#but even on nights where they just sit in silence and watch‚ he nevers considers that wasted time

[thespineoftherighteous]

i just think that. Aaron starts going to night practices sometimes. not to practice but just to sit with Andrew.

[hhmnya]

SIGNS OF AFFECTION, the portayal of love.

femreader⠀ ♡ㅤ fluffest rsㅤ───ㅤ2224wc

lee heeseung. “baby, stay with me,” heeseung all but whines, pulling on your arm in an attempt to drag you back down to his bed. his voice is hoarse from not having spoken in a while; you had been laying together in silence, the both of you doing your own thing in each other’s space.

“hee, i have to go,” you try to free yourself from his grasp and you almost succeed but once he notices that he’s losing his grip, he tugs you towards him and wraps his arms around your waist, head resting against your stomach.

“just spend the night, i don’t think your roommate will care,”

“of course she isn’t going to care but i care. i have to go study,”

he looks up, his chin pressing against your stomach, lips forming a pout as he stares at you with a pleading expression. you can’t help but smile at him, bringing a hand up to fix his tousled hair.

you like when he gets clingy like this—he’s always clingy—it’s comforting knowing that he likes your presence as much as you do his. maybe even more, considering he’s always asking you to go over or if he can hang out at your apartment even if you don’t plan on doing anything. when you ask why or propose actually doing something he laughs you off, saying that simply sitting in the same room as you is enough for him. 

“study here,”

“i don’t have my stuff,”

“okay, study tomorrow then,” he sits up, removing his arms from around you. though, he keeps his hands on your waist, squeezing, “i wanna stay with you,”

you stare at him for a moment, acting as if you were debating on whether or not to give in. it was all for show, though; you’re going to give in to him every single time and he knows it. so a smug smile takes place on his lips, knowing that he’s won when you let out a sigh, shoving his shoulder lightly so that he could make room for you on his bed.

park jongseong. you search for jay’s warmth right when you wake up, eyebrows furrowing and lips turning downwards when you don’t find it. you open your eyes to see nothing, jay nowhere to be seen.

you lay in bed for a minute longer before deciding to get up and go look for him in your small apartment, but before you can even pull the covers away from your body, your boyfriend walks in. 

he looks like he’s been awake for a while—you can tell he took a shower by his still damp hair and he’s already dressed, wearing simple jeans and a t-shirt. he smiles at you, “hey, sleepyhead,”

“hi… you’re up early,”

“i was making you breakfast,” you feel the bed dip from his weight as he sits next to where you’re still laying, “and i cleaned the apartment a little,”

you reach over and grab his hand, placing a kiss against his knuckles, “thank you, but you didn’t have to. it’s my apartment, i can do it myself,” despite saying that, you know he’s going to ignore you, continuing on with taking care of you, your needs, and your apartment.

he hums, but doesn’t respond verbally, instead squeezing your hand in his. the two of you sit in a comfortable silence—you trying to fully wake up and him waiting for you—for what feels like forever until he finally breaks it.

“i like doing things for you, you know?”

“do you?”

“yeah, i do. you smile at his response, lifting your head to silently ask for a kiss. 

he obliges, mumbling against your lips, “you gonna get up and eat breakfast now?”

sim jaeyun. “how do you deal with jake being on top of you constantly?”

you raise your eyebrows at riki’s question, watching as the teenager throws a piece of popcorn at your boyfriend from the other end of the couch. 

jake throws it back, “dude, i’m not on top of her,” except he is on top of you—his arms wrapped around your waist, head resting against your shoulder. 

“uh… yeah, you are,”

the boys’ argument fades into the background as you think about riki’s question. honestly, you never noticed that jake was, in fact, always ‘on top’ of you.

you don’t mind it, obviously—you enjoy it—but now that you’re thinking back on your relationship, jake really is very physically affectionate towards you. you don’t think you can recall a time where his arms weren’t wrapped around you, or his hand holding wasn’t holding yours, or he wasn’t standing so close to you that the both of you looked like you’re glued together.

“jake,” you interrupt their argument, laughing as you poke at him cheek, “maybe you should pull away before you try and defend yourself,”

he scoffs at you in faux annoyance, doing the exact opposite of what you told him to do—he pulls you closer to him, practically forcing you onto his lap. you’re sitting sideways, your head against his shoulder now.

“nope, you’re warm,”

“i don’t think it’s cold,”

“i’m cold, though,” shrugging, he places a kiss on top of your head, “also, ki, she’s on top of me, so you’re making zero sense,”

“i just watched you move her on top of you,” riki groans, throwing a pillow at the both of you, making you laugh when the two begin arguing again, the movie you had been watching long forgotten.

park sunghoon. everyday you are beyond thankful for park sunghoon, whatever higher power there is must really like you to give you the opportunity of being his girlfriend.

the fact that he’ll wake up at 3:28AM just to go buy you some kind of snack or food is one of the things you love about the man, simply because you know almost nobody who would ever do that—unless their partner was pregnant—but he does. 

“i love you, by the way,” you smile, tapping your feet in excitement against the car floor, stopping when you feel sunghoon’s hand squeeze your thigh gently.

“because i’m going to go get you an ice cream?” he turns on the blinker, stopping before turning to the right, driving to a nearby convenience store where you’re planning on getting said ice cream.

“that too, but i just love you in general,”

“yeah?” he glances at you, an eyebrow raised.

“yes,”

“good,” his thumb rubbing circles against your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, “i love you too, i hope you know i’d never get up this late for anyone else,”

“i hope not,” the car pulls into the convenience store’s empty—save for the singular employee’s car—parking lot, sunghoon putting the car into park. he gets out, leaving you alone in the car for a brief moment, rounding to your side and opening the door.

he leans against it, staring at you with a soft, fond smile. the look makes you nervous, your face heating up at the prolonged eye contact. it gets to be too much after a few seconds, and you reach up to cover his eyes with your hand, “okay, stop staring, you’re weird,”

he lets out a laugh, removing your hand from his eyes, “i’m weird? you’re the one who wants ice cream at three in the morning,”

“well, you still drove me here, so you’re equally as weird. you could’ve said no,”

“nope, i can’t say no to you. it’s impossible,” 

he doesn’t say anything else as he grabs your hand, helping you out of the car. you’re perfectly capable of stepping out of it yourself but you let him help you, not really thinking about it—a habit that’s formed after years of dating him. you smile to yourself, the cold air of the convenience store making you shiver while you follow behind sunghoon to the small freezer section.

kim seonwoo. you smile when sunoo hands you a shopping bag, looking inside to see an album you’d been wanting for a while now. you’d only mentioned it to him once, an offhand statement that you moved on from immediately after saying it. you should’ve known sunoo was going to remember and buy it for you, even though you could have bought it yourself.

noticing something else in the bag, you move the album out of the way, your eyes widening in surprise when you see that he also bought you the phone charm you’d really wanted. you hadn’t been able to find it in any stores, though, and yet somehow sunoo did.

“those are the ones you wanted right?” his eyes go back and forth between you and the bag, watching your reaction, “i saw the charm and remembered you wanted it, so i got it. it was the last one,”

“mhm, it is, thank you,” you take it out, looking it over with a grin on your face, “you didn’t need to get the album, i could’ve bought it,”

he waves you off, “it’s fine. i just got it while i was there. you like them, though, right?”

“obviously, i like them,” you lean forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, embracing him. he hugs you back, placing his hands on your waist. he can’t help but let out an exasperated sigh when you continue your sentence, “but i feel bad that you’re always wasting your money,”

“i don’t waste money, it’s for a good cause. as long as you like it, angel, then who cares. i’ll get you whatever you want, it’s not a big deal,” he pulls away from you, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek, pulling you into a gentle kiss.

yang jungwon. “you look pretty in that shirt,” jungwon says, snapping yet another photo of you since you started your clothing haul. you giggle, looking at him through your mirror—he’s looking at his phone, probably scrolling through the pictures he’s taken so far.

“you don’t have to take a picture of every outfit, won,” you turn, walking over to sit next to him on your bed, “i’ll wear them again,”

“but i like taking pictures of you,” he shows you his phone, a photo of you from earlier on his screen. you hadn’t noticed him take this one—it was while you were wearing one of the first outfits you had tried on, your face in a weird expression. you assume jungwon had taken in while you were talking and you grimace when he continues speaking, “you look pretty,”

you give him a look, “i look bad in that picture,”

your boyfriend frowns, setting his phone to the side, putting your focus back on his face rather than his phone. he narrows his eyes at you, playfully glaring, “i don’t think so, you look good in every picture,”

“no,” you scoff, “you’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend,”

“no,” he mocks you, sticking his tongue out at you. you laugh at his immaturity, moving to push his shoulder but he stops you, hand gripping onto your wrist. you pause, biting your lip to keep from laughing when you notice he’s still glaring at you, “it’s because you are pretty. so pretty that i go crazy every time i see you,”

“you’re overselling it,” you look away, feeling your face heat up at his compliments. you still aren’t used to him being so… nice. not that he was ever mean, but the constant barrage of compliments the boy gives you on a daily basis is enough to make anyone nervous.

“am not,” he gives you an offended look, letting out a huff of air, “i’m just telling the truth, lovely.”

nishimura riki. you glance to your side, stifling a giggle when riki lets out a loud groan, his feet dragging against the floor as you walk into yet another store.

you’ve been shopping for the past three hours, having gone into most of the businesses at the mall. riki, despite you telling him he didn’t have to come, tagged along but he started complaining almost immediately after you exited the third store.

“you definitely don’t have enough money to buy anything else—can we go?” he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb against your knuckles. the act almost makes you comply with his request.

“i told you that you didn’t have to come,”

you always tell him that he doesn’t have to go with you, whether it be to the mall or something else. every single time he insists, telling you that he’ll go with you so you don’t ‘feel lonely’, only for him to start complaining within five minutes of whatever it is that you’re doing. you know that it’s lighthearted, but you can’t help but (lovingly) roll your eyes at him every time he does this.

“i didn’t think we’d be here for five days,”

you scoff, bumping him with your shoulder while you card through a rack of t-shirts with your free hand, “you’re dramatic,”

“no, i’m not. my feet just hurt,”

humming, you pull out a shirt, scrutinizing it for a few moments before ultimately deciding to buy it, “go sit in the car then, babe,”

“uh, no,” he gives you a dirty look, grabbing the shirt from your hand so that he could hold it instead, “i came ‘cos i wanted to spend time with you, not the car.”

[bloomries]

hey listen to me, will ya!

includes  : diavolo, barbatos, and solomon.

summary  : trying to convince them to do something, but they won't listen, because they know they'll give in to you in a second!

warnings  : gn! reader. i couldn't think of anything for simeon, so no simeon sorry! not proofread.

DIAVOLO

To let you be big spoon.

"No." It was almost comical, the way the giant man that Diavolo was was acting in such a childish way, his hands over his ears and he repeated an off tune 'lalalala.' You sigh, arms crossed over your chest as you watch him, letting out an annoyed sigh every now and again.

After a good four minutes, you decide to put a stop (mostly for your poor ear drums sakes), and walk over to him, taking his arms and forcing them apart. He keeps them firmly planted over his ears, shaking his head. "Diavolo, this is ridiculous."

"Can't hear you~" You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to think of a way to at least get him to hear you. That was the problem though, he knew if he heard a single word from you on this topic, he'd fold immediately.

"Dia," You coo softly, and even though he claims he 'can't hear you' he sends you a glance because when you call his name that way it almost always certainly leads to a sweet kiss. You step closer to him, tilting your head in such an appetizing way.

"Mmm..." He doesn't like where this is going.

You lean up and capture his lips in a kiss, one that has him melting. You gently guide his hands away from his ears, pulling away and giggling as he chases after your lips.

"Let me be big spoon, just one night." He pouts, his hands squeezing your sides.

"...Just one night?"

"Just one night." Diavolo sighs, looking off to the side. His pout was adorable, made you want to bite his cheek.

"Mmm... Alright. One night."

Per usual, you always got what you wanted from the Prince of the Devildom.

BARBATOS

To get a puppy.

Barbatos silence only served to make you more annoyed. "You could at least pretend to consider it, you know?" Barbatos continues to not say a word, continuing with folding the laundry. "Seriously?"

Barbatos, with his nose held high, folds on. 'I can't hear you' is so obviously written across his face you would punch it if you didn't love it so much. You huff, sitting on the bed.

"I can take care of a puppy. I'd be great at it." Barbatos clears his throat, turning around. "We could be it's parents. We'd be amazing puppy parents." You urge, pushing yourself off the bed and reaching for his waist, wrapping your arms around his middle.

"Don't you want to be a parent with me?"

Barbatos internally groans, you never play fair, do you? He refuses to be swayed on his topic, however. He has a rowdy prince to look after, and you have seven even rowdier brothers to look after, a puppy wouldn't fit in either of your schedules, whether you decide to accept that or not.

"Barbbbb," You whine, and he keeps his head high. He won't ruin his perfectly good streak of not giving in to you by looking at your ridiculously perfect face.

"Fine." You huff, pulling away from him. "I'll just ask Diavolo for-" Barbatos finally reacts to your words, swiftly turning and grabbing your forearm. He gives you a stern look.

"Please... Don't..." He sighs, closing his eyes for a second, letting out a shaky exhale. If you ask Diavolo, it wouldn't be just one puppy, but fifty. "We can consider a puppy once everything settles down, alright?" You give him a pointed look.

"Really? Promise?"

Begrudgingly, Barbatos admits defeat. "Really, I promise. But not now, understood?"

"Understood!"

SOLOMON

To teach you a potion.

"Hm? Do you hear something?" Solomon calls to no one in particular, "I could've sworn I heard something, but must've been nothing."

"Wooow," You say in an exasperated tone. "Very mature, Solomon. For a guy who's been around for hundreds of years, you're just like a child, I swear." Solomon furrows his brows, looking around the room in an overly dramatic manner.

"There it is again! So strange!"

"I just asked you to teach me how to make that potion from earlier- the one that-" Solomon covers his ears and even closes his eyes. "Seriously?"

"If I can't hear or see you, then I won't be tempted." Solomon yells, causing you to take a few steps back. "You're very bewitching, you know, and I won't fall for your tricks."

"You-" You roll your eyes at him, "Ugh, I swear..." You watch as he takes peeks at you every now and again, and you groan as he continues on the act every time he confirms you're still there.

If he claims you're so bewitching, you might as well use it, you decide, running a finger just under his chin and tilting his head to look at you.

"Solomon." You call, "Teach me, won't you?"

He falters. Damn your good looks. Solomon relents, hanging his head in shame. He's failed himself.

"What potion is it?" He sighs, turning towards the open books.

"This one here~"

[dadsbongos]

sweetnerd

@toxycodone / @maniacpixiedreamboy been waiting to post this one for ya (based on this post of his)

summary - daisuke -desperate for some release after months of passionless jerking- begs to eat you out one night.

1 k words / 18+! mdni

Recently, the lock on medical had been snapped off. Thankfully, you knew the culprit to be Swansea after a belligerent search for painkillers. And unfortunately, you were responsible for watching over the numerous drugs each night.

Well, you claim it’s a misfortune but really you placed the burden upon yourself. Anya insisted that she would sit with you -- seemed borderline inconsolable at the idea of you being there alone. Then she told you where she hid the ship’s gun.

You weren’t sure why a nurse and her assistant had access to the gun when even Captain Curly didn’t, but you also weren’t getting paid enough to ask. Besides, you’ve never had a reason to use it so why concern yourself?

As if sensing all such serenity, the Tulpar bangs outside. Then Daisuke is clambering inside, hands on the doorframe and cheeks flush. His knees are pressed together, his whole body bent like some cheap hanger. Hair tousled, strands upright in odd angles -almost electric in nature. If not for the utter strangling silence behind him and his heavy breathing, you might’ve thought the rest of the ship was on fire.

“Dai… suke..?” you sit up groggily, scrubbing exhaustion from your eye, “The hell’s wrong with you? Do you know what time it is?”

“Do you?” he shoots, abandoning the argument a second later in favor of quietly humming, “I wanted to ask you…”

“Yeah?”

“Uhm, ugh… It was easier in my head… earlier…” he mumbles, hand drifting down toward his pelvis. He scrunches the crotch of his sleep pants, a lofty sigh escaping at the squeeze, “Can you- I’m just, you get it? You’ve gotta,” he clenches his eyes, seemingly shaking away the humiliation that very instant and looking at you with the biggest, wettest plead you’ve ever seen, “Can you please sit on my face while I jerk off please? Please?”

The pinched look on your face does not scream disgust, which only relieves him slightly -- he hadn’t really considered what he’d do if you reported his question to Captain Curly. Head too hot with want to forethink something as trivial as a sexual harassment lawsuit.

“Why…?” you lean back, hesitant though not appalled.

“I need to get off, like crazy,” he stumbles forward, slow enough for you to roughly shove him back if you want to, “All I got is an old mag, and it’s junk!” you can hear the delirium thrumming through him the longer you keep him waiting, “You’re so hot, I just wanna eat you out… You don’t even have to do anything, just ride my face! I’ll be good, I promise. We can stop whenever, too, I don’t need to finish,” he swallows harshly before whispering something you’re not totally sure you were meant to hear, “Just the memory could make me cum anyway.”

“Uhm…”

“I’ll give you some of my sweetener stash!”

“I don’t want that, Daisuke…”

“Then forget you heard it!” his dark eyes scramble over your body, “What else can I give you?”

Your own gaze flips over his shoulder, out the still open medical door and down the hall. Empty. Quiet. You snag him by the loose collar of his spare Pony Express shirt, sunshine fabric pillowing between your finger, wrangling him into the bay.

“Just be quiet,” you hiss, “The lock’s busted.”

Daisuke’s rosy lips drawl upward, loose and loopy and disbelieving, “You’re serious?”

“Aren’t you?”

He nods hastily, jumping back onto one of the care beds before flattening across it -- pleading silently up at you with wet puppy eyes while scrubbing sweaty palms down his thighs. Crinkling the soft material until it’s ricketing down his knees; watching hawklike as you slowly strip. Then you crawl atop of him, he clutches you by the hips and blows out a wildly uneven breath.

Barely able to find the strength to blink -lest he be cursed to cut the sight of your bare skin from his eyes- Daisuke only just scrounges the wherewithal to assist you into kneeling over his scorched face.

Exhaling between your thighs, Daisuke winds one hand around your thigh -blunt nails digging into the fat- while wrapping his cock with the other.

Craning his neck, he approaches eating you out the exact way you assumed he would: eagerly and without forethought. Absent of technique, but so full of hunger; his tongue parting and swirling wherever he pleases in that moment. As rhythmless as he is, he’s overtly sloppy -- wet clicks livening the silent room.

Billows of loose breath echoing. You sigh as he whimpers into you. Your weight jostling over his face as he bucks wildly into his tight fist -the resulting gasp only makes him thrust up harder.

“Ah, Daisuke,” pure instinct encourages you to reach down and wrangle his hair, keeping him still for you to grind down and fuck his face. Swirling your hips for that wet friction and Daisuke puts up no fight: only moaning louder into you. Vibrations making you shudder and weep again, “Ah- Daisuke!”

He croons beneath the praise, thumbing the soaking head of his cock while tongue-fucking you open. Desperately stretching his neck to nuzzle deeper into you with his own mewls leakier than a broken faucet. The messy sound of his clenched fist rapidly working his cock grows louder -- you glance over your shoulder to find him shiny with precum. Hand a mere blur over his thick erection. Ruby head peeking at you with every thrust until pearly ropes are painting his knuckles -- some more ambitious shots flying onto your back.

You’d somewhat expected him to slide back like some content, melty goop.

Daisuke surprises you when he smears cum over you whole before using it as lube to slide in, nearing knuckle deep. He moans in time with you as if he can feel it -or maybe just because feeling you clench around him is that good.

“God,” he whimpers beneath you, fingers curling inside you, “I could die down here…”

It might’ve been alarming, if he hadn’t said it so dreamily.

Maybe you’ll let him go down on you more often, if he’s always going to be so eager.

[leighsartworks216]

Damn Him

Father!Zayne x Mother!Reader

I NEVER write baby fics or anything with kids and shit EVER. So when I got this idea and felt something deep in my core about it, I simply had to get it out of my system. I'm sorry ;-;

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, angst (at the end), family fic, breasts, Dawnbreaker, swearing

Word Count: 1,275

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Crying broke through the still night air. They crackled slightly, muffled through the baby monitor on your bedside table. Nonetheless, you were awake.

The bed is already starting to shift when you're opening your eyes. You blindly reach out and grab onto the soft sleeve of Zayne's pajama shirt.

"I've got it..." you murmur. "She's prob’ly hungry."

He watches blearily as you slowly push yourself up into a sit. "Are you sure?"

You hum, nodding. You let go of him and pick up the monitor, waving it in the air with a playful, yet sleepy, grin. "It's on my side tonight, remember?" You turn down the volume, set it back down and get to your feet. "Go back to bed, lovey. I'll be back soon."

Zayne sighs, but he stays where he is as you pull a cardigan of his around your shoulders. He listens to the sounds of your shared home: the quiet shuffle of your slippers, the hiccuping cries of your daughter, the soothing lilt of your voice as you calm her down.

He glances at the digital clock beside him. It's only 2am; there's still plenty of time to get enough sleep for work tomorrow. As much as his body wants to fight the exhaustion and join you, he knows you'd scold him if he tried. He trusts you, anyway. There's nothing he can do right now to help.

So, he slips back under the blankets and turns onto his side. As the blankets fall into place, the rustling silences, and he tunes back into the lullaby you sing. It leads him down into the embrace of a peaceful slumber.

When next he wakes, he's disoriented. He blinks droopily at the emptiness of your side of the bed, then at the clock that reads 3:30am. There's no distinct sounds coming from the baby monitor. Down the hall is quiet. Why aren't you in bed?

He pushes the blankets off of himself and sits up, sliding on his slippers like it’s second nature. The cool air of the bedroom doesn't bother him as he crosses the room and out the door.

The door to the nursery is wide open. Blue moonlight pours though, spilling onto the floor and up the opposite wall. He squints slightly as he peeks inside. Any fears he could have vanish as he sees you.

You're sitting back in the armchair beside the window, head tilted back at an awkward angle and mouth open around quiet snores. Your shirt is pulled down to expose one of your breasts. Your daughter is using it as a pillow as your arms securely hold her, even as you are fast asleep.

Zayne drinks it all in. Your sleep-rumpled hair and dark eye bags, the shimmer of a drool trail along your chin, the uncomfortable way the collar of your shirt pulls against the underside of your breast. Your daughter, Jasmine, his beloved little flower, clinging with her tiny baby fists to his cardigan you stole, her chubby cheek resting against your skin and the other catching a stray moonbeam. He considers taking a photo of the moment, though he eventually decides against it. His two girls need to be put to bed and he doesn't wish to delay that any longer. Besides, if nothing else, this moment has been seared into his mind. That is enough for him.

He's as quiet as can be as he crosses the room to the chair. Carefully, he slowly pries Jasmine's hands from the cardigan. Her body is so small and warm in his hands as he lifts her into his arms. Oftentimes, he's overwhelmed with the desire to hold her forever, to feel her tiny little heartbeat alongside his own. Just like people save ultrasounds or ink-presses of their child's feet and hands, Zayne wonders if it would be strange to save an echocardiogram as a memento.

She doesn't stir as he lays her down in the crib. Her long, dark eyelashes curl over her round cheeks, picturesque. Her onesie is covered in little snowmen. He should make one for her with his Evol tomorrow. He can only imagine the bright-eyed stare she'd give him as he creates such cute things out of thin air.

Leaning down, he presses the lightest of kisses to her head, just barely starting to see hair growth. Now to take care of the other girl in his life.

Nimble fingers pull your shirt back over your breast, drawing the open sides of the cardigan together to keep you warm. He debates between waking you or not. And although he really should wake you, he ends up lifting you from the chair and into his arms. The moonlight caresses his back as he carries you down the hall, back to your bedroom. He tucks your feet in first as he lays you down before pulling the blankets up over you. Just as he did with Jasmine, he kisses your forehead, willing portions of his soul to transfer to you in hopes he can somehow get across how much he utterly and truly loves you.

He grabs the baby monitor before he rounds the bed back to his side. He turns the volume dial back up and sets it on his nightstand beside the clock. You'll get onto him about it being your turn to take care of the baby for the entire night, a system born out of his tendency to do everything himself due to his workaholic nature. He'll accept the scolding come daylight. You'll forgive him. You always do. Even if it's with an exaggerated sigh and a fond eye roll.

He lays on his side to face you, the love of his life. He couldn't dream of being anywhere but here, by your side, as he allows sleep to overcome him once again.

-

He wakes up.

Hollow.

He always feels hollow after dreams like that. And why shouldn't he feel the weight of what is missing in his life?

His bed is empty save for him. The room down the hall is full of random stuff he can't be bothered to worry about. It's a guest room; he's not having any guests over, so why bother?

The void within him cries to be filled. It opens like a yawning mouth, only an unfathomable depth waiting within, yearning for that life. The life that doctor has. A life he can never have.

Never will he be able to wake up to your face right beside him. Never will he be able to hold his daughter. Never will he be able to have that life with you.

It isn't fair. It's not-

He presses the balls of his hands into his eyes, biting back the shuddering breaths and the sting of tears. He’ll be forced to watch his daughter grow up through that doctor’s eyes. And it’s not even his. He has no rights to make a claim on her. He never will.

Relegated to watching you grow old through someone else’s eyes, instead of being there with you, to hold and help and love.

The sensor beeps nearby. He turns his head to look, blinking away the moisture in his eyes and meeting the breaking dawn that shines in through the window. A red dot blinks at him. It’s only a few blocks away.

He imagines for a brief second if the victim this time was you.

You, carrying a little baby in your arms, calling him a murderer. The idea of taking her life-

He closes his eyes and wills the thoughts away. Damn that doctor for having the life he can never have. Damn him.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip

[nereidprinc3ss]

hii i love love how u write spencer omds🥸

uhh i was wondering if you could write sth based off the song “we’ll never have sex” by leith ross? pls dont feel pressured to write this btw😭😭😭 hope ur having a good day lovely💗💗

hello my love i have no self control so this is extremely long and plotty but i love this song and i hope that this is any good at all crying emoji (i'm on a laptop LOL) enjoy!!

warnings/tags: angst/fluff, fem!reader, negative self-talk from reader, mentions of past sexual coercion/feeling used, mentions of past excessive drinking to combat social anxiety, ive been watching a lot of new girl lately and i think it shows, SO FRIENDS TO LOVERS, happy ending

You weren’t expecting to end up on Spencer Reid’s worn-leather couch at two in the morning, clutching a chipped mug of coffee in your hands as you listen to the sounds of the city from the street below. But there you are, sitting with your legs folded under you, in your favorite dress and first date-night makeup (now bleeding and smudged from all the crying.) And realizing that despite considering him one of your closest friends, you haven’t been to his apartment in a long time. There are, of course, good reasons for that—but you try to push those from your mind. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you sigh, staring at your warped reflection in the glassy black surface of your coffee. Spencer is coming out of the small kitchen, now bearing his own cup. 

“Please, stop apologizing.” 

You glance up, tentatively studying him from behind the safety of your mug. While he may not have been asleep when you knocked on his door ten minutes ago, lachrymose and barely verbal, he must have been getting ready for bed. He’s clad in patterned pajama pants, mismatched socks, and an FBI crewneck that is just big enough to reveal the collar of the tee-shirt underneath. He’s already taken out his contacts, and you were startled by the reminder that he also has glasses. 

“So...” he begins, bringing you back to the present moment, “we don't have to talk about anything, if you don’t want to, but...” 

You sigh, watching coffee bubbles swirl like stars in a galaxy. 

“It’s fine. Honestly, I’m kind of embarrassed. I didn’t really think, I just... ended up here.” 

“Yeah... where did you come from?” he laughs quietly. “Not that I’m complaining. But I recall you not living super close by.” 

“No, no. I was actually on a date. Kind of.” 

“Ah.” There’s a beat of silence, and ostensibly Spencer is waiting for you to say more, but instead you take a sip from your mug. “At two in the morning?” You nod dully, staring at the labyrinthine pattern of the Persian rug.  

“I’m taking it that it wasn’t a very good date...?” 

A whoosh of air escapes from your puffed cheeks. 

“No it was not. Not by the end, anyway. It actually started really well, which made it even more disappointing when he...” you laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “Well, when he kicked me out of his car on a street corner because I didn’t want to sleep with him.” 

You don’t look to see Spencer’s reaction—only take another long, baleful sip of coffee and ignore the heavy silence.  

“I’m really sorry. You... you deserve so much better than that.” 

An attempt at a jaded scoff from you falls flat. 

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the last three white house interns I’ve gone on dates with. It’s the same thing every time.” 

“Have you considered going on fewer dates with white house interns...?” The nervous humor is a thin veil over genuine critique. You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“It’s not just them. Every single guy I’ve liked since I was 15 has been like this. Even my past relationships, I felt like I was almost... tricked into, you know? I mean, these guys, they act all understanding and willing to take it slow or whatever, until you’re in a relationship, and suddenly they’re guilt tripping you so hard and making you feel so obligated to...” you catch yourself just in time, glancing up at Spencer. You’re not sure what to make of his expression. The drawn brow and slightly squinted eyes trained so intently on you could be sympathy, or anger, or pity, or apathy—you look away, not sure you even want to know what he’s thinking. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear all about that. Basically romance is exhausting and since I’ll clearly be single forever I’m considering running away to join a nunnery.” 

When he doesn’t respond for too long, you look back up quizically. 

“I’m not sure you know what romance actually is,” he says as soon as your gaze meets his, like the eye-contact activated some kind of hair-trigger in his vocal box. 

You blink, lowering the coffee cup to your lap. 

Says Spencer Reid? 

“...sorry?” 

He flushes, stammering to clarify himself. 

“I just meant—I—I know I’m not exactly fighting women off with a stick—” he interrupts himself with a self-conscious (adorable) laugh— “but... but I have been in love, at least once.”  

“Maeve,” you say, gently—trying to shove down bitter guilt as you remember how jealous you’d been when Spencer had first told you about her. “I remember.” 

He swallows and nods. 

“We never even met—we just talked. All the time. I had no idea what she looked like. But it didn’t matter at all. Because I knew her, and I loved her. Maybe things would have gone further if I hadn’t been calling her from public phone booths, but that wasn’t the most important thing to either of us. We were still in love.” You try to shut out the sharp ache in your chest. Being jealous of the way he speaks about a dead woman is so wrong.  

“What I’m trying to say is that romance isn’t solely about sex, or even physical appearance. It sounds to me like you’ve been with a lot of men who don’t understand that. And it would be such a shame for you to write romance off in general before you even get to experience it. You are... an extraordinary woman. You’re funny, and intelligent, and kind, and so capable of being loved. One day, someone is going to see beyond your pulchritude and prove that to you. I hope you let them try.” 

More tears blur the pattern on the rug, pooling in the rims of your eyes before spilling down your cheeks in fast, fat drops. Shakily you set the cup down, resting your elbows on your knees and hiding your face in your hands. You sniff once. Twice. Shake your head quickly, attempting to wipe the tears away without further smearing your makeup everywhere. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Spencer breathes, leaning forward but obviously unsure how to comfort you. “Please don’t cry, I wasn’t--I was trying to do the opposite of this.” 

“No, I’m sorry! You didn’t have to—you didn’t—I’m sorry. That was way too nice.” 

But you're not crying because he was nice.  

Someone will love you, but not me. That’s all you can hear. 

His voice is a mere whisper when he next speaks. 

“I meant every word.” 

You take a shuddering breath, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve behind the peaceful black of your eyelids. You can’t be looking at his face when you say what you’re about to say. 

“I had a crush on you for the longest time, you know.” 

Ringing silence. But it doesn’t last as long as you’d imagined. It’s not as world ending. 

“Had?” 

The little smile in his voice is like a fist around your heart. 

“Yeah. You know what changed?” 

“What’s that?” 

Absolutely nothing. 

“Every time I got super drunk and started hitting on you, you’d just drive me home. And I did it a lot. Like, for months. But you were such a gentleman. It drove me fucking crazy. So eventually I figured you just didn’t like me and I gave up.” 

Another stretch of silence. A breeze comes in from the open window, fluttering the curtains and cooling the tears on your face. His response is sad when it finally comes. 

“You thought I didn’t like you because I didn’t try to take advantage of you when you were drunk?” 

“Pretty much.” You smile ruefully, fingertips still pressed over your eyes. “God, listen to me. No wonder I get treated like garbage.” 

“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself like that. Did you hear anything I just said?” 

You sniff, looking to the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It was really sweet.” 

More silence. 

“But you don’t believe it.” 

A bitter laugh poisons the air around you. 

“I don’t know.  I’m kind of tired of waiting for someone to prove it to me. Just for once, I want someone to be interested in me beyond having sex in the back of their fucking... Range Rover, or whatever. Like, maybe all that stuff you said is true, but there’s no evidence to support it, and I know logically you’re probably right but I can’t help wondering if... if I’m the outlier. Maybe there just isn’t someone for me like that. Maybe I’m just gonna be the sex in the back of the Range Rover girl forever.” 

A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob forces itself from your throat and you bury your face in your hands again, shaking your head. 

“Wow, I am so sorry,” you say a little too loudly, “I did not mean to be this honest tonight. Did you spike my coffee?” 

“You are not the outlier,” Spencer whispers.  

You sniff, lifting your head haltingly to look at him. 

“What?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he speaks. 

“You said you can’t help wondering if you’re the outlier, and maybe there just isn’t someone for you like that. That’s not true.” 

“Spencer, those are just words. You can’t possibly know that. Statistical probabilities don’t count.” 

“That’s... that’s not how I know.” 

Your heart drops as you study his face.  

No. 

Surely he’s not saying what you think he’s saying. 

Surely he wouldn’t do this to you after you’ve just told him everything you told him. You have been harboring feelings for him for years. Since you met. He can’t just spring this on you one night because you’re a little bummed out. If he felt the same, you would have found out a long time ago; he had ample opportunity to tell you. There was a period of months where you practically threw yourself all over him at every chance you got, and he did nothing. So this... this is just cruel—something you’ve never known Spencer Reid to be. 

You stand up, trembling slightly with rage and grief and humiliation. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t say things that you don’t mean just to make me feel better.” 

“What are you doing? Don’t--” 

You scoop up your purse, trying to get to the front door as fast as your gelatinous legs will allow. More tears are streaming down your face now and you don’t need him to see what he’s done to you—to see how much you care what he thinks. 

“It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you around—” 

A hand around your wrist stops you in your tracks 

“Stop. Just... please give me a second to talk, okay?” 

With nothing left to give, you turn to him. 

“Don’t be mean, Spencer. Don’t act like you liked me too. That makes me feel... so much worse.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself. Tawny eyes bore into your soul, and you realize that there is so much sheer nervous energy radiating off of him it’s infectious. Your heart begins to pound as he speaks. 

“I’m not doing that. I’m being an idiot, because you just told me that you don’t feel that way about me anymore but... but I do. And I have to tell you now because for six months I tortured myself wondering why you would flirt with me so much when you were hammered and then act like nothing happened the next day. There were so many times I almost told you how I felt but I didn’t and now I am because even if it ruins our friendship you need to know that somebody... that I wanted to be that person for you. I still do.” 

Your heart is like an unmoored zeppelin in your chest, bumping against your esophagus and threatening to either burst or jump out of your mouth. You take your chances, whispering so quietly it’s almost inaudible. 

“You... you like me?” 

“Yes,” Spencer sighs. “I have liked you for a very long time. And I’m sorry—” 

Whatever ridiculous thing he was going to apologize for, you don’t give him the chance. Instead you launch yourself at him, capturing his lips in a kiss that feels so much better than it’d ever been in your fantasies because it’s real. You hear his sharp intake of breath, but it only takes a second for him to respond, cradling your face in his hands like you’re the entire world. For a moment, time bends. Years of longing, of buried dreams crash into the present in a brilliant, dazzling explosion.

And then, as quickly as it started, he pulls away. The absence of his touch is like a vacuum, so much worse now that you know exactly how it feels to have his lips on yours, even if it was only for a few seconds. How the hell did you live like that for so long? How are you supposed to live like that ever again?

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he breathes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling like he’s barely holding onto his self control. “You just want someone to comfort you, I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state and confided in me which is manufacturing a false sense of attachment—” 

You grab his wrists, which still graze your jaw.

“Spencer, stop intellectualizing for thirty seconds. I promise you I am thinking clearly.” 

“You said you used to like me, past tense—” 

“Yeah, I did. Do you believe every single murderer who says he didn’t do it?” 

“No, but—” 

“Have you ever heard the phrase; a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts?” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then what more could you possibly need to be convinced that I really like you? I already kissed you! What is stopping you?” 

Another deep breath is taken by him that seems to suck all the air out of the quiet room. Briefly, you wonder if you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. If you really do like him so much more than he could ever like you.  

Until he looks back down, eyes so golden-brown in the dim light, so kind and full of affectionate concern as he carefully assesses every square centimeter of your face, looking for... well, you’re not exactly sure what. It’s like he’s extracting every thought from your head, turning them over like sun-warmed stones until he finds what he’s looking for. He smooths his hands over your hair, brushing strands away from your teary face. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of holding your breath, he speaks. 

“I just want you to believe what I believe about you. But I don’t want you to have to rely on me or anyone else for your own self-worth.” 

“Well, don’t you think very highly of yourself,” you tease with a sniffle. He laughs—it's quiet, but his smile is so bright without even trying that suddenly you can’t remember why you’ve ever been sad. The small miracle of his laughter makes you feel so light, and you realize it has nothing to do with the way he makes you feel about yourself. It has everything to do with who he is. 

Once the giggles die down, you tentatively mirror his hold on your face. 

“Spencer, I don’t like you because you like me. I’ve liked you for an embarrassingly long time. I liked you enough that I gave myself a severe hangover at least once a week for three months just so I could have an excuse to flirt shamelessly with you.” 

A half-sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he gently swipes under your eyes. 

“You never had to do that. I would have welcomed your sober brazen flirting with open arms.” 

“Well... do you believe me?” you plead. His amber eyes shine. 

“I do.” 

“Will you kiss me?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

You nod, rising on your toes to meet him halfway. 

When your lips meet again, it is sweet, and honest, and slow, and deep. Still, there is no desperation--no race to an imagined finish line, no clash of teeth and pawing hands. It is a kiss for the sake of it—as if it were the greatest intimacy. Not a precursor to sharing a bed, but something bigger than that in and of its own. Something just as worthy and important. For the first time, you think you’re beginning to understand romance. And while you wouldn’t mind if things did escalate, you also know that Spencer knows that’s not what matters right now. Because he actually understands you—he actually cares. He will wait until you understand that you mean so much more than that to him.

To that end, he pulls away, gently supplanting his absence with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“It would be polite of me to offer you a ride home, wouldn’t it?” he whispers, like it’s the last thing he wants to do. You bite the inside of your cheek, coming up with reasons not to go. One ridiculous one arises from the depths of your memory that you know he won’t be able to say no to. 

“Or... I could stay here, and we could watch one of those nerdy foreign films you’re always talking about?” 

A slow, perfect, high-watt smile blossoms on his face, and you know you’ve said exactly the right thing. 

“Nerdy? Oh, my darling girl... Soviet-era filmography is far from nerdy. небесная машина will completely defy what you thought you knew about the life of an average Russian villager in the 1950’s.” 

“Oh, good. Because I’ve really been meaning to change the way I think about the average 1950’s Russian villager,” you smile, already closing in to kiss him again. 

------------------------------------------ 

epilogue

Three hours later, you’re crying because the life of the average Russian villager in the 1950’s was so much worse than you’d previously thought. 

“It was good, right?” Spencer asks as the credits roll over a bleak snowy sepia landscape, leaning back to get a better look at you. You sit up from where you’d been leaning against him, furiously wiping your eyes. 

“It was terrible! Why didn’t you tell me that everyone except the kid dies in the end?!” 

“Because that’s the whole point of the movie!” he laughs, pulling you back into him. “I’m sorry. I probably should have explained how depressing this entire era of film was outside of the US.” 

“And also how long the movies were. I was not prepared for how many five minute long clips of empty fields there were going to be.” 

“You’re right,” he ammends, wrapping his arms around you in a way that gives you butterflies and makes you sleepy at the same time. “Next time we can watch whatever you want to watch.” 

Time passes like that—you in his arms, watching weak light slowly flood the room with half-lidded eyes and listening to the sounds of the city waking up from the street below, underscoring the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Thoughts float by like leaves on the ever-flowing current of your mind, and you’re happy to let them pass until one in particular catches your attention. 

“Spencer?” 

He hums, like he’d been deep in his own proverbial river of thought. 

“What does pulchritude mean?” 

It takes him a split second to remember the bit of conversation from earlier to which you are referring, but when he does, he chuckles, running his hand over your messy hair. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

And so you let it float away. 

[dazzlingjaeyun]

𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐞𝐧 (𝐨𝐭𝟕)

✧ just very short drabbles of how enhypen would spend time with their s/o

bf!enhypen x fem!reader (seperately)

୨୧ genre: pure fluff | words: 250-300 per member | cw: these are mostly very cliché, skinship, mentions of food ୨୧

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- ', lee heeseung ; 290 words ꒱ ↷

boyfriend!heeseung, being the gamer that he is, would definitely spend a lot of his free time in front of his computer – even when spending time with his significant other.

however, he would never make you feel left out or like he didn't care about you. he would always find a way to include you, exactly according to your needs.

you just want some time with him close to you? he'll carefully pull you down to sit on his lap, wrapping his arms around you tightly as soon as you get comfortable (making sure to turn down the volume and keep his occasional comments to himself whenever you fall asleep).

you want to get involved in the game? he'll let you sit on his lap, his chest softly pressed against your back and his arms wrapped around you as he guides your hands to show you how it works, eventually letting you play without his help once you get the hang of it. he'll smile proudly whenever you win, hugging you a little tighter and pressing a rewarding kiss on your cheek. "that's my girl."

you want to just watch him play? he'll let you, trying his best to not only look extra handsome for you but also to show you the best side of his skills.

you want to talk to him? he'll pause his game immediately (or leave his friends hanging if he's playing online where he cannot click pause), giving you his full attention – no matter if you want to talk to him about something serious or if you just want to tell him something you'd consider insignificant, such as what you had for breakfast.

"you know you're always my priority. you come first, gaming comes second."

other members under the cut!

- ', park jongseong ; 272 words ꒱ ↷

cooking is definitely one of jay's many ways to express his love for the people he cares about. when it comes to his significant other, boyfriend!jay would not only love to prepare meals for them, but also enjoy cooking together.

you'd stand in the kitchen of your shared apartment next to him, helping him prepare the ingredients for a new recipe he wanted to try with you (he'd tell you he randomly came across it, but in reality, he had been scrolling through countless websites the night before while you were fast asleep, trying to find something new to create out of your favorite ingredients).

although fully trusting you and your skills, jay would always glance over at you, making sure you didn't accidentally get hurt.

once the two of you had successfully prepared everything, he would start the actual cooking. you'd sit on top of the kitchen counter next to the stove (but far enough away to not get burnt or splashed with food, as per jay's instructions), reading out the recipe so he could follow the steps. whenever it's time to taste-test, he'd give you a spoonful of the food to make sure it suits your liking.

of course, he'd let you cook with him whenever you wanted, but he'd just love to spoil you (and to show off his skills to you, hoping it would make you fall for him even more, which – spoiler alert – it would).

whenever you eat together, it wouldn't matter much whether you engage in a lively conversation or just stay in comfortable silence. as long as you're with jay, everything feels just fine.

- ', sim jaeyun ; 287 words ꒱ ↷

as jake's significant other, you'd always have to share his heart with his beloved pet dog layla. luckily enough, you were just as in love with her as your boyfriend!jake – and she seemed to love you equally.

safe to say, quality time with jake would, at least many times, also include her.

you'd love taking long walks in the park with her, taking turns holding her leash, and letting her run free wherever it was permitted. jake would look at you lovingly whenever you knelt down to pet her or to pick up one of the toy balls she loved to play fetch with (sometimes, just sometimes, he would wonder if you were equally loving and caring with children and how it would be to have your own little family with him).

"watch this," you'd tell him, before showing him a trick you had secretly practiced with layla whenever jake wasn't around. he'd smile proudly at the two of you, quick to kneel down and praise layla with some affectionate words and a treat or two.

every once in a while, you and jake would playfully fight over layla's parenthood, you claiming that you had the right to be her mom officially, now that she chose to lay her head on your lap instead of his during your weekly movie night, and jake playfully telling you to "know your limits" (he wouldn't state the obvious: that she only chose you over him because the bowl of chips was on your lap and she was probably waiting for something to fall down).

"so you do love her more than me!" you'd shout jokingly, to which jake would whisper, "don't tell her, but i love you both equally."

- ', park sunghoon ; 265 words ꒱ ↷

as an ex-athlete, boyfriend!sunghoon would love to take his significant other on ice skating dates from time to time.

although not being an active figure skater anymore, he'd feel the happiest at the ice rink – and he'd love to share his passion with you.

the first few times, sunghoon would be extra careful, making sure you didn't get hurt or feel uncomfortable. he would stand in front of you, grabbing both of your hands in his. "just hold onto me, alright?" he'd say as he effortlessly skated backwards, pulling you with him (he'd claim he did that so you could get used to the feeling of being on the ice, but in reality, he just loved seeing the smile that spread across your lips as you slowly moved forward).

after you got the hang of it, the two of you would skate next to each other with your fingers intertwined, or you'd challenge him to a race (which you knew you'd lose, but seeing how he could speed up so effortlessly was just too remarkable). sometimes, sunghoon would let his competitiveness take over, but more often than not, he would still let you win, loving the way you'd cheer happily and enduring all your playful mocking – as long as it meant he could see you smile.

he'd be surprised when you told him you wanted to learn how to do a spin, but he'd be more than willing to teach you patiently.

when you'd finally get it right, he'd smile at you proudly. "see, that's why we're meant for each other, you're a natural."

- ', kim seonwoo ; 256 words ꒱ ↷

there's no one who's as much into skincare as sunoo, so naturally, he'd love to spend at-home spa days with his significant other.

after a nice bath with a bath bomb the two of you had picked out together, boyfriend!sunoo would softly apply body lotion to your back where you couldn't reach, before helping you into your robe and tying it carefully.

sunoo would open the drawer that contains his skincare, picking out just the right products for your skin's current needs. once you're back in his room, he'd instruct you to lay down on your back so he could apply the products to your skin, his hands gliding across your face in soft motions. he'd love to take his time, making sure you felt good in the process, too.

given the perfection of his skin, you'd be extra careful when it's your turn to take care of his face, not wanting to irritate it in any way. sunoo's heart would warm at the way you'd caress his face with such care, making it hard for him not to jump up and squish you in a tight hug.

"don't be scared, baby, i'm not going to break," he'd say with a playful smile, to which you'd pout your lips.

"but you're so perfect, i don't want to ruin it!" your reply would make sunoo's heart flutter even more.

he'd take your hand and bring it to his lips to place a short kiss on the back of it. "a perfect boy for a perfect girl."

- ', yang jungwon ; 289 words ꒱ ↷

i feel like boyfriend!jungwon would love to go on cute little dates with his significant other, keeping a good balance between exploring new places and going back to your favorites.

as ordinary as this may sound, with jungwon, you'd never get bored. not only because he'd always find the best places to go, the most fun activities to do, or the most delicious restaurants to try, but he'd also always share the most random thoughts that would come to his mind, always giving you a reason to either giggle or leaving you wondering what was going on inside his head.

for your first date, wanting it to be different from the usual first dates, he'd take you to a botanical garden, showering you with the most random facts about the most random plants (he'd claim that he was a natural when it comes to plants, while in reality, he had studied all different kinds of biology books in hopes of impressing you on your first date. only months later, when his cactus injang died, you'd find out that he wasn't that much of a natural after all).

whenever he'd take you to the cute cat café at the other end of town, he'd spend his time smiling brightly at the way you interacted with the pets, while keeping the one cat that always came running to him on his lap, petting it softly and occasionally meowing back at it. "look, y/n, this one looks like she likes to eat yogurt," he'd say, to which you'd chuckle gently, wondering where he'd gotten this idea from.

"and what do i look like?" you'd ask, smiling extra cutely, hoping you could fish for a compliment.

"you? you look like my future wife."

- ', nishimura riki ; 258 words ꒱ ↷

riki = dance, dance = riki. that's why riki would for sure love to have a significant other who is at least half as passionate about dancing as he is. boyfriend!riki wouldn't need his partner to be at his level, but since he'd love to spend his free time dancing, he'd love to share his passion with his significant other.

you'd always be impressed by how incredible he was, knowing that all his skills were gained from endless hours of practice. sometimes, you'd need to physically drag him out of the studio and to your shared apartment to make sure he'd get the rest he needed.

he'd love to let you watch random dance jams just as much as well-practiced choreographies. of course, he'd let you join him, challenging you to a battle from time to time. whenever you'd ask him to teach you something new, he'd immediately agree, patiently practicing with you until you were satisfied with it.

needless to say, the two of you would dance together as well, finding joy in the way your bodies synced and feeling closer and more connected to each other than ever.

whenever exhaustion took over, the both of you would lay down on the parquet floor, panting until you caught your breath. after some moments in silence, riki would pull you closer to him, your head on his chest, so you could listen to his heartbeat.

"you're getting better every day, y/n. guess i gotta practice harder or one day you'll surpass me. i could never let that slide."

© dazzlingjaeyun, 2024. please do not copy.

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[f1tales]

i beg you don't embarrass me, motherfucker - mv1

that's that me espresso || part five

previous part || next part

pairing: max verstappen x ofc!piastri

summary: oscar’s older sister is a singer, who’s taylor swift’s opening act for the eras tour. she goes to a few races on her break. she meets max; who thinks about her every night now. much to oscar’s annoyance.

author's note: it's very dialogue heavy towards the end, but it's a videocall and idk how to write that any differently. i also don't really know where i'm going with this whole fic, but i'm having fun writing it. it's like a little break from other fics i'm working on. more serious ones, maybe? idk. hope you enoy x

face claim: sabrina carpenter

Ivy hurriedly got out of the car. She rushed towards Max, who was still standing in front of the building with his arms crossed over his chest. The expression on his face was hard to read.

"Max," Ivy breathed out in front of him. She tried to smile, but her face trembled as she stood in front of him.

The media had really put her through it with her relationships before. But she never cared before. She wouldn't let the media ruin what she was trying to build with Max. She couldn't let them do that.

"I know how cliché this sounds, but it's really not what it looks like!"

Max frowned as he looked from Ivy to Daniel. Daniel was standing just a few meters away from them, by the side of his car. Ready to jump in the car and speed off should the situation demand it.

"Can you please look at me?" Ivy grabbed Max's hands. She smiled, "I came to surprise you."

"Consider me surprised," he muttered.

Ivy looked at him with an unimpressed look on her face. She crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine. Be like that. Don't hear me out then. Trust me, I have no problem getting back in Daniel's car and have him drive me straight back to Nice airport."

Ivy saw the way Max visibly deflated at those words. His arms dropped from the cross over his chest to the side of his body. He nodded, silently telling Ivy to continue. She looked around, they were still outside.

"First, we're going back to yours."

She turned on her heel to grab her suitcase from Daniel. She gave him a hug and thanked him for picking her up from the airport. She wheeled the suitcase behind her and dropped it in Max's hands before strutting towards his car.

Daniel laughed at the whole ordeal. It was a funny sight: Ivy, standing with her arms crossed next to the passenger side of Max's car and Max fumbling with his car keys to open the booth. Daniel waved at the pair when they finally drove off.

They drove in silence to Max's flat. They also rode the lift up in silence. Max opened the door for her, watching as she walked in. He trailed behind with her suitcase in hand.

Ivy sat down on the couch and patted the space next to her. She waited for Max to sit down next to her before she turned her body towards him.

"I don't know what you saw online, but I didn't fly all the way from Australia for you to just jump to conclusions about me and Daniel. I thought you knew me better than that. And if not me, at least Daniel."

Max stayed quiet as he looked down at his feet. She was right. He knew she was right. Yet, when he had seen those pictures online of Daniel and Ivy he couldn't help but jump to conclusions.

He released a long breath before looking at the gorgeous girl sitting next to him, "I'm sorry. I got so insecure when I saw you with Daniel. I know he's a lot better looking than I am and-,"

Before he knew it, Ivy had wrapped her arms around him. She placed a soft kiss on his cheek with a smile on her face.

"Don't ever say that again, okay?" Ivy firmly shook her head. "It's you I want. Not Daniel, okay?"

Max nodded, "okay."

Ivy grinned, "now, I've come to meet your fur children. Where are they?"

The Dutchman laughed as he stood up. He motioned for Ivy to follow him so he could introduce her to his cats.

Later that evening, Ivy was sitting on Max's couch. She had just showered and had changed into one of his hoodies. One she'd been wearing she he tactically left it for her at Daniel's farm weeks ago. Max was in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the two of them.

She had her phone in her hand, Oscar's face filling the screen. "It was just a misunderstanding."

Oscar didn't seem convinced on the other end of the line, "you sure? I can ditch the MTC now and be there in three hours to kick his arse."

The older Piastri sibling rolled her eyes, "I'm older than you, remember? I think if anything, I should look after you."

It was now Oscar's turn to roll his eyes, "I'm always going to look after you. Especially after you know."

"I know."

Ivy gasped when she felt something jump up on the couch next to her. She turned her head to find one of Max's cats curling up to the side of her. She smiled as she started stroking the cat. She turned back to Oscar.

"Where are you going?"

Oscar looked rather smart for a quiet night in. Ivy watched him rummage around in his apartment. He appeared back in the screen, "just dinner with Lando," he mumbled as he put his watch on.

The singer grinned, "why you all dressed up for dinner with Lando?"

"Please, Vee," he groaned, "we're friends. And it's a fancy restaurant."

"Hm, the blush on your face says something different. And I've seen the heart eyes you make at him. The whole internet has."

Oscar cleared his throat, "right I think you of all people should know not to believe the internet." He looked at her with his eyebrows raised. "Anyway, I'm leaving now."

Ivy heard footsteps approaching, which must mean Max finished cooking. "Okay, love you. Say hi to Lily and Lando for me." She laughed as Oscar groaned again.

"Okay, bye. Love you."

Max sat down on the couch with Ivy. He handed her a bowl of pasta, keepig one for himself. "What was that about?"

The singer shook her head with a smile on her face, "I'll explain at some point." They ate in silence for a while with the TV playing in the background, the Dutch version of First Dates playing. Ivy turned to Max, "can I show you a song I wrote after dinner?"

The driver's eyes widened, "of course! I'd be honoured."

Ivy grinned, "it's called Espresso."

part six coming soon

taglist: @mastermindbaby @charlesgirl16 @a-beaverhausen @shelbyteller @anilovessadbooks

[t-horn-n]

— the nights the wind grows teeth

pairing: silco x hard of hearing!reader (female) 

genre: a little of everything 

summary: a simple introduction, briefly. 

word count: 1 311

note: I have an unserious headcanon that Silco doesn’t drink anything from the Last Drop since Vander’s not the one pouring them.

anyway, prolly gonna be a series ???

You possess a capacity for calmness that so often escapes fissure folk.  It’s a quality that Silco appreciates even if that sort of level-headedness is off-putting to most, to the extent that many believe you’re either a stone cold bitch or just stupid enough to live in a constant state of ignorant bliss.  

Silco supposes that, temperamentally, you remind him of himself.  Sevika has his passion, but she also has a tendency to think with her fists.  Jinx has his intellect and intuition but she’s inclined to act out on her own.  You actually can exhibit an amount of forethought.  And, well, past the three of you, he can’t claim to be interested in anyone else. 

“Go home, kid,” Sevika says into your good ear.  “You’ve done enough for the day.”

It’s barely eleven at night and you know that she’s going to be running around for the next three hours, at least.  That, and you’re actually Sevika’s senior by a year, give or take.  She just likes to play big sister once in a while.  You like to let her.  

And you can’t say that you mind getting off a little early to sit in one of the Last Drop’s booths until you’re tired enough that you’ll be asleep on your feet by the time you trudge back to your bed.  Well actually, if you’re more inclined to be honest, which you aren’t, you would admit that you’re hoping it’ll be one of those occasions where your generous benefactor will slide into the seat across from you and lean forward so that you can light his cigar.  You’ve never quite understood why he likes the things considering that the fissures already have their fair share of smoke.  

Sometimes he’ll talk about the week’s plans, monologuing into your good ear, or he’ll talk about Jinx.  On other nights, when he knows that the ringing in your bad ear is particularly bad, he’ll let you sit in silence, watching his smoke writhe beneath the Last Drop’s grimy green light.  

Everyone knows that Silco is clever, but he is also observant, and he knows that it’s the biting, frosty nights that your hearing is the worst.  The uncomfortable whine is the loudest and even the sounds that you can hear become smothered and unfocused.  

It’s also when that unrequited ache, bone-deep, is the most needy.  

You’ve only had shimmer once.  It’s been too long for you to remember how it actually tasted, whether it was bitter or sweet; whether it burned your throat or whether they injected it straight into your veins.  But you can remember the way that it made you feel.  You’ve never been in love, but you figure that shimmer makes one as manic as love does.  

When it’s cold fog stalking the Lanes, rather than just the typical Gray, your severed ear calls out for the weightless sensation shimmer provided, but you’re sure that if you indulge, even when you feel like you won’t survive the phantom pains, you won’t be able to resist the drug the next time.  Or the next.  You can’t say that your life is bliss, but you know that you're much better off fighting the cold with the Last Drop’s liquor than you are addicted to shimmer.

“It’s bothering you tonight,” Silco states plainly.  

Before you is a glass of some mystery, clouded liquid.  All you’d asked for was something strong, hoping that it’d dull the persistent thrumming in your skull.  Silco, lounging across from you, has an unlit cigar dancing between his fingers.  You swear you’ve never seen him drink from his own bar.

“Yes,” you admit because you know anything else will lead to a pointless argument.  “But it’s not bad tonight.” 

“Hm,” he hums.

You’d only been to the Last Drop once before meeting Silco, officially that is.  And, you hadn’t really been there, all things considered.  You had been fifteen and had your ear pressed against one of its windows in order to hear the murmurs of whomever was inside.  Before you ran with Silco, you were an information runner.  It was simple and clean and tidy.  You’d play the part of the fly on the wall and whisper plans for hit-and-runs and smuggling jobs into the ears of your handlers and you’d get a cut.  It was simple, well, until you got caught.  

Now, it’s certainly true that your old job would be more difficult considering the circumstances.  The reason why Silco keeps you around, you suspect, is because you can be quiet and charming, when you want to be.  Your feet are coated in enough silver for you to make your way silently around the Lanes into places where people don’t want you to be.  And your center is soft and gooey enough to charm Piltees into trying shimmer.  Just this once, they’ll tell you.  That’s how you get them.

“A shipment is going out tomorrow and I expect that it will go better than the last one,” Silco says.  

He sounds submerged.  He repeats himself, slowly so that you can make out the movements of his lips in the low light, then continues, “We don’t need the Fireflies disrupting our schedule any more than they already have.” 

You nod and notice how odd he looks down among the general trouble of the Lanes.  

“You’ll be there tomorrow,” he says and it’s a fact.

He slides out of the booth, his cigar still unlit.  “It’s cold tonight.”

“I’m warm enough,” you tell him as you down the rest of your drink.  

The cobblestones beneath seep cold into the soles of your feet and the alleyways shuck their frosty breath onto your back on your way to your hole-in-the-wall apartment.  It’s cold there too.  And dark. 

There’s not really a kitchen, just a gas cooktop beside a muddy window.  A single stool sits at a counter and beyond that is a bed boxed in by three walls and an old dresser. 

“Hi, Jinx.” 

“Aw, how’d you know I was here?” she croons.

“I heard the sound of your breathing.” 

“No you didn’t,” she laughs.  

“No,” you agree.  “But you left my door unlocked.” 

“Oops.” 

You toss your jacket at her as you flip the light on, and Jinx is there, perched on your windowsill.  She swats away your oncoming jacket.  

“Close the window.” 

“You’re bossy.  Has anyone ever told you that?” she asks, twirling her hair around her fingers.  

She follows you into your bedroom and falls backward onto your bed.  She’s appeared in your apartment enough times that this is all routine, practically.  At least you’ve trained her to keep her boots off your bed.  

“Mhm,” you reply.

Your fingers are cold and slow moving as you unlace your shoes, tug them off, and throw them on top of your dresser.  You press your palm against the spot where you ear should be trying to warm it up.

“He sent you to make sure I didn’t trip up the stairs?” you ask, a little sarcastically but really, you’re somewhat flattered.

She groans and doesn’t answer you.  “He’s bossy too,” she whines.  

“He is.” 

You fall onto the bed next to her head.

“Did you know that you’re the only one he comes down to that shitty bar for?” 

“Mm?”  You only caught half of her sentence.

“He just sits in that chair and frowns.”

Jinx always makes enough conversation for both of you.  You wonder how often she fills in your parts herself.

It’s likely stupid of the thought to even cross your mind, but on these particularly cold nights when you are feeling particularly unlike yourself—when you are in pain and you crave what you shouldn’t have and your regrets feel the most potent—Silco feels particularly like a friend.  You almost scoff.  That’s a dangerous thought.

“If you’re sleeping here, you’re getting the light,” you tell Jinx.

— m. list

[lemoncrushh]

Kinda Perfect

Summary: It's a girls' night out and Harry shows up, but you decide not to let your new friend Tiffany know that Harry is your boyfriend.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1230

A/N: Real Harry x y/n, written in 2017. Originally an oc, edited to be a reader fic. Thanks for voting for me to repost all these silly little fics lol. I used to refer to these as blurbs or drabbles, but I think the definitions have changed over the years. They will still be listed under one shots on my masterlist, but they are shorter than most of my other one shots, around 1200-1600 words.

"Oh my God!" Tiffany shouted before immediately covering her mouth with her hand.

"What is it?" you asked, swirling your straw around your glass.

"Is that..." she leaned closer to you in the booth and whispered loudly, "Harry Styles?"

Your eyes followed her gaze across the room where indeed you spotted the tall, handsome man.

"Oh. Yeah," you smirked.

"Wow. Have you seen him here before?"

You nodded. "A few times."

Tiffany sighed, sitting back. "He's so..."

You raised a brow. "So what?"

"Gorgeous."

You jutted out your bottom lip as you pretended to consider her comment. "You think?"

"God, yes. Don't you?"

You chuckled lightly. "I suppose so."

Just then, your best friend Linda returned from the restroom with Jan. Scooting into the booth across from you, Linda grinned at you.

"He's here, did you see?" she cocked her head toward the front of the room where Harry stood.

"Yes," you eyed her.

She bit her lip as she acknowledged your intent.

"Are you talking about Harry?" asked Tiffany, your new oblivious friend.

"Yeah," Linda said quickly before lifting her beer.

"Do you guys know him or something?"

"Oh, yeah, he's Y/N's-" Jan began before you kicked her under the table. "Ouch!"

You watched Tiffany's eyes widen as she gasped. "He's your what?"

"Friend," Linda finished.

"Yeah, friend," Jan grimaced as she rubbed her shin.

"Oh! How lucky. Does that mean...I get to meet him?"

Your gaze shifted between your two other friends who just looked at you dumbfounded. Then you addressed Tiffany nonchalantly.

"Probably."

"Oh gosh! Um...maybe I should go to-"

Tiffany's words stopped abruptly when she saw the tall figure walking toward you. You bit your tongue and held my breath as Harry stepped up to your table, an easy grin on his face.

"Hello, ladies," he greeted.

"Hi, Harry," Jan and Linda said in unison.

He raised his brows at you, noticing my silence. You lifted your hand and wiggled your fingers in a poor attempt of a wave. You could practically feel the nerves emitting from Tiffany as she stared up at him.

"Harry, this is our friend, Tiffany," you said.

With typical Harry Styles charm, his smile widened to reveal his perfect teeth as he held out his hand.

"Hello, Tiffany."

"Lovely to meet you," she replied in a slightly shaky voice.

You giggled to yourself as Harry's eyes locked on Tiffany's, and you saw her blush. You could feel Linda and Jan looking at you, but you knew if you turned my head you'd lose your cool.

"Are we having drinks?" asked Harry when he let go of Tiffany's hand.

"Yep," answered Jan, lifting her nearly empty glass.

"Need another one, I see. I'll be right back."

Harry patted his hand against the table, his rings clicking, before turning in the direction of the bar. However, he was stopped mid-way by a couple other people that he knew, and because he was always so polite, he engaged them in conversation.

"I should probably just get my own drink," remarked Jan with a smirk.

"He's kind of a dork," scoffed Linda.

"Are you kidding me?" asked Tiffany incredulously. "He's kinda perfect."

You dropped your head to keep from laughing as you heard Linda snicker.

"What? What did I say?"

"No guy is perfect," Linda answered. "Even Harry Styles."

"Well, I beg to differ." Tiffany sat back and crossed her arms. "Of course I could never be so lucky to get a guy like that."

"Oh c'mon, Tiff, yes you could," said Jan.

"No way," Tiffany shook her blonde curls. "He's way out of my league."

"Eh, he's not so great," you commented. "He's just like any other guy. He curses and smells sometimes."

Tiffany's jaw dropped as she glared at you. "But you're friends with him. Surely you know how amazing he is."

You shrugged. "I mean, he's cute, I'll admit. And he's funny. But he's...kind of overrated. He's annoying as fuck."

"I have a hard time believing that," Tiffany laughed.

"It's true," you rolled your eyes. "And he's not even a good kisser."

The collective gasp at the table was audible as you realized what you'd just said.

"You've kissed him?" Tiffany whined.

"Um...whoops," you mumbled.

Your eyes met Linda's as she shook her head, silently telling you you'd gone too far. You sucked in your lips and looked up, hoping to God Harry hadn't decided on that moment to stroll back to your table. You were relieved when you saw he was still chatting with a small group of people.

"Did...did you guys date?"

"Um..." you grabbed you cocktail and took a hesitant sip, prolonging your reply. Fortunately Jan took the liberty of replying for you.

"You could say that."

"Oh," Tiffany sighed. "What hap- I mean...why aren't you...um...never mind. It's none of my business."

Before you could say anything else and let her know it was okay, Harry returned to your booth with a glass in each hand. He set them in front of Jan and Tiffany who both smiled and said thank you. Then with a smirk, he beckoned you. Sliding out of the booth, you followed him to the bar where he handed you a drink. As you took a sip, he slipped his hands around your waist.

"I missed you," he whispered in your ear.

"Me too," you said softly before planting a soft kiss on his jaw.

"Mmm," he sounded at the touch. "What time can we leave?"

You chuckled, looking down at your cocktail. "I told you it's a girls' night tonight."

"All night?"

"Mmhmm," you nodded.

"So when do we get a Harry and Y/N night?"

"Maybe when you stop following me everywhere," you teased.

"'m not following you," he laughed with a hint of a pout.

Blinking slowly, you looked up at him. "Do you wanna be with me, H?"

Lifting his brows, he nodded. "Yeah."

Tilting your head slightly, you raised your hand to brush his cheek before kissing his lips. "Then be with me."

Turning for the booth, you made your way to the other side and sat down next to Tiffany. You saw that she was fiddling with a napkin, folding the corners until they met in the middle, then opening it up only to do it over again. Your heart sank in your chest. You felt horrible.

"I'm sorry," you murmured.

"It's okay," she blinked, not taking her focus from the napkin.

"No, that was cruel of me. I thought I'd have a little laugh, playing a little trick to see if you'd catch on. But it backfired. I'm really sorry."

You felt Harry sit down on the other side of you as he reached across the table to give Linda her glass. You heard her say thanks as Tiffany shrugged and looked at you.

"It really is okay," she smiled. "So you are together?"

A hand touched your back then, and you felt a warmth surge through your body. Swallowing hard, you nodded. "It's still really new...but yeah."

"I'm happy for you," Tiffany said. "I just hope you know how lucky you are."

You sighed as Harry's fingers traveled up your back and then down your arm until his hand found yours.

"I think I do," you grinned as you squeezed his hand. "And you're right. He is kinda perfect."

If you enjoyed, please like, comment, reblog or send me a msg!

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[maskedbyghost]

Shadows of Obsession (part 3)

part 1, part 2 TW: stalking, kidnapping, captivity, obsession, you know the drill.

Their days are always the same. Mornings begin with the sound of a heavy lock clicking and faint light pouring through the narrow windows of the secluded house. She stirs on the bed he chose for her—too soft, too warm, and far too suffocating, a constant reminder that it isn’t hers. It’s his, like everything else here.

He’s there before she’s fully awake, standing silently in the doorway, watching her. He doesn’t speak right away—he doesn’t need to. His gaze is enough. She pretends not to notice, burying herself deeper under the covers, but he’s patient.

“Breakfast,” he finally says, his voice almost tender. She doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t care.

She sits at the table, silently eating while he studies her from across the room. He makes the meals himself, carefully plating them as if she’s royalty. Sometimes, he talks, sharing stories about his missions or memories that feel like fragments of a life she’ll never understand. Other times, he just watches her, his eyes like a storm she can’t escape.

Her days are spent within the confines of the house. There’s no way out—she’s checked every door, every window, even considered the forest beyond. But he’s always a step ahead, always prepared. He leaves her books, ones he insists she’ll like.

“You’ll thank me one day,” he says when she refuses to open them. “You’ll see I’m doing this for you.”

Afternoons are when he’s the most... suffocating. He lingers too close, his fingers brushing hers as he hands her something, or trailing along the back of her chair as he walks by. He never forces anything, but his presence is constant.

Nights are the worst. He lets her lock her bedroom door—a sick semblance of control he grants her—but she knows he’s just on the other side. Sometimes, she hears him pacing; other times, she swears she hears him whispering her name.

There are moments when he almost seems human—when his voice softens, when he speaks of a future where she’ll stay because she wants to, not because she has to. Those moments terrify her more than his darkness because they make her question everything.

But he’s always there, always waiting.

And she knows, deep down, she’ll never be free of him.

Days blur into weeks, or maybe it’s longer—she’s lost track of time. There’s no clock in the house, no calendar to mark the passing days. He’s erased everything that could connect her to the outside world. All she has now is him, his constant presence, a weight she carries even in her sleep.

Sometimes, she fights back in small ways. She refuses to eat, pushes the plates away when he places them in front of her. His response is calm, infuriatingly so.

“You’ll eat when you’re hungry,” he says, as if it’s a fact, not a demand. And he’s always right.

Other times, she tries to provoke him, to find cracks in his calm demeanor. She throws his books, smashes a plate, screams until her voice is raw. He never raises his voice, never retaliates. Instead, he picks up the pieces, as if to show her that no matter what she does, she can’t break him.

“I know you hate me,” he says one evening as he collects the shards of a glass she shattered against the wall. His voice is low, almost mournful. “But I'll do everything to change your mind.”

It’s the nights that wear her down the most. Alone in her room, she feels his presence just beyond the door. His pacing is rhythmic, a constant reminder that he’s always near. Sometimes, it stops, and the silence feels worse. She knows he’s still there, waiting, listening.

One night, after hours of sleeplessness, she hears the soft scrape of paper sliding beneath her door. For a moment, she doesn’t move, her heart pounding in her chest. Slowly, she gets up and picks it up—a note, written in his handwriting.

"I’m sorry for what I’ve taken from you, but I’ll give you everything in return. Just let me in."

She crumples it without a second thought, but the words linger in her mind long after.

The next morning, he doesn’t mention it. He acts as though nothing has happened, setting breakfast on the table and watching her with that same intensity. But there’s something different in his eyes—an edge of desperation she hasn’t seen before.

“You can talk to me,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice is quieter than usual. “I’ll listen. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you want to say... just tell me.”

She laughs, sharp and bitter. “You don’t care what I feel. If you did, you wouldn’t have brought me here.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks away, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I do care,” he says finally. “More than you know.”

The sincerity in his voice unnerves her. It’s easier to hate him when he’s the cold, calculating man who took her, who controls every aspect of her life. But in moments like this, when his mask slips, she doesn’t know what to feel.

She wants to scream at him, to demand her freedom, but the words catch in her throat. Deep down, she knows it’s useless. He won’t let her go.

And yet, she can’t stop the question that escapes her lips: “Why me?”

He looks at her then, really looks at her, as if she’s the only thing in the world. “Because you were made for me, love,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth he’s ever spoken.

For the first time, she realizes that no matter how much she fights, he’ll never let her go. Not because of control, or power, but because he believes it with every fiber of his being.

One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, she sits at the table, absently stirring the soup he made. He’s across from her, watching her every movement.

“I can’t keep living like this,” she says suddenly, her voice breaking the oppressive silence.

His gaze doesn’t falter. “You are living. I’m taking care of you.”

“This isn’t living,” she snaps, her spoon clattering against the bowl. “This is existing in a cage you built.”

He leans forward, his forearms resting on the table, his face unreadable. “It’s not a cage. It’s a sanctuary.”

She stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “A sanctuary? You’ve taken everything from me—my life, my choices, my freedom!”

His expression hardens, the calm veneer cracking. “I’ve given you safety. You don’t know what’s out there, what could’ve happened to you. Here, you’re protected. Here, you’re mine.”

The words hit her like a slap, stealing the air from her lungs. She stares at him, the weight of his obsession pressing down on her.

“You’re insane,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

He stands too, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. For a moment, she thinks he’ll lose control, but instead, he takes a deep breath, his voice softening. “Maybe. But I’d burn the world to keep you safe.”

She shakes her head, backing away. “I’ll never understand you. I’ll never be okay with this.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t stop her as she retreats to her room, slamming the door behind her. She locks it, her hands shaking, but she knows it’s a hollow act. The lock isn’t for him—it’s for her, a fragile illusion of control in a world he’s taken over.

That night, the whispers returned. She presses her ear to the door, her breath hitching.

“You’ll see, love,” his voice murmurs from the other side. “You’ll see I did this for us.”

The tension coils tighter, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. She knows it’s only a matter of time before it breaks—and when it does, there will be no going back.

PART 4

--------------------------------------------

girl... just fall in love with him already

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic @identity2212 @tessakate

[jolalibrary]

going to make you sweat

javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist

summary: it's the hottest day of the year; you and javi want to make it hotter.

rating: 18+/explicit warnings: explicit smut. somewhat established relationship. jo's spelling, jo putting to practice her spanish. wordcount: 1.9k

It begins with the sound of the fan.

Whirring. Whirring. Blowing nothing but warm, sticky heat around the over-boiled place.

For four days, the sun has been beating down relentlessly, acting as another unforgiving tyrant ruling over Colombia, forcing waves of heat to seep into homes, regardless of whether doors and windows are closed.

All but forcing everyone to seek refuge from the scorching onslaught.

It's why he's home.

It's why you didn't protest when his hand found your lower back, guiding you out to the passenger seat of his vehicle.

The unspoken understanding between you both fizzes in the air. All silence, discreet.

Just like the rest of the clandestine nature of your relationship.

Now, you’re lying as still as possible. Not even considering sliding your leg over to touch his—even if usually, you’d have done it a handful of times.

Cool showers offered no relief—your skin was already slick with dampness before you finished drying off. Every movement made the heat feel unbearable, trickling down your neck. Your limited attire, stuffed in a spare drawer at his, offers no relief; the white tee and panties cling to your skin, feeling like additional layers you long to peel away from your bones, not just your skin.

Your eyes flick towards him at the sound of his lighter—at the paper burning at the end, before the scent greets your nostrils.

Normally, it would barely irritate you, but now it twists your annoyance into a knot and uses it to fuel its fury. A glare not forcing him to stub it out, your mood souring, further making beads of perspiration collect along your collarbone and drip down the valley of your breasts, all but pooling where your body bends and creases as you remain on the sofa.

You can feel him watching.

Eyes likely following the path of sweat descending under your top—because even in unbelievable temperatures, you’re sure he’s mentally undressing you.

Because he looks wrecked, even with the cigarette burning between his fingers/.

Javier Peña's usually put-together look of swept-to-the-side hair is currently stuck damp to his forehead as sweat drips off the end of his sloped nose. The look is so reminiscent of what you’d imagine he'd look like if he had a full free day to fuck you; if it wasn’t rushed quickies or long, drawn-out nights before the two of you collapsed into sheets before doing it all over again on three hours of sleep.

At some point between coming home early and sitting beside you, his barely buttoned shirt has been discarded, leaving him in a pair of shorts he’d pulled on when he’d been grumbling about the fucking heat, paperwork and bureaucracy all in the space of a minute.

The fact he'd shed most of his layers allows you to trace your eyes down his body. Glance at the soft curve of his stomach, the firmness of his chest and those biceps you see flex when he’s leaning when he’s doing all he can not to flick his eyes from your face to your tits.

He's already caught you.

Taking a drag on his cigarette for a suspiciously long time before blowing the smoke out in one smooth movement. Eyes on you. Fixed. Never unfocused.

And fuck, if it doesn’t make you want him that much more.

“It’s too hot.”

“I said nothing.”

You snort. Loud. Full of intent.

Mind a scrambled mess of want, as your hips shift when your eyes flick south of his neck and land on his thighs.

“C’mon, Cariño,” he drawls, stubbing out his cigarette—punching the lit end out until it’s snuffed, “Come sit on my lap.”

A battle ensures in your skull. It’s weak, both the for and against, which is how you find yourself straddling him, palm flat to your thighs—finding the heat from his body no more intense than the sweltering environment around you.

“This what you want, me all sweaty on you?”

He chews his cheek, a glint in the dark of his eyes, a blip in the pool of desire—and your heart pounds in your chest. Breaths coming in short gasps, matching the rhythm of the fan in the corner.

"I'd have you on top of me however I can."

"Course you would," you retort.

His fingers flex, itch. Sneak in inches up your skin as he continues to breathe slowly, in and out, out and in.

You’re not sure who moves first, but your lips find his—passionate, fiery. Teeth almost grazing but your tongue slides in and licks past his teeth, swallowing his moan, his hiss, as you roll your clothed pussy over his hardening cock, tasting nothing but smoke, coffee and mint, a combination you know to be him.

“Mm—fuck,” he groans.

He sounds pained when he drags his mouth from yours, his fist full of the back of your sweat-soaked tee as he drags it off over your head—throwing it, it landing on the tiles with a wet slap, forcing your head to snap to the sound.

But he’s on you.

Mouth latching to your nipple, tongue swirling, before tracing a line up your breast and across your collarbone.

“Taste so fucking good, cariño.”

It’s stifled, the moan—forcing your best smirk to show, “Put your head between my thighs and say that, Peña.”

And he considers it.

Your words.

Head tilting marginally, the slightest of movements that he’ll pretend never occurred. But he moves, shifts. Practically bucks his hips into you as he repositions, and you land on your bare back on the sofa with an oomph.

A comment arrives on your tongue, almost fizzling before it’s swallowed at the way forces your knees together and yanks your panties down your thighs. Soaked, ruined—both from the mere existence of him and the heat. Discarding them, throws them into some dark space as he glances down at the place between your thighs.

“Even in this heat, she’s pretty.”

You try not to turn away, bury your face in the smoked-scented cushions of his sofa as his words meet you. A sudden desire to hide, to cover—

“You not like that, cariño, when I call her pretty?” His knuckles part your folds, teasing, dragging them up and down as you squirm, whine his name. “Tell me.”

Somehow, all fucking unknown to you, more heat floods your cheeks. It's embroiled in embarrassment, shyness—two things you’re sure he spends most of his time trying to fuck out of you, but has failed to do so thus far—

He says your name.

Not your nickname. Not agent.

Eyes snapping to him, throat dry as he continues to tease, as his thumb presses on your clit and makes you hiss.

“No—ffff-feel embarrassed, alright? Fuck.”

You hear his tongue click—it’s the last thing you hear before ringing. Before two fingers slide into you, slide with ease as they delve deep, his frame coming over your body as he moves them, as he curls them. Doing his best to undo as his eyes come into focus, the top of his tongue dragging over his parted lips.

And the ringing dies down.

Forced to as a pebble of sweat falls from his nose and drips to your breastbone.

“No need to be embarrassed with me.”

Your hips try to buck and seek.

“Impaciencia,” he groans—moisture glistening at the base of his throat, palm keeping you down, still, fingers curled inside of you as you gasp. “You’re… fuck. I need to taste you.”

The breath of his words sweeps over your inner thigh.

“Javi, don't tease—“

“I’ve got you, cariño—don’t worry. I’ll make you come again, and again, and…”

You’re not sure if he speaks the last again—or if it’s buried into your pussy. A high chance you blank it out with other noises as his tongue fucks into your hole. Finger on your clit, swirling, drawing shapes your brain can’t manifest or conjure as you become aware of your moans.

Out of instinct, your fingers find his hair—slick with sweat, trying to curl between your fingers as his tongue flattens. All precise, taunting. Forcing you to the edge and dangling you before pulling you back.

It almost makes you thrash, forcibly lift your hips against him when his face lifts—face slick with your want as he smirks.

“Lo sé, cariño.”

“Please.”

It leaves your lips undignified, dignity gone, transformed into more raw, desperate—a plea that cuts through heat. One answered as he lifts your knee over his hip, feeling bare skin, red hot body heat and the nudging of his cock at your entrance.

He steals your breath, it stammering as he sinks into you in one fluid movement. Your fingers grasp, finding the hair at the nape of his neck again as his mouth comes to your ear, hearing it, the hiss between clenched teeth.

When he moves, your lips find his. It’s different, softer and almost gentle. All measured movements gone, lost, thrown out when you breathe him in, when your mouths are open, moaning into each other's throats as your heels dig into his lower back.

And you want to hold on.

But he’s driven you mad. Teeth grating over his shoulder as you tug on his hair. Tasting it, sweat, sex and salt. Your neck further coated in the slick of the heat, the moment; perspiration trickling, sliding over your skin as his hand grasps your hip firmly. Tightly. Practically noticing the hints of intimacy the two of you pretend aren’t there, but rumble and thrum whenever the two of you are alone.

And the thought adds to the feeling of that impending wave rising inside of you again, more angry, needy than it had been before—

“So good for me, cariño. My good girl.”

“Yours.”

It snakes out, too late to retract. Not even caring that it’s there, staining the space between you both, polluting it. Because it’s the truth.

Some days the only thing you can full on believe—

“Yeah, that’s it. Mine, right? All fucking mine?“

His hips thrust into you harder, matching the tone that makes you even wetter than you were seconds before.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

“Yes. Yes. Ye—”

“Fuck, cariño.”

You‘re close. So close. It almost blinding in the way it tries to force your eyes to clench shut, but you can't look away. Not from him. Each flex of his muscles, the way his teeth grit as he fucks into you, makes your body both taut and boneless.

“Wanna feel you, cariño,” he groans, breath ragged, tortured out. “Let me feel you come, baby. Please.”

Tightening around him, fingers jerking on his hair, he meets your eyes.

Not able to fight it, not able to stop it from unravelling as it begins to crest—

"Let me feel you come, baby. Please." His tone all full of gravel, insistent, demanding. Practically unwilling to bend as it brushes itself into your ear. 

His name cracks out of your throat like thunder, slamming against the walls as it rips through you. Making your back arch into him, hearing him groan; hearing him hiss and fucking moan as you shake, thighs quaking around his sweat-tinged skin before he grunts as he spills into you.

It’s silence, except for heaving breaths.

The dull noise of the fan comes back to you, replacing the ringing from before as you slowly peel your legs from his body.

You’re not sure what you expect when he lifts his head, but it isn’t the look there. The one matched with a smile, sly but still a smile—chest rising and falling as he kneels, staring down at you.

Taking you in, flicking his eyes to the place the two of you had just been conjoined.

“Fucking hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And even if you roll your eyes, you hide a smile behind the back of your hand, whispering a "Cállate, Peña."

[lvnleah]

our little footballer.

find the series masterlist here!

May 2028 | 3 years old. 

“Mumma! Mummy!” Finley's voice rang through the house, bright and eager, just before the bedroom door swung open. The sound of his small feet pattering on the floor signalled the start of the day. The sun hadn’t even risen fully yet, but Finley was already wide awake. 

“Wake up! I play football today!” he shouted, his excitement contagious. 

Leah groaned softly as Finley climbed up onto the bed, his small but surprisingly strong hands gripping the duvet as he scrambled over to her side. He didn't hesitate before plopping himself right down onto her chest, causing her to let out a playful “Ooft!” in protest.

“When did you get so big, huh?” she asked, her voice still thick with sleep as she blinked her eyes open to look at him. “You’re still a baby!”

Finley giggled, his blonde curls bouncing as he sat proudly on top of her, his eyes shining with excitement. “Me a big boy now, silly Mumma!” he declared, puffing his little chest out. “I play football today!” He wiggled with joy, barely able to contain himself as he repeated the words.  

From your side of the bed, you smiled at the scene, watching the two of them. Leah looked at you with a tired but affectionate smile. 

Leah gently lifted Finley off her chest and sat him between the two of you. “And what time is it, Mr. Big Boy?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.  

Finley frowned, his face scrunching up in concentration. “It’s... football o’clock!”  

You and Leah both laughed at that. “Football o’clock, huh?” you said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Pretty sure it’s still early, bubs.”

“Early birds score goals, right?” Leah added with a grin. She sat up, rubbing her eyes before planting a quick kiss on Finley’s forehead. “Alright, alright. Let’s get you ready for your big day.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Finley scrambled off the bed, hopping down and running toward his tiny closet where his kit and boots waited. Leah had laid them out the night before, knowing full well he’d be up at the crack of dawn, ready to go. 

“Look!” Finley called out, holding up his mini Arsenal kit with pride. “I’m gonna score a goal today! Beffy said I’m the best striker!”

Leah smirked, glancing over at you with that playful gleam in her eye. “Beffy said that, did she?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile. “You know she’s been trying to claim him as a striker since he was born.”

“Well, we’ll see about that,” Leah said, “He’s got defender written all over him.”

Finley, still holding his kit, looked over at you both, confused. “What that?”

Leah walked over, crouching down to his level. “It means you stop the other team from scoring goals. Like how Mumma does.”

“Oh,” Finley said, considering this for a moment. Then his face lit up. “But I want to score goals like Beffy!”

Leah laughed, shaking her head. “Alright, little striker. We’ll see how you do today.”

You got up as well, heading toward the kitchen to make breakfast while Leah helped Finley into his kit. His little boots were placed neatly by the door, and you could hear him excitedly chatting away as Leah knelt down to lace them up. 

By the time breakfast was ready, Finley was already fully dressed, bouncing from foot to foot as he waited impatiently. 

“Look, Mummy!” he called out, running toward you in his mini kit, his boots thudding against the floor. “I’m ready!”

“You sure are,” you said, smiling as you set his plate down. “Now let’s make sure you eat something before all that running around.”

Finley, never one to sit still for long, hurriedly ate his breakfast, his legs swinging beneath the table. He had gotten so big over the past three years and you sometimes wondered where your tiny baby had gone. 

He was now in preschool for two days of the week and was a little chatterbox, you and Leah never heard a minute of silence anymore. 

A few weeks ago, Leah had insisted on getting him the best pair of boots, even though you knew he'd outgrow them in a matter of months. She’d picked up a tiny pair, with bright blue stripes running along the sides. 

“He looks so grown up,” Leah said, her voice cracking just a little.

You smiled and shook your head. "He’s three, Leah. He’s still a bubba."

After what felt like an eternity to Finley, the time finally came to head out. The drive to the local park was filled with the sound of Finley’s non-stop chatter. He talked about scoring goals, saving shots, and how Beth and Lia were coming to watch him just like he’d asked them to. His excitement was infectious, and even though Leah tried to stay calm, you could tell she was as eager as Finley was to see him play.

When you arrived, Finley hopped out of the car and immediately started bouncing up and down, his energy at an all-time high. 

“There’s Beffy!” he squealed, pointing as Beth, Lia, and Viv got out of their car. 

Beth knelt down to greet him, pulling him into a hug as he ran into her chest. “There’s my little striker! Ready to score some goals today?”

“Yes!” Finley replied, nodding enthusiastically.

Viv chuckled, ruffling Finley’s hair. “You're going to be so good, Finn!”

Finley seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m gonna score goals!”

Lia smirked, nudging Beth. “Looks like you’ve already won him over.”

Leah crossed her arms with a teasing glare toward Beth. “We’ll see about that.”

The session began soon after, and as Finley joined the other kids, the rest of you stood on the sidelines, watching proudly. His excitement was still there, but there was a determination in his little face as well—a little frown identical to Leah’s. 

When the ball finally came to him, he took a deep breath, and with one swift kick, sent it straight into the net.

The cheers from the sidelines were deafening.

“Striker!” Beth shouted, grinning as Leah just shook her head with a smile. “See, what did I tell you?” Beth grinned, nudging Leah. “Natural-born striker.”

Leah shook her head, but there was no denying the joy in her eyes. “Beginner’s luck.”

But then it happened again. Another shot, another goal. This time, Finley turned to the sidelines, arms raised high as if expecting a stadium’s worth of applause. And that’s exactly what he got. You and the girls clapped and cheered like you were in the stands of the Emirates.

Beth was the first to run over, scooping Finley into her arms again. “Two goals! He’s definitely following in my footsteps.”

Leah laughed, though her eyes never left Finley. “We’ll see. He’s still got time to be a defender!”

Lia smirked, leaning in toward you. “I’m betting on goalkeeper.”

The session eventually came to an end, and Finley ran over, red-faced and grinning, sweat dampening his blonde curls. He plopped down on the grass, looking up at you and Leah with a satisfied sigh.

“Can I play for Arsenal one day,” he asked as you handed him a juice box. 

Leah knelt down next to him, “You just might, buddy. But remember, it’s all about having fun.”

As you all made your way back to the car, Finley chattered non-stop about the session. His excitement was infectious. Leah squeezed your hand as you both walked behind the group.

“Our little footballer,” she said quietly, her voice filled with pride.

You smiled, squeezing back. “Yeah, our little footballer.”

And though it was just the first of many football sessions to come, you both knew it was the start of something special. 

[fluentmoviequoter]

Always and Never Our Time

Requested Here!

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: You love Deacon and Deacon loves you, but you keep missing one another because the time is never right. Until your time, imperfect and late at night, finally comes along.

Warnings: angst to fluff, insecurities and misunderstandings, canon divergent, comfort at the end

Word Count: 4.3k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

It’s tiring watching the man you dream about from a distance. Though you’re standing inches from him, working side-by-side with your life in his hands daily, there’s a distance between you and Deacon Kay that you’re desperate but unable to close. You love Deacon - have loved him for years - but you missed your chance. The brief moment where you simply knew Deacon, where you could have made your dream come true had you just told him how you felt, came crashing down when it ended.

The weight of your unspoken feelings grows more suffocating each day that passes. But the timing isn’t right, so you’ll stay by his side and support him in everything. If, or when, your time finally comes, you’ll be ready.

“How’s Annie?” Luca asks as you exit Black Betty.

Once upon a time, Deacon offered a hand to help you. Today, as he talks about his girlfriend, you thank Hondo for his assistance as you place your palm over his and jump onto the asphalt.

“She’s great,” Deacon answers, sending an invisible glance your way. “She pointed out again that we could have been married by now if I’d asked her out sooner.”

“Good things come to those who wait, that’s what you always say, right, Deac?” Tan interjects.

You barely conceal your amused snort at that; if all you had to do to get good things was be patient, a lot of people would stop fighting for the things they love, content to sit in silence on the sidelines or bide their time with something else until what they wanted was ready. Not completely dissimilar to what you’re doing, you realize.

“Right,” Deacon agrees, furrowing his brow as he watches you. “But we’ve known each other for a long time, so there’s bound to be some questions in this period of moving from friends to being in a relationship.”

“What about you?” Hondo asks quietly. “Anything new in your life?”

“I heard a new joke,” you answer. “Two, if you count my thoughts about my own life.”

“Hey,” Hondo says, pulling you to a stop as everyone enters HQ. He waits until you face him to add, “I get it. Even if you don’t want me to see it, I know you’re not the same as you were before Deac and Annie started dating. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but don’t put your life on hold for one relationship that may never happen.”

“You want me to start dating someone else to get my mind off him? Hondo, this isn’t a romcom.”

Hondo laughs, but you can tell he genuinely cares about you in this. “Trust me, there’s nothing funny about this. I just don’t want to see you get hurt any more than you have to. If he’s moving on… maybe you should consider doing the same, even if it’s just taking the next stop by yourself and doing something for you.”

You hum, surprised by Hondo’s good advice. “Thanks. In that case, join me for spa night?”

“I know you’re kidding, but I could use it. Convince Luca to gift you the package and I’ll come with.”

You roll your eyes as you walk into HQ with Hondo. When you walk behind Deacon and hear him mention his incredibly thoughtful date night plan for Annie, you feel another piece of your heart tug loose, tied to a dream that passed while you were still asleep.

TWO MONTHS LATER

“Morning, Smiley,” Rocker greets you as you enter the station. “You’re taking the news well.”

“What news?” you ask.

Rocker shakes his head and points at your team. Save for Deacon, they’re all gathered in a small circle and talking quickly with small gestures.

“What happened?” you inquire as you stop between Luca and Tan.

“Deac and Annie broke up,” Hondo tells you, watching your reaction closely.

“Oh, sorry to hear that. Is he okay?”

“He will be,” Tan tells you. “From what little bit he shared, it sounded like it was his choice. They were growing apart, she wanted something else, I guess.”

You nod before they brainstorm a boys’ night to cheer him up. As you walk toward the locker room, your phone buzzes.

              I had a great time last night. See you Friday.

“Hey,” Deacon greets, drawing your attention from your date’s text.

“Hi,” you reply, turning off the phone without answering. “Hondo told me about you and Annie. I’m really sorry, Deacon.”

He shrugs before he raises his foot to the bench to tie his boot. It’s been several weeks since you talked, and your relationship has been strained since he first started dating Annie. Back then, you wanted to wait for him. Then you convince yourself he may never be ready, so you let yourself move on, grow in yourself, and feed other relationships.

As Deacon looks at you now, he wonders why he even started dating Annie. Something inside him convinced him that you’d never go out with him, that you were too good, too young, too close, just too far out of his reach. So, he let the idea go and tried to find the feeling he thought you’d provide in someone more like him. However, now that his relationship with Annie is over, he realizes he just used more valuable time that he can never find again. If he could find the words now, maybe he could change everything.

“How are you? Didn’t you go on a date a few weeks ago?” he asks instead.

“Yes,” you answer, looking in your locker rather than at him. “We’ve been on a few more dates, went out last night, actually. He’s an attorney. Really sweet, a good guy.”

“That’s good,” Deacon responds softly.

You look at Deacon, unsurprised to see he looks the same as he sounded, like he's missing something, lost an important piece of himself that he can’t replace. Part of you begs to be let out, to tell him that you waited for him, but a louder piece of Deacon makes him speak first.

“I hope it works out,” he says. “See you out there.”

Watching Deacon leave, you wonder why time has to be so cruel.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“Hey,” Street, the newest member of your team, calls, “if I ever get sued-“

“What did you do?” you ask.

“Nothing! I swear. But if I ever do, could your boyfriend help me out? Represent me in court and turn it around on the other guy. I would be innocent, of course… mostly innocent.”

“I’m sure he’d help you, but, uh… we’re not together anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” Street apologizes, his eyes widening. “No one told me.”

“It just happened,” you explain with a shrug. “Literally, five minutes ago in the parking lot.”

“Are you okay? Wait, don’t answer that, don’t move.”

Street turns and runs down the hall, sliding as he takes the corner too sharply. A moment later, he returns, steering Luca and Hondo toward you.

“I want to be on this team, but I wasn’t trained for this,” he tells them before he leaves again.

“What happened?” Hondo inquires.

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as you debate your answer. “I didn’t think I cared about this relationship,” you begin. Tears build in your eyes despite your long-withstanding feelings for Deacon, feelings stronger than anything you felt for your now ex. “But hearing him list my insecurities and treat my feelings like a closing argument wasn’t exactly enjoyable.”

Luca pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tightly in a protective hug. You grip his shirt and cry against his chest.

“Him dumping me isn’t even what hurt,” you say as you step back. “It was him calling me out for having a crush on Deacon that will never go anywhere.”

“Whoa, hey,” Hondo interrupts, placing his hand on your shoulder. “He was just mad because he thought you had feelings for someone that wasn’t him. Even if you do have those feelings, that was no reason for him to go off on you like that.”

“He was right,” you argue. “I didn’t start dating him as a distraction, but I compared everything he did to what I think someone else would do. Even though I know it’s hopeless, I’m holding on to the idea of something that will never happen!”

“Hey, are you okay?” Deacon asks as he enters the station, dropping his backpack at the sight of Luca and Hondo comforting you and the tears streaming down your face.

You wipe your cheeks with your hands and nod. “I’m okay, Deac. Thanks.”

Stepping around Luca, you rush away from the man you want but will never have. Everything you want in life, a relationship, and your future is inside Deacon. Yet you can’t talk to him right now without falling apart and telling him everything.

After you leave, Deacon sighs and rubs his hand against his jaw.

“You’ve been waiting for a chance since you left Annie,” Luca points out.

“Now’s that chance, my man,” Hondo finishes.

“I’m not going to go after her while she’s heartbroken,” Deacon replies. “She’s dealing with enough without me pushing my feelings onto her.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Hondo, we work together, we put our lives on the lines daily, and adding feelings to that won’t make anything better.”

“That doesn’t mean burying them won’t make it worse,” Hicks says.

Deacon turns quickly, surprised by the Commander’s intrusion. Hicks shrugs and lifts his mug, stirring creamer into his coffee.

“You’re talking in a public area, gentlemen, can’t expect privacy. Look, Deacon, the way I see it is that you’re angry you wasted so much time, so you’re looking for a way to prevent more time from slipping between your fingers. Yet, you’re so convinced by an insecurity or some perceived unspoken rule that you’re doing just that. Heartbreak doesn’t mean a heart isn’t ready to be given away again.”

“When did you get so wise?” Luca inquires.

“I’m the only one in this room that’s ever been married,” Hicks brags. “Figure it out or drop it, but the grip you’re holding now will give out and hurt more than just you in the fallout, Sergeant Kay.”

Deacon sighs, he knows that, and he’s known it since the very beginning. Every time he tries to let go, to move on, he sees you or catches a glimpse of the life you could have together and claws his way back to the idea, digging into it firmer and deeper than before.

“So?” Luca asks.

“Time to let it go,” Deacon announces.

As he leaves, Luca and Hondo shake their heads. It won’t be long before he’s back where he started. You will continue to dance around one another until you find the courage to say all those unspoken things or the music ends, and one of you is left to regret the time spent in silence and solitude.

TWO MONTHS LATER

“I love you,” Deacon tells you.

You smile as he pulls you close, letting his lips brush over your cheekbones before you reply, “I love you more.”

“Impossible.”

As you laugh, Deacon’s grip on your waist loosens. He looks down at you, and something akin to doubt flashes in his eyes.

“If you loved me you wouldn’t have waited so long.”

You wake quickly, inhaling raggedly as you clutch a pillow against your chest. It’s time, you decide. Time to tell Deacon everything. You can explain that you’ve had feelings for him since before he started dating Annie, beg him to forgive you for wasting so much time with your ex, for letting the fear of doing the wrong thing and driving him away dictate you for so long.

Your alarm rings, and you cancel it immediately. As you prepare for the day, you rehearse what you could say in your head, but after you park at SWAT HQ, you decide that this needs to come from your heart, not your mind.

“Hondo!” you call as you jog into the station. “Where’s Deac?”

“Finishing a training session with 60 Squad,” he answers.

“I need to talk to him.”

“It might be a while. He’s meeting with Hicks and the Commissioner today; he wants to be considered for the next open leadership position in SWAT,” Luca tells you. “He’s dedicated, it’s been a while since I’ve seen him so committed to something.”

Your smile falls, and you suddenly feel like you’re full of lead, a stark contrast to the excited, bouncy feeling you entered with.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s great. What do you think his chances are?”

“Pretty great,” Hondo answers, watching Deacon lead the other on-duty SWAT team back into the training area. “He already got robbed of one promotion, but he’s proven that he can do it. I see no reason they’d pass him over.”

You nod, and this time, it’s Street who notices the longing look you wear as you watch Deacon give advice to the newer SWAT members. He pats your back and sends you a sad nod.

There’s nothing you can do; it’s never your time. Whenever you’re ready, Deacon isn’t. The few times he’s been single or acted remotely interested in more, you’ve been in a position that won’t allow it. You give Deacon another piece of your heart each time you miss one another. You’ll be completely heartless before time gives you another chance at this rate. The worst part is that you’re so blinded by your disappointment, so caught up in how you feel compared to what you can’t say or do, that you don’t notice Deacon is exchanging pieces of his heart for yours.

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Deac, we’re going to dinner then Jimbo’s,” Hondo says across the locker room. “You in?”

“Not tonight,” Deacon replies. “Thanks, but I’ll catch you next time?”

“That’s what you said the last four times!” Luca complains. “Are you sure?”

Deacon nods, and Hondo makes him promise before closing his locker and leading Luca, Tan, and Street out into the hallway to drive to dinner. You wave and tell them you’ll meet them there, but don’t move away from Deacon.

“What’s the new job?” you inquire.

Deacon looks surprised that you know about his second job but recovers quickly and says, “Private security.”

Nodding, you resist the urge to reach out to him. Over the last few days, it has taken every bit of your self-control to distance yourself from Deacon. You need more, and the craving becomes a monstrous pit inside you, a chasm threatening to pull you under until it’s all you know. All because you want Deacon, wholly and selfishly.

“Do you like it?” you ask, shifting to hold your hands behind your back.

“It’s fine,” he admits. “Maybe I’d like it more if I didn’t have to do it.”

“I didn’t think of that. No more overtime, no more OT pay.”

“Right. I was barely holding everything together before, but when that went into effect…” Deacon trails off and laughs humourlessly as he closes his locker. “At least it’s temporary.”

Unlike your feelings. “Listen, Deac, if you need anything-“

“We’re friends, I can’t ask you to do that,” he interrupts.

His words feel like a knife to your heart. You are friends, it’s true, but the recent strengthening of your feelings, the urge to walk into Deacon’s arms and never leave, gives his words an edge like a sword. It cuts through you, directly to the part of you that continues to love Deacon despite fearing that you’ll never know what it’s like to be loved by him.

“It wouldn’t change anything,” you assure him quietly. “Goodnight, Deacon.”

He watches you leave, wondering how different life would be now if he’d told you everything when he had the chance.

THREE MONTHS LATER

Your desperation for Deacon has eased since the night in the locker room. You can look at him, carry a conversation, and accept his hand as you stand from the locker room bench with little more than a pang in your heart. Plus, overtime has been reinstated, Deacon’s money issues have become a thing of the past, and your team is stronger and closer than ever. Combined with other things, Deacon allows these good things to be a kind of omen, an encouragement that things are getting better, that the times you’re in now are better than those you came from. So, he stands between Hicks’ office and the locker room to wait for your return from a raid with 50-David Squad. You enter first, smiling as you remove your helmet and pick up your pace to greet Deacon.

The words are ready on his tongue, a proposition, a question that will change everything. Will you go out with me? Will you forgive me for all the nights I wasted, all the tears and unshared feelings, and give me a chance to show you that the wait only made me surer of you and what we could be?

But before he can ask, Hicks steps out of his office and calls your name. “Rocklin PD requested your temporary transfer to train and lead their new SWAT team. Talk it over with your team and let me know by the end of the day,” he explains.

Your eyes widen in shock, but you answer, “Yes, sir.” After shaking your head to clear it, you look at Deacon to ask, “What did you want to talk about it?”

“Nothing important,” Deacon lies, spurred by the opportunity you’re facing. He refuses to get in the way of your career and dreams – painfully unaware that your dreams consist almost exclusively of him. “Rocklin, that’s an honour.”

“Rocklin itself isn’t, but, yeah, that’s a great position,” you agree. “I don’t know, though.”

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving us,” Street laments as the rest of your team approaches. “You’re the only one that understands me.”

“That’s not a compliment,” Tan taunts.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “It’s an amazing offer, but I don’t have training experience.”

“Street’s better off because of you,” Tan points out.

“I agree,” Street says. “They’d be lucky to have you, but we’ll hate them forever for taking you from us.”

“You should go,” Deacon encourages.

You turn to face him, a crease between your brows that shows your combination of shock and disappointment. If Deacon had asked you to stay, you would have, without hesitation, but his encouragement to go, to live hundreds of miles from him for an unknown length of time rattles you. Maybe you misread everything, and he was going to tell you something you didn’t want to hear when you came in, and this is the perfect excuse for him to not have to tell you.

“We’ll support you no matter what,” Luca promises, but your eyes remain locked on Deacon’s.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I’ll think it over and let you know. I’m going to change.”

You push between Street and Hondo, distracted and deaf to Hondo asking Deacon what he was thinking by pushing you away. You also fail to hear Deacon’s broken reply, “Because it’s better than anything I could have offered.”

SIX MONTHS LATER

When you walk into LAPD SWAT HQ for the first time in half a year with a new haircut and a noticeable glow, you draw attention. Street sees you first and abandons his sparring match with Rocker to jump out of the ring and greet you with a warm hug. Luca and Hondo follow soon after, and then you’re hidden beneath four teammates as they rock you back and forth and welcome you back.

“Did you knock those Rocklin officers into shape?” Hicks asks, smiling as he wraps his arm over your shoulders in half a hug.

“I did my best,” you answer. “They got lucky with a good set of recruits.”

“About your position on 20 Squad…”

Your smile drops as you look over at Hondo. He manages to hold his composure for about five seconds before he laughs, bending over because of amusement at the devastated look on your face.

“It’s still yours,” Hicks promises, tapping your shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for you to get back since the day you left, we can’t replace you!”

You place your hand over your heart and exhale, shaking your head as your smile returns. They’re still the team you know and love, except for…

“Where’s Deacon?” you ask.

Hondo looks at Hicks, who looks at Luca, who looks down at his shoes.

“He’s at lunch with Annie,” Tan tells you softly. “They’ve been trying to work things out for a few weeks.”

You nod. “I was worried he’d abandoned you guys without me here to keep some semblance of sanity.”

Hondo smiles, relieved you’re not too upset by hearing the news. Inside, you’re unsure where you stand, but there’s also a glimmer of hope in this. You’re back where you started: Deacon is with Annie, and you’re working on yourself. Maybe this full circle moment is exactly what you need to move on and stop letting Deacon control your every thought.

“What are you doing tonight, Street?” you ask.

“What I was born to do, ballin’ and shot callin’,” he jokes. “You want to join? My buddy Kel will be there, I think you’d like him.”

You feel Hondo’s eyes on you, but you ignore his questioning look as you agree, “I’d love to.”

Several hours later, a car parks against the curb before your house. It idles for about a minute, then the headlights turn off before the ignition silences. Deacon exits the driver’s seat and tosses his keys back and forth between his hands as he approaches your door. He hasn’t seen you since you left for Rocklin. After a meeting with Annie in which they decided that their relationship was hopeless and they were better off as friends, he knew he had to see you and explain his feelings.

Deacon knocks on your door, but there are no lights on inside. He texts you, but there’s no reply to that either. Torn between calling you or taking this as a sign and leaving, Deacon leans against your door and thinks. The last six months without you have been made up of some of the hardest days of his life. He misses you and has come to understand just how much he needs you, and now that he has a chance to see you again, you’re not home. Just like always. Every chance he has seems to end like this, and Deacon isn’t sure how much more time he can give it before he’ll have to walk away from you. He’s been hurt, and he’s seen you hurt, so he doesn’t want to put himself or you through any more than he has to.

You enjoy the company at dinner with Street and his friends, but your mind drifts back to Deacon every moment you get.

“Why don’t you just tell him?” Street’s friend Kel asks.

“There’s too much at stake,” you answer, shrugging.

“It’s all at stake if you don’t tell him, too.”

“Don’t be so smart, you’re supposed to be Street’s friend,” you joke. “I’ve been thinking about that, but… I guess I’m just scared about what might happen.”

“But you’re terrified by what might not.”

You smile and set your drink down. “At that, I’m calling it a night.”

“No!” Street exclaims.

“I haven’t slept in my own bed in six months and now all I can think about is Deacon. Which actually isn’t that much different than usual. I’ll see you at work, but thanks for tonight.”

The following day, you’re running off pure adrenaline. You tossed and turned all night, your mind swimming with thoughts of Deacon and everything you want, and it all seems reachable now. Then, when you arrived at work, you were met with an unhinged crime spree that had you bouncing between SWAT teams, in and out of HQ all day. Altogether, it left you even more tired and willing to tell Deacon everything.

That’s why running into him in the parking lot after sundown makes you stop. Your barriers are gone, your walls have been obliterated, and you don’t think about any consequences as you ask, “What took so long?”

Undeterred by your blunt question, Deacon responds, “It was never our time. Because it had to be perfect, but it never was.”

“And it never can be.”

“I don’t believe that. Do you?”

“No!” you answer, tossing your arms up. “So why have we been dancing around each other for years?”

“We were scared, waiting for the perfect moment in a world of imperfect opportunities.”

“And now?” you ask with a sad chuckle.

“Now feels pretty perfect,” Deacon says, his smile growing as he moves toward you.

“You can forgive me for missing you so often?” you ask as you lay your hands on his shoulder while his hands find your waist.

“If you can forgive me for doing the same.”

You nod and meet Deacon in the middle, falling into a kiss that brings your worlds together in a beautiful collision. Your lives connect, finally meeting after years of running parallel to one another and getting close enough to imagine what this would feel like. It’s the perfect product of every moment, every missed opportunity, and fear as you prove to one another that there’s love, admiration, and joy in your relationship. And this is only the beginning.

“Why’d you come to my house last night?” you ask as you pull back.

“How’d you know about that?” Deacon counters, raising his brows.

“Street took my phone, told me about the text during the Hollywood call this morning. I’m sorry I missed you.”

“It was the end of an era.”

You roll your eyes and kiss Deacon before he can make another comment about how it was somehow always but never your time until you took the leap and accepted the imperfect.

The door behind you opens then closes, and Hondo yells for the rest of your team when he sees you kissing Deacon. Finally.

[omega-e123]

Aftermath of this. Shadow’s prequel here

Immediately you hauled your ass home after the incident. What have you done?! Okay, back up. Somehow you caught Shadow off guard. Somehow you kissed the ultimate life form. Smooched! Pecked!

Then he disappeared. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? This was a breach of personal space! But it also felt like he was returning the gesture. No, you must have been imagining it.

The awkward situation has you pulling on your hair in distress.. There is no way you could face him now. Flee the country. Change your name.

You hug the flowers close to your heart. At least.. he was thinking of you. If only you didn’t pull that move, maybe things could have slightly gone back to the way things were. It’s too late.

After being placed in a vase, your eyes study each and every individual flower. How you wish you could thank him for them. These particular flowers feel awfully familiar.. You can’t place your finger on it but it’s on the tip of your tongue.

In order to relax and calm your mind, you decided to take a long nap. Hopefully when you wake up, it was all just a dream. Climbing into bed, you bury yourself under the blankets and silence your phone. Sleep over takes you in an instant.

The sound of your doorbell ringing over and over pulls you from your slumber. It felt as though you slept a thousand years. When you pick up your phone to check it, it flash bangs you in the dark of the room. It was the middle of the night.

Your doorbell stopped ringing on your way over to the front door. You rub your eyes as you answer it, ready to give whoever was there or even the empty air a good yelling.

It opens and is slammed shut right after. What is he doing here? The day definitely was not a dream.

He bangs on the wood, “Open up.” An exasperated sigh leaves you. This guy is not going to give up. If Shadow really wanted to, he could have chaos controlled into your home by now.

You open the door just a crack, enough to see him. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Locking eyes, he shifts his gaze away. After moving the door further open, he says, “Walk with me.”

While you rush to put on your shoes, Shadow is waiting patiently and watching your every move. Strange. You expected him to have left you behind to catch up.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

On the way to the park, it was filled with awkward silence. Not a single cough, squeak, or word between the two of you. Night air cools your burning cheeks while walking side by side. Eventually you both spot a bench to rest at, overseeing the wide grassy area. The sky ever clear as the stars above twinkle.

Shadow allows you to sit first before taking a seat right next to you. Leaning forward, his fingers intertwine, opting to stare at them rather than you. Likewise, you pick a random tree to observe.

“I’m,” he pauses, unsure where to begin, “sorry I left without a word. These kinds of things, I’m not good at.”

“I thought you’d hate me after doing something like that to you,” you reply in the softest whisper. A wry smile appears on your face.

His head snaps up to look at you. Eyes widen in shock. He instantly protests, “No, I could never!” Placing a hand over his chest, he continues speaking, “I wouldn’t— couldn’t lose another person dear to me.”

Your breath hitches. You did hear that clearly right? Shadow considered you dear to him? Important?

You can feel his intense gaze on you. At the moment, you don’t have the courage to look him in the eye. “That’s.. a relief to hear. I also need to apologize.”

“For?”

“Avoiding you for so long and making you worry. You really didn’t do anything wrong, Shad. I let my feelings for you get in the way”

“Hmph. Consider it accepted once you realize what a fool you’ve been,” he says plainly. There was no bite in his words, rather a hint of playfulness.

What? You turn to him, absolutely astonished, “I’m sorry?”

Shadow leans against the back of the bench, arm over it. His other palm covering his face. He groans, “So you really haven’t noticed. Looks like I owe that damn bat fifty bucks.” His hand drags down to cover his mouth, “I noticed so many people eyeing you. A disgusting feeling constantly clung to my chest. Instinctively I kept myself physically closer to you. When I asked Rouge about it, that’s when...” Shadow trails off, not wanting to elaborate further.

So this whole time… You two were pining for each other, completely clueless that the feelings were mutual. The thought of it forced a laugh out.

“What’s so funny?”

“That’s why you had such a stink face glaring off in the distance!”

An exhausted sigh was his only response.

It feels a bit mean, but you couldn’t help but smile. You take a moment to look up at the stars. All of the tension dissipates into the air. How beautiful… Sort of reminds you of— ah! That’s why the flowers were so familiar. They’re the same ones at that field you and Shadow gazed at. He remembered. How thoughtful of him. You didn’t take him the type. Goes to show how much this whole ordeal flew over both of your heads.

Now that the air has been cleared, what next?

…

“Hey Shadow?”

“Mm.”

“You said you haven’t had much experience,” you begin.”

“Correct.”

You reach out to hold his hand before laying your head on his shoulder. “Can the ultimate life form handle a date?”

He gazes down at you, thinking about his next words: “If it’s with you, I have no doubt.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[targaryen-dynasty]

YOU‘RE THE ONLY THING I PRAY FOR. (2/3)

Daemon Targaryen x niece!Reader

WARNINGS: none

WORDS: 2.4 K

NOTES: y’all are probably fed up with how much I’m posting today but ✨idc✨ lmao. Consider this as a little interlude before it gets steamy in part 3 🤭 tysm @arcielee for betaing this short thing.

Never before have you slept as badly as you did last night. The tea brought by Maester Mellos may have been drunk by you, but it did little to soothe the tormenting guilt you feel. You had retired to bed again afterwards, only to not be able to find any sleep at all. 

Rolling from one side to the other, you had pondered over what had happened in the sept, and who could have seen the two of you to report it to your father. There couldn’t have been any witnesses for most septas leave whenever you arrive. Besides, you’ve looked around plenty of times. It’s impossible that anyone has seen you. 

But deep down you know it was bound to happen eventually. A princess of the realm could not flaunt around the Grand Sept in the company of her uncle, let alone being claimed and defiled by him so openly without anyone witnessing. 

So, it’s not surprising that at first light you’re summoned to the Throne Room. 

The heavy doors fall shut behind you with a thud, and your footsteps are the only thing heard as you approach the looming throne. Your father sits atop it, Jaehaerys crown weighing heavy on his silver curls, and watches you with a grimm expression.  

“Y-Your Grace,” you stutter, bobbing a small curtsy with your hands tightly clasped in front of you. It’s your father’s harsh voice that has you flinching even before you’re able to meet his eyes. 

“Raise your head, child.” It’s a demand, and it’s definitely not your father sitting in front of you right now. 

Nodding, you gulped thickly as your father has never before spoken to you in such a manner, with such fury laced within his voice. The quick-tempered part of his emotions has always been reserved to the people of his council, and sometimes even your little sister stands in the crossfire. But not you, never you. 

“It has been brought to my attention that you were seen entering the Grand Sept with Daemon. Is that correct?”

Your eyes dart around before they settle on the floor, and you nod once again. Finding your voice seems to be more difficult than expected, failing as you are not even able to meet your fathers gaze. 

And the silence appears to stoke your father’s fury, knowing this is too dire a matter to be lenient with you. 

“I said is that correct?” he growls, abruptly rising to his feet. 

The movement causes you to flinch, and you raise your head. “I–yes, he-he asked if he could join me for my morning prayer,” you stammer, frozen in fear. 

Your father huffs, “Of course, he has.” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, before he slowly but surely walks down the steps leading from the imposing Iron Throne towards where you stand. “And is that all that has transpired between the two of you, daughter?” The name falls from his lips dripping with so much venom, a shiver runs down your spine. 

His stern expression only grows darker and darker, a foreboding edge cuts into them. “Or are there other matters that you two have been up to there?” he asks, looking down at you. “I wish to hear the truth from your mouth, and your mouth only.”

You feel your throat tighten, and your body grows cold just from the intensity that feeds the tension between the two of you. “I-I… I–,” you stammer. You’re caught. 

Taking in a deep breath, you clench your hands to fists to stop them from trembling as you think about saying the next words out loud. Your nails dig into your palms, surely leaving crescent shaped marks, but this doesn't make the situation more bearable for you. “We-We kissed,” the words are practically a whisper, “and he did suggest we wed.” Looking away, you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, knowing there’s a rage brooding inside of him. 

“What a foolish suggestion,” your father spits out. “Must I remind you that you were to wed Jason Lannister?”

Feeling your breath grow shaky as you try to keep the tears from welling in your eyes, your gaze locks with your father’s. You’re a dutiful girl, and you would have never disobeyed your father. But you allowed your uncle to take things too far, and now you have to bear the consequences. 

“No, Your Grace,” your voice is meek, trembling as you shake your head, “I-I am aware I must wed Lord Lannister, a match made by you, and I do not wish to bring shame to the crown.”

But your father hesitates, as if the words he’s about to speak would weigh a thousand tons on yours and his shoulders. “Your lies have proven to me that you do not care for your duty to the crown,” he growls. “And I will not allow your foolish actions to further tarnish our House. You wish to go to the Sept freely and frequently? Then you shall make your way to Oldtown in the morrow to become a Silent Sister, and forsake your past life. You will be removed from the line of succession entirely as a punishment for flouting my authority.”

Frozen in stunned silence, the words do not seem real. The severity of your father’s judgement sinks into the pit of your stomach, and you take a step back as if it would give you back your ability to breathe. 

With blurry eyes, you look back at him, trying to find some sort of consolation in his, but you only see sternness and disapproval. “A-Are you serious?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Tears stain your cheeks, and you allow them to. “Surely you must not mean it, father.”

“I am your King!” Viserys snaps, and there’s no fatherly compassion neither in his voice nor the fierce scowl on his face. 

For all his reign your father has been nothing if not a weak king, relying on others to ensure the strength of the mighty House Targaryen. And now he decides to make an example out of your misstep, not able to afford another moment of weakness? It must be a cruel joke in favor of the Seven. 

“My mind is made up,” your father finally growls, hiding the pit of guilt in his stomach behind the volume of his voice. “This is the price of your actions whether you like it or not. You have brought this on yourself, and I don’t wish to hear any more objections from you. Begone!”

Knowing there was nothing you could do to change his mind, you just nod your head and walk out of the Throne Room, eyes downcast as the tears won’t stop rolling down your cheeks. 

You barely register who crosses your path on the way to your chambers for your mind is awash with sadness, rage and fear, and once the heavy door falls shut behind you, it all rises to the surface, claiming you like a storm. 

You kick against a nearby stool before you sink to your knees and sob into your hands. Letting out an agonizing scream, you are overtaken by rage. But there’s no will of yours to pack your belongings, not that you’d need them anyways, for a scroll you certainly have not left there lays on your bed, next to a rugged cloak. 

You grab the piece of paper, unrolling it and scanning over its contents, taking a few seconds to understand that it’s a map containing the secret passageways your ancestor had commissioned during the construction of Maegor’s Holdfast. ‘Meet me here at the Hour of the Ghosts’ is written below it, the here most certainly hinting at the point that’s hidden beneath a marked cross. 

It seems like an incredibly long time to the Hour of the Ghosts, but what other choice than waiting do you have? There’s no way for you to go, not that you even want to go outside to meet anyone. All you want to do is spend the rest of your time in the Red Keep by yourself, sulking about the mess you have brought yourself into. 

But as the hour finally strikes, you’re on your feet, silver hair hidden by the hood of the cloak. 

The map suggests that there’s a hidden doorway to the right of your bed, and it takes little effort for you to push it open, revealing a staircase that leads you into a tunnel. Though it’s almost casted in complete darkness, you pull the door to your chambers shut behind you and scurry down the stairs, following the map. 

The rage is still there on your way to the staircase that leads you out of the keep and into the city, and even in the dim lights of the torches around you, you can make out your uncle’s surprised face as you suddenly charge at him. 

If you weren’t so angry, you would have laughed. 

“Why have you told him?” you hiss, but are quickly silenced by his large hand covering your mouth. He holds you with your back against his chest, seizing your small frame and stopping you from shoving at his chest. 

“I told him nothing,” he sharply hushes into your ear, though you don’t grasp the importance of it. Your life is already ruined, and his whispering won’t make it alright again. “Viserys was informed, but not by me. I assume it was one of the leeches’ puppets. Your father summoned me last night to inform me that my services to the crown were no longer required. He has exiled me.”

You exhale into his palm, turning slightly to look at him with wide eyes. There is a menacing grin on his lips, only broken when he continues. “I am quite certain he has done the same to you, so, you can either stay here and face your punishment, or you can come with me.”

His words settle slowly, and you’re torn between following him, or facing your fate as Silent Sister. You already disgraced your House, what’s one more misstep if it can bring you freedom? 

You feel utterly helpless and powerless, for you don’t know if Daemon can be trusted. He hasn’t earned the moniker the Rogue Prince for nothing, and for all you know, he could have informed your father. But would he willingly bring himself into a treacherous position just to wed you? You’re not certain. 

Your sigh fanning into the palm of his hand is what prompts him to release your face and allow you to speak again, and the cold air that suddenly fills your lungs with his hand gone has you clearing your throat. Winding in his grasp, you turn around to face him, and as it eventually loosens, you take a step back. There still is anger raging inside of you, but you must play your cards wisely. 

The hood of your cloak is pulled back by you, exposing your full face to him. “What other options do I truly have?” you whisper, looking around briefly. “I shall come with you.”

It’s another sigh that rips itself from your chest, knowing the inevitability of your question, and your eyes flicker up to meet his. “When do we leave?”

There is a short moment of silence between you, and, as if you’ve anticipated anything else, Daemon finally replies.

“Now,” he rasps. “We must go, before anyone comes to find and stop us.”

Not giving you a chance to react, his fingers intertwine with yours, clearly sensing your apprehension as he pulls you after him. 

“But my clothes. I–”

“Everything is set,” he husks. “I have secured your mount and my own, waiting for us in the Dragonpit. We must do this quickly, no time for lingering. We will be gone by the time anyone realizes.”

Just how quickly he has made all plans and arrangements possible truly amazes you, and you can’t help but feel drawn to his dedication to the matter and the ambition which he displays. You know you’re taking an immense risk in moving with him like that, but you trust him. You have to trust him. 

Following him down the stairs, you look back at the Red Keep for a moment, and its sight makes you feel nervous and anxious. You’re about to leave so much of your life behind. At what cost? 

It’s the neighing of a horse that catches your attention, and once again, Daemon takes your hand to drag you towards it. A tall, black stallion waits for you, and you squeal the moment your uncle lifts you up as if you weigh no more than a feather, putting you into the saddle. 

He settles behind you as the horse canters along the cobblestone, heading towards the Dragonpit at a speed you have rarely ridden before. But by the Seven, never before have you felt so thrilled. 

Stopping sharply in front of the outer doors opening to the hillside, he helps you down in the same manner he’s gotten you onto the horse. The gates to the dragonpit are opened, and both your dragons stand up the moment they recognize their riders. 

Upon the sight of both beasts, your heart swells and freezes at the same time. You would have missed your dragon dearly in Oldtown, and the thought that you would almost never have ridden it again makes your blood run cold for a moment.

Silverwing is slightly larger than Caraxes, and makes a much more striking figure than your uncle’s mount, but you dare not tell him that. 

With a nod towards the dragon keepers guarding your dragons, you approach your beast, hand gliding along her silvery scales. A look at Daemon from over your shoulder tells you that he’s already strapped to the saddle of Caraxes. 

“Where are we flying to?” you shout over at him, mounting Silverwing. There is a small bag strapped to her saddle, a thick coat for you to wear draped over it, and you wonder when he’s had the time to prepare all that. 

Caraxes is on his way out of the cave, roaring and grumbling, and your she-dragon briefly spreads her wings, before she follows him and crawls out into the open, causing you to almost not hear his reply. 

“Pentos!”

Their large wings flap loudly as Caraxes firstly soars into the air with a bellowing roar, closely followed by Silverwing, breaking into the open sky. 

The Red Keep grows smaller and smaller in the distance, until you can not make it out anymore. You’re not sure what difficulties might await you in Essos, though you have never been more ready to venture to far away lands. 

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