#it felt very pragmatic

[spock-adoodledoo]

i think one of the things i'll always appreciate abt maomao is that even though she's the protag, it's not really that the world revolves around her or that things always happen to her, it's more that she gets involved in things (usually at the request of other ppl but whatever) that usually don't affect her immediately. idk but it's nice that she's kind of our dispassionate window into palace life instead of the person everything happens to

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Spoke to someone I don’t know over the phone, 11 dead, 32 injured

[sanctifiedtongues]

nine is such a magical doctor to me bc i absolutely cannot ruin his image with fanfiction due to there being a dearth of Migratory White Man Slash about him online it's just me and him and deep desires untold knocking around in my noggin. in my opinion they're better like that, with the lid put on them so they can't escape, like a pressure cooker. i like it, it's very organic, feels like i'm a housewife covertly obsessed with the man on the telly. the more vague and unsettling the fantasy, the better.

[capricornlevi]

exhausted and battle-worn levi who has made something of a habit of crawling into your bed after missions.

it's a habit that formed first out of necessity; you'd both been tasked with bringing the cadets on a snowstorm training exercise but had to bail out halfway up the mountain due to an avalanche. you'd sent the cadets back down with hange and moblit while offering to stay put with most of the equipment, figuring the gear too valuable to risk the chance of it being picked through by thieves by the time you were able to return. levi offered to stay with you, an offer you were sure he'd regret. you weren't close -- not enemies, but your relationship was built on begrudging respect and prolonged silence. not exactly the makings of an easy time spent alone together.

as the night turned inky black and blisteringly cold, you soon realised that you underestimated how cutting the wind would be. the base was insulated as best as the survey corps could afford -- which is to say, very poorly.

out of desperation, you'd made an unspoken pact to share a bed that night.

it wasn't romantic, let alone sexual, a pragmatic measure designed to keep your fingers and toes intact, but you were surprised to find him still there in the morning when the wind had died down. he wasn't curled up against you and his face betrayed no signs of any emotion, but he was still there. you were the first to slip out from under the covers.

the next time was after a particularly late night spent strategising (on levi's end) and drinking (on yours). you'd grown somewhat closer since that night spent up the mountain, with him trusting your opinion over most other officers. at the end-of-year celebration, a rowdy event with all military branches forced to attend, he had chosen to sit next to you, a decision that caused something of a stir amongst the cadets. you both chose to disregard the gossip, though even you couldn't ignore the way his eyes followed your every movement that evening.

when the coast was clear you retired to your chambers with him trailing after you, eager to escape a night spent putting up with the drunken debauchery of the military police. again, the night was tame, with you exchanging various plans and theories back and forth until you both fell asleep, clothed, on top of your mattress.

you had felt the temptation to kiss him but didn't, figuring it was just the wine talking.

that kiss happened three missions later, with levi so relieved to find you alive he had taken your face in his blood-stained hands and pressed his lips to yours. it was more desperate than heated, a surge of emotion that even he couldn't control.

he showed up at your door that night and took his place next to you in your bed, and a habit was born.

things move slowly with you both, and you're okay with that. everything else about your lives moves at breakneck speed, too fast to process, and so you're content with the little victories.

like levi resting a hand across your waist as you sleep, keeping it there until it's time to get dressed for morning roll call.

like levi going from a silent goodbye to a spoken goodbye to a kiss before he steps away, ready to face back out into the world.

now, you wake to feel levi's chin resting against your shoulder, his head resting in the groove of your neck, it's another victory, and you'll take it happily.

[bellysoupset]

Sorry for calling

I feel like this needs some more fallout and caretaking tbh

Summary: Matthew calls Isaiah when he gets sick at school shortly after the infection fiasco. Warning for emeto, mentions of scat.

"I'm sorry," Matthew said as he climbed into the car, struggling to close the door behind him.

Isaiah reached over him to pull it shut. "It's no trouble."

Matthew pouted at him, hands hugging his middle.

Isaiah sighed. After the infected wound, they have all been antsy and worried about Matthew's recovery. Matthew insisted on returning back to his classes as fast as possible though, arguing that wolves recovered faster and that the wound was healed anyway.

Isaiah suspected the wound and the infection might have healed, but Matthew's immune system got a hit, which was not something a shadow could repair. Shadows were great with immediate injuries - anything more long-term or slower acting, and they failed.

So when Matthew called him around lunch if Isaiah could pick him up, he jumped into action on high alert, figuring Matthew was struggling with his second day back at uni.

"I'm very very glad you called me," Isaiah added for good measure. Positive reinforcement, right?

"It's just a stomach ache," Matthew grumbled, giving him a sideway look. "But I figured you would be freaked out if I didn't."

That was fair. Isaiah and Seline were both over-worried since the infection, pestering Matthew with questions about his well-being, insisting he tell them every single thing. Maybe he overdid it, running Matthew out of the apartment before he was ready.

They drove a bit in silence, Isaiah taking measured turns. The road wasn't too crowded in the middle of the day, so it should be smooth sailing.

Matthew burped loudly, hand shooting to his mouth. "'scuse me."

"Did you eat something off? Or is it a bug? Do you have a fever? Tell me if-"

"Yeah, no," Matthew said. "Stop with the hundred questions. I just need to lie down."

"We'll be home in ten," Isaiah promised, gripping the wheel tighter.

He kept himself quiet after that, allowing himself occassional glances at Matthew, who resolutely scowled at the window, not meeting his gaze. His hands were still wrapped around his stomach though and he was sheet white, which Isaiah took as an answer enough.

The car stopped at the designated parking spot for their building. It was always a fight for every meter of space in Vienna, so their own parking spot was a luxury, even without the garage.

Isaiah thought he was watchful enough, but he was still surprised when Matthew opened the door, twisted to the side, leaning forward and loudly vomited right from the car.

"Oh man," Isaiah said with a grimace, reaching over to rub his back. Matthew's spine arched under his touch as he heaved, more yellow-coloured puke hitting the pavement.

Matthew burped loudly, shaking his head as if he could get the illness out of his ears, then pitched forward, catching himself barely on the car's door.

"Think you are done? Can you make it inside?" Isaiah asked, taking the car keys out and going around the car.

Matthew spat onto the ground, moaning a little. Isaiah carefully avoided the pool of sick, clasping his shoulder. He cupped the side of his neck. "Yep, feverish alright."

"Shut up," Matthew groaned, then threw his arm around Isaiah's neck for support, letting the dark-haired man to pull him out of the car. The sick wolf was swaying on his feet, hanging on to Isaiah for support. "I wanna lie down."

"Almost there," Isaiah said, readjusting his grip and throwing the car shut.

The building was mercifully empty, so they didn't have to wait very long for the elevator. Matthew had his eyes shut, weight more and more on Isaiah with each step, completely reliant on him. Isaiah didn't know if to be worried or flattered he was trusted so much. Or maybe Matthew was just fighting the nausea, cause he gagged right before the door.

"Just a second," Isaiah said, fumbling with the keys with only one hand available, before dragging Matthew inside to the bathroom on the ground floor.

Matthew was heaving before his knees hit the tiles, a string of sick landing beside the toilet before he managed to orient himself. Isaiah crouched next to him so he wouldn't sway to the side as he heaved up more chunky yellowish-brown lunch.

"Maybe you should have eaten something easier on the stomach," Isaiah mused, his grip tightening as Matthew buried his head in the bowl, back contracting with each heave. He really looked like he was going to choke on the sheer amount.

The other thing was the heat though, radiating off the red-haired man in waves. There was no preventing that with bland foods.

"Owww," Matthew whined, lifting himself up a bit. Another belch sneaked its way out, but it seemed there was finally a pause. "That hurt."

"Bet it did," Isaiah agreed. "Come on, you are going to bed."

"Still feel-urrrp- sick."

"Yeah, well, your fever is off the roof and this is not helping. I will get you a bucket, come on."

Shuffling out of the bathroom was slow and clumsy, with Matthew swaying dizzily and hanging onto Isaiah.

Situating Matthew in bed was an ordeal. Matthew was hugging the bucket like a lifeline, drooling and spitting over it. Isaiah had to fight him out of his sweaty clothes, changing them into pajamas and then collected everything from the kitchen he found helpful. A water bottle, a cup, a damp towel, paracetamol for the fever...

Matthew vomited the pills right after swallowing them, though, so there was no help the fever. He was miserable, curling up under the blankets around his stomach.

Isaiah had it not in his heart to leave him like that, changing his own bottom up and pants into sweat pants and a loose shirt he wouldn't mind getting ruined.

"Matt? Bud, would you like a hot water bottle? Or a sip of water?"

Matthew shook his head, burying his face into the mattress, curling up even more. His hands were digging into his stomach like he wanted to rip his insides open.

Isaiah felt utterly helpless. It wasn't fair he got sick right after going through days of fever and fighting off the infection. He hated it came so close after each other - that it probably caused this in the first place. No getting away from that stupid mistake.

Isaiah circled around the bed worryingly. He didn't want to force his presence just cause he was worried, and he wasn't about to leave but anywhere in the room seemed too far away...

Matthew opened one eye at him, brows knitted together in irritation or pain, Isaiah wasn't so sure. "What are you dancing there for? Hop in."

Isaiah suppressed a smile, sliding into the bed beside him.

Isaiah wasn't sure what was and wasn't allowed, but Matthew quickly solved the issue as he turned from the edge of the bed to press his forehead against Isaiah's tigh.

"How are you doing down there?" Isaiah leaned against the wall sitting upright, hand hovering over the overheated face.

"Ugh. Cramping like a bitch."

"Wanna try some water?"

"Bleh. You want to finish me off?"

Isaiah shook his head in exasperation, grabbing the discarded wet towel and planting it back over Matthew's face.

The redhead grumbled, swiping at his hand half-heartedly. "Ow. That's cold."

The next hour crawled slowly forward. Matthew would sometimes reach for the bucket, mustering enough energy to heave over it emptily, only to slump right back down against Isaiah, curling around his stomach and moaning pitifully.

Isaiah sometimes dared to put a hand on his back or check his forehead for fever, but he wasn't sure what else to do. Whatever Marthew was doing couldn't count as sleep, as he turned and tossed around, throwing his blankets off only to shiver from the cold a few minutes later.

Isaiah was at his wit's end as Matthew dry heaved over the bucket for another 10 minutes painfully. He was also afraid to move from his spot, anxiety pinning him to place beside the ailing man.

"Come on, bud, just a sip of water. You will be dehydrated like this."

"Few hours won't matter," he grumbled, face twisting.

"Please."

Matthew groaned, somehow still managing to make that sound angrily and hoisted himself up on shaky hands.

Isaiah brought the bottle to his face, helping to steady it as Matthew took a few tentative sips, before chugging down a long sip.

"Hey, easy there." Isaiah gently pulled the bottle away.

Matthew scowled at him. "At least it won't burn so much coming up."

Isaiah sighed, both of the settling back into their positions. Keeping tabs on the time, he was about to call it a success, when Matthew didn't throw up in almost 40 minutes.

The silence was interrupted by sudden gurgling from Matthew's stomach.

Matthew moaned, pulled his legs up. "You are fucking kidding me."

"Matt?"

Matthew grumbled under his breath, uncurling with obvious effort and sitting up clumsily.

"What are you doing? Stay still-"

"Help me up, damn it," Matthew bossed, swaying as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and almost face planting onto the ground.

Isaiah got up in an instant, hurrying to his side.

Matthew reached his hands towards him, two red splotches on his cheeks shining on his pale face. "I need the blasted bathroom. Stop asking."

Isaiah obediently kept silent, though Matthew's stomach decidedly did not. As the walked, Isaiah's arm around Matthew's waist, it gurgled loudly, making Matthew cringe in response.

When they reached the bathroom, Matthew untangled himself, shooing him away. "Don't you dare come in. I'm tolerating you enough."

Isaiah almost chuckled at the response, staying by the door. So the water wasn't staying down either way. Glorious.

He waited until Matthew appeared in the door, shaky and ashen and reaching for him without meeting his eyes. But he ended up curled against his leg again when they reached the bed.

After another hour of restless turning and sweating with no end in sight, he ended up messaging Seline.

When are you coming home?

It's Tuesday. Long day, remember? I got classes till 9 pm.

Isaiah groaned quietly. It was only half four. Matthew is sick. I don't know what to do, nothing is helping. Do you have anything in the kitchen I could give him?

No answer came for about two minutes, before his phone beeped again. I'll be there in half an hour.

He felt guilty immediately. No, it's fine. Just tell me what to do. He can't hold down anything.

See you soon, she wrote, adding a heart emoji.

***

Things were still a bit weird between her and Matthew. Especially since the infection.

She felt incredibly guilty he didn't tell them. That she made him feel like he couldn't tell them.

He was stupid for it, sure, but how could he doubt she would drop everything and help him, if he was in trouble? No matter what tension or argument or unresolved issues were between them? Wasn't that obvious?

The answer was simple. The same way she could believe he would hurt her.

Was it truly so he would? Since the conversation with Hector, it kept nagging at her. "It doesn't react to what I do, but to what you feel."

That's what he said. And maybe the problem was truly her and not Matthew. If she had trusted him, she wouldn't have been afraid no matter what expression he made or what his shadow did.

Seline was still thinking that over as she stepped into the apartment. The shoes were all over the hall again. She rolled her eyes, tucking away hers, Matthew's and Isaiah's, then hanging both of their hastily discarded coats.

She tiptoed closer to the room. The door was slightly open. The nervousness was making her stomach tight. It was stupid. Matthew was sick, Isaiah was certainly freaking out about it and she had some idea what to do.

But what if Matthew didn't want her there?

That made crossing the threshold of the door downright impossible. Her hands were freezing - she felt frozen to the spot.

She wasn't that good of a caretaker anyway. She would like to be, but when it came to someone being sick, she was more of the "fetch this" or "write an email" or "give cheerful advice" kind of person. The girlish noises and the comforting words of sympathy or whatever it was didn't come naturally to her - more like they felt pathetic and out of place and with no guarantee they were helping.

If you wanted a pragmatic solution, she was down for it. Emotional comfort during physical distress? Not so much. How many times did she not know how to comfort her mother during one of her chronic migraines, simply sitting beside her? How many times did she just sit by her brother as he cried, not knowing what to say or what to do with her hands or where to look?

Seline could take the discomfort and the gross details, find a good ointment, suggest the right herbs, make the right tea. But holding someone's hand was not there. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe she just rationalized the abilities out of herself.

Taking a deep breath, she stuck her head into the room.

Matthew was curled up on his side, blankets twisted around his legs in a mess. Isaiah was sitting upright next to him, hand on his shoulder as if he was trying to share some of his health with him through contact alone. Isaiah's hair stuck out in weird directions and he looked just as pale as Matthew. Add the fact he was out of his suit, which as alarming enough. Seline didn't think she ever saw him in sweat pants and an informal loose shirt before.

There it went again. Isaiah, she could read. She even dared to touch him or offer comfort or do whatever she felt like, because she felt first with him, and second-guessed herself later. Usually, after he had already responded - favorably till now - saving her from the panic she was out of place.

Isaiah looked up at her, their eyes locking. She gave him a hesitant smile. He looked back at Matthew and then to her, look pleading and hopeless.

Well, at least that was easy to solve. She went to the kitchen, gathering her idea and then returned quietly as possible, to Matthew's bedside table.

"I got these anti-emetic pills. If they work, we can get him some fever meds too and then he could just sleep it off. These things don't have a long duration anyway," she whispered.

Matthew groaned and turned to look at her, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "He is right here, you know."

She winced, then held out the package of pills to him.

They looked at each other in awkward silence, Matthew's gaze tired and confused, Seline's shy and wavering.

Isaiah was obviously too impatient for it, cause he reached over Matthew to grab the pills, grabbing a glass of water with the other hand. Before she could move, he was already offering them while Matthew lifted himself on one elbow.

There. Role done. What else was she supposed to do? The sensation of pins and needles run through her, like everytime when a room became stifling and unwelcoming, when she knew she wasn't supposed to be there anymore.

She had already left a note for her professor she wasn't coming though. Not like she could turn around and leave.

Matthew fell down back on the bed. Isaiah skillfully removed the glass out of the way so it wasn't knocked over.

Seline crossed her legs at the ankles, hugging herself close. She should change out of her outside clothes.

Isaiah raised an eyebrow at her and then started to untangle himself from the bed.

"Alright. I'll go make some tea. Peppermint is good for the stomach right?"

"I can mak-" she interrupted.

"Nope, I will. Need to stand a bit, my back hurts. Would you mind staying with him, please?"

He wasn't exactly giving her a choice with how he hurried. She snatched at his sleeve as he walked beside her.

Isaiah stopped for a second, hand over her elbow, squeezing briefly.

She frowned at him.

He smiled and walked out.

Great. Just great.

Seline sat down tentatively on the edge of the bed.

"Not gonna say hi?" Matthew grumbled.

She jumped at his raspy voice.

The redhead was on his side again, curled up around his stomach, hand tenderly laid over it. But positioned towards her now. His dark brown eyes were glassy with fever.

"Hi," she squicked.

Matthew glowered at her.

"How- ehm, how are you doing?"

"Staying down for now. Stomach cramping like hell, though."

"Ah, right...uhm, I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for? Not your fault."

She nodded. Not this time, it wasn't. "Can I get you anything?"

"Nah," he sighed, then a quiet burp escaped past his lips. He turned on his back, irritated. "I got one over-motivated nursemaid right over there. He is asking if he can bring me something every two damn minutes."

Seline chuckled at that. "Sounds like him."

"Seriously. We are so filling his need to take care of someone, it's ridiculous."

There was another long pause.

"Did...did you take your temperature?" she asked, looking for something to do.

"Yeah. A little elevated." He gave her a side-look, head turned towards his pillow. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want to. I'm no fun right now."

She bit her lip, smoothing her wavy hair and sliding to her feet, heart hammering. "If you don't want me here, I understand..."

"Huh?" His head jerked up to her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's fine, it's fine, I'm sorry,..."

"Stop with the sorrys- now where do you think you are going?" He lifted himself up, hand towards her, before he swayed and flopped back into the bed with a whine.

"What are you doing, you moron, stay put-" she knelt on the bed next to him anxiously as he rubbed at his eyes again.

"I'm okay. Jst got a'lttle dizzy." Matthew's eyes were shut together and he was grimacing, sweat perling on his forehead and upper lip.

"Little elevated, huh?" she said skeptically, planting a hand to his forehead on impulse. "You are on fire!"

"Ow! Your hand is freaking cold!"

She drew her hand away immediately as if burned, but he caught it on the way, pulling it against his chest.

"You told me to leave," she protested, tugging at her hand helplessly.

"That's just a pharse. I wanted to be polite. You are supposed to say it's no trouble and insist on staying, dummy."

"Since when do you try to be polite?"

"Since you act so jumpy about everything I do!"

"I'm not jumpy, I just don't know what to say. You gotta be angry with me-"

"For what?" He blinked at her in genuine irritated confusion, his eyes somehow bigger and rounder than usual with the fever and redness to his cheeks.

Seline was so shocked at his incomprehension she forgot what she meant to say.

Matthew coughed, leaning his head back, as all the energy from the little spurt flowed out of him. "Now my head hurts too."

"You are probably dehydrated," she said absently, wiggling her fingers.

He opened his hand slightly, releasing her from his hold, squeezing his eyes shut again.

Seline skidded down from the bed, circling around to look through Isaiah's collected supplies. She found a discarded wet towel and poured some water over it from the giant bottle - why was there a bottle and not some kind of basin? - and swiped it over Matthew's forehead. "Just breathe. Relax. It will go away soon. We can try water in a few minutes. I got a real good rehydration solution for you. You will get better quickly."

"Hmmm," Matthew's furrowed brows smoothed over at the feel of the towel. He turned towards her, head tracking her movements. His right hand opened and closed, though he didn't say anything else.

The invitation couldn't have been clearer.

Seline slid her hand inside of his, squeezing his wrist, a warm fluttery feeling washing over her.

***

They ended up all in the bed with Matthew in the middle. Isaiah from one side, upright as always. Seline from the left, legs folded underneath her.

Matthew seemed to be content, stuffed between them like that. He almost didn't toss as he napped.

Sometimes, he landed with his head pressed against Isaiah's leg, sometimes in her lap.

Isaiah gave her an amused smile from time to time, settled at last.

She wasn't sure if she did everything right. But it seemed to be enough for the moment.

@bellysoupset

[my-castles-crumbling]

ideal - November 17 - jegulus - @stag-microfic - word count: 577

"Well...it's not ideal," Sirius said, pinching his lips together and staring at the small hotel room.

Regulus let out a snort.

'Not ideal' was an understatement. The room had two queen-sized beds, one bathroom, and zero sense of privacy. This was what he got for letting Sirius book the room.

James, however, seemed to be in good spirits. "It's just for one night," he said bracingly, smiling at all of them. "We'll continue on in the morning, no harm done!"

"Right," Remus nodded, though he looked far less optimistic. "So...how will we do this?"

"I'm with Moony," Sirius said immediately, frowning at the suggestion that anything else would ever happen.

But that meant that Regulus and James...Regulus refused to make eye contact with anyone.

"Is...everyone okay with that?" Remus asked, always the pragmatic one.

"Sure!" James chirped.

Regulus only grunted.

He was the last in the bathroom, and he spent the entire time trying to give himself a pep talk. It was one night. He could keep himself together for one night. He'd been doing fine not giving his feelings away for the entire road trip thus far, it didn't matter that they would be sharing a bed. He would be fine. He could do this.

So he put on his pajamas and went back into the room, finding everyone already in bed and the lights off. Slipping under the covers, he sighed with relief to see that James's back was turned, and be busied himself with scrolling through his phone, trying to calm his racing thoughts. It worked decently well.

Until James rolled over, his hand accidentally coming into contact with the single sliver of bare skin at Regulus's waist. Completely unprepared for the contact, he let out a whimper of surprise.

He felt James freeze. Heard his breath pick up behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut in mortification and begged himself to calm the fuck down and regulate his own damn breathing because how embarrassing could he be?

Until James murmured, "Reg?" And a hand purposely skated over his hip, causing goosebumps to burst over his flesh.

"Fuck," he whispered, biting over his lip to keep from groaning loudly. "James." And he new he sounded wrecked, he knew there was no way he could pretend he wasn't affected by the hand on his hip and the body behind him exuding heat, but he hoped James would just leave it.

Until an arm moved to completely curl around his waist, James's perfect chest pressing forward into his back as he felt himself pulled backward into the heat of his embrace.

"Please tell me you're as glad this happened as I am," James whispered into his ear, his breath hot and his hand tracing lines over Regulus's bare stomach.

He couldn't resist. Turning around in the arms he'd been imagining around him for years, he gazed into hazel eyes and murmured, "It depends. Do you...want it to happen again?" His heart felt like it would burst from his chest as he asked, the anxiety making him almost lightheaded. They couldn't go back from this, he realized.

But James only smiled. "I want this to happen every night, Reg."

Their first kiss was sweet. The chaste pressing of lips together before they pulled apart, grinning happily. It was all that could happen, given the circumstances. But they fell asleep in each other's arms, knowing more would happen very soon. They had all the time in the world.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PRINCE!ANAKIN HEADCANONS 👑

TW: at some point it contains sexual content, so if you're sensitive to that or don't feel comfortable with it, please do not read it for your own safety and comfort.

Prince!Anakin who was a ruthless, meticulous, arrogant.. yet somehow with a heart. For others he was simple a wise and intellectual future king

Prince!Anakin whose marriage between him and you was arranged to solidify an alliance between your two kingdoms, a necessity driven by political and military pressures. Anakin, now King after the recent death of his father, was resistant to the idea of marriage, especially one born out of duty rather than love. He had always been wary of love, having seen the toll it took on those around him, particularly his own family.

Prince!Anakin who refused to consumate your marriage at the beginning

Prince!Anakin who, at the beginning, highlighted the true reason of your marriage and put you in the other part of the castle so you two wouldn't see each other

Prince!Anakin who is known as a formidable and stern ruler, deeply dedicated to his kingdom. He built emotional walls around his heart, vowing never to let anyone close enough to hurt him. When you first arrived at court, he treated you with cold politeness, making it clear that this marriage was a political arrangement, not a romantic one. And yet, in contrast, you entered the marriage with hope, a believer in fairytales and the possibility of finding love even in an arranged union. Despite Anakin's cold demeanor, you remained kind and patient, trying to find small ways to connect with him (but after his countless cold responds you grew yourself impatient and sharp in tongue, although he was your king, so..being nice had to be in place..at least in public)

Prince!Anakin who, over time, began to notice your unwavering optimism and the light you brought into his otherwise pragmatic and calculated life. He admired your strength and the way you handled court politics with grace, but he kept his distance emotionally, afraid of what letting you in would mean.

Prince!Anakin who felt somehow attracted to you, even if he didn't plan this marriage, he didn't want to be married to you, yet there was just something about you he found unique, alluring and he couldn't help but be drawn to your presence (which was very frustrating and weird for him)

Prince!Anakin who whenever you asked for something he always came up with 'ask for anything and it'll be given to you. Even the half of my kingdom' thing

Prince!Anakin who, after your relentless asking, took you hunting;

"Your Majesty, with all due respect, are you sure this is an appropriate place for the queen?" one of the men spoke, clearly uneasy.

Anakin shot him an irritated glare, his patience wearing thin. He was acutely aware that the hunting grounds weren't exactly the safest place for the queen, especially given her delicate condition. But there was little he could do about it now. He’d much rather have her safely ensconced in the palace, yet the situation demanded otherwise.

His frustration mounted as more and more people questioned his decisions. He knew what he was doing; he didn’t need anyone else second-guessing him.

"Are you questioning my decision?" he snapped, turning his horse to face the man directly. The intensity in his eyes made it clear he wasn't in the mood for dissent.

The man visibly flinched, his face paling. "I—I’m merely pointing out that, perhaps, hunting isn't a... lady-like activity for the queen," he stuttered, his voice wavering. The courtiers around them shifted uncomfortably, their gazes dropping.

Anakin's hands tightened into fists around the reins of his horse. The growing annoyance was palpable in his stance. He had been patient long enough, but this was the last straw.

"Who's the king here, me or you?" he growled, his voice low and dangerously firm. His eyes narrowed, the simmering anger barely contained. He understood the risks; it was precisely why he hadn't wanted her to join. But her presence here was a necessity, and he wouldn’t tolerate any more questioning of his authority.

Anakin watched with growing concern as you struggled to ride your horse. Despite his efforts to focus on the path ahead, his gaze kept drifting to you. He saw your difficulty and felt a deep, instinctive urge to help you, to lift you onto his own horse and spare you this struggle. His grip on the reins tightened as he forced himself to look away.

"Stop that horse; you’re going to hurt yourself," he muttered, bringing his horse to a halt.

You wrestled with the reins, your legs trembling as you finally managed to bring the horse to a stop. Breathing heavily, you glanced over at him.

Anakin's eyes scanned over you with concern. You were clearly struggling, sweat glistening on your skin, the gorset clinging uncomfortably. Despite your evident distress, you still looked captivating, and it was driving him to distraction.

"Can you get down yourself, or do you need help?" he asked, his voice firm but laced with concern.

"I think I can manage," you mumbled, attempting to dismount. You nearly stumbled as you got down, and Anakin's brow furrowed, expecting you to fall. To his relief, you managed to stay upright, though he couldn't hide his frustration.

He shook his head and approached, knowing it was too risky to let you continue riding alone. Your struggle was wearing him thin, and he couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt.

"You can’t even get off a horse without almost falling," he said with a scoff.

You shot him a defiant glare, walking over to him "Not all of us are as skilled at riding as you are, Your Highness," you retorted with a touch of sarcasm, your voice dripping with mockery.

He helped you onto his horse, his hands steady as he guided you into the saddle. As you settled in, your hip brushed against his, sending a jolt through both of you. Your heart raced, and you had to look away, struggling to steady your breath.

The accidental touch ignited a fierce longing in Anakin. He let out a small, strained laugh, trying to remain composed. He positioned himself before you, his body pressing against your back as he mounted the horse behind you.

"Take the horse back to the castle," he instructed, his voice low and firm.

As he took the reins, his presence pressed against you, the tension between you palpable. Every movement seemed to heighten the charged atmosphere, and both of you were acutely aware of the closeness.

Your hands tightened around his waist, your body pressed firmly against his back. The sweet vanilla scent of yours filled his senses, and he could feel the warmth of your curves against him "Hold tight. This won’t be a slow ride," he said, his voice rough and low.

->

You gasped as he urged the horse into a faster pace. "I thought we were going hunting?" your breath warm against his ear.

The closeness of your voice managed to sent a shiver down his spine. Yet, he pushed those distracting thoughts aside and focused on guiding the horse through the hunting grounds.

"It’ll take a while to reach the animals," he replied curtly, the horse’s speed increasing.

"Slow down for—"

He smirked when he felt your grip tighten around his waist. Your face was buried against him, and he could almost feel your fear. It was both thrilling and maddening, and he could hardly ignore how much he enjoyed your closeness.

"Stop whining," he said, amusement lacing his voice.

Your fingers this time dug into his skin with your voice tinged with panic. "I’m not whining!" you protested, your breath hitching as the horse made another sharp turn.

He felt your fingers leaving an imprint on his muscles. The sensation only heightened his awareness of how tightly they were pressed together. He found himself wishing she would hold on even tighter.

"You’re going to leave marks on my stomach with your fingers," he said in a low, almost teasing tone, not easing the horse’s pace.

With a scoff, you dug your fingernails in a little deeper. "Good. Maybe it’ll teach you to slow down a bit."

As you arrived at the wooden hunting cabin nestled in the forest, Anakin led the way inside, with you following closely. The two courtiers stayed outside, leaving you alone.

"Do you know how to use a bow?" Anakin asked, his gaze fixed on a collection of hunting gear.

"Yes, my father taught me," you mumbled, your attention drawn to the array of stuffed animals lining the walls.

Anakin moved to the shelves, picking up various pieces of hunting equipment. He tried to stay focused, but he couldn't ignore the way your beautiful, the prettiest he had ever seen eyes wandered around the rustic cabin, intrigued by its contents. In some way, he wanted his gaze on him, only on him

"So, I assume you're quite skilled with the bow?"

"The last time I held a bow was ten years ago. We'll see," your tone light but confident.

He walked over to you, extending the bow toward you. His gaze lingered on you, noting how your hair was tousled from the wind and those eyes sparkled with curiosity. As he held out the bow, your hands brushed lightly, sending a subtle jolt through him.

"Let’s see if you haven’t forgotten how to shoot," he said, his voice carrying a playful edge.

you couldn't help but roll your eyes with your lips curling into a teasing smile. "Careful, Your Highness. I might mistake you for a doe."

Anakin’s brow arched in amusement. Your sarcasm was endearing, and he had to suppress a smirk at the thought of you aiming a bow at him. He moved a little closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Would you shoot me in the heart, my little doe?"

"Absolutely, I would."

A slow, teasing smirk spread across his lips at your response. The intensity in your voice stirred something primal within him. He found himself torn between wanting to silence you with a kiss and reveling in your boldness.

"Or would you aim right between the eyes?" he challenged, his tone a mix of amusement and desire.

"I’d not dream of anything better, Your Highness," you whispered with venom "i’d watch as crimson red liquid overwhelms your face while you beg for mercy, choking on your own blood."

Anakin shivered at your words, the mix of irritation and arousal making his control slip. You were infuriatingly charming, and your fierce spirit only made you more tempting. Yet, he wanted to shut you up, but he was equally captivated by your daring. His expression hardened a little due to your boldness

"You’re a little minx, you know that?"

"Oh, Your Highness," you replied with mock sweetness, "I’m your worst nightmare," and with a final glare, you turned and walked away, leaving him in the cabin.

Prince!Anakin who, one night, after a particularly stressful day dealing with court matters, found you in the royal gardens, talking softly to a group of children about a fairytale. Something about the way you spoke, the softness in your voice, and the way the children adored you, made him pause. For the first time, he truly saw you—not just as his queen, but as a woman who brought warmth and light into a cold, stone palace.

Prince!Anakin who slowly began to fall in love with you without even realizing it. He found himself seeking your counsel on matters of state, not just because you were his queen, but because he valued your opinion. Your presence became a comfort to him, a constant in his life that he didn’t want to lose. Yet, he struggled with these feelings, as they contradicted his vow to never love.

Prince!Anakin who, in time, began searching for your presence in every place, your voice in every conversation, your eyes in every crowd

Prince!Anakin who sometimes appeared in your chambers at night;

"Leave us," Anakin commanded, his voice firm, though laced with an undercurrent of urgency.

The maids exchanged quick glances but obeyed, slipping out of the room and leaving them alone in the softly lit quarters. Her room was a sanctuary, filled with warmth and quiet elegance, but the atmosphere now was thick with unspoken emotions and the heat of longing.

The moment the door clicked shut, he moved with a sudden, desperate urgency, closing the distance between them. His lips crashed against hers, the kiss searing with the force of everything he’d been holding back.

You couldn’t help but giggle as you both tumbled onto the bed, his weight pressing into you. "Your Highness—why the rush?" you teased, breathless and amused, though your heart pounded in sync with his.

He didn’t respond with words; instead, his lips trailed down your neck, each kiss more fervent than the last. The feel of your skin under his mouth was intoxicating, each soft gasp from you spurring him on. He had held back for so long, but now, he was overwhelmed by his need for you, by the depth of his desire. It was as if all the weeks and months of pent-up emotions had broken free, and he was helpless to resist.

"Can’t wait," he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with a raw hunger that sent shivers down your spine. His hands moved to pin you beneath him, his grip firm yet reverent, as though he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

He looked into your eyes, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that took your breath away. The world outside this room ceased to exist; all that mattered was the heat between you, the undeniable pull that had finally won out over duty and decorum.

"Neither can I," you whispered back, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the taut muscles beneath his clothing as he leaned in, capturing your lips once more.

"Doe, what are you doing?" he murmured, his morning voice raspy and thick with sleep.

"You're in my bed and already reading papers," you mumbled, pressing soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he felt your lips on him. Your touch was one of his favorite things, a soothing balm against the constant demands of his royal duties. But then, reality intruded, and a sigh escaped his lips, the weight of his responsibilities settling back onto his shoulders.

"I have meetings all morning," he said, his tone carrying a hint of frustration, the thought of leaving you so soon already souring his mood.

"Just show up a little later," you whispered against his ear, her voice a playful challenge. "Aren't you the king?"

His eyes fluttering shut as he savored the feeling of your breath on his neck. The temptation to stay was overwhelming. All he wanted was to remain here, wrapped in your warmth, to forget the world outside. But the demands of the crown were relentless, and he knew he couldn’t shirk his duties, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Wish I could stay here with you all morning," he mumbled with a sigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your arm. His voice held a slight edge of grumpiness, the conflict between his desires and his obligations clear.

"We can make it quick," you whispered into his ear

He could practically hear the smirk in your voice, and he knew you had him exactly where you wanted. He was already running late, but with your body pressed so temptingly against his, all thoughts of duty and meetings started to fade.

In one swift motion, he turned, pinning you beneath him on the bed "How quick?" he asked, his voice a husky growl

"Ten minutes?" you grinned

He scoffed, a smirk curving his lips as he leaned in closer, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress, trapping you between his strong arms. You were a temptress, and he knew you could very well be his undoing, but right now, he didn’t care.

"Ten minutes?" he repeated, his hands sliding further up your thighs, fingers brushing against your heated skin. "Now you're just underestimating me," he murmured before capturing your lips with his, sealing his surrender.

Prince!Anakin who moved you back to his bedroom, with no care if in other places the queen has her own bed to sleep in

Prince!Anakin who had his own moment when he realized just how much he cared for you—perhaps during a crisis when you were in danger, and he found himself terrified at the thought of losing you;

Anakin sat in his dimly lit office, his mind consumed by the latest stack of documents that required his attention. The weight of ruling often bore down on him, but he carried it with the strength and resilience expected of a king. Yet, as he heard the soft but urgent footsteps approaching from behind, he felt a strange unease settle in his chest. He looked up, finding his old counselor standing before him, a grim expression etched across his face.

"What is it this time?" Anakin asked, his tone impatient as he set the papers aside.

The counselor hesitated for a moment before speaking, "It’s the queen, your highness..."

Anakin’s eyes narrowed instantly, his heart skipping a beat. The mention of you, his queen, brought an immediate sense of dread. His voice turned sharp, almost cutting. "What about her?"

The counselor’s face paled, his voice almost trembling as he replied, "Her condition has worsened."

Anakin shot up from his chair, the fear and panic he had buried deep within now clawing its way to the surface. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. He fixed his counselor with an intense gaze, the demand in his voice barely masked by his rising desperation. "What do you mean ‘worsened’? What has happened?"

"She’s been battling a high fever for the past two days," one of the maids interjected softly, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "Her wounds... they’re not healing as they should. Her condition is deteriorating, your highness."

Without another word, Anakin stormed out of his office, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He moved with a speed fueled by fear, every step echoing the growing terror that he might lose you. When he reached your chambers, he pushed open the door with a force that sent a gust of air rushing into the room.

There you lay, on the grand bed that now seemed to dwarf your frail figure. Your skin was pale, marred by the angry red wounds that refused to heal, and your breaths were shallow, labored. Every whimper, every groan that escaped your lips felt like a dagger to his heart.

Anakin crossed the room in swift strides, his hand immediately finding its place on your fevered cheek. The heat of your skin burned against his fingers, and the sight of you in such agony nearly brought him to his knees. The fierce king, known for his strength and resolve, felt utterly powerless in the face of your suffering.

"Leave us," he commanded, his voice laced with authority, though his eyes never left you.

"Your highness, but—" one of the maids began to protest.

"I said leave us!" he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. The maids exchanged uneasy glances before hurriedly leaving the room, closing the door behind them.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your shallow breaths and the occasional soft moan of pain. Anakin sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart breaking as he took in your weakened state. You looked so fragile, yet even in your pain, there was a beauty about you that took his breath away.

"It’s so painful..." you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible.

Anakin felt his chest tighten, a deep sense of guilt and helplessness washing over him. He gently stroked your fevered face, his thumb tracing the contours of your cheek. "I know, my love," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m so sorry... I wish I could take this pain away from you."

He carefully pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if his embrace could shield you from the torment ravaging your body. He held you close, feeling the intense heat radiating from your fevered skin, the trembling of your weakened frame. It was as if holding you tighter could somehow anchor you to him, keep you from slipping away.

"Shh, I’ve got you," he whispered into your ear, his voice a soothing balm against the storm of pain that wracked your body. He gently caressed your hair, his touch tender and full of the love he struggled to express in words.

With a wet cloth in hand, Anakin carefully dabbed it against your wounds, the coolness providing a fleeting relief. He moved with a delicate precision, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked. The sight of your suffering was unbearable, yet he forced himself to remain calm, to be strong for you.

"I’m here," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he pressed the cloth against your fevered skin.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as he closed his eyes, silently praying for your recovery. Anakin, the king who had faced countless battles, was now facing his greatest fear—losing you, the one person who had made his life worth living.

And in that moment, he would have given anything, sacrificed anything, to see you smile again.

You closed your eyes, your voice small and strained as you spoke. "You shouldn’t look at me... I’m revolting."

"Revolting?" The word was almost laughable to him. Even now, when you were so weakened by illness, you were still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. "You’re not revolting. You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful," he said with a quiet intensity, his fingers brushing tenderly against your cheek.

"Have you seen my arms?" you asked, your voice tinged with bitterness.

He glanced down at your arms, at the wounds that marred your once flawless skin. The sight of them filled him with a deep sorrow, but it didn’t change the way he felt. "Yes," he replied, his tone unwavering. His fingers gently traced the inflamed skin, his touch feather-light as if afraid to cause you more pain.

You flinched slightly, the tenderness of your wounds evident. "Does this look beautiful to you?" you muttered, disbelief coloring your words.

Anakin let out a soft, almost incredulous scoff. How could you not see what he saw? Even with the pain and the sickness, you were still the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman who made him believe in something beyond duty and power. "Yes, it does. You’re beautiful, no matter what. Sick, wounded, healthy—it doesn’t matter. I will always see you as the most beautiful woman in the world," he declared, his voice firm, eyes burning with sincerity.

He saw the doubt flicker in your eyes, and it pained him deeply. How could you be so blind to your own beauty? To the strength and grace that still radiated from you, even now?

He leaned closer, his fingers drifting down to trace the delicate line of your collarbone, his touch reverent, almost worshipful. "You have no idea how stunning you are," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for your ears. "Even like this, you take my breath away."

Prince!Anakin who's one of few hobbies was making love to you;

he loved to tease you about heirs. he brought it up often, with a playful tone, but deep down, the desire was real and intense. The thought of you carrying his child, your belly round, your breasts swollen ignited a fierce, possessive longing within him. He wanted to see you like this - pregnant and full of new life

"gonna give me heirs, hm?" he whispered with his pace quickening

your sweet, breathless moans only spurred him on. You were so beautiful beneath him, your flushed cheeks and heaving chest making you look even more irresistible, if that's possible

"you'd look so goddamn stunning with my heir inside you, sweetheart" his voice a rough murmur

his cock, all envelopted by your squishy walls, moved deeper to reach his, and yours, edge "you'd be mine, completely. Carrying my child, you'd belong to me in every way"

"am i not yours already?" you panted

his lips connected with yours, making sure to nipp on your bottom lip "you are mine, love..but having you carry my child..it's a whole other kind of mine" he groaned, his large hands moving over to your hips

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[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt. 7

Part 7 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The entire cabin sat in suffocating silence, the air thick with grief, pressing down on everyone like a heavy blanket. Though each person reclined in the lounge with eyes closed and limbs still, it was only a performance—none of them could sleep. Not really. The loss was too sharp, too fresh. Everyone processed it differently, but one truth echoes in their hearts: the tragedy hadn't begun the night you died. It had taken root long before. By the time they truly knew you—truly loved you—you were already gone.

Yuuka took it especially hard. She had always seen you as family, someone irreplaceable, and yet, she hadn't been able to do anything to save you. She sat, hollow-eyed, looping over every memory in painful detail, desperately searching for a moment she'd missed—a sign. Was there a day you came home different? Later than usual? Quieter, colder? She tore herself apart wondering if she had ignored the moment your light began to dim.

Ace wrestled with a different torment. His guilt ran deep. He had known you from the very beginning, or at least, that's what he'd convinced himself. In truth, he saw you—passed by you—but never really looking until it was already too late. You were forgotten the moment you weren't in the room. The thought haunted him. He should have known you better. Should have seen the signs. Should have asked more questions. Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, he kept repeating that same aching mantra: I should've done something. I knew them. I should've known.

You never spoke about the neglect you endured, not directly. But in the aftermath, the pieces fell into place. It became clear to those who mourned you that something had been very wrong. Whatever deal you'd made to rise so suddenly in the eyes of the world—whatever force had pulled you from the shadows into the spotlight—must have come with a price. And so they wondered, each in their own quiet despair: What final blow pushed you over the edge? Who, in their carelessness or cruelty, handed down your death sentence that night?

When you told them about the Blot—about everything you knew and everything you felt they needed to know—their responses were varied as they were heartfelt.

Kalim, Ace, and Yuuka held onto you with unwavering faith. They clung to the belief that you were still you, that the Blot didn't change who you truly were. They hoped, desperately, that it might fade, or be cured. That things could somehow return to normal.

But others—Vil, Leona—responded with wariness. They had seen what the Blot could do, had felt the darkness clawing at the edges of control. To them you were walking a dangerous line. They didn't say it outright, but the fear was there, unspoken but heavy: Had you been building this Blot inside you for months unnoticed? Were you already a ticking time bomb?

And the unthinkable loomed in their thoughts: If you were to overblot... if the darkness overtook you completely... would they even be able to stop it?

None of them could say it aloud, but the truth lingered in every glance exchanged, every tense silence.

None of them were sure if they could raise their pens against you.

Not if it came to that.

When the talk turned to the possibility of breaking the contract, of severing the tie that bound you to the Blot, the group was split even. They knew, perhaps more clearly than you did, that the Blot wasn't just a threat—it was also your lifeline. Whatever bargain had been struck, however dark, it was keeping you here. Keeping you alive.

Leona, ever pragmatic, offered to try. He mentioned his Unique Magic—how he'd broken so-called unbreakable deals before, even Azul's ironclad contracts. Nothing was truly unbreakable, he said.

And so, with quiet determination, he reached out and took your lifeless hand in his. The moment his fingers brushed the ring, the temperature plummeted. The metal, already ice-cold, turned searching. It burned your skin with such intensity that you cried out, jerking away. A small yelp—but it was enough. Enough to freeze everyone in place.

A warning.

That was the last attempt. They decided then and there—spoken or not—that they wouldn't try again.

Especially not if removing it meant risking your life.

It was unmistakable now; the Blot did not intend to be cast off. it had clung to you with possessive desperation, punishing even the suggestion of separation. It lashed out—not with fury, but with something: quieter. Sharper. Intentional.

Even in sleep, where you should have found escape, peace eluded you. Your dreams were restless landscapes of whispered arguments and echoing what-ifs, and always, always, you felt watched. The Blot's presence lingered like static in the air, wrapping around you—and them—with a warmth that was oppressive now. it pulsed with something old, something aware.

They felt it too. All of them.

This thing, this force that had given you life again, now seemed to loom like a second shadow. To you, it hummed softly—a low thrum that followed you into sleep. A presence. A heartbeat.

The ring itself pulsed faintly now, like something alive. At first, it was steady, a subtle rhythm you barely noticed. But tonight—tonight it was faster.

Uneven. Anxious.

Almost... afraid.

The world you found yourself in was a place that refused to stay still, a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, constantly rearranging itself. It couldn't decide what it wanted to be, but there were a few constants—persistent patterns, repeated hues and forms, that twisted in ways you couldn't make sense of.

Then, you hear it. A voice. Ortho? Malleus? Someone else?

The syllables stretch unnaturally long, each word mangling into the next. The rhythm of their speech is off, warped, the tone repeats your name—but something's wrong. Too many echoes. Too many wrong echoes. You blink, and the voices morph into your own, distorting, mocking, mourning. They plead with you in voices that sound like they belong to someone else, but their sharp edges make you flinch, as if they're cutting into you from within.

Are you dreaming? You can't tell. You're not sure of anything here.

You're not sure of yourself.

As you move through the space, you catch glimpses of your reflection—though it's never whole. Shattered glass splinters at your feet, distorting the image in jagged pieces. In broken fragments, you're not what you remember. You're something else. Your flesh is gone in places, hanging from exposed bone, rotting, decaying. Your neck is bent at an angle recognized as impossible and inside you, insects crawl—skittering through the hollow where your heart should be, where your life should still pulse.

The sight is too much. It's suffocating.

You can't bear to look any longer, but the reflection clings to you, mocking you with every step. You stumble backward, heart pounding, your body aching as if each moment is strenuous. Your legs are unsteady, as if the ground beneath you is not quite solid, and you twist around, turning on your heel.

You run.

But it's difficult.

Breathing is a struggle. The hollow ache in your lungs is a cruel reminder there is no air to pull in.

When you look down, the fragments of your reflection remain—clothing torn, tattered, beyond recognition, and the sight of your chest, cracked open like a broken shell, takes the last of your strength.

The world is wrong. Everything is wrong.

No wonder you can't breathe; you don't have lungs anymore.

The gravity of the place feels distorted, pulling in strange directions that you can't describe, warping the space around you. The world is devoid of color, but your eyes are assaulted by a dizzying array of hues—too many, too fast, too intense to comprehend. It's as if the colors exist beyond the spectrum you know, beyond the limits of your perception.

The Blot's voice—its presence—flooded your ears, your mind, seeping into every corner of your thoughts. It shuddered around you, writhing, as though the dream world itself couldn't hold its form any longer. It was a reflection of the Blot's own stress, its instability. Just as it's form trembled and shifted when thrown off, so too was the fabric of this space.

You could only assume that by being so deeply entangled with the Blot, you had somehow slipped into its mind—or maybe its world. It wasn't clear.

Words collided in the air—some soft, others shrill—whispers, shouts, incoherent fragments. It was like it was speaking from everywhere at once. But amidst the chaos, one voice pierced through the noise, Its tone raw and desperate. It screamed in your head.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" The Blot's voice cried.

Its panic was visceral—almost childlike, trembling between frustration and pleading.

It didn't understand.

"Why are you telling them? We were fine! We were together! You... you were so kind to me this morning before the hike..." It stuttered, its words stumbling in confusion, the longing sharp as it clung to your closeness from that morning.

It didn't understand.

You ran—but you didn't know for how long.

How long had you been hiding from the Blot? From the reflections that mocked you? From the rotting body that you could feel but not escape?

Every step felt like a step toward something other, something incomprehensible. You were a ghost, running from the dark surrounding you.

The collision—the crash—was deafening, shocking you back into clarity. The monolith before you splintered at your touch, shuddering and shifting. It was an immense crystal statue—though it was never still. It shifted, reformed, nearly a living creature in constant flux, impossible to make sense of. Was it a figure? A being? Or something that had once been but had long since lost its meaning?

The statue hummed, a deep, resonant sound like the tuning of a cosmic fork, vibrating through the air, through you. Its surface was smooth, glasslike, but etched with thousands of names, faces, forms—rewriting itself over and over again. It was as if the statue was an archive, trying desperately to preserve its own history, its purpose.

You wanted to reach out, to understand, but before you could touch it, the ground beneath you buckled. The wailing grew louder, sound warping and twisting until it seemed to come from every direction at once. The Blot's presence flared, its grip on you—on everything—shattering.

And then... it was gone.

And darkness swallowed you whole.

Static crackles across your tongue—acidic and sharp, like chewing electricity. You blink rapidly, over and over, your eyes straining against the suffocating nothingness that surrounds you. There's no darkness, no light. Just everything and nothing, layered over each other in a space that doesn't obey rules. A contradiction you can't comprehend.

Then—clarity.

A voice begins, soft and distant, like a recording warped by time. It's not speaking to you, not exactly. It's narrating. Telling a story that feels familiar in your bones, though your memory protests.

Long before time's tapestry unraveled into the mortal world, there existed the Angel of Faces, a being crafted by the divine will to be a mirror of mortal perception. The Creator designed them without a fixed form, a blank slate destined to reflect the countless faces imagined by mortalkind—a bridge. They were the Messenger of Truths, delivering divine revelations in guises familiar and comforting, ensuring mortals could bear the weight of celestial messages.

Images crack open before you—like shattered glass, jagged and glinting, tumbling one after another into focus. They don't move like real things—more like illustrations torn from pages of a storybook.

You see them—a being of indescribable beauty, ever shifting. Their form changes like water caught in starlight, their features never still. They descend from the sky, trailing light behind them, wearing faces borrowed from dreams and fantasies. As they meet mortals, they speak in soft tones and gentle smiles, becoming what people expect to see.

The scene carries the nostalgic warmth of fable, but something about it gnaws at the edges.

Mortals, however, are imperfect storytellers. Each encounter reshaped the Angel of Faces, adding new features, quirks, and expressions. Some saw them as a serene guardian; others envisioned a stern judge or a deceiving trickster. These conflicting descriptions layered upon the angel like masks, making their true self indistinguishable, even to themselves.

You watch the whispers spread—around campfires, across market stalls, through grand halls. People speak of the messenger, the celestial, the angel. You see them again, curled up in a fetal position with their wings cocooning them, their form folding and reshaping themselves as mortals impose identities upon them.

A healer. A warrior. A muse.

Each expectation a mold. Each opinion a new mask.

And though the angel's face remains serene, poised—graceful even—you notice it now. The flicker. The micro-twitch. A wince that doesn't belong. Pain—subtle but unmistakable—buried beneath the surface as they fracture to match fantasies of others.

Over the ages, this shifting identity became a curse. They could recall every face ever worn, every lie spoken to soothe mortal fears, yet no memory of an original self remained. In despair, they sought reassurance from the Creator, pleading for a singular, immutable form. But the Creator remained silent, bound by cosmic law to let mortals shape the angel's existence. They were the bridge between the divine and the flesh—the only way divinity could properly understand mortal and vice-versa.

Then, a throne.

Massive. Towering. Its presence dominates the space. The angel kneels before it, wings unfurled behind them—crushed and colorless, like a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Their head is bowed. You can't hear the words exchanged, but the feeling crashes over you like a wave.

Agony. Sorrow. Desperation. Pleading.

And beyond it all: silence.

A cold, heavy silence that presses into your ribs. The kind that follows disappointment from someone who once loved you. Or worse—pity.

You can feel the weight of the Creator's silence. Not anger. Not wrath. Just... regret. And it's so much heavier than anything else.

Resentment festered. If mortals could define them, why should they not seize control of that power? They abandoned truth, embracing deception. In time, they learned to wield their ever-changing faces as weapons: impersonating kings, prophets, and lovers, sowing discord with whispers of false promises. Their once-pure voice became a chorus of lies, harmonizing with the ambitions and fears of those they encountered.

Scenes follow in rapid succession, kaleidoscopic in nature and fragmented, but you know the angel is there—though their wings are gone, though their face is someone else's.

A king laughs on a golden throne, his kingdom shining. A secret lover slips out of a bed in darkness. An assassin vanishes into a crowd. A prophet raises trembling hands before a weeping congregation.

Then, ruin.

The king's palace, turned to rubble. The lover, now a wife—yet the old wife is miraculously absent. The assassin's victims, nameless in a list. The prophet's followers, bloodied and broken in their belief.

None of them ever saw the angel beneath the face they wore. They never looked long enough, painfully unperceptive—or perhaps unaware.

If no one knew what the angel truly was, then stories couldn't cage them. Rumors couldn't wound them—shape them. And so, they wore more faces. Hid deeper. Buried themselves beneath perception. And when they were wronged—betrayed—they sought retribution. Over and over again.

But the revenge never tasted sweet.

Only hollow.

Thus, the Angel of Faces fell—not through rebellion, but through erosion of identity. Cast from the heavens, they now wander the mortal and infernal realms, a living mask who changes with every glance. They are feared as a master manipulator, a thief of faces and fates, cursed never to be remembered as themselves.

Legends say if you meet someone whose face you forget the moment they turn away, you've crossed paths with the Angel of Faces or their vassals. Pray they haven't taken an interest in wearing your face next.

More faces, more identities flash by, countless and unclear. You can't see them distinctly, but the truth sinks in. You know now. You know who they are.

The Angel of Faces. A creature lost in masks, wandering through mortalkind, trying to feel whole.

A being warped and corrupted by their own nature.

No matter what name they claimed, no matter what role they played—no one ever saw them. Only what they were supposed to be. What others wanted.

A crown. A smile. A blade.

But never themselves.

The images fracture and collapse around you—but not into darkness. This time, they pull you in. Like pages of a book folding shut around you, dragging you into its chapters.

The sun is high, warm and golden, filtering through thick branches overhead. Shadows dapple your skin—real, textured, soft. The breeze smells of pine and something faintly sweet. It feels safe here. Familiar in a way that aches.

But you aren't alone.

Ahead of you, moving slowly through the trees, is a figure. They look like a hunter—simple clothes, dirt on their boots, a bow strapped across their back. It's a quiet disguise, inconspicuous. Something they've worn before, probably in times of mischief or survival.

You follow, but your steps make no sound. You don't rustle the leaves. You leave no footprints. It becomes quickly apparent you aren't really here. Just a silent observer.

The hunter reaches a clearing—a wide expanse of green, peaceful and untouched. At its center stands a single oak tree, massive and ancient, its roots twisting deep into the hill it rests upon. The sunlight catches on its leaves like gold.

You've never been here. Not in memory.

And yet—your chest hurts with recognition.

The ache isn't sudden. It's long, settled. Like a name you forgot but still miss. Like a song you can't hum, but remember how it made you feel.

You miss this place.

But you miss it the way a house misses laughter. The way empty arms remember who they used to hold.

You follow the hunter in silence as he steps into the embrace of the oak's shade, the heavy stillness of the clearing wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. He lowers himself onto the earth with a tired sort of grace, his limbs moving like someone who has worn exhaustion too long to notice it anymore.

You rest just opposite him, your back finding the warm bark. The sun flickers gently through the leaves above, dappling the ground in gold, and for a moment there's peace.

But then it begins crashing over you; a torrent of emotions strong enough to nearly sweep you away.

Regret.

Longing.

Fear.

And grief so ancient it's fossilized into the soul—grief that has learned how to survive by becoming quiet.

It coils in your gut like smoke, pressing against your ribs, too heavy, too consuming. It isn't yours—you know that—but it moves through your body like it belongs there.

It makes you want to rip yourself open just to see if the feelings bleed out. To see if they're real. To see something—anything—clear for once.

You try to drown it out—to focus on the soft hush of wind through leaves, the warmth of soil beneath you, the steady breathing of the man sitting across from you, against the other side of the tree. The quiet hum of the world moving around you. But then—

Footsteps.

Soft, but sure. Grass shifts. A twig snaps.

You tense. Your body doesn't move, but your mind begins to brace itself. You squeeze your eyes tighter, silently begging: Leave. Just walk on by.

But they don't.

They stop—right on the other side of the tree. A beat of silence.

And then—they sit.

Like they belong here.

Like they were always going to.

The bark dug into my spine. My shoulders stiffened, and I pressed harder against the tree, jaw tightening. Whoever they are, they've broken the rhythm of the moment, shattered the fragile stillness I've carved out for myself in this place.

I didn't want to look.

But I had to, didn't I?

Not out of curiosity, not out of fear, but because I felt myself compelled to know who would dare come here, to the one place I'm allowed to not be anyone.

I recall turning my head slowly, angling to peer through the crooked gap in the oak's wide trunk, through what now seemed like a portal to the heavens.

And you sat there quietly, knees drawn up to your chest, head resting in your arms and eyes closed like you belonged there. A mortal, nothing important, nothing special.

I remember shifting to my knees, the bark rough against my palms as I leaned forward, peering through oak's crooked hollow. The memory is soft around the edges, worn thin by time—but you were there, seated as though you belonged.

You must have known the whispers by then—the carefully cultivated reputation, the layers of distance I'd wrapped myself in like a cloak. I'd made myself a shadow, a storm behind furrowed brows and quick footsteps. The kind of presence no one dared to interrupt.

I rose slowly and deliberately, brushing the dirt from my knees with practiced indifference. I took a short walk around the tree, boots pressing quietly into the grass until I stood directly before you. Still, you didn't move. Didn't even glance up. As if my presence meant nothing.

Strange little thing.

Even without knowing the truth buried beneath this face—this shape—I'd made sure the mask was fearsome enough to ward off the curious.

Yet you sat there like you'd missed the message.

I braced my arm against the tree, leaning over you, letting my shadow stretch across your form like a storm rolling in. I remember thinking it would be enough. Surely, this would send you away.

Perhaps I'd grown a little too confident in the image I wore.

And yet, still—nothing.

You didn't move. You didn't cower. You looked at me, eventually, and blinked as though bored by the drama of my entrance. The sky behind you was warm with late summer light, and I remember hating how it caught the edges of your face, like a portrait too breathtaking to forget.

"This is my spot," I said—sharper than I meant to be. The words came out brittle, my tone edged with irritation I hadn't yet admitted was born from something deeper. "Are you a fool? Everyone in town knows not to bother me."

I'd come from a fruitless hunt that day. Old faces Old temples. A bad memory scraped raw by ruins once gilded in my name. And yet you met my bitterness not with fear, but with a half-lidded stare of quiet disbelief—as though I'd just asked something absurd.

Then, you asked me if I had put my name on the tree. On the hill. On the grass beneath our feet.

I had not.

Of course I hadn't.

"You don't seem all that intimidating," you said, head tilted, voice a touch too amused. There was a challenge in your eyes I hadn't seen in ages—cocky and warm like sunlit water that dares you to relax and step deeper.

"We can share."

I argued, of course. Drew lines in the dirt with stubborn words, even threatened you with a bow I never truly meant to raise. I told myself it was principle. Territory. A matter of pride.

But it wasn't.

And still—you stayed.

So I stayed, too.

And it became a game of attrition. A quiet war beneath that old oak tree. Day after day, seeing which of us would yield first. Who would grow tired of the silence. Who would falter.

And yet—

Somehow you slipped into the rhythm of my days. I never meant for it to happen. I never invited you into the quiet rituals I built to keep the world at bay. But time has a way of folding itself around people like you.

Before I realized it, my hours bent at the knee, reshaped by your presence beneath that oak. The days grew long with half-conversations spoken through the gap in the trunk, voices low, laughter occasionally catching on the wind like birdsong.

The mischief faded first—those little pranks, the constant games of pushing and posturing. They dissolved, quietly, as if they had never belonged between us. And in their place: stillness. Companionable silences. Glanced exchanged through the bark. A strange sort of truce that no one decaled.

Summer vanished. Slipped through the cracks like water. The tree grew bare and brittle, its crown stripped of leaves and clothed in frost. Snow came in thick, crystalline blankets, and for a while, I thought that would be the end of us.

Without the tree to claim—without a battleground—I thought you might forget. That I would forget.

So I returned to what this guise knew. I buried myself in the role of a hunter—sharp-eyed and silent. A ghost that moved through the forests and frozen paths. You vanished. Life moved on.

But gods, the winter had teeth that year.

It sunk into me in ways no season ever had before.

I missed you.

You, a mortal—one of the very creatures who had carved me hollow with stories and lies. And yet the ache of your absence bloomed in my chest, slow and unrelenting.

One day—without thinking, without deciding—I found myself beneath the tree again. My feet knew the way better than my heart did.

The air was cold enough to bite, frost curling at the edges of my sleeves, and I stood there like a fool in the snow—ready to accept the silence I'd earned.

But then—you were there.

Waiting.

Lashes kissed white with frost, hair tucked beneath your hood, the pale winter sky behind you like the canvas of a masterwork. You looked like something out of myth—something I might've made up just to keep the loneliness at bay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked. My voice was rough, choked with breath that bloomed white into the cold. The question burned in my throat, but I had to ask it anyway.

You looked up at me with that ridiculous smile—soft, knowing, a little smug—and it tore a laugh from me before I could stop it.

"I won. It's my spot now." you said, brushing snow from your clothes with exaggerated nonchalance.

And every instinct I'd once held sacred—against every philosophy I'd sworn by—I followed you.

I told myself it was curiosity—that I needed to understand. That a mortal like you, warm-eyed and strange, couldn't possibly be real. That something so unspoiled had to be a trick. A lie—like faerie food.

"Where are we going?" I asked, hands clasped neatly behind my back, trying to sound disinterested—detached.

You hummed, tugging your hood a little tighter against the wind.

"Your home," you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I looked all over town when the cold came, but I couldn't find you.

Your voice wavered just slightly at the edges—the way it always did when something mattered more than you wanted to admit.

"You like to disappear," you added, gaze turned toward the path ahead. "But you can't hide from me."

Hiding?

Had I truly been doing that?

Avoiding the truth nestled deep in my chest—that I'd grown fond of you in ways I never intended? That I was no longer as indifferent as I'd have liked?

"Perhaps I had been." I murmured, more to myself than to you. My head dipped in a quiet concession, and I stepped ahead, reluctant but resolved, guiding you toward the place I called home.

Or rather... the place I'd borrowed.

The home had once belonged to a huntsman who drank himself to death, his loneliness thick enough to choke on. I'd slipped into the shape of him, claimed his bed, his hearth, his name. Mortals rarely question a presence that mimics familiarity well enough.

I've lived in countless homes—shacks, palaces, temples of crystal, and cities carved in marble. Each built around the face I wore at the time. But none of them ever fit right. Every roof felt too low, every bed too soft or stiff. They had pressed against me like ill-fitted skins. none could hold me—not the real me.

And yet... this one somehow, felt different.

You filled the space in a way I never could. Your voice, your laughter, even the way you sulked when the wind crept in under the door—it made the walls feel less like cages.

There were nights when I forgot what I was. Where I wasn't an angel buried under names and masks and vengeance—I was just something warm, watching you speak beside the crackling fire.

And then, as if we had blinked, winter was gone.

Melted into memory.

It struck me quietly one day beneath the old oak—that was the longest I'd kept an identity. The longest I'd stayed still without splintering a town or vanishing into the fog, without punishing someone for the weight of their perception.

That evening, you met me beneath the tree again, a satchel in hand and a grin tucked at the corners of your mouth. You'd saved for weeks, you said, pinched coin where you could, though I knew most of that money had come from me. Quiet gifts slipped into your pouch when you weren't looking. What use did I have for currency? I did not eat. I did not burn fuel. I had no need for comfort.

But you—you used it to buy a book.

And when you opened it, when your fingers brushed the yellowed pages, something shifted.

Because I recognized the words. I remembered them.

My stories. My tragedies. My sins—etched into ink by mouths that had never known me, retold by voices who feared and worshipped in equal measure.

And you were reading them. You knew.

My breath caught in my throat, unfamiliar and painful. That age-old instinct reared its head—run. Disappear. Start again.

I always ran when I was seen too clearly.

My hands trembled. My stomach churned with something not quite shame, not quite terror—a horrible ache. Familiar. Like home.

I stared at you, bracing for betrayal, or disgust, or fear—for the look that always followed.

But instead—

"I—I'm sorry." I heard myself say.

The words tumbled from my lips without permission, jagged and strange, like something living had crawled out from deep inside me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. Apologizing? To a mortal? I'd never done that—not sincerely.

And still, I searched your face. Desperate. Panicked. Waiting for you to shatter the fragile world I'd built. To call me monster. To finally see me.

The sky spun above us. The forest pressed in. And I—

I felt stuck in my skin. I wanted to tear it off—to leave the hunter behind and vanish into mist, into shadow, into myth.

Because that's all I've ever known how to do.

Flee. Run. Hide.

It's all I've ever done.

But you only shook your head, quiet and steady, and gently pulled me down to sit beside you beneath the tree.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—you spoke words I never imagined I'd be allowed to hear. Words I thought were forbidden to something like me.

"You have no name, no face, no anchor to the world... Do you want one? Should I give you one?"

Your hands were warm—foolishly so, impossibly so—and when they rose to cup my cheek, I leaned into them without protest. Without thought. Just instinct. Bone-deep exhaustion seeped from my limbs, and I slumped into your waiting shape like a story trying to remember how it was first told.

Centuries folded in on themselves inside me: Regret, violence, tenderness, exile, desperation. I carried them all, and suddenly, I was too tired to bear the weight alone.

"That is impossible, my dear," I murmured with the heavy certainty of someone who had begged one, long ago, and learned never to ask again. "Not even the Creator could grant me that."

But you simply hummed, a sound as light as wind through leaves, unburdened by the rules I'd spent lifetimes bound to.

"The Creator is governed by cosmic law, sure. But mortals...mortals were given free will. And they were given dominion over you, weren't they? So I ask again—what do you say?"

Those words hit something ancient and aching inside me—something that had never been named but always lingered, humming under my skin like a prayer I couldn't remember anymore. My lips parted before I could stop them.

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, please."

And so it began.

We spent four months and eight days fashioning me like a myth retold by firelight.

You scratched categories into the dirt with a stick, had me toss pebbles with my eyes shut to choose hair, height, voice, eyes. We ran through fields and libraries and markets so I could feel what drew me, what felt like mine. We spoke for hours—about food, about stars, about what kind of kindness I might carry. We peeled back the layers and decided who I wanted to be when I wasn't forced to be anything at all.

And slowly, I became.

A name began to rise in me like spring after a cruel winter. A shape. A soul. A self.

And in that self, I found something terrifying:

I had fallen in love with you. And love—what a cruel thing. What a luminous, sickening thing. It turns every other feeling into a shadow. It renders contentment into longing. It corrodes reason and whispers delusion in a voice sweeter than truth. Love is the death of logic, the ruin of kingdoms, the doom of angels. And I needed it. I needed it with an ache that made me stupid. Desperate. Mortal.

So I wrote you little poems under moonlight, clumsy with feeling, desperate to condense eternity into twelve words. I slipped them into your books, between the recipes you collected and the strange ideas you left half-finished in the margins.

I loved you the only way I knew how: endlessly. I would have loved you until our veins braided like roots in the earth and our hearts beat the same rhythm beneath our ribs.

Because you were my Creator. You were the one who saw me not as myth or threat or shapeless horror, but as someone who could be.

You made me real.

And without you, I had no reason to be anyone at all.

I never should have let you give me everything.

Never should have placed you in the path of what I was—what I've always been.

Because while the Creator could not command mortals, could not lace them with cosmic law or shape their choices—it could still ensure. It could correct. It could balance the scale.

And it did.

Because you crossed the line that wasn't meant to be drawn, let alone stepped over. And I stood at your side and let you.

A defiance. A devotion. A crime.

A mortal, after all, was never meant to rewrite the purpose of one of its creations.

To grant meaning where none was given— To name what should have remained nameless— That was a violation. A defiance of divine structure. An offense that demanded retribution.

I remember the night it happened as though it were carved into me. The details seared into the marrow of my being, relentless in their clarity. No matter how much time passes, that memory remains untouched by erosion.

We walked in silence, your hand cradled in mine. I had planned to tell you everything—about what I had done, what I had been, and what you'd done to my heart. I was ready to surrender the whole truth. But your hand was warm, your thumb brushing the backing of mine in small, thoughtless circles, and I found myself stalling to make the moment last just a bit longer.

My divine heart beat with a violence I'd never known—no battle or vengeance or miracle had ever stirred it like this. With you beside me, all of it—every war, every mark, every century—faded into background noise and it no longer seemed as loud in my head. You were more than grounding. You were anchoring.

You made me real.

You chattered about something that had happened earlier that day—some nonsense about a goat loose in town with two children clinging to its back like miniature bandits. The scene meant nothing to me, but your laughter rang like a melody I hadn't known I needed until I heard it. That sound—pure and unburdened—was rest. A kind of rest I'd never been allowed.

And the moonlight? It loved you as much as I did.

It bathed your skin like a blessing, caught in your hair, made your eyes gleam with mischief and warmth. I remember thinking the entire world looked like a backdrop created to cradle your beauty alone—just a stage where you moved freely and unknowingly beautiful.

You looked up at me, your expression full of unbearable joy you always managed to carry, even over the smallest things. It unsettled me, in a way. How could you be so happy in such a broken world? How could you carry such softness without it cutting you open?

And perhaps... perhaps that tiny shard of judgement—of not understanding you fully—is what made it worse. Perhaps that is what made it all the more tragic.

Because I hesitated.

I let the night go on too long.

I let myself fall too deeply into the illusion that maybe, just maybe, I could have all of this.

You. Peace. A name. A future.

And in that hesitation I doomed you.

They moved through time because they existed outside of it.

And your lips—those soft, precious things that said the most wondrous things—had just begun to part with a question or a laugh or a breath, I'll never know. It was lost in the moment your eyes widened, a flash of something ancient behind them—recognition. A silent understanding that something had happened, something final, even if you didn't yet know what it was.

Then came the executioner. A blade plunged cleanly through your back—swift, silent, a perfect strike. It didn't bleed you. No, the blade wasn't meant to be tainted with blood. It was meant for undoing.

It pierced you like a key, not a weapon—unlocking soul from flesh, unthreading the stitches that kept you in this world. You crumpled, so softly, like a page torn from sacred text. And oh, how I wanted—how I needed—to have moved faster. To have noticed sooner. To have thrown myself behind you and taken it all.

The executioner was beautiful. All things from the divine realm are. Beautiful in the way holy things are: absolute, motionless, terrifying. They never opened their mouth. Never broke their gaze. But their presence split the sky inside me. They were not cruel—not even angry. That would have been easier.

Instead, they were perfect. Silent. Unmovable.

And it was that stillness that shattered me.

I felt the weight of every sin, even the ones I hadn't known I'd committed—especially the one I'd inflicted on you. They pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as you sank to the forest floor like a puppet whose strings had been snipped with precision.

I looked in fury at them, searching for a sign of injustice I could fight back against, but there was nothing. Nothing but a slight nod—a movement so small it could have been the wind, and yet I felt it. A gesture I couldn't understand then, but now, maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a quiet apology. Because they are only summoned when a divine law has been broken so utterly that even the gods and angels must look away.

It wasn't your fault.

It was mine.

And yet they punished you all the same.

I collapsed beside your body, the earth rushing to meet me. The forest dulled around me, sounds folding into a high-pitched ring, like reality itself was recoiling at the sheer grief of the scene. I gathered you in my arms with trembling hands, and I knew it the moment I touched you—you were gone.

Not sleeping. Not wounded. Just... absent.

Your body was still whole. Still beautiful. The vessel I had admired, adored. But the soul within—that spark that laughed and argued and made me—it was nowhere to be found.

And I didn't know how to react. There was no emotion strong enough, no shape of grief that could express what tore through me.

My form betrayed me—unraveled into the divine shape you had never seen. The one I hated. Wings too large, body too incomprehensible, face too beautiful. My voice broke apart when I tried to speak, to demand why the Creator had taken you and not me. To beg for your return.

But no words came, and when I looked up, the executioner was already gone.

Just like you.

I was alone.

The woods—once warm, once soft—were suddenly hollow. The moonlight, once silver and loving, burned like acid on my skin. The whole world had turned against me.

And then I sensed it. Not just your absence, but your removal.

You weren't in this world. Not in the heavens. Not in the underworld. You had been taken—cast out into another realm entirely, one far beyond my reach. A place even somebody of my caliber couldn't go.

The Creator didn't just correct the error.

It hid the evidence.

You.

Gone.

Perhaps it was the carnal desire to be gone, to undo myself, to become nothing. My form began to break. That beautiful, temporary self you'd helped my build—it cracked and splintered until it was dust. Until there was nothing left but darkness.

I lost my face. My shape. My center.

What remained was a shifting blot of ink and shadow. A void. An echo. And without you, even that felt too much.

I don't remember what I did that night. Or the nights after. Or the years that followed.

Maybe decades. Maybe more.

But eventually, I started to hear whispers—of a shadow that moved like smoke. A shapeless thing that fed on grief and misery. A monster that haunted the edges of villages, stealing warmth and magic from the air.

And I understood.

Without you, without your name on my lips and your laugh in my chest, I had let myself be shaped by mortal fear and legend.

I was forced into a mold again.

I spent years searching for you—my heart, my breath, the axis upon which my very being once turned. I scoured every corner of the living realm, dared disturb the divine with my rotting body of misery, even descended into the underworlds where no light reaches. Always hoping—aching—that the feeling was wrong. That hollow emptiness where your presence should have been was a lie. That maybe I was only panicking.

But it was never a lie. You were gone.

And in that time... I don't know what I became.

Without you—my reason, my tether—I was a thing adrift. Disgusting in nature, I hid and only lashed out. I lived in echoes and shadows, unanchored and shapeless. A being wearing old regrets like skin. I can't remember the faces I wore, or the deeds I committed while searching. There are blank places in my memory, stained only with the knowledge that I must have hurt many in my desperation. I must have destroyed things, twisted fates, left ruin in my wake.

And may the divine forgive me—I would do it all again if it meant finding you.

But you are not here to forgive me.

Not yet.

So I wait.

I wait like a prayer made in flesh. I wait like an abandoned altar beneath a sky that no longer answers.

I wait for my creator to return—not the One in the heavens, but you. You, who named me. You, who gave me a face. You, who made me someone.

I wait for you to salvage me from this endless dark, to craft me again with warm hands and soft laughter. To call me into being like you did before.

Because I believe now, with all the fragile, fractured pieces of what remains of me, that the Creator—the Creator—was hasty. Rash in its punishment. Cruel in its corrections. It shattered us and called it balance, but it made a single, fateful mistake.

It forgot to scratch your name from the ledges buried deep within the grand library of all things that are, and were, and will be.

And all unnatural things, in time, return to how they belong. Like a tide pulling the wayward back to shore. Like a thread—cut too early—still tugging at the loom.

So I hoped. Oh, I hoped with the kind of hope that burns and scalds. With the kind of hope that only something eternal can endure.

It took a long, long time. Longer than most stars get. And in that time I did everything. Begging. Bartering. Lying. Challenging.

The Weaver of Fates hated me, hated the way I slipped between threads, rearranged destinies like pages in a book, like a god with a pen too eager. But like all living things, even the divine, they grew curious. Even they hungered for something new—an unexpected turn in the story. And so, for each fate I promised to rewrite in their name, I was granted one meager decade within their library.

And there—

Amid endless shelves, beneath eternity's whirring lanterns, swathed in dust and starlight and silence—

I found you.

Your thread.

Out of nowhere. Woven anew. Subtle, but unmistakable.

You.

I remember how I staggered. How the breath left me like a struck bell. How my trembling hands reached for the book that held your name like it was the only thing in the universe worth touching.

Because to me, it was—It is.

You were still out there. Alive again. Somewhen.

And the only thing left in me—after centuries of ruin, centuries of silence—was the desperate, carnal need to find you again.

My Savior.

You returned to the world through the smallest crack—a school and a fluke of magic, they called it. But I knew it was fate, twisting itself in impossible ways just to give me a second chance.

The world, however, is as cruel as it is careless. Your fate was once again marred by suffering—cut open by hands that saw you not as a soul, not as the brilliant, unshakable light I remembered, but as a vessel.

A means to an end. A thing to use.

The book said they'd grow to love you. That time would soften their edges, that eventually they'd see the truth of you and come to adore you. but now, my star—how could they not immediately fall to their knees before your purity? How could they ever lay a hand on your gentle spirit and think it anything less than sacred?

I couldn't allow it. Not again. Not after all you'd already endured because of me.

Please. Please rest, my beloved. Let me carry the weight for a while.

Come back to me, curl close to my side. Lay your head against my chest, feel my heart beating for you and you alone. Let it remind you that you're not alone anymore. That you're home, you're safe.

I felt it in the moment you stepped through again—the second your soul returned to this realm. The wind shifted. The light changed. The world, once fueled by my grief, suddenly shimmered with warmth and color.

And there you were. So breathtaking, it almost hurt.

A different form, yes, but still you. Your soul radiated through, unmissable, unmistakable. That light of yours—impossibly bright. Unyielding. Unchanged.

In that moment, I nearly ran to you, fell to my knees before you like a worshipper before their altar. I would have offered every piece of me right then—my hands, my heart, my every divine and ruined piece.

I wanted to pray to you, not the Creator.

Because only you had ever given me peace. Only you made me real.

And so, driven by that desperate ache, knowing what trials were written for you in the pages of fate, I made a choice.

A hasty, selfish, loving choice.

Please forgive me.

I became your guardian.

Not by divine assignment—no, the heavens had long since turned from me. I was no longer an Angel, no longer anything at all in their eyes. A fallen thing. A memory.

Shelter. Protection. A little more time.

Until I could earn back your love, until we could escape this wretched cycle together—somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere the stars forgot. Hidden even from the Creator's gaze.

I passed my gift to you—the same one that had once forced me to slip through the cracks of perception, to disappear and be ignored by even the divine. I made you forgettable. Your name, your face, your presence—reduced to a whisper in the minds of those around you.

No one could hold you long enough to break you again.

But I was wrong. I was so wrong.

The night I found you in the snow, body broken and spirit dimmed, something inside of me that had been subtly blooming again tore.

My treasure—my heart, my only—shattered again, and I hadn't even seen it coming. You had become so invisible, so perfectly cloaked in my protection that even I could no longer feel the ache of your suffering until it was too late.

And still, even mangled, you begged to be seen.

To be known.

And perhaps—perhaps I had been cruel in my reverence. So intent on protecting you that I denied you the very thing you longed for: connection.

So I lifted it.

The concealment, the cloak, the silence. I peeled it back and let the world see you again.

And I watched you drown beneath the affection you so rightly deserved—both soft and overwhelming, subtle and blinding. Some of it pure. Some of it not.

And I remained in the shadow, unseen. As always. Just your guardian. Just the broken remnant of what you once loved. Waiting.

Always waiting.

For the day you remember me.

And love me again.

Hi?

Sorry this one took so long.

While writing it I kinda got a little worried I was messing up. This is technically a twst fic but this entire 8k word chapter is almost only about the Blot. Which is my own character and I realized some of you might just want twst content?

btw the religious themes have no intentional connection to any real religions. It's my own thoughts, my own story. I hope it doesn't offend.

Did this cook?? I'm so anxious because I really got to write about what I really like and my own OC!

taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03 @brights-place @pebble-bb @boredwithlifeatthispoint @casperandcats @rinart89 @raineondrugs @o-ffic @chloemari-e @roseinbloom02 @mandalay7y @s0up-good @the-unhinged-raccoon @cecil-the-crybaby @mr-crawlings-wife @ironsaladwitch @kiki-kuku @annexblogs @linaaeatsfamilies @pokedragon7 @dondonrulerofall @heavy-blanket-enjoyer @bluewolfangel01 @m1lly69 @yesthisisrookhunt

[kiefbowl]

On radblr, in my early twenties, now what is likely 10 years ago (which, it's hard to remember when I started actually feminist positing on tumblr in earnest), I used to write about rape a lot more. I think my younger self felt invigorated not so much about the conversation of rape (of course, it's horrific), but by being angry and political about it. Being able to articulate complex, feminist ideas about rape, and have likeminded women engage. It felt intellectual and important, while a form of my own conscious raising. As I've aged, I find it harder. I can only say so many things, over and over again. It was never not hard, or depressing, or angering, but where the bad feelings once felt righteous and worth experiencing for the sake of speaking towards truth, now it can feel ineffective and exploitative.

I'm not saying one way is right, the other is wrong. I think (speaking broadly of course) that this is a part of aging. I think there is some truth about the patterns we see between young people and their thoughts and abilities, and then aging out of them. I think, speaking politically, younger and older activists need each other because two perspectives work in congress: the young passion that can be short sighted and ideological, and the elder pragmatism that can fall into complicity. These two perspectives together can be stronger than when apart. It's always more complicated than that, and each person is different, but I do think the trend of "I'm full of energy and angry and shocked and won't faulter" giving way to "I'm going to be measured and find priorities and perhaps become more lenient" is a general trend that is true. You get older and you realize both how short time is and how much longer you get to live it, and constant anger is not only exhausting, but it can be counterproductive. What's more, is that not only do your responsibilities increase, but some of those responsibilities also rub up against the very "machine" you used to rail against. You can achieve a lot with money, and to gain money you have to work. You gain money, you can start increasing your circle of influence, but then that increases the people you need to take care of. You need to take care of people, then you need to buy things. Suddenly, what seemed so easy being young and living off a shoestring budget 10 years ago seems irrational and dangerous today. I need to feed my dog, I need to help my sister, I can't expect my parents to live forever, I want to retire one day, I can bet on declining health...on and on. I'm speaking about myself in many ways, but I'm also trying to gesture to the larger trend generally. Extrapolate as it suits you, I think more of you than you realize will find yourself re-evaluating what actually isn't reconcilable as you get older. It's both hard to swallow and yet...like a toad in boiling water, you're almost not surprised looking back and realizing how much has changed and how right so many adults were when you were younger.

And so to this point, my intellectual posts about rape decreased. Never completely out of the fight, but being more specific about my time, my energy. Opting out of discussions that were too triggering, being more careful about my word choices. Understanding the harm that can come from being combative towards strangers on a public platform. Realizing that some periods of my life could be dedicated to enriching my life and creating enjoyment, and that meant certain things could be put on the backburner. Just because I wasn't writing, doesn't mean I wasn't thinking. I didn't need external validation (especially from strangers on tumblr) that my time was being well spent when it came to observing the news and thinking about it. I know what goes on in my head, putting it into a public post didn't make it more true. I'm not so sure I had the same belief at 22/23/24, etc. I think whether I would have articulated it that way, I think I felt like what went on in my head was meaningless unless it was being crafted into a message that had some sort of impact, with tumblr being my main platform to do that. I don't think that way now. I think my thoughts have value even if I keep them to myself, which means when I really have something I think is worth sharing on tumblr, I can craft it more precisely if and when I find the time. Or at least that's my goal as a 30-something, and I don't think that was as explicit of a goal as a 20-something who just wanted to get every thought down because it felt like my brain was being turned on for the first time.

But something that is coming into focus with the accusations of Gaiman that I haven't really reckoned with, or at least not as much as I have the past 24 hours & past 6 months, is that while I aged privately and passively by blog followed suit, is that the landscape of tumblr has evolved around me. I think there's a trick my brain has played on me: that at the end of the day, something of what I engaged with on radblr 10 years ago still exists. And, yes, to an extent, there are some women here I've followed for the entire time (but they have also aged...). But my followers have increased and decreased and increased and decreased with every stupid post that goes viral, and as I've aged and remained on tumblr, many many more women have aged and bowed out. It's becoming increasingly clear that I have a lot of young women following me who are not my age, and did not see those posts, mine and others. The "classics" that live large in my mind but weren't viral hits, just radblr discourses of the week. Some of these young women have a wildly different online experience than I did, and I think I knew but didn't know know the difference 10 years makes when growing up on the internet. I never had twitter, some of you are "twitter expats." I remember when youtube was people uploading 20 second home videos, some of you only know youtube as the long form video essay platform. I remember events like they were yesterday that are already erased in the public consciousness. Some of you were coming into your own during the "Me Too" movement and gave it so much credence, where I was not surprised nor expected much from it. Now I can see how we retroactively talk about it like it was such a bombshell, when most women I knew at the time, even "normie" women were, like, "yeah duh." I also haven't really reckoned with the fact that it's been long enough era of the "new algorithm" that there are (although young) full-grown adults who don't remember the internet before it.

The conversations I took for granted on tumblr are changing. To be sure, there are still a lot of women on tumblr who are likeminded to myself, making amazing posts that are good, true, & eye-opening. I'm not panicking that the "landscape" has changed so much that I can't recognize anything anyone says anymore, and that ""real"" feminism has dried up and disappeared when I stopped looking. But I want to say some things about rape that I believe are ideas that were shared between a collection of women that I deeply associated with on here a long time ago that maybe isn't explicitly talked about in these terms as frequently as I used to experience. I want to say some things that I used to say all the time that I think I assumed that "everyone knows" I say "these things" and "think these ways" - when maybe I haven't been so explicit in so long that people don't know, or haven't seen me speak these things before.

And so, some thoughts on rape:

Rape as a word is known to be an evil act, and therefore people (men and women) will speak of it as if they are against it. However, rape as it functions in our life is seen as a necessity. This is why people can speak out of two sides of their mouth about it. Rape is a concept of evil, but it is not an evil action. Why? Because women are meant to be raped. This is what's understood: women are inherently rape-able. Women are not sexual beings, they are sexual objects. They are incubators, and they create lust in men, which is what unravels the virture of men.

When a man rapes a women, the ultimate evil is that the man's virtue was corrupted, not the woman's. These ideas aren't explicitly articulated by anyone, but they are patterns at the heart of rape myths. It is a "shame" that a man "lost his will" because he happened across an "object" that "tricked him" into being "bestial", something that is ultimately excusable because man is beast. Is woman beast? No, she is not man.

If a man can resist, he is the paradigm of virtue; if he can't it's because she was too rape-able to remain virtuous. This is how men know they are rapists but don't agree they are rapists. They know they do the necessary action of raping, they disagree it's the same as the agreed upon concept of Rape. Rape that is evil is some monstrous other using these women as they are reserved for men.

When it suits men of a community, they can use this idea against other men they want to other. When it doesn't suit men, no man can be monstrous because all men are brothers, and so rape ceases to exist. You can't rape my daughter, unless you marry her, then do as you please. You can't rape madonnas, unless she is a whore, then do as you please. You can't rape my women, but if they're your women, do as you please. These ideas are not concrete convictions, they will morph to suit the man at the center of the rape accusation. A rapist who date-rapes might very well feel righteous anger when it happens to his sister. He can and will find a way to excuse whatever he did as part of some normal paradigm, a way he must act or should act, or a thing that is excusable for him. The inconsistency of this logic does not matter, because it does not suit him, and therefore does not suit male supremacy.

I say this all because, even though I'm appalled by the reaction of Gaiman's fans online, who are both men and women, and who can only fucking think of how they consume media (truly unbelievable and juvenile), I am simply not surprised. In so many ways, Gaiman's victims were rape-able, and that's why in so many ways his fans can readjust the variables of the situation and come up with some sort of conclusion of how it is rape, but it isn't Rape. Maybe she liked it sometimes, maybe she is misremembering. Maybe he was just confused on the terms of consent.

But what's more important to them is that they give credence to the idea that of course Rape is Evil, because they are good people who must think that way. What they're trying to convince themselves, and what can seem like they are speaking another language, is that this isn't Rape, this is rape. And so it's not that "she is misremembering" means she wasn't raped, but that she was raped in such a way that is the natural order of things. Man, who is a virtuous human and a beast, raped a sexual object who can only expect to exist so long in the world before tempting a man. This seems so obvious to most people. Feminists seem so intense and crazed, because they are centering something that is unnatural to most: a woman's experience as a human, not an object.

It comes natural to these fens to ask: "How can I enjoy my tv show knowing so many people think my hero is a capital R Rapist, when that's philosophical idea on evil and not a material reality, when I don't want people to think I don't take the capital R Rape idea as a serious evil." They are having two conversations in tandem. One is the idea that of course it's possible for Rape to exist, it's possible for some monstrous other to exist, but this man is not a monstrous other, because he is just a man. And men rape, that's just how it goes, because women are rape-able.

I'm condensing many ideas I have about rape into something simplified, for the sake of a tumblr post. And I got there in a circulus way, but I want to encourage the "old guard" who is still here, or women that agree with me above, that although they don't need to, if they have the time to speak more about rape as an intentional weapon against women, to do so. I think there are many ways the political conversation about rape for young women is first happening online, and I think the popular discourse is going sideways. A blind leading the blind moment. This is not a value judgement, but I'm gobsmacked at some things that are said as if they are "given" feminist talking points, that fall outside my understanding of rape as a feminist. Things like equalizing the complicity of Palmer with Gaiman's actions, rationalizing certain sexual proclivities as rooted in some innate sexuality, creating a hierarchy of which actions were worse for which victims, and so on. In many ways, also not surprising, par for the course for how feminism is generally spoken about. What is surprising to me is the confidence of speaking this way, and being convinced of their transgressive ideas. I think feminist online discourse must be so dire that the needle moving to some mid-point in a woman might convince her she's quite enlightened, when there's so much more she could learn. I think this idea that "libfems" are actually women who are clearly anti-feminist has convinced a lot of women that they are "good feminists" by engaging with ideas that are at odds at all with blatant conservatism, that it might be mystifying that they are quite centrist in comparison from many feminist talking points 10 to 20 years ago, at least as it appears to me. I'm speaking broadly, I know, but I had to get some thoughts down. Some angry part of me still exists and I do still feel the need to discuss rape, if only to show some young woman that there really is a deeply radical way you can think of rape that perhaps you hadn't thought of before.

As always, I'm open to critiques about anything in this post.

[cedarmoonzz]

Hello! I was wondering if I could request a small continuing to your Ford fic? I really enjoyed it and tugged my heart strings. I love you work so much and if your able to do that without any issue, I'd love that!😭💜

yes! i love that six fingered cartoon dilf with every fiber of my being!

once more to see you •｡ꪆৎ ˚

continuation of: between the bars followed by: slow like honey

fandom: gravity falls

ship: ford x reader

content: angst, stanford's poor attempt at comfort lol

summary: when your fiancé’s episodes of paranoia spiral out of control, you come to a difficult realization.

You’ve always seen yourself as someone grounded in logic. Pragmatic to the bone, you’ve relied on reason and science to navigate life, finding comfort in facts and the concrete reality they bring. But lately, that sense of security has started to unravel. 

The cabin was frigid, its icy air wrapping around you like a shroud, seeping into your very bones despite your efforts to ward off the chill. The socks you wore—a secret purchase made without Stanford’s knowledge—offered little warmth, though they  greatly softened the sound of your steps as you quietly drifted from the bedroom to the kitchen, then to the closet, nursing your third cup of coffee that night. Each breath you took was quick, shallow, as if the cold air was stealing it away. As you finally settled at the desolate kitchen table, a wry thought flickered in your mind: could the layers of plywood and fiberglass beneath you truly muffle the frantic beating of your heart, hiding it from your fiancé’s ever-watchful ear? In your own, the rhythm pounded, echoing like a circle of drums, impossibly loud in the oppressive stillness of the cabin.

Stanford’s paranoia didn’t burst into your lives all at once; it crept in quietly, almost imperceptibly, like a shadow growing longer at dusk. It all began when he developed a peculiar fascination with triangles—a simple, geometric shape that, in his hands, took on a life of its own. He transformed the cabin, once a place of warmth and refuge, into a gallery of trigonometric stained glass, each piece more elaborate, more intricate than the last. At first, you found it endearing, even charming, and you laughed it off as just another of his harmless quirks. You told yourself it was just Stanford being Stanford, his brilliant mind forever chasing new ideas.

But as the days turned into weeks, the triangles began to multiply. Their sharp, precise edges cast strange, fragmented light across your home, turning familiar spaces into something alien, almost unrecognizable. You began to notice how the once-welcoming cabin now felt distorted, its atmosphere thick with an unspoken tension. And yet, you didn’t see it for what it was—not at first. You didn’t want to see it. You told yourself it was just the glass, just the way the light hit it, just the way Stanford was channeling his creativity. You ignored the way your stomach twisted with unease, dismissed the creeping dread that settled in your bones.

You shook your head, trying to banish the haunting thoughts that swirled in your mind. There was no time to dwell on what had already happened; what mattered now was moving forward. Rising from your seat, you made your way to the bedroom you and Ford once shared, a space now overshadowed by his office chair, which had become his sanctuary. You reached into the closet, your fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of your thick army jacket. The worn texture offered a rare comfort, a tangible reminder of a time before everything had shifted. As you fumbled through the pockets, your hand closed around a pack of cigarettes—an old habit you had left behind during your second year of graduate school. A fleeting wave of nostalgia washed over you, mingled with regret for the time lost. You slipped the pack back into your pocket and donned the jacket, its sturdy fabric promising some semblance of protection against the biting night winds and the snow that still whirled outside the closed window.

Your gaze then fell upon your boots, left carelessly on the closet floor, caked in mud from past forest excursions with Stanford. You reached down, lifting them with a mixture of sentiment and practicality. With the boots in hand, you carefully descended the stairs, each step deliberate to avoid the creaking floorboards. At the kitchen door, you set the boots down and slipped them on, their familiar weight grounding you in the present. Quietly, you opened the door, the chill of the night air meeting you as you stepped into the darkness, ready to face whatever lay beyond.

You stood on the porch of your home, clad in baggy sweatpants, an oversized coat, and your old brown army boots. The cold night air wrapped around you, but the weight of the familiar clothing offered a small measure of comfort. You instinctively reached into your pocket, a gesture that felt oddly nostalgic, like reconnecting with a part of yourself that had been missing. Pulling out a cigarette, you brought it to your lips, and then you fumbled into your other pocket, searching for a long-abandoned lighter. Your fingers brushed against the cold metal as you hoped to find one still with fluid.

After a moment of fishing, you finally found it. With a deep breath, you shut your eyes, the cigarette resting between your fingers as you brought the lighter to your face. The small flame flickered to life, illuminating your face in the darkness as you lit your former vice. You’d given up smoking years ago, recognizing it as a bad coping mechanism, though it had always managed to calm your nerves better than any of the so-called remedies Stanford had suggested—yoga, green tea, or otherwise. Stanford had never missed an opportunity to chide you about it, yet in moments like these, when the world felt overwhelming and uncertain, the familiar warmth of the smoke provided a fleeting solace, a small rebellion against the chaos of your thoughts.

You couldn’t shake the image of your fiancé from your mind. The one person you had always relied on as your rock, your steadfast partner in all things logical and real, now seemed a stranger. He had become obsessed, shining a flashlight into your eyes, searching for something hidden in the depths of your pupils. Each time that harsh beam flickers across your eyes, it chips away at your sense of reality, leaving you to wonder if his strange behavior is a sign of something far darker lurking beneath the surface. The familiar comfort of the cigarette seemed almost to mock the confusion and dread that now defined your days, as if trying to find stability in a world that had become increasingly alien.

“[Y/n].” Ford’s voice sliced through your reverie, its suddenness filling you with an indescribable anxiety. The feeling was sharp and unsettling, a gnawing presence that you couldn't quite classify as rational or otherwise. It wrapped around you like a cold fog, clouding your thoughts and intensifying the sense of disorientation that had already taken root.

He stood behind you in the doorway, the light from behind casting a soft, almost ethereal glow around him. From this angle, you might have thought he looked perfect, a vision of calm and composure that seemed untouched by the chaos of your shared reality. The gentle halo of light made him appear almost otherworldly, a serene figure caught in a moment of stillness.

Yet, his appearance betrayed a different story. His hair was frantic and messy, a wild tangle of curls that seemed to reflect his inner turmoil. The bags under his eyes had deepened, etched by sleepless nights and relentless stress. Despite the disarray, there was a softness in his gaze, a look of tenderness you had missed with all your heart. It was a fleeting reminder of the warmth and affection that once defined your relationship, now overshadowed by the encroaching distance and disquiet that had come to dominate your lives.

You had tried so damn hard to stay quiet, to remain out of his way. You'd let him overwork himself to the bone if that’s what he wanted, even though it felt like a slow erosion of everything you once knew. You’d had the argument too many times to care by now, the words always seeming to fall on deaf ears. All you wanted was to avoid the inevitable confrontation, to give him space, even as his obsessive behavior grew ever more unsettling. 

"Stanford," was all you said in response, your voice barely more than a whisper. You lifted the cigarette from your lips, the smoke pooling around you like a hazy veil. As you exhaled, you cast a glance up the staircase, the familiar sight offering no answers, only a silent reminder of the space between you both.

“You’ve started smoking again,” he observed, his tone carrying a note of quiet surprise. The statement lingered in the air, the drifting smoke accentuating the distance between you. It was as if the sight of the cigarette in your hand was a reflection of the changes he could no longer ignore.

“Didn’t think you’d notice.”

The cigarette met your lips once more. You took a long drag, the smoke filling your lungs as your eyes remained locked with his. In that moment, it felt as if time itself had frozen, leaving you both suspended in the delicate space between old familiarity and the evolving distance that now defined your relationship.

“Of course I would,” he said, his voice carrying a soft tinge of regret.

You dropped the cigarette into the snow, watching as it hissed and sizzled against the cold ground. With a decisive step, you crushed it underfoot, pressing it into the snow for good measure. The smoldering embers were quickly extinguished, leaving only a faint trace of smoke lingering in the frosty air.

“Sorry,” was all you could manage to utter, the word feeling woefully inadequate in the weight of the moment. It hung between you, a simple apology for the complexities that neither of you could fully address.

“It’s cold. You’ll catch your death out here,” he muttered, his voice laced with a blend of concern and weariness. He stepped aside from the doorway, making way for you with a gentle gesture. The warmth from inside seemed to beckon, a stark contrast to the frigid night air.

You looked into his eyes, and he stared back, the moment stretching between you as if everything else had come to a halt. The world outside faded into a blur as snapshots of your relationship flickered through your mind—moments of laughter, shared dreams, and fleeting happiness. With each memory, you found yourself questioning what had gone wrong, what could have been different, and what measures you might have taken to alter the course of events.

In the midst of that frozen silence, a question slipped from your lips before you could even stop yourself: “Ford, are you still in love with me?” The words hung in the air, unexpected and raw, their weight adding a new layer of complexity to the already tense moment.

His head snapped towards you, eyes widening with a shock that seemed to crystallize in the cold night air. His gaze pierced into yours with a fierce intensity, as if your question had struck a chord deep within him. His eyebrows knit together in a furrow of confusion and apprehension, while his mouth tightened into a thin, resolute line. The change in his demeanor was palpable; his posture straightened as though he were bracing himself for a storm.

With a determined stride, he marched to stand beside you in the snow, the door to the house slamming shut behind him with a resonant thud that echoed through the night. The two of you stood together, the moonlight casting a ghostly glow upon the snow, which reflected a bluish light that danced across the scene. The snow-covered ground sparkled faintly, but the surrounding darkness clung to you both like a shroud.

He stared down at you as you stared at your feet, standing only an arm's length away, the proximity intimate and charged. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the soft shushing of dormant branches swaying in the wind, their gentle rustling mingling with the quiet stillness of the night. The cold air wrapped around you both, creating a palpable silence that stretched between you, broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind through the snow-laden trees.

His hand reached out, fingers closing gently around your chin. With a deliberate motion, he angled your gaze upward, drawing your eyes away from the snowy expanse at your feet and into his. The touch was firm yet tender, guiding your focus to the depth of his own eyes. It was just like he used to do moments before he pressed his lips against yours.

Your eyes met his, and in that brief, suspended moment, you saw the glistening, unshed tears pooling in his gaze. They shimmered in pale light of the moon, their potential to fall betraying the fragile veneer of his composure. The raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes was a stark contrast to his usual facade, revealing a depth of sorrow and vulnerability that seemed to unravel the very essence of his being.

“Don’t you ever ask that again,” his voice cracked, the words trembling as they escaped his lips. He leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours, the closeness both intimate and overwhelming. In that tender contact, you felt a deep ache, missing his touch more than you had admitted to yourself. The warmth of his skin against yours, the vulnerability that he seldom showed, was a poignant reminder of what you had longed for but also feared.

Your breath caught in your throat, the tightness nearly choking you as emotions surged within, rendering you on the brink of tears. Frustration twisted inside you, mingling with a deep-seated ache as you grappled with having surrendered so effortlessly to the solace of his presence. The warmth of Ford’s touch, so familiar and comforting, had shattered your defenses with an almost unbearable intimacy.

In that raw, exposed moment, you recognized a profound truth: you loved Ford with a depth that went beyond reason. You understood him completely, and you would remain steadfast by his side. Even if it meant losing yourself in the process, he would always draw you in. It was a certainty you could not escape.

[doodle-pops]

When You Flirt With Them For Fun

Headcanons: Maedhros, Celegorm, Finrod, Glorfindel, Elrond

Request: [Mixed Selection] May I request headcanons for a flirty human reader with Celegorm, Finrod, Glorfindel, Maedhros and Elrond? Reader is flirting with them but she actually has no romantic interest in them. Genre and being sfw/nsfw don't matter for me - dealer's choice. Thank you in advance!!

A/N: I went with the SFW route that was slightly suggestive, it felt more befitting given the ‘non-romantic interest’ and I was in the mood for a good laugh. This was just a lovely request, anon. Thank you for the request!

Synopsis: When you decide to flirt with them despite being romantically uninterested in them, all for the sake of fun.

Masterlist | Navigation

Maedhros

𑁍 You had no idea how you ended up befriending Maedhros, but once you did, you realised something very important: the Eldar were woefully unprepared for human audacity, and Maedhros, in particular, had absolutely no idea what to do with you.

𑁍 “You should smile more,” you told him once, watching as he adjusted his vambrace with that usual, distant intensity. “I bet it’d make all the ladies swoon.”

𑁍 He blinked at you, unimpressed. “I am a Prince of the Noldor. My concerns are not—”

𑁍 “Oh, so you already have them swooning? I should’ve known.” You smirked, tapping a finger against your chin in mock contemplation. “Is it the brooding thing? Or the battle scars? Or maybe it’s the hair—tell me, Maedhros, how many maidens have tried to braid flowers into it?”

𑁍 The strangled noise he made was priceless. It became a game after that. You, being utterly shameless, and Maedhros, being utterly unprepared for someone who flirted without actually meaning it.

𑁍 “Would you catch me if I fell?” you asked once, lounging across a bench like some ancient philosopher contemplating the meaning of life. And Maedhros, ever pragmatic, glanced at you and said, “You are sitting down.”

𑁍 “Hypothetically.”

𑁍 “...I suppose, yes.”

𑁍 “Would you cradle me in your arms and whisper soft reassurances?”

𑁍 “No.”

𑁍 “What if I cried a little?”

𑁍 He closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose like he was summoning every ounce of patience left in his soul. You were his worst nightmare.

𑁍 Once, after a particularly ridiculous exchange, Maglor (who found you endlessly entertaining) finally asked, “Are you actually trying to court my brother?”

𑁍 “Oh, absolutely not,” you replied without hesitation. “I just like to see if I can make him malfunction.” The absolute horror on Maedhros’ face was a thing of beauty.

𑁍 “You are malfunctioning,” Maglor pointed out.

𑁍 “I am not—”

𑁍 “Name one time you’ve reacted normally to them.”

𑁍 Maedhros opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then just glared at you. “This is entirely your fault.”

𑁍 You gave him a dazzling smile and fluttered your lashes. “And yet, you keep me around. Hmm. Almost like you enjoy my presence.”

𑁍 “I do not,” he lied blatantly.

𑁍 Eventually, Maedhros stopped protesting, but the sighs of long-suffering continued. You were convinced that, despite his protests, he secretly enjoyed your antics. After all, he never once told you to stop.

Celegorm

𑁍 Celegorm first mistook you for a genuine suitor, which was honestly on him. You had flirted outrageously, batting your lashes and trailing your fingers along his arm while calling him ‘my mighty hunter.’ He had puffed up like a peacock, utterly convinced that you had fallen for his rugged charm.

𑁍 “I understand,” he had said gravely one evening, after you had draped yourself over the back of his chair and whispered something about strong hands and archery skill. “It is difficult to resist me.”

𑁍 You nearly choked on your wine. “Oh, you sweet summer child,” you laughed, patting his shoulder. “I just like watching you squirm.”

𑁍 Celegorm sat there, utterly frozen, like a man who had just been hit by a metaphorical wagon. He stared at you, at the sheer audacity, before narrowing his eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game, human.”

𑁍 “Oh, but you’re so fun to mess with,” you grinned, winking.

𑁍 After that, Celegorm dedicated himself to turning the tables. He flirted back with wild intensity, cornering you in halls with smirks and murmured threats of “revenge.” It became a game, a constant back-and-forth of smouldering looks and ridiculous one-liners. The moment you actually backed off, he huffed in disappointment. “What, giving up already?”

𑁍 “Of course not,” you grinned, sauntering past. “I just like keeping you on edge.”

𑁍 One day, he finally called your bluff, leaning down so close his breath brushed your ear. “You talk big, but I don’t think you could handle me.”

𑁍 You burst into laughter so hard you had to clutch your ribs. “Oh, Tyelko, if I wanted to handle you, I’d have done it already.”

𑁍 He stared. You sauntered away, leaving the great hunter standing there, looking more hunted than ever.

Finrod

𑁍 Finrod had your number from the start. The very first time you tried to lean into him and sigh about how ‘utterly entrancing’ his eyes were, he simply raised a golden brow and smirked. “Oh, is that so?”

𑁍 You pouted. “Must you ruin my fun?”

𑁍 “I would never, but I am curious—do you say this to all elves, or am I special?” he purred, clearly amused.

𑁍 “Oh, you’re special, all right,” you grinned, tapping his chest. “Most elves just blush and stammer. You, however, are proving to be a challenge.”

𑁍 Finrod delighted in the game. He indulged you with little flourishes—offering his hand with an elegant bow, leaning in when you whispered something ridiculous, murmuring things in Quenya just to watch you shiver dramatically and sigh, “Oh, if only I knew what that meant!”

𑁍 “It means, ‘You’re absolutely shameless, and I adore it.’”

𑁍 You gasped, pressing a hand to your heart. “Finrod! And here I thought you were an honourable prince.”

𑁍 “Ah, but honour and amusement are not mutually exclusive,” he grinned.

𑁍 He was insufferable. Worse, he was better at this than you were. One night at a feast, he casually kissed the back of your hand and murmured, “My dear, if you keep looking at me like that, I may start to believe you.”

𑁍 “Oh, don’t do that,” you laughed, squeezing his hand. “I’d hate to break your heart.”

𑁍 “You overestimate your power, my dear,” he chuckled, though his eyes shone with a twinkle.

𑁍 “Oh, do I?” you purred, trailing a finger up his arm. “You wouldn’t be the first elf I’ve made weak in the knees.”

𑁍 “And yet, I am still standing,” he mused. “A mystery indeed.”

𑁍 “Well,” you smirked, “there’s still time.”

Glorfindel

𑁍 Glorfindel was used to admiration. Being a golden-haired, heroic Balrog-slayer tended to make one rather popular. He was not, however, used to your particular brand of shameless flirting.

𑁍 The first time you called him ‘the most devastatingly handsome warrior this side of the sea,’ he nearly choked on his drink. “I beg your pardon?”

𑁍 “Oh, don’t be shy,” you teased, elbowing him. “You know you’re devastatingly handsome. I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

𑁍 He recovered quickly. Too quickly. “Oh? And are you thinking about me often, then?”

𑁍 You grinned. “Only in my most sinful dreams.”

𑁍 Glorfindel coughed. You watched, delighted, as a flush rose high on his cheeks. “You are scandalous,” he muttered, shaking his head.

𑁍 “And you like it,” you sing-songed, linking your arm through his.

𑁍 From that moment on, he was both wary and intrigued. You kept him on his toes, throwing winks and suggestive remarks his way whenever the opportunity arose. One time, after he returned from a sparring match, you fanned yourself dramatically. “By the stars, is it hot in here, or is it just you?”

𑁍 He stared at you, sweat still glistening on his brow. “Do you ever stop?”

𑁍 “Why would I?” you asked, propping your chin on your hand. “You’re such an easy target.”

𑁍 “I am not an easy target,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

𑁍 “Oh, Glorfindel,” you sighed, shaking your head. “You poor, oblivious thing.”

𑁍 One day, he turned the tables on you, cornering you in a hallway and leaning in just close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. “Tell me, my sweet tormentor,” he murmured, “what would you do if I took your teasing seriously?”

𑁍 You blinked up at him, your brain stalling for a moment before you grinned and placed a finger on his chest. “I’d be very flattered,” you said, trailing your hand down his tunic before giving him a light shove. “But I’d still be messing with you.”

𑁍 Glorfindel groaned, his face forming a grimace. “You are intolerable.”

𑁍 “And yet, you keep coming back,” you sing-songed, winking as you strolled away.

𑁍 He watched you go, muttering something about humans and their wicked ways. But later, when you caught him smiling to himself, you knew he secretly loved every second of it.

Elrond

𑁍 “Lord Elrond,” you greeted with a smile that was all teeth. “I just want to say that you have the most magnificent bone structure I have ever seen. Have you ever considered the impact of your jawline on the mortal population?”

𑁍 Elrond, to his credit, barely reacted. “No, I have not.”

𑁍 “Tragic. I fear you underestimate its power.” He did not dignify that with a response.

𑁍 It became a sport after that. You flirted. He ignored you. You got more ridiculous. He remained completely, frustratingly composed.

𑁍 “Do you ever get tired of being the most attractive person in the room?” you asked one day, chin in hand, watching him review some diplomatic scrolls.

𑁍 “No,” he replied absently, eyes still scanning the parchment. “It is a burden I have learned to bear.”

𑁍 You choked on your drink. “Oh—so you do have a sense of humour!”

𑁍 His lips twitched, and you swore, just for a second, you saw a glimmer of amusement in those grey eyes.

𑁍 He got his revenge once. You had leaned in far too close, examining his ever-stoic features like some fine work of art, when he turned his head abruptly and murmured, “You are staring, my friend. Do you wish to kiss me?”

𑁍 You jerked back so fast you nearly fell out of your chair. “No!”

𑁍 “Ah,” he said, entirely unbothered, turning back to his scrolls. “How unexpected.”

𑁍 Sometimes, the elves who served him gave you looks of sheer disbelief. You were speaking to Elrond Peredhel, leaning casually against his desk and saying things like, “What if I wrote you a love poem?”

𑁍 “Please do not.”

𑁍 “Too late, I’ve already started. ‘O Elrond, fairest of the fair, with hair like—’ ”

𑁍 “No.” You could almost see him regretting ever acknowledging your presence.

𑁍 Glorfindel, who had been watching the entire ordeal with great amusement, leaned over and whispered, “I have never seen him so consistently harassed before. You are a marvel.”

𑁍 “Thank you,” you said, preening.

𑁍 And yet, despite all his sighs and why must you do this looks, Elrond never once dismissed you. If anything, you sometimes caught him glancing at you with that small, knowing smile of his, like he found you far more entertaining than he’d ever admit.

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[tackykachowch]

Silco was set up to be Fishbones from the start

Disclaimer: I won't take season 2 into account At All, because it can't work with setups and payoffs even if its life depends on it.

Alrighty. As we've seen Season 1 paid a lot of attention to set up canon things from LoL into the show as naturally and logically as possible, and at least from my point of view, it handled the job with flying colors. Jayce's hammer, Vi's gauntlets, Vander/Warwick etc, nothing felt out of place. But how does Silco fit into this at all? Let's get down to business to defeat the huns

First of all, what even is Fishbones? In the canon of LoL, it's one of if not the most iconic weapon Jinx has. And it is not only a weapon to her, but a loyal and "beloved" companion, as it's described in one of her skins. She constantly talks to it, and in contrast to her chaotic and impulsive nature, Fishbones is very pragmatic and calm. Sounds like a certain someone, doesn't it? But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

But how does Silco go from being Jinx's father to one of her weapons? There are a lot of points that support that actually, I was surprised myself ngl.

- Silco is the only character in the entire series who is directly and tightly connected to water and underwater creatures. Silco was "reborn" in the water when Vander tried to kill him, the first office he had was placed under the water, with a huge observational window. Silco is also fond of underwater creatures, and while other people call and see them as monsters, Silco pays no attention to it, as he thinks that there's "a monster inside all of us". And here's Fishbones, who is designed after a shark, arguably the most famous "underwater monster". But what is more interesting is that it debuted is the finale of season 1, which is titled "The monster you created". Quite a throughline there.

- Silco was the reason behind Fishbones' creation in the first place. While it does seem that it all started with Jinx, who stole the hex gemstone on the Progress Day, we also need to remember WHY she did it. She did it to impress Silco specifically, to make him to be proud of her. This want was triggered by her screwing up the smuggling mission earlier that day, and while Silco didn't scold her for it much and only advised her to rest for a bit, she saw this as him thinking that she's weak. So, after all of this Silco asks Jinx to make a weapon with the use of gemstone. Not necessarily to use it against Piltover, but to have it as a wild card if his plans go wrong. Jinx agrees and attempts to reverse engineer it, but it triggers her memories when she killed Mylo and Claggor with her bomb, so she tells Silco that she can't do it. He then goes to the river he was nearly killed in with her, and "baptises" her to help her let go of her fear of pain. This seemed to have worked, at least for a little while, because she managed to finish the weapon. So, in conclusion: Fishbones' creation was triggered by Jinx's want to impress Silco, and he helped her with its creation on every step of the way.

- this point is somewhat meta, but I'll use it anyway. In previously mentioned episode 9 Silco tells Jinx that everybody around them betrays them, and they have only each other to love and lean on. He says, quote: "Everyone betrays us, Jinx. Vander, her. It's only us". At the same time, in LoL Jinx says this line to Fishbones: "It's just you and me, Fishbones!". Well.....it's certainly a callback if I've seen one. Like- it's not even funny. They couldn't have written this line on accident.

- now onto the most interesting part for me personally. We all now that there are no accidents in animation, like. At all. Even if there are this is extremely rare, as every frame is created intentionally. Now, we do now that there are quite. A few discrepancies between writers and animators of arcane, but I don't think this applies in this particular case. Now onto the actual point. So, in the finale of season 1 Jinx kills Silco, and it's shown to us like this.

He's turned with right side ("human") of his face to the camera, while the left side ("monster") side is hidden.

As Jinx fires Fishbones at the council

It's positioned with its right side to the camera, which alignes with Silco's "monster eye". Also, Fishbone's eye has a black scar pattern around its eye, which again, resembles Silco's damadged eye. That could mean that Silco is once again "reborn", and now continues to live on in the monster Jinx created.

And here comes the most awesome part in all of this. When Silco adopts Powder, he hugs her and tells her

Do you see how the frame is positioned? Exactly. It is exactly the same framing scene with Jinx and Fishbones has. And, most importantly, when Jinx pulls the trigger, we hear the exactly same line on the background: "We will show them all". It simultaneously shows: that Jinx's attack on the council is her way of dealing with grief of killing Silco; her way of honoring Silco's fight against Piltover; and a direct transition of Silco into Fishbones. Although he's dead in body, but Jinx's memories of him and his voice now continue to live in Fishbones, her new eternal companion.

I am at awe with the fundamental work that's been done with this setup, and although s2 never followed up on this, I still can get enjoyment from the clear intent creators put here originally.

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Big Hands (Spencer Reid x Fem!PlusSize!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!PlusSize!Reader

Summary: You and your boyfriend, Spencer, are getting ready for a night out, when your insecurities start to get the best of you.

Word Count: 1531 -- it's just a lil guy

Warnings: Body insecurities, maybe a little bit of a big-girl-soapbox

A/N: I definitely wrote this very quickly this afternoon because I literally just felt like it. This is just a short lil one for the big gals who just want someone to notice them.

Anyway hope you enjoy! Thank you all who have commented/reblogged/liked my last fic!!

-

Your jeans hugged your curvy hips as you tugged them up to your belly button, covering the bottom, larger part of your stomach. You were tall, for a woman, but not taller than Spencer. He was, what, 6’1”? You stood around 5’9”, so he still towered over you, still had to look down at you when he spoke, still had to crane his neck to whisper in your ear. 

You were wearing a flowy, sage green blouse. Why were clothes so hard to find for a larger girl? It was all cold-shoulders and obnoxious patterns. You just wanted something that flattered your body type and made you feel sexy. Apparently that was just a ridiculous request. This blouse was cute, but modest, with a ruched, fluted bunching of the fabric in the middle. The collar was low-cut to accent your breasts, but the sleeves were long, which was annoying. You were going dancing tonight with your boyfriend and his coworkers. You didn’t want to show off all of your body, by any means, but you wanted to look hot. Who could blame you? And it was also going to get hot, temperature-wise. Long sleeves just didn’t feel like the most pragmatic choice. 

Sometimes you just gave up and went with the best option. And this blouse, that made you feel like you were going to a casual church event, not to a bar, was, unfortunately, the best option. 

You inhaled sharply and shrugged your shoulders as you looked in the full-length mirror hooked on the back of the closet door. Your hair looked really cute - the two biggest pieces on either side in the front were braided and dangled in front of you, effectively bringing your hair out of your eyes but also provided something to give your hair a little pizzazz. Your makeup looked great - a simple, subtle smokey eye and glossy lips. Your black boots looked good, peeking out from your wide-legged jeans, which hugged your hips and, honestly, made your butt look really good. 

It was just this stupid shirt. And maybe you were getting too much in your head about it. But you were transfixed on it, hating the way the sleeves bunched up a little, how the bottom half flowed beneath the ruched fabric, effectively covering your stomach, meeting your jeans and the top of your thighs. The color was too muted for a going-out top - you wished you could wear something more exciting. 

You sometimes wished you looked like Emily or JJ, or had the self-confidence to rock loud looks like Penelope did. But then you remembered that you were who you were for a reason. You looked like you simply because that was what you looked like. And there was no point in wishing you looked like someone else. 

Plus, Spencer was really into your body. He was nearly always staring at your breasts when you were in private, sometimes to the point where you had to snap your fingers in front of his eyes to garner his attention. 

It was flattering. You didn’t mind it if your boyfriend objectified you a little bit. He was respectful about it. 

“Y/N, are you about ready?” Spencer walked into your bedroom as you looked at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes met Spencer’s and you saw his neutral expression turn into a full-fledged grin, biting his tongue and all. “You look really nice,” he said, and you shook your head. 

“I look like a chaperone at a middle school dance,” you frowned, tugging at the fabric of your blouse in some illogical attempt to make it look different. 

“What?” Spencer stood behind you in the mirror. His chin basically met the top of your head, like too puzzle pieces. One hand rested on your hip, while the other slowly brushed your hair to one side so he could press a kiss to your neck. “I think you look great,” he added. 

You immediately felt tingly and your knees wobbled at the action. “But I’m not dressing for you,” you said, your voice instinctively dropping as Spencer’s lips trailed down your neck. You were having trouble concentrating on what you were trying to say. “I’m dressing for me, and I want to look cute. I can’t believe you’re even going tonight. You don’t dance, Spencer,” you pointed out, your self-control somehow beating out your desire for Spencer in the moment. You broke away from him and turned around to face him. 

“You do look cute, Y/N. I don’t understand what the issue is?” Spencer’s head cocked to the side as he looked down at you. “Also, I’m going out tonight because you want to. And I’m trying to keep an open mind. I might enjoy it.” 

You were proud of him. When you started dating about six months ago, he would have simply politely declined an invitation to a night out. And while you didn’t love going out every night, or even every weekend, for that matter, you did enjoy a night out occasionally. 

Regardless, he still didn’t quite understand what you were feeling about that damn shirt. “The issue,” you began, heaving a sigh, “is that I’m insecure about my body. Like any woman. You don’t get it, because you’re a man, and you literally have nothing to be insecure about.”

You knew the words were incorrect the moment you said them, but something kept you from backpedaling. You watched as Spencer shook his head, letting a small laugh escape him. “You could not be further from the truth,” Spencer pointed out, and you knew he was right. Men had plenty to be insecure about, and it was, in some ways, even more difficult for men to express those feelings. 

“Well, I think you’re perfect,” You let a small, playful smile creep onto your face, and Spencer rolled his eyes as you used his own tactic from earlier. He stepped towards you and his hands found your waist, contouring to match your curves. He knew them so well now, he could probably draw a map of your body with his eyes closed. 

“I appreciate that,” Spencer said, his voice a little softer as your eyes met his. His head dipped down, and you thought, certainly, that he was going to kiss you, but instead, his lips stopped just barely by your ears. You could feel his breath on your neck, and a shiver ran down your spine as he spoke. “You might be insecure, Y/N, but I am, too. You’re just human.” 

“What are you insecure about?” You found yourself asking, pulling your head back to look at him properly. Now you were curious. 

“My hands, mostly,” Spencer removed his hands from your waist, holding them palm-up, as if to present them to you for the first time. 

“What’s wrong with your hands?” You asked, placing your palms atop his. 

“They’re really big,” Spencer said timidly, and, admittedly, they were. But just by comparison. Your hands fit into his with plenty of extra space. You used your index fingers to trace his palms. 

“They’re not too big,” you told him, and Spencer just smiled down at you, shaking his head, like he was just humoring you. “I love your hands,” you continued. “I love that you can put your palm over an entire half of my face,” you said, guiding his palm to your cheek and grinning when his skin touched yours. Spencer’s thumb brushed your cheekbone. 

“And I love your body,” Spencer replied, and you just pursed your lips and shook your head. “No, Y/N, listen to me.” 

You let out a frustrated little exhale through your nose and let him continue. 

“I love the way you look. But I wouldn’t care if you were any bigger or any smaller. Because I love you. I’m attracted to you, to your mind, to your sense of compassion, and to your body. I love the way your hips fill out your jeans, how your stomach looks in your yoga pants,” he said. “I love the way you wiggle your toes when we’re watching something funny on TV, how you do a little shimmy in your seat when you’re eating something you really enjoy,” he explained, mimicking the movement. You looped your arms around his neck. “But mostly, I’m in love with your personality. How you challenge me, how you seem to bring out the best version of myself.”

You let out a wistful sigh. If this were a Jane Austen novel, you would have swooned. But instead, you used your grip around his neck to bring his face down to yours and kiss him. It was slow at first, then a little more intense, and when you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his. 

“You ready to go now?” Spencer asked, and when your eyes opened, you saw that he was smiling down at you. 

You shook your head, a mischievous smile spreading across your face. “Not yet,” you said, your hands sliding down his arms until your palms met his. You tugged him in the direction of your bed. “I want to show you how much I love these big hands.” 

[msbigredmachine]

The Boy Next Door: Chapter Four

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake's masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine's masterlist

Word Count: 8.1k

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, language, angst, violence, smut

Poster made by me. Credit to the owners of the other pics and gifs.

The first thing Ivy felt as she stirred awake was a dull, satisfying ache between her thighs. Next was the naked, muscular body enveloping her from behind, full lips brushing her shoulder. Twisting her head, she found his handsome face peering down at her, his crinkled eyes soft and his voice softer against her skin. 

"Morning, baby girl," Roman murmured, muscular arms tightening around her, “How ya feeling? You sleep good?”

Gingerly, she shifted around to face him, noting how he instinctively moved his body closer to hers, her loins clenching at the feel of his flaccid yet impressive length pressed against her stomach. “I did…after you let me,” she replied, relieved to find that the feeling in her legs had returned and her voice was still intact. “Don’t tell me you’ve been watching me sleep,” she giggled.

“I plead the fifth. You’re too beautiful not to watch, sweetheart,” he chuckled, sliding his hand down her bare back to grip her ass as his face nuzzled the crook of her neck. His touch sparked memories of their wild night; the havoc his hands and mouth and his stunning weapon of a dick wrecked on her body, his voice deep and rough and authoritative as it coaxed her through literal waves of unforgettable pleasure that had him changing his Egyptian cotton bedding afterwards:

“Your pussy feels so good wrapped around my dick…ffuuck, Ivy…”

“I love the way you moan for me, baby girl, you sound so fuckin’ sexy…”

“Haha, look at you shakin’ and leakin’, fucking up my sheets…It feels good when I'm deep like this, right, baby?”

“Relax your throat so you can take more of my dick…yeah, just like that, mmm…”

“C'mon sweetheart, let Daddy make you come on this dick one more time…”

Her eyes fluttered shut, a content sigh leaving her as Roman gently kissed her lips and rubbed his hand up and down her back. “I wanna make you breakfast…whenever we get up, of course,” he said, looking down tenderly at her features. She looked so gorgeous in his arms, her hair tousled from sex and sleep, her body soft and warm. She belonged right here with him and if he had his way, she’d never leave his bed.

As much as she longed to spend her day like this, one glance at the clock on the wall advised otherwise. "Sadly, I gotta go. Zaia and Duchess will be home soon.” Also, she would very much rather not have Gemini find her here and start another lecture like she was her damn mother.

“You can shower here to save time, get cleaned up…We did…a lot, last night,” Roman grinned, mischief dancing in his warm brown eyes.

Blushing, Ivy rubbed her nose on his chest, breathing in his scent, “We did, and my body is feeling all of it right now.”

His brows furrowed with concern. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“Not at all. And either way, I wanted it.” Easing herself upright, she glanced around the room, getting a good look at her surroundings for the first time considering how…occupied they were all night. “My dress is laying somewhere and I know the zipper’s busted, no thanks to a certain someone.”

“My bad. I’ll buy you a new one. I got a spare dress shirt you can wear,” Roman offered, letting her wiggle out of his arms and the cocoon of his bed to head to his bathroom, his gaze fixated on her naked glory all the way.

His shower was spacious, the water was warm and his sandalwood body wash was gentle on her deep brown skin. Yet it still couldn’t compare to the heat that filled her body thinking about their antics last night. The line had finally been crossed. Weeks of sexual tension had given way to giving in to her sexy-as-fuck next door neighbor. Cliché in the best and worst way. The pragmatic side of her was keen to overanalyze her actions, to pass it off as scratching an itch and be done with it to be never revisited again. The other part of her, the grieving, lonely young woman, had never felt this good, never felt as wanted and desired as Roman made her feel, and she wanted more. Needed more. For her pleasure. For her wellbeing. She would deal with the emotions when she was ready to cross that bridge. If ever.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not pick up on Roman joining her in the shower until his arms circled her waist. His long hair tickled her skin as he suckled the base of her neck, his mouth widening over the sensitive spot he'd become acquainted with, big hands roaming her body with purpose. As he turned her around, her eyes naturally fell to the shaft dangling menacingly between his tree trunk-like thighs. Even semi-erect, he was intimidating as hell. But even more intimidating was the predatory look in his eyes as he invaded her space with his big strong body, the swish of his tongue making her pussy quiver as she was reminded of how he’d worked it on her and in her until she saw stars…

The memory made her knees weak, and they just about gave way entirely when he smashed his lips to hers. His chest mashed against her hardened nipples, his fingertips grazing one before curling around her throat, soft groans exhaled in unison as the now familiar heat sizzled between them. They delved into each other’s mouths, lapping and sucking sloppily, heads twisting from side to side as he kicked her feet wider apart and grinded his erection against her mound, sending a fresh flood of wetness that had nothing to do with the running water.

“I’m gonna be late,” Ivy breathed out, an absurd statement considering that her home was literally across the street. Roman thought so too, easily dismissing her half-hearted protest with a laugh as he lifted her up against the marble wall.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he groaned, silencing her with another heated kiss, keeping her trapped between the solid wall and his equally solid muscles. Her shaky moans were his oxygen as he grasped his dick and pushed it inside her, letting out one of his own as her slick heat welcomed him. He reveled in the stunned look on her face, her jaw dropping as her pussy stretched open for him, compelling him to drive into her with hard yet measured thrusts of his hips. His haughty smirk was wide as she shuddered from pleasure, her nails scraping his broad shoulders, her thighs tightening around his waist pulling him deeper into her.

“Ssshiiit, Roman…”

“That’s right, baby, call out my name while I pound this sweet pussy…”

His arm latched protectively around her waist as he walked her to his front door. As they approached the foyer, Ivy looked up at him, her heart thudding from his smoldering gaze that always seemed to reach the depths of her soul. 

“Thank you for last night…for dinner, for the dick…It was amazing,” she whispered, pushing a stray lock of his hair back into his neat ponytail. 

As her hand dropped to his chest, Roman realized he couldn't let her leave without one more kiss. Caressing her chin between his long fingers, he molded his lips to hers, savoring the taste of her, ensuring to slip her some tongue before pulling back.

“Baby, you don’t ever have to thank me. I got you. If you or Zaia need anything, let me know. If you need to talk…or fuck…” he added slyly, Ivy gasping into his chest as he squeezed her ass, “Or both…just ask. I don’t care what time it is. Call me and I’ll be there,” he promised.

One of the perks of mutual attraction was the insane chemistry between the two parties. Having lacked this for years had almost made Ivy forget how good it felt to want and be wanted. How it felt for just one look to make her heart pound and set her body on fire. For her senses to be awakened with one touch. The butterflies, the schoolgirl-like giddiness…Roman reignited all of that in her in just a matter of weeks.

Having her all to himself seemed to unleash something in him too. Unearthed a sexual spontaneity and adventure that Ivy hadn’t experienced since her college days. Nowhere was too risky and no position was off limits; Perched on the sink in the tiny restroom of a diner, her moans hushed and his thrusts deep. On a deck chair by his pool, her legs on his shoulders, leaving her a sopping, sobbing mess. On all fours in the backseat of his Range Rover in the hospital’s parking garage, the fear of getting caught evaporating with each luscious plunging stroke inside her. Her pussy was his for the taking. Sex with him was so intense and breathtaking that she couldn’t help but wonder where he’d been her whole life.

“So are y’all dating now?”

Startled, Ivy glanced up from her phone so fast, whiplash was in her near future. She cast a nervous glance around the spa's relaxation lounge. It was empty and quiet save for the serene background music and the soothing trickle of a water fountain nearby. But for all Ivy cared, Gemini had uttered the question with a megaphone. "Do you have to be so loud?" she yell-whispered, quickly putting her phone away.

Picking up her complimentary glass of champagne, Gemini shrugged nonchalantly. "What? I'm just asking a question. You’re going on dates. You’re fucking, and the dick is obviously top tier cuz look how big your smile is from just texting him. And the feeling’s mutual, cuz your pussy got that man paying for your hair, your nails and this spa session.”

“Oh my god,” Ivy groaned, the clay mask on her face preventing her from burying her head in her fluffy white bathrobe from sheer embarrassment.

Ignoring her reaction, Gemini leaned back in her lounge chair to observe her best friend. “Look, Ivy. I’m glad you’re getting your back broke the way you deserve, girl. I really am. But I still can’t help but think you’re moving really fast with Roman.” 

On closer introspection, Ivy would agree. From the outside looking in, she was letting another man slot into the vacancy Angelo had opened up with his passing. But no one knew her life, especially not his mother Gloria, who still had nothing nice to say about her or Roman since confronting them at her son’s funeral. If only Ivy gave a shit. The woman turned a blind eye to everything her son put her through, thus, her opinions didn’t matter. No one was going to dictate how she grieved or moved on or how to raise her daughter and that was that.

And it wasn’t like she was moving on with Roman. She just felt so…connected to him. Long before they became two bereaved souls that lost their life partners in tragic circumstances. Plus, it wasn’t even all about the sex. He tapped into her desire for comfort and companionship that had eluded her since her relationship with Angelo collapsed. And unlike her ex, Roman appreciated her, and it was evident in the way he treated her. Making her laugh when she was having a tough day. Checking in on her regularly. Talking with her for hours and listening to her. She liked listening to him too; the stories he shared about growing up in Pensacola, Florida, the way his eyes lit up discussing his family with so much love and adoration. And then there were his other little thoughtful gestures; the care packages with soothing teas, bath salts, scented soaps and candles. The playlist of songs that “remind me of you” as he had named it on Spotify. Bouquets of flowers delivered to her workplace that had her fellow nurses ooh-ing and ahh-ing, not excluding her boss, Lilian. 

“Whoever this man is, do not let him go,” the Head Nurse had advised as she admired the soft pink roses perched on Ivy's desk. 

She didn’t plan to. Not when he was hitting every sweet spot she owned, literally and figuratively. Maybe Gemini was right. Maybe she was dickmatized. But she couldn’t really be blamed, could she? Roman was a smart, sexy man with a soft side and a protective nature that she found extremely appealing and was drawn to. 

“You’ve zoned out on me again.” Gemini’s voice cut into her thoughts. “You are dickmatized, girl. The sex is that fire, huh?”

Yes! Ivy thought, a small smile on her face as she tried to articulate her feelings. “It’s not just that. He’s been…really good to me, Gem,” she confessed, sipping pensively on her mimosa. “I feel like grief has kinda brought us together in a good way. Like it was meant to happen like this. Yeah, he’s…passionate. And I know you’re worried about his temper. But he’s been so gentle with me. He’s attentive. Affectionate. He…cares. And it feels good. Really good,” she went on, her eyes fixed imploringly on her best friend as though trying to plead her case. 

Gemini was silent as she took in Ivy’s assessment, the skepticism on her pretty features slowly melting into sympathy. “Well, in your defense, you do look…happy,” she admitted, “Happier than I’ve ever seen you with Angelo or anyone else. But I won’t stop begging you to keep your eyes open, babe. It won’t speak well of me as your friend if I don’t.” She was yet to find anything on Roman other than the fact that he had no social media presence of any kind. Odd as that was, it wasn’t a crime. Gemini truly wanted to believe she was overreacting about him, but her gut pushed her to keep looking just to make sure, for Ivy’s sake at least. And she would. Ivy didn’t need to know. If there was indeed nothing, she would let it go and forget all about it. “Angelo just passed. Your emotions are elevated. It’s okay to take things slow and not rebound so quick.”

Ivy pleaded the fifth on that. He was a welcome distraction from losing Angelo. A reprieve from her other reality of coming home and finding traces of her child’s father around the house. He never got round to taking all of his belongings with him when she kicked him out for good, which meant she was still kicking up the occasional item of his here and there that brought fresh waves of sadness each time. 

But no one was taking his death harder than Zaia, who had essentially abandoned her bedroom for her mother’s. More heartbreakingly, she was crying in her sleep almost every night, calling out for her daddy. Ivy was worried and planned to book an appointment with her pediatrician, Dr. Zayn. 

Again, Roman came to her rescue, arranging movie nights with her daughter, the two of them cuddling up on her couch and bonding over buttered popcorn and Disney’s iconic characters. As Halloween approached, Roman joined them in decorating not just her yard but his own as well, creating a festive atmosphere that brought joy to their little community. He even took them on an outing to Dave & Buster's, where his playful and attentive interaction with Zaia stood out. It was quite heartwarming how hands-on he was with her little girl; he would make a great father someday.

Ivy knew he was only trying to help; in no way did she expect him to replace Angelo because he never could. No one could. That was Zaia’s daddy, no matter what. And though Ivy acknowledged that she may like Roman a little more than the boundaries of mere physical attraction permitted, she knew better than to let those feelings cloud her judgment when it came to her baby. Angelo would always be a part of her life. She hadn't completely shoved him all the way to the back of her mind, but at least he no longer dominated her every thought. It was getting better, and better was better than worse.

An attendant entered the ladies’ space and set a tray of assorted fruits on their table. Gemini snatched up a strawberry and dropped it into her drink. "Anyway, you're gonna be at my party, right?" she asked, “What are you wearing?”

Gemini’s annual Halloween party was a highlight of the social calendar year, and it made Ivy cringe to know she’d forgotten about it. “Fuck. I’ve been so busy with work and everything else that I haven’t thought about it. I only got Zaia sorted out for her trick-or-treat party. I’ll find something for myself this week.”

“Good. Can’t wait to see what you do this year. Your Storm cosplay last year was fire.” A long, tense beat crawled by before Gemini cleared her throat, her next words tentative and begrudging. “You can bring Loverboy along, if you want,” she grumbled.

Smiling, Ivy raised her champagne flute to her lips. “I’m sure he’d like that. I want you to get along with him. No more tiptoeing around another man in my life.” Sitting upright, she moved in for the kill. “And what about the man in yours anyway, huh? Officer Hayes, hmm? If you don’t focus on that fine ass man and leave me alone…”

Eyes wide, Gemini avoided her friend's teasing gaze. “Ion know whatchu talkin’ about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Ivy smirked.

Nobody threw a party quite like Gemini Beaufort. Her Halloween bashes were the stuff of legend, with an over-the-top grandeur that seemed to escalate with each passing year. By the time October’s final night arrived, the anticipation was palpable. Securing an invitation to her party was almost as difficult as getting into an elite club. Hosted in the grand, sweeping mansion that had been in her family for decades, attending a Beaufort party was a badge of honor in this town, an unspoken acknowledgment that you were now part of Hartford’s elite.

Hand in hand, Roman and Ivy climbed the winding stone steps. The dark silhouette of the house framed the towering trees draped in cobwebs. Skeletons hung from the eaves, their bony hands outstretched in eerie welcome, while carved, glowing pumpkins lined the path like sentinels guarding the front door. Fog rolled across the ground, and a ghostly figure swayed in the breeze, making the mansion feel like something out of a haunted tale.

As they neared the entrance, Ivy noticed Roman fidgeting with his costume. He was dressed as Aquaman, the golden, two-piece spandex clinging to his chiseled body like a second skin, his trident gleaming in his hand. But despite the impressive Jason Momoa-esque look, Roman seemed uncomfortable, adjusting the tight fabric around his torso. “You good, babe?” she questioned.

“I don’t know, Ivy,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “This thing is skintight. I feel…exposed. Like it’s showing everything.”

His nerves were a sharp contrast from Ivy’s, looking effortlessly stunning in her Clovers cheerleader uniform from Bring It On, the iconic green, yellow and gold ensemble accentuating her curves. She smiled softly at him, her eyes warming. “Well, it’s showing all the right things,” she joked, biting her lip when he frowned. “Relax. You look great. Like you just stepped off a movie set,” she reassured him.

Roman exhaled sharply, his gaze shifting toward the house where the party raged on inside. “It ain’t the outfit,” he admitted. “It’s more of the people, I think. I’m not…great with crowds.”

Ivy’s smile grew, her heart softening at his vulnerability. She had seen this side of him before—strong but uncertain. Needing assurance. “Remember how you stood by me at Angelo’s funeral? You defended me in a room full of strangers,” she reminded him. “Well, I’m gonna do the same for you tonight.” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “You look sexy as hell, babe. You’ll be fine, because we’re in this together. And if all else fails, we’ll just drink the night away.”

At that, Roman’s posture relaxed, the tension eased. He smiled at her, his expression grateful. “You right. Thanks, baby.” He paused, the gratitude in his eyes shifting to something else as he looked her over. “You look beautiful, by the way. Really beautiful,” he drawled, licking his lips. “You sure we can’t go back home and have a party of our own?”

“Down, boy,” Ivy giggled, swatting his creeping hand away as she glanced toward the door. The brass knocker had been replaced with a creepy, oversized spider, its legs curled around the handle. With a deep breath, she stepped forward and grabbed it to knock.

The door swung open, the soft creak of the hinges drowned out by the thumping bass of music from inside. A wide smile lit up Gemini’s face as her eyes fell on Ivy, her jaw dropping as she took in her outfit.

“Ivy! Girl, you look incredible!” Gemini’s voice rang out with warmth, her own costume, a curvaceous Lola Bunny from Space Jam, hugging her voluptuous shape enticingly. The white crop top, matching shorts, and knee-high socks paired with her signature bunny ears made her look every bit like the cartoon character. “I’m so glad you made it!” She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Ivy in a tight hug, the scent of lavender and cinnamon swirling between them.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Ivy grinned. “You woulda beat my ass anyway if I did.”

Gemini stepped back, eyes flicking over Ivy’s shoulder, her smile faltering at the towering figure behind her, his sharp features and easy smile that seemed just a little too practiced. He was dressed as Aquaman—predictable. Her eyes lowered to his hand on the small of Ivy’s back, possessiveness radiating from the man that the attorney was yet to warm up to. But she was quick to recover, plastering on a welcoming smile.

“Hi, Roman,” she said coolly, stepping aside to let them in. 

“Hey, Gemini,” he replied smoothly, his voice cheery as he looked around. “Thanks for inviting me. You have a lovely home.”

“Thanks,” Gemini answered. “I’m glad you both could come. It’s gonna be a fun night.”

The entire space of the mansion’s grand foyer had been transformed, an intricate web of cobwebs draping the walls, bats dangling from the ceiling, and pumpkins carved with jagged smiles glowing from every corner. The scent of mulled cider and spiced pumpkin filled the air, the low hum of conversation and laughter drifting in from the next room. Before they parted ways, Gemini’s eyes met Ivy’s again with that disapproving look that Ivy was starting to tire of. In turn, her eyes narrowed, a subtle, silent warning. Roman, however, seemed oblivious to the tension, scanning the room with that same cautious gaze. Watching them slip further into the crowd, Gemini’s eyes lingered on the big man and suppressed a sigh, deciding to focus on the party. Tonight wasn’t about him. It was about having fun, celebrating with the people she cared about, and being a good host. 

The vibrant energy soon took over, the lights, the laughter, and the familiar hum of a good time. Ivy showed Roman around, introducing him to other neighbors and a few other friends of hers, including local cops Officer Gable and Officer Hayes, the latter looking spectacular in his Killmonger armor. Dinner was a vibrant mix of the ordinary and the macabre. Alongside the classic chicken, beef, and vegetarian dishes, the buffet featured quirky options like graveyard chocolate pudding cups, bloody finger hot dogs and cheesy pizza skulls. The bar added a playful twist, serving drinks in boozy blood bags and Jell-O shot syringes, alongside cocktails inspired by iconic horror villains like Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers and Chucky.

At the table, conversation flowed freely, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Ivy sat sandwiched between Roman and Raquel, a paralegal at Gemini’s law firm.  The hostess herself claimed the head seat, with Officer Hayes right next to her. Ivy noticed how Carmelo had stuck close to Gemini all evening. It wasn’t subtle, and Ivy was certain they were sleeping together. They were undeniably cute, even if Gemini would never admit it. Ivy smirked to herself, already planning how she’d tease her friend about it later.

She turned her attention to Roman, checking on him. He’d been quiet, not saying much, listening to other people’s chatter as he picked at his food. “How’s your food? Good?” she asked, eyeing up his half-eaten plate of shrimp fried rice and garlic butter salmon.

Roman nodded, leaning close to her, “It is. But I’d rather be eating something else cuz it looks so fucking good.”

Before she could ask him to clarify, he snuck his hand under the table to rest it on her leg, moving it along her inner thigh.

"Roman!" Ivy hissed, shocked at his boldness. Surely he wasn't going to try to do what she thought he wanted to do in the presence of all these people, dimmed lighting or not. Her eyes widened as Roman tugged her panties to the side, teasing her folds with his fingers, gathering the growing wetness.

At that exact moment, Raquel decided to steer the conversation to them, leaning forward on the dining table with a sly grin. “So, Nurse Jones, we see you’ve been scooped up by the handsome new neighbor over here,” she teased, her voice brimming with curiosity. “Tell us all about it. How did this beautiful union happen?”

Ivy opened her mouth to answer, but any attempt at forming a coherent thought was derailed by two thick, long fingers suddenly plunging into her, sending shockwaves all over her body. Grabbing his wrist under the table, she struggled to keep a straight face, a sharp contrast from Roman as he stepped in smoothly. “It’s pretty straightforward, really. I came over to hers, asked to borrow some sugar, and she gave me a cookie recipe along with it. The rest, as they say, is history,” he announced, his voice warm and effortlessly charming.

The table erupted into a mix of laughter and ‘aww’s. Ivy’s flushed features were for a far less innocent reason than his sweet comment as she shot Roman another warning look. He merely raised an eyebrow as if daring her to lose her composure, his signature smirk firmly in place as his fingers pumped inside her, making her squirm in her seat as she fought to suppress her moans.

A clueless Raquel nearly spilled her wine as she clutched her stomach. “A cookie recipe! Classic! That’s so cute,” she exclaimed.

Carmelo chimed in next, his tone gentle but curious. “And Zaia? Has she taken to you?” His eyes flicked to Ivy, aware that her little girl had been the center of her world since day one.

Roman’s countenance shifted then, the playful air giving way to something softer, more sincere. “Zaia is the sweetest little girl,” he said, his voice unwavering. “She’s so smart, and she has her mama’s kind heart. I’m blessed to get to know her. Ivy’s an amazing mother. It’s been a tough year for me, and I’m so glad I’ve met them, and all of you as well. I can tell that this town will be good for me.”

The warmth emanating from him seemed genuine, and even Carmelo appeared won over. There were murmurs of approval around the table, heads nodding in silent agreement.

But not everyone was convinced. Gemini sat quietly, her glass of wine untouched, her sharp eyes flickering between Roman and Ivy. Unlike the others, she wasn’t laughing or nodding. Her arms were crossed loosely over her chest, her face a careful mask that betrayed nothing except a slight tension in her jaw.

As Roman continued to field questions and charm the room, she remained silent. Her piercing eyes took in every word, every gesture, every touch. Something about him just did not sit right with her. His words felt just a little too smooth, too charming, his timing just a little too perfect.

The others were too busy to notice Gemini’s quiet skepticism, but Ivy could feel it, even if she wasn’t looking her way. She could only imagine her indignation if she knew that Roman was currently fingering her under the table. She forced a smile as Raquel launched into another question, fighting the urge to scream as her orgasm loomed. But right as she made it to the brink of euphoria, Roman stopped, pulling his fingers out of her.

“We’ll finish this later,” he growled, kissing her cheek and patting her thigh, refocusing on his food like nothing happened.

Infuriating.

Intoxicating.

After dinner, the guests gathered in the cozy, candlelit den. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the room. Lounging on plush armchairs and sprawling rugs, the drinks continued to flow and loosen people up more and more. Someone had started a risqué game of “Truth or Dare,” but Roman seemed uninterested in the group activity, his attention wholly fixed on Ivy.

Her seat was his lap, her laughter chiming through the room as someone recounted a particularly embarrassing dare. Roman’s arm remained draped possessively around her waist, his fingers idly tracing circles on her hip. His gaze, though lighthearted, was sharp and territorial, shooting silent warnings at anyone who dared look at Ivy for more than a fleeting moment. Most irritating of them all was Damian, a mutual friend of Gemini and Ivy’s whom Roman noticed had been eyeing her up all evening, seated next to them in a gaudy vampire rockstar getup as he made conversation with her. Then for some reason, he dared to address Roman himself, nodding in his direction. “Hey, great costume, man,” he complimented.

Plastering a plastic smile on his face, Roman leaned forwards, his tone deceptively casual as he responded loud enough for the entire room to hear, “Thanks man. Ya know, I almost didn’t bother with a costume this year. I considered dressing up as a homicidal maniac.” He paused, letting the room go still for a moment before adding with an airy laugh, “Ya know, cuz they look like anybody?”

The room’s energy froze for a beat, the humor landing awkwardly. A few people exchanged uneasy glances. Damian looked flabbergasted.

Roman clapped his hands together, his grin widening as if to erase the tension. “Come onnnn, relax, people! Lighten up! Anyway, I think I nailed the Aquaman look, right?”

Laughter rippled through the room, hesitant at first, but it grew louder when Roman flashed his megawatt smile and raised his drink. The moment passed, but Gemini wasn’t laughing. From her seat on Carmelo’s lap, she studied Roman with narrowed eyes, her suspicions too great to hold in any longer.

A little while later, as guests migrated to refill their glasses and raid the buffet table for more snacks, Gemini saw her chance. She waited until Roman wandered into the kitchen alone and followed him from a distance.

“Roman,” she said, her voice sharp and deliberate.

He turned, his smile immediate but calculated. “Gemini! What’s up? Great party-”

“What kinda creepy ass comment was that, huh? Homicidal maniac? Really? After everything that’s been going on in this town? Could you show your ass anymore out there?” she accused.

“I was just trying to be funny. Sure, it didn’t hit at first but I think I recovered. If my joke was perceived as offensive then I-”

“Cut the shit,” Gemini snapped, stepping closer. Her voice was low but firm, her eyes boring into his. “I’m a goddamn attorney, Roman. Your passive-aggressive bullshit don’t work on me. I see through it, and I see right through you. You’re not who you pretend you are. I can feel it. You’ve got Ivy and everybody else fooled, but I’m not buying it.”

Roman’s smile didn’t waver, but it shifted into something colder, crueler. He leaned casually against the counter, swirling the drink in his hand. “Ivy is a grown woman, Gem,” he said, his tone almost too calm. “A mother, with her own family. Something you don’t have, and with that attitude, you probably never will.”

Gemini’s composure faltered, just for a second, at the scathing jab. Roman caught the slip-up like a cat catching a canary, and his smile widened, his voice softening mockingly. “I’m sure Ivy can make her own decisions without her lawyer friend hovering around.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “I’ve tolerated your hostility long enough. But let me give you some friendly advice, sweetheart. You don’t wanna get on my bad side, ever. I promise you that.”

Before Gemini could retort, the sound of approaching footsteps made them both pause. Ivy appeared in the doorway, her brows furrowed in confusion as she took in the tense scene.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, her gaze darting between the two of them.

Gemini straightened, her tone as lighthearted as possible. “Just having a chat with your boyfriend.”

Roman immediately softened, his expression shifting into one of wounded innocence. “I think I’ve upset her somehow,” he said, his voice laced with regret. “I’m not sure what I did but whatever it is, I’m sorry, Gemini. That wasn’t my intention at all.”

Stunned by his complete 180, Gemini opened her mouth to respond, but Ivy got there first. “Gemini, can I talk to you for a second?” she spoke, more a demand than a request.

Roman stepped back, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll leave you two to it,” he said smoothly, pressing a light kiss to Ivy’s cheek before slipping away.

As soon as he was gone, Ivy turned on Gemini, her eyes blazing. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

“My problem?” Gemini shot back. “I’m trying to protect you, Ivy! I don’t trust him, and you shouldn’t either!”

Ivy’s shoulders sagged slightly, exhaustion and grief creeping into her demeanor. “I don’t need this from you right now, Gem. I’m barely holding it together after Angelo, and Roman…Roman’s been there for me in a way no one else has.”

“Exactly!” Gemini said, her tone urgent. “Don’t you think it’s a little too convenient? He shows up out of nowhere, swoops in while you’re at your most vulnerable, and suddenly he’s everywhere in your life? Doesn’t that raise any red flags for you?”

Ivy’s jaw tightened. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not Angelo. I’m not a case you need to solve, Gemini. I’m a grown ass woman and I can decide who I want in my life. Roman’s good to me and Zaia. That’s all that matters.”

Gemini stared at her, her frustration mounting. “You’re not seeing the whole picture, Ivy! Please, just—”

“Enough!” Ivy snapped, stamping her foot angrily. “You’re always looking for problems where there aren’t any! Roman’s done nothing but protect me and be there for me! Just cuz you don’t trust anyone doesn’t mean I'm the same!” She trailed off. Reeled her temper back in. Ignoring the hurt in her best friend's eyes, she addressed her with a clipped and cold tone. “I’m only gonna say this one time. Stop trying to interfere in my life. If you don’t, I might have to reevaluate our friendship.”

Gemini’s eyes widened. “And what does that mean?”

“Figure it out. You’re the one who knows everything,” Ivy bit back, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Over a nigga you just met?” Gemini shook her head in disbelief. “Wow, Ivy. Wow.”

Ivy stood her ground. “I said what I said. All I know is I can’t go on like this. This constant back and forth with you. I’ve made up my mind about Roman and clearly, so have you.” She shrugged. “The only difference is I don't care what you think anymore.”

Gemini swallowed the lump in her throat as Ivy turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the kitchen. She exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the counter. Roman’s words kept echoing in her mind, chilling and deliberate. 

You don’t wanna get on my bad side, ever.

Gemini wasn’t scared of his threats. But she was more certain than ever: Roman was hiding something. And she wasn’t going to stop until she found out what it was.

Ivy stormed out of the kitchen, her sneakers pounding against the hardwood floor. She pushed her emotions down, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to shake off the lingering sting of her gut-wrenching argument with Gemini. The music from the den grew louder as she approached, but it all felt like static compared to the turmoil in her chest.

Roman spotted her immediately. He was lounging against the wall near the fireplace, sipping from a glass of bourbon, his Aquaman costume catching the firelight. His sharp eyes tracked her as she neared him, his expression shifting into one of concern.

“Hey,” he said softly, setting his drink down. He reached for her hand, pulling her close. “You okay? What happened back there?”

Ivy avoided his questioning stare, her expression tight. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just…I want to leave.”

Roman frowned, tilting his head. “Leave? Why?”

“Because,” she said, her voice faltering, “I’m not in the mood anymore. Gemini…She thinks she knows everything! She’s just trying to protect me, but I can’t deal with it right now. I don’t want to ruin your night, Roman.”

“Ruin my night?” Roman chuckled, the sound low and warm. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “Baby girl, don’t let her ruin your night. This is meant to be fun. You deserve a break…you’ve been through so much.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts,” he interrupted, firmly but kindly. “Stay. Forget about her. I’ll handle her if she steps out of line again, okay?”

Ivy hesitated, her eyes searching his face. Something about the way he looked at her—the unshakable confidence, the way he made her feel grounded—settled the tension in her chest. She nodded slowly. “Fine. Get me a drink. A strong one.”

Roman’s lips curled into a pleased smile. “Comin’ right up,” he said, kissing her softly before heading off to do as she asked.

Deeper into the night, the party reached a fever pitch. The music thumped louder, a sultry beat that made the air feel electric. Ivy, emboldened by her third cocktail, shepherded Roman to a corner, away from the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. Backing up on him, her movements were fluid and teasing, her body swaying to the rhythm of Chris Brown and Davido’s “Sensational”. Her head tilted back, her laughter loud and uninhibited, her eyes locked seductively on Roman’s. He gripped her hips, pulling her flush against his crotch, biting his lip as she bent at the waist to grind on him, her ass gyrating obscenely against the thick bulge of his erection. A low groan slipped from her lips when he yanked her back upright, brushing her hair out of the way to nuzzle her neck, his mouth hot and greedy on her heated skin.

The other guests watched, some whispering to each other, some pretending not to notice. Ivy was putting on a show and she knew it. Her grief, her frustration, her lingering anger with Gemini—all of it melted away as she lost herself in the music and Roman’s presence. Turning around, she wound her arms around his neck and captured his mouth with hers, absorbing the alcohol lacing his tongue. His hands traveled underneath her little skirt, grabbing and squeezing her ass cheek in large handfuls, his body rocking with hers in time with the music. 

Roman leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re full of surprises tonight, sweetheart,” he murmured, his tone heavy with amusement—and something darker.

Eyeing him through her long lashes, her hand trailed down his chest, her touch deliberate as she stroked his visible hard-on through the stretched fabric of his costume, loving the feel of him throbbing in her hand. 

“I need you. Need your dick inside me,” she whispered to him, lust simmering in her brown eyes.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Roman cupped the nape of her neck, his lips brushing her ear. “Where’s Gemini’s bedroom?” 

Ivy froze for a half-second, caught off guard by his question. She pulled back slightly to look at him, a curious smirk tugging at her lips. “Why?”

His grin was devilish, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Where better to fuck you than right under her nose? Let her hear just how much you need me.”

Ivy’s heart raced, a mix of exhilaration and nervousness and alcohol twisting in her stomach. She glanced around the room, the other guests oblivious to their conversation, and then back at Roman. He was watching her expectedly, intently, his darkened eyes filled with a dangerous kind of charm.

“You nasty motherfucker,” she slurred, her full lips curved into a wicked, excited grin.

Roman leaned in, crushing his mouth to hers, his kiss laced with carnal, tantalizing promise. “Only for you, baby girl.”

Without further hesitation, she grabbed his hand and dragged him off the dance floor. As they disappeared from view, the music continued to pulse, the party continuing without them.

They stumbled up the staircase, Roman watching her ass sway from side to side as she moved. He made an impatient sound and swiftly scooped her into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way up. Giggling drunkenly, Ivy tucked her face in the thick column of his neck, licking that one protruding vein that made her crazy for him. “You smell so good, handsome,” she purred, latching her mouth to his throat with an almost vampiric hunger, her clit pulsing in anticipation for the naughtiness about to transpire.

“Which door?” asked Roman.

“Last one on the right,” she murmured, wiggling out of his grasp and mildly surprised to find the door open as she turned the knob and dragged him inside. Roman looked around with a raised eyebrow at the spacious master bedroom, sleek and organized and fitting for an uppity bitch like Gemini. His gaze cut back to the sexy little MILF before him, her dark eyes glazed and stormy, her ample chest heaving in shallow breaths. He eagerly closed the gap between them, his hands finding her hips and yanking her to his chest. Cupping his bearded face, Ivy pulled him in, her mouth meeting his with heated eagerness. Roman maneuvered them to the bed and shoved her onto it face-first, his eyes blazing as he ogled her exposed derrière.

“So fucking sexy. The things I wanna do to you in this little ass skirt,” he murmured, his hands all over her ass, smacking the plump cheeks. “Come here, baby, let Daddy give you what you need.”

In what felt like record time, she was on her hands and knees on Gemini’s king bed, her back arched, panties tugged to the side, deep, powerful backshots making her scream Roman’s name into the comforter lest all the guests downstairs would find out exactly they were up to in here.

“You feel that dick, baby girl? You like that?” asked Roman. His body weight damn near had her face disappearing into the bed. Flat on her chest, ass in the air, barely able to keep her eyes open as he dug her out from behind, forcing his dick deeper into her with tantalizing rolls and snaps of his hips. 

“Shit…I feel it, oh fuck!” Ivy cried, wanton, breathy pants punched out of her by his dizzying length and girth tunneling in and out of her, nudging against her g-spot, right where she wanted it. Fuck, he was so deep!

He liked that she couldn’t seem to control her noises because she was taking him so fucking well, his pelvis smacking loudly and lewdly against her ass, a mesmerizing sight. He grabbed the soft flesh, using his strong grip to rock her back and forth on his dick, making her meet his deep thrusts. Her pussy was so wet that it lathered the entirety of his cock, dripping down her inner thighs and onto the sheets. “Mm-hmm, make a mess on my big dick, baby. Getting fucked on your bestie’s bed like a nasty slut…You love this shit, don’t you,” he taunted her, wrapping his fist around her pigtails and using them as a steer, controlling her. 

“Yes, I love it…unnh, fuck my pussy, baby, don’t stop!” She was definitely under a liquor spell that had her talking and acting reckless tonight. This was one of the few reasons she didn’t drink much. No way in her sober mind would she have agreed to desecrate her best friend’s bedroom like this.

But right now she didn’t want to think about Gemini or anything else except the feel of this hot, big man and his even bigger dick all up in her guts like it was now.

Sitting up straighter, Roman pulled out and flipped her roughly onto her back. Climbing into the bed, he yanked her closer to him and hoisted her shaky legs up on his shoulders. Ivy tried not to scream at the maddening, deliberately slow wind of his hips as he forged his way back inside her. 

"Awww, right there," she whimpered, head thrown back, her mouth falling open in ecstasy, "Oh my god, your dick feels so good..."

Roman grunted, weaving his hands inside her top to massage her breasts. “Been wantin’ to fuck you all damn night.” He groaned as her walls clung to his dick, squeezing every inch as he maintained his pace, keeping up his relentless strokes inside her pussy. So wet, so warm and tight, a wonderful sensation. “Shit, this pussy too good. You’ve put a spell on me, baby girl. I can’t stop thinkin’ about you, day and night.” He bent down to lash his tongue inside her mouth, his eyes filled with a fire that matched the burning in hers. 

“You belong to me,” he growled in a dark and possessive whisper, his fingers shifting downward to play with her pussy. “You’re mine. Your pussy is mine. Forever. You understand me?” 

“Yes, baby,” Ivy moaned back to him, delirious, her body on fire, the flames fueled by his other hand gripping her throat, applying a little pressure as the bed shook and rattled under the strain of their coupling. Above her, Roman’s eyebrows knitted, his hold on her tightening as for a brief moment, his vision blurred, distorted, and suddenly, it was Gemini lying beneath him instead, her eyes wide and bulging with sheer terror, the light in them slowly fading away as he choked the life out of her.

The image, so vivid and palpable, made him fuck Ivy harder. Squeeze her neck tighter.

She was a moaning, mewling, soaked mess underneath him, her essence smeared all over both their lower regions. Overwhelmed by the thrill, the pleasure, the power of his deadly thrusts absolutely ruining her sweet spot. This was exactly how he wanted her, powerless and compliant to his will, and there was nothing she could do about it, nor did she want to. She looked into his eyes, watching his gorgeous face twist in an erotic mix of concentration and pleasure. Her nails dug into his broad back, keeping him close. Body to body, skin on skin. So good; he felt so good on her, in her, and she was on the verge of explosion.

“I’m gonna come,” she whined, her breaths joining his in bursting expulsions of air as he pounded her into Gemini’s mattress. Her eyes rolled in the back of her head as she came apart, her body convulsing from the orgasm to end all orgasms, robbing her of all her senses. She was all nerves and sensation as Roman continued pumping into her at blistering speed, gasping and growling against her sweat-slick skin. 

“Let me come in you,” he beseeched her with a sloppy, tongue-laden kiss, groaning at the feel of her rubbing the firm flesh of his backside, amplifying the already intense sensations coursing through his massive frame. 

"Come in me, Roman. I want all your cum," she encouraged, her fingers tangling in his long locks to anchor him to her, inhaling his sweat-slick, sweet scent. A feeling like this could never be replicated—this animalistic passion, this wild and primal need for each other. Every touch, every stroke was magic, a fountain of bliss and ecstasy that Ivy was drunk off of and she would be for the foreseeable future.

A jumble of expletives along with Ivy’s name tumbled from Roman’s lips as he came hard, his hips jerking, releasing all he had inside her. He remained on top of her when his orgasm ebbed away, shifting so that her legs slid from his shoulders and settled around his waist. He kissed her softly and relished in her satisfied sighs and the sensual brushes of their lips together. Sitting back on his heels, he studied her with a wipe of his brow, biting his bottom lip cheekily before they both burst into soft laughter as the gravity of their misdeeds sank in.

“Let’s take this party home, beautiful,” he breathed, slapping her backside lightly before helping her out of the bed. “Best believe I ain’t done with your fine ass.”

Thank goodness that Zaia was having a sleepover. “Sounds good to me, babe,” Ivy concurred as they adjusted each other's clothes before sneaking out of the room, not bothering to straighten the rumpled sheets and pillows scattered on the bed.

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[sugurusfavemonkey]

CALL IT FATE - ONE: FINGERS DANCING WHEN THEY MEET

summary: your roommate left and the bills were staring to pill up when three knocks to your door bring you Ino Takuma: say hello to your new roommate. The easygoing boy quickly worms his way into your life and heart.

pairing: Ino Takuma x reader

word count: 2.5k

content: college AU, short series, afab!reader, fluff, some crack, cursing, miscommunication (you think Ino is gay), strangers to friends to lovers (and they were roommates!), smut to come in future chapters (MDNI)!

prologue || one || two || three

♪playlist♪

The talk with Ino Takuma went even better than expected: he was eager to share more of himself with you and easily acquiesced with your terms, sitting straight up and nodding dutifully with each ground rule you spewed out, his eyes never once straying from you. It was flustering to have his undivided attention like that and your cheeks felt warm throughout the entire affair.

Eventually, you settled on an agreement. Which you were more than happy with since beggars can't be choosers. You had just realized you were about to run out of options when he came knocking, so when Ino mentioned fate it had seemed very fitting to your current situation.

"So… when can I move in?" you wouldn't' be surprised if he was literally shaking in anticipation as he questioned you.

"Well, the room is already vacant, so…" you shrugged, motioning towards the room you had shown him not even fifteen minutes before.

"Great!" Ino scratched his chin in thought, mumbling about his schedule under his breath until he seemed to reach a conclusion, "we're already at the end of the month so I can break my lease with no issues… I guess this weekend could work."

"Alright. Give me your phone and I'll save my number in it." you extended your hand toward him in wait for the device, but he merely stared at you.

"You're… giving me your number?" Ino questioned in utter confusion. He seemed so dumbfounded you had to suppress a smile.

"Uhm, yes? We gotta communicate somehow, right?"

"Oh," snapping back to attention, he quickly pulled his cell out of his pocket and handed it to you after unblocking it, "Yeah! Right."

"I'll get off your case now," Ino said as he stood up. You followed suit under the guise of being polite. "See you Saturday?" there was this earnest hopefulness to the way he verbalized the question and your smile grew soft.

"Sure," you shrugged, eyes glancing elsewhere for a second but not long enough that you missed the way his eyes lit up at your assenting, "see you Saturday, Ino."

"You can call me Takuma, you know. We'll be living under the same roof, no need for all that mumbo jumbo." he mentioned casually as you guided him to the door.

"It's only fair you call me by my first name too, then."

His soft murmur of your name with something akin to devotion had you blushing furiously, a common occurrence around the skater boy it seemed.

"Bye, Takuma." You waved before closing the door as soon as he passed the threshold if only so you could breath properly again.

"You don't understand! It wasn't just fate. I think she's my soulmate!" Ino recounted animatedly and it was easy to see that, had his hands not been busy with three precariously stacked cardboxes, they would have been moving along with the words spoken.

"There's no such thing as soulmates, Takuma." His blond friend retorted patiently, his own arms pilled with boxes as they ascended the stairs to the third floor. "It was probably simply a strong attraction. It's all a chemical reaction."

Ino glanced from his peripheral to his friend. It was easy to forget how pragmatical Nanami tended to be, but he knew it was mostly a front behind which the blond student hid. "Way to kill the mood. Where is your whimsy, Nanami?"

"About a few thousand kilometers away in my hometown, where I left it along with my childhood."

"We'll see if you still think that when you fall in love," Ino huffed petulantly.

"You're not in love, Ino, "he sighed, "you barely know the girl."

"Okay. Maybe I'm not in love in love. But I could see it happening, man. I was so excited about finding the apartment but then she opened the door and... boom," he stopped on his track to convey the appropriate level of dramatics to his narration and then sighed dreamily. "it was like a scene straight from a movie!"

Meanwhile, Nanami kissed his teeth and shook his head, but the slight upturn to the left corner of his lips let Ino know he found the whole thing amusing.

"Ino! Hey! I was wondering when you were coming in. Need help with those boxes?" Your voice made both men look up as soon as they reached the floor. It seemed they caught you just as you were about to leave, but you only opened the door wider for them.

You reached up to pick the box at the top of the pile from Ino, but he maneuvered them to the side so you couldn't. He tsked playfully and kept on walking right by you, his blond friend following close behind.

"Nah-ah-ah. Leave the heavy lifting to the strong men! And it's Takuma for you."

"Alright. Takuma." Your eyes then moved to the second man, head pending slightly to the side, "and you must be Nanami?" you wondered as you tailgated them, hands clasped behind your back.

Ino practically threw the boxes down once he reached what would be his new room and watched with his hands on his waist as Nanami carefully set his set of boxes down right beside the others before turning to regard you with a polite smile.

"Kento is fine. It's very nice to meet you. I believe we share a class. Thursday morning?"

"That's right. It's impressive that you've noticed. I usually keep to myself."

"As opposed to me?"

"Yes? You sit right in front and you answer most questions from the professor before anyone else even has the time to assemble a response."

"I'm right here." Ino suddenly cut you both off and you nearly jumped in surprise. You raised your eyes to his face only to find his expression one of discontentment, brows furrowed and lips pursued.

Nanami chuckled, immediately clocking onto his friend's motive. "Sorry. Could I have a glass of water?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll be right back!" You promptly moved to gather him a glass of water.

Ino watched and waited until he was sure you were out of ear shot before whisper-shouting:

"No dice. I saw her first."

"I'm not gonna attempt anything, Ino," Nanami kept his tone even and volume regular in contrast. "You know me better than that."

"I know, but-"

You strolled into the room without much thought, catching the ending of their conversation, "…you're always so charming and polite."

You cleared your throat afraid you had just interrupted a moment and nearly threw the glass in Nanami's willing hands, "here you go."

"Thank you."

You nodded, swaying back and forth in an attempt of grounding yourself because the awkward silence was making you nervous. Thankfully, Ino decided to break it.

"We still have a few boxes left," he motioned to the door with his thumb.

"You sure you don't need my help?"

"Nope. We can handle it. I think one more trip and we're done actually. Right, Nanami?"

"Three at minimum I'd say."

Takuma tried to elbow his side but he simply sidestepped the hit as he moved to the exit without further ado leaving the both of you behind.

"You're gonna stay at home tonight?"

"Yeah, this moving thing really tires me out."

You hummed thoughtfully, "I was thinking of ordering pizza for dinner tonight, would you like to share?"

"I'd love that!"

"Any specific toppings?"

"I'm fine with whatever as long as there are no olives."

"Got it. What about Kento. He staying?"

"No!" Takuma cried out and then winced, trying to measure out his tone for the next words, "no. I'm pretty sure Kento mentioned he needs to study today."

"On a Saturday night?" You lifted one brow in question.

"That's Nanami for you. Very… committed."

You frowned. That sounded a bit of an overkill if you were being honest, but who were you to judge.

"I'll, uhm, I'll go pick up the rest of the stuff."

You decided to ignore his strange behavior and opted to let him know you'd leave the door open instead. Takuma nodded silently in response.

...

"Stop being a weirdo!" Ino murmured to himself as he darted down the stairs.

Ino wasn't a loud or rowdy roommate and kept his mess within the confines of his own room. He made an effort to spend some time around you whenever you were hanging out in the living room or kitchen, watching your favorite shows or even helping you bake some recipe you found on your phone. Minus the very few occasional pieces of clothing you've found strewn about (which Ino always picked up as soon as you pointed out) and dirty dishes left on the sink (it could have been worse - he could've been just letting them wherever), things were smooth sailing all throughout your first month of living together. You really couldn't complain.

It had been over a month since he moved in. The day had been going perfectly: no strewn clothing, no dirty dishes, just immaculate and profound peace. That is, until Ino decided to trot around the apartment with that stupid black beanie of his crooked at an angle over his brow. The beanie was a staple in his wardrobe, usually paired up with a black sweatpants, black sweatshirt duo. You tried to ignore it and keep on reading the material assigned by your professor last week, but the nagging thought seemed to be stuck to the front of your mind until you couldn't help but blurting out:

"Your beanie is crooked."

"What?" Ino paused on his way back to his room, a mug in one hand, a banana on the other and an adorably confused expression on his face.

"Your- nevermind." You dropped your textbook aside, stood up and walked right up to him, "just let me…" you turned his shoulders so he was standing straight in front you before pulling the edge of his beanie this way and that until it seemed to be sitting straight across his brow. "There!"

There was a pregnant pause in which it downed on you what you had done. You stepped back with a gasp, hands flying to your mouth, meanwhile Takuma simply gawked at you.

"Oh my god, I'm so so sorry. I shouldn't have just manhandled you like that!"

Slowly, a bright beam formed on Takuma's face and he dismissed your worry with a casual wave of his arm, coffee sludging dangerously close to spilling against the edge of the mug.

"No, no! It's fine. It's completely fine. You can touch me anytime!"

Another pause.

"Wait. Fuck! That came out wrong," Ino hissed. He appraised you with an apologetic glance, "I meant it's totally okay that you 'womanhandled' me."

"Dumbass." you murmured fondly when he wiggled his brows at the invented word before you parted ways.

You were arriving back at the apartment, one arm straining to carry the groceries and your phone between your shoulder and ear as you unlocked the door.

"You gotta come! You're my best friend and she's been my girlfriend for two years yet you've barely spoken to each other! I want the two of you to get along!"

"Hime, baby, we do get along. I think Shoko is pretty cool. If we haven't mingled much it's because of our conflicting schedules. You know that."

Ino instantly stood up and rushed to aid when he saw you struggle with the key stuck on the lock and nearly dropping the bags.

"See? Another reason for you to come. Both of your schedules align!"

Takuma took the bags from you and kicked the door closed. You mouthed a small thank you before driving your focus back onto your conversation over the phone.

"Nope. I'm pretty sure my schedule says shower and laying on my couch."

"I'm not gonna let you rot on your couch on a Friday night!"

"But I wanted to finish watching that one show and-" you tried to plead your case, but...

"Pretty please?" her little whine was all it took for your resolve to crumble.

"Ugh. Fine!"

"Yes! Be there at 8!"

"Hime-" there was a click and the line went dead. "Did this bitch just hung up on me?" You looked to your phone in anger as if it would convey the feeling to the other side of the line.

"So… You got plans?"

You glanced up at Ino's inquiry taking notice of the way he was sprawled on the couch after dropping off your shopping bags in the kitchen. "Feet. Off the couch."

He promptly sat up, dropping his legs to the ground, an embarrassed smile aimed at you.

"Yes, actually. I was forced into an outing to celebrate Iori and Shoko moving together. Which is funny because it's been like two months." You spoke while walking to the kitchen. Soon Ino joined you in putting the groceries away.

"They were probably just waiting for things to slow down."

"I know, but still… feels kinda meaningless."

Ino hummed in agreement as you handed him the things that went in the upper cabinets and he stashed them away.

"We never celebrated our own moving in together." He mused without interrupting the mechanical task.

You waited until he closed the cabinet and turned back to you. He rested his back and hands against the counter regarding you lazily.

"We could." you threw out casually.

"Could what?" his eyes followed as you crowded in on him, spreading his legs so you could fit in between them as you adjusted his beanie with a gesture so familiar it came nearly unconsciously to you.

"Celebrate it, "you went to step away, but Ino took a hold of your waist, keeping you right where you were. "You could come with me and then it would be a double celebration." You nearly swooned at the way Ino looked into your eyes, as if searching for something. "Nanami will probably be there," you babbled nervously.

"Really?"

You visibly deflated at the hopeful tone of his voice. Silly you, catching feelings for a guy who clearly has a crush on someone else.

"He's good friends with Shoko, isn't he?" you shrugged

"I meant, you think me moving here is worth of a celebration?" Ino caught both of your hands in his and gave you one of his puppy dog-eyed looks, which instantly melted any hesitation you might have been feeling.

"Of course I do! I couldn't have wished for a better roommate, Takuma." You admitted quietly.

Takuma laughed freely before dropping your hands and abruptly gathering you into a tight embrace going as far as pulling you off the ground. You laughed along with him as he twirled you around.

Ino put you back on your feet cautiously, like he would handling something precious, never letting go of your waist.

"I'm pretty sure it was fate or something like that that brought us together because you are the best roommate ever and I'm the luckiest guy in the world to have you," you felt your heart pounding in your chest, "as my roommate."

You swallowed hard, briefly patting his chest and weakly pushing him away. "Alright. Go back to... whatever it is you were doing. Hime told me to be there at 8."

It would do you no good to develop a crush on your roommate... you had to get yourself together.

<< prev || next >>

taglist: @lavenderdaydream97 @ilovemyhusbandnanami @iluvmusicxoxo @tunnelvisionlove @sweetwonieee @takuma-talkz @indiewritesxoxo

©sugurusfavemonkey 2025┃all rights reserved. do not copy, repost, translate or otherwise modify this work

[paulyenvol6]

Ruined

Hiii I'm back :))) I finished my exams and I have a lot more time to write now which I'm looking forward to. I have this one shot that I started in December and just finished writing so I hope you enjoy it <3

Jeyne, a poor common girl, has made the mistake of being caught stealing by Daemon Targaryen. Now she must face the consequences.

Contains: rape, non-con, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), fingering, degrading, virginity loss, crying, choking, gagging, anxiety, detailed description of pain and fear, possessiveness, objectification, words like slut and whore, very dark themes, kind of a plot twist

Read with caution!

Wordcount: ~6.73k

Masterlist

It was a warm evening.

Way too warm for the rogue prince's taste and thanks to his heavy armour he was sweating so much that he wished he could just take it off and have a cold bath. But of course he was way too pragmatical to complain about if to himself so he shifted his attention back to the busy market before his eyes.

The sound of laughter, chatter, the screams of children and music filled the air and in any other case perhaps the good mood would've spilled over to him so that he felt excited and animated as well but not tonight. Not when he knew he had to stay here for so many countless minutes more. The thing that bothered him the most was probably the fact that he felt so useless. It wasn't like he was defending his city in brave fights or served as a bearer of justice, no he was walking around beneath that draining sun while watching over commoners who went about their daily tasks such as buying vegetables or spending the evening in a tavern with their friends. He felt almost pathetic like that.

Nothing was happening except a few men hitting each other with bottles of ale and a singer whose ugly voice and incapacity of hitting the right notes had left the audience so unsatisfied that they had started to throw little stones at him. Daemon hadn't even intervened. He was beneath that, he found. He was meant for the battles. When all he could see or taste was hot blood and the adrenaline shot through his veins so quickly that he became dizzy. Seven hells, right now he thought that he was rather meant to be in a pleasure house having his cock sucked than rotting away on his post by the market.

To pass the time Daemon started to think about Dorysa, the blackhaired beauty from Pentos who everyone called Scarlet Fever because of her signiture deep red lips that were such a tempting contrast to her dark skin. She was a whore in his favourite pleasure house in the street of silk and had established herself as one of his favourites. What would he give to be buried inside of her now…

While he daydreamed his eyes lazily wandered over the scene. He yawned open-mouthedly and then his gaze fell on a person with reddish hair that looked like it was glowing in the moonlight. Perhaps that was the very reason why Daemon didn't immediately let his eyes wander further but instead watched her. Because her hair was beautiful, a blonde-gold with an orange tone in it. He smiled and then just wanted to turn his attention to the rest of the people again when suddenly he realized what it was she was doing right now.

This little wench had just stolen something! That was why she had sneaked around so strangely. She had taken something from the merchant's booth and now intended to slip away as inconspicuously as possible. Daemon narrowed his eyes and then without giving it a second thought made his way to the girl. While he approached he stared at the back of her head but when he was only a few feet away she turned around and widened her eyes when she noticed his armour. Swiftly and sleekly as a cat the girl turned to the side and ran towards a little alley that led into the more gloomy and decrepit streets of the city.

The trader shouted a loud "Come back you little bitch!" but Daemon didn't pay attention to him. Instead he followed the girl as quickly as he could and passed the rest of the trader's booths until he entered the alleyway as well. It was dark and he couldn't see a lot but he was able to hear her fast steps on the stone ground. She was fast, yes, but Daemon was faster. She barely made it around a corner when he managed to grab her by her upper arm and stop her. The girl squeaked in surprise and started to hit and push at his upper body at once but his grip was like iron and she didn't stand a chance against him.

"Let me go, seven hells!" she cursed and Daemon watched her helpless attempts while examining her more closely.

Her eyes were somewhere between green and hazel but in the dim light he wasn't sure. She had soft features, high cheekbones and soft-looking lips that were drawn into a pout at the moment. And then there were her blonde-reddish hair of course that fell straight to her chest which rose and fell rapidly right now. Then his eyes wandered up to her face again and he could read her expression as both determined and fearful.

"I didn't do anything, let me go at once," she hissed and squirmed in his grip.

"You stole something."

"I didn't, I swear!" Daemon scoffed and then forcefully reached into the pocket of her linen dress. The girl tried to push him away and hide what laid in her pocket but he managed to grab it and triumphantly held the necklace in the air.

"You didn't?"

She dropped her gaze and thoughtfully chewed on her lower lip.

"Please. I'll give it back, but please don't chop off my hand."

She looked so pathetic and whiny that Daemon had to surpress a smirk. He wouldn't get blinded by her show though so he pulled her closer.

"You know that you have to get punished for this. It's the law, little one."

Her eyes literally begged him and he saw her buttom lip tremble.

"Please, my prince. Please have mercy."

He chuckled quietly. "You're not well educated, girl. Because you should know that I'm not a merciful man."

She tried to fight him again and pushed at his arm in order to make him loosen his grip but of course Daemon just watched her amused.

"What's your name, little one?"

"Jeyne," she whispered almost inaudible.

"Jeyne…," he repeated. "You did something very stupid there, didn't you? And I will have to do something about it."

His voice was low and raspy, almost intimidating and a shiver ran down Jeyne's spine. All of a sudden he started to walk and dragged her with him. She tried to escape and started to shout for help but of course no one would dare help her against the prince of the city.

"What are you doing, let me go!!" she screamed but Daemon simply ignored her complaints and went about his way. She didn't know where he was taking her and that made her feel nervous and panicky. What if he would chop off her hand? That was what the gold cloaks usually did with thieves and this was the rogue prince who was famous for being especially cruel and brutal. Or what if he would kill her?

Jeyne pulled and turned in his grip, hit him with her fist against his chest but he only tightened his hand around her arm while not even looking at her. It was so dark that she couldn't see where he was taking her at first and since she was blind with fear and fright, she had no eyes for her surroundings. Jeyne only realized where they were when Daemon stopped in front of a wooden door which he opened smoothly and dragged her with him.

"What are you doing? Let me go, please."

She hated how weak her voice sounded but at the same time Jeyne was unable to hide her panic. She had no choice but to follow him and then he stopped again once he stood in front of the inn keeper. It was the raven's rest, of course. A place for the more worthy population of king's landing and therefore a place for the prince.

"What is this, what are we doing here?" she demanded to know but was ignored once more.

"My prince. How can I serve you?" The man asked not even looking at the girl he had dragged with him for a second.

"I just need a quiet place. A room preferably."

The inn keeper nodded and bowed his head so low that he almost bumped his head against the counter.

"Of course. You will have the best room of all. Only the best for my prince."

Daemon was immune to his false friendliness and just nodded graciously. Then Jeyne felt herself getting pulled again and her captor roughly and without caring if she got hurt dragged her up the stairs.

"Stop it, what are you doing? Please, I don't want to…"

She squirmed and refused to follow him but if only she was a little stronger because she wasn't able to do anything to fight the rogue prince off. A few seconds later she found herself in front of a door and then in the blink of an eye they were in a room that was quite comfortable and big for an inn.

The walls were made of rough-hewn stone and darkened by years of soot from the hearth below. It was lit, filled the room with a comfortable warmth and the scent of burned cedar got into her nose. There was also a small writing desk and two chairs and a four poster bed that was the center of the room. But that was not where Daemon was heading now because he forcefully pushed Jeyne on one of the two chairs and then towered over her.

"P-Please don't kill me. I swear it upon everything I have, I will never steal again," she whimpered and looked up pleadingly to him with those deer eyes that drove Daemon insane.

"You swear it upon everything you have? You have nothing, little flower. You are nothing but a common stupid little girl who was unwise enough to get caught by me."

"Please," she breathed again and twitched when the prince took hold of her chin.

"You don't think criminals should get punished for their crimes?"

She nodded with wet eyes and her hands anxiously gripped the chair below her.

"They should. But please… Please just don't kill me."

He laughed out and it confused her so much that she forgot about her fear for a moment.

"I'm not gonna kill you, little girl. But you do know what's the punishment for stealing?"

"Yes," she whispered with a trembling buttom lip.

"Say it," Daemon commanded.

"You chop off their hand."

She droped her gaze and just wished with her whole heart that she had stayed home earlier.

"Yes. Do you want that to happen to you?"

She shook her head so quickly that her hair was flying through the air. "N-No, please not."

Daemon smirked and then straightened up to walk around the room.

"Well, that's unfortunate."

"J-Just lock me in a cell for a while…. Or I could work for the merchant I stole from."

He tilted his head at her and then his hand connected with her jaw again.

"No," he hummed and Jeyne felt her heart drop to her legs.

"You're gonna serve me in another way, little flower."

She freezed, couldn't form a thought in her head from feeling so scared when his finger grazed over her skin.

"You're a lovely sight, sweetheart. Has anyone ever had you?"

Jeyne couldn't answer. She feared that she might start to cry if she opened her mouth so she pressed her lips tightly together while the king's brother watched her curiously.

"Has your flower been plucked, little one?"

Her heart was pounding so rapidly that she thought she might die and Jeyne dug her nails into the palms of her hands in an attempt to get rid of some of the fear and chaos in her stomach. She replied to him by shaking her head slightly and Daemon chuckled contently.

"I thought so. A pure little innocent thing like you wouldn't give herself to a man before marriage, isn't that right? Though you're very far away form being innocent."

Jeyne squeezed her eyes as she felt his hand traveling down to her neck and then his fingers stroke the thin and sensitive skin there.

"You really are a little flower. So vulnerable and pretty. And so ready to be plucked."

Her fear was now overshadowed by a panic creeping up in her belly that spread all over her body and made her see white.

"Please, no, my prince, don't do it, please. I'm begging you, just don't – "

Jeyne squirmed on the chair trying to fight him off but was caught off when he wrapped a hand around her throat.

"You know better than to do this, girl," he sighed and his green eyes flashed with anger and amusement which was an odd combination.

"You deserve this. You broke the law. You took something that isn't yours and now I'm gonna take something that isn't mine but I'll make it mine. Consider this your punishment."

A croaked gasp left her throat and her face started to redden while he tigthened his hand around her neck. She tried to peel his hand off by pulling at it but Daemon made her suffer a little longer before he loosened his grip. Jeyne greedily inhaled the dry air in the room and a single tear ran down her face.

"On your knees. Now," he hissed but she painfully shook her head trying to activite any kind of pity or humanity in the prince.

"Please, my prince, I'm supposed to save myself for marriage… And I'm scared…," she cried and Daemon forcefully pulled the girl to the stone floor. Her knees achingly brushed over the floor but she really had bigger problems right now so she ignored the sting.

"You should be grateful I let you off this easily. I could have your hands for what you did. And you're lucky to be taken by a dragon, little flower. It's an honour for a filthy little common girl like you."

Jeyne tried to stand up to flee from him but he just grabbed her hair and pushed her down again.

"Ohh sweetling, there's no need to make this that hard."

"Fuck you," she spat angrily. "Let me go, I don't want this."

Daemon brushed over her hair in a gentle way and it only made her even angrier. "Shh. Be quiet and open your mouth."

Her mouth tensed and she determindely pressed her lips together.

"I'm not gonna open my mouth for you, you little bastard," Jeyne hissed but then she let out a gasp when Daemon smacked her across the face.

"One more disrespectful word out of your slutty mouth and you'll regret ever raising your voice to me."

His voice sounded so cold that something inside tightened and her next words got stuck in her throat.

"Good. Now open your mouth."

That, Jeyne wouldn't do. She would never let him enter her mouth let alone be used to his liking.

"No," she breathed which earned her another slap.

"Do it now. You forget that this is your punishment for a crime that you've committed. You'd be smart to obey me or you'll face much worse and more painful conequences."

Daemon's fingers suddenly enclosed around her nose so the air entering her body was cut off. In a matter of seconds Jeyne realized why he was doing it but she remained stubborn and refused to open up for him.

"Open, little flower. You have no choice."

When she finally accepted that she would have to open her mouth soon because she'd suffocate otherwise Jeyne parted her lips just a tiny bit so she could swallow some fresh air but to her misfortune Daemon seized his chance and pushed two fingers past her lips.

"There we go, sweet girl. Oh and you have such a warm perfect fucking mouth. I know it will feel so good around my cock."

He had grown more eager now with the prospect of inserting himself into this heavenly warmth so he quickly and singlehandedly loosened the belt and then his pants to free his already half-hardened cock. But once his manhood was exposed he felt a sting in his hand and pulled it away from the girl.

"Fuck," he cursed watching the blood leak from the spot where she had bitten him.

Jeyne took advantage of the situation and quick as the wind jumped to her feet and made her way to the door. This was her only chance to escape, she would rush downwards and then through the streets of king's landing. No matter where, just away from Daemon.

But the thoughts about her plan were cut off when she was suddenly pulled back before she even could reach the door. A desperate and frustrated cry left her mouth and she felt how the prince dragged her down to her knees again. Then he clenched his hand around her chin and the angered expression on his face made her fear the consequences of her attempt.

"Stupid little slut. You think you can escape from me? I will fuck your little hole, no matter if you're willing or not. You've got yourself in this position, don't forget that."

He forcefully opened her jaw and pushed his cock past her lips. It was so sudden and powerful that she was unable to fight back and Daemon let out a deep groan.

"Oh seven hells."

He had his eyes closed and fully ignored the way Jeyne tried to move away from his member. He was heavy and veiny and tasted a little salty. She had never seen a cock before let alone had one in her mouth and the fact that he and not her future husband was the first one to do these things with her brought tears to her eyes.

But that was not the only thing bothering her. Daemon bruised her throat at a quick pace and hit the back of it every time which left her gagging and choking. She wanted to get away and make him pull back but Daemon held her head in place while taking what he wanted.

"Yeah, that's a good girl. You have a good fucking mouth. Who would've thought?"

Jeyne let out a cry and pushed against his thighs in order to get him to leave her alone but Daemon just laughed about her attempts.

"You're gonna take it, sweetheart. And you know you deserve it after what you've done. You can be glad that I haven't chopped your dirty little hands off."

He was so deep inside of her mouth that his balls pressed against her face and Jeyne felt like throwing up. She choked and felt tears rolling down her face but of course the prince didn't pay any attention to it. He just growled to himself and looked down to the kneeling girl while smirking crookedly.

Daemon didn't last long. He had found a liking in the little common girl and was more than pleased with the way she felt around his cock and so after merely a couple of minutes that had felt like hours to Jeyne he hissed sharply, threw his head back and then his seed shot down her throat. She gasped surprised and instinctively tried to make his cock slip out but but Daemon wanted to make sure that she swallowed everything so he held her head with both hands and sighed contently as he looked down to her.

"Oh seven hells," he moaned and ran his right hand over her soft hair.

He still wouldn't let go off her so Jeyne desperately looked up to him which almost made his cock swell again. And then he finally loosened his grip on her head and she immediately brought distance between them to cough and deeply inhale fresh air. She was a sight, Daemon thought. Her hair was messy and stood in all directions and her eyes looked glossy and like she was far away with her thoughts. His assault had made her cheeks turn red and of course the wetness on her face was well visible.

"Come here," Daemon spoke a little softer now and reached out to grab her arms.

"N-No," she coughed and hit his arm but he just picked her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the bed.

"You wanna do this the hard way, huh?" he spitted and threw her on the mattress.

Instead of pinning her down at once Daemon stood next to the bed and towered over her watching her with arched eyebrows. For a moment Jeyne was too frightened to try and flee again so she looked up to him with wide eyes instead.

"You have two options now, babygirl. I'm either gonna prepare your tight cunt for me or I'll just take you like this which will be a lot more painful for you. It depends on you. If you continue to be such an ungrateful bitch I swear I'll shove my cock inside you and press your head in the cushions so I don't have to listen to your pathetic crying and screaming."

To say she was frightened was an understatement. Jeyne couldn't get a word out and just silently watched him while he climbed onto the bed. Daemon thought that he perhaps had broken her now because she didn't fight back when he crawled to lay on top of her. Yet he wanted didn't want to give her too much space to resist which was why he took both her wrists in one of his big hands and pinned them above her head. A single tear rolled down her flushed cheeks which Daemon wiped away with his pointer finger.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," he whispered. "I like seeing your tears way too much."

His smirk made her let out a sob but he quickly surpressed it by pressing his lips on hers. In the meantime his hands came down to find more naked skin and soon he couldn't wait any longer. He had barely seen anything of her so he clenched his hands around the fabric covering her chest and ripped it apart. Jeyne jolted and her hands instinctively covered her breasts which Daemon commented with a dissatisfied scoff. He pinned her hands down once more while regarding her upper body.

It was too much for her, the way his eyes flashed and this mischievious look on his face that screamed: 'I'm thinking about all the things that I want to do to you.' Jeyne squeezed her eyes as though it would make her disappear and only opened them again when she felt a big hand cupping and then kneading her left breast. His hand was cold and rough and she felt herself getting goosebumps.

"You have some pretty tits," he growled and even if it was supposed to be a compliment it only made the lump in her throat thicken. She felt the urge to run and push him back and wash his touch and scent off her body.

"Please," she whimpered because although she knew that Daemon was as cruel as a man could be she hoped that she would be able to move a little something in him.

"Please don't. I'm scared."

Her voice was so thin and quiet that he had to tilt his head in order to hear her. His hand slowly approached her body and Jeyne tensed fearing what he would do. But he gently stroke the side of her face and held her almost as if she was made of glass.

"Shhh," was all he said and then Jeyne shrieked again as she felt how Daemon ripped her dress further so it loosely hang around her belly. He took advantage of her surprise and pulled it down until her whole body was bare underneath his gaze and it was so much to take in that the prince needed a second to collect himself.

"Gods be good," he hummed and started to slowly draw circles on her stomach. "Aren't you a pretty little thing? Can't wait to make this body all mine."

Before Jeyne was able to protest he had forced a hand between her legs and she didn't stand a chance when Daemon spread them. Suddenly she was filled with a new determination to make him stop which probably was caused by her body realizing that she was in great danger right now because her legs started to kick him and her whole body twitched and turned. He reacted quickly though.

"Stupid slut," he cursed and pressed with his one hand on her hips while his other squeezed her neck. "I thought I made myself clear."

She wasn't able to keep up her fighting for long and soon she fell back on the bed again. Daemon wasn't done with punishing her though because he threatingly flared his nostrils without saying anything which only made her feel even more anxious. His hand stayed around her neck while he went back to spreading her legs by pushing a knee between them. Jeyne's eyes filled with tears as she felt the coldness of his skin against her thighs. She mumbled something that he couldn't understand but it sounded like a desperate cry that made his eyes darken with lust.

This was the moment when Jeyne understood something. This was exactly what he wanted. He got off on seeing her cry and struggle. The thing he enjoyed the most about all of this was the power in it. She was a poor common girl without any power in this world. There was nothing she was able to do against him and Daemon would never face justice for his actions which he knew. Because he was Daemon Targaryen, commander of the city watch and brother to the king. He could do whatever he wanted and Jeyne could do nothing but endure it. By crying and begging she only fueled his desire because it made him aware of the power he held over her at this moment.

Jeyne was snapped back to reality when his hand cupped her sex. She wanted to scream and cry and let out her desperation but she forced herself not to. She simply didn't want to give him the satisfaction and she definitely didn't want to give him what he wanted. So her lips were pressed together and the only sign of her fear were the tears spilling from her eyes every few seconds. She was still and stiff when his finger ran up and down her slit to find that she was dry as a desert.

"Poor girl," Daemon whispered and his free hand enclosed around her chin. "You don't like that?"

Jeyne didn't know if she was supposed to answer and she especially didn't know if she wanted to answer. But eventually her frustration took over and she rapidly shook her head.

"N-No," she said with her shivering voice.

He nodded as if he actually understood and his finger wandered up to her pearl. The girl's lower lip trembled and Daemon precisely watched her face while he started to rub it in tight circles.

"N-No," she repeated and pushed at his arm between her legs.

"Yes," he answered and didn't seem to care about her attempt to get rid of him. "Wanna see this cunt taking my fingers. You can be happy about it. You know I initially wanted to give you a special treat with my tongue but you have missed your chance by behaving like a bratty bitch."

Jeyne didn't know if he had actually punished with this but she didn't think about it for long because suddenly Daemon pushed a finger inside of her hole that was still far from being soaked. She had definitely already experienced more painful things but still it felt aching and uncomfortable so she jolted away from his hand.

"No, you're gonna take it," he breathed against her hand. "You're gonna take it like an obedient whore. And then you're gonna take my cock. The only fucking reason why I'm doing this is so you won't soak these sheets with your blood once I shove my cock inside of you."

His thumb now pressed into her bundle of nerves and Jeyne hated the way she felt a heat rising in her cheeks. Why did her body betray her like this? She despised everything about what was happening here right now but no matter how hard she tensed and tried to move away from him soon she heard a wet noise every time Daemon's finger moved inside of her. Of course the prince noticed it as well.

"What's that, mhm? You like this, don't you?" he chuckled and added a second finger.

For a moment Jeyne tensed and felt a painful stretch in her core but he didn't hesitate for a second and cruelly moved the two digits to scissor her open.

"I thought you despised this. And now I suddenly have you dripping for me? You're a filthy cock-hungry slut. Worthless and pathetic. Only good thing about you are your holes."

It actually sounded like he hated her and despite feeling just the same way about him Jeyne had a dark and bitter feeling in her stomach. She was so scared of this man who was a lot stronger than her and was able to do anything he wanted to her right now. No one would save her or come looking for her here.

Her body stiffened which Daemon felt in the way she clenched around him and he slapped her cunt roughly before going back to fingering her. He was eager now, blind with the desire for her tight hole that he was sure would feel so good clenching around him. She was already hugging his fingers so perfectly and he could only imagine what it would do to his cock.

He continued his assault on her pearl and in her hole for a few more minutes but then Daemon grew too impatient. He drew away from her core and when his hand came down to wrap around his shaft Jeyne eye's sprang open.

"N-No, no, no, please."

She didn't care about begging now, didn't care if she was giving him what he desired rather than being able to make a difference. Fear clouded her senses and she just had to put everything into making him stop. She only now realized how big he actually was and how uncomfortable this would be. His fingers had been nothing in comparison.

"Please," Jeyne pleaded and tears fell down to her cheeks. "Please, it's so big and it's gonna hurt so badly, please… I don't want it, don't make me."

Daemon sighed and a smirk appeared on his voice while he leaned down to press a kiss on her brow.

"Oh sweet girl…," he cooed and ran the tip of his cock over her pearl. "Do you think this will hurt more than getting your hand chopped off?"

Jeyne only whimpered in surprised and shrieked when his hand made contact with her cheek.

"Answer me," he ordered.

"N-No I-I don't think s-so," she replied to his question and closed her eyes in desperation when his hand soothingly caressed where he had hit her.

"That's right. So you should be grateful I'm doing this."

"B-But please…. P-Please be g-gentle. I'm scared."

Daemon pouted sarcastically and kissed her cheek. "Oh I will, babygirl. Why do you think I prepared you for me?"

Jeyne didn't know whether he was mocking her or actually telling the truth but there was no time for her to think about it further because then his cock applied pressure on her hole and he started to work his tip inside of her. It hurt so much that she held her breath for a moment. Perhaps the wetness leaking from her hole made this better but she still felt like he was ripping her apart. She couldn't even say anything and complain. All she could do was stare up to him with wide eyes while Daemon worked himself inside of her inch by inch.

"Fuck…. Oh fucking hells, that's right," he moaned with closed eyes. "Gonna tear my fucking cock off, gods be good."

Jeyne just hoped that it wouldn't take him long to finish so she was freed from this unbearable pain as quickly as possible but she couldn't rely on that so she closed her eyes while forcing herself to breathe. It hurt like hell and she felt like her insides were being tortured but she would do this. She had experienced a lot of shitty things in her past and this one wouldn't bring her down. 'Just breathe,' she told herself. 'Don't cry and don't beg because this is exactly what he wants.'

Another part of her urged her to just let out all of her emotions because perhaps this would make him finish faster but Jeyne couldn't let him humiliate her like this. A little amount of dignity was actually left inside of her and she rather would want him to continue his assault a few more minutes than give him the satisfaction to see her so vulnerable and weak.

He was fully inside of her now and Jeyne had to surpress a sob. He was so big that she felt his veins grazing her walls and she didn't know how his cock fitting inside of her was physically possible. Her core was pulsating and all of her senses were on alert because of the intrusion. She dug her nails into the palms of her own hands, anything to direct her attention to something else rather than the intense pain in her center.

Daemon on the other hand dropped his head to his chest and enjoyed feeling her tight walls hugging his cock. He inhaled a few times before backing out of her a little and then forcefully pushed back inside. Jeyne couldn't surpress a gasp and new tears formed in her eyes.

"Yes that's right," he grunted. "What a good fucking cunt. Knew you had to be good for some things."

His degrading words suddenly filled her with anger and she opened her mouth to hiss something at him but Daemon was faster. He pressed a hand on her mouth surpressing whatever it was she had wanted to say and watched her dangerously.

"Can't listen to your annoying voice anymore. Just stay fucking quiet and lay still. S'all I ask of you."

He now started to fuck her at a steady pace that made her eyes widen every time he filled her to the brim. It was so far from feeling good that Jeyne wondered how women were actually enjoying this. Or was this simply because Daemon didn't want her to feel good? His hand on her mouth loosened a little and a smirk formed on his face.

"Don't you hold back, little one," he whispered lowly and ran his thumb over her lip. "Wanna see you cry those pretty tears. I know it hurts, angel. Let me hear how much."

With a sharp thrust in her core he forced a little whine out of her and her facade crumbled.

"N-No," she cried again and she turned her head to the side just so she wouldn't have to look at him anymore. But Daemon hummed disapprovingly and he connected his hand to her chin to adjust her to his liking.

"You can't escape from me, sweetling. You're gonna take it. You're gonna take all of it because you don't have a fucking choice."

His thrusts became more intense now and Jeyne had to bite her bottom lip in order to hide the pain she was feeling.

"Gonna fill you up with my seed. Make your pretty little body swollen and claim you. You're mine from now on." His hand started to toy with her breasts and nipples while his other was occupied with holding her hips now.

"Every time another man will take you you will remember that it was me who took your innocence. It was me who defiled and ruined you. You'll remember my touch, my hands on your body and my cock in your cunt."

He picked up his speed even more and Jeyne was too exhausted to hold anything back so she twitched and whined every time his cock bruised her walls. Her core ached and burned and all she wanted was to get a minute of peace but she knew better than to try and stop him. His grip on her hips and chest was firm and Jeyne just closed her eyes praying that he would release soon.

And he did. After another few minutes he let out little growls and his thrusts became sloppy and then Daemon finally collapsed on top of her and pressed her into the bed with the weight of his body.

"Fuck…," was all he managed to grunt before he stopped pushing into her and laid still on top of her.

Jeyne stiffly waited and counted the seconds until he would finally release her but he took his time. Panting heavily he thrusted into her again to make sure his seed stayed inside of her and then he pulled himself out. It burned at first and she pressed her legs together but soon it faded and for the first time in what had felt like hours her core was able to relax a little.

She turned her head to the side so she didn't have to look at him and this time Daemon actually let her. He sighed deeply and then slowly rolled himself off her.

"Oh gods be good. Who would've thought that this was exactly what I needed tonight."

It sounded like he was speaking to himself so Jeyne didn't bother to answer him and instead stared at the wall next to her. Daemon grabbed his clothes from the floor and got dressed while he watched her with a smirk that she couldn't see. Once he was done he approached the bed again and Jeyne who heard his steps coming closer cramped.

"I'll let you go, little girl. But only because your cunt was so fucking tight."

He slapped her arse twice without Jeyne looking at him and then straightened up. She anxiously waited and just prayed that he would finally leave the room but it was so quiet in the room that she only heard her own heavy breathing.

"Do not get ungrateful now, you little whore," he whispered dangerously. "You will be a good girl and properly say goodbye to your prince while looking at him."

Jeyne felt numb from the fear taking over her and slowly turned her head although everything inside her tensed up.

"Goodbye, my prince," she breathed and waited for his reaction.

Daemon drew his mouth in a smirk and then his hand came down to her arse one more time.

"There you go. And if you'll steal again make sure you'll do it during my watch."

With these words the rogue prince finally left the room. Jeyne waited and listened to his steps that became more quiet until everything was silent. Only then did she get up and put on the clothes that were ready for her on the table. She smiled softly and then rushed to the door to open it energetically only to look into her husband's face that was drawn with a crooked smile.

"How did I do?" he whispered and Jeyne chuckled.

"Almost too good," she breathed and Daemon gently pushed her back until they were back inside the room.

"I feel like I should be concerned by your desire to have me chase you and then pretend to take you against your will, darling."

She rolled her eyes and wrapped her arms around his back.

"Noooo don't overthink it," Jeyne giggled and kissed his cheek.

"How did I do as a common girl?" she then asked.

"You know exactly how well you did," Daemon hissed with small eyes and held the side of her face.

"Would you be open to do it again?" Jeyne begged him with her eyes and took his hand into hers.

He pretended to think but deep down she knew that he wouldn't refuse her. He never could.

"Maybe," he eventually sighed and leaned down to kiss her.