#it was the worst thing I’ve had to go through

[nameless-jamie]

Been working on smth…

Jamie Tartt x ???? Fem! reader

TW: suggestive innuendos, kissing, cursing

A/N: Hi guys I’ve been working on smth new! Here’s a snippet. I wanted to see your reactions to it (and maybe you can guess what Jamie’s and Y/N backstory is) or maybe you have any other ideas for it.

The first thing Y/N registered was warmth—soft, steady, and entirely too comfortable. The second was the distinct feeling of being trapped. She blinked against the morning light filtering through Jamie’s curtains, her cheek pressed against a firm, bare chest, his arm slung lazily around her waist.

Her breath hitched.

Jamie was already awake. She could feel his gaze on her before she even looked up. When she did, he was smirking, tousled hair a mess against his pillow, eyes heavy with sleep but sharp with amusement.

“Mornin’, love.” His voice was low, husky from sleep, tinged with something else—something knowing.

Y/N swallowed. Her mind raced through fragmented memories—his hands on her waist, her name a rasp against his lips, laughter between tangled sheets, the way he had kissed her like he never wanted to stop.

She shifted slightly, and his grip instinctively tightened, fingers splayed across her back as if he had no intention of letting go just yet.

“Jamie,” she started, voice quieter than she intended.

He hummed, watching her with that infuriatingly pleased expression. “Yeah?”

Her lips parted, but no words came. What was she supposed to say? Good morning, thanks for ruining me last night?

Jamie, as always, seemed to enjoy her silence. His smirk softened, eyes flickering over her face before he reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Y’look good in my bed,” he murmured. “Knew you would.”

Her stomach flipped.

She really should say something. Something normal, something casual—Haha, yeah, fun night, mate!—but she was still pressed against his bare skin, still feeling the ghost of last night on her lips, and Jamie knew it.

So she did the only thing she could.

She buried her face back into his chest with a groan.

Jamie chuckled, his hold on her tightening, his lips brushing the top of her head. “Yeah, alright,” he muttered, voice full of something dangerously close to fondness. “Five more minutes.”

Y/N had absolutely no excuse.

No drunken mishaps to blame, no moment of weakness fueled by too many shots of tequila. No, she had walked into this with full awareness, with every nerve in her body on high alert, and still—still—she had let Jamie Tartt kiss her like he had every right to, touch her like he already knew the shape of her body by heart, and pull her into his bed like this was inevitable.

And the worst part?

It felt inevitable.

She could try to deny it, but it wouldn’t change the way she had let herself lean into his touch, the way she had curled into him in her sleep like she belonged there.

Jamie’s fingers traced lazy circles against her back, warm and absentminded, like he did this every morning, like he wasn’t at all concerned about what happened next.

She, on the other hand, was very concerned.

Clearing her throat, she peeked up at him, only to find that infuriating smirk still playing at his lips.

“I can feel you thinking,” he murmured. “It’s too early for that, love.”

Her stomach flipped at the rasp in his voice, but she forced herself to focus.

“How did we even get here?” she mumbled, more to herself than him.

Jamie tilted his head like he was actually considering the question. “Well,” he drawled, his smirk widening, “if I remember right, you were lookin’ at me all night like you wanted to snog me senseless, and I, bein’ the gentleman I am, simply obliged.”

Y/N groaned, shoving at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “That is not what happened.”

Jamie arched a brow. “Oh? So you weren’t the one who dragged me back to yours last week after that pub quiz?”

She glared at him. “That was different.”

“How?”

“Because I was frustrated!”

Jamie grinned. “Yeah, and I helped with that, didn’t I?”

She let out an exasperated sigh, but Jamie wasn’t finished.

“Alright, so what about the other night? When you kept findin’ excuses to touch me? Yeah, yeah, don’t give me that look, I clocked it, Y/N. Thought I was gonna have to start chargin’ you for all the times you grabbed my arm.”

Her face burned. “It was dark, I needed to make sure you were still there.”

Jamie’s smirk softened, something flickering behind his blue eyes. “I’m always here.”

Her breath caught.

He said it so easily, like it was a fact, like he wasn’t completely rewriting the rules between them with a single sentence.

Jamie studied her for a moment before nudging her chin up with his knuckles. “You gonna run?” he asked, voice quieter now.

She should. That was the smart thing to do. But running felt impossible when he was looking at her like this, like he was waiting for her, like he had been waiting longer than either of them wanted to admit.

So she swallowed, exhaled, and did the only thing she could think of.

She kissed him.

And Jamie—smug, beautiful, impossible Jamie—sighed against her lips like he had just won the easiest bet of his life.

[phantomof-themcu]

Unyielding: Claws and Scales

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Summary: After a long night of dealing with the politics of your divine family, you return home only to find Loki waiting—furious, wounded, and unwilling to let her disappearance go unchallenged. What begins as a clash of wills turns into something far more intimate, as anger, love, and longing collide in the sanctuary of their penthouse. But beneath the sharp words and burning touches lies a deeper truth—one that neither of them dares to speak aloud, yet both are desperate to prove.

Pairing: mcu/avengers!Loki x black!fem!goddess!reader (It is alluded that you are something similar to, if not, MCU Bast. Or, just represented by panthers)

Word Count:1.5k

Author’s Note: Hey y’all. This is my first fanfic I’ve written since I was like…I don’t know, 10? Regardless, I just felt like I haven’t seen enough pairings of certain characters (from all fandoms) with a black reader. I’ve loved Loki my entire MCU trip and I used to wish someone would write a fanfic for me when I was younger so, I guess this is for anyone who’s wished the same thing. Here you go! Also, let me know if y’all want me to write the “spicy” scene. I’m not opposed to it. Please, like, comment, and share!

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The moment I slipped through the doors of our penthouse, I exhaled, willing the tension in my shoulders to dissipate. The council meeting had been insufferable. To reprimand both my little brother Khonshu and my little sister Ammit was an ordeal I would rather not repeat. The Ennead never changed—prideful, stubborn, and exhausting.

I eased off my sandals, flexing my toes against the cool floor, savoring the contrast after a night spent standing in the presence of too many self-important gods. My siblings. But before I could take another step, the lights flared on.

My body tensed instinctively. The hairs on my arms stood on end, and a startled yelp—a distinctly feline sound—escaped my lips before I could swallow it.

"So much for cat-like stealth."

Loki’s voice was cool, but there was something simmering beneath it, something sharp. He stood in the doorway of our bedroom, his hand still on the switch, his expression unreadable. His emerald eyes glowed in the artificial light, his face cast in a mask of restrained anger.

I sighed, brushing an errant curl from my face. "Handling business that did not concern you."

Loki did not move, but his presence filled the space between us. "Where were you?"

"Loki—"

"Where?" The question was no longer gentle.

I turned, walking toward the living room, letting my fingers trace over the sleek furniture as I put space between us. "The council meeting ran long. Our domains required mediation. I was needed."

His steps were soundless as he followed me. "What have I told you about leaving without a word?" His voice was lower now, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

I turned to face him, arms crossing over my chest. "And what have I told you about caging me?"

Loki's jaw tightened, his lips a thin line. "You speak as if I wish to control you. I only ask for the courtesy of knowing where you go."

"Courtesy? Or control?" My voice was a blade, slicing between us. My gentle accent wasn't so gentle in that moment.

His nostrils flared, his hands clenching at his sides. "Do not twist my words, my panthress. Do you know what it does to me, waking to find you gone with no trace? Do you know the madness that grips me when I imagine the worst? You may be a goddess, but even gods fall. And I—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply.

A pause stretched between us, charged and fragile. I could feel the anger rolling off him in waves, barely contained, crashing against the unyielding shore of my calm.

I took a step closer. "You fear losing me."

His eyes darkened. "I know what it is to lose. I know what it is to be abandoned, to be discarded like something worthless. Do not make me feel that way again."

The confession settled between us, raw and aching.

I inhaled, reaching up to touch his face, my fingers grazing the sharp angles of his jaw. "I am not leaving you. I will always return to you."

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into my touch before pulling away, pacing. "I do not need reassurances. I need actions. I need you to understand that when you disappear without a word, it is not just an absence—it is a wound. And wounds, my dearest, fester."

His voice was not just anger; it was pain, old and deep. A wound that even time had not healed.

I studied him, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled into fists as if he were holding himself together.

"Loki, you are not the only one who has lost," I murmured, stepping closer, pressing my palm against his chest. "You are not the only one who has been left behind. But I am not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."

His gaze locked onto mine, searching for the truth in my words. And whatever he found there made his anger shift, change. It did not disappear, but it softened, melted into something else entirely.

His hands found my waist, his grip firm but no longer rigid. "Swear it."

I arched a brow. "You doubt me?"

His lips quirked, the ghost of a smile. "I doubt everything. It is my nature."

I exhaled a laugh, my fingers tracing the sharp lines of his collarbone. "Then let me prove it to you."

The air between us thickened, charged. The battle of words was over, but another battle—a different kind—was about to begin.

Loki was not gentle. He was desperate, a storm restrained for too long, and now finally unleashed. The way his hands found my skin, his lips claimed mine—it was not merely passion. It was possession, a reminder of all the times I had slipped through his fingers before and a vow that he would not allow it again.

I matched him, unyielding. He may be a god of mischief, chaos if you will, but I was not willing to beam down. I was grace, control, fluidity. For every desperate grasp, I gave an effortless caress, for every demanding press of lips, I met him with measured defiance. We moved through the space like warriors in battle, a clash of dominance and surrender, a test of limits and breaking points.

He lifted me with ease, pressing me against the cool wall, the contrast of temperature sending a shiver down my spine. His lips moved along my throat, breath hot, words a whisper between fervent kisses. "You make me mad, my sweet panthress. Mad with need, with fear, with want."

I tangled my fingers in his dark hair, pulling just enough to make him groan. "And yet, you still love me."

A low chuckle, dark and full of something possessive. "Hopelessly."

I smiled against his lips before biting down lightly, making him hiss in surprise and pleasure. "Then prove it."

By the time we reached the bed, I was no longer sure where he ended and I began. The moonlight painted patterns on our skin, the ebony glow of a body perfectly fit with its ivory-toned constellation. The city beyond our windows oblivious to the storm that raged within our sanctuary.

Words faded into gasps, into whispered names, into silent promises etched into the very essence of our beings. And when the storm finally settled, when bodies lay entwined and breath slowed, there was no need for more reassurances.

We had spoken in the only language that mattered now.

And in the morning, when the world called for us once more, I knew we would answer it together.

[hisfavegirl]

Endless Battle Of Love - Modern!Jacaerys Velaryon x Female.

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5.

Word Count : 6.3k

Jacaerys Velaryon Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

and also big thanks to @zaldritzosrose ose for let me using yours beautiful dividers 🫶🏻.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the phone as she absorbed her son’s words. Jace stood before her, shoulders squared, jaw set with determination. His gaze, once full of warmth and idealism, was now cold, hardened by what had happened to you.

"Jace," she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "You don’t mean that."

But he didn’t hesitate. "I do." His voice was steady, unshakable. "I’ve spent my whole life trying to do things the right way, trying to be the better man. But look where that got us." He gestured toward the hallway, toward the room where you lay resting after the worst night of your life. "It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough."

Rhaenyra, who had been silent until now, furrowed her brows. "Jace—"

"No," he cut her off, his voice growing firmer. "I’ve already made up my mind. You both know what needs to be done. Cregan and whoever helped him—they won’t stop. And I won’t sit back and watch it happen again."

Alicent shook her head, disbelief written across her face. "You are not that kind of man, Jace."

"Maybe I wasn’t before." His gaze darkened, hands curling into fists at his sides. "But I am now."

A tense silence filled the room.

"And what about the company?" Alicent challenged. "Your father’s legacy? Are you really going to abandon all of it?"

Jace exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. "Luke can handle it. He was never built for this life, but the company? He was born for it."

Alicent scoffed. "And what, you’ll run off to join Daemon, Aegon, and Aemond? You think that’s the answer?"

"It’s the only way to protect her."

That silenced them both.

Jace’s voice softened slightly, but his conviction never wavered. "If I had been more like them from the beginning, if I had their resources, their power—Cregan never would’ve gotten near her." He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "I won’t make that mistake again."

Rhaenyra turned to Alicent , searching her face for any sign of disagreement, but Alicent was staring at Jace with an unreadable expression.

"You approve of this?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice laced with disbelief.

Alicent took a deep breath. "I don’t approve, but I understand."

Jace met her gaze, and for the first time, he saw not just his other mother, but a woman who had once had to make the same choice.

"You can still walk away from this," Rhaenyra tried one last time, her voice laced with desperation. "You don’t have to become like them."

Jace shook his head. "I already am."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Rhaenyra called after him.

He didn’t look back. "To make sure Cregan takes his last breath."

The moment Jace’s fist connected with Cregan’s already bruised face, a sickening crack echoed through the warehouse. The force of the punch sent Cregan’s head snapping to the side, blood spattering onto the cold concrete floor. The men in the room, including Aemond and Aegon, stilled for a brief moment—none of them had seen Jace enter, and none of them expected him to act so brutally right away.

Aegon, still chuckling under his breath, took a swig from his flask and raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, look who's finally embracing the dark side."

Jace ignored him, breathing heavily as he towered over Cregan, who groaned and tried to lift his head. Jace grabbed him by the collar of his torn shirt and yanked him forward, his voice a low, deadly growl. "Did you think I wouldn’t find her?"

Cregan, despite his battered state, let out a weak chuckle, spitting blood onto the floor. "You were too late." His swollen lips twisted into a smirk. "You’ll always be too late."

Jace saw red. He pulled back his fist and landed another brutal punch, this time directly to Cregan’s ribs. The crack that followed told him he had done some serious damage. Cregan coughed, blood trickling down his chin, but that damned smirk never left his face.

Aemond leaned against the wall, watching with an amused expression. "You sure you want to handle this, nephew? You’re getting emotional."

Jace ignored him, seething as he crouched down to meet Cregan’s bloodshot eyes. "You touched her," he whispered, voice trembling with rage. "You made her relive it. You made her beg."

Cregan’s breath hitched slightly, but he quickly masked it with another smirk. "She always begs, doesn’t she?"

Jace didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed the nearest metal pipe and swung it into Cregan’s ribs with full force. The sound of breaking bone filled the warehouse as Cregan screamed, his entire body convulsing from the pain.

"Seven Hells," Aegon muttered, watching with wide eyes.

Jace wasn’t done. He grabbed Cregan’s hair, forcing him to look up. "Where did you get those videos?" His voice was ice. "Who helped you?"

Cregan let out a choked laugh, blood dripping from his lips. "Go to hell."

Jace’s patience snapped. He turned to Aemond, voice deadly calm. "Give me your knife."

Aemond smirked but didn’t hesitate to pull a sleek dagger from his belt and toss it to Jace. Jace caught it effortlessly, twirling it in his fingers before pressing the tip against Cregan’s throat.

"Talk."

Cregan's smirk faltered for the first time. He could see it now—Jace wasn’t just some businessman playing gangster. He wasn’t bluffing.

Aegon clapped his hands, clearly entertained. "Damn, nephew. Maybe I should’ve invited you into the family business sooner."

Jace tightened his grip on the knife, pressing the cold steel against Cregan’s throat.

"Talk."

The word was sharp, cutting through the tense silence of the warehouse. The only sounds were Cregan’s ragged breathing and the faint dripping of blood onto the concrete floor. Jace’s hands were steady, his anger controlled, but barely.

Cregan coughed, a weak chuckle escaping his split lips. "You think this changes anything?" he rasped, his voice hoarse from the beating. "You can break every bone in my body, but it won’t change what happened to her."

Jace saw red.

He slammed the knife into Cregan’s shoulder, burying it deep. Cregan let out a strangled scream, his body jerking against the ropes that held him in place. Blood seeped through his torn shirt, staining the metal chair beneath him.

Aegon whistled lowly. "Damn, Jace. Didn’t think you had it in you."

Aemond, standing in the shadows, smirked but said nothing. His good eye gleamed with interest, watching how Jace handled himself.

Jace leaned in, his voice cold and unforgiving. "You’re going to tell me everything, or I swear to the god, you’ll leave this warehouse in pieces."

Cregan was panting now, sweat mixing with the blood on his face. He swallowed hard, his arrogance faltering for the first time.

"The videos," Jace pressed, twisting the knife slightly, making Cregan groan in pain. "Who helped you get them?"

Cregan let out another broken chuckle. "Does it matter?" His voice was weak, but his smirk returned, even through the pain. "You think she’ll ever be the same after this? You think she won’t flinch every time you touch her?"

Jace’s hand trembled.

Cregan grinned through the pain, his teeth red with blood. "You weren’t there, Jace. You didn’t hear her beg. I did."

The words made something inside Jace snap.

His fist connected with Cregan’s face, then again, and again. Blood splattered onto his knuckles, onto his clothes, onto the floor. Cregan was barely conscious now, his head lolling to the side, but Jace didn’t stop.

"Enough." The voice was calm, but firm.

Aemond.

Jace panted, his chest rising and falling heavily, his bloodied hands still clenched into fists. He turned, glaring at Aemond.

"He hasn’t told us everything," Jace seethed.

Aemond tilted his head, his smirk never fading. "He will. But not if you kill him first."

Jace looked down at Cregan, barely hanging onto consciousness. His body was broken, but he was still breathing.

Aegon sighed, rubbing his temple. "I hate to say it, but Aemond’s right. We need him alive. For now."

Jace clenched his jaw, his breathing still uneven. His entire body was vibrating with rage, but deep down, he knew they were right.

Jace stepped closer, his bloodied hands gripping the arms of Cregan’s chair, his face only inches away.

"You think you broke her?" His voice was steady, low, but laced with quiet fury. "You think you destroyed her just because you put your filthy hands on her?"

Cregan let out a weak chuckle, his swollen lips curling into a smirk. Blood dripped from his nose, but his dark eyes still held amusement. "Oh, Jacaerys," he murmured, voice hoarse. "You still don’t understand, do you?"

Jace’s jaw clenched.

"No matter how many times you beat me, no matter how many threats you make, the damage is done." Cregan's voice was almost gentle, mocking. "She’ll never forget what happened in that jet. She’ll never stop hearing my voice in her ear. And you?" He tilted his head, smirking. "You’ll never stop wondering… wondering if she’ll ever truly be yours again."

Jace’s breathing turned heavy.

Cregan leaned in as much as his restraints allowed, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And if my seed takes root…?" He let the words linger in the air, poison dripping from every syllable.

The world tilted.

Jace’s vision blurred with rage. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. The blood in his veins turned to ice.

"What did you just say?" His voice was barely audible, but it was filled with something terrifying, something dark.

Cregan only grinned wider. "You heard me."

For a moment, no one moved. The entire room held its breath.

Then—

Jace lunged.

His fist connected with Cregan’s jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the warehouse. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. He struck him again. And again. And again.

"You don't get to say that!" Jace roared, his voice raw with fury. His knuckles were split open, but he didn’t care. He wanted to break every bone in Cregan’s body, make him feel even a fraction of the pain he had caused you.

"Jace—" Aemond stepped forward, but Aegon held up a hand, stopping him.

"Let him have this." Aegon’s voice was calm, detached, but there was an understanding in his eyes.

Jace grabbed Cregan by the collar, lifting his barely conscious face. Blood streamed down from his nose, his cheekbone swollen beyond recognition.

"No matter what you did," Jace hissed, "she is not yours. You didn’t break her. You didn’t win."

Cregan laughed, choked and weak, but it was a laugh nonetheless. "We’ll see, Jacaerys," he whispered. "We’ll see."

Jace pulled back his fist, ready to end it—

"Jace!"

A voice.

Not Aegon. Not Aemond.

You.

Jace froze. His entire body locked up, his blood ran cold. Slowly, he turned and there you were.

Standing at the entrance of the warehouse, still wrapped in the oversized hoodie he had given you, your arms trembling at your sides. Your eyes, wide and glassy, flickered between Jace and the broken, bloodied man tied to the chair.

Jace’s chest ached.

You weren’t supposed to see this.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

"Jace… stop." Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it shattered through him like a blade to the gut.

His fingers twitched. His knuckles throbbed.

His rage had consumed him, swallowed him whole.

But at the sound of your voice—

At the look in your eyes—

It all came crashing down.

You hesitated at the entrance, gripping the sleeves of Jace’s hoodie tightly as if the fabric alone could shield you from the weight of the scene before you.

Jace stood like a statue, his shoulders rising and falling with every deep, unsteady breath. Blood dripped from his knuckles, pooling onto the cold concrete floor. Cregan sat before him, a grotesque smirk painted across his bruised and bloodied face.

And then—

"Little dove."

The words slithered into the air, reaching you like a whisper from your worst nightmare.

Your breath hitched.

That name.

That cursed name.

Your stomach twisted violently, and your legs nearly buckled. You felt your nails dig into your palms, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Cregan’s swollen lips curled into something sickly, something taunting. Even bound, even beaten, he still had the audacity to look at you like that.

"Why so shy?" His voice was hoarse but laced with amusement. "You weren’t so quiet when you were beneath me, crying my name, were you?"

Jace moved before he could think.

The sharp crack of his fist against Cregan’s jaw echoed through the warehouse. The force of it sent the chair tipping backward, crashing onto the cold floor.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Jace roared, chest heaving, voice raw. His body trembled with rage, his entire existence consumed by the need to rip Cregan apart, piece by piece.

Aegon and Aemond moved in tandem, each grabbing Jace by the arms, holding him back before he could lunge again.

"Enough!" Aemond snapped, forcing Jace away. "Not here. Not like this., not while she's here"

But Jace barely heard him. His eyes were wild, burning with something untamed, something dangerous.

And then—

"Jace."

Your voice.

Soft. Shaky. But there.

He turned, and his heart clenched. You were still frozen in place, your arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold yourself together. Your lips trembled, your eyes glossy with unshed tears.

But you were looking at him. Not Cregan.

Him.

"Come here." Your voice wavered, barely a whisper. "Please."

Jace exhaled shakily, his fists still clenched, his body still taut with barely restrained fury. But at your words, he took a step. Then another.

And then you met him halfway.

The moment his arms wrapped around you, you felt the tension in his body, the unrelenting tremor of his rage. You pressed yourself against him, your fingers gripping the fabric of his bloodstained shirt.

"It’s over," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

But Jace’s grip on you only tightened. His breathing was still erratic, his body still coiled like a predator ready to strike.

"It’s not over," he muttered darkly, his chin resting against your head. "Not until he’s dead."

You flinched.

Jace felt it.

And it broke him.

With a heavy exhale, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands gently cupping your face. His thumbs brushed against your cheekbones, his touch softer than you had expected.

"You’re safe now," he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself. "I swear to you, he will never touch you again."

You swallowed hard, nodding.

"But you have to let this go," you whispered back. "Please, Jace. If you do this… if you kill him with your own hands… you’ll never be the same."

Jace’s jaw tightened.

"And I don’t want to lose you too."

His breath hitched.

For a long moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to find the right answer in your eyes. As if trying to pull himself back from the edge of the abyss.

Your fingers trembled as they clutched the front of Jace’s shirt, your knuckles turning white. His hands cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that spilled freely down your cheeks.

"Jace…" Your voice cracked, barely a whisper. "You don’t have to do this."

His jaw tightened. His dark eyes, once so warm, were now hardened with an unshakable resolve.

"This is the only way." His voice was low, steady. "The only way to keep you safe."

You shook your head, gripping him tighter as if holding on to the last bit of sanity in this nightmare.

"No. We can run. We can hide—"

"And what then?" he cut you off, his grip on your face tightening just slightly, grounding you. "How long do you think we can run before someone else comes after you? Before another bastard like Cregan thinks he can lay a fucking hand on you?"

You flinched at the name, your breath hitching. Jace cursed under his breath, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his tone softening. "I know this is a lot. But I won’t lose you again. I can’t."

Your chest ached at his words. You had seen many sides of Jace before—the calm, the intense, the possessive—but never like this. Never this raw, this desperate.

"I don’t want to lose you either," you whispered, your voice shaking. "But this world—their world—it’s not you, Jace."

His lips twitched, almost a bitter smile.

"Maybe it wasn’t before," he admitted. "But for you, I’ll make it mine."

You let out a shaky breath, tears slipping from your lashes. Jace caught them with his thumb, his touch unbearably gentle compared to the storm raging behind his eyes.

"You’re my world." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried more weight than anything else in the room. "And I’ll burn everything down before I let anyone take you from me again."

You swallowed hard, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you he was bluffing. That this was a heat-of-the-moment decision, one he would change his mind about once the adrenaline wore off.

But there was nothing.

Only certainty.

"Jace…" Your voice broke.

He kissed you.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just… there. A slow press of lips, grounding you both in the middle of the chaos. A promise. A devotion.

When he pulled back, his hands still framing your face, he exhaled slowly.

"You don’t have to do anything," he murmured. "You don’t have to change. You don’t have to fight. You don’t even have to accept it. But I will do whatever it takes to make sure no one ever touches you again."

More tears fell, but this time, you didn’t fight them. You simply nodded, because deep down, you knew there was nothing you could say to change his mind.

Jacaerys Velaryon had already made his choice.

And you were at the center of it.

Cregan’s laughter echoed through the dimly lit warehouse, sharp and mocking despite the blood dripping from his split lip. He tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

"That was touching," he mused, his voice laced with cruelty. "Truly. I almost felt something."

Before he could say another word, Aegon scoffed and drove his boot into Cregan’s side. The crack of impact echoed in the silence, and a pained grunt escaped Cregan’s lips, but the bastard still had the audacity to smirk.

"Oh, come on, Aegon," he rasped, spitting blood onto the floor. "Is that the best you can do?"

Aemond’s patience snapped. With a swift movement, he delivered a brutal kick to Cregan’s ribs, sending him crashing against the chair he was tied to.

"Shut the fuck up," Aemond hissed, his voice cold as ice. "You don’t get to speak."

You stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your fingers twitching at your sides. You weren’t sure what drew you forward, but your feet moved on their own.

Jace was beside you instantly, his presence steady, unwavering. His fingers brushed against yours in silent reassurance, grounding you. He didn’t stop you, but he was ready—ready to pull you back, ready to shield you, ready for anything.

You took another step closer.

Cregan’s eyes flickered to you, and his smirk widened. "There she is," he murmured, his voice almost affectionate. "My sweet girl."

Your breath hitched. Your body tensed.

Jace moved before you could, his fist colliding with Cregan’s face so hard that his head snapped to the side. Blood dripped from his nose now, but still—still—Cregan laughed.

"What’s wrong, Jace?" he taunted, rolling his shoulders as much as his bindings allowed. "Scared I’ll remind her of what we shared?"

Jace lunged for him, but Aegon and Aemond were quicker, holding him back.

"Don’t give him what he wants," Aemond muttered under his breath, his grip ironclad around Jace’s arm.

Jace was seething, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, his jaw clenched so tight you swore his teeth might crack. But he didn’t take his eyes off Cregan—not for a second.

You swallowed, forcing your legs to stop trembling. You weren’t weak. You wouldn’t be weak. Not anymore.

You stepped forward again, closer this time, until you stood right in front of the man who had once made you feel powerless.

"We didn’t share anything," you said, your voice quiet but steady.

Cregan’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

"You took," you continued, voice growing stronger. "You forced. You stole. But you never had me."

His lips parted slightly, as if about to say something, but for the first time since this nightmare began, he said nothing.

You inhaled deeply, your eyes burning but your resolve unshaken.

"And you never will."

Cregan chuckled, his voice dripping with amusement as he tilted his bruised face up to look at you. Blood was smeared across his jaw, his lip split open from the relentless beatings he had endured, but his arrogance remained intact.

"Come on, sweetheart," he drawled, eyes dark and challenging. "You liked it."

Your stomach twisted, but you refused to flinch.

"I remember how you held onto me, how you begged," he continued, voice low and taunting. "You didn’t push me away then. You clung to me like you wanted it."

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, but you wouldn’t give him the reaction he wanted.

"You’re a liar," you said evenly, voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

Cregan’s grin widened. "Am I?"

You didn’t break eye contact, even as he leaned forward as much as his restraints would allow.

"Admit it," he murmured. "You wanted me, and now you’re too ashamed to face it. That’s why you’re here, why you’re pretending that this was something forced. But you and I both know the truth, don’t we, darling?"

Your stomach churned, but you swallowed back the bile rising in your throat.

Jace stood beside you, completely still. Too still. His body was vibrating with tension, every muscle coiled so tightly it seemed like he might explode. You could feel the rage radiating off him, the way his breathing had deepened, the way his grip on your hand had become crushing.

His knuckles were white.

"Jace—" Aegon started, stepping forward slightly, but Jace didn’t move.

"Say it," Cregan pressed, eyes flickering between you and Jace, clearly enjoying the reaction he was provoking. "Tell him how you moaned for me, how you whispered my name. How you begged me to touch you."

You didn’t blink.

"No."

Cregan’s smirk faltered just slightly.

"No?"

"No," you repeated, your voice unwavering. "I didn’t beg. I didn’t want it. And you didn’t win."

His jaw twitched, his eyes darkening with something deeper, something desperate. You knew what he was trying to do—trying to make you feel small, trying to make you doubt yourself, trying to plant a seed of uncertainty in your mind so he could still hold power over you.

But he didn’t.

And he never would again.

Cregan exhaled sharply, his gaze locked onto you like he was trying to read your mind, trying to find something to latch onto—but there was nothing left for him.

"You can say whatever you want," you added, voice softer now, but no less firm. "It won’t change what happened. It won’t change what you did."

Jace took a slow step forward, his breath brushing against your shoulder.

"And it won’t change what I’m going to do to you," Jace murmured, his voice deathly calm.

Cregan’s grin returned, but this time, it was smaller, weaker.

"I already took everything from you," he sneered.

Jace’s lips twitched. Not into a smile, but into something darker.

"No, you didn’t."

And then, in one swift motion, Jace punched him.

It was brutal. Cregan’s head snapped back, blood splattering from his already broken nose. The sound of bone meeting bone echoed through the warehouse, sharp and unforgiving.

But Jace didn’t stop.

Blow after blow, his fists connected with Cregan’s face, his body, his ribs. It wasn’t wild—it was controlled. Precise. Calculated. Every hit landed exactly where it would hurt the most.

Aegon and Aemond didn’t stop him.

They let him.

And you—

You just watched.

You watched as Cregan’s smirk disappeared, as the confidence drained from his face, as the realization set in that this time, he wasn’t winning.

This time, he was powerless.

Daemon stood in the doorway of the warehouse, his presence commanding as always, yet entirely too casual for the scene in front of him. He twirled a small flash drive between his fingers, the dim light catching on the metal surface. His expression was unreadable, but his tone was laced with amusement.

"Well, well," he drawled, taking a slow step forward. "It seems our dear Cregan wasn’t as untouchable as he thought."

Jace’s knuckles were still bleeding, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stood over Cregan’s barely conscious body. At the sound of Daemon’s voice, he turned his head slightly, but his fists remained clenched.

You, however, were frozen. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched Daemon lazily wave the flash drive in the air.

"This," Daemon continued, smirking, "is what started all of this, isn't it?"

Cregan let out a low, painful chuckle from the floor, spitting out blood before tilting his head up to look at Daemon.

"Bastard," he rasped.

Daemon arched a brow. "Pot, meet kettle."

Your breath felt thin, like you couldn’t get enough air. You knew what was on that flash drive. You knew what Daemon was about to say, but you weren’t ready to hear it.

"Your ex," Daemon said, his gaze flicking toward you now. "He owed Cregan quite a bit of money. And when the time came to pay up, well... he didn’t have much to offer."

Silence.

Aegon shifted uncomfortably, his amusement from earlier fading. Aemond crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. Jace?

Jace was staring at Daemon like he already knew what he was about to say, but he was begging him not to say it.

Daemon tilted his head. "So, he gave Cregan the only thing he had of value." He tossed the flash drive onto the table beside him, watching it clatter against the surface before spinning to a stop. His eyes found yours again.

"He gave him, you."

The words echoed in your mind.

He gave him .you.

Your stomach twisted violently. You felt sick. You wanted to scream, to break something, to run.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Cregan coughed, his laughter weak but taunting. "I suppose you should be thanking him, sweetheart. If it weren’t for that little deal, we never would’ve had our time together."

Jace moved.

It happened so fast that you barely had time to process it. One second, he was standing beside you, the next, he had grabbed Cregan by the collar and slammed him back against the floor.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Jace growled, his voice shaking with fury.

Cregan only smiled through bloodied teeth.

Daemon sighed dramatically. "As much as I’d love to watch you beat him into the ground again, nephew, I do have other business to attend to."

Jace didn’t let go.

Daemon rolled his eyes. "Jacaerys."

The use of his full name made Jace freeze. Slowly, he loosened his grip before shoving Cregan back down with disgust.

You still hadn’t moved.

Daemon looked at you again, his smirk softening just a fraction. "Don’t worry, darling. He won’t be able to use it against you anymore." He tapped the flash drive. "This is the only copy."

You exhaled shakily, your hands trembling at your sides.

Jace reached for you, hesitating for only a moment before his fingers brushed against yours. You flinched at first, but then you let him take your hand, gripping it like a lifeline.

Daemon sighed, stretching. "Well, now that this little mess is cleaned up, what do you want to do with him?" He nudged Cregan’s leg with his boot.

Everyone looked at Jace.

Jace was still staring at you.

"You decide," Daemon added, his voice almost teasing. "After all, this is your revenge story now."

The warehouse felt suffocating, the dim light casting long shadows over the blood-stained floor. The only sound was your own unsteady breathing, the weight of the pistol in your trembling hands making your arms feel heavier than they should.

Cregan knelt before you, barely able to hold his head up after the beating Jace and the others had given him. His face was swollen, blood trickling from his split lip, but despite the state he was in, he still managed to laugh.

"Go on, sweetheart," he rasped, his voice hoarse but laced with amusement. "Do it."

Your grip on the gun tightened.

"You won’t," he continued, tilting his head just enough to meet your eyes. "You’re weak. Just like you were when you begged me to stop."

Jace took a step forward, but Aegon held him back, shaking his head. This was your moment.

Cregan smirked, his swollen eyes filled with condescension. "You couldn’t stop me then, and you can’t stop me now. You don’t have the fucking guts."

Your breathing hitched.

Jace’s voice was low, almost desperate. "You don’t have to do this—"

"Yes, she does," Daemon interrupted smoothly, watching you with keen interest.

Aemond was silent, his expression unreadable, but his fingers twitched at his side, ready to step in if needed.

Cregan chuckled again, shaking his head. "Pathetic."

And then, as if he wanted to die, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the barrel of the gun.

"Go on, princess. Show me you’re not as weak as I know you are."

The room felt impossibly small. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Your fingers curled around the trigger.

You thought of the way he touched you, how he whispered filth into your ear while you cried. How he made you feel small.

How he took from you.

Your vision blurred with tears.

"You’ll never be free of me," Cregan murmured. "I live inside that pretty little head of yours, don’t I? Go ahead. Pull the trigger. But you’ll never forget me."

The safety was already off.

All it took was one movement. One pull. Your hand was shaking, but your heart was screaming.

And then—

You lowered the gun.

The room was dead silent.

Jace exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. Daemon’s smirk widened, almost proud. Cregan scoffed, laughing. "I fucking knew it. You’ll always be—"

You cut him off by raising the gun again— and pulling the trigger. A gunshot rang out, deafening in the enclosed space.

Not at his head.

At his knee.

Cregan screamed, his body jerking as the bullet tore through him, blood pooling beneath his leg. His laughter turned to a choked sob as he doubled over, his hands trembling as he clutched at his ruined knee.

You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the way your body trembled.

"You don’t deserve to die."

Cregan gritted his teeth, groaning in agony.

"That would be too easy."

Jace stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Daemon let out a low whistle. "Well, well. Looks like our girl isn’t as fragile as we thought."

Aegon snorted. "That was kind of hot."

Aemond just smirked.

You let the gun slip from your fingers, the weight of it gone but the gravity of your actions settling deep in your bones.

Jace reached for you instantly, his hands finding your arms, grounding you.

Cregan gasped for breath, his body shaking from the pain. He looked up at you through bleary eyes, his lips curled into a grimace.

"This isn’t over," he rasped.

You tilted your head, eyes void of the fear you once held. "Oh, it is."

Daemon rolled his shoulders. "Guess it’s time to clean up this mess."

Jace pulled you into his arms, whispering against your hair. "It’s over." and this time, you actually believed him.

The warehouse reeked of blood and sweat, the air thick with the sounds of Cregan’s tortured groans. You stood still, watching as Aemond wiped his bloody knuckles on a cloth, his face expressionless. Aegon, on the other hand, was grinning, enjoying the spectacle far too much. Daemon was the only one who seemed utterly unaffected, giving quiet orders to his men as if this were just another day.

But Jace—

Jace stood beside you, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. His hand hovered near yours, hesitant to touch you, unsure if you wanted to be held after everything.

"Come home with me," he said quietly, his voice thick with exhaustion.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you turned your gaze back to Cregan, who was barely conscious now, his body slumped forward. His once-arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a grimace of pain.

You should have felt something. Satisfaction. Relief. Maybe even pity.

But all you felt was… empty.

"I’m not leaving," you finally whispered.

Jace tensed beside you. "You don’t need to see this."

You let out a humorless laugh. "I’ve already seen too much, Jace."

He sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His white shirt was stained with blood—not his, but Cregan’s.

"This isn’t you," he murmured, searching your face for something, anything, that resembled the woman he fell for.

You turned to him then, meeting his worried gaze with unwavering certainty. "If you have to walk into the dark for me, then I will follow you."

Jace’s breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I never wanted that for you."

"But it’s too late, isn’t it?" you whispered. "This world… it’s already swallowed me whole."

Jace reached for you then, his hands cradling your face gently, like you were something fragile—something that could still break.

"I wanted to keep you safe." His voice cracked.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Then don’t push me away."

Aegon whistled from across the room. "This is touching and all, but are we keeping him alive or not?"

Jace ignored him, his eyes never leaving yours.

"If you go down this road with me, there’s no turning back," he warned.

You exhaled slowly, reaching up to cover his hands with yours.

"I know." His lips parted, his expression torn between fear and something deeper—something darker.

And then, finally, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from the world. But you both knew there was no escaping it now. You had already stepped into the darkness and there was no going back.

The cold metal of the pistol felt heavy in your grip, the weight of it pressing against your palm as you slowly stepped forward. The dim lighting of the warehouse cast long shadows, flickering across the blood-streaked floor where Cregan lay slumped against the chair. His face was barely recognizable—swollen, bruised, blood trickling from his split lip.

Aegon whistled lowly, leaning against a crate with a smirk. "Damn, you’re sexy like this—"

Jace’s fist collided with Aegon’s arm before he could finish, making him curse under his breath.

"Shut the fuck up, Aegon," Jace growled, his tone sharp.

But you barely heard them.

Your focus was on Cregan.

The man who had torn you apart, piece by piece.

His half-lidded eyes lifted to yours, and even through the pain, he smirked. "You’re really going to do this, sweetheart?" he rasped, his voice thick with blood. "I remember when you used to beg me... What was it you said? ‘Please, Cregan, stop—’"

The pistol in your hand swung before you even realized what you were doing. It slammed against his cheekbone with a sickening thud, snapping his head to the side. A splatter of blood hit the floor.

The warehouse fell into stunned silence.

You stood there, chest heaving, your fingers tightening around the gun. You expected someone—Daemon, Aemond, even Jace—to pull you back, to tell you that this wasn’t you, that you weren’t a killer.

But no one moved.

They were waiting.

Cregan’s laugh was weak, but it was there. He coughed, spitting blood onto the floor before turning back to you. "That’s cute," he muttered, his eyes dark with amusement. "But we both know you don’t have it in you."

Your grip tightened.

"Do I?" you whispered.

He smiled, slow and taunting. "You tell me."

Your finger hovered over the trigger. You could end this. Right now.

"You don’t have to do this."

Jace’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. When you turned slightly, you found him watching you—not with fear, not with anger, but with something worse.

Desperation.

"If you pull that trigger, you’ll never be the same."

Your breath hitched.

You weren’t the same anymore.

You hadn’t been since the moment Cregan stole your control, since he dragged you into his nightmare.

You weren’t afraid anymore.

And that was the scariest part.

Cregan tilted his head. "Come on, princess. Do it. Show me what kind of monster you really are."

Your finger pressed against the trigger—

And again— You lowered the gun.

Cregan blinked. Jace exhaled sharply, his hands trembling.

You took a slow step forward until you were just inches from Cregan. His breath was ragged, his face still twisted with amusement.

"You're right," you murmured.

His smirk widened. "Of course I am—"

"I don’t have to kill you."

And then, without warning, you lifted the pistol again—

You struck him across the face a second time, harder than before. His head snapped to the side, his body slumping forward, completely unconscious.

Silence.

You let the gun fall from your grasp, your breath shuddering as you stepped back.

Aegon let out a low whistle. "Well, shit."

Daemon smirked. "She’s got more balls than you, Jace."

Jace ignored them.

He only had eyes for you.

You turned to face him, searching his gaze, unsure of what you’d find. But there was no fear in his expression.

Only pride.

And something deeper.

Something darker.

Jace stepped forward, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones. "Come home with me," he murmured.

You hesitated, glancing down at Cregan’s unconscious form one last time. Then, you nodded.

Tag list : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @ashblooddragons

[evilbookworm]

“Mike loves El”— At this point I’ve seen so many people in your asks give very good detailed reasonings disproving that. If Milkvan’s still want to go on and on about Mike’s love for El than so be it. Bet on a losing horse. What I want to get to the bottom of is: Why does El love Mike? What has Mike done for El to make her love him?

With a couple like Jonathan and Nancy we can clearly see the love and understanding and support from both sides They are a pair. A team. They communicate well and they apologize and own up to their mistakes when they are wrong. They were so good together in season 1 that it made people root for them really hard to get together in season 2.

El tells Mike she loves him after a season where their relationship was at its absolute worst. I can’t see why she could possibly love him. All they do is awkwardly make out and have cute/silly surface level moments together. They don’t have deep meaningful conversations like every other canon couple. They don’t see eye-to-eye. They don’t share in each others interests. I definitely don’t see a viable reason for her to like him (in season 3) let alone love him. Where is the love? When did it happen? What did El see that I missed? Did she love him when, right after their break up, he comfortably lounged on the couch and shoved handfuls of chips in his mouth? Or was it when he called her a “species” and complained to Lucas about her? Is it when he got super paranoid and was convinced that El and Max were conspiring against him? Or maybe it was when instead of actually apologizing and resolving their issues he just made a silly little quip about M&M’s to her? Maybe that did it.

On the other side of things it’s very easy to see why Will loves Mike. Mike is attentive to Will like no other. He treats him like an equal. They have very meaningful conversations. They have shared interests. Mike makes Will feel supported and comforted and makes sure his thoughts and feelings are validated. Anyone who has watched season 2 can clearly see that. They have a very good relationship. They trust each other on a different level. They see each other as a team. They are a pair.

“If we’re both going crazy maybe we can go crazy together?”

Every season since season 2 Mike and Will have been together right by each others sides throughout everything. Whereas El has been removed from Mike and the group for huge chunks of time season after season, sometimes the entire season, to go on some self discovery journey that allows her to come into her own and grow more as a person—away from Mike. Each season they grow farther and farther apart.

Do Mike and El care about each other deeply? Yes! Of course! El was a traumatized kid who knew nothing but negativity. She was seen as a weapon; not a child. No one showed her love or safety. Then she found Mike and he cared for her like no one else had. He was the first to show her kindness and friendship. Mike was a bullied kid with a lot of insecurities who went through a traumatizing situation.

Both of them want to be loved. To be accepted for who they are. They both fell for what they thought was love without knowing what it should look like. It’s not love—not in that way.

Yes. Literally yes. I have so many bylers coming into my ask box making detailed, correct analyses of Mike and Will’s relationship, then I have the milkvans come in with one sentence answers like, “he remembered here bennys burgers t shirt!!”…do they even hear how stupid they sound?

And you’re soooo right. El doesn’t love Mike romantically either. She also has sort of idolized him, (the shrine in her bedroom in season 4) and it seems both of them don’t see each other as equals, but above each other. I see this stated all the time with Mike, but never with El. I think it’s a really important detail that contributes to why mileven doesn’t work.

Jancy is a perfectly healthy couple, supportive and open with each other. Even in season 4, we see their conflict resolved at the end with their talk. We don’t have that with El and Mike. Why? If Mike and El are such a good couple, why wouldn’t they parallel jancy? There is a pair of “friends” who do parallel them though, aren’t there? Mike and Will.

Yup, yup, yup. El doesn’t have many reasons to love Mike romantically either. They just don’t work. All of season 3 is a complete, awkward mess like you said. Mike is a bit of an asshole the middle half of the season. And, (please don’t kill me for this) El also doesn’t respect Mike’s boundaries. She spys on him and doesn’t apologize either. They’re both in the wrong. They both don’t love each other like that. Season 3 is really a complete mess of their unhealthy relationship.

Accurate. Will’s Mike is easy for Will to love, because Mike isn’t pretending anymore. He’s being his true self. When they fight, Mike apologizes immediately. They’ve probably had the most heart to hearts out of any other couple. Certainly more than mileven. The entirety of season 2 was Mike loving and helping Will through everything, even when he was possessed. That’s why it’s so easy for Will to love Mike. His Mike is a different one than El has.

You’re so right, anon. El has been shown to grow more independent through out the seasons. Season 2 has her fighting alongside Kali and realizing the full extent of her powers, season 3 has her discovering herself as a person, and season 4 has her discovering her past. And eventually saving Max. Meanwhile Mike and Will have been by each others sides since always. Because they’re Mike and Will.

And yes, Mike and El do love each other! I believe it is completely platonic though, because neither of them have the capability of loving each other the way they want to be loved. But I believe they will stay good friends after their break up, and perhaps even become closer because of it. They are kind of bonded, in a platonic way, but I don’t think it was ever meant to go beyond that.

And yes, both of them loved because they were almost, well, pressured to. Nancy and Lucas with Mike, and El’s complete unawareness of dating lead them both straight into a fake love. They fell in love with the idea of each other, I think. Even idolization, like I said earlier. They don’t love each other how they want to be loved.

[xlettex]

Indelible || osamu miya Tattoo Artist Au - Oneshot

You deal in flowers, fleeting and delicate. He deals in ink, bold and lasting. You should’ve known better than to let Osamu Miya linger, but he always had a way of getting what he wanted. And now? He’s got you right where he wants you—under his hands, under his needle, and marked in a way you’ll never forget.

pairing - osamu miya x reader genre - romance-ish, erotica/smut rating - 18+ MINORS DNI chapter word count - 4.0k content warning - slight dirty talk, oral (receiving), fingering, praise, overstimulation

The space smelled like warm amber and sunshine, petals carrying the heady fragrance of summer in full bloom. Even with boxes still unpacked and stray leaves littering the floor, your little flower shop felt alive—vibrant with the hum of something fresh and new. It should have been peaceful.

But then he walked in. 

Osamu Miya leaned against the doorway as he had nowhere else to be, arms crossed, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The sharp scent of ink and faint traces of smoke clung to him, a stark contrast to the soft florals that surrounded you. His presence alone shifted the air—made it heavier, warmer, and harder to ignore.

And the worst part?

You could already feel yourself leaning into it.

Osamu Miya was a problem.

A problem with broad shoulders, ink-stained hands, and a way of slipping into spaces that weren’t his.

His tattoo studio, Kitsune Ink, sat just next door, and from the moment you moved in, it seemed like he had made it his personal mission to hover. You’d barely been here three weeks, yet somehow, he had already woven himself into the fabric of your routine.

He showed up almost every day. And somehow, you’d gotten used to it. The most frustrating part? He knew it.

“Ya know,” he drawled, stepping fully into your shop as if he belonged there, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone struggle this much with a shelving unit before.”

You sighed through your nose, glancing down at the half-assembled wooden shelves sitting in a pathetic pile near the window. The instruction booklet crinkled in your fist, a silent admission of defeat.

“It’s not that bad.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound deep and warm, and yet entirely mocking. “Sweetheart, the instructions are still in your hand, and ya look like ya wanna fight ‘em.”

Your glare was half-hearted at best, and Osamu—predictably—did not look even slightly deterred. Instead, he just shook his head, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie before crouching down beside the mess of wood and screws.

You hadn’t asked him to help. You never did. But that never stopped him. First, it was fixing a wobbly table. Then, it was carrying in heavy bags of soil without a word, only tossing you a glance like it was obvious he’d do it. Now, it was the shelves.

Three weeks. 

Three weeks of stolen glances, of his steady hands, brushing yours as he passed you tools, of ink-stained fingers grazing your wrist in passing. Three weeks of his scent— smoke, leather, sandalwood, something unmistakably him—lingering in your space long after he left. 

You knew this game. You just didn’t know who was going to fold first.

“Why do you keep helping me?” you asked, arms crossed as you watched him make quick work of the shelving.

He didn’t answer right away. He was focused, dark brows drawn together slightly as he secured the base, testing its stability before reaching for another screw.

"Dunno. Maybe I just like watchin’ ya get all frustrated."

He smirked, slow and lazy, his gaze dragging over you from head to toe—a deliberate, unhurried once-over that made your skin prickle with awareness.

Then, just as easily, he looked away. Like he hadn’t done a damn thing. Like he hadn’t just set your nerves on fire.

Your stomach flipped.

Not at his words—no, those were typical, he meant to poke, to tease—but at the way his voice had softened. At how easy it felt to have him here, kneeling in your shop like he fit there, like he fit with you.

You scoffed, reaching blindly for the nearest thing you could grab—a handful of delicate petals from a bouquet resting on the counter—and tossing them at him.

He barely flinched.

The petals fluttered down onto his shoulders, catching in the folds of his hoodie. And instead of brushing them away, he simply tilted his head back to look at you.

Grinning. Sharp. Knowing.

Something tight curled in your chest. The air between you felt charged, expectant, like you were waiting for something—

Or like he was waiting for you to give in first.

But you wouldn’t. Not yet.

So you turned back to your work, ignoring the way his presence still lingered.

A few days passed.

And, just like before, Osamu kept showing up. Every day, without fail.

Sometimes he found an excuse—a crooked sign, a shelf that suddenly needed adjusting. Other times, he didn’t bother with one at all.

And you? 

​​You started waiting.

Not on purpose. Not at first. But when the door stayed closed too long, when the shop felt too quiet, you found yourself listening for the chime. Expecting him.

Today was no different, the shop was bathed in golden afternoon light and the air was thick with the scent of fresh blooms. Your fingers worked carefully, arranging stems into a bouquet—soft pink peonies, delicate baby’s breath, sprigs of eucalyptus. Each piece tucked in with purpose, in perfect harmony.

The task was familiar, something steady to lose yourself in. Until–

The door chime jingled.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew who it was.

“You know,” you said without missing a beat, voice laced with dry amusement, “for someone who’s supposed to be a super busy tattoo artist, you sure spend a lot of time here.”

Osamu smirked, entirely unbothered as he strolled in, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. Like always, he walked in without hesitation, as if the space were already his.

And maybe, in some ways, it was.

“Strange, huh?” he mused, gaze flicking over the shop like he was only now realizing how often he found himself here. Then, with that signature, lazy grin, he added, “Maybe I just like the view.”

Your fingers fumbled slightly with the ribbon, the slip small enough that most people wouldn’t notice. 

Osamu wasn’t most people.

But you covered it quickly, exhaling an exaggerated sigh. “Flirting with the florist now? Didn’t take you for the type.”

He leaned against the counter, tilting his head as his grin stretched wider. “Maybe ’m just tryna get a discount.”

You scoffed. “You don’t even like flowers.”

“True,” he admitted easily. “But ya like talkin’ to me, so I figure that’s a fair trade.”

Your jaw clenched. Heat licked at the edges of your skin—annoyance, you told yourself. Just annoyance. You focused on tying the ribbon, refusing to meet his eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He hummed, something close to amusement laced in his tone. “Yeah? And what’s that say about you, sweetheart?”

You stiffened as his voice dipped lower, smooth and measured like he was testing something.

“Not once,” he murmured, “have ya told me to stop comin’ around.”

Your hands paused. Damn him. You opened your mouth—because of course you were going to argue—but then—

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the shop, sweeping in without warning.

The chime above the door rattled against the frame, petals stirred from the counter, and the silk ribbon you had been tying fluttered between your fingers. A warm breeze wrapped around you, tousling strands of your hair, brushing against the bare skin of your arms—

And then—

Your skirt lifted. Just for a second—just enough.

The hem fluttered, the soft fabric riding up a little higher along your thighs before settling again.

His gaze dropped.

Slow. Intentional.

His smirk stilled, his brows lifting just slightly as the fabric lifted—baring a little more of your thigh before it slipped back into place. And then, just as slowly, his gaze dragged back up—

Measured. Unhurried.

Taking in everything—the smooth stretch of your skin, the way the sunlight kissed the bare expanse of your legs, the delicate curve of your hip where your skirt had briefly ridden up.

And then—it hit him.

His smirk twitched, almost thoughtful. He tilted his head, his eyes lingering, searching— Like he was expecting something. Like he was looking for something. And not finding it.

For a moment, he just stood there, taking in the lack of dark lines. Then, voice low, teasing, edged with something just a little more real than before, he murmured—

“Wait a minute.”

The teasing lilt in his tone was there, but beneath it, there was something else. Something real.

His gaze flicked over your bare arms, the delicate curve of your shoulders, then lower—down the line of your thigh where the warm glow of the afternoon sun kissed exposed skin.

And that’s when it clicked. Something flickered behind his gaze.

“You don’t have a tattoo, do ya?”

His voice had dropped, a little quieter now.

Not mocking. Just curious.

Your stomach flipped. Your fingers twitched around the bouquet ribbon, and for some stupid reason, you suddenly felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.

“What does that have to do with—”

“Holy shit.”

He grinned, really grinned like he’d just discovered something mischievous and fun.

You lifted your chin stubbornly, crossing your arms. “Not all of us like defacing our skin, Miya.”

“Deface?” His voice dipped low, smooth as ink. Dangerous. “That’s a bit harsh, ain’t it?”

You scoffed, but he wasn’t letting up.

“What, ya scared?”

Your fingers tensed. “I am not scared.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower—teasing, challenging. “Mm. Sounds like somethin’ someone scared would say.”

Your glare was immediate, but he just chuckled, straightening up.

“Ain’t a big deal, sweetheart. Just funny, is all.” He gestured vaguely toward his own ink-stained skin, the sharp lines that curled up his forearms and peeked from beneath his sleeves. “You own a shop full of flowers that’ll wilt in a week, but ya won’t let somethin’ permanent sit on your skin?”

You hesitated.

You’d never thought about it that way.

Noticing your silence, he seized his opportunity, nodding toward the black ink marking his own arms.

“Think of it like this,” he murmured, “flowers die.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking between your face and your bare wrist.

“Ink stays.”

Your teeth grazed your bottom lip. You hated that that actually made sense. Still, you lifted a brow. “Aren’t you fully booked?”

His grin softened, just a little—something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice low, warm.

And then, slowly, too casually, he reached forward, brushing a loose petal from your wrist with deliberate slowness, his fingers barely grazing your skin. They should have lifted away. Should have left no trace.

But they lingered. For just a second too long. Warmth spread through you, up your arm, into your pulse, curling deep in your chest.

“For you,” he murmured, tilting his head just slightly—just enough for you to catch the amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’ll make room.”

The air between you too thickened.

A pause. 

Long enough for your breath to feel too shallow, for your pulse to quicken just slightly beneath his lingering fingers. And then—

He leaned in just a little more. Not much. Just enough for you to feel it—the shift, the space between you shrinking, stretching something taut between you.

His voice dipped, smooth, lazy, and entirely devastating.

“So…”

He tilted his head, his smirk downright sinful now.

“…you gonna let me mark ya up, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitched.

And Osamu?

Yeah. He noticed.

You should have said no. Should have walked away before this went too far. Before he did exactly what he’d been waiting to do all along.

But you didn’t. And the next thing you knew—

You were in the back room of Osamu Miya’s tattoo shop. 

The scent of disinfectant and ink replaced the soft florals of your shop, the steady buzz of a tattoo machine in the next room filling the space between you. Everything about Kitsune Ink felt different—sharper, heavier, a stark contrast to the delicate beauty of your world. Dark walls, bold artwork, and the faint scent of something deep and earthy clinging to the air. 

Osamu fit here. Too well.

You were sitting in his chair, his gaze flickering over you like he was figuring something out.

“Still got time to back out, y’know,” he mused, one brow lifted as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same lazy confidence that had gotten you here in the first place.

You stiffened. “I didn’t come here to back out.”

“Mm.” He didn’t look convinced.

You exhaled sharply, fingers curling against the chair. “I want a flower.”

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Predictable.”

His smirk was slow, knowing, and when he spoke again, his voice dipped—low, smooth, just shy of mocking. “If that’s what ya want.”

A pause.

Then, his gaze flicked over you, slow and deliberate. “So, where’s it goin’, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught, pulse fluttering in your throat. And then—

Before you could second-guess yourself before you could stop the words from leaving your mouth—

“My hip.”

A beat of silence.

Then—something shifted. His smirk deepened, slow and knowing, and for a moment, he just looked at you. Like he was making sure he heard you right. Like he was waiting for you to take it back. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“…Yer hip, huh?” His voice was low, a little rougher around the edges.

You swallowed, gripping the arms of the chair just a little too tightly. “Yeah.”

His smirk twitched.

Oh, he was enjoying this.

“Good choice,” he murmured, flicking a switch on the tattoo machine, the soft buzz filling the space between you. The soft buzz filled the space between you.

Your breath stalled. Before, it had just been an idea—a teasing exchange that you could still walk away from. But now, with that unmistakable hum vibrating through the air, it was real.

He noticed.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Didn’t tease. Instead, he let the machine run, his fingers adjusting the settings with practiced ease—giving you just enough time to sit with it.

Letting you feel the weight of the moment.

And then, slowly, too casually, he took a step closer, then another—until he was close enough for the scent of his cologne to wrap around you until your thighs brushed his jeans when he sat down beside you.

“Skirt’s gotta come up.”

Your breath hitched.

The words were so simple, so damn smug, and yet your pulse jumped anyway.

But you refused to react. Refused to let him win.

Lifting your chin, you reached for the hem of your skirt—slow, deliberate—pulling it up just enough to reveal the front of your hip, the soft dip where skin met the waistband.

The lace of your panties peeked out just slightly, delicate against your skin—barely there, but enough.

Osamu didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

But his gaze flickered down—just for a second—before settling back on your face, and you swore you saw something darker behind his smirk. 

Something insatiable.  Something barely restrained. Like he’d been waiting for this—aching for it. Something that made your fingers curl against the leather seat. And then—before you could process it before you could stop him—

His hands brushed against your waist.

Soft. Deliberate.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat.

He didn’t press, didn’t tighten his grip—just let his fingers rest against your skin, just barely there, warm and steady, as if testing you. His thumb skimmed just above your hipbone, tracing the spot where ink would soon meet skin.

You were sure he could feel the way your breath shallowed, the way your pulse jumped beneath his touch.

His smirk curled at the edges, a little too smug, a little too pleased. His fingers slid just a bit higher, dancing along the sensitive skin of your lower belly. Your muscles twitched under his touch, goosebumps rising in their wake.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Yer so tense"

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck. "Though..." His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. "I can think of a few other ways to help ya...loosen up."

His hand drifted lower, teasing the edge of your skirt. Your breath hitched, anticipation coiling tight in your core.

"You're playing with fire, Miya," you warned, but your voice came out breathy, wanton.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Ain't afraid of the heat, sweetheart."

He nipped at your jaw, teeth grazing just enough to sting, before soothing the spot with his tongue. His fingers inched higher, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt, tracing slow, deliberate circles against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"Ya gonna stop me?" His voice was low, thick with challenge, his gaze half-lidded, full of promise.

Your heart pounded, heat pooling deep between your legs. You should tell him to slow down, to think this through. But the words caught in your throat—lost to the pleasure of his touch.

His hand slid higher, higher—until his fingers slipped into your panties, pressing against your slick folds.

A soft moan spilled from your lips, your hips canting into his touch, chasing more.

"That’s it," he purred, teasing, approving, circling your clit with maddening slowness.

His lips found your neck, trailing kisses, biting and sucking a path down to your collarbone. His other hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers grazing over your breast before cupping it fully—kneading, testing, claiming.

You arched into him, lost to sensation, lost to him.

"Osamu," you gasped, barely recognizing your own voice. "We shouldn’t..."

But the rest of the protest melted into a whimper as he pinched your nipple between his fingers, rolling it just enough to make you shudder.

"Shhh."

His tongue flicked over the sensitive peak, laving the sting with warm, wet heat.

"Let me make ya feel good."

His fingers picked up speed, rubbing tight, devastating circles over your clit.

Your hips rocked into him, desperate for more, for anything. "Oh god," you panted, head falling back against the chair. "Yes, right there..."

He chuckled against your skin, the sound low, knowing, sinful. "Knew you’d like that."

Then—two fingers, pushing inside you, stretching you open with a slow, delicious drag. His thumb never left your clit, pressing, circling, teasing as his fingers curled, finding the spot that made you gasp, arch, and tremble.

"Fuck, yer perfect," he murmured, voice thick with praise, with intent. His fingers thrust deep, matching the pace of his thumb, building you up, pushing you higher.

"Come for me, baby."

Your climax hit like a tidal wave—crashing, overwhelming, sending pleasure rippling through you. Your fingers scrambled for purchase, grasping at the chair, at him, at anything to keep you grounded.

He worked you through it, prolonging every pulse, every aftershock, dragging out your pleasure until you had nothing left to give. Finally, slowly, you drifted back down, boneless, sated, ruined.

He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

"There now." His tone was smug and teasing, but laced with warmth. "Feelin’ more relaxed?"

You hummed, a lazy smile playing on your lips. "Much."

He grinned, his eyes dark with promise. "’m just getting started."

He leaned in close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "And remember," he murmured, voice low and rough, "you gotta be quiet for me, sweetheart."

His teeth nipped at your earlobe, just enough to make you gasp. "Can’t have anyone hearing us, now can we?"

A shiver ran through you, heat pooling low in your belly at the filthy thrill of it. You nodded, biting your lip to hold back any sounds.

He smirked, clearly pleased. His hands trailed down your body, fingertips grazing overheated skin, leaving fire in their wake. He traced the curve of your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist, his dark gaze locked onto you—watching, waiting.

Your breath hitched as he hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them down your legs with a slow, deliberate drag. The cool air against your heated flesh made you shudder.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice thick with want. His fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing, exploring, making you squirm.

"Still so wet." His lips curled into a smirk. "Fingering you wasn’t enough, huh? You need more."

A whimper escaped you, humiliation and arousal twisting together, your cheeks flushing hot. "Please, Osamu," you whispered, needing more, needing him.

He chuckled darkly, dragging the pad of his finger in slow, lazy circles over your clit. "Please what?" His tone was infuriatingly smug. "You want me to fuck you with my fingers again?" A sharp, teasing press against your clit."Or maybe with my tongue?"

You moaned softly, hips jerking up toward him, seeking more, needing more. "Either. Both. I don’t care, just—please."

He stilled for just a second, his smirk deepening. "Been picturing this since the day I walked into that damn flower shop."

The confession sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, a delicious kind of ruin settling in your bones. And then—

He sank to his knees, pushing your legs further apart, spreading you open just the way he wanted. A feather-light kiss, barely there. Then another. Higher. Then another—slower, teasing, deliberate. Higher.

Until—

“Oh!" Your cry spilled out before you could stop it, a sharp gasp as Osamu’s tongue delved into your heat, dragging long, slow strokes through your slick folds.

Your hands flew to his head, fingers tangling desperately in his hair, holding him there, keeping him pressed against you.

He groaned against your core, the deep vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His tongue flicked lazily over your clit before circling it with teasing precision, drawing out a shuddering gasp from your lips.

"Quiet," he murmured against you, pulling back just enough for his breath to brush your soaked skin. "Or do ya want everyone to hear what a little slut you are?"

A broken whimper escaped you before you bit down on your lip, nodding shakily.

He chuckled darkly—low, smug, knowing. And then he dove back in.

His tongue worked you over like he had all the time in the world, alternating between long, slow licks that made your thighs tremble and sharp, precise flicks that had your spine arching off the chair.

It was too much and not enough, all at once. Your thoughts blurred, words dissolving as your body moved instinctively, your hips rolling, chasing the friction his mouth offered.

He let you.

Let you grind against him shamelessly, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread open for him—for his tongue, his mouth, his relentless pace.

You were gone. Completely undone. It wasn’t long before you felt it—the sharp, unmistakable coil of pleasure tightening deep in your belly.

"Osamu—" you panted, voice wrecked, breathless.

"I'm gonna—"

But he already knew. He felt it in the way your thighs tensed, in the way your walls clenched around nothing, in the desperate way you tried to press closer as if you could sink into him completely.

He hummed against you, the sensation pushing you right to the edge. Then—a final, devastating suck on your clit.

Your body snapped, pleasure crashing through you in a wave so intense it left you breathless.

He held you down, his tongue never relenting, never slowing, dragging out every last tremor, every last aftershock, until you were left shaking, boneless, ruined. He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips still glistening with your release

"Mm.” His voice was low, rough, dangerous. His eyes—blown dark with lust—dragged over you like he was already thinking about the next time.

"You taste so fucking good." He let the words roll off his tongue, slow, savoring. "Could eat you out for hours."

A fresh wave of heat flooded through you. Your body still hummed, oversensitive, tingling from the aftershocks of your release. You barely had time to catch your breath before he straightened, running a lazy hand through his hair.

"Now," he said, his voice back to normal, like he hadn’t just wrecked you. "I believe I owe you a tattoo."

You blinked up at him, dazed, boneless, your mind still too foggy to process what he’d just said.

He chuckled, amused at your expression, before gripping your chin between his fingers and pressing a quick, possessive kiss to your lips.

By the time you registered the warmth of his mouth, he was already reaching for the tattoo machine—the sound of which had never stopped buzzing in the background, masking the sounds of your pleasure.

[multiheadcanons]

REQUEST: BURNWARD— KEEP TEUFORT WEIRD

yapper x yapper and nobody is actually listening. literally keep them away from the library. they cannot go lower than a 7 separately, volume wise.

they’re talking at each other and responding every once in a while with “oh for sure” to confirm to the other that at least the words are hitting their ears and being registered in some sense in the brain

it is always a Confirmed Time with these two in the same room. what kind of time? who knows! party time! tea time! game time! arson/murder time! grave robbing time! looting time! fuck it! they’re happy together and that’s all that matters to them! these two have never had a bad time together!

the sweetest part about these two is that they’re both undeniably, unarguably, irrefutably Odd, in some of the worst ways imaginable. they will skip into battle; and medic is very generous with his praise for pyro on the field. it bothers the other team that they will be massacred, and the last words they’re hearing is “what are we thinking for lunch? i hear there’s a new restaurant open—” it is very much behind every evil gay person is a more evil gayer person. and together, tact is dead. they are fully confessing to crimes in the middle of the restaurant. how an officer of the law just never seems to be within 50 feet of these two to hear some of the things leaving their mouths is astounding.

i think that pyro and the doctor are foils of each other. and i mean foil like in the old, outdated jeweler term where you back the gem in a ring with foil to make it shine brighter. these are two oddballs whose unabashed fascination of each other seems to make the other shine with the glow of normality. they don’t think about the other’s extensive legal rap sheets and open cases, or the blood often actively dripping from their hands, because to each other, they are the epitome of Normal. they want to be each other when they grow up. whether they’re chatting on the operating table, rushing into battle, sitting next to each other in their downtime, they just bask in the feeling of normality they give each other.

this has never been a thing i’ve ever actually considered with the mercs but i also have never thought about these two together as much as i currently have and in a modern au they are a firefighter/paramedic duo. generally found slumped over each other asleep on the base if they aren’t speeding through the streets. they find the chaotic structure just what they need for themselves, and when they met they clicked in a way nobody expected them to! i feel like the red medic would definitely want to be a paramedic more than he would want to be in the hospital doing active surgeries. he likes to get his hands dirtier than any hospital would allow him to. but active trauma cases are wonderful ways to try some… different techniques. he can’t stand the paperwork either way. and pyro became a firefighter because their social worker told them to maybe channel their… elemental affinity into something that could be good not just for themselves, but for society as well. she needs a raise and a nobel peace prize, because she created a prolific firefighter. pyro can assess a fire and figure out exactly where they can enter and exit and how much time they have to get in and out. everyone says thanks miss pauling.

they like to look at each other! for their own separate reasons. but neither one of them can help it. if the doctor is rambling, pyro is staring. probably with a hidden smile on their face. it’s just so cute to watch the doctor light up as he’s talking about all his different experiments and what he has on his books for future dates. and the doctor stares at pyro like they’re the chocolate factory and he just won the last golden ticket. he can’t help but wonder what’s under the mask. if there is anything under the mask at all.

it’s a tense, nerve wracking moment when pyro does decide to take off the mask for medic. pyro didn’t give any warnings, nor did they really know why they felt a need to do this. they just walked into the infirmary for a physical with it off, but still clenched in their fist, in case the result was unfavorable. it shocked the doctor, at least momentarily. he didn’t know what he expected under the mask. and truthfully, he didn’t even know it was pyro. he thought maybe they were getting a new class. it wasn’t until pyro actually spoke up (so strange to hear unmuffled) “doc. it’s me. pyro.” that medic put two and two together. and when he did, he was… marginally flustered. he felt silly he didn’t recognize someone he called a friend. but the eye contact; the real, genuine eye contact. it was refreshing. they didn’t even get to the physical, they just sat and chatted, for an hour to two. it hit pyro suddenly that they’ve been unmasked for a while. it hit them harder that they were actually quite comfortable this way. they started fiddling with the mask to get it back on, a single gloved hand gently rested on top of theirs.

“this was nice. it was nice to… get to know you like this. we should do it more often!” the smile the doctor offered was gentle, and uncertain. and if it were anyone else, pyro would’ve said no. but for the doctor…

they’ll do anything for him, really.

“yeah… yeah! yeah, we should!”

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

I’m so intrigued by this one 🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀🔀

And I’m always excited for more of this one

🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼

Thank youuuu!

96 for 🔀:

---

He still looks pissed. For Buck, rather than at Buck. 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Thirty minutes later, they’re eating at a nearby diner, and Buck has explained everything. 

“This is ridiculous,” Bobby huffs after he’s done. “They’re treating you like a suspect when someone out there is weaponizing the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

It’s not. Being kidnapped at four is not the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Buck’s not going to argue though.

“I’m not sure what their angle is,” Athena admits. “What more do they need? They have the perp in custody. Caught him red-handed.”

Buck shrugs. “Unless they really believe I’m some sort of imposter.”

“Didn’t you say the guy looks younger than you?” Bobby asks. 

“By a decade,” Buck confirms. “At least.”

“So that makes no sense,” Bobby says. 

“No,” Athena agrees. “It doesn’t.”

Buck sips his coffee, frustrated. He hates this. He doesn’t understand why this is happening to him. 

“Buck, you need to know,” Bobby says. His expression is serious, concerned. “We’re on your side here. Whatever happens, okay? We know… We know you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Buck takes a deep breath. He doesn’t take their faith in him for granted. There was a time in his life where he wouldn’t have had it. Where he wouldn’t have deserved it. He knows that.

“Thank you,” Buck says.

Athena nods. “Of course.”

“Uh, can I ask…” Buck frowns. “With Ingram… It seemed like he was trying to get me to confess something. I don’t know what.”

“Hmm,” Bobby replies, forehead creased with worry.

“Athena, uh, what’s his deal? What kind of cases does he even work?”

Athena frowns. “I wish I knew. I’ve never met the man before.”

“You haven’t?” Bobby asks.

“No,” she says. “He must be a new transfer or something. I’d never even heard of him.”

🟢

He goes to Maddie and Chim’s. 

He goes, knowing their appointment is long since finished, and knowing that, well, he should probably keep his sister up to date with his legal affairs. 

It doesn’t quite go that way. 

“We’re having a boy!” Maddie grins the moment they walk through the door. “A little boy! Isn’t that amazing?”

And, well? Yeah. It totally is. It’s the best news in the whole entire world. A boy. A nephew. Jee’s little brother. Buck is beyond thrilled. So thrilled that he can’t bring down the mood. He won’t. Maddie doesn’t need to hear about this right now. In fact, until Buck knows more about this strange petty criminal dragging up both of their childhood trauma, Maddie doesn’t need to hear anything at all. 

🟢

He calls Eddie. 

He calls Eddie, because Eddie is far away from all this. The things he knows don’t make it back to Maddie. Eddie is his best friend. He should also be kept up to date with Buck’s legal affairs. He’ll have something reasonable and encouraging to say. 

Of course, this doesn’t quite go that way, either. 

“Chris and I are coming back to Los Angeles,” Eddie says, instead of hello, when he answers Buck’s call. 

And Buck is so happy, so overjoyed, he forgets himself entirely. 

“What?” He breathes. “You-you are?”

“Yeah, we are.” 

He can hear the smile in Eddie’s voice.

“Oh my god,” Buck starts to tear up. “When?”

“A few weeks. Need to pack everything up. Do the school transfer. Won’t be long, though… Hey, are you actually crying right now? I can hear you crying?”

“Obviously I’m crying, Eddie!” 

---

96 for 🔼:

---

“She won’t be any trouble. She’s super chill.”

“Mmm, well,” Margaret says. “The more the merrier.”

All things considered, dinner doesn’t start terrible. Everyone is friendly. Everyone’s pretending it’s just been a few months since they’ve seen each other, rather than years and years. His parents are pretending they didn’t drop Maddie. That they don’t hate Buck. They put all their interest into Chimney, vetting him more or less. It’s all great. 

Except… His mother keeps interrogating him. About Jane. 

At some point, Jane is propped on Buck’s lap, and he’s spoon feeding her baby food, and Margaret just sort of stares at them. 

“Everything okay?” Buck asks her. 

“You’re very good with her,” his mother observes. “For the babysitter.”

Buck blinks. “Uh… Her parents and I are very close. I see her all the time.” 

“Her mother is Shannon,” Maddie says. “Remember, Mom? I mentioned her. She’s my closest friend out here.”

“Right,” Margaret nods. “And how old is Jane?”

“Ten months,” Buck says. “She’ll be one in December.”

“And you and Maddie are both friends with her mother?” Margaret asks.

Chim is looking at his plate. Like really avoiding eye contact. Fuck. 

“Her dad and I work together,” Buck says. 

“With Howard?” Phillip asks.

“Yep,” Chim squeaks, sweating. “I don’t know much about it.”

Buck sighs.

This is how they find out he’s seeing a married couple.

“About what?” Margaret asks.

“Nothing,” Buck says. “It’s really nothing.”

“I’m confused,” Phillip says.

“Me, too, if that helps,” Albert offers.

“Okay, Evan,” Margaret sighs. “Just be honest. Is she your child?”

Buck’s jaw drops. “What?” 

“Oh, it’s clear you’re lying, Evan!” She presses. “You show up here with some child you’re overly familiar with, who belongs to a friend. We know how you are. You got some girl pregnant out of wedlock and now you’re too ashamed to say it!”

“Hi,” Maddie waves at her. “Also pregnant out of wedlock. Nothing shameful here.”

“I’m not her father!” Buck protests. He looks at the baby. “I wouldn’t lie if I was. Right, Jane? I’m not your dad.”

Jane tilts her head back to look up at him.

“Da…Dada?”

Chimney coughs. Albert conceals a laugh. Maddie pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“My god, Evan,” his father chides. “Really?”

“No! No!” Buck protests. “Why would she say that? Maddie, why would she say that? Back me up!”

Oh, Eddie is going to be devastated. This is horrid. He’ll be so sad. Buck needs to, like, disappear. Spend less time with Jane. Ignore her maybe. It’ll break his heart, but it’s what needs to be done. For Eddie. 

“She’s really not his,” Maddie says.

“Dada,” Jane says again, clapping her hands together.

“No!” Buck insists. “No, Jane. Sweetie. I’m not your father.”

“No,” Jane says. 

[jeremy-king]

Two King brothers sat across the table from one another in a conference room. The remaining members of the board were gathering their things, leaving one by one. The meeting had ended, but Jeremy and Jamie remained as they usually did, ready to discuss next moves. 

Thinking about you… 

Jeremy had picked up his phone, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he read a text from Blaire. 

“The girlfriend, I assume?” Jamie asked as he shuffled through some papers. 

Jeremy’s mouth pressed into a thin line, glancing over at his brother, then back at the phone. Jamie was going through a divorce and seemed to always be on edge these days. After finishing typing out reply and hitting send, he replied, “Yeah, telling her we’re almost finished,” then gently set his phone back down on the table. 

Jamie nodded in return, staying occupied between reviewing the meeting minutes and his laptop. Jeremy clicked his tongue and settled back into his chair, waiting… Then waited some more. His older brother, completely unbothered, continued to keep busy. Jeremy cleared his throat and sat forward. “So I think we’ve secured enough votes to remove Simon from the board,” He commented casually, knowing Jamie wanted to discuss their current goal for the board. 

“We can talk about that later—you placed Blaire into your internship program within the company, correct? Among the other attorneys?” Jamie didn’t bother looking over as he spoke to Jeremy. 

Jeremy’s eyes slightly narrowed. A moment of silence passed. He watched his brother carefully, and matched his responses with the same amount of care. “Yes. I did. She had her first day a couple days ago.” Another pause, then Jeremy added, “It was a move I made before we were together. Months ago.” 

“Good,” Jamie replied simply as he typed up an email. “If you two stay together, we’ll hire her once she completes school,” was added almost as a casual afterthought. 

“Hire her?” Jeremy’s brows furrowed slightly, but he took in a small breath and smoothed them out. “She doesn’t even know if she wants to be in corporate law—“ 

“We’ll offer her a salary she can’t refuse then,” Jamie said in a nonchalant tone, though his jaw flexed a bit at the end, clearly growing annoyed that Jeremy kept prodding. 

A moment of silence passed. That’s when Jeremy noticed the grip he had on the chair. His knuckles had gone white. After flexing his hands, Jeremy finally replied as he let out a breath, “Why are you trying to control this?” 

Jamie didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he finished the email he’d been typing, hit send, then relaxed into the armchair — finally settling his full attention on Jeremy. 

“You say control, I say protect,” was all he replied, then shrugged. 

When Jeremy didn’t reply, Jamie continued. “You know, it’s frustrating you always think the worst of me when all I’ve done is help you clean up your messes.”

Jeremy’s jaw was stone. Jamie shook his head as he began to gather his things. “We’re on the same team, Jeremy,” He muttered under his breath. 

Jeremy glanced down, partly ashamed he’d thought the worst of his brother yet again. Glancing back over, Jeremy gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders and said, “She has potential — dreams. She’s brilliant, Jamie. If she wants to be in corporate law, sure, that’s fine, but if she doesn’t—“ 

“I know,” Jamie replied, looking back over at his brother as he stood from the table. “But it’s my job to protect this family.”

“And yours too, Jeremy.” 

Jeremy gave a single understanding nod, then stood and collected his things. 

[mackthe4rd]

I just wanted to take a moment to tell you how much you truly mean to me. Life is a journey filled with ups and downs, but having you by my side makes everything feel a little brighter, a little easier, and a lot more meaningful. You’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing—someone who radiates kindness, warmth, and genuine care for the people around you. It’s rare to find a friend who understands, supports, and uplifts the way you do, and I want you to know that I don’t take that for granted. Your presence alone has a way of making everything better. Whether it's through your contagious laughter that can turn the worst days into something bearable or your ability to listen without judgment, you bring so much light into my life. I admire the way you navigate the world with strength and resilience, even when things get tough. You never fail to show up—not just physically, but emotionally too. You have this rare gift of making people feel seen, heard, and valued, and that’s something truly special. I cherish every moment we've spent together, from the deep conversations that stretch into the late hours of the night to the completely ridiculous inside jokes that would make no sense to anyone else. Those little things—the shared glances, the spontaneous adventures, the times when we couldn't stop laughing over something silly—are what make our friendship so meaningful. No matter what, I know I can always count on you, and I hope you know that you can always count on me too. Life can be unpredictable, and people come and go, but I genuinely hope our friendship lasts a lifetime. I’ll always be here to support you, celebrate with you, and stand by your side no matter where life takes us. You deserve all the happiness, success, and love in the world, and I hope you never doubt how truly valued you are. So, thank you—for being you, for being my friend, and for making my life infinitely better just by being in it. and I just want to take a moment to tell you how truly special you are to me. It’s hard to put into words the depth of my gratitude for having you in my life because you mean more to me than words can express. You are such a beautiful person, both inside and out, and your kindness, generosity, and warmth never cease to amaze me. You have this incredible gift of making every day brighter with your smile, your infectious laugh, and the way you genuinely care about the people around you. Whether it’s offering a listening ear, giving the best advice, or just being there when I need a friend, you always seem to know how to make me feel understood and supported. Every moment we’ve shared has been a treasure, and I’m constantly reminded of how lucky I am to have you by my side. You have a way of making the world feel a little less heavy, even during the toughest times, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. You’ve helped me grow in so many ways, and you inspire me to be better and to embrace the beauty in the world, no matter how challenging things can sometimes get. You always manage to find the silver lining, and your positive energy is absolutely contagious. Your friendship is one of the most precious gifts I could have ever asked for, and I hold it close to my heart with so much love and appreciation. It’s not just your big gestures that I adore, but the little things too—how you remember the details that matter, how you always know how to make me laugh when I’m feeling down, how you light up any room you walk into. I am so thankful for every moment we’ve spent together and for all the laughter, deep conversations, and memories that continue to shape our friendship. I want you to know that no matter what happens, I’ll always be here for you, just as you’ve been there for me, and I’ll always cherish the bond we share. You are truly loved, and you bring so much joy and positive into my life.

@weirdsillycreature @alexfreakkkk @i-am-xp-64 @fluffypuppy56 @ella-the-fella @ermwhatthefilp1

[ozwriterchick]

No more...2

GIF by starkdefense

Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes; Fem Reader; Sam Wilson

Content warning: miscommunication; leaving a relationship; talk of pregnancy; implied sexy time; If I've missed anything let me know

Summary: Bucky promises no more missions

WC: approx 1947 words

Dividers/Graphics by @firefly-in-darkness

Masterlist

Avengers compound.

Steve was in his office, going through some paperwork and scheduling debriefing sessions and the like for the mission they had just completed.   He was concentrating so fully on the task at hand that, at first, he didn’t hear the commotion in the general office area.

Just as the sound penetrated his brain and he realised something was going on, his office door was flung open violently, crashing against the wall and bouncing almost closed again,  He looked up to see a dishevelled and distraught Bucky standing there, holding a piece of paper in his hand.

“Buck…” Steve began. “What’s going on?”

“Steve.. She’s gone..”      

“Who’s gone?”

“Mouse.  She wasn’t there when I got home.  She left this letter, she left me, she… left.  I fucked up Steve, it’s all my fault.”

Steve stood up and walked towards his friend.  He reached out and put a reassuring hand on Bucky’s shoulder and moved him towards a chair to take a seat and pushed him down into the seat.  “Ok, calm down and tell me exactly what happened?”

Bucky took a deep breath and relayed the story as best he could through his anxiety and stress.  He explained about the agreement you two came to, how he had decided to take this mission without consulting you and how, he now realised, you had said goodbye to him when he left for the last mission.

“So you think she’s gone for good because she said goodbye when you left for a mission?” Steve didn’t quite understand.

“You don’t get it Steve, she never said goodbye.  She was adamant that it was So long, not goodbye, because goodbye was permanent.  I never realised until just now that when I was leaving to come here on that last day that she actually said goodbye.  I deserve this, with all the crappy things I’ve done in my life, this is the worst.”

Steve gestured for Bucky to hand him the letter so he could read it.  “Well, if that’s the case then it does sound like a permanent goodbye.  What else have you got there?” he asked.

“Oh god” Bucky gasped.  “That’s not the worst of it Steve, she’s pregnant, with my baby!  There was an ultrasound picture with the letter.” He showed the picture to Steve who took a deep breath and let out a massive sigh.

“Oh Buck, you always wanted a family.”

“We have to find her Steve, we have to get Tony and Friday and whatever research analysts we can find to track her down.  I don’t know when exactly she left or where she’s gone, but what’s the use of Tony’s billions if he can’t help us with this?”

Like Beetlejuice, sometimes it feels as if you say Tony’s name enough and he just appears.  At that moment, he was in the doorway of Steve’s office, maybe one of the team that had seen Bucky arrive had alerted him to the situation.

“What do you want with my money Barnes?” Tony enquired calmly.

Bucky turned his eyes on the billionaire, wildly gesturing and trying to explain what had happened.

“Buck, sit down” Seve interrupted him.  “I’ll fill Tony in on what’s going on.”

Another half an hour later, after Tony got the story straight from Steve, with Bucky butting in and correcting or adding details, Tony took it all in, his brain constantly readjusting and reworking what they could possibly do to track her down. 

Mouse’s POV

Leaving that day was the hardest thing I ever had to do, specially knowing there was a new life growing inside me that was part Bucky.  I never wanted to deprive him of his child but there was no way I could have continued on with our relationship always being up in the air and with my needs and thoughts continually being disregarded.

I needed time to get myself together and process the end of what I thought was going to be my last ever relationship.  Bucky was my person, he was the one, the one I thought I’d grow old with.  The one I thought I’d raise a family with.  That clearly wasn’t going to be now, however we would also always be intrinsically linked because of this baby.

I immediately went to the only other place I could think of – Sam Wilson’s sister Sarah in Louisiana.  Sarah and I became fast friends the few times Bucky and I visited them in Louisiana.  Because my family all lived overseas, there weren’t really too many other options for me. I just had to hope that Bucky never realised that and connected the dots.

I couldn’t stay long, because of how small Delacroix is, my only option at the beginning was to stay with Sarah and I didn’t want Sam to make a surprise visit home and find me.  I knew if I asked him to keep the secret from Bucky he would but I didn’t think it was fair to ask him to do that.

Sam & Bucky are currently on their mission so I knew I had less than 2 weeks to find somewhere more permanent for the baby and I to live.

It wasn’t fair to ask Sarah to keep this secret either so I told her that I would move close-ish but far enough that I wouldn’t accidentally run into either Sam or Bucky in my day to day but that I wouldn’t put the burden on her of keeping where I was a secret so I wouldn’t tell her. 

My plan was to move somewhere in New Orleans – most likely no more than an hour away from Delacroix.  That way if I needed help I could come to Sarah or I could let her know where I was if that was the only option and she could come to me.  She said she wouldn’t tell Sam or Bucky that she was in touch with me if I didn’t want to.  I told her that I didn’t expect her to lie for me so if she was asked it was up to her if she told them or not.

I found a little house that was perfect, and newly remodelled, for me and the baby and fortunately was able to buy it and move in very quickly as it was a vacant possession with the previous owners relocating without having sold this house.  The fact they were eager to sell allowed me to get a great deal on the property, and it needed literally no work done to it, which was a big help, as a single mother to be.

Time skip – around 3 months later

Mouse pov

I’ve been living in my new house now for the last few months, I’m currently 4 ½ months pregnant with a huge secret.  Not that I’m pregnant, obviously, but that there are 3 babies in there – obviously he did have the super sperm that we always joked about.

I’ve not been sure how I would cope with 1 baby, knowing there are 3 and I’m basically on my own is a whole other story.  I know I’ll be fine, I have Sarah nearby.  And I know if things get really hard, I can call on my family to come to me and help out for a while.

Sam still doesn’t know where I am and I’m supremely grateful to Sarah for keeping this secret from her brother.

Recently I’ve been thinking about letting Bucky know somehow that we are safe and healthy but then in the same thought, my brain tells me he wouldn’t care.  Logically I know he would but that little devil voice that tries to sabotage me always seems to win out.

I bought a 2nd phone, a burner phone, on the thought that maybe I could anonymously email him some information, but how much do I want to tell him.  I know if I told him there were 3 babies he would move heaven and earth, and get Tony to help, to find us.

Eventually I would want him to have his part in the children’s lives, it’s not fair to him or to them not to allow that, regardless of why or how our relationship ended.

I pulled out my burner phone and started the first email.

Avengers compound

Nat & Wanda had tried hard to get the guys to honour your request of not trying to find you but it was to no avail.  Tony employed Friday to trawl passenger lists for planes, trains, buses and the like.  Bucky was sure you wouldn’t have used your own name and he was proven right time and again.

Tony was getting supremely frustrated that all his money couldn’t crack this.

“I keep telling you Tony, she might not have been an Avenger, but she is intelligent, she knows all the tricks to keep herself off the grid and untrackable.  This is an impossible task.”

“So you want to give up, is that what I’m hearing tinman?” Tony yelled.

“Ok, both of you just calm down” Steve interjected.  “This is a highly emotional and stressful situation and yelling at each other isn’t going to solve anything.  It’s definitely not going to make her easier to find.  Now Buck, do you have any clues what names she might use or where she might have gone?”

Bucky looked at Steve.  “I have no idea Steve, we never used aliases in that way when we went away, so I’m not sure what she’d have picked.  Her favourite show is Friends so maybe Monica, Rachel or Phoebe?” he shrugged.

“Well, that is the first reasonable suggestion either of you have made this whole time.” Tony scoffed.  “Friday, check passenger manifests again under the following names – Monica, Rachel and Phoebe, look at all surnames, because we have no idea what she would have done there.”

“On it Mr Stark” Friday confirmed and went to work.

A few hours later, Tony asked Friday how she was progressing with the search.  “Almost done Mr Stark, we currently have just the bus manifests to go through, then I will display all the results.  Just a heads up though, there’s a lot of Monica and Rachels coming up.”

“What about Phoebes?” Tony asked.

“There are a few but nowhere near as many as the others.”

Bucky was sitting to the side with his head in his hands when his phone pinged with a notification.  He’d been ignoring most notifs up to now because he had more important things to concern himself with, like where mouse and his baby were.  He picked up the phone to delete the notif when he noticed it was from his avengers email and said it was from her.

He stood up dumbfounded, holding his phone out in front of him.  “Umm, T-tony.. St-steve.. I-I’ve got an e-email” he stuttered out.

“Well congratulations tinman” Tony laughed. “I get hundreds of them a day.”

“Bu-but, it’s from h-h-her” he struggled to get his words out.  Steve walked over to him and took the phone out of his hands.

“He’s right Tony, he’s got an email from Mouse, to his avengers email address” he said handing Bucky the phone back.

“Well, open it and read it already, maybe it will give us some clues.”

Bucky unlocked his phone and went to his email app.  He started reading it to himself – wanting to make sure it didn’t say anything that he didn’t want Tony or Steve to know.

“Well…” Steve prompted Bucky. “Oh, right.  Right.” Bucky nodded. “Well, it’s pretty simple.  There’s.. Umm, there’s a picture.” He looked up at Steve with tears in his eyes.  “An ultrasound picture!”

A/N: Thank you to @writing-for-marvel for the inspiration to continue this story, which I always wanted to do, I just lost my mojo after being seriously ill twice now in 18 months. Her lovely words after reading chapter 1, reignited me a bit and here is Part 2. I have always pretty much known where I want this story to go, but if you have any requests or suggestions, let me know.

P.s: This hasn't been proofed, so if you find any errors they are mine, let me know and I'm happy to fix them.

[marijuana-barbie]

Things I find myself saying these days that I never said during the 10+ years I had severe depression:

- I love my life

- my life is fun and exciting

- it’s a great time to be alive

I honestly never thought I’d be here. I never thought I’d be free. But I’m so grateful I survived.

[kimtaegis]

I submitted the goddamn master thesis 20 minutes before it was goddamn due and now it’s done and I did it

[lokimobius]

is my wip wednesday post repressed on the dash or is it just kinda awful?

[butnotbubblegum]

using the tags to vent my current emotional state into the void bc ig story feels like a bad plan for this, read at your own risk.

[strawberryfaced]

haven’t had such a night in quite a while :’) almost forgot how to handle

[eebie]

When school starts back up again im gonna search for people who will want to hang and watch movies