#for those unaware or who have forgotten

[mey-rin-is-fabulous]

That's nice Yuki and Raita get to perform together in a Toumyu.

[hatethysinner]

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʜᴇʀʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've found comfort in your solitary life. No one comes to visit the humble herbalist living on the town's edge who talks to her own plants. That all changed in the early morning hours of today, when your kindness betrayed you to help a suffering man on your doorstep. You let the wrong one in.

ᴡᴄ: 8.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: Haven't felt like dipping my toes into writing fanfics again since my Avatar era, which was TWO YEARS AGO!!! There are not enough fluffy Remmick fics, so I will be the first to change that. This is my official admittance into the mental hospital we call the Sinners fandom. White girls I promise you can still have your fun with this too, enjoy!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, fluff with a side of smut, a little angst i guess, dark!remmick is on vacation, you're getting overly grateful remmick instead, excessive use of the word perfect, reader is a little special, a little domesticity never hurts, yearning, vampirism, blood, biting, begging, absolutely pathetic man overload at the start, praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, offscreen parental death, detailed wound care, nursing back to health, religious undertones if you squint, general affection and eroticism, amateur knowledge of herbalism pls don't kill me, excessive divider usage, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: “Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[captainpriceslilwife]

clearing out my drafts so uh....Simon Riley x reader who thinks she needs plastic surgery :P

CW: uhhhhh plastic surgery, insecurities, simon only knowing how to solve emotions through caveman means, i think that's it

He really hadn't meant to see it.

It's not like he was snooping, or anything. You had told him to look something up on your phone while you were busy cleaning the kitchen, and you were so focused that you didn't notice how still he had grown still as he stared down at those little black words already typed in the search bar.

Breast augmentation before and after

His eyes darted across the screen as he took in the various images that you had been meticulously studying the night before. Hundreds of women with breasts that he couldn't see a problem with, right beside a photo of them looking bright, happy, and pumped up like a little barbie doll.

Clearly you had forgotten to close out the tab. Or clear your history.

Which he couldn't stop himself from scrolling through.

How to increase breast size naturally? Supplements for bigger breasts? Exercises for bigger boobs reddit...How much do boob jobs cost? A trail of insecurity that led you to the final page that he's now staring at.

He feels like he's going to throw up.

Did he say something wrong? Did he not show you how much he loved you? Did someone else say something to you? Did he make you feel undesirable? Maybe he had zoned out and stared at some poor woman's tits without even realizing and you thought he wanted you to-

"Si?" Your voice breaks him out of his spiraling thoughts as you peek your head around the corner, completely unaware of the inner turmoil that's ripping him apart as he stands there like an idiot. "Are they open?"

He blinks slowly at you - his mind is spinning around so fast that all he can manage is a blank stare. "What?"

"Marco's." You say with a huff of amusement, but when he just continues to stare, your eyebrows furrow in confusion as you enunciate your words slowly. "The pizza place. Are they open?"

"I dunno." His tone is gruff, and he's trying to figure out how to say the million thoughts that are swirling around in his mind as you make your way over to him with an amused smile. "Si, what have you been doing this whole-"

"Why are you lookin' at this shit?" He had wanted it to come out a bit more...tactful that that, but he couldn't hold it in any longer. It's in that moment that you realize how tense he looks, and your smile immediately falters as you pause in front of him.

"...the pizza place?" You ask in a small voice, growing more uncertain by the second as he lets out a quiet scoff. It's only when he turns the phone back to you that you see what he's talking about - and your heart drops into your stomach.

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"I was just-" Your hand extends out to take the phone, but he moves it just out of your reach as his eyes continue to stare into yours. "I was just looking. I'm not actually going to do it." You mumble awkwardly, suddenly feeling too vulnerable to keep looking up at him. You let out a tight little laugh, trying to brush it off like a joke even though you know it's too late for that. "Plus, it's a bit out of my price range, so-"

"I'm not playin' with you, love." And it's true. You've never seen him look so unimpressed and disappointed in your entire relationship. "What even made you look this up, huh? Someone say somethin' to you?"

"No." You feel like you're shrinking under his scrutinizing gaze, but he doesn't let up any - just keeps scrolling through the pictures as he looks between you and the phone.

Another tense sigh. Then, he's murmuring a quiet, "Did I say somethin'?"

"No, Si. Of course not." Your voice grows even more quiet as you reach for his free hand, twiddling with his fingers in some subconscious attempt to soothe him. It seems to work slightly - and he lets out a huff as he drops your phone onto the table to pull you closer.

Your head hits his chest as he wraps his arms around you, and his hand automatically comes up to run through your hair - something he usually does to soothe you, though now it seems to be more for his sake. He presses a couple of kisses to the top of your head as he holds you in silence, trying to gather his thoughts well enough to express his feelings. Words have never been his strong suit. Maybe that's what got him into this mess.

"Gorgeous girl." He murmurs softly against your hair before bringing his hands to your cheeks to tilt your head up to face him. His thumbs brush over the soft skin as his eyes trail over your face so reverently in nearly takes your breath away. "I don't tell you tha' enough, do I? How beautiful I think you are."

"You don't have to tell me, Si...I know you think I'm beautiful." He's never once made you feel bad about your appearance, but it doesn't change all the years you spent hating what you saw in the mirror because you compared yourself to everyone else. "It's not your fault I don't like the way I look-"

"'Course it fuckin' is." He doesn't even let you finish before he's adamantly shaking his head, guilt flooding his features as he looks down at you. "Can't even make my girlfriend see how stunnin' she is. Wha' kind of a man am I, huh? A pathetic fuckin' excuse of one."

A lump begins to form in your throat at the thought of him taking the blame for your insecurities - ones that had bloomed long before you had ever met him. But you were at a loss for words now. He had never seemed so adamant about anything before, and it made your heart thud heavily against your ribs at the realization of just how much he loved you. "Simon..."

"I should be lovin' you so much that this shit doesn' even cross your mind. That's my job, yeah?" His jaw clenches tight as he looks over your face, and you can see a strange look settle over his features - a quiet acceptance of what he's about to do. "And I'm clockin' in. Right now."

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, but before you can open your mouth to question what on earth he means, he's already bending over to grab you and haul you over his shoulder.

"Simon!" You let out a squeal of surprise as you're suddenly faced upside-down against his back, but you can't help the giggles that burst out of your mouth as he carries you down the hallway towards the bedroom. "What are you doing? Marco's is gonna close!"

"Fuck Marco's. I'm eatin' you for dinner, love."

[miharuki]

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖃 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 (𝕱𝖊𝖒)

You were inside an otome game, an old classic that you found while searching for games of the same genre.

Imagine your surprise when you realized you were inside the otome game "My Pure Elegant Love," a medieval-style otome game with nobles, kings, and knights. You had just woken up, finding yourself as the daughter of a duke, any duke. Perhaps for a brief moment, you thought you could have reincarnated as Amelie, the protagonist of this game, but you were far from it.

You quickly befriended Amélie; her sweetness and gentleness were at least forced, but you knew that was the vibe of the game. Perhaps being the daughter of a duke, you could meet other characters, like Claude, the noble and best friend of Amélie in the plot and one of the favorite characters of the small group that played this forgotten game, damn it.

There was also Nathan, one of the strongest and most talented knights in the plot. We can't forget about Kalisto, the protagonist's younger brother who had a crush on her, Luka, one of the princes and also a romantic partner in the plot, as well as the wizard Azrael, and the first Duke Eros, all romantic interests of the protagonist.

Being the daughter of a simple duke, you knew you wouldn't have a chance with those of high status like Luka, the first prince. You weren't the protagonist, but you couldn't help but envy her. Perhaps because she was receiving love from handsome boys? Or perhaps because even in this life, in this game, you weren't loved by your family. You thought that being the daughter of a duke would give you some privileges, but oh, how wrong you were. Neglected by your parents, hated by the romantic interests of the protagonist, and simply having a bad reputation.

You thought you were becoming friends with Claude and that you might even win his love, but that was thrown out the window when they all decided to embarrass you at the prince's luxurious party. You didn't know that wearing a dress that Luka himself gave you would make you the target of everyone's ridicule.

"How could you do this, [name]?" How could you? You didn't do anything wrong! There, in front of the stairs with the prince behind her, was the protagonist, wearing the same dress as yours, but prettier. Perhaps because her perfect protagonist's body and beauty were helping her.

All the protagonist's romantic interests, including the ones you liked on the other side of the screen, were looking at you with anger, perhaps even smiling as if it were planned by them, by all of them, including his highness, who at first seemed not to like you, treating you even like a servant. You envy how they were all around that bitch, comforting her, as if you were the villain, which you never were.

Everyone talked, laughed, and even mocked. "I can't believe Miss Amélie has a friend like that!" You heard a lady saying, looking down. Not even your parents cared about you, at this point, you're probably being disowned by the family.

With tears on your face, after trying to explain the misunderstanding to everyone, after being slapped by his highness and the protagonist, you felt like crap. Pulling on the dress, you turned and ran out of the hall, opening the doors brutally. You couldn't stay in that room anymore, not when everyone was now looking at you with hatred.

Unaware, you came across a balcony, hearing footsteps coming. You were scared; the prince might have sent guards after you after you "lied" to everyone while explaining.

With all your strength, you push through the balcony fence, and as you're about to jump, someone forcefully opens the doors, startling you and causing you to slip, now falling to the ground. Your tears are now stronger, groaning in pain as you try to get up.

It was with pain, dirt, and tears that you ended up behind a bush. You couldn't take it anymore; you were shaking from the cold, crying, your makeup smudged, your hair dirty and messy, your "copied" dress dirty and torn. You've never felt so worthless before.

You cried as if you were carrying all the burdens, thinking about how the romantic pairs and the protagonist were not the best; in fact, they were the worst.

Feeling a headache, you sit down, trying to breathe well and calm down as you think, "And now?"

"What's a maiden doing crying in the middle of the woods?" Looking back, you noticed someone coming, a boy. Turning your head forward, you try to wipe away the tears. You don't like anyone seeing you cry; crying is for weak people.

Then you felt something being thrown over you, a thick, large coat. Lifting your head, you now look at the boy in front of you. His melodic and calm voice speaks as he gently crouches in front of you.

"Can you tell me, fair lady?"

You sobbed, trying not to cry, mocking the nickname the boy gave you.

"Fair lady? The way I am right now, I'm barely even a girl, let alone fair or a lady," you say as you use your own dress to clean up the mess of makeup and tears.

"I don't think that," the boy continues to clean as he speaks. "To be honest, I think you're even more beautiful. You just can't see it."

The boy's hands lift your stained and dirty face. You look and notice the looks he's giving, but they're not directed at the protagonist like everyone else's; they're for you.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" His calm and concerned eyes are looking at you, waiting for your response.

You just look aside before sighing. It's better than nothing.

"His Highness, the prince, had given me a dress as a gift... to wear at the ball today, but my friend - no, Miss Amélie was wearing the same one. Some of her friends started mocking me for trying to 'copy' the girl, but when I tried to explain, His Highness said he would never give me a gift in his life, especially knowing that his 'friend' Amélie would be wearing it today," you almost can't finish without starting to cry again, sobbing as you try to explain.

"They all planned to humiliate me in front of everyone, and His Highness still insists that I'm lying!" You say, already crying again, not noticing the arms going around you. You only notice when you feel being embraced by the boy as you cling to him, crying and sobbing.

"My dear, they don't deserve your kindness or your presence. What they did was extremely awful to a lady like you," the boy says as he strokes your hair and back, comforting you, as you've always wished to be.

You were clinging to the boy, feeling betrayed, feeling used. You didn't even notice the boy raising his hand to someone behind you, to someone dressed in black, a gentleman, but not the prince's gentleman, oh no, not that traitor.

You didn't even realize how the castle was beginning to stir.

"Let's go, I'll take you somewhere else. You might end up getting sick staying here," he says as he watches you cling to him. He could feel your warmth, you were starting to get sick from crying so much. Nomura's heart was breaking at the thought of you falling ill.

"Are you okay with this, miss?" The boy asks before you nod in agreement. Nomura gets ready and picks you up bridal-style, using his own coat that was on top of you as a blanket to protect you as he carried you to his own carriage.

Watching as you had already fainted from crying, he held you gently as the carriage headed towards his castle, leaving behind an important part of the game that was happening, unaware that the game's villain was now holding you firmly.

Do I do a part 2?

[bnyf]

baby you're my bunny ♡

╭﹕୨୧﹒ bunny boy x female reader

┊ warnings : yandere content and themes, unhealthy behaviors, relationship and relationship dynamic, slight body horror me thinks? slight horror, perverted yandere, non consensual touching, suggestive, uhhh that's it me thinks :3

╰﹕୨୧﹒ authoress note : so sorry if it's badly written also sorry if it ends weird :/

no survival instinct what's-so-ever. like... none.

but he was not complaining! it was just a mere observation. perhaps you were unaware of your allure, maybe you were not exposed to the cruel world yet, didn't know how sick people and creatures can be.

well for one... your little secret admirer was not one of those adorable bunnies you'd fawn over, nothing even close really. and no, he's not some cute boy with a bunny tail and some bunny ears. he's far from cute, a little scary actually.

humanoid? sure! typical bunny boy hybrid, uhhhh not really lol! he's mixed with human genetics but he's not quit. and for a bunny hybrid, he sure had a lot of predator instincts.

to put simply, he was an abnormality of mother nature. his lower half resembled a bunny whilst his torso and up is that of a man. his claws on his feet or paws or whatever are dangerously long, digging into the dirt whenever he walks, leaving behind a "too small to notice unless your looking for it" trail.

a muscular, lean build, biceps so perfect and manly hands to hold you down if you even ever think of escaping, awe how sweet of him <3

completely pale skin with small patches of equally pale fur in various spots, completely crimson, blood shot eyes and a pair of floppy bunny ears where any normal human's ears would be.

how did he even came to be? you may ask. well he was a normal boy, once upon a time. but one day, he'd gotten into a serious accident, a near death life experience. that day he could've hear the bells of heaven ringing in his ears but he wasn't ready to die, not like this... in his head he begged for more time, asking whatever god above to answer his prayers.

and yeah! his prayers where answered but, as they say, be careful what you wish for...

the moon goddess answered his prayers, but she also cursed him for it is the price he must pay to live longer.

"i grant you more time, as much time as you may need, but for as long as you roam his earth, your soul belongs to me and your purpose, is to server me," her voice rang in his ears like a bittersweet melody before he'd lose consciousness.

when he awake, he found himself in the mountains, he was a monstrosity of a man and dared not step a foot into society. he's to bare this curse and blessing till death.

he became easily bored and clueless as to what to do next, his every day life felt null and everything felt too much to bare. his eternity just began yet he dreads his mistake with every passing day.

"maybe, i should of just accepted my faith and die that day..."

with nothing and no one, he was left to wonder the mountain and serve the goddess by praying to her and tending to her shrine everyday, he's trapped to keep her energy going so she won't become a forgotten god.

(guys i made the lore up on a whim so bare with me even i'm confused right now :0)

anyways! everything drastically changed for our boy here when you and your family decided to move to the village nearby in the rural area, and live a peaceful life and just run a nice little farm hooray! hopefully, you don't get stalked and preyed on by a lonely scarily tall bunny male hybrid who looks like a utterly angelic, celestial eldritch horror, right?

all he could think about was a pretty girl had moved in next door and he just had to watch her from afar. most the villagers were very welcoming of you and your family, it was big talk because such a pretty girl had just moved in the small village and all the villagers wanted their sons or grandsons to get married.

it doesn't have much young people, mostly elders and young children and even less marriageable women. which is why you easily became popular, with everyone always gifting you things, begging you to marry into their family. they even had a town welcome celebration for you and your family!

he watched everything from afar. feeling a slight sting in his chest. jealous? already? of course he is, he wanted you all for himself. for countless nights, he just couldn't sleep at all.

he spent all his time admiring you from afar. the way he'd blush, his heart beat fastening, the gears in his head would just slow down a bit. gosh, he actually felt his heart warm so much it'd burn in his chest.

he wanted you badly.

you were his new source of entertainment, motivation and inspiration all in one and his mind was melting with how needy he started becoming.

"what the f- she's so kind and pretty..."

"i wanna hug her, wanna kiss her, feel her skin on mine, love her, fuck her."

"she can be my little bunny princess~"

"wonder what our babies would look like? i'm getting heated just thinking about it"

it didn't help much when he found out you adored bunnies and would play with them near the spring. fawning over the little fluffy creatures, hugging them and petting them. and when you held them in your arms and give smooches while rubbing your face on their fluffy fur?!?!?

that's where his obsession becomes almost to much to bare, his entire chest area felt so warm watching you treat those bunnies with so much love.

"everything about her is so perfect, i'm starting to crave her like crazy right now."

"wanna whisk her away, take her, lock her up and keep her all to myself."

his mind starts getting clouding with so many dark thoughts of you.

and so, he start pushing boundaries and going outside his comfort zone to appease his little appetite that consist of you. at night, he sneaks in to steal a closer glance at you and probably a few things so he can remember your scent properly.

the whole house was dark, the whole village asleep by the time it was midnight hour. he'd manage to get in somehow somewhere but when he did, he immediately went to your room.

finally. he could smell and touch you as much as he wanted, his mind was actually in ecstasy when he entered your room, your scent gracing his nostrils as soon as he did, and the poor touch starved male couldn't hold back on touching you various parts of your skin.

"how delightful, her skin is so smooth and her hair feels so good, she smells like flowers all over gosh so fucking perfect, i wanna devour her, drink her up, chew her, spit her out and do it all over again" with every slight movement you make and whimper scaping your soft lips, he can't help but hold back his own voice, he wanted to moan just by being around you, it felt so good.

after so long, why wouldn't it feel great?

to be around around someone for once, to feel the heat of another person's body, the sweet scent of someone else other than himself. he'd lay in bed with you, his larger self cuddling your smaller form as smells your hair, trailing his hands all over you.

he was getting ahead of himself.

it takes everything within him to not proceed and do something to you while in your sleep. his morals along with his sanity were drifting away more and more.

time flies by when you're enjoying yourself, before he knew it he had to leave before the sun raises. forcing himself he does but he also takes like 5 things from you.

"promise i'll return your belongings my love, i just need a little souvenir to help myself with."

the poor thing gets sent into an early heat after that little interaction. he's embarrassed a little but he really needs you, like he really does. and he thinks of ways of introducing himself but... he's a monster, you would run from him and be scared. and when that thought comes to mind it makes him... sad.

"if i'd die that day, i'd never meet her, never be able to see her, but now that i'm alive with the help of the moon goddess, i can't even act normal about her. it's like i'm truly doomed."

this realization was tough. it made him sick to think about. and for a while, he was just okay with sneaking in to see you, and holding your unconscious body but he wanted a lot more, and he wanted your acceptance and love. he wanted you to want him the way he wants you.

it hurt even more when he mistakenly glanced in the mirror only to see a 6 feet tall, half human half hybrid bunny with a deadly eerie looking bloody stare, stare right back at him.

the pale moonlight leaking on him, hitting his skin almost making it look silver.

"she'd surely fear me, she'd run."

he's such a beautiful tragedy. would you be able to appreciate that?

[controld3vil]

the one

pairing: aegon ii targaryen x targ!reader

synopsis: thrown into madness, not one person can comfort the king of his thoughts. his sister wife left to deal with her grief. his mother for chooses not to heed his needs. his brother, gone in silver of the night. yet you, left forgotten stand in front of him, teary eyed.

notes: i gasped loud this episode!!

content warning: spoilers obvi for s2ep2, themes of grief and inferiority, targcest; if you are uncomfortable, please do not interact.

The death of Jaehearys exhausted you.

Nothing prepared you for the shock and emotional consequences. It felt as though a giant sea storm had swept away your emotions and feelings of sense. Because in a way, you felt numb and unable to comprehend what you were feeling. It was either too strong or your denial in it that made you feel out of it. In the confidence of your home, the grand kingdom of your father and his grandsire before, suddenly you feel apprehensive about where you resided and the castle itself. Who to trust and not as a moment noticed in your head as your mind spirals down a rabbit hole. 

Your nephew, a kin of your own, was dead. 

He was murdered in cold blood. In the sanctum of your home, in the privacy of the royal rooms. It was your fault you were not by Helaena’s side. Oh, your poor sister, the turmoil she must’ve endured in the small moments last with her son. A small piece of purity and semblance he brought into your little life and a beacon of what you strived for every day. Yet now, it has all turned to blood and dust. Used and tossed away like the sacs of bodies they would throw off dead soldiers in the aftermath of a tiring battle. 

There you sat with a half cup of wine, undrank. You dared not step out of the chambers of your comfort. Not for long, your presence would be reminded of the council. You insist on every meeting that your presence would bestow better acquisition. In most eyes, the men divert their gaze from you.

In contrast, your wretched mother opens her mouth agape with hardly any words being supported. Your grandsire contrasts, always with an excuse that you should be needed elsewhere other than the higher discussion. How benign of you, dear granddaughter. But you are unfit for a position at court.

Otto Hightower would never speak those words directly. But you know in your heart and his intuition, the words are nearly there. You don’t need an interpreter to translate what is said by the councilmen. Even if they are unaware, you understand all that is said. A tragic incident, Your Grace. The Kingsguard are doing their best to inspect all the members in the castle as we speak.

“I will have it! They will pay for this!”

The dried tears that swept down your cheeks felt sticky and annoyingly guilt-ridden of the events that had happened. You would not allow them to witness them. They were not worthy of your sadness. In grace, you hiked your dress over your feet to climb up to the doors. From where you were, you could discern the murmurs of Aegon and his hysterical yelling, absolutely mad with anger and rage. Respectfully so, the loss of his child was an unexpected and stressful one. 

When the chambers open, the rest of the councilmen stop for a moment. Before you begrudgingly make your way to the center. “Gentlemen,” You are at fault in giving away your tearful expression, the candlelight's of the chandeliers do your angelic features justice. And no noble would dare to speak upon its beauty and sorrow. All while, your lady in waiting, trails timidly behind you, head pointed down in respect. “Your Grace,” You address, and finally for a blind second, a glint of relief flashes on Aegon’s face. Finally, he must think, someone he trusts abides in the room.

“Princess,” The Hand levels his chin, leaving a steady foot of your unforeseen appearance. Beside him, your mother lays agape in both deary and fortification. 

The Queen stumbles on the syllables of your name, quietly. As if she was citing a wrongful plea of desperation. “Is- Is Helaena?” Of course, the last she saw you was in her bed chambers, coming in to console your sweet sister and her child. Alicent was running amuck, pulling on the fabric of her dress to prevent you from witnessing her privacies before. Luckily you didn't have to witness that. 

“She is with Ser Arryk and Jaeheara.” You breathed out, soft and mellow. You can tell by the exhale of your mother and grandsire's shoulders that deflating meant that their worries were at least accomplished. And a slight corner of your eye, your brother too relaxes in caution, aware of his wife and daughter’s whereabouts. 

“Good good,” Alicent frantically nods as if trying to reassure herself that her child and granddaughter were safe. Ser Arryk was a noble knight, one who betrayed his twin to stay beside the king’s side. That alone was enough to prove his loyalty and servitude. “Thank you, my daughter.” You swallow with a gaping hole in your throat. The whole room felt the compacting of the many eyes directed at you and the Queen Mother. 

“And what might be the reason for your intrusion on this council meeting, princess?” Otto’s voice somewhat triggers a fight or flight response in you. You’ve dealt with similar situations before, wanting to be included in the war business. However this was different, the council was discussing matters of potential betrayal and the killing of your kin. You suddenly felt targeted for the offense of interrupting something crucial and overriding. 

However, you know you should have a say in this matter. “Shouldn’t I be present when the death of my nephew has been informed to me merely hours ago?” There was a snap in your voice that many of them knew. Though some such as your mother and brother were accustomed to that sound more often. 

“Perhaps it is best if the princess were with the Queen to rest away comfort and grief,” Maester Orwyle suggests only to infuse your temper. 

In a quick turn, your lilac orbs strike an alarming resemblance to vexation and hostility. “Why?” Your tone was sharp and accusing just as it was. The Queen Regent could only watch and stare mutely at your grueling pettiness. Lord Tyland and Ser Criston Cole dare not to look at you but at the maester. While Aegon, all the more slightly frustrated at Maester Orwyle’s comments, stops and waits for your dreadful retaliation like a venomous viper. Otto couldn’t look more disappointed in you. 

“The death of your nephew is a tearful one, princess. And maybe you should stay within the quarters with the Queen for safety.” The maester does not falter in his reasoning, knowing how quick and ill-tempered you are similar to your brother was to retaliation. But his expression flickers in doubt shortly after you are seen to lay your palms on the edge of the end of the table. It’s hard wooden material, clenched tightly around your hands as you glance up at the councilman with fury in your eyes. 

“I am more capable than you think of me, Maester Orwyle. And I would be damned to sit in silence and pity for this horrendous murder!” You snarl, a frown forming at the edges of your lips. You were livid beyond this. Only when you want to be present in the decisions regarding your kin, did the council decline your way. It’s insulting. “My nephew should be avenged! To whoever ordered the murder!” 

“I wholeheartedly agree,” The Hand’s inclusion is an attempt to bring a truce between the others who felt your presence as much of a disturbance. “But we should not be hasty and leave every opportunity out in the open.” 

“This is my son we are talking about,” Aegon’s hand came down with a thump on the table. He’s since calmed down but you know there is still rage in his heart. The fuel of it burning and churning for the desire to find and kill whoever brought out the murder. “We must search the grounds for traitors, find anyone who leaves the Red Keep, and capture them immediately!”

“Of course, Your Grace but we should consider what this would be for Rhaenyra,” Alicent reminds the room when she scans everyone’s thoughts and faces. On the other hand, you stand uncomfortably, with the sense of your legs growing numb. 

“That bitch queen of bastards will pay!” The King screams, pointing with an accusative finger. “She is on her throne, laughing at me for this! For the death of my son, I want her dead!” It’s like a fire has been lit in your brother’s mind. It flashes and flickers rapidly as he manages to strike and spit out outrage of his growing vengeance on the Black Queen. However quick his temper simmers and rises.

The coming morning of Jaehaerys funeral drags his body to the Sept to be burnt in Targaryen tradition. More importantly, it is to sway the people’s opinion of Aegon’s claim and blame Rhaenyra for the tragic death. Spurs of propaganda flourish in the crowds as the chariot drags the casket of the fresh body, followed by the Queen and her Regent. What felt like discomfort and suffocation for Helaena only her no semblance through the entire morning. She is grieving and mourning in her own way. No one can understand the loss of a mother of her children. It is the tragedy she has felt for the first time and it stings her to her stomach. For most of the ride, Helaena could not breathe or look at the folk people, afraid of what they might do. She’d never left the Keep like this before, presented all fragile and glorious as the new Queen officially. 

Even so, she knows you are more suited for the role. Helaena has thought of it many times where you should’ve been wife to Aegon instead of her. She knows why her mother and grandsire chose her. It was because she was compliant and willing to do her duty as a lady wife. While you had no sense of duty. More or less, so did Aegon but at least she would elevate his image as King with her kind personality. 

“Helaena,” You spoke, interrupting her thoughts amid her sewing. Your sister pauses and then looks at the piece she has been working on. It was a picture of purple lily flowers, something you had mentioned wanting to see from the grounds of the Highgarden. She thinks of you and subconsciously starts to sew a new patch of thread. She’s sweet to you like that, and you forever cherished that side of her. And it's a shame her softened voice always now came with a stutter and droop of a sob. 

Helaena wakes up from her daze and greets you with a warm yet sombreros smile. “You are well?” The question itself leaves bitterness off of your tongue because you should be asking her that. You know Helaena isn’t one to openly express her emotions and thoughts proudly. As her sister, you honor that but also can become the maternal figure she needs within seconds. 

“I should be asking you the same,” You smile, looking smug and all. And your sister’s droopy eyes slowly lighten with glee. Her small frown turns upside down and suddenly you feel your heart fill with warmth and joy. “What has the Queen been sewing all this time?” 

“Purple lilies,” She gently shows you her work and focuses on your excitement. What she appreciates is your fascination with her skill with a thread and needle. You had no talent in it, much to your mother’s display. But you would gladly watch your sister sew for hours for the fun of it. “I remember you mentioning them a while ago. And I thought it would be pretty to make for you,” 

“How thoughtful of you,” You plead with your gentle eyes, resting a hand on her thigh. You looked like you were going to burst into tears out of happiness for her nonsensical act. You act differently around her and the children, sometimes Helaena thinks you have two personalities. One with her family minus Aegon and another with everyone else. You were mushy and caring, nothing like yourself hours earlier in the morrow in the councilroom. She had heard you burst into a meeting, enraged by them claiming you as a disturbance to their discussion. Like the stubborn person you were, she knew you would rather stay and argue with them for hours. And that you, for her boy. 

The Queen hums, delighted by your soothing presence in her slightly dimmed room. The room had been cleared of children's beds and toys. Now it lies barren with little to no furniture. The curtains did not change, they were arranged simply to allow some light into the chambers to let the children wake. But now, there would be none and it is left abandoned. 

“How is Jaeheara?” The whisper of your voice is the only thing she’s heard after minutes of silence. Helaena does not reply immediately, knowing her thoughts are too invasive and terrifying to think about. The black gown she still has on feels tight and makes her uncomfortable. She doesn't want to remember the funeral. It was too much for her to reminisce about despite being hours earlier. 

She makes another loop with bright purple stringing onto her needle. “She is well and is accompanied by a Kingsguard during her lessons,” She makes sure to include the Kingsguard, knowing you have been adamant about the protection and security around King’s Landing. As of late, it felt as though the castle did not feel like home anymore. It became somewhat of a hollow skeleton of a dungeon. With many escape routes and corridors, people would walk in and out without notice. It terrifies her and knowing you, you would rather be killed than have another child murdered. 

Her response pleases you however Helaena is aware of something else on your mind. She can feel it without looking at your face to know. It’s your inseparable bond as a sister that you sometimes were astounded by. Helaena calls it a bond and maybe she is right. Your eyes are focussed on somewhere else and it gives her a moment to look at you. Your brows furrowed with a subtle curve of a scowl makes her believe you were having negative thoughts. Were you feeling guilty about Jaehearys death?

“What’s wrong sister?” Despite her knowing the reason, Helaena wants you to admit your remorseful thoughts. The veil that covered her face was no longer present and she could face you without barriers. Her lilac eyes look at you, softening at you. 

“I can’t help but think I am guilty of Jaehearys death,” You sound vulnerable, no other person would witness this side of you. Because you shielded this side of you. Your display of weakness was only meant for people like Helaena, close to you, unjudging and caring in your coping. Yet sometimes you think of your sinful thoughts of guilt to be an act of punishment. You sometimes felt you were meant to feel this way for not being present with the Queen and her children when it happened. Why couldn’t you be a good sister and protect the ones you loved?

“You should not be,” Her small palm cradles the side of your jaw, making your stare connect with her. Helaena is quiet and gentle in her expression of words. What she says always has an impact. She is a woman of few words and it makes her speech inspirational. “I- For anything, it was my part as a mother, for letting my child be murdered in cold blood-”

“No of course not!” You were quick to retaliate to her pleas. She could not be responsible for such a horrific act taken against the crown. “Helaena, you did your best to protect your children.”

“Yet I was asked to choose,” The bottom of her lips quivered, and eventually hot tears filled her waterline. “And I had no other choice!”

“You were held at knifepoint,” You grasped the hand that held your jaw. Gently and slowly to make sure and emphasize her attention to you. “I would’ve bursted into the room and offered myself if I could’ve. But you did the best you did as a mother to protect your children.” You gave her another tight squeeze. 

“I had no other choice,” Her sobs slowly brewing. And the tears flowed and there was nothing you wanted to do other than comfort your dear sister. She was grieving like any mother. You would be present for her and give Helaena all of the world, to give away her sorrow. However, it is inevitable and you best offer her your condolences and feelings of heartbreak. Because you did love her children, Jaehearys and Jaeheara. The light and beacon of Helaena and Aegon's marriage. 

Helaena’s figure dwindled as she scrunched herself forward into a curling ball. The weight of her thoughts was too much. As a parent, she believed she failed the role she was meant to play. Her cries did not stop or steady in a rapid heartbeat. Any further, Helaena believes she would’ve acted impulsively if not for you, holding onto her shoulders. You were gentle against her tragic and frail body when you allowed her head and shoulders to rest against your chest. You’re silent in the comfort you gave. Because no words could pursue more than your actions. Being the more responsible and maternal figure, you became a weeping shoulder for Helaena to spout the rest of her worries and anguish. 

You wonder what Aegon and his sorrows are. 

Criston Cole was in a predicament. He failed as a Kingsguard to protect the royal family. And because of his absence, a dead prince was left at the doorstep of the king. He’s ashamed in silence because he could not make any reason for where he was during the intrusion of the castle. His affair with Alicent was more than a passionate one. It consoled him and eased for the upcoming days of Aegon’s coronation and Rhaenyra’s horrific deeds. The knight was stuck in a situation he wished would not bring to the public eye. No one can know of his relations with the Queen Regent. Not when times were suspenseful and dire as to who to trust in the castle. 

And so, after he challenges Ser Arryk to do the impossible and slay the Black Queen within her quarters of Dragonstone, he desires to focus on his plans with the king. The afternoon following the prince’s funeral, Ser Criston smoothes out the ends of his locks, recomposing his hysterical manner against the twin knight. Of, the accusations of treason against the king and the knight’s code. He should be honoring the Kingsguard words at the back of his sleeves by now. For all that has occurred to him, Criston wants to prove to the king he is capable of being essential. 

The summer breeze is faint and noticeable to those in the Red Keep. It’s open corridors and windows, it is the perfect spot for sunlight. The Kingsguard makes his way to Aegon’s chambers, where he plans to inform his schemes of sending Ser Arryk away to Dragonstone. In hopes, it would please His Majesty of the constant restless nights he has experienced. 

But he nearly misses you. It takes a second for Ser Criston to take a step back and look back at what you have been doing. You, the princess, looking out of place in the training area of the stables. Where knights and stable boys fight and practice their combat. It was a place you’re likely forbidden to be, however, it has never stopped you. The knight knows of your ambitions to fight like your brothers. You’re eager, more confident than your siblings to practice. He had suggested once to the Queen that she should allow you use of the sword. For self-defense and hobbies. 

You practically begged Alicent to hold a sword in your hands. Your cute chubby cheeks as a small child were something he remembered sometimes. You were so eager then. He could still see it occasionally when you ventured to the training area, staring at the knights practicing their moves and defenses. 

“Are you alright, princess?” Ser Criston appears behind you and you’re suddenly aware he must’ve been standing behind you for some time. He knows you come here to think and be reminded of the past. “The morrow has been rather bleak has it not?”

“Rather too bleak,” You groan, crossing your arms and rubbing your forehead in weariness. You’re aware the Kingsguard is not allowed to probe your troubles further but you rather indulge. “The day grows weary for the wavering support of the other Houses.” A quiet nod of endearment is seen from the knight as he reminisces about why they had exhibited the funeral exactly. To spread rumors and weaken the queen bastards' claim.

“It will help us in the long run, princess,” He steps forward as you turn to stare at his gentle Dornish features. Maybe in another lifetime, you would’ve fallen for him if he wasn’t a knight.

“Is that what the Queen Regent said?” A switch and it was like your tone turned to bitterness the moment you mentioned your mother. Ser Criston feels his heartache at your sentiments to the Queen. She was your mother and loved you very much. Something you can’t seem to appreciate whenever you open your mouth in front of the council. While she has complained and spouted worries of your deterring interactions, you’ve taken glory in the distance between you and your mother. Ser Criston hopes one day you will reprimand that relationship. 

“No,” 

“Tell me, why do you value her opinion so much?” He eyes at you shaking your head with a heavy scowl of disgust. Your hatred towards your mother ran cold and poisonous, under the depths of your hard-spoken shell of a heart. Maybe some part of you did care about the Queen. If there was, Criston had never been able to witness it, you’re too stubborn. And you know Alicent cherishes him deeply. 

“She has a kind heart,” The Dornish man cannot more than understand why you probe his opinion of your mother. Were you suspicious? He’s served your mother for nearly a decade and gained her trust as her right-hand protector. Yet where was he when an intruder entered the castle grounds and left Helaena traumatized and crying? 

You snarl a mocking laugh, “A kind heart?” You’re staring at the Queen’s protector with discontent and failure. “She plots and schemes to gain the people's trust over my brother’s claim. What more is she than the Hand’s right-hand puppet.” This is an alarming accusation because Ser Criston knows Alicent does not trust her father with her boys and daughters. You were an example of that. Whoever she plots with, he knows she takes into consideration who is affected the most. She was the Queen of course. Dainty and considerate of her subjects. 

“Another advantage we have over Rhaenyra, princess,” He reminds you of the whole reason why the council decided such a thing. It’s grueling yet would sway the people in their favor towards the crown than that false liar of a ruler across the land. “Understand that everything she and the council decide is to gain more allies,” 

“By simply lying to the public and creating more web of lies for us to be stuck in,” You probe and your lilac orbs glow in a dark tone. You could not stand the ploy they had used for Jaehaerys funeral. You think it was anything but honorable, to use your nephew as a cause and leeway to denounce your half-sister. Ser Criston gives you a look, only a parent would hold when their child does something to disappoint them. And even though he was not your father, he still felt utterly responsible and devoted to you as one. He has seen you grow from a child to a woman. He’s aware of your struggle in your place at court. He was there when you desperately wanted to hold a bow and arrow, practically crying to your mother on your knees. He was also there to comfort you when you accidentally drove your dragon into a terrible accident. Criston Cole felt some kind of platonic love over you, despite you never feeling the same way. ‘

Yet he couldn’t help but agree with you. “You’re right, princess. But it is the only way to convince the townsfolk of our cause. We need their support to win this coming war.” He sees your shoulders slumped, most likely growing tired of talking back and forth of their intention to false news. You hated how everyone agreed to it wholeheartedly. 

“We need more than the support of the townsfolk to win a war,” Your lips turn to a thin line, contemplating all the reasons why you had to be on the wrong side of justice. “We have dragons, that is how we win a war.” 

Nightfall was as unanticipated as it was wanted. The funeral and rumors from the council made it unbearable to walk past servants and nobles without being reminded of it. There were many times you wished to stop in front of the people and shout in their faces. There would be no denying it all. However, you were done with it. You were tired of receiving the same piece of news and rumors. It made you hereditarily furious and petty like a child. But no violence has been spilled. Instead, you could only clench your palms, aggressively and move on with a faint scowl. A puff or two would break your cover. 

Moreover, the servant girls and maids knew what made you tick. The type of gossip you hate to talk and listen about. Since you’ve lived in the castle for the entirety of your life span. So regardless of whether they spoke of today’s events or not, people knew you were not in a great mood. More or less you were agitated, imitating, and not to be consoled.

You made it your routine to visit Helaena before going to bed. When you were younger, you and your sister often paid visits to your mother and sometimes your father if present. Queen Alicent would soothe your worries and nightmares while Viserys sat in silence, unable to speak due to the pain. Yet now, that was before you and Helaena slept in the same room. She was Queen now and had a separate room with her children. It was you who made it customary to ease her worries at night and say goodnight to her children. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, her beautiful children. Even now, after everything had happened, you wanted to honor your promise to visit the new Queen. 

The granite tiles were cold. You could feel it despite wearing soft padded shoes. Your garments were loose and free from the restraints and pains you’d worn for the day. But somehow it made you feel anxious and oddly vulnerable out in the open. Of course, it was natural to feel this way after what happened. But everything, even the times you felt the most safe was now invaded by thoughts of fear and concern. You swallowed whatever security you had and moved along the balcony inside King’s Landing. The royal rooms were all the same, but you knew which belonged to whose. You knew which rooms were your mother’s, your sister’s, which had the best hiding spots, and which had the quickest way out of the city. 

Although whose room brought you the most curiosity was the one in front of you. In the distance, where you stood, a figure of green exits out of the room and disappears into the darkness. Your mother. Alicent did not seem to be in a rush to have exited Aegon’s chambers nor did she look content coming out of it. It looked as though she had mistaken his room for another. 

Hastily your paused movements began to quicken. As you tip-toed towards the doors of your king, you twist the knob and a soft creak makes you curse out of anonymity. The bed chamber was dimly lit and the fireplace illuminated a gorgeous orange dew that covered half the room in warmth. The drapes of the windows were slightly closed, making the silhouette of Aegon, hunched over more evident. He leans in a cushioned chair by the fire and you can see his unsecured locks, shape the sides of his face. 

You quickly realize your brother’s sobbing, saddening and heartbreaking. For all the things he was, Aegon did not deserve to lose a child. You understood very much as him that Alicent had planned his coronation for a long time. Yet now that it has happened, tragedies come down like dominoes in a panic. Lucerys has died on dragonback. And now Jaehearys was murdered in cold blood. Both are innocents from the result of this pretentious battle for power between Rhaenyra. It is when you shut the door behind you with a faint click, you make yourself known to the king. 

“Aegon,” It’s a whisper with no silence. Covering his face to shield his tears, Aegon does not dare to look at you. He looks ashamed and can only stare down, lost and in failure.  You understand his dismissal of your presence. No one should see their king as weak like this. Not even his closest kin and mother. Only that his mother has witnessed this scene a multitude of times over the years of watching over her son. Still, you were not the type to witness Aegon at such a low point like this. 

Nothing. You wanted nothing from him, seconds ago only curious about his profound discussion with your mother, who did not seem to speak to him at all. Something about that makes your heart churn at the Queen Regent. You walk slowly and only when you finally face him, his gaze is still on the floor, unable to lift his head to say anything. Go away! You’re making a fool out of yourself. 

Instead, you closed the gap that separated the two of you. You clasped his neck and held it firmly in a consoling manner. His weeping only grew louder the moment he felt your touch, so comforting and soft. His hands eventually wrap themselves around your waist and he rests the side of his head against your stomach.

Only you can soothe him like this. It’s discovered to be the most effective way for Aegon to calm down, your touch perhaps was the solution to it. It was never touched upon, this consolation you had with him, there were rare occasions when the prince had become too drunk to return to his quarters to have gone to yours instead. There were times when your brother wanted to hide and be away from your conniving mother and her insults. Sometimes he’d cry, drink, or rant about her inconsolable expectations of him. Because truly you are the closest to understanding that feeling. The feeling of being unwanted and as though you were not doing enough of your duty to care. Of course, you cared, you did everything for your family. Still, it could never be enough to put a smile on your mother’s face. And more evidently that of your grandsire. 

“I’m sorry,” You let out a dreary breath, rubbing Aegon’s hair. He sniffles, allowing his forehead against your stomach. He closes his eyes and lets out a sad laugh that turns into a cry. He’s lost so much in a matter of days. No one to comfort him, and his wife silently grieving in her own time. His mother forever abandoned her efforts. And his brother disappears with no explanation. Now here you were, the one he found relying on.

“I tried so hard,” He cries out, snot and tears making his speech muffled and disproportionate. “Yet everything has backhanded and slapped me in my face!” You feel a quiver on your lips when he speaks those words. Your heart burns and aches and maybe finally, you can put away your pride and be gentle. You reach behind where his hands are secured by your waist. Sliding them down to allow you to kneel to his level. With his red-shot eyes and puffy cheeks, Aegon looks like he wants to give up everything now and then. He’s never looked so weak and tiresome. 

“I know,” You shaped his face with your palms, sliding your thumbs over his cheeks. They are dried of momentary tears when he looks so desperate to cling onto anything to save him. “And as king, it is a heavy toll. Jaehearys will know you did everything you could to avenge his death.”

“It has gone to madness,” His lilac orbs staring at you with such intensity and possibly love. Torn and twisted, you know this is a wife’s duty to be her husband. Though under Helaena and Aegon’s relationship, they have never loved each other. They were husband and wife, yes but only under law. Helaena held no love but did genuinely care for his well-being. And you had shown more devotion towards his feelings than anyone had done within days. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You can start by figuring who and who not to trust at court,” You exhale, heart beating like a bass drum when you feel his hands circle yours. “Know who your trusted allies are and destroy Rhaenyra’s support.” 

“Then I need you,” He leans forward, his silver locks tangled in between yours. His gaze was wild and desperate for any kind of refusal you might have. “I need you at court. By my side, you are as essential as any of us there.” It felt as though nothing in the world mattered next only the two of you at this moment. At this important moment, you felt a surge of adrenaline and an urge to comply with his heeds. Your eyes momentarily trail to his lips before discerning back to his eyes. 

“Because I have a dragon,”

“Because you are my blood, you are a strategist and the smartest woman I know in the Seven Kingdoms,” His dried tears make him even more angelic. Perhaps in another lifetime, you two would’ve married instead and dealt with it more easily. Your mother knew it. Your gransdire did too. Despite it all, they all disapproved of you for your lack of devotion to duty. What more can you offer than your service directly to the crown? To the council? It makes you grin in pride for his acknowledgment of you. 

“Of course, my king,” And with those words, he closes the gap between your lips. Sorrowful no way but profound in a new kind of serge to overcome the tragic delay. You were right in front of his eyes all along. You, the second-born princess of Alicent and Viserys' marriage. Quip with a sharp tongue and tactics for how long you’ve studied the art of it. You were no ordinary princess. You were a fighter, a warrior who well enough wanted bloodshed as much as him.

[sexy-monster-fucker]

But Why’s It Feel So Good?

John Walker x Thunderbolts*!Reader Sex Pollen

Summary: While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical. [Reader is a former H.Y.D.R.A. Agent with combat experience, along with an endurance boost. Codename: Felidae.]

CW: Thunderbolts* spoilers, kinda enemies to lovers (isn’t everything with John), mutual pining (it's my favorite), typical sex pollen, blood, fighting, sex fantasy, masturbation, biting, oral f!receiving, breeding kink, p in v, creampie,

a/n: if you told me 3 years ago I would be writing a John Walker fanfic I would’ve laughed in your face and called you a liar. But after Thunderbolts*?? I am eating my words

Help Me Move?

title track 🎶🥀

~~~

Stealth.

It was like second nature to you.

Trained for years by H.Y.D.R.A. to go unnoticed. Catlike reflexes accompanied by your ability to take a hit made you a reliable asset. Blending in to any and all environments. Able to disappear on a moments notice. Light on your feet and agile.

Making sure to take all you learned with you when you finally escaped the wretched hooks of H.Y.D.R.A. Being taken in by S.H.I.E.L.D. and finally regaining cognitive clarity. Disgusted by the actions you had committed under their leadership. Having to take time for personal growth and change. Learning alongside some operatives from the original Avengers.

Eventually parting ways once security had been breached. Not feeling safe and protected by those who you had grown fond of. Understanding why some heroes chose to go off grid. Even if it basically deemed you an Anti-Hero. It was worth it, if it meant you got control of your own life back.

Needing to take work from Valentina just to make sure you could keep the lights on. She begged for you to take some type of codename. Lynx. Or Oncilla. Or Jaguarundi. Or—

“You’re just naming types of cats,” you had said rolling your eyes on the end of the line.

“Well, you’re kinda like a cat… Oh! How about ‘Felidae’? Kinda sexy right?” Valentina had said, adding an accent to the word.

You scoffed. Accepting the scientific name over any specifics. You wondered if she thought you were stupid, or just unaware. Maybe she just thought she was smarter than anyone else.

After the chaos that Sentry had caused, you found yourself forced into a New Avengers Membership. Bonding deeply with your new teammates along the way. Albeit apprehensive at first. Especially now that you all shared a living quarter.

The Team was still trying to find its footing. What exactly it needed to be doing to make sure they were protecting the public to the best of their abilities. Although, the government was apprehensive to work alongside you all. Withholding important information about the crisis in space. Loosing contact with some of the remaining Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives.

This was not ideal. You knew the last thing needed was the government involved in the Avengers. Something Steve Rogers had fought for all those years ago. Leading to the original team breaking up. But what everyone did not understand was the power Valentina had over the public. Able to make or break you as a symbol without so much as lifting a finger.

You had to be here.

Even if here meant half a mile deep in some long forgotten about Headquarters. Intel suggested a former H.Y.D.R.A. Scientist was hiding at the lowest level. Leading to you and John Walker to be sent to investigate.

Valentina called it ‘team building.’ Separating you off into smaller groups so that you could learn to work together. Which sometimes worked out really well in your favor. When you got paired up with another teammate who matched your skillset perfectly. Bucky and Yelena could provide some strength that you lacked. Also being able to endure harder hits than you. Or Ava, who was able to completely scout out an area without being spotted. Secret missions were your favorite with her. Taking bets on which of you could be quieter.

And sometimes you would get paired up with someone like Alexei. Loud and quick to rush in without a plan. Which was not all bad, he made it a lot easier for you to hide when he was the loudest in any room he was in. Any time paired up with Bob consisted of mundane house chores. Nothing you could really complain about. Even if you did hate doing the dishes.

But then there was John. Cocky and sarcastic more often than not. Thinking he was the head of any and all missions you went on. Rude on top of it all. And the two of you seemed to butt heads more than any other team members. Maybe it was because you could not ignore his constant need to be right. Maybe it was how you saw right through his bullshit. He saw through yours too.

It was not that you hated him. Quite the opposite. You found his war stories endearing. Sometimes finding yourself laughing at an offhanded joke he would make. Having to hide your smile behind your hand because you could not show any sign of vulnerability to anyone. Even if you did find your walls crumbling around John when you spent personal time together. Seemingly always sitting together on movie nights. Or sometimes making him coffee first thing in the morning. Because, of course, he never rested.

Chalking it all up to a mutual understanding. Refusing to acknowledge the way your stomach would flutter when your hands would brush against one another. Or the times he would walk you to your corridor after a particularly scary movie.

"You're scared," you would tease.

"Am not. I was in Afghanistan, you think some cheap jumpscare could get to me?"

And you would laugh. Harder than you meant to. Nose scrunching up and hand glazing down his chest. John would smile while your eyes were closed. Going back to annoyed when you would look back at him.

Moments like this were nonexistent on missions together. It caused a certain level of tension to form between you. Pre-mediately angry and irritated with one another. Jaws tight and words not spoken. Fists balled up between your leather gloves. John's newly taco-shaped shield held up defensively as he led the path down metal stairs. Not even trying to hush his combat boots. Each step echoing against the steel walls.

It was causing your eye to twitch. How could he be so loud when you were practically mute? It was like he did not even care.

You finally reached the landing before delving into the final floor. John sighed. Halting his footsteps and turning to meet you. Your teeth were grinding together as you stared at his ocean eyes. He clicked his teeth together as he spoke, "Alright. The target should be on the next floor. You remember the plan, right?"

"Of course I do," you almost sounded offended, "Do you? I can't imagine he doesn't already know we're here with you stomping down the entire way."

John scoffed, rolling his eyes and waving you off, "Sorry. Not all of us can walk without making sound. Should've brought Ava if you wanted that."

"I would've," you hissed.

"Yeah, yeah," John tightened the strap around his helmet. Staring down into the oddly lit room. Understanding that it had to be a lab. The lab you had been warned about. A rouge H.Y.D.R.A. Scientist had been down here experimenting with different serums of all kinds. No telling what had been cooked up down here.

You followed a few steps behind John. Blue lights burned your eyes as you descended. John hid his gun behind his shield. You kept yours flat at your side. It was obscenely quiet. Almost ringing in your ears. It smelt weird and off-putting. Shelves with things stored in multi-colored liquids decorated every surface. It was like something from the mad scientist part of a haunted house. Your skin crawled.

Both sets of eyes scanned the entire room. Not a single sign of life. Hissing of a nearby pipe startled you internally. Not outwardly reacting other than you softly blowing out your breath.

John turned and pressed his finger to his lips. Silencing you.

Your blood boiled.

Fucking asshole.

You split, rounding the same glass container on opposite sides. Surprised to see the decaying body of the scientist slumped back in his chair. Hand grasping a vile, remnants of a bright blue substance stained his shirt.

"Must've been testing on himself," you whispered.

"See where that got you. Nazi scum," John stood tall. Tucking his gun back into its holster.

In the relief you felt from not having to fight, you both failed to see the infrared imager pinned to the wall. He knew someone would come looking for him. He was an evil genius after all. And he would be damned if anyone got to his research without consequences. The high pitched hum of the machine triggering clued you in.

"Walker, it's a trap!" you called out to your teammate. Hand absentmindedly reaching out to him as if you could protect him from whatever was going to happen. John backed up to you as fast as he could, but it all happened so fast.

Thick smog poured from every single vent. Hands flying up to cover your mouths, squinting and coughing. Smoke filling your lungs. Sticking to your tongue and throat. Tasting absolutely horrible. Something rancid, what you had to imagine a potent poison would taste.

John's hand gripped your shoulder to bring your attention to his face. He pointed towards the exit not wanting to inhale anymore fumes. His eyes watered as he guided you out of the room. Quickly climbing back up the stairs you had entered in on. Tripping at the last step and tumbling forward. Catching yourself on your hands, grunting at the way your knee skid against the floor. Not really painful. Just felt like the cherry on top of it all.

John extended his arm out to you, locking fingers around forearms as he hoisted you back up. The smoke beginning to follow slowly behind you.

"We've gotta go," John tugged you behind him. Running up the stairs as fast as your legs would allow it. He called in a report, letting the rest of the team know it was a trap. And that both of you had been exposed to some unknown gas. Both of you still coughing by the time you reached the top floor. Quick to exit the abandoned building.

You hunched over yourself. Huffing for air that could not fill yours lungs enough. Hands grasping your knees as you stared at the dirt. Body covered head to toe in sweat from, what had to be, the fastest you had ever gotten up half a mile of stairs. John stood with his hands on his hips across from you. His helmet discarded onto the ground. Head leaned back as he loudly groaned. Kicking the metal across the ground.

You looked up at him. His face was flushed, mostly from the run but also from his frustration. Finally looking over at you. Bloodshot morning skylike eyes stared at you. Lips parted and swollen from where he had been licking them.

Had he always looked this handsome?

"You alright?"

You nodded silently. Stomach churning from the heat and blocked airway. You wanted to lay down so badly. The dirt called to you like your bed after a long mission. But a nice shower sounded better. Especially with how hot your skin was right now. Limbs tingling like your nervous system was shot. Confused and a little worried about what would happen to you in the following hours.

"Feel any different?"

John patted his hands down his torso. Brows knitting together as he swallowed, "No. Just really hot."

"Yeah, me too."

There was no telling what that smoke was supposed to do to you. H.Y.D.R.A. had a myriad of freaks on their staff. All willing to experiment for anything that even slightly tickled their fancy. Unashamed. Brutal. Cruel.

"Guess the stuff wasn't meant to kill us or we wouldn't have made it up those stairs," you stretched your back. Hands meeting your hips as you strained.

"Right. Could have just been a really gross distraction. A way to make sure we could not stay to get any more information," John cupped his jaw as he stared out over the ridge, "No, that's too petty for H.Y.D.R.A."

"It really isn't," you halfway laughed, "I saw them gut a guy because he wore the wrong color uniform."

John's brows remained tight as he stared at you. Not sure what was so funny about that. Also not enjoying being corrected.

You sealed your lips shut, eyes jumping up as you looked away from him. Sometimes you forgot how touchy of a subject being a former H.Y.D.R.A. operative was. It was so far into your past that you coped by cracking little jokes. Usually ending with people looking at you the same way John was right now.

The buzzing of the helicarrier caught both your attention as it hovered above you. Shielding your eyes from the harsh sunset. The roped stairs unfolded in front of you. Looking to John with a nod.

“Ladies first,” he faked chivalry, putting his stupid helmet back on.

You smirked at him. Rolling your eyes as you started up. John followed closely behind you.

Something shifted inside him. His eyes found themselves unable to remove from your ass. Tight pants highlighting every curve and dip. His throat burned as he tried to catch his breath. Cock jumping for a moment when he imagined how it would look bare and imprinted with his hands. Trying to shake off the feeling.

You sighed as you reached your seat. Sluggishly buckling yourself in before anyone had the chanc to ask any question. John stood across from you, hand gripping one of the straps that hung down from the ceiling. Your head was leaned back trying to relax even for a moment. His hovering making it difficult. Something about his presence had your heart palpitating.

“You can sit down,” you sighed.

John took that as a challenge. Not liking the attitude you sported, “I’m fine.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. Too exhausted to even play this game with him. Eyes falling shut trying to steady your breathing. Unable to cool your body’s temperature. Clothes feeling tight and sticky. Causing you even more discomfort and aggravation.

“What happened, you two?” Alexei’s voice sounded over the intercoms. Scratchy from the old headset he wore. Microphone far older than the aircraft itself.

“He knew we would be coming. Set up some kind of distraction to make us to leave,” John shouted over the whirring of the blades.

“Should’ve wore those Avengers Gas Masks I ordered! I told you they would come in handy,” Alexei’s singsong voice chimed.

Always with the stupid merchandise.

John looked at you. Throwing a hand up to the side and shaking his head. Sharing in your annoyance for Alexei’s positivity. You shrugged in response. Neither of you caring to have a smart mouthed rebuttal, knowing it would more than likely go over Alexei’s head.

The aircraft began its descent onto the landing pad. Opting to unbuckle and stand, straps irritating your skin. Jaw locked as you huffed out of your nose. Pressing up on your tiptoes to stretch your calves.

A sudden bounce of turbulence caused you to fall forward. Pressing your entire body flush against John’s. Up against the wall behind him. His hand grasped your hip as you held onto his shoulder.

It burned.

Inflaming your skin at the contact. Air hitched up in your throat. Eyes wide as you looked up at him. His heart pounded under your touch. Pain coursing through his body from where you touched him. Both of your faces flushed entirely. Your core pulsed. The smell of his natural musk mixing in with stale cologne had you feeling weak in the knees.

Awkwardly standing back on your feet. Clearing your throat as you turned to hop out of the helicarrier. Making sure to rush inside the tower. Leaving John behind in your dust. Waving off everyone as you entered, eyes locked ahead of you. Your goal only a few more steps away.

Your door sealed shut behind you. Your back resting against it as you grasped at your chest. Confusion overwhelming you. The throbbing between your legs not allowing you to think straight.

What was happening to you?

You shedded your clothes off as you trekked to the bathroom. Hunching over your sink when the pain began absorbing into your gut. Growling as you looked up at yourself in the mirror. Sweat decorated your face.

Suddenly images of John behind you filled your mind. His strong hands holding tightly onto your waist. Broad chest and large shoulders on display. Hips nestled into your own. Nude bodies pressed together where it really mattered.

You gasped. Hands coming up to cover your face. Shaking your head in disbelief. Fingers tugging down your face. Groaning with a hint of unease.

Turning the knobs to a mild setting. Shower raining down into the shallow tub. Stepping inside to try and wash away the days mission. It felt like a thousand tiny razor blades against your skin. Gritting away the pain. Forcing your body under the water. You needed to get this off you somehow. Attempting to adjust the temperature, maybe you just had it too hot? Even the cold water burned down your body.

You imagined his hands reaching around you from behind. Large palms holding your breasts in them. Thumbs flicking over your nipples. His bearded chin gently resting upon your shoulder, breathing heavily into your ear. Lips kissing directly below it.

You moaned. Knees buckling as you fell forward, nails scratching against the tile to brace yourself. Your cunt begged. Even when you tried to relieve yourself, it was not enough. Humping against your own hand trying to satisfy the desire overtaking you.

John’s image flooded your mind. The way you imagined his jaw would lock while fucking into you. Or how his calloused hands would feel around your throat. How his cock would stretch you perfectly.

You hurried to clean yourself off. Needing to find John. Your body craved his presence. Knowing he was somewhere in the tower. Not caring where, just needing to be with him. Towel drying your body and hair, throwing on some loungewear without even bothering to put underwear on. It was too uncomfortable anyway.

You stood in the hallway with your eyes closed. Allowing your body to urge you in what direction you needed to go. Downstairs.

You casually and quietly headed for the stairs. The ding of the elevator would give you away. Trying to make sure no one else followed you. Your senses were heightened. Everything punched into overdrive as you followed your body’s natural instinct.

The workout room.

You stood in front of the sliding, frosted glass door. Taking a deep breath.

This was stupid, you thought. Second guessing this decision. It was so ridiculous to assume John could feel this too. Or that he would even want to see you.

But you had to know. Holding your breath as you pressed the button to unlock the door. The loud sound of fists hitting something filled the room. Drowning out the sound of the door.

John swung at the punching bag hanging from the low ceiling. Fists burring into the leather over and over. Powder flying off the with each hit. Tank top highlighting his muscular physique. Tape wrapped around his fists. Arms bulging and sweat dripping down his figure.

You swallowed hard. Unsure why you were here. Your body told you it’s where you needed to be. With him. Near him.

It was almost like you could smell him across the room. Musky with a hint of oak from his deodorant. Jaw tight. Blonde locks sticking to his forehead. Sporty shorts hanging around his hips.

You hid in the shadows. Nails digging into the steel wall. Your legs shook. Fighting yourself from walking over to him. Ready to pounce on him like an animal on the hunt.

It hurt. Every inch of his fucking body hurt. No matter what he tried to force in his mind, he could not get you off it. His cock was swollen despite his attempt to relieve himself earlier. Pulsing with need. Hand wrapped around his member while imagining fucking into you. But nothing worked. This was the only way he could even attempt to distract himself. Giving his hands something else to do.

What he really wanted was to have them all over your body. Holding you down by the throat while he shoved his cock as deep inside you as possible. Knowing you would sound so pretty whimpering his name over and over.

He could not understand what had gotten into him. Something filling his veins with arousal. Could it be the smoke the two of you inhaled?

Were you feeling the same way as him?

You hesitated internally. Body moving on its own. Revealing yourself from the shadows. Hands crossed together in front of you. Fawning innocence.

John immediately noticed. Quick to stop swinging and look at you. His throat tightened. Fists balled up at his sides. Chest heaving with each deep breath he took. Your smell was strong to him. Pure sex and flowery. Must have been your body wash. Maybe your shampoo. He could not place it, only that it was you. So unabashedly you.

And, Christ, did he look sexy. Beard glistening with sweat. Hair disheveled. Chest hair peaking out the top of his cutoff. Pretending to not notice the clear outline of his cock through his shorts.

“Hey,” you choked out meekly.

“Hey,” John returned with a huff.

Silently staring at each other, John’s hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat. You fidgeted with your fingers. Hiding your eyes from his stern gaze. You twisted your mouth around. Trying to think of what to say.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” he broke the silence.

“I… just wanted to make sure you were doing okay,” you said unsure.

His mind rattled with a response. No, I’m not okay. I’ve been so horny since we got back that I could kill someone. Oh, and you’re the only one I can think about right now. How do you explain that to your teammate?

“I’ve been better,” John stepped back on the mats repositioning to swing at them once more, “Would probably be better if our mission hadn’t gone up in smoke.”

“Literally,” you halfheartedly attempted a joke.

you idiot.

“And what about you?” he punctuated his question with a hit against the bag.

“Me? I’m— uh— okay? I guess?”

John’s eyes peered over at you. Lip arched to match his eyebrow. Wondering why you were suddenly being so awkward around him. He worried for a moment that you could see how stiff he was. Maybe read right through him. Knowing there was more you wanted to say but did not.

Your eyes doed at him across the room. His heart shocked throughout his body. Your loose fitting clothing driving him crazy. Wanting to see more of you. Nostrils flaring with each punch and grunt.

The noises he made had your entire body shaking. Slick pooling between your thighs when he would grunt especially loud. Reminding you of the fantasies you had in the shower moments prior. Filling in the gaps from before.

Your hand gripped the fabric of your shirt. Loving watching him beat the shit out of the leather bag.

“Are you just gonna stand there and watch?” John’s cocky tone echoed against the walls. Eyebrows jumping up your forehead at his sassy comment. His hand gesturing in your direction. Venom lacing his words.

Biting your lip as you rubbed your chin with your hand. Face flooding with heat. Embarrassment almost overtaking the burning in your core. Your eyes upturned in sadness.

John’s heart sank into his stomach. You looked pitiful. Like he had just kicked a puppy. Your favorite puppy. He blew his breath out. Hand flattening against his hair. Stamping his foot for a moment doing a semi-circle and facing you once more.

You were all he wanted. His body craved yours like a man lost in the desert craved water. He knew you were the thing to douse the fire burning inside him.

“John—“ was all you got out before it made his insides boil. The low and needy tone that left you.

John punched the bag hard enough to knock it off its chain. Heavy thud slamming onto the floor. Allowing his temper to get the best of him. Member throbbing between his legs not helping with his annoyance. His hands were now on his hips as he turned to face you. Lip twitching as a heavy brow pierced through you.

You folded your arms over your chest. Matching the irritation that decorated his face. Trying to regain your composure. Accidental slip of your facade showing your weakness. Brows arching as you played chicken. One of the two of you would have to crack first.

John knew how to make sure it was you.

His eyes raked down your body. Making it obvious he was checking you out. It caused your face to flush. Throbbing between your legs at the way his blue eyes undressed you.

You spun to have your back to him, “God, you’re unbearable.”

“What was that?” he challenged.

You looked over your shoulder at him, “You heard me.”

“Come say it to my face,” John growled.

You snorted, waving him off with a roll of your eyes.

“Awww. What is it… Felidae? Cat got your tongue?”

That made your muscles tighten. Use of the moronic code name Valentina had given you causing you to grind your teeth together. Eyes narrowing in on the Dime Store Captain America. A fire igniting within you. Different than the roaring flames of arousal.

You dashed toward him. Fist rared back to strike him. Knocking him directly in his jaw. Barely phasing the super soldier. It only made you angrier. Repetitively striking him. Swearing you would wipe that smug grin off his face if it was the last thing you did. His head turned with each punch. Just taking your hits. Blood stained the corner of his mouth. A wicked smile across his lips.

Deciding it was finally enough, he swept your foot out from under you. Your back slammed onto the mats lining the floor. Eyes flying open to look up at him. His head fell to the side as he grinned down at you.

Before you could get back up, he had you pinned down. Strong hands wrapped around your wrists, keeping them above your head. It sent lava throughout your veins. Pooling in your core. Not even mentioning the compromised position you found yourself in with him. The part of him you wanted most hovering directly above where you needed it.

His palms were on fire. Skin to skin contact causing his cock to jump in his shorts. Your smell so sweet to his senses. Wide eyes stared up into his as you panted. Pupils blown with lust. Your eyebrows arched trying to fake intimidation.

Sharing in your panting, you held tight eye contact. Blonde locks plastered to his sweat ridden forehead. He was gorgeous. That was the only thought that could enter you. How beautiful the soldier looked above you. Thick stubble teetering on the cusp of a beard. Lips calling to you. Piercing blue eyes darting between your own.

Your gaze softened. Allowing your eyes to focus on his mouth. Eyelids hooding your vision. And John noticed. Exhaling harder than before. Barely inching forward to close the gap between you.

John’s lips pressed a chaste kiss against the tip of your nose. Testing the waters. It spread along your skin. Igniting your face. His own lips tingling from the contact.

You shifted your head, allowing better access for your lips to interlock. Fireworks exploded. Faltering for a moment when you tried to tug away from his hold on you. Wanting to pull him as close as possible. Hands begging to dig into his scruffy cheeks. Ironlike taste filling your own.

The burn inside you cooled momentarily. This was exactly what you needed. The only thing capable of calming the storm inside you. John’s forehead rested against yours as he closed his eyes.

“What’s going on with us?” John exhaled, hint of a smile on his face.

“I have no idea. But I know I want you,” you said airy. Lips chasing after his when he pulled back a little.

John released his hold on you. Hands grasped against your face. Thumbs burning against your cheek bones. Lips messy and hungry with your own. Sharing saliva between open mouth kisses.

“Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” John admitted.

“Me neither,” you breathed. Fingers threading through the sweaty locks upon his head. Tongues fighting for dominance. Exploring the other’s mouth.

One of his hands hooked under your leg, arching it around his waist. Grinding his erection against your clothed slit. Eliciting a loud moan from you, brows furrowing at the sensation. It made him quicken his pace, want bringing something primal out of him.

Your hands explored down his torso. Outlining the details of his muscles as you trekked down to his groin. Finger tips meeting his bulge causing him to buckle his hips. Grunting in discomfort.

“It’s not right,” he said with a tight jaw, “Need to be inside you.”

All the air left your lungs. Words like a song to your heart.

As much as it pained him, he rose to his feet. Your arms chasing after him immediately. Needing the weight of him against you. Your saving grace for the pain you were feeling. John extended a hand to you, pulling you up like it was nothing. Your torsos pressed perfectly together. Hearts beating in sync.

“Come on,” his voice was gravely. Forceful grip tugged you along behind him. Attempting to be as quiet as possible through the halls of the tower. Knowing the rest of your team was only a thin wall away. Making sure your footsteps were as light as possible, impressed with John’s sudden ability to be sneaky. Guess it was possible when he really wanted to.

John pressed the code into the keypad by his door. Looking back at you for a moment with a smile. Dark pupils enveloping the deep blue of his irises. Somehow, even now that his body begged for yours with his, he felt giddy. Excited like a teenager preparing to lose his virginity on prom night.

The airlocks released on the door. Quickly, you both entered the room. Dark. No lights at all. Settling in as the door closed behind you, shielding away the only source of light you had before.

John’s hands were on your waist. Forehead pressed into yours. Heat of his breath fanned down your face. Blinking to hope your eyes adjusted. His head ducked to your throat. Kissing gently down your jugular. Quickly turning hungry. Teeth grazing your pulse. Biting down and sucking a mark into you. Surely to be purple shortly. You moaned, one hand cupping the back of his head.

His hand interlocked fingers with yours, guiding you over to his mattress. Laying you onto your back, knees meeting the curve with your legs dangling off the edge. He clapped his hands and a yellow hued lamp clicked on the other side of the room. Accenting him in its soft glow.

“I want to see you,” he breathed out, kneeling at the edge of the bed. Fingers hooking around your waistband and pulling it down your legs. Exposing your unclothed core, John’s brows bouncing in response. Smirking up at you as he discarded your loungewear. The air was cold against your soaked core. Your legs pushed together to find some relief.

Strong hands pryed you open, displaying your folds to him. Eyes glowing as they stared at your center. His tongue coming out to wet his lip at the sight. One of his fingers grazed through your folds. Your hips bucking in response to his touch.

“Jesus,” John cooed, “You’re soaked.”

A gargled ‘mmhmp’ escaped you. Your head pressing back into the mattress, mouth gaping towards the ceiling as you fought for patience. Not sure how much longer you could take it. This was torture.

John pressed forward, kissing your inner thigh. Tongue trailing up to your pussy. Swiping it up your aching folds. You called out to him, hands digging into the mattress below you. It felt so good. Skillfully, he lapped into you. Eyes rolling back into his head with each pass through. “You’re so fucking sweet,” his words vibrated through you. Cock needing relief. Beginning to grind himself against the mattress.

You needed more. The burn in you spreading throughout you again. Nerve endings tingling causing pain to resurface. It was not enough.

“John,” you cried out, “I need you. Need your cock inside me. Please—“

His eyes lit up. Having been fighting his selfish nature to fuck you relentlessly. Wanting to make this a good experience for you. But when you were begging him, how could he resist?

Rising to his feet as shedding every item of clothing that stuck to him. Throwing them into a pile with your own. Both of you completely nude now. His beard shining with your juices. You gawked at his member. It curved towards his stomach. Swollen and leaking at the tip. A thick vein running along the side. Clearly craving release. Your mouth watered.

He joined you on the mattress. Dipping under his weight. Fabric burning against his knees. His arms caged you in, hands splayed next to your head. Sweat covered both your bodies. Pulses straining against your eardrums. Never had either of you felt this desperate. And neither of you would ever admit that you were.

His cock prodded at your entrance. Tip sliding up and down your folds. Your face contorted in pleasure. Pathetically whimpering at the feeling. Lip quivering as you tried to force him inside you.

And he could not deny you.

With a quick thrust, he bottomed out inside you. Both of you gasping for air that refused to enter your lungs. Your arms snaked around his torso, splaying along his spine. One of his arms hooked around your waist, folding you so that he could enter you deeper. Finding a quick pace. Loud sound of skin slapping together filled the tight space. His balls slammed against your ass as his cock stretched you with each thrust.

Finally. Some relief. He was good. His cock was perfect. The noises he made were straight out of a porno. Suddenly, you could understand why they had wanted him to be Captain America. He was the perfect man.

His free hand found its place on your clit, circling the aching nub tightly. Your back arched off the mattress. It tingled at first, but your body was finally getting what it so desperately needed. You tucked your head into the crook of his neck, forehead pressed against his shoulder. Lips absentmindedly kissing and sucking his skin. Leaving little bruises in your wake.

His name fell from you like a prayer. Breathy huffs squeezed out of your chest. John grunted and groaned, completely lost in the way you wrapped around him. Tight walls gripped down on his girth.

John readjusted so that he could capture your lips between his. Messily kissing you, teeth grazing your bottom lip. His beard tickled your skin with each desperate kiss.

You were like two animals in heat. Unable to speak but knowing what the other needed. Dousing something primal within you. Something that you needed before the smoke filled your lungs today.

The knot in your gut wound itself tighter. If things continued, you would be cumming soon. Walls spasming as your body prepared for your orgasm.

“Pretty girl,” was the only thing he could choke out.

It made your face flush. He had not really complimented you, not past a sexual nature. But this was different. Not charged by the way you welcomed him inside you so easily. His words were genuine.

“Cum in me,” you whined, meeting his thrusts.

“Yeah? Want me to fill you up? Make sure you remember this for the next week. Maybe even knock you up. Let the whole team know who fucked you this good,” John groaned.

Your nails dug into his bare back. Scratching against the tight, muscular ridges. Nodding aggressively with a pathetic ‘uh-huh’ bubbling in your throat. His words had you on the brink. A few more swirls of his fingers and you would be a mess below him.

“Need you to first,” John breathed, “Cum on my cock, sweetheart. I wanna feel it.”

You called out to him as your insides began to pulse. The knot inside you snapping as your orgasm washed over you. Squeezing his cock between tight walls. Pushing him over the edge himself. Fucking into you as aggressively as possible making sure to get his seed deep inside you. Hips brushing against your own.

It was the sweetest relief you had ever felt. His spend cooling down all the agony that had consumed you. This was what you were meant to do. Meant to help each other. To be together.

John remained deep inside you, his body slumping against yours. Both of you panting, your hand caressing his back. Eyes closed. Neither of you prepared to say a word. Too afraid of breaking this small reality you had created together.

His weight was a nice blanket. Even if he did make it a little difficult to breathe. The feeling of skin perfectly pressed together helped. Your legs still wrapped around his waist. His beard scratched your chest momentarily.

You refused to move.

Remaining here in silence.

Spark of a flame began igniting inside you once more. You were in for a long night.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you for reading! I really enjoy writing sex pollen stories :) as always my inbox is open. Comments and Reblogs are appreciated //

{tags}

@lillycore ~ @deliciouslydisturbed365 ~ @ilove-hatethecw ~ @itsjml ~ @gayhorrormen ~ @linkpk88 ~ @1-800-styles ~ @sagexsenorita ~ @hepburnswan ~

[rex-rambles]

➤ i've been loving him to pass the time | lando norris

pairing: lando norris x fwb!reader

summary: you've been loving lando to pass the time, but is that really all it is? (inspired by 'oh my' by alessi rose)

wc: 4.6k

warnings: angst with a happy ending! not great relationship skills and allusions of smut

➤ MASTERLIST

It was nothing special. What you and Lando had was, really, nothing special.

Or, perhaps you should say what you have is nothing special. It hadn't died yet, even if it seemed like it had a hundred times over. You were still here, standing in his kitchen, unloading his dishwasher, while a hoodie of his and some random dress shoes were still tossed about your living room. 

But it was nothing special. You were just strangers who sought comfort in each other from across the hall, because the longer you think about it, you never were friends.

You're not sure who had set that hard boundary, but it was evident, because days like this remind you that you're not central in each other's lives, don't matter outside of your homes and bedrooms, don't exist to anyone else. You'd woken up alone in his bed like you always do with a sticky note stuck to his pillow that he was having people over later, so you should head out before four. It was normal enough, though it once wasn't - where before you used to rush to leave, you now spend your morning, eating and tidying up after yourself to leave no trace behind, like you didn't live just down the hall.

If people looked, really, they'd see it, but you'd both gotten so good at pretending that it was convincing enough even you couldn't decipher if it was all real. There was a time when you thought about defining what you were, making things more obvious, but that had been a year ago, and all your secrets were still tucked away in the back of each other's bathrooms, hidden toothbrushes and hygiene products just in case. If people looked, really, they'd see it, but there's no one to ever connect the dots besides you and him.

You had his favourite chocolate hidden at the top of your cupboard for late-night meetings, or just needing a reminder of him. He had your spare key in some junk drawer, attached with some gaudy tourist keychain he had tried to pawn off to you for your birthday, only for it to end up back at his. 

But it was nothing special. 

You were always last, because this was nothing special. He was rarely home to begin with, but he wasn't solely to blame. He knew you'd wait for him, something soft and unspoken between you where he'd find solace on your couch or you in his arms and within a few hours, no evidence of what happened would remain. 

4: 

you didn't have to clean

Not existing was a strangely easy task, names ignored in contact lists, paparazzi unaware, even when his fame picked up, and he had to admit to you who he was. Your total absence from his life doesn't take away from the fact that you were there, helping him practice for interviews, compiling your own secret list of stories he'd only ever told you, getting to ask personal questions without crossing your lines. You had never been to a single race, but that didn't stop you from watching every one, listening to him excel in the spotlight for hours on end as you sat in the dark of his apartment. 

5: 

you're welcome

You were better than him, he'd told you one of those long nights spent under his sheets, but only by a little bit. So you would be 5, when he was 4. It was a one-off joke, but his words had taken up more of your time than you're willing to admit. He could do that, turn seconds to hours and days to nothing. You could spend all the time in the world and it wouldn't matter, or you could exchange a glance in a hallway and have it feel like an eternity. 

But it was nothing special. You're not sure what you'd do at this rate, to be honest, if he tried to change that. You were so used to revolving around Lando's schedule you'd forgotten that you could exist with him beyond being a satellite. If he asked to be something official, you think you'd say yes, but that wasn't a dream or a fantasy, just simple delusion.

If anyone else asked what you were, you'd say neighbours. It didn't matter the routines you fell into, the bonds you shared, the yearning, the distance, the silence. What you and Lando have is, was, nothing special. 

Didn't matter how you felt about it. What you have is nothing special. 

"I feel bad." He appears at the door at some ungodly hour, curls ruined with sweat that makes his t-shirt cling to him. Outstretched is a singular cupcake with a few random letters on it, taken obviously from some birthday celebration. "You're not my maid." 

"If you want to feel better," You say as you accept the cupcake, "Then don't leave everything a mess. I'm trying to help you maintain those F1 delusions of grandeur." 

"You shouldn't." He responds, letting himself into your apartment and closing the door behind him. You take a bite from the cupcake, savouring the chocolate for a moment as he stares you down. "It'll inflate my ego. I'm trying to stay humble." 

"Tell that to the cars in the garage downstairs." His lips are on yours, cupcake abandoned on the kitchen counter beside you, knocked over and icing smeared across the marble. 

You don't know why you let him do this. Maybe it's the way he makes you feel, desperate to hold you like you're something he could actually lose, even when he could have anyone else. Maybe it's the gifts, maybe it's the humour, that stupid smile, but for the past year, you've let him rule your romantic life, kept single for the moments he'd decide to pay some attention to you, and you dumbly realize, hands woven through his hair as he lowers you onto your bed, that it's become your favourite passtime. 

With all the hours spent, you've been loving him to pass the time, because what else do you do? Move on to a worse smile and someone who doesn't understand you or your body the way he does? 

Someone else would be seen with you, your brain reminds you as his lips find your neck. Someone else would give you a title, take you out, show you off. Your entire life keeps moving forward around you, new jobs, new friends, new adventures, and then you return to him like you hadn't grown at all, and you let yourself spiral as he does what he does best, taking control, giving you just enough pleasure to stay. Making you feel like the centre of all his worship for the night, so that when he collapses beside you, it feels like he'll stay. He'll wrap an arm around you and press himself to your side, to your back, whatever way he likes, and you ask stupid questions back and forth about things like how your day went and the cute dogs you've seen in the building before dozing off, and expecting him to stay. 

He never does.  

"Isn't that a bit big on you?" Your friend pulls up the hood to your hoodie, laughing as it swamps your face, and you reach up to toss it back. 

"It's-" Lando's. He'd abandoned enough sweaters in your place to last you a lifetime, and to keep from mixing worlds, you return them to him diligently. This one must have slipped through the cracks, even as you savoured the smell of him all day. "It's supposed to be a boxier fit." 

He won't be back for two or three odd weeks, having managed to text this morning that he was off racing somewhere and had to wake early for his flight. It's almost honourable, you think, the way he tries to excuse his behaviour as if he hadn't disappeared every morning. As if he didn't just seek you out when he wanted. 

Then, like clockwork, like he can't even let himself go the 24 hours without finding you at night, he calls at 12:26, which is apparently 2 AM his time. He could have anyone else, you like to fantasize as you listen to him drunkenly drawl about a DJ. He could be with any other girl, but he's on the phone to you, like he's loyal, like this whole thing is something he could be loyal about, but it's nothing special. He just happens to call when he's drunk, because he can trust himself to say stupid shit to you and no one find out about it. 

That's how it all started, anyway. You heard someone knock at your door and then a loud, heavy fall outside at around midnight, and discovered a drunken Lando on the floor, the newest resident to the apartment building. He said something about needing help getting to his place, and you'd dragged him to his door, helped him with his keys, got him to bed. 

He'd returned the next night with cookies as an apology, and it felt like he never left after that. You were the one part of his life, he liked to say, that had nothing to do with fame or family or pressures. You would argue you weren't really part of his life, but it wasn't an argument you wanted to have. 

Not when, on the rare nights when he felt romantic, he'd get some fancy food delivered and order some nice wine and once, at the beginning of all this hell, he'd held your hand under the table like you could've been anything more than strangers in the night. The last truly romantic gesture was weeks ago, but you weren't counting. 

You never really counted on him to do much besides show up at your door, after another failed race that you claimed you didn't watch, because you didn't watch racing, because this was nothing special, even if you found yourself glued to your TV no matter the hour. He lets his aggression out in the healthiest way he can, letting you sit in his lap on his couch and venting about all the problems with his car in between breathless kisses, clothes abandoned at some point and dignity at another. 

He'd say things in the heat of the moment that he'd never mean, about how he wanted you, only you, wanted you to stay. You'd give in to every word, even if you weren't under him, because it's all you ever wanted. You wanted him, wanted it all, wanted more than you could ever reasonably ask and more than he could ever give you. 

And there, curled up for the hundredth time, you feel the world finally shift.

Time, once dictated by his arrival or departure, pushes forward without him as he turns to look at you in the dim moonlight. He's leaving, you realize, even if you knew it was happening. The whole reason he was here was the in-between until he was able to move to wherever he needed to go, and he'd told you back in those first, fateful days, it would be a couple months at most. You suppose those many, many months have finally caught up with you.

"Monaco, huh?" You breath out, and Lando buries his face into your neck, unable to say the words himself.

You were just loving him to pass the time, you remind yourself. It was nothing special, though it's impossible to act like this wasn't consuming both of you alive, only for him to extinguish himself. Maybe it was mercy, leaving you here to burn alone.

You gather your things that morning as you leave, ultimately needing a box to put everything in. You would make a joke about how much he'd kept over time, but he's not there, like every morning, like nothing could ever change, time pushing you forward, as if to tell you to move on. It's your tupperware, socks, a camera with your name on it, but with all his photos, a year summed up in a handful of random items. 

You do the same to yours, returning the sweaters, the shoes, the watch you've been holding hostage since he left. His oversized sweater remains in your drawer, your last souvenir of him, and unbeknownst to you, the random friendship bracelets you left behind one drunken summer night remain in his bag. 

If you cry over him for the first time that night, it's no one's business but your own. And if time slows to let you process it, no on else notices. 

What Lando and you had was nothing special.

It wasn't romantic, despite the flowers Lando knew were your favourite, it wasn't committed, despite the fact he hadn't sought out other women, considering you were right there, and just right. You never gave each other enough time for it to be anything special, though more and more often, it was Lando leaving you alone, in his bed, when he went to work out, when he ran to do his meetings. You didn't mind, Lando was almost entirely sure, because it was nothing special. It had ended as peacefully as it had begun, and Lando hadn't thought much of it until he found himself lonely in a life he had thought he was fulfilled in.

He saw the same people, tried making new friends, did the exact same routine, but he found himself stuck on the edge of something invisible, something he couldn't understand. 

He couldn't understand how his socks piled up so easily, or how long it took to put away all the dishes, like he hadn't already done them a million times before. He couldn't understand why his bed felt so cold in such a warm place like Monaco, why people kept asking him if he was alright when he'd never been better. 

What you and Lando had was nothing special. He was just indulging in the rare chance of normal, loving you to pass the time while he had it, because everything was such a rush around him. He couldn't understand how everything moved so fast, how nights moved so fast, when they used to stretch out so long for him. 

He couldn't understand why other dates weren't the same. Why they didn't understand what he'd want, predict his next moves, give him that extra space on the other side of the bed because he likes to splay about. He couldn't understand why even his groceries were different, because sure, he's in a new country, with new stores, but it was still the same chocolate, even if it wasn't stolen from ridiculously tall cupboards. He finds your favourite fruit in his basket before he questions it, something he always picked up for mornings he never witnessed, mornings that were not special, where he'd eat the leftovers, even if he didn't like them. 

He thinks of texting, but then again, you didn't text first. You didn't text often, actually. He only called when he was drunk, and despite his few escapades out at night, there were no new secrets he needed to share, because they didn't really matter anymore. It was nothing special, anymore. 

He finds himself scrolling through his phone at random hours of the night when time seems to refuse to slow down for him, and it was nothing special, so when he finds the only photo of you on his phone from some night where you both got tipsy and tried to play a minigolf course set up in his living room, he couldn't understand why he had to stare at it to fall asleep, over and over, your smile as you laid on his couch, hands clutched to your stomach in laughter, half of the course knocked over in his footsteps. 

After another race he loses, he realizes he doesn't have your social media. It doesn't matter, really, considering you didn't know anything about racing, as much as you played along that you did. He thinks he might find you among his followers, but you'd never cared for his fame. He finds your account anyway, private, and it makes sense. You always were private with your life, with what you did outside of the hours spent with him. He's not sure if he knows your job, even if he knows how much you hate his choice in soap, he's not sure he knows the names of any of your friends, even if he knows your aspirations, your dream pets, your first and second favourite colours. He tries to ask other people the same questions, but their answers don't sound the same, answered for the sake of answering, not for the sake of sharing. 

He goes home, and tries to ignore the draw of going back to his old building, to that door, but he's a man who acts on impulse, unable to keep himself from driving down your street, his street, thinking about what you'd be doing at this hour, and he doesn't understand it. You were just strangers in the night, really, people who found comfort in each other, so why was he so stuck on the thought of you? 

What you had didn't exist outside of apartments and memories, so how could it occupy every area of his life? The concert he's back home for is a band that he introduced you to, every song tied to some stupid moment nestled together, and as some romantic ballad starts up, he spots you in the crowd, the first time he's seen you outside his and your walls, the first time he'd seen you properly dressed up and not getting undressed. You're all but screaming along to the song, knowing the lyrics like knowing him, and you turn to beam at some friend beside you, and it wasn't anything special, but Lando was jealous of it. 

You used to smile at him like that, even when he never went out, even when he tried to keep things with you as secret and normal as possible, hidden away from anything that might ruin it, including himself. It was the most selfish, dickish thing he ever did, and you never mentioned it, never brought up your thoughts on it. Lando thought it was mercy, letting him have some normalcy with you. Now, he realizes, it was because he never gave you the space to say something, never gave you the time or the possibility to turn what you'd created into something more.

Now, he realizes, he wants you to look up from your seat and see him staring from the VIP section, and smile at him, and choose him again, because he realizes that's what he's been missing this whole time. He wants you to sing along to a cheesy love song, not because he taught it to you over a drunken night of karaoke, but because you want to say those words to him.

You were always there. He never had to make a choice, only had to show up at your door, but now? It wasn't his choice anymore. He didn't deserve one, anyway. You deserve to choose him, should you want, and god, the thought makes Lando realize how much he wants it. He wants you to choose him because you can, because he mattered to you outside of all the shit he put you through, he wants you to want him outside of the hours of night, because standing here, longing for something he didn't realize he wanted in the first place, maybe it was special. 

Maybe you made it special.

He buys the last two VIP tickets and gets some security guard to bring you up as he disappears out the back door, leaving behind the music he had once been so excited to hear, now reduced to background noise. His feet take him to your building, time sped up to get him there in what feels like minutes flat. He knows your code to punch into the building, has your spare key in his back pocket just in case, though he could never bring himself to use it. He used to let himself into your apartment like it was his own home, but now, he's forfeited that right. So he sits on the floor next to your door, head rested back against the wall, and wills the hours to speed up to bring you home to him. 

You get home with more questions than answers, but it doesn't matter. Why you were chosen out of a sea of fans for some random band your friend pulled you along to, with lyrics that haunted you more than you could ever explain, to go to the VIP section, you have no idea. Time had sped up, rushing you through the night faster than you've ever felt, over in just a second for the walk down your hallway to be the longest you've ever experienced, because Lando was at the end of it. 

Even if it wasn't anything special, you could always sense Lando from a mile away, knew he was here the moment you set foot in your building, having pulled strings and made your night better when he used to never see you out. You could sense him when you went on more dates, when life kept going, when nothing matched. You found yourself longing for things to do, seeking out friends when the silence was too obvious, longing for someone to ask you a question because they wanted to know everything about you, and not to just pass the time. 

But it was nothing special. What you and Lando had before and after he left didn't matter, even if you wanted it to. And even as you approach him, his eyes closed but not quite at peace, you try to convince yourself it doesn't matter. That he's just back in town for the night and wanted a place to crash, that he wanted one more night, but you were always more than that, even if it wasn't anything special. He always somehow chose you, even when it seemed like he couldn't care less about you. You were always better than him, always something he came back to, even hesitant, like he was afraid you wouldn't be there. 

But he knew, and you knew. You'd always be there, even if he wasn't. You'd always wait, even if you shouldn't. His eyes crack open to stare up at you, that ridiculous, soft smile instantly plastered over his face. 

"You're getting glitter on the carpet." He voices quietly, hand reaching out to undo your heel nearest to him, the smallest smattering of glitter falling from your dress to create a halo around you. It suited you, Lando would say if he could stomach it. He finishes one shoe before moving to the next, and you slip out of them easily, despite the fact you're now standing in your stockings in your apartment hallway. 

Then, you realize, he hadn't kissed you. For once, he doesn't surge up to bring you inside, to get your dress off, you don't plant yourself in his lap, you just stare, time stopped between the two of you. Nothing could move the silence between you, not now, likely not ever. What happened tonight was supposed to happen, whether either of you realized it or not. 

He wears a VIP bracelet around his wrist, the same as you. He'd given up the concert of some band he loved for you, and you, for once, let yourself read into it. You had been making love with him to pass the time, but by now, it was more than that. You weren't loving him to pass the time, to keep up with what you'd started, because it wasn't just a pastime, wasn't just a hobby. It wasn't just seeking pleasure, even if at times it was. It wasn't just something normal for him, even if at times it was. You were loving him because it had become second nature, outside of everything you did. It was the default, what you reverted back to, as if you had loved each other for years, and not just moments. 

You loved Lando, and there was nothing special about the thought.

He grabs your shoes as he rises, and you let him into your apartment. He fits like the last piece missing, an absence you'd tried to ignore. He tosses his own shoes off, landing where his dress shoes always used to be, and he drops your heels unceremoniously next to them by the door, cluttered like they were always meant to be side by side. His outstretched arm finds your waist, hesitant, and you don't blame him. Your usual territory was demanding touches, heavy and all-consuming. Coming home to each other like it was a normal night, like you were something domestic, wasn't exactly ever on the table, even if you had done his laundry a hundred times, even if he used to help with your groceries, even if you had kissed and embraced enough times to know exactly what the other person needed. 

Leaving space for each other was customary, but filling real spaces in each other's lives was not.

"Did you miss me?" His words are low, not quite ego-driven, even if you know he'd use them against you later.

"Of course." Your hand finds his curls, gently sorting through them, those two words the most open you'd been about how you feel about him. You don't ask the same, partially because you don't want to ruin the moment, partially because you already know the answer. He came back to you, but it was still the same, old patterns. It was the middle of the night, and he was looking at you like he could devour you whole, and you'd let him. 

"Can I kiss you?" He hadn't asked before. He didn't need to, considering the flurry of emotions, the desperation for each other, the limited time you were allotted. 

The words being spoken aloud stop time in its tracks completely, and you gently place a hand on his chest to feel his heart pounding, an anxiety you'd never experienced from him before. He wanted to kiss you, and he wanted to ask, and you let him. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, but rather than pushing you back against the door, of it being hot and heavy, it's nothing special. It's a soft, quick kiss, like coming home after a long day at work, a tender thing that never had to be spoken. It's normal, like you've always wanted it to be. 

There's still that old connection there, from the way his hands tighten on your hips, but he pulls away before he allows himself to indulge for reasons you're both not privy to and yet well aware of. It wasn't that absence had made you fonder of him, or he of you, but it had made you realize that your nights spent together weren't just passing the time, weren't just midnight affairs. Something had broken between you when he left, maybe long before that, and for the first time, you think you might survive the repairs.

"Do you want to stay the night?" You ask, another first, because you never had to ask before. He just did. The path to your bedroom is well worn, but this time, the flurry of clothes was not for each other, but rather to slip into pyjamas. Him tossing you onto the bed was not to get to you there faster, but rather to hear that laugh bubble out of you, wrapped in an old t-shirt he's pretty sure he gave to you. 

It's the fact that he collapses into the divet he'd created in his side of your bed, unchanged, unoccupied since he left, and you mould around him like you always knew how to, and nothing else happens, because tonight is nothing special. What you and Lando have is nothing special, nothing like the poems about star-crossed lovers, or some front-page headlines. It's just you and him in the bed you made. 

When your alarm goes off in the morning, he's still there, face hidden in your neck as he snores softly. 

It's the first time you'd ever heard the sound. 

a/n: i know its not my typical style but i am going through a situationship of my own that is driving me crazy, so i needed to let that energy out somewhere - enjoy?

[pomegranatelifethis]

The Princess Forgotten in the Dark

As time went on, a change began to take place within Bruce Wayne. While he was managing the kingdom, taking care of his sons and fighting enemies, he did not notice the emptiness within himself. But one day, a moment came when everything lost its meaning.

Bruce finally realized a fact that he had ignored and tried to forget for years: his daughter. The princess's name had not been mentioned by anyone in the palace for years. But one morning, during one of his sleepless nights, something seemed to wake him up. A momentary inner restlessness, a momentary sound woke him up. He took action to search for his daughter.

For the first time in years, all the guards, advisors and servants in the palace noticed that Bruce was looking for his daughter. At that moment, there was regret in his eyes that he had accumulated over the years. While he was taking care of his sons, he left his daughter alone day by day and allowed her to live like a ghost. With every step Bruce took, there were the pains of the past, the fragments of a lost time. It was too late now, but there was still hope. Maybe it could still be saved.

Bruce went deeper into the palace. He headed towards that dark tower where the princess had been kept out of sight for years, a place no one dared to go. He knew this tower as one of the worst places in the palace. But that day, he didn't even think he would have to go all the way there.

When he arrived at the tower, nothing was ready when he entered. There was only darkness and dead silence there… And then, Bruce noticed that bed in the corner, abandoned for many years.

There was something on that bed that appeared after years. But Bruce tried to understand this reality with a frozen fear in his eyes. How long had it been? At that moment, he encountered the princess's body. His eyes were closed. His lifeless body was so thin that you could almost count his bones. There was a cover as light as feathers on him, but that cover was also insufficient.

Bruce knelt down and tried to lift the princess's lifeless body with his hands. There was deep sadness, regret and a lifetime of guilt in his eyes. The girl who left him, ignored him for years, and whom he thought he didn't love, was now growing cold.

"I couldn't do anything for you…" he said, his voice shaking. "Will you be able to forgive me?"

But the princess said nothing. After all, he was no longer alive. Bruce's daughter was dead after years of neglect and pain. No one remembered that she was once the princess of the Kingdom of Gotham. No one had even remembered his existence for a moment. The tears falling from Bruce's eyes bore the traces of an irreversible loss.

Seven months ago, no one noticed. No one noticed that the princess was fading, no one understood the terrible conditions she was in. Now, Bruce saw everything, but it was too late.

While Bruce was hugging his daughter's cold body with his hands, the four walls of the palace surrounded him like nothing. During the years he lived in this palace, he forgot the princess with every step. But at that moment, the weight of everything seemed to intoxicate him. At the end of everything, there was not a single drop of hope left in his eyes. When he embraced his daughter's dead body, his eyes, full of deep regret, began to grasp every aspect of the damage he had caused her and the truth he had ignored for years. However, the guilt within him prevented him from understanding another truth. Her daughter had not only been neglected; He was systematically ignored.

In those terrible minutes he spent in the room where his daughter was, the silence echoing on the walls of the palace told him of a betrayal that had lasted for years. Although the servants were obliged to take care of him, they ignored him, did not give him the necessary education, and instead threw him aside. But worse still, a large part of the palace budget was stolen by these servants. King Bruce was unaware of any of this.

Bruce had spent years dealing only with outside enemies, rival kingdoms, before learning of the mismanagement of much of the palace economy. The betrayal inside went unnoticed. The princess's income was usurped by high-ranking servants, and everything necessary for her to survive—food, education, care—was systematically restricted. He should have been the most valuable asset in the palace, but he was so abandoned that no one even mentioned his existence.

While Bruce accepted seeing his daughter like a ghost for years, he was able to better understand the extent of everything when he learned that the servants were living their lives with the money they stole. While the princess lived in the depths of the palace, without food or education, the servants became rich and used the palace's budget for their own benefit.

Bruce, with tears in his eyes, knelt next to the princess's dead body and said: "I couldn't do anything for you... But I should have given you the best of everything."

But the pain the princess experienced was not just neglect, but a complete exploitation. As Bruce's eyes saw the weakness in his daughter's body and her hunger-cracked skin, the anger inside him grew like a mountain. This anger wasn't just towards himself. He saw his servants, those who managed the palace economy, all those people who stole from him everything that was his daughter's right. Years of indifference had not only led to his death, but also made him part of a system no one cared about.

The loss of the princess showed Bruce not only the pain of losing his daughter, but also the corruption within his own kingdom. In his palace, a princess, the most valuable asset, was considered worthless for years and was left to die as servants ignored her for their own benefit.

As if he wasn't the one who caused this

Years Ago…

The sun was setting as two children sat by the river.

The little girl had dipped her feet into the water, silent as if the world did not belong to her. The boy beside her watched her intently. He knew who she was. But she did not know who he was.

The princess of Gotham Kingdom. The daughter of his father's greatest enemy.

But not everything was black and white. Because when he was with her, he forgot about wars, thrones, and titles. There was only her.

One day, the little girl turned to him and asked:

"Do you think people can truly be happy?"

The crown prince hesitated. His father had taught him that happiness did not exist—only power did. But when he looked at this girl, something inside him felt different.

"If you are happy, then I am too," he said with a smile.

Years passed. Every forbidden meeting, every whispered conversation, every shared secret changed something within him. He wanted to protect her. To love her and protect her.

But he could not escape reality. He knew who she was. And he knew that one day, this truth would tear them apart.

But he never thought it would be death that did it.

---

Years Later – On the Battlefield

He was in the middle of war. The clash of swords, the screams, the stench of blood… But the crown prince’s mind was elsewhere.

It had been so long since he had seen her. He remembered her face, heard her voice, even felt her whispers in his dreams.

Was she safe?

He would go to her. Once the battle was over, he would tell her everything—who he truly was, why he had stayed by her side, why he had lived with this secret for so long.

But then, a soldier rushed toward him, breathless. "Your Majesty… News from Gotham Kingdom."

The prince frowned. "What news?"

The soldier swallowed hard and lowered his head. "The princess… Gotham’s princess… is dead."

Time stopped.

What?

The prince barely felt the distance between him and the soldier. He waited for him to speak again. He must have heard wrong.

But the soldier continued. "Seven months ago… She was neglected in her palace. Her servants left her to starve. She fell ill… and no one noticed. Her body was only just discovered."

The sword in the prince’s hand fell to the ground.

No.

No, no, no.

This had to be a mistake.

How had he not known? How had he not realized? He had loved her for years. He had always believed he would return to her.

But now, there was no place to return to.

His legs trembled. A crushing weight settled in his chest. He had imagined the day he would find her again, the day he would finally tell her everything. But now? Now, there was nothing left to say.

The wind howled.

The battle raged on—the clash of steel, the cries of the fallen—but for the crown prince, the war had lost its meaning. Because he had already lost everything.

And without even knowing it, he had let her go.

---

The Prince’s Revenge

The battlefield was drenched in blood. The air smelled of iron and death. Shadows loomed over the fallen.

But for the crown prince, none of it mattered anymore.

The first thing he had felt when he learned of her death was loss. But now? Now, it was pure, consuming rage.

Gotham Kingdom.

Her father, who had failed to protect her. The servants, who had neglected her. The palace, which had let her wither away, forgotten and alone.

They would all die.

Slowly, the prince rose to his feet. His sword lay on the ground, but he no longer felt its weight. His eyes burned with fire.

The commander beside him looked at him warily. "Your Majesty? What are your orders?"

The prince’s gaze locked onto Gotham’s distant castle.

"Stop the battle," he said, his voice low and deadly.

The commander blinked in confusion. "But, sire, victory is within our grasp! If we strike now—"

The prince lifted his head. His eyes were ice-cold.

"No."

"This is no longer just a war. This is vengeance."

"We will burn Gotham."

"I will kill everyone who allowed her to be forgotten."

"Her father, her servants, every soul in that palace who let her starve—every last one of them will die."

"They cannot bring her back to me… but they will suffer."

The prince clenched his armor. Rage coursed through his veins. He was no longer a prince. No longer a man.

He was vengeance itself.

"Gotham took you from me… I will never forgive this. Those who turned their backs on you, who forgot you, who left you to die… They will all pay the price. Those who once knew me will think I fight for a throne. But they are wrong. This is no longer a war for a kingdom. This is no longer just a cause. This is my revenge."

@stove-top96 @sh4rk-k1d @jscrawls @enchantingarcadecreation @welpthisisboring @lilyalone @itsberrydreemurstuff

[eremikayearner]

prettiest smile ‹𝟹 itoshi rin

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ in which, you finally experience his smile and his laughter for the first time.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ when you had first befriended rin all those months ago, you honestly hadn’t expected your friendship to flourish like this.

rin was quiet, snappy, and quite frankly, tended to be very rude. but for some reason, that never shook you off of him. why? he couldn’t fathom a reason. not even you could come up with a reason. just that you liked his mystery, his company, his presence, all of it.

maybe you liked it too much.

under the spring sunlight, you and rin walked back to your home as you yapped away. another thing you liked about rin was that he was a good listener. you could talk about any of your interests and he would be there beside you, nodding along, occasionally asking questions — and the best part? he remembered. he remembered things even you had forgotten.

“i don’t understand why he doesn’t just confess already.” you huffed, complaining about the male lead in your romance novel. “he has to understand he’s an attractive guy. i don’t think any girl would reject him!”

rin looked at you curiously. “what do you mean?”

“i mean that everybody likes pretty boys. even if they’re the worst person on the planet. rin, come on, back me up here. you can testify!”

“i still don’t understand.” rin replied.

you rolled your eyes. was he being serious? absolutely no way. “girls confess to you all the time.”

he looked at you completely cluelessly.

then it hit you.

oh my god.

rin was genuinely clueless.

he was utterly unaware of his own beauty.

how? he was one of your closest friends now, and one of the first things you had noticed about him was that he was rather beautiful. pretty teal eyes fringed by long dark lashes, a face sculpted by angels, dark hair that fell over his face perfectly, and come on. he was an athlete. anybody with eyes could see the carefully built muscle against the fabric of his clothes. rin was a pretty boy. it was no secret.

however, it seemed that everybody knew the secret but him.

he tilted his head just slightly to the side, sunlight streaming through the trees and pronouncing the deep green undertones of his hair. “so?”

you stopped walking, completely the dumbfounded. then the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them. “you’re pretty.”

oh, now you’ve done it. who the hell calls their male friends pretty?

rin raised an eyebrow. “i’m pretty?”

“no!” you exclaimed, your heart racing in your chest as he looked down at you, and oh god — you were blushing. then his eyes widened in surprise at your quick reaction, your heart beating so fast it could have collapsed inside your chest. “i mean i’m not saying you’re not, ‘cause you are. pretty, i mean. but i’m just saying-”

your rambling was definitely making this worse. you looked down at the ground, your cheeks flushing pink and your blood racing through your veins. then you heard something soft. the smallest sound.

laughter.

you raised your eyes to find his face, and your breath catches. he laughed louder, and your heart fluttered in your chest as you watched him with wide eyes. you didn’t think he could get prettier.

but here he was. the soft golden sunlight hitting his face and illuminating every breathtaking feature. his smile could have stopped wars, his laughter could have been mistaken for an angel’s. you had never seen him look prettier. it was almost too much for your poor heart to handle. he was smiling — laughing because of you.

you felt light. too light. as you watched him, lips parted in awe, you felt your heart fall. falling endlessly, effortlessly, as you looked at rin.

he giggled, and your stomach flipped, his smile radiant as he looked down at you. “so you think i’m pretty?”

you couldn’t even speak. you just nodded.

he laughed again, nodding to himself. “good. i think you’re pretty too.”

you might faint.

rin’s laughter was pure as his hands went to your face as you mumbled about feeling lightheaded ; his proximity, touch and laughter worsening it. rin could only giggle as he teasingly asked you if you were okay, delighted by your shy and soft responses.

oh, you’re so screwed. you’ve definitely fallen for itoshi rin.

[fyuyushia]

"Thought we had the time, had our lives, now you'll never get older, older. Didn't say goodbye, now I'm frozen in time, getting colder, colder." — You said you'd grow old with me

Sung Jinwoo with 'the one that got away' trope. Him with a first love—you—who he lost all too early.

He's rereading his letter, again and again, checking for any grammar mistakes. This letter had to be perfect, after all, this would be the very letter that would reveal the depths of his feelings for you. More than a friend and more than a comrade. To him, you were his first love, his first realization, his very first crush. After much checking and nitpicking, he smiles when he finally approves of the letter and prepares to send it to you.

Only to receive a bone chilling phone call.

Your parents tell him of what happened to you, of how life had bereft you of your right to make memories. How the cruel mistress stripped you of your soul and dragged it down to the underworld, never to experience the warmth once more, never to hear, feel, and see through your own body.

He's devastated as he takes in your loss, cold denial hitting him first. There's no way, right? You aren't dead—you can't be dead. You still have so many goals you haven't achieved yet—he still hasn't told you "I love you" yet. But even when he spent countless nights denying the bitter truth, nothing changes the tragedy that happened(you).

He's left standing in front of your grave a few months after. His disbelief had caused him to not show up at your funeral, unable to still grasp the fact that you died, that you of all people died. The sun shone brightly that day, mocking the solemn demeanor he wore as he stared at the name etched on the stone.

Jinwoo thinks life is unfair. They've already taken too much. His mother, his father, and now you? How much more will the gods take? How much more will they amuse at the sight of him suffering? This was just too unfair.

When Jinwoo gets given a second chance—a final one at that, he uses the cup of reincarnation one more time. Grasping the chance for a picture perfect world where no one had gone through the horrors of this life, his mind conjures up a blurry image of your face.

Had he forgotten? No, how could he? Your image was etched on his eyelids, tattooed on his mind never to be forgotten. Even if he's moved on—thinks he's moved on with the help of Hae-in—your image was a view he vowed to never forget.

Time rewinds, and no one remembers the history that played out in the future. Living on everyday, complaining about this boring peace, everyone continued on with the motions of life. There were those who were blessed with a second chance at life, there were those who lived, unaware of their demise that came due to the gates that appeared once upon a time.

You were no exception.

Standing in front of him, your painfully bright smile blinds his eyes.

Ah, his lips curl into a smile. He relishes your presence, overjoyed to see you once more. You call his name, and his leg trembles. How odd, he could stand fearless in the face of powerful figures, but he goes down on his knees so easily in the face of you.

How truly odd.

He clings onto you, unable to think of anything but the fact that you're here. You're here standing in front of him, well and alive. You're here, still with him, not yet marred by the monstrosities of that life.

Covering you in his embrace, tears cascade down his cheeks. He murmurs your name, allowing the syllables to roll off his tongue like a mantra. For years, he's longed for you, ached to hear your voice call for him one last time. Now that he has it in his grasp, he can't help but let his emotions run and do the thinking for him.

He squeezes you, burying his face on the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent he so missed.

"Jinwoo?"

"You're here." He whispers. "You're here..."

[imaginarytree]

back on my emo bbg headcanons because my fics are straight up cheeks

anyhow

Flame Reaver!Phainon who's been deprieved of contact and comfort for so long he's forgotten how it felt

Flame Reaver!Phainon who had used Oronyx's blessing in the first cycle to freeze the memories of you so he would never forget a single thing about you

Flame Reaver!Phainon who often found himself daydreaming when he had nothing to do

Flame Reaver!Phainon who subconciously leaves flowers and gifts in front of the house of the "current you" out of habit but never once regretted it because it brings out the smile he had never stopped adoring to your face

Flame Reaver!Phainon who protects you and gets rid of the enemies swiftly and silently even when you're unaware of his presence

Flame Reaver!Phainon who is still a romantic at heart even if he numbed it to continue his mission and ensures you are safe and happy when he disguises himself as the Chrysos Heir!Phainon

Flame Reaver!Phainon who scoffs when his "other self" chooses the duty over you again and takes it upon himself to get you into a nice date to make you happy

Flame Reaver!Phainon who is somehow clingier than Chrysos Heir!Phainon and is glued to you everywhere you go because he needs to stay by your side to feel at peace

Flame Reaver!Phainon who prefers hugging you from behind and lay his head on your shoulder as he watches you fullfill your daily duties

Flame Reaver!Phainon who even when he's disguised intimidates anyone who doesn't have any good intentions with you but will look like a wet cat when you look at him

Flame Reaver!Phainon who kisses with devotion like you are the air he breathes and like a butterfly in the harsh winds

His kisses are soft serene and fragile but leave you light headed

Flame Reaver!Phainon who will cover you if you wear clothes that show too much in public because that view is for his eyes only

Flame Reaver!Phainon who comes at your house in the dead of night after he got rid of the enemies and lays his head on your lap as you soothe him with your touch and hum a song to help him relax

Flame Reaver!Phainon who's body is more toned than Chrysos Heir!Phainon because of the countless battles he's fought and won and who's countless scars are proof of those victories he's archieved in his long life

Flame Reaver!Phainon who despite everything shivers when you let your fingers trail through them with gentleness and praise him for being so brave and strong willed

Flame Reaver!Phainon my love😭💕

[loverangels]

webbed in desire

pairings: tasm!peter x fem!reader

synopsis: Peter really likes your Spiderman pajama pants

warnings: kinda suggestive

Peter Parker swung into your apartment window mid-sentence, mask pulled halfway up his face as he rambled about patrol. “And, seriously, who even owns a unicycle anymore? Like, that’s gotta be—”

He stopped abruptly, mid-step, when his eyes landed on you.

You were sitting at your vanity, totally unaware of the effect you were having on him. Your head was tilted slightly as you concentrated on whatever you were holding—maybe a bottle of lotion, maybe a tube of lip balm, he couldn’t even tell because his attention had zeroed in on something else entirely.

It was the pants.

The red and blue Spider-Man pajama pants that hung low on your hips, decorated with tiny web patterns and logos. His logo. Paired with your black tank top, the whole look made him forget how to breathe for a second.

“Are you—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his mask now forgotten in his hand. “Are those... Spider-Man pajamas?”

You glanced up, catching his reflection in the mirror. The corner of your mouth quirked into a grin, like you’d been waiting for him to notice. “Uh-huh,” you said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Cute, right?”

Peter blinked, still standing near the window like his feet had been glued to the floor. “Cute?” He let out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “No, no. You don’t get to call that cute. That’s—damn, baby. That’s a problem.”

Turning in your chair, you swiveled to face him, laughing softly at the look on his face. “Oh! I almost forgot to show you the full effect.”

You stood up, giving a playful little spin that made the fabric swish around your legs. When you stopped, your hands went to your hips, and you grinned at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Peter groaned, running his hand through his hair as he finally pushed away from the window and crossed the room in three long strides. His hands found your waist as he pulled you against him, his thumbs brushing along the waistband of the pants.

“I can’t even be mad about this,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You look so good with me all over you. Pun very much intended.”

Your grin turned mischievous as you leaned closer, your breath warm against his skin. “Well, I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got on underneath.”

Peter blinked, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as his brain tried to catch up. “Underneath?”

With a sly smile, you stepped back just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of the pants, pulling them down just enough to reveal a peek of red and blue. The Spider-Man bra and panties were unmistakable—the webbed details, the tiny logos, the way they hugged your skin perfectly.

Peter stared, his mouth falling open slightly as his eyes darted between your face and the glimpse of fabric. For a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t even speak, his brain short-circuiting entirely.

“Oh no,” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head. “Did I break Spider-Man?”

He let out a breathless laugh, his hands running through his hair as he closed the space between you again. “You’re insane,” he muttered, his hands sliding back to your waist as he leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours. “And I am obsessed with you.”

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐎𝐑 .

# with trafalgar law.

your captain was nothing if not thorough — and as talented doctor, he offered quite a luscious method to help with your cramps.

⎰ & KINKTOBER. smut (mdni!). period sex. bloodplay. fingering (reader!receiving). blood!tasting (menstrual blood, yes). afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.3k.

trafalgar law was a doctor — sadistic, yes; self-taught, of course; but one regardless. his mind was attuned to his crew’s health properties, from allergies, to those who had a lower immunity system; from the divergent blood types to medical-related phobias. bepo hated oral medicine with overly sweet tastes; jean bart, although sizable, could not stand needles. and you had a set of quite awful cramps, enough to leave you bedridden until the week’s ending. it was, without an ounce of doubt, your most prominent issue — the one who bought him the greater worry. it left him wary enough then, yet said coddling had a gradual increase once he engaged in a relationship with you.

law had the interval of your period scheduled; committed to memory. pain medicines were reserved with the purpose of aiding you; thermal bags were both heated and freezed beforehand. he researched herbs with soothing properties and went as far — a proof of his love, he would add — as inquiring the straw-hats’ cook on teas that could, somehow, offer some respite. law had tried on a dozen sets of solutions, which one to no avail, for your ache lingered regardless of the chosen method. it left him with an ever-present bitter taste at the tip of his tongue, as the man was unused to said hopelessness, all but forced to sit back and witness your pain without a decent manner with which to soothe it.

you were not present for breakfast that morning, whereas bepo had a sheet with your shifts and duties, dividing them with shachi. for your pain was too sharp, you were granted a week-worth of rest, unallowed to lift a weight heavier than a plume. ikkaku had then entered the shared kitchen, holding an emptied cup — whose previous contents he presumed to be water — and discarding a plastic, pill bottle of a potent medicine he had prepared, a week prior. ikkaku informed him that you were resting — a bit nauseous, as expected, yet nothing quite worrisome — and though the woman had not read underneath the lines of what you stated, law understood it well enough. you were discarding his lingering aid, willing to withstand the cramps without him, for law grew twice as frustrated every month, and you had noted.

he left the kitchen right thereafter, his mood souring. it was ridiculous; unfathomable. law was a doctor — a surgeon — who had healed life-threatening diseases and wounds, yet failed to soothe the merest cramps; to offer comfort to the one he loved the most. he clicked his tongue, rummaging through the books in his office, convinced that he was but missing something, prideful enough to refuse the perspective of succumbing to a thing such as morphine.

nerves. brain chemicals. it should not have taken him that long to figure that out, but it did — and he was fuming. orgasms increased the blood flow; released endorphins; decreased the levels of cortisol. how could have he forgotten that? law clicked his tongue regardless, filled with clear annoyance at himself as he strived for your shared bedroom with ikkaku, delighted, at last, at the fact neither of you would be bothered, for the crew, too, was well-aware of the intensity of your pain.

he knocked — once, twice. not an answer was received, yet law entered regardless, eyes getting used to the overall darkness of the room, granting him the sight of your figure underneath the bed sheets. he approached you, placing a hand on your forehead; relieved to know you were far from feverish. your knees were pressed to your chest, and he could see slight eye-bags, pointing to a clear lack of sleep due to the pain. you were dozing off, unaware of your surroundings, set for a nap. he felt a pang of guilt as his arms removed you from your solace, holding you bridal-style, the activation of his powers leading you both to his own bedroom.

“law?” you inquired, nuzzling closer, a bit confused at the sudden shift. your voice was rough — pained —, and he caught himself filled with the urge to protect you, yet again.

“did i wake you?” he murmured, landing you on the mattress with certain tenderness.

“no,” you lied, ever more comfortable at the press of the sheets under your sore body.

law hummed, not believing a thing, yet not willing to pester you either. instead, he placed a set of pillows under your hips, caressing your cheek with calculated gentleness.

“i figured something that might help,” law whispered, allowing his hand to travel down your neck.

“i took some pills a while ago,” you meekly pointed out, sighing in relief as his fingers brushed against your collarbone. “and that infusion you made me drink tasted like shit. no offense.”

“none taken,” he reassured, licking his lips as his eyes swallowed the sight of you. “it’s a more pleasant one, if you’re willing.”

you stared at him through a half-opened eye, intrigued despite the context. you wore a thin, silken nightgown, the straps slipping past your shoulders, not much left for the imagination. it gave him a glimpse of your curves; your breasts; the underline of your underwear. law spared a mere glance at his sheets, deciding the incessant brushing of the blood stains right thereafter would be far worth it, so long as he could claim you. his hand hovered over your covered intimacy, applying a natural pressure, however neither forceful nor demanding.

“if you’re willing”, law repeated, and you licked your lips, wincing ever-so-slightly at a sudden, sharp pang. he could see the mental effort required for the production of words, soothing your unspoken worries with a caress of his thumb. law was a doctor; blood did not phase him, rather brought forward certain excitement. he all but wished for you to understand that. “i’m willing.”

“are you sure?” you croaked out, pain so sharp you could barely keep your eyes open.

“let me take care of you,” he pleaded, with half the mind to be ashamed of the desperation in his own tone.

you offered him a curt nod of agreement; limp frame conceding to his guiding touch. law raised the nightgown past your arms, throwing it somewhere in the room. with his knees sunk on the mattress, frame towering over your laid one, he began removing your underwear, shuddering with anticipation at the sight of blood staining your pad. he hummed, regretting the eagerness that led to a lack of proper preparation, for he had neither towels nor medical gloves to contain the flow of your period. yet, his mind could not help but point out a singular thought — did he care enough about the mess to be bothered, when you were in such dire need for relief? indeed, he didn’t.

with particular attention, he discarded the underwear and panties on the ground, allowing your hips to be supported by the pillows, without a single preoccupation regarding the possible blood stains. instead, lithe fingers trailed down towards your intimacy, a pair traveling through your folds; testing the waters. law leaned forward in order to have a proper glimpse of your expressions, yet failing not to have his eyes wander to your hardening nipples. he hummed, index meeting your clit as he drew circular, slow movements on it.

the texture of menstrual blood did not seem so far off that of your pre-cum. perhaps thicker, a bit warmer, with the biggest divergence being the color; nothing else. as a digit busied itself with your swollen bud, law teased your entrance with his pinky, grunting as a clot of blood brushed against the touch.

“talk to me, baby,” he rasped out, eyes tethered to your face as his thumb increased the pace of its ministrations on your clit.

you breathed out meekly, fingers gripping the sheets, nose scrunched as you grew accustomed to the stimulation. the blood made the sliding of his thumb faster; erratic. the lascivious sound of your aroused cunt filling the room. law felt his mouth grow dry at the sight, diving into one of your breasts, swirling, warm tongue on the hardened nipple being the solution he found in order not to lap at your blood instead. your back arched, a drawn-out mewl escaping past your opened lips as he ceased the teasing of your clit, wrist angled in a way that had his index and middle finger sliding inside your entrance with extreme ease.

“faster,” you pleaded, a bit of strength returning to your voice.

law thrusted his fingers, knuckle deep, attempting to reach the deepest inches of your walls. the natural shade of his skin returned mingled with red, the tattooed E and A but a mere memory of black underneath the crimson curtain. it was stickier than the river-stream texture of one’s blood, a stubborn line connecting the middle of his fingers, breaking apart only when they were shoved inside yet again, scissoring your walls with regained fervor. he spared a glance towards your growing blissful expression, grunting at the flutter of ideas that wrapped themselves around his mind, failing to ignore the possibilities as his own blood flushed to his hardening cock.

it smeared the fabric of the pillowcase and trailed down his palm, and law spared a brief ounce of attention to the other, neglected breast, using his free fingers to pinch at your nipple before his lips detached themselves from your chest with a single ‘pop’. he adored your tits — really, could not phantom a week without his mouth sucking bruises on it — but on that particular moment, law wanted to observe the in-and-out of his fingers inside your cunt, to commit the blood-coated digits to memory. the tip of his index abused your g-spot and he all but licked his lips, starved for a taste.

your moans were but an angel’s choir, and law had to fight the urge to let a pathetic whimper of his own escape past his lips, for he was, at last, helping you; being the one to demolish the source of your pain. yet, despite his own previous delay, he could not help but to be a little egotistical, lust clouding his scarce selflessness.

“is it better?” he questioned, and you nodded meekly, eyes dazed; pupils blown.

“y-yes,” you stuttered. “don’t stop, please.”

and though his legs began to ache and his cock ached amidst the coffins of his underwear and jeans, law increased the tempo of his thrusts, adding a third finger at the assurance that your walls were parted enough. you bit the back of your hand, swiftly muffling a shout. law groaned, using the thumb of his other hand to draw circles on your clit, marveling at the speed with which blood invaded the inside of his nail; smeared the poor digit.

“i’m close, baby,” you warned, without a need per say, for he noted the approach of your orgasm through the manner with which you clenched around him; impossibly tighter.

“let go for me,” he encouraged, retreating his fingers to the point of his nails before thrusting them yet again, knuckles bloodied; palm sticky.

your entire figure trembled, legs desperate; back jumping from the mattress. his glance was enraptured by the sight of your cum, white mingled with red, an ever-crescent battle whose stage was the pillow underneath, growing wet and dark at the onslaught of your essences. law removed his fingers, raising them to the light, obsessed with the strings intertwined around them; the state of his nails; the memories of parted clots staining the digits. he was but hypnotized, ignoring the confused calling of his name, the ever-so-grateful words you poured into his ears. instead, law began to drag his bloodied fingers on the flesh of your bare stomach, pupils blown with lust as the shade of you, too, grew smeared.

law wiped his fingers clean, and was swift to insert two of them inside your sensitive entrance. your body the canvas, whereas your cunt was the pallet, sheltering the red dye that would grant him the creation of a masterpiece — one he strived to ruin, for law was far from an accomplished, patient painter. he continued with the drag of his fingers on your flesh, from your ribs to your hip-bones; from your breasts to the spot under your navel. at every brief thrust of his fingers, teasing of your folds, you sucked in a harsh breath, your entire body reacting to the somewhat overstimulation.

when law could not hold himself back any longer — the famished beast gnawing underneath his ribcage — he dived in, tongue wiping the mess he had made. law left long stripes of saliva in its wake at every lick, his mouth sucking newer bruises on certain inches of flesh. the taste was not as metallic as he had expected, not as strong, either. it had a lingering bit of salt amidst the iron, for it was mingled with your cum, and both made for a thicker, stretchier combination on his tongue, an unique texture he had never tasted before. law spared particular attention to your breasts, hungrily lapping at it; collecting every last drop of lingering blood.

he distracted you from the fact that his pants and underwear had slid off from their previous position; that his leaking cock had slapped his stomach before he guided the tip to your abused entrance. when law pushed an inch inside, your eyes widened, hands wrapping around his neck out of instinct.

“can i?” he inquired, pressing his palms against the mattress, one at each side of your head.

“yes,” you breathed out. “please, baby.”

law was careful, a languid shove of his hips stretching your walls until he bottomed out, grunting with his eyes closed. he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing into your mouth as he began to move — thrusts with a wild tempo, the incessant chase for his own orgasm. a crown of blood wrapped itself around his tip, his entire girth a shade of bright red; pale pink. law hid his face in the crook of your neck, moaning as your hands slipped under this shirt, nails dragging on the bare skin of his back.

he brushed against your g-spot; thrusted himself deep enough to challenge your cervix. you moaned, pain long-forgotten as his tip all but drooled inside your walls, spreading them open without an ounce of mercy. law’s knees buckled; you began to squeeze his girth as though a ruthless, famished beast, so tight he would not be able to slide as freely, was it not for the present blood.

“cum for me again,” law encouraged, meeting your glance, his voice raw and desperate. “let me—ngh—take your pain, baby. c’mon.”

you whimpered, a broken, mute moan preceding the second tide of your orgasm after a particular harsh set of his thrusts. your expression, contorted in pleasure, had him removing his cock swiftly, pumping it twice before shooting his load on your stomach, mouth agape at the blood that surrounded his shaft; stained his palm. law struggled to collect his breath, shifting in order to sit on the mattress and offer his knees a well-deserved rest, one of his hands meeting your own as he intertwined your fingers together.

after prolonged, tired minutes spent in comfort within the walls of a bedroom that reeked of sex, sweat and blood, your voice echoed.

“i liked this method,” you whispered, and he angled his head to get a glimpse of your face.

“yeah, me too.”

— 🐈‍⬛ : damn this writer’s block got hands!!!! jokes aside, i love freaky law!!!! send more freaky law requests i’m going to get thru this writer’s block 👏 by writing more 👏.

[sophiewritesworld]

HELLFIRE'S PREGAME - E.M.

Eddie Munson x Plus size Reader Summary: You decide to repay Eddie for the many times he made you feel good. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, porn with a plot

The air in Hawkins High’s drama room is thick with the scent of old wood, dusty curtains, and the faint tang of metal from the scattered props. It’s late, the kind of late where the school feels like a ghost town, save for the distant hum of a janitor’s vacuum. You stand just outside the door, heart hammering in your chest, a delicious mix of nerves and determination swirling in your gut. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, the weight of your plan anchoring you. Tonight, you’re here for Eddie. Your Eddie. The boy who’s made you feel like a goddess more times than you can count, his hands and lips mapping every curve of your body with a reverence that still makes your knees weak. Tonight, you’re determined to repay him, to show him just how much he means to you.

You push open the door, and there he is—Eddie Munson, the Dungeon Master himself, sprawled across his throne at the head of the Hellfire Club’s table. The throne is less a chair and more a monument to his chaotic charisma: a high-backed seat scavenged from some forgotten school production, draped with a tattered black blanket and adorned with chains he’s pilfered from his own wardrobe. He’s leaning back, one leg kicked up on the table, his worn-out Metallica tee stretched across his chest, dark curls spilling over his shoulders. A pencil twirls between his fingers as he scribbles notes for tonight’s campaign, muttering to himself, completely unaware of your presence.

You take a moment to drink him in. The way his rings glint in the dim light of the overhead fluorescents. The sharp line of his jaw, softened by the faintest stubble. Those big, expressive brown eyes, currently narrowed in concentration. He’s beautiful, in that wild, untamed way that’s always drawn you to him. And he’s yours. The thought sends a thrill down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly.

You step inside, letting the door click shut behind you. The sound snaps Eddie’s head up, and when he sees you, his face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Well, well, well,” he drawls, tossing the pencil onto the table and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s my favorite girl doing here? Hellfire’s not for another hour, sweetheart.”

You smile, a little shy, a little bold, as you cross the room. Your hips sway with each step, the soft fabric of your skirt brushing against your thighs, accentuating the curves you’ve learned to love because of him. Eddie’s eyes track your movement, darkening with interest, his lips parting slightly. He’s always looked at you like you’re the only thing in the room, and it’s intoxicating.

“I wanted to see you,” you say, voice soft but laced with intent. You stop just in front of him, close enough that your knees brush his where he sits. “Thought I’d drop by early.”

Eddie’s grin is pure mischief. “Oh, I like early.” He reaches for you, fingers grazing your hip, but you step back just out of reach, earning a playful pout. “Tease,” he accuses, though there’s no real heat in it.

You bite your lip, nerves fluttering again, but the desire burning in you is stronger. You’ve planned this, rehearsed it in your head a hundred times, and now that you’re here, you’re not backing down. “Eddie,” you say, your voice dropping to a husky whisper, “I’ve been thinking about you. About all the times you’ve made me feel… incredible.” Your cheeks flush, but you hold his gaze, letting him see the truth in your eyes. “I want to make you feel good tonight. Really good.”

His brows shoot up, and for a moment, he looks genuinely surprised, like he’s not sure he heard you right. Then his expression shifts, hunger creeping into his features, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice rougher now, “you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, stepping closer again, this time letting your hands rest on his thighs. The denim is warm under your palms, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. “Let me take care of you, Eddie. Please.”

He stares at you, and you can see the moment he gives in, the way his pupils dilate, his breath hitching. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, then louder, “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?” But he’s already shifting, spreading his legs wider, an invitation you don’t miss.

You sink to your knees in front of him, the cold linoleum biting into your skin, but you barely notice. Your focus is entirely on Eddie, on the way he’s watching you, eyes locked on yours, intense and unblinking. You reach for his belt, fingers brushing the cool metal of his buckle, and he lets out a low groan, his head tipping back for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again.

“Eyes on me,” you say, surprising yourself with the command in your voice. Eddie’s lips curve into a smirk, but he obeys, his gaze never wavering as you undo his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room. You pop the button of his jeans, tug down the zipper, and he lifts his hips just enough to help you slide his pants and boxers down, freeing him.

He’s already hard, and the sight of him—thick, flushed, and all for you—sends a rush of heat through you. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, and Eddie hisses, his hands gripping the arms of the throne so tightly his knuckles whiten. “Fuck, baby,” he breathes, his voice a mix of awe and desperation. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

The compliment washes over you, settling into the parts of you that still sometimes doubt, and you smile up at him, letting him see how much it means. Then you lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of him, and his whole body jolts, a choked sound escaping his throat. You keep your eyes on his as you take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the heat of his skin.

Eddie’s eyes are dark, almost black, and they don’t leave yours for a second. It’s intense, the way he’s watching you, like you’re the only thing that exists in his world. You swirl your tongue around him, teasing the sensitive underside, and his hips twitch, a low moan spilling from his lips. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he gasps, one hand moving to your hair, not pushing, just resting there, grounding himself. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

You hum in response, the vibration making him curse under his breath, and you take him deeper, your lips stretching around him. Your hands rest on his thighs, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he’s fighting to stay still, to let you set the pace. You love this—love the power you have over him right now, the way you can make him unravel with every flick of your tongue, every slow, deliberate suck.

You pull back slightly, letting your lips glide over him, slick and warm, before taking him deep again, your nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. Eddie’s head falls back, but he catches himself, forcing his eyes back to yours, his chest heaving. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with need. “My perfect girl, taking me so fucking well.”

The praise lights you up, and you double your efforts, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks, your hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach. His moans grow louder, more desperate, and you can feel him getting closer, his thighs trembling under your palms. You pull back just enough to speak, your lips brushing against him as you murmur, “You like this, Eddie? Like watching me on my knees for you?”

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, his hand tightening in your hair, not painful, just enough to make you shiver. “You’re killing me, baby. So fucking hot.”

You smile, wicked and confident, and dive back in, your eyes never leaving his. The connection between you is electric, a live wire of desire and trust, and it pushes you to give him everything. You move faster, your tongue teasing every sensitive spot, your hand working in tandem, slick with spit and precum. Eddie’s breathing is ragged now, his moans turning into broken curses, his hips starting to move despite his best efforts to stay still.

“Baby,” he warns, voice strained, “I’m close. Fuck, I’m so close.”

You don’t stop, don’t even slow down. You want this—want to feel him lose control, to know you’re the one who brought him there. You hum again, encouraging him, and his eyes flutter, but he forces them open, locking onto yours. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he gasps, “you’re gonna make me—”

He cuts off with a low, guttural moan, his body tensing as he comes, hot and pulsing in your mouth. You take it all, swallowing around him, your eyes still on his, watching the way his face contorts in pleasure, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed. It’s beautiful, the way he falls apart for you, and you savor every second of it.

When he’s spent, you pull back slowly, licking your lips, and Eddie slumps back in the throne, chest heaving, looking like he’s just run a marathon. “Holy shit,” he breathes, his voice hoarse. He reaches for you, tugging you up into his lap, and you go willingly, straddling his thighs, your skirt riding up as you settle against him.

He cups your face, pulling you into a deep, messy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue and groaning into your mouth. “You,” he says when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, “are fucking incredible. I don’t deserve you.”

You laugh softly, brushing a curl out of his face. “You do,” you say simply, because it’s true. He’s made you feel more loved, more desired, than you ever thought possible, and this was your way of showing him how much it means.

Eddie’s hands slide down your sides, lingering on your hips, your thighs, squeezing gently. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over you, taking in every curve, every inch. “Every fucking inch of you. I could worship you forever.”

Your heart swells, and you kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the warmth of his lips, the roughness of his stubble. “Maybe later,” you tease, nipping at his bottom lip. “You’ve got a campaign to run, Dungeon Master.”

He groans, but there’s a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re evil, you know that? Getting me all worked up right before Hellfire.”

You slide off his lap, smoothing your skirt, and toss him a wink. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Munson.”

He laughs, tucking himself back into his jeans and buckling his belt, but his eyes don’t leave you. “You’re staying, right?” he asks, a hint of vulnerability in his voice, like he’s worried you might slip away.

“Of course,” you say, settling into a chair at the table, crossing your legs with a playful smirk. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Eddie’s grin is back, full force, and as he starts setting up his campaign notes, you can’t help but feel a rush of pride. You did this—made him feel as good as he always makes you, right here on his throne. And as the Hellfire Club members start trickling in, you catch Eddie’s eye, the heat still simmering between you, a promise of more to come.

[allpiesforourown]

Sweet idea for the Harem Member Shen Yuan (with the potential for jealous LBH)

What if when omega's went into heat, they don't necessarily need an alpha to have sex with them to get them through it. Omega's who aren't married will usually cuddle in their nests with those they trust, usually other omega's. At the palace, Luo Binghe can't be with all the omega's during their heats and there are those like Shen Yuan who have all but been discarded or Luo Binghe has forgotten them. I know you mentioned the concubines having some assist them through this possibly but I doubt Luo Binghe would let anyone touch what belonged to him in that way.

Now imagine Shen Yuan noticing this problem and, having come from a household where he used to cuddling with his family members during his own heats, helps take care of his fellow omega's needs (not sexually). He learns what their favorite food to eat during this time is, provides them with tea and a warmed cloth bag of rice to help sooth their cramps, figures out what nesting material they prefer, and helps slip them scented items from family members. His fellow omega's are of course wary but warm up to him once he also helps out with seeing their family members and handling the the problems in their towns. At some point, some trust him enough to enter their nest where he just helps braid their hair, cuddles with them and reads them some of their favorite novels. It leads some them to view him as family and Shen Yuan's robes or sheets will sometimes vanish only to end up in another omega's nest. Of course some use the excuse that their child finds his scent soothing so that's why they have it but Shen Yuan is just happy to help.

So naturally some of them start to return the favor when Shen Yuan's heat hits. They quickly discover that while Shen Yuan is great at taking care of others he is terrible at taking care of himself and will push through the pain. The man will stay up well into the night, burning up with heat just to try and solve the problems he's been presented. They've got it narrowed to a science where they have a whole routine to get Shen Yuan into his nest to rest for his heat and rotate who helps take care of them (they are not above using their children because they realize how quickly Shen Yuan caves to their children's sweet requests to cuddle while in he's in heat.)

Now imagine Luo Binghe, who is unaware any of this has been happening for months, has grown to tolerate Shen Yuan but still isn't sure if he's attracted to him. He runs into Shen Yuan one day clearly in the early stages of heat, looking exhausted and thinks "ahh he must be trying to seduce me." But before he can reject this offer, one of his wives runs up to Shen Yuan and thrusts a child in his arms.

Child: Yuan Gege, Fei Fei wants cuddles!

Wife #474: Forgive me my lord, this humble one will assist Shen Yuan back to his room. (Turns to Shen Yuan) How many times have we told you to take it easy! You can worry about the grain problem later. Let's get you back to your nest now. We've already prepared your favorite blankets and Níng Xīn found a novel by that author you like.

Shen Yuan just nods distractedly as he scents the child in his arms, inner omega purring at the fact they are caring for one of their pack members.

Luo Binghe is going to have a hard time courting Shen Yuan, especially he thinks he can just share a heat with him.

This is so cute omg 😭❤️ shen yuan dealing with baby fever by cuddling a bunch of binghes kids.... ahhhhh

Personally if it was me I'd wear a comically long trench coat and shen yuan would think I'm three kids pretending to be an adult and let me into his room and then I'd go aha I actually am an adult! And kiss him so much