit in his lap, your bare chest looking so inviting right in front of his face. “How about here?” He asks, his now clay covered hand pointing at the spot right above your breast. 

“Or, I could give you one. Yours could be covered up, right?” You ask, your face just inches from his. Your voice is flirty, seductive, and he is loving seeing this side of you.

“Oh, I’d love for you to give me one. Do you want me to teach you?” Benedict is the only one who you’d want to show you. Any time he’s taught you anything, he’s been nothing but polite and gentle. 

“Please.” It’s desperate, pleading and he decides that he needs you right now.

“Okay, start by kissing the spot.” Your face falls and that’s when he remembers that you don’t have nearly as much experience as he does. Or any at all. “You don’t know how to kiss do you?” The question is more genuine than anything. Benedict would never laugh at you for something like that. “Come here.” 

You lean down as his hands take yours, guiding them to his neck, wrapping your arms around it as his hands rest gently on your waist. Your eyes are already staring at his lips and he can’t believe that no one has tried to kiss you before because he selfishly wants to be your first. 

His hands slowly move up your back as he guides you closer, his lips finding yours in a lingering peck before he pulls away. He sees how disappointed you are then pulls you in for another, this one even longer before pulling away yet again. 

“Patience,” he demands with a chuckle when he sees you getting impatient. “I’m just warming you up.” He then takes your face in his hands and slowly slots his lips between yours, your hands grabbing onto his shirt, kissing him so desperately, as if you’ve been waiting your entire life for it. And you have. This is something that you’ve been dreaming about for longer than you’d ever care to admit. 

You pick it up quickly, sliding your hands into his hair and Benedict decides that this is the best kiss he’s ever had by far. He would have usually moved on by now, but he can’t. Your lips are just too addicting and he can’t seem to get himself to stop until you pull away to catch your breath, breathing so heavily that he can’t help but laugh.

“You’ve gotta breathe, darling,” he says with a chuckle. “Through your nose. Can’t have you passing out on me.” His hands lazily move up and down your waist and you feel like you could melt right there. You’ve both been in the marriage mart for quite some time now and you always wonder how he’s still not found a wife. 

You always hear women whispering about him and see how many times he gets approached when the two of you are together. Growing up, you were sure that he’d be married with at least a few children by now. You don’t understand why he can’t just pick one and settle down. Because maybe then, you wouldn’t convince yourself that you had a chance. A chance with Benedict Bridgerton? That will only happen when hell freezes over. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize and lean forward again. You don’t know what’s going on here, but you’re not going to question it. You’re just going to take what he’s willing to give you. 

“You don’t have to apologize. Now come here.” You do as he says but this time, he gently takes your face in his hands and kisses you gently this time, like he’s done this exact thing a thousand times as his thumbs rub back and forth against your jaw. “Open,” he whispers against your lips and you listen, opening your mouth just a little bit, gasping as you feel his younger flicking inside. 

Your tongue moves with his as he tilts your head back, pushing down on your chin so you’ll open wider so he’ll have more access. You let out another moan and Benedict’s trying his hardest to ignore how hard he’s become. He knows that he can’t possibly take this any farther, but pulls away and brings your head to his neck anyway. 

“Kiss me,” he breathes, not following his own advice and only just now trying to catch his breath. You do as he says and kiss his neck, trying to remember what he had done to you just a few moments ago. 

You then go in for a gentle suck and feel him squirm underneath you, something hard against you and you pull away to see that he’s adjusting his crotch for reasons unknown to you. 

“Did I do something?” You ask and Benedict immediately shakes his head, only realizing now that you’ve never been educated on what goes on between a man and woman, surely unaware that it doesn’t just happen to produce children. 

“Of course not, darling.” He knows this is a bad idea because he knows that he’ll want more, the greedy man he is, but he’s going to make sure to not progress so that you’re saved for your husband. A few kisses is one thing, but sex is something entirely different. He knows how big of a deal it is and he certainly wouldn’t want to get you in trouble and even worse, if word were to get out, he’d get an earful from Anthony and lord knows he’s had enough of those to last a lifetime. 

“Maybe we should stop,” he says and hates to see pout on your face. “Hey, hey. I had a lovely time. In fact, I’ll dream about this tonight, but I don’t think we should continue.” He’s sure that he sees tears pricking your eyes and his heart is breaking just looking at you. “Only because I think it’d be best to save yourself for your husband.” 

You know he’s right, but you really were hoping that he’d be your first, not even caring that you wouldn’t be his. In fact, you’d want him to show you how it’s done because he has so much knowledge. He would be so gentle and sweet and you just know that your future husband will only want to get you into bed for the sole purpose of having a child and he wouldn’t care whether or not you enjoyed yourself. You’ve heard the stories and you’re going to be another one. 

“You’re right,” you nod, trying to remind yourself that this is the right thing to do. And you know that this isn’t rejection, but why does it feel like it is? 

“I should go.” 

“Okay,” you nod and he helps you up from his lap and you both head to the bucket beside the wheel to rinse your hands. It’s small since you’re the only one who usually uses it so his hands keep knocking against yours and as you try your best to not look him in the eye, you can’t help it. He’s staring at you and when you finally look up at him, he motions for you to come closer. Once you’re close enough, he brings his hand up and removes some of the clay that’s dried there. 

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” He asks and you hate the sad tone in his voice. You’re always so quick to forgive him when he uses it. 

“No,” you shake your head. “Now you should go before someone catches you.” 

“One more kiss?” He asks. “For the long journey home?” He puckers his lips as he dries his hands. 

“You live next door.” 

“Then you know just how long the journey is.” 

He’s leaning down, puckering his lips even more and you can’t help but give in, pressing your lips to his and he’s quick to grab hold of your waist, pulling you to him as he wraps his arms around you tightly. 

He then pulls away only to steal one more peck before fleeing, slamming the door behind him. You watch him race across the grass through the window, not being able to stop yourself from giggling when he slips on the grass and falls forward. He then gets up and hurries to his house before anyone notices that he was gone while you close the curtain and let your kisses replay in your head as you clean up your space before retiring to your room for the rest of the night.

[bullet-prooflove]

d, e, i, k, and n for frank langdon please?

d = dressing up; how do they feel about lingerie? who likes to wear it for the others?

Frank has a serious thing for thigh high stockings, like bordering on fetish. They drive him absolutely crazy, he needs to get his mouth on them, his hands running all over them. Ivy will capitalise on this as much as possible because she loves making him lose control. 

Lingerie plays a massive role in their relationship and Ivy gets creative with it, trying different styles to find out what makes Frank lose his mind. If they both have the weekend off together you can bet their evenings are filled with lace, silk and mesh.

Ivy feels incredibly sexy when she dresses up for Frank because of his reaction to seeing her in it.

e = edging; is anyone into orgasm control? who is on the receiving end?

Ivy often needs to take control in the bedroom because of all the shit she sees in the job, it’s the way she balances out the helplessness. She is the one edging Frank, driving him crazy, making him beg for it.

On the flipside Frank only ever edges her when he wants them to come together, he’ll slow things down on her end until he’s right there with her.

i = instigation; who, more often than not, is the one to instigate sex?

On weekends it’s Ivy, she steps out of the bathroom wearing lingerie while Frank is reading a medical journal and that thing is getting tossed on the floor or fucked on.

On weekdays it’s usually Frank. It starts with cuddling and then neck kissing and  then him going down on you on the couch.

k = kinky; who’s the kinkiest? what are they into, and how do their partners participate (if at all)?

In terms of kinkiness they both play off each other. Frank really enjoys peeling those stockings off with his teeth, being tied up with one and gagged with the other. He is feral for it and Ivy gets off on the power of it. He sometimes teases him by caressing his body with on, jerking him off with it.

Frank enjoys overstimulating Ivy, showing her how much he loves her by giving her as much ecstasy as he can, and it also helps her get out of her own head.

They have a lot of toys and things to play with in Ivy’s nightstand.  

n = no; what’s off the table for each of them?

Restraints on Ivy are a no go, as are gags. She has seen far too much shit to feel comfortable with that sort of thing.  Same with humiliation and degradation, she’s usually the first responder for patients that need a SANE and some of the things she’s heard would really fuck with her if brought into the bedroom. – Also the reason most dates prior to her and Frank getting back together didn’t work out.

[terriblepersongreatseamonster]

I've been thinking a lot about where Maomao falls on the Ace spectrum. I think a person's own experience has a lot of influence on how someone interprets what kind of asexual she is. I'm not going to go so far as to say where she falls for certain, but I'd like to share a bit about myself and my experience to explain why I approach her character the way I do when writing my fic.

Fair warning, I'm about to talk about touch abuse in church settings.

I'm both demi & bi. I grew up a pastor's kid, & if you haven't grown up in churches you may not be aware of how big a role physical touch plays in that environment. My entire childhood I was expected to allow anyone to hug me or do other things like touch my shoulders/back/face etc... I was never a big fan of touch, but I had no say in the matter. I was not allowed to say no. There were men who took advantage of this & while nothing extremely terrible happened, I do qualify what happened as sexual harassment. I had no way to avoid this stuff happening, I couldn't tell anyone. If I had, I would've been treated as a liar & it would've had negative repercussions for my family. I was regularly reminded of the fact that if I messed up it could cost my dad his job. And yes, before you ask, my parents would not have been in my corner. At best, my mom would've told me she was sorry it happened and told me never to mention it again. I might've even been forced to go apologize to those who harmed me for somehow being a stumbling block and causing their behavior.

I don't like to be touched. I also take a long time to warm up & trust people. Most people who meet me intially find me to be very quiet & withdrawn. When my now-husband & I started dating I told him right away that I didn't like to be touched. We had to take any physical interactions (even hugs) very slow. I've gotten more comfortable with his touch over the last 11 years, but even now there are plenty of times that he'll hug or kiss me & my reaction is very similar to how Maomao typically reacts to Jinshi's touch. Quite a lot of the time I don't feel one way or another about him touching me. Sometimes I get really annoyed by it. Other times I'm ok with it.

Like I said earlier, I'm not going to try to nail down where Maomao lands on the Ace spectrum. I'm also not going to go so far as to say she's completely anti-touch. She's very young & has had a lot of trauma involving touch in her life. In the light novels it even comes up at one point that her big sisters put her through some courtesan training that made her cry. I do think it's interesting that once you get past LN5 Maomao does slowly start to seem to get more ok with Jinshi's touch. By LN12 she actually goes to him and they end up holding each other and falling asleep on the floor.

I do think if she'd been more open & honest with Jinshi from the get-go about her feelings regarding touch, we would've seen some very different behavior from him in that regard. But I also understand she likely felt she couldn't do that because of the extreme gap in rank that she's always hyper-aware of.

And again, I do think that the way each person interprets Maomao's asexuality is entirely dependent upon their own personal experience. I'm not looking to start any fights or anything. Trust me I don't have the energy to do that. I'm not about to tell someone else their interpretation is wrong or insist that they should have the same interpretation that I do. I think the beauty of Maomao is that whether you're pro or anti-jinmao, you can still enjoy & love her as a character.

[daughter-of-winterfell]

Blindly by the Bitten Hand

Aka. My Jonsa fic for the Sansa Stark Fanworks Exchange 2025 that I can now post here 🥰

While fleeing London and its harsh society, Sansa finds herself stranded and at the mercy of the creatures in the shadows. Luckily, Jon is there to protect his lady.

~

A Jon x Sansa Regency and Vampire AU

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/166529545

In all the fuss and the terror, Sansa had lost her mother’s gloves.

Sunk low in the jolting carriage, Sansa scrubs the bare skin of her knuckles. The gloves had been embroidered in the old way, with direwolves and trout at the cuffs and adorned with old nan’s sweet lace.

A traditional gift for her coming out, the fruit of which her mother, and father too, had not lived to see.

Perhaps that is a blessing. Her hands remain white as bone as she rubs them. With each sweeping touch, she is carried further from the clutches of Sloane Square and Joffrey, and into a scandal of her own making.

As if knowing her owner’s pitiful thoughts, Lady noses at her thigh, warm and steady and a northern comfort. The sight of Ser Brienne’s silver blade in the fresh moonlight is comfort of a different kind.

“We must stop soon.”

Her whisper is sharp and Brienne starts, her hand grasping the handle at her hip.

“Miss Stark, I don't believe - ”

“When the storm worsens, and it soon will, you will not be able to make it back in time.”

The news of her broken engagement will have spread swift as wildfire through the ton, as those who do not sleep are well placed to chatter and gossip ferociously, always greedy for more than mere blood.

Would they deem Joffrey the vampire or her? Someone always was, in these affairs, even when the state of all parties was known. There was no excitement in that, nothing to make the ladies gasp and seek out twin wounds as a sign of some dangerous dalliance on the part of a guilty victim.

Such rumours could - no, will - ruin her.

“Miss Arya does not need my protection. She is safe with Ser Jaime and Mr Rivers.”

Sansa shakes her head, interrupting with a keen urgency. “She needs to be removed from London, and by you.”

“It is folly, Miss.”

“Please, I swear I will not venture further than the next inn alone, but I will not countenance returning to Robb without her, and I cannot trust others to defend her on the journey.”

In London now, it is the sharp tongues of their neighbours that are to be feared; while on the road, it is the vampires that are said to be growing in number since the end of the wars on the continent. They are not the tamer variety of high society, who don their masks and manners to mingle with the living. On the road, they are only deterred by a swift cut or honed stake.

Brienne is pained by her decision, Sansa knows, but it would weigh upon her too greatly to travel any further north without her sister by her side.

She prays Robb would feel the same, or he will not be best pleased with her decision.

“I am not defenseless, Ser Brienne,” Sansa says, twitching at the curtain to look out into the deepening night, shaded dimly with the first twists of snow. “Lady is here, and you and Ser Jaime have taught me a few things.”

Like how to jab at a vampire's outstretched bulging neck. Where to look without being captured by their enchanting eyes. How cold and pale they can become before they are ravenous beyond sense.

Her own knife is tucked beneath her cloak. Another heirloom of her mother's.

She keeps a hand there, fist tight about the handle, while she stares after the carriage as it retreats into the gloom, carrying Brienne back to fetch her sister from the lion's maw.

White amidst the snowflakes, teeth trembling, Lady folds herself closer, jostling the small carry case Sansa hastily packed for the journey, all her old bonnets and purses discarded. Lady's scared, smelling something in the storm's air, and a shiver rattles Sansa's spine.

Being here unchaperoned is a gamble - one with her dignity, her honour, even her life at stake, and she has but a poor hand to play.

But this is for Arya's sake, little as she will appreciate it.

Bringing forward her hood and setting her chin, Sansa does the only thing she can, blinking to dispel the mist from her eyes.

It is a damp, dingy establishment, with no man at the door to assist with her luggage and vacant patrons slumped near the spitting fire. It is not a night to be travelling, and those that have reek of a desperation that clings to her too. The hubbub of the drunk patrons who are clearly only trying to get drunker masks the howl of the wind and Lady whines, knocking at a bottle rolling about the floorboards, slipping liquor in a dark puddle.

She falters a moment but rights herself and picks her way towards what seems to be the desk, a ledger lying scribbled and cast open atop papers blotted with ink in gashes of black.

“What is it missus?”

The innkeeper or some such person peers into her face, and Sansa flinches back, tugging again at her meagre shield. Where her knife rests, it burns.

“A room,” she hardly squeaks. Having cleared her throat, she strives to command, “I would like a room please.”

He scoffs, looking her up and down as one would cattle at market. “Yeah, you and all else. There are none free.”

What better nature he may have, she appeals to. “None at all? I have - ”

“You don't have a King's ransom in that sack of yours or the teeth to snap one out of me, so the best you can have is a chair over yonder.”

He jerks his head to the crowded fireside, where men are reckless with the heat of it, and the noose tightening round Sansa’s neck shudders tighter.

Shaking, her feet begin to shuffle away from the desk, not knowing where to take her and her eyes don’t know where to look, and Lady's growl pierces the muffled din in her ear.

“You could join me, my dear.”

A hand ensnares her own and between two breaths, Sansa is spun in place to face a man leering over her, his blond hair pristine and untouched by snow and his eyes glowing, glowing red.

Her protests knot and bunch in her throat, choking into wheezing gasps as his hands dig into her shoulders and tear her cloak.

A haze, cigar smoke thick and enticingly warm, falls over her. The red…. Sansa makes each of her eyes blink. Lady’s snapping teeth are patted back as she sways forwards, breathing, “I…”

“Come along. Follow.”

The inn is somehow misty and there is a tugging, luring her by the hand to the darker corners she hadn't looked at before. The stairs to - somewhere, she does not know. Her flitting thoughts are gossamer and lace.

The Other in front of her kicks out at something which whines and snaps, but - but…

She shouldn’t, she knows, she shouldn’t go, and her legs fold, her knees crumbling, and a clawed hand yanks her up and shoves her against a sharp wall, perhaps in the corner of the inn as the door seems so many miles away.

There’s another there, a brief shadow in the corner of her eyes, and then there is red as pinpricks of agony sear her skin, flooding through her veins as her cloak is ripped aside, the swelling in her head heightens and there’s a clatter and she’s falling low and it’s all black and deep.

It is an age before Sansa is able to open her eyes.

The well of her thoughts is stagnant, as if she had stolen her father’s best wine and drunk the lot, or else been trampled by a sea of horses. There is a curdling smell of damp in the air, and of meat and rosemary, and wisps of snow. She is covered, she knows that much at least, by a thin blanket and it is not one she recognises in the sparse candlelight.

But it's right she shouldn’t know any of the bed linen in this place - she doesn't remember ever reaching a room of her own.

It is that which shocks her upright, dislodging Lady’s gentle weight from where she is curled at her side with another circle of fur beside her, bright white and knowingly red-eyed.

In an instant, her hand is at her neck, rubbing at the ache that curls up into her jaw and down into the bone. There are flecks of dull red on her palm when she inspects it, and her chest is in a vice as if her stays have been tightened past reason, the air becoming murky, as it had been in the hall.

“You are alright, Miss.”

Sansa’s spine collides with the headboard, as she hastily gathers the covers to her chin. “Who are you?”

Shoving her hands beneath the covers and moving Lady and the other hound does not reveal her knife and without it, Sansa cannot swallow the fear choking at her wheezing throat. Ser Brienne was right, of course. She is at the mercy of this stranger who had evidently mauled her, hypnotized her, and confounded her. Her dress is torn, yet still largely intact, and for that, Sansa sends a meek prayer to the Maiden.

“Your blade is by your pillow.”

Snatching it up, Sansa thrusts it forwards, without heeding the foolish picture she will make. “You left me with it?”

Were Arya here, she would strike forth with some witty thing without her speech quivering. The knife, at least, Sansa is able to hold firm, and that is enough.

The man, now Sansa truly looks, has something in his gaze she hadn’t expected. A concern, not for himself, but for her, as his eyes flash over her, seeking out something as if the blade were nothing.

“Hardly a mistake if I’d rather see you well protected.”

“Well protected from you!” Even as the shriek tears itself from her throat, Sansa knows it to be false - the man, the creature, who had cast his haze over her had not the dark curls of the man in front of her and he'd had the height to leer above her head.

“From the likes of me, yes.”

He ducks his head as he says so, this embarrassed vampire it seems, and yes, in the low light, he is rather too pale and sharp to be of the ordinary type.

Her darling Lady takes a stand between the two of them and growls, even as she trembles, and the other hound knocks against her, silent and sweetly gentle.

In that instant, the man - the vampire - is again far across the room and out of the reach of her silver, his hands lifting in supplication.

“I truly mean you no harm.”

A grating scoff rears up from her throat. “You have lured me and trapped me here.” A fate she had just flown into the night to escape.

The lack of a pressing threat, beyond the nervous one before her, now slows Sansa's words, a blanket of exhaustion and dizziness briefly settling over her as her panic fades to embers. It's the blood the Other took. It's one of the fearful signs, in the aftermath of an evening you remember nothing of or a too-winding walk home.

Her head lolls like a leadened weight and it takes a toll to focus her eyes on his shadowed figure when he refutes her claim with a viciousness borne of blood, baring his teeth.

“I took you from one who planned to do so, and yes, I would do so again. If he dared try it.” The slant of his words, with his wounded honour, takes a Northern tone and it softens her sluggish heart.

“You are from the North?”

Why it should matter where a vampire hails from, she does not know. Still, as he nods with a caution one would reserve for confronting the Princess of Wales, she finds her blade nestling back underneath her pillow. Close, within a moment's reach.

Brienne would scold her for such a thing. A moment is all a vampire needs when their prey is already weakened.

She leaves the knife to one side, and instead lightly touches the other hound, likely belonging to her saviour. With no gloves, her fingers are free to revel in the softness of its fur, scratching and stroking in the manner Lady enjoys.

Distracted, she does not notice his step forward until he murmurs, “Aye. And you should drink something, some water. It'll help your head.”

Perhaps she should. Though it is such a chore to reach for the glass at her side. Instead, she hums and wishes to hook more from him as he toes at the carpet, not looking at what could be his cornered prey if he chose.

“And this is your room, I take it?”

It can’t be the finest room in the establishment, with its scuffed furnishings and uncomfortable linen, yet it is leagues better than her alternatives had been downstairs and the harrowing storm picking up pace beyond the window pane.

“It is, Miss, and I will leave you to claim it.”

With that, he twists and clucks his tongue, recalling his hound, bowing stiffly at the waist as if they were two equals at a ball and not a fleeing debutante and – whoever he is in society.

Her panic returns with a vengence, though for a wholly altered reason.

“Sir, it is yours.” The covers are a frightful knot about her waist and she cannot heave them to one side to chase him, the panic slicing the dullness of her thoughts in two as the hounds jerk and leap down to settle together by the low fire. “I shall - ”

With wide eyes, he is by the bedside, patting the covers back in place. “I insist, please.”

“No, I do.” A flush lines her cheeks, as it is silly to throw aside such a chivalrous gesture. Only, she does not wish to see this shy, noble creature leave her to the shadows of the room and the spiralling snow outside.

“You are in no position to,” he says, gritting his sharpened teeth. “Where is your guard?”

Thrown and overcome, Sansa is entirely honest, her words rushing forth. “She is fetching my sister from London, so she does not join in my disgrace.”

His hands still and his eyes, a deeper shade of ruby than she’d thought, capture hers.

“Then you must remain here – there is no hope for her quick return. The winter storm is worsening and this inn has shut its doors.”

Her breath is a shallow one, as are the ones that follow, because that can only mean she is stranded here, with all those who lingered by the fire and the one who tried to –

Her shoulders rise and fall rapidly, without her control, but still when he kneels on the rough floor and hesitantly settles a hand on the falling edge of her day dress, swearing, solemn with the weight of some long years, “I will stand guard, in her place.”

Compelled, not by him, no, but by her own beating heart, Sansa steals his hand between her own. Without her gloves, they are close, skin against skin. His hand is not like Joffrey’s, always too smooth and sickly hot. It has a touch of calluses and is cool, like the old tomes in her father’s library or the slip of her mother’s pearls.

“And what is my guard’s name to be?”

“Jon,” he replies, gruff as if the word is not one his tongue is familiar with. “Mr Jon Snow.”

“Then you should know your charge is Miss Sansa Stark, of Winterfell.”

“Then you certainly should not have been left alone in such a place,” he scowls and shifts as if to stand and move at a distance to her, but Sansa keeps him on her leash. She can feel the false breath of him as he says, “And you should drink a little soon, my - Miss.”

He swallows as if parched himself and whispers, “Please,” though it isn’t custom for a creature to beg so.

So close to his side and so far from the dim fire in the grate, there is a peculiar warmth to him. Her mouth floods with it.

“And what shall I drink, Mr Snow?”

“Something of substance.”

It is madness that makes her say it, the dizziness again plaguing her thoughts. A Lady does not - would not think to taste…

“Truly?” It makes her teeth itch scarlet.

One of his hands steals against her cheek, taking the taxing weight of her head and tilting it gently to the side, sure as an old lover. Where the skin is thin, her pulse clamours to be closer and his thumb flutters over it, a touch or two, then glides in one smooth gesture up to the curve of her jaw.

The shadow of him covers her further. His teeth hover inches over her welcoming neck and in some velvet dream, sinking into a helpless surrender, Sansa lets her eyes shut tight.

“Not this night, Miss Stark.”

With a low hum of disappointment and a moment's reckless thought, she turns further into the cradle of his hand. “So - do you intend to leave me here alone, or shall I join you in the corridor where the wind will bite at us both?”

He is not used to teasing in such circumstances, the slight grip of his fingers tell her so, and so Sansa is merciful, returning to herself as he withdraws his touch, opening her eyes once more.

“Stay,” she says, gesturing to the open covers to her side. “There is room enough for you and your hound both, if he chooses.” Jon has earned her trust this night; she would rather risk her honour by having a noble vampire at her side, than her life if she were now left alone.

At his silence, she smiles. “Have I shocked you, Mr Snow?”

“It is not that…”

“Then hurry up, for I am tired and wish to meet my nightmares sooner rather than later.”

By the time she has sipped some tasteless water and turned to tuck herself in, he is there, as she hoped, reclining against the headboard and staring at her, piercing her through.

“I shall keep any further nightmares of yours away.”

It is said so simply, so earnestly, and his thumb sweeps across her cheek with an unlikely tenderness. It is that which welcomes her to a sleep that is full of old dreams and a new gelid sweetness.

[matsookawa]

Title: To Love Another

Word Count: 2,157

Summary: Dracule Mihawk finds himself infatuated with a diligent woman from a nearby island. He does what it takes to obtain his ultimate goal of a home with good food, good wine, and love.

Note: This was a request.

What began as an impromptu trip for supplies on a nearby island turned into Mihawk finding himself in a woman’s wine shop, one she takes great pride in having the best selections on the entire island. She introduced herself as [Y/N] and he truly didn’t pay her much mind until he was reading the label of a bottle and she criticized his choice. “If you’re just visiting the island, you’re going to leave with the good stuff. Not something you can get literally anywhere. So, are you wanting a rarer zinfandel or would you be open to shiraz?”

After the hour discussion about how red wines are better than whites, [Y/N] was pleased with how much knowledge the man shared with her on selections. She told him if he ever comes back, she will show him the vineyard she’s maintained for years in the field behind her home.

It did not take Mihawk any time before he was back on that island three days later. He quickly learned [Y/N] was a woman of routine. She never strayed from her tasks; they had to be done thoroughly and at certain times. Mihawk believes her diligence to routine and straight-thinking to be the reason he found himself visiting her twice a week over the next several months.

Which brings us to now.

The man’s hands barely shake as he carefully rewires the trellis of the grapevine before him. A hundred or so more trees holding different kinds of grapes surround him, each one having been checked the same way he’s doing now. Anyone else would consider the work to be tedious, but it was everything to Mihawk. Despite the sunset making it a bit difficult to see, the edges of his cloak soaked in water from the irrigation, and sweat rolling down his chest and back, he finds this a wonderful way to spend his time. Especially with the woman working on the tree beside him, a couple of feet away. He looks at her now, focusing on the way her brows knit together as she pulls the wire taught with a sudden burst of strength before twisting it with a pair of pliers.

He keeps his hands raised to the vine to look busy, but can’t keep his eyes off of her. This is it for him. She is it for him. Finally, he’s found a woman who’s independent, self-assured without being arrogant, and enjoys all the same things he does. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t marry her someday.

“So we’ve deleafed, fertilized, and we just finished re-propping.” She turns to him and smiles while wiping her hands of soil. “What do you say when we finish, we go get a bottle of my finest and get shit-faced in my living room?”

Mihawk, having grown more comfortable expressing himself when the two are alone, gives her a smile of her own. “Do you mind sparing a meal alongside that wine? I do enjoy traveling all the way here only to watch you get a head injury from toppling over, but I would appreciate some sustenance this time.”

She rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Dracule Mihawk, world’s greatest swordsman by day, world’s most hilarious comedian by night. Such a multi-faceted individual, you are.”

The praise makes his heart swell in his chest and they walk together toward her home. They approach the first step and Mihawk places his hand on her lower back, silently urging her forward. [Y/N] smiles at him and his hand lingers until she’s far enough away from him. His palms were as if fire had seared the skin, the heat of her lingering long after she’d gone. He relishes in the feeling while he follows her inside.

As per their routine, she stops a few feet ahead of him in the foyer and turns around. He bends just enough for her to gently grab the brims of his hat and lift it off. He pivots just as her hands begin pulling at the shoulders of his cloak. She hangs both on a coat rack by the door and they say nothing as they walk to the kitchen. It warms his cheeks to consider she doesn’t do this with anyone else. Oh, how lucky Mihawk is to be the subject of it. 

The house is quaint, just big enough for [Y/N] and her plethora of knick-knacks. It’s always warm, cozy, and Mihawk loves how everything in it smells of her. “I really do need to repay you sometime, by the way.” He stops peering around and meets her in the kitchen. “For what reason?”

[Y/N] turns on the stove and grabs a pan hanging over her island counter. She begins throwing things together. “Ever since you started lending a hand with the vineyard and the vegetable garden, the harvest has become way more bountiful. Not to mention, the grapes are growing better and my personal brand of wine is selling ten times more than usual. I was able to finally replace the linoleum flooring with hardwood.”

Admittedly, he hardly listens to any word she says. All he could think about were the list of ways he’d like her to repay him. He cannot find the courage, however, to speak them aloud. Would it scare her off to know how much he longed for her? This whole time, has she only considered him a good friend? What if she doesn’t even take him for that? What if she thinks of him as simply a man who tends to her gardens every week? If that were true, though, why would she have ever let him disrupt her daily routine? Why would someone who has turned down multiple plans with close friends because she always waters the plants at 3pm suddenly clear her entire Tuesday and Thursday afternoons to accommodate Mihawk coming over? He likes to believe she feels a small piece of what he does for her.

“I never took you for a daydreamer, yet you do have a knack for surprising me.”

He’s lifted from his thoughts and takes the potato she has stretched out, joining at her side. “There has been much to think about as of late. Forgive me if I seem a bit out of it.” [Y/N] rests a hand on his upper back, lightly rubbing a comforting circle. She nods her head then begins to peel a carrot. “We can talk while we eat, if you’d like.” He nods back and the next fifteen minutes are spent in a comfortable silence.

Both are now seated at the small dining table, occasionally asking the other about their day and swapping stories. Mihawk feels light for the first time in a while. The domesticity of everything fills him with peace, something he hasn’t truly felt in ages. He’s in an actual home, the smell of good food filling his senses, and the most beautiful woman sitting across from him, smiling at him as she raves about her shop sales last week. He wonders, why can’t it be like this all the time?

This must be what prompts him to blurt, “Why did you allow me to start visiting your home?”

[Y/N] stops her story and raises her brows. “A comedian, a daydreamer, and an interrupter all in one day. Incred-” “Why would someone who is so rigid in her routine, one that she has kept for what she says is nearly two decades, suddenly allow a complete stranger to upheave her entire daily schedule?”

His brows are furrowed, but only out of curiosity. [Y/N] stares at him like a child who’s been caught. She pushes some steamed carrots around in her plate and looks down at them. “I don’t know,” she mumbles. “Maybe I just like this routine better?” His heart thrusts against his ribcage. He needs to be strategic about this, otherwise she’ll never say what he wants to hear. “You hate new routines.” he states. [Y/N]’s fork stops on her plate. She thinks for a moment before looking up at him. “You’re right. I do. However, I find myself enjoying the days when you’re here more than the ones when you’re not.”

Dracule Mihawk could explode with joy. Alas, the world will never get to see him so out of character. Instead a corner of his lips lifts into somewhat of a smirk. “I see.”

“It gets lonely, Dracule.” His smirk falls. “I love my routines, but it’s just been me for as long as I can remember. My friends stopped inviting me to places altogether because I can’t bring myself to break away from my tasks. Then all of a sudden, the most gorgeous stranger who knows just as much as me about wine and gardening and all of these things I love comes along and he actually likes talking to me and respects that there are certain things I have to do and I just…” Mihawk is still, barely breathing as if doing so might blow away the words he hopes she’ll say. “I guess I just didn’t want to lose what I had going with you.”

She sighs through her nose and puts her fork down on her still half-full plate. She clearly feels defeated. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Dracule. I didn’t want to say anything before out of fear of you not returning to visit, but I really do like spending time with you and getting to know you. While I understand if you don’t, I really hope you feel the same way about me.” The last part is said in nearly a whisper.

He’s silent for a while and he can tell how uncomfortable [Y/N] becomes by the way her hands begin to fidget with whatever is near.

“I do, you know.”

She raises her brows. “You do? Are you sure?”

He can’t help but chuckle. “What kind of person would sail out two times a week just to do manual labor in someone’s backyard if they weren’t the least bit interested in them?” A grin takes over [Y/N]’s face and a smile plants itself on the swordsman’s as well. “Maybe you’re just an extremely thoughtful person, Dracule.”

He releases a disbelieving scoff. “You’ll learn in time, [Y/N], I’m not that kind of man.”

She laughs and begins finishing her meal, the air much lighter in her home. He takes the opportunity to peer out the kitchen window. “It’s getting dark.”

She finishes her last potato and nods. “That it is.”

They both look at each other, neither one wanting to say goodbye. Not with the newfound information they’ve revealed to each other minutes prior. Dracule decides it must be he who bites the bullet and backs his chair up.

“I suppose I must get go-”

“Oh, wouldn’t you know it! It’s laundry night!”

He can’t fathom why that would pertain to him at all, so he waits for her to finish.

“Thursdays have always been laundry nights and what kind of hostess would I be if I let you walk out of here with a saturated cloak? Your favorite one, no less.”

He chuckles. “That would indeed make you a terrible hostess and I refuse to be associated with anyone of that ilk.”

Not a second passes before [Y/N] is up and collecting their plates, rushing them to the sink before returning to him. She takes his hand, pulls him up, and leads him to the living room. He can’t help but notice her not letting go of him the entire time. “Wonderful. Of course I can’t wash everything until the sun’s out tomorrow, so I guess you’re just going to have to leave in the mid-morning?” Dracule agrees readily and she pulls him onto the couch, sitting much closer to him than usual.

“What if we still get shit-faced from the wine, but this time we also discuss where you’re taking me on a date come Tuesday?”

Mihawk is elated at everything that’s occurred on this day. He rubs his thumb across the back of her palms and she leans into him a bit more. After months spent yearning for this woman— this wonderful, witty, kind, radiant, captivating woman— her heart is finally within his grasp and she has finally discovered how long she’s held his. Nothing has ever been and will never be better than today.

“[Y/N], darling, I have known exactly where I’m going to take you since the first time we parted.”

She visibly lights up and throws her arms around his neck. Their bodies are pressed together and he prays her perfume makes a home on his shirt, just long enough to bridge the distance between now and next time. They hold each other in the silence of the home, neither willing to let go now that they know how the other feels.

Because the greatest feeling isn’t just loving, but knowing that person loves you back.

Note: I am truly a wine-enjoyer, however I cannot stand Zinfandels specifically. Unfortunately, I have the headcanon that it's Mihawk's preferred drink of choice.

[warfaredoll]

𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

— a barracks bunny is a female who lives in the same unit as military personnel. a barracks bunny loves going room to room riding the dicks of all the men in the platoon.

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— hair often tied with a little ribbon or clip, lips tinted or glossy, always smelling faintly of vanilla or soap, often referred to as “bunny”

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— she remembers birthdays, patches up cuts or uniforms, she’s a sweet little thing, has her own room at the end of the hall

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— cries during sex :(

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— she gives herself to everyone but belongs to no one; an occasional lover

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— they never call her by her real name; some don’t even know it, Erik is the only one who calls her by her real name

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— some of the men love her, some use her, and some pretend not to care

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— she’s respected in her own strange way she’s theirs, and that means something

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— has had her heart broken more than once by them

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— has her favorites but would never admit it; some take care of her more than others, even let her sleep with them for comfort

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— tragic situationship with Ray

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— rarely speaks unless spoken to, but when she does, it’s always soft spoken

𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧— everyone’s girl, one way or another and has a different kind of relationship with each man

introducing barracks bunny! reader 🍨🍨🐰

this came to me in a vision 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[mordredpendragon]

MAYDRED DAY 3: Mordred in Film

Back with another post about Mordred! And this time it's my Top 3 appearances of all time in film.

links supplied by the Arthurian Preservation Project by @queer-ragnelle 💕

If you shield the living, who shall avenge the dead the outrage of murder? ⸺ Mordred to Arthur in Knights of the Round Table (1953) dir. Richard Thorpe

A phenomenal movie that's quickly become one of my comfort movies, this is the film I show to people who are new to Arthuriana. It's got everything: an amazing script, great characterization, beautiful costumes and sets. Medieval movies get a lot of flak for looking muddy or gray but not this one, it's vibrant and colorful and each knight (even the extras!) has unique armour. Mordred, played by Stanley Baker, is given a black tabard with a unicorn on it. Talk about iconic. He and Morgan are the film's antagonists, from the very beginning to the end they plot together to take Arthur's throne. As a villain, Mordred is given a lot of depth and has genuine reasons to go against Arthur other than pure ambition. He's a worthy rival to Arthur and has proven himself to be competent, charismatic, and more than capable of leading an army. Mordred aside, if you like Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot this is definitely something you'd enjoy. Percival and Elaine are amazing in it as well, and Gawain and Gareth are endearing. It's a flawless movie and a 10/10 from me.

Come, Father. Let us embrace at last. ⸺ Mordred to Arthur in Excalibur (1981) dir. John Boorman

Another all time if not the favorite Arthurian film of all time for me. It's the most popular out of this list and it's for a good reason, the dark fantasy genre as we know it would not be the same if it weren't for Excalibur (1981). As a child, he's played by Charley Boorman (John Boorman's son) and by Robert Addie as an adult. Unlike in Knights of the Round Table (1953), Mordred is not Arthur's peer but rather his incestuous bastard son borne from his sister Morgana, who then raises him as a pawn for her own ends. She gives him an impenetrable golden Roman armour in a scene that reminds me of Thetis dipping the infant Achilles into the River Styx. However, like Achilles, Mordred is doomed to die. Mordred wages war with Arthur in a scene that's got to be one of the heights for Arthuriana in film for me and I haven't been the same since. Robert Addie's portrayal of him is absolutely stellar, being both cruel and cold whilst also deeply tragic, painting the picture of a young man entangled in a fate he never asked for.

Mordred. You behaved with dignity as befits a knight. He behaved with dignity, I swear! Mordred! ⸺ Lancelot calling out to Mordred in New Adventures of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1988) dir. Viktor Gres

Otherwise known as Russian Connecticut Yankee, this was a movie I didn't expect to love so much as I do now. The film starts off with Mordred (played by Mark Gres) and Lancelot talking about a dream they shared, only to be caught by surprise by a plane crash, which they refer to as the steel dragon. Mordred flees while Lancelot stays, rescuing Hank Morgan, the titular Connecticut Yankee. There's a lot to be said about this film. Not only do I adore Mordred's casting, but this also has some of the most unique and compelling ways that I've seen Mordred utilized in anything ever. I can't spoil it, it's something you need to experience for yourself. It's become a favorite of all time for me alongside Excalibur (1981). The casting, sets, costumes, music, cinematography and the script, everything is absolutely amazing and everytime I watch it I notice something new. I should also mention the fact that this is a deeply philosophical and political film, having been produced in the late Soviet Union is very important context for this movie. Despite being made in a different time and in a different culture, the Anti-American themes resonate so deeply and has given me much to think about. I love this movie. It's a bit of an acquired taste and can be considered esoteric for some, but I urge you to give it a try.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

can we get the skeles playing tug of war? i think it would be funny who would do it like its their last thing they will do or just stand there simply holding on

Undertale Sans - Everyone is making fun of him because it seems Sans is pretty much just holding the rope. What no one sees is Sans' hand moving as he's tying his opponents' shoelaces together, one after the other, with his blue magic. When the game starts, all of them fall forward. Welp, he won.

Undertale Papyrus - Papyrus is a master at puzzles, so he knows strength is not the answer to this, but only how you position yourself. He's briefing his all team and wins in a few seconds because he knows exactly how to do it. He's very proud of himself.

Underswap Sans - He's a little ball of energy and rage, and he's pulling with all he has, screaming at the top of his lungs. It's a close match, but eventually Blue' unlimited energy surprises his opponents who are exhausted after a few minutes. Blue is celebrating as they're all panting on the floor.

Underswap Papyrus - He was supposed to be with Blue, but Blue said it was his moment and that he would watch him. The opponents pull, Honey faceplants into the ground lol. He did what he could, man...

Underfell Sans - So, Red thought insulting his opponents before the game started would break their focus, so he could win easily. It actually motivated them more, and they destroyed the heck out of him in seconds lol. Red is a sore loser and blips to not hear them talk shit in his back. He's sulking.

Underfell Papyrus - He could have won if he hadn't teamed up with Undyne. Both on them couldn't agree on what strategy to adopt, so they basically screamed at each other and didn't notice the game started. They lost in seconds... Then Edge jumped at her throat, pissed off.

Horrortale Sans - His reaction time is way too slow, and by the time he realizes the game has started, it's already over lol. He's just staring at his empty hands in confusion. Where did the rope go?

Horrortale Papyrus - He sadly can't participate because of his back, but he's cheering his teammates the best he can, by screaming at them to check their position. He's stressing Grillby so much that his flames start to burn for real and then the rope starts to burn. Oops.

Swapfell Sans - He's fighting against Alphys. That's five hours now. None of them wants to let go. There's no public anymore, everyone left hours ago. Nox is growling like an enraged animal, throwing bones at her so she loses her focus, but she's doing the same thing with spears. Rus set up a camera and is taking bets online lol.

Swapfell Papyrus - He does it entirely naked. It confuses his opponents enough for him to win this. Well, he's also banned from ever competing again, but that happened. He doesn't regret anything lol.

Fellswap Gold Sans - Oh, that's easy. He makes all of his opponents' souls suddenly very heavy and watches as they all faceplant into the ground, unable to stand up again. He then picks up the rope and pulls it very slowly towards him, not putting any effort into it. Now, what did he win? He hopes that's money. He loves money.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - Coffee pulls with his arms but he completely forget he has legs too, and eventually he slips and hits his head hard on the floor. He's not seeing very straight for a few hours after that, but that's ok. At least he got some chocolate as a comforting prize and it's way better than a stupid medal.