#far future fantasy does something to me

[gay-dorito-dust]

I can't stop thinking about the batboys in a relationship and their significant other doing that trend where you call your boyfriend your husband. Like just randomly mid conversation they'd be like "my husband". I wonder how the batboys would feel about that.

I’m currently in mourning of my snakebites (they might be healed up after I took them out for one fucking day, sounds dramatic I know but I genuinely can’t get them back in) so rip to them I guess haha(laughing but crying real tears 🥲)

Dick

He acts like he knew you’d would call him husband one day but on the inside he was trying not to explode with how badly that word affected him.

Husband.

He didn’t think he would fit the mould for a perfect husband, yeah sure he’s great in many aspects when it comes down to it, but Dick still has a fear that he still didn’t measure up and that he’d end up letting you down sooner or later.

Yet hearing you call him your husband with confidence and pride only had him feeling as though he was falling for you all over again as his vision seemly became brighter, Gotham’s dark and miserable aesthetic had become a little more tolerable for Dick.

Within a blink of an eye he’s holding your face, his beautiful blue eyes shimmering like gemstones, and before you could say anything your face was being bombarded with rapid fire kisses and sweet nothings to accompany them.

‘You want to marry me? Awww you’re so definitely in love with me!’ - Dick would say teasingly.

‘Dick we’ve been dating for a while now-‘

‘Shhhh, let’s enjoy this moment sweetheart.’ Dick would cut you off as he holds you closer to his chest, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead as he felt a warm and welcoming feeling within his chest as he could only imagine the day where you got to obviously call each other mrs/mr Grayson or spouse.

It made dick impatient for the future, but he knew he couldn’t rush perfection.

Jason

Smug prick.

That’s all I’m going to say is that the moment you call him your husband, he’s got a smirk upon his face but his eyes are soft and filled with unspoken love and affection.

He genuinely didn’t think he’d ever get to a point where he would have someone to call him own, to call his home and have something that was his and wouldn’t run away when he comes back from patrol bloody and bruised.

He didn’t think a domestic life was for him but with you, there wasn’t a day that went by where you weren’t doing something domestic like folding clothes, or doing the dishes together; it was moments where Jason is proven wrong that makes him feel more compelled to think towards the future, or more specifically a future with you where he’d one day stop being a vigilante for good and settle down.

So hearing you call him your husband has this man on cloud nine and a hell of a lot happier then he’s ever been in his entire life. Expect to be hugged tightly from behind with his faces buried deep into your neck as he just breaths you in and reminds himself that this was all real, that this wasn’t some fantasy dream he’ll wake up from; Jason will be reminded that this is his life and it’s a hell of a lot better with you in it that was for certain.

Damian

Doesn’t outwardly show his reaction but his actions afterwards will definitely show what really thinks.

He’s doing more domestic tasks with and for you without hesitation, treating you to lovely outings with Titus and Ace within the park where he’s holding you from behind and smiling at you when your eyes were occupied elsewhere.

With Damian he doesn’t verbally say he how he felt about being called your husband, he just acts like he is your husband by spoiling you rotten with gifts and quality time with him, for he soon came to realise that his time with you was few and far between for his own liking.

He does everything he can in his power to prove that he would be a reliable husband one day, he even does chores that you put on yourself in hopes that eases the long, long list of things to do you’ve already given yourself. He doesn’t like it when you’re stressed and can’t do everything within an unrealistic timeframe that you’ve set for yourself.

However there are still some things that Damian keeps up his sleeves as he’s not found of showing all of his little tricks when there’s room for him to surprise you later on down the line. He acts like your husband because he will become your husband in the distant future, one that’ll be safer than the times you are both were living in now; he just won’t tell you but he will give you hints in hopes you’d able to see them beforehand.

Tim

He stops.

Literally.

Like he has completely stopped what he’s doing and tries to piece together whether or not he did in fact heard what you had just said.

So he waits for you in hopes that you’d say it again and when you do, he’s beaming, he’s smiling as wide as he possibly can.

So once he’s done being frozen to the spot, acting as though he’s just completely shut down from the inside, his laptop would have multiple tabs open with stuff such as;

‘How to be a good husband (with pictures)’

‘Be a better husband by avoiding these 21 common mistakes.’

‘15 small ways to be a better husband, from a marriage therapist.’

And ‘25 qualities of a good husband’

He wasn’t playing when it comes to preparing in being a husband that you can be proud of and gush about to your friends, not only that but also becoming that cliche couple that might as well still be in their honeymoon phase. He just wants to be ready and prepared when the day does become reality and he might as well have folders upon folders of advice that he had stored away for future reference.

It didn’t matter whether or not you meant it when you called him your husband because Tim was more than ready to learn how to be one for the distant future, for being married to you would be a daydream for sweet Tim and he wanted your marriage to be a long and happy one.

[i9chicago]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Sweet loving you.

pairing — spencer reid x professor! fem! reader.

genre — smut (18+ so minors dni)

summary — you think you despise dr. spencer reid with all your bones, you think he's too good and too accomplished at what he does, and you think he despises you too. till you discover his particular liking for you that night when he saw you in a red dress.

word count — 9k (i'm so sorry)

warnings — oral (f receiving) fingering, soft dom! spencer cuz it's rotting my brain cells. masturbation. semi-public sex. lots of kissing. reader is a neuroscience professor.

a/n — this is my first fic here so be nice or i'll cry. english is not my first language so forgive me for any grammar mistakes. like for part 2 (please) ehh, i hate the ending. that's it. hope at least you enjoy it! <3

Red was never a color linked to joy. For some, it was the antithesis of calm—an unruly hue brimming with everything those fond of gentler tones tended to avoid: anger, desire, unbridled passion. A color that rose along a scale of relentless intensity, evoking not warmth, but power.

That’s why you chose to wear a crimson dress fitted neatly across your back, for the event. It didn’t need to be overly elegant or striking— just enough to keep you from feeling underdressed. Just enough to give you the confidence to stand tall and lift your chin in a room full of professors and potential future colleagues, the ones you'd meet again in hallways and over hurried lunches. You loved teaching. And truthfully, you didn’t mind being surrounded by university students who emailed you at four in the morning with long-winded excuses dressed up in flowery language to explain why they missed class or hadn’t done the work. You bit your tongue and kept going. People in the field admired your approach to teaching and your background in neuroscience had taken you far—far enough to park your car outside a sleek hotel and walk through its doors to stand among the best. To make your position as a tenured professor feel less like a myth spun into fantasy in your own head—and more like the fact it was becoming.

It was meant to be a calm affair, or so claimed the invitation embossed in gold thread and impeccable calligraphy, which promised a welcoming evening for the newly appointed tenured professors. You were one of them, even though you'd only been teaching for a year. Your heart thudded in erratic rhythms and you clutched your small handbag so tightly your knuckles turned white, the click of your heels echoing across the ceramic-gray tiles. Tilted your head, curious, catching sight of a golden chandelier overhead, mirroring the three-dimensional designs painted into the ceiling. It was such a pivotal moment, and yet, in all the hours spent getting ready, your mind had spiraled through a thousand reasons for things to go wrong. You couldn’t help it. Your head was always turning against you like it took some kind of pleasure in watching you unravel into a mess of nerves and dread, about the room’s reactions, about your own autonomy. Maybe you’d spill wine on your dress. Maybe you’d choke on a piece of ice from a champagne flute. Maybe you'd talk too much and accidentally let slip something painfully personal. The other professors didn’t need to know that. They didn’t need to know anything about you. Still, when alcohol starts to feel like a second skin, you’d promised yourself you’d manage it, one drink every two hours. Enough to keep disaster at bay.

You greeted a few adjunct professors as they passed by, and the moment you stepped into the grand hall, your jaw nearly dropped. The entire place was blue. Neon lights laced the walls, and a young DJ—probably no older than twenty—was spinning electronic remixes of ‘80s hits. It was almost a joke. There were far too many people for this to be just faculty. You doubted it. The entire teaching department must’ve been here, something you hadn’t quite expected. You’d imagined a more traditional venue: jazz music, old money burning through the most expensive drinks at a quiet bar in the corner. Instead, the tables were dressed in white linen with centerpieces of soft blue and white flowers. And suddenly, you felt overwhelmed. You accepted the glass of champagne a waiter offered you, now, it felt less like a choice and more like a necessity. You didn’t see a single familiar face and with the sheer number of bodies crowding the space, heat began to wrap around your bones. Usually, you were good at socializing, at least good enough not to make a fool of yourself. Winning over professors — especially the ones in physics— was a simple task, and the unspoken rule from the arts department was clear: never, under any circumstances, cross them. So yes, faking camaraderie came naturally to you. And with a few drinks, the task became almost idyllic.

You approached a table and picked up a small peach pastry, the sweetness of the powdered sugar melting on your tongue as your eyes scanned the room, now with a faint smudge of red lipstick on the bite. Then, something shifted. You felt it a gaze on the back of your neck. You turned slowly, your breath catching just as your pulse began to quicken.

Spencer Reid. And he was looking at you.

The same who was too ‘good’ to consider a tenured position at the college. The genius. The chosen one. The prodigy. An FBI profiler whose dignity vanished from the young girls in his classes as soon as they saw him or attended his seminars purely to watch him talk and talk and spill random data that none of them really cared about. They just went to see him. And he didn't even notice. Or, if he did, he was perfectly good at turning a blind eye to it.

It made your blood crawl. Cause you spent months hearing praise behind your back about how all his degrees and accomplishments put him in an optimal position to walk the halls as if he were a member of royalty himself. Sometimes you would see him in the gardens talking to some students being so generous and so kind that you would inevitably roll your eyes at his perfect kindness that you wanted to avoid seeing him as soon as possible. Everyone talked about him and you could understand why: He was an excellent prototype of the good man wrapped in good faith. Occasionally, you would meet his gaze at teacher's meetings, passing a cup of coffee in the mornings of pure silent politeness because neither of you had ever conversed in sentences that veered beyond a harmless thank you and good morning. You offered him your best smiles as his fingers brushed yours as you held out the cardboard cup full of black coffee and he would stare longer at your lips before sliding his periphery into your hands and leaving, as if touching you made him burn, as if he ached for the involuntary touch of your skins. Your friends were aware of how much you didn't like at all everything that endorsed his presence, and they didn't understand. You had a stable job. And of almost the same vitality as his. They told you that your reasons for loathing him were ridiculous, childish and, for a moment, they said you just didn't like him because he incarnated in flesh and blood everything you were attracted to in a man. And you were perfect at dismissing that.

Because it was. And that's what you really fucking hated.

You were unlucky. That was it. As if there was some bizarre entity pre-existing that dragged your decisions into an eternal abyss and turned you into a mixture of bad experiences that only increased as the years went by. And Spencer, in theory, seemed to be too surreal. Sure, his proportions as a whole were appropriate. And you had no trouble figuring out why young girls sighed with their hand on their chin every time he opened his mouth. There was no name for what you felt for him. It was just... It was weird. Weird for you, even, because you were used to being around people like him. But never like him. No one was like him.

Maybe your friends were right in saying that your occasional disdain for Spencer was born solely out of a need for adrenaline that you simply stopped paying attention to him. When your eyes met his in the distance, in a crowd, he smiled at you.

Bastard.

He had no right. He had no right to smile warmly at you as he raised his hand slightly in greeting, which he then lowered because of how awkward and absurd it looked. Much less did he have it to look this well melted by a suit that seemed to be itching his skin. With the red tie and the white shirt stuck to his body. All your attempts to pretend to be indifferent when it came to him were more than unsuccessful, in fact, irrational was a better word to describe it. You did nothing more than answer his greeting with a rehearsed smile as you turned to the food table swallowing a couple of those peach snacks, which you simulated with another swig of champagne feeling how the taste of alcohol numbed the few senses you had left one hundred percent. You sighed, much to your dismay, the dress was starting to feel tighter and tighter around your waist and you felt a flash of wind caressing the bare skin of your back. And to think that Spencer was probably watching you sent a searing heat through all your extremities. You stood up on your back and walked to the other end, however, the glass goblet you held in your right hand had a small crack that dug into your palm making you gasp from the sting of the glass against your flesh. Blood, thick and metallic, gushed out in small gushes from the wound. You felt dizzy for a second. And you wanted to go straight to the nearest bathroom.

Spencer followed your figure gliding through the crowd. The music was loud and what he heard from some of the professors, even if he didn't like to admit it (they were a bit older and kind of jerks) he stopped listening to them the moment your eyes connected with his and just lost himself in how he felt his heart rate become erratic. Superficial. He didn't need the world to be quiet to hear his heart racing. And it wasn't in the ingestion of alcohol, so in his glass rested a simple apple cider that he drank with enthusiasm. It was in how you received his perception, he was used to reading between the lines. And he had spent a lot of time reading specifically how you responded to being in his presence. Always evasive. You pleaded silently. He was not indifferent to your avoidance and sometimes caught you looking at him when you thought he didn't notice. In some other context it would seem creepy and worthy of concern. But it was you. All he saw was you. He wanted to see why his limits seemed to be nonexistent when it came to you and everything that warranted your mere objectivity. He listened to you in your classes, giving extensive perorations on the theory of neuroplasticity, and your students raved about you.

There was something irrefutable in how you learned to avoid him with a grace that overwhelmed him. He wished the words you never pronounced could be a clear language. But no. You chose evasion, silence. An elusiveness so subtle that it only left room for curiosity, for the need to understand why you were doing it. As if everything between you was an unwritten dialogue that he couldn't complete.

He could hear the softness of your words as he rummaged deep into his memories, when you talked about the evaluative changes in neuroscience in front of a packed classroom, your voice flowed like a calm river but inside him everything was churning and he didn't even bother to look for its root. It didn't bother him, actually, he was fascinated by how you were able to captivate everyone, and, at the same time, keep him out of your reach.

It killed him. It killed him slowly and torturously how he begged you with the simplicity of his gestures and looks and you purely eluded him. But what killed him the most was that, despite being so close, it always seemed like it wasn't enough. That he never reached that last layer that protected you.

He couldn't help but feel like a doomed voyeur watching as that invisible barricade between you held firm. Talk to me. Look at me. Why not? How long will I endure? Every vestige of desire of his was mounting to catatonic levels.

A cold current was seeping deep into his skin, icing his fingers as he waited, patiently, for some movement, a sign from you.

But nothing.

Only the pleasure of your indifference, so bitter and bewitching, like a trap he didn't know how to escape from. And, damn it, he loved it.

The white walls in the bathroom loomed over you as you walked in hoping for an aid kit somewhere, you looked in the mirror for a moment, realizing how lousy the night was going and you were just getting there. It was supposed to be a good time to continue making friends and finally find more people to have lunch with at noon. You should have seen it coming. You thought for hours about whether it was a good idea to attend and your apartment, not far from the hotel, a few blocks from the venue, was a mess. Dresses strewn across the floor and your cat found the jumble of sleeping fabric in every corner of the house fascinating. The pain in your hand was getting more intense, too strong, unbearable. A burst of burning that intensified every second. You made a point of washing away the bright blood with the water and grimaced at the new coolness and stinging sensation of the cut.

But even the pain didn't lessen the fact that you were thinking about him. And that infuriated you. The gazes that lasted longer than usual, the gestures you avoided and those imperceptible moments charged with something much more substantial. What did you want to do with all of that? Nothing. You couldn't do anything. Spencer was in a completely foreign league to you and you had to respect that.

You didn't even want to imagine what would happen if people at the college found out. People talk, and they don't measure the magnitude of their words and all that a simple hallway rumor could trigger. Like teens. No one should be interested in what two professors were doing outside the institution. And besides, he wasn't even working full time. He was an agent. Even more reason why this growing, heated thing between you two was a flat out no way it was going to happen. It was undermining all your senses. All your good judgment diminishing it to nothing. No, it couldn't happen. The tension was limiting your core beliefs. And as you tried to maintain a control you knew you didn't have, the restlessness in your chest only grew.

As you did everything in you to heal the cut quickly, you heard the faint creak of the door. You raised your head and, in the reflection of the mirror you saw Spencer's figure bursting into the glare of the bathroom lights. You failed to keep calm. Because you had nothing left. Spencer briefly held the handle, his eyes sliding a quick glance between the mess in your hand and the confusion evident on your face, your cheeks flushed, your breathing still uncontrolled. And, without a word, he locked the door.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed in the air, amplifying the tension already vibrating in the space. His scent enveloped you, the warmth of his presence washed over you so tightly that the sting in your cut receded into the background. But for him it seemed otherwise. He stood in front of you so close you could feel his breath, a faint sigh that seemed to touch your skin, make the air thick, dense. He looked at you briefly, straight into your eyes and that's when you understood why you were avoiding him so much. It was him. His gaze. His warmth. Everything about him sucked you in, pulled you in and was all too evident. His intensity was like a force of gravity that drew you in hopelessly. No matter how much you dodged it, no matter how hard you tried to shield yourself from that connection, it was as if the very nature of the situation had determined that the distances between the two of you were simply not viable.

He looked at you as if asking for permission to heal your hand, and though he didn't say it out loud, he didn't need to. The question was in the solid silence between the two of you, in the way he watched you, so close that you could almost feel his thoughts without a single word needing to be uttered. That look, that little action.

You couldn't hide from him.

You, who had always maintained control, felt how he crumbled at the softness of his gesture, at the implicit trust he offered. At how his hands, veiny and warm, took yours with an unspoken hush. You were trapped in his closeness and in his palpable presence. And worst of all, you wanted to stay there, caught in the nervousness of his look, in the subtle touch of his fingers.

You decided to speak. Or else you couldn't stand it any longer. “I should put in a beef about the dangers of champagne glasses.” You said trying to sound normal, calm. But the tension in your voice was so intense that you ignored it, "It was broken, hmm, I guess it's no big deal. It's probably not even deep."

“You're bleeding out here,” he chuckles, and the sound of his laughter, light but kind of warm, sneaks through the cracks in your conscience. You feel his thumb caress the palm of your hand, and the derision in his tone makes you laugh too. He clears his throat, before scanning his gaze around the bathroom for an aid kit. "You need to clean that. Or it'll get infected.”

“No, no. You don't need to ” you whisper, but you let his hand continue to hold you. “I'm fine, really...”

Spencer stopped in front of you, bent down slightly to look at your hand in more detail. “It does need to,” he replied in a slight murmur. "Superficial wounds can be much more dangerous than they appear. In fact, small cuts are more susceptible to infection than larger ones, because they may go unnoticed, but they leave a perfect entrance for bacterias. In this case, if you don't clean and disinfect it, Staphylococcus aureus bacteria are quite common, and that could lead to a serious infection."

You felt a little stunned. The amount of information he dumped on you so quickly left you somewhat entranced. However, the concern on his face was genuine. And it touched you.

Why did he have to look like that?

“Uh, I can't say I knew that.”

“Does it hurt?”

 “Just a bit.” You replied. It was true. But it hurt more that as he looked at you he kept stroking your hand with his thumb and each caress drove you crazy. “Any diagnostic, doctor?”

He laughed, and your heart skipped a beat. God. His smile was even more charming holding you that close. A pair of dimples growing in his cheeks and he effortlessly aroused sensations in you too primal to admit out loud.

“I'm not that kind of doctor,” he whispers, the hint of his smile still visible. “But I need to clean that up for you... It's... It's okay if I do?”

You nodded, not knowing what to answer. Her gaze slid across the bathroom coming across a small white box resting on the counter. He turned away from you for brief seconds and, though it was a flicker in time, you felt the emptiness he left. You missed his touch and felt pathetic. So simple. So insignificant. And yet he still managed to unsettle you

Why did his closeness make you feel exposed, vulnerable? You knew something between the two of you was changing, but was it something you really wanted? Or rather, something you could afford to want?

It didn't give you time to think as he stepped in front of you again and wiped a cotton ball with antiseptic. Taking your hand again, the cool sensation of the antiseptic with the warmth of his fingers pressing against you making a twisted contrast of what it was. It was soft. It was gentle. As if he feared to break you with the simplicity of his caress. He was exalted, you could tell by the way he was breathing through his nose and his chest was rising and falling in a continuous back and forth. You couldn't help but think how, for a second, it seemed like the rest of the world disappeared, and all that was left was him. Just him.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, breaking the silence. “I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It was strange to hear him say that. Because how could he not know that discomfort was, in fact, what made you feel so alive? The vulnerability, the not knowing what was going on between you and the uncertainty you felt in his every gesture. It was all there, hovering between the two of you, and you weren't saying anything about it. You just held each other in this delicate balance that you longed to break.

“You don't.” you said quickly, "It's dumb. I probably wouldn't have done it. I'm not good at this stuff, the last time my cat scratched my whole arm and I'm pretty sure I made the scratches even worse."

Spencer looked up, and for a moment, his expression softened. “I just don't want you to think I'm invading your space,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice was like a soft punch to the chest.

Spencer curved his lips, barely a smile. He continued his slow, meticulous movements cleaning your wound with a precision that was hard to ignore. Every time his finger brushed your skin it was like lighting a thousand matches inside you.

 “This isn't so bad,” he murmured, as he carefully cleaned the area around the cut. “It could have been so much worse.”

“Well, hopefully I'm not bleeding to death,” you replied with a small touch of humor. The slight stinging in the wound when the antiseptic touched your skin was somewhat tolerable now, and his presence somehow made you feel calmer.

And, of course, you decided not to pay attention to the closeness of his face and that incipient beard that adorned it perfectly. All over his jaw, you had the urge to touch it and put the fingers of your free hand on the fabric of your dress as if it contained all those growing desires.

“Hopefully not” Spencer laughed, not looking away from your hand. "It's not that dramatic, but you know, some people faint over something as simple as this. The body's reaction to minimal pain can be interesting."

“Really? How?”

You knew the answer. But hearing him speak for you was a necessity now and you decided to take advantage of every second.

"The fear of pain and the physiological reaction is more prevalent than it seems, that's all kind of like a mind game. That it thinks you have something, when the damage is likely to be minimal.”

“And I assume that if there was anyone here passed out, it would be me.” you said, shaking your head and looking at the wound with mock concern. "Yeah, I should have guessed. I cannot tolerate pain.”

Spencer let out a genuine laugh, a laugh that made the air around the two of you feel less tense.

“Definitely,” he said with a laugh. “But don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you.”

“Good to know.”

He continued cleaning and gently placed a children's band-aid (from some cartoon you couldn't recognize) over your cut, now clean and out of harm's way. Were his eyes always this bright or was it the glare of the white lights? And his lips, his lips. Slightly splendorous from whatever he was drinking before he came in. You swallowed saliva, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks as he seemed to have scanned across your face and the bathroom was flooded by a couple of giggles that pretended to say a lot, but was nothing. It wasn't awkward, but that kind of silence that hovered over you and enveloped you in a still atmosphere that you countered with the rowdiness outside. You sat on the countertop, the coldness of the ceramic hitting your thighs hoping he wouldn't leave. You lay your head back in the mirror, and Spencer's head shorted out.

He didn't know how much more he was capable of taking, if he was fit to drown everything that came into his head when he saw through the mirror's reflection that curve of your back, smooth, perfect. The red dress tight to every curve fitting in the right places and that lipstick, lightly smeared across your lower lip. He put his hands in his pockets and swallowed thickly. Your eyes traveled down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with nervousness and notoriety.

“You didn't seem to be enjoying yourself over there" you say amused, your voice tired. "I don't blame you. Teachers' humors are crap."

Spencer nods, standing in front of you. Your knee brushing against the fabric of his dress pants. "I usually enjoy theoretical physics jokes but there's a point where it gets repetitive and boring. If I'm honest, I was looking forward to getting out of there.”

The laugh you let out was soft, almost intimate, as if only he was meant to hear it. Spencer drank it in as if it were something sacred. His fingers, still warm from touching you, flexed in his pants pockets, trying to contain the absurd need to brush against you again. 

“Spencer Reid?” you repeated with an arched eyebrow, watching him with a vague smile as you leaned your head back against the mirror a little more. "You must have the highest tolerance for repetitive. You analyze it, dissect it. You find patterns in it, revel in it. I thought you were used to it.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, tickled by your remark. His eyes roamed over your face with a scrutiny that made you hold your breath. He didn't seem to be looking at you out of mere habit anymore, it seemed he couldn't even help himself. You cleared your throat, but his closeness was brutal. He smelled like aftershave, so strong that the scent drugged you completely.

"Maybe you're right, but there are exceptions. There are always exceptions to the rule, no matter how much I'd rather abide by them." he said, this time turning to you and you swore your heart was going to jump out of your rib cage.

His hands slowly came out of his pockets, and he leaned lightly on the countertop to the side of you. His arm almost brushed your thigh and for an instant you thought he would do it on purpose, that he would trace the fabric of your dress with his fingertips. That he would dare. And you thought how good it would feel to be on his hands, long fingers and protruding veins, holding you like a longing.

“And is tonight one of those exceptions?” you asked, tilting your face toward him, watching him closely. 

His throat worked in a strained swallow. "I'm sure it is.”

A shiver ran down your spine. Your breathing got slower, deeper. Your inhibitions out of you. His knuckles, distracted, barely grazed your knee in a touch so light it might have gone unnoticed if it weren't for all your skin igniting in response. Spencer froze at his own boldness, but didn't immediately pull his hand away. Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, and his eyelashes lowered slightly as he looked back up at you. All content, his eyes dancing all over your face.

He didn't move. 

He didn't leave. 

The air in the bathroom seemed to thicken as Spencer leaned forward gently, closing the distance with torturous slowness as if to give your body time to react, to reject him. But you didn't. And you had no plans to either. Your back brushed against the mirror, the coolness of the glass seeping through the thin dress as Spencer's warmth enveloped you from the front. His hands continuing to rest on the countertop on either side of your legs, locking you in with devastating ease.

He was tense. You could see it in his jaw. The line of his throat working as he swallowed saliva with visible effort. Almost instinctively, you tilted your head, and mentally beat yourself up as you thought you could ignore or simply disregard everything that revolved around him because it was impossible. You hesitated on whether to do that thing that was killing you so much, to touch his face, to caress his cheek. Let him do something. His gaze made you breathless. Dark, intense. Fixed on you and only you. His dark, chocolate irises, a hazel hue that you could finally detail up close.

He had the most beautiful eyes you'd ever seen.

“Why do you keep avoiding me so much?” his voice was a whisper, but you felt it throughout your body. His breath was warm with a minty undertone, it brushed your mouth. "Did I...did I do something to bother you? I didn't say anything bad about you, if you were wondering. I have eidetic memory, I would remember if I was rude to you at any time.”

You found yourself caught between need and uncertainty. Your hands rested on your thighs, and you wanted him to push them away. Spencer saw it. He saw it in the way your eyelashes quivered in a flutter that sent shocks through his body, in how your gaze dropped fleetingly to his mouth before returning to his eyes, in the way your chest rose and fell too fast, too erratically. 

His knuckles brushed the fabric of your dress with calculated carelessness, a light touch on your right thigh that made everything in you tense with an internal jolt. There was no urgency in his movement. Only a torturous patience, an unspoken question in the way his skin tested yours. As if testing the ground.

A restrained sigh escaped your throat, almost inaudible, but he heard it. 

“You didn't do or say anything bad about me, Spencer.” you murmur, your voice sharp. "It was my thing. I make movies all the time in my head. I think I was just jealous.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. His knuckles still moving in a steady rhythm over the fabric of your dress, “Jealous? Why would you be jealous?”

Your tongue fleetingly moistened your upper lip. His gaze followed the movement with unsettling thoroughness, his fingers twitching subtly on the countertop. You were unconsciously tasting him. And it delighted you to watch his jaw clench.

“I guess you're too good to be real.” you let out an irony-laden laugh, "It's lame. Don't mind me. I actually thought you didn't like me."

“Why would you think that?” he sounded almost offended, incredulous at what you just said as he let his fingers trail southward away from the red fabric. It was silk, fine silk that hugged your thighs beautifully. His fingers were just as warm on your skin and you shivered as his caresses went up and down. Paulatine, subtle, but it made your hair stand on end. And the way he whispered your name... Almost like a longing held on his tongue, like a heavenly prayer. "I've done nothing but silently wanted you. If you only knew... How long I've been saving this. Keeping you. As if just looking at you was enough.”

Your lips parted, but the words stuck in your throat. As if every particle had stopped in time, leaving them suspended in that instant where nothing else existed except the way he touched you. His hand slid, slow, barely perceptible, but enough to set your skin on fire. His fingers traced invisible lines over your thigh with a devotion that left you gasping for breath, memorizing the texture of your skin, the way you reacted under his touch.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, it was the only thing that could come out of your mouth. Your voice cracked, feeling the pressure building in your chest, in your belly, in every nerve ending in your body. 

A sound escaped from his throat. Low. Grave. As if the confession had managed to shake something inside him. 

His hands moved, with deliberate leisure, barely moving up the curve of your thigh before clinginging to the flesh. His torso was so close you could feel the heat radiating from him, the racing beat of his heart pounding in sync with yours.

"No, don't be sorry" his voice was a whisper, his lips against your temple. They were so close you could feel them, a temptation suspended in the air. The edge of his nose brushed yours, a touch so thin, so intimate, that a shiver danced down your back. "I guess it's my fault for not talking to you in the first place. But if you'll let me... I promise not to ask for more than you're willing to give. Because having you anyway is already more than I ever thought I deserved."

God. 

You couldn't think, not when he was there, so tangible, so immensely real, tearing down every barrier you'd ever built between the both of you. 

His fingers came up again, this time with less hesitation, brushing the inside of your thigh in a barely perceptible movement, but one that sent an electric whiplash up and down your spine. If you moved a little, just a little, he would brush the fabric of your panties.

"Spencer..." his name was a breath caught in your mouth, a plea, a surrender.

He took it. He took your exhalation and made it his own. He kissed you with the kind of awe with where someone touches something sacred for the first time. His mouth rested on yours in a brush that contained months of longing compressed into a single instant. So violently that your body tensed. His lips moved gracefully over yours and his hands squeezed the flesh of your thighs as if he was holding back from touching you further. At first it was slow, painfully slow, waiting for you to refuse. But you had no intention of it. You sensed how his tongue brushed your lower lip in an invitation to thrust inside you, and the sweet gasp that came from your mouth in delight entranced him. He sensed it in the way your fingers reached up to grasp at the lapels of his suit, clinging to him as if you were about to collapse.

Kissing Spencer was just how you imagined it would be. Addictive. Teeth and tongues in a rough dance, he was stunned by how you responded to his caresses. By how your hands stopped trembling and rested on the back of his neck, in his hair, pulling him closer to you till you melted into a lingering kiss. Spencer moaned against your mouth, a harsh, restrained sound that reverberated between the both of you, becoming a vibration that traveled down your backbone and spread in torrid heat throughout your body. His fingers, which until now had traced a contained path over superficial parts of your body, twitched over the skin of your thigh, sinking just barely into the soft flesh, as if he needed to hold on to something in particular to keep from twisting his grip. He was losing it completely.

The kiss became hungrier, more impatient. His tongue slid against yours in a fiery, deep caress as his other hand moved up the curve of your back, pressing you against him as if trying to memorize every inch of your body. You shivered from just feeling his touch on your back and how that slit in your dress gave him the opportunity to move down a little.

Every scrape of his lips against yours was a silent confession, every halting gasp a secret that slipped out without the need for words. 

Spencer wasn't doing anything by halves, and kissing you was the ultimate proof of that. He was feeling you with every fiber of his being. He was drinking you in with the devotion of a thirsty man finally finding water in the middle of a forsaken desert.

With every particle of his autonomy, with every heaving breath that escaped his throat and the way his body pressed against yours, drawing closer and closer until the air between you ceased to exist. His hand, the one that had traveled up the curve of your back, slid with exasperating slowness to the base of your nape, tangling in your hair. Wrapping itself around the strands of your locks.

As if afraid you might fade away.

His other hand went up another inch, and when his fingertips brushed the thin fabric of your panties, a fierce thrill ran through you, arching your back involuntarily at his touch. Wanting more. That he would turn his attentions upon you. He sensed it in the way your nails scratched his hairline, in how your thighs trembled under his caresses and the sudden gasp that escaped from your mouth, imprisoned in his. 

He pulled away just a few millimeters, just enough to be able to look at you. To see the slight tremble of your lips swollen by his kisses, the febrile shine in your eyes. His breath collided against your skin, warm and ragged, and in the thick silence of the bathroom, his breath seemed an echo of yours. 

The Adam's apple in his throat rose and fell in an effort to swallow saliva. 

"I can't believe we missed this just because we had misconceptions about each other." he whispered, as if he found it hard to speak, as if the words scraped his throat as they came out, "You don't know all you do to me."

"I think I have an idea." you said, stunned. With a slow smile curving your mouth as your hands went back up to his cheeks, his beard stinging your fingers, "But I think I'm starting to like it when you show me."

A low growl escaped his chest before he took your mouth again, and no fantasy could match how good it felt to be in his arms. His kisses were intoxicating, tongue everywhere, low moans sending shocks straight to the recent growing bulge in his pants. He held your jaw and claimed you. And you loved it. You melted into him. Your hands took advantage of traveling to his neck, his cheeks, his shoulders. You could spend hours like that. There was a latent tension in his muscles, in the visible struggle between his control and his desire, in the way his dark gaze devoured every detail of you. His hands were so big, gripping your face as you moved closer until you wrapped your legs around him, your thighs at his sides.

Spencer pulled away, he was a mess. His brown hair tousled and his lips glossy and swollen from you. His thumb traced a sweet line over your lower lip. "You're beautiful," he exhales briefly. "So beautiful.”

You pull him by the neck and kiss him again. Hopeless. Hungry. You were sure the denim of your lingerie was wet and that he could feel it. You move your hips moaning against his mouth from the friction of your center against his pants. Spencer noticed your need, and his knee began to rub you. Slowly, feeling you contract from the pleasure. Your dress rode up over your thighs and he pulled them almost all the way up, to the level of your hips, allowing himself to revel in the matching lace of your wet panties. Soaked. For him. His right hand slid to your chest and groped your dress, seeking to pull it down. You nodded in agreement still with your lips on his, letting him know you needed him. That he would touch you. It was a slight effort, but with blind skill he lowered the top of your dress.

"I'm surprised at how skillfully you did that," you whispered between kisses. You hear his laugh, hoarse and throaty, as his knee continued to rub your center, and you cried out. A low cry that you silenced by biting your tongue.

"If it makes you feel any better, I thought as soon as I saw you come in." he said resting his forehead with yours. Widening his hands below your knees, and when he stretched a little, the breath caught in his throat.

You looked like a gorgeous wreck. Your lipstick was running, your barely visible red lace bra made your hardened nipples noticeable and the feel of the cold made them hard as rocks. Spencer kissed you. Quick, fleeting, placing his thumb and forefinger against your right nipple and pressing it, making you turn your eyes. His touch sent tingles all over your body, no matter how small or large, the mere fact that he was touching you was driving you crazy.

His kisses descend to your neck, leaving soft bites in an everlasting path. He nibbles that spot on your pulse and you tremble. Your hand touching his curls as you gasped uncontrollably.

"You're..." he began, but the word was lost in your neck. He kissed the curve of your collarbone, the racing pulse in your throat. " You're devastating.”

He scattered sporadic kisses across your neck and suddenly you felt like you were out of orbit when his fingers found your panties. Stroking you over the fabric. You wiggled your hips in search of more friction and melted into his arms. He teased both of your nipples. He kissed you with such vehemence and eagerness. It was simply too much. Your eyes traveled to the bulge in his sweatpants, and you had that urge to touch him again. It was big, you deduced immediately by how the fabric of the pants fit painfully around the outline of his cock. Your hand barely grazed it as he pushed you away and returned his kisses to your lips. Tugging at them. Biting, sucking with impetus.

"Is that good or bad?" you asked curving your back.

Spencer looked up from his spot, his eyes burning with an intensity so pure it took your breath away. "It's all I want.”

He bent down with only one knee digging into the floor, and your brain lit up. You were aware of what he was about to do and you pressed your thighs together, almost reluctantly. In response, he put his hands on your knees and looked at you over his long eyelashes and his eyes sparkling from all the excitement that was only growing more and more. No, he had no right to look at you like that. To have you at his mercy with just a kiss. To look so needy for you. 

"Don't get shy now." he said, his fingers squeezing the hypersensitive flesh of your thighs to open them for him again. "I want to touch you, please, angel. Let me show you how much I've needed you. How much I've longed to touch you, please, can I?"

His plea turned you to plasticine. It was a desperation rooted from deep in your chest and the mere thought that he had imagined this precise scene in the past turned you on. That maybe he had it all planned out and now he was kneeling before you basically begging to touch you. Your hand reached out to his curls, stroking his brown, unruly hair and you nodded as your lips curved into a smile that Spencer was quick to retort.

"Of course, I wasn't going to let you leave me like that and then leave." you whisper in amusement, holding his face "You owe me.”

Spencer smiled at you, sweet, almost too sweet for the kind of look he gave you. Filled with desire, with something far, vastly stronger than you. His fingers groping the edges of your panties. Swiftly pulling them down to your ankles. You shuddered at the change in sensations, the gusts of wind setting your nipples on edge and his gaze fixed on your cunt enveloped you in a cloud too intense for your brain to function properly. He looked at you with dilated pupils, licked his lips slowly as if tasting you on it.

"I owe you, huh?" he said, pressing a kiss on your inner thigh. Then on the other. "I guess I should make it up to you, right? Is that what you want?"

You nodded frantically, but he bit down on a thin layer of skin and you gasped.

"Use your words, angel."

"I..." you doubted that your head could work correctly, his touch sent tingles through parts of your body unthinkable. "Fuck, Spencer. Just do it.”

"So desperate." he whispered, his tongue beginning to lick the wetness of your thigh. You swayed in response to the sensation, your back arching as your hands involuntarily moved up to your nipple, pinching and stimulating. You needed to feel him everywhere. It was disarming you. "Have you thought about this, do you think I don't notice when you look at me, when you sneak into my classes?”

He grabbed you by the knees and pulled you into his mouth with such speed that you didn't even have time to get used to the thrill. Fuck. His mouth was desperate, he licked your folds and his curls hide between your legs. You'd let him sleep right at dawn right there. You moaned his name so loud that you were thankful the music outside was so loud no one could hear, 'cause you needed that. You needed to scream how much you enjoyed it and when Spencer gasped in delight, your whole body jerked. A rough hand gripped your thigh, his thumbs pressing into your skin, holding you open just for him. To keep you from shivering. His tongue was relentless. He swirled with precision, sucked you with intensity and reserved kisses for your clit. You rolled your eyes and your hips followed in a back and forth motion over his mouth, surrendering yourself completely to the pleasure.

There was a heat swirling over your belly, over your bloated, hypersensitive center. You shuddered and Spencer hummed above you as you tightened his head making him bury himself in your pussy. You were drunk, it was vertiginous, too much to bear.

He pulled away slightly, his breathing ragged. You couldn't see him because he was still hiding between your legs but the image was projected in your head instantly. His lips glossy from your wetness, yearning for more. The fibers of his hair messy from your pulls "How did I not notice before that you are this beautiful?" he kissed one of your folds and your back flexed again. "That you taste so good…”

Your whole body jerked in pleasure as he sealed his lips on your clit. Sucking. Drinking. Opening his mouth wide and devouring every nerve of you like a starving man. As if you were his last entrée that he would hesitate to ravish for how exquisite it was. One hand came up and took away yours that was caressing your boobs, his now cold fingers closing on them. His hand was large. It went all the way around you and pressed your hard, overstimulated nipple between the middle of his fingers.

"Spencer," you moaned, your thighs trembling and his mouth devouring your cunt with vigor, "It's too much. Sensitive."

His mouth closed on you again, your hips still twitching at him. Pleasure engulfed you, your stomach contracted and you swore you saw nebulae and tiny stars the moment his tongue sucked slowly at your slit. It curved, it teased you, driving you to your limit.

"No, not yet" he groaned against your skin, but his fingers didn't falter for a single second. The bundle of stimulation cut your lungs out. "Just one, yes? Can you give it to me, angel?"

You barely nodded as he returned to devouring you. He wanted to take you to the last of your strength. Heat coiled in your stomach and your heart was about to burst out of your chest. Irregular beats that succumbed you in instant pleasure. His tongue licked in one last long line in your pussy that tore out a scream that you stifled by biting your lip. The release of your orgasm taking you elsewhere. You were trapped in ecstasy. Your limbs ached and you needed him more and more. His breath was warm as he pulled away and kissed your mons pubis, testing, seeing how much more you could take. It made your hair stood on edge.

"You had this well planned, hmm?" you whimpered in a murmur, feeling the sequels of your first orgasm shaking your body, "I bet you've thought about it too. About how good it would feel to have me in your hands, is that it? Did you want me so bad you couldn't do anything but imagine it?”

He growled in reply, and the sound made your blood rise. Time slowed down around you and for a moment you forgot there was a whole party going on outside. But all you could think about was that you had Spencer on his knees for you, his erection probably being too painful for him and yet he continued to kiss you and tasted all of your senses. The pressure of his lips was deep worship, in restrained cravings that would sooner or later explode into frenzy. Your head fell against the mirrored glass as now his fingers curved lightly to touch your cunt in search of more. He added a finger, then another, patiently opening you up. Your hips throbbed again from the overstimulation, your brow furrowing as he rose and began to spread kisses all over your face.

"You have no idea, I asked myself that every night I pretended I didn't care about you more than I should have." he murmured, his palm pressed against your clit and his bulge in his pants pressed against your thigh, in pursuit of a delicious friction you both needed. You were at his mercy completely. You lowered your head and rested your forehead on his shoulder, feeling his fingers move nimbly inside you. "And each time, the answer was yes. I wanted you so much that it hurts. Do you think you can give me one more, sweetheart?"

You nodded again and that sweet moan that came out of your mouth when he added a third finger made you see stars. Your eyes closed, you impaled yourself on his hand until you felt Spencer silencing as best he could his moans by stifling them with his own lips, still glistening from your arousal.

He continued touching you. Kissing you with ardor. And you questioned if you would have done this if you were both talking to each other instead of immediately deducing that you disliked each other. You were an idiot. Because from now on you didn't want to be in the hands of any man but Spencer. You didn't want to see another face. Neither did you want to go back to the normal course of your life when he had brought you to a point of no return that you never reached with anyone else.

"Just like that," he whispered, kissing that dangerous spot in the area of your racing pulse. Provocatively. "Fucking my hand. Gasping for me. You're so good. So beautiful. I can't get enough of you."

He bit back a slim layer of skin, and you moaned.

"Spencer..." you hissed, leaning your hips into him, "Fuck.”

You glimpsed his frown trying to concentrate on your own pleasure, but his hips bucked and he rubbed at your inner thighs, you could almost see some pre seminal liquid pouring out of his pants and the sight made you rush at his touch. His fingers curled, you grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed him as you bucked unconsciously and the surges of your second orgasm filled you up to your ears. Spencer gasped as you came in his hand, and he was precious. Beautiful, dark eyes, rosy cheeks and fully swollen, glowing lips. Your breaths hitched in unison as he pulled his hand away from you and you brushed back the strands of hair that clung to his sweaty forehead.

You give him a smile, tired, and his head does nothing but spin. At the need, at how good it felt to finally touch you and feel you collapse into him. At how masterful you perceived better than all the times he imagined what it would be like. A giggle escapes from his lips, pressing a kiss to your temple, his warm breath spreading over your skin, and his hand, almost by instinct, moved up your abdomen in a lazy rubbing tracing distracted circles. Now yours played with the hairs at the nape of his neck and you let yourself drift in the sweet silence surrounding you.

"Hmm," he whispered. "It took us longer to heal your wound."

You opened your mouth in an offended gesture, hitting him gently but you didn't have the strength for much. His body vibrated from his laughter, and you loved it. "I want to see you say that later. We'll see who gets the last laugh and it will definitely be me.”

Spencer looked at you with those deer-eyed eyes full of tenderness that your knees felt weaker. He left another soft kiss on your cheek and you hummed in delight at the gesture. Slipping your arms around his shoulders, hugging him. Melting into him.

"Whatever you say, angel." he said with his eyes closed. "We still have time."

It was as if the entire universe had shrunk to that instant. The feel of your skin against his effortlessly banishing everything you felt for him before. Of knowing he craved you as much as you craved him. His breath attached to yours, coupled in a quiet, slightly agitated rhythm, just enough to fill the bathroom with him.

You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the slow waves of his breathing, and for a moment you felt light. As if in that minuscule piece where nothing bad could reach you. As if he was the refuge you had always wanted to return to without knowing it.

"Do we have it?" you repeated softly, shyly, almost as a question to yourself.

Spencer nodded, his nose brushing against your temple."We have all the time in the world if you're with me.”

Your lips pursued his just because the words got stuck in your mouth, this time in a more chaste kiss. One that tasted of rest, of complicity. And your heart was beating so fast you could hear its beat rewinding in your ears.

"I like you so much," you murmured against his mouth, barely a whisper. "I reiterate that I'm concerned about all the effects you have on me.”

His hands traced slow figures on your back, the whisper of his voice lulling you low:

"Then let's be scared together. It's much safer for both of us, isn't it?"

And you did. You closed your eyes, sank into him... And, for the first time in a while, you didn't care what came next.

[twstwizard]

Hellooo :3c I hope you are doing alright 🌸

I want to make a request, i got a silly idea and i hope you dont mind!

If posible, i would like to request for Riddle, Carter, Azul and Lilia and how they would react when while they were hanging out with their crush (or s/o, however you prefer) reader out of nowhere tells them that last night they had a dream where both were getting married, but like reader is telling them cuz the dreams was so wild, like in the old princess Disney movies everything was so animated, there were floating things everywhere and it was full of color and everyone was dancing (even the furniture)

The wedding bells

Type: Headcanons, SFW, Fluff, Romantic

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts; Cater Diamond; Azul Ashengrotto; Lilia Vanrouge; GN!Reader

AN: I might've gone a bit too sappy, let me know what you think

Riddle Rosehearts

-Riddle is slightly baffled, more so by the thought of you dreaming of a wedding with him as the groom, not how wierd it was. The latter at least makes sense, dreams are intended to be strange, like that one time he dreamt about being a tart. Nonetheless he's touched.

- The young man would be flustered, yet curious. Inanimate objects becoming... Animate? In tales about Queen of Hearts something similar acured on daily basis. Perhaps if the two of you do get married maybe he should try and arrange for the whole ordeal to be heavily based off of one of the Sevens? But that's jumping too fast and too far into the future.

- His mind wonders as you tell and more about your dream, as his face grows redder and redder with blush as you describe any detail involving him as the groom. He's both touched and embarrassed to an extent, yet he's happy that at least in your dream he stayed a proper gentleman.

- Riddle cannot get an image of you by the altar from his head for some time, both of you dressed for the ceremony, staring lovingly into each other's eyes... As he mentally scolds himself for daydreaming amids the day, he can't help but hope that one day that little dream of yours becomes reality for both of you.

Cater Diamond

- Oh?! Do tell him every little detail! Cater is not only happy that he was in your dream, but also was the groom? Oh did the two of you kiss? Did he feed you the cake, did you two dance with the furniture? The young man listens to your dream, exited expression on his face.

- It may be a dream, but now it's a shared dream between the two of you. Cater knows that you might be jumping over your heads with the hypothetical dream wedding of yours, but he doesn't care, he's already invested, trying to prey out as much detail as possible simply to try and envision the whole thing. He might even pull out some kind of Piccrew for rooms and try to recreate the place for giggles with you.

- Cater is also encouraging of your ideas or how dream might've ended or what happened in parts you don't remember no matter how silly or how little they make sense, so long as they make sense to you. He might even throw in his own theories or add even more redicules ideas, to make your dream seem even more whimsical.

- While Cater is obviously joking around, he does find the thought of marrying you a pleasant one. He's jealous even, the man wishes he saw a wedding with you in his dream, but then again, reality is just as pleasant if not better.

Azul Ashengrotto

- What. The man is flattered that he was in your dream, but mainly, what? Azul is a very analytic person in every aspect of his life, even if such aspect involves his significant other's dreams. Que his search history later on containing "Dreams of wedding meaning?"

- He might be a little red in a face or loss at words, but please don't stop, tell him all, the man lives for information. While he won't encourage such silly fantasies, he will entertain a thought of marriage to you. A lot... Maybe dancing and singing furniture is surface dwellers costume? He'll have to research.

-Ashengrotto will now daydream from time to time of a wedding, a life of being married to you, after the two of you graduate. Would the you stay on land? Perhaps you'd like to move to the Coral Sea with him, take up family business even? He might pretend that such silly fantasies don't affect him, but even capatlists aren't immune to love.

- Azul harbors such hopes and dreams, redoubling in his work. If he will be married to you he'll have to outdo your dream, which will involve outdoing alive furniture. The merman is ready for the challenge as long as it involves giving you everything, beyond your dreams.

Lilia Vanrouge

- You don't say... Alive furniture? Was it awkward to use it? Were chairs rioting if you sat in them? Was food also alive? Did he cook it? Then perhaps it was alive if that was the case. Lilia finds anything you say entertaining, your dreams are con exception. The man saw many things in his life, yet others visions during slumber were yet to be places he visits often.

- Before you know it Lilia is already imagining and building theories as to how it would be to live in your dream after that wedding if everything followed the same rules. Must be awkward taking a shower or using a toilet.

- The man wholeheartedly believes it tonbe a sign from someone above. While Vanrouge won't drop down on one knee right that instant, he will remember everything. The suite he was wearing, the cake the two of you ate, how many guests were there etc.

-Lilia is not young, so naturally thoughts of marriage crossed his mind more then once, let alone with his darling. While to you were retelling your silly dream, Vanrouge was imagining the real thing. He can't help it, life with you already feels like a dream come true, what's a wedding?

[hellspawnmotel]

Any specific thoughts on Noelle’s seemingly one sided crush on Susie? Ur analysis are always real neat

hm! well I kinda already talked about this but only in a tag essay like 2 1/2 years ago (here) so I can get into it again.

I think noelle's crush on susie reveals a lot about noelle as a person, though the story and framing so far have kind of conditioned us to just look at it as a surface level "omg mean tough girl x sweet shy girl! lesbians!!" and maybe even subconsciously connect it to alphys/undyne and just brush it off as the type of wholesome relationship toby likes writing. I also don't think the crush is necessarily one-sided! you could argue that susie felt pressured into saying what she did on the ferris wheel, but susie is all about breaking the rules and doing whatever she wants so that wouldn't make much sense to me. her responses seemed very genuine. it could turn out to be a fleeting feeling or susie mistaking a desire to be friends as a desire for romance, but I don't really have enough information to speculate much on that yet.

back to noelle, pre-chapter 2 noelle's attraction to susie seems far more based in fantasy than anything, kind of objectifying susie's violence. which is fine, she's a teenager, it doesn't make noelle a bad person, it just indicates that the crush is very shallow to start off. susie is also a symbol to noelle, someone she definitely sees as representing freedom and defiance, which is something she craves. noelle does end up very open to the possibility of getting to know susie as a real person once she learns susie is "nice" but her priorities are still more with her own feelings than susie's.

this is tricky to talk about as an adult, so first I'd like to remind everyone that I have Been a teenage girl and I remember very clearly what it was like, haha. anyway I would argue that noelle's interest in susie is also undeniably sexual, even if she doesn't fully realize it. I think we all kind of know that but it's uncomfortable to just say in plain language. (this is an aside but I think the way toby implies this from noelle's dialogue and internal monologue is REALLY smart from a writing perspective, it leads the brain there without getting weird about it.) in addition to freedom, susie also represents adulthood to noelle in that way. she represents the future, one where noelle can fully express herself. at the same time, noelle associates the feeling of fear with being protected by somebody else in her childhood, the past. susie is "the good kind of scary", both sexually exciting, an "adult" feeling, and nostalgically comfortable, a "child" feeling. susie could be the bridge between past and future that noelle, who is notoriously frozen in her own childhood, needs to move forward. I think that could apply even if the two don't end up together, just from noelle working through her own feelings about it all.

I could also get into the implications of suselle being "the narrative's approved ship" or how noelle's relationship with susie contrasts her relationship with kris, or even how we're conditioned to see lesbian relationships as either inherently more "wholesome" or the taboo and exciting "toxic yuri", but this is getting really long already. idk where it all will end up going but I think theres already a lot to dive into if you look past the surface!

[tainbocuailnge]

this is a final fantasy fourteen dawntrail post. it speaks incredibly for the desperation of the people of alexandria in its decline that they both couldn't bear to remember the dead and couldn't bear the thought of the dead no longer being remembered, and thus created this contradictory system where the dead are only remembered by something other than those to whom that memory is meaningful. so crushed by collective trauma and grief that they directed every effort to eradicating awareness of mortality altogether and it's resulted in a paradise where everyone is incredibly blasé about dying because the dead live forever in the cloud until they run out of spare souls and are completely paralyzed with fear of their own mortality.

but even more than desperation it speaks of a naive sincerity that the scientists and officials behind the project just actually genuinely built and maintained this giant memory database to preserve the deceased at increasingly large cost, rather than just lie that they totally did that to a populace who won't remember those deceased anyway. they're not harvesting souls to power the war effort while using a recreation of the beloved princess as puppet figurehead, they completely sincerely recreate the dead from their memories and simulate them living happily ever after, started by a sincere desire to not lose their beloved princess. living memory is an eternal theme park that actively goes out of its way to facilitate letting people who remember each other fondly meet again. it's the manifestation of a childish wish for a world where there are no partings, only reunions. it's a theme park rather than an actual city with a dmv and shit like amaurot was precisely Because it's a childish dream. it's fundamentally an artificial experience, but one which sole motive is to bring joy and relief from everyday sadness.

and sphene is the first and most prominent victim of that naive sincerity. she's the mascot of this theme park, and because she's the mascot in charge of providing this artificial but kind experience she can't ever break character. the people of alexandria couldn't bear the thought of her being forgotten, so they created a memory of her that would last forever, but they also couldn't bear to actually remember sphene, so she's a mascot instead of a person. she loves her people, and they love her, but none of them can possibly understand the weight that love puts on her shoulders. the sphene we meet is fundamentally trapped by other people's deeply limited understanding of her.

it's so so so important to her character that she's a small dainty feminine woman that exists to take care of everyone emotionally and be loved by them for being so nice and sweet and loving, and when she tries to arrange some kind of secure future she ends up with an abusive husband who ignores her wants and needs for his own ambitions, and she is fundamentally unable to act outside this highly gendered framework. sphene reads like the commonplace tragedy of the straight woman to me to the point where making her in lesbians with wuk lamat is like. I can certainly understand wanting to grant sphene the sense of liberation and comfort that many lesbians themselves feel at the realisation that they don't have to marry men, so far be it from me to say anyone is wrong to do so. but it's kinda ignoring part of what her deal is for the sake of that comfort I think.

not that lesbians have never ended up in abusive marriages with men but sphene very explicitly does not have other options, part of the tragedy is that you fundamentally cannot actually grant her that liberation and comfort. cahciua explicitly says there's no way to know what the real living sphene would have done because this sphene is a recreated memory of the beloved princess whose job is to sustain living memory. their darling sphene who will always listen to all their troubles and is always nice to them and will always take care of them. she's literally trapped by the role society assigned her, and that role is essentially to be their tradwife mother. the living sphene may have been into women, but the people who recorded her to create the sphene we meet never even considered the option.

do you guys know that tweet thread where OP describes going to a funeral for a woman they didn't know who'd died young of a heart attack, and the husband spent most of the eulogy talking about himself instead of his recently deceased wife, and by the end of the ceremony OP had learned nothing at all about what this woman was like beyond being a wife and mother? everyone fondly remembers the princess and queen of alexandria, but nobody remembers sphene. and just like all OP could still do for this woman was go to her casket and acknowledge that she too had been a full person in her own right before the stress of swallowing everything about herself killed her, all wuk lamat can really still do for sphene is think of her as the full person she must have been.

we're not told anything about what sphene was like as a leader, what her policies were, how she actually did her work, her vision for the future of her country before she died and was reconstructed. they only tell us everyone loved her so dearly because she was so kind to them. we're shown her dying moments and it's her using her airship to shield a civilian, so we can assume her love for her people was indeed true. but none of sphene's history that we're shown and nothing of how otis (who knew the living sphene) talks about her tells us anything about what she was like outside her role as beloved princess. her memories from after her "revival" are dissonant and corrupted and possibly not even real, and her policy of preserving living memory no matter what is a wish implanted in her by the people who reconstructed her. we don't even get to see what she looked like when alive. the only sphene the people know is the theme park mascot of living memory.

cahciua was exactly as erenville knew her and was true enough to herself to be able to turn against the system, so we're not given reason to believe any of the endless were tampered with. but sphene was already dead by the time they even tried to figure out how to preserve her memory, her actual soul and memories definitely long gone by the time the technology worked. we're explicitly told that nobody in everkeep really cared who or what sphene was as long as she adequately fulfilled this role of loving them all so much. she can't even tell you her favourite food, none of the people who labored so intensely and sincerely to bring her back bothered to write down even her most basic personal preferences when they reconstructed her. she has to deflect the question with "when I think of the people who make the food I can't pick just one" because the only preference she's allowed is loving all her people equally. she's completely thrown off that wuk lamat would even ask.

and it's precisely because she is remembered only as this kind loving woman who gave everything for her people that she is weak and powerless to actually do whatever it takes to keep them safe. she does not have the freedom to assert herself, let alone to be cruel or violent or take extreme actions. society does not give her that freedom, because she is a small dainty woman and (therefore) the only role allowed to her is to be their tradwife mother. so while her desire to protect her people is as real and true as it can be part of her plan to lobotomise herself in order to become someone capable of violence and cruelty also reads to me as that specific female frustration of wanting to destroy the sweet babygirl image of yourself by doing something extreme. like britney spears shaving her head. but in sphene's case destroying the babygirl image amounts to destroying herself completely, because the babygirl image of her is all that comprises her. and so when all is said and done the only fragment of sphene that is restored and lingers just a bit longer after that image is destroyed is the sphene that wuk lamat sincerely wanted to get to know.

[shizuturnspages]

Genshin impact yandere.

About A Love That Won't Wake, and if the reader is in a vegetative state or brain dead, what if she is pregnant?? This kind of drama would be interesting

Can you also add more characters? :D

Thanks

A Love That Won’t Wake: Mother of a Future That Never Was

Synopsis: You are gone. At least, in the way that matters. Brain-dead. Your body remains warm, but your soul—the part that laughed, cried, and fought—no longer stirs. And yet… you are still carrying life within you. A child. The baby of one of them. Or perhaps more than one. None of them know for sure. But it doesn't matter. Because every one of them believes it should be theirs. Now they stand over your motionless form with twisted hope, their love for you consuming everything: sanity, morality, even the future of the child who never asked to be born into obsession. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Dainsleif, Dottore, Cyno, Scaramouche, Wriothesley, Zhongli, Alhaitham, Kaveh, Ayato x Brain-dead Reader

Diluc – Grief Beneath the Hearth

He sits beside your hospital bed every night, reading to you.

He reads children’s books now. His hand gently rubs your belly, fingers trembling. “It’s ours,” he murmurs to himself, “I know it is.”

No test was ever run. He refused it. He refused to let anyone near you.

His hatred of your stillness is silent, suffocating, and it burns like embers under snow. He swears that when the child is born, he'll raise them in the light you'd never see again—and that he’ll never let them feel the emptiness he now lives with.

Except… he has a plan.

He’s building a home in the mountains. One no one can reach.

Just him.

The child.

And your silent body forever preserved.

Kaeya – The Perfect Family Fantasy

Kaeya laughs when he hears the news. Not because he finds it funny—but because fate is so cruel, it almost feels like a joke.

“A baby?” he whispers to your body. “Are you giving me a second chance…?”

He talks to your stomach like it’s the only one who still listens. The only one who might still love him someday. He says things like:

“You’ll look just like her. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll dress you in blue and tell you stories about the moon.”

But he’s not sane anymore.

Kaeya has dolls made that look like you. He dresses them in nursing clothes. He teaches the dolls how to “hold the baby.”

To him, it’s not a baby.

It’s you, reborn.

And he won’t let them take either of you away.

Childe – Father by Force

He swore he wasn’t ready for kids.

But the moment he found out, everything changed.

Now he’s a father. A widower. A lover robbed of his wife.

“You’re not dead,” he snarls to the doctors. “You’re just… sleeping. She’ll wake up. She has to.”

Childe's convinced your condition is temporary. He builds a nursery beside your bed. He trains every day, vowing to become strong enough to destroy fate itself if that’s what it takes to bring you back.

And if he can’t?

Then your child will be his legacy.

A little warrior.

A little killer.

Just like their parents.

Dainsleif – Hope as Rotting Memory

Dainsleif speaks to your stomach more than he does your face.

“You were light,” he whispers, stroking your hand. “And now… your light still lingers. In them.”

His obsession is quiet. Methodical. He keeps you hidden far from civilisation, deep beneath the earth where time itself is forgotten.

He sings lullabies from a nation that no longer exists. He carves lullaby runes into your walls.

He tells the child inside you:

“You’ll never know pain. You’ll never see death. I will build a kingdom for you.”

But your body is fading.

He knows it.

He watches for signs of decay, panicking each time your heartbeat wavers.

He will raise your child, even if he must turn them into a vessel that wears your face.

Dottore – The Birth of a Second You

He’s already started cloning the fetus. Just in case something happens.

He keeps your body hooked to life-support machines. He replaced your heartbeat with an artificial one. He created a synthetic womb that mimics yours. There are multiple fetuses now.

He’s experimenting with which one resembles you the most.

He’s already chosen names.

He sometimes lies beside your motionless form, holding your belly and whispering:

“This time, I’ll raise you right.”

And when the child is born?

He won’t know whether it’s your child or his experiment.

And he won’t care.

Cyno – The Law Can't Touch Him

Cyno carries your picture in a locket and guards your room like a priest at a temple.

The child is proof—proof you loved someone, even if you never said who. That unknown eats him alive.

He interrogated every man you were close to.

None survived.

“I’ll find out,” he mutters. “If not in this life… then the next.”

He keeps your pregnancy secret from the world. If Sumeru knew, they'd take you from him.

But no one will.

Because he is the law.

And you are his sentence.

Scaramouche – The Puppet's Broken Family

He never wanted children.

Until now.

Now he thinks maybe, just maybe, if the child is born, you’ll be reborn too.

“I’ll rip myself open if it means giving you breath again.”

He talks to the child as if you can hear him.

“If you’re mine, I’ll love you. If you’re not… I’ll love you harder. Because that’s what she would’ve wanted. Right?”

He paces constantly. He hasn’t left the room in months.

And he won’t.

Not until you wake.

Or until the child cries and you don’t.

Wriothesley – The Prison of Love

He pulled strings to get your body moved to a sealed medical wing beneath the Fortress of Meropide.

There, no one can interfere.

He sits beside your bed, talking to you as if you're asleep.

“We’ll be a family. Even if you're not awake for it. Even if you never hold them.”

He tries not to cry. He fails.

Sometimes, he rests his head on your stomach and pretends he can feel the child kick.

He calls it his second chance.

But he’s terrified.

Terrified that when the baby comes, it’ll cry… and you still won’t open your eyes.

Zhongli – Memory’s Gentle Tyrant

Zhongli mourns with poise. He weeps like a statue might weep—quietly and without motion.

But the child changes something.

“They’ll carry your legacy,” he tells you.

“They’ll be an Archon in their own right.”

He’s already begun preparing a shrine.

But it’s not for you.

It’s for the child you left behind.

Alhaitham – Cold Logic, Heated Grief

He refuses to believe it at first.

Then he spirals.

He isolates the hospital. Blocks access. Analyses DNA behind locked doors.

“Logically, the baby should be mine,” he tells your silent body. “But logic doesn’t matter to a corpse.”

Still, he never leaves your side.

Your last breath, your last creation—he won’t let anyone else take it.

Kaveh – A Crumbling Father-to-Be

He cries more than anyone.

He can’t even look at the baby bump without sobbing.

“I didn’t… I never got to tell you how much I loved you.”

He starts building a crib. Then burns it. Then builds it again.

He wants to protect the child.

But he also wants to scream at it for surviving when you didn’t.

Ayato – The Strategic Widower

He files papers. Prepares the nursery. Calls it a “calculated tragedy.”

But it’s not.

He broke the day you did.

Now all that’s left is the child. The heir to your legacy.

His obsession turns political. He names the child after you.

Then makes laws in your name.

Maybe you’ll never wake.

But your legacy will never die.

[honeyhotteoks]

across stardust - epilogue (j.yh)

summary: you and yunho have worked together for years, idol and makeup artist, but until today you’ve never touched him skin to skin. when the world tilts on its head from just a brush of his cheek, you realize he’s so much more than a crush, he’s your soulmate. 📚series masterlist 🔗read on ao3 ✨across stardust pinterest board

note: thank you all for all the love on across stardust's final chapter and the story overall. i'm so overwhelmed by the response to this fic, so i hope everyone enjoys this short epilogue. it's not long, but i hope it does provide a bit of closure and a glimpse into our couple's future and all the good things to come for them. much love 💗

tags/warnings: idol!yunho, makeup artist!reader, fem!reader, soulmates au, soulmate identifying marks, soulmate tattoos, tattoed!reader, some general allusions to anxiety, a literal nod to breeding kink but this isn't smutty, just two married people in love and being cute about their future

pairings: yunho x reader

genre: fantasy, romance, smut || soulmates au

word count: 3.2k

✧₊⁺ two years later ✧₊⁺

The keypad to your apartment door is too small, that’s the thought that flicks through your head for the hundredth time since moving here as you try to hike the heavy shopping bags higher up on your shoulder to balance the weight and try your code again. Your head hurts, a headache brewing in the back of your skull that you don’t have time for, and traffic was terrible getting back from the shopping district to your place, setting you back an hour despite how efficiently your driver tried to weave around the blocks of stopped cars. 

As you try to reset your bags again, the electronic lock light flashes green and the door pops free, leaving you stumbling into your entryway. You skid a little on the tile, dropping the bags with a heavy sigh and kicking off your shoes as the heavy door swings shut around you. 

You lean back against the wall, feeling overstimulated from the entire day, but when you take a look around, your anxiety starts to ease. Your place is clean, every little thing on your mental list already taken care of, and any lingering stress about your pre-trip to-do list fades right out of your mind as you realize Yunho must have come home early. If a little traffic and a finicky keypad is your biggest problem, the day is just not worth worrying about.

“Babe?” You call into the quiet space, “I’m home,” 

There’s no answer, but you can tell from his shoes by the door and his keys in the bowl that he’s here somewhere. You drop your purse into its designated home by his gym bag and drag a few of your shopping bags further into the apartment, bursting full of last minute travel toiletries, new outfits bought in a moment of stressful impulsivity, and shelf stable groceries for when you get home undoubtedly starving after your return red-eye flight. 

You don’t have that much time before you have to leave for the airport, a couple of hours at the most, and all you want now is to get everything situated and ready so you can take a deep breath and download a couple of new books for the flight. 

“Baby,” You call again, “Yunho, you home?” 

This time, you’re greeted with a far off voice, “Hey, jagi, I’m in the bedroom,” he says, “you need help?” 

You do, but you leave the bags behind and head down the hall towards his voice, “I’m good,” you reply, “you’re home early?” 

“Mhm,” He hums, and when you make it into the bedroom you see that he’s laying in bed but on top of the covers, the lighting dim, “we wrapped up practice early so everyone could get a start on their vacations.” 

“Ah,” You lean over and press a kiss to his mouth before taking off your outfit and reaching for something more comfortable, “were you trying to nap? Sorry if I woke you,” 

He shakes his head, “Mm-mm,” he gives you a small, close lipped smile, “just getting a headache, thought I’d rest before the flight.” 

“Me too,” You look at him like this is surprising information, but of course if one of you isn’t feeling your best, the other has at least an echo of it. 

He gives you an amused smile and then pats the bed beside him, “Come relax, you’ve been running around all day, I’ll get you some aspirin and some water,” 

With a sigh you flop right into the bed face first. 

Yunho runs a warm hand over your hair and then slides off the bed. 

You let your eyes close for a few moments, listening to the sounds of him rustling through the bathroom medicine cabinet. 

“How was today?” He asks, his voice gentle in case your headache is worse than his. 

“Mm, fine,” You roll onto your side as he comes back into the room, “just busy out with the nice weather, it took forever to get back from Myeongdong.” 

He nods, one hand outstretched with the medicine and a glass of water in his other, “Here,” he says, “I already took some, but I think it’s your head,” 

You smile, knocking back the aspirin quickly. It had taken a bit of time to figure out just how the soulmate bond worked when one of you was feeling poorly, and when it’s something less obvious than a dance injury or period cramps, the source could be either one of you. 

“Oh,” You say as you swallow back another mouthful of water to clear the dry taste of the medication, “I just got off the phone with your mom,” 

He smiles and eases back down onto the bed, “Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” You pass him the glass of water and sink back into the pillows, “she was checking in before our trip, but asked about coming up a few weeks after we get back,” 

He nods, “I like it,” 

“I told her the guest bedroom is finally finished,” You snuggle into his side now that he’s laying down again, “I figured they can stay with us this time,”

“Perfect,” Yunho murmurs, passing a hand up and down your back. 

“How was everything with the members?” You ask, turning to look up at him. 

“Good,” He shrugs, “you know, everyone’s ancy for a bit of time off after last month,” 

Comeback and two separate concert appearances abroad had put you all through the pressure cooker, especially while you were on an opposite schedule with the Xikers team and unable to travel alongside Yunho this time. 

You nod, “And San?” 

Yunho smiles, “He practically had one foot out the door the whole time, he was leaving right for Namhae from practice,” 

“Understandable,” You press a kiss to Yunho’s chest. 

“He’s where we were,” He agrees, resting his hand over yours. 

Three months ago, San had gone home to Namhae for a charity event and bumped into a woman at a coffee shop near his father’s Taekwondo studio. It had been the quickest moment, just a touch in passing while he was in a hurry to get back to his parents as she was drowning in the morning coffee rush, not expecting that the man she’d hand back change to would brush her skin and be her sudden, fated soulmate. 

He had called Yunho in a panic, not knowing what he was supposed to do since he left in a daze, unsure of how to parse through the bizarre heaviness in his chest and sudden waves of feeling. 

It only took five minutes of Yunho talking him down for San to realize that he needed to turn around and go to her, only to run straight into her on the sidewalk as she tried to find him, the shop completely abandoned behind her. 

“I can’t wait to meet her,” You murmur, “it’s exciting that it’s not just us anymore,” 

“He’s bringing her back up this time,” Yunho adds, “I think they want to try and get a place,” 

You grin, “We’ll take them to dinner and just convince them to move in here,” 

Yunho laughs, “Here?” 

“There’s units open,” You point out, “I wouldn’t mind a friend in the building,” 

“I’ll tell San to keep that in mind,” 

You settle your cheek more comfortably against the crook of his shoulder, letting out a soft breath. 

“How’s your head?” His fingers card softly through your hair. 

“Not bad,” You assure him, “just a little tension headache, it’ll be gone soon,” 

He hums, rubbing your scalp gently at just the right pressure points. 

“Just need a minute to recharge,” You murmur, and Yunho snuggles you closer in response. 

Recharging became a bit of a code word for you both, not alone time or a date, or even needing to talk, just time with each other in the quiet, bodies touching and coming back to center. 

Your mind flicks through the to-do list though, you can’t help it. 

“You checked us in for the flights?” You ask. 

“Last night,” He confirms. 

“And we’ve got the car,” 

“Picking us up in three hours,” 

“And the,” 

“Hotel is confirmed,” Yunho soothes you, “yeobo, rest a minute, I’ve got everything handled.” 

“Sorry,” You sigh, “long week,” 

“Don’t be sorry,” He kisses your hair gently. 

“I know we said no work on this trip,” You nudge him, shifting to look up at his warm expression, “but can I show you some sketches later?” 

“Mhm,” His hand rests at the base of your neck, massaging the knots there, “what are you working on?” 

“Concepts for the Seoul concert,” You explain, thinking of just how important this show would be for Xikers, their largest venue to date, “we got set design details this week, I’ve just been thinking through some of the looks,” 

“Show me at the airport?” He offers, “Or on the flight, whatever works. I’d love to look at them,” 

You nod with a smile up at him, making a mental note to take your iPad out of your work bag and put it in your travel bag so you can show him the concept art and email over your final work to the team from the plane.

Some days you miss working on the Ateez team, but the opportunities and creative seniority on the Xikers team is something you probably would have only achieved through the high stakes contract negotiations. Despite the longer hours and added responsibilities though, you love it, and you love Yunho for how fiercely he’s supported you and your work as you take such a big step. 

You glance once more at the clock, but Yunho rolls you into a spooning position and gathers you up, “Relax,” he presses again, “just for a few minutes,”

Finally, your body lets you. 

Tension unspools from the knot in your neck, the aspirin finally starting to work on the low throb in your skull, and before you know it you’re half asleep in your husband’s arms. He rests with you awhile, but eventually keeps you both company by flicking through videos on his phone for you both to turn your brain off to. 

At what feels like the tenth video of an adorable dog, you sigh, “I want a puppy,” 

Yunho pauses the video of a yellow lab puppy with paws too big for its uncoordinated body, and he huffs a small, amused laugh, curling around you to see your face, “Yeobo, we’re on tour for half the year,” 

“I know, I know,” You shift in his hold until you’re facing him again, “it wouldn’t be fair to get a dog and then leave him,” 

He nods. 

You pull him closer by the front of his t-shirt and let his arms loop around you, your cheek against the steady thump of his heart when you relax into him again. 

“Someday,” He murmurs, kissing your hair, “I like dogs,” 

You nod into him, and the words slip out before you can stop them, “Next year, when you enlist,” 

He tenses a little, “Yeah?” 

“Let’s get a puppy before you go,” You murmur, “I don’t want to be all alone here,” 

His arms tighten around you, “Sweetheart,” he sighs, “are you worried about that?” 

“Only a little,” You confess, “but at least then we won’t be touring, I can be here with it and he’ll keep me company while you’re away,” 

“Yeah?” Yunho kisses your hair. 

“We should do it before you go though,” You tell him, “so the puppy knows you a bit, has a chance to bond with you,” 

Yunho pulls back, smiling down at you, “Been thinking about this a lot?” 

You shrug. 

His grin widens, “Yeah,” he dips low to kiss you before gathering you back up against his chest, “okay, let’s get a puppy next year.” 

You smile against the soft skin of his throat. 

“It’ll be good practice for a baby,” He says the words calmly and casually as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Your breath catches in your throat. 

“Not right away,” His clarifies, his hand still absent mindedly smoothing up and down your back, “and we’ll be promoting a lot after we come back from service, but, I was thinking about it,” 

“You were?” Your voice is small. 

“A little,” He borrows your words, a soft kiss against your hair, “a few years from now, I mean, we’ll be in our thirties by then,” 

Your stomach does a pleasant flip flop, “That’s true,” 

“I’ll come back,” He murmurs, “we’ll make a few albums, and then you know, we’ll move into a bigger place and make few babies,” 

You grin, nudging him in the ribs, “A few,” 

“What?” He laughs, looking down, “I thought you wanted two kids,”

  You roll your eyes, “Yunho, a few is not two, a few is at least three,” 

“Okay,” He shrugs, “fine, we’ll have three kids, four if you want, five at the most, but you’re going to have to sell me on it,” 

“Yunho!” You laugh, pushing against his chest. 

He grins and rolls you smoothly onto your back, settling above you and brushing his fingers along your cheek, “I’m kidding,” he murmurs, kissing you softly, “one baby, two, I don’t care, whatever you want,” 

“Oh yeah?” You melt under him, “Whatever I want?” 

He nods, “Anything,” 

“What do you want?” You nudge him gently. 

He softens, letting his weight drop a little more over you as he kisses you tenderly, “I want everything with you, yeobo, I always have,” 

Your fingers card through his hair, his lips warm and soft against yours.

“I want a home,” He murmurs, kissing you again, “a dog,” 

You smile as his lips travel to your jaw. 

“As many babies as you’ll give me,” He confesses, his voice warm and deep against your ear. 

You gasp as his teeth nip at your ear, his hand winding between you to slip into the top of your shorts, “Yunho,” 

He nods against you, the sound of his name on your lips something he never tires of, “Yes, jagi?” 

You blink, trying to keep your head, “We don’t have time, our flight,” 

“Mm,” He checks the clock on the bedside table, “we’re already packed, we’re fine, baby,” 

“Yun,” His name again a strained, taut sound as his fingers deftly slip between your folds. 

“How’s your head?” He checks softly, kisses travelling over your skin. 

“Better,” You admit. 

“Then we have time,” He murmurs, “I promise,” 

You answer him with a soft sigh, your thighs parting for him. 

“We’ll get a little practice in,” He teases and you fall apart into warm laughter. 

“Okay,” You pull him in close, to-do list be damned, “let’s practice.” 

He loves you slow, fucks you softly until you’re ready for him, opening your body up petal by petal. He makes love to you to with promises whispered in your ear, and by the end you’re nothing but a sated puddle, the freshly made bed ruined underneath you. 

It’s a mad dash out of the apartment by the time you’re both ready, frantically checking and re-checking your bags to make sure you have your passports, not a chance you’re missing out on your first vacation together since Jeju, a trip away just the two of you that was long overdue. 

At the airport, Yunho keeps you tucked closely to his side, pulling you towards check in and your gate with a smoothness that could only be a result of his years navigating Incheon. There are less photographers, much less press than if he had been travelling as a member of Ateez, but there’s still a few, and you both kindly dodge any questions as he weaves you through the small crowd. His hand stays firmly on your lower back the whole time, an awareness thrumming through him despite his easy going smiles at the camera. 

It’s a strange new normal now that you’re publicly together. A few years ago you would have never imagined walking side by side with him like this, let alone touching, openly romantic in a way you never thought you’d be afforded.

But times have changed. 

Everything’s changed. 

On the plane, with Yunho’s fingers threaded with yours, you think about it all.

After the announcement, things did get difficult, just like their CEO predicted. For a little while it was every bad thing you could have imagined, but just like it's always been true, bad things end, and at the end of all that was a life so much brighter than you ever thought you could have. 

The cruel comments, the letters, the threats, you hardly remember their words anymore. 

The change started with the members, each of them posting their very public and proud support of you both, and then it all just kept coming. Other idols spoke up too, lending their support to you both and asking the same questions as Yunho did in his letter; what is fair for idols to endure for the sake of a fantasy? 

When retired idols started revealing their truths about finding their soulmates and the difficulties they faced with their companies, with their careers, you could almost feel the physical shift in the air. Yunho wasn’t the first idol to find his soulmate, you had been right all along about how unlikely that would have been, and now you had idol after idol sharing their own story and standing with you both in solidarity, in strength.  

Slowly, the voices of those who supported you both got louder and more frequent, and life found its way back to steady. Comebacks, tours, appearances, fancalls, all of it right back into place. For the most part, his fans were still his fans, and many of them, to your absolute surprise, embraced you too.  

As Korea fades away from your airplane window, you turn to finishing up a little work before watching a movie side by side with Yunho on one of the little screens, headphones split between you. Eventually you sleep, both of you dropping off together, hands still tightly clasped on the console between you.

When Yunho wakes you, hours and hours later, the plane cabin is just starting to raise the lights for landing. Your husband kisses you softly, and then nods towards the window. 

It’s nighttime in Paris, the sky inky and dark, but below the city shines, boulevards cutting wide swaths across streets and dividing up each arrondissement into glittering pockets of light. As the plane banks, your eyes catch on the unmistakable glow of the Eiffel Tower as it erupts into silvery stars. 

“Just for you,” Yunho murmurs, his fingers soft on your cheek as he turns you back to him. 

“For us,” 

He leans into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss, a warmth blooming in your chest as his fingertips brush against his soulmark. 

He promised to bring you back here someday when you didn’t have to hide, and from the start, he’s kept every promise he’s made to you. 

This time when you walk through the city together it’s daytime, the spring sun warm and the trees blooming along the riverbank. 

This time, your hand is in his on the same side of the Seine.

[jjwolves]

INSIDER TRADING 𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ

What: 5 Yandere ENA the Worker X Reader Headcanons Where She’s Delusional

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1100 words, ~6 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: Toxic/Abusive Behavior

ENA does everything a little too much, even if she’s trying to be friendly. She smiles too wide when she finally gets to shake your hand, gripping it with both and over-eagerly examining it. “This sort of deal is rarer than you’d formulate! I need to take this opportunity before it slips away.” She scowls too deeply when another person talks to you, enviously wringing her hat as she stews in the distance—from which divine blood is squeezed out and dribbles onto the ground. On top of all that, she gets way too intimate with you than what’s normal. It’s not unusual at all for you two to complete a job and find a place to recuperate when ENA suddenly sits as close as she can, triangular eye pointing downwards with a passing sense of scorn for everything around her. But one day, she takes it too far.

One day, when you were sitting next to ENA, she turned to you and gave you an ill omen of what was to come. “Tell me. Have you ever had something you ought to trade away, which you refused to part with because of how valuable it was?” You had to admit that no, you didn’t think that you were too attached to any of the things you’ve sold before. She sighed a long breath which distorted and got louder the longer it hung in the air until vanishing completely. “Treasured customer. Loyal affiliate. That’s not what I’m gesturing towards.” Then what was she getting at? “My new offer… Is this.” Planting her hands on either side of your hips, she crawled forward slowly, deliberately, as her eyes fluttered closed. Her flat mouth parted just slightly as she now revealed her hand—she was obviously about to kiss you. Confused, you put your hands on her shoulders and kept her in place. A look of surprise, and then a turn of the head so that the other side could take its turn. “Don’t chicken out now, bug!” You kept her where she was and tried to explain to her that you liked her, yes, but that you two would need to work into that in the future, if it would ever happen at all. You weren’t ready for that yet. “What are you blabbering about?! You’re MINE! END OF STORY, NOW BURN THE BOOK!” Your ears rang from the beating ENA’s voice gave them and your body hurt from the rough embrace that ENA now had you clenched in. This was going to be a complicated situation.

She doesn’t mean to, but ENA embarrasses you a lot in front of customers. Sometimes the entities that you sell to can get a little handsy and overly friendly, at which point ENA feels the need to assert your status while wrapping a free-floating arm around your waist. “Apologies, there seems to have been a miscommunication. Allow me to clarify: No touching. Dearest is my intellectual property, after all!” ENA turns her head to you with a wide smile like you’re in on the joke, but you’re not. You’re the butt of it. Afterwards, she complains about the lechery of such a rude customer in a rough voice that bounces around in your head once your ears are done taking a beating. “Who do they think they are?! Who do they think you are?! Who do they think I am?! No, seriously, who? Because I keep forgetting our vows!” You do your best not to facepalm. You’re not even dating, let alone married. How far was ENA going to take this weird fantasy of hers?

As far as she has to, apparently. When work is finally over and you round the corner to head home, ENA surprises you. You yelp, which is particularly embarrassing, but could anyone blame you? She stands still with her often-default vacant, smiling expression. When she takes a step forward, you take a step back, bumping against an ancient stone wall which looks like it was painted by cavemen. Her arms are out like she’s struck a deal blessed by the gods, but as for what she’s selling you have no idea. “I’ve been rotating you in my mind, darling! And I’ve come to a startling realization: I never sold you a commemorative ring! I have one, see?” She floated her arm over to you and made a dainty gesture to show you the ring she was wearing on one of her pointed fingers. It was like the crest of an ocean was compressed into a circle and wrapped around her finger, thrumming to the heartbeat of someone else. She moved it in front of her to better inspect it. “I came to an interesting understanding. All this time, I thought you were mine…” You shiver, but that’s because it’s cold, probably. It’s definitely not because this is a little terrifying. “Yet I forgot to Ring you. Ha! Silly me. I suppose there’s a price to being such a busybody—you forget the recipe! Ahem. Anyways. About our loyalty program...” ENA’s face did something weird when she reached into a pocket to retrieve a ring for you. It flashed pale, like she did when she was yelling, but there was no red. No slick salesperson. Just blackness and a signal that dropped out a long time ago. She presented a glowing, orange ring which which brightened the area like neon. “J-just put this on… S-so I can be sure. T-that I was right.” ENA’s darkened eye buzzed with anxiety.

You couldn’t really say or do anything. As much as you didn’t want to hurt ENA’s feelings, all of this intimacy and commitment was in her head. You were friends, sure, but you weren’t… on the level that ENA thought. And you said so. “W-what? You’re saying I m-made it up? That… can’t be right…” She looked very un-ENA like for a moment. Not like her geometry reconstructed or anything like that, but she looked hurt, and confused. And then her geometry did change. Putting her head in her hands, defiantly shaking her head ‘no’, she exploded into a tangle of branches and vines like it was a sacred unspooling into nervous thread. You startled and fell back. The branches and strings that were ENA solidified for a moment into a tree, which grew a fruit and dropped onto the ground, and then burnt away. The fruit grew into ENA. You were so confused. “Apologies, dear. I had to get my head back on my shoulders.” A crack. “NOW PUT THE DAMN RING ON AND SAY ‘I DO’!” You were starting to think that there was no way out of this.

[rdmasevi]

Crimson Bonds

Title: “Crimson Bonds”: a Twilight fanfiction

Pairings: Volturi Kings ( Aro, Marcus, Caius ) x Reader Male ( Bella’s Brother )

Genre: Supernatural Romance | Drama |

Angst | Dark Fantasy | Slow Burn (Implied) | Power Dynamics|

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Possessive Behavior, Violence & Threats, Dark Themes, Sibling Conflict.

Summary: When Bella races to Volterra to save Edward from exposing himself to the world, the Volturi discover a secret the Cullens never intended to reveal—Bella’s brother.

The air in the Volturi’s marble throne room felt colder than usual as Aro’s pale fingers slid into Alice’s hand, eyes widening with rapture. The echoes of Bella’s frantic heartbeat still rang in the vast chamber, where she and Edward stood before the vampire kings, pleading for their lives.

But then Aro paused.

He stilled as though time had halted, the world fading from his consciousness while a new vision unfurled before his mind's eye—one Alice herself hadn't seen, hidden in the tangled future, obscured even from her sight.

A boy.

No—a man. Human. Living quietly in Forks. Bella’s brother. But unlike Bella, his existence wasn’t mundane.

Aro's eyes flickered with sudden hunger, curiosity, purpose. A smile curled across his lips, bone-white and unblinking.

"You’ve been keeping secrets, my dear," he whispered, hand slipping from Alice’s. His eyes landed not on her, nor Edward, but Bella. "I wonder, Isabella... does your brother know just how important he truly is?"

Bella stiffened. "What—"

But Caius rose then, like a predator scenting blood.

"A mate," he said, voice low and sharp. "We feel him. Even from here. His blood... his soul. He belongs to us."

Marcus didn’t speak. His black eyes turned far away, and though silent, his presence loomed—he felt the bond too. The rare, ancient tie of a true mate. And it wasn’t with any human woman. It was with him.

You.

——

You felt it before they arrived.

A whisper in your blood. A pulse in your bones that didn’t belong to you.

The wind howled outside your window in Forks, but the stillness inside your chest was louder. You didn't know what it meant—only that Bella hadn’t come home. That she’d gone to Italy. That something was wrong.

And then, the kings came.

Three figures in cloaks like shadows pulled from nightmares, gliding through your door as if it weren’t even there. Aro, with a smile like frostbite. Caius, burning with disdain. Marcus, who merely looked at you and whispered, “Finally.”

You didn't fight.

You couldn't.

Because when Aro reached out and took your hand, you felt it—them.

Something ancient awakened. A thread of fate pulling tight. The overwhelming sensation of being seen—not as Bella’s brother, not as a human—but as something theirs. Something powerful. Something claimed.

"You belong to us," Aro said gently. “And we do not take well to being kept from what is ours.”

——

The Cullen house exploded in fury when they found out.

Carlisle, usually calm, struck the stone table hard enough to crack it.

"You went to him? Without telling us? Without giving him a choice?"

“He chose,” Aro said simply. “He felt the bond. It cannot be denied. Not by you. Not by Bella. Not even by him.”

“But you would have killed us,” Rosalie snarled, her eyes burning.

“Yes,” Caius replied coldly, “and still might. You kept him hidden. You tried to sever the bond. That is treason.”

“You hid our mate from us,” Aro added, voice sharp now. “From me.”

The Volturi had never shared a mate before. But in you, they did. A paradox the vampire world had never seen—a single human soul tied to all three kings. You were theirs. Not one. Not two. But all three.

And yet, the Cullens fought.

Edward, desperate. “He’s not like you. He’s good. You’ll destroy him.”

But you were already in Volterra. You stood at the kings’ side, a strange calm in your chest. It wasn’t submission. It wasn’t fear. It was inevitability.

You could feel it.

The way the darkness curled around you but didn’t consume you. How Aro’s touch didn’t chill, but steadied. How Marcus, silent as ever, never left your side. How Caius—feral, cruel—watched you like a starving man seeing sunlight for the first time.

They weren’t here to break you. They didn’t want to.

They wanted you to rule.

“I’m not a prisoner,” you said, voice low but certain, silencing the room. “I’m here because I chose to be.”

Bella looked at you like she didn’t recognize you.

You gave her a soft smile.

“I’ll be okay, Bella. This is... right.”

Aro stepped forward and placed a hand on your shoulder, smiling proudly. “And now, the Volturi are whole.”

The Cullen clan was forced to leave. Not defeated—banished. The kings allowed their lives only because you had asked them to.

And in the depths of Volterra, in the heart of ancient power, you began to change.

Not broken. Not lost.

But rising.

The kings’ true mate.

And their future.

My main masterlist

[galactic-rhea]

WDYM Anakin is Luke and Leia's dad

I dunno if this post will reach the Star Wars fandom but I hope it does because I'm sure you all will get a good laugh at me.

As of recent I have developed a good hiperfixation for Star Wars, the thing is I knew nothing. NOTHING about Star Wars besides the fact it had aliens and...a war...in space? And funny swords. And main character is Luke or something, I spent over 20 years ignoring anything about Star Wars and somehow missing most references out there.

And recently, literally less than a month ago I saw a gif and said to my partner "oh this guy this guy looks cool, this gif looks nice" and he said "Oh well, he's a good character." And it all developed into me watching Clone Wars, the animated series you know and...and I was kinda blown away, on my opinion the show IS GREAT. And I love every character and their interactions, I love how much they focus on side characters, and they all seem very well written. I got hiperfixated really fast and saw Anakin and I was like "Omg, babygirl. He's a blorbo now."

And because of the show, this was super unexpected, but somehow I also got, really got, into the ship with Padmé because omg, cool woman. Literal happy squeaky noises of someone who was in a bad state and needed some good ol' distraction and comfort.

Now, like I said I knew nothing about Star Wars as a whole. And I still haven't watched the movies, besides the ocassional gif?

So imagine my shock, my surprise, my...bewilderment when I realized.

"Wait a minute, LUKE IS ANAKIN'S SON?! HOLY-"

Ladies, gentleman, and others, I think I came very late to this party and I don't even know how it took me so long.

Not only that, but because of this sudden love for the series, I went to my friends circle like "BESTIE, GUESS WHAT, I HAVE A NEW BLROBO AND A NEW FAV SHIP AND EEEP"

And my friends are like "omg that's amazing, what is it?"

I tell them, and of course they all know these characters and they all react like they know this very bad secret fact and I got told several times already "Please, don't watch the episodes 2 and 3 alone, it will hurt."

I feel like blissfully walking among rainbows and blue skies while everyone else know that my future is doomed. Somehow.

(Uncomfortable silence)

Not only that, but then I spent a whole deal of time thinking "Where the heck I have seen these guys" cus there was some fmailiarity I couldn't just point out and then one day I woke up, brushed my teeth and of all sudden I realized and it was such a shock.

Do you know how SURREAL is to get very into a character, and into a ship, and then realize they're the same from that super widespread meme that has been around for who knows how much time?

I swear I thought that meme was from some old medieval fantasy movies or something.

But alas, Star Wars now is EVERYWHERE. People do references to Star Wars ALL THE TIME and it's just now I'm catching them.

I got spoilers. From a meme. In a youtube review that had nothing to do with Star Wars hah. Everything is a spoiler, the world is an apparent spoiler. Now I'm here, trying to avoid spoilers from something everyone seems to know, even my family knows. It's so surreal and I wouldn't have it any other way 😂

Anyways, if you read until here, know that a wild ride still waits me, cuz I'm only starting Season 3 of Clone Wars and I don't plan to watch the movies until I finish the series.

And yes, I made this blog just to ramble freely about SW and draw stuff because it sparked my inspiration after a long art block.

Have this doodle I drew after watching the two first episodes, my offering for you reaching this far.

Note: Wouldn't Anakin and Padmé's ship name be Animé? Cuz that's hilarious.

[ma1dita]

a wish your heart makes

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> play pretend | next -> star crossing words: 1.4k summary: (established relationship) The one where you share dreams, burn cookies, and it still reminds him of home. You try to do something nice for your boyfriend and everything goes wrong, or so you think. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader a/n: I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come ho—OH FUCK OFF, UNCLE RICK. sidenote this haunted me. (posted 1/26/24 unbetad)

—

Luke’s dreams were always different from yours. 

Both when he’s awake and holding your hand up until sleep finally rips him away from your earthly embrace, he’s always been certain of who he was and what he wants to achieve. To be a hero providing salvation for the needy, to be a half-blood son worth the love of a god, and to be a fierce soldier, leading his troop into battle for glory. These are the thoughts he routinely pounds into his brain, so much so that anyone who knows him knows of his aspirations.

You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone so insistent on wanting to be remembered. Luke wants to leave a legacy worth dying for, worth talking about for millenia to come. And your boy persists, despite the trials of life, the ignorance of his father, and the strings of the Fates.

Your dreams, however, were always much simpler. 

Cuddled under your covers and brushing your lips against Luke’s forehead to quell the growing unease that occupies his brain, you whisper what you deeply wish for.

“We’re getting old,” you mumble, and the breath of his laugh tickles your ear. He lazily runs his nose against the slope of your collarbone, sighing when he finally hears the steady beat of your chest, “We’ve definitely surpassed the average life expectancy of a typical demigod. Look at us…” he jests.

Your breath jumps in amusement as you feel his lips against your sternum, and then your boyfriend is smiling against your heart, using you for comfort as you both pass the time waiting for Hypnos to come calling.

“In a year, we’ll be nineteen…And I know you never wanted to stay here forever, so… What’s next?”

You hold in a bated breath, always unsure of where to place yourself in rank of his priorities. Who were you if not his biggest supporter?

Luke contemplates for a moment in the silence of your bedroom. It’s much easier to think and have more adult… conversations… without the many meddling children of cabin 11 always asking for one more lullaby, one more glass of water, and one more tuck-in goodnight. Here in the privacy of your room, he gets to be a boy void of his responsibilities besides hiding under his girlfriend’s duvet, giving her another shirt of his to wear, and kissing her until Apollo’s rays of light gently help you wake.

“You tell me, Trouble. What does the future have in store for us?”

Us.

He’s sweet to indulge in your fantasies like this, and you stroke your fingers through his curls as you speak, ‘I think it’d be nice to go to college. Made it this far, so maybe being normal won’t be so hard…”

A soft noise leaves his throat, urging you to continue as you bite your lip and smile.

“Maybe someday, we could get a house. One on top of a hill. I don’t need much, something like the Big House, but one we can call home.”

You can feel the teeth of his sleepy grin against your skin as he whispers the next words into your heart.

“We could do that. House with big bay windows, and the smell of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies in the air. Sounds nice, baby.”

And it does.

Luke’s eyes flutter shut shortly after, but your mind is awake with how to make the dream you now share a reality. Perhaps you couldn’t give him glory, or pray hard enough to Hermes so that he’d talk to his son, but you reckon that chocolate chip cookies would be easy enough. 

—

At least, it was supposed to be—until you set off the smoke alarm again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” 

Clouds of grey are billowing from the communal kitchen oven after your multiple attempts of trying to get this right. The dryads had both partially given up on the havoc you wrecked upon their workspace as well as your increasing frustration towards them. It wasn’t their fault, you knew that—but as a perfectionist who followed the recipe to a t, how was it possible that everything was still going wrong? The first batch, you got too excited and mixed all the ingredients together, making them lumpy and inconsistent. The second batch was over-creamed, and you had to scrape them off the tray, and with this one… well you had the oven setting on a bit too high.

You sigh deeply, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes as you try to will away the mania creeping up your neck. Being the daughter of the god of insanity was hard, having to consistently control your emotions for the sake of others. Taking a shaky breath, you stare blankly at the darkened cookies, close to being burned to a crisp. The jingle of the windchime against the door rings across the room and you barely hear it until you feel Luke’s hands skate past your waist to go open a window.

“What’d you get into now, Trouble? Been looking for you,” he says, coughing lightly from the smoke.

You groan, trying to cover the mess behind you on the counter and accidentally catching your arm on the hot tray, making you flinch.

“Ow! Ugh, babe, you’re not supposed to be here yet! I thought you were still sparring…”

Your boyfriend approaches you, squeezing your arm to examine if you’ve gotten hurt and tugging you towards him.

“That was an hour ago—how long have you been here, baby?” Luke pulls you into his arms, placing a kiss on your warm wrist, instantly soothing your anxiety until you see his eyes meet your latest failure.

“You bake now?”

“Clearly not, Luke, I’m sorry…I tried but I kept getting it wrong and then I got mad at myself for fucking up something so…” your voice weakens, tears welling in your eyes again thinking you’ve disappointed him.

Luke steps away from you and towards the kitchen counter, warm cookies browned to a crisp. He reaches out to pick one up before you can stop him, crunching down on it, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth as he sniffs.

Just like his mother would make them, through her madness and all.

He’s transported back to a memory of a house with big bay windows, kind of like the one you two dreamt up last night, but he’s nine and sitting at the kitchen table drinking Kool-Aid while his mom makes peanut butter sandwiches. May Castellan forgets the cookies in the oven again, and for a moment, Luke forgets that the last time he saw his mother was a lifetime ago. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels your fingertips brushing away the saltwater from his cheeks.

“Didn’t mean to make you cry, angelface, I’m sorry…” you mumble, but stop speaking when you see him take another bite.

“They’re great.”

“What?”

He chomps on another singed cookie, his lips quirking into a soft smile. Luke’s not going to let you throw the rest of this batch out. Chuckling weakly, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter as he slots himself between your legs, rough hands patting your thighs.

“Well, they’re not great. But they’re perfect. Just the way I remember them,” he smiles, kissing the furrow in your brow. You don’t bother trying to comprehend his statement, happy that you didn’t mess up a memory he holds dear. 

Luke wonders if maybe he’s been blessed by his father after all, to have such extreme luck to exist at the same time as you. He doesn’t answer to the gods, to fate, but he does answer when you call his name, and settles into your arms. Love is an action after all, uncontained by just words, and he knows you tried your best, which makes it more than enough.

“She would’ve loved you, I’m sure of it,” he says rubbing his nose against yours before you can interject again, “I love you, so I know she would’ve too.”

Luke presses a tender kiss against the palm that caresses his jaw, before meeting you in the middle and finding your lips. It’s a dance you two have memorized, sweet and breathless as you meld both of your grins together. To him, you taste like chocolate chips and feel like home.

“I love you too, angelface. Almost burned the kitchen down for you,” your chuckle is cut off when he goes to press against your pout again hungrily, tracing patterns against the soft skin of your thighs as he just eats you up. The sound of your moans escapes between kisses as you wind your legs around his waist and it dampens the sound of the kitchen timer when it goes off. 

(You forcibly have to detach from Luke’s embrace, much to his displeasure so that you don’t burn the next batch too.)

—

"Your name is humming inside my chest. I think this is what it means to love. I think this is what it means to be living." -Emma Bleker

ask to be added to general/luke taglists!

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[lifeandtimesoftrying]

I just watched "Looking for Par'Mach in All the Wrong Places" (S05 E03), and something that really appeals to me about the Keiko/Miles/Kira ship is that Keiko and Miles are very much part of a family in a way that Kira's never had. Kira grew up in a refugee camp, believed her mother died when she was 3, joined the resistance when she was 12--effectively, due to the occupation, she never got to have a childhood like, say, Molly has.

While Miles has plenty of war memories of his own, and I assume that's at least somewhat affected Keiko, all of that happened when they were adults so they still had that reference of what a good childhood looks like. Miles still views Ireland as a home, and when he goes back there, he is going back to both a family and memories that are good. (I don't think we've explicitly gotten similar information about Keiko, but I'm chalking that up to her generally not being present in the show as much.)

Kira, in contrast, has never had a home in the same way. I doubt she'd go back to the refugee camp to reminisce, and she was constantly moving during her time with the resistance. When DS9 starts, Bajor has been free for less than a year, and Kira's living on a space station designed by Cardassians, serving under a Federation officer. She is proud of Bajor as her home, but she doesn't have a home on Bajor.

Furthermore, much of her relationship to Bajor itself is either based in the past ("Bajor used to have freedom/sophisticated technology/important artistic achievements/etc") or the future ("what does a healed Bajor look like; should it join the Federation; what will be its role in trade"). This is also reflected in the romantic relationships she's had so far. Vedek Bariel represented the ancient religious traditions (albeit in a more progressive way). Shakaar represents the forward march of the government, especially with how his political career would go against his caste pre-occupation, which is touched upon in S04E17 "Accession."

All in all, Kira's view on her life is rarely ever in the present, which is a fantastic contrast to the O'Briens. They have a daughter who is young enough that every few months she has a new development; they regularly make a point to be romantically (and sexually) close to one another; while Keiko is far from thrilled about their location, they intentionally make it work where they are. Their jobs also contribute to this. We mostly see the DS9 crew resolving crises, but dialogue implies that a lot of Miles' time is actually spent repairing small issues when they pop up, and Keiko goes on a whole expedition to study flora, which is governed by the seasons.

Kira carrying their baby entangles her in that same mindset. Her being pregnant demands that she pay attention to where she is then and there--she's always physically reminded of her condition, which keeps her locked in a fairly narrow timeframe. Plus, her moving in with the O'Briens means that she must get used to their daily rhythms. Kira's self-proclaimed lack of imagination impacts this as well. I love it as a character trait, but it raises the question of why she's that way.

My theory is that some of it is innate, but it was exacerbated by the trauma she experienced as a child. Childhood is often characterized as a time of great imagination and creative exploration, and Kira just... never had that. I can't find the precise quote, but when she is asked (I believe by Sisko?) if she ever had any daydreams, she responds that she'd dream that the Cardassians would leave Bajor and let the Bajorans live. Her attitude towards the Holoprograms lines up with this as well; she sees little point in doing something that isn't actually happening. For her to find value in something, it must be real--it must be useful. She used her one fantasy to turn herself into a soldier. And, pragmatically speaking, there is very little that is useful about romance, or candlelit dinners, or banter that leads to innuendos. So what happens when she's confronted with them?

[rauferes]

I've been thinking a lot about Emmrich and lichdom, recently. (Staunchly pro-lich route people, you can stop here-- I hope you guys have a great day c: )

For me-- and this is entirely based on what I bring to the media as an audience member, not a reflection of Emmrich's character-- I'm most interested in exploring routes in which Emmrich ends up making peace with mortality and his fears surrounding death. Because at the end of the day, I do not live in a fantasy world. I am going to die, and given a choice, I'd like to be at peace with that. So for me, there's more value in learning how to live with a terrible truth than escapism, at the moment. One day, if I'm lucky, I'll be Emmrich's age, and then older than him. When senescence is in my near future, I very much doubt I'll be as blasé about it as I am now. There's a focusing effect of knowing the decline that's coming, that's almost here... And everyone says life passes much faster than you think.

So. How does one learn to live with the fleeting, fragile moments we have? How does one realize that greatness is a rare thing indeed-- and one gained only if you are willing to sacrifice a great many trappings of a normal, mundane life? How does one learn to savor the moment that is, and stop chasing a tantalizing and yet hollow future, where no achievement seems to satisfy as much as it feels it should?

I've realized, also, that to become a lich, Emmrich must cease to be himself. I don't mean some nonsense about flesh or having a human body (although I have thoughts about that too)-- I mean, very concretely, that the way Emmrich moves through the world is incompatible with lichdom. In my personal characterization of him, he loves deeply, but struggles with impermanence, with endings-- heartbreak shatters him, and he finds it difficult to move on. People he'd known and loved deeply for a year or two become light anecdotes, yes, but only after decades have passed. (Far more years than he'd ever known them; the wounds run deep.)

To survive lichdom sane, I think he would need to detach. Shutter his heart. Learn to hold the world and the people in it more lightly; eventually, come not to hold them at all.

Emmrich, I think, views lichdom as a triumph: a shining chance to become something greater than a human. To give the world more than he could with time cut short.

The picture I have of his immortality is nothing like his, and it haunts me: there is, you see, more than one way to dig your own grave. Emmrich Volkarin, centuries from now, sits in the library that he has amassed, fully withdrawn into his tomes. The time comes when he no longer has windows-- for the light damages the books, you see-- no longer lights the braziers. He reads by the light of his own eyes.

The only people in his life exist as memories-- and slowly, they, too, fade.

[ak1chi]

Obsessed with his birdie. Golden Cage.

Warnings: MDNI, fem!reader (afab!reader), yandere behavior, suggestive (a dirty fantasy is mentioned), OOC, the reader is assumed to be an adult (19-20+ years old), age difference, teacher/student, unrequited feelings, english is not my native language. idk how to write warnings :P

I will also insert the introductory part on ao3 (not required reading, but recommended. It was created so that there would be no misunderstandings in the future. There is also an explanation about fanfics.)

—I met her on the milky way

[Song: Dunkelbunt – Cinnamon Girl]

Who she was I could not say

I only knew I wanna stay

Together we spent night and day

We used to fly trough summer trees

The air was full of blossom breeze

Deep inhale this tasty smell

Thoughts of you (thoughts that are far from pure) have haunted him for a long time. They are burning, reaching right to the depths of his soul, tormenting him with unhealthy love. And now, as you step into his office, it does nothing to ease Crowley’s inner turmoil.

How many stories does it tell?

Once again, he has to play his role. He’s tired. Truly. But there is still so much to do before he snaps, like a wild raven catching sight of something shiny.

Crowley is well aware of the mixed feelings his saccharine-sweet smile stirs within you. And he understands why you’ve come to his office for the fourth time this week. Not that he minds—far from it. He enjoys seeing his birdie, especially when that annoying familiar isn’t by your side.

"Prefect, I’ve already told you—I am doing everything in my power to find a way to return you to your world!" Crowley exclaims in his dramatic way, appearing beside you in the blink of an eye. "Ah, so much work has piled up for poor, kind me... If only someone would help me with these documents."

Crowley sighs, ready to shed a tear at being so poor and unhappy. His arm drapes around your shoulders, and you barely notice how swiftly he changes the subject, not giving you a chance to say anything.

"It’s a good thing I have someone like you, Prefect, who can lend a hand to their poor, unfortunate Headmage. You’ll help me, won’t you?"

A question that doesn’t require an answer—he already knows what you’ll say. After all, you’re such a good little bird, aren’t you?

"Um… I guess I will," you reply uncertainly, not even sure why you’re agreeing. Perhaps it has something to do with his hand, the way it strokes your shoulder so gently, his claws somehow avoiding the fabric of your shirt. The touch is soft, almost caring, and it makes you forget the real reason you came here in the first place.

"That's a good girl! I knew you’d say yes!" Crowley’s mood shifts instantly, his smile widening just enough to reveal his fangs. He pulls you into what appears to be a friendly embrace—if one ignores a few telling details and, more importantly, what Crowley himself is feeling. His eyes gleam behind his mask as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, leaving behind a faint trace of his lipstick. The beak of his mask brushes against your hair, firm but not painful. If he had his way, he would have kissed you on the lips.

Releasing you, he turns away, heading back to his desk where his cane rests, leaving you standing in the middle of his office, rubbing your forehead with your sleeve.

"You may begin reviewing the teachers' reports, Prefect," he calls out, his voice loud, cheerful... and satisfied.

"Alright…"

Your voice makes him exhale, and for a brief moment, his self-control cracks. If you could see his face, you’d notice the way his lips curl into a grin, the faint flush on his cheeks—but your gaze is fixed on his back. Even the round eyes of his mask seem to glow oddly.

That familiar desire stirs again, the one he has fought so hard to suppress. Vivid images flash before his mind’s eye—you, cheeks flushed, whimpering under his kisses and touch. The way you’d take him like a good girl, tears rolling down your face, dripping onto the wooden desk, staining the documents and everything else beneath you. He swallows hard, fingers tightening around his cane.

But he quickly regains control, settling into his chair to conceal his obvious arousal, acting far too innocent and charming for someone who has just made you do his work for him. For someone who, mere moments ago, indulged in such indecent fantasies about you.

It’s still too soon to show you his true self.

And though Crowley has managed to lock you inside his gilded cage since the moment you arrived—showering you with money, clothes, everything you could possibly need, because really, who else would take care of such a lovely dove if not him—he can’t guarantee you won’t try to escape. Escape from him once you realize what feelings you’ve awakened in him. Once you understand what he truly wants to do to you. No, no—it's too early for you to know that he has forbidden you from searching for a way back on your own, that he has hidden everything related to it in a place no one could ever find. That he has never once intended to send you home.

You are his mate, and if necessary, Crowley is prepared to keep you in a cage until you accept his love and return his feelings. After all, he has already clipped your wings, tying you to him.

—Hey my little honey bee

He’s just in love, after all.

You're far away that´s hurting me

I miss you darling far away

Your warm sweet smile this summerday

[stemmingspark]

C/W: Incest fantasies, a hot but half-formed thought tbh

Midnight

Behind the closed doors of the master bedroom, on a large bed, a man slams his cock into his wife's soaking cunt. Large hands grip her waist as he sinks inside her, eyes focused and dangerous as he brutally fucks the shit out of her. Bent over on floors and used like a fleshlight of a fuckdoll, his wife groans into her pillow. As she catches her breath, she speaks.

"Our baby girl, she—"

"Shut up."

"She was wearing—"

"I said. Shut. The fuck. Up."

The man raises a hand, spanking his wife's jiggling ass as he fucks her harder, trying not to think about the nasty, icky, incestuous things that fuelled his fervent fuckfest.

"She was wearing—"

"Just—"

"That slutty bikini and it hid—"

"SHUT UP!"

"Absolutely. Nothing."

The man groans as he recalls his own daughter, lounging around in a deck chair, her huge tits squeezed in a bikini that was far too fucking small for her. Her perfect skin shining with smeared sunscreen as he groped his wife's ass, practically begging for a quickie.

One look at their daughter, and not only did she deny him but she also went to strip her own clothes off to join their baby.

"You loved it, you sick fucking pervert."

The man grunts in respond, as he pushes his wife down, laying her flat on her belly. Every fucking thrust, his heavy balls smack against his wife's ass. Their daughter was conceived like this years ago. And now they're fucking to the thought of her.

"Would you have liked that? Her pretty eyes looking up at her dad, her own sick fuck of father, as she jerks you off? 'Daddy, daddy, is this how you like it? Is this how mommy does it to you?' Is that what you want to hear?"

Something snaps in the man. His brutal fucking eases up, as twists his head around to meet his wife's glazed over eyes.

"And what if I would want that? My own daughter's tight, wet cunt wrapped around my incestuous cock?"

She groans, knowing she's pushed him past the point of return. One small line crossed, another larger line looming in the future. The man grinds into his wife, his head fully occupied by his daughter's lewd, nasty body.

"I... FUCK... I made her. I loved her. And now... Fuck, prancing around in that slutty, whoreish bikini, she's shown me... that I deserve to fuck her."

"Don't you think so, sweetie? Wouldn't she look better with her tongue in your mouth and her dad's cock inside her? Shit... I need her body so bad. I need my baby girl. I need her."

"She wants to show off that pretty little fucktoy body of hers so bad? She can show the fucking neighbours while she rides her daddy's stiff, hard cock like a good fucking daughter. Tell them they can watch but they can never, ever touch."

"Because she's her fucking dad's personal fleshlight."

The man unleashes a torrent of pervy cum inside his broken wife, as she shudders in pleasure beneath him, nasty thoughts of tonguing her husband's cum out of her daughter's cunt, and scissoring her pretty pussy afterwards.

The man lets out a final sigh. They're just thoughts. Just fantasies. It's not like it'd actually happen. It's all just dirty talk to be kept behind closed doors—

Their bedroom door was ajar, by the slightest of cracks.

[writing-the-stars]

A Second Chance Romance

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!Reader, Unnamed OC x Fem!Reader

Summary: It had been years since you last heard from Klaus Mikaelson, and just as you were finally ready to move on, he decided to remind you of the love you once shared.

Warnings: Angst (As Always) and Emotional Cheating. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Hey guys! I'm baaaaaaaaaaack. Did you miss me? It's been far too long. I'm alive and I have been slowly ramping up to my return. Starting with this story! The title, to be frank, is not greatest, but I think this is a nice little story to raise me from the dead. I hope you enjoy and thank you all so much for reading!!! Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist

You perfect the practiced smile you’ve been working on for weeks. It should be easy for you by now– it should come naturally. Everything about this day shouldn’t feel as forced as it does, and yet, on what was meant to be the happiest day of your life, you could only feel the apprehensive dread pooling in your gut. 

The heirloom gown from your soon to be mother-in-law feels heavier than it should, almost suffocating, magnifying the doubts consuming your mind. This was supposed to be the genesis of your new life, the start of your would-be happily ever after. Yet, that menacing fear of regret whittles away at any persuasion you used to get yourself to this moment. You were so sure this is what you wanted. The venue, the menu, the flowers, the seating– all meticulously chosen for this day. But with the weight of vows looming in the horizon, the word “mistake” seems to have made a home in your mind. Were you really prepared to commit yourself to a lifetime with this man?

He was good and pure-hearted– kind, caring, and devoted. He treasured you, loving you in a way that you could never fully reciprocate. You do have an affinity for the man waiting for you at the end of the aisle and you know he could give you a stable and contented life. Yet, the allure of the security his last name would bring pales when you reflect on the life you are now trying to shed. 

Memories intricately woven with passion and adventure. Each day an unpredictable surprise filled with experiences that reshaped the person you once were. The encompassing romance that breathed new meaning to your life, sparking a deeper fulfillment as you were pushed beyond your familiar boundaries. A chapter of your life where your heart had found its rhythm. And despite the inevitable challenges, especially given his past, you were unwavering in facing them with him, and your life was richer for it. 

That danger of living on the edge wasn’t something you realized you craved until it was suddenly taken away. But that was not a sustainable life, you remind yourself as you latch on to a new flaw in your appearance to occupy your mind. 

Your groom is safe— a predictable and reliable anchor in life. A mundane routine you can easily fall into. He promises stability and security, granting you a solid foundation for your future. Which is why you convinced yourself to marry him. It wouldn’t be the life of fantasy that you longed for, but you would be content. 

“Hello, love.”  

Everything within you stills at the sound of the ghost of your past. Your eyes travel the expanse of the mirror, landing on the reflection of his figure propped against the doorframe of your bridal suite– emulating the way he used to watch you get ready. 

“Your beauty is nothing short of breathtaking.” 

“What are you doing here?” the words a mere whisper as they are pushed through your constricted throat. You force yourself to stare fixedly through the mirror, resisting the urge to turn around. Because if you do, if you physically lay your eyes on him, it would shatter all the progress you have made the past three years. And you're determined not to grant him the satisfaction and reward of rejoicing his return as if his actions did not hurt you.

“I’ve heard about your impending nuptials. I couldn’t possibly miss your big day.” 

You laugh, a hollow sound. After all this time, the man you spent years waiting by the door for has finally returned, just as you've made the decision to move on. Bitterness saturates you at the audacity of this man to appear today of all days, wearing that brazen grin. Did he truly believe he could waltz back into your life after everything?

“Why? So you can stop me from ridding myself of you. Starting over and actually having a shot at happiness.” 

Your voice is sharp– venom drips from every word, aiming to puncture another layer deeper into his calloused over heart. His jaw ticks, the only indication you hit your target. 

“I like to think you were quite happy with me, love.”

You scoff, a pathetic attempt to dismiss the validity of his words. Your gaze returns to your own reflection, beginning to readjust the lacey veil pinned to your head, needing a distraction from the man who has an incomprehensible hold on you. 

“Why are you really here, Klaus?” his name falling from your lips as if your tongue had been molded to say it, “You didn’t come back to town just to watch me get married.” 

He steps into the room– reflection growing as he steps closer to you. 

“I’ve come to wish you luck,” you watch as his turquoise eyes trail your frame before returning to your gaze in the mirror, “Though I can’t help but wish you were wearing that dress for me.” 

Something inside you breaks, setting free a torrent of long-suppressed emotions that had been brewing beneath the surface.

“You threw that away 7 years ago when you left me. I waited for you. For 4 years, I waited for you to come back like an idiot because you promised your heart to me and I was dumb enough to fall for it. And now, once I’ve finally picked up the pieces and I’m ready to start again, you want to come back and take that away from me!”

“I left to protect you!”

“No, Klaus! You left because you were afraid. Because for once somebody actually meant something to you and you couldn’t handle the responsibility of that reality. Because, in spite of all my best efforts, you have it solidified in that warped brain of yours that you are incapable of being loved. That no one could ever truly want to be with you. So what do you do? You run. You push people away to avoid your biggest fear and end up becoming your own self-fulfilling prophecy. Well guess what, Klaus? It worked. You’re alone now.”

You turn your back on the Mikaelson, finally ready to give yourself over to your groom. You open your mouth to dismiss the hybrid, but the words die on your tongue as your eyes meet his. His reflection reveals the glistening of tears brimming in his eyes, on the verge of spilling over, but you know Klaus Mikaelson is too prideful to ever let you see him cry. Yet, the thought of it stills you. You take in the sight of him—his clenched fists, his labored breathing—and for the first time, you truly see him. You see the vulnerability beneath the facade, the depth of his struggle, and it stops you in your tracks. 

The wounded boy who only sought his father's approval and his mother's affection. The scars etched deep into his soul, born from the torment of being a bastard cruelly shunned. The millennia of isolating loneliness that followed—an inhumane punishment for another's sin. Beyond that, you witness the fresh wounds your words have inflicted, reopening the scars you had fought so hard to help him heal. Your vengeful words have confirmed his lifelong fear. Here stands a man who has finally gained everything he ever desired, only to realize he is on the brink of losing it all. It moves you, the sight of his insecurities laid bare just for you

"Say it. Tell me you no longer love me, and I will walk away. I will leave you to marry this man, and you will never hear from me again. I will do that for you. But if there is any part of you that still cares, leave with me. Give me another chance."

You stare at the hybrid, conflict brewing within you. You desperately want to believe him—God knows you do—but if he walks away from you again, your heart couldn't endure another shattering. You glance at your reflection in the mirror, adorned in the gown of a woman whose son you could only truly tolerate.  

Is that really the life you want to live? 

You return your gaze to the Mikaelson, stunned by the single tear rolling down his cheek—his ultimate vulnerability. This simple, profound act compels you to accept what you've always known deep down. You can never truly walk away from this man. You love him too much.

Taglist: @catmikaelson20, @gamarancianne, @hazgold, @devotedlycrookeddonut

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