#but let's pretend there is no one else in them

[auroracalisto]

Hey can you do a fiyero x reader where the reader is afraid of being vulnerable and he helps them?

yes, superfartninja, i think i can.

to be changed.

movie!fiyero x gn!reader, 3.4k words summary: to be vulnerable meant to be defenseless. it was a liability and that's all it ever would be. fiyero couldn't have that, now could he? a/n: please remember that i only have movie knowledge, so this will be based solely on what i saw in the movie. :P also, shout outs to house song by searows (was on repeat for this fic). erm. this kind of got away from me. i started it was 12 AM and now it's nearly 2 AM. hope it's coherent.

It wasn't like you to be vulnerable. It just didn't happen. It was like... asking a fish or an elephant to climb a tree, or some other weird analogy that you heard oh-so-long ago, when vulnerability aged you more than it helped.

To be vulnerable meant to be hurt. To be ridiculed, to be laughed at, to be made a fool in front of anyone who cared to look your way. It was something that you knew was not needed. You would be fine living by yourself. You came into this world alone and screaming, and you would leave this world the same way.

If you cut out the wound before it began to fester, you solved the problem immediately. Or so they say.

So that's what you did, long ago, when you swore to yourself that the pain you felt would be the very last time. It would never happen again. It couldn't happen again.

Oh, Oz, it couldn't. Your heart couldn't take it.

What was left of your heart, anyway. Sometimes you feared you no longer had one, especially when you feared the pain that would haunt you if someone else came along and made you feel that way again.

It's not that you were afraid. No, fear of being vulnerable was foolish. At least... you believed that you weren't afraid of being vulnerable.

Perhaps that was an act of foolishness in itself. Pretending that you weren't afraid. Pretending that having few friends and few moments of happiness didn't pierce your heart with every passing second.

Perhaps you needed to be better. To be vulnerable, to swear off that silly promise you made to yourself so many years ago.

But it was so difficult.

Being vulnerable was to be in pain. To be lost to a world of sorrow. To be... hurt by the very thing you swore you'd never be hurt by again.

It wouldn't happen.

You wouldn't let it.

He existed in the back of your mind. His beautiful blue eyes, the way those pretty locks fell in front of his eyes when he actually studied his books (if he ever did, of course).

When was the last time he actually tried...? No. You couldn't think of him like that. Too much thinking about his pretty face would ruin you.

You had only talked to him a few times here and there, and the first time was to merely ask him to move out of the way. He took up quite a lot of space—or at least, maybe it was his confidence. It oozed from him like an air of upmost superiority.

No...

You were just being cruel. He was just standing in the way, out of breath from singing to Galinda in the library (because of course—who didn't sing to pretty girls in libraries anymore?).

The second time you spoke to him was over the essay you had to write in your literature class. Peer reviews were the bane of your existence, and this essay, because of course it did, had a simple prompt in response to one of your readings: Taking into account the author's sheer disdain for the idea of magic, write what you believe Oz would be like without magic.

Thought-provoking, yes. You wrote a decent two pages, handwritten of course.

He gave you a paragraph.

If the world of Oz existed without magic, perhaps we would all be better off. No more bickering over the usages of it all, no more idiosyncrasies, no more debates on whether you are intelligent or mediocre if you hadn't the ability to wave a wand or utter a simple spell. If we didn't have magic, perhaps life would be far more difficult, but I also feel as if we should see what it would be like. Maybe there would be less heartbreak. More happiness to go around.

Okay. A piss-poor paragraph that made you wonder how he was even passing Madame Lillabet's literature class.

Maybe he wasn't.

You didn't feel pity for the man—nobility had the ability to do so many things that you would only ever dream of. Why should you feel pity—vulnerability—for a man you didn't know, let alone understood?

Oz, even now, his essay haunted you. You did your best with your review, pointing out the obvious things missing—a decent thesis, body paragraphs that proved his thesis, and just in general, an entire essay that was expected of the entire class.

He merely read over your essay and made one simple comment: Excellent.

Oh, yes, excellent. It was excellent to know that he was just trying to help your essay, yes? Leaving that little comment, even though you didn't make full marks—how was it supposed to help you?

Pity be damned. He was a fool, through and through.

Things muddled in your mind like they often did. Thoughts racing, heartbeat close behind the quick pace.

If you had magic, you'd be sure to quell it.

These thoughts were the one thing that you wished you could squash under the heel of your boot. They were the bane of your existence, the utterance of a foolhardy penance to the god of whatever looked down upon you and wished for pain.

Perhaps that was what was meant for you.

A life of pain—of pity from others, of the amenability to be swayed by those around you even when you tried, desperately, to stay away from those who may catch your attention.

Like him.

Oh, Oz, just like him.

Fiyero.

The man who'd lose his head if it wasn't attached to his shoulders. The man who once told you in passing that if he hadn't a brain, perhaps classes would be easier—then he wouldn't truly be all there, and he'd easily get around the... well, specifics of it all. The man whom you felt tugging at your heartstrings, even when you told yourself no.

It would not happen.

It could not happen.

You would not let it.

In typical, terrible luck fashion, you found yourself wandering the halls of Shiz late at night, unable to sleep. The thoughts racing through your head of so many things, not just him (although they kept leading back to the fool), they just weren't stopping.

An exam was to be held tomorrow. Perhaps you could create a distraction—keep the professors from being able to do as they needed. There were a box of fireworks hidden in one of the many corridor closets, kept for special occasion. You could whip a few of them out and create so much chaos that they'd surely have to cancel the exam!

You leaned against the railing, looking down at the stonework of Shiz's courtyard. A chill ran down your spine from the cold breeze, and for once, all was silent if only for a moment.

His voice brought you out from your thoughts.

"Y/n," he said, an obvious smile playing at his lips.

You squeezed your eyes shut and glanced back at him. Without saying a word, you acknowledged him.

"Doesn't look like your dorm," he continued. "What are you doing out here, all alone?"

"Thinking."

His eyebrow quirked. "Thinking? Oh," he softly hummed, coming to stand beside of you. "Well, that's no fun, now is it? What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

He snorted softly. "You're thinking about... nothing?"

"Whatever I'm thinking is none of your business," you retorted.

He stared you down for a moment, tilting his head curiously. He hummed again and looked out at where you had been staring moments prior.

"You are right," he softly said, voice much quieter this time. "Let me lead you back to your room. We have an exam tomorrow, remember? You at least need to pretend to sleep."

You paused. Since when did he care about exams? You glanced at him, fighting the urge to question him. You let out a soft sigh and shrugged, allowing him to lead you to your dorm.

The walk was quiet, and you almost questioned how he knew where your dorm was, but you didn't. He seemed to pay attention better than most (it was part of that aloofness, you've noticed), and it wasn't the first time he had seen you near your dorm.

It was at least the third. The number had to be easy to memorize by now. 133.

As you opened your door, Fiyero spoke. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"Dangerous thing for you, isn't it?" you quipped, not looking at him as you stepped inside.

He let out a soft chuckle. You amused him to no end.

"Yes, perhaps," he softly said. "But besides. I was still thinking. I've been... well, wondering if perhaps you would—"

"—no."

He blinked slowly. "What? No? Y/n, you didn't even hear what I had to say—"

"—the answer is still no," you said. You glanced up at him from the spot you had been staring at, frowning. "I don't know what this is, but we are not friends. Do not ask me for favors."

"Not friends, hm?" he softly hummed, leaning against the doorway as he locked eyes with you. So knowing your dorm number was just a fluke.

"Not friends. Now if you'll excuse me, I should probably go and pretend to sleep."

His upper lip quirked in a faint smirk. Not friends, but you still joked with him as a friend would do. He rolled his eyes and gave you a rather joking half-bow.

"Of course," he said. "Do not let me keep you up. Perhaps I should find my dorm as well."

"You should do that," you simply said, shutting the door right after.

You didn't give him a chance to say anything else, quickly locking the door and heading back to your bed.

Heart pounding, mind still racing, but not with the thoughts of earlier. No, dear reader, your mind raced with thoughts of him.

So impressionable, so—so kind, so—well, was he really kind?

To you.

He was kind to you.

Nearly a week passed you by. The exam went rather well, without any kind of distraction. Passing marks and a somewhat decent night sleep.

You do everything you can to try and avoid Fiyero. Running this way and that, going through all of the longer corridors instead of the shortcuts you knew by heart. You did everything you could to avoid his handsome face.

You did everything you could to avoid the vulnerability that plagued your heart every time you thought of him.

If you simply embraced the wants of Fiyero, perhaps not having a brain would keep you from thinking this way. You'd still have a heart, sure, but it was much better than keeping yourself on your toes wondering if you'd see the damned man at any passing second.

On the hour of the rising moon, almost exactly on the dot, Fiyero spotted you. And this time, you were not evading him.

He practically took off after you, leaving his friends behind. They scoffed and called after him, but he didn't look back. His focus was on you.

He grabbed onto your wrist as you went to leave, not letting you go.

"Y/n! There you are," he softly said. "I have been looking everywhere for you. I wouldn't have thought it would be so difficult to find you, but—"

"—there you go, thinking again," you blurted, unable to stop yourself. Your tongue was wagging faster than your brain was working.

He weakly smiled. "Yes. I know. How ironic, hm?"

You watched as he stared you down.

"Look," he softly began. "I truly—I do not know what I did to deserve you ignoring me at any which way, but I wish you would tell me why. What did I do, Y/n? I thought—well, I assumed that we were friends, but perhaps I was wrong. I find myself wrong quite often nowadays."

"I—well, Fiyero, I—" you paused. You squeezed your eyes shut and inhaled a deep breath. "I don't have friends."

He blinked slowly. "You don't have friends? What of the one girl you were with the other day? Milla?"

"I do not have friends," you repeated. "I have... acquaintances. People I do not get attached to."

"That is sad."

"What?"

He raised an eyebrow. It seemed like a commonality when he spoke with you. The staple eyebrow raise had to happen or else he wasn't really chatting with you.

"It is sad. Why wouldn't you want to get attached to people?"

"I don't want to have meaningless relationships," you said. You avoided saying, I don't want to have relationships at all. "Not everyone can be as friendly as you, Fiyero."

He rolled his eyes. "Friendly. Yes. I talk to people, but I would rather not have all the attention that I do."

"Oh, that's rich," you said, scoffing. "You play the popular little prince and then claim you do not want it? What is that, Fiyero?"

Fiyero pursed his lips. "It is just—this is not a conversation about me. I wanted to have an intervention for you since you seemed as though you were avoiding me every which way. Now. Just—"

"—an intervention? What? Please. You sound ridiculous."

"So do you!" he returned, hands to his hips like an older man scolding a child for something they broke. "You vex me, Y/n! You act as if you are interested in me, then run away hiding like a scared little pup. You act as if you are afraid to get close to anyone."

You stared at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly. But it was enough. You were done for.

He let out a curt laugh. "You are."

"What?"

"You are. Scared. I can see it in you. You listen to what I have to say, even when the others don't. I've made an effort to pay attention to you. To see what you—"

"—Fiyero, stop."

"Do not tell me to stop, Y/n," he said, voice low with conviction. "Not now. Not when I've finally figured you out. You are scared. But of what? Being close to someone? Having a friend?"

You frowned. "I am not scared—"

"—you look at me like if I were to touch you, you'd melt."

"That doesn't mean anything!"

"I can see it in your eyes, Y/n," he said, not looking away. He held eye contact with you and hoped that you would continue to do the same. "You—you're scared. To open your heart to the people around you."

You frowned, again. It was perpetual anymore. "And you're a sad man who dances and pretends everything is fine because Galinda said you looked pretty one day."

He blinked slowly, a smile quirking on his lips. "Maybe. But this—this isn't about me, Y/n. This is about you."

"What even is this? I didn't agree to have you psychoanalyze everything I've ever done."

"Neither did I, yet here we are," he said. "I've had a lot of time to think, to mull it over, and I know it. I know it now. You are scared. I don't know what happened to you. I don't know who hurt you in your past, or if something tragic happened to make you so cold inside, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with being... with being vulnerable, Y/n. There's something... magical, even, about opening up to others."

"Oh, and you would know, wouldn't you?"

He frowned. "Y/n—"

"—no. Absolutely not. You do not get to sit there and ridicule me for not wanting to be close to people and then not take what I give you," you said. "You do not let anyone close to you. Sure, Galinda, but what does she know about you? Does she know how you half-ass everything? How you hardly even talk to your 'friends' and just let them float along with you like everything is fine and dandy? You're as sad as I am, if that's what you're trying to say. Don't try to fool yourself."

"I am not trying to fool myself," he softly said. "I am only trying to make it known that I see you. I see myself in you."

"Oh, that's rich," you said, scoffing. "The rich, popular boy sees himself in little ol' me. That's perfect."

"Y/n—"

"—no. Don't. Stop. Just. I don't want to talk to you anymore. We're not friends. We never were friends. Just leave me alone."

It's simple, but it shuts him down. And with that, you run from his side, rushing to hide away in your dorm.

You couldn't believe what you did. Blowing up at him instead of listening to what he had to say. He read you like the children's book your heart truly was—while everyone else focused on the words, he focused on the pictures. The minute details that seemed to pass by everyone's mind because the story was flowing far too quickly.

He saw the delicate brush strokes, the intricate colors, the pieces of you that the words did not show.

He knew you.

And it scared you.

Only you knew yourself. If anyone else were to know who you were, deep inside, well, that would be disastrous.

It couldn't happen.

You couldn't let it.

Fear.

Perhaps fear was the best way to describe the way you felt.

You sat by the edge of the lake in the forest just beyond Shiz's campus, fingers gently brushing against the water. The surface rippled, sending small waves to the end of the shore.

You were afraid.

Of what?

Of a man knowing you?

Of Fiyero knowing you better than even your family once knew you?

You sat there, thoughts racing through your mind. It was as if you couldn't avoid them anymore.

Days had passed since you blew up at Fiyero and ran. You couldn't avoid him forever, you knew that, but it seemed as if your thoughts believed the same.

Tears pricked at your eyes. The warm, salty tears began to fall before you could even try to stop them, and a soft sob bubbled at the back of your throat.

"Y/n?"

Shit.

You quickly wiped your tears away and looked back at him—at Fiyero. But your tears wouldn't stop. A soft sob rippled through you and you turned your head away.

Fiyero came to your side, kneeling down in the soft earth beside of you. He inwardly grimaced at the dirt, but he said nothing of it. He'd bathe in mud if it meant you would stop your tears.

He reached forward, gently placing a hand to your cheek. He turned your head to face him.

"Y/n," he softly said. "It's alright. You... you're alright."

Another sob.

He pulled you into his arms, and you let him. You didn't pull away, melting into his embrace as he said you would before. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, situating himself so he would be more comfortable near you.

He softly hummed a soft tune—you remembered it. The one thing he hummed quite often when you caught him alone, or trying to focus on his school work.

Dancing through life, skimming the surface... Life's more painless for the brainless.

He was just a sad boy with needs of his own, much like you were scared of being seen. Of being known.

Of being loved.

Oh. Oh, that's what it was.

It terrified you to no end.

Fiyero pressed a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, gently cupping your cheeks in his hands.

"What's got you so upset, love?" he softly asked, wiping your tears away gently with his thumbs.

You shook your head. "I... later," you mumbled. You leaned into his grasp, and you could have sworn you saw his eyes soften.

He released a soft, shaky sigh of his own, before he pulled you back into his arms. He'd hold you until the end of the world if that's what you needed him to do.

Being vulnerable—it was the one thing you had told yourself you would never do. Ever again. And here you were, letting this man hold you and practically lull you into a calmness you'd never felt before.

Is this what it felt like? To be... weak? To be... frail?

No.

Vulnerability... it didn't mean that.

It meant that you were... open. That you had managed to open your heart to a more... malleable form.

To be changed.

To find the one thing in life that you knew would keep you going for as long as it could.

To be vulnerable meant to be loved.

[hvbris]

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 & 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 @multipleoccupancy

What?

Violet's face fell, and for a moment, her mask shattered. Little Tony's eyes were milky white and filled with tears. "Why didn't you look away?" she asked, not even managing a tone of reproach. Her voice was shaky. Horrified. Little Tony was blind. She didn't understand. Why did he stare at the light? He had asked her to perform the ritual. Surely he should have known. Crazy Tony seemed fine -though he was more excited than before, struggling to sound human as he breathed like a hungry dog. Everyone else seemed fine, if a little annoyed.

But Little Tony wasn't. It was her fault. She had tried to play pretend, and now someone was blind because of her. She could hear Evil Theo's voice in her ears, she could hear the wind billowing around her, and feel the void beneath her feet. Look at what you made me do.

She had hurt someone again.

There was a loud ringing in her ears, and she barely registered Little Tony's voice as he ordered Crazy Tony to take her away -why did he sound so normal? "Ya got it, boss," snickered Crazy Tony, unceremoniously grabbing her by the arm, "come an Lil' Lady, I'll take good care of ya. Yous a guest of honuh, now."

She did not even fight him. She let him drag her away, her eyes planted on Little Tony, watching him hopelessly. But eventually, the crowd swallowed them, and she couldn't see him anymore. A small door led to what Little Tony had called 'the backrooms.' It was a dimly lit corridor with a row of doors and neon numbers. Crazy Tony opened one of them (it had a big neon 5 on it) and threw her in. It was empty, with two big leather sofas and a glass coffee table. The lighting was bright inside, with simple wooden floorings and a cozy carpet. It almost looked like a corporate office, and not the backroom of a creepy mobster club.

Little Tony's eyes stayed fixed on her as she left her seat, he just sat still as she got ready to do the ritual. However Knuckles took the opportunity to vanish into the crowd, not wanting to witness the ritual and knowing he had been fortunate perhaps in that he had not been the cultist stood closest to Violet. Little Tony took the fall and Knuckles was alright with that.

The flash of blinding light caused several almost comical noises of complaints from the other patrons at the club. Many of them rubbing their eyes to try and regain their vision, a couple of them shouting and accusing each other of all sorts. The ritual was done and shown and at least the other cultists who were near by didn't seem to be all too keen to approach her. In fact, there was quite a large space that was clear around her, Little Tony and Crazy Tony.

As she looked back to show her apparent apathy in using the ritual, she came face to face with Little Tony, who's eyes had turned a milky white. Blinded by her flash as if he had not reacted to protect his eyes at all and had in fact been made to look into the light. He was shaking, more tears were falling down his cheeks as if he was being held in place like some sort of live puppet forbidden from saying or doing anything until his master allowed. What did come was Little Tony's voice, as normal as it had been before. "You should take her out tah the back rooms, Crazy Tony. Don' matter who's there, put her in room five will'yuh?"

[hoshifighting]

college fling!hoshi

WARNINGS: hoshi trying on stilettos, smut, blowjob + handjob body fluids (spit, cum), hoshi has the HIP GAME!!!! penetrative sex, g'spot stimulation, him getting obsessed with the sight of reader cumming for days <3333

WC: 2.6k of it, bc i forgot how this kind of imagine should be midway 🤝

part 1 / part 2

college fling!hoshi who, since that night, started finding every excuse to touch you. a hand on your lower back when you’re walking through a crowded hallway, his knee bumping yours when you sit together, even a quick pat on your head after practice with a cheeky “good job, sunbae.” you tried to brush it off as just his love language—maybe he’s one of those people who thrive on physical contact. but every time his fingers lingered a second too long, you couldn’t ignore the flutter in your chest.

college fling!hoshi who accidentally wandered into the wrong studio one day, his excuse ready before anyone even questioned it. “oh, i just… wanted to try something new,” he said, grinning a little too wide as the teacher raised an eyebrow. the announcement had been clear: stiletto class was for the girls this time. yet here he was, standing awkwardly by the door, hands in his pockets, clearly lying through his teeth.

college fling!hoshi who got handed a pair of heels anyway, much to the amusement of the other girls. “you sure about this?” you teased, smirking as he slipped the shoes on. “i’ve got this,” he said confidently, taking one step—and immediately stumbling. the room erupted into laughter, and even the teacher had to hide a smile. “maybe sit this one out, hoshi,” she said gently, gesturing to the corner. cheeks flushed, he muttered a quiet “okay” and plopped down, his gaze finding you almost instantly.

college fling!hoshi who sat there pretending to be invested in everyone else’s routines, but his eyes were glued to you. the way you swayed your hips, the sharp arch of your back during the floorwork, the effortless way you spun in heels that would’ve broken his ankles. he tried to play it cool, leaning back in his chair like he wasn’t watching every move you made, but the heat rising to his cheeks gave him away.

college fling!hoshi who waited until class was over to approach you, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he caught up. “you’re insane in those,” he blurted, nodding toward your heels. “how do you even stay upright?” you smirked, twirling in front of him. “talent, hoshi. pure talent.” he rolled his eyes but didn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “if that’s what talent looks like, I’m officially untalented.

college fling!hoshi who offered to carry your bag after class because, “you’ve been walking in those all day, and your feet probably hate you.” you let him take it, amused at how eager he seemed. “you’re really playing the gentleman card, huh?” you teased as he slung the bag over his shoulder. “what can I say? i’m trying to earn extra sunbae points,” he shot back, his grin so wide it made your cheeks warm.

college fling!hoshi who, despite his earlier embarrassment, started showing up more often during your stiletto classes. he always had some flimsy excuse—“just wanted to see if i’d get better at walking in them” or “i’m here for moral support!”—but you weren’t stupid. you caught the way his eyes followed you whenever you moved, the way he couldn’t hide his smirk when you executed a particularly complicated move.

college fling!hoshi who couldn’t resist bringing up the class later when you were grabbing beer together. “so, uh,” he started, stirring his drink unnecessarily, “do you always look that good in stilettos, or was today just special?” you nearly choked on your drink, glaring at him over the rim of your can. “bold of you to say after nearly eating shit in them.��� 

college fling!hoshi who always lingered by your door, shifting from foot to foot, his smile shy but hopeful. “you sure you’re good for the night?” he’d ask, every single time, like he was waiting for you to say no. one evening, you finally did. “actually, wanna come in?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe. his eyes lit up, and he followed you inside without a second thought, shrugging off his backpack like he’d been planning this for weeks.

college fling!hoshi who suddenly kissed like he’d been holding himself back since he had met you. his hands hesitant as they cupped your jaw, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. but once your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, something in him snapped. he kissed you deeper, hungrier, and you felt it in the way his breath hitched against your lips when you bit down gently on his bottom one.

“shit, y/n,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “you can’t just do that and expect me to stay sane.” you grinned, pulling him back in. “who said anything about staying sane?”

college fling!hoshi who couldn’t stop his hands from wandering once things got heated. his palms roamed over your thighs, your waist, and the curve of your ass, “you’re gonna kill me, sunbae.” but when your nails dragged down his back, his breath stuttered, and he let out a whiny moan that made your stomach twist. “keep doing that,” he said, his voice rough, “i’m begging you.”

college fling!hoshi who loved the way you teased him when he got impatient. “hoshi, you’re so easy,” you’d whisper, your lips brushing his ear. his grip on your hips would tighten, his jaw clenching as he growled, “say that again and see what happens.” and you did, because watching him lose control when you pushed his buttons was one of your favorite things.

“you’re a menace,” he muttered, pinning you to the mattress, but the smirk on his face said otherwise. “and you’re obsessed with me.” you shot back, gasping when his lips found the sensitive spot on your neck. “yeah,” he admitted, his voice muffled against your skin, “i am.”

college fling!hoshi who couldn’t get enough of the way you moved beneath him. his hands guided your hips to hump your clothed cunt on his erection like he was choreographing the moment. “just like that,” he breathed, his voice a rasp. when you rolled your hips against him as you two used only your underwears, his head fell back, a groan tearing from his throat. 

college fling!hoshi who fell apart the first time you flipped him onto his back, straddling him with a naughty grin, he stared up at you like you were a dream. 

college fling!hoshi who swore he could see stars when your mouth wrapped around him for the first time. “oh!—god—fuck!” he gasped, his head falling back against the pillows, fingers immediately tangling in your hair. he let out the prettiest sounds you’d ever heard. “y/n… holy shit. where did you learn to—” he cut himself off with a sharp moan when your tongue swirled around the tip, his hips bucking up before he caught himself.

“don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” you teased, pulling back for a second, your lips shiny and curved into a smirk. his breath hitched as you spit into your hand, wrapping it around the base of his cock. you started to pump slowly, your gaze locked on his face as you leaned back down to take him in your mouth again.

“fuck, fuck,” hoshi groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair, torn between pushing you closer and letting you set your own pace. his thighs were trembling, and you could feel him twitching in your mouth as you worked him over with a mix of your tongue and hand. “y/n, you’re… you’re gonna kill me” he choked out, his voice breaking on the last word.

you pulled back again, just enough to talk, your hand still stroking him. “you’re being dramatic,” you teased, your breath warm against his cock skin. his head snapped up, eyes wide and glassy. “dramatic? you call this dramatic?” he asked, gesturing wildly at his flushed face and the way he was visibly crumbling under your touch.

you laughed, leaning down to press a kiss to his thigh before dragging your tongue along his length again. 

college fling!hoshi could barely form words when you started to get messier with it, spit dripping down your hand and lips as you hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper. “shit, fuck, you’re so good at that,” he stammered, his voice breathy and high-pitched. his thighs flexed, and he gripped the sheets with one hand, the other still in your hair.

“gonna come, gonna come, I swear, I can’t—” he cut himself off with a broken whimper when your hand squeezed just right, your tongue flicking over the sensitive slit that made him see white. he was trying so hard to hold back, his abs tensing as his hips stuttered up into your mouth.

“you’re so loud,” you teased, pulling off with a pop to stroke him faster, your hand slick and warm. he groaned, throwing his head back, one hand slapping over his mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle himself. “don’t you dare,” you scold hum. “i like hearing you.”

college fling!hoshi nearly lost it at your words, his hand dropping to his side as he let out a string of curses. “you’re insane,” he breathed, his voice shaking as he looked down at you. “you’re so fucking insane, and I’m—oh, fuck—”

when he finally came, it was with a high, drawn-out moan, his body trembling as he spilled into your mouth. he suddenly raises himself, because he knows that if he drowns too much in this orgasm, he wont have the forces to fuck you tonight. and he clearly have been waiting to fuck you.

college fling!hoshi who, the first time he pressed you into the mattress and slid inside, moved his hips in a way that made your head spin. his hips didn’t just thrust—they rolled, fluid and precise. he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “feel how good i can make it?”

and fuck, you felt it. the way his body synced with yours, the slow grind that made you arch into him, chasing every ounce of friction he gave. you couldn’t form words, just moans and gasps that drove him further. “there you go,” he murmured, his voice soft but teasing, “just let me take care of you, princess, my pretty sunbae.” his tone was cocky, but his eyes were so nasty that it melted you into the sheets.

he knew exactly when to slow down, pulling out almost all the way before snapping his hips back in making you sob out loud. “there it is,” he groaned, watching the way your body reacted to him, the way your thighs quivered and your back arched. “you’re so sensitive here hm? can’t even handle a little rhythm.”

“shut your mouth!” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, but he just laughed, dipping his head to kiss you hard, stealing the rest of your breath. “you’re so tight,” he groaned, his forehead resting against yours as his hips snapped against you.

your hands slid down his back, nails digging into the dip of his spine as you moaned his name, and that’s when you realized—he loved it. every time you lost control, and did it, he shivered, clearly. “you sound so good like this, keep saying my name, baby. i need to hear it.”

college fling!hoshi who couldn’t stop himself from showing off just a little—that way, he can try to make you addicted to it. he’d grab your hips, pulling you flush against him as he adjusted the angle, making you gasp as he hit just the sweet spot. “there.” he affirmed, “that’s it. you feel that?”

“hoshi, oh my god!” you whimpered, your hands fisting the sheets, and he grinned, clearly proud of himself. “yeah, you do,” he said, his tone cocky but still full of love. “god, you look so good like this. so fucking good.”

college fling!hoshi who, even when he was about to nut, always knew how to make it about you. his hips stuttered as he got closer, but he shifted, angling himself to hit the spot that made you see fireballs. “come on, baby,” he panted. “i need to feel you come. please, y/n, just let go for me.”

college fling!hoshi who couldn’t focus on anything for an entire week, replaying the memory of your face when you came like it was a highlight reel on loop. he’d be in the middle of stretching before class, staring at the floor, and suddenly your breathless moans would echo in his head. “nooo...” he muttered under his breath, quickly looking around to make sure no one noticed the way he adjusted his sweatpants.

college fling!hoshi who walked around campus like a man possessed, unable to concentrate on anything except you. the way your lips parted, the tremble in your thighs, the way you said his name like it was the only word you knew. he caught himself zoning out during a group project, the other guys snapping their fingers in his face. “you good, dude?” one of them asked, raising an eyebrow.

hoshi blinked, shaking his head like he could physically shove the memory away. “yeah, yeah, just—uh, tired,” he stammered, avoiding their eyes. tired? bullshit. he was absolutely whipped, and everyone around him knew it.

college fling!hoshi who would steal glances at you during class, his cheeks flushing when you met his eyes and smirked. you knew. of course, you knew. how could you not, when he was practically radiating “i’m thinking about fucking you” energy every time he looked at you?

“hoshi, focus,” you whispered, nudging his foot under the table. he cleared his throat, staring down at his notebook and scribbling nonsense, but his leg bounced under the desk. you leaned closer, your lips barely brushing his ear. “stop spacing out, or should i remind you how loud you were that night?”

his eyes widened, his whole face turning red as he choked on air. “y/n!” he hissed, his voice scandalized but barely above a whisper. you just grinned, leaning back like you hadn’t just ruined his entire day.

college fling!hoshi who started training harder, like he needed to burn off all the pent-up energy you left him with. but even then, mid-routine, his mind wandered to the way you’d clawed at his back, your nails leaving marks he’d stared at in the mirror for days.

“focus, hoshi!” the professor barked, clapping her hands. he startled, nearly tripping over his own feet. “yes, ma’am!” he stammered, bowing quickly. but as soon as practice ended, he was texting you.

[hoshi, 6:32 PM]: you’re insane, you know that? [y/n, 6:33 PM]: elaborate. [hoshi, 6:34 PM]: you know why.

college fling!hoshi who nearly combusted when you casually mentioned the night to him. “so… did you enjoy yourself?” you asked, your tone lightg, like you already knew the answer.

“enjoy myself?” he repeated, his voice going up an octave. “y/n, are you serious? i’ve been thinking about it every fucking day since then.”

you laughed, leaning against his shoulder. “good to know i left an impression.”

“an impression?” he groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “you ruined me. every time i close my eyes, i see you—” he stopped himself, his cheeks turning pink.

“see me what?” 

“i’m not saying it,” he muttered, covering his face with his hands. “you’re evil.”

college fling!hoshi who couldn’t help himself during your next late-night practice. you were stretching, your body arching in a way that made his mouth go dry, and he just… lost it.

“y/n,” he called, his voice lower than usual. you turned, raising an eyebrow. “what’s up?”

“can we…” he hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “can we go back to your dorm?”

“hoshi, practice just started.”

“please,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, “i need you.”

and when you finally caved, grabbing your bag and leading him out of the room, he was already planning to memorize everything all over again.

[dontbesoweirdkira]

I was wondering if you can do Yandere dick and Tim with a Childe reader who seems to favor Tim over Dick.

Just imagine Tim finding this little Kid following him like a little duckling and thinking that he is soooo cool!

No matter how much Dick makes the kid like him Tim is always his favorite!!

(It will be funny if Batsis who doesn't like Dick at all is also around. He will be losing his mind!!)

A/N:Oh my gosh yes! Lowkey Batsis and Tim being co-sibling-parents lolll. Honestly Tim and Batsis duo is so iconic. I need to do more. I love them. look at him...he's such a good brother.

Here's the thing, Dick is the honorary dad of the family. Like he's changed diapers, taught how to tie shoes, walked his siblings to school and gone to graduations... All the siblings go to him with their problems before Bruce.

Now new baby alert,,,,Dick is in full papa mode and is ready to do the same with batchild and is so hurt when the kid screams in his arms. Like anytime he's near or picks the child up like this kid is in distress. O my gosh I feel so bad. Poor Dick.

Dick is seriously trying so hard to make batchild love him but nothing he does works. Dick could have cocomelon on full blast and wearing a Barney costume and this kid will be trying to get away.

Eventually like Jason has to be like..."dude, please just let someone else take care of em'. They need more time to adjust to you."

It's because of his blue eyes isn't it? Dick unintentionally has the Miley Cyrus blue eyed stare and the kid cannot take it. lol

All jokes aside it's really not that bad but it's clear that Dick isn't their favorite. There's definitely cute moments where Dick is sitting down with batchild in his arms and they are munching on some snacks. Or Dick is singing to them or doing a fun trick with them in the air. But ultimately the kid seems to gravitate to other siblings instead.

Dick doesn't really know how to function though. I mean we've seen just how insane he is with batsis. Only problem is he cannot be as forceful with the child in fear of scaring them.

I think the batchild and Tim situation won't get to him until he sees batsis, Tim and batchild all together.

The whole Tim obsession is out of the blue. Like Tim is almost always in his room or in a dark corner somewhere doing research. He decides to come out one evening as he had a bit of time after solving some cases...

I like to think Tim is a super geek who probably wears cartoon pajama pants or silly slippers and it caught the kid's attention so he's waddling towards him.

Tim is kind of like...what is happening? What do I do with this young human? He's kind of awkward with the kid at first but the kid is just loving himmm. Tim will try to explain the character that it is on his clothes to the kid, and they will try cutely mimicking him and Tim's heart just melts.

"Oh uhh...this is Link from..well Zelda.."

"lwink...frwum zweldwa..?'

The kid is dead set on sitting with him during dinner too. Like they climb into his lap and starting eating off of his plate. It's perfectly okay because Tim doesn't eat much at all so he didn't mind the kid messing the plate up.

He stays out in the living room a little longer than usual that night to play with the kid a little, it's super sweet.

I like to think Tim and batsis are rather close siblings so there are times where Tim will be coupe up in this room and batsis will come in with batchild and pull him away from his work. Batchild loves playing pretend with the two, specifically knights and dragons and hospital. It's nice seeing Tim a bit out of his element and having fun.

Sometimes batkid will just fall asleep in Tim's arms as he's working late. Speaking of, Tim takes to the kids like they're his little apprentice. Oftentimes you'll find them together with tons of case files out and the kid is grabbing items or pinning things on the board for Tim. Seriously that child's reading level went from first grade to 10th in the span of a few months lmaooo

But there's often times where batsis and Tim are with them. Quickly they become the kid's favorite siblings and they want them to do everything. Like when the kid is hurt, they'll cry for either. If the kid need to get ready for school, they want either to help. If it's movie night, the kid is squished in-between the two. You guys basically broke the honorary parents and it's so adorbs.

But this is where I said Dick is not having it. I feel like Dick was never threatened by Tim until now. Like sure Dick knew that Batsis and Tim were kind of close in a way and he was okay with batkid taking a liking to him...but all three of you being your own little squad is killing him.

He hates being excluded and not being needed so he's like ripping his hair out. He'll try inviting himself into the group and like the kid is just ignoring him...

Dick will try to open a juice box for the kid and now the kid doesn't even want it anymore like....bruh I wants Timmy to open it for me :(

Honestly I am not even sure really how Dick copes...Like I just feel like he doesn't explode because like I said he doesn't wanna scare the kiddo but idkkkk

[33max]

winter warmers ☃️ - day one, lingerie

max/daniel, 921 words, mostly sfw (only one cock mention and one hole mention)

Max is not usually shy. Daniel knows this and has experienced first-hand exactly how not shy Max is. There have been times when Daniel has been showering and Max has barged right in to take a piss a couple of feet away. A few too many times where Max has told Daniel, in excruciating detail, about the food poisoning he caught from a dodgy kebab shop in Milton Keynes. And more recently, he’s not been shy about how much he likes it when Daniel puts him face down on the mattress and pulls his ass cheeks apart to tongue at him there.

So, Daniel doesn’t know why Max is so tight-lipped about this particular thing. As far as kinks go, this is probably closer to the vanilla side of the kinky scale.

But Max is still shy about it. He blushes whenever Daniel brings the subject up. Once, he even choked on his mostly empty gin and tonic, coughing loudly until Daniel dropped the conversation and instead started patting him on the back.

The thing is, Daniel is like a dog with a bone. From the moment he first brought it up with Max and it elicited cherry red cheeks and a spluttering dismissal from his boyfriend, Daniel has thought of nothing else.

Two things are certain.

Max Verstappen wants to wear lingerie.

And Max Verstappen is too proud to admit it.

So Daniel takes it into his own hands, and starts searching for the most perfect lingerie set he can find for Max.

Choosing the right colour is hard because as far as Daniel is concerned, Max looks good in everything. But it’s important he gets this right.

Orange seems too obvious.

Red seems too predictable.

Navy blue is too close to Max’s work attire.

White would look lovely on Max’s pale skin, but Daniel is looking for something with contrast. Something that will stand out.

He sees a forest green set online and immediately starts entering his credit card information because he knows Max will look gorgeous in this colour. Milky white skin underneath forest green lace.

It has a corset, panties and a garter belt. Daniel doesn’t even bother to read the price tag. The price doesn’t matter when it’s for Max.

When the set arrives, Daniel spends a long time deciding how he is going to gift the set to Max… who probably still thinks he has successfully shown little interest in any sort of lingerie. After much deliberation, Daniel ends up leaving the set, wrapped up in a fancy gift box, on their bed for Max to find.

That way, Max can spend some time looking at the details without pretending to be uninterested in front of Daniel. He can run his fingers over the lace and hold it up to his body and maybe even try it on. So, as desperate as Daniel is to see Max’s reaction to the gift, he knows he needs to let Max process this by himself if he ever wants to actually see him in the lace.

Not that Daniel is counting but it is exactly forty-three minutes after Max walks into their bedroom and finds the lingerie that Daniel hears a faint “Daniel? Can you come here?”

He doesn’t know if he walks or teleports to the bedroom, but the next thing he knows he is standing in the doorway looking at Max, who is completely naked clutching the gift box tightly to his chest.

“Do you like them?” Daniel asks, letting his eyes roam over Max’s exposed skin. He’s so hot.

“No,” Max lies, but it’s with a small lopsided smile. His cheeks are pink.

“Are you sure?” Daniel laughs, eyes trailing to where Max’s cock is chubbing up between his legs. Twitching.

“Will you help me put them on?”

Daniel doesn’t answer him, it’s a silly question, and he is already practically vibrating with anticipation. Instead, Daniel walks towards Max and carefully takes the box out of his grip.

“Let’s get you all dressed up,” Daniel says, leaning in to press a line of kisses along Max’s collarbones. “You are going to look so beautiful in these, baby. I bought them just for you.”

Max lets out a tiny breathy moan.

“How long have you wanted this?” Daniel can’t help but ask. He’s been dying to know.

“I don’t know,” Max blushes harder, his cheeks so pink. “Always.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Max shrugs. “I didn’t want you to think I was weird.”

“Maxy, it’s totally normal. It’s a normal thing to want.” Daniel reassures. “You could be into almost anything, and I’d be into it too because you like it.”

Max blushes harder.

“Baby?” Daniel says. He’s very aware that Max is still completely naked, and he is fully clothed, he doesn’t want Max to feel too exposed so he will drop it the moment Max looks even slightly overwhelmed.

“Itsnotjustasexthing!” Max blurts out, before turning away, his eyes firmly avoiding Daniel.

It takes a few moments to process what Max has said. It’s not just a sex thing.

“Max, baby, look at me.” Daniel says, “Even more reason to let yourself wear them.”

Max’s blue eyes search Daniel’s until finally, those words seem to sink in.

“Ok?” Daniel asks.

“Ok.”

“Let’s get you in these panties,” Daniel says, tickling at Max’s sides.

Daniel is right. Forest green is Max’s colour.

[witchthewriter]

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

From this poll, this series is born!

a/n: this is changing the dragons from not just mount, but to being able to shift into a human-like form at will...

𝑺𝑭𝑾🌿

・In his dragon form, The Cannibal is larger than Vermithor, and three times nastier as well.

・With fire that breathed green, he seemed like an otherwordly creature to the people of Westeros.

・Once he was claimed, many came to see The Cannibal 'up close.' Crowds would form whenever you went flying; a sight that so many would tell their children, and their childrens children and so on.

・With sharp black horns that curled and protruded from the dragons head, he was terrifying.

・And you loved him.

・Many asked how you 'tamed' him. But that ... wasn't how it happened.

・Unlike many throughout history; he found you.

・And when he came snout to face with you, you did not balk. For dragons were your family's legacy. If you died by his flame, then so be it.

・The Cannibal sensed that.

・Maybe it was bravery. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe it was the fact that you felt so alone that you did not care what may have happened.

・Your relationship with the Cannibal was different to other dragonriders and their mounts.

・You never chained him up and put him in the dragon pit.

・You gave him free range of the world. Just because you were tethered together did not mean that you owned him.

・For he was far older and experienced than you could ever be.

・The first time you saw your mount transform, you thought it was a dream. One wickedly wonderful dream.

・In his half form, he towers over you at 7.5 feet tall. With long onyx coloured hair partly braided, two glowing green eyes, pointed ears and a face so ... handsome yet scarred, menacing and well honestly a little terrifying. He looked like a death promise to those who look him in the eye.

・Some of his teeth are sharp as well, and he challenges anyone who looks in your direction.

・He's completely attached to you, because why else would he want to be around other people, other beings?

・His name? He was happy with being called Cannibal - but you told him he couldn't be out in society with it. So his 'human' name is: Vorzhul.

・The Cannibal/Vorzhul is very wary of others; as his time has been spent alone. He doesn't know how to converse with others without coming off as ... slightly crazy.

・That's one of the reasons why he becomes so attached to you. Not only because you are his bonded rider, but because he feels like his walls can come down.

・He can be quite funny at times -

・Particularly when he mind-speaks during something important.

・When you're feeling down, he reminds you that: "I'm eternally yours."

・So now you never feel lonely. Or that the world is against you. Because someone always has your back. No matter what you say or do.

・The knowledge that certain dragons can shift, is only known by certain people. High ranking people. Ones who have blood sworn not to tell another soul.

・One maester, your parents and the Hand of the King.

・Marriage is a difficult subject.

・Some shifters will allow their bonded to marry another. But not yours.

・Even if it is tried, he will turn into dragon form and eat those who come to marry you. And their families.

・So it is either, he marries you or a war will break out.

・When he's in his hybrid form, Vorzhul is able to understand English and High Valyrian. With some people he pretends not to know English and lets them talk shit until he responds.

・They usually excuse themselves (basically running away)

・When he's in his dragon form, he'll only take commands in High Valyrian though, just like every other dragon.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

No Social Skills (The Cannibal/Vorzhul) x No Social Skills Either, That's Why We're Bonded (You)

Undying Loyalty x2

"Think they'll try us?" x "Fuck I hope so."

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Found Family

Intertwined Destinies

Legacy and Legend

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Do I Wanna Know by Arctic Monkeys

I Need You by James Newton Howard

Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin

𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊 🔞 No one under the age of 18 past this point, makes me feel weird if you read it.

・As you would think, he is completely dominant in bed. Rough; hands gripping you tight against him, teeth sinking into your skin without a second thought.

・His tongue decided it liked the taste of your skin, and started moving further and further downward. And then he pushed your legs apart and devoured you until you came three times ... in a row.

・His animalistic nature could not hold off when he was with you - the suppleness of your skin, the way you trembled underneath his grasp.

・He laughed when you finally wrestled to sit on top of him, only for him to buck you off and roll you onto your back:

"You will have to try better than that little one."

・He felt primal around you.

・Like a peace he never had, had finally found him.

・And sex was more than pleasure; it was about connecting with you. Becoming one with you.

"Just let it stay in a little longer ñuha jorrāeliarzy (my beloved)"

You whispered back, "elilla (honey), you are too big, and it hurts."

He huffed and with a frown, slowly slid himself out of you.

"Are you pouting!"

"No."

"You are!"

"No I am not!"

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 4: Foxes and Sailfish]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), awkward interactions on a boat, making friends in the Vale, references to war-related violence, Aemond flashbacks haunt the narrative, Red and Jace share an exciting new experience!

Word count: 5.8k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

The fireplace crackles, there’s smoke in the air. The shards of seashells take shape on the board as you affix them with paste made of boiled bones, unloved bodies you’ve scavenged: rabbits, foxes, deer, weasels, squirrels, snakes, turtles, birds. Sometimes Criston will find you searching for carcasses in the garden or the Godswood—a basket full of skulls and ribs, hands covered with dirt—and beg you to go back to Maegor’s Holdfast where you belong. He says: Please, princess, let me do that for you. I’ll bring you all the bones you need. This is too grisly a task for young ladies. And then, when you try to refuse him: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. And so you accept his offer and surrender your basket, knowing that being the daughter Mother wishes you were will always require pretending.

Aemond is in bed, freshly rid of his left eye and floating in a silent, pearlescent lake of milk of the poppy. He is unconscious for now, but he can only have a dose every six hours, and when it begins to wear off he becomes feverish and fearful. You can’t leave him. Aemond is a year older than you, always just a little bit wiser, always quicker and steadier on his feet; you have never known a world without him in it. But now he is the one who needs you. This is a strange feeling.

Mother, Criston, Helaena, and Maester Orwyle are always gliding in and out of the room—whispering, grim-faced ghosts—but at the moment you are alone with Aemond. A shadow appears in the doorway. It’s Aegon, and his face is marred too: there’s a bruise on his cheekbone from where someone hit him, Grandsire or Mother. He is slumped against the doorframe with a goblet of wine in his hand. He takes a slurp and uses his cup to gesture to where Aemond is sleeping. It’s a question.

“He’s alright, Aegon,” you say. “He’s resting. He’s healing.”

He licks his lips and skims his fingerprint around the rim of the goblet, pensive. “I wasn’t there.”

“None of us were.”

“Does he blame me for what happened?”

“He hasn’t said anything.”

“But you would know if he felt it.”

Would I? Sometimes you don’t believe you know Aemond as well as they imagine you do. There have always been things he doesn’t tell you. You didn’t know he was planning to claim Vhagar. He is unpredictable, he is a deep reservoir of secrets; he taunts you, he guards you, he ignores you, he comes rushing back. You say to Aegon: “I don’t think he blames you.”

Aegon exhales, drunken exhausted relief. “Good.”

Beneath blankets that Helaena has embroidered with legends from the Age of Heroes, Aemond stirs. His remaining eye—glazed, drugged, an empty anemic blue—flutters opens and drifts to you. “Now we know why you don’t have a dragon,” he says, weak and raspy. “The price has gone up. They cost an eye each.”

You paint a sliver of a cerulean-colored shell with glue. “I’d pay that if I knew it would work.”

Aemond asks, as if it has been weighing on him: “Do I horrify you?”

You smile softly. “No more than you did before.”

From where he still loiters in the doorway nursing his wine, Aegon snickers. Aemond grins, then winces from the pain it causes him. “What are you making?”

“It’s Symeon Star-Eyes,” you say, tilting up the mosaic so he can see it better. “You read us that story, remember? He was a knight who used a staff with blades at both ends to cut down his enemies. He was blinded in combat, so he replaced his eyes with sapphires.”

“Sapphires,” Aemond mumbles drowsily.

“Yes.”

“Blue.”

“Like you,” you say, thinking of his game piece: the blue wolf, a mournful color, a beast that kills.

“Hm,” he murmurs to himself as he sinks back into sleep; and it’s not until Aemond’s wound has healed that you learn of the idea you’ve given him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Vermax is not an especially imposing dragon, a drab sort of green and smaller than Sunfyre, but he is frightening enough when he bares his teeth. He snarls and snaps at you, unloosed fire roiling up in his throat. You stand perhaps ten paces away from him, flinching away from the heat that refracts the air and puts ripples in it like disturbed water. Jace is attempting to soothe Vermax, a palm pressed to the beast’s scales. Rhaenyra and Daemon are watching, confounded.

“Mother wasn’t exaggerating,” you tell them. You are crestfallen; this is a humiliation. You have silver hair and undisputed parentage, and yet Jace is the one whose egg hatched. So who is the true Targaryen?

“Very, very peculiar,” Daemon muses, scratching his chin. He turns to Rhaenyra. “Make her get closer, let’s see what happens.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra says impatiently. In the light of day, you can observe her face more clearly. There are dark semicircles under her eyes, and lines that didn’t exist before Luke was killed. She is ten years closer to the grave than she was the night her father died.

You cannot see the riots from where you’re standing in the castle courtyard, but you can hear them, the ambient rumbling of people rejecting Rhaenyra’s rule. They decry the slaughter of Jaehaerys. They shout demands of proof that the imprisoned Greens are alive and well: Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor, you. Fear of Rhaenyra’s soldiers and her dragons may delay their wrath, but you don’t believe she can quell it. High overhead, Sheepstealer sails past the Red Keep, casting a massive shadow. Rhaenyra’s frown deepens. Daemon pretends not to notice.

“Very well,” Rhaenyra sighs, summoning Jace to return to her and abandon his attempts to quiet Vermax. Dutifully—though perhaps not without resentment—he acquiesces. Vermax is still growling at you. You glower back, wishing that Vhagar was here to eat him. “There are other ways to get to Heart’s Home. A ship will take longer, ten days or two weeks depending on the wind. The journey should be safe. The Sea Snake’s blockade controls Blackwater Bay, and the Greens have no navy.” Rhaenyra looks to you. “That’s still correct, isn’t it? The usurper was refused by the Greyjoys?”

“I don’t know,” you lie.

She gives you a disapproving glare and then turns her attention back to Jace. “Alyn of Hull can take you to the Vale in his ship. I’m sure Corlys can manage without him for a matter as important as this. I’ve sent a raven ahead to the Corbrays. They’ll be expecting you, and you’ll be married upon your arrival, with Lord and Lady Corbray serving as witnesses. You have until then to get accustomed to each other.”

Jace begins to mutter a protest, low enough that you can’t hear. Rhaenyra shushes him. Vermax takes flight and soars out towards the ocean. You step closer to the castle wall and listen to the clamor of the crowds, willing them to rise up and free your family, to destroy Rhaenyra’s. Daemon stalks you around the courtyard, unsheathing Dark Sister and whistling so you know how near he is. You refuse to acknowledge him.

Rhaenyra is telling Jace: “When the war is won, the Greens’ surviving loyalists will accept you as my heir if you are married to her and father her children.”

“What about Aegon? What if Aemond and Criston manage to smuggle him into hiding somewhere, and then one day he reappears and—?”

“Aegon won’t live,” Rhaenyra says confidently. “From what we’ve heard, his burns must be dreadful. He will succumb to them, hopefully slowly and with great pain, and in the meantime Aemond and Vhagar will be pinned down in the eastern Crownlands tending to him. And even once Aemond is unincumbered, he will not want to fly into battle against Caraxes and Sheepstealer together. Vhagar is fearsome, but she is old and slow. Aemond is cunning. He knows this.”

“You told Alicent we’d pardon him,” Jace says, and his tone is accusatory. How could you? How dare you?

“I said I’d spare him if he’s still alive when the war is over,” Rhaenyra replies with a sharp glance. “So let’s make sure he isn’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner is sailfish, which you’ve never eaten before. All afternoon you saw them zipping through the water as Alyn of Hull’s ship cruised out of King’s Landing and towards the Gullet, their sapphire dorsal fins cutting up through the surf. Then the crew caught some and hauled them up onto the deck—large bulging eyes, toothless mouths agape as they suffocated in open air—and you watched as the fish were gutted and their scales and organs scrubbed from the planks with seawater that turned rosy with blood. Refuse washed back into the ocean: bones, fins, disembodied eyeballs dragging tails of optic nerves.

Alyn is a bastard of Corlys Velaryon, you’ve gathered; he is young to have been entrusted with his own vessel, and the resemblance is undeniable. He is chivalrous but very strict. You are not permitted in the room where several caged ravens are kept in case Alyn has to send a message back to the capital. You are not permitted to stand too close to the ship’s railing. You are not permitted to handle anything that could be used as a weapon. You are not permitted to converse with the crew. In truth, you are allowed to do almost nothing.

Now you are below deck, you and Jace seated at opposite ends of a long wooden table and alone except for two guards posted by the door. Tall white candles flicker, wobbling in their brass stands as the ship rocks. You drink too much wine and pick at your sailfish, pinkish lumps of meat seasoned with garlic and lemon juice. Jace pushes roasted parsnips and green beans around aimlessly on his plate. You can’t stop thinking of the family you’ve left behind: Mother and Helaena in a dungeon, Jaehaera and Maelor taken hostage by Rhaenyra, Daeron at war in the Reach, Aegon horrifically burned, Aemond and Criston battling to save him.

I shouldn’t be safe while they’re suffering. It’s wrong, it’s treasonous. I’m the least worthy of us. I’ve done nothing to help us win this war. I haven’t saved anyone.

You keep hoping for a vision of what Aemond is doing, what he is feeling, but you’ve never had any control over the glimpses you get into his mind. They are random, and brief, and fragmented. You don’t know if Aegon is still alive. You don’t know if Aemond is thinking of you.

“So that’s why you don’t have a dragon,” Jace says suddenly, and you look up at him, startled. He’s staring at you from beneath the dark curls that have fallen over his face, the mark of House Strong. He’s not entirely unappealing, if you don’t judge him as a Valyrian, an enemy combatant, a traitor. You can’t tell if Jace is being smug or sincere; you barely know him. “Because they hate you.”

Mother’s words resurface in your skull like sailfish dredged up from the waves: If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.

You aren’t sure how to earn anybody’s affection. With everyone you’ve known before you either had it or you didn’t, and that never seemed like something you could change.

“It’s not for lack of trying,” you say, fidgeting uneasily with your wine cup. “I tried to claim Vermithor when I was a child. He nearly killed me.”

Jace’s dark eyebrows go up. “Did he? On Dragonstone?”

You nod. “Grandsire arranged for us to visit the island while your family was travelling elsewhere. Driftmark, maybe, I don’t remember. I had always wanted Vermithor, and I felt…I knew that if I found him he would bond to me and let me ride him. I followed him all over Dragonstone for days, but he kept moving, and then…when I finally got close enough…” You’d outrun Criston and the other guards, but Aemond had been there to pull you out of the path of Vermithor’s flames; yet you don’t think Jace will want to hear this. It feels impossible to extricate Aemond from your memories. You’ve never known a life he was not intrinsically entwined with. “The Bronze Fury made his discontentment clear.”

Jace narrows his eyes and gives you an ironic smile, as if he’s thinking: Too bad you lived. “So you gave up.”

“Oh no, I tormented the others too. Silverwing, Grey Ghost, Seasmoke, none of them were very welcoming. I don’t recall Sheepstealer being there at the time…maybe he was feeding elsewhere in the Crownlands. I’d know if I’d seen him before, I think.”

“Sheepstealer is very…unique in appearance.”

You smile at the memory of Grandsire calling him hideous, then go somber when you remember he’s dead. “Grey Ghost was sweet, though. He didn’t attempt to burn me, he just flew away.”

“You’ve tried all of those dragons?” Now Jace seems genuinely intrigued. “Just…one after the other?”

You shrug and swig your wine. Jace gives you a disapproving glance; you put the cup down and begin eating instead. “I wanted a beast for myself. Everyone else had theirs, it seemed inevitable that I would find mine if I searched long enough. I even approached the Cannibal.”

“The Cannibal.” Jace shakes his head and forks sailfish into his mouth; it’s the first bite he’s taken tonight. “You were desperate. Or stupid.”

You smirk. “Or both.”

“What color are his flames? Green, like his eyes?”

“No,” you say softly, remembering the massive black dragon covered in spines like the stalagmites of a cave. “No, the Cannibal’s dragonfire is red.”

“Do you think yourself to be…” Jace gestures vaguely with his fork. “Lacking in some way? Less capable than Helaena or your brothers?”

This is a rude question. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I must be inadequate, or I would have a dragon.”

Jace seems to contemplate this as he eats.

“Why do you ask?” you provoke him, before recalling you’re supposed to be winning his affection, if such a thing is possible, and you very much doubt it. “Are you concerned I’ll pass this fault on to my children?”

“Well, it’s an interest of mine,” Jace says. “Locating dragonriders. What makes someone alluring to the beasts, as well as what doesn’t. This war will be won by dragons, I’m sure each side aspires to have more of them.”

You study him, taking nibbles of your sailfish. Recruiting dragonriders outside of the immediate family is not something Aemond would ever consider; he would not trust them, he would view them as supplanters of the natural order. But a bastard himself… “Was it your idea to find someone to ride Sheepstealer?”

Jace grins, cagey and teasing. He spears green beans with his fork. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

Because I can’t be trusted with the Blacks’ strategies. Just with birthing their heirs. “I didn’t know you had ideas.”

“Yes, well, Mother and Daemon try very hard not to notice them.” He points to your braid with his knife. “Do you wear your hair like that because of Visenya?”

You touch it self-consciously. You’re surprised he noticed. “Yes.”

“She married her brother,” Jace says, and this sounds like an accusation.

“She was also fearless, and dangerous, and she had a dragon.”

“Unlike you.”

“Right.”

Jace chuckles to himself. Now he is certainly being smug. Somewhere out in the night, Vermax is trailing the ship and will reunite with Jace once you’ve docked at Heart’s Home. You keep listening for Vhagar, imagining that Aemond will sense it as you sail near where he and Criston are tending to Aegon at Rook’s Rest, and he will fly to you and torch this ship and bring you home like he’s always promised. But perhaps Aemond is forgetting you. Perhaps he resents that you cannot help him win the war; perhaps he is beginning to hate you. Oblivious, Jace eats his sailfish.

“I had a bat named Sailfish,” you say.

Jace is puzzled. “A bat? Like…?” He makes flapping motions with his hands.

You smile and nod. “I kept bats.”

“Why?”

“Because I enjoyed them,” you say, and again you must stop yourself from mentioning Aemond. He cared for them because I did. “They horrified most people, but the children thought they were adorable. I’d teach them how to hold the bats and feed them bugs and fruit, and Jaehaerys couldn’t stop laughing when they licked honey off his fingers…” Then you shudder and go quiet, because you cannot think of Jaehaerys without seeing his hemorrhaging, headless body in Aegon’s arms.

Jace frowns down at the table. The wooden beams of the ship groan; the candlelight flickers. “Just as Mother and Daemon do not often heed my suggestions,” he says carefully after a while. “They do not share many of their plans with me. I knew nothing of what my stepfather arranged to happen that night. And if I had known, I would not have allowed it.”

I don’t believe you can control Daemon at all, you think. But instead you reply hoarsely: “I’m glad you recognize it for the atrocity that it was.”

“I know I’ve spoken harshly in the past. But if you are truly to be my wife, I wish for us to be in harmony as much as possible. I hope you feel the same way.”

“I do.” You don’t have much of a choice. How can you sleep with a man who hates you, who you hate in equal measure? “And Jace…I didn’t know what was going to happen to Luke or Baela. I had no part in either of their deaths.”

“I can’t…” His voice breaks; he swipes at his dark glistening eyes, like flecks of onyx. “I can’t talk about them.”

You are alarmed. “Jace—”

“Goodnight,” he says as he leaves, already halfway across the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

The first time you’re together—at your vanity, late for dinner—Aemond doesn’t try to put his fingers inside you, and he doesn’t the second time either, or the third, or even the fourth. And this is just fine as far as you’re concerned, because the way Mother has mentioned the duty of a wife implies that there is a great deal of sacrifice involved for the woman, discomfort, pain, even harm, and what you have with Aemond—despite its many peculiarities—has never been painful, and you don’t want to ruin it. You don’t want to find out what other women mean when they talk about boredom and dread and blood.

Then one day you are in the garden, and you and Helaena are trying to teach the children how to play the game with the animal pieces, but they must not be quite old enough because they won’t listen. Jaehaera pokes Jaehaerys with Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Maelor chomps indifferently on Daeron’s purple shadowcat. You and Helaena laugh and give up the attempt as maids swoop in to corral the children.

“We’ll try again in a few months,” you say. “Perhaps they’ll be more tame by then.”

Helaena begins to gather up the game pieces. “We should ask Aegon to carve new animals for the children. Jaehaerys likes seals…” Then her hands go still and she stares at someone who’s standing behind you.

Before you can turn, Aemond leans down to where you’re kneeling on the cobblestones, grabs your braid, and wraps it around his fist. “Follow me,” he whispers into your ear.

“Why? Where?”

“Follow me,” he says again, more forcefully now. “I’m not asking.” Then he releases you with a rough shove and walks away.

You rise from the cobblestones and go after him, weaving through the paths of the garden, fountains trickling and flowers blooming and bees droning in the air. Aemond glances back to make sure you’re in pursuit, then disappears into an arbor grown over with roses, a tunnel of red blossoms and snagging thorns. Aemond sits on a stone bench that is draped in shadows and hidden from view; no one will see you unless they enter the tunnel. You can hear the distant sound of the ocean waves, and gulls and bluejays and the red-tailed hawks the noblemen hunt with. You take a seat beside Aemond, and immediately he lifts your legs so they rest across his lap, reaches beneath the hem of your maroon gown with his right hand, skims his way up the inside of your thigh as you pretend to fight him, all the while smiling and needing him closer, all your blood and muscles screaming for him, your bones aching like fractures that must be set.

“Look at me,” Aemond commands, catching your jaw in his left hand and holding you still, the transparent blue of his eye fixed on your face, where he reads every line and movement like a dead language, like the High Valyrian almost no one left can understand. “I want to know if I’m hurting you.”

Beneath your gown, his fingers are stroking you, waiting for you to be wet and relaxed enough, parting your lips.

“Are you afraid?” Aemond asks.

“No.” Maybe you should be, but you aren’t.

There is an unfamiliar fullness, strange but not unpleasant, and then when Aemond’s fingers begin to move inside you, you moan softly and close your eyes, breaking the spell. He lets go of your jaw and his palm shifts to cradle the side of your face, to bring you in closer, to hold you against him. And now you know that when he finally takes you, as a husband does a wife, it will be painless; and it will never be something you warn your silver-haired children about with dark resignation in your voice.

“What if they won’t let us marry?” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, dreading this more than anything. You don’t know that Targaryens and their dragons will soon be dying. “What if they send me away to wed some lord in the Reach or the Westerlands or the Vale?”

“Then I’ll find you,” Aemond says. “And I’ll burn down his castle, and I’ll bring you home.”

“You’re a monster,” you purr; but there’s a grin on your lips as he kisses you, something scalding and primordial like magma flowing beneath the earth.

~~~~~~~~~~

Heart’s Home is a small grey castle in a vast grey world, the shadows of mountains filling the horizon, the sky overcast and bleak and the air tasting like metal. The last time you were in the Vale was as a girl, when Aemond pushed you into a frigid stream and you caught a chill that almost killed you, and he never apologized but he slept on your floor like a dog so he could be there to climb into bed and hold you when you shivered, and surely that is a greater sort of repentance than two vanishingly small words that anyone could say and perhaps not even mean.

You and Jace disembark from Alyn of Hull’s ship on the banks of where an inland river meets the saltwater of the Narrow Sea. Outside the castle walls, Heart’s Home has a stable and a sizable field, surely green and fertile in the summer, that is surrounded on three sides by a thick forest of coniferous trees. Cawing ravens perch on the branches; a hunting party emerges from the pines accompanied by braying hounds and carrying corpses of foxes to be skinned. You are greeted warmly by Lord Leowyn Corbray—who is tall and ancient, over seventy years old—and his wife Lady Carolei, around fifty and very round, with dark hair and pale skin that the harsh mountain wind rubs pink. While her husband fawns over Jace—“We were so honored by the queen’s request,” “We will ensure that your every need is attended to, Prince Jacaerys”—Lady Carolei Corbray watches you with an amused little smile, as if there are many questions she is impatient to ask you. Then you and your betrothed are ushered into the castle and served mutton pie full of gravy and vegetables, dark bread slathered with butter, blackberry oatcakes for dessert. You drink too much wine, because you know what will happen next. Jace does not reprove you this time; he’s drinking a good amount of ale himself.

The people of the Vale worship the Seven, and for all you know Jace does too, because there is no mention of a Valyrian wedding with fire and blood. Instead you exchange your vows in a tiny sept with plain glass windows and cold slate stones. A weathered, bony septon presides over the ceremony, and Lord Corbray stands in for your dead father. Even if Viserys was still alive, he wouldn’t feel like much less of a stranger. You are covered with a maiden’s cloak of your house—Lady Corbray announces proudly that it was sewn especially for this occasion—but it’s wrong, because they’ve used the old black and red sigil of House Targaryen rather than Aegon’s banner, a golden dragon on a green background. But you suppose it’s fitting because Jace’s cloak isn’t right either, as it depicts the seahorse of House Velaryon rather than the tri-colored flag of House Strong.

At the septon’s direction, Lord Corbray removes your cloak from your shoulders and Jace covers you with his own. And once you’ve exchanged the requisite words and Jace kisses you—him swift and uneasy, you trying not to flinch away—you realize that this is the first time you can remember him touching you. On the journey northward, Jace would sometimes find you pacing the ship’s deck and ask you silted, shallow questions: What kind of weather do you like best? What are your favorite desserts? Do you prefer swimming or horseback riding? What colors do you favor? Your nightly ritual was trying not to discuss your murdered relatives over dinner.

You are put to bed in a grand chamber at the top of one of the castle’s towers. There is a fireplace where logs snap and hiss, and a rug made of a shadowcat’s pelt; a chandelier of lit candles hangs from the ceiling. Through the window, you can see a silvery full moon obscured by clouds. You and Jace—freshly bathed and wearing loose, cotton nightclothes—wait in the quiet once your hosts have left, the blankets pulled up to your waists. All the bedlinens are white, you realize; you don’t think this is by accident.

They want to know if I’m truly a maiden. They want to know if I bleed.

You have no idea if you will or not. Nothing that Aemond has ever done to you has resulted in blood.

I don’t want it to hurt, you think with abrupt panic. You look around for a jar of oil, olive or rose or peppermint, something to help him enter you. You open the drawers of your nightstand and are disappointed to find them empty.

“What are you doing?” Jace asks.

“Nothing.” You can’t explain without revealing you know more than a virgin should.

Jace turns to you. “You really haven’t done this before?”

Your nervousness must be evident. Surely no whore who had already been defiled by her monstrous brother would be sitting here wringing her trembling hands. “No.”

“Okay.” Jace takes a deep breath. He seems resolved to be brave for both of you; that is a husband’s role, after all. “I haven’t either.”

“But you’ve…I mean, you’re a man, it’s different for you. You have experience of some sort, I assume…?” With Baela? With anyone?

Jace blushes and can’t meet your eyes. “I’m not above temptation. We kissed a few times.”

This is not reassuring. “Do you think you’ll be able to…? With me?” The daughter and sister of enemies?

He nods and smiles faintly. “Oh yeah, I think it’ll all work as it should.” Then he looks at you, dark eyes, dark curls, not ugly but not who you’ve ever imagined you would give yourself to. His gaze settles on your braid. “Here,” he says, and then he gently begins to unravel it.

You aren’t sure what to do. You’re not going to hit Jace, or fight him, or shove him or grab him or scratch him, and so you don’t know where you should put your hands. Once your hair is loose, you sink down to the soft feather mattress until you are lying flat on your back. Jace yanks off his shirt and tosses it to the floor, then he leans towards you, gesturing to your nightgown.

“Is it okay if I…?”

“Sure,” you say, and help him pull it off you. Even beneath the blankets, your bare skin feels the chill of the night air, and with the apprehension and fear there is something else too, a longing, a craving that has gone unsatiated. It’s crude to think, but it’s true: you’re used to being fed, and you haven’t been since Aemond went away.

Unexpectedly, Jace’s eyes don’t go to your breasts or lower; instead, they catch on the scar that cuts down from your left collarbone. He touches it with careful, weightless fingerprints. His voice is tender. “What happened here?”

“An assassin’s blade,” you say. “The night Jaehaerys died.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Here—in bed, in the firelight—he is not Rhaenyra’s eldest son and someone you are supposed to hate, someone who is a threat to your life, someone who once played a part in Aemond losing his eye. Here Jace is just a man, and you are naked, and beneath the blankets he is taking off his cotton trousers and then positioning himself between your legs. You are a little wet already, you can feel it, but you know you need more, you know he needs to make you ready with his fingers and his mouth, but Jace isn’t aware of this and you can’t tell him.

You gasp as he starts to push himself inside you, overwhelming burning pressure. “Jace, I’m afraid.”

He stops and looks down at you with seeking, sympathetic eyes. His skin is flushed, his breathing quick. If you could read his face, you’d think it says: What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything. “We can stop.”

“No, just…just please go slowly, okay? Please don’t hurt me.” No more than you have to.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs, and then—perhaps because he doesn’t know what else to do—he kisses you, and at first it is formal and unnatural like it was in the sept, but then Jace’s lips begin to move with yours and the kiss glows warm like embers. Your fingers go to his hair—not a Targaryen’s, a Strong’s—and tangle in his curls. His hands explore your breasts, grazing and circling your nipples with his fingertips. You wrap your legs around Jace as his tongue darts into your mouth, wanting this, maybe even wanting him.

Jace thrusts into you, and there is a moment of blinding pain that makes you cry out; and for everything that has been said about Aemond—a monster, a murderer, violent and arrogant and wicked—nothing he has ever done to you has hurt like this. Immediately, Jace moves to pull away, but you stop him. “Don’t.”

He shakes his head. “But you’re hurt—”

You hold his face in your hands to make him listen. “I’m alright, I promise. Just wait here, just give me a moment.”

“Okay,” Jace sighs into your throat that’s damp with perspiration. He kisses you there, tasting your salt, fear that has turned to lust. “Okay, okay…”

Already the pain is fading, and your muscles are relaxing, and you are slick with wetness to ease the razored friction. And it’s nothing like the way Aemond knew how to touch you—you are nowhere near a climax—but still, there is something pleasurable about it, there is something nice about being tangled up with a man this way again.

“Go on,” you tell Jace; and he rests his forehead against yours as he thrusts into you, very slowly, and he’s shaking all over, and between breathless kisses he is moaning, in shock that a feeling this good exists, in mindless ecstasy, and then he spills himself inside you and collapses onto your chest, still kissing you, thanking you, asking if you’re alright. Before you can answer, he throws back the blankets and examines the sheets. When you look down, you can see that between your legs is a stain of pale pink, a miniscule amount of blood.

Is that all? you think, relieved. It wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t so good either, but it was tolerable. And it will get better.

“No, no, no,” Jace murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. He is distressed, he is repentant. “I wounded you. I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll be alright, Jace,” you say, rather amused.

He crawls back to you and lies down beside you on the bed. He is struggling to keep his eyes open. “You weren’t lying. You’ve never done that before.”

“No.”

“I won’t hurt you again.” He kisses your cheek. “My wife. My princess.” And then he rests his head on his pillow and within a minute he is snoring softly.

“My prince,” you whisper, trying it out. It doesn’t feel right yet, but maybe one day it will. You have to clean yourself off; Jace doesn’t know this about women, but you do. You climb out of bed, and Jace stirs as you leave.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s a reflex he’s repeated a thousand times, like it takes no thought at all. You stare bewildered at him. Jace’s eyes are still closed. And you think of Aemond—suddenly, with great clarity, as Jace sleeps in your shared bed—and you will yourself to be able to see where is and what he’s thinking. But there is nothing: only silence and firelight and the full moon hovering in the overcast, indigo sky outside.

Is he thinking of me? Does he feel lost too?

You have the maids draw a hot bath and you wash it all away, the sweat and the blood and the wetness and Jace’s seed that might give you a child with the unruly dark hair of the Strongs, and still you cannot stop thinking of Aemond.

Did he love me then? Does he love me now?

Back in your bedchamber, you gaze into the flames of the fireplace and try to remember the sound of Aemond’s voice, but you can’t. It keeps bleeding into the words of other people: Aegon, Daeron, Maelor, Jace.

[lexirosewrites]

This is a famous Au, with rockstar A!Eddie and bodyguard O!Steve. Steve was always bigger for an omega and Robin helped him feel comfortable in his body. So, Steve felt able to keep working out and could even take down alphas if needed.

Steve's dad didn't like having such a strange omega son, when having an omega son was bad enough. So, Steve was kicked out and he panicked. He didn't want to force Robin to take him in or go to Joyce or Hopper about it.

Out of pure luck, there was an ad for a bodyguard. There would be a big background check and they would have to wear scent patches at work. Steve thought it was perfect. He could pretend to be something other than an omega and never let someone else tell him he wasn't a good omega.

Steve doesn't know the artist but soon enough he meets the alpha. Eddie is a wild but kind man. But more than that, he smells like Steve's mate. But even though he's right by Eddie, the man never really gets to know him. And Steve's had to push the others back who claim to be Eddie's mate. So, he doesn't say anything. It feels like rejection that Eddie can't smell him year after year.

Robin says he's being ridiculous because over the years, Steve's just kept his patches on longer and longer. To the point where even his house doesn't smell like him anymore. But Steve shrugs her off, his omega feeling beaten down after so long being close to his mate and not being able to hold him or be held by him.

Then there's an accident during a show where Steve covers Eddie with his own body to protect the man. And he loses his hearing in the process. Since it was Eddie's fault, Eddie feels guilty and spends time at Steve's bedside. However for the first time in a long time, Steve can't wear the patches. His scent is extremely weak and Eddie hears from the doctor himself about how patches worn for long periods of time hurts your inner designation. And that it seems like Steve never really took his off between being with Eddie, on call for Eddie, or only having a day here or there off.

Robin is there for Steve and she hates the alpha on principle for causing so much pain for Steve. Along with the fact that even after years and years of them working together, Eddie hadn't known his name. Like Eddie didn't care about his staff or anyone other than himself. Steve has no ill will towards Eddie because he sees Eddie as who he really is. He knows the man is kind and good, Eddie just forgets that sometimes.

As Steve heals, Eddie pushes himself to learn sign language and starts befriending those on his staff. He meets the kid at pyrotechnics, Dustin, who is a huge fan of Eddie but also basically Steve's little brother. He meets his make-up artist and costume designer the twins, El and Will, another one of Steve's kids. His soundboard techs, Max and Lucas, is almost more vicious over Steve than Robin. One of the people who help write his songs, who he actually did know, Mike, was surprisingly protective over Steve and angry with Eddie after the attack.

Eddie realizes that Steve befriended more of Eddie's staff than Eddie is. Eddie's guilty but Steve isn't mad. No, Steve never even accepted Eddie's apology. There was nothing to apologize for.

As time goes one, Eddie feels like shit but he's really trying, he just got swept up in performances and everything on his schedule. Soon he's escaping to Steve who finally got Eddie to understand that he hasn't stopped working in years. Every party, every show, interview, photoshoot, they were all performances. Eddie's never taken off that mask he started with and he's tired.

He finds comfort in Steve's scent and soon Eddie's basically living out of Steve's small 2 bedroom apartment that he shares with Robin.

“rockstar alpha eddie is lowkey an asshole” is an underrated agenda tbh!!! like yes he is self absorbed, but it’s not intentional and he has room to grow! in the meantime, steve will be a good enough person for both of them😭

also bodyguard omega steve 🥵🥵🥵

[ruggiesbiologicalfather]

i've been struck by inspiration

here's my ranking of twisted wonderland students by how likely i'd be to let them behind the wheel of a car. this is gonna be a long one bc i'm including explanations of course. (and i know that in-game it's rare to be able to drive, we're ignoring that and pretending it's common to drive around)

1. Leona: canonically, he can drive and drive well. i feel like this was an easy one. but it makes sense!

2. Vil: he just has so many random skills that i feel like driving would be no problem at all. honestly, there's not much that i think vil CAN'T do

3. Trey: everything about him screams Responsible Driver. he would definitely play chauffeur for heartslabyul whenever they need to go somewhere. AND he'd have snacks in the glove compartment. 10/10 ride

4. Jamil: he can absolutely drive well - near perfect i'd argue. what's the alternative? let KALIM drive? get real. it's his duty to get where he needs to go safely

5. Jack: the self-discipline that this boy possesses is unrivaled. he would be locked in behind the wheel. he spent so long becoming the best driver he can be and by god, he's gonna prove it

6. Deuce: LISTEN TO ME, LISTEN! he's really good on that blastcycle which is more dangerous and difficult (said as a former bike/atv guy). a car is nothing to him. plus he's on his Honor Student streak so he's trying his best. my only worry is speed. slow it down, friend

7. Epel: similar to deuce. farm kids learn to drive really early in their lives. HOWEVER... driving safely?? hmmmm... his biggest flaws are going too fast and whipping around curves when no one else is on the road

8. Riddle: he would definitely follow all the road rules. to the letter. every trip would take an extra 30 minutes to an hour. no music, windows up, silence. he won't even let YOU be on your phone lest he become distracted. also ROAD RAGE. interstate driving would get very scary

9. Ortho: fuck it, let the robot give it a shot

10. Azul: i feel like once he figured out the mechanics, he would be fine on the road. however, if he got pulled over he would definitely argue with the cop and get us both arrested. so... i'm gonna pass

11. Jade: yes, we're getting where we need to go. but... nefariously. and there's something in the trunk. i feel like he'd also randomly go "oops" just to freak out his passengers. "what do you mean OOPS?" "don't worry about it :)"

12. Ruggie: there's a wildness to my boy that drove his ranking down. he would definitely drive a jeep with the doors off. music blasting, wind whipping around everywhere. it would be a fairly safe drive but not a particularly enjoyable one. also i would fall out

13. Silver: i don't know, i feel like he would be chill. i put him low bc briar valley doesn't have cars so his driving education would be quite scarce and he'd be a new driver. but he could get the job done. probably

14. Sebek: similar to silver but he needs to relax. malleus is fine, we're just going to walmart

15. Ace: he just gives off the vibe of "16-year-old kid in the car his dad bought for him." never lets anyone merge, hits curbs, can never figure out the speed limit, etc, etc. even worse if deuce is in the car! "ace, watch out for the mailbox!" "don't tell me what to- *BANG*"

16. Cater: gay people can't drive

17. Rook: distracted driver. god forbid there's wildlife around, he would turn 180 in his seat to look at it. this Oh Shit Handle is getting some use. also i KNOW his car would be shit. i don't care that his family is rich, he's driving a 2003 hyundai sonata

18. Floyd: LISTEN! there's a 50/50 shot that everything goes perfectly fine. like as long as he's in a good mood, he can get the job done. you definitely just have to check in before you buckle up. get ready to tuck and roll

19. Malleus: what is a car?

20. Idia: there's so much anxiety there i feel like one thing would go slightly left and he'd almost pass out. he's white-knuckling the wheel, praying that no one else is on the road. it's alright buddy, you can be a passenger princess

21. Kalim: No.

22. Grim + Yuu: okay, for this one it's a joint effort. yuu at the wheel and grim on the pedals. there's so much chaos and screaming. four-way stops don't exist. yellow lights are green and red lights are yellow. the horn has not stopped honking since the engine started. this is an emergency situation ONLY. like someone is bleeding out in the backseat and no one is answering their phones

23. Lilia: absolutely not. i will walk

[killerelysia]

Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!- Solivan brugmansia x Yan!G.N Reader! (Part 6!) Final (Rushed)-(Sfw!)

The kid at the back is a 18+ visual novel Minors don't interact!-(new tws)

Words: 10000

Genre: Yandere-(Self aware yandere won the poll)

(Reader is G.N)-(This part is Sfw!)

Summary: You’ve become consumed by your obsession with Solivan Brugmansia. What started as innocent curiosity quickly spiraled into a fixation. He started it and you began to stalk him, learning every detail about his life. You felt a sick sense of satisfaction in making Sol’s world safer while growing increasingly delusional about your connection with him. Your love for him deepens as you fantasize about the future, convinced that you are the one who truly understands him—better than anyone else. Despite the line between reality and obsession blurring, you remain certain: Sol is yours, even if he doesn’t know it yet.. You're his and he's yours...

Trigger Warning: This content contains themes of obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, mental instability, and delusional thinking, Drugging, Yandere?, Hopeless in love for attention Please read with caution.

Obsessive behavior: The reader becomes dangerously fixated on someone, bordering on stalking and delusion.

Manipulation: The reader engages in schemes to control or harm others, often through deception.

Mental illness: Delusional thinking, possible dissociation from reality, and unhealthy fixation on someone.

Violence: There are references to bullying, physical harm, and emotional manipulation.

Emotional abuse: Both in terms of how the protagonist manipulates others and how they might internalize toxic behaviors.

Stalking: The reader watches and follows the person they are obsessed with.

Dubious Consent: Themes of physical closeness and intimacy while one party is incapacitated or pretending to be.

Dark Romanticization: Romanticizing toxic and unhealthy dynamics, including possessiveness and dominance.

Control and Power Imbalance: One character exhibits significant control over the other’s vulnerability.

EXTRA: He's a character from a game named The kid at the back!! Note, The relationship presented here between sol and reader is extremely toxic!! In no way, Just because I'm writing doesn't mean I support this kind of toxicity. Note, It's okay to like sol if you know the flaws and don't be a blind eye on them! Again, I don't support his actions etc! If you hate sol ignore this.

You worked on preparing something in the kitchen, your focus wavered, and before you knew it, you accidentally called out to Sol the way Hyugo always did—“Sunny.”

He blinked, his expression shifting to one of mild confusion as he tilted his head. “Sunny?”

Realizing your slip, you quickly clarified, chuckling nervously. “Sorry, it’s just… Hyugo calls you that. I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could finish, Sol interrupted, his curiosity piqued. “If Hyugo gets to give me a nickname, why can’t you?”

The suggestion made you pause. A nickname for Sol? That felt… oddly intimate. But you couldn’t deny the idea was a little exciting. Your mind raced for something that felt fitting, something uniquely yours to call him.

“Pumpkin,” you blurted out, testing the waters.

Sol’s lips twitched into a soft smile, his crimson-orange eyes lighting up at the suggestion. “Pumpkin, huh?” he repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue. He seemed pleased at first but then placed a finger under his chin, his gaze turning thoughtful as he studied you.

“But,” he began slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, “don’t you think that nickname suits you better?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

He nodded, his tone calm and resolute. “Yes, it suits you.”

Your cheeks warmed as you processed his words. “It’s the nickname you want me to have, huh?” you asked, trying to sound playful, but the warmth in his gaze was almost too much to handle.

“It fits you,” he said simply, smiling as if that was all the explanation needed.

Your heart skipped a beat as his words lingered in the air. Of course, you knew exactly why it felt so familiar. Pumpkin. It was the name he whispered when he thought you were asleep, the name he muttered under his breath during those nights he lingered too close for too long. You bit your lip, trying to push the thought away before it consumed you entirely.

“...I always hear this nickname in my dreams,” you muttered absentmindedly, immediately regretting it when you saw Sol’s eyes widen in surprise. You quickly waved your hand to dismiss it. “Ah, it’s nothing, really.”

But Sol’s reaction was something else entirely. His face softened into a look of pure adoration, as if the idea that you might dream of him made his heart burst. That realization seemed to make him… happy. Dangerously happy.

You coughed awkwardly and tried again. “Alright, how about… babygirl?”

The moment the word left your lips, Sol’s eyes widened like saucers before he let out an uncharacteristic snicker. His shoulders shook as he tried to stifle his reaction, but within seconds, he broke into full laughter, clutching his stomach as he doubled over.

“Ahahahaha!” he laughed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Bitch! I’m serious! Stop laughing!” you exclaimed, your face burning with embarrassment. “You’re so cute—ahhh…” That last part slipped out in a mumble, but you couldn’t take it back now.

Sol wiped at his eyes, his laughter finally settling as he caught his breath. “I have no idea where you got that idea, but I’m clearly far from being a… babygirl.” He snickered again, shaking his head. “It’s cute, though.”

"Husband?"

Sol choked on his breath the moment the words left your lips. His head snapped to the side as he desperately tried to hide the deep crimson blush spreading across his cheeks. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t suppress the ridiculously goofy smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, god,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking slightly. “You… want to… ahaha—”

You grinned at his flustered state, deciding to push him further.

“Are you sure?” he stammered, glancing at you nervously. “Don’t you think people are going to, you know, take it the wrong way if you start calling me your husband, Y/n?”

You leaned forward, propping your chin in your hand with a teasing glint in your eyes. “I don’t care,” you said with a shrug, smirking at how his blush deepened. “But I think you’ll die of shyness before anyone else says anything.”

He inhaled sharply, his eyes darting everywhere except at you.

“I mean, you do give off husband vibes,” you continued with a giggle.

Sol’s gaze immediately dropped to his lap, his fingers nervously fumbling with the edge of his sleeve as he mumbled under his breath, “You’re killing me…Y/n”

You giggled harder, relishing his reaction. “Alright, alright! I’ll think of something else. But hey—‘husband’ would be so cute, wouldn’t it?”

His ears turned an even darker shade of red as he tried to compose himself, but he was clearly losing the battle.

“This is the final one then!” you declared with a triumphant smile. “Love.”

Sol froze, his entire body stiffening at the sound of the word. A visible shiver ran up his spine as his wide eyes finally met yours.

“L-Love?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, grinning like a cat who’d just cornered a mouse.

The tips of his ears practically glowed crimson as he quickly looked away again, twiddling his thumbs nervously. His leg began to bounce under the table, betraying the nerves he was desperately trying to hide.

“I’m… I’m alright with that,” he finally murmured, his voice unsteady but undeniably sincere.

You couldn’t resist leaning closer, teasing him further. “You sure people won’t take that the wrong way?”

Sol’s lips twitched into a shy smile as he took a deep breath. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he whispered, “I wouldn’t mind, though… let them know. Let them all know that you only belong to me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, your face heating up despite yourself.

You prided yourself on being observant—sometimes you thought it was a curse, noticing every little thing about him. But now? Watching the way his shy smile betrayed the possessiveness simmering beneath the surface?

It felt like a blessing.

"Should I think of something else?" you teased, tilting your head as you watched his reaction.

Before you could even finish the thought, Sol sat up abruptly, almost standing, his hands raised in a halting gesture as if to physically stop your words from escaping.

“No—‘Love’ is perfect,” he said, his tone firm but laced with a flicker of surprise. His expression was serious, almost too serious, but the intensity in his eyes spoke volumes.

A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. “Alright, Love,” you said softly, drawing out the word just to see his reaction.

Sol froze for a moment, his breath hitching, before leaning back against the couch. His body seemed to relax, but his eyes told a different story. They were heavy-lidded, clouded with a lovestruck haze, as if the nickname alone had sent him spiraling into a daydream he didn’t want to escape.

His gaze never wavered from you, his lips slightly parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. He looked utterly intoxicated, like you’d just become the center of his entire universe—and you savored every second of it.

Your gaze locked with his, the lovestruck look in your eyes mirroring his own. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken emotions that threatened to swallow you both whole. Realizing how deep you’d fallen into his stare, you quickly turned away, heat flooding your cheeks.

“I-I need to cook!” you stammered, desperate to break the spell.

You turned toward the kitchen, fumbling with your phone before pulling up a how-to-make-curry video. “Hey, Sol,” you said without looking back, “could you teach me some food art? Like those fancy lunches you used to make for Hyugo?”

Sol tilted his head, raising an eyebrow at your request before a soft, amused smile broke across his face. “You want me to teach you, huh? Sure… But only if I can help.”

“No!” You spun to face him, waving a finger in protest. “You’re injured! Just sit there and be cute.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, his lips forming a perfect pout as he leaned back against the counter. “Fine,” he grumbled, crossing his arms, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.

After a moment of gathering ingredients, Sol perked up and began listing off what you’d need for the curry. His voice was calm and instructive, guiding you with ease.

When you finished washing the vegetables, you grabbed the knife, determined to show him you could handle it. But before you could make the first cut, Sol was suddenly beside you, his hand gently covering yours as he slid the knife away.

“Let me,” he said smoothly, picking up the knife and turning to the cutting board with an air of effortless confidence.

“Sol, you’re supposed to be resting!” you scolded, but he ignored you, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

With practiced precision, he chopped each vegetable into perfectly equal pieces, his movements fluid and almost mesmerizing. He finished quickly, setting the knife down with a smug grin.

“Showoff,” you muttered under your breath, narrowing your eyes at his cocky expression.

“Oh?” His grin widened, and he leaned closer. “You asked for my help, didn’t you?”

Before he could say more, you reached out and grabbed his hand, your fingers brushing over his bandaged knuckles. “You’re hurt,” you reminded him softly, your voice filled with concern.

For a moment, Sol froze, his confident facade cracking as his expression softened. His gaze fell to your hands holding his, and something tender flickered in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. But he didn’t pull his hand away.

You held his hand a little tighter, looking up at him with a mix of exasperation and affection. “No more sneaky knife tricks, okay?”

He smiled—soft, genuine, and utterly disarming. “Okay,” he said, but the glint in his eye told you he was already planning his next move.

Sol sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re impossible. But fine, if you’re going to be stubborn, let me at least guide you so you don’t chop a finger off.”

You grabbed the knife, determined to prove yourself. "I can manage just fine!" you huffed, setting the carrot on the cutting board and trying to carve it into a petal shape. The result was… less than perfect.

Suddenly, you felt a presence behind you—warm, close, and undeniably suffocating. Sol’s hands gently covered yours on the knife, his chest brushing lightly against your back as his breath fanned your ear.

“You’re too tense,” he murmured, his voice low and coaxing, like honey dripping into your thoughts. “Relax… I’ll show you how.”

Your breath hitched. Relax? How am I supposed to relax when you’re this close?

He adjusted your grip, his hands guiding yours with expert precision. “See? Like this,” he said, his tone a little too soft, a little too seductive.

You wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught in your throat. The warmth of him pressed against you, the way his fingers curled over yours… it was overwhelming. You felt your cheeks heat up, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

Does he know what he’s doing?

“Of course I know what I’m doing,” Sol said out of nowhere, very seriously.

Your heart skipped a beat. “W-What?!”

He paused, confused, then smirked knowingly. “I mean… I do know my ways with knifes."

Can he read my mind?

Somehow, under his guidance—and despite the mess in your head—you managed to cut a carrot petal perfectly. You stared down at the result, momentarily stunned.

“Well done,” Sol said, his hands still lingering over yours. “Should I show you again, or—”

You practically jumped out of his grasp, spinning around with a sheepish smile. “Nope! Got it! Thanks! All good here!” you blurted, waving your hands frantically.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind helping you again.”

“Nope! I’m fine!” you squeaked, your voice higher than usual.

Sol chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, pumpkin,” he said, stepping back with an air of victory.

Your mind raced as you turned back to the cutting board, gripping the knife tightly to ground yourself. Does he know what kind of effect he has on me?

You groaned internally, deciding then and there to never let him cook with you ever again.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “No! It’s fine! I got it!" you blurted, jumping up with a Mickey Mouse-like squeak, hands flailing as if trying to prove a point. “I got it right! See?” You turned toward the sink in a panic, trying to wash your hands to do something, anything, to distract yourself from his lingering gaze.

But the thoughts swirled around in your mind like a storm. What was it about him? Why did you feel so... lost in him?

Why was everything he did, every word he spoke, making your heart race like this?

Sol tilted his head, frowning as you adamantly refused to let him help prepare dinner. “I’ll just do something easy then, okay? Like juice. No knives, no heavy lifting—safe and simple.” His tone was calm, but his persistence was unyielding.

You sighed, cornered by his determination. “Fine. Orange juice. That’s it. Nothing else,” you said firmly, though your heart raced for an entirely different reason.

Sol moved toward the counter, pulling out oranges and the juicer, you couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion creeping into your thoughts. Why does he want to help so badly? It wasn’t that you didn’t trust his skills; you knew he was competent—better than you, even. But the darker part of your mind whispered something sinister: He’s going to drug it. That’s what the sleeping pills in his pocket are for, right?

You shook your head, trying to focus on the curry simmering on the stove. Still, your thoughts kept wandering back to the juice. What if he’s planning to make me fall asleep just so he can…

Your pulse quickened. The idea wasn’t entirely unpleasant, which disturbed you even more. Stop it. You’re the one with the upper hand here, you reminded yourself.

Minutes later, Sol handed you a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a proud smile on his face. “Here. The least painful job, as promised.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, setting it aside on the counter. The curry was boiling hot, nearly ready to serve. You turned off the stove, setting the pot on a trivet. But your mind was already spinning with plans.

“Hey, Sol,” you began, keeping your tone light and casual. “Could you call Hyugo and let him know you’re at my place? You know how he gets if we don’t keep him in the loop.”

Sol raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Your phone’s dead, though.”

“Yeah, but yours isn’t,” you countered smoothly. “Just tell him I dragged you here for dinner. I don’t want him thinking you’re in trouble or anything.”

Sol hesitated for a moment before sighing. “Alright. I’ll go step outside and call him.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, you grabbed the glass of juice he’d prepared, a sly grin spreading across your face. Maybe drugged, maybe not, you thought, shaking your head. Doesn’t matter. Not taking chances.

You poured the juice into the sink, washing the glass thoroughly before retrieving a fresh batch from the fridge. You poured the untainted juice into a clean glass, you added a few ice cubes to ensure it would be cold enough to mask any suspicion.

“Let’s see who gets played now,” you muttered under your breath, giggling softly at your own cunning.

The curry was ready, the table set, and the replacement juice sat innocently in its place. You had one last card to play, though—a small vial of medicine you had tucked away. It wasn’t a sedative exactly, but it would mimic the effects, making you feel tired without fully knocking you out. Perfect for your plan.

You dropped a dose into the “safe” glass of juice you’d prepared for yourself. You needed to stay just awake enough to watch Sol’s reaction, to see the cracks in his perfect facade when he thought you were asleep.

Let’s see your demons come out, Sol.

The door opened, and Sol returned, his expression softening as he saw the table set. “Hyugo says hi,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Great,” you replied, motioning for him to sit.

The warmth of the curry lingered on your tongue as you took another bite, humming in delight. Across the table, Sol chuckled softly, savoring his own meal with a small, content smile.

"You should write down the spices you had me add," you said, swirling the remnants of your curry around with your spoon. "I didn’t think this would turn out so good."

"Really?" Sol’s eyes sparkled. "You did most of the work. I just pointed a few things out."

He leaned back, his movements relaxed, yet there was a subtle tension in his frame—like a predator watching its prey.

The conversation drifted to food, and Sol offered casually, "I could send you some of my favorite recipes if you ever want to try making them."

"Yeah, I'd like that," you murmured, smiling faintly.

As the room fell into a quiet rhythm, your thoughts wandered, drawn to him. His presence today had been... overwhelming. From the moment he protected you to cooking beside you in the kitchen, Sol had wormed his way into your life in ways that felt far too intimate. It wasn’t just comfort; it was something deeper, darker.

It felt domestic.

It felt... right.

The thought sent a twisted thrill racing through your veins, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. You glanced at Sol, who was casually sipping his juice, his eyes flicking to yours every so often.

You tilted your head back, chugging the last of the orange juice in a single gulp. Sol raised an eyebrow at you, amused, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something that made your pulse quicken.

Your breath hitched. The room seemed warmer than before.

What if he did drug it? The idea had been lurking in the back of your mind all night, and now, with every sluggish beat of your heart, you were almost sure.

And yet...

You didn’t feel fear. You felt exhilaration.

Your mind spiraled. Would he take care of me if I passed out? Would he carry me to my room? Or would I wake up to something... darker? Would I see that beautiful, unhinged side of him fully unleashed?

The weight of your eyelids began to drag, and you couldn’t stop the lazy smile creeping onto your lips.

"What time is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

"8:45," Sol replied, his voice smooth but low—almost teasing.

You blinked at him, your vision blurring slightly. Your heart raced even as your body started to betray you. You had overdone it on the dose; the sleepy effects were hitting faster than expected.

"I’ve taken too much of your time, Lo—Sol." You let out a yawn, barely able to hold back a crazed little laugh at how this was all unfolding. "You... should go home. Right? There’s class tomorrow."

Sol’s expression softened, his smile laced with something... dangerous. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your stomach twist—half fear, half desire.

"No need to worry about me," he said, leaning in slightly. "I’m happy you let me in. Happy you trusted me enough to treat my wounds, to share dinner." His words dripped with sincerity, but his gaze... his gaze was anything but innocent.

You tried to lift a hand to his face, to cup his cheek, but your vision swam. There were three of him now, all staring at you, all wearing the same soft, deranged smile.

"You seem tired, pumpkin," Sol whispered

Your heart stuttered, a crazed, heady feeling overtaking you. This is it. This is what I wanted. Show me more of you, Sol.

"It’s fine," you mumbled, your words slurred. "Just let me get you... something. You need to g-go home, right?"

The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering against the floor. The sound was distant, muffled, like it came from another world.

And then you saw it.

Sol’s smile stretched wider, darker, and his eyes gleamed with an obsession so raw it almost brought you to tears.

God, I love this. You thought, the corners of your lips twitching into the barest of smirks as your body gave in to the drowsiness.

Just before your vision faded, you caught the glint of his teeth as he whispered something you couldn’t quite make out.

It didn’t matter.

You wanted it.

Beyond your hazy, blurred vision, you caught the faint movement of Sol's smile—serene, calm, yet undeniably dark. His hand pushed away the untouched glass of orange juice, his fingers lingering as if mocking your little game.

You sly bastard, your mind whispered, every word tinged with a delirious, obsessive warmth. God, fuck you... fuck you... I love you.

Your senses still clung to you, though your body betrayed the act. You were awake—barely. Every sound, every tiny motion, was amplified in the fog of your mind. You could hear him move closer, the scrape of his chair on the floor, the soft crunch of glass underfoot as he stepped toward the sink.

You wanted to laugh, but you couldn't. He knows... maybe not all of it, but enough. Oh, Sol... you brilliant, twisted soul. Take me.

He turned toward the pitcher of orange juice and the abandoned glass, his gaze unreadable. The slight crunch of a packet in his pocket caught your ears, the sound piercing through the fog like a whisper meant only for you.. those pills. So that’s your game. Were you going to play me, Sol? Or were you testing me?

The thought burned into your chest, clawing its way into your obsessive thoughts.

It doesn’t matter. You stayed, didn’t you? You’re still here... with me. God, I’ll let you win this game if you want, just don’t stop playing with me.

You felt his hands—steady, firm—on your shoulders. His touch was everything. Comforting. Possessive. Sinister. His breath, warm against your neck, sent shivers down your spine.

You’re tasting me already, aren’t you? Savoring me.

He inhaled deeply, the sound deliberate, almost indulgent, as if he couldn’t help himself. The soft tremor that followed made your heart leap even in your lethargic haze.

You wanted to moan. But you couldn’t. All you could do was feel.

His voice broke the silence, soft and low, dripping with tenderness and control.

"Let’s get you to bed, pumpkin."

Your thoughts spiraled. Pumpkin. That name again... it’s mine, isn’t it? Yours. Ours. Say it again. Say it when you think I’m not listening. Say it while you’re watching me.

He slipped an arm beneath your legs and the other behind your back, lifting you with a gentleness that made your skin ache. His strength surprised you, even through his bandaged wounds. He carried you like you were precious. Fragile. His spouse

Your heart hammered, your chest heavy with a love so twisted it felt like it would tear you apart.

This is what I wanted. This is what I fucking dreamed of. Take me, Sol. I don’t care what it looks like. I don’t care what you do. Just don’t leave. Don’t leave me alone. You’re mine as much as I’m yours. I’ll make you see that someday. I’ll show you... no one else can give you this.

You felt the rhythmic sway of his steps as he carried you toward your room, his lips moving softly—words you couldn’t quite catch but that you knew were meant for you.

What are you saying, Sol? Sweet nothings? Promises? Confessions? Tell me. Tell me everything. Tell me while you think I can’t hear. I want to live in your darkness... drown in it. You’re perfect. You’re mine.

He laid you down gently, his hands lingering just a little too long as he adjusted you on the bed.

Sol, Sol, Sol... touch me more. Just a little more. Show me everything. Don’t stop now... don’t ever stop.

You felt the covers pulled over you, the fabric brushing against your skin. His fingers brushed against your temple, lingering, soft but firm.

"Heh... Hahaha... Hahahahaha." Sol's laughter rang out, soft but unhinged, dripping with the kind of madness that sent chills down your spine and heat rushing to your cheeks.

Oh god, you whispered in your mind, trying to steady the storm of emotions coursing through you.

You didn’t know anymore—was it his broken, chaotic soul you loved, or was it just him, the entirety of him, darkness and all?

"Oh, my darling Y/N," Sol purred, his voice a velvety mix of affection and possession, "I feel so flattered that you trust me so, so much."

You giggled silently to yourself. Trust? Oh, Sol... if only you knew the truth. You’d watched him for months, hadn’t you? Studied him from afar, noted every habit, every nuance. You’d been drawn to him long before this moment, long before he thought he had won you.

“Despite meeting me yesterday,” he continued, his tone softening but not losing its edge, “isn’t this proof enough? Proof that you’re meant to be mine, as I was always meant to be yours?”

Your breath hitched. God, the way he spoke, the way his words dug under your skin and coiled around your heart like a vice. You were his... but oh, Sol, how little he knew. You were already more his than he could ever realize.

Your thoughts betrayed you. I want to drown in you, Sol. Kiss you until we’re both breathless. Draw your face over and over, photograph every moment of your obsession, and immortalize it in my mind forever.

He shifted closer, his wicked grin evident even without looking. You felt his breath against your neck, hot and electric, his arms tightening possessively around you. His head rested against your chest, and your traitorous heart thudded faster. You could feel him smiling against your skin.

"Your soul resonates with mine," he whispered, his voice a low hum that made your blood race. “I can hear it, feel it, see it in the way you linger even in your dreams.”

God, you were burning alive. You could barely keep your thoughts contained. Sol, you’re driving me mad. How can I keep pretending? I want to turn over, look at you, and devour the chaos in your eyes.

Sol snuggled even closer, practically merging with you as his body molded against yours. “I love you so much, Y/N,” he murmured, his lips brushing faintly against your ear. “I want you to realize it, deep in your soul. I want your heart to sing mine’s name. I know it’ll take time... but I’m growing impatient, sweetheart.”

You nearly whimpered, biting down the sound before it could escape. Your pulse betrayed you again, hammering wildly in your chest. He heard it. Oh, you knew he heard it.

His voice dipped lower, as if to himself, but you caught every word. "When will you realize?"

You almost broke then and there, your thoughts screaming. I do, Sol. I do realize. I know exactly what we are, what we’re becoming. You’re chaos and obsession, and I’m the fool who craves it all.

But instead, you stayed silent, pretending to sleep, letting him believe you were entirely under his spell. All the while, you simmered with a deranged kind of love that mirrored his own. You wanted him. God, you wanted him. And soon, you’d let him know just how much.

Your body lay still, but inside, you were burning with a dangerous desire. You had to keep pretending, keep playing this game of sweet dreams and soft whispers, while your mind spun in wicked thoughts of Sol and everything you wanted to do to him.

"Sol... Sol..." you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, your voice soft and dreamy, like a confession in the night.

He froze, his heart leaping in his chest at the sound of his name on your lips. His breath hitched as his mind scrambled, unsure if you were truly asleep or if this was some kind of delicious tease. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and you felt the sudden heat of his body pressing into yours.

You let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, as if lost in a dream. "Sol..." you whispered again, dragging it out just enough to make him crave more.

His face was burning now, the heat of his blush almost suffocating. He couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto his lips, the kind of smile that was both pure adoration and a little bit dangerous. He believed it — every word you said, every whisper. In his mind, this was confirmation, this was what he had been waiting for, that you truly desired him, just as much as he desired you.

So cute, he thought, watching your lips curl into a peaceful, dreamy expression. It was enough to drive him wild with longing. The way you whispered his name — you were playing, teasing him, and it was the most intoxicating thing he'd ever heard.

"God..." he muttered under his breath, his voice hoarse. He felt a tremble run through his body as his grip on you tightened again.

You could hear him, feel his heartbeat picking up as he fought to keep his composure. But you could tell. His weakness was your touch, your words, your presence. The way you acted like a dreamer in his arms, how you whispered his name as though you were lost in the warmth of him.

It was all too much for him to bear. His face burned with a blush that he couldn’t hide, his breath growing shallow as he fought against the overwhelming urge to pull you even closer.

Sol's breath trembled as he watched your peaceful expression, your lips softly parted, whispering his name again, and again. His chest tightened with something deep, primal, like a yearning that refused to be ignored.

"Dreaming about me..." he murmured, his voice thick with longing, almost trembling with the raw emotion he couldn't hide. His lips quivered as if they couldn't contain the truth he felt deep inside. "Ah... Darling, do you love me too?"

His words were low, quiet—he thought you were still asleep, your body gently relaxed in his arms. He didn’t want to disturb you, didn’t want to force an answer. But deep down, he needed to hear it. He needed confirmation that you felt the same way he did.

His heart pounded as he looked at you, as though you were everything he could ever dream of. He felt weak under the weight of his own desire and affection. He whispered again, voice barely a breath, "I need you to know... I love you so much, Y/N."

The tears that welled in his eyes were a sign of how deeply he cared, how completely he was consumed by you. It was more than obsession. It was devotion, twisted with a dark desire. He didn’t realize that he was slowly losing control, his emotions getting the better of him.

He pulled you a little closer, burying his face in your hair, his breath hitching. "You're mine, Y/N. No one else." His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his possessiveness, but also with a tenderness he only allowed himself to feel in this moment with you.

he held you tighter, his lips kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment, his tears mixing with his whispered confession. "I just want you to know... You’re everything to me, darling." He paused, his voice shaking as he waited for a response he didn't expect, but desperately craved.

Sol’s breath hitched as he rifled through your closet, his hands trembling with excitement as he pulled out pieces of clothing he planned to steal some clothing... A piece of you he could keep close, something only he could touch. He grinned to himself, the thought of having you so wrapped around him, even in your absence, sending waves of pleasure through his chest.

He leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your cheek, his lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. "I'll be right back," he whispered, his voice thick with affection, as he turned to continue his search.

You lay there, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, feeling the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. The warmth of his embrace was comforting, but you knew what he wanted—what he always wanted. You felt your thoughts swirl in that dangerous, delicious obsession, but you couldn’t stop it. Not now.

Sol's arms clung to one of your oversized sweaters as he nuzzled his face into the fabric, inhaling your scent like it was his lifeline. His smile was lazy, lovesick, almost deranged in its intensity. After kissing your cheek and whispering, "I'll be right back, darling," he slipped into your closet, leaving you lying there in feigned sleep.

You barely moved, too torn between exhaustion and the thrill of what you knew he was doing. Sol rummaging through your things was almost too perfect a scenario, one you'd dreamed of before, but tonight it was real.

Inside the closet, Sol's hands moved with almost reverent care as he touched your clothes, holding each piece as though it were sacred. A gleam of mischief lit up his heterochromatic eyes when he decided to "borrow" one of your hoodies. for him to hug.

Then, something caught his eye. A box tucked into the corner of the closet, partially hidden beneath a blanket. Curiosity burned brighter than caution as he crouched down and pulled it into the dim light. His hands were trembling as he opened the lid.

And then... his world shifted.

Photos of him—and Hyugo. Some candid, others blurry as though taken from a distance. Sketches, endless sketches of his face in varying poses, from loving to enraged to serene. Notes and details scribbled in the margins, every single one obsessively accurate.

Bandages. A pencil he hadn’t even realized you’d taken—one he'd lost just days ago. A button from his sweater.

And then there was the journal.

Sol's fingers brushed over its cover, his breath uneven as he opened it. His name, written over and over again in feverish handwriting. Doodles of hearts, sketches of his profile, and words—declarations, fantasies, phrases that mirrored the chaos in his own mind. It was uncanny. It was terrifying.

It was exhilarating.

He felt his lips curl into an unhinged look as he flipped through the pages, faster and faster, his eyes devouring every stroke of the pen.

But then, a sound—sharp, sudden, and chilling—broke through his thoughts.

A creak. Like the groan of floorboards or the protest of something heavy shifting. Sol froze, his grip tightening on the journal. Slowly, he turned his head toward the closet door.

"...Y/N?"

The moment Sol turned his head, you were already moving. Before he could react, you were on him, pinning him to the floor with a force that sent the box scattering. Pictures, sketches, and your deepest secrets spilled across the floor like a dam breaking. Sol’s back hit the floor, his wide eyes staring up at you, his lips parted in a silent gasp.

You hovered over him, your hands trembling as they gripped his shoulders—not his neck, not his hands. Not the places that screamed at you to touch. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

"I can't hold you by your neck... because you hate it, don’t you?!" you hissed, your voice breaking, a venomous whisper mixed with something almost tender. "And your hands—I can’t touch those either! Because these hands saved me! They’re too... precious! I know all of this because I saw you too!" Your words were frantic, your breath uneven as your emotions clawed their way out of you, raw and desperate.

His eyes were locked on yours, his mouth slightly agape, but he didn’t move, didn’t resist. His blush deepened, spreading across his pale cheeks, but he stayed silent. Watching. Listening.

You felt your resolve crack further, a sob hitching in your throat as you leaned closer, your voice trembling. “Y-you weren’t supposed to see that! None of that!” You gestured wildly at the journal, the photos, the sketches. “Why couldn’t you just—just stay there? Just lay with me? Why are you so goddamn greedy, Sol?” Your words were sharp, accusing, but your expression betrayed your own obsession, your own twisted love.

“You’ve already stolen so much from me. My heart, my thoughts—hell, a dozen of my clothes! And now, this?!” You gestured to the box again, your voice rising before it cracked into a broken whisper. "You greedy, disgusting bastard... And me? I’m no better. I’m just as bad. Look at us...”

Your words faltered as your gaze met his, and you froze. His face mirrored yours—exactly. The wide, crazed eyes, dilated pupils, blush streaking his cheeks like war paint. His lips quivered, caught between a nervous smile and the urge to speak, but no words came. He just stared at you, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

You were paralyzed by the intensity of it—the horrifying, beautiful realization. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t angry.

He was just like you.

A sick laugh bubbled out of you, breaking the silence. “Look at us... Look at how disgusting we are, Sol! You—stealing my clothes like some lovesick thief. And me? God, I’m worse. So much worse. Hiding this box, drawing you like some obsessed freak... We're—” You choked on your words, tears threatening to spill, but the manic grin on your face remained. "We’re both so fucking far gone. It’s sick. We’re sick.”

And yet... there was something so horribly, perfectly satisfying about it.

Sol lay beneath you, his eyes wide and unblinking, his breath caught in his throat as your words tumbled out in a chaotic symphony of revelation. His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came. His silence was deafening, his body frozen, his face betraying that strange, terrifying cocktail of shock and... acceptance.

“You... you’ve been stalking me, haven’t you?” you whispered, your voice sickly sweet as you leaned closer, lips brushing just past his ear. “You watched me, didn’t you? Followed me home... went through my things. You even drugged me—or almost did. Almost.” Your laugh was low and breathy, sending shivers down his spine. You could feel it, the way his body tensed and trembled beneath your touch.

And then, with a sudden, wicked grin, you asked, “May I?” Your lips hovered near his neck, the words dripping with teasing affection. He didn’t answer, only inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling rapidly. That was enough.

You pressed your lips to his neck, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered under you. His arms moved almost instinctively, wrapping around you as if to anchor himself. His breaths came heavier now, his hands gripping the fabric of your clothes.

“Sol, Sol, Sol…” you murmured against his skin, giggling softly as you pulled back to look at him. His face was a mess of emotions—blush spreading across his cheeks, lips trembling, eyes half-lidded and glazed over with something primal. “Look at you... My beloved, my sweet, sweet Sol.. Is it shocking to see me this crazey?!"

You tilted your head, studying him like an artist admiring their own masterpiece. “I can’t even decide if I should kiss you again or just... hug you forever.” Your laugh broke out again, louder, unhinged. “Ahahaha! Oh, God, I can’t even choose! You make me want everything, Sol! Everything you are!”

Your grin widened further, almost painful, your voice sharp and cutting even as your tone stayed sweet. “That smile of yours... That’s the one, isn’t it? The one that blinds me to everyone else. Like a bright, burning sun that drowns out the whole world. God, you’re so good at pretending to be sweet, but I see you, Sol. I see what’s behind it!”

You pressed your forehead against his, your grin softening, but your words still carried that playful, mocking edge. “You’re a little liar, you know? Just like me. And you know what?” Your voice dropped, almost reverent, as you whispered, “I love it. I love you.”

You paused, giggling again, shaking your head as if you couldn’t believe it yourself. “But let’s not pretend I’m better. Oh, no.” You gestured wildly at the scattered contents of your box. “I’m just as bad as you. Worse, even. Look at all this! I’m a walking red flag, and you—” You leaned back slightly, giving him a once-over, your smile turning teasing. “You’re waving me around like you’re proud.”

Your laughter echoed again, filling the space around you, almost hysterical. “What a pair we make! The obsessed and the obsessive... No, wait—who’s who again?” You tilted your head, smirking. “It doesn’t matter, does it? We’re both disgusting, both broken... and God, isn’t it just perfect?”

Sol’s wide-eyed stare softened just slightly, his lips quirking into the faintest of smiles. A fragile, deranged thing that mirrored your own.

And as you leaned closer again, your voice dropped to a whisper, still playful, still sharp. “I’ll trash-talk myself all day, darling, but don’t think for a second you’re off the hook. You’re mine, Sol. And I’m yours. So, go ahead...”

You cupped his face again, your grin never faltering. “Say something. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m not exactly what you wanted.”

Your fingers curled into Sol’s shirt with trembling force, clutching it so tightly that your knuckles turned white. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, tears pooling in your eyes as you stared down at him. The words spilled from your lips before you could stop them, each syllable laced with frustration, desperation, and something raw and terrifying.

"Why? Why aren't you saying anything?!" Your voice cracked as you shook him slightly, your grip relentless. “Why aren’t you telling me anything?! I know you feel it—I see it! You’re just like me! You’re the same as me!” Tears streamed down your cheeks, but your voice only grew louder, more frantic. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Sol! You—”

You froze mid-sentence, your eyes locking with his. His expression hadn’t changed. Those eyes of his… they were the same as yours. Wide, shimmering, and brimming with something overwhelming—something obsessive. They mirrored your own crazed love-stricken gaze so perfectly it stole the breath from your lungs.

He was silent, utterly still, and yet… there it was. That unshakable devotion, that desperate yearning. It was written all over his face, in the way his lips parted just slightly, the way his breath hitched, the way he clung to you as if letting go would shatter him completely.

Sol's voice came out almost as a whisper, unsure but laced with a tinge of fear. “How—long have you known…?”

You tilted your head, an innocent smile playing on your lips, though your eyes were anything but innocent.

“What...?” you asked, feigning confusion.

Sol’s gaze dropped, his fingers twitching at his sides. “That I was...watching...you.”

You couldn't hold back the giggle that bubbled up from deep inside you, the sound light but eerie. “Oh, honey... the correct word is ‘stalking.’ But you know, since a few months now... I knew exactly what you were up to. Every little thing. The way you’d slip in and out when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. The food you tried to drug... oh, how cute it was. But, don’t worry. It wasn’t the first time I noticed.”

His expression faltered, surprise crossing his face, but you could sense a mix of pride and discomfort swirling within him.

“How—and you don’t hate me?” His voice trembled slightly, cracking for the first time.

You leaned in closer, almost toying with him, your voice gentle as you whispered, “No. Not at all.”

Sol’s eyes widened in disbelief, his lips parting as if to say something but then stopping himself. His brows furrowed. “What? I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you hate me?” He asked again, but this time, there was more clarity, more strength in his tone than before.

You smirked, tilting your head to the side, as if you were finally offering him the answer he so desperately wanted. “I don’t have a ‘choice,’ Sol.”

A flicker of confusion danced across his face as his grip tightened slightly around you, as though searching for more answers in your gaze. “What?”

You paused for a moment, letting the words sink in. A soft, almost eerie smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “It’s just that I didn’t have any other choice but to love you.”

His expression faltered, and for the briefest of moments, you saw something almost human—something fragile—cross his face. A flush crept up his cheeks, though his eyes remained sharp, guarded.

“You basically own me now, Sol,” you said quietly, your voice unshaken. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride in the way the words fell from your lips. You weren’t afraid. You were comfortable in this.

And then, softly, hesitantly, he finally spoke. His voice was fragile, almost trembling, as if the question itself might break him. “Do you… love me?”

The room fell into a suffocating silence. His words hung in the air, heavy and vulnerable, cutting through your spiraling emotions like a knife. For a moment, you were stunned into silence, your grip loosening slightly on his shirt.

That’s what he was worried about? After everything—after the stalking, the stealing, the obsession—that’s what he cared about? Your mind raced, trying to process the absurdity of it all.

But as you stared at him, at the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes, something shifted. All the anger, all the chaos inside you seemed to pause, replaced by a single, undeniable truth.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper as you answered, your own vulnerability slipping through. “Sol…” Your hands trembled against his chest. “Of course I love you.” Your voice cracked on the last word, tears slipping down your cheeks. "How could I not? You’ve consumed me. You’re all I ever think about. All I ever want. All I ever need.”

His lips quivered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he searched your face for any hint of deceit. But there was none. Just raw, terrifying honesty.

“I love you,” you repeated, louder this time, your voice breaking as you clung to him. “And I hate it, Sol. I hate how much I love you. I hate what it’s turned me into. But I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

His arms wrapped around you suddenly, pulling you against him with a force that stole your breath. His body trembled as he buried his face in your shoulder, his voice muffled and shaky. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “So long…”

You didn’t need to say anything more. Just the way you looked at him spoke volumes. There was a darkness to your smile, a chilling calmness that matched his own twisted nature. You leaned in slightly, your voice low and almost pleading, but still with an air of authority, “Don’t ever leave me, Sol.”

His breath hitched. He froze for a moment, his hand instinctively reaching for his head, his fingers gripping it tightly, as though he could escape the weight of the words you just laid upon him.

“That won’t happen,” he murmured, voice thick with a promise that both scared and thrilled you.

Before you could respond, before you could even process what was happening, Sol closed the distance between you, his hand coming to the back of your head. He pulled you in closer, his lips crashing against yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

There was no gentleness in it, only a raw, desperate need—a desire to consume, to possess, to claim. His kiss was demanding, as though he couldn’t wait any longer to have you all to himself. It was everything you wanted, everything you needed.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room, but neither of you seemed ready to face it. The silence was comfortable, the weight of your shared night still lingering in the air. Sol’s steady breathing against you was soothing, and it made it hard to even think about moving. His arms were wrapped tightly around you, as if he feared you’d vanish if he let go.

You lay there, with your head resting on his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. Everything felt so surreal. After everything—the madness, the obsession, the twisted love—you were here. Together. And for a brief, beautiful moment, you couldn’t find a single reason to pull away.

Sol shifted slightly, his voice a soft whisper in the stillness of the room. "Is this... is this the first time I've slept well in a while?"

You paused, taking in his words, unsure how to respond. He had told you things, bits and pieces of his own brokenness, but this was different. This was the side of Sol that you never really expected to see—the one that wasn’t in control, the one who needed something, someone.

"Yeah," he murmured, almost to himself. "After everything... with you, it feels... different."

The quiet lingered between you, but neither of you rushed to fill it with words. The kiss, the emotions that came with it, and the truth that had been laid bare—none of it was easy to digest. But somehow, it felt right. Neither of you had to say much. The bond was there, thickening around you like an unspoken promise.

For once, Sol wasn’t the one in control. For once, he just wanted to stay there with you.

You lightly brushed a strand of hair from his face, gazing down at him, trying to make sense of the situation. It was strange, how the person who had been stalking you, watching your every move, could now look so... innocent. After everything you’d gone through together, after the craziness of the past few days, here he was, holding you like you were the one thing that could keep him grounded.

Your fingers brushed his cheek gently, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, Sol," you whispered, "the soul you are..."

Sol didn’t respond immediately, his arms tightening slightly around you, pulling you in closer. He wasn’t saying anything, but his presence spoke volumes. His usual intensity had faded, replaced by a softness, like he was content. Almost like he was at peace for the first time in a long time.

It was funny. You’d expected so much resistance, so much chaos between the two of you. But instead, Sol had become... almost like a puppy. Gentle, needy, and completely devoted now that you’d given him what he wanted—a relationship. The storm inside him had quieted, and now he just wanted you. All of you.

He nuzzled his face against your neck, letting out a small, contented sigh.

The morning light streamed through the window, but neither of you seemed eager to face the reality outside. You could feel Sol’s arms tightening around you, his grip almost possessive, like he didn’t want to let you go—not now, not ever. His presence was soothing yet consuming, and despite everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away. He simply held you, content and silent.

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of your thoughts press down on you. “Sol,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, “We have school today.”

But even as you said it, you didn’t move. Sol didn’t either. His gaze shifted to you, his eyes filled with an intensity that you had come to recognize all too well. Then, that damned smile of his—bright and blinding like the sun—spread across his face. He closed his eyes again, nuzzling his head into your neck, as if the world outside didn’t matter.

You smiled in return, that same small, knowing smile, as you closed your eyes. Skipping a day doesn’t matter, you thought, feeling your heartbeat steady as you lay there with him, cocooned in the quiet warmth of the moment.

You didn’t know what was happening. You didn’t know if it was the obsession, or just the way Sol had slowly wormed his way into your heart. Part of you wondered if you were truly in love with him, with his darkness, or if you had fallen for something else—his childlike, innocent need for you, perhaps. But one thing was certain. You were in love with something dark.

Something inside you whispered that it didn’t matter what it was, as long as you had him. You felt yourself sinking deeper into him, losing track of what was real and what was just a product of your twisted desires.

The day could wait. Everything could wait. You were here, with him, ad that's!

........................

...............................................

..............................................................................

Your thoughts twisted in a way you hadn't fully expected. Sol's warm body pressed against yours was all you could focus on, as his steady breathing filled the space between you. His presence was intoxicating, and you couldn't help but wonder how far you'd fallen into this spiral.

Is this what love feels like?

You couldn't stop the question from swirling in your mind, but you weren't sure if it was love anymore. Not the kind they talked about in fairy tales, not the kind people dreamt of. This felt different—darker, somehow. The way he clung to you, the way he needed you, it was suffocating yet strangely comforting.

It’s like I’m his obsession, his world, and I can’t escape it. But I don’t want to.

His grip on you, though tender, felt possessive—like he was marking his territory. Your heart fluttered, but not from nervousness. There was something wrong with the way you craved his touch, the way you wanted him to tighten his hold on you.

You tried to brush the thought away, but it lingered like a haunting whisper in the back of your mind. What if this is all I’ve ever wanted? To be owned, to be the center of his world?

You looked down at him, the boy who had slowly seeped into your life, becoming the very air you breathed. His face, soft and serene in sleep, looked almost innocent. But you knew better. He wasn’t innocent. Not with that smile. Not with that darkness lurking in his eyes whenever he was awake.

Do I want to be the one to tame him? The thought came unbidden, a dangerous curiosity taking root. But you weren’t scared. No, you were... enthralled.

He stirred slightly, his breath tickling your neck as his lips brushed against your skin. You felt that familiar thrill course through you, the dark and twisted desire that you couldn’t stop. You wanted to taste his madness, wanted to pull him deeper into the abyss with you. You both were tangled in this web of obsession, and it felt like the only thing that made sense.

God, what is wrong with me?

The question was fleeting, a mere afterthought to the way your heart sped up when he pulled you closer. You didn’t care anymore.

You’re mine, Sol. I’m yours. Forever. The thought was clear, possessive, and there was no escape from it. You smiled to yourself, knowing deep down that you were just as tangled in this as he was.

And that was exactly how you wanted it.

That was all that mattered right now.

Thank you for everyone who read this series, TBH the ending is rushed. I wasn't able to write it much any longer I wanted to end it. I'm sorry if the 'ending' is bad. I was just pointing out two things Reader only started to love the side of his true self than himself. It has to be messed up. I hope i didn't ruin anyone's day with it. I wanna thank to everyone who supported me it was really fun to write...I guess it's time to wrap up! Please send comments I like reading them and replying I'm so sorry Comments make me happy.

A important note too, Please tell me a review of this fic if you can! It has to be truth! I don't mind some tips I WANT THEM. It's also okay if you didn't like it. That's exactly why I did what I did. If you cringed even one time, Just know that it was a trap by me.

Signing off,

Elysia <3333

[redroomreflections]

Meet The Family

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader (Black Reader)

The Loud House Universe

Summary: Natasha meets R's family for the first time

W/c: 7k

"Babe, I have no idea what you are so nervous about." You shook your head. You grabbed onto your luggage as you deboarded the plane. "They're going to love you."

"I don't doubt that," Natasha said as she slipped the sunglasses onto her face. It's not like it's her first time flying economy before. She insisted that the two of you act as normal as a couple. That's what she craved. Normalcy. Someone not into the lights and cameras and the novelty of her being a hero. That is why she was excited to do the typical thing of meeting your family.

"Sure doesn’t seem like it,” you teased, nudging her lightly with your elbow as the two of you made your way through the terminal. Natasha’s calm exterior might fool anyone else, but you caught the subtle way she fiddled with the strap of her carry-on, her usual poise betraying just a hint of unease.

“I’m just... being cautious,” Natasha replied with a smirk, though you could hear the sincerity in her tone. “Your family is important to you. That means they’re important to me.”

Her words warmed your heart even as you rolled your eyes playfully. “That’s sweet, but they’re just regular people, babe. You're not meeting the president. Just eat good food, laugh at my mom's jokes, and pretend we haven't had premarital sex. Which is interesting of a hill to die on for my mom, but..."

Natasha let out a laugh. "I think I can handle that."

"And don't feel intimidated if they ask you many questions about your job," you continued. "I already warned them about keeping the interrogation to a minimum, but my family is the worst when it comes to asking about every little detail."

Natasha stopped, turning towards you with a serious expression. "I am more than prepared for an interrogation. That's my job description."

The two of you continued walking to baggage claim, keeping up with the traffic flow as you talked.

“Okay,” she said suddenly, tilting her head toward you. “Anything I should know before we get there? Any family secrets or rules I should avoid breaking?”

You snorted. “Well, for starters, don’t say you don’t eat pork. My mom might take that as a personal attack on her cooking.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Good to know. What else?”

“Let’s see,” you mused, counting off on your fingers. “Peyton’s going to act like she runs the world because she’s the oldest, Quincy will probably crack a million dad jokes, and Brandon’s baby's mother… well, don’t take it personally if she doesn’t say much. She’s not big on conversation.”

"She's 17, right?" Natasha asked, her eyes widening as you walked through the airport.

"They both are," You nodded. "Everything I've told you about my family before, believe it."

"That's a lot of people," Natasha smiled softly. She'd always been more comfortable being around small groups. The bigger the group, the more uncomfortable she was.

"Yeah," You grinned. "My parents were great at making babies. There's four of us."

"Hmm," Natasha nodded. "Let me guess that's your brother over there with the sign." She gestured with a raise of her chin to the teenaged boy with a toddler in one arm and a sign that read "Welcome back from the Convent."

You burst out laughing as soon as you spotted the sign. "Of course he did," you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief. Natasha chuckled beside you, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.

"That's Brandon for you," you confirmed as you adjusted your bag and walked toward him. "Always a comedian."

Brandon caught sight of you as you approached and broke into a grin. "Hey, sis!" he called out, holding the baby with one arm while waving enthusiastically with the other. The baby, a chubby-cheeked little girl with curly hair, looked unimpressed but content in his hold.

"Really, Brandon?" you said, gesturing to the sign as Natasha raised an eyebrow. "A convent? That’s what you went with?"

"What? It’s funny," he replied, shrugging with a smirk. "Gotta keep you humble."

You rolled your eyes, stepping forward to hug him while Natasha stood back, observing the interaction with quiet interest. "And what about me screams ‘convent,’ exactly?"

"Law school, late nights studying, no time for fun—sounds like a convent to me," Brandon teased before shifting his attention to Natasha. "So, this must be the famous Natasha. Welcome to the family."

"Oh, we're not..." Natasha's cheeks turned a soft shade of pink as she looked at you. "We're not married or anything."

"Yet," He finished with a smile, reaching out to shake her hand. "The way she talks about you, I'd have thought you had already put a ring on it."

"Brandon, stop," You groaned, your cheeks reddening. Natasha looked at you curiously, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"What? It's true. I mean, the whole family's heard all about your girl—"

"Give me my niece. She's getting fussy," You interrupted before he could embarrass you. You and Natasha had been dating for almost a year and a half. She knows practically everything there is to know. But hearing your family's opinion of her made you nervous.

"Fine," Brandon sighed. "You'll have to catch up on all the drama once we're in the car anyway. It's crazy at home."

"Oh? Why's that?" You asked, reaching out to take the toddler in your arms.

"I'll take the bags," He offered to Natasha. He didn't find offense when she declined. He simply kept the conversation going.

"Mom's pissed about Tori," He said, referring to his current girlfriend. "Her parents still won't let her move back home. Also, Peyton and Ross are having some issues. You didn't hear it from me, though. Oh- I parked over here."

He led the three of you to the car, where he opened the trunk and tossed all of your bags in there.

"Hey, that's Gucci," You warned him. "That bag has my laptop."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be careful." He waved you off. "Can you buckle her in?" He asked.

Buckling Willow into her car seat was a feat. It was a new experience that you were excited to have, but she was a wiggler. You were glad to be an aunt and help her dad. You knew Natasha was watching the interaction with interest. Once everyone was seated, Brandon backed the car onto the road and out of the airport parking lot. You were terrified of his driving.

"Mom, let you drive the car," You thought aloud. "That's a first. Peyton and I had to beg her to let us drive practically."

"Well, I'm the baby. I get special privileges," He bragged. "Miss Natasha, you're quiet back there."

"She's fine," You defended her.

"I'm just listening," She replied.

Brandon glanced at Natasha through the rearview mirror as he navigated the freeway. His curiosity was written on his face, and you braced yourself for whatever line of questioning he was about to launch into.

“So,” he started one hand on the wheel and the other drumming lightly on the console. “What’s it like being an Avenger? Do y’all just fight aliens and save the world all day, or is it mostly paperwork?”

Natasha chuckled softly, the sound surprising you a little. She leaned forward just enough to meet Brandon’s gaze in the mirror. “A lot less glamorous than you’d think. Fighting aliens happens occasionally, but it’s mostly meetings, training, and arguing over whose turn it is to clean the kitchen.”

"Wait, you mean to tell me y'all don't have maids or a team to do that stuff?"

"Not for personal stuff, no," Natasha explained.

"And I'm gonna assume there are no benefits, insurance, or anything like that."

"It's government-funded," Natasha said. "So there's plenty of benefits and health insurance."

"Do you get to fly around in a spaceship, or is that reserved for Captain America and Iron Man?"

"There's a jet," Natasha replied.

"Brandon, can we not?" You asked.

"Oh, come on," he protested. "You didn't warn her about the third degree? Besides, it's not like you've seen any action."

"Not directly," You corrected. "But I've watched the news."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to pry. I just want to make sure you're safe. The rest of the fam is going to want to know."

"That's understandable," Natasha said.

"So, what are the chances I'll get a ride in one of those Avengers planes?" He joked.

"Brandon!" You groaned.

"What? Can't blame a guy for dreaming," he laughed. "Okay, I have a real question—do you guys like to hang out? Play cards? Do movie nights? Or is it all business?”

“Depends on the day,” Natasha answered, her voice relaxed. “We’ve had our share of poker nights, but Thor’s terrible at bluffing, and Clint’s too good. Movie nights are better unless someone picks Star Wars. That always ends in arguments about the ‘proper’ order to watch them in.”

“Man, I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall for some of that,” Brandon said, shaking his head. “You ever bring her to the tower?” he asked, jerking his thumb in your direction.

“A few times,” Natasha said, glancing at you with a small smile. “We mostly hang out at her apartment with Karen. She keeps saying she doesn’t want to ‘cramp my style.’”

“Excuse me for wanting to keep a low profile,” you said, feigning indignation. “Unlike you, Brandon, I’m not trying to be best friends with everyone.”

Brandon shot you a look of mock outrage, pressing one hand against his chest.

"You wound me, sister. Truly."

"I'll do worse than that if you don't focus on the road," You warned him.

"Fine, fine." He raised his hands in surrender.

It would be long if the rest of the day would be like Brandon's questioning.

**********

As Brandon hoisted Willow out of her car seat, she babbled happily, grabbing his hair as he balanced her on his hip. “Alright, ladies, this is where I leave you to fend for yourselves,” he said with a teasing grin, holding open the front door with his foot.

“We can manage,” you shot back with a smirk, lugging your bags from the trunk.

“You sure? I can carry the fancy bag,” Brandon said, eyeing your Gucci luggage again.

“Get inside, Brandon,” you said firmly, laughing despite yourself.

Brandon shrugged and disappeared into the house with Willow, leaving you and Natasha standing by the car.

You turned to Natasha, who was sliding her sunglasses off and tucking them into the neckline of her sweater. “Hey,” you said softly, touching her arm. “You good? I know my family can be  a lot.”

"Baby, I'm fine," Natasha said. "Trust me. This is what I do."

"I can't pretend I don't love it when you call me baby." You sighed.

"Well, then maybe I should use it more often," She said. "Also, relax. It's Thanksgiving."

"You're right," You said. "But still, if it gets overwhelming, just let me know."

Natasha nodded, and the two of you headed into the house. As soon as the door opened, the sounds and smells of Thanksgiving Day swarmed around you. Loud, chattering voices, the clatter of dishes, and the mouthwatering scent of roasting turkey filled the house, and you took a moment to close your eyes and soak it in.

"Is that my daughter, I hear?" Your mother's voice rang out from the kitchen.

"Yes, Mama, it's me." You called back. You kicked your shoes off and placed them neatly inside the coat closet. Natasha followed suit.

"Are you the famous girlfriend we've heard so much about?" Your mom asked.

"Yes, ma'am. My name is Natasha."

"Come here, girl, and hug me," your mom ordered, appearing from the kitchen and wiping her hands on a dish towel. "My name's Vivian. It's nice to meet you finally."

Natasha initially hugged Vivian, a bit hesitant, but the older woman’s firm and affectionate embrace quickly put her at ease. “It’s so nice to meet you, ma’am,” Natasha said, stepping back with a warm smile. “You have an incredible daughter. I’ve been hearing nothing but great things about you.”

Vivian chuckled, her sharp eyes twinkling as she gave Natasha a once-over. “Well, flattery will get you everywhere,” she teased. “But please, don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old. Vivian or Mama Viv will do just fine.”

“Mama Viv, then,” Natasha said with a slight nod, her voice smooth and respectful.

“Good. Now tell me, Natasha,” Vivian said, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe, “what exactly are your intentions with my baby?”

Your eyes widened as you fumbled for words. “Mama!”

Natasha didn’t miss a beat, though. She clasped her hands together, her expression sincere. “To love her, respect her, and make her proud, ma’am—uh, Mama Viv. And to eat as much of your cooking as you’ll let me,” she added with a playful smirk.

Vivian broke into a laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, she’s good,” she said, glancing at you. “I see why you like her. Alright, Natasha, you’re off to a good start. Come help me in the kitchen, and we’ll see if you can hold your own in there.”

Natasha glanced at you for confirmation, and you gave her a subtle nod. She followed Vivian into the kitchen without hesitation. You followed behind, though, at a slower pace. The next few moments were crucial for first impressions.

"I'll warn you, I'm not a great cook," She said.

"That's alright," Vivian said. "I'll put you to work peeling potatoes or something. Wanna see if you'll pull your weight around here."

You smiled, hearing them chat back and forth. It was a good sign. You were sure your mom would find something Natasha could do.

"You made it," Quincy's voice boomed from behind you. He didn't give you time to react before he pulled you into a bear hug. "And you brought Natasha."

"Of course," You laughed.

"Good." He nodded. "I was worried you were going to bail on us. You never come home anymore."

"Don't start, Quincy," You rolled your eyes. "I was home last Thanksgiving."

"Yeah, after not coming home for a whole year," He said. "Introduce me to your girlfriend." He grinned. He was starstruck.

"She's helping Mom cook," You informed him. You both walked into the kitchen and saw Natasha shaking hands with your sister, Peyton. Brandon was at the counter feeding a few strawberries to Willow as his girlfriend Tori sat beside him on her phone. She seemed completely unaware of the world around her.

"So, you're an Avenger," Peyton said, her tone a little skeptical. "I must admit we didn't believe y/n when she said she was dating you."

"Oh really," Natasha said, quirking an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Well, it's not every day a girl claims she's dating the Black Widow," Peyton pointed out.

"Yeah, but y/n isn't exactly the type to make shit up," Quincy interrupted.

"Language, boy," Vivian warned from her place at the stove.

Natasha chuckled, her eyes flickering to Peyton and then to Vivian, who had her back turned to the stove. "Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse," she said, giving Quincy a playful wink.

"See?" Quincy smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Told ya."

Vivian turned from the stove, placing a wooden spoon on the counter. "Alright, enough with the show, everyone. Peyton, get the table set. Quincy, stop trying to embarrass your sister. And you," she pointed at Natasha, "come help me with this cornbread."

Natasha nodded and stepped over to Vivian, who seemed confident in her kitchen. "What can I do?" Natasha asked, her hands instinctively moving to help without waiting for an answer.

"First things first," Vivian said, pushing a bowl of ingredients toward her, "you’re going to stir this batter, but carefully. I like a nice smooth texture for the cornbread."

Natasha rolled up her sleeves, already comfortable in the space. "I’ve got it. I’ll make it the best cornbread you’ve ever had."

Vivian, clearly pleased, gave her a once-over before speaking again. "You’re making good impressions so far, Natasha. Y/n deserves someone who knows their way around the kitchen." She eyed Natasha for a moment, her smile warm. "You do all your cooking, or is someone else handling that?"

"I do a bit of both," Natasha replied, gently mixing the batter. "But I’m always down for new recipes, especially if they come from someone who knows what they’re doing. I'm not a great cook but a fast learner."

"Well, we'll see how you do here," Vivian said.

"I guess I'll start on the pies," You rolled up your sleeves to wash your hands. A perk of flying in on Thanksgiving day was being late to the party. It was a last-minute decision to come home.

"You better be making a chocolate one," Peyton warned.

"Peyton, hush." Vivian shushed her.

"I can't wait to try it," Brandon said, his attention still on his daughter.

"I think the last thing that kid needs is sugar," Peyton teased, poking the little girl's belly. She squealed, kicking her chubby little legs.

"The sugar is the best part," Brandon retorted, kissing his daughter.

"She's getting big," You observed. "Is she talking yet?"

"No," Brandon said. "Not yet. She'll get there eventually. I can't believe she's a year old. Feels like just yesterday she was born."

"Yeah," You nodded. "Hi, Tori." You said to Brandon's girlfriend.

"Hi," She had the decency to look up from her phone.

You sat at the kitchen table, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you glanced at Tori. Finding someone like her who kept to themselves was rare, but you knew it was essential to show interest. "So, Tori, how's school and everything? I mean, besides, you know, trying to avoid getting caught in the middle of this chaotic family," you teased lightly, gesturing around the room.

Tori blinked, clearly surprised by the question, but then she seemed to soften, a hint of relief in her eyes. "Well, school is fine. I've been attending every day. I want to be a nurse," she said, her voice quieter than usual but more animated than you'd seen before. "I’ve always liked the idea of helping people, you know? I’ve been thinking about moving to Louisiana after high school to study. My aunt lives there, and she’s been telling me to come stay with her while I figure things out."

"That’s awesome," you said, genuinely interested. "Is it something you’ve wanted to do for a while?"

"Yeah," she nodded, looking down at her hands briefly. "I’ve always kind of gravitated toward taking care of people. And... I don’t know. Louisiana feels like a place where I could start fresh, away from all the stuff back here." She paused, her eyes flicking briefly to Brandon, who was still sitting with Willow. "I just... I think I could do more there. Maybe even learn some things to help me get my life on track."

You nodded thoughtfully, respecting her quiet resolve. "I think you’ll do great."

Brandon, listening in from across the room, chimed in with a knowing smile. "Yeah, we're still figuring it all out. Tori's been thinking about it, but we're also trying to figure out how to ensure Willow stays close to family." His expression softened as he glanced at his daughter. "I’m not sure how I feel about taking her away from everyone... but Tori’s excited, and it’s a big opportunity for her."

Tori shot Brandon a small, appreciative smile, though she didn’t say anything.

You could tell there was a lot of unspoken tension around it. You nodded in understanding. "It's a big decision. But I know Willow’s lucky to have you both looking out for her."

"That's so sweet," Tori said.

"I only have to put the collard greens on," Vivian began. "Natasha, do you eat pork?"

"Yes," Natasha answered.

"Good," Vivian nodded.

"What else can I do, Mama Viv?" Natasha asked.

"You're gonna make the biscuits," Vivian ordered.

"Yes, ma'am." Natasha nodded.

Things were going well. Your mom putting Natasha to work meant she was interested in her, which was a plus in your book.

As Natasha busied herself with biscuit-making under Vivian’s watchful eye, Peyton followed you into one of the bedrooms upstairs. You knew by her closeness she was about to say something. Peyton rarely held back when it came to her opinions.

“So,” she began, her tone casual but pointed, “is this thing with Natasha serious? Or is she just another quest, like Melinda?”

You paused, barely glancing at her, placing your bags in the closet. Peyton had always had a knack for finding the most loaded questions to ask, and this was no exception. You took a breath, willing yourself to stay composed.

“First of all,” you said calmly, “Natasha is not a ‘thing.’ She’s my girlfriend, Peyton. And yeah, we’re serious. Also, Melinda wasn't a quest. We were in a relationship for two years."

Peyton shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m just saying. You’ve always had a type, you know? Strong, intense, probably a little emotionally unavailable,” she added with a smirk. “And we all know how that turned out last time.”

You shot her a warning look. “Wow, Peyton. Thank you so much for your insight into my love life. Maybe next time, you can try delivering it without the shade.”

“What? I’m just asking the questions everyone else is thinking,” she said, raising her hands defensively. “I mean, you’ve got a history. Don’t you think it’s fair to wonder how long this one will last?”

"Are you going to start? Dinner is less than three hours away," You sighed. "I came to be with family. You didn't even hug me when I came in the door."

"Because you've been here ten minutes," Peyton argued. "Look, I'm not trying to start anything, y/n. I'm just curious. It's not like we see or talk to you very much."

"Well, I've been busy," You retorted.

"You could've called more," Peyton insisted. "The girls miss you."

"I'm sorry," You shook your head. "Law school has been intense."

Peyton’s eyes flicked to the Gucci bag you’d set neatly by the door, her expression shifting into something slightly amused but undeniably pointed. “That’s a nice bag you’ve got there,” she remarked, her tone light but laced with something else. “Designer, right?”

You bristled, sensing where this was going. “Yeah, it’s a gift,” you replied curtly, refusing to elaborate. You’d learned that giving Peyton more information was like throwing fuel on a fire.

“Must be nice,” she said, her voice slightly more severe. “Meanwhile, Mom’s been stressing over the laundromat. She doesn’t say it outright, but I know things have been tight lately.”

You froze, your jaw tightening. “Peyton—”

“She’s paying your tuition,” Peyton continued, folding her arms. “So, I just think, you know, maybe she deserves to know if you’re spending money on fancy bags.”

“It’s a gift,” you repeated, your voice sharper now. “And last I checked, my education was something Mom was proud to support, not some burden she needed you to fight about.”

Peyton shrugged, unfazed by your defensiveness. “I’m not saying it’s a burden. I’m just saying she’s doing a lot. And maybe you could... I don’t know; check in a little more. Be more aware of what’s going on back home.”

“Wow, Peyton. Thanks for the lecture,” you shot back. “I had no idea you were Mom’s financial advisor now.”

“I’m just saying,” Peyton countered. “You’re out there living your life, and we’re holding things down. It wouldn’t hurt to pick up the phone or swing by more often. The girls miss you, Mom misses you, and whether you want to hear it or not, things aren’t easy around here.”

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. “Look, I get it, okay? I know I’ve been caught up with school and everything else. But you don’t need to guilt-trip me about it. I’m doing the best I can.”

Peyton’s face softened, if only slightly. “I’m not trying to guilt-trip you, y/n. I just... I worry about Mama, and I worry about you too. You’ve got this shiny new life now, and it’s great, but don’t forget where you came from. That’s all I’m saying.”

You shook your head, annoyance and regret swirling in your gut. Part of you wanted to defend yourself, but another part felt like it was too little, too late. Instead, you breathed and tried to let the frustration melt away. Paying your tuition was something your mother did for each of her children. Quincy had gone to get his mechanical engineering degree and became a product engineer. You're still determining exactly what he does, but he earns an excellent salary. Peyton had gone to college and ultimately dropped out after becoming pregnant with the twins in her junior year. Now it was your turn.

You felt that despite how much your mom wanted you to attend law school, the money was tighter than she'd initially let on. It wasn't that she was stingy. Your mom was the most generous person you knew. But she had her pride. You knew you had to pay her back one day.

"Okay, okay," You said, rubbing your temples. "I've been working a lot. I can take out loans if I have to. Just let me talk to Mom. See what she says."

Peyton didn't look entirely convinced. "If you say so."

"Look, it's been a long trip, and I wanted to see everyone and have a good time," You explained. "Are you going to treat me like this the whole time?"

"No," Peyton rolled her eyes. "We can pretend we're normal and get along for one day."

"Good," You said. "Now, can we please just go hang out with everyone? I didn't come from New York to spend the holiday with you lecturing me."

"I love you, little sister," Peyton said as you began to walk past her. "I apologize for coming across that way."

"I know, Peyton," You sighed.

The two of you walked back downstairs, and you returned to the kitchen to see Natasha holding Willow in her arms. You paused in the doorway, your steps slowing as your gaze landed on Natasha. She held Willow close, her movements careful yet natural, like she’d been doing this forever. Willow babbled happily, one tiny hand clutching at Natasha’s necklace and the other reaching up to pat her cheek. Natasha smiled, a soft, genuine curve of her lips that you didn’t get to see often.

It was... endearing. Unexpected but endearing.

Natasha had always struck you as someone who thrived in control, her precision and composure unshakeable. But here she was, rocking a squirmy, giggling baby in her arms with a quiet patience that made your chest ache the best way.

She caught you watching, her green eyes meeting yours over Willow’s head. “Hey,” she said softly, a trace of shyness in her voice. “She’s a natural charmer, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice catching just a bit. “She likes you.”

Natasha chuckled, shifting Willow so the baby rested more securely against her shoulder. “I like her too,” she admitted. “But, full disclosure, I have no idea what I’m doing. I think she’s just being nice to me.”

You smiled, stepping closer. “You’re doing fine,” you said, your tone warm. “Better than fine. She doesn’t let just anyone hold her without pitching a fit.”

Willow reached for Natasha’s face again, her little fingers brushing against her cheek. Natasha didn’t flinch, just gently caught the baby’s hand and kissed her tiny palm. The sight was almost too much—tenderness wrapped up in someone so unrelentingly strong.

“Do you want her ?” Natasha asked, her voice light but filled with a bit of hesitation like maybe she didn’t want to let go just yet.

You shook your head, leaning against the counter. “Nah, you’re doing great. Besides, I think she’s already picked a favorite.”

Natasha gave a soft laugh, the sound low and genuine. “Guess I’ll have to live up to it, then.”

Vivian came in a moment later. "Everything's all ready," She said.

"Mom, did you make mac and cheese?" Peyton asked.

"Yes," Vivian nodded. "Your daughter requested it."

"Thanks, Mama," Peyton said.

Vivian glanced at you and Peyton, her eyes narrowing. "Y'all weren't fighting, were you?"

"No, ma'am," You and Peyton said in unison.

"Don't lie," Vivian scolded.

"We're fine," You insisted.

"We can save the arguing after Thanksgiving dinner," Peyton added.

"Alright," Vivian shrugged. "I'm not going to pretend to understand you two."

Natasha glanced between you and your sister, but you did not indicate that you were bothered by what had happened.

"Twins are back," Ross called from the front door as he entered the house with Deyjah and Diamond. All you heard was the pitter-patter of little feet as they kicked off their shoes and ran toward the kitchen.

"There's the troublemakers," You joked, ruffling their heads.

"You're back," Diamond exclaimed, pulling you into a hug.

"I am," You laughed, squeezing her back.

"Did you bring presents?" Deyjah asked, looking up at you expectantly.

"I didn't," You said. "It's not Christmas just yet. Girls, there's someone I want you to meet. This is my girlfriend, Natasha."

Diamond and Deyjah eyed Natasha curiously, their matching gazes assessing her with an unnerving and impressive sharpness.

"Why's your hair red?" Deyjah asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Well, I was born with red hair," Natasha explained. "Just like how y/n was born with dark hair."

"I was born first," Diamond announced proudly, puffing out her chest. "But I don't remember."

"Duh, 'cause you were a baby," Deyjah scoffed.

"Girls," Vivian scolded, "don't be rude. Why don't you go wash up for dinner?"

They did as they were told, rushing off to the bathroom.

"They're pretty cute," Natasha began. "How do you tell them apart?" She directed her question to Peyton.

"There are a few subtle differences," Peyton began. "Diamond has slightly better speech than Deyjah. Deyjah always has some sort of bracelet or necklace on. Though if you look closely, Diamond has a tiny mole on the left side of her neck."

Natasha nodded, seeming satisfied. "So, how old are they?"

"Six," Peyton answered.

"Six," Natasha echoed.

"Yep, six going on sixteen," Peyton joked. "They keep me busy most days."

"I can imagine," Natasha chuckled. "They're smart kids."

"Oh yeah," Peyton grinned. "They're smart."

You couldn't help but smile at Natasha's interest in the twins. She seemed genuinely curious and focused solely on Peyton as she talked about the girls. Seeing someone other than your mom and Brandon engaging with her was refreshing.

"This is my husband, Ross," Peyton introduced.

"Pleasure to meet you," Ross shook Natasha's hand. "Big fan."

"He's a fan," Peyton explained. "He loves all that superhero stuff. I'm not really into it, though."

"I can imagine," Natasha smiled. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Ross."

"Yeah, likewise," he replied, clearly starstruck. "How was the flight?"

"It was alright," You answered. "It's good to be back home."

Indeed it was.

******

The dining room was packed, every seat around the table taken, and a few extra chairs were squeezed in to accommodate the crowd. The smell of collard greens, roasted turkey, and freshly baked cornbread filled the air, mingling with the soft strains of gospel music playing from a speaker in the corner. Laughter and chatter echoed through the room as plates and glasses were passed around.

You sat beside Natasha, her hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the table. She looked calm, but you could tell she was soaking everything in—the voices, the warmth, the energy. She wasn’t used to this world, but she fit into it better than you’d expected.

“Alright, y’all, quiet down!” Vivian’s voice rose above the din, commanding attention. The table settled almost instantly, everyone turning toward her.

She stood at the head of the table, a serene yet authoritative presence. “Before we dig in, we’re going to give thanks,” she said, glancing around the room. “Natasha, since this is your first time joining us, I want you to know how happy we are to have you here. Family is everything to us; today, you’re family too.”

Natasha’s eyes widened slightly, and she gave a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mama Viv. That means a lot.”

"Now, in our household, we start with a prayer before Thanksgiving dinner," Vivian said. "I understand that you may not want to participate."

"No, ma'am," Natasha said.

"Well, okay then," Vivian said. "Now, let's bow our heads."

"Bow our heads, everybody," Vivian instructed, and the room obeyed. You noticed that even Natasha bowed her head a little, though her eyes remained open. "Dear Lord, thank you for bringing our family together today."

Natasha observed the room as the prayer went on. This was like a culture study for her. Experiencing a different family dynamic was intriguing.

"I want to thank you for the food and the company. And I pray that our family continues to stay safe and healthy. Amen."

Everyone lifted their heads and said, "Amen."

"Thank you, Mama," Peyton spoke up.

"Thank you, Mom," Brandon agreed.

"Yeah, thank you, Mama," Your brother, Quincy, said.

"Thanks, Mom," You nodded. The food began to be passed around, with everyone choosing which dishes they wanted and didn't want.

"I don't think we've ever had a guest that didn't participate in the prayer," Peyton commented. "Natasha, you were born in Russia, right?"

"Yeah, well, it's not exactly my thing," Natasha said. "I was born in Russia."

"It's not mine either," you said, hoping to diffuse the tension. "I think we all have ways of being thankful, and it's not anyone else's place to judge."

Peyton gave a slight shrug. "I was just curious. No harm meant."

"I get it," Natasha replied.

"You're welcome here, whether or not you believe in God," Vivian assured. "We're all a little different. It's what makes us interesting."

Natasha flashed Vivian a small, appreciative smile. "Thank you, Mama Viv. I appreciate that."

As everyone dug into their plates, the conversation shifted to lighter topics. Silverware scraping against plates filled the air, with only snippets of conversation breaking through the hum of family conversation. Your mom, ever the host, ensured no one went without refills, while your siblings kept things lively with playful banter. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Natasha enjoying the food. Some of the menu options were things she hadn't tasted before. It was endearing and a little heartwarming to see her want things.

"So, Natasha," Brandon leaned forward. "I gotta ask—who is the coolest person you've met?"

"Um..." Natasha's expression shifted into something thoughtful. "Well, I've met many interesting people in my life. I wouldn't say anyone was cooler than the other. Maybe the president?"

Brandon frowned. "I was hoping for someone a little more exciting."

"That is exciting," Quincy said.

"What?" Brandon protested.

"She's Black Widow, and you're asking her about who she's met," Quincy replied. "I want to know her stats. I mean, she's a spy. You must do some pretty cool stunts. What's your training regimen like?"

"Oh, come on," You lowered your fork. "Can we just not talk about work right now?"

"It's okay," Natasha smiled, patting your hand.

"I can answer a few questions," She said.

"Oh yeah," Brandon smirked. "How many push-ups can you do?"

"A lot," Natasha shrugged.

"Do you do chin-ups?" Quincy asked.

"Yes," Natasha said.

"I'd like to challenge you to a push-up contest," Quincy wiped his mouth. "You seem tough, but I bet I could take you."

"I could do the same," Brandon said. "We could all have a contest."

"I'm not going to do a push-up contest," Peyton shook her head. "It's Thanksgiving."

"Fine," Quincy shrugged. "Brandon and I can do it."

"I don't think you guys understand what you're challenging her to," You said. You knew firsthand how athletic Natasha was. Her stamina was out of this world both on and off the field.

"She's an Avenger," You said.

"So," Brandon shrugged.

"She's a trained assassin," You explained.

"I'm sure we could hold our own," Quincy countered.

"No, you can't," You shook your head.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Brandon put his hands up. "It sounds like you don't want us to take your girlfriend. Afraid she might fall in love with one of us?"

"I'm right here," Tori pinched Brandon. "Behave."

"Sorry, babe," Brandon muttered.

"No, I'm not worried," You rolled your eyes.

Natasha smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement as she leaned forward slightly. "Yeah, I think you guys should sit this one out," she said, her voice laced with humor but just enough seriousness to get her point across. "No offense, but I’ve been around some pretty intimidating people. I’m not exactly shaking in my boots here."

Quincy feigned a wounded expression. "Ouch. So, we’re not intimidating enough for you?"

"Not in the slightest," Natasha quipped, her smirk widening.

Brandon chuckled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, fair enough. Guess we’ll stick to arm-wrestling each other and leave the assassin stuff to the pros."

Tori gave Brandon a side-eye but couldn’t help smiling. "Maybe you should worry about behaving before trying to impress Natasha."

You shook your head, unable to keep from laughing. "See? Even Tori knows you two would be hopeless."

Natasha reassured your thigh under the table, leaning in close enough that only you could hear. "I like your family," she murmured softly and sincerely.

You smiled at her, warmth blooming in your chest.

"We like you too," Vivian nodded. “It may be time for these boys to get put in their place.”

"I would like to see it," Peyton muttered.

"After dinner, then," Natasha smiled. "I have one condition if I win."

"What's that?" Quincy asked.

"You guys teach me how to play spades," Natasha suggested.

"Deal," Quincy nodded.

"And if you win, we can take some photos together," Brandon said.

"Fair enough," Natasha said.

"This will be interesting," Vivian commented.

"I know, right," Tori chuckled.

It was settled. Natasha would be challenging your brothers to a push-up contest. She was used to men challenging her to do things. It was in their nature almost.

After the meal, you helped clean up while your siblings gathered in the living room. They were ready for Natasha to kick their asses, and you could barely contain your excitement.

"Willow, you're about to watch your Daddy get beat," You whispered to the toddler.

"Don't count on it," Brandon said. "She won't be so confident when we're finished."

"We'll see," You said, setting the child on the couch.

Ross volunteered to be the referee, clearly enjoying the chaos. "Alright, everyone ready?" he asked, standing over the contestants with exaggerated authority.

Brandon and Quincy dropped to the floor with exaggerated confidence, flexing their arms dramatically to show off. Natasha joined them, calm and focused, her form perfect even before they started.

"Okay," Ross said, his voice booming for no reason. "On my count—one, two, three, go!"

The room filled with exaggerated grunts as your brothers enthusiastically attacked their push-ups, counting out each one loudly. "One, two, three—"

Natasha, meanwhile, moved effortlessly, her breathing even and controlled. You noticed she wasn’t counting out loud, focusing entirely on her form. By the fifteenth push-up, Brandon’s face turned red, and Quincy was already starting to slow down.

“That’s it?” Natasha teased, casually switching to one-handed push-ups without missing a beat.

The room erupted into gasps and laughter. Ross's jaw dropped. "Wait, wait, what?!"

"One hand?" Quincy groaned, struggling to keep his pace. "She’s showing off now."

"Is she even human?" Brandon muttered between labored breaths.

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning against the back of the couch. “Don’t worry, Willow,” you told the toddler watching from her perch. “Your daddy’s about to learn a hard lesson.”

Despite their efforts, Natasha’s movements remained smooth and effortless. Not once did her arms so much as tremble. When Brandon and Quincy finally collapsed in a heap, Natasha was still going strong, with a slight smirk as she pushed through another set.

“Thirty-five… thirty-six…” Ross counted, shaking his head in disbelief.

When she finally stopped, Natasha rose gracefully and brushed herself off as if the entire thing had been a warm-up. "Good effort, boys," she said with a smirk, extending her hand to help Brandon.

"You didn’t even break a sweat!" Quincy protested, sprawled on the floor.

"Maybe next time," Natasha quipped, her tone light but undeniably victorious.

Brandon groaned dramatically, glancing at Willow, who was giggling. "Willow, Daddy did his best," he muttered, defeated.

“She’s my new favorite,” Ross declared, earning laughter from everyone in the room.

You walked over to Natasha, shaking your head with an affectionate smile. “Show-off,” you teased.

She leaned in close enough that only you could hear. “You love it.”

She wasn’t wrong.

**********

Later that night, everyone is tucked into their rooms as you help your mom with the dishes. Natasha had taken an early shower to decompress from such a busy day. She wasn't used to big family affairs like this and needed a moment alone. This gave you time to talk with your mom.

As she washed the dishes, you dried them.

"So, what do you think?" You asked as you placed another place in the cabinet. "Do you like her?"

"She's lovely," Vivian nodded. "You seem happy."

"I am," You confirmed.

"Good," Vivian continued washing the dishes.

"She seems to be fitting in well," You said.

"She is," Vivian said. "She's a sweet girl."

"She is," You agreed.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

"Whoa, Mom," You sputtered. She gave you a knowing look, and you sighed. "Why are you asking?"

"I'm your mother," Vivian said. "It's a valid question. Is she a good partner?"

"Yes, she is," You said.

"She doesn't treat you right; I will come and cut her," Vivian threatened.

"She does treat me right," You insisted.

"Then there shouldn't be a problem with my question," Vivian said.

"She does," You repeated.

"Well, I'm glad," Vivian said.

You nodded, continuing the routine of putting the dishes away.

"So, what's next for you two?"

"Next?" You asked, unsure of what she meant.

"Where do you see the relationship going?" Vivian asked.

"Um," You hadn't thought about it much. "I don't know. We're taking it slow. Just enjoying each other's company."

"But do you think it will be a long-term relationship?" Vivian asked.

"I hope so," You said. "I like her and hope the feeling is mutual."

"Well, if you like her and she likes you, I'm sure it will work out," Vivian said. There was a moment of silence. "I see the way she looks at you. The same way your daddy looked at me."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Vivian smiled. "He always had that twinkle in his eye when he talked about me."

You smiled, finishing the last of the dishes.

"I'm happy for you, baby," Vivian said. "You deserve someone who makes you feel special. Someone who puts a smile on your face."

"I'm glad you approve," You nodded. "She's a good person. I know people have their reservations about her past and..."

"People have their reasons for being judgmental," Vivian said. "You know as well as I do that a lot of the time, people are just scared and misguided."

"Yeah," You nodded.

"Besides, your daddy taught me something important."

"What's that?"

"It doesn't matter where a person came from, just who they are," Vivian answered.

"He taught me the same," You replied.

"I know," Vivian kissed your forehead.

You hugged her, feeling a wave of emotions wash over you.

"Mom," You began.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I miss him," You said.

"So do I," Vivian pulled away. "But, we have to carry on without him."

"You know, Peyton told me how things are going at the laundromat," You began. "If my tuition is too much."

"Baby, you're not giving up school because of me," Vivian said. "The laundromat is fine. We just had a bad few months, is all."

"I'm sure we can figure out a way to increase revenue," You suggested.

"Maybe, but not now," Vivian said. "It'll work itself out. I have a little savings if it comes down to it."

"Well, maybe I can talk to the admissions office," You said. "See about a payment plan or loans."

"We'll figure it out," Vivian reassured. "Don't you worry about it?"

"I'm not worried," You insisted.

"You're a horrible liar," Vivian chuckled. "Now, go check on your girlfriend. It's getting late."

You smiled. "Thanks, mom."

"Anytime," Vivian winked.

******

When you returned to your room, Natasha was out of the shower and curled under the covers. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was deep and even, suggesting she was already asleep.

You smiled, careful not to wake her, as you changed into a pair of pajamas and brushed your teeth. As you crawled into bed beside her, she stirred slightly, cracking one eye open.

"Sorry," you whispered, draping an arm across her waist. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?" She asked.

"Yeah, it's fine," you reassured, resting your head on her shoulder.

"Okay," She closed her eyes.

You pressed a kiss to her jaw, snuggling closer. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," She replied. "Thanks for bringing me here."

"Of course," You whispered.

You lay in the darkness for a while, listening to her breathing and enjoying the warmth of her body. Gradually, your eyelids grew heavy, and you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of her arms.

[mrpenguinpants]

Oops, I really delayed the response time on this-

I don't know if you saw but I reblogged your comments in tags (this one) and I wrote in response that: "this is the thing I'm referring to, I'll explain later". This is the post.

I originally had no idea where to start with this commission. I had a general idea of what to write but I like to have some sort of story structure for headcanons, rather than writing generalized things. Not sure if that makes sense but I'm going to pretend like it does. My creativity block for genshin has been wrung dry so I was busy twiddling my thumbs waiting for something to hit me and while looking through my activity, I saw your reblog comments on how you really liked that fic. Lightbulb. Okay, let's continue off that fic then. I appreciate people that take the time to write their own comments, especially on returning fics, so I paid a little homage to you in the original draft (because I wanted to remember who I originally got inspo from when I did my "post writers notes"). I think that's why you got the notification that you were tagged in this haha.

But I'm super glad you liked the fic! Writing sequeals is something I usually don't do despite the fact most of my fics are interconnected in some way (Xiao is a big one even though I've stopped writing for him-), but I love that you and everyone else picked up on the subtley. Also, thank you for writing your thoughts down- I fucking love that and was kicking my feet reading it.

I hope readers forever understand that I love them with every word they read. I love you

Ttorschlusspanik [ Commissioned ]

[ Hcs for Dottore where the reader is very sleepy/sleep-deprived and is constantly falling asleep in battle, on dates, or maybe during research and experiments! ]

Word Count: 4k

Ayato Ver: Pale Blue Slumber [Masterlist]

Thank you so much for commissioning me! You’re so sweet, and I truly appreciate the tip, but I can’t accept this level of generosity. Please let me know if I went under the word count. Also, thank you for your patience—I got really sick this week and am still recovering.

Torshlosspanik. noun. 1. A desperate feeling that something desired is fading, missing, or being taken away. 2. A feeling of frustration when something one has is departing.

A slumbering figure, a nearly empty desk, and foreboding fabric are the greeting signs to the infamous lab. It’s ironic, really. The concept that the Doctor’s domain comes with a “receptionist” setup stationed in front of imposing steel doors, giving the illusion that this place is as normal—and as morally sound—as any other doctor’s office. At best, it’s laughable to think anyone would believe this place accepts patients willingly, let alone frequently enough to require check-ins. Yet, a shabby but sturdy wooden desk stands innocently in the corner of the entrance, its chipping edges lined with plastic chrysanthemums and white lilies. The artificial flowers are faded, their colors dull from years of neglect, as if mocking the very notion of hospitality. Behind the desk sits an equally worn-down office chair, large enough for someone to curl up in. Its fabric is stained and frayed from years of misuse, the cushion lumpy and barely holding its shape but still useable. All for a receptionist, if you can call them that, who spends more time asleep than actually working as an employee in this most unlikely place. Legs curled up on the seat, arms crisscrossed over the knees in a fetal position. A chin tucked towards the chest, hidden from the view of passersby. Back facing toward prying eyes, leaving only the pronounced slouch of their spine visible, an angle practically begging to develop scoliosis. But the most harrowing detail isn’t the position. It’s the unmistakable black-and-white fur coat draped over them like a blanket, the fabric’s presence carrying an air of authority and fear. A coat only gifted to the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. The desk itself is of no help either. There’s no clipboard, no pens, no paper-nothing that could even remotely resemble the tools of an actual receptionist. It’s an empty stage prop, barely held together by the weight of its own absurdity. And yet, for all its flaws, it stands as the gateway to a place no one in their right mind would willingly step into.

No one dares attempt to wake you. Successfully doing so is practically a death sentence, especially if you go whining to Dottore about the unprompted “alarm clock.” He has a reputation for ensuring the offender never makes a sound again. The only ones bold enough to try and emerge unscathed are his fellow Harbingers, though even they tread lightly when it comes to disturbing your slumber. It’s both impressive and deeply concerning how much of a deep sleeper you are. The bustling footsteps of agents pacing outside the lab, their sharp voices discussing assignments, don’t stir you. The deafening clangs of machinery, coupled with the revolting squelches of severed monster parts being dissected, fail to trigger even a flicker of awareness. Not even Tartaglia’s incessant yammering, loud enough to make glass shudder, elicits so much as an irritated swat from you. Instead, you remain in a state of unyielding sleep, utterly detached from the chaos around you. Your peculiar habit has become such a fixture in the lab that the staff barely remember you exist. You sit perched at their entrance and exit, as still and silent as a gargoyle guarding a forgotten ruin. To them, you are little more than part of the backdrop. A slumbering figure whose presence is a curious mix of ominous and benign.

While it's obvious that the answer to rousing you is to find Dottore himself, or one of his segments if he isn’t around, the interesting part is how you wake up. You're not immune to the initial dizziness that comes with awakening. When you finally open your eyes, blinking the sleep away from your eyelashes, you’re always disoriented. Your eyes feel glazed over, as though you’ve gone blind from keeping them closed too long. Yet, there’s always a common theme: you always reach out toward the nearest blue object. Whether it's an odd trinket or a test tube of acidic liquid, your hand automatically tries to grab it and pull it close to you. It’s part of the reason your desk is stationed outside the lab, away from anything potentially dangerous hidden behind heavy steel doors. Artificial blue has been on the rise lately. Luckily, in nature, blue is very rare. Less than one in ten plants has blue flowers, and even fewer animals are blue. Unfortunately, the biggest nuisance has blue eyes—dead as they are. Tartaglia may not like the doctor, but he does like you. Maybe it’s because your sleep demeanor can be categorized as cute, or maybe you remind him of the simple life in an organization that’s so uptight. Regardless, that little fox has been clawing at the wooden legs yapping for attention. It's only made worse you don't bother to dissuade him, only indulging in his playful antics. It's led to many, many, lectures from one particular segment.

It's fascinating watching how each segment interacts with your sleepy demeanor. While each segment has varying features and appearances, under the same clothes and mask, they would be indistinguishable if they stood still and never spoke. The only true way to discern them is through their actions and mental processes. Hence, it's easy to tell who is who by the way they go about holding you.

Omega is by far the least attentive or affectionate toward you. Perhaps it’s because he’s the most selfish of them all. There’s still an ongoing debate over whether his dislike for you stems from the fact that you stand in the way of fulfilling his desires or if his ambitions extend beyond simply overtaking the divine gaze. Or perhaps the divine gaze isn't actually his goal in the first place. Either way, it’s two sides of the same coin. When it’s Omega’s turn to fetch you, he does so as if you were any other patient. Completely beneath him. One arm rests behind his back, while the other holds a piece of paper clenched tightly in his hand. His mouth is set in a firm line as he gazes down at your slumped form. Although the air around him is calm and silent, it doesn’t take a genius to know that if he could get away with it, he’d drag you through the halls by your hair. Alas, that kind of act would get him permanently disassembled, so he settles for unceremoniously flipping you upright. The arm resting on the small of his back is removed and curls under your stomach. With one swift motion, you’re treated like one of Signora’s shopping bags. The sight of a limp body folded in half under an arm that surely digs into the stomach is the best way to know if it’s the Omega segment or not.

Beta, on the other hand. Beta. That maniacal and neurotic freak adores you but couldn’t care less about you. His research typically focuses on fusing humans with machinery to create “better versions” of themselves, and he fully believes in that philosophy. You would look so much better if he were allowed to be your sole care provider. If your drowsiness were caused by a medical condition like heart disease, asthma, pain, or a nerve condition, he could simply replace them, and you’d be perfect. If it were a mental issue, well, he’d love you no matter how unresponsive you might be. It wouldn’t be much different from you being asleep anyway. When it’s Beta’s turn to fetch you, he does so with a waltz. He walks purposefully toward your desk. Loud and firm, his hands fisted at his sides with unrestrained glee, swinging in time with each step. Even with a mask that obscures most of his face, it’s clear to see the overexcited grin stretching across his lips. It’s almost like there’s static buzzing in time with his artificial heart, fuzzy yet electrically sharp. There’s no fanfare, as soon as he’s within arm’s reach, he grabs the nearest piece of skin and hauls you out of the chair. By some miracle, you’re always still asleep from the rough handling, which is more than enough for Beta to wrap his other arm around your waist. Your chests press together, and he swings your body to and fro in his mad dance. The sight of a limp body dragged into a dancing plague that’s surely pulling your stiff joints out of place is the best way to know if it’s Beta or not. Beta has been recently banned from coming within a six-foot radius around you. 

The original Dottore, Zandik, is a unique case. All of the segments originated from him but at different points in time. However, they are still parts of his thoughts and mannerisms. There really is no order in which the segments are ranked, as they can’t compete with each other. What’s more pointless than trying to beat yourself? You’ll still lose in the end. Zandik is a strange mix of every segment yet none at all. When he wants to see you, he does so slowly, with all the time in the world. His methodical steps echo lightly on the concrete floors of the lab, his arms still at his sides yet loose enough that the slightest wind could blow them away. It’s as eerie as it is tranquil. Everything about the original whispers of restrained patience—that when he arrives at the front of your desk, he simply waits. Usually, it takes you hours or even days to wake up on your own, but when it’s Zandik standing at the edge of your daydream, your eyes slide open. Small ripples in the pond. You’re still lethargic, blindly feeling your way back into your body as your eyes ricochet off the walls until they land on blue. A weighted hand reaches out to grab that ashy blue, and another hand meets your fingertips.

It would be cute if it were anyone else. The sight of a man with curly light blue hair, carrying a bundled-up figure dressed in a white coat with a fluffy black collar, legs dangling from either side of his waist while his hands rest on the lump’s presumed back and thighs. It would be so cute indeed, if it were anyone else but Zandik. But for him, it only looks lonely, despite the two of you pressed together.

The moments when you're awake only happen on two occasions: either you just happened to wake up at that time, or it’s check-up day. What kind of doctor would Dottore be if he didn’t conduct physicals for his only patient who manages to live long enough each year? The check-ups happen twice a week, always two days apart. Never past two days of separation. Ever. Your exact relationship dynamic with Dottore remains as obscure as ever as to why he cares so much. Whether you’re old friends who knew each other before Dottore set foot in Snezhnaya or even when Dottore was called a different name. Or maybe a dead lover resurrected as a zombie in the pursuit of selfish greed and glorious progress; both are possible options. The zombie theory at least explains why you’re constantly drowsy. The staff have never seen you eat anything before, and with the abundance of... zombie food, it's not outlandish as much as it is disgusting. The old friend theory would explain why you can stomach being around someone who can fly off the handle at any moment. The most willing yet unwilling patient. No matter how often Dottore has to wrestle you upright, only for you to slump back asleep the next second, he never loses his temper. If he has to strap you into a straitjacket and hang you from the goddamn ceiling to keep you sitting with a straight back, he will. But by no means will he get anything more than slightly miffed. If he has to force-feed you your medicine because you’re too loopy to remember how to swallow, he’ll shove his fingers into the back of your throat with nothing but a blank smile. The only good thing about your sleep-deprived state is that you’re probably so out of it that you can’t feel discomfort. It saves on using the limited supply of anesthesia the lab carries.

Dottore, for lack of a better word, is displeased with your constant need for sleep. He is deeply frustrated with each check-in and the stagnation of your results. For him, bad results are no different from good ones—they’re still a means of moving forward. Something that will tell him which direction to take rather than wandering around aimlessly in the dark. But in your case, there are no significant changes, as if everything he’s done has been for nothing. He could have closed his eyes and spun a wheel for the same results. The day before your check-in is always the calm before the storm because the staff knows that when the next day comes, they’d better keep their heads down or risk losing them. No one is quite sure if your sleepiness stems from mutated genetics or if it’s a side effect of being around Dottore for too long. Stir-craziness and breakdowns are common in the lab, whether among "patients" or "employees." Everyone eventually goes mad, cooped up within the same cell-shaded walls and working under possibly the worst boss imaginable. Add to that the fact that the Fatui don’t believe in “mental health” days, and with no coping mechanisms in sight, it’s unfair to expect anyone to function effectively. Most people eventually devolve into screaming or manic episodes. Perhaps your escape is more literal. A peaceful retreat from reality through sleep. You’re not even sure why you’re constantly sleep-deprived, especially when you spend more time slumbering than awake. At first, you thought you might be narcoleptic or taking the wrong pills; a diagnosis from scratch must take a long time, right? That was until Dottore bluntly called you an idiot. He told you it’s a bad habit to self-diagnose every minor inconvenience. You should let him do all the thinking and simply listen to him. And truthfully, with the haze clouding your mind, it’s too difficult to think clearly anyway. So, you nod and do as you’re told. It’s easier that way.

It doesn’t happen often, but it occurs more than it should, considering who Dottore is and the reputation he holds. If you wish to cross him, you’d better make it count—because it’ll be your last. He’s in the middle of a meeting with Pantalone, arguing over the lab’s finances when a frantic knock interrupts. Apparently, there’s been a scuffle at the entrance of the lab. To Pantalone's knowledge, there aren't any guards or any agents stationed at the doors except for that sleepy receptionist. Perhaps the doctor's staff finally had enough and decided to take their anger on someone who couldn't fight back? Pantalone's not a good enough person to not find amusement in the situation, infinitely curious as to what Dottore's reaction will be to all of this. Whatever the banker decided to gamble on, his expression doesn't twitch as he follows behind his fellow Harbinger as they walk leisurely through the halls, as if the world has come to a standstill. It’s almost amusing that when your life is potentially on the line, he suddenly decides to take a midday stroll. The only indication of his amusement is the slight shake in his shoulders, hinting at a silent laugh. Dottore punches in the lock code and throws open the steel doors before the automatic switch can activate, slipping through as soon as the gap is wide enough. He stops at the shabby wooden desk that’s now gained a few new dents.

This time, you’re curled up on top of the table, your office chair thrown across the room. Broken. It’s no matter, he’s been meaning to replace it anyway. The chair is just another expense to add to his name. He collects you into his arms effortlessly, and you instinctively sink into the familiar hold. A quick scan from head to toe confirms that you’re unharmed, save for a few strands of hair out of place. Behind him, Pantalone lets out a noise of approval as he surveys the scene. In the center of the room stands a robot with a striking design. A star-shaped frame with six triangular segments forms a perfect symmetry. Glowing cyan cores illuminate the metallic structure, positioned at its center and edges. The intricate details combine sharp, crystalline elements with mechanical precision, radiating an aura of both elegance and menace. As expected of the Doctor. Pantalone can’t help but wonder where this machine was hiding when Signora ventured to Inazuma. Perhaps if it had been deployed then, she might have returned in one piece.

Although Dottore no longer needs to sleep to survive, there are times when, as he passes by your sleeping form, he’ll pause. He stands still, staring for what feels like an absurd amount of time, meticulously detailing and recording every breath you take within a single minute. It’s always 17. Sleep occupies about one-third of a person’s life, a significant portion of time that, in Dottore's mind, could be devoted to something useful. Something productive, instead of wasting it frolicking in dreams that neither matter nor will change anything. Yet, even he can’t deny that, occasionally, a break from reality can serve as a fragile bandage over a wound that refuses to heal. A fleeting comfort in an otherwise relentless existence.  

It’s as awkward as it is unnatural. Despite his title as "The Doctor", his hands weren’t designed for gentle touches of flesh and bone. Yet he tries. His fingers twitch involuntarily as he tilts your body to the side, just enough for him to slide in beside you. Carefully, he rests your body against his shoulder. He expects you to jolt awake, his shoulder is bony and hardly a suitable place to rest your head, even when compared to the flaky cushion of the office chair you’ve somehow grown fond of. But you don’t. Of course, you don’t. You simply lay there, your head nestled against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No protests, no shifting away, just stillness. The transfer of heat begins, as described by the laws of thermodynamics. Hotter, faster-moving molecules collide with cooler, slower ones, transferring energy in a quiet exchange. No fireworks, no blaring alarms, just the science of touch, as mundane and profound as ever. Zandik dares to lower his chin, letting it rest lightly against your head. His mask doesn’t obscure the quiet moment, though he can feel the unnatural curve of his lips twitching upward ever so slightly. Down here, in the deepest layers of the lab, not even the howling winds of Tsaritsa’s snowstorm can reach. It’s eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of your breathing. For a moment, he wonders what it would be like if you woke up now. If your half-lidded eyes would squint at him in confusion, or if you’d simply close them again, surrendering to the haze of sleep. But you don’t stir. Instead, he lets himself linger, suspended between an unusual warmth and the cold detachment of his own thoughts

"Breaks" are not something you can indulge in down in the labs. The closest the staff ever got was when one of the Harbingers passed away, and even then, it lasted only half a day before they were right back to work. Still, if you ask nicely, Dottore will nod toward an empty seat, silently giving you permission to make yourself comfortable. You take the opportunity to describe the dreams you’ve had while Dottore tinkers away in the background. You talk about a train whose tracks stretch far into the stars, far beyond the snow-obscured sky you glimpse through the scarce, frosted windows scattered about the lab. Sometimes, you dream of a whimsical city filled with cute shops and tiny bunny-like robots waddling through fissures in space. You’re certain he isn’t really paying attention, his hands busy with instruments, and his focus locked on his latest project. Sometimes, you suspect he forgets you’re even in the room despite your rambling. A small part of you wants to stamp your feet and pout like a child. After all, you’re only awake for a few fleeting hours each week, and even then, all he can think about is his experiments. His endless, obsessive tinkering. The man’s only "hobby" is experimentation, and you wonder if he’s even capable of entertaining anything else. At least Omega and Beta would give you some attention. Omega might tell you to be quiet with that dismissive tone of his, while Beta would enthusiastically scribble down every word you say, his excitement unnerving yet oddly gratifying. Still… your gaze drifts toward Zandik’s back as he works, the muscles beneath his coat shifting subtly with each precise movement. You pull your knees up against your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you rest your cheek against your folded arms. For a moment, you simply watch him in silence, the quiet hum of the lab filling the space between you. Eventually, your eyes grow heavy, and you let them slip shut. A faint smile tugs at your lips as you wonder where your dreams will take you this time. You wonder if Zandik would come with you.

On the rare occasion that Dottore chooses to sleep of his own will, most likely due to substances that induce drowsiness and force his body into a state of rest, it’s always a remarkably uneventful night. He doesn’t dream anymore, nor does he wish to. Dreams, like the past, serve no purpose to him now. On certain days, if he concentrates hard enough, he can faintly discern whispers from the other segments he's created. However, they are nothing more than distractions, a cacophony that only aggravates his already meticulous mind. When he wakes, it’s as though he hasn’t truly slept at all. His eyelids parted smoothly, his pupils sharp and alert as if no time had passed. Yet there is an unusual sensation, warmth. Dottore does not run warm, and the lab, built for functionality rather than comfort, certainly doesn’t harbor it either. He turns his head, curiosity fleeting, and finds you huddled against his side. Your arms are wrapped around his waist in a loose embrace, and your face is pressed against his chest, seeking solace in his stillness. The white coat with its black feathered collar, the one you wear more often than he does, is draped across your body, serving as a makeshift blanket. His hands remain clasped on his stomach, and he realizes with mild irritation that he can’t move without risking the possibility of waking you. For a moment, he lingers. The seconds on, and his mind races ahead to the tasks awaiting him. The pursuit of progress waits for no one, not even himself. Every moment spent lying in this bed feels like a year’s worth of lost discovery. 

With calculated precision, he shifts. His movements are methodical, almost robotic, as he carefully bundles you in the coat, ensuring the hood doesn’t cover your face and obstruct your breathing. In a single fluid motion, he lifts you into his arms as he rises from the bed. He spares a brief glance at your sleeping form, red eyes devoid of emotion. Your breathing is steady at 17 breaths per minute—a rhythm he has memorized and measured countless times before. Still as serene as ever. But then, for just the faintest of moments, his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly, before he turns his attention back to the work that never ceases to call for him. What a peaceful way to escape the world, the thought as cold and clinical as his expression.

---

Hi, thank you for reading! I'll reblog this with further writer notes but I wanted to include the research bits in order of appearance. I can't guarantee the full accuracy but I hope I didn't get anything wrong.

Chrysanthemum & Lily

In many Asian cultures, especially in China and Japan, chrysanthemums are symbolic of death and mourning. In China, the flower is closely linked to the Day of the Dead, and in Japan, it is used in funeral rites. While in some contexts chrysanthemums can symbolize longevity or fidelity, their association with death makes them unlucky in certain circumstances, especially when given as gifts or during celebrations.

Lilies, especially white lilies, are often associated with death and mourning, particularly in Christian symbolism, where they are linked to funerals and burials. While lilies also symbolize purity and rebirth in other contexts, their frequent appearance in funeral arrangements.

Head-Down Position

The sleep position reader takes is a parody of the Head-Down position of babies in their third trimester. The head-down position (cephalic presentation) is the most common and ideal position for birth, where the baby’s head is facing downward, towards the birth canal. This allows the baby to navigate the birth process more easily.

Dancing Plague

Also called the Dancing Mania, this refers to a series of events in the 16th century where groups of people, primarily in Europe, suddenly and uncontrollably began dancing for extended periods, sometimes for days or weeks, often to the point of exhaustion, injury, or even death. The most infamous and well-documented outbreak of the Dancing Plague occurred in 1518 in Strasbourg, then part of the Holy Roman Empire (modern-day France).

Algorithm of Semi-Intransient Matrix of Overseer Network

The robot Pantalone sees is the early concept art for ^ but also known as the "Tomb Guard of the Desert King.".

17

The number 17 is considered unlucky in Italy because of its association with the Latin word for 17, which is "XVII". Rearranging these Roman numerals gives the word "VIXI", which means "I have lived" or "I am dead" in Latin. This gives the number an ominous connotation, as it can be seen as a symbol of death or misfortune.

Honkai Star Rail & Zenless Zone Zero

Yes, reader was describing these two games as their dreams lol.

[sweetkpopmusings]

miserable (you & me) | s. changbin <3

a/n: i currently have a long weekend thanks to the thanksgiving holiday, so i'm in a bit of a writing frenzy. since i just posted some ateez fluff, i figured i should give into the stray kids angst demon again >:^) please enjoy a moment with changbin <3 pics not mine~

content: angst, happy ending | wc: 1.4k | warnings: none really! | pairing: changbin x gn!reader | requests:open

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

어떻게든 같이 걸어가려, I feel so tired but I can't give you up, my babe / “somehow try to walk with you / i feel so tired but i can’t give you up my babe”

changbin stared at some indiscernible object in the distance–or, rather, the direction opposite you–biding time until he absolutely had to respond to the information you just shared. sure, he was happy for you, but he couldn’t ignore the burning in the back of his throat as he tried to say encouraging words. the inner conflict was eating him alive, yet he felt he had no other choice than to be here and listen, like any good friend would. 

it wasn’t the first time he had been in this position. he ended up here, again and again, because he didn’t know how to get out of it. behind every i’m rooting for you and they’d be crazy not to say “yes” was an i can’t get you out of my head, you know? every time i look at you, i feel my whole self coming undone, only being put back together when you look at me begging to be said. but he couldn’t. changbin wished he could. he practically pleaded with himself each time he saw you to finally say something. changbin pretended it wasn’t his fear of you rejecting him that held him back. he swore that once he had figured out the right words, he would find the right moment, and then, once everything fell into place, he would bare his soul to you. changbin convinced himself he wasn’t a coward by reminding himself that someone as perfect as you deserved the perfect confession. even if it meant he spent years hiding and hurting. 

“changbin? did i lose you there?” the corners of your mouth upturned as you gently and playfully waved your hand in front of his face.

instinctively he smiled back, laughing a little despite the growing pang in his chest, “no, no, i’m right here.”

“good! because i haven’t gotten to the best part of the story yet,” you grinned before continuing to tell changbin all about the cute interaction shared between you and the coworker you were crushing on.

he couldn’t believe the beaming look in your eyes could hurt him so much. jealousy would do that though: make something so beautiful of yours hurt because he wasn’t the one igniting that beauty. that wouldn’t stop him from relishing in it though. your energy, your presence, it was always a gift, even if it broke his heart.

“so that’s when i figured, what the hell? i asked them out right then and there. they got flustered–it was so cute–and then they said ‘yes!’ we’re going out this saturday. can you help me pick out my outfit?”

changbin, who always turned to putty when he saw your puppy-dog eyes, let out a breathy laugh, “yeah, sure, i can help pick out the outfit that will get them to fall in love with you, just so they can break your heart in a few months like everyone else.”

changbin’s face filled with shock and regret before you could finish processing his words. it hurt you, but, judging by the slump in changbin’s shoulders, what he said hurt him even more.

“i’m so sorry for snapping, y/n, i–”

“no, it’s fine. i talk about them too much. i’m sure you’re tired of hearing me ramble on about all my crushes, especially when my dating life is so unlucky,” you forced a smile, aware that changbin saw right through you, as he always did, “i should probably go, so you don’t have to suffer through my rambling any longer.”

the way changbin looked at you kept you frozen in place. you wanted to turn and walk away before tears slipped down your cheeks, or, worse, before either of you said something that would hurt the other. but the way changbin watched you, the way his breath staggered, the way his eyes revealed he had no intention of every looking away from you…it all kept your feet firmly planted on the ground. 

changbin, knees weak and trembling, felt adrenaline coursing through his body. he stood in front of you, hands in his pockets, unsure if this was the moment to finally reach out to you. when he saw you break your gaze away from him to glance toward your route home, he knew, deep down, that it was now or never. he may have already ruined things by snapping. he figured it was better to ruin your friendship by showing you how much you were loved, rather than leaving you hurt with harsh words.

“y/n,” changbin took a deep breath when your eyes once again locked with his, “that was rude, and i hope you know that i never get annoyed by your rambling. i could hear you talk forever, even if it’s about someone you like, as long as that someone makes you happy. i just…it can be hard for me sometimes because…well…i like you. i have liked you for so long, but the timing never feels right, and everyone else seems to have the courage i don’t because you keep ending up with other people. if you’re happy, i’m happy. i guess i just can’t hide it anymore. i like you. i always will.”

changbin paused, eyes brimming with tears, and he mustered up a smile so you didn’t feel forced to comfort him, “i know you like them, your coworker. if your feelings for me aren’t the same, that’s fine. or, i mean, i at least can live with it, as long as you’re still my friend. i can’t give you up. if you need time away from me because of this, i understand. i hope this hasn’t made things too weird. i hope, more than anything, that we can still be friends. a life without you just doesn’t feel like the right life for me.”

you bit your lip, keeping yourself quiet until changbin finished. it was only fair to let him ramble after you had been talking his ear off all night. then, once you were sure he had said everything he meant to, you smiled. changbin, despite himself, let hope bloom in his chest when he saw the smile grow on your face.

“changbin,” you shook your head, laughing quietly in disbelief, “why didn’t you say something sooner? i like you more than everyone else.”

changbin’s eyes got so big you couldn’t do anything other than giggle. a few words from you, and he looked like he was over the moon.

“you…like me?”

“of course, changbin. are you free saturday? i just have to cancel some plans, but then i’m all yours.”i’m all yours turned changbin’s chest into a fireworks show, so, rather than answering you, he broke into a fit of giggles and wrapped you into his arms. he was, always and forever, all yours. he did not need any courage to tell you that, over and over and over again.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[gremlinmodetweeker]

I don't know if you're taking request right now, so please excuse me if this is bad timing. The way you right Simon is so, so, so, well. Your Ghost Icks and that other one-shot of him buying a snake was chefs kiss. You capture him unlike the other writers here. My request is about relationships, how would a first kiss between Ghost and the reader would be? It can be in any scenario really. Like a fifth or sixth date (if they go on one). I apologize if this ask is not of your time.

Okay so I'm so so sorry for this taking so much time, but I think this little ficlet took a bit longer to put together than I expected. Sometimes I get a little mental block and for some reason I just kept getting stuck! However, I figured that this might be a good little story to work with, so enjoy this little drabble I wrote!

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Why aren’t you inside?”

Your boyfriend shifted side to side as he tried to think of a reasonable answer. Anything would be ncier than the truth. Anything would be easier, but how could he tell you?

“I just like lookin’ at the stars,” Simon whispered as you stepped out to stand on the balcony with him.

“Didn’t take you for much of an astronomer,” you muttered as you carefully stood by his side.

“I’m not,” he chuffed.

You gave him a tight smile, “I know.”

Simon’s eyes crawled over your form before darting back to the warm light coming from indoors. A peel of laughter fluttered against the glass door, muffled by snow outside.

“You should go back in,” Simon said quietly.

“But I want to spend time with my boyfriend,” you said back, “that’s not a crime, is it?”

Simon shook his head silently.

You smiled and carefully leaned against the freezing metal railing, careful to not let the snow soak into your clothes.

“You know,” you started quietly, “you don’t have to pretend to be happy for me.”

Simon scowled, “I’m not pretending anything.”

You frowned, “Si, I’m not mad. It’s okay to not be okay.”

Simon rolled his eyes, “You’re going and giving me the therapy talk again?”

You huffed.

“I’m not giving you the ‘therapy talk’,” you looked out to the cold streets below, “I’m worried about you.”

“That’s a first,” Simon sniffed.

“I always care about you,” you retorted.

“You do,” Simon acquiesced, “not everybody else.”

“But what about all your squadmates? They really seem to like you,” you offered as you held out a hand for his.

Simon looked at your hand and glanced away, “I guess. But I don’t have much else. Not like you.”

You let your hand drop back to your side, “Is that what this is about?”

Simon hung his head down to his chest.

“They care about you too,” you offered, “just because they’re my family it doesn’t mean they don’t care about you too.”

“Seeing them all so happy…” Simon shook his head, “it’s different.”

“Different than your home?” you offered.

“Very,” Simon agreed.

A siren screamed by in the distance as a crowd of college students laughed below you. The warm city lights glowed like bright stars running along the streets, twinkling in the night with a friendly wink. Down the road you could see the traffic lights changing to red.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.

“Always,” Simon admitted.

You watched a woman push her baby stroller through the snow below you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“You shouldn’t be sorry for being happy,” Simon grumbled.

“But what about-”

“Don’t care,” Simon grunted, “don’t be sorry for being happy.”

You nodded and crossed your arms over your chest.

You looked out over the skyline with a faint smile, “I know it’s hard, but it means a lot that you came over. I don’t know if I could do this on my own.”

Simon looked at you quizzically, “It looks like you’re enjoying yourself in there.”

“Well,” you shrugged, “every family has its problems, and we have ours. It’s sometimes hard listening to my uncle saying some things, and I hate seeing how my aunt treats my other uncle. It’s hard, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Me being here helps that how?” Simon asked.

“Well, you got me out here, right?” you chuckled and took reached out your hand again.

Simon looked down at your hand and smiled. He took it into his and squeezed it lightly, “I guess I did.”

“You’re not all bad, you know,” you kissed the back of his hand before letting your hands drop down together.

“I hope not,” Simon let out a long breath through his nose.

“You’re not,” you affirmed and stepped close to his side, “I promise.”

Simon looked out at the skyline before looking back down at you. He smiled and brushed your hair to the side of your ear.

“You’re too good for me,” he whispered.

“I’m only as good as you are,” you replied with a small smile.

Simon rested his forehead against yours, warming your face with his tired breath. You reached up to run your hand through the back of his short-cropped hair and sighed.

“If we’re only as good as each other, then maybe both of us are damned,” Simon said under his breath.

“Then let’s be damned together,” you reached up and tugged him close.

His lips were hard, cracked, chapped with age and cigarettes and pain. You took all of it into your heart as you kissed him back. He wove a hand behind the back of your head and held you close, almost as though he was afraid of what would happen if he let go. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-closed and tired.

“You okay now?” you asked.

“Better,” Simon gruffed, “but only just a bit.”

“Do you wanna go back in yet?” you asked.

Simon glanced behind him before shaking his head, “Give me another ten.”

You traced a line of muscle down his neck to below his coat.

You looked up at him hopefully, “Can I kiss you again?”

Simon nodded and leaned in close, “As much as you like.”

[dira333]

Pretty Woman Part 1/18 -

Izuku Midoriya x Reader

Summary: Izuku Midoriya is at the top of his career. He's the Number 1 Hero, he shares an agency with his best friend Shouto Todoroki and the war lies behind them. But he cannot fight the loneliness or the demons of the past. Could you be the one he needs in this fight for his life?

Full length: 57k, Chapters are at about 3k length

SFW, angst to fluff, Reader is Quirkless, Haikyuu Characters as side Characters.

-.- Part 1 - 2,7k -.-

It’s Friday night and Silence echoes through his apartment. 

Pictures flash soundlessly over his TV screen but he stopped caring after the News portion had wrapped up.

Izuku slowly pushes his empty plate away from him and pulls out his phone.

He checks his messages, ignores the masses of fanmail on his social media apps, and taps the unassuming blue square, chewing on his lips as the app loads.

Everything about HeroEsc looks professional and sophisticated. It eases his nerves a little bit as he swipes through the app. He answers a few questions, makes sure that his profile is set up correctly, dodges the premium payment plan, and suddenly finds himself face-to-face with hundreds of options.

His heart beats painfully in his chest as he scrolls down, trying not to look too closely at all those people. People that would happily accompany him to an event, pretend to be his friend. All of that for a little money.

Izuku swallows harshly against his growing unease and closes the app, putting his phone on the table.

He’d gone alone before. Had brought his mother to events when his friends and coworkers had brought their partners and spouses. No one would bat an eye if he came alone again.

And come to think of it, his mother wouldn’t mind pulling out her best dress to walk a red carpet again. 

But there’s something… Izuku shakes his head and picks up his phone again, clicking on the app before he can overthink this again.

This time he notices the filter. He taps it and snorts. He can sort possible Escorts by hair color, skin color, and even by type of Quirk.

He taps the last option, his usual interest in the subject tickled. If anyone asked, Izuku could claim he’d gotten to know them because of their quirk. Everyone and their mother knows he’s a bit of a Nerd when it comes to Quirks.

Another window pops up, and his heart squeezes uncomfortably when he reads the question: “Do you want to include (1) Quirkless Escort? Yes. No.”

His finger punches the Yes before he can think about it and a face card is added to the roster. Izuku taps it, an almost electric current running through him as he waits for the picture to load.

When it does, his breath hitches in his throat. 

Maybe it’s the loneliness of his apartment, the dread that had filled his head for days, or something else entirely, but he knows exactly what looks back at him as if someone had put his own eyes into a stranger's face. 

There’s sadness, but also compassion. The eyes of someone who has seen darkness and still knows to look toward the light.

His hands move on their own accord now, only halting when his phone chimes and a little window pops up. 

“Thank you for booking me.” It says.

Izuku chokes, realizing what he has done. 

But, as he stares down at that face, he can’t bring himself to reverse it.

x

Your phone chimes on the way back from the laundromat.

You pick up speed, greeting little Takanobu who’s still out playing. His hair has started turning white the last few days, telling all of you that he’s slowly growing into his quirk.

The door jams like it always does and you put your laundry basket down to lift the door up a little, wiggle the handle to the right and pull to the left to release it, let it swing open with the creaking you’ve grown used to.

“I’m home.” You announce to the little ZZ Plant on your bookshelf and place your laundry basket on the floor before pulling out your phone.

With a gasp, you drop it into the pile of clean clothes and stare down at its scratched-up back for a full minute before you dare to pick it up again.

The alert hasn’t changed. 

For the first time since you’ve signed up for HeroEsc you’ve been booked.

Your stomach is a fluttery mess, like a beehive in the middle of spring. You swallow around the tightness in your throat as you click into the app only to drop your phone again when you read the details.

You’ve been booked for tonight?!

It’s Friday Night, you’re showing the clear signs of wear and tear a full workweek has brought on you and you’re supposed to be ready in an hour?

Your eyes move over your cramped apartment. The kitchen table that’s loaded with books, the bookshelf that contains mostly memorabilia, and the one plant you can’t seem to kill. The giant bed that had been in here when you moved and the tiny kitchenette that’s filled with dirty dishes from your recent dinner. Everything is still the way you left it.

The world might have started turning in a different direction but you’re still the same person.

You take a deep breath and pick up your phone again and look for the chat option that was mentioned when you first signed up for this service.

“Thank you for booking me for tonight. What kind of event do I have to prepare myself for? Will you pick me up or shall I meet you somewhere?”

You drop your phone on top of “Quirk or No Quirk - how to raise your child” on the kitchen table and start putting your clothes away in the small drawer that’s always overstuffed, pulling out clothing options as you go.

The dark green dress you wore to a coworker's wedding this spring for a fancy event.

Your cutest jeans and the emerald turtleneck that you fell in love with last fall if it’s more casual. Or should you wear a lighter top instead and opt for a few layers to take off if needed?

Your phone chimes again and you stumble back to the table.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I got the time wrong. There’s a Fundraiser tomorrow night that I meant to take you. If you’re free then.”

A Fundraiser? You blinked at the word, saliva pooling in your mouth at the thought of it. You? At a Fundraiser?

“I’ve never done this before.” His next text reads and your heart thrumms in sympathy. He sounds nice. And he’s just as inexperienced with this as you are, it seems.

“Neither have I.” You type back and, overcome with a boldness you don’t feel often, you type on. “Do you still want to use tonight? To get to know each other a little bit before tomorrow?”

“What do you have in mind?” He writes back and you still. 

With your heart beating in your throat you tap his contact and wait for it to load. He doesn’t have a picture, just his name.

Izuku Midoriya. The name sounds familiar but you can’t place it right away. He’s not a celebrity that’s known by name, probably. Maybe a Hero. Those usually go by their hero names but if he’s never done this before…

“There’s a Diner not far from me. It’s nice and private there. We can meet up and talk about tomorrow.”

You text him the address before you can back out of it.

“I’ll be wearing green. So you know who I am.”

Only after you’ve hit send you realize that he has your picture. 

He responds with a smiley face. 

“I’ll be wearing green too. Does the time work for you?”

You agree quickly before you turn back toward your choice of clothes. The jeans and turtleneck will be fine, you suppose and pull out the tiny purse you reserve for dates and important occasions. It’s barely big enough to fit your phone and some money but you’ve always thought you looked sophisticated wearing it.

Your eyes move over to the well worn handbag in the corner, the little All Might Keychan dangling off one end. You might be imagining it, but it looks like All Might is smiling up at you, encouraging you to do your best.

“Fine.” You tell him. “I’ll take you.”

x

Izuku is early. 

He’s walked around the block three times by now and still has plenty of time to walk in.

He doesn’t want to be late by any means, but he doesn’t want to walk in too early and look like a creep with no social life. Which he is, in a way. 

But he doesn’t want his date to know that.

He still isn’t sure if your idea of wearing green had been a nod to his hero identity or just a coincidence, but he’d debated for at least ten minutes if he should bring merch or if that would be creepy.

Exactly three minutes before their scheduled time he walks up to the Diner, wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers, and grabs the door, only to stop when he hears the sound of footsteps. Izuku turns a little, eyes easily finding the person jogging down the street.

The street lamps flicker to life right that moment, bathing the street in a soft golden light. It’s a woman, Izuku realizes, dark green jacket unzipped and hanging half off her right shoulder as she slows down her steps, walking the last few steps as she’s trying to catch her breath.

He’s got half a mind to realize that he must look a little weird himself, standing there, hand glued to the door, but he can’t pull his eyes away.

Not from the rapid rise of her chest, the wispyness of her hair, mussed through by both the wind and the exercise. She stops, sighs, and takes a deep breath, swinging her heavy bag over to her other shoulder. It jingles with the motion and Izuku’s experienced eyes catch onto the well-known smile. A little All Might is grinning at him from the strap of her bag, lighting a fire of comfort in his chest.

“Oh.” He jolts when he hears a breathy voice, blinks back up to a face that looks familiar up close.

“I didn’t-” He rushes. “I was just going in, when… It’s a coincidence.”

“I didn’t want to be late.” You stumble over your words as well. “I… Nice to meet you…” 

You stretch out your hand and he grabs it, holds it for an embarrassingly long moment before he realizes he’s supposed to shake it. 

“I’m Izuku.” He shakes your hand, too aware of how small it is compared to his own. “Nice to meet you.”

“Y/N.” You smile back. “Let’s go inside?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He pulls the door open, glad no one had tried to come and go while he stood there frozen like Shouto had used him for practice. “After you.”

x

The Diner is nice, decked out in a Western style that would be too American if not for the All Might Decoration and memorabilia that is present in every inch of the restaurant.

“They have a fantastic All Might Menu.” You claim as you slide into one of the more private booths at the back. “But it’s a massive portion. You need to be hungry for it.”

“Oh.” He can’t help that he sounds a little disappointed. “I already ate, but-”

“The Milkshakes are great too.” You reassure him. “I always take the Deku one.”

“The D-Deku?” He’s stuttering, can’t help it. He’s never been good at flirting if that’s what you’re doing.

“It’s peppermint flavored and green.” You explain a little shy, clearly taken aback by his reaction. “It’s kinda my favorite color but if you want me to wear something resembling you tomorrow, that’s no problem at all.” 

Izuku blinks at you, mind a little slow at processing your words.

“Do you…” He drops his voice a little lower. “Do you not know who I am?”

You blink back at him, all surprise and a little confusion but before you can react, a server steps up to your table.

“Hello there, hi Y/N.” He grins knowingly. “Another Deku Milkshake?” 

“We’ll have the Menu this time, Futakuchi-kun.” You stutter nervously. 

“Sure, sure.” Futakuchi smiles down at you and turns to Izuku, doing a poorly hidden double-take at his sight. “Just a minute.” He chokes out, rushing back to the counter to retrieve the menus, coming back before either of you can speak again.

“Here.” He wipes the clean table again, grinning a little too wide for comfort. “I can recommend the All Might Menu if you’re hungry. The Chargebolt Milkshake is our Bestseller.”

“Thank you.” Izuku opens the menu, astonished by the amount of All Might pictures they were able to cram into the little space around the menu items.

He can feel you staring at him, but he busies himself with choosing his Milkshake, suddenly shy. You didn’t know who he was when you accepted, didn’t know who he was when you offered to wear green. You didn’t even know who he was when you ran here, All Might Keychan dangling from your bag.

“I’ll take the Dynamight Milkshake.” He finally decides when his heart beats a little more normal, closing his menu. Your eyes lock onto his immediately.

“You’ll be okay with me taking the Deku one?” You ask, voice soft and careful.

“If you let me try a sip?” He tries to joke but feels blood rushing to his cheeks at the same time. You seem flustered as well, picking at the cover of your menu as you wait for Futakuchi to come back.

“I…” You start, only to be interrupted by Futakuchi.

“Made your pick?” He asks, putting a little plate with two steaming Chocolate Chip Cookies on the table. 

“Greetings from the Kitchen. Our little Y/N is quite the Celebrity here, Mr. Midoriya.” Futakuchi teases you good-naturedly before pulling out pen and paper. 

“He’s very fond of you.” Izuku notes when Futakuchi leaves them again and you shrug, head drawn into your shoulders.

“We grew up together, kind of. My grandma used to work here. I did all my homework in this booth. Futakuchi grew up down the street, he pulled my hair all the time.”

Silence falls between you at your admission, but it’s not awkward, just filled with patience.

Eventually, you unfurl yourself and lock eyes with him again.

“So… You’re Deku, right?”

“Right.” He nods. “When did you figure it out?”

“Embarrassingly late. I… There’s usually no mention of your real names, just your hero names.”

“Yeah, I guess I never thought about it that way. You’re not a hero fan?”

“I don’t know?” You phrase it like a question. “I love All Might, but everyone does that, and I always buy a magazine when the new Hero Rankings are out, but I don’t have a TV and it’s hard to stay on top of the news when you have other stuff going on, you know?”

Your words send a well-known pain through his chest but he nods as if he knows.

You cock your head to the side and for a moment he fears you might have found him out but your question catches him off guard in a different way.

“Would it make you feel better if I said you were my favorite hero? After All Might, I mean?”

Izuku can feel himself flush up to his eyebrows at your words and pulls the cookies closer to himself to have something to distract him with, breaking apart the still-hot treat to fling a piece into his mouth.

It burns his tongue but the pain is just what he needs to calm his heart.

“You said you’ve never done this before.” He recalls, which in turn seems to make you flustered. He pushes the cookies in your direction and you grasp them quickly.

“I… I signed on about a year ago.” You admit, your voice high with emotion. “They were very nice in explaining everything. But I haven’t… Well, I… You’re the first one to book me.” 

You smile, clearly embarrassed to have to admit this.

“But…” You rush to add. “There are so many other entries and only so many Celebrities who use it, I can’t expect to be picked a lot.”

Izuku knows that’s not the reason you haven’t been picked yet. Well, yes, there are many other entries, but he’s got a feeling that it’s not so much the Looks but the Quirks that are the deciding factor in this game. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you that though.

“I guess, yeah. I almost didn’t find you.”

“But you did.” You sound pleased. “And now here we are, having a Milkshake together.”

He laughs. “That we are.”

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[lilithofthevalley97]

Dreaming and im thinking of you.

summary: Michael wakes up from a pleasant dream and just has to do something about it.

Warning: male masturbation, inappropriate thoughts, Michael Gavey being horny

a/n: just a short little blurb that i hope you enjoy, comments are much appreciated, please let me know your thoughts AND let me know if there’s anything else you would like for me to write, i’m thinking of making this a series.

it is late at night, he had just woken up from a pleasant dream, a dream of him in between the legs of the woman he adores, thrusting in and out of her, her moans a delicious sound to his ears, he touches her skin, soft and pliable to his touch.

He moans her name as she opens her eyes to look at him, the sensation from his cock being trapped in her heat, the soft touch of his skin against her own, being pressed chest to chest, having her underneath him and the way her lips part to say his name, it’s all too much for him, he’s about to release himself inside of her, but before he can, he wakes up.

He looks at his side to find it empty, he knew it would be but in his sex hazy mind it didn’t register, he’s aching for a release, he finds himself being constricted from the waist down, with a sigh he lowers his underwear just enough to let himself free, he spits in his hand and slowly starts stroking himself, he tries to remember the dream, how soft she felt, his hands caressing, groping, worshipping her body, but it’s all fading too fast, so he goes for the next best thing. His memories.

He remembers her laugh and the times he had been responsible for it, her scent, how their hand would brush up against one another and how he wished to never wash it afterwards. Her hair. He bets it’s soft just like the rest of her, and he wishes there was an excuse he could use to pass his fingers through them. And from the brief moments they’ve hugged he could smell the lavender shampoo she used, he even bought a lavender spray to mist it on his pillows before he went to sleep with the pretence that it would help him sleep better but in reality he just wanted to pretend it was her hair he was smelling before he closed his eyes to dream of her.

He often did. But his dreams were rarely as lewd as this one, he brings his face closer to the pillows, his hips bucking against his hand, a broken, whiny moan left his lips, he thinks about her face, her big brown eyes and how pretty they would look looking up at him while she was on her knees, then about her lips, so full and rosy, he would die for a kiss from her. He has felt her lips on his cheek before but he wishes for more, he wants them on his, to savour them, he wouldn’t know the first thing about kissing someone but he was eager to find out if it was from her.

He then goes to think about her body, her tits and how they would look like bare, so soft, full and round, how heavy they would feel on his hands, he wants to bite them, kiss them, lick them, suck on them, he daydreams about them when he sees her in a low cut top or dress and how they move to her every breath, if he could just nuzzle himself there or lay his heavy head filled with thoughts of her on them to then fall asleep. God he’s getting closer, his chest heaves, his member throbbing, hot and angry red leaking tip, he just knows she would take such good care of him seeing him in this state, sweaty, thrashing his legs around, arching his back with the only sound leaving his mouth being her name.

He continues with his fantasies, he thinks of her stomach and how he would plant kisses there to then reach one of his favourite places. In between her legs. In reality he wouldn’t have a clue what to do if he actually had her on his bed spread out in front of him but he had watched enough porn to get an idea. He would take his time admiring her, glistening, hot to the touch and pulsing, but he wouldn’t go straight in, he would kiss her thighs, biting and sucking, and then he would lick a stripe from her entrance to her clit, the minute her essence makes contact with his eager tongue he would moan, that much he knows, her sweetness like no other. Michael had fantasised about it a million times. And knew that what he lacked in experience he would compensate in enthusiasm, and still despite not being with a woman before he also knew that no other could compare to her.

She wasn’t even his, but she had him, body, mind and soul, he would do anything she ever asked, he was in a spell he was sure not even she was aware.

He starts stroking faster at the thought of him eating her out, he wanted to drown himself on her, he’s pathetic really, he’s certain that if he could touch her like he wanted he would cum untouched and what an embarrassment it would be to cum in his pants like a horny teenager in front of the woman he loves the most, he wouldn’t even last five minutes inside her, her walls too wet, tight and warm for a man that has only had his hand.

He’s close, so close his thrust become erratic, practically humping his hand, he comes with her name on his lips, his seed spilling all over his thighs, hand and stomach, how he wished she was there to help him clean off.

But alas his dream would have to do.