#he’s almost always touching one of them in some way

[idkyetxoxo]

Jacaerys Velaryon - The Safest of Touches

Summary - Pregnant and consumed by physical and emotional turmoil, she can't stand the touch of anyone—except her husband. As the weight of her pregnancy overwhelms her, his quiet strength becomes the only thing that calms her frayed nerves.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2026

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Bearing children had been an expectation placed upon me from the moment I said my vows. 

Though the idea once filled me with quiet dread, it was never the prospect itself that made me hesitant. It was the mystery, the vast unknown. 

Still, I knew it was my duty, and so I had quietly accepted my fate.

Yet, in marrying Jace, I had found the rarest of comforts. My husband was not like other men, who treated the task of fatherhood as a distant formality. 

Instead, he was patient, attentive, and unfailingly kind. He made the entire journey feel less like a task and more like a shared endeavour, carrying the burden of each day alongside me. 

The first two trimesters passed almost serenely, with only minor discomforts—aches, fleeting nausea, a fleeting fatigue. I'd almost dared to hope it would stay that way.

But then the third trimester began, and everything changed.

I found myself in the bath, water scalding against my skin, seeking some semblance of relief. It was the only way to dull the relentless aches that pulsed through my body. 

The warm air was thick with the scent of lavender, usually soothing, now suddenly cloying. I closed my eyes, struggling to control the roiling nausea it stirred within me.

"The jasmine oil," I murmured, lifting my head from the rim of the bath, nudging away the lavender-scented soaps and oils as my stomach twisted.

"But, my lady, lavender has always been your favourite," one of the handmaidens said gently, lingering with the lilac-coloured bottle in hand.

I opened my eyes, straining to keep my expression soft despite the irritation building within me. 

"The jasmine oil," I repeated, voice tight with restrained impatience. At last, she nodded, setting aside the lavender and reaching for the jasmine.

She began rubbing the oil into my arms, her fingers kneading into my skin. I tried to focus on the rhythm of her hands, willing myself to relax, but my body wouldn't cooperate. 

No position seemed to ease the discomfort; my muscles refused to unclench. I shifted in the water, fidgeting until the sensation became unbearable.

"Stop. Please," I whispered, pushing her hands away, feeling an inexplicable frustration rising like a tide within me. The water sloshed as I struggled to my feet. "I... I need to get out." 

The simple task of standing, once so effortless, was now a slow, arduous battle.

Two of my handmaidens hurried forward, their hands gentle but unsteady as they supported me, lifting me from the bath. I was mortified by how helpless I felt, needing them to hold me, guide me, wrap me in a robe as though I were a fragile, breakable thing. 

The tears stung at the corners of my eyes, an unbidden reminder of all I had lost—of the independence I once took for granted.

One began to comb my damp hair, her movements soft and practised, but even this—the once-comforting tug of the bristles through my hair—was too much.

"Stop," I repeated, my voice barely a whisper but laced with desperation. 

I shrank back, pushing their hands away, the embarrassment and frustration mingling within me until they felt almost suffocating.

As I stood there, robe clinging to my damp skin, my emotions threatened to overtake me—a torrent of frustration, vulnerability, and exhaustion, all crashing into me with the weight of waves breaking upon the shore.

The frustration simmered to a boiling point, spilling over before I could contain it. 

I was exhausted, aching, and drained from the constant care and fussing of others, though they meant well. I wanted silence. I wanted to be left alone.

"Out," I said, voice barely a whisper at first, but growing louder, sharper. "Just—leave. All of you. Get out!"

My handmaidens froze, their shocked eyes wide, but I was past caring. They exchanged nervous glances but obeyed, quietly filing out of the room, skirts brushing against each other in the tense silence. 

When the door closed behind them, the quiet settled over me, thick and oppressive, but at least it was mine.

With trembling hands, I sat down on the cold floor, the edge of my robe pooling around me. I buried my face in my hands, the heaviness of my hair tangling down my back. 

The soft dampness clung to my skin, and I tried to braid it, but my fingers fumbled clumsily over the wet strands, weaving and re-weaving in vain. 

My hands wouldn't obey, slipping over the hair that seemed suddenly unruly and impossible. 

Frustration pricked in my chest, and I clenched my teeth, as if sheer will alone could force the strands into submission.

I was struggling in my solitude, lost in my helplessness when the door creaked open. 

I looked up, startled, to see Jace standing in the doorway. His face softened with concern as his eyes took in my dishevelled form on the floor. 

He crossed the room and knelt beside me, his presence steady and unwavering, grounding me.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice a gentle murmur as he reached for my hand, fingers warm and familiar against mine. 

I pulled back slightly, a trace of embarrassment surfacing at him finding me like this.

"What... what are you doing here?" I whispered, half-glaring through the mist of my frustration.

He gave me a small smile. "Your handmaidens came to find me. Said you were upset, that you wouldn't let anyone touch you. I wanted to see if you were alright."

"Those traitors," I muttered, a touch of humour breaking through despite myself. But when his hand reached out, I didn't resist. 

Instead, I felt my tension melting, slipping away under the gentle weight of his touch.

Without another word, Jace moved to sit behind me, his legs on either side of mine and turned me slightly so that he could reach my hair. 

He gathered it gently, combing his fingers through the damp strands with a tenderness that steadied my frayed nerves. 

As he began to braid, each twist of his fingers seemed to untangle something within me as well.

"How do you feel now?" he asked softly, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

I closed my eyes, leaning back slightly, allowing myself to relax against him. "Better," I murmured, barely above a whisper. "I just... I don't want anyone else touching me. It's too much."

He chuckled softly, the sound a low rumble against my back. 

"Then I'll be the only one," he promised, his fingers still moving through my hair, weaving it into a braid with gentle, practised care. With every turn and pull, he anchored me, and my breathing began to slow, each exhale lighter, unburdened.

His hands moved steadily, calming me in ways I couldn't even put into words. 

With him, the closeness felt safe, easy, a balm against all the tension I couldn't seem to shake. 

As Jace finished braiding my hair, his hands lingered at my shoulders, tracing soothing circles against my skin. The quiet comfort of his touch seemed to drain the last of the tension from my body. 

I closed my eyes, savouring the moment, the warmth of his presence wrapping around me like a blanket.

After a moment, he shifted, moving so he was beside me. He gazed down, a small smile playing on his lips as he took in my face, softened by the tenderness he always held for me. 

His hand drifted gently to my belly, resting over the growing curve beneath my robe. His touch was so light, so reverent as if he were cradling something sacred.

"How are you really feeling?" he asked, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as if he worried he was intruding into something too fragile to name.

I sighed, letting myself lean into him. "Some days, it feels like my body isn't my own anymore. Everything aches, I'm exhausted, and I can barely stomach half the things I used to love." 

I glanced down at his hand, where it rested against my belly. "But then... then I feel them move. And it all makes sense."

As if summoned by his touch, a gentle flutter stirred beneath his hand—a small, insistent kick, as though our child recognized their father's presence and reached out in response. 

The sensation was delicate, a ripple of life that seemed both tentative and certain, like a secret shared only between us.

Jace's eyes lit up, his face breaking into a grin as he felt it, he let out a breathless laugh, his thumb brushing tenderly over the spot where our child had made their presence known. 

"Did you feel that?" I asked, barely able to contain my own laughter, joy spilling over in a way that felt light and freeing. 

His gaze was transfixed on my stomach, a look of awe softening his features. "I did," he whispered, his eyes almost misty. He looked up at me, guilt mingling with his smile. 

"I'm so sorry it's been so hard for you," he murmured, his brow furrowing. "I wish I could take some of the weight, the aches... anything."

I shook my head, reaching up to trace my fingers along his jaw. 

"Don't apologize, Jace. It's worth it—all of it. I'm carrying a little piece of us," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "It's... it's more beautiful than I ever imagined."

His eyes softened, the guilt giving way to a quiet admiration. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You're amazing, you know that? Stronger than I could ever be."

A blush warmed my cheeks, and I looked down, momentarily overwhelmed by the weight of his affection. But Jace lifted my chin, tilting my face back up to his. 

"You don't have to hide from me," he said gently. "I know it's hard, but you're not alone. I'm here, always. For you, for both of you."

I nodded, feeling the words settle over me like a promise. 

We sat together in a comforting silence, his hand resting against my belly, still absorbing the little kicks that fluttered beneath his touch. I watched him, noting the wonder in his expression as if he were trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

After a beat, I broke the silence, my voice soft and curious. "Do you ever wonder... do you think it's a boy or a girl?"

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"Honestly? I don't care," he murmured, brushing a thumb gently over my belly. "As long as they're healthy, and they have you as their mother, they'll be perfect."

I rolled my eyes, though my heart swelled. "That's a nice answer, but it's not an answer," I teased, nudging him with my shoulder.

He laughed softly, squeezing my hand in response. "Alright, you want the truth?" 

He paused, studying my face. "I suppose... if I could wish for anything, I'd love a little girl. One with your eyes, and your stubbornness—though I might regret that last part."

My cheeks warmed, a smile spreading across my face. "A little girl?" I asked, the thought settling in my mind, warm and soft like a dream. "And what makes you think she'll look like me?"

He chuckled, a tender glint in his eye. "I don't think—I hope. A little girl who looks just like her mother, strong and beautiful. Someone who'll keep me on my toes," he added with a playful glint.

My hand went to his cheek, fingertips tracing over the slight stubble that shadowed his jaw. "She'll have the best father in the world," I whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Jace leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine, his fingers still trailing gentle circles over my belly. "And the most incredible mother," he murmured, his lips brushing my temple. "I mean that."

We stayed like that, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and love, the world around us falling away as our little one nestled between us.

In the silence, I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, and my own breathing slowed to match. 

And as our child shifted softly within me, I knew I'd never felt more whole than in this moment, held by the one person who would carry me just as surely as I carried this life.

A/n - The focus was mean't to be him braiding her hair and then idk what direction this took 😭

[brainmaggotzzzz]

♡Metamorphosis ♡

Hwang Inho x fem!reader oneshot

summary: yn is a sweet broke student and catches the attention of her enigmatic neighbor.

content warning: age gap, being broke, slapping, lowk shit

He had no hope for this world. No faith in humanity. Nothing.

He fully embraced his role as the cold, unyielding Frontman of the brutal games, hidden away from the watchful eyes of the outside world. And yet, in his mind, those games were better than everything beyond the island’s distant shores. At least there, no one suffered from inequality, from the prejudice ingrained in systems crafted by the privileged. Everyone had an equal chance—an opportunity to win and claim the handsome financial prize. And the losers? Well, at least they were put out of their misery. In a way, wasn’t that almost merciful?

Year after year, he orchestrated the games, spoked to the recruiters, and even, on occasion, observed the fresh batch of soon-to-be participants. Then, for six days, he moved to the island, overseeing and controlling the carnage. Like clockwork.

Despite possessing all the wealth a man in a capitalist society could ever desire—more than enough to own a penthouse in Gangnam and indulge in the stereotypical hedonism of the rich—the money was meaningless. He barely touched it. What mattered were his convictions about humanity and the world, beliefs that had remained unshaken.

Until he met you.

You were a broke college student, living in a tiny, rented room. It wasn’t bad, just small—barely enough space for yourself, but it had everything you needed. The only thing you had to share was the kitchen. Some of your classmates were surprised to learn that you lived in such a place instead of a dorm like the rest of them, but the university’s housing was too expensive. At least here, you had fewer distractions—no wild parties, no blaring music. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself to cope.

Most of your neighbors were blue-collar workers, men who spent their days laboring until exhaustion, too tired to cause noise or disruptions. Your next-door neighbor, however, was different. He didn’t seem like a manual laborer. He was much older than you—quiet, polite. But sometimes, as you passed by, you could feel his gaze lingering just a second too long. You never thought much of it.

Every morning before class and every evening after, you had a small ritual: stopping by the nearby 7-Eleven to buy a can of tuna and feeding the stray cats that had made a home next to your apartment complex. At first, they were wary, but soon, they grew fond of you. Now, all it took was a single "pspsps," and dozens would come running. They had, ironically, become your best friends.

Before university, you had imagined a different life—one filled with laughter, weekend parties, and friendships that felt like they belonged in a coming-of-age movie. But reality hit hard and fast. Your classmates already had their friend groups, most of them having known each other since high school. That left you as the odd one out.

Not that you could blame them. You came from a small fishing village, a world away from the convenience and luxury they had always known. While they spoke of designer brands and dined on foreign dishes whose names you couldn’t even pronounce, you found yourself retreating, keeping your distance without even realizing it.

And as you stood there each evening, calling for the cats, you had no idea that someone was watching.

Through the dimly lit window of his apartment, a certain someone observed your every move, routinely.

◇

"Pspsps."

You called out to the cats, kneeling down with a can of tuna in hand. A small smile tugged at your lips as the fuzzy creatures gathered around you, some even jumping onto your lap. To make yourself more comfortable, you set your bag down on the sidewalk, continuing to pet and feed them.

Engrossed in humoring the little furballs, you paid no attention to anything else. It was already late evening, and though a few people still passed by, you remained in your own little world.

That is, until a sudden thud snapped you back to reality.

An elderly woman tripped over your bag, her groceries scattering across the pavement.

You gasped softly, immediately scrambling to help her up. "Oh my god—I'm so sorry, ma’am! So sorry!" You exhaled in a rush, steadying her before quickly gathering her fallen shopping.

The woman barely gave you a chance to collect yourself before launching into a tirade. "You young people! Always causing trouble! My hip is bad—what if it dislocated, huh? Would you take responsibility?!"

"I'm really, really sorry, miss," you repeated, hastily stuffing her groceries back into the bag.

But she wasn’t done. "Do you see what you did?! My rice bag ripped! I can't eat it now! And my fish—ugh, it fell on the ground! It’s unsanitary!"

"B-but they're packaged… it's still okay, right?" You looked up at her with wide eyes, hoping for some mercy.

"No, it’s not!" she snapped. "You have to pay me back!"

You sighed, reaching for your bag where your wallet rested. Great. Now I won’t have enough money for food.

But before you could take out your cash, a figure suddenly stepped forward from behind you.

"That’s enough."

His voice was calm, yet firm—almost reprimanding. You turned your head slightly, eyes widening as your neighbor, the polite yet mysterious man, came into view. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed the woman several crisp bills.

"S-sir, no need! I-I can—" Your guilt surged to new heights. Not only had an old woman fallen because of you, but now your neighbor—who, judging by where he lived, probably didn’t have much money—was covering your mistake.

But he ignored your protests entirely, slipping the cash into the woman’s wrinkled hand. She shot you one last glare before begrudgingly walking away.

You stared at the ground, embarrassment weighing down on you. "Sir… thank you… you really didn’t have to," you murmured, barely above a whisper.

He regarded you with a composed expression. "You had good intentions. You shouldn’t be financially punished for them." His tone was reassuring, almost gentle.

You offered him a polite smile, bowing slightly.

"Do you often feed those strays?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

"Yeah, twice a day. They’re my friends by now," you admitted with an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of your head.

At that, he gave you a small smile—one that lingered just a little longer than expected.

"Very few people do something good without expecting anything in return" he mumbled.

"Feeding stray cats isn't a noble thing" you laugh. "It's just being human" you smile and laugh as if it's the most obvious thing ever, a no brainer, he scans your face for any disingenuous but he can't find anything, he just hums in response.

"Human" he mumbles.

◇

A few days had passed since that encounter.

Every time he saw you from his window—kneeling to feed the stray cats, slipping a coin into a beggar’s hand—he felt... uncomfortable.

You made him uncomfortable.

He could see it clearly—you didn’t have much. He had spotted you in the shared kitchen more than once, fixing yourself instant noodles. Your clothes, worn and slightly oversized, were clearly hand-me-downs, hanging loosely from your frame. Yet, despite your own struggles, you were always so quick to help others.

Why?

Why did you prioritize them before yourself?

Everything about you unsettled him because, for the first time, his beliefs were being challenged. For so long, he had been certain that humans were inherently greedy, selfish creatures—too absorbed in their own survival to spare a glance beyond the tip of their own nose.

But you? You were different.

Was it naivety? Blind optimism? Or perhaps something religious? Maybe you believed that, through your sacrifices, you would be rewarded in the afterlife. That would be the logical explanation, wouldn’t it? Because otherwise, why would anyone be so selfless?

He tried to rationalize it—tried to fit your behavior into the framework of a world he thought he understood.

But he needed to know.

What was it?

What drove you?

◇

You sat on a bench in a nearby park, basking in the warmth of the sun as birds chirped in high-pitched melodies around you. The world around you faded as you became engrossed in your book, flipping through the pages with an almost frantic eagerness—you had always been a fast reader.

"Metamorphosis."

A calm voice suddenly broke your trance.

You flinched slightly, caught off guard, before looking up. Standing beside you was your next-door neighbor.

"My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you," he said, offering an apologetic smile.

You waved it off with a small laugh. "No biggie."

His gaze flickered to the book in your hands. "You're reading Kafka. Impressive, I’d say."

Scooting over, you gestured for him to sit. He nodded slightly before taking a seat beside you, maintaining a respectful distance.

"I always liked his works," you said, tapping the book’s cover. "This one, Metamorphosis, especially. I suppose I’ve always been drawn to anything that involves insects."

You let out a lighthearted laugh, but he only raised an eyebrow.

"Insects? That’s unusual. Most people are afraid of them." His tone held genuine curiosity.

"Well, not me," you shrugged. "I’ve always thought they were misunderstood. Same with reptiles. But anyway, that’s kind of missing the point of the book."

He chuckled at that, nodding in quiet amusement. Then, after a brief pause, he turned to you, his expression unreadable.

"You know, Miss…?"

"Y/N. My name is Y/N," you said with a smile.

"Well, Miss Y/N," he continued, his tone steady, "the other day, you mentioned feeding the cats because that’s human." He studied you for a moment, as if trying to decipher a puzzle. "Truth be told, it intrigued me—perhaps even annoyed me—because I simply can’t understand your motivations."

You blinked at him before letting out another soft laugh.

"I don’t have any motivations," you admitted. "I just don’t want them to be hungry."

◇

It became a routine.

Mornings started the same—heading out to feed the stray cats before trudging off to class, enduring long-winded lectures that felt more like endurance tests than actual learning. Then, every evening, you’d return to feed the cats again, but this time, with Inho.

Funny thing was, despite talking for three months now, you had only recently learned his name. Until then, you had been calling him Sir—a habit that stuck until one particular evening when the two of you found yourselves at a street food stall, sharing a plate of spicy tteokbokki and discussing everything and nothing.

"So, Y/N, how was class today?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Oh, you know, sir. Just the usual—boredom and political indoctrination," you joked, laughing at your own words.

He simply shook his head, amusement flashing in his eyes.

"You know, Y/N, there’s no need to ‘Sir’ me. Just call me Inho."

There was no doubt that he found you interesting—maybe even enjoyed your company more than he’d admit. But the feeling was mutual. Inho was intriguing. Your long conversations were intellectually stimulating in a way that left you wanting more, and over time, you realized you’d grown… attached.

You weren’t one to openly discuss your financial struggles. When the topic arose, it was usually in the form of a lighthearted joke about surviving on instant ramen, brushing off the reality of it. But something about Inho—his steady gaze, his quiet presence—made you feel vulnerable in a way that didn’t scare you. For once, opening up felt okay.

After feeding the cats—each one now playfully named by you—both of you sat on the same bench where your first real conversation had taken place.

Inho, of course, had insisted on numbering the cats instead of naming them, rattling off designations like Cat One, Cat Two, Cat Three. You had fought against the absurdity of it, firmly believing each of them had unique personalities that deserved equally unique names.

Now, as the quiet evening stretched around you, you finally gave in to the curiosity that had been gnawing at you for weeks.

"Inho?" you mumbled.

He hummed in response, glancing at you, already expecting a question.

"What do you do for work?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

A small, almost knowing smile crossed his lips. He took a slow breath before answering, "I’m a retired police officer."

Your eyes widened in amusement. "Seriously?! That’s so cool!"

Without thinking, you jumped up, forming finger guns with your hands and pretending to aim at him. "Did you do a lot of pew pew?"

Inho let out a rare, amused laugh at your childlike wonder.

"Not really," he admitted, shaking his head. "In dire situations, I just used a taser."

You hummed, plopping back down beside him with an impressed nod. "Still… so cool."

◇

It was just an ordinary day—feeding the cats, attending your classes, and now, heading home on the metro. You sat on a bench at the station, idly bouncing your leg, anticipation bubbling in your chest at the thought of seeing Inho again later.

Then, out of nowhere, a man in a crisp suit, carrying a sleek leather briefcase, sat down beside you.

"Miss?"

His voice was smooth, polite. You turned toward him, frowning slightly in surprise.

"Would you be up for a game with me?" he asked.

You sighed, already weary of strangers approaching with strange propositions. Shaking your head, you offered a polite smile.

"Sorry, sir, but I’m not searching for Jesus."

The man chuckled, unfazed by your response. "Ma'am, it’s just a simple game of Ddakji. If you win, I’ll give you 1,000 won. If you lose, you give me 1,000 won."

Your brow furrowed. It reeked of a scam—who just randomly approaches someone at a metro station asking to gamble? But… money was tight. The offer, as absurd as it seemed, lingered in your mind.

As if sensing your hesitation, the man smoothly opened his briefcase, revealing neat stacks of cash alongside a set of folded Ddakji tiles. Your breath hitched at the sight—there was a lot of money in there.

You swallowed. "Fine."

He smiled approvingly and handed you a tile, allowing you to choose between red and blue. You picked blue. With an encouraging nod, he placed the red tile on the ground.

"Go ahead," he gestured.

You took a deep breath, gripped your Ddakji tightly, and slammed it onto the floor with all your might.

Nothing.

The tile didn’t even budge.

You sighed, already feeling regret creeping in. You really didn’t have the money for this.

"You don’t have the money, do you?" The man pouted almost teasingly.

You hesitated before nodding, embarrassed.

"Very well then," he said, his tone still disturbingly calm. "Then you can pay with your body. How does that sound, hmm?"

Your stomach twisted into knots.

"S-Sir, what? No!"

Then—a slap.

A sharp, stinging force against your cheek.

Your head whipped to the side, eyes wide in shock. The pain bloomed almost instantly, a burning heat spreading across your skin. Your heart pounded, breath hitching in your throat as you processed what just happened.

"Every time you lose," the man continued coolly, adjusting his tie as if nothing unusual had occurred, "you’ll receive a slap. And every time you win, you’ll receive the money."

With each throw, another slap landed. Then another. And another.

You weren’t good at this game. That much was clear. Each failed attempt was met with a stinging strike, your cheek growing redder and more swollen with each round. Your fingers trembled as you kept picking up the tile, desperate to win just once.

And then—finally—you flipped it.

A triumphant laugh bubbled from your throat as you jumped to your feet, hand instinctively raising to slap the man back. But before you could, his hand shot out, catching your wrist in a firm grip.

His expression remained unreadable as he pulled out a bill and placed it into your free hand.

Breathless, you blinked down at it, your fingers curling instinctively around the money. Your cheek still throbbed, your body still tense, but… you had won.

"If you’re interested in playing simple games like these," the man said, reaching into his pocket, "for a handsome financial prize, give us a call."

He handed you a sleek card, adorned with eerie geometric shapes. Then, just as smoothly as he arrived, he stood and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

You stared after him before hesitantly scanning the card, fingers brushing over its surface.

Then, without thinking, you slipped it into your pocket.

◇

8:00 PM.

You arrived at your usual meeting spot, spotting Inho waiting for you near the bench where you always met after feeding the cats. You smiled and waved, picking up your pace.

"Hey!" you greeted, breathless but cheerful.

He didn't return your smile. Instead, his eyes immediately locked onto your face, scanning it with an intensity that made you pause. His usual composed expression twisted into a deep frown.

"Y/N… what happened to your face?"

There was something sharp in his tone—concern, frustration, maybe even something else. His fists clenched at his sides as if he was holding himself back.

"Who did this to you? Are your classmates bullying you?"

You let out a short laugh, waving off his worries as if it were nothing more than a funny mishap.

"Nothing like that. Just some freak at the metro station offered to play Ddakji with me and slapped me every time I lost. But also gave me money when I won," you explained, chuckling. The absurdity of the situation still lingered in your mind. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the card the man had given you. "Oh, and look—he gave me this."

As soon as the card left your pocket, Inho's entire demeanor shifted. His body went rigid, his breath hitched so subtly you almost missed it, and for the first time since you met him, his carefully maintained mask cracked. His eyes widened—not just in shock, but in something deeper.

Fear.

Before you could even react, his hand shot out and snatched the card from your fingers.

"Hey! What the hell?!" you yelped.

With swift, almost practiced precision, he ripped it to shreds. Tiny fragments of paper slipped through his fingers like confetti before he threw them into the distance as if simply touching them was dangerous.

You stood there, stunned.

"Why did you do that?!" you demanded, glaring at him.

Inho’s jaw tightened, his expression carefully blank now, but his hands were still tense, as if he was fighting an impulse.

"I’ve seen it before," he said, his voice even, almost too controlled. "When I was a police officer. It’s a pyramid scheme, and they recruit young, naive people this way. They promise easy money, but it’s just a scam. Don’t think too much about it."

The explanation sounded logical. Rational. But something about the way he said it… the way he had reacted before he said it, made you hesitate. He wasn’t just warning you—he was protecting you from something. Something you didn’t understand.

Still, you sighed, the fight leaving your posture. Maybe he was right. Maybe it really was just some elaborate scam. The whole thing had felt too good to be true anyway.

"Hm. I guess I’m too naive," you muttered, eyes lowering to the ground, voice softer now.

At your words, Inho’s gaze softened, the tension in his body unraveling ever so slightly.

And then, unexpectedly, his fingers brushed against your bruised cheek.

You froze.

His touch was gentle—barely there at first, almost as if he was testing whether you'd flinch. But then, with slow, deliberate care, his thumb traced over the reddened skin, skimming lightly over the sore area without applying any pressure. The warmth of his fingertips sent a strange, unfamiliar feeling through you.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could even process the moment, your body reacted on its own. You leaned into his touch—just a little.

It was instinctive. Natural. And yet, it caught you completely off guard.

"I really wish I could just play kids’ games and win enough money to pay off my student debt," you mumbled, pouting slightly.

The words were spoken half-jokingly, but even as they left your lips, something about them felt strangely… ominous. The mere thought of it was ridiculous, absurd even. But still, the idea lingered.

For a moment, Inho's fingers stilled against your cheek. Just for a fraction of a second. Then, almost as if forcing himself to act normal, he resumed his gentle stroking.

You weren’t used to this.

This kind of tenderness.

He exhaled quietly, withdrawing his hand. "Come on," he said, voice softer now. "Let’s get you something to eat. You must be starving."

Without waiting for your response, he turned and started walking, his posture more rigid than usual.

And after a brief pause, you followed.

◇

A couple of weeks had passed since that evening at the train station when you played Ddakji. The whole ordeal had already begun to fade from your mind. These days, you were spending more time with In-ho than ever. He had made it his mission to ensure you reached class safely and without disturbance, escorting you to and from college every day with unwavering reliability.

He became the steady presence you never realized you needed—the comfort you hadn’t had before. With each passing day, new feelings blossomed toward him. Every morning, he made sure you ate breakfast, knowing your habit of skipping it. He paid close attention to your likes and dislikes, catering perfectly to your taste by buying your meals without fail. He even studied with you.

In-ho had a way of breaking down complex subjects so effortlessly that you never felt ignorant for not knowing something. His vast knowledge fascinated you more and more each day—it was as if he knew everything about everything. His presence became second nature to you, a quiet reassurance you found yourself relying on more than you ever expected.

◇

"Y/N."

A gentle shake.

Your body stirred sluggishly as consciousness dragged you back from the depths of sleep. You flinched awake, moving too fast—smack.

"Ow—!"

Your forehead collided with the desk lamp, sending it wobbling dangerously. Inho's hand was on you instantly, steadying the lamp before it could topple over, his other hand moving to rub the sore spot on your head with a smirk of amusement.

"You really should get some rest," he murmured, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your scalp. "We can finish writing tomorrow."

Only then did you fully register where you were—at your desk, papers sprawled out, a half-written essay glowing on your laptop screen. You had been working on it together, but at some point, exhaustion won, and you had dozed off. He must have left for the store to grab snacks, only to return and find you slumped over the desk.

You barely managed a nod before pushing yourself up and stumbling toward your bed. The mattress welcomed you immediately, its softness pulling you deeper into the haze of sleep.

Inho exhaled with a quiet chuckle and turned toward the door, ready to return to his room.

"Inho."

Your voice, barely above a mumble, stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't go."

His brows lifted slightly in surprise, but he didn’t speak, waiting.

"Stay with me."

You shifted in bed, scooting over to make space for him. There wasn’t much—your bed was small, barely enough for one, but you still made room.

Inho hesitated, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Are you sure? This bed is tiny."

Despite his words, he moved closer, cautiously sitting on the edge. There was something hesitant in his posture, like he didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

You didn’t let him linger there for long.

Without thinking, your hands reached for him, wrapping around his torso, guiding him down beside you. His body tensed for only a fraction of a second before melting into your hold.

And just like that, his arms were around you.

Warm. Protective. Solid.

His grip was firm but gentle as he pulled you closer, your head now resting against his chest. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart thrummed beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn't expected.

"You should really find someone your age," he murmured, though there was no real weight to the words.

You groaned sleepily in protest, burrowing deeper into his warmth.

He chuckled, the sound a soft rumble against your ear.

And then, in the drowsy lull of exhaustion, your lips parted, barely whispering—

"But I want you."

The words were so quiet, almost incoherent, but he heard them.

You felt his body still for just a moment before his hand resumed its slow, absentminded stroking along your back.

After a pause, you forced your heavy eyelids open, just enough to glimpse him. The dim glow of the moonlight poured through the window, casting soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He looked… beautiful.

Your chest tightened slightly at the thought.

His eyes met yours then, unreadable, but still, his hand never stopped moving—comforting, steady.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You need to be well-rested for tomorrow’s class."

Then, just before you drifted away, you felt it—a press of warm lips against your temple.

A fleeting moment. A quiet reassurance.

Your breathing evened out, your body relaxing entirely against him as sleep reclaimed you.

◇

As morning light filtered through your window, you opened your well-rested eyes—only to feel an immediate sense of wrongness. He wasn’t there. No trace of him anywhere.

Frowning, you scanned the room, your chest tightening with unease. Then, your gaze landed on a small note resting on your desk. You picked it up, your fingers tracing over the elegant handwriting.

"Had some urgent matters. Will be back in six days. —In-ho"

Panic gripped your chest. Had you done something wrong? What happened? Was he okay? A thousand questions swirled in your mind, but none had answers.

You called him—straight to voicemail. Again. And again. Nothing.

Heart pounding, you rushed out of your room, knocking almost desperately on his door. Silence. You returned to your room, checking your phone. Maybe he had texted? He hadn’t.

That day, you didn’t even bother going to class. You just felt… heartbroken. Like the world had collapsed around you, even though he had promised to return in less than a week. You found yourself sitting at your usual bench at the usual hour, waiting. Hoping. Maybe he’d come.

He didn’t.

The days dragged on, each one emptier than the last. The absence of his presence left a hollow ache inside you. But what you didn’t know was that, behind the featureless black mask you weren’t even aware of, he felt the same way.

Now, on the sixth night, you sat on that same bench, waiting. Hours had passed, and there was still no sign of him. Letting out a defeated sigh, the warm night air brushing against your tear-streaked face, you finally stood up, ready to return to your room.

And then—

"Y/N."

The voice made you freeze. Your head snapped around, eyes widening as you met his gaze.

"In-ho."

His name slipped from your lips in a whisper, the tension in your body melting away. He stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

"Where were you?" you sniffled, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly, afraid he’d disappear again.

"Shh… I’m sorry. Something urgent came up." His voice was low, soothing, yet distant—hiding something. He wanted so badly to preserve your innocence, to keep you blissfully unaware of the double life he led.

"But why? Where did you go?"

"I’ll explain everything later," he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, comforting circles on your back.

Then, in a whisper, "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, and he leaned in.

"May I?"

You nodded, and his lips found yours in a slow, gentle kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, as if he could merge into you—hold you forever.

"I’ll give you everything you ever wanted," he murmured against your lips, his breath warm against your skin.

"Everything."

Your breath hitched.

"I love you," you whispered.

He kissed you again, the words I love you slipping between each kiss.

Did he ever explain where he had been? Of course not. He always danced around the truth with effortless ease, never letting you glimpse the dark reality of his world. What mattered to him was that you remained untouched by the knowledge of the Games—that you stayed blissfully unaware.

But did he keep his promise to give you everything?

Absolutely.

He gave you more than everything. More than money could buy—and everything that money could buy. Even though he knew you weren’t superficial, there was something about seeing you surrounded by luxury that satisfied him. You often wondered where the money came from, but before you could press too hard, he always had a perfectly logical explanation.

And you?

You were head over heels for this man—or perhaps for the version of himself he so carefully curated for you.

[pythoness94]

Need to talk specifically about these tags. I always hear people hating on Mike for not having romantic feelings. And while we all probably know byler is endgame at this point, even if Mike didn't like Will, that is no reason for any of the characters to hate him.

Heres something the Fandom doesn't get that I think the show portrays really well, you don't owe someone your love and they don't owe you yours. Steve loved Nancy, but Nancy didn't love him back. She didn't owe it to him to stay in love, she didn't owe him shit. Robin may have loved that girl but that girl wasn't in the wrong for not being in love with her back. Joyce doesn't owe Lonnie shit, that's why she throws him back on her ass. And here's the part where the Fandom struggles most,

MIKE, despite being Wills best friend since kindergarten, DOESN'T OWE WILL JACK SHIT.

And here's the kickers, THATS THE POINT. WILL KNOWS THAT.

Will KNOWS that Mike doesn't need to fall in love with him, he isn't owed it by some mystical power of the universe. He knows that the universe doesn't owe him anything just because hes been given a bunch of shit to go through. Despite what some of this Fandom thinks, just because poor Will Byers is targeted doesn't mean he automatically gets a get out of jail free card. Will knows that because of the circumstances he is in, he doesn't get to pass go. he doesnt get to collect 200, he gets to sit there and try to cope and theres not much he can do about it.

Mike is his own person and has much as Will wants to mope about it, he can't force Mike to love him back. That's the point of this. Will is so upset, he's so angry because hes been dealt a bad hand and no matter how hard he tries, he just cant find a way to get over his crush. The point of the story is for Will to realize that mike loved him all along, that the only thing holding them back is that they were both to scared and angry to do anything about it. They let the fear win when they knew that they shouldn't have.

So what's all this yapping for? Well, I see some people in this Fandom talk like Mike owes it Will to do this. Or that Mike owes it to Jonathan or the Byers, or that he owes it to the party even. Fact of the matter is, Mike is his own person and when you write Mike, you have to write it like that. Don't write Mike with the intention of him ending up with Will, don't have that be your only goal in mind when you put the pencil to the page. He isn't some barbie that is made specifically to be Will's little boyfriend like I've seen some posts treating him. He's a person, he's the heart of the party, he's dating El, he loves Will, and he's scared. He's scared and he doesn't know what to do when everyone looks at him for answers. When Will says that he could lead them, he's touched but he's hesitant. He doesn't know what to do. If Jon were to cut Mike off, not only would that be a disgrace on Mike but one on Jon too.

Jon knows, more then anybody, that you can't make someone like you. Constantly isolated, parents divorced, bullied, unloved, and his first relationship being Nancy who was dating Steve at the time of him gaining his crush, he knows. He knows that you can't make someone love you, he knows that you can't make people fall in love AGAIN. So when he comforts will, he's comforting him with the idea in mind that even if Mike doesn't love him, it's none of their faults. If he were to confront Mike, he wouldn't be pissed or prickly, he would be understanding. He would be a bit cold that Mike was treating Will like that but at the end of the day, the actions of 5 months of change don't outweigh over 10 years of good friendship. A friendship that Mike and Jon bonded over almost dying for. They know each other in a way that mist don't.

Anyways, thanks for coming to my Ted talk lol.

Chat, I desperately need to know how to write Jonathan's and Mike's relationship without Jonathan hating Mike. I FUCKING hate it when I see that trope, Jonathan would never hate Mike for simply not reciprocating his brothers' feelings. That's stupid has hell. Mike is basically Jonathan's second brother, he knows Mike, he's known him all his life. He's seen how sweet Mike is to Will, he was there when Mike starting sobbing while Will was possessed. HE WOULDN'T HATE MIKE! He would be CONCERNED! But all the fics and character analysis I'm reading for the two always paint Jonathan as hating Mike, so you see my dilemma here >:(

[muniimyg]

𐙚₊˚⊹ boxer!jungkook (4) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

series m.list // taglist closed

boxer jk x neuro doctor oc

miscommunication

awkwardness & flirting ? some tension

note: see ya at the end :’)

//

jungkook barely stirs when you burst in. 

as the door swings shut behind you, he braces himself for a lecture from nam joon… because that’s who he’s expecting. he’s half-awake, body stiff, head heavy with exhaustion.

lazily, his eyes flutter open. when he registers who’s standing at the foot of his bed, he lets out a quiet scoff and tries to roll onto his side.

“shit,” he mutters, wincing.

you don’t say anything at first.

instead, you just walk in quietly, checking his chart, flipping through the details you already know. without a word, you help him sit up. you place your hands on his back, gentle but firm. if his body wasn’t so fucked up right now, he’d probably be melting from your touch. 

it’s been so long. 

jungkook exhales sharply but doesn’t pull away.

“bruised ribs and minor concussion,” you murmur, scanning his injuries. “your knuckles are busted… again. your wrist is slightly sprained—”

“you should’ve seen the other guy,” he jokes, managing to crack a smile. 

you stare at him blankly. 

he takes it as rejection and redirects. 

jungkook swallows, licking his lips. “where’s namjoon? he’s my doctor.”

“i’m a doctor too.”

“not my doctor.”

“jungkook—”

his lips curl, something sharp in his tone. his words almost come out like a hiss. “come on, doctor ___. don’t you have a kid to fix up with doctor yoongi? what are you doing here? i’m fine.”

your brows furrow instantly. 

“jungkook, that was nearly two months ago. i haven’t seen you in so long and this is how you come back to me?”

suddenly, his head spins.

come back to me?

his breath catches, the words cutting through him before he even has the chance to process them. they sink beneath his skin, settle into his bones, cling to the spaces between his ribs like they belong there. like they’ve always belonged there.

what did you mean by that?

did you mean anything at all?

or was it just something you said—careless, fleeting, unintentional?

this is unfair.

the way you speak to him is so fucking unfair.

your words are so soft and familiar. it’s laced with something he can’t quite name and instead it coils around him, pulls at something deep in his chest… something he’s been trying to ignore.

something he can’t ignore.

his fingers twitch slightly, gripping at the thin hospital blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. his knuckles turn pale.

he wants to ask you to say it again.

wants to hear the way it sounded in your voice one more time.

but he doesn’t.

he just sits there, the weight of your words pressing down on him.

silence.

“i hate seeing you like this,” you say quietly.

jungkook huffs, looking away. 

“i know it looks bad right now… but i’m not quitting boxing.”

you nod. “i never asked you to.”

another stretch of silence, thick and heavy.

then—

“… i’m not dating yoongi,” you say. your voice is even, but something in it sounds tired. “it was just a case, jungkook. if you’re curious about history, we did residency together… not to mention, he’s also engaged.”

jungkook keeps his face blank.

“i never asked.” his tone is light, too light, like he’s trying to sound unaffected. “but good to know. i appreciate it.”

you study him for a second.

his expression is composed, but there’s something guarded about it. something that makes you wonder if you should have left it at that. but for some reason, you don’t.

“you could’ve though… you know? you could’ve asked.”

the words slip out before you can stop them, and now you’re just talking—filling the silence, filling the space between you.

“i wasn’t going to hide anything from you. there’s no reason to. despite only seeing you when you’re injured, i like seeing you… and the flowers… thank you for the flowers,” you add, softer this time.

and maybe you should stop there. maybe you shouldn’t tell him that you dried out the flowers to preserve them… maybe you shouldn’t tell him how you sent pictures of it to your friends and got teased for two weeks straight. maybe you should let the conversation settle, let him respond—let him say something.

but he doesn’t say anything.

instead, he just nods, barely reacting. it’s like he’s listening but not really hearing you.

so you give up.

“y-you… you need to recover. namjoon was paged and he'll be here in a minute… honestly, i saw your name and i had to check on you myself—”

jungkook exhales a laugh—low, rough.

“why?”

you sigh, exasperated.

“why do you think?”

his eyes flicker to yours, and for the first time since you started talking, he hesitates.

then—

“that’s nice—ha. are you flirting with me, doctor ___?” he muses, tilting his head. “i almost feel better.”

and the thing is—he means it.

you exhale through your nose, trying to suppress a smile.

“yeah? i guess i am.” you pause, then add, “sorry, i’m bad at it.”

“it’s okay,” he chuckles. “it’s cute.” 

the admission lingers between you. 

it’s awkward, but not in a bad way. like stepping into unfamiliar territory, like learning how to be around each other in a way that isn’t built on injuries and hospital visits.

you hesitate, just for a second, before reaching for his hand.

it’s warm. solid. steady. you squeeze once, offering something—an attempt, a bridge, a connection.

jungkook stares at it.

doesn’t pull away.

doesn’t hold on, either.

just watches. like he’s trying to decide if he should let himself take whatever it is you’re offering.

“i’ve had a crush on you for months,” he admits, almost absentmindedly. then, with a slight grin, he adds, “i know the plan was to get beat up until i could make you feel bad enough for me and convince you to go on a date… but this shit fucking hurts.”

you laugh. 

he laughs. 

then he struggles.

you immediately move, hands steadying him, eyes scanning him for any new signs of discomfort. he lets you fuss over him, lets you run your fingers through his hair to check for swelling, lets you linger longer than necessary.

“i really like you,” he breathes. “i don’t know what to do about it anymore.”

you nod, lips tightening at his confession. just as you open your mouth to respond to him, your pager beeps. you pull away a bit and check it.

“it’s urgent,” you murmur, pulling back completely. “i’m so sorry, i have to go back to my patient—“

“go.”

jungkook hums, missing holding your hand already. 

you don’t want to turn away… but you do. then, you turn right back and plead with him.

“stay overnight for observation. i’ll be back as soon as i can. seriously, jungkook… you need to recover—”

“i have a match in three months.” his voice is firm, resolute. “i only really have three weeks to recover.”

your brows knit together instantly. “that’s insane, jungkook.”

“but it’s not impossible,” he grins, ignoring the feeling of a rising disagreement. “i’ll recover well. i’ll win the match.” his voice dips slightly, eyes catching yours with something unreadable.

then—

“come watch me win.”

you inhale slowly.

you don’t answer right away. instead, you let the words settle between you, feeling their weight press against your ribs. you tell yourself you’re hesitating because you don’t want to give him the wrong idea. that you’re keeping your distance because it’s the right thing to do. but the truth is—

you don’t know how to be around him without feeling like you’re standing too close to something dangerous. regardless if it’s this… ethic and moral debate you have ongoing in your head or the simple fact that maybe… just maybe… you finally recognize love again.

and it’s different this time.

this time, it comes bruised and concussed.

it comes with a cheeky smile and words that make your heart flutter for months… it comes and it goes—and you spend endless hours waiting for him to walk through those doors again.

for a moment, you think about what it would be like if you stopped resisting. if you let yourself feel the way he makes you feel. if you let yourself want him, the way he so easily, so recklessly, seems to want you.

you test it.

“i… i don’t see patients outside of this hospital.”

the words leave your lips before you can stop them. you say them because it’s easier than saying what you really feel. easier than admitting that he doesn’t feel like a patient to you. not anymore.

not now.

now, he looks different. feels different. talks different.

there’s something unspoken in the way he watches you—something that makes your pulse slow, then quicken again. his smile fades into something quieter, something unreadable.

then—

“then don’t come as a doctor.”

his voice is lower now, deliberate, like he’s choosing each word carefully. like he wants you to hear them. really hear them.

your breath catches.

“come as something else.”

his gaze flickers over your face, dipping to your lips for just a second too long. your stomach tightens. your fingers twitch at your sides.

“come as someone else.”

it’s softer this time, but it sinks deep.

then, at the very last second, just as the space between you threatens to collapse in on itself, jungkook reaches for your hand. his fingers brush against yours first—barely, just enough to send a shiver up your spine—before he takes it fully, his grip warm, steady.

his thumb strokes over your knuckles.

his voice is quiet when he speaks again, but it’s the kind of quiet that demands to be heard.

the air stills.

“come to be with me.”

[belovedenzo]

her little black book // lorenzo berkshire

summary; you find out that enzo and his friends keep track of their hook-up's in a little black book.

warnings; language, drunk sex, humiliating themes, enzo being a dick. SMUT 18+

words; 1k

notes; just a small drabble if you will. this was completely inspired by a girl on shifttok I saw years ago. this is based on her experience, not mine, I just took Inspo. tag her tiktok if you know what I'm talking about- it's iconic.

 It wasn’t but just a month ago when you had heard about Lorenzo Berkshire and his little black book. One thing the young wizard’s don’t know is by year seven all of the young witch’s have an unexplainable bond. Call it girl code if you will, but did he really think that Luna Lovegood from Ravenclaw wouldn’t tell Pansy Parkinson from Slytherin? It’s no secret that most of you probably have a kiss or two in common… some, even more than that but the fact that she saw so many names from both her own and your house is still embarrassing. 

 He’s not the only one that gets around- all of his friends do. Him and his group of mates have seemed to be the center of attention among girls at Hogwarts for a long while now. It’s unspoken truth that they’ve probably had a lot of your year in vulnerable positions but no body knew he kept an actual log. A genuine log of all the affairs. 

 Luna rattled off details saying that she was genuinely taken aback as Lorenzo pulled out a small black journal from his bed side table right after busting a nut on her back. He rated her on paper- right there in front of her like it was nothing to him. According to her there were plenty of names- with plenty of different hand writings. 

 After pondering on it you had decided it was a group effort, he had gotten his mates in on it too. They were all in on this log- a quite humiliating one. A journal for them to discuss how each and every one of you were in bed… or where ever it was they did it that time. 

 You, yourself have had your way around a few of them, but with this new found information you may have your sights set on a new one. Pansy thought you were crazy when you had told her your plan, but if only she could see you now she’d think your genius. 

 The party was lame, but you went on a mission. After a few drinks and dances with Pansy you let loose enough to effectively get Lorenzo to want to sleep with you. Every function you watch the boys pass through groups of students, picking out the new girl for the night. This time you just so happen to easily give yourself up to him, just the way he likes it. 

 Now you lay there, face buried in your own pillow. Your roommates are of course in on it and made sure there would be enough alone time for you and Enzo seemed in no rush. He bucked firmly and precisely into your cervix, gripping the flesh of your ass that stuck up before him. This was always his favorite way to have his fun, harsh and unemotional. 

 The way he filled every groove you craved touch in almost made you lose sight of the actual plan. He was actually even bigger than you had imagined, each thrust aching more than the last. He was unfaltering and unforgiving about how he fucked into you from behind, and you loved it, just like all the others. He had you right where he wanted you, right where you needed to be. 

 A mix of your sweet sounds filling his ears and alcohol eating away at his continuousness eventually did cause him to boil over, pulling out to waste his spend across your back. This is probably how he fucks every single girl he brings in here, except this time you won’t let him have the last act of dominance. 

 With a swift motion you move from your compromising position, completing the final phase of this plan. You made sure he could hear the sounds of you shifting as you reach for the book, hooking lining and sending him. 

 “What are you doing?” He asks before standing up to get his own shit together. His voice indicates that he thinks he’s still in control of this situation. 

 You roll your eyes, closing the drawer behind you before turning to face the brunette you just had drunken sex with. “Nothing.” You voice is laced with a false innocence, scanning his body with your eyes. 

 Taller than Theo and Mattheo- yet not as muscular. Longer than Mattheo… but not as thick as Theo. He was rough like Theo too- but didn’t make you fear for your life like Mattheo did. A solid 7/10. Maybe even an 8 if he didn’t cum so fast in the end. 

 “Are you fucking kidding me?” He asks as you write a few notes onto the page in font of you. He must know what you were doing- he can’t be naive. 

 You turn to look at him and scan his face for a reaction, it seemed like you got the one you wanted. A rise. “You don’t like my little black book?” Your head cocks to the side, adding to your sarcasm. 

 He rolls his eyes but there are no signs of annoyance like you had heard briefly in his voice before. His eyes trail down to the page before meeting yours once again. He seemed more intrigued than he did anything, excited even. If you weren’t seeing things- he almost seemed turned on by what he was seeing. 

 “So what do I have to do to get my score higher than Matty’s?”

love, spell

[goldfades]

the boys might have a crush on wifey… but I just KNOW some of those football moms are throwing themselves at Joe… and wifey has to remind them he’s take

you weren’t blind.

you saw the way some of the football moms looked at joe. how their eyes lingered just a little too long when he walked by, how their smiles got just a little too bright when they talked to him. how some of them suddenly became way more interested in their sons’ football practices the moment joe started coaching.

at first, you brushed it off. joe was a handsome man, it wasn’t exactly news to you. of course people would find him attractive. it didn’t bother you, because at the end of the day, he was yours.

but then it got annoying.

the first time you really noticed it was after a game, when you were standing off to the side, watching joe talk to one of the other dads. you were waiting for him to finish up so you could all head home, when she walked up.

aubrey.

you knew her. not well, but enough. her son was on the team, she was divorced, and she was too friendly for your liking.

“oh, coach burrow!” her voice was sugary sweet, her hand reaching out to lightly touch his arm. joe, oblivious as ever, just gave her a polite smile.

“hey, aubrey. good game today.”

she laughed, flipping her hair. “i was just telling some of the other moms that we so appreciate you taking the time to coach. i mean, you must be so busy, and yet, here you are. dedicated. it’s really… admirable.”

your eyes narrowed.

joe, bless him, just shrugged. “yeah, well, anything for the kids.”

aubrey tilted her head, her fingers still resting on his arm. “and how is it that you don’t get overwhelmed? juggling the nfl, coaching, being a father… you must have someone at home helping you out.”

joe finally took a step back, subtly putting some distance between them. “yeah, my wife’s incredible.”

you almost grinned at the way aubrey’s face twitched.

“oh. of course.” she fake laughed, brushing it off. “well, if you ever need a little break, some of us moms were thinking about throwing a little appreciation dinner for you. something small. casual. maybe at my place.”

okay. that was enough.

you stepped forward, looping your arm through joe’s and plastering on your sweetest smile.

“oh, that’s so sweet, aubrey, but trust me—joe gets plenty of appreciation at home.”

joe glanced at you, amusement flickering in his eyes. aubrey, for her part, looked like she wanted to sink into the ground.

“oh! i—i didn’t mean anything by it,” she stammered. “just wanted to show our gratitude.”

you squeezed joe’s arm, leaning into him just a little. “oh, i know exactly what you meant.”

her face turned red, and she quickly mumbled something about needing to find her son before scurrying away.

joe finally let out a laugh, looking down at you. “you didn’t have to do all that.”

“oh, i absolutely did,” you said, tilting your head up at him. “unless you wanted to go to aubrey’s for a little appreciation.”

joe grimaced. “god, no.”

you smirked, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “good answer, coach.”

it didn’t stop there.

there were always looks, always too-friendly smiles and light touches whenever you weren’t around. you’d catch glimpses of it every now and then, and it never failed to irritate you.

joe, to his credit, never entertained it. most of the time, he didn’t even notice it. but you did.

so sometimes, you had to make a point.

you’d show up to practice in one of joe’s hoodies, the sleeves swallowing your hands as you sipped your coffee, making sure the entire sideline of moms saw the gold band on your finger when you waved at joe.

or you’d bring snacks for the kids and make sure to kiss joe right in front of everyone before handing him a water bottle, your fingers brushing against his wedding ring.

sometimes, if you were feeling particularly petty, you’d sit right next to the moms who always stared a little too long, lean back in your chair, and say something like, “god, my husband’s so hot.” just to watch them squirm.

it was funny to you.

but the best moment was when another mom, katie, jokingly said, “coach burrow, you should hold a football clinic just for the moms. you know, show us some drills.”

joe, looking genuinely confused, just went, “uh, i think that’d be kind of weird.”

before katie could say anything, you immediately jumped in. “oh, joe’s not available for private lessons, but i’d love to teach you a thing or two.”

katie blinked. “…oh.”

joe choked on his water.

you just smiled sweetly. “anytime, katie. just let me know.”

later that night, when you were curled up in bed, joe wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. “you really don’t have to do all that, you know.”

you shrugged. “i know. but it’s fun.”

joe laughed, shaking his head. “god, i love you.”

you smirked, tilting your chin up. “i know. i’m so lovable.”

joe pressed a kiss to your temple. “so, so lovable.”

[kisakunt]

Choso getting all jealous of a fuck machine and your dildo collection?

-🫡

“Why do you need that?” It’s a simple question, but you can’t tell if he’s angry or not. You and Choso were going through your closet, some spring cleaning if you will, and he happened to stumble upon your private box.

“I don’t know, it’s fun.” You don’t think it’s a big deal. Almost every girl has a sex toy or two. Sure, maybe you’re a little bit overboard— you did buy a three hundred dollar contraption that physically fucks your favorite dildo into you— but are you so bad for liking a little pleasure?

He pauses, fingers tracing over the veins on your hyperrealistic toy.

“Am I,” He starts, pausing for a second as if he’s questioning himself. “Am I not doing a good enough job?” Shit.

“No! No, baby, you’re perfect.” You reach and grab the dildo out of his hands, quickly shoving it out of the box. “You’re gone a lot, though, and I don’t know… I get needy, I guess?”

“Oh.” That didn’t seem to appease him. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to leave you unfulfilled.”

“No! Cho, you’re not understanding.” Your hand is over his and it feels like religion. You never get over him. “I think about you every time.”

“Yeah but if I were fucking you enough you wouldn’t need this.” Your heart drops. In some sick, twisted way you think it’s cute. 

“Is it better than me?”

“No.” He finally looks up at you, eyes full of something you can’t seem to understand, and also a little pain.

“Does it make you cum?” You’re not going to lie to him. If it didn’t, that would be a horrible waste of three hundred dollars.

“Yes.”

He’s grabbing you before you can even think twice, yanking you towards your bed with still such a timid touch. It’s a soft push when your back falls onto the mattress, and he’s on top of you in an instant.

“I’m the only thing that’s supposed to make you cum.” Choso fucks sweet. He can get rough, he can fuck you like he hates you, but despite all that he is a gentle lover. There’s never been a moment having sex with him that you haven’t felt his care radiating from him. You can still feel it right now as he latches himself onto your neck— open-mouthed and sloppy—, but there’s a sense of selfishness you’ve never felt before. Possession. He’s jealous.

It’s a silly concept, you think, to be jealous of a sex toy— but Choso is a silly guy. His hands trace down your stomach, fingers hovering over your hip before they go lower, touching you over your pants.

“I don’t like that you have those.” Choso is never controlling. You know he’s not telling you to get rid of them, more so conveying his emotions to you like you’ve begged him to do.

You gasp as he circles your clit, pussy wet under the cloth of your leggings. There’s a sense of routine when you and Choso fuck. He’s always asking what’s okay, always asking what feels good, always checking on you. But now, he strips you naked without a word, bringing himself down to suck at one of your tits while his hand goes back down to your now bare cunt.

He doesn’t waste time with your clit. His fingers plunge inside you, curling into your g-spot as he moves them in and out of you.

“Does it go faster than this?”

“Yes,” It’s shaky, because even though it hasn’t been long Choso knows how to make you feel good. Then he speeds up and it’s better and you’re cockdrunk without even having his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His tongue is back to lapping circles around your nipple, his hair poking at your neck, his chin pressing into your ribs, and you’re overwhelmed. The room is full of sounds of just wet— from his mouth and your pussy— and it’s vulgar and crass and lewd and you want him.

You cum quick. He feels it on his middle and ring finger— you taught him that, you taught him everything, he’s your picture perfect fuck toy— and whines into your chest.

“I’m going to fuck you now.”

It doesn’t take him long to live up to his promise. He’s bottoming out in you without a second thought, balls hitting you every time he thrusts.

“This is what you’re supposed to have.” You think you might be stupid right now. Actually, you can’t think at all— sharp breaths and erratic moans leaving you.

Choso is a whiner, but right now he groans. He’s fucking you like he needs you, like he loves you, like you’re meant to be his.

It’s almost grotesque; the way your pussy drips from both of your arousal, the sloppiness of the way it sounds each time he bullies in and out of you, the desperation from your spasming cunt.

“Does it feel like this?” He’s barely getting out the words, almost incomprehensible. “Does it fuck you better than me? Does it fucking love you?”

That’s enough to make you cum again. And now, you feel stupid for ever having it.

“I’m sorry!” He’s relentless, each thrust pounding at your cervix, stretching out the softness of your walls. “I’m sorry, I’m yours, I’m sorry.” And it’s beyond the toys, it’s beyond the insecurity and jealousy, it’s beyond primal emotions.

It’s connection. Sweat drips from his hair onto your cheeks, and in a desperate move you lift your head to lick it off his temple. He owns you. You can both feel it in the way your soft walls clench around him, you can both feel it as your legs wrap in a loose pretzel around his waist, you can both feel it as tears form in your eyes from how much it all is.

“I love you, I’m sorry, I’m yours.” It’s weak, muffled by your moans and the sound of his pelvic bone slapping yours. His hips rub at your clit each time he snaps them into you, his cock grazing the top of your pussy in a way you didn’t know was possible.

“Cum, please,” It’s pure yearning. You can tell he’s close from the way he hiccups his breaths, from the way his head has dipped down into the crook of your neck, from the way he begs you through gritted teeth. “I need you to cum, let me make you cum.”

And how could you deny Choso? So you let go, nails scratching at his back, fingers gripping at the slightest bit of fat on his waist, head lulled into the mattress, and you cum.

And so does he, continuing his choppy movements to fuck his cum further and further into you, getting you as full of him as he can.

He collapses on you for a brief moment, before he shifts himself out of you and next to you, arm wrapping around you as he presses kisses onto the top of your head.

“Is it better than that?” It’s breathy, exhausted and worn, but he sounds so sure of himself you can almost see his smile.

“No.” Choso hums, shifting gears into aftercare.

You finish your cleaning the next day, and when you’re back in your closet, Choso can’t find your precious collection anywhere. He thinks he must’ve done a good job.

[mywritersmind]

umm I don't really have an idea in mind (sorry) but id love to see an ex!franco fic!!

THAT PRETTY BLONDE - FC43

summary : In which some drivers are checking out a girl and when Franco goes to meet her, they already have been introduced. In fact, they’ve had years of knowing eachother.

listen up : franco x ex! no warnings! thanks for the request i love the idea of franco and his ex so here’s smt short!

words : 1135

⋆｡‧˚⋆

“What’re you staring at?” I elbow Lando while Oscar, Isack, Kimi, and Carlos are completely locked in, their eyes on something in the distance.

“Mate…” Isack hits my chest, “Hottest girl ever.”

Kimi nods as if he has a chance with anyone over eighteen, “Mamma mia...”

“Right there. In the white.” Lando points to a girl in the crowd, her back is to us and I immediately understand what they’re talking about.

I can’t even see the girl's face but she’s already stunning. She’s in a blue mini skirt and a white top that falls just before her waistband. She's slim, her legs long, definite model quality. Shit, I see one attractive girl and suddenly i’m a model scout?

She flips her hair to her back, long and blonde. “Ay…” I mumble, “I’m going to talk to her.”

“No way!” Lando interjects.

“Come on Colapinto leave some for the rest of us.” Isack rolls his eyes as I grin and push past Oscar who looks more curious than hot for her.

I stick my tongue out at them as I walk backwards, turning around and walking straight up to her. I clock the William’s mechanics already, the familiar faces nodding to me.

“Hey…” My voice trails off almost immediately, the second the girl turns to me, my mouth goes dry.

Her smile drops at the same time the mechanics walk away, “Y/n.” I choke out, staring at my ex-girlfriend in the face. What the actual fuck.

“Franco.” Her voice makes me physically shiver, the same one that used to sweet talk me. I recognize it all too well. She’s not smiling, her expression neutral as she checks me out, “Thought you weren’t driving this season.” She says it as if it was the most casual thing ever.

She pops her hip, raising a brow. God I used to love when she would do that.

I never have issues talking to women, unless it’s her. I don’t know why, just something about her made me so nervous, especially after the breakup. “I’m uh… just here in case.” I scratch the back of my neck, looking past her at the guys who are staring.

“Right.” She smiles softly, moving her arm up so her fingers tug at a curl in my head, “You look good.” I swallow, ultra aware that she hasn’t touched me in over a year.

I can’t breathe. “Thanks. You look… You know you look good Y/n.” She laughs, nodding. She always did. “I like your hair.”

“Really?” She twirls it around her finger, “Kinda miss the brunette.”

“So, you’re here.” I eye her badge and swallow, “With william’s?”

I swear on my life she’s doing this on purpose, “Mhm… I was invited. It’s not too weird… is it?”

“Well considering you broke up with me before I became a william’s driver…” Shut up Franco. Shut up.

She rolls her eyes, “Don’t pull that. You know why we broke up.” Me. Of course it’s me. I nod as she glances back to the guys who pretend to be doing anything but staring at her. “Could you tell your friends that if they want to look at me, they can talk to me first?”

I let out a dry laugh, “Not a chance they’ll be doing either.”

“Hm, still possessive I see.” She tilts her head, smirking.

“You got a boyfriend I should be worrying about?” She shakes her head slowly. Good. “Then yeah, they’re not getting close.”

She smiles in the way that she used to, “Look I gotta go…” I spent this past year thinking about her, wondering if I would ever see her again, yet here she is. At a bloody race with the team I should be on.

“Right. Maybe we can catch dinner sometime?” I don’t know why I say it, it literally just comes out of me.

But thankfully, she doesn’t scream in horror, just grins wider, “If you’re lucky, Colapinto.”

I nod and start walking away, “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.” The second she turns away, I slowly walk back to the guys.

I cannot believe she’s here. “What the hell!?”

“There’s no way you pulled her in that amount of time.” Carlos raises a brow.

“Who is she!?” Kimi asks, “Yo, Colapinto! Details!”

I groan, slamming my head against the wall as they all go quiet. I breathe in, then out, my eyes squeezed shut. “She’s my ex.”

They freak out. Oscar laughs out loud while Carlos just shakes his head. “Excuse you!?” Lando shakes me.

“You’re fucking kidding!” Isack argues.

“I wish.” I say, looking at the group of shocked men, knowing i’m about to have to explain that the one girl I ever truly loved, broke up with me because she thought (she knew) I wasn’t doing enough. “Oh I really fucking wish.”

“Mate… how’d you not recognize her!?” Lando’s laughing now.

“She was brunette…” I groan at the memory of my beautiful brunette girlfriend who used to party around argentina and kiss me against club walls. “and I didn’t expect the fucking loss of my life to be here!”

“Shit. I can’t believe you fumbled her.” Oscar shakes his head, making me frown.

I cross my arms, “She broke my heart, thanks.”

Lando raises a brow, “Oh?”

“She dumped you!” Kimi giggles, “This is the best news I’ve ever heard. You think she’d go for me?”

I punch him in the arm, making the younger boy flinch, “She is way too old for you. And she’s my ex!”

“I don’t see any issues.” He shrugs, making me blink. He fucking wishes.

“Shut your trap, Antonelli.” Lando laughs, “Franco. Is she single?”

“Mate!” I swear, “Not you too!”

He laughs, “For you! There’s no way you’re fucking up this opportunity.”

Carlos nods, “You believe in fate?”

I eye the man in blue, “I believe that she’s in your garage all weekend…” I smile and clap him on the shoulder, “I just have to visit my best mate!”

He laughs, shaking his head. He’s about to say something but goes suddenly quiet when someone walks up. It’s her.

Everyone shuts up.

“Fran.” She calls me by my nickname, thoroughly twisting the knife, “Call me tonight, yeah?”

I think I might faint.

The sharp pain in my side is caused by Isacks elbow, forcing me to nod as they all check her out, “Of course.”

She looks at all of them, laughing a bit before waving, “See you.”

“Bye…” Half the guys say! I slap all of them.

“Oh Fran…” Lando mocks her, batting his lashes, “Please come take me out and-”

“Shut it!” I start walking away.

“Where are you going?” Oscar asks.

“I need to figure out what i’m going to wear!”

[revelboo]

I hate to always be asking for things, but is there any chance we could get some more Steve

Sure!

Coin Operated Boy Pt 4

Vehicons x Reader

• Dragging into the kitchen in a tank top and shorts, you get coffee going and nearly scream when a shadow falls across the window. And it’s your alien friend, his head tilted as he stares in at you and reaches to tap against the window. Heart racing, you lift a nervous hand and he eases back slightly. Why is he back? Nervous, you toe on your sneakers and step outside. Hesitating when you see Steve’s brought friends. There’s two more of them, crouching to stare at you. “Hi? You look better,” you manage, fighting the urge to turn and run for the door.

• Aware of his cloned brothers studying you with bemused curiosity, he offers you an energon goodie and you just stare at it, then him. Bending to offer you the rare treat, when just getting rations to begin with is never a sure thing, he needs you to be repaid for your kindness and knows this isn’t nearly enough. Vehicons are the lowest in the Decepticon hierarchy. Expendable. Often forgotten. “For you,” he insists, and you finally reach to take it, but don’t try it. Saving it for later, maybe, but he’s pleased anyway even if he’d wanted you to eat from his hand. To trust him as a protector.

• Hugging the glowing thing to your body, you offer him a smile. Have no idea what it is, but you don’t want to offend him or risk hurting his feelings. “Thank you so much. It’s… lovely.” And you really hope the glow isn’t radioactivity. “And you brought friends.” Watching him glance at the other two, like he’d forgotten they were there for a moment, you fidget. “Hi.” Waggling your fingers at the two newcomers they exchange a look and one hesitantly waves back.

• Venting as B3N waves at you and N31L just shakes his head like he can’t believe he’d given you the rare treat, Steve kneels so he’s not looming over you. Except, you’re so small, he still is. Short of lying flat on the ground, he’s going to be looking down at you and it bothers him. “For your assistance,” he says, reaching out a hand, hesitating and extending a servo. Staring up at him, you tuck the treat against your hip and cautiously lay a soft hard on his servo and he bends forward until he can brush his masked face against the back of your hand. Needing you to understand that no one cares about Vehicons. No one mourns them, tries too hard to save them when they’re wounded. You’re not even Cybertronian, though and you’d seen him. Cared. For that he owes you. For that, he’ll protect and watch over you. And his brothers reach out, extending you the same honor.

• Going still as the other two edge closer and each brush a servo against you, you try to figure out what’s happening. There’s almost a reverence in the gentle way they’re touching you that makes you nervous. Maybe this is just how they thank someone? A weird, alien cultural thing? All three of them touching you before drawing back. Transforming into vehicles to startle you and just driving away. Leaving you standing in the dew soaked grass with a glowing mystery object and more questions than answers. And you wonder if they’ll come back.

Previous

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.5.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - somewhat more debauched than last time. From warnings, the earlier mentioned age gap makes a brief appearance and maybe there is a small mention of unrelatable to current day and age dating advice.

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.6.

word count: 6,8K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for reading before publishing! Playlist on Spotify. Please remember that you have to trust me and that if anything happens to me after I publish this you won't get chapter 6!!! :v

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Emboldened by Eliza’s remark, you have been spending far more time in your husband’s company. The days pass in shared meals, conversations that stretch beyond necessity, and the occasional reading session on a rare, unoccupied Sunday.

Jayce’s visits have become a frequent occurrence, as he and Viktor steadily ascend the mountain of progress. During those times, you busy yourself with your own musical research, reaching conclusions that unfurl new paths in your mind.

But even the new paths and distractions are unable to erase what is already there. It is a slow, simmering thing—the frustration prickling beneath your skin, winding tighter with every prolonged moment spent in Viktor’s company. You have been careful, measured, reigning yourself in as best you can, yet he tests your restraint at every turn. A glance held a beat too long, a touch that lingers just past propriety, the way his voice dips into something softer, something intimate, as if he, too, forgets himself. And it is unbearable, this game of almosts. He speaks as though there is no distance between you, yet never crosses the space that remains. He teases, draws near, only to retreat just as quickly, leaving you feeling restless, your pulse ever heightened in his presence.

And yet, you are not blameless either. You lean into his attention, bask in it, even as it vexes you. Every time his gaze flickers over your hands as you play, every time he hovers just behind you, close enough that his breath stirs the fine hairs at your nape, you feel yourself falter. You ought to ignore it, to accept the terms set between you and continue as if you are unaffected. But how could you, when he unravels you with the smallest, most maddening gestures? It would be easier if he were cruel, distant, indifferent. But he is none of those things. Instead, he lingers—always lingering—until your restraint is worn thin and you find yourself wondering if he enjoys this torment as much as you suffer it.

It all clatters in your head on one of those inconceivable Sunday afternoons you both spend poring over books, lost in research—Viktor tracing the paths of physics, you unravelling the intricate bond between music and mathematics. He moves about restlessly, sighing and muttering to himself, his sharp mind leaping from one thought to the next as he periodically reaches for a new tome, only to abandon it moments later atop the ever-growing pile beside the couch where you sit.

At some point his fingers drift absently over the spines of the books wedged onto the lower shelves, searching without intent until they settle on a worn volume of mythology. He pulls it free, the pages crackling faintly as he flips through them, skimming past Olympian feuds and mortal tragedies until a familiar name catches his eye—Artemis. He lingers, scanning the depiction of the huntress goddess, poised with her bow, forever untouchable, her gaze fixed ahead as if daring pursuit. The text beside her tells of Actaeon, the hunter who strayed too close, who dared to watch and was punished for his folly. Viktor exhales sharply, pressing the bridge of his nose between his fingers. How fitting—he, too, had looked when he should not have. Had lingered, fascinated, when reason dictated he turn away. And yet, had you not looked back? Had you not, in your own way, invited the chase? A dry, exasperated chuckle escapes him before he can help it. Across the room, he feels the shift in the air as you glance up from your work, your curious gaze landing on him.

“Something the matter?” you ask innocently, your brows knitting at the sight of his fingers loosening his shirt collar in a restless gesture.

“Ah, nothing,” he waves a hand dismissively, shutting the book with a decisive snap. “Just the universe having its fun with me.” He turns back toward the shelves, as if the spines of the books might conceal the blush creeping up his face.

He cannot bring himself to voice the nagging truth of it—that he has let what should have been a small, fleeting thought fester into something resembling a mythological tragedy. A tragedy in which he, once a man, has been turned into a stag, unworthy of the sacrosanct essence before him, and soon to be devoured by the very hound of his own self-doubt. How fitting.

He twists his cane into the floorboards, staring so intently at the books before him that he doesn’t notice when you slip behind him and swipe the tome from his grasp.

The pages fall open in your hands, right where his fingers had pressed into the inner spine, revealing the very passage that had left him so restless. Over his shoulder, he catches the ghost of a knowing smile as you murmur, “Oh, Artemis. How fitting, is it not?”

Viktor swallows, his gaze flickering away before he slowly turns to face you. His head dips low as he exhales, voice quiet but weighted. “Eerily so.”

You watch him carefully, your gaze flickering between the book in your hands and the way his throat bobs as he swallows. The weight of his admission lingers in the air between you, taut and expectant. He has been teasing you for weeks—sidelong glances, lingering touches, remarks laced with just enough suggestion to leave you wondering if you were imagining it all. But now the way he hesitates, the way his ears burn despite his best efforts to appear unaffected—you see an opportunity. A game he has unknowingly invited you to play.

Your grip tightens around the tome you hold, a slow smile curling at the edges of your lips. If he enjoys toying with you, then perhaps it is time he experiences the other side of the game. You take a breath, steadying the thrill that hums beneath your skin, and step forward.

“Viktor,” you say softly, taking a measured step toward him, the book snapping shut in your hands. “Would you say you are still a man?”

His mouth falls open, words failing him when you are so near. He is within reach—so unbearably close that he can feel the warmth of you, the quiet pull of your presence. You rest the book on the shelf behind him, and your hands, unhurried, slide up his shirt, nails grazing the stitching. Viktor’s breath catches in his throat.

“Undoubtedly, a man still,” he answers, though his voice trembles. A foolish one, he thinks. His fingers clench around the head of his cane until his knuckles pale, while his other hand lingers at his side, twitching—caught between reaching for you and restraint.

Your breath fans against his skin as you inch closer, your mouth hovering over his. When you speak, your lips brush. “Then why do you quake like a stag about to be ripped to pieces?”

You hold his gaze, waiting—for permission, for surrender. It is the closest you have ever been to him, save for the innocent peck he bestowed upon you on your wedding day. Since then, you have remembered the taste of his breath and the feel of his lips against yours—so fleeting, so proper—that it left your soul thrashing within your ribcage in frustration.

Viktor exhales a shuddering breath, and the war between restraint and want is lost to the latter. His hands seize your waist, cane clatters to the floor, and his mouth crashes into yours, all hesitation dissolving between breaths. Heat pools low in your stomach as his torso presses against yours—you can feel his pulse beneath your palm. He leans into you, one hand gripping your neck, noses pressed together as his tongue invades you with a need you’d never have accused him of. The feeling floods you, ardent and searing, and you slide your fingers into his hair, ruining its arrangement further. Viktor groans into your mouth, twists you around and, with a dull thud, presses you against the library shelves, knocking the air from your lungs.

Your first real kiss, and already so perverse, so filthy. God help you, how much you want him in that moment. You swallow his tongue and moan at the feeling of his hand trailing up your nape to grasp the hair at the base of your skull. He could toss you around like a ragdoll and you would let him, for a promise of those lips leaving burning marks down your belly.

For Viktor, it is the embodiment of everything he has tried to imagine alone in his bed when his hand wandered shamelessly down his stomach. He can feel himself growing hotter as he steps between your legs, his palms falling, hesitating around your backside before he grasps it greedily, pressing your pelvis into his. You release a hot moan into his mouth at the feeling of his hardness against you. For a moment, Viktor forgets all the thoughts that tell him it is impossible for a man like him to have everything he ever wanted, landing so unexpectedly in his lap. That it is impossible to be loved and wanted, not merely for his achievements, but purely for who he is.

And you want him so much that your hand slips down his chest, reaching lower to palm him through his trousers—and Viktor groans, unable to stop himself from leaning in, deepening the kiss. His body responds, urging him to let go, to fully give in to the moment. He kisses you, his lips demanding, but as the intensity grows, so do the dark thoughts in his mind. You deserve someone more—someone whole, someone who isn’t weighed down by his frugality.

Viktor’s heart stutters, and he pulls away abruptly, the heat between you suddenly unbearable. He stumbles back, his chest heaving, and though the urge to reach for his cane is strong, he doesn't. Instead, he steps back, limping, the weight of his own self-doubt pushing him further away. His mind is filled with the painful truth: he is unworthy. He turns his face to the side, struggling to regain control, but the distance between you both only deepens the ache in his chest.

“Forgive me—I have forgotten myself,” he stutters, panting. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back into place. “You… you don’t need to do this. Forgive me,” he says again, his face flushed a pretty pink, lips still glistening from where he’d kissed you.

“What is there to forgive?” you ask, your voice unsteady, suddenly frightened you’ve done something wrong. You pick up the cane and step toward him, confused, but he moves back once more. Your brows knit in worry.

“As this was never a marriage of love, only a contract of mutual benefit, this—” Viktor gestures vaguely, as if pointing to something obvious, though his voice betrays uncertainty. His fingers twitch before he forces his hand back to his side. “You are not obligated in any way to—”

“What if I do?” you cut him off, the words sharp, almost reckless. You tell yourself to be brave for the both of you, because Viktor looks like he is about to faint from the strain any minute.

“Love you, that is.” The words leave your lips in one of the boldest acts you’ve ever committed.

Viktor blinks, once, twice. His mouth parts in surprise, but nothing comes out at first. And then—he exhales a quiet chuckle, one that holds no real amusement. For a moment, you think he laughs at himself, but the words that come next cut cold through you. “Oh, you don’t love me, sweet girl.”

The dismissal lodges itself in your chest like a blade, twisting.

“And how would you possibly have the faintest idea of what I do feel?” Your voice is measured, but heat creeps into it, simmering under the surface.

“I just…” Viktor hesitates, his fingers pressing against his temples before he forces himself to meet your gaze again. “Forgive me. What I meant was that I don’t need you to say or do such things. I respect the terms of our contract, and—”

“Well, have you ever considered respecting me and my wishes?” Once more, you step toward him.

His expression tightens. “I am respecting you. By respecting the contract.”

You let out a sharp breath, disbelief curling at the edges of your voice. “Are you truly this devoid of emotion?”

With that, the cane is pushed into his hands. Viktor flinches, but his jaw sets, his logic a shield against the confrontation. “Are you sure you are interpreting yours well?” he counters, voice low. “I am aware that spending a lot of time with someone might feel like love, yet I am also aware that this is not something we would have chosen, had we been given another option.” Trying to regain his ground, he supports both hands on the cane and straightens, looking down on you.

“So, we are to stand blindly by the unwavering sentiment?” Your voice rises, cutting through the space between you. “There are at least three contracts we are entangled in. Which is the one you are respecting so dutifully?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’d like to believe that the respect extends to all of them.” His tone is edged with frustration. “And I would expect the same of you.”

“What if they mutually exclude each other?” You cross your arms, the anger burning now, holding you upright when the weight of his words threatens to push you down. “The ‘do as thou wilt’ and the ‘love and cherish’ seem not to come along so smoothly.”

They do, Viktor imagines himself saying. And then he imagines himself kissing you senseless again, the taste of your lips still lingering on his. But he just stands there, twisting his cane into the wooden floor, denting it.

“I never thought myself someone who would ever want a man, not after the encounters I was granted,” you say, seeing him resistant. “Yet, I was proven wrong. So even though I do resent having my choice taken away from me, I am grateful that fate has granted me you.”

Viktor’s lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think you see something waver in his expression—but then he shakes his head, the walls he’s built around himself hardening once again. “That is… very kind,” he says slowly. “Yet still. Such bonds, the ones you speak of, they form over years, through experience. And you—you do not know me, not truly.”

“I do not?” You let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “And what else do I possibly have to do every waking hour other than either speaking with you or observing you? Watching you eat, work, rest. Have I not had enough opportunity to form my own opinion? Do you truly think me this stupid?”

“This is not—” He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose, visibly flustered. “I do not deem you stupid. On the contrary. But you are… so young.” His voice softens, as if trying to convince himself of something he’s not yet ready to admit. “I fear that what you feel might be an illusion. A—a youthful infatuation at best, and—”

“How many years part us?” You cut him off, not allowing him the chance to finish.

He blinks, startled by the sudden shift. “Uh. Eight. Eight years.”

“And do you think that within those eight years I will gain the wisdom I am apparently lacking now?” Your arms cross, a challenge sparking in your eyes. “Do you think an eight-year-old is wiser than a newborn?”

Viktor exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “Actually, significantly, yes.”

“And why is that?” You arch a brow, daring him to justify his argument.

He shifts his weight onto his cane, his fingers tapping against the handle as if sorting through his thoughts, fighting to maintain control of the conversation. “Other than an ability to walk, formulate sentences, and be much more independent than a newborn—possibly even the ability to read, if they are fortunate enough to receive such a learning opportunity.” He pauses, his voice light but firm. “And I could go on if you wish me to.”

“Well, I disagree. I asked you about wisdom, not intelligence or learned skills.” Your voice does not waver, and Viktor’s brows lift ever so slightly at the confidence with which you speak.

“A newborn is able to express their emotions and needs without inhibition, therefore receiving all the attention, feeding, and care they require almost instantly,” you continue, leaning forward. “They know no shame, no social cues to obey nor they fear anyone’s judgment.”

Viktor is silent, but his gaze is fixed on you, searching. Admiring, almost.

“So tell me, in those eight years that part us,” you press on, your voice quieter but no less firm, “have you been granted some elderly wisdom that I will also gain in time? Will it make me see better, make me ascend to the pedestal from which you speak to me now? Or am I safe to say that from the pit I am standing in, I see myself expressing my needs and emotions freely while you are the one obeying restrictions and cues laid upon you by yourself only?”

His throat bobs as he swallows, his lips parting slightly, but no words come.

“Why is it so unthinkable that you’ve married a woman who has fallen in love with you upon getting to know you better?”

His eyes flicker with something deep and wounded, and for a fleeting moment, you pity him, until he speaks again.

“Because…” Viktor draws a slow breath, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his own conflicted thoughts crashing against the defences he’s tried so hard to build. “I don’t dare to deem my fate this gracious. Ever.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. “Are you such a vile man, Viktor, that your fate should be cruel?”

“No.” His response is immediate, almost startled. His fingers twitch where they rest on his cane, fighting the urge to reach for you. “I’m simply… not a man to whom miracles like that happen.”

Your breath catches, but you do not let the moment pass unanswered.

“So,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly, eyes burning into his, “your hypothesis is based purely on your personal restrictions, not upon any scientific research or wisdom?”

He hesitates, something in his face flickering again—like a man standing on the edge of belief but refusing to fall, the fight between reason and heart battling within him.

“Please forgive me if I have offended you,” he says at last, voice careful, placating. “I didn’t—”

You shake your head, cutting through his words like a blade. “I am not so quick to offend.”

He stills. This is all beyond anything he would deem possible. Not only because your agreement on paper was supposed to be beneficial and comfortable on both sides—there should be no reason to move it so abruptly. But would it also be possible that you’ve seen right through him?

And as if he is not ruined enough, you open your mouth again. “What plagues me,” you continue, voice soft but heavy with meaning, “is the audacity with which you stand before me and lie to my face.”

Viktor’s brow furrows, his lips parting slightly before he speaks, his biggest fear about to be confronted. “What are you talking about?”

Your fingers curl at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you take a measured breath. “Why do you think I am such an imbecile? Because of my youth, is that it?” Your voice does not rise, but the sharp edge of it cuts through the space between you. “I will inform you now that I do have a pair of eyes, ears, and a brain. And my eyes not only truly see you, but they also see the way you look at me.”

Viktor tenses, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His fingers flex against his cane, but he does not speak.

“My ears hear the way you talk to me,” you press on, stepping forward, “and they hear you whispering my name to yourself at night when you commit your depravities alone.”

His breath audibly catches, his composure splintering again. He stiffens as if struck, his eyes flickering wide before darting away, shame bleeding into his features.

“And my brain,” you continue, relentless, “connects all of this information into a conclusion of which I am not ashamed—but you are.”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“So I ask again,” you demand, voice trembling with emotion now, “what is so unthinkable in two people falling in love? What repulses you so?”

His eyes snap back to yours, startled, almost wounded.

“Is it me, or is it you?” Your voice softens, but the accusation in it lingers like a ghost in the air. “Is it my bluntness? Is it the way I eat or the way I speak? Am I truly so foolish that I have mistaken the look in your eyes for love?”

His mouth opens, but all he can offer is silence.

“Do you not lust for me but secretly curse me in the middle of the night?” Your voice trembles now, the fire burning in your chest threatening to crack. “Or is it you who fears something that shouldn’t be feared—because you prefer to be miserable for some godforsaken reason?”

Viktor’s breath stutters, his entire body visibly rigid. He looks utterly stricken, as though you have peeled him open and laid him bare.

“Darling, I—” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, reaching for you instinctively.

But you step back, your hand lifting between you—a final barrier.

“No.” The word is firm, final.

His eyes darken, his fingers curling into a fist at his side.

“I have no interest in excuses.” Your voice does not waver, but your breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling with the force of your emotions. “I wish for you to know that I am furious with you and need to be alone.”

Viktor flinches slightly at the raw honesty of your words, but he does not fight them.

“You can continue to dwell in your misery,” you finish, turning sharply away from him, “if that is what makes you whole.”

You do not look back as you walk away since the tears piercing your eyes would make seeing anything impossible anyway.

And Viktor—motionless, breathless—lets you go. He watches you go, his throat constricting around words that stubbornly will not come. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers aching to reach for you, to stop you, to—what? Apologize? Confess? No. That would unravel everything. His heart pounds against his ribs, a traitorous thing, as if trying to break free from the prison of his own making.

You have laid him bare, stripped him of every excuse, every justification he had carefully built between you. And yet, he does nothing. Not because he does not want to—God, how he wants to—but because a man like him has never been enough to be able to want. He has always been the one who watches from the sidelines, the one who reaches too late or never at all. You think him a coward, and perhaps you are right. But he has spent a lifetime learning that the things he desires most are the very things he is fated to lose. So he lets you go. Because he does not know how to hold onto something so bright without dimming it in his grasp.

***

The following days are agonizing. Eliza does her very best to cheer you up to no avail. She fusses over your hair, braiding it messily with ribbons in a way that once made you laugh, but now only earns her a sad smile. She brings you tea sweetened just how you like it, offering biscuits with a hopeful raise of her brows, yet you nibble absently at the edges, appetite lost. She chatters about the household gossip, about Master Jayce’s latest visit and how he nearly tripped over the hound outside, but even that fails to coax more than a hum from you.

You go to bed early and wake late, ensuring you miss Viktor at meals. When Eliza asks if you’d like to join her on a morning walk, you decline with a shake of your head, burrowing deeper beneath the covers. When you finally rise, the house is already alive with movement, but you drift through it like a ghost, keeping to the quieter corridors, seeking solitude. You play the piano only when you know Viktor is deep in work, your fingers coaxing out the saddest tunes—mostly requiems by John Field, the notes bleeding sorrow into the air, though no one dares to comment on it.

For Viktor, it’s equally harrowing. In the lab, he finds himself distracted, his mind slipping from equations and mechanisms to the faint strains of music drifting through the halls. More often than not, he catches himself leaning toward the door, tilting his head as if to better hear the mournful tunes spilling from the piano. Each note is an audible wound, a requiem played just for him, and he sighs deeply, rubbing a weary hand over his face.

Jayce notices. “Alright, what’s wrong with you?” he prods one afternoon when Viktor stares blankly at an open notebook, his quill poised but unmoving. “You’ve been off for days.” Viktor dismisses him with a terse shake of his head, returning to his work with forced concentration, but the weight in his chest does not lift.

He lingers in the dining room longer than usual, poking absently at his food, glancing toward the doorway with misplaced hope. Each time, disappointment settles heavier in his stomach when you do not come. Some nights, in the quiet hush of the corridors, he stops before your bedroom door, his fingers hovering near the wood. He stands there, poised to knock, his breath shallow and uneven. But in the end, his hand falls away, and he walks back to his own chambers, the ache in his chest deepening.

One day, when you have exhausted your repertoire of requiems, Eliza finds you in the music room, chest heaving, eyes wide. You are slumped over the instrument in resignation, your finger pressing the same key over and over, the dull note echoing through the room.

“Miss, forgive my intrusion,” she says hastily, a hand holding a short stay and a brush clutched to her chest. “But a carriage is approaching. It’s… most likely your Lady Mother.”

You stop pressing the key, the last note fading into tense silence as your head snaps up to look at her, quiet panic tightening your throat. Your hand flies to your undone hair, then to your chest as you try to form the words, “How long?”

“Five minutes at best,” Eliza says, already moving toward you with purpose. She tosses the brush and short stay onto the piano bench before grabbing your hands, tugging you upright. “Come, we must—oh, Lord, miss, this is a disaster—”

“I know!” you hiss back as she hastily pulls at the laces of your gown, working to fasten them properly. The two of you grunt and mutter through the ordeal, Eliza’s fingers fumbling in her haste while you attempt to twist your hair into some semblance of order. “This is impossible!” you whine as a stubborn curl springs free.

In the corridor, a similar chaos unfolds.

Jayce groans as he struggles with Viktor’s cravat, attempting to loop it into something presentable while smoothing down Viktor’s hopelessly unruly hair. “Hold still, damn it,” Jayce huffs. “It’s just your mother-in-law, not the bloody King—”

“She is worse,” Viktor mutters, shoving Jayce’s hands away to fix his cravat himself.

As they pass the music room, Viktor glances toward the open door—and then promptly regrets it. A swish of skirts, a flash of petticoats, the sight of your bare legs as Eliza yanks your gown into place—he freezes so violently that Jayce walks straight into him, their foreheads colliding with a loud crack.

“Fuck!” Viktor curses, reeling back and clutching his head.

Inside the room, you and Eliza startle. Then, to your own shock, a laugh bubbles up from your throat, spilling into the tense air. Eliza claps a hand over her mouth, giggling as she hurriedly finishes the last adjustments to your dress.

By the time you all converge in the main hall, everything is rushed, frantic—Eliza fussing with the last stray wisps of your hair, Jayce straightening his waistcoat, Viktor rolling his shoulders as if that might somehow ease the tension thrumming through the air.

You, however, stand still, pulse pounding, hands tightening into fists at your sides. Your mother’s carriage is nearly at the door, and dread coils tight in your stomach.

Viktor notices. Before you can retreat into yourself, his hand lifts—fingertips brushing against your cheek, then cupping it fully. The warmth of his palm is grounding, and your breath catches. It is the first real touch, the first true interaction, since that day.

He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“Calm,” he soothes, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “You look gorgeous.”

You beg whatever god is listening to freeze this moment in time—his hand on you, his breath tickling your ear, the scent of his hair filling your airways. You place your palm over his in silent thanks, failing to notice the way Jayce smiles at the scene or the exact moment Algernon swings the door open and announces your mother and sisters.

The squeal of your name echoes through the room as both Kitty and Tess squeeze past the butler, tumbling forward to wrap themselves around your waist and knees. You kneel to hold them properly, only then realising your eyes are prickled with unshed tears.

“Why are you crying?” Tess asks, tugging at a stray strand of your hair.

“I’m just so happy to see you,” you lie, burying your face in her small shoulder.

You sniffle the moment up and straighten at once, smoothing down your skirts as you rise to greet your mother properly. The warmth of your sisters' embrace lingers, but you push it aside as you step forward and dip into a practiced curtsy.

"Maman," you say, keeping your voice even.

"Darling," she replies, her lips pursed as she takes you in—your hasty attire, the remnants of Eliza’s rushed handiwork in your hair. You see the flicker of disapproval in her eyes, but she says nothing, merely offering her hand for you to take. You do, squeezing her gloved knuckles with a weak smile.

Viktor steps forward next, inclining his head in a small bow. "My Lady," he greets, his voice composed but restrained. He takes her hand lightly and brushes his lips against the air above her knuckles, the way one might approach a queen, detached but polite.

Your mother watches him with the same cool appraisal she granted you. She neither scowls nor softens, merely observes. "Mister Viktor," she returns, voice unreadable.

Jayce, ever the charmer, takes her hand with a dashing grin. "It is a pleasure, My Lady. You honour us with your presence."

Your mother gives a faint smile, the first hint of warmth she has shown, though it does not quite reach her eyes. "Mister Jayce. Ever the gentleman, I see."

What follows is an unbearably awkward meal. The silverware clinks too loudly in the strained silence, and the small talk is stilted at best. Jayce does his utmost to fill the gaps, speaking of inconsequential things—the weather, the state of trade, some dull anecdote from the city. You nod along, offering practiced smiles, while Viktor remains reserved, answering only when addressed. Your mother partakes little, her expression unreadable as she dabs her lips with her napkin and hums noncommittally at each new topic.

At last, as the meal nears its end, she sets down her utensils with a quiet clink. "Eliza, dear," she addresses your maid, "why don't you take the girls for a proper tour of the house? I would like a moment alone with my daughter and her husband."

Eliza hesitates, glancing at you for approval, but you only nod, not trusting yourself to speak. She rises from her chair on the side of the room, gesturing for Kitty and Tess to follow. The girls glance between you and your mother, sensing something unspoken, but obey without question. As their chatter fades into the hallway, an uncomfortable stillness settles over you.

Once Algernon leads the remaining adults into the drawing room, your mother settles onto the cushioned couch, folding her hands in her lap as she levels you with an assessing gaze. "Now, my dear," she says smoothly, "why don't you tell me how married life has been treating you?"

You lower yourself onto the second couch beside Viktor, careful to keep your posture poised under your mother’s scrutiny. Viktor, ever the tactician, takes your hands in his—awkwardly, hesitantly, as if the gesture will anchor the illusion.

"Very well," you answer, the words brittle with forced brightness.

"Very well," Viktor echoes at once, his tone so unconvincing that even Jayce shifts uncomfortably.

Your mother’s mouth twitches, amusement flickering behind her cool gaze. "I take it your little scheme was worth it, then?"

Jayce coughs out a chuckle before quickly disguising it as a clearing of his throat. Viktor leans forward, already forming a rushed explanation, but you cut them both off.

"My scheme," you correct, lifting your chin. "It was me."

As you level her with a stare, the misery that has weighed on you for days begins to lift. In its place rises a familiar defiance—one that has always been yours, steadfast and unyielding. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, confidence surges through you, not as a fractured piece of yourself, but as something whole. You are no longer a collection of selves fighting for dominance; you are one, moulded by every version of yourself that has ever existed. And now, with conjoined hands, you face your mother at last, stepping into the duel your father had warned you about.

"Gentlemen," she says, her gaze fixed on you, unwavering. "If you would be so kind as to give me and my daughter a moment alone."

"My Lady, if I may—" Viktor begins, but you silence him with a touch, your hand landing gently on his cheek.

"It's all right," you murmur.

He stares back at you, eyes full of admiration. In a moment that belongs only to the two of you, he nods, his fingers squeezing your knee in silent acknowledgement. Then, without a word, he rises, inclines his head respectfully to your mother, and beckons a bewildered Jayce toward the door.

Your mother watches the exchange, her expression unmoving, betraying nothing. Only when the door clicks shut behind the men does she turn back to you, her gaze sharp and assessing, bright like a hawk preparing to strike.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

You meet her stare unflinchingly. "I could ask the same of you." She exhales, a slow, measured breath. "The contract was horribly unjust," you continue, your voice steady. "Did you truly believe I would sit back and accept it without protest?"

"It truly eludes me how you are so quick to dismiss your own blood over a man you had met only once. Oh, the power of love—so mysterious," she says with a venomous smile.

"No need to be cruel, Maman," you reply, your voice measured.

"I am not being cruel. Simply wounded that you, my own daughter, went behind my back for some—"

"Some?" you challenge, cutting her off before the insult fully forms. You watch as she swallows whatever sharp remark was poised on her tongue, the hesitation almost imperceptible. Pressing forward, you add, "In all honesty—would you have reconsidered if I had come to you first?"

She exhales, waving a dismissive hand as she leans back against the couch in a way you've never seen before—relaxed, almost resigned.

"Probably not," she admits. "You could have told me sooner, though. I made a complete fool of myself in front of your father. He was utterly delighted to know something before I did."

Your eyebrows lift in surprise, and you let out a startled chuckle. "Is that all? You're not going to reprimand me? Tell me how I’ve endangered the family?"

"You are married now. And the research is going well, from what I’ve heard. The only ones who can endanger the family now are your sisters—though, thanks to your efforts, the pressure on them is significantly lower."

"That’s… what?" You blink at her, caught off guard.

She sighs, then tilts her head slightly as if studying you. "I apologize for surprising you. Though I must admit, I was hoping you would invite me sooner."

"Maman, I—"

"No need." She moves from her seat to sit beside you, reaching for your hand in a gesture so unfamiliar that you tense before allowing it. Never in your life has your mother been this loose with you, this… human.

"Oh, darling," she murmurs, giving your hand a light squeeze. "I am glad to see you well. Though…" Her sharp eyes scan you with barely concealed disapproval. "I see my teachings have done nothing for you. Quite the opposite, in fact," she adds, her gaze flicking to your bare ankles peeking from beneath your skirts and your hastily pinned hair.

"But who am I to dictate now," she muses, her tone wry. "If your husband doesn’t object."

"He… he cares not," you mutter, your brows knitting as you glance down at her hand still wrapped around yours.

She tilts your chin up, a smile, a warm, strange smile curves her face in a way that is so uncharacteristic your mouth falls open. “That,” she says quietly, “I find hard to believe.”

And you don’t know if it’s the whirlwind of emotions that have coursed through your veins in the span of mere hours or the sheer surprise of your mother acting—well, like an actual mother for the first time since you reached adolescence—but the tears you had managed to hold back before can no longer be contained. They spill down your cheeks as you press your face into the nape of her neck and whisper, "He doesn’t want me."

She stiffens at first, caught off guard by the way you fold into her like a child, but then—slowly, hesitantly—her arms lower, encircling you in an embrace. One hand smooths over your hair, the other presses firm against your back, as if she could hold you together through touch alone.

“My darling child,” she murmurs, her voice softer than you have ever heard it. “I have seen men upon men in my lifetime, and trust me when I tell you—if Viktor wants something, it is you. He just doesn’t know how to ask.”

You freeze. Her words settle deep in your chest, cracking open something raw that you have kept hidden even from yourself. The weight of the past few days—the sleepless nights, the aching uncertainty, the cold distance that has built between you and Viktor—collapses in on itself. The dam breaks.

You tell her everything. Or as much as you dare. You skirt around the details that would surely make her regret this moment of motherly indulgence, but you pour out the rest. The tension, the longing, the way Viktor had held you at bay, the way he had looked at you like you were something fragile, something to be preserved rather than touched. How that look had made you feel cherished and unwanted all at once. And your mother listens. Truly listens.

When you finally sit back, pressing yourself against the couch with a shuddering exhale, you feel—lighter. Not entirely, but enough. Enough to look at her without that old wariness between you.

Your mother studies you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she sighs and takes your hands in hers again, holding them with a kind of deliberate care that unsettles you more than her usual sharpness ever did.

“I might have failed you here and there as a mother,” she says at last, her voice filled with a rare honesty. “But this one thing—I might be able to fix.” She squeezes your hands, her grip firm with intent. “We are not supposed to chase them. They are supposed to chase us.” A knowing smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she leans in ever so slightly. “Let him chase you, for once.”

[salty-autistic-writer]

Buck's dog meets Tommy's comfort cat On a Sunday in winter, three things happen at the same time. 

Max barks. Buck startles awake on the couch. A knock on the door - probably not the first one - makes him grimace.

Ugh. He didn’t forget about an appointment or some social event, did he?! While quickly running his fingers through his hair and hoping there aren’t any stains anywhere on his clothes, Buck scans through his mental notes, trying to find something he might have missed.

Nope. He’s not expecting any visitors today. Today. On his free weekend. Which he spent sleeping away for the most part. Wrapped in warm blankets. Because why not?

Getting up, shivering and suppressing a yawn, Buck pats his chocolate coloured labrador's head. “It’s okay, I’m sure a burglar won’t knock first,” he says teasingly. “Go and sit, tough guy.”

Max gives him a worried side-glance, but he does obey and sits down, his ears perked up and his tongue lolling as he stares at the door.

Buck opens it.

And almost closes it again, a sharp gasp escaping his throat. He double-checks because for a moment, he’s so sure his mind is playing tricks on him.

Tommy.

It’s Tommy.

Tommy is standing in front of the door, looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck, his mouth slightly open and his eyes widening in stunned realisation.

Buck blinks. And Tommy is still there. And … He doesn’t know what to say. Or do. His heart falls, then jumps up again, beating too fast.

It’s Tommy who breaks the silence.

“Uh. I was in the area. And … I thought I could give a key back to Eddie,” Tommy says, his shoulders hunched up and his fingers fidgeting with the key. His eyes flicker from Buck’s face down to his robe and his slippers. “I … I’m sorry. I should have texted or called first. I didn’t think you would -”

Before he can finish his sentence, Max comes running with a happy huff, his tail wagging wildly. He bumps headfirst into Tommy’s knee as if he’d never thought he might be a burglar or the postman. Buck isn’t surprised. He can train Max as much as he wants. There’s always going to be a big teddy inside him that wants to be cuddled and loved by every new human.

“You have a dog,” Tommy says, surprised. “Yeah,” Buck scratches his head and smiles. “I was … lonely. It’s a big house. I moved in a while ago. After Eddie went back to Texas for Chris.”

Tommy nods in understanding, watching as Max sniffs at his shoes and legs, cough-barking once, before abruptly stepping away, giving Tommy a long glance with his head tilted and his ears perked up. That must be the closest a dog can come to giving a side-eye. 

Finally, Max trots away. He slumps in his dog bed, curling up and putting his head on his paws, giving them a look that could either be interpreted as confusion or extreme annoyance.

“What was that about?” Buck wonders. This is not typical Max behavior. He would have expected his dog to roll on his back and stretch his legs, allowing Tommy to rub his belly. “I guess he noticed all the cat hair,” Tommy says with a shrug and a crooked smile.

“Cat hair - You have a cat?!” Buck blurts, stunned.

“You weren’t the only one living in a big empty house,” Tommy says quietly.

They continue to stare at each other.

“Do you want to come inside?” Buck finally says, his lips dry. He licks them. Not failing to notice how Tommy’s eyes follow the movement.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “I’d love to.” *

How do broken pieces find each other? They collide.

Buck and Tommy collide in every sense of the word. They burn in words, in looks, in touches. Desperate, hesitant, but fierce longing. It’s palpable in the space between them.

“I’ve never felt this way for anyone,” Buck says and means it. Tommy winces. “Still?” He asks quietly. “Forever,” Buck says without hesitation. Because it’s the truth. He knows that now.

Tommy exhales. “I feel the same,” he admits. Finally admits. “And it scared me. Scares me still. But I can try. If you let me. If you -”

Buck silences him with a kiss.

It’s quite easy to get back together. To fall into a rhythm again. Of course, there are new nuances to their relationship now. Everything feels a little more tender, a little more precious. They know what feeling apart feels like now, after all. So they work on something that grows stronger every day.

The real challenge starts when they decide to let their pets meet each other.

Buck is nervous about it. Tommy isn’t.

“Animals bond fast,” he says with a reassuring smile. “It will go well. You’ll see.”

It doesn’t go well.

Day 1

Buck isn’t sure if Max has experience with cats. But with the way he stops breathing and just stares at the cat that just slapped him vigorously in baffled horror, before whining and hiding behind Buck’s legs, trembling, this seems to be the first cat his dog meets.

“Cinnabun,” Tommy says, tudding and picking his cat up. “I told you. You can’t slap your way through life. Not every problem can be solved with violence.”

Cinnabun stares down at Max, unimpressed and starts to lick her paw.

“What the hell is wrong with her?!” Buck asks angrily, crouching and hugging Max protectively. “He was just being nice! And your cat slapped him!”

“She’s a cat, Evan,” Tommy says flatly.

“She’s not just a cat. She’s an orange cat, everyone knows those are nuts! At least I gave my dog a normal name,” Buck mutters, patting Max’s head. “Who in their right mind calls their pet Cinnabun?!”

Tommy shrugs. “It’s what she looks like.”

Buck frowns. But when he looks at the purring cat, which looks tiny curled up in Tommy’s arms, he can’t fail to notice the light swirl of white in her orange fur. “You see it, don’t you?” Tommy asks, smirking.

“Just because you mentioned it! And it doesn’t change the fact that she attacked my dog for no reason at all.” "She isn't used to dogs. And don't forget that cats don't like when their familiar surroundings and routines change all of a sudden. They will get along eventually. Just give them some time," Tommy reassures. "She needs to learn to accept the love."

Buck sighs. "Alright." He suppresses asking Tommy if he's only talking about his cat or also about himself.

Day 2 

“Ouch!” Buck yelps when Cinnabun jumps into his lap, digging her claws into his thighs cruelly before landing on the floor and running away like a flash of orange lightning, her tail raised straight in the air and her meow sounding like the laughter of a madman. “Your cat is crazy!”

Tommy looks up from his book, his reading glasses making him look way too adorable considering the mood Buck is in right now. “She is just having her funny five minutes, Evan. Every cat has them.”

“You don’t need to tell me that. I know everything about cats!” Buck rubs at his legs with a grimace. “But it still feels like she’s doing this on purpose.”

He smiles fondly when Max approaches him with wide, concerned eyes and a wagging tail. 

“See? A dog would never do such a thing,” Buck says, only to watch together with Tommy as Max stops right in front of an abandoned slipper. It belongs to Tommy. Max grabs it, growls, and shakes his head furiously, absolutely tearing the slipper apart. He drops it when he seems satisfied with the level of destruction and sits down beside it, looking at Tommy with his tongue lolling.

Tommy raises a brow. “Wow. This seemed so personal,” he says dryly.

Buck swallows. Uh oh.

Day 3

Buck’s back hits the wall, and he gasps in delight as his lips collide with Tommy’s. They are all over each other, so turned on they can’t stop touching, kissing, pressing and pushing. Somehow, they make it into the bedroom. With one hand, Buck pulls the door shut behind them.

They fall into bed, and Buck starts to pull impatiently at Tommy’s pants. Tommy chuckles, raising his hips to help, his cheeks flushed and his hair tousled. He looks gorgeous. He looks like a feast. Buck wants to bite him. He wants to - Max starts howling on the other side of the door.

Tommy freezes. "Seriously?!" He asks.

"Uh." Buck sits up, surprised, blinking at the door and scratching the back of his head. “I … He’s never done that before.”

Max whines and frantically scratches at the door. He doesn’t stop. Buck looks at Tommy helplessly. “What do we do?”

“Let him in before he digs his way through the door …. I never thought I would get cockblocked by a dog one day,” Tommy sighs, head falling back into the pillows. “We have to find a solution for this.”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Buck says sheepishly, letting Max in, who immediately jumps on the bed, curls up there and puts his head on his paws, glancing at Tommy as if he’s trying to say: My house. My bed. My human. Mine.  Day 4

“No,” Buck says, glaring at Cinnabun. “No, you won’t. Not again.”

Tommy’s cat stares at him with her green eyes, not blinking once, moving her tail from side to side slowly. In front of Buck’s disbelieving eyes, she sneaks her paw closer to the glass and pushes at it once more until it’s close to the edge of the table.

“You really are doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Buck asks, narrowing his eyes. “You hate me. You want to go back home. So you’re trying what you can to sabotage my relationship with Tommy? Do you think we will break up again just because you destroy three or four of my glasses? It will take more than this, Cinnabun.”

“Are you arguing with a cat again, Evan?”

Buck sighs. “She’s trying to turn us against each other.”

Tommy chuckles. “Is that really what you think?”

Buck shrugs. “I’m just tired. I want them to get along. I want … I want us to be a family.”

Tommy’s eyes soften. “I want that too. Come on. Let’s cuddle on the couch. Maybe we can be a good example for them. Show them how nice it is to cuddle.”

But while they try to watch a movie together, Cinnabun hunts a whining Max through the whole house, and finally, they manage to destroy a vase. Buck sighs. He doesn’t have the energy left to scold. Max looks up at him sadly from where he is standing in the mess of scattered shards, leaves and earth, while Cinnabun climbs a closet and looks down at all of them triumphantly.

Day 5

They try everything. Even consult an animal behaviourist who gives them a lot of advice.

Tommy sits on the floor and gives Max dog treats while also combing through his fur with a brush that is covered in Cinnabun’s hair. They are supposed to get used to each other’s smell. After eating the treats, Max grabs the brush, pulls it out of Tommy’s hand and goes to bury it in the garden.

Buck tries to play with Cinnabun, but while he offers her a dozen different cat toys, she just loafs on the floor and stares at him boredly. Only an hour later, Buck finds cat puke in one of his shoes.

“At this point,” he says numbly while cleaning it, “We should just make a comedy about our life. Hey, want to give Taylor a call?”

* Ironically, it’s fear that makes them all bond.

It’s New Year’s Eve.

Fireworks are going off outside. Again and again. Close. Loud. Scary.

Tommy flinches in Buck’s arms, his eyes focused on the TV, but it’s clear something’s pulling him somewhere else. Back to the past. To memories he has just shared recently. Sometimes, Tommy’s hand wanders to his mouth, and he starts to bite at his nails, but Buck gently takes it, squeezing. Holding.

Max is trembling, laying on Buck’s feet, as close to his legs as possible. And in front of Buck’s surprised eyes, Cinnabun stalks closer, but not to cause trouble this time. Instead, she first bumps her head against Tommy’s knee, then curls up next to Max, snuggling against his side. The dog allows it. And Cinnabun starts to purr, closing her eyes.

Huh. 

Buck smiles. “Look at them,” he whispers, nudging Tommy.

“Aw. Almost looks like they are mirroring us,” Tommy says, leaning his head against Buck’s shoulder. “Told you. They just need time.”

Time.

After some more time, Buck enters the living room one morning and sees Max curled up on his dog bed, with Cinnabun on his back, her eyes closed. But she opens one of them when he takes a picture, giving him a look that seems to say: This doesn’t mean I love him. He’s just a good bed. 

Buck chuckles and sends the picture to Tommy.

(AO3 Link)

[s4nniebe4r]

the roommate

part eight: barely there

pairing: roommate! san x fem! reader

synopsis: your avoidance is evident, but it can only last so long

wc: 1.5k

tags: slow burn, roommates, enemies to lovers, angst, forced proximity, eventual romance

etc: a little shorter update, but, you'll like the end... promise! not proofread, liebchens! 

previous part next part

The avoidance starts unintentionally. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself. 

It’s not like you planned to spend every free moment outside the apartment. You suddenly have more work to get done at the library, more errands to take care of, more assignments that require your full attention; all of which need to be done anywhere but here. And when you do stay home, you suddenly have the overwhelming urge to clean. Not just a little tidying up, either. Full clean. Scrubbing the counters, organizing the fridge, wiping down the mirrors, sweeping even though the floor is spotless already. Anything to keep your hands moving, anything to keep your mind off him. 

It’s almost ironic how perfectly timed you and your movements have become. You leave the kitchen right before he enters. You slip into your room just as he steps into the hallways. The bathroom door clicks shut behind you before he can even round the corner. You barely see him at all. 

And the best way you have found to ignore him? Your Sony’s. The headphones are now constantly on you, filling the silence with music, drowning out every creak of the apartment, every potential sound that might make you wonder where he’s at. Because wondering means noticing, and noticing means thinking, and thinking means remembering. And you just can’t afford to remember. Not that night. 

San doesn’t actively avoid you, but he doesn’t make an effort to be around you either. If anything, he’s just quieter. And, you’re grateful? There are no more sarcastic remarks when you walk by. No more unnecessary commentary. He doesn’t challenge you anymore, no more pushing your buttons, he doesn’t give you any reason to push back. In some ways though, it’s worse than before. At least when he was annoying, it was easy to fight him. But, now? There’s nothing to fight now. 

Then there were the changes. At first, you didn’t even register them. But then, you start noticing. 

The sink isn’t piled up with dishes anymore. The couch is always clear when you go to sit down. The jacket from that night that was draped over the armrest? It’s gone. The bathroom counter isn’t cluttered with his stuff, the towels aren’t left on the floor, the small annoyances you’ve mentally kept over time start to disappear. Like he’s started to disappear. 

It’s almost enough to trick you into thinking he isn’t there at all. 

But there are the small things. 

One day, you reach into the kitchen cabinet, searching for a snack, only to stop dead. 

There’s a new box of the honey citron tea bags. Your breath catches slightly. You never bought this. 

You remember talking about it with Seonghwa at the cafe the other evening, mentioning in passing that you’d been meaning to try it, but never got around to it. San wasn’t even there. He couldn’t have heard you—except, he must have?

Your fingers hover over the packaging, tracing the label, stomach twisting into something unreadable, starting to hurt a little. You don’t take it out. You don’t even touch it. You just stand there, staring, pulse thumping in your ears. 

He was listening. He remembered. 

And you don’t know what to do with that. 

It happens again when you step into the living room one morning and realize that the thermostat is set higher than usual. Not too much, just enough. Enough for you to breathe a little easier. Enough for you to not wake up shivering. 

Once more when you go to put something away and realize that the broken cabinet you complained about weeks ago is suddenly fixed. The one that always jammed, that always annoyed you, that he used to sneer about not bothering to touch because it adds character. 

It happens again and again and again. 

And every time, your chest gets a little tighter. 

Because San isn’t saying anything. He’s not looking for a thank you, he’s not pointing out the things he’s done, not making some snarky comment about how he’s better than you. He’s just doing them. Without a word. Without acknowledgement. Maybe even without expectation. 

Silent. Unspoken. Things that mean too much to just be meaningless. 

Steam curls against the bathroom mirror, fogging the glass in front of you as you strip off your sweatpants, kicking them into the corner. The room is warm, like a sauna, and the heat seeps into your skin, and you stretch your arms overhead, sighing softly as the muscles in your back unwind. 

You’re exhausted. You’ve exhausted yourself. Not just physically, but mentally—this whole week has been an exercise in careful avoidance. You don’t even remember the last time you and San have been in the same space for more than just a brief moment. 

Maybe that’s why your guard is down. Maybe that’s why, when you reach for the shower knob to switch from the faucet to the overhead, hand hovering, you suddenly remember. 

Your towel. You left it in your room. 

You let out a quiet, annoyed groan, raking a hand through your hair. The bathroom is literally across the hall from your bedroom. It’s not even a two-second walk. You’ve done it a million times before, stepping out quickly to grab something you forgot. San is probably in his room, headphones in, completely unaware, per usual. 

It’ll be fine. So you move without thinking; opening the bathroom door, stepping into the hallway. The air hits you differently outside the steamy bathroom. The immediate change sends a shiver down your legs, a fresh wave of awareness crashing over you. 

You’re not even wearing bottoms. Just an oversized hoodie and underwear. 

You barely have time to process that thought before you’re already moving. 

Two steps into your bedroom, fingers reaching for the towel draped over your desk chair, and you’re already spinning back around—ready to return to the safety of the bathroom.

And that’s when it happens. 

You slam into something that wasn’t there before. Solid and warm. 

Your breath catches. The impact jolts through your body, your hands shooting up instinctively to brace whatever—whoever—you just ran into before you may fall back. 

San. 

The realization hits you right after your fingers splayed outward, spreading against the fabric of his hoodie, feeling the firmness beneath. 

His hands find you instantly, steadying you, one at your upper arm, the other hovering just slightly above your waist. 

And there it is again. Silence. The kind of silence that feels deafening. Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe. Your heart is pounding. You’re too aware. Of him. Of you. Of everything. 

And then, it happens. His gaze drops. You can feel it happen before you fully register it. 

A flicker—his dark eyes dragging downward, sweeping over the bare skin of your legs, the oversized hoodie hanging just long enough to leave everything else dangerously close to exposed. To the clothes that are barely there.

You feel your stomach tightening again.

Your skin prickles, every nerve ending is alive, your hair standing up. 

And then, just as fast, his gaze snaps back up. His fingers flex around your arm. It’s subtle, a reflex, like his body is processing what just happened a second slower than his mind. His face remains carefully blank, but you see the shift. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his lips press together. It lasts half a second, and yet, it stretches into what feels like eons. 

You swear, you feel the ghost of his touch even after his hand on your arm drops away—as if the heat of them lingers, as if the pressure is still there, even though it’s gone. 

And suddenly, you’re aware of everything. The way his hoodie smells just like him, close enough to catch the faint traces of his cologne, something warm, earthy, and deep. The way your hoodie barely covers the top of your thighs, and the cool air feels entirely too noticeable against the sliver of skin where his hand had been close to moments ago. The way your breath is shallower than it should be. The way his is, too. 

You don’t know who moves first. All you know is that suddenly, San is stepping back. His other hand falls away, the warmth of them vanishing too quickly. But not before his fingers graze against the side of your hip—just barely, just the softest ghost of a touch. It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does. 

And without a word, without a single glance back, he walks past you. Disappearing into his room. Closing the door behind him. 

The silence slams into you all over again. Your breath shudders out of you. You should move. You should do something. Anything. 

Instead, you just stand there. Your fingers tighten around the towel in your grip, pulse hammering in your ears. The hallway feels too cold now. You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down smoothly. Because you still feel where his hands were. Still feel the heat that shouldn’t be there. Still feel the weight of everything that just happened, everything that shouldn’t have mattered. The way that the touch felt the same as that night the two of you fought. 

It really shouldn’t matter. But it does. 

taglist:

@kryscent @randajjjad @yutapeaxh @barbielibra @sheadoreswalls @candied-czennie @decaffeinatedpandabread @sannieworshipper

(please lmk if you’ve been missed out or i’ve entered your user wrong!)

[kabuki-writes]

Twin Suns

chapter: 8 chapter 1 | 2 | 3| 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: With you being the wife of his brother now and therefore a part of the royal court, it gets increasingly harder for Emperor Caracalla to not seek your company. Noticing his interest in you, Emperor Geta sets up a twisted game to benefit from his twin's desires.

warning(s): MDNI | implied smut warning | partially non consent | Geta being Geta and Caracalla being Caracalla | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything

Note: I know, i know! It took me quite some time to get this chapter ready for you. Writer blocks are sadly a thing and i am not immune to that ughhhh! But this series will continue, even though it might take longer than i initially expected it to be. Also there are some new projects i'd like to work on, but they'll probably going to be one-shots. Stay tuned and thank you for your patience <3!

word count: 3.1k

Rome felt different during the summer days. It barely rained and the bright sun turned the city into a melting pot. The heat could become a torture, at least for the common citizens, who had to live and work in the dense streets of the Aventin or the other districts outside the Palatin hill. In the previous decades, fires caused by drought and bad luck were a common problem, especially in the districts of the poor. It was nothing that was new but it only added to the pile of other injustices, which grab around like a plague, being it hunger or the slow decay of any morals that were once held so high by the Roman elite.

The upper classes themselves however had their ways of dealing with those "problems". A lot of them left the city during those hot months as they owned homes in the countryside with the same amount of comfort they enjoyed in the capital. One of the most lavish and gigantic depictions of such a summer residence was the palace of the Emperors in Anzio, directly built at the coastline and a few miles south of Rome. This place was almost like a small city in itself, a symbol of Emperor Geta's and Caracalla's wealth, even though it was actually their father, who restored the old palace that once belonged to Emperor Nero. Emperor Septimius Severus modernized the old walls and equipped the residence to be a retreat for his family. Just as their palace in Rome, their summer residence had everything Caracalla and Geta expected in their roles as the most powerful men in the world. An army of servants rushed around to cook and clean up, take care of the garden, or simply do whatever was needed. Additionally, as always, the Emperors had their entourage of concubines with them, who stayed with the other servants and slaves in another part of the palace - ready to be called whenever they were needed.

Over the last passing weeks after your wedding with Emperor Geta, you'd tried your best to get used to all of this - to the luxury and the way all eyes were always set on you, ready to watch every damn move you did. You rarely got any moment for yourself, since it was expected from you to stick at Geta's side, smile and be at his service every second of the day. And he had used this situation over and over again. Your husband would say that this was just the way he offered you his love, but the reality was that he was a very lustful and demanding man. One that searched for your approval so desperately through all the touches, kisses and pleasures he viewed as a gift, but you only took them to preserve your pride behind a carefully crafted mask of adaption. You despised the lavish parties, the concubines, the twisted game everyone of the royal court seemed to play, so that they wouldn't end up crucified the next morning. And you knew so well, that just like your father, you were fighting to save your family too - not on the battlefield, but in the front of the Emperor and in his bed.

Letters from General Acacius were a rarity, when he was off on a campaign at the end of the Roman Empire. A messenger needed weeks, often over a month until he was able to deliver to the right person. Holding the papyrus paper in your hands felt like holding a godly present, when you read the written words that were only meant for you over and over again. Beginning with "My dearest, my beloved daughter", Acacius told her about the exhausting travel, the situation of his legions as well as his own, about the siege of Numidia - the last free city of Africa Nova and more. In his letter it was an upcoming and unavoidable happening, but given all the time between writing and delivering, the battle might've been over already.

Although it was a personal letter adressed to the Empress, given that he didn't know if anyone else would lay their eyes on it, Acacius deliberately left out the any critique about the Emperor's decisions to continue Rome's expansions. But you knew your father well enough to read between the lines of his text, which gave you a glimpse about how tired he was about this war and how much it caused pain in him to kill and enslave under the banner of a reign he saw as nothing but a tyranny. You were lost in between his words and the smell of the sea mixed with the one of the papyrus in your hand, when a little squeak caught your ears and pulled you out of your thoughts. Another soft screech and you looked into the buttoned eyes of Dondus, the small pet monkey of Emperor Caracalla, who sat in his tiny tunic on the table next to you.

"I knew i'd find you here!" You didn't even need to turn your head around, to know which of the twins suddenly approached you as you were still sitting on a bench in the Palace gardens, protected by the shdaows of the trees around, but with the beautiful view of the sea right in front of you. Still you followed the etiquette and stood up to greet your brother-in-law with a bow of your head. "My Emperor,..."

"Caracalla", he corrected you, before you could even speak further. "You're part of the family now, there's no need to make it complicate, right?"

The fact that you were his brother's wife still bothered him from the very first day on. A mere thought about his brother's possession of your heart could kick off a tantrum of Caracalla at any given time, especially when he was alone in his rooms and had to face all the thoughts what Geta probably did to you, when he had you in his presence. And it was rare, very rare to get a moment with you alone, one in which you were not with Emperor Geta or accompanied by his personal guard. Those that Caracalla was the only one able to send away since the Praetorians had to follow his orders in the same way they did with his brother's. They were twin Emperors all along. And although Geta took more of the leading responsibilities, they shared the power equally at the end of the day.

You nodded in response to his offering, even if it was still an unusual practice - you weren't this close with him. Actually you thought that he had tried to avoid you for quite some time, after your wedding with his brother, which made his sudden approach even more dubious. Nonetheless you put on the mask of a dutiful Roman woman, graceful and without any falter, as your mouth curled into a smile and your hand started to crawl the head of Caracalla's pet monkey, who suddenly jumped onto your lap. "So you and Dondus have found me. Is there something i can help you with or do you just seek the company of your sister-in-law?" Caracalla's jaw clenched, even if his eyes remained open in a stare and his lips still frozen with a smile. "Maybe both", he whispered, before his hand suddenly grabbed yours, a soft gesture, a caring one combined with his following words, but you knew very well it was inappropriate.

"I know that we haven't seen each other for quite some time now and as you know Geta and i are twins - so i know my brother better than anyone. Which is, why i am more than curious to know how you're feeling now that you're his wife? Given the ... circumstances of your marriage, it was probably difficult to adjust to the court life and the duties of an Empress, with your honorable father fighting for Rome's glory somewhere in Africa Nova." His jaw clenched, when he mentioned the man he saw as nothing more than a traitor and you were well aware of that, which was why you hid your anger behind a well-crafted but forced smile.

„I know what is expected of me. And I do my duty for Rome just as my father.“

"That was not my question", Caracalla quickly shot back with an unbothered grin on his lips, while he was slowly leaning closer to you. Your eyes didn't left him as you watched intensely what he did, while you could already feel his breath on your skin. There was a danger radiating from him, a twisted combination out of friendly words and ulterior motives you weren't able to grasp. An inappropriate chuckle escaped his lips out of a sudden, as if he had done enough to hide it. "Is he not capable to satisfy his Empress?"

Your eyes widened and your lips parted, trying to say something, but no words came from them, shocked by the misguided question. Why, by the gods, did he ask such a thing!? Slowly, you gathered your thoughts again, as you tried your best to not show any emotions that would give off how uneasy you felt. But it didn't help that his hand crept further, as he reached out with his fingertips to trace the exposed skin of your arm. A gesture that caused a shiver running down you spine. It was as if he suddenly felt a sense of boldness, knowing that both of you were alone – even though you were not.

"I don't think that you would like me to tell you how your dear brother takes his pleasure from his wife". The words came from your lips like a confession, while you slowly gained conciousness about his goal. "Isn't it so? When we were at the amphitheater back then, you told me that you see yourself as Nero... and on my weddingday, you presented me the crown of Empress Poppaea. It is ironic, don't you think? That we sit here in the same gardens, those two probably enjoyed themselves too?", you said without a tone-shift in your voice, before you whispered, as if you were telling him a secret. "But i don't belong to you."

Something in Caracalla's eyes shifted, while you spoke, a dark glimpse of something that was buried deep inside him. The way his fingers suddenly snaked around your wrist and pressed themselves into your skin, while his lips shuddere, gave away that it triggered him. Even though it was simply the truth, but you wanted to hear what was going on in his mind. And how to get answers better than by teasing Caracalla in a way his lips would instantly react faster than his brain.

"Soon, i promise!", his voice a muddled with promise, plea and anger. "My brother doesn't deserve to have you", he hissed in a low tone, while his face was close to yours as if he was just a short distance away from simply kissing your lips. It took you a lot to not slip from his grip to escape this madness. Geta was cruel, but Caracalla was insane and you were trapped with their tantrums from the second they'd layed their eyes on you. "He never deserved you, not you, not the Empire, all of this. I do. I do. Don't tell me that you've never thought about it, i know that you do-"

"We shouldn't-"

"Don't deny it! We both know that it is fate that brought us together – that brought us here. It is just another sign that we're here together, like Nero and his love." His voice became louder and almost cracked in his anticipation, while his grip on your wrist was so tight, it started to hurt you. But it didn't seem like he would let go either. You were helpless in a situation like this as every word you said, seemed to make it even worse as he just heard what he wanted to hear. Caracalla was in his own reality, his own world, and you were his Venus, his goddess, the pinnacle of his unrestrained desire.

"Caracalla, please. My Emperor, you need to calm down", you tried it with a soft tone shift, your free hand slowly reaching for his scarred pale cheek. The scars testaments of his mental state as he scratched himself, whenever he had a nervous outburst. If he would voice this nonesense even louder, it might alert someone and you knew that it might get yourself in danger too. The Emperors were untouchable, but you...? Geta were able to punish you, if he would hear this conversation – even though you didn't even wished for the attention of his brother, it wouldn't matter.

Your voice, your touch, whatever it was, it shifted Caracalla's mood. He calmed down like a puppy, who melted under the way your filigran fingers ran over his cheek. His cold-blue eyes still stared at you, but it was almost as if he feared he said something wrong. It was the very first time you experienced firsthand how much power you actually hold over a man, who could easily order your murder. The young Emperor leaned into your touch and suddenly nodded softly. "I- i am sorry, i didn't...– i didn't want to scream at you. It was just- no, there is no excuse, please, you need to forgive me–"

You took your time with him even though there were so many thoughts echoing in your mind, how you were trapped in a seemingly never ending tragedy with no way out. However with Caracalla, you might get a chance to play your own little game... so you used this opportunity. "I already did, no need to worry, Caracalla", you whispered in an encouraging tone, taking away all his fears with just a few words. "But you should go now, Dondus seems to need some rest. And we will meet again for dinner, right?"

Indeed, Dondus, Caracalla's little pet monkey, had already laid down on the table, resting in the shadows of the olive trees. A sad shimmer appeared on Caracalla's face, when he got up. But he didn't leave you without. taking your hand for a moment and placing a kiss on your knuckles. He didn't said a word after this, while he simply took Dondus up his arms and walked off. Silence, it was even stronger than any word now, while your eyes went to your wrists, where he had grabbed you out of desperation. He was pathetic, insane – yet he could become a tool to find a way out of here. Maybe you became to ambitious in this very moment.

----

"Did you enjoy the moment with my wife", Geta's voice hit Caracalla like a dagger in the chest as he walked down the aisle, which lead from the gardens back to the palace rooms. He stopped instantly and turned his head around only to see his twin standing there in his lavish robes and the golden laurel wreath on his short gingerblonde hair. For a second, Caracalla almost favored the thought of simply leaving by ignoring those provocative words. But the accusation between the lines, grabbed his mind and basically forced a reaction from him.

"I just talked with her. Am i not allowed to do this, brother? She seemed lonely."

"Ah yeah, lonely?" Geta simply recalled Caracalla's words, while he did a few steps into his direction, stopping right in front of him as his face turned moe and more red. Not because of embarrassment, it was clear that his twin hated to be mocked like this, although the tease was not completely without a reason.

"And you really didn't thought about anything else as you were just accompaning my 'lonely' wife? Don't fool me, brother, i know you since we've shared our mother's womb."

"Is this an accusation?", Caracalla hissed, his fists clenching together. Even Dondus on his shoulder sensed the emotions that cooked up in his owner, screatching in response. What was Geta playing here?

"An offering."

An offering? Caracalla's eyes stared at Geta for a long minute, visibly trying to make sense of his words. It sounded like a test, like a tease, but nothing in his twin's face changed, while he looked at him with a smile that was too genuine for a moment like this.

"You wouldn't like to fuck her, don't you?"

"Stop playing with me!? Why are you doing this!? What should all of that mean!?", Caracalla complained almost like a child, who was bullied by an older kid.

Geta suddenly sighed – as if he was even annoyed by the way his brother reacted to him and this only fueled Caracalla's anger even more. His hand ran through his gingerblonde hair, while his sky-blue eyes were still locked with his smaller twin, since Geta towered him in height. Slowly, he leaned towards Caracalla's ear and finally revealed, what he was thinking in more clearer words. And they revealed a twisted idea that had grew in his mind from the very first moment he'd seen his brother's interest in you.

"If you would like to get a taste of my wife, i will allow it. I couldn't deny my dearest brother a wish like this, because i understand how easily she put a spell on you like a siren. But–" he paused intentionally to give his words even more weight as he spoke out the condition for such a 'trade'. "Since she is my wife, i want to watch what you're doing with her." Caracalla's eyes widened more and more in response to his offering. An internal fight enrupted in him between the hunger that already burned for you and the shame he would feel to put you in a situation like that.

Whoever thought that Caracalla was the only lunatic of the twin emperors had never seen what Geta was really capable of. He just usually did induldge in his 'fun' behind closed doors. Even before he even met you, Geta enjoyed the brutality of the arena fights just as he enjoyed the wild orgies hosted in the Emperor's palace. It were those orgies with tons of whores and slaves, where he not only developed a love for dominating others, but he also formed a voyeristic lust. Seeing others exposing themselves in front of him and losing themselves in the heat of the act was like a painting for his eyes. He shared a lot with his brother, even their concubines – so why shouldn't he share you as well? As long as you were officially his, bound to him and only him in front of the gods, that was the only thing he needed.

"So... what do you say, Caracalla?"

____________________________

Tags:

quuinyoung koshkahhh mmkkzz analves pandora-journey ange-olras tellynojelly targwh0re h3k3t onelemonoat whitenoise808 spooky-cupid dev1lbella onelemonoat hawraa-alzubaidi omg-hellgirl the-holy-pigeon justnobodynothingmore fandomblogs-stuff justnobodynothingmore superblyspeedydragon deliciousfestsalad moon-390 lv9su harmfulb1tch apollonshootafar zalera8310 sweetffcts lvspedri soltik capitanostella weepingfashionwritingplaid labellapeaky @qardasngan @fallout-girl219 @chaand-sitara @eighttens @riddlerloveb0t @nicksolemnlyswears @myotakureprieve @lovely--lover @idiotsatan @mqrrstarr @eclypsosworld @happythingtiger @a-lovers-card @fandom-princess-forevermore @theamandaaashow @themoonofthesun @an34l @sunny0jinkies @thatgirl444555 @malfoycassimalfoy @victoria-rue @hikohyuuga @heavengirls111 @prestinalove @jakesullyswhore @boywivlove @mystical1wonderland

[records-of-a-slacker]

(Found this in my drafts lol-)

If Calefam finds my Cale MCD fic I'll be six feet under in *seconds*

Delicious angst btw! Allow me to cook as well- so I've been having a lot of fun with record, specifically when it malfunctions during fevers. Record makes fevers ten times worse because not only does he 1. feel terrible in general but 2. record goes absolutely haywire. His brain is basically flipped upside down and under and all of his memories are out of order all over the place. He's burning up at insane temperatures, enough to feel like wanting to scratch and rip his skin off from how hot it feels. His entire head is aching like there's a chock-full of needles shoved into his brain repeatedly trying to sort itself out, and in turn record is in constant use during his fevers. He's sweating bullets and buckets all the time, and he's so dizzy he can't even stand. Sometimes he vomits from all the nausea. His eyes can start to bleed from the overuse- everywhere bleeds actually. Nose, ears, lips, mouth.

But that's not even getting into how it affects his psyche. During particularly bad fevers he can full on hallucinate, auditory and visual, records forcefully taking form in his head, including the ones he has suppressed of his uncle, his childhood, the cataclysm, shelter attacks, the day his team died, wind island test, everything. And they would shift between them at a moments notice like a trauma spinning wheel, morphing his surroundings, blurring voices, and since record is so accurate it can even feel like its stimulating back the pain he felt during some records, like instant scars, or when his uncle hits him, or injuries from monsters and falling rubble, like phantom pain. Even worse, sometimes he'd just completely lose a portion of his memory or regress to certain points in his life. He wouldn't remember the person in front of him or pick up old habits like flinching from touch and sudden voices and keeping his head down. He almost always has nightmares of his past when he sleeps thanks to record too.

When you think about the current Cale having a record malfunction it's worse too because the APs are in his head and talking which only disorients him more, and imagine him with slight memory loss, stumbling around delirious alone at night after he catches a bad cold and suddenly his APs activate when he flinches or reacts with his emotion. Imagine him getting surprised by someone reaching out and the shield immediately activates, separating him from the other person because he was seeing a record of his uncle. Or a sudden zap of lightning that he doesn't know how to control and he ends up burning himself which triggers a record from a monster who hurt him in a similar way. What if without meaning to he accidentally hurts someone- what if Raon is trying to reach out and almost gets zapped. What if his fear response triggers DA and now no one can get near him? What of at his most vulnerable he distances himself from everyone

It's hard to really put into words but yeah record malfunctioning and forcing all of Cale's trauma out while he's extremely vulnerable and weak in front of others is my favorite thing.

are there any fics where instead of cale knowing piano/singing/guitar from his time as krs, its the opposite thing instead? og cale was this renowned musician and then krs cale comes in and people are like pls sir bless our ears!! play a song, sing a tune! and then cale opens his mouth and the most ear-splitting sound comes out. reputation destroyed. talent gone. mystery rising. cale is just happy this means he can be seen as legitimate trash now.

[the-bi-space-ace]

Call When You Need Me

Fandom: The Bad Batch

Relationship: Echo & Hunter

Words: 1,624

Summary: Echo crash lands on a planet during a mission for Rex. His first instinct is to call someone he hasn’t talked to in a while. (Warning for injury and some blood)

I yapped about Hunter and Echo in a post yesterday and now I can’t stop. This could possibly end up being a scene in a larger fic at some point down the line but for now have this angsty yet sweet little moment between these two.

Alternative summary: Echo, you idiot, call your dad!

Echo’s body ached. The last thing he remembered was the ship exiting hyperspace, engines failing, life support plummeting. Then he woke up, back pressed against metal and freezing. He tried to roll over but a yelp tore itself from his lips. When he looked down he saw the problem. a piece of metal stuck in his abdomen, legs pinned under the navigation computer. The mission had been simple, at least they thought it was. Run into the base, nab the information, steal a ship, leave.

He got caught trying to scomp into the ship.

Rex said it would be better with a small team but they were spread thin, they were always spread thin.

The world above him wobbled, vision tilting as he stared up at the ship’s side. From the angle he knew he was lying on the door.

Outside snow blew past the windows of the cockpit, pelting against the metal exterior of the ship.

Groaning, he typed a number into his comm. He didn’t even know whose number it was until a familiar voice called through the chilly air.

“About time. I was starting to think you forgot about us. How’s it going?” Hunter. Why had he called Hunter? His thoughts couldn’t stitch together quite right. Rex was on a mission, too, same planet Echo was on, but his escape would be just as narrow. Don’t deviate from the objective, Echo thought to himself. It was hard enough to escape with his life, Rex was likely long gone by now, however long he’d been out.

He tried to bury that thought before it consumed him.

“Great. Never better.” He knew his voice sounded strained, heard it echo through their open channel, but he grit his teeth to attempt to settle his breathing. The pain was starting to seep in now, the cold worming its way past his back.

It made his metal ache.

Hunter paused, thought. “You okay? It’s just me right now. We can talk.” The offer had stood every time he called, few and far between. Moments alone were rare.

“Remember the last time I was there? It smelled like,” Echo sucked in a gasp, eyes stinging. Protests raged through his gut while his lungs tried to expand. He’d really fucked up this time. “blooming flowers.”

“Wrecker pressed some from that trip. He still has them.” Shuffling on the other end, standing from a chair, the sound of Hunter’s shoes tapping against stone. He must be home.

“Tell him I kept the one he gave me.” Pressed between flimsy and tucked inside the pocket of one of his bags, strapped to his thigh at all times. Before missions he liked to touch it, just once. A reminder.

“I will. What’s going on?” Hunter’s voice had grown gruffer now, so much less calm then when he’d picked up the phone. Echo’s breath came in harsh puffs, rising like smoke through the frozen air. Vaguely, a throb made his head spin. Thick, as if the air was made of water.

“Echo?” Hunter’s voice urged. Not urgent, not calm, but something deeply in between. Something that almost settled the hot coils in his chest.

Almost.

“I’m here. Don’t hang up.” His hand felt the metal lodged in his abdomen, biting back a cry. The cold had numbed much of his body but this was a hot, searing pain, cutting through the frigidity of the planet’s winter.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Where’s Rex?” Through the comm he could hear Hunter typing, the click of keys as he typed a message. To who Echo could only guess. To Rex. To Tech. To someone. How disarming must this be? Somewhere deep down he knew it wasn’t fair to do this but the rest of him didn’t care. He wanted someone on the other end.

Just in case.

“He’s just down the hall.” Echo lied, unsure why he did. This felt like a goodbye. A send off so someone at least knew what happened to him. Worrying Hunter would only make him worse. A soft curse on the other end was quickly covered by Hunter clearing his throat.

“Anyone else around or do I have the rare opportunity to talk to you alone?” Sneaky bastard. Echo let his head fall against the metal door below him.

“I’m all you’re getting today.” Echo bit the inside of his lip as his eyes started to burn. This. This was how it was going to happen. After everything he was going to die alone on this frozen planet. “How’s everyone? Omega doing okay?” He tried not to let his voice tremble but he didn’t quite pull it off. By the pause Hunter didn’t buy it either.

“She’s got a whole four inches taller since the last time you were here. Tech is determined to document every beetle on the island. Wrecker hasn’t stopped trying to lift rocks for exercise. And Cross has figured out how to make a bow and arrow out of sticks. I’ve been stabbed in the ass three times already.” Hunter groaned and a smile spread across Echo’s face as hot tears dripped down his cheeks. “I can’t keep him from stealing your bed much longer, ya know. He’s eyeing it.” No one was laying claim to his bed, not on his watch.

“Those are my pillows. He’ll crush them with his big head.” Pain shot through his hips as he tried to move, breath catching in his throat.

When Hunter spoke it sounded tight. “Guess you’ll just have to lay claim to them again. Spend a damn night here.” Silence was punctuated by Echo’s heavy breathing, harsh, sharp. The blood was pooling around his legs now. He could feel the warmth spread, putting a barrier between him and the icy ship. It was so much more than he anticipated. So much more than he thought. The numbness was working its way into his thoughts now, slowing them even more. “We miss you, you know that.” It wasn’t meant to be accusatory, Echo knew, but he grimaced regardless.

“I’ll tell you what, my next opportunity for leave I’ll be there. Those blankets are mine.” Hunter cleared his throat over what sounded like a message being sent. Thirty seconds later his comm lit up.

Rex: I’m heading your way, hang in there.

“I’ll do my best to keep everyone away from your stuff until you’re here but you know how they are.” Hunter commented as another message came through.

“They, huh?”

“Watch it.”

Rex: Stay awake.

Rex: Tell Hunter I said thank you. Why the hell didn’t you call me first?

Echo chuckled under his breath. “Telling on me? That’s what we’re doing now?”

“When you’re being stubborn.” Hunter murmured back. “He’s going to kick your ass when he gets to you. I only wish I was there to see it.”

“He can’t. He needs me.”

“Wouldn’t stop me.”

“Whatever.” COs always tried to threaten him into behaving better. It wasn’t worth it, Echo would always be himself. Regardless of their disappointment in his more reckless antics.

“Let’s talk my terms for saving your ass.“

“Let’s not.”

“You’ll get here and get out of that armor. It probably needs a good wash.”

Echo rolled his eyes. “Rude.”

“Then you’re letting us feed you. Rations aren’t as good as what we’ve got here. You’ll actually relax. Take a cat nap, lay in the sun, terrorize Crosshair.”

“It’s what he deserves.”

“Hit him in the ass with a pointy stick arrow, please, I’m begging.” Echo let out a laugh at that but quickly regretted it as pain shot up his side, ending in a groan despite the presence of a smile.

“Shit. Don’t make me laugh it hurts.”

“Hopefully plenty of that while you’re here, too.”

Echo groaned but the distraction was nice. It kept his mind off of the feeling of pinned and bleeding. “Gross. You’re getting soft.”

“Let’s see how willing you are to run your mouth when you’re not on the other side of a comm.” With his face pressed to the speaker he could almost pretend the voice was in the room with him. Not what felt like a galaxy away.

“That doesn’t stop me.”

“I suffer endlessly.”

The comm blinked again, this time with another message from Rex. Still frantically trying to figure out why he hadn’t just called, dammit.

“Rex’ll be here in five.” He informed Hunter who let out a sigh, relieved.

“I can drop the call once he has you.”

“Don’t. Please. Just-“ He was grateful for the silence while he thought of what to say. Just talk to me. Stay. Don’t leave me alone. It’s too quiet. All things he thought of saying while he pulled in ragged breaths. “At least stay on the line.”

Hunter made a noise, wobbly, pained, then sniffed. “I’ll always be on the other end. You know that.”

Echo didn’t hear the rest. Vaguely Hunter’s voice filtered through the air and eventually someone got into the emergency hatch. He knew it was Rex by the gentle way he handled Echo, by the worried eyes, the scolding in his voice when he talked. He caught glimpses of the two of them talking, bits of conversation as someone else - Cody, it looked like - helped get him lifted out of there. Too dangerous to remove the metal in his gut but the sedative worked well enough to keep him sane.

He’s a handful.

I warned you.

Yeah, well, he’s lucky he’s good at his job otherwise I’d send him back to you.

You better. I need someone to help me wrangle my own idiots.

It wasn’t long until his brain shut down, hiding while his body dealt with the trauma, but while he did he could still hear talking.

Never alone. Never forgotten.

[slutoru1207]

Wildflowers

Warning: This story will involve emotional conflict, heartache, and bittersweet moments that may be heavy and triggering. It explores themes of loss, fear, and the fragility of love in the face of impossible responsibilities. Proceed with caution, 2,902k wc.

The first time Mark kissed you, the world felt like it could finally be still. He was Invincible, a hero to the world—yet when his lips touched yours, for a brief, impossible moment, he was just Mark. Just a boy who loved you.

You remember that moment like a dream. It felt like the calm after a storm, the kind of serenity you could almost touch. He had always been your wildflower, free, untamed, growing in places no one could imagine, but to you, it was simple. You loved him. He loved you. And in those quiet moments, in the spaces where he wasn’t Invincible, he was yours.

But now?

Now, everything is different.

You stare at him as he stands in the doorway of your apartment, his back turned to you as if he can’t bear to face you. The bruises on his skin, the blood on his suit—he wears them like a badge, but you know, deep down, they’re eating away at him. The weight of it all. The responsibility. The guilt.

He doesn’t speak. You’ve tried talking to him, tried reaching through the distance that’s been growing between you, but the words never seem enough. Every time you try, he pulls away, even if just a little. Even if just enough to break your heart.

“I’m fine,” he says, as he always does. “I’m just... tired.”

But you can hear the lie in his voice. You can see it in the way his shoulders slump, in the way his eyes no longer shine with the same light that used to make you feel like you were the only thing in the world.

It’s been like this for weeks. Months, maybe. Since he left for the battle against the Viltrumites. Since the war became personal.

You thought you knew what it meant to love him—to love someone who had to fight, to protect, to save. But this... this is different.

Every day, he slips further away from you. Every day, he becomes more of a symbol and less of a man. Less of the Mark who once held your hand in the dark and whispered promises of a future you both wanted.

And it tears you apart.

“Mark, please.” You step forward, your voice barely a whisper, but you feel the weight of the words. “Don’t push me away.”

His head turns slightly, just enough to show you the exhaustion in his eyes. But there’s something else, too—something colder. Something that scares you more than any villain ever could.

“I’m not pushing you away.” His voice is steady, but the words feel like glass, fragile and ready to shatter. “You deserve better than this. I can’t keep doing this to you.”

You blink, confused and hurt. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not good for you,” he admits quietly. His words hang in the air, sharp and painful. “You’re... You’re a wildflower, and I’m just—” He shakes his head, cutting himself off before he can say more.

Your heart tightens in your chest, and you don’t know how to respond. The metaphor stings because it’s so true. You arethe wildflower, the one who’s supposed to be free—unbothered by the storm around you, unburdened by the weight of a world that’s always demanding more. But Mark? Mark has always carried the world on his shoulders. He’s always been the one to take on everything, even at the cost of himself.

“You’re not a burden to me, Mark,” you whisper, stepping closer. “I don’t care about the world. I care about you. I’ve always cared about you. I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m asking you to stay with me.”

But he turns away from you again, his body language closed off. The space between you seems to grow, as if some invisible force is pulling him farther away, no matter how much you reach.

“You don’t understand,” he says, his voice breaking for the first time. “I can’t keep you in this world. I can’t protect you from it.”

And then it hits you. You’ve always known it, deep down. That Mark wasn’t just fighting the Viltrumites, or aliens, or other threats—he was fighting the part of him that wanted to be your Mark again. The boy who wasn’t Invincible, the boy who could laugh and hold you close without worrying about the next fight.

But Invincible has always been the one who wins. And in that battle, you lose him.

“Mark,” you choke out, your voice trembling, “please, don’t leave me.”

But the truth is—he already has.

He’s already gone, slipping between your fingers like sand.

And no matter how much you love him, no matter how many times you say his name, you can’t hold onto him.

You can’t keep him.

He’s too far gone.

The tears fall before you even realize it, and you hate yourself for it—hate that you’re crying in front of him. Hate that he has this power over you, even when he’s slipping further away.

And just when you think you’ve lost him for good, you hear it—the sound of his footsteps, tentative, careful. You feel his hand, warm and steady, against your cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he says softly. “Please. Don’t cry.”

But it’s too late. The tears have already fallen, and they’re carrying with them every fear, every hope, every promise you’ve ever made to each other. You hold his hand against your face, silently begging for the comfort you know you can’t have.

“Mark, please,” you whisper again. “Please don’t leave me.”

But the words are useless. They always have been.

The silence between you and Mark is suffocating. He doesn’t say anything as he kneels down in front of you, his hand still gently cupping your face. The warmth of his touch is almost enough to make you believe everything is going to be okay—almost enough to convince yourself that he hasn’t already decided to let go. But the doubt lingers, thick and heavy.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he says quietly, his voice cracking on the last word. He wipes a tear from your cheek with the back of his hand, and the gesture feels like a small, fragile attempt to hold onto something that’s already slipping away. “But I am.”

You shake your head, refusing to let him continue down that path. “No, Mark. You’re not hurting me. You’re shutting me out. You’re pushing me away, and it’s killing me.”

He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead gently against yours. You can feel the weight of everything he’s carrying in that touch, the burden of the world that he feels he has to bear alone. You want so desperately to take it from him, to make it easier, but you can’t. You’ve never been able to.

“I’m not enough for you, Y/N,” he admits in a whisper, his words like a knife to your chest. “I’m not good enough to be the man you need. Not when I’m constantly risking my life… not when I’m constantly torn between what I want and what I have to do.” He pulls away slightly, his hand dropping to his side. “And I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. But if I stay, I know I will.”

You look at him, tears streaming down your face, and you realize just how much pain he’s in. The weight of his choices, the sacrifices he’s made… it’s too much for one person to bear, and yet here he is, trying to do it all alone.

“Mark,” you choke out, voice trembling, “You’re killing me by leaving. I’m not afraid of the fight, or the pain. I’m afraid of losing you to the weight of everything you’re carrying. I can’t live in a world where you push me away to protect me from yourself. I love you too much for that. I want to stand beside you. Whatever comes, I’ll be here.”

His face crumples at your words, and for a moment, it feels like you’re speaking to a stranger. Someone who’s too broken to understand. You see it in the flicker of doubt in his eyes—he loves you, but it’s as if the love itself is a curse, a ticking time bomb. And he’s too scared to let it explode.

“I want to be the man you deserve,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “But I don’t know if I can be him.”

“You already are,” you reply, your voice soft but firm. “You are the man I love. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your own. You don’t have to be invincible for me.” You pause, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just want you. I just want us.”

Mark’s face contorts in pain as he tries to hold back his emotions, but it’s clear he’s losing the battle. His body shakes with the weight of it all, and he collapses to his knees in front of you, his hands trembling as he reaches for you.

“I’m scared, Y/N,” he confesses, his voice raw, barely audible. “I’m scared I’ll never be enough. I’m scared I’ll hurt you. I’m scared I’ll lose you. And I don’t know how to stop it.”

The vulnerability in his words shatters you. It hits harder than any battle he’s ever faced, harder than any villain he’s ever fought. This is the truth—this is what he’s been holding inside, locked away because he’s afraid of hurting you. But the irony is, by trying to protect you, he’s already lost you.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” you repeat, your voice thick with emotion. “You just have to be you. You’re enough, Mark. You always have been. And I don’t care about the world… I care about you. I care about the person I fell in love with.”

And as the tears fall freely from both of your eyes, Mark’s hands tremble as they reach for you, pulling you into his arms. You hold onto him like you’ve never held on to anything before, as if this moment will slip away the second you let go.

You feel him tremble in your arms, feel the way he breathes shakily as if he’s been holding onto his emotions for too long. He buries his face in your neck, his tears wetting your skin as he tries to muffle his sobs. You can feel the weight of his guilt, the crushing burden of his love for you that he’s too scared to let flourish.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he murmurs, the words broken, almost desperate. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” you promise him, your hands running through his hair as you hold him tightly. “You won’t lose me. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, Mark. I’m always going to be here.”

But even as you say those words, you know that this moment can’t last forever. The world outside is still waiting for him to be Invincible, and no matter how much you wish it could be different, he can’t escape that. Neither of you can.

You don’t know what comes next. You don’t know if this will be enough to heal the rift between you, or if it’s just another chapter in a long, painful story. But in this moment, as Mark holds you and cries in your arms, you know one thing for certain: he’s still yours, and you’re still his.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

For now.

Mark's arms tighten around you, as if he’s trying to hold you together, to keep you from falling apart. His breath is shaky against your skin, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart, but it’s broken. It’s fragile, trembling under the weight of everything he’s been through. And you know, deep down, that this moment—this rawness, this closeness—might not last long.

He pulls back slightly, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away the remnants of your tears. His eyes search yours, desperate for something, but you’re not sure what. Hope? Reassurance? Or maybe he’s looking for a sign that he hasn’t already destroyed everything you’ve built together.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

You place your hand over his heart, feeling the frantic pace of it, the intensity of his emotions. You can feel how much he’s holding inside, and it breaks you. He’s not just battling the Viltrumites, the threats to the world—he’s battling himself. And he’s losing.

“Mark,” you whisper, your voice soft but firm, “you’re not hurting me by loving me. You’re hurting me by thinking you’re not enough.”

He shakes his head, his eyes glazed with pain. “But I’m not, Y/N. I’m not what you need. I’m not even sure I know who I am anymore. I’ve been so focused on saving the world, on keeping you safe, that I don’t even know how to be the man you deserve.” He takes a deep breath, and the pain in his expression is so raw, so real, it’s like a physical blow to your chest. “I don’t even know if I can be the man you want me to be.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. The truth is, Mark has always been the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and now he’s carrying the burden of your love, of his doubts. And it’s crushing him.

You take his hands in yours, grounding him, willing him to hear you. “Mark, you don’t have to be anyone else. You don’t have to be anyone other than the person you are. I love you. I love you, even in your brokenness. Even when you’re scared. Even when you feel like you’re failing.” Your voice shakes, but you push through the fear. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to be real with me. I need you to be here. With me. As yourself.”

He looks at you, his eyes wide with uncertainty, and for a moment, you wonder if he can even believe you. He’s so used to fighting, so used to winning, but this is different. This fight isn’t against an enemy; it’s against himself. And no matter how hard he tries to deny it, you can see it in his eyes. He’s afraid of losing you, and he doesn’t know how to handle that fear.

“I can’t promise I’ll be perfect,” he says quietly, his voice trembling. “But I’ll try. I’ll try to be the man you need. I’ll try to be with you, Y/N. I just—” He cuts himself off, his breath shallow. “I just don’t want to hurt you anymore. I don’t want to drag you into this chaos. You deserve so much more.”

You pull him closer, your forehead resting against his as you close your eyes, letting the rawness of the moment settle between you. “Mark… I’m already in this chaos. I’ve always been in it, from the moment I fell in love with you. But I’m not leaving. Not now, not ever.”

Mark’s hand trembles as it moves to your hair, pushing a strand away from your face as he looks at you with a tenderness you almost thought he’d forgotten. “I’m so scared, Y/N. I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of everything.”

You reach up and place your hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palm. “Then we’ll be scared together,” you whisper. “We’ll be scared together, but we’ll face it. We’ll face whatever comes, side by side.”

The weight of the world feels lighter in that moment, and for a brief, impossible second, it feels like you’ve found the balance between the man he is and the man he wants to be. But you know the truth—it’s never that simple. The world doesn’t stop turning because you wish it would. The fight will always be there, waiting for him. And you’ll always be waiting for him, too.

But for now, in the quiet of this moment, there’s peace. There’s a promise. A fragile, beautiful promise.

Mark leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, and for a second, you close your eyes, savoring the warmth of his touch. You feel the love he’s too afraid to give, the love you’ve always known was there. It’s enough. Just enough.

And then, as if the weight of the world finally catches up with him, he whispers, “I love you, Y/N. I always will. Even when I’m not enough… I’ll always love you.”

And you know that even if the world crashes down around you, even if the battles never end, that love will be enough to carry you both through. Because sometimes, all you need is the truth—that no matter how broken, no matter how lost, love is always worth fighting for.

i was listening to Wildflowers by Billie while writing this <333