#fluff is very much not my wheelhouse

[trekscribbles]

The Bushwhack Job: Bonus Chapter Part 2

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Bonus Scenes Part 1

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3. I'm just overly excited and want to share what I have.)

The epilogue is going... slowly. I can't guarantee I'll finish it in a timely manner, so I'm sharing this next chunk now while it's still hot out of the oven.

The goodbyes were harder than he expected. 

They made them in the yard under a picturesque blue sky, with the morning stretching out before them like a beginning, which helped. Over the last ten days, Sunny’s little house had started to feel more confining than safe, and Eliot was ready to go back to his own kitchen, his own bed, his own clothes. Nate and Sophie were already waiting in the van, and Eliot had left Parker and Hardison with J.B. and Miguel so he could give Sunny his final words of thanks.

He’d told himself to stay cheerful, but when Sunny reached out to hug him, he felt the first prickle of regret since J.B. had said he was well enough to travel. Everything he’d wanted to say fled his mind, so he lifted himself up to kiss her cheek and held her tightly when she sighed into his hair.

“You saved my life,” he murmured.

Sunny squeezed his back. “Oh, sugar. Someone had to.”

Eliot laughed, and Sunny held him out by his shoulders and looked him over, her eyes shining above her frown. “Now you keep out of trouble,” she said sternly. “I don’t want to hear anything about you being reckless again, you hear?”

In a show of excessive restraint, he kept the words “yes, ma’am” off his tongue and nodded instead. “As long as you promise the same,” he said.

“Me?” Sunny said, offended. “There’s nobody left to bother me that Miguel can’t take care of. And J.B. is still in the neighborhood.”

Eliot looked across the sidewalk to where J.B. stood shaking Hardison’s hand. “He’s leaving, then?”

“In a few days,” Sunny said. Her gaze followed his, and a smile touched her lips. “I don’t think he’ll go far, though. The boy can’t brew a decent cup of coffee to save his life. He’s already bought me some extra to keep on hand for when he comes to visit.”

Relief poured through him. He’d wanted extra support for Sunny, true, but he had a feeling J.B. needed her support just as badly. “You’ll call if you need anything,” he said, keeping his tone just shy of an order.

“As long as you promise to visit,” she countered.

“I will.”

“Good,” Sunny said, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “I know you keep your promises.”

He tore himself away from her to shake Miguel’s hand, reminded J.B. to take it easy for a few weeks now that he’d collected his pay check for the Lancaster job, and followed his team to the large black van parked in front of the house. Lucille, his memory supplied, after a few moments of grasping for the name. He didn’t remember why Hardison was so attached to the thing, but he was pleased to have something to start with. It was getting better, slowly, and he was content to let his memory trickle back in bits and pieces as long as the others were there to fill in the gaps.

“Ready?” Hardison asked, looking at Eliot in the rearview mirror as he settled into the back seat. J.B. had made him bring his crutch along, but he’d left it on the floor between the door and the seat while he’d said his goodbyes. The rest of his things—the clothes Hardison had bought him, mostly, since apparently he didn’t travel with luggage—were packed with the others’ in the back, and the cooler full of sandwiches and drinks that Sunny had sent along with them was tucked behind the passenger seat.

Eliot settled back and stretched his right leg out in front of him. “Yeah.”

From the passenger seat, Parker waved out the window as they pulled away from the house, shouting goodbyes until they turned the corner and Sunny, J.B., and Miguel were lost from sight. Then she squirmed around in her seat and tore the lid off the cooler, digging through with one hand while Hardison cast her concerned looks from behind the wheel.

“You just ate breakfast,” he said. “You can’t need a sandwich already.”

“Sunny packed some cereal for me.”

“How are you still hungry?” Hardison pressed. “Between Eliot’s pancakes and Sunny’s eggs, I don’t think I’ll ever eat again.”

Parker sat up with a bag of cereal in her hand, grinning. “It’s a road trip! You’re supposed to have snacks.”

“Not thirty seconds down the road!”

In the seat beside Eliot, Sophie leaned forward to set her hand on Hardison’s shoulder. “Let her enjoy this. It’s been a while since you’ve driven anywhere long distance.”

“Easy for you to say,” Hardison muttered. “You’re gonna miss it all.”

Eliot closed his eyes, enjoying the sounds of their voices in the small space, and started a few of the leg stretches J.B. had told him to do on the ride. They’d be dropping Nate and Sophie off at the airport before making their way to the highway, and then across the country back home to Portland. It wasn’t worth the drive, in Eliot’s opinion, but Hardison had refused to let anyone bring Lucille back without him, and Parker insisted that Eliot’s leg would explode if he tried to fly.

“It’s not going to explode,” Eliot had grumbled, rolling his eyes and waiting for J.B. to back him up.

But Parker had evidently gotten to him first, because he’d just sighed and said, “Yes, because of the... uh, air pressure. Flying would be far too dangerous. I recommend driving.”

Eliot had glared at him, but J.B. only shrugged and mouthed, “She scares me,” before abandoning him to a 26 hour drive with absolutely no hint of remorse. Nate had come in two minutes later with the news that he and Sophie would fly so they could “get things ready” for Eliot’s return. He figured they just didn’t want to be trapped in the van for three days.

“All right,” Parker bubbled as soon as Nate and Sophie were safely at the airport. “J.B. said we should stop every four hours to let you stretch—”

“Hell no,” Eliot said. “It’ll take us a week to get there!”

“—so I found some places we can go,” Parker continued, ignoring the interruption. “There’s a cowboy museum here in the city—”

“No,” Eliot and Hardison said together.

Parker glared at them. “Not to visit. To steal from.”

“What do you want to steal from the cowboy museum?” Hardison asked.

“Well, I probably won’t know until I see it,” Parker said. “But if you don’t want to go there, we can pick another place. Like—what about the UFO Watchtower in Colorado? Ooh, or the Flaming Praying Mantis in Las Vegas!”

Hardison shot her a look. “The what?”

“It shoots fire!”

“Is this how it normally goes?” Eliot asked. 

Hardison glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Uh… kinda depends. We stop more when Nate isn’t in the car. He makes us drive straight through.”

Eliot eased back and closed his eyes. “Pretend Nate is here then.”

But apparently in the Republic of Lucille, Parker’s vote held the most weight. They ended up stopping at half a dozen dusty roadside locations, and Parker insisted they get out to explore each one while Hardison stayed in the car to nap. They wouldn’t let Eliot drive, and Hardison claimed it was safer for everyone if Parker didn’t take a turn behind the wheel, so Eliot grudgingly accepted the stops to give Hardison time to rest. Maybe he enjoyed some of them—or at least, he enjoyed Parker’s reactions to them—but he kept that to himself. She didn’t need any encouragement.

The rest of the time, Eliot was quiet, and they let him be. There were things he needed to sort through—emotions dug up by memories he wished he could have left buried. Questions. Worries. Anger. Grief. They cycled through him as the long hours ate away at the distance between them and Portland, as their destination took on details in his mind. He remembered a brew pub, a menu he’d helped design, the local suppliers he’d gotten to know. He remembered telling Anne and Rafe, the cooks who ran the kitchen when he was gone, about the new dishes he wanted to introduce when he returned from this job. He remembered chatting with the regulars who kept coming back for his meals, and remembered grudgingly admitting to himself, if not to Hardison, that he enjoyed the challenge of managing a gastropub.

He missed it. The closer they got, the more anxious he was to be back.

It was late when Hardison parked outside the brew pub, and Eliot was tired, but they’d driven through supper and were hungry enough to go inside instead of continuing on to their own homes. Sophie and Nate were waiting for them, and they’d kept the kitchen open so they could all order. Normally Eliot would have just thrown something together for them, but he was grateful for the chance to hobble around the tables, pretending to inspect the space while he stretched his legs. He ached—everywhere—but a sense of rightness settled into him as the familiar smells and sounds seeped in. Parker launched into an excited retelling of their roadside adventures while Hardison helped himself to Nate’s fries, and Eliot paused in front of a menu on the wall to listen.

His hand drifted to his pocket. It was late in Portland, but it would be even later by Sunny. Past midnight. He should wait until morning to check in, he knew he should, but he pulled out his phone anyway, found her number, and typed out a quick message.

We made it back to Portland.

He turned to rejoin the others, but before he could take a step, his phone vibrated in his hand.

How was the drive?

Eliot’s gaze drifted to where Parker was imitating the Flaming Praying Mantis statue. It was fine, he answered.

A few moments slid by, but he waited for the message he knew would come. The screen lit up just as Parker made an eerily accurate metallic screech to accompany her waving, imaginary-fire-covered arms.

I’m going to try that pancake recipe you gave me tomorrow, Sunny said. I might have a few questions.

Warmth spread through his chest. I’ll call you in the morning.

Talk to you then. Goodnight, sugar.

“Food’s ready!” Hardison called. Eliot looked up, still smiling at his phone like an idiot. He didn’t even care. Goodnight, he typed, sending off the message and tucking the phone back into his pocket as he went to rejoin the others. Parker stopped mid-way through her description of the mantis’s forelegs and shot him a measuring look. He winked at her. She grinned and launched back into the story.

Eliot ate with one hip hitched against the bar, half-turned toward the door so he could keep everyone in view while they talked. It was comfortable, the way they all settled back into themselves, and it worked something loose in Eliot’s chest as he listened. He had that feeling again—like home was less a place and more a collection of the faces and voices that dominated his returning memories. Like he could sit there for hours and just listen to them laughing; like he could believe them when they said he wasn’t alone. The proof was in the empty-but-full brew pub, and the texts on his phone, and the list of treatment instructions in his bag. Given the kind of person he was—had been—a part of him still couldn’t believe that he’d managed to find a single friend, let alone a family. The rest of him thought it didn’t matter how it had happened. 

He was just thankful it had.

[targaryen-dynasty]

REDAMANCY.

Cregan Stark x female Targaryen!Reader (Part 4 here)

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept your younger brother’s offer to return to the capital for your child to receive his blessings. And when you‘re finally on the way, it’s your husband‘s duty to take care of you.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, lactation kink, lactating, pregnant sex, pregnancy, slight breeding kink, praise kink, slight degrading, angst, fluff

WORDS: 3.3 K

NOTES: Redamancy means A love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you, and let me tell you: these two are in love. Thanks to @sylasthegrim, it‘s always good to know you help me with my zero grasp on English!

✖️ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

Ravens from Winterfell flying all the way down to King’s Landing has always taken quite some time. And therefore it was no wonder you were surprised that one of your younger brother’s ravens reached the castle not long after you'd informed him you were with child, inviting you to birth it in the Red Keep for it to receive the young king’s blessings.

Being the ever dutiful Lord of House Stark, there was no way your husband would refuse the offer, and once your pregnancy had crossed the seventh moon mark, a carriage and your husband’s entourage were sent south.

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept the offer. Westeros’ capital has brought nothing but pain and grief to you, and you’re afraid coming back ruins the comfort and peace you’ve found far, far away from the castle in the North, in Winterfell. But a part of you misses and longs for your siblings and the part of your family that’s still left, hence it didn’t take too much convincing from your husband.

You’ve lost count of the days you spent in that damned carriage by now, solely accompanied by your maids as your dear husband rides at the front of his entourage, joining his men on horseback. But there’s one thing all days have in common: it’s you being exhausted beyond relief once night comes.

For the longest time you thought your unborn babe to be no-fussy and calm, which proved to be false just one week into the travel. It’s restless, kicking and moving especially when you finally find rest in the bed of the receptive inn you stay in for the night. Your feet are swollen, just like your breasts, and your body provides milk as though the babe has been long born already, and all you crave at this point is for the pregnancy to be over already.

As the wheelhouse comes to a stop, you rub your swollen bump with a sigh, looking toward the door with heavy footsteps approaching. Your beloved husband opens the door, and even though he won’t admit it, he looks just as exhausted as you do.

“Is it time?” you ask, slowly rising to your feet with another sigh. You place your small hand in his large one, allowing him to help you out.

He nods, bringing a hand to the small of your back. “Indeed. We have reached the crossroads. From here we are only ten days away from King’s Landing, which means the end of our journey is in sight,” he replies. “How are you and our son feeling?”

Cregan guides you away from the wheelhouse, escorting you through the crowd of his men towards a large inn sitting right where the river road crosses the kingsroad. And from old tales of your uncle you know it has to be the Bellringer Inn, a place where even your great-grandfather and great-grandmother have stayed at before.

“We do not yet know if this babe will be a boy or a girl, husband,” you chastise him in a teasing manner.

“You are right, we do not,” he says. “But I feel it in my bones. Just call it a father’s intuition.”

You roll your eyes at his words and nudge his ribs with your elbow, yet there also pulls a smile at the corners of your lips. He chuckles at that. “Careful, my love, I am not as nimble as I used to be.”

Shaking your head, you giggle softly. “Do not tell me that you are an old man now, Lord Stark.”

As you make your way through the courtyard and towards the inn, you can feel the curious glances of the passerby; a man of Cregan’s caliber always drew the attention toward him, just like your hair did. But you’re unbothered by it all. You carry a piece of your husband within you, and that thought fills you with a sense of fulfillment and pride.

He looks for the innkeeper as you reach for his hand, pulling it from your back around your frame, squeezing it softly. “Might you join me tonight? I know that you can not leave your men alone, but one night will surely do no harm. I must admit that I have hardly found sleep without your warmth for the past weeks.”

With a gentle, intimate gesture, Cregan brushes his fingers over your swollen bump, before pulling you against his side. “How can I ever be expected to refuse anything my beautiful wife asks of me? Of course I will join you tonight.” Leaning a bit closer toward you, he adds with a quiet whisper: “Your presence has been missed in my bed as well. The nights feel cold and lonely without you by my side.”

Heat crawls onto your cheeks at the proximity and the slight implication that comes with his words, solely interrupted when a stout man with a bushy beard but otherwise pleasant demeanor walks around the corner and welcomes you two.

Upon Cregan’s inquiry about the availability of a room, he hands over the keys and leads you toward your place of retreat for the night. More than once have you told Cregan you’re perfectly fine with sleeping in a tent with him, yet he always came back to your delicate condition, stating he only wants the best for you and his unborn child, and you eventually have given up and accepted it.

The room is decent. Not as big as your chambers at home, but still larger than what you’ve slept in for the last few weeks. Your maids already scurry into the room to bring some of your belongings and clothes to get you ready for the night, while Cregan leans in to kiss your temple. “Let me arrange for my man to sleep outside the inn for the night,” he mutters against your skin. “And then we shall spend the night in warm beds.”

Even with your maids bustling around you, you can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement at his words. The prospect of sharing the night with him is enough to make you forget the soreness of your swollen curves that has become a constant companion over the past few moons.

“I will freshen up in the meantime,” you say, leaning into his touch before he pulls away to take care of his men’s sleeping arrangements for the night. Once everything was adjusted in the chambers, your maids moved to help you out of your clothes, but you refused them, having planned something very special.

Standing in front of the small window, overlooking a stable with a thatch roof and a bell tower, you all but admire how quietly Cregan opens the door, and with the lock falling right into place behind him, the room grows even quieter and the atmosphere becomes charged with anticipation.

“Is everything sorted?” you ask, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“All set,” your husband replies with a low voice as he approaches you.

He comes to tower over your frame from behind, moving his hands over your hips up to your waist. Lifting your head, your eyes lock with his. “Alone at last, hm?” There’s a sultry smile on your lips now, and you gently reach behind you to cup his cheek with one hand. “Now you’re all mine for the night.”

You lean against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths against your back. Cregan seizes the opportunity and brushes your hair over one shoulder before he presses his lips to the crook of your neck. The touch makes you sigh, stirring something inside of you you have had to keep at bay for quite some time. When he brings his large hands to your swollen breasts, fondling them through the thick fabric of your dress, you can’t help but moan, the slight squeezing aiding against the heaviness.

But then his hands and lips leave your body, and he slightly leans around you to look at you – or rather your breasts – and you immediately know the reason why.

The gray fabric has become damp under his touch, two dark spots prominent in the front of it. While it brings a bit of shame to your cheeks, the low rumble that escapes his chest sends a fire straight down between your legs. “I should have warned you I started leaking a fortnight ago,” you admit ashamedly, biting your bottom lip.

“I quite enjoy the sight of it, you know,” he says, voice laced with a combination of awe, adoration and burning need. His hands shift to the lace in the back of your dress. “But let us put this to good use.”

The dress comes undone with ease, falling to the floor in a puddle around your feet. Damp spots are decorating your smallclothes, but this time you don’t mind the sight. Cregan’s hands now roam over your body, tracing the curve of your waist and your growing bump.

Although you know exactly what it is his words are meant to imply, you choose to tease him. “And what is it you have in mind right now, hm?”

His gray eyes briefly flicker to the bed close to you, before meeting yours again. “I have a few things in mind. But for now…” He cups your chin, tilting your head up so he can claim your lips in a slow, deep kiss that’s full of desire and passion. It makes you feel as though the air is sucked right out of your lungs by him, as if you can’t survive without his lips on yours. “How about we make the most of this night, my love?”

“I’m all yours,” you breathe against his lips.

His large hands roam your curves, helping you out of your undergarments, until they settle at your thighs, wrapping around them to effortlessly hoist you up. Although Cregan is quite the bull of a man and appears to be a brute, he possesses a tenderness you wouldn’t expect from him, gently keeping your body against his and lying you down on the bed not far away just as carefully.

Soft, gentle kisses are pressed to your collarbones, igniting a fire within you that has been smoldering for too long. As his fingers glide over your skin with featherlight touches, leaving a burning trail behind, he finds his hands drawn to your full breasts, cupping and holding them, and eventually squeezing them.

More droplets of your milk trickle into his calloused palms, wetting his skin, but he does not care–not when he has you writhing and whimpering beneath him at just the faintest of touches.

Your husband’s eagerness would have almost made you chuckle, watching him rise from the bed to rid himself off his clothes hastily, if it wouldn’t match your own desire and greediness. With his breeches falling to the ground, his cock stands to full attention, hard enough for it to almost seem painful.

His hungry gazes devours your bare form, tall frame slightly hunched forwards as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Will you just stand there and watch, my wolf?” you tease, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What happened to ‘let us put this to good use’?”

It’s the teasing lilt in your voice that pulls him out of his stupor like a wave, the chuckle he releases low and throaty. “You are a temptress, my love,” he replies. “You are lucky I am a man of my word.”

“Then touch me,” you whine, words coming out more desperate than actually intended.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Slowly approaching the bed, Cregan bows forwards and grabs one of your feet. He lifts your leg and starts to trail sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the inside of your leg, occasionally nibbling on the skin of your inner thigh.

Your back slightly arches off the mattress, body thrumming with desire. Entangling your hands in his dark curls, you use the grip as reigns to where you want him most, but your husband acts completely unfazed, not allowing you to tug him higher up.

He takes his time, kissing and nibbling your thighs, before he boldly presses a kiss to the apex of your legs, tongue briefly dragging through your folds. It elicits a shudder in its wake, and you can’t stifle a moan.

Making his way up, he licks your navel, and eventually traces the curve of your full breast, circling your hardened bud. Cregan laps up every drop of milk that oozes out of your bud like nothing else than a starved wolf, the edge of his teeth applying just a faint pressure to the sensitive skin to stimulate the flow.

But when his other hand comes up to fondle and squeeze your other breast, that’s the moment you lose your composure, shamelessly smothering him with your breasts. “Gods, Cregan…” you whimper, immediately bringing you relief. There isn’t even time to waste a thought about the indecency of it all, not when it feels just so right.

It’s your mewls, your whispered whines and moans, the sound of you saying his name in such a desperate manner that drives him to continue. “You make me ache for you,” he rasps against your skin, voice thick with desire. Your husband never falters to ignite a fire inside of you with his words, especially when there’s an innuendo hidden between his praises.

Bringing his hand from your breast down between your bodies, he aligns himself with you, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds in a way that makes you bite back a moan and grind against him. You grip his dark curls harshly as he finally eases inside, pushing into you inch by inch, agonizingly slow to make sure you feel him enter you.

His suckling falters with the tightness of your walls embracing him, overwhelmed by pure bliss and a feeling he’s missed for the past few weeks.

Every gasp and whine that escapes you only serves to embolden him further, continuing to tease and taste your breast with unrivaled enthusiasm. It juxtaposes the slow, sloppy thrusts of his hips, and brings you two different kinds of sensations at once.

Cregan has made himself home between your legs, rocking his hips leisurely back and forth. He has dropped his weight on one elbow and leant his upper body to the side, determined to not put any weight on your swollen bump. His lips are firmly wrapped around your bud while his hand teases the other, pinching and squeezing it between his fingers. The proximity is unmatchable, feeding into your constant desire to be as close to him as possible.

You can practically watch him lose every ounce of self control, his suckling becoming more intense and the thrusts growing in determination. His groans and grunts are muffled, and droplets of your milk trickle idly down his chin, getting lost in the dark, coarse hairs.

You fully expect him to say something when he releases your bud, but he’s far too eager to get his fill again. Pinching the perky bud of your other breast harshly, droplets of milk run down the curve of it, only to be traced by his tongue, liking a flat stripe over your skin. He chokes on a groan as the sight has you clenching tightly around his hard cock.

“Please– do not stop,” you whimper, applying a bit of pressure to his head to urge him towards your breast again. “... not yet.”

Dark-blown eyes suddenly flicker up to meet yours, and a shuddered breath leaves your lips. “My my, what a greedy wench I have for a wife,” he chuckles to himself. You don’t take offense, but the statement does make you duck your head and bite your bottom lip sheepishly. “I do not intend to.”

Despite the teasing, it’s obvious your pleas fall upon eager ears as he heeds your command and closes his lips around your bud again. Every hungry pull of his lips draws more and more milk from you, and while relief makes itself known in your breasts, a different kind of pressure starts to settle in the pit of your belly.

Squeezing him so well, you make it impossible for Cregan to move on his own accord, and quickly take over, rolling your hips against his. It’s a race for completion, making your pearl throb with anticipation.

The coarse hairs of your husband’s beard drag over your sensitive skin with his eager suckling, tickling you and causing you to arch against him even more. You have your arms wrapped around his neck at this point, keeping him tightly against you.

A string of yesses falls past your lips like a chant, and the pace of your hips increases as far as your bump allows you to. Your mind grows hazy with pleasure, until your peak washes over you with a loud gasp.

You haven’t noticed Cregan watching you through it all, too focused on the sensations coursing through your body. His gaze is mesmerized, clearly relishing in the relief that’s etched onto your features and the way your walls flutter around his cock.

He pulls back, droplets of milk resting in the corners of his lips, and lifts his body to tower over you. The thrusting of his hips grows sharper now, determined to help you through your pleasure.

“That’s it,” he rasps, one hand resting on the mattress next to your head while the other gropes at your now relieved breasts.

“Once this pup is born,” he emphasized the words by rolling your sore bud between his index finger and thumb, drawing out just a few more droplets of milk. “I shall put another in you to keep you round with my seed.”

Your head grows dizzy, lightheaded even, and you can’t do more than whimper and whine through your peak, not fully comprehending what he’s said.

Cregan snaps his hips into yours once, twice before he topples over the edge with a loud groan, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of you. Cupping your breast, his fingers dig harshly into your flesh.

You continue to roll your hips against his, prolonging his pleasure. Switching roles, it’s now your turn to milk him for every drop, taking everything his cock spills inside of you. Every muscle in his body tenses, until eventually, he collapses to the side, careful not to put his weight on your swollen bump.

With his cock slowly becoming flaccid again, the sensation of his seed leaking out of your cunt is more apparent, causing heat to spread throughout your body. If it wasn’t for you carrying his child already, you would have mounted him to make sure his seed would bear fruit.

Cregan eventually lies down on his back, and you seize the chance to rest your head on his chest. It’s hard to keep your eyes open as his hand softly entangles into your hair, scratching your scalp in the manner that usually lulls you to sleep. His breath is slower now, his chest rising and lowering your head.

“I can not bear to spend another night without you by my side,” you all but whisper, bringing a hand to his stomach.

Your finger trails the contours of his muscles, before following the dark trail of coarse hairs down.

“You needn‘t worry about that,” he says. “We shall not stay in King’s Landing for too long. And I highly doubt that anyone could get me out of your chambers during the time we stay there. Once we arrive, we shall stay together.”

Nodding your head slowly, you hum a ‘mh-mh‘, too engrossed in the feeling of his hand in your hair and the other rubbing soothing circles over your back. Having trouble staying awake, you’re hardly able to process his next words, already drifting off to sleep.

“Let us sleep now, my love. We have another tiresome day ahead of us.“

Cregan Taglist: @nats-whore @aemondsbabe

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 2.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

shera's voice sounds like blue diamond in this clip. a soft, dreamy whisper.

wordcount: 4.2k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence

story playlist

She’d never ventured south before and her nose wrinkled at the thought. What does the south have that the north doesn’t? Warmth, mayhaps– but you can easily make that with a fire! Pretty silks and lots of fruit, she was told. Shera wasn’t entirely sure what use she would have for pretty silks, as they'd dirty right away if she ventured in the snow– and fruit. Surely there wasn’t anything better than freshly picked blackberries and blueberries.

The little girl couldn’t sit still in the wheelhouse as she poked her head to the sliding wood window, brown eyes trying to gauge the landscape. It was certainly green! They had been on the road for a moon and a half and Shera was about to pull out her hair from boredom. The stewardess, Warra, that her father had stowed away with her for the journey, irritated Shera to no end.

‘Sit down!’

‘Stitch inward, not outward.’

‘You’re fraying the thread, be gentle.’

If looks could kill, the poor stewardess would be dead within the first week of the journey. Warra glared back at the impudent child, thinking the exact same thought.  

“You must be Shera Stark,” a young woman cooed, who had greeted the little girl at her arrival to the keep. Her hair was the same shade as Shera’s. She was dressed in a green dress, and it reminded the little girl of the pine forests beyond Winterfell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet… you,” Shera returned, curtsying with a small wobble. “M’lady.” 

Shera felt an odd connection to the woman almost instantaneously, her arms held out for a hug. At the age of five, she was still very much a baby, and craved the warm touch of another person. “Are you my mumma now?” she whispered.

“Oh,” the woman murmured. “You may call me Alicent,” she added, looking slightly confused at the little girl’s request for an embrace. Alicent stared at the child for a moment, seeing herself reflected in her huge brown eyes. She scooped her up and held Shera to her hip. “It’s scary being here all alone, isn’t it?” 

–

The south was no place for a wolf, she feared. Not only her own wolf, but herself as well. She heard their whispers as she arrived in the city, the stares of prying eyes, wishing to catch a glimpse of the infamous Banshee of Winterfell. 

‘Twas an ugly name, Shera thought. Banshees were decrepit creatures with haunting yowls and spindling claws like cracked branches– was she truly so ugly? She hardly spoke, no less screamed, lest she awaken the still tender pain against her neck. Sometimes she would hum a broken tune from her girlhood days, but she would hardly call that a song.

The journey had taken over half a moon and was as agonizingly long as she remembered from her girlhood, even more so now. Cregan opted to leave her alone in the wheelhouse while he rode outside on his horse. She’d much rather be upon horseback than in the sweltering carriage— the movements made her ill, and she spent much of the time with her face firmly supplanted into Moongeist’s fur. 

Jacaerys had offered to take Shera to King’s Landing by dragonback before they left. 

“It would be a much faster and easier journey, my lady. It is even easier than riding horseback.” he exclaimed, his dragon just now grown enough to saddle two. Vermax loomed in the background on the snow laden grass, sniffing the air and making soft trilling noises. He reminded Shera of a whippoorwill. 

“I… I would very much love to, my prince— but I would be blind without Moongeist with me upon arrival and I do not think Vermax would take kindly to another passenger who weighs more than you and I — and is a wolf.” she said softly. Shera wished to keep both feet supplanted on the ground— she would never acclimate to flying upon a dragon or being ferried by ship. She was prone to seasickness, and imagined dragonback no different. 

Moongeist pressed to her hip, guiding her and keeping her on a straight path. Shera’s fingers laced through the thick fur of the wolf, who’d become somewhat of a guardian for her since the incident ten years ago. The loss of vision in her eye threw off her calibration of the world, often leaving her lost and clinging to walls. Cregan had procured the wolf as a pup, six moons after Shera’s return to Winterfell– she hardly remembered Moongeist as a puppy, as she lived on milk of the poppy and venison stew broth for a year. 

The now gigantic wolf, Cregan citing him as a Winter King’s direwolf, acted as Shera’s eyes and balance. She could still see, of course, out of one eye– but her chronic pain debilitated her, rendering her into that sobbing, sniffling, poppy-addled child she was a decade ago. Cregan, whom Shera hardly knew when she returned, was very much the depiction of an angry wolf, pacing back and forth in the maester’s chambers for weeks. She didn’t remember much during those months, but she remembered the movement of Cregan’s shadow, bristled and looming like a creature out of fantasy. 

And now she had returned to the place that started it all– ‘twas her home for eight years. Cregan was here, too, meeting with the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra on matters pertaining to Shera’s betrothal, a sign of goodwill from Alicent to somehow mend the rift between the Starks and the crown.

It all seemed very dreary to Shera. She didn’t wish to be looked at, perceived, much less married to a man, to whom she would have to share the intimacies of her disfiguration with and lay bare beneath.

Shera walked through the halls of Keep, fingers skimming over the familiar yet so foreign stone.

She looked very much like a ghost or banshee in her gown and veil, one she preferred to wear to conceal her scars, flitting through the corridors. She was often dreamy eyed, when people did see her eyes, and certainly was a touch maddened — especially since the accident at Driftmark.

She was a quiet, solemn woman now, tamed by the Queen into a proper young lady as a child under almost solely Queen Alicent’s eye as her ward— an unexpected oath that Viserys upheld, as he’d made a promise to Rickon Stark, the girl’s father, many years before. She had come to King’s Landing at the tender age of five.

Alicent brought up Shera as she saw fit—sheltered and safe, softening her rough edges and wild nature. Shera became the perfect Hightower daughter that Alicent never had, who attended prayer, read the Pointed Star of the Seven front to back and served the Gods with honor, much to the chagrin of Cregan once she returned.

She adjusted her veil as she walked towards the holdfast, thankful for the shield from the resplendent sun. Her hair was coiled into a braided bun, pinned with silver jewelry. 

Shera was much a Northern lady in her appearance now, with copper hair in billowing curls. Her hair hadn’t been trimmed much in her lifetime, and when unleashed from its braided confines, it would fall past her bottom. Her unblind eye was a deep brown, edging on black, and her blind one was a milky, pupil-less blue.

Her stomach churned with anticipation and she mostly felt like vomiting. Her hands were now clenched together tightly, white knuckled, as to distract herself. She wished to see the Queen first— a way to anchor herself to reality, and would be the easiest, along with Helaena, to reacquaint herself with.

As she reached the corridor that held the queen’s chambers at the end, it was oddly bereft of people. She watched as the heavy doors swung open and a svelte figure dressed in black receded from the solar. She blinked profusely, seeing the white hair, long and taken pristine care of— and pin straight. That couldn’t be Aegon, could it? 

The figure turned after closing the doors, facing Shera’s direction, who was still at the very end of a long corridor. It was not Aegon. The leather eyepatch gave it away instantly— Aemond. He had gotten tall, much taller than she by at least a foot. 

They made eye contact, violet to brown— he paused, lips pursed. His form went rigid as he clearly acknowledged her presence; but said nothing. 

Shera said nothing, either. The wind was taken out of her lungs, stolen by him, it seemed. 

His one eye widened in surprise, then narrowed. She couldn’t parse the nature of his expression besides cold, hard steel. His fists clenched and unclenched— and he walked away in the other direction, a corridor off to the left, towards the ramparts. Away from Shera. Purposefully. 

“A-Aem,” she attempted to raise her voice to call to him, but was stopped by the sting of pain. “Aem—!” she croaked again, persisting past her limits. 

He looked at her again and kept going, going… until he was out of sight. Gone. 

Shera wracked a cough, clutching her throat. What… was that? Did he just flee from her? She pushed her utter confusion (and ever creeping despair) aside, knocking on the queen’s door. 

A handmaiden, Talya, answered. “Her grace is expecting company— if you haven’t a prior engagement, you must return later.” 

“‘Tis… ‘tis the company,” Shera murmured, suppressing the urge to hack up a lung. “Shera Stark.” 

The handmaiden’s eyes widened with a gleam of recognition, confusion, and then pity— she stepped aside, bowing her head. 

How Shera tired of those expressions being thrown in her direction. She passed through the threshold, a shaky hand gripped into Moongeist’s fur. 

“Oh— Shera?” Alicent echoed, standing up from the settee she was perched upon. She was radiant, to say the least— her hair was shorter than it had been before, but she hadn’t aged much. Aside from a lingering shadow beneath her eyes and in the depths of her irises. She was tired. “By the Seven, I hardly recognized you, my dear.” 

“Your grace,” Shera whispered in greeting, once again curtsying with wobbly legs. As much as she anticipated seeing Aemond, she wished it’d been after she greeted his mother— she felt the part of a ruffled hen, her fragile demeanor temporarily cracked. “It’s… good to see you— you haven’t aged a day.” 

Alicent rushed to her, only slightly phased by Moongeist, who stood now off to the side in preparations for the Queen’s no doubt touchy-feely welcome. “Your voice,” Alicent murmured, her large brown eyes wide, lips downturned. “It’s… you’re very quiet now, my sweet.” she swallowed, putting her arms around the woman— who now, inherently flinched. Shera, as a child, loved to be showered in physical affection, and loved to be hugged, kissed and snuggled by Alicent. But now, she flinched. Only for a moment— she had to get used to it again, she was much a spooked horse, skittish. 

Shera nodded slowly as Alicent led her to sit. “Yes— I… I cannot sing any longer, I am deeply sorry, your grace.” she looked down at her hands.

Shera loved to sing as a child, Aemond listening to her songs, usually ones associated with the Faith of the Seven, and hummed along while he studied. They were both outcasted children, bullied and poked at to a point where they recused themselves into one another, communicating in a language that they made up— a combination of High Valyrian, which Aemond had lovingly taught Shera at the same time he was learning it, and gibberish. 

“It was a terrible thing, what happened that day,” the queen said, pouring them both tea. “It was a terrible thing with naught justice brought.” 

Shera sipped at the tea, letting out a soft sigh as the warm liquid soothed her irritated throat. “… I remember nary a bit, your grace— only…” she clenched the cup tightly, the memories of that day flooding back. 

“You!” one of the twins bellowed.

“‘Tis I.”

“You claimed my mother’s dragon– you stole Vhagar!” 

“You cannot steal a dragon.” Shera huffed, proverbial feathers already fluffed. 

“I do not remember.” Shera corrected herself. 

“I wish I could forget– I still remember it… all too well.” Alicent echoed. “... you must know, I– we rejoiced with the Gods when we heard we hadn’t lost you. I am remiss that we did not get a chance to say goodbye, though.”

The scream that she would never forget– the slash of Lucerys’ blade piercing and mangling Aemond’s eye.

It was a wail that haunted her dreams still. 

Shera could hardly react– did they want to kill him? Were they going to kill her? She moved, shoving Lucerys down, his head hitting the wall, the blade skidding in the dust. Where were the guards? Where were the adults? Where was anyone?

As Lucerys began to cry, blood trickling from his head, Jacaerys went into a rage– fists swinging with a crooked look in his eye that Shera was afraid he would kill her. If she were to die in a skirmish, she would go down with a fight! Barreling toward Jace, she supplanted her weight into the center of his chest, scratching at his face and snapping her jaws like a rabid dog.

Then she was pushed back– but not by Jacaerys. ‘Twas Baela, the more brazen of the dragon twins. She shoved Shera back, brandishing the same dagger that Lucerys had used– it was still dripping with Aemond’s blood. She wasn’t as close as they had been, but the cut was the same, slitting up Shera’s eye as her vision filled with blood. She felt dizzy and could hardly hear herself scream over Aemond’s wails– she was silent, sputtering for breath. 

“Kill her! She’s going to tell on us, Baela!” one of the other kids had cried. Shera couldn’t remember who. 

Her body went into shock– she didn’t even feel the knife slice her throat, her mumbles coming out as garbled choking, spitting up blood– 

Her hand went to her throat absentmindedly, feeling the raised scar where she’d been slashed by that damned knife. The maesters said it was an act of the Gods that it didn’t hit a prominent vein— but as the Gods give, they taketh away. She couldn’t sing any longer, nor hardly talk above a whisper, and was not able to see out of one of her eyes. It wasn’t taken out like Aemond’s, but muted into a milky blue color. 

“... I’ve missed you much, your grace,” Shera uttered, her hand snaking to Alicent’s as she clutched it with a small tremble.

“We cannot change the past, Shera– we can only… forge our future,” Alicent returned her squeeze with a smile, brows downturned. “... do you wish to marry him, my dear?”

Shera breathed audibly. Did she want to? Was that her wish? No– of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t– Jace had changed much since the incident on Driftmark, but she feared how to tell him that she would wake up sobbing from nightmares about him, about him and his brother and his cousins, brutalizing her. It was twisted, in truth, how when they would share a bed, how they would have to conceive an heir, how she would have to let him touch her. He would be gentle, she knew, he would let her take her time and be studious and princely and all the things encompassing the future King after his mother– but she wouldn’t be able to truly look at him without thinking of that, of the pain, the blood filling her throat, gurgling and drowning in her own life’s essence–

“... yes, your grace.” Shera responded. “I wish to… marry Jacaerys Velaryon and mend the rift between the crown and the Starks.” 

Alicent’s brow furrowed and she regarded Shera for a long moment before nodding. “Then… it shall be done.”

–

Shera felt her skin prickle into goosebumps as she left the queen’s solar. She felt flustered, like she’d been pricked in the bum by a thousand needles– she sorely needed to go to the Weirwood and pray. As she turned to abscond to the ramparts, she was stopped. A pair of arms boxed her against the wall, the scent of dragon and sandalwood overwhelming her senses. Moongeist let out a growl at the intruder, but Shera silenced him with a hand gesture. She knew who it was, of course– she carefully lifted her gaze to him. Aemond.

“Ñuha dārilaros,” My prince, she murmured in High Valyrian– she had rehearsed her greeting to him so many times over the years in her head. Her eyes roved over his form, taking in all of the changes of nearly a decade. He was tall, so much taller than she was now, his once curled hair straightened to a point. His aquiline nose led to his mouth, pursed in anticipation, in challenge. “… it’s good to see you.” 

Aemond’s brow furrowed, his hands still boxing in, as if he were the wolf and she the prey. He looked like a shadow of the boy she once knew— he had all the makings of a predator now, a true dragon in his own right. “Shera,” he grunted. “I’m surprised you remember our lessons, I can’t imagine you use it much anymore, talking to weirwood trees and wolves, or not talking much at all, I’ve heard.” his voice was so laissez-faire, but it held an unmistakable edge to it, like a sheathed blade. 

Her jaw clenched at his tone. She wasn’t expecting a warm reunion like no time had passed, but she wasn’t expecting to be iced out, either. Her mouth twinged in irritation, bleeding into a pang of sorrow in her chest. They had been so close all those years ago, so close that at times it felt they were fused as one— was he so unhappy to see her? She instinctively thumbed over her choker again, poking the tip of her finger into the cool threading to anchor herself. Moongeist pressed to her hip, sensing her change in emotion. The wolf stared at Aemond before nudging Shera’s hand atop his head in an effort to calm her.  “I may not speak it much anymore… but I still remember. We learned it together.”

Aemond’s hand reached out to inspect the veil concealing her face between his thumb and forefinger, as if testing its worth. His violet eye roamed over the outline of her face— he couldn’t quite see all of her from behind the wretched garment, which seemingly agitated him. “You always had such an excellent memory, my lady. You look much like the banshee they say you are with this… veil. Why do you insist on wearing such a thing, it mustn’t be so terrible under there, is it? Not like mine– they took it out. I heard you still have yours, don't you?” he paused, “Why have you returned?” he tugged on the laced curtain, earning him an annoyed whine from Shera and a rumbling growl from Moongeist. He was so callous now, so rough— like unhewn wood, splintering at the edges. 

“I wear it for the same reason you wear your eyepatch– It appears that my brother, your mother and sister, as well as the Gods have other plans for me. I’m to be betrothed.” Shera whispered back, her hand going to her throat as she felt an acute pain from raising her voice a bit too high. 

Aemond’s pupil wavered as he looked her over, concerned over her mewl of pain, then the realization of what she’d said coming over him. “Betrothed,” he said, his voice flat and clipped. “Betrothed,” he repeated again, his grip on her veil increasing. “And who is it? Who dares to try and claim the banshee of Winterfell? I always thought it would be me to claim you, hm? But you ran away to the North and replaced me with a dog.” he eyed the giant black and gray wolf with a curled lip.

A flush of heat came to her cheeks. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me such things, it's a nasty name. I didn’t expect you of all people to pay attention to court gossip,” she scoffed. “It’s none of your concern whom I’m to marry, Aemond.” Shera let out a breath.

“Who. Is. It?” he continued, spitting each word through gritted teeth.

“That isn’t for me to say. Your mother wishes to announce it formally at dinner tonight.” Shera distanced herself from him as he rescinded now, allowing her some breathing room. She smoothed down her dress and fixed her veil. She sighed inwardly, based on his reaction now, that once Alicent announces her betrothed tonight, he will lose it. She can only speculate how severely he will react when he finds out that his once close companion is being betrothed to someone he loathes. 

He squinted slightly, resting his hands behind his back, foot planted carefully on the ground. “I pray then,” he said with somewhat condescension, “that they aren’t terribly important— all the easier for them to be charred fodder for Vhagar’s belly.” 

Shera snorted, twisting her sapphire signet ring on her middle finger, shaking her head. “You jest, my prince.” 

“Not a jest, sweet wolf. Think of it as a promise.”

“You cannot,” she glanced up, her veil rippling with the sudden movement of her head. “You’re unbelievable, do you know that?” 

“What is so unbelievable about my promise?” 

“You act as if you have a claim over me, Aemond,” she whispered his name, her voice taut as she swallowed a sting of pain from the sudden change in tone. “No one has a claim over me, least of all you.” she coughed, her hand clutching her throat as she awkwardly took in a breath, stretching the limits of her injured vocal cords. Shera let out a strained sigh, shaking her head.

Aemond’s nostrils flared at her words, his jaw clenching. “No one? And yet, you let your brother sell you off like a broodmare. Or mayhaps a prized bitch.” he glanced at the wolf at their feet. “You’ll let him sully you? That basta–,”

Another voice broke the heated conversation. “Brother,” a cool tone said. It was Rhaenyra, on her way to Alicent’s solar. “… Shera.” she squinted slightly, violet eyes darting between Moongeist and the pair. 

“Sister.” Aemond responded, clipped and short. 

“Princess,” Shera greeted shakily, bowing her head. 

“We shall see you tonight at dinner, won’t we, Aemond?” Rhaenyra asked, cocking her head. 

“I suppose I can be persuaded. I’m quite busy, though and don’t have much time for idle pleasantries.” he dipped his head, facing away from Shera now. “Ladies.” he bid his farewell, stalking off like a half-cocked dragon. 

Once he was out of earshot, Rhaenyra leaned close to Shera. “You should steer clear of my brother. You were companions once— but he’s different now,” she paused, taking a breath. “I only have your best interest at heart, dearest. For you and Jace.” 

“… thank you, princess,” Shera swallowed, grasping her skirts. “I will… keep that in mind.” 

Rhaenyra gave a nod before disappearing into Alicent’s chambers– leaving behind an exceedingly frazzled Shera, who retreated to the Godswood. 

–

Kneeling down before the ancient weirwood, she clasped her hands together. “For guidance… for peace…” she murmured, staring at the face etched into the red wood, its eyes bleeding. It felt familiar, in a way. 

“So, which is it? The Old Gods, or the new?” a deep voice interjected into her prayers. She didn’t recognize it at all. Glancing over, she took in the figure of an older man, dressed in black leather and cloth with white hair cropped to his shoulders. A sword was strapped to his waist. Dark Sister.

“Prince Daemon,” Shera sighed, not entirely up to verbally spar with the Rogue Prince. “... I am praying to the Old Gods, as is custom in the North.”

“Ah? And here I’d heard you were quite the little septa in your youth, singing hymns like a… delightful little sparrow.” 

“... that isn’t untrue– I… I hold both the Old and new ways–” 

“What does your brother think of such a thing? Northerners are so rigid in their worship.”

“It isn’t my brother’s concern–” 

“Well, mayhaps you shall start learning of the Valyrian gods, if you’re to be married to Jacaerys.”

“I know… a few, my prince. Tessarion, Meraxes, Shrykos….” she paused, brow furrowing under her veil. “Vhagar.” Shera gave a pointed stare to Daemon.

“Ah, knowledgeable you are. You must be a bookworm like my dear nephew. But, you forgot quite a few– Syrax, Meleys, Arrax, Vermax, Caraxes… the list goes on. I won’t fault you for forgetting them. You have quite a few Gods on your plate already, young wolf.” Daemon gave a toothy smile, extending his hand to her. It was ungloved and looked calloused, old scars littering over his skin like shells on a beach. “Do you need assistance getting up?”

Against her better judgment, Shera took his hand. It was warm, unnaturally so like all of the Targaryens. He hoisted her up to her feet, steadying her with an overreaching hand upon her waist. It made her skin crawl.

“Very good,” he hummed. “Enjoy your prayers, Lady Stark.” 

Moongeist grumbled uneasily next to her, eyeing the Rogue Prince with a wary amber gaze. Shera felt sick.

[amywritesthings]

something in the movies. / a gojo satoru holiday one shot

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader ( jujutsu kaisen ) word count: 2.2k / rated mature summary: A romcom marathon for the holidays (and his birthday) with your colleague, Gojo Satoru, hits a little too close to home with your own accidental romcom moment.

tags: hidden inventory arc spoilers, colleagues in denial, childhood friends to lovers, holiday movie marathon, sexual tension, romance, fluff with a little sluttiness, fade to black, gojo get smooches for his birthday because he deserves it credit: dividers by @saradika

welcome to the fifth day of the twelve days of amymas 2023 !!

When Gojo Satoru suggests stopping by your apartment for a day-long movie marathon extravaganza, you expect the usuals:

Something pitifully 1980’s with much too goofy graphic violence;

Thrillers with a twist that's solvable by act one, though Gojo insists this one will stump you;

A science fiction exploration flick that’s a little outdated but fun nonetheless.

Yet when he’s standing outside of your apartment door, his hands are full of—

“Holiday movies?”

You squint and turn your chin to observe the titles as he proudly holds them out to you to take.

Every cover is an endless array of snowy backgrounds and people dressed in all sorts of ugly sweaters, with no distinction in sight.

(He always did take his December birthday very seriously, even when you were just kids at Jujutsu High.)

“Not just holiday movies.”

Gojo corrects your assumption, stepping into your apartment without a formal invitation.

He kicks off his black shoes at your door with a smirk.

“Shitty romantic comedies."

"I've never heard of any of these," you mumble when you pluck the DVDs from his hands.

"How could you? They're only available in a discount bin, so they're guaranteed hidden gems. These babies never made it to the big screen. ”

You watch him making himself at home, navigating your apartment like he owns the place.

The world's greatest sorcerer never cares to be polite, not when this song and dance has played on repeat for ten years.

Pretending he lives here, as opposed to being a frequent guest second to your mutual friend Nanami, is just part of the norm when school is in recess.

(But you’re not dating.)

You can’t date a colleague, not really.

Although Principal Yaga wouldn’t particularly care if you did, fraternizing with someone you work with — someone you've grown up with, someone you've bled with — isn’t a leap you’re willing to make.

Besides, you’ve lived long enough as a first-grade sorcerer to know Jujutsu Society has a habit of fucking up good things, both intentionally and accidentally — so you don’t. 

Which, in turns, leads you both to a hairy situation where you’re both spending all of your free time away from the halls of Jujutsu High to do…

Well, this.  

Whatever this is.

“So you bought a bunch of… Hallmark movie DVDs?” you clarify.

“Yep.”

“And you want to binge… shitty Hallmark movies?”

“That’s hilarious. You say that like there are good ones.”

Gojo flops down on his favorite side of your couch.

He stretches his long legs out on the extended cushion, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Besides, what else are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, following him around the mouth of the hallway that spills into the small living room. “Maybe watch good holiday movies?”

His thumb catches the bottom of his black blindfold.

You never have to see his full face to know what type of mood he’s in, or how he’s looking at you: Gojo radiates his emotions like a neon shop sign whenever he’s around you.

Satoru pulls the fabric of the blindfold outward, teasing the reveal of his sparkling blue eyes.

(You’re not immune to their immense power. No one is.)

They’re not a flame to a wayward moth, but a fucking beacon.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never taken the time to binge these before.” He snaps the blindfold back in place. “They’re a riot.”

You shake your head.

“Not really in my wheelhouse, Gojo.”

“Well—”

Satoru slaps his hands against his thighs and uncrosses his ankles to stand, despite only just sitting down.

You’ve never seen a grown man so restless.

“—get ready for this stuff to knock your socks off, because I’m about to enlighten you on the true meaning of ‘tis the spirit.”

“You mean ‘tis the season?”

“Same thing.”

He fidgets with your ancient Blu-ray player you haven’t quite shelved yet as you make your way into the kitchenette connected to the living room. 

You know what he wants before you can ask — a White Russian mocktail to match your alcoholic one.

(But you're not dating.)

You mix the ingredients together, eyes following as he drops back onto your couch, long arm extended over the back.

Butterflies flutter when he pulls the blindfold off, pocketing it for later, and fixes a pair of black sunglasses over his eyes.

His hand then smooths over his white hair, curving at his freshly-buzzed undercut, and he settles in for the night.

Comfortable. 

An oasis of calm in the ever-present Jujutsu storm.

(But you’re not dating.)

And he’s right.

The movies? Fucking terrible.

Gojo doubles over when he laughs. You have to wipe your tears from laughing just as hard.

You find the back of your head dropping to the couch when you laugh, landing unintentionally into his open palm.

Satoru cradles your head safely in his hand to keep it from hitting the back of the furniture.

Two sappy romantic comedies and three drinks later—

You find yourself inching closer to the middle cushion of your couch acting as a zone of neutrality between you.

He isn’t much better, constantly fidgeting on his end. The white-haired man lets a long leg dangle over the arm of the couch, his torso scrunched in an awkward half-lay towards the middle.

With each peanut-gallery commentary and scathing review of unbelievable scenarios, you both find yourselves nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

He’s sober as can be, and you’re warm from the alcohol’s influence.

Still, it’s only a mere dusting of tipsy — you can stomach a lot of liquor in comparison to most.

And you get lost in it.

This — the comfort, the familiarity, the way the main characters of this shitty Hallmark movie are holding one another.

The Christmas Prince is confessing his love to the small-town girl that wrecked all of his plans under the cover of a gazebo while snow falls around them. He admits he was in denial about her this whole time, the big dipper in his little dipper sky— 

“Oh my god, look at you.”

You turn your face to Satoru at the record-scratch jest.

He smiles down at you, bordering a shit-eating grin.

Close.

A stone throw away.

Blinking twice, you begin wiping at your face assuming something got stuck on it. 

“What? What about me?”

“You’re swooning—” Gojo points to the screen. “—over that.”

Your jaw drops, and he starts laughing — full bellied and joyous.

“I— Shut up, I am not!” you sputter pathetically in response.

“Are too! I see you! Starry-eyed over some bad pick-up lines.”

Gojo's head tilts, snow-white brow quirked high.

“Don’t tell me this cheesy stuff actually works on you.”

You gesture with a hand to the television to protest. “He’s saying she’s his big dipper! It’s cute!”

Gojo snorts, seemingly disinterested, but he reaches forward.

Suddenly you feel his thumb run along the high point of your cheek. 

All motor functions in your body cease to exist. 

“Please, I can do way better,” the white-haired man says. “This guy isn’t even trying to act.”

All you can do is stare, flushed with uncertainty.

(When did it become a competition to woo you?)

Gojo slides his thigh off of the couch’s arm to sit up, leaning in.

Danger.

Neon signs.

You need your white flag, but you’re too curious about where this may lead.

“First of all, he’s cornering her like she’s a hostage. That’s kind of creepy. He’s all about ‘you’re my big dipper’, but what does that even mean? They haven’t mentioned any stupid stars once in this movie.” 

He drags his thumb once more with a breathy chuckle. 

“Dumbass doesn’t even hold her face right. Why’s his thumb all the way on her cheek? You gotta scoot your hand up a little so you can — there.”

Oh.

The movie becomes white noise to your own predicament when Gojo glides his palm across your cheek.

His thumb, once stroking your face, dips to your mouth.

He runs it timidly along your bottom lip—

Then softly tugs it down, and you're not sure if it's you who gasped or if you imagined the sound.

“Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

Satoru murmurs, voice an octave lower, keeping the conversation in the space between you. 

The way the question veers this situation away from silly pick-up line mockery to something more — something real — has your body tensing.

You should shut this down.

You should laugh it off.

Your voice is barely audible when you protest his name.

“Gojo, don't fuck with—”

“I’m not fucking with you,” he interrupts, as if he anticipated you to protest. “I’m not. I'm genuinely asking.”

"Where is this coming from?" you ask.

"Just wanted to know, that's all," he mumbles in return. "Have they?"

“...people have."

You reply after a beat, purposefully watching his mouth as his tongue runs along the seam of his lips.

“In fact, I’m pretty sure you have. Before."

"Yeah?"

"Multiple times.”

“Yeah?”

“When we were kids.”

“Ha—" The mention brings a passing glow to his face. "And I totally meant it back then, too.”

He must notice the way your eyes grow wider.

“What? I didn’t have a filter when we were kids,” he says with a snort, seemingly mesmerized by the way your lip moves under his thumb. “I was too busy to lie. Still am — busy, I mean. But you stuck around.”

You look at him curiously, trying to understand where he’s going with this.

I was busy.

Sure — trying to be the best with Geto, to avoid getting corralled by Yaga, to beg Ieiri to meddle in the incessant hijinks.

In Jujutsu High, you were a year behind him with Nanami Kento and Haibara Yu. 

Quickly it only became Nanami Kento.

And, with so few young sorcerers in the world, it was crucial to befriend. To trust.

Geto defecting, Haibara dying, Utahime opting to teach in Kyoto, Shoko becoming a medical professional, Nanami choosing the real world over the land of curses—

It just left you, and it left Gojo Satoru.

For ten whole years, it’s only been the two of you — dismantling the old ways and ushering in a new wave of sorcerers who, hopefully, do not have to be in so much pain.

Your brows knit. “Satoru, where is this coming from?”

Talk to me, you want to say.

Calling him by his first name conveys enough.

“Bad Christmas movies, I guess,” he breathes, leaning a fraction closer.

The short puffs of his breath tickle the lower half of your face.

“Premonitions. Reflections. The holiday spirit.”

“That moved by a Hallmark monologue, huh?” you try to tease, and his lips do quirk upwards with amusement at your jab. "And you said that guy’s speech was bad."

“It was terrible, to be fair,” he replies, “but it did give me ideas, so thanks Christmas Princess 7: Deck the Royal Halls.”

You snort to laugh, but before you can, he’s pulling your chin up and over.

Soft lips press to yours, and the world ceases.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press a second kiss to his lips.

He briefly grunts, pushing you back until you're flush with the length of the couch.

Gojo cages himself over you, hovering with a long leg dangling awkwardly off of the couch so as not to crush you.

Third, fourth, fifth — you lose track of how many greedy kisses happen.

They grow longer, deeper, and soon his tongue is flicking over your lips to ask for access.

You easily open your mouth to moan into the kiss, and you feel him shiver above from the noise.

His hand crawls up your hip, seeking the hem of your shirt — seeking the warmth of your bare skin under his large hands.

You let him.

You'll let him do whatever he wants so long as he keeps going.

His glasses begin sliding down the bridge of his nose from the sheer passion of his kisses, awkwardly pulling you out of the moment when they nudge against your face.

You laugh and Gojo pants above you, blue eyes alight with a fiery desire.

There is an overwhelming ease to this, like you’ve waited your whole lives to try —

To enjoy.

To indulge.

To live.

"Happy birthday, by the way," you pant, and Satoru grins wicked and wide.

"Thought maybe you forgot."

"How could I forget? You're only very loud about your birthday every year," you joke right back, swallowing to coat your dry throat. "Did you wanna do something for it?"

He stares down at you over the falling sunglasses, blue eyes sparkling. "Was a shitty romcom marathon not my gift? Because that's kinda all I wanted."

Butterflies invade your stomach.

"Yeah?" you breathe.

He nods. "Yeah."

A moment of heavy air and anticipation passes over you both. He still pins you to your couch, hovering. His hands never left your sides, shirt scrunched under his wrists.

“I wanted to see how that movie ended, by the way,” you add.

That makes him bark with a laugh.

“I can act the rest out for you if you let me stay.”

He’s only stayed the night a few times, each ending with never happening again.

Yet history is doomed to repeat itself.

You’ve both learned that by now.

Still? It's technically his birthday.

“Fine,” you relent with an amused exhale. “Stay.”

(But you’re not dating.)

.

[thegnomelord]

See now I know you only like writing masc top so in that instance imagining all these shifters who have spent all this time perving on you while you sleep finally getting caught out.

It's not even that you wake up or anything, it's that Soap gets sick and can't control shifting into human form right in front of you in his sleep. Obviously you take care of him, he's your boy. Nurse him fully back to health, the others shifting and nervously introducing themselves and helping you as you are soft and sweet and gentle. You tear up a little talking about how they don't need to wear the collars and they obviously want to comfort you so insist of course they will. You get them new ones that will fit better.

Only the moment Johnny is well again you switch completely. Good job they all so eagerly accepted those shock collars locked around their throats, because they are getting fully used to get your pets behaving. You aren't about to let this change the fact that you're the fucking alpha here, even if it means beating the submission into some of the more dominant pets who want to mount you.

You control the dynamics between them as well. If Ghost is posturing too much and pushing your buttons you bet your ass you'll be making him lay down and take it when you give Graves the chance to finally get his own back. You coo at how well he takes it and watch your big scary boy turn into a drooling mess.

Suffice to say it doesn't take that long to have all of them the perfect pets for you, misbehaving just enough to make punishments very fun and not tedious and cuddling in a big pile of fluff and feathers when it's cold.

Idk my dude I generally write femme bottom this is so not my wheelhouse, please just take it and go.

AUEJDEFHIDWJDUEHDIEV I love you so much for this one ❤️‍🔥💖

[fcthots]

Blog stuff:

18+

send asks ab Jason Todd! Fluff, smut, angst, crack, I love it all!

(Don’t stress! I reserve the right to delete any asks that are out of my wheelhouse, no sweat. I appreciate all asks nonetheless!)

They’ll probably be posted later in the day bc that’s when I’m most active.

(try sending prompts rather than full story ideas, and by that I mean don’t send me a super specific story line you want + specific smut, just nothing that would take me a 1k to write out. I am very lazy.)

^^^^ adding more to this: I also don’t know what to add sometimes so I may just post it and open it up to the community

Also I’m a new writer so i can’t really write stuff I can’t on some level relate to bc I just can’t imagine it.

I only write for Jason Todd rn

Stuff I won’t write (updated as I go): blowjob stuff or anal, also won't do medical stuff for reader bc ~phobia~, religious stuff, spit, pregnancy

if you're not sure if you can send it, send it and ill just delete if its too much for me!

🥝🪼🪐🦕🪅🐙🦢🥭🎧🌆 👽🧶🔮🪽🎃🫀🦖🥃✨🍕🌞☆😭💌🦈🤡🌈🪷💋🐈‍⬛ 💀🐝 🍯 🐦‍⬛❄️🍩🍓🫶🧋🌷⚡️🍪 🛣 🐐🕷️⭐️🎶🎀🦇🧸🪻🍒anons taken

there is no schedule for when/how long my inbox will be open. its just when i feel like it.

Tags:

“Jason Todd” for all Jason Todd posts

“Saph’s thots” for all original writing posts

“Saph’s love letters” for asks

“Out of character” for non-writing posts

“fluff”, “angst”, "crack", "hurt/comfort", and “smut” for you’ll never guess

"Gus the cat" for Gus stuff

"tattoo artist!jason" for that AU

“Hurt/comfort” is an unofficial tag (aka I only recently started using it so it doesn’t have everything)

[eijirousbestie]

I love love love your bakugou x artist reader trope please we need more of it it’s so wholesome i have read it on repeat since you upload it 💗💗💗

Aahh thank you so much!! Kinda grew attached to it myself so I’m glad to hear y’all love it sm<33 This is definitely a series I plan on continuing🤟🏽 this part is kinda more goofy than anything else but I promise there’s fluff near the end<33

“Fuck around and find out”

he loses his drumsticks

missing rug

using an art supply as a weapon?

nonverbal apology

can’t admit he’s wrong for SHIT

Clay is never easy to work with and you’d be foolish to think it is. It’s messy, dries relatively quickly and dirties up every surface it graces. You swear your sculpting professor is out to get you with these ridiculous projects. From cardboard cutouts to detailed portraits to clay. It’s a madhouse in the art department.

Using your modeling tool, you try to carve into the block of raku clay that cost an arm and a leg to buy from the university’s private art supply store. It was a blessing and a curse to have it so conveniently placed right across the hall from your sculpting class. The clay and tool alone cost you $27 that you’ll never see again. This degree better be worth it. You look at your desk partner and see that she’s going to town on her clay block. She cuts, carves and scoops at it like she’s done it a thousand times over. Clay sculpting is a completely different wheelhouse you’re not used to but you’re always willing to learn. Hopefully fast.

You quickly check your phone, residual dried clay sprinkling onto the screen as you click on it. 7:50 PM. It’s time to wrap it up for the day. Almost in sync, your professor calls time and you all begin to clean up. You clean off your work station diligently and swing your bag over your shoulder, wishing everyone a good night as you leave. The walk to your car is peaceful. The night is quiet and the air is cool and clear. Truth be told, you were opposed to taking a night class at the start, probably afraid you’d get jumped at night or something irrational like that. But now it’s what you look forward to during the week. Being left alone with your own thoughts and decompressing from the day in the evening is just so therapeutic. Finally making it to your car, you get in, closing and locking the door after. Now that your hands are free from dried clay, you go through your missed messages for the evening. As soon as you turn off do not disturb your screen is flooded with missed calls and text notifications. Your eyes widen and confusion floods your mind as you scroll to the very first message.

#1 Hater🏆: yo, lost my drumsticks. you seen em?

delivered 6:15 PM

#1 Hater🏆 missed call

#1 Hater🏆: yeah you totally took em u little shit

delivered 6:30 PM

#1 Hater🏆 missed call (2)

#1 Hater🏆 missed call (4)

#1 Hater🏆: ik damn well you’re not ignoring me rn

#1 Hater🏆: i’ll go in your room rn and throw out that shitty rug. keep playin

delivered 7:05 PM

You laugh at his empty threat of a message and roll your eyes. What he had against your rug, you didn’t know. Buying a rep was cheaper than the real thing. KAWS is not a brand that’s in your tax bracket. And of course you didn’t know where his drumsticks were. He usually keeps all his music equipment locked away somewhere so it’s most likely his fault for losing them. You’re about to turn off your phone when a ping sounds from your device, a new message shining brightly on your screen.

#1 Hater🏆: forgot you were at your night class. probably got me on dnd anyways

#1 Hater🏆: still gonna give you hell for stealing my shit tho

delivered 8:03 PM

You type back a quick reply.

You: don’t have ur sticks. touch my rug and u die. I’ll be back in 5 to kick ur ass for blaming me

You shut your phone off and start your car, pulling out of the parking lot and driving back to the dorms.

Once you’re back you walk through the living room and make a beeline to your room. You open your door and what you see inside is enough to fuel nightmares. A rather deranged looking Bakugou has his hip leaned up against your windowsill, arms crossed over his chest as a single lamppost from outside your window illuminates one side of his face. He looks at you. Stares even and doesn’t say a single word.

“Is there a reason you’re just sitting in the dark like a weird-ass Disney villain or?” You flick on the light switch next to the door, drenching your room with light. It’s only then that you notice your floor is rather bare. This motherfucker.

He must have seen your reaction judging by the way his eyes follow your gaze to your now exposed wood flooring. A shit eating grin spreads across his face, damn near splitting it in two. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You’d hate to beat his ass over something so trivial but it’s getting harder to restrain yourself. You force yourself to look him in the eyes as you speak very very carefully.

“Kats… you wouldn’t happen to know where my rug is would you?”

He straightens up and walks towards you, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his sweats, a cocky bounce in his stride.

“Dunno. My shit’s missing too. Must be a ghost or somethin’.” Not a lick of remorse escapes his mouth. He’s smug. He’s proud of himself and he even came back to the scene of the crime just to taunt you. Your left eye twitches, patience wearing thin.

“I’ll ask you one more time for the sake of being generous. Where. Is my. Rug.” He shrugs and feigns innocence.

“Fuck around and find out.”

The hell did he just say? Is he really trying to pick a fight right now? Usually you’re the one keeping the peace but this man has now dragged your innocent rug into his thick headed nonsense. You chuckle in disbelief and look at the ground, shaking your head slightly.

“‘Fuck around and find out?’ Huh… aight then.” Bag still slung over your shoulder, you unzip the smallest pocket and pull out the modeling tool you used earlier for your sculpting class. You grip it tightly in your palm, the pointed edge facing outwards. Bakugou’s cocky façade waivers a bit but he doesn’t show it. His left eyebrow quirks up in interest.

“Tryna stab me with an art supply?” You’re not really gonna stab him. Just scare him into giving you your stuff back. Maybe…

“You said fuck around and find out right? So imma fuck you up til I find out where my shit is.” You drop your bag on the ground and rush at him all at once. His once calm demeanor switches to sudden shock and he moves to dodge your swing.

“Dude what the fuck!? Will you chill?” He doesn’t know whether he’s shouting in annoyance or fear, though he’ll never admit the latter. You turn around to where he’s standing behind you, modeling tool still tightly clutched in hand.

“Give me my shit back then!”

“Cmon it’s a shitty knock off. You really gonna stab me over a $30 rug?”

“And you really stole a $30 rug over a $15 pair of drumsticks?”

“Cuz you stole em!”

“I didn’t steal anything. I don’t even know where you keep them Kats! Plus I haven’t been in the dorms since 8 this morning.” His face stills and his brain sorts through what you’d just said. It made sense really. Today was your long day this week. You’d been gone from 8 AM to 8 PM.

He straightens up from his defensive stance and looks away, rubbing the back of his nape. “Okay well even if you didn’t take em, still don’t know where they are. Everyone’s a suspect right now.”

“Then why aren’t everyone else’s things missing?”

He shakes his head and corrects you. “Nah, I took a piece of everyone’s shit too not just you. It’s all stashed til someone fesses up.” You stare at him like he’s grown two heads, face turned up in disapproval and disbelief.

“Aight Kats whatever. You know it’s not me, so can I please have my rug back?” At this point you where drained from classes and just wanted to rest. Not to mention using the last of your energy to attack this idiot.

He walks to your door and opens it, the creak of the door signaling his great escape. “Ask me nicely.” He’s closing the door behind himself now, but you’re quick to yell out.

“Dude are you seriou-”

“Under the bed.” With that, he closes the door and you’re left in silence. You kneel on the ground and look under your bed and just as he said, your rug is there safe and sound. You pull it out from its hiding spot and place it back in its respective spot on the floor. You let out a deep sigh of relief which can be heard by the eavesdropping figure just outside your door. He chuckles to himself and walks to his room. Truth be told he found his drumsticks minutes before you came back to the dorms. He was just too embarrassed to tell you he found them after misplacing them himself and blaming you for it. Plus, it was more fun this way. Minus the potential stabbing part.

[kyriethesquishysquid]

Betrayal Never Felt So Good (König/Fem!Reader) Chapter 2

You can find Chapter 1 here, Chapter 3 here, Chapter 4 here, Chapter 5 here, and Chapter 6 here!

Word count: ~6.5k

Rating: Mature

A/N: Use of Y/N and Y/L/N. Appearance of a feral and jealous Possesive!König. We get plot but no smut in this one, with some angst, feelings, murder, and comfort on top! Reader really just needs a hug right now. Reader is also morally grey and morally questionable. Continued COD and military inaccuracies galore. Don’t shoot me for not writing out any combat scenes please - I’m a smut/fluff/angst author, action is outside of my wheelhouse lol. Once again written in less than 24 hours so please forgive any mistakes!

TW: Non-consensual drugging, emotional manipulation, body shaming, and attempted assault from asshole #2. Cold-blooded murder (but done for “good” reasons so it’s fine right?). Canon violence toward others by König, hints at stalking, hurt/comfort. Pet names (in English and German), bad German translations bc I’m still a lame monolingual American, and STILL no beta because we die like jackass Graves.

Crappy Translations:

Ungeziefer - Vermin

Maus - Mouse

Mein schatz - My darling

Meine leibling - My love

Scheiße - shit

It had been two whole months since your “rescue” from KorTac and not a day had gone by where you didn’t spend it thinking of König. That man plagued your mind worse than anyone ever had before. Which was stupid, considering you knew next to nothing about him, except that he treated you like a princess and fucked you like a whore. Oh and that he was the colonel of a “technically” enemy faction and your relationship would be seen as treason. And yet, he was the first man you’d had any sort of connection to in years. The only one who seemed to know everything you needed and wanted by intuition alone, and you craved the opportunity to explore that connection further. 

You tried to think of some way to reach out to him but there was never a plausible avenue. You didn’t know his real name so finding him online, if he even had an online presence, would be impossible. You couldn’t very well ask Graves if he had any information on him either, lest you get fired, or worse, murdered, seeing as the Commander did not have a reputation for being understanding.

 As the hamster wheel in your brain spun round and round, your thoughts grew more desperate and unhinged. It wasn’t too much longer before your contract with Shadow Company was up anyway. You were heavily considering seeing if KorTac would take you after, which you felt crazy about, but you weren’t sure what else to do. Logic just didn’t seem to play well with your thoughts about König and it was driving you insane to not be in control of yourself.

You could only turn off your constant barrage of emotion when you were knee-deep in patients or allowed out onto the field to provide care; though even that had been happening less. “Don’t want to chance triggering a PTSD episode”, Graves had said. And yet, despite thinking it couldn’t get worse, life had decided to throw you another curveball. It came when you were given your first mission in weeks, being called across countries with a small team of specialists to Russia to protect a diplomat and his family while they were in the country. That wasn’t the bad part though. Oh no. You could handle travel and a safe mission for once. The part that tied your stomach into knots was the fact you were going to be serving along with KorTac. It took everything in you not to show the emotions you felt in the moment Graves had told you that, while the last time you’d seen the KorTac colonel flashing through your thoughts like a movie. 

-

The shouting in the quiet bunker was your first sign something was wrong. At first, you tried to ignore it, snuggling closer into the big human-shaped heater against you but then there was a gunshot, and that got you both up. Instinctively, you knew what was happening before even stepping foot out of the room. 

“They’re here, aren’t they?” you whispered.

An overwhelming sense of panic filled your chest as you clasped his hands tight, unsure of what you were supposed to do.

“Stay here,” he instructed you as he quickly crossed the room to his dresser, gearing up in a hurry. 

“What? No! You can’t go out there! What if they hurt you?!” you snapped back. 

König shot you a bemused look as he tightened his vest. 

“They can try, mein schatz, but they will not succeed.”

While his cockiness was certainly attractive and you knew he could hold his own in fights, there was now a part of you that worried and ached at the thought of him getting hurt. Before he could leave, you caught his wrist and jerked him back to you, smashing your mouth against his. 

“Be safe.”

-

“Y/L/N!”

The pain of being ripped from such a powerful memory was enough to make you stumble, nearly falling into the last man you wanted to see at that moment; Daniel Carter, your “savior” from König and KorTac. It took all the power in your body not to frown at the brunette smugly grinning down at you. 

“Yes, sir?” you finally asked. 

“You gonna get in?” 

He gestured to the plane and you quickly stepped into the cabin, a hot blush coating your face as you walked down the aisle to find a seat near the exit but still far enough to not be at the very end. Your fear of flying wasn’t something you had to face often thankfully but, when you did, it was a tough beast to battle. Fortunately, your mind was easily swayed into other worries when you watched the rest of the teams climb onto the plane. One by one, they found a seat, until the last member boarded, his figure dominating the entire space with his six-foot-eight presence. You couldn’t help but watch as he walked by. Gods, he was even bigger than you remembered. The sway of his hips and spread of his gait as he walked left nothing to the imagination, and you found yourself staring unbearably hard at his thick ass and thighs until he sat down on the other end. 

Fuck, this was going to be harder than you thought. Your heart had felt afloat water in stormy seas ever since the moment you’d seen him waiting with his team this morning. At first, seeing him made you feel like you were finally able to breathe again, but the way he pointedly avoided your presence dragged you back down into the suffocating depths of turmoil. You’d hoped it was just a show for the others around you, but then it became clear that your hopes were for naught. Twice you’d tried to get him alone, practically begged him to talk to you, only to be treated as if you didn’t even exist.  

A tightness that had nothing to do with your fear of flying squeezed at your heart as your eyes dropped to your feet. Doubts began to pile up like a car crash. Maybe you were stupider than you realized. Maybe those nights had meant nothing to him. Maybe you were just another stupid conquest who had the gall to believe someone as high-ranked and enigmatic as König would actually want more than an easy lay. And, fuck, had you made it easy. Some nice words, a few sweet gestures, and a voice that made your brain melt, and you were putty in his hands.

Lips tilting down, you leaned back against the stiff seat and let out a long sigh. Maybe if you hit your head hard enough on the wall you’d break something, or at least get a concussion bad enough to be sent home.

“What’s up, toots?” Daniel asked, tapping his boot against yours.

You managed a half-assed smile and muttered, “Hate flying.” 

He grinned and leaned over just enough to nudge your shoulder with his. It was minimal contact but it was enough to make your stomach hurt. While Daniel seemed nice enough, you’d been privy to too many conversations he and his buddies had when they thought they were alone in the medbay or canteen. While some of the absolutely disgusting things he’d said were enough to make you wary, most of your ire came from him being the one to sneak you out of König’s room. 

“You’re a strong gal, you’ve got this. Just take some deep breaths,” he instructed slowly, “Here, gimme your hand.”

Before you could politely decline, he snagged your hand in his and wrapped your smaller fingers around his palm. 

“Lean back, close your eyes, take deep breaths, and squeeze if you need.”

Just the thought of being that vulnerable in his presence, or really any of the men around you,  made your skin crawl. But honestly, what else did you have to do at this point? It was about an hour flight and your mind wasn’t in a good place. 

Giving him a little nod, you did as instructed and let your head fall back once more. After the first few breaths, you had to admit some of the tension was dying down. 

“There you go. Atta girl.”

Fuck. Your heart lurched against your ribs as his words threw you into a very heated memory that you most certainly didn’t need right then - the way König praised you for taking his cock so well, how his lips brushed your ear as he said such sinfully beautiful words as his hands caressed your skin. Face warming, you tried to clear your head again, only to get disrupted by the sound of heavy feet stopping in front of you. 

“Can I help you with something, sir?” Daniel asked, something akin to fear in his tone. 

Who could he have been afraid of? Most everyone here was on good terms, or so you thought. 

“Is there something that we need to know before we land?” 

König. Jolting upright, you gaped up at him in disbelief as he stood there stiffly, arms crossed across his chest and eyes pinning Daniel down in earnest. God, that shouldn’t have been hot. You were supposed to be hurt, pissed at him, and yet the fire in his eyes as he stared down the other man was nothing more than primal.

“U-Uh, I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Daniel stammered out.

You quickly jerked your hand from his and noticed that finally- FINALLY- those deep blues were focused on you for the first time all day. 

“We cannot afford to have any distractions out there. I will ask again, is there something that we need to prepare for? Will your attention be divided?” König bit out.

It wasn’t painfully obvious but you could hear a slight inflection, almost anger, filtering through his tone. 

“No, sir,” you retorted stiffly, “Private Carter was helping me with my fear of flying.”

“Correct, sir,” Daniel agreed quickly.

König let out a snide hmm before strolling back down the aisle to his seat. It wasn’t until he was fully sat that you relaxed in your seat. 

“What the fuck…This is awkward, right?” Daniel whispered, “I mean, it’s weird for me but I can’t imagine how weird it is for you.” 

Playing dumb, your eyes cut to him curiously and you asked, “What do you mean?” 

He gestured weakly toward König and the rest of his team, and then at you. 

“They quite literally kidnapped you a couple of months ago,” he muttered, “They killed a group of our men and were actively fighting against our mission, and now we’re expected to just get along with them?” 

The guy had a point. Sighing heavily, you shrugged and leaned back. 

“Yeah, it’s weird, but we do what we gotta do, right?” you murmured.

If only he knew the real reason for your discomfort. Eyes flicking up to the bare metal ceiling, you said a silent prayer that once you were on the ground, you wouldn’t have to be in König’s presence anymore. It wouldn’t do to be distracted, and lord knows you would be. 

“Try to rest,” Daniel said suddenly, “I’ll wake you when we land.” 

Any thoughts of arguing were wiped from your mind when the cabin shuddered through turbulence. With a shaky inhale, you closed your eyes and started counting back from one hundred. Even if you didn’t fall asleep, it would help with your endless anxiety.

…

“Alright, you’re good to go. Just try to stay off of it as much as possible until we leave tomorrow. Those painkillers will help the pain but the ligaments still need time to repair,” you sighed with a weak smile.

“Just glad it’s not broken,” he laughed nervously, “It’d suck for my first real injury to be caused by tripping in the dirt rather than by combat,” 

You snickered in agreement at that. That would be one sad story.

“Remember, ice, elevation, and painkillers!” you called as he exited the room with a wave. 

Turning back to your laptop, you started the final charting on the private’s file but it wasn’t long before you were distracted by someone entering the room. Dread filled the pit in your stomach when they didn’t instantly speak. So far you hadn’t seen König more than once or twice in passing this past week and you’d hate to break that streak right before you got to go home. 

“Hey, Y/N, why don’t you head out for the night? I’ve got things covered here!”

Relief practically oozed from your pores as you heard the familiar voice of one of KorTac’s medical staff. Spinning around in the wheely chair, you found the redhead already opening her own laptop at the other desk. 

“You sure?” you asked.

“Of course! You let me sleep in and took the first half of my shift, it’s only fair I let you out early,” she teased kindly. 

Leaving early meant the possibility of running into the silent colonel, but it also meant you could actually enjoy the last night in the city. While it was a smaller area, it apparently had a decent nightlife, or so Daniel said. He’d caught you before your shift and practically begged you to join him and some of the guys out for drinks at the local bar to celebrate a job well done. You’d thought he was going to cry when you told him you worked late and couldn’t join. 

“Girl, go! Shoo! I’ve got this.”

Flashing her a smile, you nodded and gathered up your things. 

“Okay, fine, you win,” you groaned in faux frustration, “I’ll leave you be.” 

She shot you a mock salute and turned dutifully to her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as she began to check charts. With one last nod, you grabbed your bag and hurried out into the hall. It was only eight thirty and the guys were going out around nine, so you had just enough time to change into something more sociable. 

The instant you were in your room, you wasted no time digging through your duffle bag until you found a semi-decent outfit. Most of your clothes were for work but you liked to keep a few nicer things on hand for occasions such as this. After pairing a cute black peekaboo sweater with a pair of fitted dark-wash jeans that framed your thick thighs and ass perfectly, you slipped on your only non-work shoes- a pair of black ankle booties. From there, you hastily fixed your hair and put on a quick bit of makeup before rushing out the door. 

It felt weird to admit you were kind of excited to hang out with Daniel and the others tonight. You’d never really been included much in things back home, being medical staff and not one of the “boys”, but ever since being here for the mission, Daniel had made it his primary objective to make sure to check in on you multiple times a day. A strange little friendship was budding and, somehow, you didn’t hate the idea. He’d been nothing less than kind, and now that you weren’t completely hung up on the colonel, you were losing your biggest reason for disliking him. 

“Y/N! Whoa!” 

Daniel’s yelp caught you off guard and you couldn’t stop the blush that formed when you saw the way multiple pairs of eyes raked up and down your form. 

“Damn, you clean up nice, Y/L/N,” another private, Chad you think it was, said from beside Daniel. 

“Uh, thanks,” you replied awkwardly, “So… bar?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daniel said with a grin, “Hope you don’t mind but we’re walking because it’s only two blocks away!”

Nodding in understanding, you joined the group of five with a little smile, trying your hardest to keep your nerves at bay. It was chilly out. Nothing too horrible, but it made you glad you’d had the foresight to wear something warm since you had to walk in it. 

“Hey, you know, Chad was right,” Daniel said quietly when he dropped to the back of the group with you, “You look incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything other than work attire.”

Damn it. It was much easier to hate him when he was acting more creepy and you were under the illusion he’d ruined your love life. Now… Now it was almost too easy to like him.

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” you answered, “You look nice too! Never seen you dressed down either.” 

It wasn’t a lie. Daniel wasn’t a bad-looking guy, maybe a bit plain with short brown hair styled in the regulation cut, nice green eyes, and a big smile, but definitely not bad. It was just that your thoughts were always flittering around the almost seven-foot beast of a man in comparison and no one could compare to that. 

The pink that dusted his cheeks only served to make him cuter and you were nearly groaning in frustration at the thoughts filtering through your mind. No. There was no way you were going to give in to those thoughts. It was just the pain of König ignoring you and the human need for attention making you think that way, you were almost certain. 

“Ah, we’re here!” 

The music from the bar was audible from the outside and it only got worse once you stepped in. He hadn’t been lying when he said there was a thriving nightlife. The small bar was packed to the gills, with just enough room to move around and get to the bar, bathrooms, or dance floor. 

“Come on, I’ll buy you your first drink!” he shouted over the music. 

Aw shit. You knew where that was going to lead. Before you could decline his offer, he snagged your wrist and nearly dragged you to the bar. You were given no choice but to order your favorite drink when he demanded so and the bartender stared you down with a less-than-patient glare. True to his word, he paid for your drink, and then instantly dragged you through the crowd without a word. Daniel led you everywhere like you were some lost puppy who needed direction. From the bar to the table, and then to the dance floor, you weren’t given a single choice in the matter up to the point of him practically pouring your drink down your throat. 

Said action didn’t fly over well, the liquor bitter and stinging down your throat so quickly you had to reflexively cough to avoid aspirating. 

“Jesus, fuck, calm down,” you snapped at him once you caught your breath. 

“I just wanna make sure you can loosen up and have fun,” he replied with an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry. I.. I just don’t want you to fall behind or anything.”

You couldn’t contain your eye-roll as you gave into the puppy dog eyes and made a show of taking another drink. 

“There, happy?” you asked. 

“Definitely, come on, let’s dance!” 

The irritation over his actions was soon forgotten as you gave in to the beat of the music and joined in the writhing bodies on the floor. It didn’t take long to get drawn into the moment, the alcohol and music a powerful combination that brought out the serotonin you didn’t know you needed. Song after song passed and soon enough you found yourself in Daniel’s arms. It was almost nice, to let the stress of the past few months flow away and focus on only the here and now. 

“I didn’t know you could move like this,” Daniel said into your ear as his arms wrapped around your waist.

The graze of his lips across your skin sent shivers down your spine and you instinctively arched into his touch as his hands slid further down your sides. 

“I don’t get the chance to dance much,” you admitted meekly.

“That’s a shame. You’ll have to let me drag you out more often because it’s a damn sexy sight.”

A giggle escaped before you could stop it. Damn it. His flirting wasn’t funny! 

“Mmmhmm, sure,” you retorted cheekily, “You’re like the only one who thinks that.” 

He quickly spun you around, fast enough that the world went wonky and you had to grab onto him for balance, and it sent chills through your body. 

“Whoa, that- oh my,” you gasped. 

“Are you okay, Y/N?” 

There was a look of concern on his face as you felt your knees weaken. Panic sent your heart racing but you couldn’t focus enough to figure out why. Something just felt… wrong. 

“Maybe you’re dehydrated. Why don’t you finish the rest of your drink?” he urged. 

Shaking your head, you managed to mumble out, “Alcohol won’t fix dehydration. It’ll actually make it worse.”

“Well, it’s worth a try, come on.”

When he pushed the cup to your lips again, some semblance of your brain came back online and you pushed instinctively it away. The ugly curve of his downturned lips told a terrifying story. Was he- Was he trying to drug you?! Clenching your eyes shut tight, you tried to sort through your memories and recall the symptoms of being drugged to compare to your current ailments.

“Damn it, just take the fucking drink. I spent ten dollars on this fancy shit,” he grunted lowly. 

Eyes popping open, you caught his furious glare and instantly everything clicked. The reason he was so intent on you coming out tonight, how he handled the drink all the way to the floor, his insistence to drink the alcohol. 

“You- You prick,” you bit out. 

Thankfully, you hadn’t drunk more than those first two gulps. Whatever he’d laced the liquor with likely wasn’t at its full potential, and yet you were still feeling the effects. Just what the fuck had he given you?

“Y/N, what are you-”

With all your strength, you pushed him and luckily managed to catch him off guard, sending him flying back into the group behind him. You didn’t wait to see if he got back to his feet before you took the chance to escape. It was like a psychedelic maze, trying to escape the packed dance floor with your heart racing and your eyes swimming. Eventually, you made it out, and you instantly left the bar. 

The cold night air tore a gasp from your lungs when it hit your skin but it was more than welcomed. Your body felt like it was on fire, sweat rolling down your back and forehead as if you’d just been vigorously working out. The chill helped to clear your thoughts some. 

“Okay, I can do this, it’s just two blocks,” you murmured to yourself. 

For a minute, you considered calling for help from one of your squadmates, but your gut cautioned you otherwise. These soldiers were close, dangerously close. There was a good chance they’d just help him cover it up if you tried. A weak sigh left your lips as tears flooded your gaze. You wished you would have just stayed at work. You wished you hadn’t gone against your initial judgment of that asshole. You wish you were home, safe and sound in bed. Most of all, you wished you could call König to come save you. How ironic that you were looking to the man Daniel had “rescued” you from to come rescue you from him now. 

“Where do you think you’re going, bitch?!” 

A big hand snagged your wrist and pulled you to a stop so suddenly that your shoulder popped audibly, pain shooting through the joint as you collapsed back against him. 

“Daniel, please- I-”

“Uh-uh, nope. You’re not talking me out of this,” he hissed.

Despite using your entire weight to pull against him, he was able to drag you down a nearby dark alley with ease. Pain exploded through the back of your skull when he slammed you into the brick wall with a grunt and you nearly collapsed.

“Fuck!” you yelped, hand instinctively touching the throbbing spot to check for blood.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you? I was the one who located their base. I was the one who led the team in and took out as many of those dumb fucks as possible. I was the one to save your miserable ass, and what did I get for it? Nothing more than a fucking “thanks” and a shitty attitude. I waited for you to come around but you never fucking did,” he snarled, palm slapping the brick beside your face with a grunt, “When Graves suggested we bring medics along, I knew it would be my best chance of getting you alone. You’re such a stuck-up whore at home that you don’t ever go out with us. But here, I knew I could convince you. All it took was some kindness for your fat ass to fold. Can’t reckon you get much attention, so I’m not that surprised.” 

Disgust and shame reared its ugly head in your chest as you let your eyes drop from the angry vision of his face. Instead, you stared intently at the pocket of his white polo. 

“Now, you’re going to do what you should have done long ago, and you’re going to thank me for saving you. Get on your fucking knees and if you even think of using teeth I’ll put a round in your head so fast that-”

You stopped, mid-decent to the concrete when Daniel went flying. As he slammed into the ground, a hulking shadow followed him in earnest. It took your brain some time to figure out what was happening, but then you heard a familiar voice snarling in German. Slowly, the details of his form solidified in your gaze, and you sagged in relief. 

“Pray to your god while you’ve got the chance, ungeziefer!” König barked loudly.

A pained screech filled the air and made your stomach twist. 

“ König?!” Daniel groaned, “What the-? Why?!”

“You’re quite simple, aren’t you?” König snapped back with a humorless laugh, “Take one guess.”  

You watched the way Daniel’s head popped up, a look of disbelief clear in his eyes as he stared up at the giant before turning to you. Even through the lingering haze of the drugs, you could clearly make out the terror on his face and a sick part of you felt thrilled that he was experiencing even a modicum of the fear he’d pushed onto you. 

“I- I didn’t know,” he panted through frantic gasps, “I wouldn’t have-!” 

Daniel’s weak croak was silenced by a brutal kick to the face. The crunch of bone and cartilage sent chills down your spine and you couldn’t but absentmindedly think about how badly that would heal… if he even made it out of there. 

König rolled him over with a boot to the gut and crouched down above him, his voice just barely loud enough for you to hear. 

“Even if she wasn’t mine, you don’t get to touch her in that way. Unfortunately for you, she is mine. You’re just lucky I don’t have the time to drag this out. The things I would do to you…”

His words lit a fire in your stomach, misplaced lust and satisfaction filling your chest despite the gruesome scene before you. There was a rapid-fire battle going on in your mind, between the lawful good instinct to stop König and the chaotic righteousness to let him beat the hell out of Daniel. It wasn’t until the glint of a blade pierced through the dark, reflecting the weak fluorescent light behind them, that reality finally set in. This wasn’t going to be a fight. This was going to be a slaughter. König was going to kill someone over you!

“No, don’t! König, wait!” 

Your pleas fell on deaf ears. Before you could even blink, he was knelt on Daniel’s back, jerking the smaller man’s head up by the hair only to sink the knife into his ribs repeatedly, ending it with a vicious slash across his throat. It was awful and astonishing. A man of his size shouldn’t be that quick. While you’d seen him take out five of your team alone, that was with a gun. This was different. This was personal. 

Licking your dry lips, you watched with wide eyes as König got up from his position and turned your way. Something between fear and excitement quickened your breaths as he stalked your way, slowly, wiping the blood from his blade before shoving it back into his pocket

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you murmured. 

“And let him live after knowing what he was going to do to you? I think not,” he growled back lowly.

The instant you were within reach, a hand was around your throat, gentle but commanding as he pulled you into him. 

“He’s lucky I didn’t make him clean his guts up off the floor,” he hissed.

“Oh.”

Before you could react, he crouched and lifted you up onto his waist. Brick bit into your back through your sweater as he pinned you against it, making you gasp as his mouth devoured yours. 

“Mine,” he growled fervently. 

His hips ground roughly into the apex of your thighs and stole your breath as a wave of pleasure scorched through your belly. Holy fuck, he was already rock-hard. A pathetic whimper escaped your mouth into him when his teeth bit into your lip hard and you couldn’t resist scraping your nails along the nape of his neck. 

 “Nobody gets to touch you except me, got it?”

Your eyes rolled back at the rasp in his voice, the thinly veiled need peeking through in a taunt.

“Yeah, but… Hey! König, wait, please!”

A little growl emanated through his chest as you pushed on him, but he easily relented, drawing away to catch your flustered gaze with half-lidded eyes. 

“What is it, maus?” he asked.

“We can’t just- What- How the fuck are we gonna explain this?” you retorted, panic slowly filtering through your lust-hazed mind, “My god. You’re gonna get in trouble! I can’t- I can’t let you get hurt for protecting me! We have to do something! Maybe we can-”

Your rambling was quickly silenced with a hand over your mouth, the weight of his body leaning more into you, providing a sense of comfort almost like a weighted blanket. 

“Calm down, meine leibling,” he shushed warmly, “Take a deep breath and relax. Everything is going to be fine, I promise you.” 

Tears blurred your vision as you looked from him to Daniel and back to him, only to find his eyes hungrily tracing your form. Even in the current situation, you couldn’t deny the heat it caused. And then it was gone, the furrow of his brow conveying that anger once more when he released your mouth. 

“What did you think you were doing anyway, coming here with him?”

You couldn’t help but recoil, grimacing as your head hit the wall in the same tender spot, until he forced your face up by your chin. There was so much fury residing in his gaze that your heart squirmed in pain. It hurt worse than anything to see that judgment and anger directed at you. Was he really going to blame you?

“Maus, I said, what did you think you were-”

“Well, I sure as fuck didn’t think I was coming out to get raped!” you spat back finally, unbidden tears spilling down your cheeks, “I thought- I thought I was- was with friends. I-I didn’t think-”

When he pulled you into his chest, the damn broke fully. Sobs poured from your shaking form as you wrapped yourself around him and breathed him in. You cried over the betrayal from your teammate. You cried at how close you came to being assaulted by another horrible person, the fact that König had saved you twice now. You cried over how much you’d missed him, over how happy you were to hear he still had some kind of emotion for you; no matter how demented it might be. 

“I had a bad feeling about him,” he bit out after a moment, “When I saw you leave with them, I just knew. I’m sorry it took so long to get out here to you, schatz. If I had been quicker-”

You shook your head frantically and whimpered, “You were just in time.” 

He hummed quietly, hand cradling the nape of your neck as he murmured little soothing words against your hair. You don’t know how long you stood there like that but eventually, your limbs started to ache from the position. When you pulled away from him, he put you down gently but didn’t let you retreat fully, hands cupping your face tenderly while he wiped away your tears. 

“I don’t enjoy seeing you cry like this,” he sighed. 

Something about that triggered that subdued anger in the back of your mind, waking the beast from slumber. Anger was easier to handle than sadness. How dare he stand here and comfort you, hold you like this, when hours ago he couldn’t even look you in the eye! 

Nose wrinkling in frustration, you stepped back and wrapped your arms around yourself as the lack of his warmth hit hard. The hurt that passed through his eyes nearly made you collapse back into his arms but you knew you couldn’t- not yet, not until you had answers. 

“Why?” you finally asked.

“Why, wha-”

“Why did you act like I didn’t exist? I spent the last two months driving myself fucking crazy, pining over you and what could have been, only to get treated like I was nothing more than dirt on your boot the next time I saw you!”

He tried to talk but you cut him off swiftly. No way were you done with him. Shoving a finger into his oh-so-glorious pec, you stepped closer with all the rage you could muster in your glare. In another light, it probably would have been hilarious to see someone of your short stature intimidating the giant man.

“If I was just some fucking notch in your bedpost, you could have said that! You didn’t have to act like there was something more. You have to know how hot you are. I would have fucked you even without you tricking me like that. But no, you had to make me feel special, make it feel like there was more than just my body on the line, and then you have the nerve to get mad at me for seeking out platonic companionship in my teammates?! You dare claim that I’m yours?! No, no, you don’t get to do that!”

The instant your rant ended, one hand cupped the back of your head and the other shoved you back against the wall, the impact cushioned by his hand before he boxed you in on either side. And fuck, you shouldn’t have found that hot but god it was. The way he instinctively protected you, acted like he cared, towered over you in a way that just screamed dominance and power.

“Don’t you dare say those things. There hasn’t been one moment that I haven’t thought about you, that I wasn’t looking out for you from afar, mein schatz,” he said sternly.

“Then why-”

“Because I couldn’t risk anyone figuring out what had happened between us!” he snapped with a huff, “If anyone knew you had stayed with me willingly, your life would be in danger, and I knew if I spoke to you, I would break. How could I not? I’m only so strong, meine liebe. Did you really think it was easy for me to do that? That I didn’t want to scoop you up in my arms the moment you walked through that door? That it didn’t break my heart when I watched the hope leave your eyes?! I hated myself every- single- second.” 

Swallowing hard, you couldn’t force out any kind of answer. Distrust held your heart in a stronghold but his words were slowly chipping it away, the passion in his voice worming its way under your skin. 

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You don’t even understand. Scheiße, I put so much time and effort into finally meeting you, and then somehow… somehow, I lucked out. I  got a taste of what I’d wanted for so long,” he paused, thumb gently stroking that sweet spot below your ear as his eyes searched your face, “And it was more than I could have ever hoped for, only to have you ripped away at the last moment.”

His words settled heavily around you and, as their significance soaked into your brain, you could only stare at him in confusion. He… had known of you before you met? You knew they’d gathered intel on your team before the attack, but… he'd seen enough to want to see you?

“What do you mean?” you asked softly. 

His silence was loud, louder than you could handle and the guilt in his eyes sent a shiver up your spine.

“König,” you urged, “What- What do you mean?” 

German spewed suddenly from his lips, angry and frantic as he began to pace in place, and it only served to make that anxiety nestle deeper in your belly.  

“Damn it! Talk to me!” you cried. 

When he spun around, you tripped over yourself in shock trying to back away from the fury in his glare. Fortunately, or possibly unfortunately, he caught you before you could actually fall, but he didn’t let you go even once you were balanced.

“There’s no way to make this sound good,” he breathed quietly. 

Eyebrows shooting up in disbelief, you retorted, “Yeah, well, it can’t be worse than leaving me guessing at all the horrible things you could mean!” 

“I need you to promise me you won’t run, that you’ll let me explain.” 

While you wanted to hear him out, you weren’t sure how well you would handle whatever it was. There was also the issue of your dead teammate less than five meters away. Everything in your heart and mind was torn into a million little pieces of focus and it was all too much. You had to pick one problem at a time to deal with.  

Looking over at Daniel’s still form, you pressed your lips into a thin line. 

“What the hell do we do about him?” you asked. 

You weren’t lying earlier when you said you were worried for König. He had a lot of power, but straight up murdering one of Graves’ men out of battle and, even worse while allied, was beyond reason. That was a death sentence. 

König froze up, almost as if he’d forgotten about the whole reason you were there, and let out a heavy sigh. 

“I’ll call it in and have Horangi take care of it,” he muttered, “For now, come back to my room with me. Everyone should be out right now.” 

Why did that sound so inviting, so perfect? Fantasies of being able to touch him again, cuddle with him once more, plagued your thoughts until the weight of his admission came crashing back down. You couldn’t help but stare at him as his words reverberated in your head. It was clearer than ever that you knew nothing about this man, and yet you couldn't stop the way your heart fluttered when he slipped his fingers between yours, nor the way you felt content in following him out of the alley. Despite it all, under the fear and the uncertainty, that fatal attraction to him was still burning strong. When he wrapped his arm around you and slipped you under his jacket to protect you against the blustering winds, it felt too much like home. 

Just what the fuck were you supposed to do now?

[pillow-priestess]

I stumbled across your blog and I'm curious about plushsuits in general. I've never heard the term before, but I've already been doing some pretty furry, and big, OC plushie sewing, so it sounds like something that might be up my alley.

Ooh, lovely, thank you! I just took a look at some of your work and it does seem like a concept you might enjoy!

In fiction: A plushsuit is basically a hybrid of a plushie and a fursuit or other costume. So while I am very big and soft and huggable and cuddlable, I can also open my zipper for friends to step inside and wear me! For me, personally, my inside is pretty much a pocket dimension of incredibly soft warm fluff. I can compress it and give it barriers to simulate a physically accurate 'inside' of my form, allowing the person within to wear me and move both of our bodies as one. Sometimes, though, they prefer to simply float in an endless ocean of stuffing, holding my knit heart or letting their form be massaged and fluffed up into another plushie or suit! No matter what, I'll be keeping them safe and happy the whole time.

Not all plushsuit OCs follow these particular rules! Everyone's sonas are different, and plushsuits can be unique in so many beautiful ways. For some really lovely art of many different suits, I recommend checking out @Archer_Mouse, @meltyautumn, @inabunstar, and @hyenafu 's #mushy stuff tag!

In real life: Plushsuit as a term can be applied to a couple different things, but it's easiest to think of them as an extra soft and thick fursuit. Suits with extra stuffed bellies, limbs, tails, the works! They can be standard suits, quadsuits, bitchsuits, and more, but more often than not cover the wearer completely and are designed to be soft to wear and to hug. While I don't have one myself, I'd love to commission one someday!

A couple excellent plushsuits and wearers to look out for: @LinkyWollf makes some truly excellent suits, one of which was sold to @MaddyFox_AD! She takes beautiful pictures of her nullsuit, really comfy looking if you like the restricting nature of a suit. @plush_army makes some great suits too!

If this kind of stuff sounds like your wheelhouse, I really recommend checking out more of it on various sites! It's both a kink and an aspiration for a whole lot of us, and everyone connects differently and shows that through their own creations. Your crafts seem full of love and care, I'd be thrilled to watch you express your interest in plushsuits in the future! Thanks again for the ask, I'm always happy to explain all this and shoutout several of my favorite creators <3

[ratcandy]

we need fluffy Sozomura hcs

NOW

/lh

ACK I need to wrench my brain off the moth for a second to do this properly OK!!!!

Well first of all I view any relationship between Sozonius and Shamura to be strictly platonic so jot that down, BUT ... oh dear you asked for fluffy hcs oh man. That is not my strong suit

(more under the keep reading; I kinda started talking a lot lmao)

Well, there was a thing I was writing a while back that I never ended up finishing, might return to it at some point.... but it gave me the idea that Shamura and Sozonius are not too fond of the busy cultlife. The former due to migraines and general disinterest in most of the cultists, and the latter due to. Uhh. Currently Processing the Horrors

So what they end up doing is sneaking off in the early morning, while the sky is still dark, to hang out just outside the edges of the cult grounds in the forested area and enjoy the silence out there . Shamura will be spinning their webs while Sozonius will be writing, not saying anything to each other, just enjoying the quiet n each other's company

Frequently Shamura will zone out and forget where they are or what they're doing, and Sozonius will just Gently and Patiently remind them. He has had to introduce himself multiple times to Shamura but that is Okay, he does not mind, and they always remember eventually

and Due to Shamura being Like That, they've also given Sozonius multiple ominous nicknames that are vaguely tied to his life while he was shroomed, even if they weren't personally around to see that side of him. These nicknames are stuff like "reborn of decay and rot" and Sozonius just has to sit there and be like Yeah that's a thing you call me

(Personally I can't see him being comfortable with being referred to as Sozo again, so even if the nicknames are . Perturbing, and kinda just remind him of it regardless... at least it's not Sozo)

Man I'm having a difficult time thinking. Their relationship isn't built on a lot of happiness, so it's hard to tie too much fluff to it shdgkjh. They're just existing for each other. Just someone for the other to lean on in confide in, even if one will forget the exchange happened the moment the other's out of sight

They are each other's Small Inkling of Comfort. In that they understand each other in ways no one else will, but discussing such things are Not Easy. Lots of soothing each other when going through the roughest moments (either of them Remembering to any extent what they've done) and it's all very... quiet. They are a Quiet duo. And given how the cult is very much not a quiet place, they will take Quiet wherever they can

Hrmm. I can't see either of them as very touchy-feely, but Hey maybe they change each other's bandages now and again. Sozonius won't need as many bandage changes as Shamura does but yknow... It's likely Shamura doesn't trust many others to do it for them, since they have no idea who anyone else in the cult even is

UM I've talked a lot and most of these are not fluffy or are fluff that leads into angst. I am sorry dhKGJH My wheelhouse is angst and both of these characters are walking tragedies so I am... leaning a little harder into that than I probably should lmao

Hope that !!! Was something either way, though!!

[wh0refornikolailantsov]

Prompt: “You wrote this for me?”

Song: Saturn - Sleeping at Last

For Tolya x Reader please!!

Amateur Poetry - Tolya Yul Bataar

Fluff? Oh I can do fluff, it's not my usual wheelhouse but anything for you babe.

This one is shorter than the usual because fluffy.

Content Warnings: No Proof/Beta Reading. Bad poetry. Stealing some of Kaz Brekkers rizz for this one ngl.

You hadn't meant for him to find it. In fact you had never meant for anyone to find it. It was something you hadn't thought about too much, and you had almost forgotten about it.

You can trace back to the absentminded thought that brought you to this moment.

You had been sat on the deck of the Volkvolny, awaiting the crew to return from collecting the supplies from the dock. Tolya returned earlier than the rest of the crew and as he pulled himself upon some rigging by one of his strong arms, and balanced their, a good distance over the deck, a bunch of folded papers in hand.

"Found something?" You had called up. Tolya had turned his gaze down to you, eyes looking even more golden in the light of the late sun.

"Not exactly," Tolya had replied. "But enough that Tamar sent me back."

"She tire of it that quickly?" You asked.

His laughter carried on the sea wind and you felt immediately more at ease for him being here. "I think she tires of it always," he said.

"Do you think you'll ever have enough poetry Tolya?" You had asked, and his eyes had shone back at you all joyful.

"I doubt I could ever have enough, there's as much faith, and love, devotion and belief in poetry as there is across all the lands I have seen and those I have not, I do not doubt that."

"What about bad poetry?" You had asked.

"There is no bad poems, just untruthful ones."

Tolya is stood in the sleeping quarters, with a familiar piece of folded paper in hand. The narrowness of space and the low ceiling makes the hulking expanse of his shoulders, the towering height of his stature, even larger.

"I was not," you sigh, "it's not very good."

You wanted to ask how he found it, or why he found it, you wanted to claim that you had never intended for him to find it, to read it, to know it existed at all. But a bigger part of you, even if it is quieter, knows you wouldn't have put his name on the paper if you hadn't meant him to have it eventually. You wouldn't have left it where it would be found.

"You wrote this?" he asks, looking down to the page and back up again.

"You said with all the time at sea you'd not had time to search out new poetry," you explain, "and I know you love your poetry old and new with equal measure, but I thought maybe I could help you."

“You wrote this for me?” he asks.

"It's not good," you try again, "I know that."

You could not tell him that when you met him you felt like broken glass, like someone had dropped you onto stones and watched you shatter and left the broken pieces to be anyone else's problem. You could not tell him that the years with him had softened you into sea glass, no longer so sharp and harsh on the edges, and maybe not resembling what you once were. Tolya had never made you feel as understood as the day he said sea glass has its part to play, that is shows the beauty in change and resilience.

You could not tell him, all the thoughts you kept to yourself, in the quiet. You could not tell him how you do not believe any of the Saint's had ever understood you in the way he has. That you weren't sure you could believe in something as much as you believed in Tolya. Because these quiet confessions were something you were not willing to tell even yourself.

I knew not of kindness as I knew not of strength,

I knew not of devotion, or courage, in those I had met.

But between you, and I, I had never known of faith before you,

Between you, and I, and the Saints,

Between you, and I and the True Sea,

Nothing but the quiet moments between us,

Have ever felt like home to me.

"No bad poetry only untruthful poetry," you say, so unsure of your words, "isn't that right?"

His arms engulf you in a tight embrace before you even have a chance to process him moving. Tolya is a warrior, with the build and the strength of one. His arms can move his sword with pace and vigour that is required for battle, and his hands know the right ways to move that with his gifts he could stop hearts as quickly as a short movement. Those who see Tolya, are right to assume that he is a threat, he is capable and when needed he is willing to be just as dangerous as his sister. But the kindness, and the gentleness that he holds within his soul is not what anyone would expect from him.

As he holds you tightly to him, your heart cannot decide whether to calm in his soft embrace or speed at the sudden closeness.

"Tolya?" you manage to squeak out.

"Too tight?" he asks, a concern in his tone.

"No," you're quick to reassure him, "the hug is perfect." You try not to recoil at your own words and you continue. "I am just confused."

"Thank you," he whispers. "I don't really know what else to say except that."

"You're welcome," you whisper back, returning the hug and letting your heart settle, soothed by his, "you don't need to say anything."

[lokisgoodgirl]

hello there! idk if ure doing asks rn but if ever u are.. 🥺 may i ask for one where reader is stressing and panicking over a huge major qualifying exam in medschool (may not be medschool, may be other profession/career field) and she's been struggling reviewing for it and loki just gives her comfort and gives her the biggest amount of support throughout? thank you in advance if ever u pick this... it's just been rlly stressful preparing/reviewing for the exams in my premed ive been having meltdowns and headaches and rlly rlly anxious 😓😟 but ur fics always manage to calm me down and put a smile in my face 🥹🥲❤️‍🩹 i hope this isnt too weird and specific or what thank you very much!! 😖🫶

Hey my love! I'm so sorry you're going through it right now...exam stress is always rough! This isn't really my wheelhouse, however I do have this and this from my fluff library which might be a quick boost for you :)

I highly recommend hitting up the masterlists of @holdmytesseract and @muddyorbs who have lovely fluffy stories along these lines if memory serves correctly. I believe in you! You've got this!!

[itwoodbeprefect]

12, 27, 42, 46 for the fic writer asks

12. How does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

i could try to pretend that it doesn't matter to me if people read my stuff or not, but that would be a lie. i think maybe it's more... by this point i've had years and years of posting fic and people being extremely sweet and kind and encouraging about it, and that has absolutely had an impact both in terms of keeping me posting more fic and the ways i view my own writing (and how i view myself, i think, especially pre-ao3. i'm pretty sure people online telling me i was funny played a not insignificant part in building any sense of self-worth as a deeply awkward kid irl in high school), and having all of that history and experience, at this point i have the luxury of not caring about the numbers that much. comments are always very awesome, but if any particular fic would end up getting ignored completely for whatever reason, that's okay. i'm not writing for max engagement (i've made some hilariously terrible decisions lately if that's what i'm going for), but that doesn't take away that people being excited about a thing i made remains a really really nice benefit to how the fandom ecosystem works.

though i will also note, i don't think there's a single thing wrong with wanting or needing feedback or support to your writing. i frequently feel extremely spoiled in that regard, because i've been around for so long and my output in that time has been so high on average that i know people know my name, and i also write pretty easily digestible uncontroversial stuff generally speaking no matter what fandom i'm in at the time, so the responses i'm getting are oftentimes not the average, and i'm very aware of that. it's much, much harder getting started in fandom.

-

27. What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

ooooh. i mean, most favorite is easy, and probably a fairly universal answer, which is that moment when the writing flows nicely and it feels right and i get to put down at least a few paragraphs in a row (maybe even more!) without it feeling like any effort at all. least favorite is probably the opposite - when it just Won't Work, and every sentence feels clunky and awkward and overwrought, like there's just no way to bridge whatever tiny gap in a story i'm probably trying to fill at the time. the goofiest thing about that is that when reading things back later there's often not too much actual difference between the quality of the writing when it feels good vs. when it feels bad, because the problem is in my head, but it's also my head that needs to do the writing, so that doesn't make it less of an obstacle.

-

42. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

Centrefolds / Distal Breaks by @redgoldblue, which i read because @redgoldblue wrote it, because i would absolutely recommend anything written by @redgoldblue.

-

46. How would you describe your style? (Character/emotion/action-driven, etc)

ha, anything but action- or plot-driven, i think. characters, emotions, characters having emotions, emotions to explore characters - that's my wheelhouse.

and on the topic of writing style: i've gotten a comment a few times (as a compliment! nothing bad about this) that said something to the effect that my writing is pleasantly economical or sparse, which frankly baffled me for a while, because right from the very very start i was writing mostly about relationships (whether friendship, romance, family), and not very much really happens in my stories (the traditional way, action or plotwise), so from my point of view almost everything was fluff and just sort of... not superfluous, and definitely not meaningless (there's a lot of meaning to feelings!), but a sort of deleted scene extra part to canon. those are some of the first responses i got to my work: i can't believe i read this many words about almost nothing happening, and i really liked it! so filler, i guess, might be the best word for it, and obviously "all of this is filler" and "this is a very economical use of words" is inherently contradictory, except, well. is it? it took me a while to, i guess, internalize, that when the goal is feelings and exploring characters, doing that in an effective way is going straight to the point.

-

Get to know your fic writer! 🔎

[away-ward]

Ello! How do you think the girls will react and take care of their respective others when they are down sick and vice versa. Its always cute when one of the mcs is sick and the other is worried and takes care of them

Aww. This is a really cute idea. And they have such different dynamics that there's a lot to look at here.

Here are my headcanons!

First and foremost, all of the guys hire private caretakers. They could handle things like making sure their partner is taking their meds and staying hydrated (Kai being the most capable). At the same time, they would need help with cooking, childcare, etc.

Will is a huuuuge baby when he's sick. The kind that sneezes and cries, "babe, I'm dying!" It's a joke... mostly. He does exaggerate his symptoms, but he genuinely feels awful. Fortunately, Emmy is used to the role of caretaker because of her grandma. Remembering meds, fluids, and preparing healthy meals are all things in her wheelhouse. She's probably fine with the more disgusting parts of being sick, and can power through them without complaint. Doesn't mean she rolls over for him. "Babe, I need my pillows fluffed," would be met with a flat expression and a middle finger as she left the room. However, she's attentive to his (actual) needs.

When Emmy gets sick, the house doesn't fall apart, but Will thinks it's going to. He doubts his abilities too much, but he's not that bad and keeping things going. He's likely to have a nurse come in to check on her, making sure she's not getting worse, and explain each of the medications to him. I think sometimes, he could be over attentive, and go over board in trying to cover all his bases. As for their three children, he's go that handled. Their kids that understand that Mom needs rest, and that Dad is fun to play with. II is also a big help, making sure his mom has everything she needs from water to tissues to extra blankets. He would absolutely fluff her pillows.

Their sick days are filled with watching bad reality TV and eating soup when the other isn't resting.

Damon would refuse to accept he's sick until he's literally bedridden. The entire time, Winter would know he's getting sick. "You're voice sounds different. Are you sure you're not getting congested?" Does Damon listen? No. He's fine. Until he wakes up one morning with a fever and can't move without being pain.

Winter would need help. She can't handle the kids and Damon, and keep track of everything in the house., but they have the nanny and that helps with the kids. I still think she hires a nurse, but that also has it's own issues. Damon hates any other woman coming into his lair room, touching him, touching his things. He also doesn't want some random man doing it either. He's mean and snappy and grumpy, and Winter would worry about the caretaker's safety if it wasn't for the fact that he couldn't lift himself from the bed.

Which is kind of a funny image in her head, not that she'd let him catch her laughing.

When Winter gets sick, she's low maintenance... or tries to be. Damon forces a team of very confused nurses and doctors to attend to her needs. Winter eventually gets him to let them leave, letting him know she trusts him to be enough.

They don't really leave their room, and fully attend to each other needs with all of their attention. When Damon is sick, all he really wants is to hold Winter. Or be held. Or have her close. He wants comfort and Winter is happy to be that. And there is some comfort in knowing Damon would force some poor doctor to bring her back from the dead, possibly including an actual Satanic ritual if it comes to that. But this is just a cold, and she's fine.

Kai rarely gets sick. He keeps such a healthy routine and pays attention to his immune system. If something feels even slightly off, he addresses it quickly. But every once in a while, even he gets taken down. I see Kai not wanting anyone to attend to him, and Banks is patient with him as he tries to pretend he doesn't need help. Still, she knows his favorite tea and what he likes to eat when he's feeling under the weather. Each time Kai is struggling get out of the bed, and Banks appears with soup and meds telling him (demanding, really) to lay back down and rest, he's so incredibly humbled. And grateful.

Banks, like her brother, doesn't find it easy to admit that she's getting sick. She doesn't want to be taken care of. But Kai, more than the others, knows what to do. He's confident in his ability to manage the house, kids, business, and Banks being down. He's good at delegating his other duties to prioritize her, and if he calls in any help, it's a doctor that makes house calls so she doesn't have to leave the house, and a house keeper to help with laundry and things.

They both try to push their limits when sick and the other has to check them. They'll spend their time making sure the sick person is actually resting.

Michael is pretty simple when he's sick. He tries to fight it off, but when he's sick, he goes to the doctor, gets his meds, and follows directions. He doesn't whine too much, but he's extremely grumpy. Rika finds it funny, and laughs as she helps, poking fun of him in his helpless state a little bit, since he can't really do anything. As gross as colds are, it's still much better that helping her mom from the bathroom floor to the bed after a particularly bad night. She'd take sick Michael over that any day.

Rika hates getting sick, but she can usually feel it coming. She tries to be low maintenance but in actuality she loves be doted on by Michael. Loves it when he takes care of her himself, but even seeing the way he watches over the doctor is sweet to her. She can sense how important it is to him that she get the best care. However, she knows she doesn't need all that fuss and takes care of herself pretty well, despite Michael's protest.

Overall, they're both high maintenance but pretend not to be.

Not confident in the accuracy, but I think these are cute little scenarios for them. Let me know what you think or what your headcanons are!

-Ko

[grassbreads]

Fic asks 2, 4 wrt An Act of Trust, and 30

Thank you for the ask bestie!

2. Go to your AO3 “Works” page, to the sidebar with all the filters, and click the drop-down arrow for “Additional Tags.” What are your top 3-5 most used tags? Do you think they accurately represent your writing habits?

My top two are "alternate universe—modern setting" and "post-canon," which absolutely represent my writing habits accurately. After that, it's just a whole bunch of different tags that are all tied at two uses. To pick some highlights, I'd say the "one shot" tag and "fluff" and "angst" being right next to each other all represent me pretty well. "Christmas," however, not so much.

Honestly now that I think about it, oneshot should probably be my number one most used tag. Apparently I just forget to include it more often than not lmao.

The other two questions are under the cut :)

4. What detail in An Act of Trust are you really proud of?

Personally, I'm extremely fond of all of Vanitas and Noé's back and forth dialogue in the beginning before the stitches. Vanoé have such a specific vibe when they're snarking at each other and I think I managed to capture some of it there :).

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

Y'know I honestly can't think of any of my published fics that are particularly out of my comfort zone. I'm fairly confident as a writer, I think. More often than not, if I have an idea, I just go for it and let whether or not I finish the damn thing be the arbiter of whether it's meant to be. Also, to be honest, a decent majority of my ideas tend to be ideas for post-canon fics or modern AUs, and as established, those are very much my wheelhouse.

However, I do have a work in progress that I'm almost certainly never going to actually post, and that one falls into the out of my comfort zone category pretty solidly.

About a year ago when I got covid and was confined to my bedroom for weeks, I ended up writing a big chunk of an mxtx crossover fic. The premise, since I was purposely being as self-indulgent as possible, is that the main couples from all three novels basically rewatch their life stories together and bond over it. And when it's each main character's turn to star, three more characters from their world show up for the ride. And it turns out, accurately characterizing eleven characters at a time in any scene is, uh, fucking hard. Just including eleven characters period in a given scene is hard enough from a blocking standpoint.

The thing turned out to be really hard to write, in other words. Also, recapping the entire plotlines of three long web novels plus reactions is an insane undertaking. I realized pretty quickly I was never gonna finish the thing.

However! I do still work on that fic. Even knowing that I'm probably never going to post more than a few excerpts, the process, though hard, is fun enough that I can't leave it to rot. Every once in a while I pick it up and add to it a bit, to the point that it's now my third longest fic at just under 9k words. (I am not a longfic girl lol).

So anyway, tldr, the lesson learned from getting out of my comfort zone is that sometimes it's worthwhile to work on things you'll never publish or finish just for your own enjoyment :).

[mithrilhearts]

For the writer asks, all questions with a 2 in them, please. :-)

Alright, okay, holy shit lmao this is gonna be a big one. AND I AM UP FOR THE CHALLENGE!! Thank you Fizzy!!

Throwing this under the cut as there are a LOT of questions.

2. Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

I already answered this one here!

12. how does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

I think every writer loves feedback. All we want to do is yell about our stories with people - that being said, not everyone has the time to leave a comment and I understand that. However, I feel engagement is super important to keep a fandom alive. I try not to get stuck on that though - I feel like I get a decent amount of feedback, and then there's some fics that receive little to none. It's just how things are. Feedback encourages me to work faster on certain pieces, and a lack of engagement makes me feel like I can be slower on others.

20. Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Yes. I use various headcanons, phrases and themes throughout my stories. It's how you know they're mine I guess lol - I always include blueberries in some fashion, I always describe Bilbo's hazel eyes meeting Thorin's blues, fireflies and freedom, etc. I love fluff, hurt/comfort, etc. So I like to stick to my wheelhouse and use styles/phrases I know that work.

21. Would you ever collaborate with another writer for a story?

idk @sunnyrosewritesstuff, would I?

22. Are there certain types of writing you won’t do? (style, pov, genre, tropes, etc)

I won't do reader inserts, or change from 3rd person pov. Those aren't my wheelhouse and I feel uncomfortable trying to do those. As for tropes, pregnancy fics, love triangles, a/b/o, and I'm sure some others, they just aren't really what I'm looking for as a writer.

23. Best writing advice for other writers?

Don't compare yourself to other writers - no one does a fic just like you. You may have a similar concept, but no fic is exactly the same because no author is exactly the same. Also, stats do not determine what is a good or a bad fic. Do not obsess over them, they mean NOTHING.

24. Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

See above and reverse it.

25. What fic do you wish you got more of a response on?

Probably my TRSB fic from 2022, Between Vices & Virtues. It's a 40k multichapter I worked very hard on over the course of 2-3 months and it just feels like it didn't do as well as I'd hoped. I love it anyway :) which is what matters.

26. Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Where The Shadows Lie, definitely. It's a crackshit fic, as I call it. But Fuck Thy Neighbor is creeping up on that list as my very fun rom-com fic lol

27. What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

The planning and actual writing is my favorite part. My least favorite part is the summary/tags/title lol honestly, my bane!

28. On average, how much writing do you get done in a day?

Some days are better than others. Some days I write 0 words, others I can pump out nearing 3k. It depends on my mood.

29. What’s your revision or editing process like?

I go through my chapter/fic with spelling/grammar in mind. Then once all that is done, I read it aloud (most of the time) to check for flow and what not to make sure it sounds right to my own ears. It's pretty simple, but time-consuming.

32. Name three of your favorite fanfic writers.

I love so many writers???? But the first three that came to mind were @i-did-not-mean-to @sunnyrosewritesstuff and @ahufflepuffhobbit

42. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

So, I am a very slow reader. But the last thing I was working on reading was a WIP by @theladygreiwolf, already, I definitely recommend it, but it's not ready yet 👀

52. Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Yes. I try to respond to as many comments as possible - I do this because I like to engage with other people about xyz story. I also want people to know how much I appreciate that they took the time to leave a comment, it's the least I can do in return!

62. Thoughts on cliffhangers?

I love cliffhangers. I use them now and again in my own works!

72. What order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

Chronological 99% of the time. I think there was (1) whole case where I wrote the end of a chapter and then went back to do the beginning. I was in the mood to write that content, and it had to come out or I'd explode.