#i cannot wait for Wake Up Dead Man

[ignis--fatuus]

I have a theory about the celebrity cameos in Glass Onion

SO- we all know about the scene wherein Benoir Blanc is playing Among Us in the bathtub. He's playing with the stars Angela Lansbury, Natasha Lyonne, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I have a theory as to why those four are playing

Starting off strong with Angela Lansbury: The Queen of Daytime TV Mystery! Murder, She Wrote ran from 1984 to 1996. It is still referenced in this day and age just because of how much influence it had on the mystery genre and the idea of a "Female Detective" (not just a female detective- an elderly female detective). She is a Modern Miss Marple in a sense, and her mysteries still hold up to this day. Next is Natasha Lyonne: In 2021 Lyonne announced she would be the lead in an upcoming mystery series: Poker Face. This show too is huge in the modern mystery genre. For starters, it is reinventing a Columbo'-style "Howcatchem" format, and does it well. Secondly, it too is a "Female Detective" lead story. It is carrying the torch of stories like Murder, She Wrote and Miss Marple, and using the tools of famous and innovative shows like Columbo to do it. Glass Onion was released in 2022. The timelines fit perfectly. Then there's Kareem Abdul-Jabbar: Now, at first glance it doesn't make much sense. He was in movies like Airplane, sure, the man is an actor just as much as he is a basketball player. BUT he is also the writer of a Sherlock Holmes pastiche centered around Mycroft and has been a self-proclaimed fan of the Holmes series for a very long time! There's even pictures of him outside the Sherlock Holmes museum!

Finally, Stephen Sondheim: Once again, its a bit hard to see at first. He's a composer and lyricist. Why is he here? The man is the musician behind Sweeney Todd! A MYSTERY AND CRIME MUSICAL. Sondheim also was involved with West Side Story and the musical Assassins- both of which center around crime. The reason these four were chosen is because they are lovers and participators of the mystery genre. That's why Blanc likes them. Thats why they’re playing Among Us (as well as the fact that it was a popular game during Covid). That's why the directors picked them for the cameos. Its always been about the mystery!

[littlefluu]

E N H Y P E N F I C R E C S

FEBRUARY 25nd, 2025 RECOMMENDATIONS ⤷ GO BACK TO THE MAIN ENHYPEN MASTER LIST WITH EVEN MORE RECOMMENDATIONS ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

a. angst f. fluff sug. suggestive s. smut h. horror c. crack ★. please dear publishers I want this on my bookshelf

₊˚⊹꒷ ALL OF THE MEMBERS / UNITS

★ !! SAFE & SOUND by @thatfeelinwhenyou Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive. ᝰ dystopian, post-apocalyptic survival, horror/thriller, slow burn, ANGST , FUCK THIS IS SO GOOD. EVERY TIME A UPDATE COMES OUT I LITERALLY STOP EVERYTHING I AM DOING.ᐟ₊ ⊹

BLOODSTRUCK by @jjunieworld (deactivated) sugg. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗏𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾. ᝰ vampire au / vampire!enha / established relationship / suggestive / blood / biting / dry humping / kissing / skinship .ᐟ₊ ⊹

WHEN YOU ACCIDENTLY TEXT THEM "WANNA BANG" by @jayparked c. ᝰ best friend enhypen x gender neutral reader / text au .ᐟ₊ ⊹

WITH EASE by @hhmnya f. ᝰ in which hyung line helps you with your kid .ᐟ₊ ⊹

₊˚⊹꒷ LEE HEESEUNG ꒷⊹˚₊

ᝰ.ᐟ DO YOU THINK I AM FRAGILE by @just-nc-tea f, a, sugg. A car accident has turned your life upside down, leaving you with a knee and ankle that ache like they belong to someone three times your age. Navigating college with these setbacks is hard enough, but when your overprotective dad insists you take an internship with the men’s hockey team, you’re thrust back into the world you’ve spent years avoiding. The rink represents everything you’ve lost—and then there’s Heeseung, the captain whom you somehow cannot stop thinking about. ᝰ Hockey team captain! Heeseung x the coaches daughter / Ice hockey au / College sports aus / angst / hurt / comfort / slow burn / fluff, a lot of falling asleep in the same bed / some good old family drama .ᐟ₊ ⊹

SULKING WHEN HE HAS TO LEAVE FOR WORK by @jaysng f. pregnancy aches and morning sulks become part of your routine, but heeseung’s soothing touch and playful efforts to put you back to sleep remind you just how loved you are—even when work calls him away. ᝰ nonidol!heeseung!husband x fem!preg!reader .ᐟ₊ ⊹

I'LL BE HERE WHEN YOU'RE BACK by @honeyedfate f, sugg. ever since his room was revealed to the world on mbc world, heeseung has not known peace—whether it be from engenes or his very own girlfriend ᝰ idol!lee heeseung x gf!reader .ᐟ₊ ⊹

CROSS THE LINE by @heegyukeluv s, f. “How do you know if someone is flirting with you?”  It was Heeseung’s question to you, and you were left with no option other than to show how you do it. ᝰ childhood best friends to lovers / fluff / kinda miscomunication? / smut .ᐟ₊ ⊹

SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW by @stllmnstr a. MC and Heeseung meet again at Jays wedding years after their break up and they have some unresolved feelings because they still love each other ᝰ angst / Exes to ?? .ᐟ₊ ⊹

₊˚⊹꒷ PARK JAY ꒷⊹˚₊

FAST FORWARD by @asahicore f. After yet another romantic disappointment in the form of one Jake Sim, you go to the well you’ve always believed to grant wishes and ask for your one and true love to appear. That night, you go to sleep in your bed but wake up in a strange house. When you head downstairs, you find a man washing the dishes and telling you your favorite meal is waiting on the table for you. You’ve spent hours glaring at the back of that head, you could recognize it anywhere—it belongs to none other than Park Jongseong, your high school sworn enemy... and future husband, or so it seems. ᝰ high school au / the type of e2l where they never really hated each other to begin with .ᐟ₊ ⊹

MUSIC TO MY EARS by @jayparked s. "Ride me." Jay huffs. It's a command, not a request. He moves back to the head of the bed, adjusting the pillows before leaning back against them. Lifting the covers away from his body, he removes his boxers slowly. looking into your eyes as he does so. ᝰ music producer jay / established relationship / thunder and lightning storms / cigarette smoking / early morning sex .ᐟ₊ ⊹

★ !! THE ART & SCIENCE OF PARENTING 101 by @jakesimfromstatefarm f, c. the art & science of parenting 101 (PSY1009)— in this interactive course, students will explore the psychological, social, and biological foundations of parenthood. through a mix of theory and hands-on practice, you'll master the art of raising a simulated baby—aka the 'robot child'. late-night feedings, tantrum taming, and crisis control are all part of the deal.   what you didn't expect to be part of the deal? getting paired with jay park—the last person you'd trust to raise, well, anything. you’re pretty sure he couldn’t even take care of a pet rock. now, you’re stuck co-parenting this robot baby together for 40% of your final grade.  ᝰ fluff / comedy / e2l!au / college!au /(fake)parenting!au / he fell first, she fell harder type beat/ Such a banger .ᐟ₊ ⊹

★!! SUN KEEPS RISING (LIKE IT TENDS TO DO) by @zreamy f, s, a. being the mum friend is rewarding, if not a little tricky—you would know. it wouldn't hurt to let someone look after you for once, would it? ᝰ summer au / strangers to lovers, / friends-in-law to lovers really / smut / fluff / angst / GUYS THEY WAY ZO PORTRAYS JAY? UGH. PERFECTION .ᐟ₊ ⊹

AS THE EARTH BURNS TO THE GROUND, LAY HERE WITH ME by @fleuryuns a. it takes an asteroid hurdling toward earth for you and jay to be pulled apart, and then brought back together—but it's worth it ᝰ wealthy (ex)bf!jay x scientist!femreader / end of the world au / exes to lovers / arguments / some platonic!jake thrown in there / ambiguous ending / elements from the movie don't look up / inaccurate portrayal of astrophysics and high school debate clubs .ᐟ₊ ⊹

₊˚⊹꒷ SIM JAKE ꒷⊹˚₊

OOPS, JUNO by @moonheecore f, s. Getting accidentally pregnant was the last thing you ever imagined. You were still in school, with so many plans for the future ahead of you. Yet, you felt certain that keeping the baby was the decision you wanted to make. What would your aloof mother think? and, perhaps most importantly, you wonder if Jake would feel the same way? ᝰ college AU / established relationship / baby daddy Jake / toxic mother trope / abortion mentioned / frat parties / body changes during pregnancy mentioned .ᐟ₊ ⊹

KISSES SHARED WITH JAKE by @elikajinnie f, sugg. jake watching you do your makeup and cant ressist kissing you

★!! THE TATTOO ON MY RING FINGER by @thatfeelinwhenyou His neglect wasn’t an accident—it was a choice, one you kept excusing as “busy” while swallowing your hurt and waiting for him to care enough to show up. The harsh truth? He simply didn't care enough to make the effort. Remember this, ladies: if he truly wanted to, he would. "Busy" is just another word for “asshole.” And “asshole” is another word for the man you’re married to. ᝰ marriage of convenience / slow burn romance / enemies to lovers (kinda) / second chance romance / angst .ᐟ₊ ⊹

THE LOVE RIDE by @whjluv SMAU. after your mutual breakup, your ex disappears from the public eye for almost a year, only to comeback with a deeply emotional album entirely about you, sending fans into a frenzy. they analyze every lyric and link it to your past relationship, causing your breakup to become once again the talk of the internet. upset and surprised that the so private Jake preferred to deal with his emotions publicly instead of talking it out with you, you drop a single in response, highlighting the parts of your breakup he left out. ᝰ smau with some writing / singer au / exes to lovers / second chance / miscommunication trope / angst / fluff / humor .ᐟ₊ ⊹

NO DOUBT by @jakesimfromstatefarm f, a. struggling to balance a world tour, endless responsibilities, and...well, the sting of getting dumped by his girlfriend, jake finds peace & comfort confiding in you—one of his closest friends. what begins as lighthearted late-night phone calls while he's away on tour deepens into something more, quickly pulling you both into uncharted emotional territory. as your connection with jake intensifies, so does your inner turmoil—torn between the comfort of your easy relationship with him and the terrifying possibility of falling for someone you're not even sure you can have in the first place. but jake? jake has absolutely no doubt of what he wants—and spoiler alert? it's you. ᝰ idol/jake x f!reader, [ft. childhoodbestfriend!jungwon / bestfriends!enha / friends to lovers!au / angstttt / fluff / crack .ᐟ₊ ⊹

ᝰ.ᐟ THE TRUTH UNTOLD & PT. 2 by @just-nc-tea f, a, sugg. Jake’s world takes a nosedive when he gets a wedding invitation from his high school ex—the same ex who cheated on him—with your ex. Desperate to avoid showing up alone Jake ropes you into a fake relationship, just for the evening. Originally. But if you’re going to sell the lie, you have to make it convincing. That means dates, inside jokes, learning the little details about each other that real couples would know. By the time the wedding arrives, neither of you are sure where the act ends and the truth begins. ᝰ Hockeyplayer! Jake / college sports / angst / hurt / comfort / slow burn/ fluff / suggestive / fake dating / he fell first and he fell harder.ᐟ₊

₊˚⊹꒷ PARK SUNGHOON ꒷⊹˚₊

★!! CAPTAIN'S LOG by @peachenle sugg. "If you’re trying to be subtle about checking me out, it’s really not working.” You were too drunk to care, and met his eyes, “Yeah, yeah you caught me. Life’s more fun without subtlety. ᝰ hockey college!au / fratboy!au / sexual themes .ᐟ₊ �� Guys I am so in love with this story! Defintely check it out!!

★!! DOWN THE HATCH by @peachenle f, sugg. a collection of moments with sunghoon, shared over meals, snacks, and drinks. a riff off of timestamps. not in chronological order. a continuation/epilogue of captain’s log. ᝰ college!au / fratboy!au / fluff / established relationship / some suggestive content .ᐟ₊ ⊹

THE LIGHTHOUSE by @jjunieworld (deactivated) f, a, h, s. the land has always been something you desperately wished you could walk on. be like the humans and walk among them. one dark and stormy night, you are granted your wish—but, it comes with a deadly price. and you only have one month to decide if you’re willing to pay it. ᝰ strangers to lovers / kinda love at first sight /mermaid!reader / lighthouse keeper!sunghoon /fantasy / slow burn / slice of life / forced proximity / classic story of a mermaid washing up on shore with a twist / slight smidge of horror elements .ᐟ₊ ⊹

WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE THIS SUMMER by @asahicore f, s, a. Your mom ruins your summer plans by sending you to the equestrian center your grandmother owns in the south of France, wanting you to spend some time away from the city and take a break from your med studies. Although you’d been determined to spend the worst time ever there, you soon find out that maybe the cold but cute horse nerd next door who doesn’t want to talk to you might actually turn this summer into the best one of your life. ᝰ summer au / strangers to mutual dislike to friends to lovers ig / city girl x country boy type beat .ᐟ₊ ⊹

★!! SPF 23 by @zreamy f, s. for as long as you can remember, your summers have been much the same, largely spent in your hometown, relaxing by the local pool. when you get back home this summer, things seem like they'll go the same way, until you get to the pool that is — when did the lifeguard get so hot? ᝰ smut, fluff, people that kinda know each other to lovers, summer au, lifeguard au, sunghoon is buff and shy and ugh guys its SO good .ᐟ₊ ⊹

★!! THE DOLLMAKER by @jjunbug a,f,h. you were sunghoon’s muse, his flawless, perfect wife that he dresses in frilly dresses and makes sure you always looked like the idealized woman. that much was evident from all the dolls he made of you that sat proudly throughout your home. but, when sunghoon isn’t there, the dolls move and show you things that would otherwise be hidden in the shadows. one day, they show you something so frightening, something completely sinister that you force yourself to believe that it isn’t real. your beloved husband wouldn’t do something like that, would he? you weren’t so sure about your answer anymore. ᝰ established relationship / angsty & mature themes / smut / some fluff / husband & dollmaker!sunghoon / gothic vibes /supernatural elements / THIS WAS SO SCARY BUT SO GOOD OH MY GOD .ᐟ₊ ⊹

WHY by @hoonieyun a. breaking up with your boyfriend means losing a lover but what happens when your boyfriend was also your best friend, meaning you lost both and now have to face him for a popular youtube show ᝰ angst / heartbreak / exes reunited / exes to ..? .ᐟ₊ ⊹

₊˚⊹꒷ NISHIMURA RIKI ꒷⊹˚₊

RUINED MAKE OUT SESSIONS by @rose-petles sugg.

TEXTING BF!NI-KI by @jaeyunluvbot SMAU, c.

YOU'RE NO GOOD FOR ME, BUT BABY I WANT YOU by @purinfelix f. after growing tired of his constant teasing you made up your mind not to give Niki anymore of your attention, but you should've known that he wouldn't let you go that easily - and is willing to go to desperate measures to get you just to look at him ᝰ delinquent Niki x class president reader .ᐟ₊ ⊹

₊˚⊹꒷ AMAZING AUTHORS ꒷⊹˚₊

@zreamy @jjunbug @thatfeelinwhenyou @jakesimfromstatefarm

[jedi-starbird]

Time Travel is my favourite trope and I think we need more fics where both Obi-Wan AND Qui-Gon time travel together because no matter when they get sent it's chaos. They're saving the galaxy and being physic flash-bangs to everyone around them.

like before Bandomeer?

The entire council is baffled to watch as Qui-Gon 'never taking a padawan again' Jinn has suddenly cut off his post-Xanatos depression tour to return to the temple and beeline to the creche with a frantic energy. His wild eyes immediately single out a fluffy, red-haired initiate.

"You." he exhales with a pointed finger, slightly ominous as he towers over the child. Said child starts vibrating with delight. "Me." he agrees, launching himself at the man. Qui-Gon drops to his knees with a thud that cannot be healthy. Obi-Wan's attempts to clamber into Qui-Gon's robes and maybe onto his shoulders is thwarted by the fact that Qui-Gon's massive hands are cupping Obi-Wan's tiny squishy cheeks. He stares at the initiate for a few minutes with an intensity that is starting to worry people.

Finally, "You're so small." Qui-Gon sounds like he might cry.

'What the fuck?' Plo Koon projects at Mace.

"I'm 9! That tends to be the case!" the child chirps back.

"You're nine." Oh. Ah. Qui-Gon's eyes are distinctively misty. He squishes the boy in a hug so hard he squeaks. Mace makes a series of gestures that imply the need for a head-scan. Depa obligingly drifts off towards the halls. Qui-Gon scoops the child up onto his hip and claims him as his padawan on the spot. The assorted council members and creche-masters burst into noise. Mace tells Depa to bring some space ibuprofen as well.

after Naboo?

Anakin is a little apprehensive of his place in both the order and Obi-Wan's life, but then one day Obi-Wan wakes up and is suddenly a lot less sad in the force?? In fact, if Anakin didn't know better he'd say he was almost giddy, but he's watched Obi-Wan try to pretend his world hasn't fallen apart for the past few months so it can't be that, right? And um, Miss Bant? He knows grief is a funny thing that affects people differently but he's pretty sure 'massive mood swing' and 'having full conversations with invisible people' is not...great? and you said to tell you if Obi-Wan got really weird in any way.

Anyway after a lot of medical exams, intense consultation with the archives, and a couple exorcisms, Anakin ends up being raised by his 'real' master and his ghost master. He is far more well adjusted emotionally and far less well adjusted for what counts as normal people behavior(not talking to thin air). When questioned on this, all he ever says is that he's talking to Qui-Gon. Isn't he...dead? Well, yes. Wait, he's a ghost? Ghosts are real? ...Well this ghost is real.

This starts a great number of existential crises among non-force sensitives and incredibly heated theological arguments amongst the Jedi. Whenever Obi-Wan is questioned on this, all he ever says is some variation of "the force got to know him for 5 seconds and kicked him back out." Mace backs him up on this even though that reasoning is technically blasphemous. Qui-Gon is having the time of his un-life. He's ascended to his final form, his sheer existence is a heresy, this is truly all he has ever aspired towards.

the Clone Wars?

The minute they get dropped back Qui-Gon immediately goes and haunts the shit out of Dooku. They have a signed terms of surrender and promise of info on the Sith Lord within the year. Only half of it is because Qui-Gon's giving Dooku complexes that are only perceptible to shrimp, the other half is because they now have a ghost spy that is not bound by the laws of physics nor spacetime.

Obi-Wan only nominally pays attention to this as he immediately goes and implements his 19 step seduction plan with Cody (he had to focus on something on Tatooine to pass the time). It fails. Spectacularly. Publicly. Ah right. Tatooine was not exactly the height of his sanity. Everyone in the GAR and temple is now riveted by High General and Councilor Obi-Wan Kenobi's attempts to go on a date with his Commander, who bats him away him like a particularly annoying stray and seems one bouquet of cactus away from committing mutiny. Anakin is worrying if it means his master knows about his secret marriage and this is some sort of really weird power play. (It is, but not in the way he thinks)

The next time Dooku goes after Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon spends a good few months appearing tear-stained at the edge of Dooku's perception and only communicating in terrible wails and discordant mutterings of 'padawan. my padawan. my little one.' 24/7.

"Wait, you're annoying Dooku into surrendering?"

"Oh no Anakin, we're crushing his psyche like a bug. :)"

[callsigns-haze]

Maybe us one day

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x reader

Xaden's life has changed completely. Ever since he became King of Tyrrendor, your lover, overcame venin, his life has been perfect. Hs squad now grows, in many ways, and the old Xaden Riorson would have not suspected this to be his faith.

Word count: 13.4k

This contains mature themes: mentions of giving birth, kidnapping, blood, war I don't think there is any spoiler in fairness, it's just what I'd love the ending to be.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the faint chirping of birds outside, signalling the early morning. The cool, pale light of dawn filtered through the wide windows, casting long shadows across the polished countertops. You stood at the sink, the knife in your hand sliding through the stems of wildflowers with practiced ease. Each snip was soft but definitive, the rhythmic sound blending with the gentle hum of the world waking around you.

The bouquet you were arranging was far from perfect—wildflowers rarely behaved the way delicate garden blooms did—but you didn’t care. You needed this. The act of creating something with your hands, something beautiful in a world that had seen so much ruin, felt grounding. Cathartic, even. The vase stood waiting on the counter, half-filled with water, droplets clinging to the glass like dewdrops.

The house was still. Xaden was likely still asleep upstairs, his chest rising and falling in the deep, unguarded rhythm you’d come to recognize as his only true form of rest. His responsibilities as King of Tyrrendor weighed heavily on him, even in the year since the revolution had ended. Peace had not come easily—it had demanded sacrifices, including pieces of himself he’d never truly reclaim. But now, Tyrrendor had something it hadn’t had in generations: hope.

You ran your thumb over the stem of one of the flowers, feeling the ridges and imperfections under your skin. Three days ago, Violet had given birth to her son, Alic. The name had startled you at first, dredging up memories you thought you’d buried. Aaric’s brother. The man who had challenged Garrick Tavis during Threshing, who had tried to take his dragon and paid the ultimate price.

And now, there was a child carrying his name. A child Violet and Aaric had brought into a world that was finally safe enough for him to grow up in. You weren’t sure how Xaden truly felt about it; he’d mentioned Alic’s name only once in passing before falling silent, a shadow crossing his expression that you hadn’t dared to press. You’d learned, over the years, to wait for him to bring things to you when he was ready. And he always did. Eventually.

Chaire’s presence unfurled in your mind like smoke curling through a quiet room. Why are you awake, Lumiere? The sun has barely kissed the horizon, and you’re playing florist?

His voice was a rich, rumbling thing, laced with dry amusement. You smiled despite yourself, pausing to brush an errant strand of hair from your face. I couldn’t sleep.

Hmm. There was a deliberate pause, his amusement shifting into something sharper, more knowing. Or perhaps you couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d say to Violet when you see her next.

You rolled your eyes, though you knew he couldn’t see it. I’m not thinking about that.

Liar. The word was a purr, low and teasing, but not unkind. Your thoughts have been circling like vultures for days. You humans have such a peculiar attachment to guilt. Alic is long dead, and his name is just that—a name. Yet you brood as if his ghost is perched on your shoulder.

I’m not brooding, Chaire. But the truth of his words pricked at you, and you sighed, setting the knife down. It’s just... complicated.

It always is. His tone softened, the bond between you humming with warmth. But it’s done, little one. The past cannot be rewritten, and Violet’s choices are her own. They do not diminish you, nor do they tarnish what you have now.

You leaned against the counter, the cool marble pressing into your palms. The bouquet was almost finished, the wildflowers forming a chaotic but oddly beautiful arrangement. You’d placed the brightest blooms at the centre, surrounded by smaller, softer ones. It felt symbolic in a way, though you couldn’t quite articulate why.

Chaire’s presence lingered, a steady, comforting weight in the back of your mind. You should wake him, he said after a moment. Your mate will sulk if he finds out you were up before him and didn’t say anything.

A small laugh escaped you. He doesn’t sulk.

Oh, he sulks, Chaire countered, his amusement returning. And you let him get away with it, which only makes it worse.

You shook your head, pushing off the counter and reaching for the vase. The bouquet fit perfectly, the wildflowers spreading like a burst of sunlight. It was messy, imperfect—but it was yours. Just like the life you and Xaden had built here, in the fragile peace of a world no longer at war.

As you turned toward the stairs, ready to wake him, Chaire’s voice curled through your mind one last time, soft and uncharacteristically tender. You are enough, little one. For him, for this world—for yourself. Don’t forget that.

You reached for the rose, its deep crimson petals unfurling like velvet against the pale morning light. It was stunning, the kind of flower that demanded attention, even among the wildflowers you’d gathered. But as your fingers brushed the stem, a sharp sting blossomed at the tip of your index finger.

You hissed softly, pulling your hand back and glancing at the small bead of blood that had welled up. Without thinking, you brought your finger to your lips, the coppery tang of your blood meeting your tongue. The sting faded quickly, but you didn’t stop to linger on it. The bouquet wasn’t finished yet, and the vase demanded your full attention.

The roses had to go in next, carefully arranged among the wildflowers to create a contrast between elegance and chaos. You leaned in, frowning slightly as you adjusted the angle of one bloom, tucking it just beneath a spray of lavender. The quiet world around you faded as you focused, completely absorbed in the task at hand.

It wasn’t until a familiar, silky sensation wrapped around your waist that you realized you were no longer alone.

The shadows came first, coiling around you like a lover’s embrace. They were warm, alive with the faint hum of Xaden’s magic, and they tugged gently, pulling you back a step before you could react. A startled laugh escaped your lips as you straightened, the bouquet momentarily forgotten in your hands.

And then you felt him—solid, warm, and undeniably Xaden—press against your back. His arms circled you, drawing you flush against his bare chest. The scent of him enveloped you, a mix of cedar and something darker, uniquely him. He was leaning casually against the doorframe, his posture as relaxed as his hold on you was firm.

“Up before dawn and playing with flowers,” Xaden murmured, his voice low and rough from sleep. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smile. “Should I be worried?”

You twisted slightly in his arms, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His hair was a tousled mess, dark strands sticking out in every direction as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Which, judging by the lazy smirk on his lips and the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, he probably had. He was shirtless, his skin still warm from sleep, and the soft gray sweatpants slung low on his hips left little to the imagination.

“You’re awake,” you said simply, your voice softer than you intended.

“I am now.” His lips curved into a smirk, though his dark eyes were warm as they swept over you. “You’re making enough noise to wake the entire citadel.”

“I’m not noisy,” you protested, though your tone lacked conviction. You turned your attention back to the bouquet, but Xaden didn’t let you go. His arms tightened slightly, keeping you anchored against him.

He glanced over your shoulder at the arrangement in your hands, his expression softening as he took it in. “It’s beautiful,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “You’re beautiful.”

A flush crept up your neck at the unexpected compliment, and you shook your head, trying to hide your smile. “It’s just a bunch of flowers.”

“It’s more than that,” he countered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. The sensation sent warmth pooling in your chest. “You could make a battlefield look like art.”

You didn’t respond, too flustered by the quiet intensity in his voice. Instead, you focused on the bouquet, adjusting one of the roses to avoid meeting his gaze. But Xaden wasn’t one to let you off the hook so easily.

He shifted slightly, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips, his touch light but possessive. “Are you going to tell me what’s really on your mind, or do I have to guess?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the stems of the bouquet. But before you could answer, Xaden leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck. It was gentle, almost absentminded, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you all the same.

“Take your time,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low rumble that made your knees feel weak. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, he rested his chin on your shoulder, his dark eyes watching as you arranged the final flower. The weight of him, the warmth of his presence, made the world feel a little less heavy. For the first time in days, you let yourself exhale.

You leaned against the counter, turning the bouquet slowly in your hands, the flowers casting long shadows on the marble as the early sunlight caught their petals. Xaden still stood behind you, his arms encircling your waist, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder. The quiet intimacy of the moment was grounding, yet the words you needed to say caught in your throat like thorns.

He noticed, of course. Xaden always noticed. His hands, rough and calloused yet achingly gentle, tightened slightly on your hips. “You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, his voice still carrying the rasp of sleep. “Too quiet. That usually means there’s something weighing on you.”

You swallowed, staring down at the vibrant arrangement in your hands. The roses seemed brighter now, almost glaring in their perfection. You set the bouquet down carefully on the counter, buying yourself a moment to gather your thoughts.

“It’s not an easy thing to explain,” you began, your voice softer than you intended. “I love Violet and Aaric. I really do. They’ve both been through so much, and seeing them find this kind of happiness after everything…” You paused, exhaling shakily. “It’s beautiful. I love that they invited us to meet their son. I want to be there for them. I do.”

Xaden didn’t say anything, but his presence behind you was steady and grounding. His thumbs traced slow, comforting circles against your hips, silently encouraging you to continue.

“It’s just…” You hesitated, your fingers brushing absently against the edge of the countertop. “It’s complicated. You and Violet—you’ll always have this bond because of Sgaeyl and Tairn. And I know that’s not something either of you chose, but it’s there. It always will be.”

His silence was heavy, but it wasn’t impatient. He was giving you the space to speak without interruption, and for that, you were grateful.

“And now, with Alic…” You trailed off, biting your lip. The name felt heavy on your tongue, weighted with a history you weren’t sure you could untangle. “He’s theirs, Xaden. Their son. And I know it’s irrational, but it makes me feel…awkward. Like I don’t belong in this part of their lives. Like I’m intruding on something I can never fully understand.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and the moment they did, you felt the sharp sting of vulnerability settle in your chest. You turned your head slightly, catching Xaden’s gaze. His dark eyes were unreadable for a moment, his expression guarded yet softened by something that looked like understanding.

“Say something,” you whispered, the weight of your confession pressing down on you.

Xaden’s lips pressed together, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed your words. Then, slowly, he shifted, turning you in his arms so that you were facing him fully. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly over your cheekbones. The tenderness in his touch sent a pang through your chest.

“You’re not intruding,” he said, his voice low but steady. “And you’re not irrational. This…all of this…it’s complicated as hell. I won’t deny that. But you have just as much of a place in this as anyone else. Violet and Aaric invited us because they care about us, because they want us to be part of their lives. Not because they feel obligated, not because of the bond between Sgaeyl and Tairn, but because they trust us. They trust you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. The gesture was intimate, grounding, and it silenced you before you could protest.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” Xaden continued, his voice softer now. “But you don’t have to figure this out alone. We’ll go. We’ll meet Alic. And if it feels awkward or messy or too much, then we’ll leave. Together. But you’re not an outsider in this, love. You’re mine, and that makes you part of everything I am.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you let out a shaky breath, your hands gripping the fabric of his sweatpants as if anchoring yourself to him. His words settled over you like a balm, easing the ache in your chest.

“You always know what to say,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly.

He smirked, leaning back just enough to brush his lips against yours. “Only because I know you better than you think.”

You smiled softly, the tension easing slightly as Xaden’s words sank in. His hands were still cradling your face, his dark eyes searching yours with a mixture of tenderness and quiet intensity. But even now, you couldn’t help the teasing edge that slipped into your voice.

“Did you read my intentions just now?” you asked, tilting your head playfully as you raised an eyebrow at him.

Xaden’s lips twitched, the beginnings of a smirk forming. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re doing that thing,” you continued, pretending to be serious even as the corner of your mouth quirked upward. “The whole ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking before you say it’ thing. Did you read my mind or something? Because I didn’t feel you reaching through the block.”

His smirk deepened, and the low chuckle that escaped him sent warmth curling in your chest. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“You didn’t deny it.” You grinned now, leaning into his touch just a little more. “I’m onto you, Xaden Riorson. Admit it—you’ve been secretly reading my mind this whole time.”

“I don’t need to read your mind to know you,” he countered smoothly, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re an open book to me. Always have been.”

You scoffed, trying and failing to suppress the flutter in your chest. “That’s what someone who’s secretly been reading my intentions would say.”

His smirk grew wicked, and before you could react, his arms tightened around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. A squeal of surprise escaped you as he spun you around, his laugh rumbling against your back like a thunderstorm.

“Keep teasing me,” he said, setting you back down but keeping you firmly in his grasp. “And I might have to prove just how well I know you.”

“Oh, please,” you shot back, breathless but grinning. “You’re too soft to prove anything right now. You just woke up.”

Xaden leaned down until his lips were hovering just above your ear, his voice dropping to that dangerously low tone that always made your knees weak. “Careful, sunshine. I might be soft now, but I can change that.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you were utterly still, caught in the heat of his words. Then you shoved lightly at his chest, laughing as you pulled away. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” he said, his smirk softening into a genuine smile as he pulled you back into his arms.

You didn’t argue, because he was absolutely right.

You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out, light and airy as it escaped your lips. It started softly, barely more than a sound of breath, but quickly grew until you were grinning, the tension in your chest unravelling completely. Xaden tilted his head at you, his dark brows raising in that way he always did when he caught you in a moment he didn’t entirely understand but found entertaining nonetheless.

“What?” he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. His arms were still looped loosely around your waist, keeping you close, his body warm and steady against yours.

You shook your head, biting your lip as another laugh bubbled up. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice light and almost incredulous, like the weight you’d been carrying had been lifted so suddenly you weren’t sure what to do with yourself. “I was so worked up about it—about everything—but now… I don’t know. I just feel excited. Like—there’s a baby in the squad now. A baby, Xaden.”

The words tumbled out of you in a rush, and the giddiness in your voice was impossible to miss. You let out another giggle, leaning your head against his chest as the realization fully hit you. “I mean, how weird is that? After everything we’ve been through—revolutions, battles, betrayals—and now we’ve got… a baby. In the squad. Can you even imagine?”

Xaden’s lips twitched, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t think Alic’s going to be taking on Threshing anytime soon, if that’s what you mean.”

You snorted, swatting playfully at his chest. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I just… I don’t know, I think it’s kind of amazing. After everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve fought for, there’s this little life now. Something innocent and good. It feels… hopeful.”

The words came out quieter, softer now, and you looked up at him, your eyes shining with a mixture of emotion and newfound excitement. Xaden’s gaze softened, his usual sharpness giving way to something warm and unguarded. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for a moment before trailing down to your jaw.

“It is hopeful,” he agreed, his voice steady and certain. “And you’re allowed to feel excited about it. You’re allowed to feel everything, even if it’s messy.”

You smiled at him, your heart swelling as his words settled over you. And then, as if you couldn’t contain yourself any longer, you let out another laugh, stepping back slightly but grabbing his hands in yours. “Can you imagine? Violet’s probably already teaching him strategies to overthrow the government, and Aaric’s probably arguing about which flying technique is the safest for kids.”

Xaden chuckled, the sound low and warm, and you could feel the tension in him ease as well. “They’ll be lucky if Alic doesn’t try to steal a dragon egg by the time he’s ten.”

You laughed harder, the sound filling the kitchen like sunlight. “I mean, I wouldn’t put it past him. With parents like that? He’s bound to be trouble.”

“And if Sgaeyl and Tairn have anything to say about it,” Xaden added, his smirk growing. “The kid’s going to have two of the most overprotective dragons in history watching his every move.”

“Oh, definitely.” You shook your head, still smiling. “Can you imagine Sgaeyl trying to teach him manners? She’ll probably lecture him about posture and poise while Tairn sneaks him extra treats behind her back.”

The thought sent you into another fit of giggles, and Xaden finally broke, laughing quietly along with you. He pulled you back into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as your laughter finally subsided into a contented sigh.

“You’re something else,” he murmured, his voice soft against your hair. “You know that?”

You looked up at him, your smile still lingering. “Yeah, but you love it.”

He smirked, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. “I really do.”

You were still smiling, the warmth of your earlier laughter lingering as you glanced back at the bouquet on the counter. A faint hum of excitement buzzed through you, thoughts of tiny Alic and the strange, hopeful future ahead swirling in your mind. You reached out to adjust one of the flowers, still chattering, your voice light and teasing.

“Do you think Violet and Aaric are ready for the chaos? I mean, a baby with their genes? That’s a future instigator of revolutions if I’ve ever seen one—”

You trailed off mid-sentence, realizing Xaden hadn’t responded. Slowly, you turned to glance at him over your shoulder, expecting to see his usual smirk or a quip forming on his lips. Instead, he was just… watching you.

His dark eyes were fixed on you, unblinking, his expression unreadable. There was no teasing smirk, no sharp remark. Just an intensity that made you feel like he was seeing through every layer of you, like he was memorizing the way the morning light kissed your face, the way your lips quirked as you spoke, the way your fingers danced absentmindedly over the counter.

“What?” you asked softly, tilting your head at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched, leaving you confused and just a little unsettled. You shifted your weight, your brows furrowing as you studied him. “Xaden?”

Still, he said nothing, and the longer he stared, the more your nerves bubbled to the surface. “Okay, seriously, are you trying to read my intentions again? Because I’m telling you right now, there’s nothing particularly exciting happening in my head.”

That earned the faintest twitch of his lips, but it wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. He just shook his head slightly, his gaze never leaving yours.

“You’re doing it again,” you said, your voice quieter now, edged with curiosity. “The whole mysterious, brooding thing. What are you thinking?”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice low and almost hesitant. “Nothing,” he said, his words deliberate, like he was choosing them carefully. “I just… You’re incredible. That’s all.”

Your confusion deepened for a moment before your chest tightened, warmth flooding through you at the sincerity in his tone. “Xaden,” you started, but he cut you off, stepping closer and lifting a hand to brush his fingers against your cheek.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You have no idea how incredible you are, do you?”

You blinked up at him, his words sinking in slowly, leaving you momentarily speechless. The weight of his gaze, the warmth in his touch, it was all so much and yet not overwhelming. It was grounding, like standing at the edge of something vast and infinite, knowing that he was there to catch you if you fell.

“I—” you started, your voice faltering slightly before you cleared your throat. “You can’t just say things like that, you know.”

His lips twitched, but the smirk that usually accompanied his teasing remarks didn’t fully form. Instead, he cupped your face with both hands, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. “Why not? It’s true.”

You scoffed lightly, though the warmth spreading through your chest betrayed your attempt to play it cool. “Because it’s not fair. You say something like that, and now I’m the one who doesn’t know what to say.”

“That’s a first,” he said, his tone lighter now, though the depth in his gaze didn’t waver. “You’re never at a loss for words.”

“Guess you’ve finally managed to shut me up,” you quipped, your voice soft but carrying the hint of a smile.

His lips finally curved into a proper smirk, and he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ll consider it one of my greatest accomplishments.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound quiet and warm between the two of you. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

The teasing glint in his eyes was back now, but there was something deeper there too—something steady and unyielding. His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of him, the strength in his hold, it was all-consuming in the best way.

“I’m still here,” you agreed softly, your hands sliding up his bare chest to rest against his shoulders. “And I always will be. No matter how insufferable you get.”

His expression softened at your words, and for a moment, the teasing melted away, leaving nothing but raw honesty in its place. “Good,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The vulnerability in his words, in his tone, sent a shiver down your spine. You reached up, your fingers brushing through his dark, unruly hair, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “You’re stuck with me, Riorson. Get used to it.”

“Gladly,” he murmured, his voice low and rich with promise as he pulled you even closer, the world outside fading away entirely.

You pulled back just enough to glance at him, a playful glint returning to your eyes as the weight of the moment lightened. “Alright, enough of the sentimental stuff,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, but the grin tugging at your lips gave you away. “You’re going to help me wrap this bouquet, right?”

Xaden raised an eyebrow, his fingers still resting on your waist. He seemed amused by the sudden shift in mood, but there was no hesitation in his gaze as he nodded. “I didn’t realize I was a florist now, but for you? Anything.”

You laughed, stepping away from him and moving toward the counter where the bouquet was resting. “Good. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need all the help I can get. And since I’m not exactly a professional when it comes to flower arrangements—” You gestured vaguely at the messy array of stems and petals, “—I think it’s only fair that you do your part.”

Xaden grinned, following you to the counter, his hands resting on the edge as he looked down at the flowers with a mock seriousness. “Alright, what’s the plan? Do I need to make them look pretty, or are we going for the ‘just throw a bunch of stuff together and hope for the best’ look?”

“Definitely the first option,” you teased, picking up the roll of floral wrap and a pair of scissors. “I’m not leaving here with a disaster on my hands. I need this to be at least presentable.”

He made a show of dramatically inspecting the bouquet, his eyes narrowing as if the flowers were a puzzle only he could solve. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” he said with a smirk, clearly enjoying the chance to tease you right back.

You handed him the roll of floral wrap, and he immediately began unrolling it, his focus intense as he fumbled with the edges. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “You look like you’ve never wrapped a gift in your life.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m an expert at unwrapping things,” he shot back, his smirk widening as he glanced over at you.

“Oh, I’m sure you are.” You rolled your eyes playfully, moving to straighten the flowers as he awkwardly tried to manage the wrap. “Just try to keep it together, okay? We need this to look like it wasn’t made by a toddler.”

With exaggerated concentration, Xaden carefully arranged the wrap around the stems, but his movements were all slow and deliberate, as if he was savouring every moment of the task. You could tell it wasn’t exactly second nature to him, but there was something endearing about his determination.

“I don’t know if it’s the flowers or the fact that I’m just trying not to make a mess, but I feel like I’m getting a crash course in floral design,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Well, consider it a life skill,” you teased, watching him carefully as he worked. “Every person should know how to wrap a bouquet. It’s a part of being an adult.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied dryly, finishing the wrap with surprisingly decent precision. “How’s that?”

You took a step back to inspect his work, your lips curving into a smile at the sight. It wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely good enough for what you needed, and the effort he’d put in was more than enough to make you appreciate it. “Not bad, Riorson. I’ll let you keep your ‘florist’ title for now.”

He gave a smug little nod. “I knew I had it in me.”

“Alright, now let’s tie this off.” You handed him the twine, and without missing a beat, he wrapped it around the stems, securing everything in place with surprising ease.

When he finished, you stepped back, your hands on your hips as you surveyed the bouquet. “I think we make a pretty good team.”

“Sure, if you’re into making flowers look presentable,” Xaden replied with a teasing smirk.

You grinned at him, feeling lighter than you had in days. “You know, I think I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” He gave you a knowing look, stepping closer and brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “After all, I’m the one who helped make this bouquet look almost perfect.”

You carefully set the bouquet into the water, making sure the flowers were resting comfortably in the glass vase, the soft morning light highlighting their delicate petals. The faint scent of roses filled the air, and for a brief moment, everything felt serene, like the calm before the storm of excitement about to follow. You stepped back, admiring the bouquet before turning to leave the kitchen.

Just as you stepped into the hallway, you felt a pair of strong arms slip around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off your feet. A startled laugh escaped you as Xaden’s presence enveloped you. “Alright, what are you doing?” you asked, your voice a mix of surprise and amusement.

Xaden didn’t answer immediately, only holding you securely against him. You glanced up at him, catching the way his lips curved into a playful smirk, his eyes dark with that signature look of mischief. “I’m carrying you,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Really?” You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half baffled. “What happened to I’m just going to stand here and look at you like you’ve lost your mind?”

He gave a low chuckle, carrying you effortlessly as he started up the stairs toward the bedroom. “I figured we could mix things up a bit,” he said. “Besides, you’ve got enough on your mind with the baby talk. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t overexert yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny the way your heart fluttered at his gentleness. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah.” His voice was light, teasing, but there was a tenderness behind it that made you relax against him.

You couldn’t help but grin at the easy banter, but as he carried you into the bedroom, you found yourself feeling a sudden surge of excitement that wasn’t entirely about the bouquet or the quiet morning. You had been looking forward to hearing all about Violet’s baby, and you wanted to share what you’d learned from Brennan and Mira.

“You know, Brennan and Mira are absolutely over the moon about Alic,” you said, your voice soft with affection as you settled against his chest, your fingers tracing light patterns along his arm. “They met him yesterday.”

Xaden’s grip on you tightened slightly, but his eyes remained focused on the path ahead. “Yeah?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious. “What’d they say?”

“They’re completely taken with him. Brennan couldn’t stop talking about how perfect he is, how he already has his eyes, like Violet's, and how he's got this little furrowed brow when he’s thinking,” you said with a fond smile, the image of the baby, so new and innocent, filling your mind. “Mira kept going on about how tiny his hands are, and how he’s going to grow up with so much personality because Violet’s already spoiling him rotten.”

Xaden’s lips quirked at the mention of Violet spoiling her son. “I don’t think she’s going to have much of a choice, considering the way Tairn’s already attached to the kid.”

“Oh, definitely,” you agreed, laughing softly. “Mira was saying Tairn is practically hovering over him, like he's the new baby dragon. She said if Alic makes the slightest noise, Tairn’s on alert.”

Xaden’s expression softened at that, his eyes briefly flicking over to the side. “Can’t say I blame him. It’s probably strange, for all of them, having a baby in the family after everything that’s happened.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely a change.” You paused, your fingers lightly brushing against his chest as you leaned into him more, your mind turning over the complexities of the situation. “But, I think it’s a good change. Like… a new chapter. For everyone.”

Xaden was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and thoughtful. “I’m glad we’re part of it. I’m glad you’re part of it.”

As Xaden stepped through the door of your bedroom, he gave a small sigh, lowering you gently onto the bed. You shifted slightly in his arms before your feet hit the ground, and without a second thought, you darted toward your vanity across the room. The soft light from the window illuminated the space, casting everything in a gentle glow that made the room feel peaceful—but not peaceful enough to stop you from running around like a whirlwind.

Xaden blinked in mild confusion, watching you rush to the vanity. His brow furrowed as he leaned against the doorframe, his eyes tracing your movements. “It’s still early, you know. You don’t need to get all dressed up this early,” he said, a note of concern in his voice, though there was amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t even glance at him as you practically flung yourself into the chair at your vanity, pulling open the drawers to rummage for your essentials. “I have to make a good first impression, Xaden. It’s important.” You replied in a voice that was far more serious than it should’ve been, though there was an undercurrent of excitement. Your hands worked quickly, pulling your hairbrush through your tangled hair, ignoring the small knots as you made the swift, efficient motions.

Xaden’s confusion deepened. “First impression? Who exactly are you trying to impress this early in the morning?”

You paused for only a second, catching the glint of his dark eyes in the mirror’s reflection. Your hands didn’t stop moving, however, as you pulled a strand of hair back from your face and began curling it with a quick flick of your wrist. “Alic,” you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You focused on smoothing down a few stray strands of hair, your motions precise. “I’m meeting him today, and I need to look like I didn’t just roll out of bed.”

Xaden’s eyebrows shot up as he slowly walked over to the side of the bed, clearly still processing. “You’re getting ready for a baby?” he asked, the bemusement in his voice barely contained. “He’s, what, like… a day or so old?”

“Exactly!” You practically bounced in the chair, turning to face him with a grin as you applied a light coat of mascara to your lashes. “And I need him to know that Auntie YN is cool. You know, I’ve got to look the part.” You winked at him through the mirror, your energy suddenly sky-high.

Xaden crossed his arms, leaning against the dresser now, clearly bewildered but trying to hold back his own laugh. “You’re serious,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re over here getting dressed up for a baby that can’t even see straight yet?”

You threw your head back with a laugh, a quick, light sound that bounced off the walls. “It’s all about the vibe, Xaden. First impressions are everything. Even for babies.”

Xaden just watched you, his eyes softening as he took in the way your hands moved with such precision, as if every moment mattered. He didn’t interrupt as you finished curling your hair and began lightly applying makeup, your face growing more polished with each swipe of product.

“Alright, alright,” he said, his tone a mix of mockery and affection. “But if you end up spending all this time getting ready, you might miss your chance to actually hold the kid.”

You shot him a side-eye, your grin playful. “I’m making sure I look good doing it.”

Xaden raised an eyebrow, looking over your work so far. Your hair was falling in soft waves, and your makeup was subtle but perfect, enhancing your natural features. You really did look like you were about to step into the room and make a strong impression—not just on a baby, but on anyone who saw you.

He couldn’t help but smile at you, the affectionate look in his eyes finally matching the teasing grin he often wore. “Well, I’m just glad you’re not trying to impress anyone else, or I’d be jealous.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you finished adjusting the last strand of hair. You gave him an exaggerated pout. “Oh please, Xaden. You know you’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

Xaden stretched out on the bed, feeling the cool sheets beneath him as he let out a deep breath. The energy from the morning was still buzzing in his veins, but his body was craving the soft embrace of rest. He had no intention of fully falling back asleep, but the idea of relaxing for just a few more minutes sounded too good to pass up. His eyes flickered over to you as you adjusted yourself by the vanity, but his thoughts quickly drifted to Violet.

With a mental nudge, he reached out to the bond between him and Violet. His connection to her wasn’t one he used lightly—only in moments like this, when he felt the pull of the bond, like he needed to check in on her.

The warmth of her presence washed over him, the familiar sense of her emotions seeping through the bond, like a slow-moving river that always carried the weight of their history. He settled into the connection, finding a calm, steady rhythm in the flow of her thoughts.

Violence? he sent, his voice playful as he mentally prodded her.

There was a brief pause before her response came through, thick with exhaustion but also laced with amusement. Xaden... Her voice was soft, a little worn, like she had been through a battle. Which, in a sense, she had. What do you want?

Xaden couldn’t hold back a chuckle, his mind’s touch light as he teased. You’re the one who woke me up, Violet.

Her mental voice tightened with a hint of surprise. What?

He grinned, imagining her expression even though they weren’t physically in the same space. You didn’t close me off when you gave birth. Your emotions flooded through the bond, and now I’m awake since then in fear of a surprise attack. Thanks for that.

There was a brief moment of silence on her end, and then Violet’s mental voice returned, slightly breathless and tinged with embarrassment. Oh, shit. I’m so sorry. I must’ve forgotten to—

Yeah, I can tell. He mentally laughed, not really bothered by it. His tone was playful, like an old friend joking about an old habit. But I’m glad you’re doing alright, even if you forgot to close me off like you usually do. You know, the next time you're about to have a life-changing experience, I’d appreciate a little heads-up.

Violet’s response was a soft groan, and he could practically feel the weight of her exhaustion in the brief shift of her emotions. I didn’t exactly plan on having to keep track of all that right now, Xaden. It wasn’t exactly a quiet birth.

He smiled, his connection to her soothing as he reached out with a comforting thread. You don’t have to explain. I can only imagine what it was like. How’s the little guy?

Violet’s mental presence softened, and there was a warmth in her emotions as she shared a picture of little Alic in her mind, a tiny bundle wrapped in blankets. He’s perfect. Just… a little overwhelming, you know? But he’s perfect.

Xaden’s heart softened at the image, feeling his affection for her and her son surge through the bond. You’re handling it like a pro. But you’re going to be on your feet in no time, just like always.

There was a pause before Violet responded, a wry edge to her mental tone. I hope so, because I’m not sure I can handle much more of this. It’s not exactly easy, especially with Tairn being so... She hesitated, unsure how to describe the dragon’s devotion to his new son.

Overprotective? Xaden offered with a chuckle, knowing full well how Tairn could be. The dragon had a soft spot for Violet, and now that her son was here, it only made sense that the dragon would be just as protective.

Exactly. Violet’s mental voice was tinged with humour, but there was a fatigue to it as well. If he wasn’t so big, I’d say he’s just a big baby himself.

Xaden laughed at that, the sound filling the space around him. You two are alike in more ways than you think.

Violet snorted mentally, though it was accompanied by a fond affection for her bond with Tairn. Maybe. But I’m not sure I’m ready for this. There’s so much I need to figure out.

And you will, Xaden reassured her, his tone steady. One step at a time. Besides, you’ve got plenty of people who’ve got your back. Everyone’s here for you.

There was a moment of silence before Violet’s mental presence softened again, almost as though she was sinking into her exhaustion. Thanks, Xaden. I don’t know what I’d do without you... and without the rest of them.

Xaden smiled, his heart warm with the unspoken bond between them. You’re not alone, Violet. Never have been.

She gave a mental sigh of relief, a quiet smile in her voice. Good to know. Now, I’m going to try and get some sleep before I’m asked to be social again.

Sleep well, Violet, Xaden responded, his mental touch lighter now. And remember to close me off next time.

He could almost feel her smirk through the bond as she replied. I’ll try not to forget. No promises though.

With a final chuckle, Xaden broke the connection.

You stepped back into the bedroom, brushing your hands against your dress to smooth out invisible wrinkles, your energy practically radiating as you prepared for the day ahead. The bouquet was ready, you were dressed to make an impression, and everything felt like it was starting to come together. Xaden was sprawled out on the bed, his head propped up on one arm, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to your whirlwind of activity.

He turned his head to you as you entered, his dark eyes softening with a flicker of amusement. “You’re buzzing around like a little sparrow,” he teased, his deep voice warm and steady. “I feel like I should warn Alic to brace himself.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh, grabbing a stray hairpin from the vanity and tucking it into your hair. “I’m just excited, okay? I want to be ready.”

Xaden chuckled and sat up, resting his forearms on his knees. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he spoke again, his tone shifting to something quieter, more thoughtful. “I spoke to Violet through our bond a few minutes ago.”

That caught your attention immediately, and you turned toward him, your hands stilling in your hair. “You did?” you asked, your brow furrowing slightly in curiosity. “How are they? How’s Alic?”

“They’re good,” Xaden said, his voice softening further, as if the weight of the bond lingered in his chest. “Violet’s tired—she didn’t exactly get much sleep last night—but she’s okay. Aaric’s handling it well too, from what I could sense.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you stepped closer to the bed, sitting on the edge beside him. “That’s a relief,” you said quietly, your voice filled with genuine warmth. “I’ve been wondering how they’re holding up, especially Violet. This is such a huge change for her.”

Xaden reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over yours as he gave a small nod. “It is, but she’s tougher than she thinks. She’s already so smitten with him, and Tairn’s practically glued to her side. I think she’s going to be just fine.”

The tenderness in his voice made your heart ache in the best way, and you squeezed his hand lightly. “That’s good to hear,” you murmured, your mind already imagining Violet with her son, Aaric by her side, the love between them shining bright.

Xaden’s thumb brushed over your knuckles absentmindedly, his gaze fixed on you as if weighing his next words carefully. “We should head down to see them in about an hour or so,” he said, his voice low but certain. “Give them a little more time to settle before we show up.”

You nodded, the idea making sense, but you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “Oh, so now you’re the one telling me to slow down?” you asked with a playful smirk. “Weren’t you the one practically dragging me out of bed last week to spar at dawn?”

Xaden raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a grin. “That’s different. Sparring is a necessity. This? This is you trying to impress a newborn.”

You laughed, leaning into him slightly. “Touché. But fine, we’ll wait an hour. I can pace myself.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back on his hands as he watched you with that relaxed, confident air that was so uniquely his. “And maybe in the meantime, you can stop fretting about whether Alic will like you. He’s a baby, YN. He’s not going to hold you to some impossible standard.”

“I’m not fretting,” you protested, though the faint blush on your cheeks betrayed you. “I just want to make a good impression. You only get one first meeting with a baby, you know.”

Xaden’s laughter was deep and rich, and he leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re unbelievable,” he said affectionately, his breath warm against your skin. “But that’s one of the things I love about you.”

Your heart softened at his words, and you leaned into his touch for a brief moment before pulling back with a grin. “Alright, fine. I’ll calm down—for now. But when that hour’s up, you’d better be ready to go.”

Xaden smirked, his gaze following you as you moved to the other side of the room to grab your shoes. “I’m always ready, sunshine. The real question is, are you?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face said everything. Today was going to be a good day.

Two hours later, you found yourself standing outside Violet and Aaric’s bedroom door, the hallway quiet except for the faint hum of activity somewhere deeper in the house. Xaden stood beside you, holding the bouquet you had painstakingly put together earlier that morning, though his grip on it was far from what you’d call ideal.

“Xaden,” you whispered sharply, your eyes narrowing at him as you adjusted your hold on the box of baked goods in your arms. “You’re holding it wrong.”

He turned to you, eyebrows raised in amusement. “How am I holding it wrong? It’s flowers, YN, not a sword.”

You huffed, reaching out with one hand to tug the stems slightly so they rested more evenly in his grasp. “You’re crushing the leaves on this side,” you muttered, fussing over the arrangement. “I spent forever making it perfect, and now you’re about to walk in there like it’s been through a hurricane.”

Xaden smirked, his free hand brushing against yours as he let you adjust the bouquet to your liking. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“I am,” you replied, standing back to assess the bouquet in his hands, now satisfied that it was presentable. “First impressions matter, and you’re not ruining this one with your terrible flower-holding skills.”

“Noted,” he said, his smirk widening as he adjusted his stance slightly, now holding the bouquet with exaggerated care. “Better?”

“Much,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Now, just stand there and look charming. I’ve got the baked goods covered.”

Xaden gave a soft laugh, but his eyes flickered to the door as you raised your hand to knock. The sound was light but deliberate, and you shifted slightly on your feet, the box of goods balanced carefully in your arms.

The door opened after a moment, revealing Aaric, his expression warm and welcoming despite the exhaustion visible in his eyes. His blonde hair was slightly dishevelled, and he looked like a man who hadn’t had much sleep but was still running on the high of becoming a father.

“Aaric,” you greeted, your voice bright with excitement as you offered him a warm smile. “Hi! We brought some things for you and Violet.”

Aaric’s gaze flickered between you and Xaden, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said, his tone genuinely appreciative as he stepped back to let you both in. “Come on in. She’s just feeding Alic right now.”

As you stepped into the room, you caught the faint scent of lavender and something warm, like freshly laundered blankets. The space was cozy, and though it was clear they were still settling into this new phase of life, there was an undeniable sense of peace here.

Xaden gave Aaric a small nod as he stepped inside, holding the bouquet with exaggerated precision, which didn’t go unnoticed by Aaric. “Nice flowers.” Aaric said with a teasing grin, glancing at Xaden.

You bit back a laugh. “Ignore him,” you said to Aaric, your tone light. “He’s been subjected to flower-handling lessons all morning.”

Aaric chuckled softly, closing the door behind you. “I’ll make sure Violet appreciates the effort.” He gestured toward the small seating area near the window. “You can sit if you want. She’ll be out in just a minute.”

You glanced at Xaden, who shrugged slightly before moving to set the bouquet down on the nearby table with a carefulness that made you stifle another laugh.

As Aaric gestured for you to sit, you set the box of baked goods on the table and turned toward him, your curiosity getting the better of you. He looked tired, but there was an undeniable happiness in the way he moved and spoke, like he was still soaking in the reality of his new life.

“How have you been?” you asked gently, tilting your head as you took a seat on the edge of one of the chairs. Your voice was warm but laced with genuine concern. “I mean, it’s only been a few days, but… how are you really holding up?”

Aaric ran a hand through his slightly dishevelled hair, the corners of his mouth lifting into a tired smile. “It’s been… a whirlwind, honestly,” he admitted, leaning against the back of a chair near you. “Violet’s doing great, but it’s a lot to process. I didn’t think I could function on this little sleep.”

You smiled softly at his candour. “It sounds like you’re handling it pretty well. I mean, you’re still standing, so that’s a win.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “Barely. Alic’s got a strong set of lungs for someone so tiny. But seeing him—holding him—it’s…” Aaric paused, his voice softening as he searched for the right words. “It’s something else. Nothing can prepare you for it.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache in the best way. “It sounds like you’re already an amazing dad,” you said earnestly. “And Violet… how’s she doing? Is she okay?”

Aaric’s expression softened even more at the mention of his wife. “She’s incredible,” he said quietly, his voice full of pride. “Even when she’s exhausted, she’s so focused on Alic. She’s a natural with him. I just keep trying to make sure she gets enough rest and doesn’t push herself too hard.”

You nodded, your admiration for Violet only growing. “That sounds like her. Always taking on the world without hesitation. But I’m glad she has you to look out for her.”

Aaric smiled at that, his gaze dropping to the bouquet on the table. “She’s lucky to have friends like you and Xaden too,” he said, his tone genuine. “It means a lot that you’re here.”

“Of course,” you replied softly, glancing over at Xaden, who was leaning against the wall, quietly observing the conversation with his arms crossed. His gaze flicked to you, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if to silently echo Aaric’s sentiment.

“Well,” you added, looking back at Aaric with a playful grin. “If you need backup for anything—diapers, baby cuddles, sneaking in naps—just let us know. We’re here for all of it.”

Aaric chuckled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “I might take you up on that. Especially the nap part.”

The door to the adjoining room creaked open, and all three of you turned instinctively. Violet stepped into the room, her petite frame wrapped in a soft robe, her hair pulled back in a loose braid. Her arms were cradling a small bundle, swaddled snugly in a pale blue blanket.

“Hey,” Violet greeted softly, her voice warm but tired as her gaze swept over you, Xaden, and Aaric. There was a light in her eyes, one that was both new and deeply familiar—the quiet, fierce joy of a mother.

You felt your breath catch as you caught sight of Alic. He was impossibly small, his delicate features just visible beneath the edge of the blanket. His tiny hand peeked out, curling into the fabric, and for a moment, it felt like the entire room stilled, all attention focused on him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Violet said with a small smile, shifting Alic slightly in her arms as she walked closer. “Feeding him took a little longer than I thought.”

“Take your time,” you assured her quickly, rising to your feet. “We weren’t in any rush.”

Xaden pushed off the wall, standing straighter as his dark eyes flickered to Alic. For all his usual confidence, there was a softness in his expression now, a quiet respect for the moment unfolding in front of him.

Violet moved to sit on the edge of the couch, her movements careful and deliberate. Aaric stepped forward instinctively, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder as he sat beside her, the silent support between them palpable.

You couldn’t help but inch closer, your gaze locked on the baby. “Oh my gods,” you breathed, a smile breaking across your face. “He’s perfect.”

Violet’s smile widened, and she tilted Alic slightly so you could see him better. “Meet Alic,” she said softly, her voice full of pride. “The newest—and loudest—member of the squad.”

You laughed quietly, leaning down to get a closer look. “He’s so tiny,” you murmured, your heart melting as you took in his delicate features—the tiny nose, the barely-there eyebrows, the faintest dusting of hair on his head. “And so cute. Violet, he’s beautiful.”

Violet’s cheeks flushed slightly, and she glanced down at Alic with a look of pure adoration. “He’s already stolen all of our hearts,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Even Tairn’s been quieter than usual, like he’s trying not to disturb him.”

You glanced at Xaden, who was still standing silently nearby, his eyes fixed on Alic with an unreadable expression. For a moment, you wondered what he was thinking, but before you could ask, Violet looked up at him.

“Want to hold him?” she asked, her voice gentle but teasing. “Or are you scared he’ll cry the second you touch him?”

Xaden’s lips twitched into a smirk, and he stepped forward, his usual confidence returning in full force. “I think I can handle it,” he replied, his voice low and steady.

As Violet carefully passed Alic to him, you watched the transition with a mixture of awe and curiosity. Xaden’s large hands cradled the tiny bundle with surprising gentleness, his movements careful and precise. He held Alic close, his expression softening as he looked down at the baby.

“Well?” Violet asked, her tone light but filled with affection. “What do you think?”

Xaden’s eyes didn’t leave Alic as he spoke. “He’s perfect,” he said simply, his voice carrying a quiet reverence that made your chest tighten.

You smiled, stepping closer to stand beside him. “Told you need a good first impression,” you teased softly, glancing up at him.

He met your eyes briefly, a rare warmth in his gaze. “You might be right about this one,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Violet and Aaric shared a look, their hands brushing briefly as they watched the moment unfold. It felt like the room was filled with something unspoken—a quiet bond between all of you, forged in the presence of new life and old friendships.

As Xaden stood there, holding Alic with a level of gentleness that almost didn’t seem possible for someone of his size and strength, you watched as something in his expression shifted. His dark brows furrowed just slightly, his gaze flickering—not at Violet, but at something unseen.

You knew that look.

He was reaching for their bond.

It was a connection that had existed long before you, something forged through their dragons, Tairn and Sgaeyl, being mates. It wasn’t something he could break, nor something Violet could ignore, no matter how much life had changed between them.

Violet, who had been watching him carefully, exhaled a small laugh through her nose, shaking her head as she adjusted the blanket around her lap. “Checking in again, Xaden?”

You turned your gaze toward him, curious but not surprised.

Xaden’s lips twitched slightly, though his eyes were still distant, as if he were focusing on something beyond the physical world. “Making sure you actually closed me off this time,” he murmured, voice carrying that dry amusement that only he could pull off. “Unlike during childbirth, when you conveniently forgot and woke me up at an ungodly hour.”

Violet rolled her eyes, but there was humour in them. “In my defence, I had more important things on my mind.”

Aaric chuckled, shaking his head. “Like bringing a person into the world?”

“Exactly,” Violet quipped, lifting her chin slightly in triumph. “Priorities.”

You smothered a laugh behind your hand, watching as Xaden’s gaze refocused, his attention snapping back to the present moment. He shook his head slightly, as if shaking off whatever emotions had bled through their bond.

“She’s exhausted,” he announced, though it was clear Violet already knew that. His gaze flicked down to Alic, still cradled in his arms. “But happy.”

You glanced between them, watching the way Violet’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if there was something comforting in the confirmation—even if she hadn’t needed it.

Xaden exhaled, rolling his shoulders before turning his attention fully back to Alic. “And apparently, this one doesn’t know how to sleep unless someone’s holding him.”

Violet smirked. “Welcome to parenthood, Xaden.”

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re officially part of the baby squad now.”

He shot you a look, but there was no annoyance in it—just something softer, something unspoken. He didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it.

And you figured that was answer enough.

Xaden shifted slightly, adjusting Alic’s tiny body in his arms before glancing at you. His dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable—maybe amusement, maybe curiosity—as he lifted the baby just slightly toward you.

“Here,” he said casually, as if he were passing you a training weapon instead of a newborn.

Your eyes widened, and you instinctively took a step back, hands held up in protest. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I’ve never held a baby before.”

Xaden raised an eyebrow, looking between you and Alic. “And?”

“And that’s a really small, really fragile human being,” you said, voice slightly higher than usual. “I don’t even know how to—what if I drop him?”

Aaric snorted from his seat beside Violet. “You’re more likely to trip over your own feet than drop him.”

“That is not reassuring!” you shot back, your pulse kicking up at the thought of somehow doing this wrong.

Violet laughed softly, shifting forward in her seat. “I promise, it’s not as scary as you think,” she said gently. “He won’t break.”

Xaden, still holding Alic effortlessly, tilted his head at you. “You fight people with swords and dragons, but you’re afraid of holding a baby?”

You gave him a pointed glare. “Yes, because swords and dragons make sense! Babies are unpredictable and squishy.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re being pushy.”

Aaric leaned back, crossing his arms. “I, for one, am enjoying this.”

Violet elbowed him lightly but was clearly holding back a laugh.

Xaden sighed, his grip shifting slightly on Alic as he studied you. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice carrying that teasing edge. “Guess I’ll just have to keep him all to myself.”

You crossed your arms. “Good. You do that.”

Violet grinned. “You’ll cave eventually.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response—but deep down, you knew she was probably right. Aaric exhaled softly before pushing himself to his feet. He reached down, offering Violet his hand with a knowing look.

“Come on, Vi,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “You need to rest.” Violet blinked, clearly fighting exhaustion, but didn’t protest as Aaric gently pulled her up. She swayed slightly on her feet before leaning into him, her body visibly relaxing against his.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, though her eyelids were already drooping.

Aaric huffed a quiet laugh, steadying her as he led her toward the bedroom. “Sure you are.”

She didn’t argue, only letting out a soft hum as they disappeared into the adjoining room. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the space suddenly quiet. You glanced toward Xaden, still holding Alic, his gaze fixed on the tiny sleeping baby in his arms. The room felt different now—smaller, more intimate.

“So,” you said after a moment, shifting slightly. “It’s just us and the baby now.”

Xaden hummed, a hint of amusement curling at the edge of his lips. “Looks like it.”

You eyed the newborn warily. “You’re still not handing him to me.”

His smirk widened. “Not yet.”

The room was quiet now, save for the soft crackling of the fireplace and the occasional shifting of Alic as he breathed in his sleep. The warmth of the space wrapped around you, making everything feel more intimate, more delicate.

Xaden still held Alic effortlessly, one strong arm supporting the tiny bundle while his other hand gently adjusted the baby’s blanket. His expression was unreadable, but there was a certain reverence in the way he looked down at the newborn, as if he were memorizing every detail of him.

You swallowed, watching him carefully. “You’re… really good at that.”

Xaden’s dark eyes flicked up to you, his brow lifting slightly. “At what?”

You gestured toward Alic, still keeping a careful distance. “Holding him. Like you’ve done this before.”

He smirked, tilting his head. “I haven’t.”

Your brows furrowed. “Then how are you so—”

“It’s not difficult,” he interrupted smoothly, shifting the baby slightly. “You just… hold him.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “That’s easy for you to say.”

His smirk deepened, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You’re really afraid of this, aren’t you?”

You hesitated, feeling a sudden rush of vulnerability at the realization. “I just… don’t want to do something wrong.”

Xaden was quiet for a moment, his expression softening just slightly. “You won’t.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. “You don’t know that.”

He studied you for a long moment before shifting Alic slightly in his arms. “Come here.”

Your eyes widened. “Xaden—”

“I’m not handing him to you,” he said, cutting you off. “Just… come here.”

You hesitated, your feet rooted to the ground. But the way he was looking at you��calm, sure, unwavering—made something in you melt.

Slowly, cautiously, you stepped forward.

Xaden adjusted Alic in his arms, tilting him just slightly toward you, enough that you could get a closer look without having to hold him. The moment you were near enough, your gaze dropped to the baby’s tiny face.

Your breath caught.

Up close, Alic was impossibly small. His tiny nose, the way his mouth moved slightly in his sleep, the faintest furrow of his brow—it was overwhelming in a way you hadn’t expected.

Xaden watched you carefully. “See?” he murmured. “Not so scary.”

You exhaled softly, unable to tear your eyes away from the baby. “He’s so… small.”

Xaden chuckled under his breath. “They usually are.”

You shot him a quick glare before looking back at Alic. Your hand twitched at your side, a sudden urge filling your chest.

Xaden caught the movement instantly. “You want to touch him.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t want to wake him up.”

“He sleeps through worse,” Xaden murmured. “Go ahead.”

You hesitated for only a second before slowly, carefully, lifting your hand. Your fingers barely brushed against the soft blanket wrapped around Alic’s tiny body.

Warm.

So warm.

A strange feeling swelled in your chest—something protective, something unfamiliar but deeply instinctual.

Xaden watched you the entire time, his expression unreadable. But there was something softer in his gaze, something almost knowing.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Okay,” you murmured. “Maybe I don’t fear babies.”

Xaden smirked. “Told you.”

Your fingertip barely grazed the soft fabric of Alic’s blanket before instinct took over, your hand moving with careful precision as if he were made of glass. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, delicate and impossibly small.

And then, without warning, his tiny fingers twitched.

You froze.

Alic’s hand, barely the size of your thumb, moved blindly before curling around your finger. His grip was weak, barely there, but it was enough.

Enough to make your breath catch.

Enough to shatter something deep inside you.

Your vision blurred instantly, and before you could even think to stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. Xaden noticed immediately. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice lower, softer. “What’s wrong?”

You let out a shaky laugh, quickly swiping at your eyes with your free hand, but it was useless. The tears kept coming. “Nothing,” you whispered, your voice thick. “Absolutely nothing.”

Xaden didn’t say anything, but you felt the warmth of his presence beside you, steady and grounding. He watched as Alic’s tiny fingers remained wrapped around yours, his grip so small, so fragile—yet somehow the most unbreakable thing you’d ever felt.

You sniffled, glancing at Xaden with wet eyes. “He’s just… perfect.”

Xaden’s expression softened in a way you rarely saw, his usual sharp edges dulled by the weight of the moment. “Yeah,” he murmured, gaze flicking back down to the sleeping baby. “He really is.”

Alic shifted slightly, his little mouth opening in a quiet yawn before he settled again, still clutching onto you like you were something safe. And for the first time, you truly believed you were.

Xaden exhaled softly and adjusted Alic in his arms before stepping back toward the large armchair in the corner of the room. He sat down with an ease that made it seem like holding a baby was second nature to him, his movements fluid, instinctual. Alic barely stirred, still curled in the safety of his arms, small and warm against his chest.

You watched him, arms crossed, standing just a few feet away. Xaden tilted his head, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You’re still hesitating.”

“I am not,” you lied, your arms tightening slightly over your chest. His lips twitched in amusement. “You’re still afraid you’ll break him.” You huffed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “He’s so tiny, Xaden. What if—”

Your words cut off as something cool and familiar wrapped around your waist.

Shadows.

Before you could react, they slithered over your body in a controlled, precise motion, curling around your wrists, your thighs—everywhere they needed to be to move you effortlessly. A surprised gasp left your lips as they tugged you forward, pulling you toward the chair where Xaden sat.

“Oh, you—” you started, but your voice turned into a quiet laugh as the shadows guided you right into his lap.

Xaden didn’t even flinch as you landed against him, his free arm immediately wrapping around your waist to steady you. His smirk was pure arrogance. “You were saying?”

You shot him a glare, though there was no real heat behind it. “That was unnecessary.”

“That was effective.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he shifted Alic in his arms, drawing your attention back to the baby. And just like that, your frustration melted into something else—something softer.

Xaden’s voice was quieter now, more coaxing. “You’re going to have to hold him eventually.”

Your heart pounded as you looked down at the tiny bundle, your fingers twitching at your sides. Xaden saw it. Knew you were seconds away from giving in.

He adjusted Alic again, then carefully, slowly, guided the baby toward you. His movements were deliberate, giving you the chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. With a deep breath, you let him settle Alic into your arms.

The second the baby’s weight pressed into you, your entire body stiffened. “Xaden—”

“Relax,” he murmured, his hand still hovering beneath yours, steadying you. “You’ve got him.”

Alic barely stirred, his tiny body curling slightly against your chest, his warmth bleeding into you. Something in your chest ached.

Xaden pulled back just enough to give you space, but his shadows still lingered against your skin, cool and grounding. His arms stayed close, ready to steady you if needed.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s so… small.”

Xaden’s smirk softened into something almost tender. “Yeah,” he said. “But you’re holding him just fine.”

The weight of Alic in your arms felt so impossibly light, yet it settled over you like something far heavier—something deeper. His tiny body was warm against you, his breaths soft and steady, little fingers twitching slightly in his sleep.

And then, it hit you.

A thick, overwhelming wave of emotion, crashing into you without warning.

Your throat tightened. Your vision blurred. A shuddering breath escaped before you could hold it back.

Xaden noticed immediately. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, softer.

You shook your head quickly, blinking against the tears threatening to spill. “I—I don’t know why,” you whispered, but that wasn’t entirely true.

It was everything.

It was the sheer innocence of the baby in your arms, the way he fit so perfectly against you despite your earlier fear. It was the tiny weight of him, the way his delicate fingers curled and uncurled slightly, completely unaware of the world around him. It was the fact that for the first time in your life, you were holding something so small, so fragile, and yet… he trusted you.

And he didn’t even know it.

A hiccupping sob broke free before you could stop it, and the first tear slipped down your cheek, then another.

Xaden shifted beneath you, his arms tightening slightly around your waist. His shadows curled around you instinctively, grounding, steadying. “You’re crying again.”

You let out a shaky laugh, swiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “I—he’s just—” Your voice broke, and you took a breath, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Xaden was quiet for a moment. Then, his hand brushed against your back, slow and reassuring. “You don’t have to.”

That only made you cry harder.

You curled around Alic just slightly, cradling him closer, your fingers running carefully over the soft fabric of his blanket. He stirred just barely, making a tiny noise before settling again, completely at peace in your arms.

Your heart clenched painfully.

Xaden watched you, his expression unreadable, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now—something almost knowing.

You sniffled, finally glancing up at him through blurry eyes. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

His lips twitched. “I had a feeling.”

You let out another watery laugh, shaking your head as another tear slipped down your cheek. “I hate you.”

Xaden’s smirk deepened, his grip tightening around you. “No, you don’t.”

You sighed, glancing down at Alic again. The tears still wouldn’t stop, but for once, you didn’t care.

You sniffled, wiping at your cheeks, but the tears wouldn’t stop completely. The overwhelming warmth of Alic in your arms, his tiny weight pressed against you, was something you hadn’t expected to feel so deeply.

Xaden watched you, his smirk just barely restrained. “You going to be okay?”

You huffed out a shaky laugh, still cradling Alic close. “No.”

His smirk turned into something softer, his hand rubbing slow circles against your back. You glanced down at the sleeping baby, your heart still aching in the best way possible, and then—without really thinking—you blurted out, “What if we just took him?”

Xaden blinked. “What?”

You looked up at him, a mischievous glint breaking through your emotional haze. “What if we kidnapped him? Just… casually walked out of here with him. Think Aaric and Violet would notice?”

Xaden let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, I don’t know, love. Maybe when they realize their son is missing?”

You grinned, wiping at your face again. “We could make a run for it. I think we’d be great parents.” Xaden raised a brow, his shadows tightening around you almost instinctively. “You’re unhinged.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You giggled, rocking Alic slightly. “I’m just saying, if we left right now—”

“I fear what the lightning wielder would do to us,” Xaden interrupted, his tone dry.

That made you laugh even harder. “Oh, come on, Vi wouldn’t kill us.”

“She wouldn’t kill you,” Xaden corrected. “I, on the other hand, would be dead before I stepped outside.” You considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “That’s fair.” Xaden rolled his eyes, though amusement still lingered in his expression. “Put the baby back before you get any more ideas.”

You sighed dramatically, looking down at Alic. “Fine. But just know, little one, I would’ve given you an excellent life.” You sighed dramatically again, shifting Alic slightly in your arms. “Fine, I guess we’ll let them keep him.”

Xaden huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Generous of you.”

You glanced down at the baby again, watching the way his tiny lips moved in his sleep, the peaceful rise and fall of his little chest. The warmth in your chest grew, deeper than before. “He really is perfect.”

Xaden’s shadows curled lazily around your waist, settling against your skin like a reassuring touch. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He is.”

For a long moment, the room was quiet—just the crackling of the fireplace, the steady rhythm of Alic’s breaths, and the occasional rustling of Xaden’s shadows as they moved around you. It was a rare kind of peace, one you hadn’t expected to find in this moment.

Eventually, you sighed. “Alright, I should probably give him back before his parents wake up and accuse me of actually stealing him.”

Xaden smirked. “You mean before Vi electrocutes me on sight?”

“That too.”

He chuckled but didn’t argue, shifting slightly as he helped guide Alic from your arms. You hesitated as you let go, your fingers lingering against the soft blanket wrapped around him. Xaden noticed. “You can hold him again later.” You swallowed, nodding. “I know. Just… didn’t expect to get so attached this quickly.”

His smirk softened into something else, something knowing. “I did.”

You shot him a look, but before you could argue, a quiet rustling sound caught both your attention.

You turned just in time to see Violet stirring in bed, her hand instinctively reaching toward the empty space where Alic had been. Aaric shifted beside her, murmuring something under his breath before settling again.

You glanced at Xaden. “Guess that’s our cue.”

He nodded, standing with effortless ease, Alic still cradled securely in his arms. You followed as he moved toward the bed, carefully lowering the baby back into Violet’s waiting arms. She barely stirred as she tucked him close, instinctively settling into the warmth of her son.

Your chest ached at the sight.

Xaden lingered for a second, his gaze flicking between Violet and Alic before he exhaled quietly and stepped back. His fingers brushed against your wrist, a silent signal.

Time to go.

As you walked down the dimly lit hallway, Xaden’s arm still wrapped firmly around your waist, you couldn’t help but sigh. Your mind was still stuck on the feeling of Alic’s tiny hand wrapped around your finger, the warmth of him in your arms. It was ridiculous how quickly he’d burrowed into your heart.

Xaden must have noticed your distraction because his thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against your hip. “You’re thinking too hard.”

You huffed. “I do that sometimes.”

He smirked. “I’ve noticed.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into him anyway. His warmth was grounding, his presence something solid in the whirlwind of emotions still settling in your chest. After a few quiet steps, you sighed again, tipping your head up to look at him. “Do you think Violet and Aaric will let us babysit?”

Xaden barked out a laugh, his shadows flickering with amusement. “I think we’d have to get through Vi’s overprotective streak first.” You groaned. “Right. She’s going to hover, isn’t she?”

“Like a dragon over her hoard.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I guess that’s fair. If that were my kid, I wouldn’t let anyone near him either.”

Xaden’s arm around you tightened slightly at your words, and when you looked up at him again, something unreadable flickered in his expression. It was brief, gone in a blink, but you knew him too well to miss it.

You frowned. “What?”

His smirk returned, but it was softer now, less teasing. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Liar.”

He just hummed in response, steering you toward your shared room.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you turned fully to face him, crossing your arms. “Seriously. What was that look for?” Xaden studied you for a moment, his gaze sweeping over your face like he was debating something. Then, finally, he spoke. “I just think you’d be good at it.”

Your brow furrowed. “At what?”

His smirk deepened, but there was something almost careful in the way he said, “Being a mother.”

The words hit you like a physical thing, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your heart stuttered, eyes widening slightly as you stared up at him.

Xaden wasn’t teasing.

He wasn’t joking.

He meant it.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling too warm. “I—”

He stepped closer, his shadows brushing against your skin in that familiar, grounding way. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “I’m not saying we should steal Alic for real.”

That pulled a surprised laugh from you, though it came out breathless. “Good. Because Violet would absolutely murder us.”

Xaden smirked, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “Without hesitation.”

You hesitated, searching his face. “But… you meant it.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Your chest ached in a way you couldn’t quite put into words. The idea of a family—of something more, something real—it wasn’t something you’d let yourself dwell on before. But now…

Now you weren’t so sure.

Xaden seemed to read your thoughts, because he didn’t press further. Instead, he just tilted your chin up slightly, his lips brushing against your forehead in a rare, tender gesture.

“We’ve got time,” he murmured against your skin.

And somehow, that made your heart ache even more.

A/N: I was not intending it to get so long but eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek Credit to @empyreanevents for the divider

[togament]

" 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. windbreaker boys edition. "

pt. 1. (sakura, ume, suo.)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : kinda suggestive (i mean it's me. ofc its gotta be suggestive somehow), some swearing, kinda ooc for suo. can you blame me though? we know so little about the man and we're already 140+ chapters deep.

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐀.

- canonically doesn't own a pillow so he only sleeps on his side, curled up to conserve heat. like a cat. but after having you around? he's clinging onto you, man. he may deny it vehemently when you tease him about it in the morning, throwing pillows at you as he's blushing profusely, but he doesn't know you've taken a picture of him with his arm over your chest, tugging you close to him. - clenches and grinds his teeth when he sleeps. you buy him a mouth guard so his jaw isn't as tense when he wakes up. (TMJ sufferers rise up) - sleeps in his boxers when you're around but if not, he's going commando, baby. just... text him when you're planning on surprising him in the morning. give him prep time unless you're looking to eat sausage for breakfast. - gets bed hair but doesn't care. he'd have a huge cowlick on his head but he doesn't mind. best he could do is kind of wet his hair? anything more than that is too much effort. - very light sleeper. if he hears the smallest bump in the night, he's immediately up. - has only one duvet and it's kind of falling apart. you gifted him a new one and he almost cried in front of you (not without freaking out about it first.) - talks in his sleep sometimes. you record him whenever you catch him doing it just to play it back for him in the morning. he's always so confused as to how and why he does it.

𝐔𝐌𝐄.

- won't sleep unless you give him his goodnight kisses. you have to. how dare you deny him of the pleasure of kissing you before you sleep? - always lets you sleep before he does because he reads before he sleeps. - needs reading glasses and falls asleep with them on. CONSTANTLY. you have to remind him about them before you snooze or you peel them off when you wake up before he does. has broken one (close to a dozen) reading glasses before you came along because he kept sleeping on them. - has to read before he sleeps. it's a necessity. he reads stuff ranging from philosophy to manga. never fails to fall asleep with a book in his hand too. - checks on a spreadsheet he's got for his plants so he has a game plan ready in the morning. checks the weather and temperature and everything before he does his reading routine. worries endlessly if a heavy typhoon drops or god forbid hailstorms. - HUGE SLEEP HUGGER AND YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE. his body just naturally gravitates towards you in his sleep. it's cute. it's endearing. until it's a hot summer night and you're damn near naked because just wearing a shirt's making you sweat. ume's just a happy sleeping puppy of a man, sweaty body clinging to your side. - a very light snorer. you rarely ever get to hear him snore. he only does after a particularly tiring day or after you've had rounds and rounds of se-- - gets a boner most nights. - wet dreams often. you have to help him out in the mornings. - that being said, he's very, very touchy in the mornings.

𝐒𝐔𝐎.

- sleeps like the dead. you may or may not have held your finger to his nose to check if he's still breathing. - never has bed hair. when he wakes up, he looks absolutely impeccable. it's crazy. - has a candle warmer set to a timer. likes sleeping when his surroundings smell good. also has a scent diffuser. - has like... a 30 minute long ritual before bed. candle warmer, check. proper pyjamas, check. pillows plumped, check. skincare routine, done. you always end up waiting for him on the bed while he's apologizing with that sweet voice of his while crawling into bed with you. - only ever sleeps facing up. if you want to cuddle, he could. but he can't engulf you in his frame or anything. just an arm around you or maybe with you pressed up against his side. - he runs cold so he's got thick duvets over thick duvets. they're really soft too. hotel quality. always gets them washed. - somehow you've never caught him in the process of waking up. he's always up before you, brewing tea or cooking breakfast. hell, he already has a set ready for you by the time you wake up. - who am I kidding suo never sleeps.

a/n: just a quick little thing before i hop into bed. doing part two soon bc i wanna clown on kaji so fucking BAAAAAD omg (affectionately) ok goodnight babycakes.

[panthrology]

waking up horny in the dead of night with SUGURU GETO as your boyfriend is actual hell sometimes

i just know that this man has the worst attitude when really tired. who can blame him? being a guy as hot as he is cannot be easy.

“girl—” suguru would grunt and turn back over after shaking him awake for dick. for dick. yeah self-inflicted really. other times he wouldn't say anything at all, just shoot you a nasty look.

but a girl has her needs.

“baby please?” you try again, perching your chin onto his buff arm. “the dream was a little too detailed.” a small pout forms on your puckered lips.

“that isn't my fault,” suguru counters, the soft bass in his voice resounding in your shared bedroom. “you couldn't have waited until there was light outside?”

you shake your head.

“must be tough. good night, sweetheart.”

this man. you groan out an exasperated ‘suguru!’ and curve over his form, staring at him as if he can see you through his closed eyelids.

“no, y/n.”

“i’ll top?”

you lied.

you knew damn well you couldn't be bothered to ride him to an orgasm at two in the morning and so did suguru. so when he scoffed and muttered “roll over.” you were grinning victoriously.

“I don't belive you.” suguru hissed, lifting up your hoodie over your hips and feeling up the skin of your ass.

“sorry, sugu’.” you're breathless already when he starts spreading the globes of your ass apart to take a good look at your cunt through low lidded eyes with the sleep and arousal still weighing them down. suguru merely tutted, wrapping a hand around his bobbing cock to push his tip in for the second time tonight.

you tensed as you sunk your head into the pillow in front of you. suguru had a big dick. you knew that much from the time you caught wind of what his attitude was like. nonchalant, quiet confidence, tall, pretty large hands. You'd be surprised if he didn't.

“y/n..if you don't relax. I can't move if you're trying to crush me.” you roll your eyes—so dramatic.

you ease up, but quickly choke on your breath when he slides all the way in, filling you with his thick inches. your pussy flutters at the intrusion, squeezing suguru again. “shiittt baby..” yeah—he undoubtedly missed that.

and when suguru sees your ass ripple and hips jump forward with every deep thrust, he suddenly thinks that he made a good decision.

but he was still fucking tired.

“mm-mm, don't run from me, sweetheart. you wanted me to give it to you, so take it—take this dick ‘fore I take it away.”

“you're so needy, can't even let a man sleep.”

“pretty girl just can't stop creamin’ all over me, so cute.”

“listen t'thaat, it's like your pussy's doin’ all the talking. have i made you dumb already, sweetheart?

for someone who’s so fatigued, he can't seem to shut up at all. mumbling and groaning nastiness all up in your ear like he's drunk on your pussy. suguru thinks he just might be.

he's got a firm grip on your hair and one digging into the fat of your hip, balls thwacking against your sticky cunt. suguru's strokes are mean, every ridge of his cock rubbing against your cushy walls. you're actually drooling, the dizzying mixture of exhaustion and pleasure making you float higher than the pearly gates. Yet with the way your hole squelches when he goes real deep..and his fat tip grinds on that one spot, you're going anywhere but heaven.

You don't even have to say it, suguru knows. suguru knows you're about to cum when he can feel you sporadically squeeze him and when your moans get longer and higher against the pillow you bury yourself into.

“gonna cum already?” he's giggling, the trembles of your ankles and the way your fist tightens not going unnoticed by him. “fuck me back, then. show me how bad you wanna cum on me.” he stops all motion before yawning out loud, a lazy hand reaching his face to cover his mouth. how sexy.

pressing your lips together, you brace your hands out in front of you and swing your ass back on suguru. you were on thin ice right now, and with his snarky attitude, he literally might just leave you high and dry.

your knees are unsteady and shaky but you persevere, looking over your shoulder to see jet black strands hang over his face and shoulders, and amber eyes steeled on where you two connect. his lips are parted slightly as he huffs out a gravelly groan.

“yeah, jus’ like that. fuck me.” suguru praises, words sliding over each other slightly. he picks up the pace again, balls tightening as his head hangs low. he listens to your drawn out moans, sounding more like broken sobs with each stroke he gives you and it makes him dizzy. “‘m gonna cum, i'm gonna cum.” he's whining now.

“inside, sugu’—don't stop!” you beg as you spasm around him, milking your boyfriend.

suguru huffs out a laugh, a lazy grin stretches on his lips. he loves seeing you needy and mind-fucked like this—it scratches an itch deep in his soul. “alright. stay still f'me sweetheart—gonna give it to ya how you like.”

a shattered whimper rips from your throat as he pushes his hips all the way forward, and rams himself all the way in so his cock bullies that spot, the one that makes your cunt gush.

“o-ohh, my god! right there..’s right there, ‘m gonna cuumm..” you wail but he shushes you, the volume of your moans making him wince.

“make a mess pretty girl,” he grunts before his jaw goes slack and ropes of his sticky load flood your cunt. “fuuuckk..” but he doesn't stop—he powers through his orgasm and into overstimulation. suguru smiles when your eyes roll back and your limbs go limp, wailling into the satin pillowcase as you cum and cream onto him.

you think you black out for a second with your ears ringing and heart hammering in your chest. knees falling flat, your entire body slumps forward into the mattress as the aftershocks of your orgasm shoot through you like lightning. you could practically feel the beads of sweat sliding down your body underneath your hoodie.

when a warm and wet rag slides against your slit and inner thighs, you glance behind you and see an entirely spent suguru. he's continuously yawning while he pulls your flimsy underwear back up, before tossing the damp towel into the dirty laundry basket.

“thank you sugu’,” a satisfied sigh escapes your lips as he tucks you into his embrace, yet all suguru can do is scoff. you couldn't help but giggle at his annoyance, smiling like a cat who got the cream.

literally.

“next time, I'll just ignore you and get my well deserved sleep,” he spits, resting his chin atop your head.

totally worth it.

© NEPTNSZN 2024 ★ please do NOT copy, repost or modify my pieces, apply credit when necessary.

[propertyofwicked]

speed demon - LN

warnings: speeding + dangerous driving, references to sex

short fluff :) fewtrell!reader -> can be read as a stand alone or an extra to the secrets series!

my take on a BTS of the quadrant athletes video with willne and bambinobecky :) p.s hey caitlin i know ur reading this

lando’s girlfriend was a concerning driver. growing up in the english country side, especially with her racing-mad brother max, she became very accustomed to driving at insane speeds down backroads, learning where the swerve potholes and where all the cameras were. honestly, put her in an f1 car with a good song and watch max verstappen crumble.

her brother and his friend could speed around race tracks, y/n preferred real roads.

the only flaw in her driving ability arose when lando, who notoriously hates being a passenger, sat to her left, gripping any hard surface he could as his girlfriend threw her car around a corner.

“y/n, angel, you know i love you - but why do you drive like you had somewhere to be 10 minutes ago?”

“this is a good song,” she answered with a shrug, which only confused him further, yet she slowed down, glancing at the man besides her, “it’s got a good bassline. you literally drive at like 200 miles an hour and yet you’re getting stressed about me going 80 on an empty road?”

“the difference between you and me is that i wear a helmet when i drive that fast.”

“no one is stopping you from putting a helmet on in my car, lan.”

“erm, i think the national speed sign meaning 60mph should be enough that i shouldn’t need to wear a helmet in your car y/n.”

“god you’re so dramatic, lando - has anyone ever told you that?”

“yes. you. the last time i complained about your driving, you little speed demon,” he said, finally laughing quietly at the situation.

in fact, they were late. they were supposed to be at a quadrant shoot in 10 minutes, but still needed to pick up will and becky from the station near to the warehouse they were filming in. when they finally reached the station, lando jumped out of the car to meet them, leaving y/n to sit in silence, queuing a few songs for the short journey to the shooting location.

“y’alright y/n?” will asked, climibing into the back seat of her car, becky climbing in from the other side.

“i’m good, thank you will. how are you?”

“im good, however i’ll let you know how i feel after ive experienced your driving,” he joked, earning a guilty chuckle from lando who was buckling himself back into the passenger seat. her hand rose, slapping his arm lightly.

“hey! my driving is not that bad.”

“let them find that out for themselves, angel,” he responded, dramatically rubbing his arm, feigning pain. she ignored him, shoving the car into gear before jamming her foot onto the accelerator, the loud engine loud enough to wake the dead.

when they did arrive at the shoot, will had gone silent, his face paler than usual. becky was still smiling and chatting, but her face conveyed the same level of fear as wills. the group of them walked into the warehouse, where max was already waiting.

y/n walked up to max, taking him in a small embrace before stepping back to let him greet the rest of the group.

“will? you good man? you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” max said, taking a step back to look at the man a second time.

“yeah, yeah, im good,” he responded, smiling sheepishly. y/n absentmindedly played with her car keys, the jingling of her key rings raising max’s attention.

“lando let you drive? jesus, no wonder will looks like he needs a fresh pair of trousers,” max laughed, doubling over.

“why does everyone think im such a bad driver? i have not crashed once. never. not a single crash. the same cannot be said for you or lando, max,” she exclaimed, beginning to feel offended at the accusations.

“in all fairness, lando warned me. i thought he was joking when he said she loved the accelerator more than she loves him,” will replied, the colour coming back to his face as he smiled. max shook his head at his sister again, before directing will and becky round to the sofas, running them through the plans for the day.

y/n felt a warm pair of arms snake around her body from behind, lando’s head coming to rest on her shoulder. he turned his head to look at her, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

“im not actually a bad driver, am i?” she mumbled to him.

“no angel, people are just jealous of your sheer ability to drive at dangerous speeds and do it safely,” he responded, he meant to be sincere but y/n could feel the sarcastic undertones.

she shook her head at him, pulling away from his embrace, but his hand reached out, latching onto hers, before pulling her back into him. this time her chest melted into his, her head tilting to glance up at him.

“i hate this scarf,” she announced, but stretched her neck up to presses soft kisses along his jaw.

“ouch. why? i like it.”

“’cos it covers your neck. i love your neck,” she said, smiling up at him again.

“i know you do angel. your love for my neck is the reason i have to wear a scarf for the shoot today,” he said, laughing, his hands moving from her back to push loose strands of her behind her ears. a blush rose up her cheeks at the memory of the night before, as her fingers moved to pull the scarf down slightly looking at the bruises beginning to darken on his skin.

she hadn't meant to, but she had found herself on top of him last night, legs straddling him as his pushed up into her. with max only a room over, she needed to find an outlet for the noises she wanted to make and his neck fell victim.

“whoopsies. but im sure the lando girlies would love to see you with hickies.”

“i’m sure they would,” he said, grinning at her still and nodding slightly, “im sure your brother would love it to,” he added sarcastically, glancing over to the man in question who was now handing becky a script.

she tutted in response, pulling his scarf back up to covering his neck. lando’s head tilted down to look at her again, using his hands on her jaw to pull her face up closer to his. his lips pressed soft kisses to her forehead and cheeks before finally planting a soft but quick peck to her lips.

“lando did you want to stop getting it on with my sister and come and do your job?” max bellowed from across the room, pulling the two apart.

lando decided he should probably drive the two of them home that day, and let max take the others back to the station, but the moment the car moved off from where it was parked, he stalled the engine.

"formula 1 driver but can't drive a manual without stalling it. that's embarrassing - now who can't drive?" she joked, laughing at him as he restarted the ignition.

"still you," he replied bluntly, his foot slamming down on the accelerator sending the car flying across the car park.

"please don't destroy my car," she begged quietly at the sound of her engine about to take off, "a man i quite like bought it for me and id hate to make him angry when he has to buy me new tyres."

"ill just buy you another car," he joked as he returned to the speed limit of the road ahead, his hand moving from the gear stick to rest on her thigh, grabbing lightly at it.

"you're not a bad driver, you know that, don't you angel?" he said after a few minutes of silence. he'd admit that she wasn't the best driver, but she was still skilled even if slightly reckless.

"i know," she said, her voice still heavy with the annoyance from everyone's teasing.

"you would be great at karting, you know?"

"stop it - i spent my entire childhood trying to avoid karting please do not bring it into my adulthood," she begged, albeit jokingly.

"why did you avoid it? im sure max would've loved to race with you," lando asked, glancing to his side to look at her face, her head leaning on the door panel.

"it was max's thing, i guess. i didn't want to do what he did. i wanted to be my own person. i still do," she said with a shrug. lando's hand moved from her thigh to grab hers, pulling it up to his face to press a kiss to the back of it.

"i'm glad you're unapologetically you. i don't think i could cope with two max's in my life. or two of you for that matter."

[theactualsunshinechild]

If Castorice is cursed to kill whoever she touches and Mydei is cursed to be immortal, do you think Mydei ever goes to Castorice on a really bad day and is like, hey can you put me down for a bit please? I'm having these phantom pains from fatal wounds and injuries that don't exist anymore and they're keeping me up, I want a nap.

And obviously at first Castorice is like "L-lord Mydei, please rethink this, death is not something to be trifled with! Even with your condition, I cannot guarantee your safe return..." and Mydei takes the time to reassure her that, no, he's sure about this, and yes he is willing to bear the risks, no he doesn't care if it will hurt, please euthanize him. It takes a bit of convincing but eventually she agrees to risk it, and, fear in her heart, gently places a hand on his shoulder.

Mydei wobbles and collapses dead on the spot. Castorice lets go and starts fretting internally, stepping back and circling around, frantically searching for any sign of life. How long does it usually take for Mydei to come back? Will he come back at all? Her own curse is clearly effective on him after all... To her relief, it only takes a few seconds for Mydei's eyes to flutter open again to find himself supine, with limbs bent at various awkward angles from the way he ragdolled.

It was a very peaceful few seconds, no pain, no blood, just an pleasant floating sensation as the familiar dark waves of the Styx rocked him side to side gently, before a bright guiding light forcibly pulled him right back. If not for the uncomfortable position he came to in, he'd even say the experience did some old aches a lot of good. The slight relieved smile that comes across her face as he explains this belies how many years of uncertainty and grief she's experienced over the many deaths she had enacted prior. She must have had no way of knowing for sure, until now, whether or not the deaths she delivered were as gentle as she hoped, Mydei realized.

It takes slightly less convincing to have Castorice try again. This time, they arrange more comfortably, Mydei sitting down against a wall, Castorice taking his offered hand in hers. As his hand goes limp in hers, his skin slowly cooling, she draws comforting circles on it with her thumb, more for herself than for his unfeeling body. After several minutes this time, each feeling longer than the last, she lets go and backs away once more, waiting with bated breath for the moment he shudders back to life, taking air back into empty lungs, eyes bright again, fierce, lively and visibly well-rested.

They agree to never exceed 15 minutes, Castorice explaining he would likely not enjoy coming back to the discomfort of gravity having caused all of his stilled blood to pool and settle inside of his body, let alone his body having cooled. Mydei agrees easily and assures her that he will keep his requests for deathly repose infrequent.

Castorice often passes the time Mydei spends dead trying to occupy her hands, the nerves never quite leaving her alone. Knowing logically that Mydei will come back and fearing that maybe he won't come back this time are two separate things after all. She tries many things, from bringing a scroll to read, to embroidery, shoulder pressed to his, trying to ignore how much bolder the red tattoos look against the pallor of a dead man. When Mydei wakes to Castorice's fingers pricked and bleeding for the third time, he frowns and offers for her to braid his hair next time if she wishes.

The next time, a month later, they arrange slightly differently, Castorice sitting on a bench, Mydei lowering his head into her lap, his hair an offering she wills herself to accept. Having assisted with many a funeral rite, Castorice is able to lose herself in the process of carefully weaving the messy soft locks into shape. The texture is strangely soothing, despite how unnaturally still Mydei remains, and Castorice imagines that this must be similar to what it feels like to pet a lion's fluffy mane. When the sand stops flowing, Castorice moves Mydei's head out of her lap to walk five places away once more. He comes to, gasping for breath as usual, and reaches up to feel at the new braids he sensed in his hair. A ghost of a smile graces his face when he finds them to be satisfactory, and he wears them for the rest of the day as a sign of appreciation. Castorice fiddling with his hair while he is dead quickly becomes the standard for their little meetings. Sometimes he wakes up with no new braids, but he doesn't question it so long as Castorice doesn't appear to be in any distress.

The first time Phainon spotted Mydei with his head in Castorice's lap, Castorice gently running her fingers through his hair as if he were a very large cat, Phainon almost passed them by with how peaceful they looked...

Then did a double take and panicked.

Anyway, that's my headcanon at least for how Castorice can say that the death she brings with her touch is peaceful. I think discovering that killing Mydei with her touch grants him what is essentially a banger nap from his perspective, probably helped her find an amount of peace in those early years. Truly putting the rest in "putting to rest"with this one.

Obviously she'd still prefer to be able to touch people and creatures without having them die, but at least she has learned that it isn't painful when she kills this way.

Additionally I like to imagine that while being killed by Castorice feels soothing, getting killed normal ways feels like shit, painful the whole way through, and then you get dunked violently into the Styx. And for Mydei specifically, it's more like he gets dunked into the Styx only to get yoinked right out, soul still sopping wet and cold, and forced back into a body that is fully repaired but it's happened so fast to him that his nerves have him feeling the aftershocks of the injuries that are already gone.

[mrpenguinpants]

ooooh I love how you write jing yuan!!

can I request hcs (or a fic if you prefer) on what a domestic life w/ him would be like? like what happens after work or on weekends? :)

Down time

— Jing Yuan

Credits to the Animated Short: "Taking It Easy" for the beginning. [Masterlist]

Thank you anon, I'm glad you like him cause I enjoy writing him;; I am boycrazy about Jing Yuan.

Mornings are a struggle. Sharing a bed means sharing Jing Yuan’s early alarm and his terrible habit of refusing to get up until the very last possible second. You’re fairly certain he wakes up before the alarm even rings, yet he insists on playing dead for the entire half-hour it takes to coax his heavy body off you and out of bed. It always starts the same way. First, he rolls over just enough to silence the alarm while your mind is still struggling to register what lights even are. Then, without fail, he shifts again—this time right on top of you—burying you under his full weight as if he’s decided you make a perfectly comfortable mattress. It really brings into perspective how much time flies and how much people can change. You remember the tentative, tip-toe phase of your relationship—when you and Jing Yuan had just started dating, and the man could barely keep it together if you so much as leaned against his side. And now? Now, he had the audacity to bury his face against your chest, arms wrapped around you like a vice, and drift back to sleep without a second thought.

You can tolerate a “five more minutes” rule, so you don’t say anything at first, simply going limp beneath him, pressing your cheek against the fluffy mess of his hair, and waiting for him to move on his own. But then five minutes turn into ten, then twenty, and there’s still no sign of life. That’s when more drastic measures become necessary. At first, you try tugging on the tips of his hair—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be annoying. No reaction. So you escalate, attempting to slip your arms around his neck in a makeshift chokehold, hoping the mild inconvenience will get him to budge. It never works. What does work is wiggling just enough to throw him off balance, sending you both tumbling in opposite directions. The morning ritual always ends the same way: you, sprawled on the floor, dry-heaving and disheveled, hair a complete mess; and Jing Yuan, sitting pretty on the bed, completely unbothered, watching you with lazy amusement—just like your fat white cat perched on a windowsill, basking in the morning sun.

While Fu Xuan, Qingzu, and even Yanqing sometimes—muttering under his breath—like to compare Jing Yuan to a lazy cat, you think a sticky leech is a far more accurate description. You physically cannot go anywhere without him clinging to you in some way. The simple act of walking to the bathroom in the morning turns into an awkward, shuffling waddle as Jing Yuan drapes himself over you from behind, his weight making every step as difficult as possible. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, as if the very air he breathes needs to be laced with tea tree oil or he might just wither away. Even brushing your teeth is a shared experience. One of his arms snakes around your waist, securing you firmly in place—not just to keep you within reach, but to conveniently bend you forward at the perfect angle so he can spit into the sink without getting anything in your hair. Because, of course, heaven forbid the mighty Arbiter-General suffer even a single second where you aren’t attached at the hip when he actually has the time to do so.

Mornings are quiet for the most part, steeped in a comfortable drowsiness that neither of you are in any hurry to shake off. The world outside is beginning to stir, but in here, time moves slower, stretching lazily between shared warmth and half-hearted movements. Words feel unnecessary, replaced by soft hums and the occasional shift of weight as you both move through the familiar motions of your routines. A nudge against his side earns you a low sigh, but Jing Yuan relents, lifting his arms just enough to let you slip from beneath them to grab your uniform. Fabric rustles as you begin changing, the cool air meeting bare skin in sharp contrast to the heat left behind by tangled sheets. There’s a weight to his gaze, one you don’t need to see to feel. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still half-lost to sleep, he watches with an easy sort of attention, the kind that isn’t searching for anything new but appreciating what’s already familiar. A slow exhale, a quiet hum—subtle, yet unmistakably fond. You don’t bother turning around, but the warmth that presses against your shoulder a moment later makes you still. Lips graze skin, unhurried, reverent in their own way. The gesture lingers just long enough to make the space between waking and dreaming blur again, as if he isn’t quite ready to let go of the quiet moments where the world only belongs to the two of you.

The garden outside is vast, sprawling with carefully tended greenery, yet Jing Yuan’s personal collection remains modest—just three potted plants resting on the lip of the fountain. Vibrant petals bloom alongside the deep green of their leaves, and he tends to them lazily, one hand tilting a watering can while the other rubs the sleep from his eyes. The drowsiness clings to him still, evident in the slow blinks and half-hidden yawns between each absentminded motion. This is when the roles reverse, and you find yourself slipping your arms around his waist, your steps slowing as you lean your head against his back. Jing Yuan moves with ease, but you can feel his steady warmth against you, his movements languid. He idly traces patterns over your hands, the rhythm soothing, a silent second conversation between the two of you.

By now you're both awake enough to start talking, light and casual. You talk about breakfast—what sounds good today, whether you should have something quick or if it's worth the time to cook a more elaborate meal. The mention of Yanqing’s morning habits leads to a soft laugh, wondering if he’s already up and running or if he’s still tucked away in his room, likely too absorbed in sharpening his swords to notice the passage of time. You both share a knowing look at the thought, the fondness clear in the quiet smile that lingers between you. Then the conversation shifts to the future, and you ask if next week might be a good time to visit your parents for lunch. It’s a simple question, but one that feels significant in its own way, a small slice of normalcy between the chaotic, ever-shifting world you both live in. Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully, considering the question for a moment before nodding, his hand giving yours a reassuring squeeze as he continues walking, guiding you through the calm of golden hour.

The small finches that have claimed him as their own flit through the air, landing with practiced ease along the curve of his shoulder. Some nestle comfortably in the folds of his robe, while others busy themselves tugging at strands of his hair, their tiny beaks working persistently through the thick waves. It would be endearing—if you hadn’t spent so much time brushing out every last tangle just minutes ago. No matter how soft his mane appears, it is deceptively stubborn, each lock demanding patience to work through with a fine-toothed comb. You can already imagine the knots forming anew, the battle you’ll have to wage against them later. He, of course, remains utterly unbothered, chuckling as the birds weave through his hair, letting them undo all your efforts without a single care. Your peaceful morning ends with you having a rather one-sided argument with a finch, jiānduī (sesame ball) that Jing Yuan so dearly calls, who chirps angrily back at you as you fight over your husband.

You had attempted in the past to dress Jing Yuan up. The idea mostly stemmed from movies and cartoons from Penacony, where older characters would neatly button up their kids' collars or loving wives would tighten their husbands' ties before sending them off for the day. It all looked so charming, so endearing—you wanted to try it for yourself. While Yanqing has hit that age where he admittedly refuses any help from his mother because he's "not a kid anymore", you can still get away with it with Jing Yuan. Eagerly, you padded into his closet one morning, determination burning in your eyes as you set out to recreate a heartwarming moment straight out of a children’s show. But what you found instead was an overzealous designer. His wardrobe wasn’t filled with simple shirts and pants—it was an intricate battlefield of layered fabrics, confusing belts, and unnecessarily elaborate clasps. Your enthusiasm wavered as you pulled out a piece of his uniform, holding it up like an ancient relic, brow furrowing at the sheer number of unnecessary straps and accessories. What were these thigh straps even for? Psychological warfare??

Food is an essential family bonding tradition on the Luofu, and the Jing family is no exception. No matter how chaotic life gets, there's an unspoken rule that meals must be shared—one way or another. If breakfast together is impossible, then lunch becomes the fallback. If lunch slips away, then dinner is non-negotiable. Should dinner plans crumble under duty’s weight, then a midnight snack will have to do. And if even the snacks are lost to time, then at the very least, a shared cup of water at three in the morning must suffice. But on the rare occasion that an entire day passes without even the briefest moment to eat together, there's a final clause: whoever canceled the most has to foot the bill for the next meal. And considering you married the most important man on the Luofu—the very Arbiter-General himself—you fully intend to take advantage of that rather impressive paycheck.

You’re both... passable when it comes to cooking. Given your busy lifestyles, neither of you ever had the luxury of refining your culinary skills beyond the bare minimum—if the food is edible and won’t send you to the infirmary, it counts as a success. As a result, most of your meals consist of dining out or bringing home leftovers to stretch into the next meal. It’s not the most ideal arrangement, but you both have other strengths, and at this point in your life, you’ve made peace with the fact that cooking simply isn’t one of them. Especially when it comes to meat. After the last food poisoning incident—a miserable, harrowing experience that neither of you ever speak of—you’ve sworn off handling it entirely. On the other hand, Jing Yuan is a bit more capable in the kitchen. He can throw anything into a clay pot, let it simmer for a while, and somehow, the end result is surprisingly decent. But the moment a recipe demands any real technique, precision, or effort beyond “let it stew,” you both might as well start drafting the funeral rites for whatever unfortunate pan is about to meet its untimely end. At this point, adding a new one to the bi-weekly shopping list has become routine.

Aside from the maintenance crew that tends to the expansive estate, your home life is kept strictly private—just you, Jing Yuan, and Yanqing. You’re not particularly comfortable with outsiders wandering through your space and handling personal belongings, and, frankly, considering how often you end up stumbling half-awake through the halls in the middle of the night, the risk of accidentally scaring someone or yourself half to death is far too high. Jing Yuan, ever the picture of warmth and diplomacy, is cordial with the staff. He offers easy smiles and polite conversation, always taking the time to thank them with small gifts and kind words, making them feel seen and appreciated. You, on the other hand, are fairly certain that the staff either believes you’re a complete recluse who has never once set foot beyond the estate walls or that you’re in the early stages of succumbing to Mara itself. It’s not that you dislike people—you just have an unfortunate tendency to freeze up when faced with new interactions. Any years of experience you have in holding a conversation seem to evaporate the moment you lock eyes with a stranger. Take, for instance, the time you encountered the gardener while stepping outside. Instead of greeting him like a normal person, you froze like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and unblinking, before slowly backpedaling into the house while maintaining eye contact the entire time. Not your proudest moment. You’ve yet to summon the courage to properly reintroduce yourself and assure him that, no, you are not a shy ghost haunting the estate.

During working hours, your relationship remains strictly professional—at least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Everyone knows you’re married; if the shared surname wasn’t enough, then the matching jade-and-gold dragon and phoenix hairpins certainly were. But despite this well-established fact, Jing Yuan has an unfortunate habit of letting little things slip when he really shouldn’t. Moments that are meant for serious discussions about military operations or Luofu affairs somehow derail when he offhandedly mentions that you forgot your scarf again, or that he liked the way you tied his hair this morning. But once the day’s duties come to an end, so does the facade. Postures slump, formalities fade, and if you both happen to finish at the same time, you forgo the Starskiff and walk home together instead. Beneath the golden hues of dusk, with the Luofu bathed in the warm glow of a setting sun, you can’t help but steal glances at your husband. It’s ridiculous, really—how even after all this time, after centuries of shared mornings, whispered conversations, and quiet nights, he still manages to leave you breathless. That even now, as the years stretch long and endless before you, you still have to take a moment to remind yourself that this is real. That against all odds, by some miracle of the Aeons above, you’ve somehow managed to marry the most beautiful man this side of the universe.

You both still take detours away from the crowded streets, slipping into quiet back alleys where the world narrows to just the two of you. It’s a habit born out of necessity—Jing Yuan’s presence draws attention no matter where he goes, and avoiding the inevitable gawking is simply easier this way. But there’s something nostalgic about it, too, something thrilling. It reminds you of when you were both still young, sneaking away from training and cram school, dodging the ever-watchful eyes of your mentors. Of course, those teachers are long gone now, their scolding voices nothing more than distant memories, but the habit remains. You tug Jing Yuan along by the hand, his red hair tie trailing in the wind as you weave through narrow paths lined with mossy walls and overgrown vines. The stone beneath your feet has witnessed years of hushed whispers and stolen kisses, of fleeting moments where duty was briefly forgotten in favor of something softer. It all started when he was still just a lieutenant, ducking away from Baiheng’s relentless attempts to braid his hair. You remember the exact moment—how he nearly crashed into you in his haste, only managing to sidestep you at the last second. He had turned to throw a quick apology over his shoulder, already scaling the wall with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Meanwhile, you were left fuming, barely managing to keep your grip on a heavy box of ink blocks, hurling curses at him as he disappeared over the edge. Some things change with time. Others, like the thrill of slipping away from responsibilities, remain the same.

Having said that, you’d still have to be the most self-sufficient, independent, borderline introvert if you want any hope of making your marriage with Jing Yuan work. As much as he dislikes it, his duties as General will always take priority over his role as a husband. Meetings run longer than expected, stacks of paperwork demand his signature, and sometimes, no matter how much he wishes otherwise, he must personally oversee an operation to ensure nothing goes awry. It’s an old reality, one he’s long since accepted—but not without its lingering weight. When he was younger, still just a lieutenant with ambitions far greater than his years, this very fear had shaped his resolve. Back then, he had chosen to lock away any thoughts of romance, dedicating himself entirely to his training. A relationship, he believed, would be unfair—to both his partner and himself. He couldn’t offer them the time and devotion they deserved, and he refused to bear the guilt of that neglect. An afternoon spent together could mean a tomorrow lost, and he was never one to gamble with what he wasn’t willing to lose. He’s always on the clock, even on his registered days off, because there truly is no rest for the Arbiter-General. His position does not allow for long, uninterrupted stretches of peace, and by now, you’ve learned to expect that quiet moments with him are fleeting at best, illusions at worst. Whether it’s in the middle of dinner—just as he’s mid-motion, placing food onto your plate—you’ll hear a knock at the door, a messenger waiting with an urgent report. And the next second? He’s gone, leaving behind the warmth of his presence, and you’re left eating alone, staring at dishes that have already begun to cool. Or perhaps you’re half a step into bed, finally ready to surrender the day’s burdens against his chest, when an alarm starts blaring through the halls, cutting through the serenity. You don’t even get a proper goodbye—just the feeling of his fingers brushing your wrist as he murmurs an apology, his side of the bed still warm but empty.

Chores are technically split between the two of you, following an unspoken law of common courtesy. Whoever cooks, the other does the dishes. Whoever washes the clothes, the other dries. Whoever sweeps, the other mops. It’s a simple system, fair in theory—until reality intervenes. Given Jing Yuan’s relentless schedule and the fact that he is, by all definitions, never truly "free," the balance of responsibility inevitably tips toward you. More often than not, he barely manages to grab a sponge before a knock at the door calls him away. Another urgent matter, another fleeting promise to do better next time. And every time he returns to find the house already spotless, guilt seeps into his chest. He knows you don’t mind, that you understand he isn’t shirking duties on purpose just to lounge around. But still, it must be frustrating, constantly picking up after someone who swears—each time, with complete sincerity—that next time will be different. At this point, you’ve stopped waiting up for him. It’s not that you don’t miss him—you do, terribly—but there’s only so many times you can fall asleep against the headboard, only to wake up alone, the sheets still untouched beside you. Instead, you’ve adapted. You’ve learned to see these moments not as disappointments, but as opportunities. Leftover meals mean less cooking time tomorrow. An empty bed means more space for you to stretch, curling up like a cat or sprawling in a glorious starfish position you wouldn’t otherwise have the room for. And when he does return—exhausted, apologetic, but always reaching for you first—it almost makes up for the nights spent alone.

In times of quiet, when the guilt sits heavy in his stomach, Jing Yuan turns to the simplest, most instinctive solution: coming to you. Communication, after all, is a surprisingly rare skill among his peers, and he knows too many people who lack both the time and the temperament for it. It’s usually when you’re both in bed, your back pressed against his chest, that he allows the restraint to slip. In the hush of the night, his voice is softer, the weight of unspoken thoughts finding form. Are you truly happy with him? Do you ever regret tying your life to his? Do you feel the same quiet thrill he does when someone calls out "Jing," and have it mean the both of you?

In these moments, you’re faced with a simple yet crucial decision: how exactly do you wish to kill your husband? Smothering or strangulation? Rolling over to face him in the inky black of night, your hands move on instinct, reaching out to pinch his cheeks together before capturing his lips in a kiss meant to steal every last breath from him. He barely gets a chance to react before your full weight presses down, ensuring he has nowhere to escape. His muffled protests—something about bruised lips, something about letting him breathe—are swiftly dismissed with a sharp slap to his shoulder. Because what the hell did he just say to you? Did he forget the centuries of pining, the countless nights you spent longing for a single glance from the elusive, white-haired Cloud Knight? Did he forget how you had sobbed—ugly, gasping cries—to the point where he had to hold you, rubbing circles into your back until you could form a single coherent word, all because he had proposed? And most importantly, had he somehow erased from his memory the image of you standing at the doorstep every night for over three hundred years, unwavering in your devotion, waiting with a white lion at your side—a companion who had slowly aged, growing frail with time, until the night came when you stood alone? If he was truly re-thinking everything, he'd better be ready to make up centuries of your life or you'll take it back in blood.

The days when the world finally seems to slow are the most treasured. When Jing Yuan can actually slouch, letting the weight of his title slip from his shoulders as he leans against you, his breaths deep and unguarded. Those days mean far more than the cold nights spent alone and the lukewarm meals left unfinished. Despite his deep-seated worries—that one day, you’ll realize you deserve a marriage far better than what he can offer—you think he’s got it entirely backward. He has no idea how lucky you feel, how absurd it still is that you not only caught his eye but somehow managed to keep him tethered to you. Jing Yuan, the revered Arbiter-General, the man who commands an entire army with effortless grace, yet chooses to rest his head against your shoulder, trusting you to hold him up when the weight of the world bears down on him. Honestly, even now, despite sharing the same family name, it’s a pretty fair assessment to say you still harbor the fattest crush on him. A hopeless, unwavering admiration that hasn’t dulled in the slightest—even when he’s snoring lightly against your collarbone, trapping your body beneath his heavy frame, utterly unbothered by the way you’re struggling to breathe.

[j-k-writes]

Lost and Found

Summary - Viserion's death reopens old wounds in Y/N Targaryen. But the world keeps spinning as he shuts himself away, and the young king must cope with his grief as Westeros falls further into war.

Warnings - General GOT warnings, canon character death(s), grief and mourning, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mild sexual content (I think it's mild at least), Targcest (brother/sister & uncle/aunt/nephew)

Viserion was dead. 

Viserion was lying dead beyond the wall where Y/N had no chance of reaching him. His body would rot under the ice to be discovered in a hundred years, and Y/N would never see him again. Y/N could almost laugh at how ironic it was. 

He hadn’t properly thought of Viserys’ death in years. 

That fact alone was enough to make Y/N guilty enough to lock himself in his chambers, turning even his sister away when she came knocking at his door. Jon had woken a few days ago and had stopped by to offer condolences to the young king, but Y/N had just turned him away with the others. 

He was glad the King in the North was recovering from his injuries, but even thinking about Jon brought back memories of Viserion’s scream as the spear of ice pierced his hide, and he went crashing down into the ice. The memories of Viserion’s screams eventually brought forward the memories of Viserys’ screams. Long repressed memories of the molten gold pouring over his brother’s head as Y/N watched, horrified from his spot next to Dany, came rushing back in full force. 

Dany had been half mad with grief in the days after Viserys’ death, but Y/N picked himself up from bed the next morning and continued the journey to the Iron Throne. He’d told himself that Viserys would have preferred his action to Dany’s tears, but now, as he lay in bed, he wondered if he should have shed his tears back then. Perhaps if he’d let them go, he wouldn’t be drowning in them now. 

He was closer to the Iron Throne than he’d ever been before, and instead of claiming it for his brother, he had locked himself in his chambers, too scared to show his sister and the King in the North his grief. 

With a few days left in their journey to Kingslanding, Dany and Jon finally had enough of the elder Targaryen’s hiding. Before Y/N awoke, the two entered his room, bringing food and new clothes. They waited patiently for the young king to wake, and Dany braced herself for the Targaryen fire-like rage that would no doubt be thrown at her and Jon when her brother woke. 

It never came. 

Y/N woke, took in his unexpected guests, and simply sighed. The lack of reaction took Dany and Jon by surprise. Dany stood, walking slowly to the side of Y/N’s bed. She took a seat on the side of his bed, and when he still didn’t react, she pulled the sheets down gently. 

At the feel of the cold air against his bare skin, Y/N groaned, “Dany, leave me.” 

She gently brushed his long hair out of his face, and he opened his eyes. She smiled down at him, “We are almost to Kingslanding.” 

“Leave me.” 

Jon sighed, “Your Grace-” 

“Leave me.” 

“Enough,” Dany said harshly. She grabbed the sheets and ripped them off her brother, causing Y/N to sit up fully. He glared at her and then at Jon, who averted his eyes from the man’s bare torso with a flush. “You must get up.” 

Y/N collapsed back against the bed with a huff, and Dany’s expression immediately softened. She shifted on the bed, lying next to him. She turned onto her side and rested a hand on Y/N’s chest, rubbing soothing circles into his skin. 

“Nyke gīmigon. Nyke shifang.” She said softly, and Y/N closed his eyes as his grief bubbled to the surface. He felt Dany shift slightly, murmuring something he didn’t pay attention to before she laid back next to him. The other side of his bed dipped and Y/N felt the heat of another body laying next to him a few seconds later. 

“Your Grace,” Jon said, voice much closer than it had been a few seconds before. “I cannot begin to understand what you have lost, but you must get up.” 

Y/N opened his eyes, looking at Jon. The man seemed uneasy with his role in coaxing Y/N out of his bed, but Y/N was grateful for the attempt. 

Dany rested a hand on his cheek, moving his face so that he could look at her. She wiped a stray tear from his cheek, “What do you need?” 

“I-” Y/N paused before sighing and hanging his head. “I don’t know.” 

Dany smiled sadly before pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Y/N relaxed immediately into the touch, even if the action brought back other memories of death. He’d offered her this after Drogo’s death, a distraction from the grief and an outlet for all the feelings she held for her late husband. 

‘Yes,’ He thought as she deepened the kiss. ‘This will drive these thoughts from my mind.’ 

She climbed into his lap, and the awkward angling of their bodies caused him to fall backward into where Jon was still lying in the bed. He’d almost forgotten the man was there, and the shock of feeling his body behind him caused him to let go of Dany. He turned to face Jon, who was watching them both with wide eyes and paused. 

As he and Jon were looking at each other, Dany wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Jon looked at her, and Y/N could not hope to guess what unspoken conversation was happening between them. It did not matter to him seconds later, as whatever it was caused Jon to softly cup his cheek as Dany had just moments before and connect their lips. 

Y/N groaned at the feeling, and he felt Dany smile against his neck before pressing her lips to his pulse point. Her hand slipped down his chest, stopping just above the waist of his pants, and he nodded. He groaned against Jon’s mouth as Dany’s hand dipped into his pants.

He attempted to pull back as Dany worked in careful ministrations, but Jon snaked a hand into his hair, only allowing him to move away a few inches before the Northerner started to assault his neck. 

The feeling of Jon’s lips and teeth against his neck and Dany’s hand below his waist brought him to edge embarrassingly fast. Far too soon for his liking, Y/N was tensing up and crying out, Jon silencing the man with his mouth. When he fell back into himself, Dany and Jon removed themselves from where they were wrapped around him. 

Jon stood up, giving Y/N a smile and a soft kiss on the cheek, before leaving the room. As he opened the door he gave Dany a look Y/N could not read, and the man turned to face his sister.

Dany was already standing bringing over the plate of food and bundle of clothes. She laid the clothes on his bed and the food on his bedside table before pressing another kiss to his lips. 

“Get dressed.” She murmured against his lips. “We have a throne to win.”

---

Translations -

Nyke gīmigon. Nyke shifang - I know. I understand.

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[bi-writes]

it took the end of the world to bring you to where you were supposed to be. (18+, 5.5k words) ghost (+ johnny) x fem!reader (apocalypse au -> dark content ahead)

you know it is luck that you are still alive. in times of anarchy, it isn't the soft and weak hearts that remain. only the unfeeling stay alive. the ones that are willing to do what others are not. the lot that know what isolation feels like. the ones familiar with survival and everything that comes with the wounds it leaves behind.

the loneliness. the paranoia. the heat of hunger and the impossible itch of thirst, on top of the fact that running for your life is second nature to you now.

if it wasn't the sick and dead lurking in the shadows, it was the live ones that would take you. and you have seen what they can do, and you have watched what the opportunities of the unbecoming have given them, and you vow that you will kill yourself with your own dull army knife than let yourself succumb to that kind of death.

you'd rather be eaten alive by the things that don't understand than the ones that do, because they don't know any better, and the others do, and they know what they are doing isn't human, but they don't care.

whether they eat for survival, for pleasure, for power, it is becoming more and more difficult to discern between the sick and the healthy, and in that in-between, you've decided to be on your own.

you know the loneliness will eat at you from the inside. but you are comforted by the fact that you are not being eaten from the outside.

you sleep in the trees tonight. you climb, high enough to be out of sight, and then you use the rope in your pack to anchor yourself to the trunk. as soon as your head falls back, you fall asleep. you have been walking for days now, you think, and with nothing in your belly except for a few scavenged snacks, sleep comes easy.

when you wake up in the morning, you feel the crisp edge of the sky against your face, and you know it will rain soon.

if there is a god above, they will wash you away with it. you hope, at least. you don't know if this is how you imagined noah's ark--the cleansing of the earth, a flood great enough to wipe it of what they deem ugly and unimaginable and irredeemable. and god must be a man, because only a man would unleash something like this that comes with consequences he never intended--the fact that it didn't fucking work. in his effort to eradicate the fucked up pieces of shit he supposedly created by his own hand, he unleashed them.

he set them free.

and like a man, instead of fixing his fucking mistakes, he turns a blind eye. he forgets. he allows it to manifest, and now that it is out of control, he will blame the sins of what he's done on someone else, someone like you. the innocent. the unknowing. the small and the weak, the ones who he said would inherit the earth, where is he now that there is nothing to inherit? how come he's allowed to go back on his promises, and i'm not? what have i done so wrong that this is the lifetime you gave me?

you don't know why you care. you don't know why you've survived and why you keep trying to. you don't know what drives you forward, but there must be something. there has to be something waiting for you, because you don't think your life can fall any lower than this.

but fuck, there are other plans for you.

there's no one to hear you scream. they cut the branch, unravel the rope, and one of them has gotten ahold of your legs, and they're dragging you. you cry, you scream, you thrash, but all your clawing hands do is leave sporadic trails in the dirt. they laugh, you think, but you cannot hear them over the blood that rushes in your ears.

your nails are raw when they flip you over onto your back. they bleed from how you scratched to be let go, and you don't know why you fight this, but you just have this voice inside you that screams that this can't be how this ends. this can't be the way you go--this isn't the what you deserve, this isn't fair--

you vow to leave your mark. when they come closer, you don't let them come easy. you claw at their faces, rip out chunks of their hair, and when another comes close, you use your teeth, biting off chunks of their flesh, tasting blood, because i won't make it easy for you, i won't go silently, i'll leave you worse than you leave me, i'll take you with me if i fucking have to.

and when it stops, you sob. suddenly everything is still, and there are no hands on you anymore, and all you can see through the blood in your eyes is the sky above you, and how it is early morning, and there's a flock of birds passing by overhead. they fly peacefully. they have no idea what they're observing--the struggle of being alive, the humanity of your will to live, the defiance of dying at their hands, they have no idea that they are witnessing the death and rebirth of something fragile, something so delicate.

you sit up on your hands shakily, and you swallow hard as you look around. to your horror, your savior is a man.

bodies surround you. there's blood staining the dead leaves along the forest ground, trickling from sickening wounds in heads. in one hand, the man in front of you holds a dirty stone, large and jagged, and the sharp edge of it is darkened with red and drips on the tips of his boots. he has wild blue eyes, and while his hair is grown out, it is carefully cut along the sides. his dark hair falls in effortless curls along his forehead and at the base of his neck, and when he meets your eyes, he smiles, wickedly.

he wields other methods of killing people, but he chose a fucking rock. and you think he must be crazy.

you shake, and you find your balance, crawling back on your hands to get away from him, but you're only able to crawl a few feet before your back hits an imposing wall.

you gasp, jerking to the side, and you bow your head to cry when there is another man behind you. this one towers, broad and big, and he wears a sickening skull mask that shadows any human part of him. he might not even be human--maybe he's as dead as everyone else.

you hiss when your hair is pulled. crouching at your level now, the one that wears a real face stares down at you, still smiling. he's chuckling now, licking his lips, and you lean forward and spit at him. it lands on his cheek, a mess of saliva and blood, but his eyes seem to only sparkle. his smile widens.

"what do we have 'ere, LT?" he snickers, and you gather the saliva in your mouth and spit it at his feet this time. there's more of a mess of cartilage and blood and spit, but instead of disgusting him, he just grins up at the ghost behind you. "with a will ta live. ever seen anythin' like it?"

"she's dead fuckin' weight." even his voice has you shaking, low and gravelly, and you hold back a whine when you're let go of. the scottish one is yanked backwards by the scruff of his hair by his superior, who bends to growl in his ear. "she'll only hold us back. dunno why y'even had to intervene, she'll not make another fuckin' day."

"fuck you," you snap, wiping at your face with a trembling hand. you wipe at the tears under your eyes, coughing, and you stare back up at him. with the sun in his face, you can see his eyes. they are dark, and they are unforgiving.

he is one of the ones who is free. he is one of the ones that god intended to kill, and yet here he stands, stronger than ever. and even though you know he's a murderer, an undeserving, broken inside and scarred on the outside, he'll outlive you because he thrives in the anarchy of what is left behind, and you are consumed by it all.

"let's go, johnny," he spits, and you close your eyes. you don't know why you were spared your life. you don't know why luck has been on your side, you don't know why men are what punish you and save you, but you cannot escape them. they send you to slaughter, and then they pick you out of the pen, and you wish you had more control.

you want to be more than this. you want to be more than whatever it is you're made of. you are not meant to be here, you're not meant to be alive, but you are, and fuck, you're so tired of it.

johnny belongs to him. it's obvious, in the way that he lets that man pull on him and order him around, even if they are adorned in military fatigues. you imagine there is no authority anymore, but he listens to that beast anyway, because he's getting up onto his feet, letting it guide him away from you.

if you want to live, you'll have to tame that beast.

"i-i can be useful," you say softly. your eyes are wet and big, and you look up at them as they stand over you. johnny turns his head, looking at his handler, who tilts his head to the side and glares at you. he does not believe you, at least that's what it feels like, but you look right into his eyes and take a deep breath. "you'll just kill me if i'm not. w-what do you have to lose?"

the hum he lets out isn't an agreement, but he doesn't say no either. so when he turns to walk away, you stand, brush your bloodied jeans off, and you follow them. johnny trails, putting you between them. you're pretty, but he doesn't trust you yet, but you're also aware of the eyes you feel on you from behind. when you catch him staring at your ass, he doesn't pretend to look anywhere. he simply giggles.

they are a unit. they can speak without words. johnny tells you his handler's name is ghost. his lieutenant, a man of many talents, and you refrain from rolling your eyes at his sergeant's praise. but instead, you look up at him, and you smile, and you nod, and you give him those doe eyes that you can tell make him a little dizzy.

at night, they alternate keeping watch. they carry lots of gear, and while one guards in his sleep, the other stands in the shadows and keeps their head on a swivel. they take efficient rounds of sleep, getting their rest in while keeping their senses on alert. the first night, you aren't able to sleep. you are too afraid of johnny and how he smiles, because he's a dog, and you don't know when ghost will let go of his leash.

and you are too afraid of ghost, because he looks at you like he wants to kill you, and when he does, you'd like to look him in the eyes for it. you want him to know that you might not be strong like them, might not be the kind of survivors that they are, but you aren't a coward.

you aren't a man, and you'll die the way a woman should--with her fucking dignity.

the days pass easier. ghost hunts, and johnny cleans. ghost scavenges, and johnny kills. and when there is food, johnny feeds it to you, and you put on your best face, opening your mouth, letting him spoon you a mouthful of something that warms your belly. johnny eats your lies right up, but one look at ghost, and you know he sees right through you. with each lick of your finger, he snarls, and with each foot you step closer to johnny, he growls.

he doesn't believe you. you need to make him believe you.

you see your opportunity. it crawls towards him on soft hands, flesh spongy and quiet from the weeks of decay and rot. you see its mouth, black teeth sharp and ready to sink into the meat of his calf, and you lunge, pushing the vase off the table and watching the heavy clay fall until it squishes the head into a heap of rotten matter and dead meat.

ghost turns, looks down, and when he looks back up, he sees you gasping for breath, heaving. there's a desperation in your eyes. it trickles between panic and worry, and you don't know how it is you wear it so well, but it manifests into wet tears that gather at the corner of your eyes.

he's not a beast. he's just a man. and when he passes by you, he reaches up and grips your face hard, nearly shaking you, but it isn't like any other time he's touched you. he glares down at you, right into your eyes, and you melt, stepping just that much closer, sinking your nails into fabric of his tactical vest and gripping it tight.

i can be useful. it rings in his ears as he looks down at you, the burden he has been carrying with him, and suddenly he drags you that much closer, until your open mouth touches the front of his mask.

even your determined conscience can't stop your legs from squeezing together when you feel the warmth of his breath.

i can be useful. i can be useful. i can be useful.

you can be the thing that wakes what is dead inside of him. you can be the virus that infects his veins, the dagger straight through his heart, the heat of the sun, the thing that builds back up what he's buried so far down. johnny keeps him human, but you'll keep his blood pumping. johnny satisfies the itch of authority that ghost needs to keep, but you challenge the fire he keeps under his tongue, and fuck, those eyes.

you pretend with johnny. you play the damsel in distress. you fawn, let him coo over your soft eyes, keen at his touch, but it is a game you play, and he sees it, he sees it, but this time, it doesn't make him angry, and he likes it, and fuck, have you always been this pretty?

you swallow your smile. his grips tightens, and you know you have him.

he's yours. and he's going to keep you. the world ends, god doesn't answer your prayers, the salt of the earth runs free, but it doesn't have to be the end for you. you will learn the hymn of what makes monsters move, and you will sing that song until you can't sing anymore.

you will learn their language, and you will convince them of what you are not, and keep what you really are a secret.

the good, the easy, the soft, you'll keep it inside, because that isn't who lives at the end of the world--it's ghosts that remain, and this one belongs to you.

this one belongs to me, this one is mine, this one you can't fucking have.

and maybe it's selfish. maybe it's wrong to think this way, to take from your saviors this way, because that is what they did, they did save you, but this is the only way you can make sure you make it out of here, that you live. a man takes, and a woman gives, but wouldn't it be nice if it wasn't always this way?

because the dead are still moving now, and there isn't humanity in the living; this is what you are owed.

you think it will be difficult to pretend. when it is night again, and you are staring up at the blue of johnny's eyes, you think it will be difficult, but it isn't. despite what you know he doesn't have, even though you know there isn't anything good in him, he still smiles, and he's so pretty, and you let him kiss you.

it's easy because he's warm. his voice low, his breaths heavy, and it feels like love, and it isn't hard to imagine yourself somewhere else. in another place, meeting him in another time, falling in love with him because it is the only thing you really have to worry about. if you lived another life, you wonder if you still end up here.

you wonder if he would eat your cunt this way in that other place. like he'll never have it again. if he's just as aggressive, spreading your thighs, trapping himself between them, slurping at your folds until you are nothing but a wet, leaking mess underneath him. you wonder if he would groan the way he does, gripping you tight enough to bruise, taking his fill because everything that begins has to end, but maybe if i keep making her see fucking stars, she'll let me stay here forever--

johnny's so much easier to control when he's pussy drunk. anything you whisper in his ear, he just nods, licking into your mouth, mumbling incoherently. he'll say yes to anything you say, and when the gruff call of his name pulls him away from you, he struggles to leave. it isn't obvious, the power you have over him, not to him at least. but it's real, and because he watches you even as he goes, you know he'll do anything for you.

he'll do anything for me. he'll live for me. he'll kill for me. but will he do it even if ghost tells him not to?

because that is the only question that matters. if you and ghost stand on either side of him, who will he go to when his name is called?

if i call both of their names, will they come to me?

if he calls my name, will i come to him? am i just the same? do i wear the collar, am i the puppy, is it me that fell and not the men i hate so much? how do i tell the difference between what the fuck is real and what isn't?

you don't know what time it is. it's dark outside, it must be the middle of the night, but you can make out ghost's silhouette in the doorway. you've been holed up here for some days, and he takes turns with johnny covering the perimeter. your legs are tired, and so are they, and the bed in this house gives way to a comfort and peace that you haven't felt in a long time.

you tilt your head to the side as you watch him there. you sit up, your hair falling around you, and you watch the shadow of him shift in the hallway there.

"scared of the dark, ghost?" you ask softly, and the way he stills tells you he didn't realize you could see him. he steps into the room, and the candle that flickers in the corner deepens the shadows that dance along his masked face.

"nothin' scares me," he murmurs, and you find his eyes in the dark. it unnerves you every time you stare at one another--his gaze is always so intense. he always looks in between all the layers you hide, and it's hard to remember what you are doing here when he looks at you this way.

"i don't believe that," you counter, and he narrows his eyes, shuffling closer, and you tilt your head back to look up at him. "you're terrified."

"not of wot y'think," he pushes back, but you shake your head.

"don't lie, simon," you whisper, and at the sound of his name, he reaches for your face--cups the underside of your jaw, grips the base of your throat, bends down to growl against the skin of your cheek. "are you jealous? is that what it is?"

"of wot?" he mutters, and you hold your breath when he grips your neck firmly. "of m'pet 'n his little lamb?"

"yes."

"nothin' to be fuckin' jealous of," he laughs, but it holds no humor. "what's his is mine."

"says who?" you breathe, and he pulls back to look at you again. there it is--the thing in your eyes that he cannot escape. he doesn't know what it is, but there is something there, and he craves it. he wants it more than anything else--more than food, than water, than survival, he wants to have it, to own it, to command whatever it is there because it's what he thinks he deserves.

he saved your fucking life, and this is the price for it--he gets to have the thing that lives in you that makes his fucking head spin, and you will give it to him, so help him god.

you kiss soft. he hasn't taken his mask off in a long while, but you move it up easily and without resistance, and now you're kissing him, and he moves without thinking. he hasn't even let johnny this close--he hasn't let him underneath his skin, not this way, and here you are, sighing against the scars he wears and kissing them anyways.

the ugly and the irredeemable, that is the skin he wears, and you love it anyways, and the ringing he always hears is gone because you don't seem to care. you caress his face, and you tug on the front of his vest, and then he is with you, and--he doesn't know if this is real.

when you pull away to look at him, his eyes flutter open. you don't say anything as you climb into his lap. the look you share, you don't know how to explain it, but you are almost afraid that it is understanding.

because it's the end of the fucking world, and he isn't capable of love, and you are only here to survive, and yet there is something here that you can't explain. god isn't real, he's just a man, but you think for a moment that that man might be simon riley because what the fuck is happening to me?

"simon--"

he kisses you this time. hungry, all-consuming. if there is anything you've learned about him in the weeks you've spent beside him, it's that he does everything with purpose or not at all. he has a will, a will of what you don't know, but of something, and he does everything with his entire chest. you've heard him talk to johnny when they think you're asleep, the pillow talk that you aren't supposed to be privy to, and suddenly you wonder if this is what johnny feels like--like the only person left in the entire world. because to matter to someone like lieutenant simon riley means you must've done something right, because he doesn't care about anything, and he doesn't love anyone, and--fuck.

he fucks like it, too. he fucks like he won't live another day, and maybe he won't. he fucks like it's the last time he'll ever see you, and it could be, and maybe that's why you're crying. you're sweaty, naked under him, and he can't stop kissing you. he breathes you in and swallows your breaths like it's what keeps him alive, and maybe it does.

"simon--" you cry, because it feels good, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. your hand rises, slipping under the mask, and your nails scratch over his shaved head underneath. god, it feels sacrilegious to feel him this way, to know what's under it, but it doesn't matter.

"know wot y'r doin'," he hums, and you claw at his back when he slows down. your knees try to widen to accommodate the width of him, and he puts two big hands on your thighs and pushes, nestling himself deep and pressing himself right up against your pelvis. "know y'r playin' tricks on johnny, on me--" you cry, and he tsks, shaking his head, "'s pathetic, luv...thinkin' y'could fool us both."

"i-i--"

a particularly rough thrust shuts you up, and you arch your back, pebbled nipples hard against the warmth of his chest as he chuckles, laughing at you, so mean.

he leans down, and all you can do is whine as he mutters into your ear. "johnny's so fuckin' distracted by y'r cunny, swee'eart. and fuck, i get it, 's such a sweet pussy, luv--" you whimper, grinding up against him, needing him to move, but he puts both hands on your hips and squeezes, holding you still. "--such a nice cunt, make a bloke forget all his fuckin' troubles, but i know--"

you yelp when he reaches up and grabs your face. his palm cradles the lower half of your face, squeezing your jaw, and he squeezes your cheeks as he looks down at you and snarls.

"i know wot y'are. wot y'r here for."

"you--" you sob. "'m here for you--"

"can lie to johnny all y'like, luv, but don't you ever--" you whine as he shakes you gently, "--don't y'ever fuckin' lie to me. y'r usin' us. known since we found ya."

you let out an exhale, a deep one. you find his eyes, and he looks down at you, and you swallow hard. because it's true, in a lot of ways--you could never love them, right? this could never be a real thing. the only men that are left are god's mistakes. when man broke off his rib to make a woman, he didn't know a beast like this would come from him someday, did he?

did he know his sons would try to kill each other? in each and every generation? is he watching the dead roam the earth and wondering why those ones died and ones like this one are still living and breathing?

the thing that you don't understand yet is that nothing will kill ghost. his father couldn't kill him, the dark couldn't kill him, the earth he was buried in couldn't kill him, and every bullet that scarred him had missed the vulnerable places of him by just that much. the virus couldn't kill him, and he has an inkling that even if he was bitten, somehow, he would still live because that's his fucking fate.

his fate is to live, to endure, to grieve, no matter what happens around him. the world collapses, and he watches, and he picks up pieces as he goes hoping they will last, but he knows they won't.

he doesn't know how johnny will die, but he will. he doesn't know how you will die, but you will, and he'll be there to watch. for some reason, there's a little comfort, because at least this means they won't be alone. johnny wouldn't handle being alone well, and neither would you, because johnny is a mutt, and you are a leech, and neither survive without a keeper and a host, something else to keep them alive.

"'s olright," he licks over your bottom lip. "'m keepin' you, luv. but let's get one thing straight, aye?" you grunt when he turns you roughly under him, forcing your face into the mattress and caging you underneath him. you can't move much, all you really can do is sit up on your knees a little and push back against him, burying him deep inside you again as he presses his hips flush against your ass. he tangles his hand into your hair, pulling your head back, and he plants a chaste kiss against your throat. "y'r not above me, pet. you can order around m'mutt all y'like. bet he'll like that..." you hum when he cants your hips, the tip of his cock hitting a nice, warm place inside you, "but y'r gonna do as i say. and be a good girl."

you open your eyes, looking up at him over your shoulder. you plant your palms against the mattress and push back against him again, moving just enough to encourage a few slow, wet grinds.

"anything you want, simon," you whisper, pressing your face into his neck, and he grunts as his hand disappears underneath you to cup your mound, hissing as he feels the place where his cock is moving inside you. "can have whatever you want, please--" you whine in his ear. "i won't lie to you! i-i...i won't lie..."

with his other hand, he cups your breast, squeezing, his thumb circling your nipple before he tugs on it gently.

"gonna be a good girl?" he asks. "gonna let johnny fuck ya? let my mutt have his fill?"

you nod, panting.

"are--" you sniffle. "--are you gonna take care of me?"

ghost laughs, as if it's a stupid question. he maneuvers you onto your knees, and as you start to push back against him more eagerly, you start to hear the jangle of the dog tags he wears. you want to turn around and pull on them, want to see his face when he comes, but you tell yourself that's for another time--that right now, you need to get him cumming and agreeable.

he leans over you, picking up the pace, punching his hips into your ass. the sound of your skin against his is wet and quick, and as you press your chest into the mattress, he starts hitting you so deep, the air feels tight in your chest.

"need to see you--!" you gasp, and when you're on your back again, you grab for his face. your knees spread again, welcoming him deep, and you force his eyes to stay on yours as you feel the rough grind of his hips starting to build up that sweet, soft feeling in you.

fuck--he's so big. every part of him, it swallows you, and this isn't any different. you come when you feel him, so much of it that it's leaking down your thighs because he stuffs you so full, and there's tears in your eyes, but he isn't sorry.

looking at him this way is jarring. you have really only ever seen his eyes incredibly dull, nothing in them except a void that you aren't able to understand. but you are using him, and he is using you, and you smile, because now you can read him, read what's reflected there.

when ghost shoves his cum-soaked fingers into your mouth, you don't fight it. you keen, arching your back as you let your tongue swirl around his thick fingers, and he tilts his head to the side as he watches you. he's making sure you're doing as he wants. he's making sure that you will be pliant and good, that you will do as you are told and nothing else because that is what he asks of you.

he's making sure that even though he knows you are not the submissive puppy you pretend to be, that you will be it anyways because if you don't, you won't like how he bites.

you and ghost are the same. you are equals, even if he will never admit it. you trade different parts of yourself, but this isn't about preservation, it's about survival, and you are willing to give yourself for it. you are willing to say yes, ghost, of course, whatever you want, because you aren't supposed to be alive anyways, but you might just have a chance if you hide in his shadow.

you're still on the bed when he dresses himself. he straps his vest back on, zips his pants, and you watch him lick his fingers clean before putting his gloves back on. you reach down, your mouth falling open when a glob of his cum slips out and dampens the sheets, and ghost has a hint of a smirk on before he rolls the mask back down.

"don' worry, luv," he mutters, reaching over and gripping your jaw rough. you pucker your lips, and he snickers. "soap'll fix you right up."

"soap?"

"mmm. the fuckin' thing is useless unless there's a mess to clean up, yeah?"

will you take care of me? will he take care of me when it's time? will he keep the dead out of my eyes and my blood inside?

he never answers your question. and deep down, you're certain it's because he would kill you, and maybe johnny would, too, because johnny does whatever he says, even if it isn't good for him. and you aren't sure if it's because this is his lieutenant or because saying yes is the only thing that make's sense anymore.

i can be useful. i can be useful. i can be useful.

when you are not useful anymore, you'll need to be the first to strike then. because maybe you don't deserve to live, but neither do they. god is a man, and he makes mistakes, and ghost is one of them, and he's eaten johnny's soul, and if you go down, you will take them with you.

god is a man, and he was a fool to think he could've cleansed the earth by himself.

it was the flood that cleansed it the first time, and mother nature always does her fucking job.

[johnwickb1tsch]

the reason I asked...

(in reference to this poll X) is because I was having a little half-asleep brain rot about bittersweet AUs, like, what if...

reader managed to actually escape John, maybe after Dante attacked the house the first time? you waited for the paramedics to arrive to stabilize him, and then in all the chaos of the 911 response you slip out and steal the RangeRover. ( @sweetwolfcupcake has brilliantly pointed out that Reader would want to escape if for example, John betrayed her trust and followed thru on that spanking 😱😱 Like this version of John is more clinically unhinged)

you drive alllll the way across the country, as far as you can get from New York. surely you can disappear in a huge city like L.A.?

when you try to sell the Rover to a chop shop for cash it backfires on you. you find yourself a captive again. thinking you're a rich kid runaway, they plan to ransom you, but you won't tell them who you are.

lucky you, these bad dudes have been on Tom Ludlow's radar. he raids the shop and kills them alllllllllll. off the books of course. then he's left with the problem of what the hell to do with you?

you wake up at his house, in his bed. at first you're scared of course, but he talks you down, shows you his badge, and explains the tricky situation you're in. he framed the massacre as gang on gang violence. are you going to rat him out?

of course you're not, you're not stupid. you raise him one better when you tell him the situation you just escaped. no, beFORE the gangsters. yes, you really were being held captive [in luxury] by a retired Underworld hitman. no, you don't know if he survived, but if he did you know he'll be looking for you eventually.

Tom does you a solid and offers to get you a new identity. a fresh start. you're floored by his generosity. why would he do that for you? he says he's just trying to do some good in this world that's mostly bad. it's a losing war, but sometimes he wins a small battle, and it keeps him in the fight.

you're so grateful that while you wait for his guy to come through with your new papers, you clean up his messy bachelor pad of a house. you find old photos and lots of empty liquor bottles, and you reason he's either divorced, or a widower.

when he comes home to a clean house and the smell of real food cooking in the kitchen you kind of knock this unflappable man off his feet. he is touched by the gesture, and stunned by how much he likes it, and how much he missed it. maybe towards the end, his wife gave up on trying to have dinner on the table for him because he was never home when he said he would be.

you don't know it, but you've ignited a little fire in Tom, awakening something he thought was long dead. he doesn't act on it. he feels like a piece of shit for even thinking about it. you’re a good kid, and you've been through so much. but a part of him understands why a man who is damned to the darkness would covet a piece of your warmth and your light for himself.

he tells you that you can stay as long as you want. but you feel bad, invading his space. you need a job. a place of your own. to get out of his hair. so he helps you with that too. you find a job at a cute little coffee house in Santa Monica. hey, its what you know. you sublet a room from someone Tom seems to trust. when you move out you kiss Tom on the cheek in thank you. you have no idea how much it kills him to let you go.

you feel like you have a new lease on life. you like your job. you like the warm weather in L.A., and being so close to the beach. Tom still comes in to check on you now and then. This is where you meet a handsome young S.W.A.T. officer named Jack Traven. He comes in sometimes for a flat white and a bran muffin. his smile could stop a woman’s heart at twenty paces. maybe you do flirt with him a little, but you keep it light. then…he starts coming in every morning.

Tom sees the two of you bantering and batting eyes one morning. you cannot know the way it feels like getting shanked between the ribs for him. of course he rolls his eyes with a smirk, putting up his usual front. “Don’t believe a word this guy says, sweetheart, he’s just a meathead from SWAT.” but deep down, Tom realizes he is jealous.

maybe you run into Jack at the bar down the street one night when you're feeling especially lonely. he’s celebrating a successful hostage release. no one died, not even the perp. he invites you to hang out with his friends and fellow officers. you lean on Jack’s [ridiculously muscled] arm, listening to the stories they tell with that devil-may-care bluster cops need to keep going to such a dangerous job day after day. it squeezes your heart, that he risks his life for people he doesn’t even know, because he truly cares. even if deep down you know its a bad idea, you end up going home with him that night. 

Jack continues to come see you at the coffee house. he tries to ask you out on a proper date. you can tell he wants you to be his girlfriend, he wants to treat you right. maybe Tom calls him a meathead, but there is not a cell of fuckboy in this man, bless him. he told you about how he just wants the simple things in life. a good woman. healthy kids. a little postage stamp of grass to mow. for a crazy three seconds you allow yourself to think about it. what would it be like, to be the one he comes home to? gentle kisses in the morning. date night trips to dinner and the movies. a little house. a dog. a picket fence. you could take your babies to the beach, and maybe nothing bad would ever happen… you know it’s not possible for you, and the unfairness of it churns as sharply in your belly as if you swallowed a bag full of glass. he's so sweet, so good, but there is a curse on you, and you're afraid something bad might happen to Jack if he gets involved with you.

what would John Wick do, if he found you living happily with another man? he’s still out there, somewhere. Tom checked for death certificates in New York [and how stupid are you, that a part of you is glad he's not dead?]. your only hope is to keep flying under the radar, living like a ghost. it kills you inside to tell him, “I wish I could. But there are things you don't know about me.”

he's not as surprised by this as you thought he might be. “I'm a cop, y/n. I kind of have a sense for when people are in trouble. you can talk to me.” what he doesn’t say is he has a sense for when people are hiding things. this boy has an incurable case of the White Knight Syndrome, and you can tell he's not going to give up easily. 

you really do try to keep him at arm’s length, but it’s humanly impossible to resist the impulse to flirt with that man. of course, Tom would come in on the day Jack saves you from falling backwards off a ladder–with a hand on your ass. they don’t even exchange words, but somehow the tension in the room between these two men is electric.  

a week or so later you're returning home at night when you find Tom Ludlow leaning on the wall outside your apartment. you can tell just by the way he's standing that he's a little drunk. “out late with Meathead?” he grumbles, his disheveled hair in his dark eyes. 

you stop a little ways from him. you can tell he's in a mood, but maybe underneath that, this man is a little fragile. you have a feeling you might be the only one who gets to see it. “What’s wrong, Tom?” he sighs, shuffles to you, rests his forehead against yours, and you let him. this man saved you when you had no one. this is the least you can do for him–and you have a soft spot for this cranky cop who bends the law to do the right thing.

but maybe you are a little surprised, when he draws back to look at you, those soulful puppy dog eyes fixing on your mouth a moment before he presses his lips to yours. you have to say you definitely don’t hate it, and you're breathless when he pulls away. “shit. y/n…i’m sorry.” “that’s ok.” you reach up to touch his cheek, and he leans into your hand like a needy puppy that doesn’t realize how big he is. you could taste the vodka on his tongue. you’d found the bottles before, of course, but in that short time you’d lived with him he didn’t really drink much. you wonder if he’s slipped backwards again. “where’s your car? I’m going to drive you home.” he grumbles something into the bend of your neck, but in the end he hands over his keys. 

driving in L.A. is a lot easier in a muscle car with a lightbar on the roof. people just magically get out of your way. you bundle Tom back into his home with an arm around his waist. as soon as you get through the front door you see his house is in disarray again, since you haven't been here. some men really do revert back to savages, without a woman to keep them accountable. struggling under his weight, you somehow manage to stumble/drag him to his bed, laying him down in the sheets that obviously haven’t been washed since the last time you laundered them. “I missed you, so much,” he groans, half passed out, as you unlace his boots. 

“Tom…” it truly breaks your heart, to see him living like this. the impulse to try to save him is as strong as it is misguided. but sometimes…people just need a little help, and that’s ok. He doesn’t ask you to, but you lay down in the bed beside him and wrap your arms around his solid trunk of a torso, moulding your body against his. you know there is something healing in just snuggling with another human being–and you’re lonely too.   “Are you sleeping with Meathead?” he slurs, on the edge of sleep.  “Why do you call him that?” you counter, trying to keep things light, and not answer direct questions about Jack. “You’re just as built as he is.” you squeeze his bicep appreciatively, winning a sound that suddenly reminds you of a lion in his den. he turns to you, a dark light in those brown eyes that makes your heart stop in your chest.  “Yeah?”  you have to try twice before you find your voice. “Yeah.” this time, maybe it’s you that cranes your neck for a kiss that curls your toes, and he can’t stop himself from rolling onto you with a moan, his solid weight pressing you down deliciously into the the bed. but then he makes himself stop again, resting his forehead against yours with a sigh. “You don’t owe me anything, babygirl.”  “I do,” you counter, “but that’s not what this is about.”  “What’s it about, then?”  “Well. I kind of like you.”  he snorts, that glitter in his eyes that drives you a little crazy inside. is it stupid, that you feel like he isn’t in as much danger as Jack? is he more lethal, or do you callously just feel deep down that he doesn’t have his whole life ahead of him, the way your pretty SWAT hunk does? you’re not really sure, but when Tom’s big hand dips into your jeans you’re not strong enough to say no. 

you’re there at the coffee house, the day the bus blows up on the street outside. The news crews swarm, interviewing anyone they can for a sound byte. you try to stay off the cameras, but it’s too late. there are too many before you’re allowed to go home, and you end up on the national news. 

hardly a week goes by, before you are at work again, some of the windows boarded up, still broken from the blast. you’ve got your back turned, putting the lid on a café mocha, double checking that it's tight when you sense someone is at the counter. “I’ll be right there,” you call over your shoulder. 

a quiet voice from your past sends a chill to the bottom of your soul. “I think I’m in the mood for something sweet.”  you jump, spilling the scalding hot mocha all over the counter. slowly you turn to find him, the way you’ve always feared you would, handsome as the devil himself in an all black suit. he doesn’t seem angry, but there is a glint of sharp steel in his black eyes that warns you not to try anything cute.  “John,” you whisper, your voice utterly failing you in the face of your doom. With panic in your eyes you look around at all the people in the shop. All the witnesses. “Please…don’t.”  “Come quietly, and I won’t.”  he sounds so reasonable. you know it’s just a facade. 

you’re so filled with fear that you feel like you’re in a daze, like you’re not really in control of your own body, as you nod, wipe your hands, and make your way around the counter to him. he doesn’t grab you. he doesn’t even have to touch you. he just nods at the door, and you follow him out into the bright California sunlight. you know immediately which car is his, the midnight-black ‘69 Mustang parked in the alley on the side of the building. 

you’re ten paces from the muscle car when you hear another voice you know all too well behind you. “Freeze, motherfucker! Hands where I can see them!” 

No no no no please don’t not for me please God not for me...

the two of you turn slowly and your heart falls to see not only Tom Ludlow with his service pistol drawn, but Jack Traven as well... 

[transformers-spike]

I cannot be the only one who wants to bang peepaw Alpha Trion plEASE TELL ME IM NOT ALONE 😭

I will never stop being an old man enjoyer. Give us your spike, peepaw

“I’m relieved we aren’t the only ones in this universe.” The words echo in his processor like sand in the desert wind. Fading in and out of consciousness under the rubble, he clings onto the softness of your voice, the faded edges of your smile burnt into his memory. He cannot make sense of your shape anymore, it’s a blotch of ink in his vision, something he recalls but cannot fully visualize. His mind reaches out to you, so close yet so far away. With every step he takes, you grow smaller, and still, you patiently wait for him with your arms outstretched. Like old times. You are dead. This he knows. Unequivocally dead. His digits twitch, warnings encapsulate his vision, reminding him each and every nanoclik of wakefulness that the next in-vent could be his last. He can’t help himself. Duty has led his life for so long, bestowed upon him by his creator, and he cannot fall back now and forgo his promise to protect Cybertron. But he is weak; pain receptors growing numb from the boulders crushing his frame, limbs quivering from a battle long lost. Primus forgive him, allow him this final comfort. Cycles ago, your crew had first established contact with Cybertron. It was a message sent across space, a simple signal that would tie your fates forever. The Council debated answering, fearing you could pose a threat to their planet, but there were only three ships with only a handful of members each. They chose fraternization over static silence. Communication was difficult, but somehow, someway, you understood each other just enough to arrive on their planet. Surprise struck him when he saw your kind, small, frail and soft to the touch. Your people were just as startled as them, but in your optics he saw something greater; a delight in meeting fellow sentient beings. They took in your crew and treated them like brothers and sisters, communicating through gestures and drawings. You could not speak their language, but they could learn yours. Knowledge was shared among you, tales of your worlds, their history, your technology, your people… Perhaps your place among your own was what drew him to you. Standing on the sidelines, you watched and took notes, occasionally serving as a sketch artist to exchange information. The others were mingling with the Council, asking questions, telling stories, showing what machinery brought you to them. But you kept your distance, politely nodding along and busying yourself with your notebooks. When he approached you, taking slow careful steps, you nearly dropped your pen in shock. His size was already intimidating by Cybertronian standards, but for a human? He could barely imagine the primal fear you felt when met with someone of his stature. You recovered quickly despite it, uneasy but maintaining your composure. Having knelt down to your level, he offered you servo, the sand within it shaping into a miniature version of your ship. You blinked, clutching your notebook to your chassis. Then, after a drawn out silence, you smiled, optics gleaming with wonder. That was the start of your companionship. You would sit in his servo, looking up at the night sky, speaking words he could barely understand but tried his hardest to learn. He recalls bits and pieces, meanings he managed to grasp through what you taught him. It wasn’t long until your time together grew intimate. As a prime, he was so focused on his duties that he barely got the chance to relax, much less interface. Things were… difficult due to the size difference, but there were workarounds. Charge runs through his fuel lines at the memory. How you would brush your digits against his valve, testing the waters so to say, before slipping your servo inside of it. There was no true relief in the interface, no way for you to properly satisfy each other. But you were both content, savoring every moment of your companionship. You would press your lips to his spike, working your servo in and out of his gushing valve. It made his frame shudder and his optics glitch.

He touched you much the same way, digits rubbing at the sensitive nerves between your thighs, gazing down at you lovingly as you grit your denta and arched your optical ridge in pleasure.

[mqrrstarr]

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL!!

Gladiator Characters x GN! Reader

Feat: Geta, Caracalla, Commodus, Lucius, Maximus, Acacius, Lucilla, Macrinus!!

Christmas Day and Eve headcanons!

Warnings: poorly edited, just a girl who loves these characters and the holidays, a bit short

A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS!! don’t feel the same vibe as I did when a child, so I’m coping with writing. This will be a seven part series regarding Gladiator characters and Christmas and I’ll try to post them all BY THE END OF THE WEEK (?) but uhh don’t hold that against me. Enjoy!!

EDIT: the series has been canceled cause I can’t write. Wait until December 2025!! 💗

Summary: headcanons for all the gladiator characters and how they’d spend Christmas Eve and Day with their SO.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Geta would spend Christmas Eve with dinner specially made for his SO, (he def has better cooking skills than Caracalla) and he’d lovingly give them a bonus Eve gift. It’s a beautiful moment, where the strong and feared leader of Rome and succumb to the one he loves.

“Enjoy it darling. The beauty of the holidays does not compare to yours.”

He’d watch you enjoy his meal, and drink the wine he picked out especially for the occasion. As much as music was needed, Geta refused to let anyone interrupt your moment together.

On Christmas Day, it would depend on what happened during the night. Was it a peaceful night, was it active, or was it bland? Either way, Geta would get up and prepare presents for you, a surprise for no one other than the love of his life. He’d do it quietly, and super early in the morning. He’d rarely sleeps in peace anyways, so why use the energy elsewhere?

It would also be a morning where you wake up gently, and be surprised by the lavish decorations Geta has placed. Gold and white silk decorating his room, and most of all, your Emperor was still yours.

- - - - - - -

Caracalla is in love with the holidays. He gets giddy, childlike, and excited every time. This is a period in the year where he can remember something good about his youth. He likes to keep himself happy, and now that you’re his? You’re included in all the traditions.

During your Christmas dinner, he’d bring out a bunch of dinner games, have slaves perform for the both of you (AMND reference btw) and it would be a wholesome night.

Before Christmas Day, the eldest emperor cried during the night. He laid in your arms, and caressed you in return.

“Sweets. I cannot express how much care…”

He looks at you like a puppy worshipping its owner.

“I truly care about you. And although these times are happy and remind me of things, I hope to make new memories with you.”

The night would pass, and the morning would come. You’d wake up in Caracalla’s embrace, and to be frank, none of you got the others gifts out. So you just opened everything together, and you had never seen the man so happy.

- - - - - - -

Commodus and Christmas. What an interesting mix. Take a emotionally damaged man with immense childhood trauma and put him in a holiday where he did nothing but suffer? Where his own father ignored him and gave him nothing but one gift?

Christmas Eve with him was truly nothing but a dinner. Now that he had you, he tried to forget and make new memories. But the shame and pain was still visible in his eyes. You couldn’t take it anymore and sat next to him, caressing him and saying words of affection.

“My present from Venus, ignore my past and ignore my anger. My father ruined my mind, and all you can do it heal it. This Christmas will be my first with you, and if my last? Than I would rather be dead.”

You looked at him with such sincerity in your eyes, he became submissive to your touch and you both proceeded to sit next to the fire in his room.

Christmas morning arrived promptly, and knowing this was a very sensitive time for Commodus, you got him a gift he’d never forget. This necklace, engraved with your initials and his; with both of your favorite jewels. And, a new laurel crown for the one and only Emperor himself.

Commodus nearly fell down into tears, so grateful he was finally seen.

- - - - - - -

Lucius loved you with his entire heart. After being forcefully removed from his mother as a kid, and already losing his first wife, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing another person special to him.

To Lucius, Christmas is the mark of the end of the year, another time to celebrate the fact you’re both alive, and that you’re both still warriors. (writing from a Gladiator! perspective rather than Prince!)

“My love, I am eternally grateful to the Gods that we can be together.”

He kisses your forehead, gently as to not hurt you. You spend your Christmas Eve with a simple meal, and the next day not as lavish either.

Lucius adored you already: but he’d try to get a gift anyways, even though he already admires and thinks you’re just amazing! (Poppy and Branch dynamic)

He’d come up with something cute and homemade, providing the point that it doesn’t have to be expensive to matter. (save me Lucius save me)

- - - - - - -

Maximus wasn’t the same after the loss of his previous wife and child, and this time was bittersweet for him. His SO kept him sane, and he tried not to let his sadness show through.

You decorated the tree in your home, one Maximus was able to buy after years of being a Gladiator. He occasionally goes to the fights, but not anymore. Now he’s a Senator. (NOT CANON ITS JUST SO HES NOT DEAD AND IT WILL MAKE SENSE IN THE OTHER SEVEN PARTS)

He came up behind you and kissed your neck, watching you place the last of the ornaments.

“Excellent work my dear. Excellent. I’m going to bed now, meet you there?”

And he went away in a form far too sad for the usual Maximus. You knew him well, and simply decided to go to sleep as well. The following morning, you woke up first and decided to get your gift for Maximus.

It was a wooden carving of him, his late wife, his late child, and you all together.

Maximus woke up a few minutes later, and got your gift from the bedroom! (You were in the living room.) He got you a bracelet from his dead wife, something that really meant a lot to him.

“My dear? I’d like to give you this. It belonged to my former wife, and she liked it dearly. Made form Spanish jewels and metal, of course. I love you, but I beg for you to understand that she and my son still live in me. You understand, right?”

You nodded, happy and overwhelmed. You gave Maximus his gift, and tears were shed from the both of you. Your gift meant a lot, as you accepted his love and the love for those gone.

- - - - - - -

Acacius loved the holidays. It was a time where he could relax, sink into his own bed, be clean, and most important, be with you.

You finished preparing the meal, a mix of both his and your favorite foods with some Roman delicacies thrown in there.

“Looks great my sweet. Not as good as you though! But you know I love you.”

He caressed your hips before helping set the table. The meal was prepped and Acacius sat you down first. (WHAT A GENTLEMAN)

He sat across from you at the table, and you talked about what was going on, what you wanted to happen in Rome, etc.

Eventually, stuff happened and you both woke up in the each others arms in the morning. Acacius always laid very still in the night, out of pure instinct. However, Christmas morning he couldn’t stop moving around, and woke the both of you up together.

He eagerly said, “Hurry up and change, your gift is outside.” He smiled and left promptly.

Outside, there was a gleaming white stallion.

“For you. A horse just as grand as your soul.”

You smiled. Who wouldn’t want a horse as a gift? But inside you shattered. The only gift you got for Acacius was a painting of himself. You showed it to him, and he reassured you it was enough. Let’s just say he’d also show you it was okay.

- - - - - - -

Lucilla loved the holidays. She decorated excessively, both as a young woman and as she is now. (hc, it’s because Lucius loved the looks and lights of Christmas and the guilt of having him leave her has followed her forever)

“One more wreath I promise… it’s just an extra special one… done!”

She looked at you and smiled. It radiated calm and positivity, an effect only Lucilla had. You kissed her and assured the place looked great.

“Dinner should be set by the slaves by now. It should be good. I trust it is. They sent by fresh fruits and veggies and proper meat as well. I’d like to give you your gift now, would that be alright? I just truly cannot wait.”

You nodded yes, but you’d have to get the gift from the room. You agreed to meet again in five minutes to exchange gifts.

Soon, the two of you are reunited, and she presents a lovely sculpture of you, portrayed in such an ethereal form; as if the gods had carved it themselves. You gave her a crown made from pure gold and a ring, as you knew she loved collecting rings. The ring you gave her had your initials carved, signifying the both of you tied together.

- - - - - - -

Macrinus had a holiday anytime one of his prized gladiators won. Yet, Christmas, was an actual holiday he could look forward to.

“Uh, Dove, do you know if the servants have finished the meal? I’ve got a bunch of gladiators waiting to fight in your honor.”

(he calls you Dove bc you’re his symbol of peace!)

He planted a kiss on your forehead before leading you to the garden outside, where a meal was served and the servants were waiting patiently, deserts, fruits, wine in their hands.

Five gladiators waited in chains to be released to have a “playful” hand to hand fight, something Macrinus found plenty delight in.

“I have a gift for you. I won’t be around tomorrow, as the Emperors requested a meeting with me. So I wish to give you this. I know it’s a bit excessive, but you deserve it.”

He gave you a pearl necklace with ruby earrings to go with it, and a slip saying you owned a young gladiator.

You thanked Macrinus, and you enjoyed the meal as the gladiators fought and the moon shined upon the both of you.

“I live for you, and I love you Dove. Fly high always.”

[ghcstlyy]

"Force you to Sleep."

you cannot tell me that this man is not a cuddler. my first time writing for the slasher fandom so please be nice to me.

reader has trouble sleeping. bo is annoyed at their absence and comes to bring them back to bed. kind of comfort for disassociation? if that's not an accurate term I apologize. reader is gender neutral.

2:47AM the alarm clock’s bright, red-lit numbers practically yelled at you through the dark as you rolled over onto your side. You couldn’t sleep, again - and by this point you’d grown tired of the cycle - trying to sleep, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, rinse and repeat. The frustration and boredom had become too much. You had to get up, to get out of bed, to do something. So, trying your best not to wake a sleeping Bo, you carefully slid out of bed, silently cursing the both of you for being so damn clingy at night as you pried his arms from around your body. Somehow, you managed to wiggle out of his grasp without disturbing his sleep, and quietly made your way across the bedroom floor and down the stairs. In the dead silence of the house, every creak of the floorboards sounded x10 louder than it was, and a part of you wondered if you should have just stayed in bed even longer. Waited whatever was keeping you from sleeping out, until you eventually succumbed to exhaustion. Too late now, you thought.

You padded your way to the bottom of the steps and across the kitchen, the cold tile pressing against your bare feet. Standing there in front of the sink, you focused in on the sounds around you, listening intently to the calls of the cricket, and other nocturnal creatures. Staring out of the window, off into the distance, you felt… uneasy. Ambrose always unsettled you at night. It was weird enough during the day, sure - but it was your home now. It felt safe, especially with the boys walking around all the time. Not at night, though. Something felt different as you started out into the dark, empty streets. The empty yards, empty driveways, empty houses. It somehow felt like the town itself was staring back at you.

It hadn’t taken long for Bo to notice your absence once you’d wiggled out of his grasp, and slipped out of bed. He’d assumed you were going to the bathroom or something, that you’d be back eventually. So, he didn’t bother moving. Until you didn’t come back. He couldn’t stay asleep for very long without you anymore, growing used to the weight of you next to him, your body pressed tightly against his as you slept peacefully in his arms. The feeling of empty space in the bed beside him pulled him back to consciousness once again, and he found himself feeling sleepy and frustrated. What the hell were you doing up past three in the morning? Why hadn’t you made your way back upstairs and into his grasp again? Whatever it was about that town had captivated you so completely, you hadn’t even noticed him make his own way down the creaky stairs, though much less gracefully than you had, and shuffle sleepily up behind you.

This wasn’t the first time he had found you like this. It had been happening more and more often these past couple weeks, and he didn’t want to tell you, but it was worrying him. He’d come down and find you, usually staring off at nothing out the window, just like you were now. It’d take him a minute to get your attention, usually, coaxing you out of whatever state you found yourself in during those moments. Gently bringing you back to reality. So slowly, as gently as he could, he reached out and placed a hand on your waist. “(Y/N)..”

Bo’s voice was quiet, a barely audible, soothing whisper right behind your ear. Carefully coaxing you out of your trance, like he’d done before. He wrapped an arm around you and turned you to face him. He absentmindedly stroked patterns onto your skin. “Sweetheart,” He drawled, in a rough, tired voice. You didn’t break your gaze out the window until he gently cupped your face, turning your head so you were looking at him instead. “What’re you doin’ down here? Hm…?” Still a bit far away, your gaze finally met his, a brief wave of realization in yours. He flashed you a sleepy Bo Sinclair Smile. “There ya’ are,” The arm around your waist pulled you closer, your body flush against his. “What’s goin’ on?” Everything was starting to come back as he pulled you back to reality. Focusing on the soft sound of his voice as it hit your ears, the feeling of being pressed against his sturdy frame as you wrapped your arms around his torso, letting your head fall against him.

Eventually you managed a soft, “Couldn’t sleep… m’sorry.” mumbled drowsily into his chest. The only explanation you could form right now. His arms wrapped around you tighter, holding you securely, supporting most of your weight as sleep finally started to creep up on you. “At’s alright. Don’t need to apologize to me,” He brought a hand up to stroke your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Come back to bed, though, huh? S’lonely up there all by myself.” He wasn’t actually asking, not that he needed to. More like telling, but y’know… nicely. “Need to stop leaving me at night.” His tone was comforting, but held an edge of seriousness you knew not to question. Bo clearly did not like waking up to an empty bed in the middle of the night. It sent his thoughts spiraling, thinking maybe you’d ran off, or worse, something had happened to you.

Attempting to ground yourself further, you held onto him tight, taking everything in. The feeling of his skin against yours, the comforting smell of him as he held you safely against his chest. You let it pull you back to reality, letting yourself fall deeper into unconsciousness as sleep threatened to claim you already. After a moment, you could feel yourself being lifted off of the ground. “C’mon,” One arm hooked itself under your knees, the other holding you securely around your torso. “Let’s get you some sleep, hm?” Bo kissed the top of your head, trying his best not to jostle you too much as he carried you back up the creaky stairs. Gently, carefully, he set you in the bed. He chuckled softly, watching as you nestled yourself comfortably into the blankets. Finally, he slipped into bed next to you, his arms wrapping around you to pull you tight against his chest. His head rested in the crook of your neck, nestled against you from behind. He knew you were already out, your sleeping form snoring away peacefully beside him, letting himself drift back off again, muttering to himself in the dark.

"Next time I'll force ya' to sleep if I have to."