#ivy with the high kick this time

[sceletaflores]

GIVE IT TO HER LIKE A MAN!

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｡𖦹°‧➵ pair: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ wc: 5.1k

｡𖦹°‧➵ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, no ellie, joel’s pov, swearing, age gap (52/23), semi-public sex (more of a semi-public ALMOST over the pants handjob?), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, hair pulling, spit kink, degradation, pussy spanking, creampie, fucking in your childhood bedroom RAAAHHH, one (1) single line about joel wanting to slap you, one (1) single use of the word daddy, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ nat’s note: hi babies! i'm back! did you miss me? cause i missed you and oh em gee i'm so excited to be rejoining the party. this actually wasn't what i planned on posting but the angsty joel fic is kicking my ass so hard that i had to take a break from it. i just needed to word vomit some raunchy, freak-nasty porn to cleanse my palate! i don’t normally go for the dbf trope but it's just so joel i couldn't not dip my feet in these waters. it's also more like dad's-close-but-distant-acquaintance-joel because in my head that man has little to no friends honestly. hope you love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel gives the best graduation gifts...

Joel isn’t the type to get invited to these kinds of things.

Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.

The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.

“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers. 

He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.

What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.

And Christ, did you look smug about it.

It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.

He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.

It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.

You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.

Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.

Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.

It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.

“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”

There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.

Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”

Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.

“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

That was all it took.

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.

Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.

Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.

You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.

It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain. 

The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.

Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.

And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.

Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.

The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke. 

Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”

You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.

The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.

Joel is too damn old for this.

“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”

Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.

This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.

He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.

A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.

“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”

Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”

Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.

‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach. 

Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”

You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”

Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”

Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.

Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.

It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now. 

But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Christ, you’re trying to kill him.

Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”

Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager. 

“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”

Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule’s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.

Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.

“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”

Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”

The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.

Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”

You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.

You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.

“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”

It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.

He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.

“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.

Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.

“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”

It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.

“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.

“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”

That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.

He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.

Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.

Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.

"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."

You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.

Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.

It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.

He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”

You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.

Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”

Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.

Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.

He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.

“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”

Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.

Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.

Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.

“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”

You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”

Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.

It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.

Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”

Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.

Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”

The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.

Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”

You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.

“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”

You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.

“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”

The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.

“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”

“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”

His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.

Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”

With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.

Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.

When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”

You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”

Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[limerlove]

─── ·˚͙͘͡★ ❝ I KNOW SUNSHINE ❞

dykematch represents. exwife!abby x yearning!reader

sum. dr. anderson, a heartthrob to many, but at one point to you, she was only a broke college athlete with a soul that cared too much. now, she's your ex-wife that you just can't kick. an old friend's wedding brings you together. for one final time, can you finally bid the love of your life c'est la vie?

content warning. eighteen+, wc 10k. wedding!au, surgeon!abby, some college abby thrown in for fun, smut, strapsex, angst, fluff, grab your tissue babes.

here's my latest baby! on the real, i have been feeling very burned out in the writing community. especially tlou. but had to remind myself that writing can be fun when bitches aren't making it not so fun! this was honestly a very personal piece in some areas so, here's another chunk of my heart. hopefully i'll be back soon, mwah. and happy almost pride!

August, 2025. 

Greenery sprouts from around the bouquet, each vine hand-picked, every flower meticulously placed. An arrangement of lilies, pearly-white roses, and a sprinkle of tulips in your hand as you find the bride. The venue is something you wished didn’t make you think of your own. You kept reminding yourself today isn’t about you. 

Lola. 

Lola and Chris. 

You’d seen glimpses of her at the rehearsal dinner. Highlights  of blonde eclipsing your vision just for the moment but the sun seeping through the tall windows made its presence known instead. There was too much to do, too much to say to her, and none of it would come out right. 

What’s in the past is done. Right? 

You take a moment to take Lola in. After all, this is what it’s all about. True love. Never have you seen two people so perfect, standing the test of time. Through four years of college, and another four after, here she is. 

Ready to say forever in front of all her family and friends, their loved ones ready to synchronize the joyous cries in harmony. Lola and Chris. The love of their lives. 

They are the focus, until the last speech of the night, this is all you focus on. Even though Abby is a part of their wedding party. Desperately, you make an attempt to remain your composure when you’re walking down the aisle with Abby. You ignore the navy blue tie illuminating her eyes, or the arm she offers in silence as you wait for the wedding planner to give you your cue. 

There are thoughts. Pestering ones. Reminding you of four years ago, the two of you high on love, a wedding band around Abby’s finger, her hands barely able to stay off of you more than a second. When she used to look at you with unwavering devotion. 

Neither of you had been scorned by life yet. 

And you hoped Lola and Chris would be so lucky to never feel the burn. 

─── 

The second? The fourth? Wait, no, this has to be the third…right? 

In the echoes of your lonely chambers, party for two. A glass of whiskey and some sorrows to drown in. Locked in her admiring gaze, you watch as she dances with your five-year old niece. A gracious heart leads Abby to let the little bundle of joy  dance on top of her feet. 

There’s a twinkle, blinding as a new-born star, and it reminds you of what it feels like to be a constellation she chases. One fleeting star desperately attempts to connect to the closest neighbor twinkling in the midnight sky. Always wondering if the newest will shine as much as the last. 

Ellie will momentarily start making gagging noises to your left. Right on cue, she snaps her fingers in front of your face, bursting your fantasies. 

Reality is brutal. 

“How long?” Ellie questions you, ivy-green eyes watching you like a hawk. 

“Still the same — a year.” 

Then Abby’s laughing with your mom, leaning into her warmth. Even after Christmas passes, another thanksgiving drifts from the calendar, and you wonder if she’s alone. One too many Valentines you should be spending with her, you can’t help but wonder if things could be different. 

The girlfriend you refused to bring leaves a stain in your mouth, the fight the two of you had before, it’s all so fucking cliche. Another wasted relationship to forget the horror you’re living in. Another breakup you’ll pretend didn’t happen at the sake of your dignity. She can’t know you’re single, again. 

It’s too obvious to anyone who’s watching, divorced for three years, separated for four and it's only been a year since the last time you were together. A year since she’s been gone, radio silence engulfing you the second she left town. 

The well-renowned heart surgeon, Dr. Anderson is called all across the globe. Her two feet are never on the ground enough to call any place a home. Her speciality didn’t always have her chasing both ends of the globe, fleeing to where she’s needed at a moment notice. 

She was leagues above her peers and even her superiors. Abby running circles around them. Putting them in a continuous loop. Until she kept moving to the next big thing. Something had to give and it wasn’t her career. 

The final dagger in your cracking marriage was when she missed your anniversary for the second year in a row. Your birthday before that. And the wilted flowers you couldn’t bring yourself to discard months before that even. 

But neither of you were able to quit each other. Long after the ink dried with every dotted line signed and you still found a way to crawl into her sheets. There wasn’t anyone else who compared to her but you were still trying to find it. 

The moment you truly fall in love, when it’s undeniable and it consumes you, where you finally feel peace with their comfort surrounding every worry you’ve had. 

But maybe lightning only strikes once. A bolt of love with only her initials carved in by the magic of gods, each promise she’d broken forged into a blossom that ends — painfully does it linger — like a spring begging to kiss summer. 

“You’re breaking it tonight.” Ellie shakes her head. You can’t take your eyes off of Abby for more than one second. “Neither of you can help it.” 

“I have a girlfriend, Els.” A vicious burn chokes your throat as the whiskey burns and settles disparagingly in your stomach. The lie smothers you all the same.  “A smart, beautiful girlfriend.” 

“Listen, I love you. You know that but none of your relationships are ever going to work when you still look at Abby like this.” She finds it necessary to emphasize the bright light in a shadow of green. “All of these years and you’re still not over her.” Ellie swiveles in the bar stool to face you. “Plus, we both know she’s not as innocent as she looks.” 

There’s silence for a bit, downing the rest of your drink, hoping the burn coating your throat travels to your heart, dimensioning all hope beating for the woman you’ve never been able to shake. 

Everyone expects you to. Like it’s easy. As if you didn’t think vows are forever. Life has never been so unkind to you. You’re more fortunate than most. 

“Do you really need it explained?” 

“No.” You speak as if you’re wounded but all she did was point out the obvious. Abby is a glaring truth you tuck underneath your seat, the missing raspberry-chapstick in the bottom of your purse. A trinket. Better off hidden than searching for something that is no longer intact. 

“I can make this work. Abby doesn’t always have to be the person I run back to. I can move on and heal or whatever the fuck it is normal people do. I can do this.” It’s a mantra to convince yourself, but not even Ellie is convinced. 

Ellie smirks as Abby makes her way over to you but you’re too caught up in ordering another whiskey to stop yourself from doing something idiotic. A brainless action that would only bring your gratification for a moment, before your hands would be coated in your lovers’ blood the second it’s over. 

She’ll always be a phenomenon, the dime of a dozen. A bundle of your highest dreams wrapped in the warmest blanket. Fine lines deepening the apple of her cheeks, not to mention the wrinkles when she furrows those maddening eyebrows. There is no denying how much you’ve always loved her. 

You’re truly doomed. 

───

“Old fashioned, please.”

An open bar was the best decision of the night. Everyone was buzzing, congratulating the happy couple, nursing their favorite drink in hand. Everlasting love for the blessed ones or a vice of your choice for the insufferable. The ones who had already ventured down the aisle and couldn’t make it on the other side. 

It’s why you couldn’t stand the particularly young bartender eyeing up Abby like she’s a piece of meat. Before you never had felt the weed of jealousy wrap around your throat, suffocating the joy right out of you, but they might as well be thorns protruding through your sternum for every second her eyes linger on Abby.  

Silky locks of midnight-blue and hazel eyes taunt you as she stutters and drops the glass she’s been holding right in front of Abby. As of the mere sight of her warrants for precious glass to be broken. She just laughs it off as the woman who makes Abby’s drink blooms a deep shade of pink. 

“Let me guess…The Macallan?” Abby gestures to the glass of whiskey you’re nursing. 

“Maybe.” A glimmer in your eyes, tightly pursing your lips in attempts to keep at least one thing closed tonight. But she leans forward, her nose sniffing above the rim. 

With her eyes beaming up at you, blonde-eyelashes curling to kiss her sandy freckles, she smiles. A sparkle. Another flame so warm it matches the shade of blue in her eyes, cursing you with the love she once felt. Almost making you believe it could happen again. 

“That’s definitely Macallan. Your favorite. How could I ever forget?” Abby offers a question as her cologne isn’t so invasive, there’s space for you to breathe, but with her close you doubt there’s enough oxygen to spare. 

“It’s only because of New York. I’m not sure I could ever forget it.” 

“We went through, I don’t know—” Abby tries to recall, but you don’t need to be told. You’re fully aware of what happened. 

The first time Abby whisked you away on a spontaneous trip before life got so hectic. Labored gust of her minty-fresh breath kiss your neck as she sinks herself into your warmth, a blank canvas for her lips to mark. Abby does it quietly, the summer sun raining light on your silky skin, and she decides to shower you with more of her love.

Out of habit as if she’s said it a million times before. But it’s the first. Naively, she whispers those three little words. Lips of subtlety rest against your ear as they are released. A moment of confusion has you turning around, eyes squinting against the light of the sun, making you think twice if you heard her right. 

And you did. 

The memory suffocates, morphs into a dream, and then you find yourself lucky enough to barely remember it. A blatant lie, but if you believe it hard enough, it could be the truth. 

“Three bottles in one night and then you held my hair when I puked my guts five minutes later that morning and told me it made you love me even more.” Your face scrunches up and Abby knocks her shoulder with yours. 

“Do you remember later that night when you let me do that thing with my t—” 

“I’m still right here!” Childishly, Ellie throws her hands up on the hair before she takes another swing from her beer. 

“Williams, I sure have missed the shriek of your voice.” Abby leans over, throwing her arm over the backrest of your chair, making herself comfortable. 

As if no time has passed, the three of you slip into easy conversation. You wished for this. A glimpse into the life you once had. For a time, little moments just like these only existed in your dreams. Even when the two of you were still living under the same roof — in your cruel reality it still felt like a fantasy — one that was entirely too unattainable. 

It makes you think of when it all started. When life felt easier. 

───

The College Years: University of Seattle 

Ellie had been the first to set your sights on you, well, before Abby at the very least. Pining only ran so deep and your consistent rejection became a heavy cross for her to bear. Over your first semester, Ellie became a confidant, and her crush melted in friendship. 

She’s the first person you’d ever trusted with your harboring secret. A sophomore in college and you finally felt yourself settling in. Your first year, you only allowed yourself to drown in your studies. A strict regimen. The only real friend you did make was Ellie and only because she couldn’t land herself in your sheets. 

But regardless of how the situation had started, her presence in your life became concrete. A month into the semester of your second year, Ellie thinks it’s a great idea to start dragging you into parties. Like that’s the most obvious choice in the world. Yet, you’re still warming up to the idea. 

Cheap beer, frat boys trying to make their presence known to any girl who walks by, whatever pop song they deemed necessary to funnel them to the next raunchy beat. None of it really had ever been your scene. Ellie thrived in it when she chose to. When she didn’t feel like it, the two of you would silently read books in your insanely small dorm room. 

You agreed to go to one this week. Even if it pains every bone in your body. Ellie flips through the pages of a book you recommended to her as you emerge from the bathroom, practically done. For the past hour, you envied Ellie’s nonchalant red converse and navy-blue flannel attire. It must be nice to not have to do yourself up to the nines to feel comfortable. 

You craved it. 

For a moment, you contemplated an outfit change but then there was a disturbance at the door. A loud one, too. 

Ellie shrugs her shoulders as if to say — this is your dorm, not mine — and she’s right but it doesn’t make it any less nerve wracking. 

Maybe Dina has someone stopping by and she double booked? You take a moment to glance at her made bed before opening the door. 

“Lola, would you please—” The snarky blonde who is in the middle of an eye roll, stops in her tracks. Freckled and pale cheeks coated in a bashful crimson. “Oh, right, you’re not Lola.” 

“Am I supposed to be?” There’s a confidence in your tone, enough where Ellie puts her book down to watch. 

“It’s Chris’ girlfriend, she’s always going about me taking a long time to get—” The woman pauses realizing you have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. “And…….you don’t know Chris. Wow, really making an ass out of myself, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

Ellie laughs, a bit too loudly, and it’s enough to warrant her attention as she sneaks a peek into your dorm. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude on you and your girlfriend—” She sighs, hiding the bag she had in her hand behind her back. “Lola is probably just fucking with me and sent me the wrong room on purpose. She says I’m overly confident and I apparently need to be humbled, desperately. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, believe it or not.” 

“So, are you?” 

“Am I what?” She questions, a smirk etching its way into her full cheeks. A bright-glint in her eyes personified to tease you. 

“Overly-confident?” 

“Me? Never, sunshine.” As if she’s looking for a sign. 

You give yourself permission to look at her and there’s a lot to be confident about. Her staturing height, golden waves of blonde, piercing-blue eyes creating round edges around your soul. There’s a sincerity there. You wonder if she’s even aware of it. 

She looks simple enough, a white button down loose and opened, even slightly wrinkled. A pair of vintage denim shorts, a wash of pale-blue fitting loosely on her thighs with a graphic tee that brings out her eyes even more. 

She’s tan, clearly athletic, and definitely a flirt by the looks of it. The interaction is too overwhelming and she’s too warm. You don’t even know her name. Nor do you have any intention to. She’s terrifyingly self-assured, batting her blonde eyelashes at you as if she’s waiting for you to paint her golden. 

“Well, I hope you find Lola and Chris.” The beautiful woman in front of you, equally as muscular as you’ve seen from anyone on campus, blushes. But you’re too in your head to notice. “Have a good night—” 

“Abigail. But you can call me Abby.” 

The next couple weeks blend together. All of it is more or less the same. A string of classes you’re trying to keep up with, caffeine you’re pumping your body with, and a mysteriously confident girl who won’t leave your mind. 

Ellie waits until it’s been three weeks to torment you with it. You’re surprised she even found the patience. 

“You know who that girl was, right?” 

“What girl?” The two of you are walking back from the cafe, headed back to your dorm room before the both of you call it a night. Ellie insisted she make sure you get home safely which you appreciate. 

“Don’t give me that. You know exactly who I’m talking about.” 

To be fair, you did. But you didn’t want to make it obvious. 

“I’ve seen her around, yeah. I don’t know who she is and it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I’m going to see her again. She’s just someone who knocked on the wrong door.” 

“So, the captain of the rugby team, every lesbian’s dream girl is going around campus asking about you and you’re not going to even bite?” 

“What?” You take a beat, trying to process the information. “She is not—” 

Ellie shrugs her shoulders, as if it’s a fact you have to stomach. A truth that should be sweet to swallow. To you, it feels more than overwhelming. It’s an unbearable weight. The last thing you’ve ever wanted was attention. With Abby dialed into you, for whatever reason, is too much for you to carry. 

“Well tell her you’re my girlfriend. She already thinks so, there’s no harm in—” 

“She totally doesn’t.” 

Her response crosses you with confusion. “But why wouldn’t she when I never corrected her?” 

“Because she asked me and I said you weren’t.” Ellie mischievously smiles. 

You think about punching her in the lip, but decide against it. 

It's nearly two months before you see Abby again. For a while, you thought you would never have to see her again. The more you gave yourself time to think about it, the more of a distraction she felt. This is exactly what you had been so strictly against. 

You didn’t have time for that. A budding romance. No matter how tempting her pretty muscles and pink lips seem to be — it’s not like you’re even interested. She's just a jock with a pension for something she can’t have. It didn’t necessarily help that she wouldn’t stop asking Ellie about you. 

Every time, Els would come back to you with her eyes shimmering in a vibrant-green. A smile nearly revealing itself in the light. A new question about you, a new interest in something you like. Abby loves asking about you. Ellie makes sure you know it too. 

“If she’s so fond of me, why can’t she be bothered to talk to me?” 

“Because she would scare you off. You need time to warm up. Something where you don’t feel so much pressure.” 

The truth nips at her skin like the prickly ends of a cactus. Abby would scare her off. The popularity she carries is enough to make her run sixty miles in the other direction. Let alone everything else about her that makes you nervous. The first encounter was a hail-mary. In the comfort of your own room, there was an extension of yourself to latch onto. 

Outside of it, there was nothing warm and comforting, just cold heartless feins threatening to suck your discipline dry. 

“I hate that you know me so well.” 

“I know.” Ellie nudges your shoulder with hers. 

The local pub is quiet, you’re nursing a beer Ellie had been able to score with her fake id. Suddenly, the discussion of Abby being brought up made you question the size of this table. And before you could say a word, a couple of unnamed faces funneled in with the woman of the hour.

You wonder if the couple clinging onto each is Lola and Chris. Dina follows right behind them as she ends a phone call. 

“Ellie, you did not—” 

“Oh, I so did. You need to get fucked by a b—”

“Hi, Sunshine.” 

Abby’s voice tugs at your heart, so badly you have to physically put your hand over your chest. Lola and Chris introduce themselves as they delve into a conversation with Dina and Ellie, like they knew each other. 

Like everyone knows everyone but you. The whole night Abby is persistent. An open book, she wants to talk about anything. Everything. All of this seems to be so easy for her. A couple times, you find yourself getting distracted with her toned-arms, they’re even larger than Chris’ slimed arms. 

Abby asks you questions and involves you when she gets looped into conversation with Ellie or Lola. You like it when she always asks your opinion, giving you her undivided attention when others go off to the next topic. The golden signet ring on her pinky shines in the dually-light bar. Catching against the reflection of the mirror adjacent to the oak-stained wall. 

“You wanna pick a song? I think I might have some cash on me. Or some coins, something of currency.” Abby steps off the stool, lending you a hand even if it’s a short step for you, and you still take her guidance. 

“Uh, sure. I don’t see why not.” 

“Is that almost excitement I’m hearing, sunshine?” 

When your face sulks back into something moppy and annoyed, Abby laughs as bright as the sun. 

“C’mon, don’t let my optimism put you off. I’m not nearly as bright as I seem. You just have that effect on me.” She says what you’re thinking. Kiss her, run away, hit Ellie for making you painfully aware of the beautifully-golden girl who holds some type of affection for you. 

Abby stands behind you as you sift through the music on the jukebox. A collection of classics from the eighties and nineties. Even some lingering songs from the seventies have made its way. You’re not even paying attention, not really. You’re not sure if Abby wants to torture you, but she stand behind you, a fraction off to the side as she extends her arm across to the right, leaning into even more. 

“You pick. I can’t decide.” 

“Okay, but on one condition.” 

“Why do I have a feeling I’m not gonna like this.” Abby just smiles, whispering in your ear that you have nothing to worry about. 

“Just a dance, one song.” 

“Abby, you should know I—” 

“What? You don’t like girls?” You can tell she’s joking. The small joke even makes you laugh. The two of you both knew how much you’ve been ogling, not really letting her out of your sight, even if it’s for a minute long. 

“Abby.” You warned and then she dials back her flirting, telling you to go on, as she scrolls through the list of songs to choose from. 

“Go on, sunshine. Tell me the devastating news.” 

“I don’t date. I don’t want to. It’s not something I want to focus on.” Abby chooses a song before twirling you in her arms. It gives you no option but to latch onto her, arms thrown around her neck once the two of you settle into each other. 

“And how firm do you feel right now in that decision?” There’s no teasing, she’s genuinely asking as she holds you, in a bar full of staring people, she couldn’t care less. If you’re not careful, you might fall in love with her this very fateful second. 

“Pretty good.” You meet her eyes, as she inches forward, her chest pressed against yours and Abby leans her foreheads against yours. A breath full of mint kissing your luscious lips, a strawberry-balm coating them a deep tint of red. 

“And what about now?” She wants you to lean in. To give into the selfish devil on your shoulder, or the angelic soul whispering in your ear, whatever brings you closer to her. 

The song is over but the two of you haven’t even struck the first chord. 

───

You think of your almost first kiss with Abby. How deeply you felt for her even before you knew her as intimately as you do now. Even when the years apart sever you, the nerve endings binding you together barely holding on, you’ll always have that moment. 

An almost. It’s laughable how relevant all of those moments feel just as you are now. Almost a lifetime later. It makes you think of the life you once had, the one you never took for granted, but you soon would learn she would. 

Abby was never some dumb jock who was careless and reckless. There’s naivety that blooms in your youth, and somewhere along the way, you grow up. The leaves of your knowledge become weathered, the colors change, and suddenly what made you so green turns into a numbing-brown. Until you fall into something new. 

Even now, you still cling to the memories of her. The novel acts of love and the ones forgotten that made your blood run cold. 

Late nights watching your favorite horror movies while Abby cooks a dish she knows you love. Or when she stops on her way home to get you a bottle of your preferred white wine. The little things she used to do for you suddenly fell into acts of service that never happened until it was just you and the bottom of the bottle each night, wishing Abby was there with you. 

No one truly knew how this worked. How you and Abby are so amicable, so kind to one another after the divorce was finalized. It’s easier when the two of you are still in love, circumstances pulling the two of you in different directions but there’s still so much love. 

“Oh, how I’ve missed the cocky jock everyone fawned over.” Ellie jokes, “But truly, it’s good to see you. Even if it’s for these two crazy love birds. Lola and Chris, god she’s such a saint.” 

“If that ain’t the fucking truth.” Abby and Ellie ding their glasses together. 

It’s nice to see the two of them together but you know Ellie. She’s up before you have time to blink. She’s always been the biggest supporter for you and Abby. And she so badly wants the two of you to work. Whether the pressure feels good or it doesn’t, she places it there. 

The words she spoke to you junior year of college still ring in your ear. 

One day, I’m going to find the love Abby and you have. I want someone to look at me like that. So full of love. Of faith. Like there’s a testimony waiting to be written in her eyes. That’s how Abby looks at you. I want to believe love exists like that for everyone. Even for someone like me. I haven’t forgotten you rejected me by the way. 

Classic Ellie. 

Without so much as a word, she excuses herself when Dina pleads for a dance and she so freely gives it — you wish it could’ve been this easy for you. Like she believed it would be. 

A love full of faith and promise. Now you just had a badgered testimony. 

“Where is she?” Abby asks the moment Ellie is gone, it’s the first thing she wanted to ask but she waits until the two of you are alone. She won't say her name, not when she still feels the burn. The ache in her stomach when Iris hard launched the both of you online. 

“Home.” It stings more than Abby expects it too but she takes it on the chin. There's still silence as the two of you sit comfortably, leaning your head against her supportive shoulder. 

You cared for her. You hated that it felt good to see the jealousy rage in her eyes. For once, she didn’t hide what she felt behind her impenetrable mask, one that was built over time, but it was short lived. 

“I’m sorry, Abby. If I had known I would have never—I never would have gone there.” 

It all comes flooding back like ivory wine before it spoils into crimson. A year ago when it all blew up in your face. Even if you didn’t know Abby so well, an imbecile would know it’s why she disappeared. Never coming home after, ignoring your texts with a dryness you hadn’t experienced in years. 

If you could take it all back, you would. Abby tells you it’s fine but she forgives a lot when she loves you. It’s another slice to your heart; you’ll never stop bleeding. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.” There’s a wall in front of her eyes, keeping you from knowing a thing. It hadn’t been much different when the two of you were married. Always so much to hide, very little room for you to be let in. 

You loved the girl who was an open book, somehow the both of you had lost her. 

“No, we don’t have to talk.” Abby smirks as she talks a sip of her drink. 

“You’re such a cheeky shit.” You nudge your knee against hers as you lean closer to her, thick and muscled thighs shifting towards you, sandwiching your legs between hers. “I guess some of us don’t really change.” 

“I’ve changed plenty—” Abby places her hand on your thigh, playing with the flimsy material of your dress, enjoying the slit in your dress exposing smooth skin in the beeline of her vision. 

“Yeah, totally.” 

“I have.” Dragging her fingers along your thigh as she tests the waters and she rises higher, rubbing soothing circles into your skin as she recites every inch of surface from memory. “A lot of things have changed for me recently.” 

“Like what?” You’re the definition of pathetic, fawning over her every word as if she’s the first to say each one. 

“Different things, my life, my um—” She pauses for a moment before she bites her lip, a heavy sigh leaving her lips but it’s one of relief. “My job.” 

There’s some disposition in your heart, how it feels to be lost back in a past memory. Eternally, a glimpse of your pleading meets a moment you keep under lock and key. 

But you don’t ask. Anxiously you gulp down the rest of your drink. You’re not a fan of how it burns but it’s better than giving into what she wants. Giving her the satisfaction of being enamoured with the possibility of her being home. It’s what you dreamed of four years ago. 

You wanted to believe the well has dried up — she’s too late. Even the idea planted in your mind sounds falsified. There’s an abundance of desperation threatening to make home, torturing the life out of you with the greediness rooted in fresh soil. 

It begs for a chance to blossom. 

“You can ask me. I won’t bite, promise.” 

With cheeks, rosing red like cherries, you wonder what else finds itself blossoming beneath the surface. 

You take the safer route. “What country are you going to this time?” The sorrow in your voice is palpable. 

Abby ignores you. 

“You know that green and white house in the countryside, the fields so open you could get lost in them, the one we always talked about. Do you remember it?” 

“Abby, I hope you have a point to all of this or perhaps you’re just feeling particularly cruel.” 

Of course you remember it. The amount of times you’ve come into town and passed by it. At one point, it’s what the both of you wanted until your needs and hers got lost in the shuffle. Two hearts of the same beat drifting from one another in tragic harmony. 

“I bought it. I’m flying to England to do one last surgery that my assistant already had scheduled last month and I’m coming home. Opening a private practice here. I’m done flying out. If patients want to see me, they can come here.” 

“W-What, um—” You stutter out, trying to think of a reasonable response, anything but kissing her or crying. It’s not fair. It’s not right. This is all you had wanted. 

Four years ago. 

─── 

April, 2024. 

“A-Abby, oh god—” 

She’s smirking like a goddamn idiot. All meat and muscle. The strong v-line that made you wanna slap it right off of her. No one should ever look this good. It’s such a punishment. A curse. Devil’s karma on a double-edge sword but somehow you’re eating both ends. 

“Mhm, that good? I know you’ve always been loud, baby, but you’re singing like a perfect angel.” Abby grunts as she thrust upwards, watching you squirm as your full-seated on the baby-blue strap she’s fucking you with. “Those pretty girls that keep posting you not enough?” 

“Are you jealous?” Lifting an eyebrow but she doesn’t respond. Thrusting into you at a slow pace, watching you slowly crumble before her haunting eyes, never straying for even a moment. 

“Jealous of what exactly? It’s not like they hold a fucking candle to me. I’ll snuff them out before they have a chance to light the match.” With a gentle hand, she guides you closer to her, your forehead pressed against hers, meeting her deep thrusts with a slow grind. 

Her coaxing arm wraps around your waist, tickling your spine as she does so, searing your lips to hers. It coats your entire body with a heat, blossoming at your heart before it spreads into every inch of your body. Laying waste to any part of you trying to go anywhere but here. 

“I’m not as easy as you think, Abby.” 

“Never said you were. For everyone else, I'm sure it’s very difficult…if you aren’t me.” Abby does the thing. Lips touching but despite the desire, she enjoys watching you chase. You want her, every piece of her. Each part she’s shown you, you cling onto it like a lifeline, hoping she’ll unravel another momentum for you to hold onto. 

Abby will leave and the time spent with you is all you have left. Trying to think of anything else, you slip into the role she wants you to play. It’s all you can do. 

“God, you’re so full of yourself.” 

“I think you’re kind of full of me at the moment.” Planting her feet on the bed she pushes a few thrusts that shut you up, gasping as your lips brush against her she doesn’t take the bare. 

Abby is perfectly content with watching you fall apart, a speciality she hasn’t had the opportunity of exercising while she’s been away. You fall into the crook in her neck, lips kissing at the exposed flesh as you take what she gives. 

“I know, babygirl, you love my cock too much to stay away. I can hear how wet you are for me. Singing to me with your pussy like the pretty angel you are.” Abby moans when your teeth sink in, sucking at the flesh until you’re satisfied with the marks you’re leaving behind. 

“Please— A-Abby, you love to talk so much shit, would you just make me come?” 

“Then work for it, baby.” That’s all it takes before you’re bouncing on her cock, riding as deep as Abby will allow. Lazily, she props herself on her elbows as she takes a look at the show. The double A’s on your left hip are still inked and Abby smooths her thumb over it. 

A smile she can’t help but show. 

“God, Abby would you just—” 

“Still a brat.” Abby chuckles, slapping your ass in the process which causes you to shudder. 

Leaning over you whisper in her ear, “So, you do remember a thing or two.” 

Abby flips you over, your head plush against her satin pillows, sinking your neck so you lay comfortably. Dildo still laying perfectly within you, as she smooths her calloused fingertips on your thighs, smoothing along the surface. 

A much more gentle touch than what you’ve been used to in the past year. You didn’t mind it to be fast, rough, even a little messy at times. You enjoyed it when it was with someone new. Thrived in the throes of a meaningless fuck, where a delicate hand wasn’t required. If you need to get off with no complications, it’s the best option. 

Abby was never just a quick fuck. It wasn’t how any of this started and when she needs a smidge of stress to relieve, she’s always been a woman to take her time. Wind you up so tight, her hand is the only release you’re willing to grab onto. A tidal wave she wants to bring to the shore until you’re paralyzed by her wave. 

“It seems like you need to be reminded of who you're with.” With a look of curiosity flourishing under the prosperity of spring, she spreads your legs far enough to make room for her build. 

You take a few heartbeats to check out her physique, which has only grown stronger since the last time you’ve seen her. High and mighty with toned shoulders that would put Hercules to utter shame, her six pack still fully in tack with freckles adorning every part of her body. 

Never would you grow tired of looking at her in all her glory, but that’s all anyone sees. The first time she opened up to you is the moment you fell in love with her. Maybe there’s more. You seem to lose track of them all. 

You’re the first to ever ask me anything about myself, you know? Most women just flirt with me, compliment my body, or they fuck me with their eyes first glance. Of course, it’s nice, but it’s hard feeling like I’m anything more than a body for them to use. Like that’s all I’m good for. 

I do believe you’re more than what other people reduce you to. I’m more interested in this amazing and kind brain of yours. Everything else is just a bonus. It’s a rarity to find someone as beautiful on the outside as they are on the inside. I think that’s what makes you so special, Abby. 

The moment flashes, a film rolling behind your eyes and you almost feel her words lace over skin as if you’re transported to the exact moment she said them. 

Not a soul sees the person that you see. They don’t see the curve of her smile when you call out her name. When she’s nervous, she’ll pull at the ends of her golden strands, threading at her split ends she so desperately needs to cut. 

Abby loves to read books, but she’ll cry right in front of you if you get a book she’s been eyeing but won’t buy for herself. Don’t have the time, it’s what she always used to say. The high demands of her career never allowed for such a thing. 

No hobbies, no life, and certainly no love. 

Memories transform into recent nightmares, the horrors of your insecurities bloom in the root of your mind, reminding you of all the ways you can’t be enough for her. On somber nights when your imagination is feeling particularly cruel, you have dreams of the nights you used to have. A simple dream where it doesn’t end in divorce and indifference.  

“Hey, are you okay?” Her soft voice breaks you of the self-captured spell you cursed yourself in. “What’s wrong?” 

This is the part you loathe and it’s almost enough to boil the blood in your veins. It’s not her fault she knows you like the back of her hand. One glance and she knows if you’re upset, gleefully happy, or steaming with jealousy. Abby can see it all. 

“M’good,” But you know the words won’t be enough. You know she’ll want a reason. It’s one you can’t freely give, even if it’s what she wants. “I missed you, that’s all.” 

And that much is true. The sun yearns for the moon, but the two are always destined to be apart. Her aspiration to be the best in her career is always being held over anything else held near and dear to Abby. You would never fault her for it, it’s why you served the divorce papers in silence — maybe it’s why she signed them without a second thought — abstinence is better than rejection. 

“I miss you, too. I always do.” Even if it’s selfish, Abby can’t help herself. 

You lose yourself in the tidal wave of affection, bound to be pulled by her light. A star that was never meant to be yours to begin with but you still couldn’t help but chase. 

A month? A couple weeks? Then she’ll be boarding a new flight, to a new state, country, or continent and she’ll forget all about you. All you need is a moment. One of self-sacrifice. The heart barely beating in your chest will chastise you for it later, but for now, you have this one night with her. 

A single night to pretend she’s still yours.  

Instead of telling her how much you don’t want her to go, or that you never should have filed for divorce, you allow your lips to melt into hers. You see an island of sapphire, an entire land of love blazing in her eyes, before you allow yourself to get lost in her touch. 

It’s when the scorch of the sun seems worth it. Any moment you’re close to her, feeling the abundance of devotion laced in her velvet tongue, whispering promises she never intends to keep. The potential of more rumbles beneath, waiting to catch her, but she’s always running off in the opposite direction. 

This is all you have. With salacious greed, you welcome it like the sin nestled in your heart. You feel her movements still, but you pull her closer, a soft plea falls from your lips reeks of desperation but you don’t have half a mind to care. 

“You know I’ll give you whatever you want but I’m not going to keep going unless you ask me to.” Abby whispers in the moonlight room. It’s so gentle, if you couldn’t help but look anywhere but her you might have missed it. 

“I-I’m fine, Abby. Really.” You promise her, but it falls on deaf ears. 

Her accusatory eyes dial in, squinting so loudly at you, “You’re about two seconds away from crying.” 

“It’s….the cock….it’s too much.” Trying to keep a flat face, you bite your lip, before the two of you burst into a fit of laughter. 

“You’re still not a very good liar, baby.” Abby purrs. Her voice goes an octave lower than she needs it to. “It’s not the cock. I’ve fucked you with bigger, so why don’t you use your words and tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.” 

“Last time this happened, I cried for three days after you left and I made a promise I wouldn’t be here again and now I’m here and I know as soon as this ends you’ll forget this ever happened and go on with your amazing career and yet again I’ll be left in the dust to fend for myself and—” 

“Woah, baby, slow down. Alright? Take a deep breath and breathe. You’re getting yourself worked up, okay?” 

“But it’s the truth. You’re not even denying it.” You exasperate, groaning as you’ve overcomplicated what was supposed to be a fuck. Only a fuck. But it never is. Not when you’ll always be consumed by your love for her. Not when she’s everything you want. 

You couldn’t be just a meaningless one-night stand. For anyone else? You could. But not to the woman who you love beyond comprehension. 

Abby wrestles with herself. Contemplate her next words and you see the exact moment she gives into something you silently wish for. In only a language she understands. 

A silent wish to be granted — tell me how important I am to you too. 

She leans down, mirroring your position from earlier, with her scarred cheek pressed against your cheek as she delicately whispers, “I think about you every second of every day. I spend every minute missing this. Every hour apart I wish for this, being close to you, pretending things aren’t the way I’ve made them. But I can't change the past, so I can focus on making you feel good —  I’ll be yours forever even if you aren’t mine.” 

“Do you really mean that?” 

“Yes, I do.” Abby confesses to you, sealing her promise in her lips. 

Abby gives sweet pecks along your neck as she peppers your face with litters of love. Making her way back to your lips once again, searing her love until you feel every bit of it. Hoping it’s enough for you to hold onto. 

Abby groans as she starts to move her hips, and god do you take it so fucking well. Picking up right where the two of you left off, but this time you wrap your legs around her waist, allowing her to fuck you at a new angle. 

It’s then when she starts to pick up the pace, brutal hips snapping forward as she lets herself go. The power of her thrust sends the headboard fleeing to the wall. The worn out bed frame she won’t bother to replace creaks under the weight, threatening to snap. 

“No one is as sweet as you, can take my cock like you do. Fuck, you’re so perfect.” She spills all her secrets, the ones threatening to come out of her mouth all night but you still hear them. 

It’s getting her off just as much as it does for you. But she wants you there faster. With a sly of hand she applies pressure on your bundle of nerves, your swollen clit thumping from being touched by its owner, the only one who knew how to pull the string just right. 

A symphony Abby created; no one else stood a chance. 

She watches as you pull yourself closer to her, bringing her small tits against your chest, grabbing you by the hips, losing herself in each thrust. The whimpering slips, any effort to conceal gets pulled from the soft strokes to your clit. 

Tugging at her blonde strands as you pull her lips towards yours again as Abby fucks you as if it’s an art form. Clenching her stomach as she hears you aggressively getting louder, with each thrust there’s a line being drawn from you to her, forever cementing her dedication of vows already broken. 

“Abby, I’m—” 

“I know sweet girl, you can let go for me. I got you.” Abby whispers silently into the night as she gets you through it. The moment your body is convulsing around 

her, grabbing any part of her you can, she kisses you the moment you start to come. 

Always, she’s been one for the details. Paying attention to every little thing about you. Nonsense stories you half-expect her to listen to, never goes unnoticed by her. From remembering your mother’s favorite cake, to your favored choice of sour candy, or how you take your coffee in the morning — Abby pays attention to everything. 

It wasn’t enough she was the most charming woman you’ve ever met, she had to be an angel too. Even through the vicious fights, moments as sharp as a razor blade, she never seemed to leave a mark. Still, Abby was soft. Like a perfectly melted marshmallow in the fire pit, roasted around all the edges but she never seems to burn. 

She looks at you with a wondrous love, shattering-encompassing forever that never comes. One you’ll die waiting for it. 

Quickly you remove yourself from the bed, suddenly the sheet turns into hot lava, scorning you as she looks upon you with admiration. A love you can’t afford to keep any longer. 

“I have to go.” You find your top to be torn by Abby’s hands. 

Putting a pair of boxers on her body, she drifts into her closet, finding her favorite shirt before she helps guide it on your naked frame. 

“This was the last time.” Setting eyes on her, meticulous hand smoothing the cotton in hopes it might merge with your skin. A part of her potentially entangled with you, forever. “We can’t keep doing this. It’s not good for either of us. Neither one of can seem to move on—” 

“I never wanted to move on or a divorce.” Abby confesses but it’s falling on deaf ears, you won’t meet her eyes as you look for the other boot gone missing. 

“Abby, you chose your career. I don’t blame you for it but you did. This will never work. You signed the papers without even fighting. You gave up and I’m not blaming you — I did too.” 

“But what if things changed? What if my job changed and I was here?” She’s desperate, clinging onto anything to make you stay. She wishes you had malice, screaming, even a slap to her stomach or thigh, a pinch to keep her from this ongoing nightmare. 

You kissed her sweetly, and there’s poison on your lips and she’s the only antidote. 

“We both know it never will. The world always needs you more. And I’m just—” Bitterly, her ignorance crunches like dead leaves under your boots. Walking you out the door, in what you hope will be the last. 

You can’t afford for this to happen again. Old habits seeping into you and she’s the most difficult one to kick. 

“But what if something changed?”

What if I changed? 

“Abby?” 

“Yeah, sunshine?” The name wounds you. 

“Don’t do that.” You want to scream, punch a wall, wish for a different future than the one you were given. But your kindness seeps in. The faith of love you hold onto. “Not when it’s the only thing I want.” 

The only thing I need. It’s what you want to say but decide not to. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” 

“I know, Abs.” 

───

Present. 

Four years of being divorced, and neither of you knew how to operate without the other. Two souls extending to each other, in complete tangent with the other. Secretly thriving off the joined consciousness, Abby holds onto every piece of you she can. 

Even if the shards she shattered pierce through her hand, bleeding her dry of every ounce of blood, if it’s for you — the ends justify the ache. Not once has she wavered. Your warning was enough. Keeping her head under, Abby did what she thought was best. 

Surgery. Saving hearts. It’s the one thing she hadn’t failed at. Maybe she couldn’t save the two of you, but she could save the heart in her hands. The passion she felt when she sutured a heart, or teaching interns a new technique that would soon be named after her — there couldn’t be anything else like it. 

Not even you, the love she’ll never forget, could replicate the adrenaline coursing through her veins when Abby was in the operating room. For four years, without the worries of failing you again, she reached unseen heights. Paving the way for all cardio vascular surgeons. Not just for the women but for everyone who had passions just like hers. 

Even with all the accomplishments, the awards, the undeniable concrete ego built in the process, when she’s around you — every bit of her seems to fade — and you’re an angel with a freighting bright halo guiding her home. 

Abby’s been told that nothing would compare to playing god in an operating room, being able to do the impossible. The most inoperable of hearts would be placed in her trained hands, she would make water into wine, an otherwise dead organ would be brought to life because of her. 

All she could do was be the very best surgeon, save as many people as she can, and pretend her heart wasn’t on the other side of the country waiting for you to crave a taste of her again. 

Cruel-hearted with a god-complex, the modern medicine Messiah begs for you to love her again as you once did. Abby’s selfish enough to be bent on receiving what she had once. A steadfast love she had taken for granted once. There wouldn’t be a second. 

Love remains lingering in your eyes, it tries to flee when you get lost in her stormy-blue eyes, but you’ve always had a thing for chasing mayhem. Even if it’s the last thing you want to see, she can’t run away this time. 

“Why would you tell me this?” Scorning Abby as you down another drink the bartender leaves in front of you. “You know I’m in a relationship, you know this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to being happy again, why can’t you just leave me alone?” 

Another lie. But there’s too many to count. It’s the only stretched truth to separate her from you. 

“I-I wasn't, um, I was trying to—” There’s no sense, not when she sees the betrayal simmering in your eyes, begging for a logical explanation. She’s just not sure if she can find one. All she knows is you deserved better but this is all Abby can give. 

“Excuse me, Anderson.” She hears your platform heels ticking against the tile, nearly as angry as you must feel. For a second, she thinks about letting you be. Allowing you the space to forget this ever happened. This is what she does. Abby lets you go until you calm down, your love boiling down to complacency each time she drags you through the mud. 

For the first time, Abby wants to fight. She wants you to scream in her face, yell at her with devotion full of greed — begging for an ounce of deranged sentiment — but trying to build a relationship out of silence? She’ll end up failing again. So, when you’re almost too far, she chases after you. 

The elevator is just about to shut when Abby squeezes her fingers through the elevator, pushing her frame through as you look at her, tears threatening to make home, where they forever belong. A vow of heartache sworn as each tear tattoos your skin. 

“What are you doing?” You’re pissed. Beyond fucking pissed with your pouty lips and furrowed eyebrows pinching your eyes into a squint. Perfectly soft jaw clenches as you dig your heels into the carpet. The fibers are ripped with every subtle drag. 

“I’m fighting because I know as much as you want to be happy with her, you can’t. It’s why she’s not here with you tonight. It’s why no has stuck after me. It’s why I can’t date anyone that’s not you. And it’s why this has never really ended.” The scent you love so desperately overwhelms you as she steps close, leaving hardly any room for you to breathe. 

“You signed those divorce papers, you ended all of this.” 

“I made a mistake? Okay? I fucked up. I thought your life would be so much easier without me constantly putting you second in my life. I gave up on us and the most decent gift I thought I could give was giving you a better chance with someone else.” Abby relents, a half-apology being uttered and you're trying to process all of it. 

She deserves to be pushed away. You want nothing to do with her, but she starts kissing along your neck, the sweet spot behind your ear, dragging her tongue over sensitive skin before she leaves a mark you’ll have to explain. Abby’s always been fond of possession, and she can’t help herself when it comes to you, she knows just what to do. 

“I’m sorry.” Each time her lips drift to another spot along your neck, another apology is spilled. Every inch of your neck might as well be inked, her tenacious voracity met with the gloss of her tongue, edging you further into the grave she continues to dig. 

“This doesn’t make everything you did okay, Abby. You hurt me, left me rotting on a fucking shelf and now that you’re ready I’m supposed to drop my life for you? Give you everything I would’ve died waiting for?” Your words escape with brittle need, a crack threatening the dam to flood. 

“Give me nothing, give me everything, walk out this elevator and never speak to me again.” Abby presses forward, her freckled cheek pressed to yours, her sinful-sultry voice sweltering your body like summer in the middle of July. “Whatever you want, It’s yours. I’m only sorry it couldn’t be given to you sooner.” 

The elevator announces its arrival as you straighten out your dress and as you begin walking away Abby accepts her fate. For what feels like a lifetime, heaven engulfs her tenuous hands and without saying a word you maneuver her into your path. Pulling her by the end of her tie. 

Partnering with the silence as you open the door to your room, the door shutting behind Abby with a soft shutter. Abby stays glued to the door as you grab a glass of wine, filling it halfway before you sit on the edge of the bed, watching her squirm. 

“Is there another girl? Someone else I need to be worried about?” Abby shoves her hands deep in her pockets, her heel lightly tapping against the door. With a shake of her head, she dismisses the idea entirely. 

“C’mon, what’s her name? An intern, a colleague, a boss?” You keep pushing but she won’t budge. “You expect me to believe there has been no one?” 

With her cheeks flaring pink, the tips of her ears painted violet, you think it’s time to swallow your words. “You mean there’s only been—” 

“You.” Abby looks embarrassed, as if her skin is about to consume her alive. Rubbing the wedding band she has tattooed on her skin, in all four years she hadn’t bothered to cover it. Before setting the glass down, taking one final swing, mustering up the courage to give into her pouty-blue eyes. “Since college, I haven’t, uh, not with anyone else—” 

“You have women flirt with you all the time. You’re everyone’s fucking dream. There’s no goddamn way you haven’t had sex in a year.” 

“I only have one dream—” Abby steps forward, closing some of the distance between you. “I replay it over and over in my head when I’m alone.” 

“What does the Dr. Anderson dream about, huh? Enlighten me.” 

“The green house on Maple street.” Abby’s words cut deeper than you anticipate, your next breath trapped in your throat. “It’s not something cruel I’m using to taunt you with. It’s real. It’s yours but it could be ours. I’m four years too late, but I want to give you what I promised.” 

“What do you mean by mine?” 

Abby clears her throat, getting choked up as she paces in your room, her broad frame tensing as she tries to find a way to confess. A cloud of wonder swarms in her grey-blue eyes. 

“The deed for the house is in your name.” Immediately, you let the words sink in. Trying to rationalize it, trying to twist this into something else. There’s no way you’re hearing her correctly. She wouldn’t, right? 

“You bought our dream home for me?” Sheeply, Abby nods. The apple of her cheeks resemble a rose, sheepishly embarrassed. 

“My success, the life that I have, all of it is because you pushed me through med school. You wouldn’t give up on me even when I had given up on myself. I always wanted to do this for you. I always wanted to take care of you but I lost sight of what was important to me. I forgot why I even wanted to do this in the first place.” 

“Your dad.” You tried to smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You loved Jerry, he welcomed you in the family with open arms. But when he got sick, it changed Abby. Her work became her life when he didn’t get better. And soon, it’s all she became. 

“He would hate how much I fucked up everything with you. I just felt like it was the one thing I needed to still have him here with me. Like if I didn’t prioritize this—” 

“Then there would be nothing left.” You took the words right out of her mouth. 

“Look, I’m sorry I kissed you. Really, I shouldn’t have. You have a girlfriend. Someone who loves you and I won’t get in the middle of it. I’ve hurt you for so long. It makes me physically ill and I won’t do it anymore. I can’t. All I want is for you to be happy. That’s why I bought the house for you. It was always something I wanted to do for you. Regardless if we’re together or not.” 

Her pacing hadn’t stopped, she still kept moving but then nodded as she finished. This was her peace. She could move on. The both of you could move on. The ink had dried up long ago. You should move on. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Okay, I’m gonna go now.” Somehow, she transformed into the college student who knocked on your door. Confident but god, she was so unsure of herself and it still makes your heart beat a million times a minute. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” You turn away from her, “Not anymore.” 

You still expect her to leave, or make you look at her with tears in your eyes. You could cry a river for her and it still wouldn’t seem enough. You can’t face her. Not when one look will have you give in. The words left unsaid stain two hearts. 

I don’t have a girlfriend because I still love you. 

Like the anchor she’s always been, she wraps your frame in hers, holding you from behind. A faith of love. A testimony broken and healed by time and soothed with distance. 

There was so much you had to discuss, feelings you had to iron out fresh. Like the slightly wrinkled shirt she’d worn on the day you met. But on this day, you decided to have hope. That one day, you could climb the wall Abby built and restore your love in the vow you once sang in tune. 

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.” But Abby sniffs out the smile. 

“I know, sunshine.” 

um. so yeah. that happened. i was trying to do a somewhat realistic ending without shredding some hearts......and i just love abby a little too much ♡

[fairyofshampgyu]

☆ Captive Royalty !

genre: crack, royalty au, fantasy au, smut, fluff

pairing: sub prince ! beomgyu x dom afab poor reader ?

synopsis: desperate times call for desperate measures…so you kidnap the prince of the kingdom and he turns out to be more of a handful than you expected.

warnings: kidnapping !! sub beomgyu, dom reader, beomgyu gets drugged, slight knife play, bondage, ropes, degrading, choking, riding, creampie, hand job, kinda dollification, overstimulation, hair pulling, orgasm denial, finger sucking ? (this sounds really dark from the warnings but it’s kinda unserious and silly and consensual)

word count: 4.6k

Prince beomgyu lets out a long, theatrical sigh, wandering aimlessly and weaving through the bushes and trees of the mystic forest a few metres away from the castle, needing a break from his duties even for just a second of reprieve. The air smelled of damp earth and fragrant wildflowers. Butterflies flitted their pretty wings lazily around him as he stepped over a cluster of bluebell flowers on the mossy floor, where mushrooms were also scattered of all different shapes and colours.

As he ventured deeper into the forest, vines and ivy curled around the tall tree trunks, practically moving and alive, shaking loose pink petals off the branches and falling atop beomgyu’s long hair instead.

He stops when he comes across a small, crystalline pond tucked away, watching as purple dragonflies hover over the surface, lily pads and petals floating on top and, beneath the clear water, koi fishes whose colourful scales practically glowed, swimming and flicking their tails elegantly. Beomgyu stood there for a moment, captivated by the tranquility of the scene. For a small second, it was as if he could finally forget everything.

But then, he mutters to himself, scowling. “I swear to the gods, hate the court, hate those stupid advisors. I hate them all.” Prince beomgyu kicks a pebble rather aggressively into the pond in his frustration.

A tiny fairy emerges out of the water, angrily screaming, hovering and pointing, coming very close to his face high pitched in a language he cannot understand, then vanishes in a puff of glitter.

Beomgyu stares blankly, then merely shrugs.

Instead, he takes a look back at the ethereal scenery, the forest nothing short of enchanted. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back, basking in the golden sunrays peeking through the canopy, inhaling deeply.

But his moment of peace is abruptly interrupted when he feels a cold, sharp blade pressing against his throat.

Beomgyu’s breath catches, eyes snapping open to meet a much less aesthetic view: A dagger, pressed very intimately underneath his jaw and already practically digging into his adam’s apple, “What the fu-”

“Don’t move.” Came the voice behind him.

Oh my god. He’s going to die. This is where prince beomgyu begins to panic, immediately stripping himself of his jewellery and any valuables, tossing them onto the grass, hastily. “Here! Take it! Take all of it! Please! Just not my face! I’m too handsome to die!”

You stare at him, baffled beneath the mask you were wearing, almost forgetting to keep the dagger steadily pointed at him.

“I’m not robbing you.” You say flatly. “I’m taking taking something far more valuable...”

There was a moment of silence as he looks at you cluelessly.

Then he gasps. “You’re taking my hair?!”

“I’m kidnapping you.” Tightening your grip on the dagger, you roll your eyes, grabbing the cloth from your bag, shoving it over his nose and mouth, drugging him.

“Mmfph!” The prince protests, flailing but then his eyes roll back and his limbs go limp, simply falling unconscious.

You warily eyed up the prince who now sat unconsciously tied to a chair in your cottage, head lolling to one side.

Surprisingly, it was much easier kidnapping the prince of the kingdom than you had imagined. He didn’t put up much of a fight, nor were there any guards around him, or any witnesses at all. Quite underwhelming really.

But at least everything was going even smoother than planned, you’d even written the ransom letter and had already sent it off to the king. Now you just had to wait and soon it would all be yours.

You study the prince’s face. You’d never seen him before, too preoccupied and shut away in your cottage in solitude. You didn’t care for them. Besides, what have the royals done for you other than tax you and steal all your money? Why were they even praised anyway? They just sat around doing nothing really. It was practically their fault for your situation right now.

Other than that, the prince was almost achingly pretty. He had quite handsome features, long, thick eyelashes that practically kissed his naturally flushed cheeks, perfectly round, plump lips, messy bangs falling effortlessly over his brows. His regal attire, though a little dirtied from the abduction, still extravagant, embroidered with gold thread and intricate patterns. He looked dainty and fragile all tied up. The prince reminded you of a doll.

A quiet groan breaks the silence and your staring. The prince stirs, lashes fluttering before his pretty eyes slowly blink open, dazed. He takes in his surroundings, strangely without much alarm, gaze sweeping across the decrepit interior of your cottage before landing blankly on your black cat perched menacingly on the window sill. They have a tense, silent stare off before his eyes make their way to you, looking you up and down since he hadn’t seen your face properly before, eyes raking over your figure with a brow raised. He looked almost…amused?

You supposed you didn’t cut the most terrifying figure. No scary scars, no missing eye or other limbs. Just plain clothes, a dagger at your hip, and an unimpressed expression.

The prince speaks up. “Are you part of a rebellion? Do you want to overthrow the monarchy?”

“No.”

He lazily grins, eyes trailing down to the ropes binding him. “Hmm. Then this is… a little provocative, don’t you think?”

“The hell.” You furrow your brows at a loss of words. “No! Ransom. This is for ransom! ”

“Ah.”

“You’re the prince. Your face is probably worth more than my entire life. When your daddy finds out his beloved son has been captured, I’m sure he’ll give me all the money I ask and you’ll go back to your fancy castle.” You lean back, sighing, just imagining how much gold you’ll accumulate soon, “Don’t worry, your kingdom will pay good money to have you back.”

The prince snorts. “Will they?”

You frown. “…Yes?”

He gives you a pitiful look, “I hate to say it but I think they’ll be more relieved than horrified I’m gone, to be completely honest.”

You cross your arms in confusement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” He says, shifting in his restraints, “that my father finds me to be an insufferable disappointment. If you think he’s going to shell out a fortune to get me back, you’re sorely mistaken. No one in that castle can stand me, too much of a ‘troublemaker’ or something apparently.”

You stare at him. “You’re joking.”

“Wish I was.” The prince replies cheerfully. “You should have kidnapped my brother Prince Huening Kai instead. They would have had a heart attack. If you’d taken him, they’d probably have sent an entire army after you by now.”

“I wasn’t even aware there were two of you.”

“Five actually.” He adds, “Maybe you should have done some research before kidnapping royalty.”

You roll your eyes, “Well, which one are you then?”

“Prince Beomgyu!” He beams, grinning widely, looking proud and smug, his expression entirely too relaxed for someone tied to a chair in a stranger’s cottage.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as you were beginning to think.

It had been days.

And absolutely nothing.

No guards barging down your door, no royal army marching through the forest, no frantic messenger bird clawing at your window with a desperate letter from the king, promising to give you all the money in the land for his poor son back.

Just pure silence.

You were starting to think either something happened to your messenger bird on the way or gods forbid, they really, truly didn’t want him back.

“I told you.” Beomgyu’s voice was maddeningly smug from where he was still bound to the chair. “Face it. They don’t want me back.”

You put a hand to your hip. “You’re lucky I haven’t gagged you.”

“Oh?” The prince raises a brow, smirking.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Gods. You’re disturbed.” You turn away to check the kettle heating by the fire. You were going to need tea. Lots of it.

You take a tea cup in your hand, pouring the earthy, floral brew that you had foraged from the forest, steam rising in swirls and you bring it to your mouth to drink. The warmth seeping through your fingers and into your chest, making you slightly more calmed about this whole maddening situation. Beomgyu’s eyes are on you the entire time. You supposed you could give him some too. “Here. Have some tea.”

“Can’t exactly help myself, can I?”

You huff, rolling your eyes, walking over to him, bringing a cup to his soft lips for him to sip and he looks up at you with a teasing glint in his eyes almost like he’s heavily enjoying that you’re doing this for him.

He swallows, furrowing his brows and smacking his lips together, savouring the taste. “Ooh Peasant tea. I like this. It’s very different to how all of my many chefs have made it for me.”

You cross your arms, nodding in approval, “It’s the best. Practically survive on it.”

He seems amused by your love for tea, nodding, sipping some more until he’s finished and you place the cup back on your counter.

You study him intently, intrigued. “So, why were you sulking around so much by the pond, kicking rocks at fairies before I—well, pointed a dagger at your throat.” There’s no easy way to describe the situation.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to! How was I supposed to know there was a fairy there?” Beomgyu protests, finding it humorous. “But, they’re forcing me to marry some princess from some other kingdom. I don’t even know her. I don’t want to get married at all.” He grimaces, staring at the ground with furrowed brows. “I hate being a prince. I have no freedom or say in anything. It’s so suffocating. I must act in a certain way, all these duties, now marriage. I don’t want any of it.” Beomgyu looks uncharacteristically and genuinely upset about it, the most sad you’ve seen him, and that’s you holding him captive.

You blink, then almost laugh. “Wow. Poor you. You really have the worst life. Must be so hard having all your meals cooked and servants at your beck and call, sleeping in a massive bed with silk sheets. In a castle. Truly.”

The prince furrows his brows at your mocking tone. “You don’t get it. It’s not all that great, you know.”

Your scoff, crossing your arms. “No, I get it. you’re incredibly privileged for those to be your only problems.”

He sulks at you, shrugging. “I guess so. I’d still rather have your life though, a peaceful, mundane, peasant life.”

You give him a flat look, nearly amused at his comical, out of touch words. “It’s far from peaceful. I’m incredibly in debt at the moment and owe money to lots of people, scary people I can’t even begin to repay. I’m doing this because I need the ransom money. You wouldn’t last a day in the real world.”

“I would!” He heavily pouts at you, taking offence. It’s almost endearing. “Anyway honestly, being held hostage has been much better than any day at the castle.”

You shake your head at the prince, sighing.

Beomgyu talked. A lot. About the castle gossip, about the ridiculous scandals of the court, all their carefully polished lies sold to the commoners, about all his other brothers, Prince Yeonjun’s scandalous new affair.

You were very entertained, the tea you make, since it seems to be one of the only things he likes, and these conversations weirdly happening regularly.

“I swear to every god in existence.” Beomgyu had said, with all the endearing dramatic flair of someone telling ghost stories with a candle, “Prince Yeonjun was caught HALF NAKED, sneaking out of the royal astrologer’s tower.”

“No way.” You gaped, sipping on your tea.

He grins, victorious, revelling in your shocked expression. “Swear on my crown. I don’t even know why I’m the one they call troublesome.”

Somewhere along the way, you’d begun to like having beomgyu around, in a way that both irritated and intrigued you.

He was for sure a bratty prince, complaining endlessly about almost everything, the chair, food, the ropes digging into his skin (you had tied them more gently), dramatically whining about a small splinter he got because of the chair (you actually took it out for him and gave him a bandage).

But…for all his whining, very strange comments, and being a royal pain in the ass, (and though you wouldn’t admit it aloud), the strange companionship he offered, despite the messed up predicament, was starting to feel…maybe comforting? when you’d had nothing in the past but your cat, living alone in your cottage.

He’d become company. Real company. It had been so long since you’d had that.

You had one thing in common, you both hated your realities and wanted to get away. And you could, if this damn king would send you the ransom money and come collect his son. You’re honestly astonished. Would they even come for him? What were you supposed to do with him if they never come?

“Ughh.” Beomgyu groans dramatically, wiggling his tied hands pathetically. “I’m suffering.” He says with such an exaggerated pout it was almost impressive.

You turn around to look at him, wondering what it was now.

“My bangs are all in my eyes. I can’t see anything and I can’t move them away.” He blinks at you. Then, very deliberately, batts his lashes, those ridiculously long, doll-like lashes. “You kidnapped me.” Beomgyu says pointedly, deadpan. “The least you could do is brush my hair out of my eyes. Basic courtesy.”

You raise a brow. The audacity. But with a long sigh and contemplation, you wandered over, standing before him. He blinks up at you, the brown strands of his hair over his eye, genuinely a little pathetic and silly looking.

You brush your fingers through his messy strands gently, absentmindedly. His hair was so soft. His pretty brown eyes locked with yours, eyes following your face, unblinking, unusually quiet for once. Close.

And gods, was he pretty.

Your touch lingered longer than probably necessary, tucking the last of his bangs behind his ear, fingertips brushing against his warm skin. You swear the tips of his ears were pinker than usual too.

You finally step back, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest, you could only scowl at him.

Your kidnapping had been, by all accounts, a complete and utter failure. It had not been the most fearsome hostage situation either, your intimidation tactics quite lacklustre, no violence, no torturing, and no damn money.

Even your cat had gotten used to him by now, seemingly liking him, curling up often in his lap, purring contently and napping. And worst of all, You were getting used to him too.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting a warm orange glow in your small cottage. The evening had settled in, quiet and still, except for the rhythmic, repetitive sound of your knife chopping into carrots on the cutting board for a stew.

“Well,” Beomgyu drawls from his usual spot, arms bound behind his back and chair, voice cutting through through the ambience. “you know. You’re not exactly what I expected.”

“Why, disappointed?” Your eyes don’t leave the cutting board, still chopping and unfazed.

His lips quirk into a lazy grin. “Hardly.”

That makes you pause mid-slicing the vegetables, turning around with an incredulous look, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Perhaps. You’re easy on the eyes.” The fire flickers and reflects in beomgyu’s deep brown as you as you stare at him and you catch mischievous glint in them too.

“I’ve quite literally kidnapped you.” You fold your arms.

He shrugs in his restraints, “I know you won’t hurt me. You haven’t tortured me once. Not even a little.”

A slow smile makes its way across your lips, brow raising at what you hear, amused. Instead, you reach for your dagger, making your way towards beomgyu and his gaze follows your every movement.

“Oh?” You slowly flick some of the locks of his soft hair out his face with the sharp tip of the dagger, his breath catching in his throat at that, eyes slightly widening. Then you trace the blade leisurely along his cheek, the prince shivering at the feeling of the steel on his skin. “How are you so sure?” Beomgyu swallows, breath hitching almost looking scared for a second, but then he smirks, thrilled, eyes never leaving yours and yours never leaving his. The two of you locked in a stare now, the eye contact, quite intense.

“You like me.” Beomgyu simply grins impossibly wider.

“Like you?” You echo, sceptically, scoffing at his words. With deliberate slowness, you trace the dagger across his jawline, advancing down his pretty neck, pressing the sharp edge down a little hard—not enough to cut but enough for him to feel it and dip into his soft flesh, his skin prickling up and chest rising and falling, all tensed in anticipation. “Are you sure you don’t like me?”

You point at the now growing tent in his pants that was too hard to ignore. A violent red flush creeps over his cheeks, embarrassed as you cast a deliberate, judging glance downwards with an arched brow. How incredibly absurd. You’re pointing a knife at him and he’s getting turned on.

He purses his lips together for a second, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows but then he runs his mouth again, voice a little breathless, but he grins regardless, “What are you going to do about it?”

Where on earth does he gain this confidence from?

“Leave you. That’s disgusting.” You say, pulling your dagger away in theatrical repulse and moving away from him.

Beomgyu instantly splutters in panic, thrashing helplessly against his bonds, pathetically pleading, eyes wide. “B-but! Wait! Please. It hurts!”

You smile, satisfied, stepping closer to him once again. That’s more like it. “Why should I?”

He just looks up at you so severely desperate, so pitiful. Your eyes flicker down to his slightly wobbly lips and then back up at his panicked eyes. And as if drawn by some invisible force, definitely not of your own doing, you grab and tug at one of the ropes, impulsively leaning down to kiss him, he kisses back instantly, fervently, surging forward and leaning into the kiss as much as his bindings would allow, lips crashing together, all heated and messy, needy and sloppy, beomgyu whines softly into your mouth and gods help you, it does things to you. You bite down on his plump lower lip until he gasps, shoving your tongue down his, dominating the kiss and he just lets you.

You then pull away, he still tries to chase your mouth back even when you pull away but you move to his throat, trailing your lips down his neck, ghosting over, he tilts his head back obediently, warm breath sending him shivering before you bite and suck harshly.

“Please.” He pants, delirious, so worked up already, eyes squeezed shut. “Touch me. Please.”

How could you refute? He squirms in his chair when you begin to palm him through his pants, already embarrassingly hard, gasping so loudly, jaw going slack just from that. Beomgyu bucks helplessly into your touch as you continue to teasingly grind your palm, kissing and sucking on his neck again, he’s all just needy whines and whimpers, pleas falling from his lips for a little more.

You love his reactions and the pathetic noises he makes, so worked up from a little friction on his clothed dick. You want more of it, you want to break the pretty little prince. You sit in his lap, unzipping his pants before him, cock just as pretty as every other part of him, leaky, wet and red, you brush your thumb over his cute tip, spreading the precum teasingly slow, watching his face.

“Oh…” Beomgyu looks down himself, brows knitting together, shuddering and groaning softly.

The sound when you wrap your hand around his cock and glide your hand up and down is impossibly loud over the crackling of the fire in your cottage, sticky and squelchy and the prince already seems far gone from the slow pumping, unraveling at the first stroke, pupils blown wide, glossy lips parted. How dirty.

“Did you seriously get hard from your captor threatening you with a dagger? You’re fucking sick, beomgyu.” You ridicule him in a faux saccharine tone, hand pumping his dick faster, twisting around the tip that he’s panting now, his head dropping forward, resting and falling on your shoulder, you bring your other hand to stroke at his hair. You can tell he’s close, moaning out prettily.

He still manages to bite back though like the brat he is so clearly he’s not that much of a mess you like you want him to be, he lifts his head back to look at you. “You’re the one who kidnapped me. You’re sick.”

“Fine then. If I’m so sick, I’ll stop.” You still your movements on his dick, pulling your hand away. He wails, loudly crying at that, trying so hard to move, pulling uselessly at the ropes to chase your hand but he can’t.

“No! Please. I’ll die.” There he goes being so dramatic again, tears brimming in his panicked doe brown eyes, hyperventilating. The fact that this is the most distressed he’s gotten being kidnapped is honestly concerning. “Please,” He rasps, wrecked, dazed “fuck me.”

You cruelly laugh at the sight, tutting. “Such crude words coming from a prince...”

He just whines frustratedly in response, exasperatedly frowning like he’s having a tantrum.

“Aw. What a poor little prince.” You mockingly coo at him, stroking his cheek but he leans into it anyway, yearning for more, wanting any sort of touch from you now, you drag your teeth against the lobe of his cute pink ear licking, goading him. He shivers at that, sucking in his breath.

“You’re torturing me!” Beomgyu comically pouts.

“I thought you said I wasn’t torturing you at all.”

“Well now you are. You’re killing me. I’m going to die.”

“This is what you call torturing?” You chuckle incredulously.

“Yeah. Fuck me now.” Beomgyu looks like he might combust if you so much as deny him another second, his cock twitching in the open air, painfully red and glistening. You haven’t touched him in what? Seconds? But it feels like an eternity to him. “Just…please—”

You don’t even wait to hear more of his insufferable begging, you lift your skirt and hips up, pushing your panties to the side and sinking down on his dick unceremoniously, it nearly knocks the wind out of him, gasping sharply, mouth hanging open.

“Holy shit.” He groans. “You’re, oh my god—”

Beomgyu throws his head back, practically going cross eyed at the feeling of your warm tight pussy around him. You start to bounce on his cock continuously, riding him and holding onto his shoulders roughly to stabilise yourself., beomgyu moaning shamelessly loud, high pitched and strangled like a girl, dumb and dazed, drooling onto you at the feeling of your pussy.

You bring your hand to his cheek, kissing beomgyu hard, hands tangling in his long hair, tugging, fucking him mercilessly as he sinfully and filthily moans into your mouth. Then he pulls away.

“Choke me.” Beomgyu licks his swollen lips, looking at you sexily, eyes half lidded.

“You’re perverted.” But your hands wrap around the column of his delicate, pretty neck, now marked and mauled. Beomgyu exhales a shaky breath like it was all he wanted.

“Ah…harder.” Beomgyu gulps, pretty Adam’s apple moving as he does so.

You squeeze harder around his neck and he hisses, furrowing his brows, face scrunching up gorgeously, a pretty vein in his neck popping out. His eyes roll to the back of his head, gasping for air, letting out breathy noises, face and neck flushed, you press down just a little more, still bouncing on his cock, deliberately clenching around him. You feel him twitching inside you and then he cums, whole body convulsing, spilling his load inside your pussy.

But you don’t stop, bringing your hand to his shoulders roughly again, digging your nails into him, fucking him through it. He whimpers painfully, straining against the ropes, but he can only helplessly take whatever you give him.

“stop!—ah! too much, too sensitive…” Beomgyu sniffles and sobs, gasping at the overstimulation, babbling incoherently.

“No it’s not. You were begging to be fucked, now it’s too much for you?” You tighten your grip on his shoulders.

He’s about to whine and complain but you take two of your fingers, stuffing them in his mouth to shut him up, he sorrowfully sucks on them like a slut instead, moaning around them whorishly, gazing up at you with teary watery eyes and his pretty wet swollen lips. Gods. Just looking at the state of him, pretty, writhing, helplessly tied up, it’s making you go insane. He still looks like a doll, face red and rosy, dolly lashes thick fluttering and clumped together with tears, soft hair now all messy, bangs damp and all sweaty. A wrecked, cracked porcelain doll, your doll, yours to ruin and play with. He looks divine. What a whore of a prince.

You bounce on his dick mercilessly, riding him faster and faster and faster to get yourself to reach your high too, bringing your finger to your clit, rubbing. One final look at beomgyu’s face, pitiful doe eyes and sucking on your fingers and that does it, cumming around his twitching dick. With a muffled scream and sob, beomgyu’s cumming again, looking like he’s going to pass out, spurting and shooting more of his warm and sticky white ropes of cum into you, cumming so much, it’s all creamy, completely milking him dry, his whole body shaking beneath you and his chest is heaving like a drowning man, gasping for air.

Only then do you reach for your dagger again, slicing the rope, slithering to the ground. Beomgyu falls forwards instantly, collapsing into your arms, gripping and clinging to you, trembling like a leaf, hands roaming all over you and hugging you tight, the first time he could actually touch you. And beomgyu kisses you so desperately over and over, like he’s starved, hands shaking, clutching your clothes, you keeping his cheeks feeling equally starved.

But your kissing is interrupted by a messenger bird throwing a scroll with an unmistakable royal crest through your window. You get up to read it:

An armed procession will arrive by nightfall to collect our Prince Beomgyu in exchange for the agreed ransom.

— His Majesty, the King.

“Are you…going to return me back then?” Beomgyu says quietly, like he already knows the answer and is fearing it, his shoulders are slumped, already looking miserable and like a devastated puppy, thinking about having to return back to living in the castle.

You think for a moment. You fold the scroll neatly, setting in on the table. “No.”

Beomgyu blinks, “No?”

You smirk. “I’m taking something far more valuable.”

Beomgyu’s eyes widen, and then stars. His eyes practically lighting up, sparkling, you could practically see his tail wagging if he had one.

You both start giggling like idiots.

By the time the army reaches your cottage that evening, it is already abandoned.

And somewhere, gods only knows where, you’re running hand in hand through the forest, longe gone, cat tucked under one arm, and just enough tea packed to last the journey.

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)

A/n: do not ask what this is 😭 I know it makes zero sense but thats kinda the point it was just supposed to be unhinged unserious crack smut 😍🫶

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Twisted Disney –

Day One: Beauty and the Beast

The wind howls through the skeletal trees, their bare branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of the damned. Snow, thick and heavy, blankets the ground in an unbroken sheet of white, save for the winding path you tread. The village is far behind you now. You should not have left. You know this. Yet, something in the stormy skies and the hush of the forest called to you.

Your boots crunch against the frost-covered earth as you pull your coat tighter around yourself, but the cold has teeth sharper than any wolf’s, biting through the wool and seeping into your bones. You shudder and glance over your shoulder. The road you have taken is treacherous—too far from home, too close to the shadowed mountains where old stories still breathe in the hearts of the fearful. The villagers warn of it often: the Schwarzwald, the Black Forest, is not a place for the unwary.

A gust of wind rushes through the trees, and with it comes a sound that stops you in your tracks. A deep, guttural growl. Not the distant, echoing cry of wolves, but something closer. Something waiting. Your breath catches in your throat.

Then, a shadow moves.

Your first instinct is to run, but where? Back to the village, through the maze of trees that have swallowed the path? Deeper into the forest, where no light touches the ground beneath the tangled canopy? It does not matter. The choice is taken from you before you can make it.

A figure looms from the darkness between the trees—too large to be a man, too monstrous to be anything else. It moves with an unnatural grace for something so massive, its long limbs clad in dark, tattered garments that hang from its broad shoulders. The fur lining its cloak is thick, matted with frost, but it is not the cloak that makes your blood turn to ice. It is the face.

Sharp features, almost wolfish, but twisted into something not quite human. Eyes like molten gold fix upon you with an intensity that makes you feel as though you have already been claimed. A mouth that is neither fully human nor fully beast curls into a smirk, revealing teeth too long, too sharp.

A clawed hand reaches for you.

You try to scream, but a palm claps over your mouth. The beast moves quickly, effortlessly hoisting you into the air as though you weigh nothing. You thrash, kicking against its unyielding grip, but it is like fighting against stone. Snow flies around you in a flurry as it begins to move, carrying you deeper into the forest, farther from everything you know.

The journey is a blur—branches whipping past, cold air searing your lungs, the rush of wind as the beast moves impossibly fast. Darkness presses in from all sides until, at last, the trees part to reveal a structure looming against the white sky.

A castle.

Its towers stretch high into the storm, their jagged spires lost in the swirling snow. It is ancient, its stone walls draped in ivy, its windows like empty eyes staring into the abyss. It should not exist. The villagers speak of ruins hidden deep in the forest, a place where no sane man dares tread, but this… this is no ruin. This place still breathes.

The beast does not slow as he crosses the threshold, pushing open the great wooden doors with ease. The warmth inside is jarring against your frozen skin, the flickering glow of firelight casting monstrous shadows along the walls. Tapestries hang in tatters, their images faded with time, and yet there is something grand about the decay, something timeless and terrible.

At last, he sets you down. Your legs buckle beneath you, but you do not fall. The beast’s grip lingers, steadying you, holding you in place.

“Do not run,” he says, his voice like gravel and thunder. “It will do you no good.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your ribs.

“Why?” The word slips from your lips, barely more than a whisper.

The beast tilts his head, considering you. Then, with slow deliberation, he steps closer, until his breath ghosts against your skin, warm and unsettling.

“Because you are mine.”

Masterlist

[demonic0angel]

Pokemon x DP

Also on AO3

Danny sighed. Tucker nudged him gently as he said, "Hey! You'll be alright, it's no big deal not to get a Pokémon at 14."

"Yeah, but this is my fourth time visiting the center and this time, none of them liked me! I think they liked me less!" Danny protested.

Sam shrugged. "It's fine, stick it to the man and all that. Reject social norms. Pokémon are everywhere, maybe one of them will come to you later."

All three of them were walking to his house, because tomorrow would be the first day of school and they all wanted to have a game plan for the following years of pain and suffering.

Danny kicked at the ground, launching a pebble onto the road.

"Easy for you guys to say," he scowled. "Both of you found Pokémon from the center on your first try. And Sam, you get Pokémon from your parents.”

Tucker and Sam winced. It was true. Both of them had almost instantly found their Pokémon when they first turned 10. Sam herself had two Pokémon, an Ivysaur that she evolved on her own from the Pokémon center and a Flabébé that she got from her parents. 

It was only Danny who seemed to be struggling.

When children turned 10, it was expected that they would go to a Pokémon center to pick out their first. There were the basic starter pokemon as always, such as Bulbasaur or Pichu or Scorbunny or Piplup. If children didn’t feel a connection to any Pokémon or none of them were chosen, they could usually come back again and find another.

If that still didn’t work, then a parent or relative or someone older could always give them one or help them catch it. If they had money, they could even buy a Pokémon from a Pokémon breeder, like Dash Baxter did, who got himself a Druddigon.

For someone like Danny, who didn’t have money or any starter Pokémon, getting one on his own would be difficult.

After all, another Pokémon was needed to catch one. Otherwise, a normal person would have to fight a Pokémon with their own bare fists.

Which was unfortunately looking like what Danny would have to do if this kept going on.

Ivysaur poked her head out from where she had hiding in the backpacks and gave a soft rumble, reaching out with her vines to rub Danny's hair comfortingly.

Danny sighed and took a vine in hand, twining it around his fingers with a small smile. "Thanks, Ivy."

"Ivy!" The Pokemon chirped.

"At least your Pokémon still like me," Danny went back to grumbling. "The others seemed really afraid."

He recalled the horror and apprehension the other Pokémon had felt around him. It made him feel… sick. Seeing how they reacted, it was like he had truly become something monstrous.

"Hmm. It's probably because our Pokémon grew up around you," Tucker said with a nod. “My Pichu doesn’t react badly to you either.”

Sam's eyes widened before she leaned in closer. "Do you think it's because of... your new thing?"

Danny nodded miserably.

He had come into his ghost powers just a few weeks before the school year began, and now everything was messed up. Ghosts and ghost Pokémon had now infiltrated Amity Park and he himself had turned into some sort of unknown hybrid of both human and spirit.

He didn't know what to think. Controlling his powers were already a struggle and now he was starting high school too! In the same school as Jazz!

It was going to be torture, he already knew.

There was a tapping noise of footsteps and Danny sighed again.

Speak of the devil and she may appear.

"Danny!" A sweet voice called and Danny barely even blinked before he was pulled into a hug. Ribbons wrapped around him similarly and Danny choked as he was pressed against his sister's chest. "Did you get a Pokémon? Who is it? Let me guess, a Snivy? No, a Charmander? Maybe a Fuecoco?"

"Jazz!" He struggled and turned red as his friends all giggled under their breaths. "I can't breathe! Sylveon!"

Jazz and Sylveon both pulled back, looking down at him. Sylveon was perched on her shoulder, ribbons flowing around them both as two of them reached down to smooth down Danny's hoodie and press down his ruffled hair.

Danny glowered as both mother-hens cooed over him. "I didn't choose one."

"What!” She cried out, shocked before she quickly schooled her attention and tried to smile. Her eyes, however, were filled with pity. “Well— actually, it's fine. You still have time and I'm sure that mom and dad can get you a Pokémon too, if you'd like… it might take a while though."

Danny's eye twitched.

"Maybe I'll just catch one," Danny grumbled, tensing as his hand accidentally went through one of Sylveon's ribbons. Sylveon paused and tilted her head at him and Danny tried not to show his panic on his face. "Uhm! I gotta go! To the arcade with Sam and Tucker! So, uh, see you!"

He quickly darted away.

Jazz blinked after him and then called, "I'll let you borrow Chansey and Sylveon if you need them to catch something!"

Danny grabbed Tucker and Sam by the straps of their backpack and yanked them away.

“Change of plans!” He immediately hissed.

His friends, however, started protesting.

"Ow! Cool it, dude! Pichu is in here!"

"Hey! Calm down!"

Danny turned red again as he slowed down away from Jazz. "I think my powers showed up again. Sylveon noticed."

His friends' ire immediately turned into worry. "Oh no. Do you think she could tell Jazz?"

Danny thought about it. Sylveon was extremely loyal to Jazz, but she had also been in the house after Danny had changed and she had supposedly evolved shortly after the portal had turned on. It was like a sign of some sorts, her turning from an Eevee to a Sylveon when he had become something else too.

Jazz had been overjoyed and thankfully, did not question why Sylveon had suddenly evolved while watching over him.

Danny shivered and his breath turned into a cold mist.

“Oh no.” He looked up, where a ghost had suddenly appeared and was now terrorizing some random people. He looked at his friends, who were already staring at him with wide eyes. “Can you guys cover for me?”

Sam nodded and Tucker gave him a thumbs up.

Danny ducked into an alley with his friends, handed them his backpack, and quickly transformed before going out to fight back the ghost.

The ghost looked like some sort of zombie figure with green skin and dead eyes. It did not speak, not even making quips as it darted at people and tried to scratch them. It growled and acted viciously, trying to hurt as many people as they could. People, thankfully, were dodging or using their Pokémon as defense, but the ghost didn’t relent, even attacking the Pokémon.

“Not cool, dude!” Danny said, floating in the air. “Don’t attack other Pokémon!”

The zombie ghost looked at him with a glare but then darted off to swoop at another civilian.

Danny tried to focus on his powers, hoping to aim at the ghost and blast it out of the sky. Instead, he accidentally struck the ground where the civilian was already dodging the ghost’s attacks.

“Hey! Watch it!” The guy cried, clutching his Snubbull.

Danny winced. “Sorry!”

The guy scrambled away and the zombie ghost turned back at him again, its expression even darker.

It still didn’t approach or engage, instead, merely turning around to harass other people.

Danny scratched at his head.

Did he have to be the one to come over and attack them first?

He sighed but then flew over to try and blast it again. His powers fizzled out of control but it was too late, Danny was now in front of the zombie ghost, blocking it from attacking a small family that were still trying to escape.

“Run!” He said. “I’ll hold it back!”

Just as he shouted that, a blast of ghost powers hit him and threw him back. Danny was thrown against a tree, but somehow managed to phase through, tingling with pain but otherwise unharmed.

Danny shook it off and glared at the zombie, who was now looking at him warily.

“Oh no, you don’t! Don’t attack innocent families, or you’re going to be dead meat! Permanently!”

Danny flew back and aimed a punch. The zombie ghost dodged and then they were fighting, with Danny going on the offensive and the zombie dodging his every attempt.

Danny frowned.

Why was the ghost still not speaking? And why did it only keep dodging too?

This was unlike any other ghost he had fought.

Danny raised his hand and with a sudden burst of anger, his powers surged and then struck the zombie ghost out of the sky.

There was a very distinct, high pitched yelp that did not belong to a zombie ghost before it suddenly faded to mist, revealing something else.

A small figure dropped towards the ground, spinning out of control.

Danny’s eyes widened and he immediately flew down to catch it. When it landed in his arms, it was squirming weakly and growling at him, twisting to bite at his fingers and hands.

It was a Pokémon, one that he didn’t recognize.

It was gray with white fur on its tail and neck, wispy and tinted with red. It had yellow eyes that glared hatefully at him and despite how it wriggled and tried to get away, Danny didn’t let it go, even as it sank its fangs into his hands.

Without thinking, Danny pulled the Pokémon close to his chest and then flew over to where his friends were.

Sam and Tucker were hiding in an alley, holding onto his backpack and their Pokémon. They all stared at him when he arrived with the Pokémon in tow.

“Can one of you scan this? I don’t know what it is,” Danny said, showing them the strange creature. It was kicking at his hands and scratching and biting, but Danny didn't let go.

It didn't hurt as much as he had expected, now that he focused on it anyways.

Tucker immediately pulled out his PDA and scanned the Pokémon.

“Danny, did you catch that just now? Was it the zombie thing attacking people?” Sam asked, looking at the snapping, growling creature warily.

Danny nodded, just as the Pokédex finished the scan.

“Zorua: the Spiteful Fox Pokémon. A once-departed soul, returned to life. Derives power from resentment, which rises as energy atop its head and takes on the forms of foes. In this way, Zorua vents lingering malice,” the electronic voice monotoned from Tucker’s Pokédex-PDA combined device.

Tucker hummed and added, “It says that it’s a normal and ghost type.”

Sam gasped. “A Zorua! I know those! They’re usually called the Tricky Fox Pokémon though, and they look different.”

“It’s a ghost,” Danny said with a sudden smile. “That’s why it’s different.”

Like him, this Zorua was different. White from black, ghost from living, this Pokémon was just like him.

Suddenly, Danny knew exactly what he wanted.

“Hey,” he said, addressing the Zorua as he raised it to meet his eyes. It tried to scratch at his face but he held it slightly out of reach. “Do you want to be my Pokémon?”

The Zorua stared at him in shock, stiffening and freezing in place. Its eyes were large like dinner plates.

“I don’t have one yet, but I promise I can be a good trainer. I’ll give you food, pets, a place to sleep. I promise to treat you well.” He tried to sound as sincere and truthful as possible.

The Zorua continued staring at him.

Danny silently glanced at Sam and she wordlessly retrieved a Pokeball for him.

Danny slowly released one hand from him holding the Zorua. It didn't jump away, only staring at him as he raised the ball upwards for the Zorua to see. “If I catch you and it works, can we be partners? If it doesn’t, I’ll take you to a Pokémon center to heal and then let you go. Would that be okay?”

The Zorua didn’t say anything. It just glanced between the ball and him with a strange look. Not really knowing what to do but incredibly eager to catch it, Danny then tapped the Pokeball on its forehead and a red beam zipped out, capturing the Pokémon.

In an instant, it disappeared into the ball.

The ball shook left and right, glowing for a long, long while.

Danny held his breath. Sam and Tucker grabbed at each other in anticipation.

And then with a soft noise, the Pokeball stilled and dinged.

They all cheered like their team won the Super Bowl.

“I did it! I did it! I caught my first Pokémon!” Danny cheered, almost crying. His entire body felt limp like he had finally been released form a burden.

“You did it! You caught a Zorua!” Sam slapped his back with a grin.

Tucker whooped. “Heck yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Dab me up!”

He and Tucker did a congratulatory handshake, grinning like maniacs. Danny then opened the Pokeball again and released Zorua, who shook its fur out with a soft, disgruntled expression.

It licked its paw and didn't meet his eyes, but Danny grinned hard enough for his face to hurt at the sight of it.

His first Pokémon.

One he caught all on his own!

He knelt on the ground, opened his arms, and said, “C’mere, boy! C’mere!”

Zorua, like before, just stared at him for a long time. And then it slowly approached.

After what felt like an eternity of anticipation, it carefully brushed against Danny’s hands.

Danny beamed and picked it up, holding Zorua close.

“I’m glad you chose me, Zorua. We’ll be the best partners ever and fight all of the ghosts!”

Zorua huffed.

Tucker remarked, “It’s kind of cute. Though how will you tell your parents? Don’t they hate ghost Pokémon?”

Sam also frowned. “Yeah, and this one looks really unique. What if someone connects the dots between you and your ghost form?”

Danny paled. He hadn’t thought about that.

His parents hated all ghosts, ghost Pokémon included. It was why Jazz had normal type Pokémon (until Sylveon evolved, at least) and why his parents had a lot of dark types, all to combat most effectively against ghosts.

It was why he hadn’t told them a thing either.

Danny nibbled on his lip in thought, his friends similarly focused on finding a solution.

But once again, Zorua seemed to be the perfect solution.

With another huff, Zorua let out a white flash and then a black with red accented fox-like Pokémon appeared.

Sam gasped, looking impressed. “Oh! It transformed into a normal Zorua!”

“Zorua are dark types, aren’t they? I think Zorua just solved your problems for you!” Tucker smirked.

Danny stared at Zorua, who looked back at him with narrowed eyes. Danny couldn’t help the slow but wide grin that spread over his face again before he reached over to pull Zorua back into a hug.

“You’re perfect,” he said, unable to help the awe in his voice as he rubbed his cheek over the tuff of fur on Zorua’s head.

Zorua growled and wriggled once, but didn’t bite or scratch him again.

Danny then de-transformed.

Zorua stared at him for a long time, studying him. Danny allowed it to look for as long as it wanted. A light filled its eyes and with a small coo, Zorua climbed onto his shoulders, where it sank its claws into his hoodie to stay on.

Danny grinned at his friends.

“Want to go to the arcade? For real this time?” He said.

“Yes! Let’s go!” Tucker cheered.

“I’ll pay for half of the coins, you pay for the other half,” Sam said with a smirk.

Danny smiled again, reaching over to stroke Zorua’s head again.

He got his first Pokémon! A Zorua, just like him, ghostly and hidden and powerful.

Best. Day. Ever!

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I still can’t draw lmao, so have this short DP fic.

Ahhhh I've been obsessing over Pokémon on and off for a while now, which is fun since my sister is also getting back into her Pokémon phase as well. (I handle the anime and books, she handles the games and cards 💀)

Things to note about this pokemon AU: + This is a DPxDC series. However, I probably won't write a DC Pokémon fic on its own, only either DP or DPxDC…. Probably. + I do not focus too hard on pokemon regions + I choose Pokémon based on a mixture of backstory, vibes, power, and aesthetic. As such, it's probably not entirely accurate to the character, but I like my choices + The DP and DC world are separated with different cultures, politics, etc, but the pokemon are the same, just in different varieties or rarities. + I tried my best to choose pokemon based on my own ideas and not others, but I unfortunately had the same brain worms as mizartz (it is only unfortunate bc I didn't want to copy them but we had the same thoughts and I was screaming crying throwing up bc I didn't want to change my choices either so fuck it), so there are a few similarities. I did try my best to be different though but if I really didn't want to change it, I just didn't. + I also try not to repeat the same Pokémon bc there are over 1000 Pokémon, if I can’t find a unique one to give to a character, frankly, I expect you guys to be disappointed in me 💀 + The characters will continue gaining more Pokémon over the series! :D Everyone gets (at least) 3 Pokémon, but some people will have 6 or more!

[pseudowho]

Debellatio

You ask Nanami Kento to help you and Higuruma Hiromi on a mission, after the events of In Flagrante Delicto (link here); you find yourself at the mercy of both men after they are struck by the aphrodisiac Curse.

An introduction to Greynami from my Post-Shibuya!AU Nanami; see Grey and Post-Shibuya AU!Nanami Headcanons

Warnings: 18+, another sex pollen fic because I'm utterly depraved and godless, threesome, I don't like to ruin surprises

(help me find the Higuruma artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

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"Kento. We're friends...right?"

Nanami Kento's one good eye narrowed at you, you, sat so surreptitiously on the arm of the sofa in the coffee shop you had asked to meet him at. Kento briefly considered lowering his newspaper, but decided he'd wait to see what you wanted, first. No longer working for Jujutsu High after the Shibuya incident, he did, however, stay in contact with you, one of his favourite colleagues.

"Friends?" he teased, "I don't have friends." You pouted, slapping his arm lightly, and he  continued, "Alright...what is it you want?"

You scooted next to him on the sofa, emboldened by his invitation; "It's Hiromi," you said, already desperate, almost begging.

Already on first name terms, Kento thought, a light jealousy twisting in his gut, having thought he and you always had potential together. "Higuruma?" he pressed, scarred face neutral. You nodded.

"I released him to the wild," you stated, filling Kento in, "I don't think he was ready, but he was insistent, he's been out on his own for a while now...anyway, he seems to have been alright. Alone."

You did not tell Kento how Hiromi Higuruma had spent every night over the past week in your bed, spurred on initially by an aphrodisiac Curse he had failed to exorcise. You had not told anyone at Jujutsu High, in fact. How would you tell them that you and Hiromi were...what? Colleagues with benefits? On an uncertain path towards boyfriend and girlfriend? Pleasuring each other blind every day and night, lost in each others' minds and bodies? You almost blushed, aware your underwear was damp with the seed he had left inside you just that morning.

Kento raised one thin eyebrow at your pause, imploring you to continue. You took a deep breath.

"There's a mission tomorrow, and they want to send more than one First Grade, they think it's big, apparently. They chose Hiromi, and me. But I've worked with him, and he's...he's..." you trailed off, searching for the words. Kento helped.

"Difficult? Doesn't play well with others?" he offered lightly. You nodded, hands clasped in your lap.

"Can you come with us? Just as a buffer. We won't even need you I don't think, just..." you tailed off again, hoping Kento agreed.

That familiar jealousy burned in Kento's gut again. 'We'. 'Won't even need you'. Kento kicked himself mentally, wondering if he'd left it too late to ask you out to dinner, to make his move, wondering if Higuruma of all people had showed up and pipped him to the post. His jaw clenched as he put down his newspaper, giving you a gentle reassuring smile. Of course he agreed.

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"Why is he here?" Hiromi pressed you, rolling his gavel between his hands in irritation. Nanami Kento stood a few feet away from you and Hiromi, catching up with Ijichi while the veil was prepared around a derelict shopping centre, held together by ivy and abandoned "SALE!" banners.

"Just for back-up, Hiromi. Anyway, I haven't seen him in ages. You'll be friends in no time, I'm sure of it," you cooed.

Hiromi bristled. He had heard you speak fondly of this...this...sexy pirate, Nanami Kento, and in these early, brittle stages of your relationship together, Hiromi couldn't help but feel threatened by this imposing figure of a man. Allowing himself a moment of fragile masculinity, he shook it off, reminding himself that you weren't a competition.

But that if you were, you'd chosen Hiromi and he had won anyway.

Kento smiled fondly at Ijichi, gripping his hand in a friendly squeeze, before heading over to you and Hiromi, the veil descending below him in an oily drip down an invisible dome. Kento's face remained neutral as he approached, he and Hiromi reading each other, both shrewd, calculating. You swallowed at the palpable tension, before trying to bridge the gap with a reassuring smile to them both. Kento spoke first.

"The electricity's back on, so we're not operating in the dark. We should introduce ourselves. Nanami Kento," he said shortly, offering a brief bow, his gaze piercing into Hiromi even through an eye patch, it seemed.

"Higuruma Hiromi," he offered, "I've been told you're just here as..."

"...insurance," Kento finished coolly, "as you're rather...new to this." Hiromi felt another pang of irritation, smiling tightly at Kento.

Kento turned to you, giving you a smile so warm and sincere that it cracked through his icy demeanour. When you smiled back, Hiromi gritted his teeth, reminding himself again to behave. Eyes now on you, he threaded his fingers through yours, tapping your joined hands against his thigh in an act of affection and possession.

"Come on then, my love. We'll lead the way, shall we?" Hiromi pulled you ahead of Kento as a pair, and Kento glowered silently at your backs as he followed you into the building.

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"Have you read The Day of the Triffids?" you mused aloud to Hiromi and Kento, running your hand along the network of enormous vines, some as thick as your thigh, clinging along the inner walls of the building. A hazy mist had settled within the confines of the corridors, dewy and tropical in the summer humidity of central Tokyo. Exotic and otherworldly flora popped in bursts of colour from the ceiling and floor as the corridor curved away from you.

Hiromi and Kento both confirmed immediately, competitive, flashing each other furious glances. You were oblivious, examining the tendrils and flowers in glittery-eyed fascination. Hiromi and Kento stewed, both hovering close to you, irritated by the invasion of each others' space.

"We should go deeper into the building," Hiromi stated, confident, tapping his gavel against his adjacent palm, "the main Curse body is probably hiding centrally." Kento cleared his throat, imitating politeness as he disagreed.

"Many of these Curses linger on the edges, like spiders in webs. It would be more thorough to scout inwards from the edges, first."

"Well that sounds pretty inefficient seeing as we know--"

"--well we don't know, you're just assuming--"

"--based on experience, I think--"

"--oh yes, and what experience would that be?" Kento finished, curt, brittle. He turned to you, shoulders clenched in a taut line under the clipped corners of his suit. Hiromi spun to catch your eye, anger burning low at Kento's interference. Both beseeched you, seethingly, to agree with them.

You blushed under their stares, feeling their Cursed energy rising, competing, and gulped, feeling naked and exposed.

"I think," you started slowly, "that both options are as viable as the other," both Kento and Hiromi huffed air out of their noses, lips curled in annoyance, "and so you two should decide between you."

"Either way," you continued, the air thick with tension, "we have to go this way to get to the rest of the building anyway. It will give you two time to make a decision, and maybe learn to get along?" Both men bristled at your gentle chastisement, facing each other, chins out, teeth gritted.

You continued behind Hiromi and Kento along the corridor, watching with mute horror, as conversation escalated into debate, descended into argument, spiralled into insults--

"Well you're apparently so smart," spat Kento at Hiromi, "that I probably should let you decide, even if you find out the hard way, but you're not dragging her into danger too, so--"

"--sorry we can't all muscle our way through our problems, Nanami, she probably should stay with the brains of the group, so--"

"--she's coming with me!" Their voices rang through the corridor in tandem, and you shouted in warning, as they both tripped, distracted, their legs tangling in a flower-covered vine, like trip wire across the floor.

A puff of yellow pollen shot up from the flowers, clouding Kento and Hiromi in a clinging haze. They coughed, sneezing, staggering backwards out of the cloud. Kento cleared his eye with a swift wipe, looking down at himself, surveying the damage.

But, Hiromi spun to face you, barely disguised panic in his eyes; "Shit. Shit. Not again--"

Your jaw dropped, appalled; "Again? Hiromi? Was this-- is this--"

Hiromi groaned, and leaned heavily, shivering against the wall as the pollen seeped through his pores, the yellow fading as it sunk into Hiromi's bloodstream. Kento's back was to you, but dread crept into your belly, low and hot, as you saw his shoulders roll and shudder, his scarred hand clasped over his mouth as his chin dipped towards the floor.

As both Hiromi and Kento turned slowly to look at you, hunger glowing in their eyes, you began to take tentative steps backwards, your speed gradually increasing as you spun, quickly building into a full sprint back down the corridor.

Kento was burning from the inside out; every nerve was on fire with desperate arousal, his cock rapidly hardening in the confines of his slim suit trousers, and he knew in furious desperation that if he didn't pin you down and ram every inch of himself into you, that he would surely perish in these sordid flames, and--

As Kento's legs bent with intent to hunt you down the corridor, he felt slim fingers grip around the front of his throat, Hiromi stepping into his vision, clearly suffering just as he was, but determined and steely, hooded eyes smouldering with threat.

"Not my girl, Nanami," Hiromi spat, squeezing the sides of Kento's thick throat with surprising force. Kento chuckled, full of dark mirth as he gripped Hiromi by the wrist, twisting it away from him; Hiromi held fast, hand shaking with exertion.

"You were the back-up, Higuruma," Kento rumbled, smirking, judgement clouded by wild, throbbing need, "so back off. Daddy's home now." Kento swept Hiromi's legs from under him, elbowing him to the ground, before leaping over his scrabbling form and stalking down the corridor, with surprising grace for such a big man.

Hiromi was on Kento in seconds, spinning him into a resounding thud against the wall, and Kento roared in frustration, as the two continued to scrap along the corridor, concrete cracking under their feet and shoulders as they bodied each other into the walls, trying to gain the upper hand.

You had reached the end of the corridor, the stairs blocked with a bawdry tangle of prickles and vines. You scanned the corridor, spotting a lift to the right, and you ripped fine vines away from its entrance, pressing the lift's button in a frantic panic, hearing the roars and crashes of Kento and Hiromi moving down the corridor towards you.

You had a moment of dread, fearful that the lift was now inoperable, before a tinny little ping announced the lift's arrival. Clambering over vines and into the lift, you saw a puff and crumble of rubble down the corridor as Kento was thrown into a wall, the ceiling partly collapsing above him.

You pressed the button again, again, again, your heart thick in your throat. You saw Hiromi round the corridor, zigzagging across jigsaws of vines, eyes intently on you.

As the doors grinded closed, Kento and Hiromi descended upon them, still scrapping, bloody, fighting with mindless desperation and rage. The lift stayed still, halted by your own paralysis as you caught their eyes through the glass, both begging you to let them in.

You swallowed, your belly hot with anticipation, wanting to help but utterly incapable of accepting the only means by which you could help. You mouthed wordlessly at Hiromi and Kento. You pressed a shaking finger to the lift's 'down' button, and Hiromi swiftly countered by pressing the button outside the lift doors. The lift pinged, juddered, stopped, started, indecisive, torn.

You were at a stalemate. You ran your hands through your hair.

"I can't...I can't help both of you," you cried, turning to look at Nanami, eyes brimming with apology as he rested his forehead against his fist, breathing out in a shaking moan.

"Kento, I...Hiromi and I, we..." Kento thumped his fist against the outside of the lift, the lift trembling at his strength.

"You choose him?" Kento spat, feeling precum leak down his thigh in a constant damp stream. He coughed, arousal burning through his throat, and reached down to squeeze his cock, desperate for relief, moaning softly as he bit into his fist.

"You'll-- you'll help me, though?" Hiromi urged, hopeful and throbbing, palms and forehead pressed flat to the glass of the lift, eyelids heavy and breaths hot and urgent. You swallowed, considering your promise to always help Hiromi, and nodded slowly, swallowing, memories of how desperately he took you the first time sweeping through you, your clit aching and pussy clenching around nothing.

"Open the door. Please, please, open the door," Hiromi whispered in prayer. Kento accepted, sickly, that you had made your decision, still certain he may die without relief. The pollen pulsed through him, toxic and ruinous, and he felt his vision fade into animalistic shades of black, white and red.

"I can-- I-- just let me watch," Kento forced out, begging through clenched teeth. You hesitated, eyes flicking towards Hiromi in question. Hiromi scowled, lips curled in distaste.

"Watch, don't watch-- I don't give a fuck. But I'll have your head if you lay a finger on her."

Kento snarled, lips pulled taut against his teeth-- but nodded his agreement. Your hand lowered, hesitantly retracting from the button as Hiromi calmly pushed the 'open' button from the outside, eyes burning into you with unholy intent.

As the door opened, Hiromi stepped to you, trembling with restraint, fists clenching and unclenching as he urged you backwards, caging you in against the wall with outstretched arms. Not breaking eye contact, he reached down to grab one of your hands, pressing it hard against his straining erection with a low groan, eyes closed against the enormity of the tiny relief and the promise of more to come.

Keeping your hand pressed against him, rutting into your open palm, Hiromi dipped his mouth to your neck, taking your skin between his lips in a deep, bruising lovebite.

"You know how this works," he intoned, low and slow, licking your neck as he rubbed your hand on the outline of his rigid cock, "and I know you can take it." You hesitated as Kento moved slowly into the lift space, the doors closing behind him. His eye shot daggers through you, the burned side of his face twisted in agony, until his gaze flicked downwards, staring hungrily at where Hiromi rutted his cock into your open hand. Kento's tongue darted out to lick his lips, his hand sinking slowly to undo his own belt.

As Hiromi continued to devour your neck, moaning with abandon as he pressed closer to you, humping his weeping clothed cock against your body, you felt your own inhibition fade curiously away. Your trepidation was slowly being overtaken, being seeded and overgrown by a burning hunger. You took a gasping breath, high off your own desire, head swimming--

"Hiromi-- the pollen, it's-- it's on your clothes," you urged, your brain clouding, thrumming, succumbing as yellow mist soaked into your skin.

Kento watched with erotic fascination as you became pliable, supple as water under Hiromi's mouth, your eyes half-closed with aching arousal, a desperate keening noise rising from your throat.

"Oh god yes," groaned Kento, voice gravelly with lust as he released his throbbing erection, pumping his thick cock in his fist, biting the backs of his knuckles on his free hand, "keep going, don't stop-- don't--"

Hiromi drank up Kento's begging, seethingly determined to prove his ownership of you, and grasped your top between his hands, ripping it open like paper, snapping the front of your bra so the cups hung loosely over your pebbled nipples. Hiromi heard Kento release a shuddering whine behind him as he latched his tongue and lips over your nipple, still rutting into your hand, which was joined by the other now as you worked frantically at Hiromi's trousers to release him.

Kento and Hiromi both gasped as Hiromi's cock sprang upwards, and was instantly grasped between your fingers, your first squeeze releasing a thick dribble of precum down Hiromi's length as he shuddered, moaning into your breasts, pressing his fist into the wall as you began to masturbate him. You ached to your very core, reeling with need.

"Please fuck me," you begged Hiromi, voice whispering and pleading in his ear, "cum inside me, as much as you want, I need it, I--"  Hiromi didn't need to be told twice and lifted your legs to straddle his hips, holding you up against the wall as he flipped your skirt up, ripped your tights and sticky wet underwear at the groin, and allowed you to line up his cock between your puffy, glistening folds.

Kento's hand worked harder and harder on his own cock now, stopping to circle his thumb around the sensitive head, spreading his precum, fighting the urge to throw Hiromi aside and thrust into you himself. Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, he instead focused on where Hiromi's cock lined up with you.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Kento growled as Hiromi paused, panting into your neck, "get inside her or I will."

With one aggressive thrust, Hiromi's cock rammed into you to the hilt, slamming you back against the wall as you cried out, clawing at him desperately. Your hands clenched the front of his shirt, gripping and ripping, buttons scattering over the floor with faint skitters, so desperate were you to feel Hiromi's skin on yours.

Hiromi fucked you ruthlessly, eyes fixed on where his cock crashed into you, hips snapping back and forth with barely controlled fury. Spurred on by your mewls and whimpers, Hiromi panted, chasing his relief, agonised cries breaking from his mouth with every other thrust.

Kento's eye had drooped closed behind Hiromi, stroking himself now to the sounds of you and Hiromi alone, feeling with agonising certainty that cumming in his own hand would do little to relieve his deadly need, but needing to chase his orgasm regardless. He felt his pleasure building rapidly as he heard you cum, falling apart with trembling cries around Hiromi's cock.

Hiromi didn't last long, his first orgasm hitting him with a wave of relief so violent, his knees almost buckled, relying on you for a moment to hold yourself up against him. Hiromi felt blinded as rope after rope of his seed spurted into you, coating your cervix, soothing your aching belly with warmth. Kento came with a shuddering gasp, streams of thick cum splattering onto the floor and coating his hand, face contorted in pain when he felt little to no relief despite his orgasm plundering through his every muscle.

You and Hiromi clung onto each other, still joined, and Hiromi's cock felt no softer at all, still rigid and held with urgency against your cervix, sucked in by your velvety walls.

"I'm-- I'm sorry I-- I can't stand--" Hiromi stuttered, dropping to his knees with your legs still wrapped around him, still pressed core to core as you wrapped your arms around his neck, straddling him, riding him as he whimpered into your mouth. Lost in your own pleasure, your eyes had drifted shut as you rode Hiromi, slippery with cum, keeping his cock jealously inside you, unwilling to let him pull out by more than an inch.

You felt a strong hand wind into your hair, tipping your head backwards and sideways, and as you gasped, you felt a droplet of salty cum drip onto your tongue. Kento's other hand, sticky with his own seed, ghosted around your lips as he stared down at you, scarred face impassive, but his eye urgently begging, and he dipped a cum-covered thumb into your mouth, stroking across your tongue.

Hiromi flung a hand out sideways, clawing with fury at Kento's thick, corded thigh; "Nanami," he hissed in warning. Kento ignored him, still staring at you, pleading, impeaching--

You nodded slowly, opening your mouth, holding out your tongue. Kento groaned his appreciation, and leant down to dip his tongue against yours as you gripped his thick cock in your hand. Hiromi scowled, thrusting you harder onto him in possessive punishment, satisfied to hear you squeak against Kento's tongue. As Kento pulled away from you and your mouth started to close, he gripped your jaw, stopping you.

"Open," he barked and you acquiesced, jolting and groaning as you felt him spit into your mouth, mixing with the drips of cum his fingers left behind. Humming lowly in satisfaction, Kento stood tall, manoeuvring your head and thrusting his full length down your throat with little warning.

Despite himself, Hiromi was hypnotised as Kento gripped you by the hair, ramming into you; Hiromi kept pace with Kento, matching his timing by slamming your hips down onto his. His eyes fixed on your mouth as you coughed and spluttered, cheeks covered with cum and saliva as you choked down wet gags, Kento barking orders at you as he slammed his cock repeatedly over your tongue and into your throat.

"Harder, Nanami," Hiromi ordered, blinded by lust as he felt your cunt clench around him, fluttering weakly as Hiromi slipped his hand between your legs, finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing rapid circles, lubricated by the slick of your cum.

You were overwhelmed, floppy and malleable as you embraced being used by Kento and Hiromi, covered in fluids, sticky and sweating, and you shivered weakly as Hiromi dragged you to another orgasm. You felt Hiromi ram you onto him once, twice and three more times until he came with a frantic shout, legs cramping underneath him as he felt his seed shoot through him like electricity, dripping out of you and soaking the patch of trimmed black hair at the base of his cock. Hiromi whined, his balls clenching painfully, watching as Kento finished in your mouth.

Kento pulled you to him, his knuckles deep in your hair as your nose hit his neat honey-coloured pubes, gulping as streams of his hot cum trickled down your throat, Kento growling his relief-- "good girl-- good girl-- swallow now"-- as you drank him down.

Kento let go of your hair and you pulled back, gasping and coughing, his cock still rigid, sat wetly on your cheek as Kento rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck from side to side, still tense. Hiromi was wrecked, burning with need, but crippled and paralysed with a bone-deep exhaustion as he straightened his legs under you, his cock still rigid and throbbing inside you as he came down from his orgasm.

"Not-- not enough--" Kento rumbled, still desperate, devastated by the lack of relief.

"Enough, Nanami," Hiromi gasped, "She needs a--"

"'She' can handle it," you interrupted, nose to nose with Hiromi as he looked into you, glassy-eyed and worried. He nodded slowly. Kento rumbled his approval, pressing you forwards by the back of the neck until Hiromi was laid on his back on the floor, cock still inside you, and you laid down belly first on him.

Without hesitating, Kento mounted you from behind, his mouth ghosting against your ear as he bit it, relishing your squeaks as you pressed your cheek into Hiromi's chest. Lining up his cock with where Hiromi was already seated deep inside you, Kento pressed his cock into you.

You saw stars as your pussy was stretched more than it ever had been, clawing wildly at Hiromi's chest as Kento bottomed-out; Hiromi shivered with delight at the impossible tightness and slickness of you, his groans cracking as Kento's cock slid against his with every thrust. Higuruma lay unmoving at first, colours popping in his eyes, before digging his fingers into the plushness of your hips, and thrusting into you in tandem with Kento.

You were ruined, completely prone on Hiromi as you felt Hiromi and Kento's lengths bully in and out of you, your thighs shaking with urgency as your clit was shunted against Hiromi's pubic bone every time Kento rammed into you. Hearing Kento's groans, broken and velvety behind you, had you tipping over the edge, your arousal spurting out around Kento and Hiromi, your cries and whimpers echoing weakly around the little chamber.

Kento felt fire burst through his hips, back and belly as he came for a final time, barely able to keep himself from collapsing on top of you as he felt himself weaken, Hiromi's cock twitching against his as Hiromi shuddered, sandy gasps leaving his throat as his seed mixed with Kento's inside you.

Hiromi reached around you, rolling you all sideways so Kento could collapse onto the floor. You lay together, stunned, sticky and panting. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and desire. Kento chuckled, low and shaking, as you nuzzled into Hiromi, planting tender kisses on his jaw.

"Alright," he rumbled, reluctant, "so she's your girl. But I still owe her dinner."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Hiromi and Kento at the end of this:

The reader:

This took me two large glasses of wine to write.

[keeryhours]

the needle and the damage done - chapter four

Older! Rockstar! Eddie Munson x female! reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Summary:

Eddie graduates from rehab and comes home.

Warnings:

(18+), smut, unprotected p in v, Eddie has a breeding kink, pregnancy, detailed depictions of drug use/abuse, childhood trauma, description of an overdose

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N:

This is a heavy one y’all. I hope you enjoy the chapter <3

Things went downhill fast.

It started with a pill snuck here or there, just when the cravings got especially bad. That was easier to hide. No one suspected anything, it just gave him a slight high, enough to get through his days. Rehab was boring, after all. He missed you. He missed his girls.

At least he had his guitar. He wrote songs all day, songs about heroin that sounded more like love songs than anything else. God, how he missed it.

But the past week, things had escalated. Jake was sneaking him heroin, and Eddie was shooting up in his en suite bathroom again.

When Eddie graduated from his rehab program, he had been back on drugs for weeks. He had no idea how no one noticed, but he wasn’t complaining or pushing the subject.

He felt like the biggest loser in the world, and he had no idea how he was supposed to face you and the band now.

You and the guys, who had been so proud of him. The girls, who were eagerly awaiting their dad’s return. That was the worst part - the knowledge that he had let his girls down. He couldn’t live with it, and it only pushed him towards the drugs even more.

He figured he could hide it a little longer - maybe he could go home and keep using, as long as he was careful. He could keep sneaking away to get high in the bathroom, acting as normal as possible when around you and the girls or the band. He could do this - he could go home and live his life and have the drugs, too.

Right?

Eddie looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look as good as he had at the last visit, that was certain. He had lost weight again, the dark circles under his eyes had come back. Fuck, you would know there was something up for sure.

He wore a dress shirt and slacks, his hair combed and facial hair neatly trimmed. It was his rehab graduation ceremony, a day he should have been proud of. Instead, he felt like a fraud.

Eddie slipped into his bathroom, attempting to calm himself before the ceremony began. He couldn’t exactly shoot up before going out there and seeing you all, but he could have a little something to take the edge off, right? He popped open his mini “first aid kit” and took 2 Oxys, placing them right on his tongue. There.

It didn’t take too long for the pills to kick in. By the time he was ready to go, he was feeling pretty damn good, blissed out and relaxed. A couple nurses, including Jake, escorted him down the hall towards the room where the ceremony would be held. He wondered if they had any idea how fucked up he was right now. Well, Jake might have had a pretty good idea.

In the room his eyes went to you first, smiling and giving him a small wave. You wore a dress that accentuated your growing bump, now 22 weeks. You’d had the appointment to find out what you were having a couple of weeks ago, but had the results in an envelope for you and Eddie to experience together.

Evie, Rhiannon, and Ivy stood next to you, each in matching red dresses. They looked nervous, clutching each other’s hands. Roz stood on the other side of the girls, followed by Gareth, Jeff, and Grant. They all looked so proud of him, it made him sick.

He went through the graduation ceremony, pretending like he wasn’t currently high and hadn’t been for the past 6 weeks. He couldn’t even meet your eyes. Afterwards you wanted to take pictures, where he faked his smile and pretended he wasn’t the absolute scum of the earth.

Eddie was happy to be home. The girls were all over him, wanting him to play, but he covered up the fact he was too high by saying he was just tired. You believed him - “Come on girls, give Daddy a break.”

“Daddy, are you better?” Rhiannon asked. “You’re not sick anymore?”

Eddie felt sick. “I’m better, baby girl. Not sick anymore.”

After he’d been home for a few hours, you couldn’t take the anticipation anymore. You brought out a white box from the fridge, setting it on the counter. “Are we ready to find out if we’re getting a little brother or sister?”

“Yes!” The girls yelled in unison, skipping into the kitchen and jumping up and down with excitement as they waited. You opened the box, revealing a white cake. Eddie joined you, looking over it to see if there was a glimpse of what lay inside.

“How do we know?” Rhiannon asked, standing on her tippy toes to peer at the cake.

“If it’s blue inside it’s a boy,” you explained with a smile. “And if it’s pink, it’s a girl.”

“I want a girl!” Evie said, which made you laugh.

“You don’t have enough sisters?” You teased your oldest.

“Boys are gross,” she said, making a face. “I like having sisters.”

“I want a brother!” Rhiannon said. “Daddy’s outnumbered.”

Eddie laughed at that - it was woefully true. “I’m okay with it. I love my girls. Could be fun to have a boy, though.”

“What about you, Ivy?” You asked your 3 year old. “Do you want a little brother or a little sister?” You knew this was big for her, she wouldn’t be the baby anymore. She’d never gone through the new sibling thing before, unlike her older sisters. Evie was a pro at this point.

Ivy thought for a moment. “Sister,” she answered finally, a tiny shy grin on her face.

“Eddie?”

“A boy,” he answered. “But I’m happy with another girl, too.”

“Okay, is everyone ready?” You asked, grabbing a large knife from the block and holding it over the cake. Eddie placed his hand on the handle next to yours.

“Yes!” The chorus came from all three girls again.

You and Eddie cut into the cake, the anticipation buzzing in your stomach. You cut the slice and pulled it out - revealing blue filling. You, Eddie, and Rhiannon cheered, Evie letting out a groan.

“It’s a baby brother!” You announced, tears falling from your eyes. Eddie pulled you into a tight hug and you buried your face in his chest as he rubbed your back.

“Wow,” Eddie whispered, only loud enough for you to hear. “A son.”

That night Eddie climbed into bed with you, wrapping his arms around you. He kissed all along your back and shoulders, his hands roaming under your top.

“Baby,” he moaned against your skin, leaving sloppy kisses as he went. “I haven’t had sex in 8 weeks. I’m desperate for you.”

You could feel just how desperate he was pressed up against your ass, his cock painfully hard and throbbing. You wanted to help him, and you needed it, too. You turned over so you were facing him, reaching a hand between your bodies and stroking him over his boxers. He crashed his lips into yours, kissing you deeply.

“Do you want to be on top?” He asked you breathlessly as he pulled away. “I don’t know if you’re uncomfortable on your back yet, we can do it however-“

“I’ll be on top,” you answered him, straddling his lap as he laid flat on his back. His hands moved to your hips, rocking you against his erection. You had on one of his t-shirts and a pair of shorts, Eddie in only his boxers. He lifted your shirt up and off as you stood up on your knees, pulling his boxers down. Eddie hooked his fingers in your shorts and panties, pulling them down as much as he could before you had to help out. He put a hand on your belly to help keep your balance as you got them off.

You could feel his hard cock pressing insistently against your entrance, Eddie reached between you to line himself up properly. You slowly sunk down on his cock, both of you moaning as you took him inch by inch.

“Fuck, Eds,” you moaned, slowly starting to rock your hips on top of him. “It’s been so long. You feel so good.”

“Yeah, too fuckin’ long,” Eddie said gruffly, thrusting his hips up into you. “Feel so good, baby, you’re so tight and hot, gonna make me fill you up.”

You whined, bouncing a little faster on him. You could feel the tip of his cock pressed against your bundle of nerves deep inside, and when he began rubbing circles on your clit, you were even more lost in the pleasure. Your head was thrown back, body on full display for Eddie’s eyes as you rode him. He was in heaven.

“Fuck, yeah, so good baby, keep riding me like that. You’re taking my cock so good. Shit, if you weren’t already pregnant I’d put another baby in you.”

You laughed breathlessly at that. “I think we’ve got enough of those.”

“I can never knock you up enough times,” Eddie grunted, his hands roaming over your body. “Love filling you up with my cum. I love seeing you pregnant with my babies.”

“Yeah?” You moved faster. Eddie was falling apart beneath you, it had been so long since he’d gotten to fuck you, he wasn’t lasting long. You also weren’t aware that he was pretty damn high. “Wanna cum inside and fill me up, Eds?”

“God yes,” Eddie groaned. “I want you, baby. Need you to cum on this cock first, though.”

You whined, your orgasm close. Eddie kept up his movements on your clit - “Fuck, wish I could taste you-“ until you were seeing stars, pussy throbbing around his dick, moaning his name over and over again as you came. “Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

Eddie gripped your waist tightly in his hands as he fucked up into you hard a few times, until he was throwing his head back and groaning while he came inside of you. You raked your nails down his tattooed chest, driving him crazy.

You collapsed on the bed next to him and he wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “I love you so fuckin’ much, baby.”

“I love you too, Eddie.” You smiled to yourself - Eddie was home. Your family was together. Things were going to be okay.

Rhiannon had her big dance recital that weekend.

You got the other girls all dolled up, dressed in matching dresses. Eddie wore a suit, his curls smoothed and pulled back in a ponytail. He couldn’t help but notice the perfect roundness of your belly now beneath your red dress. He placed a hand on it, and you turned to him and smiled.

“How’s Ozzy?” He asked, rubbing the bump over the soft material of your dress.

“First of all, his name is not going to be Ozzy-“

“Hey, I still have 18 weeks to change your mind.” It was hard to disagree with him when he was giving you that gorgeous smile, the all encompassing one that spread across his whole face. It was moments like these that it struck you, you loved this man.

“And second,” you continued, “he’s laying directly on my bladder, so maybe ask your son if he could be a little more considerate.”

Eddie dropped to his knees in front of you. “Ozzy-“

“Not his name.”

“-I need you to be good for your mama, okay?” He rubbed your stomach, and your son moved beneath his hand, like he was acknowledging his father speaking to him. Eddie’s face lit up with another grin. “Stop giving her trouble, young man. She works hard, growing you into a fully-formed human.”

You giggled as Eddie stood back up. Somehow, the baby had moved out of his uncomfortable position.

“Mommy!” A frustrated voice came from the doorway. Rhiannon stood there, halfway stuck in her costume. “I need help.”

“Oh!” You hurried over to her, ushering her back into her room. You untangled her from her costume and got it on her properly, smoothing the skirt of her tutu. Next, you tied up her ballet flats. “There we go.”

“I’m ready to go!” She yelled, jumping around in circles and spinning her pirouettes. Eddie peered in the door, leaning against it and smiling at you both.

“Let’s hit the road, girls,” he said, twirling his car keys around his finger. “We’ve got a show to get to.”

Rhiannon danced her heart out. She had a real talent for ballet, and you could definitely see her sticking with it and becoming a real ballerina. She took it seriously, as she didn’t do much.

Eddie teared up as he watched her. He felt so proud. These were the things he’d been missing to get high instead. It hit him then, hard. You reached over and took his hand, giving it a squeeze and a small smile that he returned. He placed one hand on your belly and the other around Ivy on his lap. Evie leaned against his shoulder on his left.

He felt content.

Eddie was fine with just the pills for a while, but eventually they stopped doing it for him. He needed more. He wanted to shoot up again, his veins itched for it.

He really had intended to be a better man. He wanted to be. But he just wasn’t.

He was texting his dealer before he could think better of it. He couldn’t shake that sinking feeling of guilt in his stomach that had been there since the first time he dialed Jake’s number.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in his dealer’s living room.

“I got this new shit,” Jeremy said as he weighed and divided his product into small baggies. Eddie watched closely, his body itching for the high.

“Yeah?” Eddie was bouncing his leg, his hands restlessly playing together. “It’s good?”

“Like nothing you’ve ever experienced, man,” Jeremy laughed. “How much you want?”

There was something about the fact that Jeremy didn’t even have to ask if he wanted some that made Eddie feel like an even bigger loser. “The usual.”

When Eddie left, the drugs in his pocket begging to be taken, he debated getting rid of them. He debated going through the withdrawals again, maybe going to a different rehab and doing it for real this time. But he made a different decision.

He drove home, the guilt eating him alive. He longed to get home and inject the drugs into his veins, to stop thinking, to stop feeling. He was relieved when he got home and the house was dark. It was past the girls’ bedtime and you’d been so tired from the pregnancy lately that you’d been going to bed at the same time.

Eddie snuck into the house quietly, slipping into the large bathroom attached to your bedroom. He sat on the floor, pulling out his kit and the drugs he’d gotten. He measured the same dose he always took - it had been a while, so he knew it would hit hard. He heated up the drugs in the spoon, placing the cotton in it then collected the shot in his syringe. He tied the tourniquet around his upper arm, finding his vein. It was getting harder to do, but he eventually found it, injecting the needle into his arm. He untied the tourniquet and pushed off, the euphoria washing over him in a wave.

He felt incredible. His limbs gave out, arms flopping down at his sides. He let the feeling take him, not a care in his mind - until it suddenly felt harder to breathe, and his eyes started to close. He fought it as panic rose in his chest, attempting to crawl to the door with the last bit of fight left in his body before he lost consciousness.

You weren’t surprised when you woke up for the 50th time that night having to pee. This was your life every time you were pregnant - interrupted sleep and a million trips to the bathroom. Eddie still wasn’t in bed, but it wasn’t that late yet.

You rubbed your eyes as you held your stomach, sleepily waddling to the en suite bathroom. The light was already on, which was strange. You opened the door slowly. “Ed?”

The sight before you had you screaming, nearly getting sick on the spot. Eddie was passed out on the floor, his skin pale, needle and supplies on the floor next to him. He looked dead. Tears immediately started falling and you panicked for only a moment before you turned and ran for your purse, grabbing your phone and the Narcan nasal spray you started carrying on you the first time you caught Eddie with hard drugs.

“Mommy?”

Your heart sunk as you heard Rhiannon’s terrified voice from the doorway. You turned to see your 6 year old, her wide eyes locked on her father’s lifeless body. “Is he dead?” Her voice came out as a squeak, and your heart broke.

“Rhi, go get your sisters and stay in Evie’s room, okay?” You told her, trying to calm your voice. “I’ll come get you.”

Rhiannon didn’t move. “Is he dead?” She asked again.

You clenched your eyes shut, big fat tears falling down your cheeks. Because you didn’t know how to answer her question. “Go get your sisters and stay in Evie’s room!”

Finally she moved, turning and sprinting down the hall. You dialed 911 as you ran into the bathroom, pulling the cap off the Narcan and spraying it in his nose.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I think- My husband is overdosing.” Your voice shook, but you tried to keep it as steady as possible.

“What’s the address?”

You told her quickly, touching Eddie’s cold face, wondering if you’d ever see his smile again.

“An ambulance is on the way. Name and age?”

“Edward Munson, 37.”

“Do you know what he’s taken?”

“I…” You looked around, but you weren’t exactly knowledgeable about what you were looking at. “Heroin, probably. I gave him a dose of Narcan about a minute ago.”

“Is he breathing?”

You took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Heartbeat?”

You placed two of your fingers on his neck. Your own heart stopped in your chest as you didn’t feel anything at first, but finally - a faint, slow thumping. “Yes, it’s soft and slow, but yes.”

There was a knocking at the front door before you heard it open. “In here!” You called, and a crew of paramedics hurried in and surrounded Eddie. You watched in horror as they quickly strapped him to a stretcher, the way they moved telling you that this was not good and filling you with the fear you may never see your husband again.

As they urgently took him away, some of the paramedics spoke to you, but all you could hear was the rushing in your own ears. Finally someone got through to you - “Do you want to follow us?”

“I…my girls…”

The paramedic nodded in understanding. “You figure out what you need to. Just come into the emergency department and they’ll bring you to him.”

You watched the body of your husband disappear, wondering if you’d ever see him alive again.

tag list

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[kiss4tell]

𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃, simon riley.

summary: a princess raised in a world of rules and expectations finds herself entangled with a thief who should mean nothing to her—but as stolen glances turn into stolen kisses, she realizes she’s never wanted anything more. cw: forbidden romance, makeout scene, implied danger, secret meetings, longing, angst. thief!simon, princess!user. wc: 1.1k note: thief!simon and knight!johnny were so close in the poll that i might just make a johnny one too.

The first time you meet him, you don’t know his name.

You don’t know that he’s a thief, that he’s dangerous, that he should be nowhere near the castle walls. All you know is the rough press of a gloved hand over your mouth, the sharp scent of leather and damp stone, the solid weight of a body pinning you into the shadows.

Moonlight filters through the high-arched windows of your chambers, casting silver ribbons across the polished marble floor. The distant flicker of torches in the hallway stretches long shadows beneath the ornate wooden doors, their golden inlays glowing faintly in the dim light. The guards—your father’s men—are just beyond that threshold. Close enough that if you made a sound, they would hear you.

Your heartbeat is a war drum, frantic and unforgiving. Your breathing is shallow beneath the suffocating press of his body. He’s solid, warm despite the night’s chill, and when he leans in, you feel the rasp of his voice against the shell of your ear.

“Not a sound, princess.”

He says it like he’s amused. Like this is nothing to him. A game.

The footsteps in the corridor pause, and your body tenses. If they open the door, they will see him. You will be caught in his arms. You’ll be questioned, accused—punished. The weight of expectation, of propriety, presses on you heavier than the man holding you captive.

And then, finally, the footsteps fade. The torches continue down the hall, leaving your room untouched.

His hand drops from your mouth, but before you can take in a proper breath, you’re spun around, your back hitting the cold stone wall. He cages you in, arms braced on either side of your head, and the moonlight finally reveals his face.

A mask of shadows and sharp angles.

A scar curves across his cheek, partially hidden by the fall of his hood. His eyes are dark, unreadable, gleaming with something sharp. There’s a smirk on his lips, a quiet kind of arrogance that makes your stomach twist with something you refuse to name.

“Pretty thing,” he murmurs, his voice like rough-cut velvet. “Bet you’ve never had a man in your chambers like this before.”

Your breath stutters between your lips, a mix of outrage and something else.

“Who are you?” you whisper.

His grin deepens, wicked and knowing. He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, and his next words send a shiver down your spine.

“No one you should be thinking about, love.”

And then, just like that—he’s gone.

Vanished into the night like a ghost.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next morning, you find a ring on your windowsill.

It’s nothing extravagant—just a simple silver band, slightly tarnished, a little worn. It’s far too plain to belong to the royal treasury, too rough for a nobleman’s taste. And yet, it sits there, glinting in the soft morning light as if waiting for you to claim it.

You don’t touch it. You shouldn’t touch it.

But that night, when you step into the royal gardens for some air, he’s waiting.

The air is thick with the scent of roses and damp earth, the evening breeze whispering through the hedgerows. The stone paths are still warm from the day’s sun, the ivy-covered trellises casting intricate shadows across the courtyard. He stands just beyond the torchlight, shrouded in darkness, leaning casually against an old stone pillar.

“You don’t like my gift?”

His voice is low, teasing, curling around you like smoke.

You turn, pulse kicking up as you spot the gleam of his eyes beneath the hood. His clothes are dark, his posture easy, as if he has every right to be here. As if he isn’t a common thief trespassing on royal grounds.

“You stole it.”

He chuckles, a rich, quiet sound. “Everything in that castle is stolen, princess. I just take from those who won’t miss it.”

Your breath catches at his audacity.

“Why are you here?”

He steps closer, and you don’t back away. His gloved fingers lift, tracing the delicate embroidery of your sleeve, the royal blues and golds woven into the fabric. His touch is light, barely there.

“Because you fascinate me,” he says simply. “You’re all locked away in your golden cage, waiting for some prince who’ll never deserve you.”

Heat flares in your cheeks.

“And you think you deserve me?”His lips curve into a smirk, head tilting slightly. He studies you for a long moment before murmuring, “No. But I think you wish I did.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It becomes a game after that.

A reckless, dangerous, forbidden game.

He finds you in the places no one else does. The hidden alcoves of the library. The abandoned wings of the castle. The quiet halls before dawn, when the world is still asleep.

At first, it’s just words. A smirk. A tease. A stolen touch that lingers too long.

But then, one night, when he backs you against a cold stone wall and murmurs, “Tell me to stop”—and you don’t—things change.

He kisses you.

It’s nothing like the chaste, practiced pecks you’ve received from noble suitors. No, this is something else entirely.

His lips are firm, insistent, and when his teeth graze your lower lip, a shiver runs through you so violently you have to grip his cloak just to stay standing. His hands are everywhere—brushing your jaw, your waist, the curve of your hip. When he presses closer, trapping you against the wall, you feel the hard lines of his body, the tension coiled beneath his skin.

It’s dangerous. It’s intoxicating. It’s wrong.

And yet, when he pulls away, your hands chase after him, fingers curling into his shirt as if begging him to stay.

He exhales a quiet laugh against your cheek, nuzzling the spot just below your ear.

“You’re trouble, princess.”

And the worst part?You think you like it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Time slips through your fingers like sand. Seasons change, and so do you.

You learn his name. You learn the stories behind his scars. You learn the feel of his hands on your skin, the weight of his mouth against yours in the darkness of your chambers, in the hidden corners of the castle where no one dares to look.

The kisses grow deeper. The touches hungrier. He tastes like danger, like freedom, like a life you can never have.

And then, one night, when he pulls you into his arms and murmurs, “Say the word, and I’ll take you with me”—

You don’t know how to answer.

Because running means leaving everything behind.

And staying means losing him forever.

So instead of speaking, you kiss him like it’s the last time.

Because maybe it is.

[itsgivingmami]

A Spoonful Of Peanut Butter

Rhea Ripley x Damian Priest x Reader

Warnings: smut(kinda), dom energy, weed.

Set in the same timeline as Jam Jars(if you don’t know what I’m talking about it’s cool you don’t need to read that for this to make sense)

The house echoed when you laughed.

Not in a haunting way, just in that strange, unfamiliar new-house way where the walls haven’t learned your voice yet. The only sound softer than the giggle slipping out of your mouth was the scratch of a lighter flaring to life, followed by a muffled click as Rhea passed you the joint with a crooked grin. You were both fully clothed, cross-legged, and ridiculous—high as hell in the dry bathtub like it was a royal throne.

“Why the tub?” you asked, the corner of your mouth twitching as you took a slow pull, trying not to cough.

Rhea blinked at you, deadpan. “We don’t have furniture yet.”

You burst into laughter again, smoke leaking from your mouth like a secret. The truth of it hit a little different when you looked around. The house still smelled like plaster and paint, not like people. The bedroom had a mattress on the floor, the living room a single camping chair and an unpacked speaker. You were surrounded by cardboard and the soft hum of potential. The kind of emptiness that wasn’t sad—it was waiting.

And the tub? It was white porcelain and wide, sunlit from the high window, and currently full of smoke and soft limbs.

Rhea kicked the faucet lightly with her foot. “It’s kind of cozy I reckon,”

You nodded, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling. “Honestly? I’m into it. This could be our thing.”

“Our thing is dry-tub hotboxes?” she asked, amused.

“Could be worse.” You passed the joint back, “next time we need pillows or something though because my back is angry,” you giggled shimmying against the tub to get comfortable. She took a hit, holding it for a moment, then let it out in a low, thoughtful exhale. Her eyes found yours again, hazy and half-lidded, her voice dipping softer.

“I like that we’re doing this slow.” You blinked at her. “The house,” she clarified, nudging your shin with hers. “We could’ve rushed and moved in all perfect and ready. But this? Sitting in a fucking tub with you high as shit? I like this more.”

The joint burned between her fingers, flickering in the soft late afternoon light. You felt your chest bloom a little at the honesty in her tone. There was no pressure at that moment. Just you, her, and the beginning of a home that would grow around you like ivy.

Rhea leaned her head back against the cool tile and offered the joint again, her smirk returning. “Think Damian’s gonna lose his shit when he sees this?”

You grinned, cheeks warm. “He’s gonna be so dramatic.”

“Oh, absolutely.” She fake-mimicked his deep voice, hoisting her shoulders as if she needed more help looking muscular. “I leave for one weekend and come back to find my girls feral in the bathtub?”

You wheezed a laugh. “You forgot the part where he drops his bags in the hallway and just stares like he’s rethinking everything.”

“He’ll probably join us,” she added, reaching up to blow smoke toward the ceiling having no clue how hot she looked.. “Grumble about it. But then he’ll get all sappy.”

“His constant state is grumble,” That caused her to bark out a loud laugh before snapping hand over her mouth and falling to laugh against your knee. Your hand came up to run through her dark hair and she hummed. You tilted your head to the side, heart twisting sweet. “You really think he’ll cram in here?”

Rhea didn’t even hesitate. “I know. We’re his whole damn world.”

The silence that followed wasn’t really silent. The house breathed with you. Somewhere, the pipes clicked. The trees outside rustled. The bathtub floor creaked a little as you shifted closer, thigh brushing hers, then— the sound of keys in the front door. Rhea’s grin widened more and you giggled again gently slapping her shins suddenly full of energy.

“He’s gonna kill us,” you whispered, already giggling again.

“He’s gonna join us,” she whispered back, then yelled toward the hallway with absolutely no shame.“Papi! We’re in the tub!”

You collapsed into her shoulder, laughing so hard you nearly dropped the roach, she took it from you and tossed it into the ashtray sitting on the ledge. “He probably thinks we’re naked now,”

“Disappointing for him,”

—

The front door opened with a thud and a muttered curse. Something about the lock still sticking. Damian’s voice carried in low and gravel-thick from the hallway.

“I swear to God if no one called the damn landlord about this—” He froze halfway into the entryway.

The scent hit first. Weed, faint and lingering, threaded with lavender. Then the trail: a half-empty bag of chips on the stairs. Two water bottles on the counter. Rhea’s boots—muddy. Your hoodie—crumpled and half on the sink. Someone had put on music and then promptly forgotten it, the speaker echoing with a lo-fi playlist that buzzed faintly like sleep. And from down the hall, a voice he’d know in any dream:

“Papi! We’re in the tub!”

He stopped walking. Visibly processed. Rubbed a slow hand down his face like it might change the outcome, not that he was sure he wanted to anyway. A few seconds passed before he moved again. Heavy steps toward the bathroom. A sigh that felt like love masquerading as patience.

The door was wide open.

There you were.

Dry. Fully clothed. In the bathtub. Curled up on one side, eyes glassy, grinning at him like the cat who got the cream. And Rhea—head tipped back, a spent joint perched in a dish beside her like an offering to the gods of nonsense. For one long moment, Damian just looked at the two of you. Then he dropped his bag with a dull thud and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. You poked Rhea repeatedly happily whispering a soft ‘told you so’

“What,” he said, voice flat, “in the actual fuck?”

Rhea blinked at him slowly. “We don’t have furniture yet.”

“That’s your excuse?”

She shrugged. “Good acoustics here.”

You tried to sit up straighter, failed when your shirt slid against the porecelin, then slouched again and gave him the softest, most unapologetic smile you could muster. “We missed you.”

He stared.

“You hotboxed the bathtub,” he said, as if saying it out loud would make it make sense.

“No steam,” you replied helpfully, gesturing to the clearly unused faucet. “Just vibes.”

There was a long pause.

And then he did the thing—that thing. The slow exhale, followed by the even slower shake of his head. The reluctant curl of his lips into something dangerously close to fondness.

“You two are gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, stepping into the room. He didn’t yell. Didn’t scold. Just walked over and sat down on the closed toilet lid like a man admitting defeat—like someone who knew exactly what he was getting into and was six kinds of gone for it anyway. “Did you eat?” he asked, after a moment.

Rhea grinned. “There’s a half bag of Bugles in the hallway.”

“Bugles arent foo–” He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed while Rhea grinned smugly, thoroughly enjoying herself. He then looked up, straight at you. His voice gentled, his tone dipping low the way it always did when it was just the three of you and the world could wait.

“You look soft, baby.”

You blinked slowly. “I feel soft.”

“Come here.”

You leaned forward, crawling lazily over Rhea’s lap until your arms were around his shoulders and your face tucked against his neck. He smelled like clean laundry and the road, like home in a different flavor than the one you were sitting in.

Rhea scooted up behind you both, her hand running up your spine. “Told you he’d join us.”

—

It started with a TikTok.

You were curled on the floor, bare feet in the sunspot pouring through the living room window, phone angled lazily in one hand, half-watching someone paint gentle little landscapes on their boyfriend’s back while he lay there humming. No words—just a soft brush, steady hands, quiet intimacy. You replayed it three times before whispering, “I wanna do that.”

Rhea didn’t look up from where she was sprawled on the makeshift couch—a loveseat you’d dragged in from the old place two days ago. You’d shoved blankets into one half to compensate for the lump fro use and ignored the arm broken from… activities. “Do what?”

“Paint on someone’s back,” you said, dreamy. “Like in this video.” Damian, halfway through assembling the new record shelf in the corner, turned just enough to glance over his shoulder.

“You mean like tattoos?”

“No,” you said, sitting up straighter, turning your phone as if he could see it halfway across the empty room “Like temporary. Like… a whole canvas, but alive. Just—paint, skin, vibes.”

Rhea raised a brow. “You want to use your fiancé as a TikTok art project?”

You smiled. “Basically, yeah.”

Damian snorted, but something in his face softened. “We got paint?”

“I have acrylics,” you said, wiggling your eyebrows. “And very good intentions.”

Fifteen minutes later he was shirtless and on his stomach in the middle of the living room rug, head pillowed on his arms, exhaling like a man surrendering to the inevitable. Rhea passed you the joint as she leaned against the wall, watching with amusement and something just shy of reverence. You knelt beside him, paint pots open around you like petals. The sun made his back look golden—warm and solid, the ridges of his muscles casting soft shadows as he breathed.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” you murmured, your fingers brushing along his spine before you even picked up a brush.

“You couldn’t be too much if you tried,” Damian said, voice low and fond.

Rhea hummed her agreement, smoke curling around her lips. “Paint him pretty, sweetheart.”

The first stroke was blue. A long line down his spine like water. Then green, curling around his ribs like vines. You weren’t really trying to make anything coherent—just movement, just color. Just the joy of touching him this way, creating something on the body that held you, protected you, made space for you every single day. He stayed perfectly still. His breathing slowed. You could feel it when he melted into the floor.

“Feels good,” he mumbled, words thick. You smiled. Your hand slowed at his shoulder blade, dipped lower, then back up. At some point, the brush wasn’t enough and you started using your fingers. Smearing color across his back, dragging soft patterns down his spine, pressing shapes into the dips and curves of him. He arched slightly when you pressed your thumb to the base of his neck.

“You like it,” you said softly.

“Only complaint I have is that I can’t see you,” That made your chest ache and you leaned over to kiss the side of his head turned up from the carpet softly. “you’ll do my chest next time instead,”

“You mean after my turn Guapo,” Rhea came over then, crouching beside you. Her hand found your hip, grounding. “Sign it, baby.”

You blinked up at her. “What?”

“Your masterpiece,” she said with a little smirk. “Sign it.”

You looked down at the paint on your fingers, then pressed your initials in the corner of his shoulder blade, right where the skin was warmest. Then you added a little heart. Couldn’t help yourself. Damian groaned softly. “If i hadn’t already asked you to marry me, that would’ve done it.”

Rhea leaned forward, whispering into your ear with a grin, “He’s gonna fall asleep like that.”

You whispered back, “He’s already gone.” And he was. Breathing slow. Muscles slack. Painted like a devotion. You kissed his temple, then sat back on your heels beside Rhea. Sunset poured through the window and lit up the two of you sitting in silence beside the man you loved—paint on your hands, laughter on your tongue, a house slowly turning into home.

It started because no one wanted to cook. Not that anyone ever wanted to cook when they were high, but tonight it felt particularly impossible. The three of you were spread across the living room floor, limbs tangled, edibles flowing smoothly for the last hour as you all broke off pieces of an infused chocolate bar and tried to feed it to each other without laughing. All of you possessed the same lazy craving for something salty, sweet, and just a little bit unhinged.

“We could order,” Damian offered, voice rough with smoke.

“We ordered last night,” Rhea mumbled from where she lay face-down on a pillow her turn over lazy and slow. “And the night before that.”

“Are we talking about snacks?” You rolled onto your side, cheek pressed to the rug where you spent the good part of the last half hour running your fingers through it. “I’d kill for a snack.”

Damian sat up. “Fine. Olympics.”

Rhea lifted her head slightly. “What?”

“Stoner Snack Olympics,” he said with sudden conviction. “We each make a snack with whatever’s in the kitchen. Then we try them. Winner gets… the last edible gummy.”

Rhea blinked. “We have a last edible gummy?”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s hidden in the spice cabinet. I saw it this morning.”

Rhea was already pushing herself upright. “Let’s go.”

You rolled again enjoying the stretch in your spine like a cat, softly groaning before looking at Damian.

“I’ve never seen her move that fast,” you giggle seeing Rhea’s retreating frame, clearly on a new mission. You licked your lips apprediatve of the black cotton shorts she’d chosen.

“Then clearly you’ve never seen her when you’re naked,” he told you as he stood, he offered his hand and in true Damian fashion pulled you up with way more force than needed. Practically taking your feet off the ground with him sending you forward into his chest.

“Shut up.”

—

You split up like contestants on a cooking show—only slower, much clumsier, and with a lot more giggling. The kitchen was a mess of half-used condiments, open cereal boxes, and wildly conflicting snack priorities. Twenty minutes later, you reconvened in the living room, each with your creation balanced on a plate. Damian presented his first.

“Dessert Nacho chips,” he said proudly, “marshmallow fluff drizzle. Hot sauce. Cinnamon sugar. And a whipped cream finish.”

You stared. Rhea looked horrified.

“What the fuck is that?”

“A masterpiece,” he said, unbothered by the way both of you were looking at him. “Sweet. Spicy. Crunchy. Creamy. I hit every flavor profile.”

“Yeah papi,” you muttered, “except edible.”

He popped one in his mouth and moaned dramatically. “It’s an experience.”

Rhea held up her plate next. “Mine’s better.”

It was a tortilla rolled around Nutella, pickles, and crushed pretzels.

You stared again. “Are we okay?”

“No,” she said, chewing. “We’re stoned and it’s this or we eat dry pre workout,”

You hesitated, then offered yours last: gently reaching behind your back to lift your dish off the plate. You smiled sheepishly while gently holding it out.

“Baby that’s a spoon of peanut butter,” Rhea told you seriously, eyes betraying her and small breaks in her face. ”I think you’re disqualified,”

“You said snack you did not say rules!,” you point at Damian accusingly and he throws his hands up. “Shits rigged,” you dramatically grabbed one of the abominations Damian had in front of him— completely forgetting the whole game you’d just played. Rhea was mid “no babe-“ as it hit your tongue.

“Oh my god.”

“Right?!” he beamed.

“It’s… weirdly okay?”

Rhea took the spoon from you and swiped her pointer finger across half before licking it off with no regard for her hotness. Then she held the spoon out to Damian who ate the rest off without taking it from her hand. Then they both looked at you, flushed, doe eyed and still. “Sorry, did you want some?”

“No problem, I'll go get the jar!” You squeaked and stood up quickly sock clad fleeting softly thumping on the hardwood and Damian and Rhea chuckled. You were in the pantry and back out in a moment, jar on the counter before you reached for the utensil drawer.

“We still have to pick a winner that gummy isn’t going uneaten,” you called to them, soft clinking of spoons as you pulled them from the door.

“We split it just now when you left,”

“WHAT?!”

—

The speaker was too loud for the hour.

You all knew it. It was nearly midnight and the nearest neighbor’s porch light had flicked on twice already. But none of you could bring yourselves to care. The joint was making its third pass, the floor was covered in throw pillows, and the laptop open on the coffee table glowed with the YouTube search results for “karaoke playlist no ads.” You were already wheezing with laughter as Damian scrolled.

“We’re not doing anything serious,” you warned.

“Obviously,” he muttered, selecting something dramatic and horrible from the early 2000s.

Rhea was sprawled on the floor behind you, head in your lap, giggling every time you tried to adjust your seating without disturbing her. She had the mic now—cheap, wireless, slightly crackling—and was currently serenading you both with the kind of guttural growl that would’ve made metal bands proud.

The lyrics, however, were from “Barbie Girl.”

“Life in plastic—IT’S FANTAAASTIC—” she roared, kicking her leg in the air as if possessed. You were doubled over, tears rolling down your face.

Damian buried his face in his hands. “This is the worst, most beautiful moment of my life.”

Rhea sat up abruptly, shoved the mic at him. “Your turn, big guy.”

“No.”

“Do it.”

“No.”

She looked at you with a brow raised and a look that said “you try”.

“Please?” You tried softly and he looked between you and Rhea, he sighed, deeply, like a man preparing to sacrifice his dignity in the name of love. Then he took the mic.

It was “I Want It That Way.” By the Backstreet Boys.

You shrieked. Rhea fist-pumped. Damian stood like a solemn idol in the center of the room and began to sing—badly—but with so much theatrical soul you almost threw up from laughing.

You fell sideways into Rhea’s lap. “Can you believe this is the same man who asked us to marry him in a three piece suit?.”

“Can you believe we said yes?”

When the chorus came back around, all three of you were on your feet—off-key, stoned, and absolutely unhinged. Rhea air-guitared. Damian did finger guns. You nearly knocked over the speaker trying to twirl. By the fourth song, you’d collapsed again, panting and flushed, cheeks aching from smiling. Rhea flopped beside you, her face turned toward yours. Her voice was soft now, still raspy from laughter.

“This house is good,” she murmured, tracing the edge of your jaw with her fingertip. “It’s stupid and messy and perfect.”

You nodded, forehead pressed to hers. “It’s ours.”

Damian dropped onto the couch behind you both, long arms scooping you into his lap. “We should have karaoke night every week.”

“We should never let anyone see karaoke night,” you said.

He kissed your temple. “Agreed.”

The next track auto-played, but no one moved to sing. Instead, you all just lay there—sweaty, tangled, exhausted, high—hearts loud in your chests, music humming through the walls like the house itself was singing along.

—

You didn’t mean to get this high.

It started innocently enough—just a few hits from the little glass pipe Damian left on the windowsill, the one he calls the soft stuff. A mellow night alone. Your partners are both away for a quick work trip. Just you and the house. Quiet. And the weed? You swear it hit differently when the music kicked in. Now you’re floating through the kitchen in fuzzy socks and one of Rhea’s hoodies, whisper-singing Stevie Nicks to the plants and muttering things like why do I crave air and strawberries at the same time to yourself.

You’re not hungry.

You’re munchie poetic.

So you open the pantry like it’s a sacred vault.

There’s cereal. Crackers. A jar of Nutella with a clean spoon for “emergencies” or a midnight snack. You hum like you’re reading a map to buried treasure. Then your hand brushes something round and cool. You squint. Tug. Something wrapped in wax paper and tied with a limp piece of twine falls forward and rolls a little. You gasp.

Jam.

You blink. Slowly.

It takes you a second to sit down fully, legs awkwardly sprawled out in front of the pantry like your body forgot how to fold. You hold the jar with both hands, reverent and ridiculous, the way people hold puppies on TikTok. The label is faded but legible. Slanted handwriting and a tiny heart in the corner.

Strawberry. Summer batch. Ours.

You say the words out loud. Whispered. Like a prophecy. “Oh my god. It’s her. It’s her.” Your brain starts narrating, because you’re high and alone and no one’s here to stop you.

You unscrew the lid with dramatic flair, like it might release a genie or a love confession or some ghost of a summer long passed. The scent hits instantly—berries, lemon, something warm and old and alive. Like the memory of sticky fingers and laughter echoing in an old kitchen.

You dip a finger in. Taste it.

And sit there on the floor, a little stunned.

It’s good. Still good. Better than you remembered. Tart and honest and wild like love that didn’t ask for permission. You close your eyes and sigh like you just had the best orgasm of your life. From jam. You reach for your phone. Snap a photo of the jar in your lap, fingers sticky, hoodie sleeve bunched at your elbow. You send it to both of them.

You: Guess who found her way home.

Rhea responds first.

Rhea: IS THAT THE STRAWBERRY???

Rhea: From our first place by the farmers market?

Damian: Don’t you dare finish that without me.

You snort.

You: She was behind the cocoa. How the fuck did she survive two moves.

Rhea: Because she’s stubborn. Like you. Like us.

Damian: Lick it off your finger for me. Slowly. I’m imagining it.

You stare at the screen. Blush. Giggle again.

Then you look back down at the jar.

And whisper, “You really are an emotional jam.”

Because you remember.

That was the afternoon you made it together. When Rhea knew by your outfit what you'd be doing later and Damian asked her to kiss you dizzy from the gym. All of you sweaty in the kitchen, laughing, music loud, Rhea with pink sugar on her lips and Damian lifting you onto the counter to kiss you with stained fingertips and promises. That was the night you first realized: they weren’t going anywhere. Neither were you.

You eat another fingerful.

Then tuck the jar under your arm like a secret and shuffle back to bed, giggling like a stoned gremlin with the crown jewels. You fall asleep with the jar on your nightstand and a smile on your face. And somewhere, across time zones, Rhea and Damian fall asleep to the sound of your messages chiming in—proof that love can taste like fruit and memory, sealed up tight and waiting for rediscovery.

—

The house was finally quiet, the kind of quiet that settled like a blanket—warm and full, humming through the wood and drywall like the place was finally breathing with you. Outside, the night was blue and slow. A breeze curled through the open windows. And inside, the living room light glowed dim and gold, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. You sat near the coffee table on your knees, barefoot, back curved over a small canvas propped in front of you. There was paint on your hands again. You hadn’t meant to pull everything out tonight, but something about the air felt right—a little restless, a little dreamy. You just wanted to make something.

Your nightgown had ridden up without you noticing. A soft blue-violet thing—lightweight, cotton, simple. Not quite lingerie, not at all modest. The hem brushed just under the swell of your ass as you shifted, completely unaware of how much skin you were offering to the air behind you. Your hips tilted just so. Spine bowed. The fabric clung to the curve of your waist, dipping under your ribs and then flaring again like a whisper. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, little curls falling loose around your neck, sticky with summer and focus.

You didn’t hear them come in.

Didn’t feel the change in the room until the quiet got heavier. Denser.

And then Rhea’s voice, low and amused, broke through it.

“You trying to kill us, sweetheart?” You froze mid-stroke, brush suspended in the air. You turned slowly.

Rhea stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame, one brow arched like she’d already decided something. Damian stood behind her, slower to enter, his expression unreadable—except for the way his gaze tracked the bare curve of your thigh and didn’t leave.

You blinked. “What?”

“That dress,” Damian said, voice rough.

You looked down. “It’s just cotton.”

Rhea pushed off the doorframe and padded closer, eyes sharp. “Exactly.”

You stayed kneeling as she circled, like a shark in water. One of her fingers trailed across your shoulder. “You have any idea what you look like right now?”

“I’m painting?” you offered weakly. Damian chuckled, but it was low and dark. He came to stand behind you, and you felt the weight of him—his height, his heat—before you even looked up.

“You’re kneeling, baby,” he said quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “In that dress. With that look on your face.”

You swallowed. “What look?”

“That soft little floaty one,” Rhea said, now crouched in front of you, fingers sliding over your knee. “Like you don’t even know what you’re doing to us.”

Her hands trailed higher, slow and lazy, fingers pressing slightly as they skimmed the underside of your thighs where the dress had crept. You shifted without thinking, knees parting a fraction wider. Damian dropped to a crouch behind you, hands bracing either side of your hips—but not touching yet. Just there. Present. Caging.

“You look like you need us,” he murmured into your neck. You gasped, just a little, the paintbrush falling from your hand. Rhea caught it and set it aside without looking away from you.

“You’ve been so good lately,” she whispered. “Taking care of everything. Helping us make this house a home.”

Damian pressed closer, finally resting his palm on the soft round of your hip. His other hand grazed the base of your neck, grounding. “But when do you get taken care of, baby girl?”

The breath caught in your throat. Rhea leaned in and kissed you softly—once, twice, then deeper. Her mouth was warm, her lips slow, her tongue teasing just enough to make your head go hazy. You whimpered into her kiss, knees pressing harder into the floor. Behind you, Damian’s grip firmed.

“You want us to show you how pretty you look like this?” he asked.

You nodded.

Rhea pulled back just enough to smile. “Then hands behind your back, sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered. But you obeyed—slowly, shyly—sliding your hands behind you, shoulders rolling back, posture perfect. Exposed. Framed in candlelight and shadows and cotton-soft submission. Damian groaned and reached to cap your paints for you so they wouldn't dry before touching the place where your wrists met behind your back. Rhea’s pupils blew wide, gaze barely leaving you as she pulled the brushes from the jar and laid them on a soft towel.

“Thank you,” you whispered gently, watching them handle them handle your things with more care than you bothered too. A trait you'd grow familiar with every time they touched you.

—

The hotel room was cold. Not cold like ice, not uncomfortable. Just sterile. White walls, heavy blackout curtains, air conditioning always a touch too high. Expensive sheets, but no soul in the room.

They’d been here three nights already—Rhea and Damian—touring, doing promo, appearing in too many interviews with fake smiles and tight schedules. Rhea’s feet ached. Damian’s shoulders were sore. They’d barely had time to think. But now, finally, they were alone.

Damian stood by the window, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower, a single lamp lighting his silhouette in amber and shadow. Rhea was sprawled across the bed, legs bare, oversized tee tugged halfway up her stomach, phone in hand—screen dim, but glowing with her.

With you.

The photo had come in hours ago. Sent with no warning. No intention. Just you on the couch back home, wrapped in one of Rhea’s hoodies, legs bare, hair messy from a shower. Soft lighting. One candle flickering on the table behind you, catching your engagement ring in the light. You were laughing at something. And the caption?

“Your hoodie still smells like you.”

It wasn’t meant to be seductive. And maybe that’s why it hit them both like a punch to the chest.

“She has no fucking clue what she does to us,” Damian muttered, arms crossed, staring at the photo on Rhea’s phone like it was a religious artifact.

“Her eyes are all red i think shes high,” Rhea tilted the screen again, thumb zooming just slightly. “She was trying to be cute.”

“She was trying to destroy us.” Rhea snorted, but it came out breathless. Because he was right.

There was something about the way your legs were tucked under you. The curve of your cheek. The fact that you were clearly wearing nothing under the hoodie. Not in a calculated way. Just… soft. Comfortable. Trusting.

That photo looked like home.

And they were a continent away.

Rhea sighed, dropped the phone to her chest. “I miss her.”

Damian turned to look at her. “You’re not the only one.”

There was something thick in the air then. Something aching. Not just lust—though it twisted under both of their skins. Not just longing—though it gnawed at their bones. But need. That deep, slow pull of someone whose absence feels like gravity reversed. They weren’t whole without you.

“Come here,” Rhea said softly, and Damian crossed the room in two steps. She kissed him like he was the last oxygen in the room—fingers fisting in his damp hair, one thigh hooking around his waist. His hands slid under her shirt immediately, rough palms against smooth skin, his groan deep in his chest. But even as they kissed—hot, slow, needy—your name was between them.

“She looked so good,” Rhea murmured against his mouth.

“I know,” Damian whispered. “Fuck, I know.”

His hand slid between her legs. She was already wet. They didn’t pretend it wasn’t about you. They didn’t need to.

Later, tangled in sheets, both of them sweating and breathless, Rhea reached for the phone again. You’d fallen asleep. Your last message was time-stamped nearly two hours ago.

“Don’t stay up too late. I miss you.”

There was a little moon emoji beside it. Damian read it over her shoulder, then kissed the back of her neck.

“She’s gonna kill us when she finds out we got off to that picture.”

Rhea smiled. “She won’t care.”

“She’ll pretend to care.”

“She’ll blush so bad.”

They both laughed—softly. Lovingly. Like saying your name was the only thing tethering them to earth.

Rhea opened the photo again. Zoomed in.

“Look at her mouth,” she whispered. “Look how soft she looks.”

Damian rested his chin on her shoulder. “We need to tell her what she does to us.”

Rhea locked the phone, set it aside. “We will.”

“In person?”

“On our knees.”

They fell asleep with the image of you behind their eyelids.

Still wearing her hoodie.

Still wrecking them across the world.

—

The first thing you saw when you woke up was the glow of your phone screen on the coffee table��persistent, pulsing, and unfamiliar in the dim quiet of the room. You squinted against it, your body heavy with the kind of sleep that only comes when you’re completely exhausted, emotionally and physically. You didn’t remember falling asleep. Didn’t remember the TV going dark, the candle snuffing itself out, or pulling the blanket over your legs. But the second your brain caught up—when you saw the name lighting up your lock screen, not once but four times—your stomach flipped.

Rhea (3 missed calls)

Damian (1 missed call)

You jolted upright, grabbing the phone like it owed you answers.

FaceTime.

Incoming.

Rhea’s name again.

Your thumb accepted the call before your mind even processed it—and suddenly, there they were. The screen blinked to life, and your chest caught at the sight of them. Tired. Beautiful. Together. Rhea was curled under the hotel duvet, hair a little wild, one strap of her tank top fallen halfway down her tattooed shoulder. Damian was beside her, shirtless, damp hair pushed back, skin still flushed from a shower—or something more. His chain glinted in the low amber light of a bedside lamp.

They looked like sin in a five-star suite.

And they looked starved for you.

“There she is,” Damian said, voice rough with sleep and relief.

“Hi, baby,” Rhea murmured, sitting up straighter, her face filling the screen. “You okay?”

“Yeah—I… I fell asleep.” You blinked, still catching up. “Edible kicked my ass,”

“We figured,” Damian said with a smirk.

“You didn’t answer our calls,” Rhea added, teasingly accusing, but her eyes were so soft you knew she wasn’t mad. Just hungry for you.

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Sorry… I was watching that baking show and I guess I passed out.”

“We saw,” Damian said, voice taking on a hint of heat.

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rhea tilted the phone and brought it closer to her lap—revealing Damian’s phone screen still lit up, still open to your message. The one you had sent, hours ago, in a haze of sleepy comfort. You in her hoodie, knees up to your chest, skin bare beneath it. Hair a little frizzy from your shower, face caught in mid-laugh. A candle flickering soft behind you. The hoodie is clearly too big, swallowing you whole.

You groaned into your palm. “Oh my god, I forgot I sent that.”

“You forgot?” Rhea asked, brows raising. “Oh babe she forgot that explains it,”

“You forgot that you sent porn to your fiancés?” Damian teased.

You peeked up through your fingers. “It’s not porn.”

“It is when you look like that,” Rhea said, licking her bottom lip unconsciously.

“Hey!” You were still waking up—but that comment jolted you into full awareness. Your skin flushed from head to toe. “It was just me being comfy and a little baked,” you defended weakly.

“Exactly,” Damian said. “That’s what wrecked us.”

“She was in my hoodie,” Rhea said, nudging him with her shoulder.

“She was in no pants,” Damian countered.

“Okay—Jesus Christ,” you said, laughing and hiding your face again. “If yall are going to be horn monsters call me after you get it out,”

They were both laughing too, but there was a charge beneath it—something thick and unshakable. That kind of tension that always seemed to come from how deeply they loved you. From how nothing about this was ever casual. Not your hoodie photo. Not their reaction. Not the way Rhea’s thumb kept stroking the side of her phone like she could feel your skin through the screen.

“We did call you after we got it out but I wouldn't mind another round,” Rhea jokes casually, turning to wiggle her eyebrows at Damian. He groaned and jokingly pointed a finger at her. You could hear a low groan- something along the lines of “devil woman”

You blinked. “…You’re joking.”

“She’s not,” Damian muttered.

“I mean, it wasn’t our plan,” Rhea continued, tone dangerously soft. “But then you sent that. And you looked so sweet. And the bed was empty. And we started talking about you, and how soft you’d be under our hands, and—”

Damian groaned and grabbed a pillow, throwing it over his lap.

You gasped. “Ree!”

“What?” she asked innocently. “You asked.”

“I was just trying to be cute.”

“You were.”

“That’s the problem,” Damian said, muffled through his hands.

Rhea let out a sigh, leaning into Damian’s side like you were warm even through the screen. “You made me homesick in a new way.”

Your heart twisted.

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” you whispered.

“You made it better,” Damian said gently. “Even if it hurts.”

You swallowed, biting back the ache that had crept into your throat. “I miss you both so much.”

Rhea’s voice dropped. “We miss you more.”

“I fell asleep hoping you’d call, you know.”

“We wanted to,” Damian said. “But if we heard your voice before we cooled down, we were gonna end up saying things you couldn’t un-hear.”

Your pulse jumped. “Try me.”

Rhea smirked. “Maybe when you’re not half asleep in my hoodie again.”

You smiled shyly. “You want me to take it off?”

Damian groaned again. “Now she offers.”

They were quiet for a beat, just watching you—breathing you in through a screen, the way you blinked slowly, the way your cheeks flushed, the way you tugged at the collar of Rhea’s hoodie without thinking.

“Fuck,” Rhea said suddenly, voice rougher. “You don’t know what you do to us.”

“I want to.”

“You’ll find out,” Damian said. “Soon as we’re home.”

“You’ll feel it,” Rhea added. “In every kiss. Every grip. Every goddamn moment.”

Your voice cracked. “I love you.”

“We know,” Rhea said.

Damian’s smile softened. “We love you too.”

You stayed on FaceTime with them for over an hour. Not saying much after that. Just listening. Breathing. Letting the silence fill up with all the love and ache between the three of you. They didn’t hang up until your eyes started drifting shut again—until Rhea whispered “Sleep, baby” and Damian added “We’re right here” and your phone slipped from your fingers as the hoodie curled tighter around your chest.

Rhea and Damian laid together in the quiet pressed skin to skin in a bed that no matter how comfortable still would never feel right until you were there too. This though– the quiet sound of your breathing in the speaker, just barely a glimpse of your soft face as you slept– made it as close to right as it could be.

“She’s going to be our wife soon,” Rhea murmured aloud, almost to remind herself that it wasnt something she’d dreamed up in post match exhaustion.

“Insane right?”

“Yeah.”

—

It’s one of those late summer nights where the breeze is warm enough to flirt with open windows but cool enough to keep the sweat from clinging. The house is quiet except for the low hum of an old vinyl spinning in the background—something smoky and slow, the kind of song that drips from the walls that are still drying like molasses. And the three of you?

You’re on the floor.

Well—technically, Damian’s on the floor. Rhea’s in his lap, one leg slung lazily over his thigh, head resting against his shoulder with her blunt between two fingers. And you’re stretched across both of them, halfway in Rhea’s lap, your bare legs tucked over Damian’s knees, a fuzzy blanket pooled around your waist. His hand rests at your ankle. Hers strokes your hair.

Someone sighs. You think it might be you.

“This is domestic,” Rhea says after a long drag, exhaling toward the ceiling. “Like, full blown boring couple behavior. We’re one snack board away from Pinterest.”

Damian hums a little. “I like boring with you.”

You grin. “We’re high, not boring.”

“We’re high and boring,” Rhea corrects. “But in a hot way.”

Damian’s hand shifts, massaging slow circles into your calf. “Speak for yourself, babe. I’m having a deeply profound experience watching her toes wiggle when she laughs.”

“Foot perv,” You snort, kicking at him halfheartedly, and Rhea laughs, too—this low, smoky sound that turns into a cough.

“Don’t make me choke,” she says, passing the joint to you. “You know I’m fragile.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You bench press trucks for fun.”

“Exactly. My lungs are my weak point.”

Damian taps her knee. “Let me roll another while she hits that.”

There’s a flurry of slow movement—blankets rustling, legs shifting—and then Damian’s setting up shop on the coffee table, grinding flower with the same care most men reserve for heirloom woodwork. You pass the joint to Rhea and watch him work. He’s in soft grey sweats and a sleeveless tee, dark hair tied up. He looks like your favorite problem. The kind you want to wake up next to, again and again.

You must’ve said something out loud—or maybe just looked too obvious—because Rhea nudges you with her knee and whispers, “He’s so hot when he’s focused, huh?”

You nod slowly. “And gentle. And domestic.”

“And ours,” she adds, passing the now-dwindling joint to Damian’s waiting hand.

He takes a drag without looking up, lips twitching. “I can hear you both.”

“Good,” Rhea says, sinking back into the couch. “We’re objectifying you with love.”

“You’re worshipping me.”

“Semantics,” you murmur, reaching for her hand.

Rhea laces your fingers together and pulls your hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You smell like incense and peaches,” she says. “I want to lick your skin.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Kinda aggressive.”

Damian grins. “She’s a menace. Always has been.”

You close your eyes and stretch, letting the blanket slip slightly down your chest. “I like it.” There’s a pause. The kind that stretches and softens and starts to pulse a little. Then Rhea leans in—kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The curve of your shoulder. And Damian? He sets the newly rolled joint down and leans across your legs to press a kiss to Rhea’s temple, then to your calf. His hands roam lazily—like he’s memorizing both of you by feel, not just sight. The air’s getting thicker now. Not from the smoke, but from something more— That hum. That slow-burning, three-way flame of closeness and craving. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just… full. Tangled. Sacred.

“I don’t want the night to end,” you whisper.

“It doesn’t have to,” Rhea murmurs into your collarbone. “We’re here.”

Damian leans back, eyes low, lips parted. “Always.”

You all fall into a quiet then. Not because there’s nothing to say—but because nothing needs saying. The joint burns slowly between passing fingers. The vinyl skips softly into a new track—one slower than the last. Rhea pulls you tighter into her side. Damian tucks a pillow behind his back and pulls you both into the curve of his chest.

“Let's keep doing this forever,” you say into the quiet, listening to the steady rise and fall of Damians chest.

“We have been,” Rhe replied, reaching up to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear, “we’re not stopping now sweet thing,”

—

Early days…

You weren’t sure how the three of you had ended up in their place that night—only that it was after a show, that someone had suggested drinks, and that Rhea had said, “No clubs. I want real music. Our place. Just us.”

You’d said yes before your brain caught up despite your best friend telling you to wait till at least your third hangout to go over to their place just incase they were murderers, or swingers, but you weren't sure that rule counted when your time together was less catching up over coffee or meeting for lunch and more swimming in ponds a midnight half naked and counting reps while trying not to lose place watching them workout.

Now here you were—perched on a ridiculously soft couch in their living room, barefoot, hoodie too big for your body (Rhea’s, you think), hair tied back and heart thudding a little too hard. Rhea sat on the opposite couch in her sweats, bleach blonde buzz cut tousled from their match that night. The music playing low through their speakers was something soft and slow, and Damian had just opened the drawer in the coffee table like it was no big deal and pulled out the stash.

“So,” he said, kneeling on the floor and pulling out the grinder. You watched his hands move calmly, still a little beaten up from earlier but if they were sore he didn't show it. “You wanna try?”

You looked to Rhea across the table, she placed her bottle on the table and sat up straighter. “We’ll make sure you're okay,”

It wasn’t the offer that made your chest ache.

It was the way she said it—like she meant it.

You tried to play it cool. “Sure. Just a little.”

Damian chuckled, low and warm. “Just a little. Got it.”

—

With your agreement to partake Rhea had gotten up from the couch and wandered to the kitchen. You could hear the faint sounds of glasses clinking and the ice tray cracking. When she came back with water and a separate bowl of ice you squinted at her,

“I know we haven't been hanging out that long but I surely don't seem high maintenance for ice on the side do i?” you laughed as she handed you the glass. She kissed the top of your head in a way that felt way more than friendly.

“You seem like the type to never ask for anything,” she admits honestly, a moment of confession from her you still were getting used to not reading in too. “Its for the bong, cools the smoke”

You curled cross legged silently as Rhea and Damian moved in a familiar rhythm. Damian packed the bowl, occasionally glancing up to see if you had a question. You smiled at him softly each time and nodded letting him know you were still okay.

You coughed through the first toke. Of course. Damian had lit the bowl for you and Rhea snagged the piece, talking you through pulling it into your lungs. Damian took the bong from you as your body lurched forward searching for clean air.

Rhea laughed so hard she fell over sideways onto your lap. “She’s dying.”

“I’m fine,” you wheezed before falling over her breathing shallow trying not to trigger more coughing.

“You’re adorable,” she corrected smugly, albeit squished then flicked your earlobe just to mess with you. You rose and fell the other way to the back of the couch. She passed you the water with a firm ‘slowly’.

Once oxygen was back in your lungs and your body was satiated you felt it. The softness behind your eyelids and honey in your chest. You began to giggle looking at the ceiling as you felt it all.

Like the room was warmer. Softer. Like you could see every tiny motion Rhea made out of the corner of your eye—the way her hand slid along your knee, the way her eyelashes caught the lamplight, the way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t looking back.

“You’re staring,” you whispered.

“Yep,” she said simply.

You tried to look away. Failed and then Damian’s voice came from the floor: “She does that.”

“I do.” Rhea confirmed, unapologetically. Not a excuse, just the truth.

“Is this a thing?” you asked, genuinely confused. “Like…is it the weed?”

They both laughed. Harder than necessary.

“Oh no,” Damian said. “It’s definitely a thing.”

Rhea leaned forward, face close enough you could count every freckle on her nose- a strangely appealing activity. “We weren’t gonna say anything yet.”

“But—” Damian continued, sitting back on his heels, “you’re real cute when you’re stoned and confused.”

Your heart pounded in your chest.

“You guys are together,” you said, breathless. “You’re married—well, not married married but like—you’re you—”

“And we still noticed you,” Rhea said. “From the beginning.”

“You fit,” Damian said. “It’s weird. But good weird.” You sat back against the couch, blinking up at the ceiling. Everything was velvet. Your limbs. The room. Your thoughts.

Rhea plopped into your lap again like she’d always belonged there. “We’re not gonna push,” she said. “We never would.”

“But if you wanted to try?” Damian asked, voice soft. “We’d take care of you.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too busy tracing the freckles on Rhea’s shoulder with your eyes. Too busy noticing the way Damian watched you like your breath was the only thing holding the room together.

Eventually, you whispered, “This doesn’t feel like a first.”

Rhea smiled. “Maybe it isn’t.”

“Maybe we’re just catching up.”

—

Later—when you were too high to move and giggling because Rhea had put an ice cube down your shirt and Damian had threatened to kiss your entire neck if you didn’t stop squirming—Rhea had leaned over and whispered:

“First high together. First everything together, maybe.”

You didn’t say anything. You just laid there between them, warm and dizzy and too in love to be scared of it yet. And outside, the moon rose slowly, like it had been waiting for the three of you to finally get here.

—

We made it! Hey lovelies hope you enjoyed and as always likes, comments, reblogs and follows are always appreciated.

Wrote a bunch of starter scenes about the three getting high while I was high and then smooshed them all together🍃

See you soon

Much love💜

Taglist:

@itsrheasgirl

@wwefan2002

@sykokittyy

@refl-ction

@emmykatz

@nubian-queen22

@xlutforrhea

@happelu970

@beccalynns-world

@crazy-phan-girl13

@rhearipleysbrutality

@skyesthebomb

[pankowcrumbs]

First Words X Dad Joe Keery (Requested)

MasterList

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

There were very few things Joe and I took seriously.

Who left the lights on. Who stole the duvet at night. Who could eat more pizza in one sitting.

And now?

Who our daughter would say first: Mama or Dada.

It started out as a joke, really.

We were sprawled out on the carpet in the lounge, toys scattered everywhere colourful building blocks, stuffed animals, a doll pram overturned in the chaos. Our daughter, Ivy, sat between us, chubby hands clapping, babbling away in her own little language.

"Gah! Ba! Da-ba-da!"

Joe's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

"You heard that, right?" he said, practically vibrating. "She said Dada. She's so close."

I scoffed, reaching over to tickle Ivy’s belly, making her giggle.

"She said ba, you lunatic."

"Ba, da it’s one letter off!"

He was grinning so hard I couldn’t help but laugh.

"Well," I said, tapping Ivy’s nose, "mama is easier to say. So obviously, I’m going to win."

Joe scoffed dramatically, hand to his heart.

"You wish."

Thus, the competition was born.

The rest of the evening turned into a full-blown campaign.

Joe, lying on his stomach, chin resting on his hands, cooing, "Dadaaa. Dada’s the best, Ivy. Dada brings you snacks."

Me, practically climbing into Ivy’s playpen, crooning, "Mama loves you more, darling. Mama snuggles better."

Ivy, for her part, looked deeply amused.

She babbled back, smacking the floor with her palms and screeching in delight.

No discernible words. Not yet.

But Joe was determined.

"I’m telling you, she’s a Daddy’s girl," he said later that night, tucking Ivy into her cot.

"She’s a Mummy’s girl," I whispered back, smoothing her soft hair. "She knows who carried her for nine months."

Joe smirked, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we tiptoed out of the nursery.

"Bit of a low blow, bringing biology into this."

I shrugged, smiling into his chest.

"All’s fair in love and first words."

The next morning, the kitchen was bright with early sunlight, the smell of coffee brewing filling the air.

I was leaning over the kitchen counter, mashing up some bananas for Ivy’s breakfast. Joe was fiddling with the high chair, muttering under his breath about the "bloody stupid buckle."

Normal morning chaos.

"Maybe she’ll say it today," I said, glancing at him over my shoulder.

Joe looked up, hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose around his frame.

He grinned.

"Obviously. Dada is way more fun to say."

I stuck my tongue out at him, dropping the mashed banana into a little bowl.

Ivy was bouncing happily in her high chair, kicking her feet and clapping her hands.

"Alright, love," I cooed, holding the spoon out dramatically. "Say Mama. Come on. Ma-ma."

Joe leaned over the counter, his voice sing-song.

"Dadaaa. Say Dada. The cool one."

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly pulled a muscle.

Ivy watched us, wide-eyed.

We were so wrapped up in our ridiculous competition that at first, we almost missed it.

But then clear as day a tiny voice piped up:

"Dada!"

Joe froze, eyes comically wide.

I dropped the spoon, splattering banana across the counter.

"Oh my God," I whispered.

"Dada!" Ivy squealed again, kicking her legs, pure joy on her little face.

Joe let out a strangled noise half laugh, half sob and rushed over to her.

"That’s my girl!" he cried, scooping her up out of the chair and spinning her around.

I was laughing and crying at the same time, clutching the edge of the counter.

Ivy kept chanting it "Dada, Dada, Dada!" over and over like it was the best word in the world.

Joe kissed her cheeks, the top of her head, absolutely beaming.

"I knew it," he said, looking over at me with smug triumph.

"I bloody knew it."

I wiped my eyes, laughing breathlessly.

"You’re insufferable."

He bounced Ivy on his hip, strutting around the kitchen like he’d just won an Oscar.

"Say it louder, babe! Dadaaaa!"

Ivy shrieked happily in response, and he positively preened.

Eventually, we got her settled back in the high chair, Ivy still babbling "Dada" at everything the spoon, the fridge, a random spot on the floor.

Joe came up behind me at the counter, wrapping his arms around my waist, pressing his face into my neck.

"You’re taking this very well," he murmured, kissing behind my ear.

I snorted, leaning back into him.

"I’m a gracious loser."

He chuckled, hands sliding up to rest just beneath my ribs.

"So gracious you’ll admit I’m the favourite?"

"Not a chance."

He kissed the curve of my neck, making me shiver.

"Come on, love," he coaxed, lips brushing my skin. "Say it. Say I won."

I turned my head slightly, catching his mischievous smile.

"You won," I whispered.

He whooped softly, nuzzling into me.

"Best day ever," he declared.

I laughed, turning fully in his arms.

He kissed me properly then slow, sweet, deep the kind of kiss that said home, forever, always.

When we finally pulled apart, breathless and grinning, he still had that glint in his eye.

"Alright, Mr Victor," I said, brushing a hand through his messy hair. "What’s your prize, then?"

Joe’s grin turned wicked.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorially.

"I want another one."

I blinked.

"Another prize?"

He laughed, shaking his head, forehead resting against mine.

"Another baby."

The world tilted slightly.

Warmth rushed through me.

Another tiny hand. Another tiny voice. Another little piece of him, of us, in the world.

I kissed him again, harder this time.

"Alright," I whispered against his mouth. "Deal."

And Joe beautiful, soft, ridiculous Joe just smiled like he’d won all over again.

[itsnesss]

𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐞𝐬; sensei wolf ( series ) O1

pairing ; sensei wolf /feng xiao × female!reader

content ; slow burn, age gap (both adults), emotional and psychological trauma, emotional abuse or manipulation, family conflicts, mention of violence, angst, eventual smut, mention of alcohol

summary ; you were always in the shadow of your father’s legacy (johnny lawrence) , struggling with your identity and what others expected of you. In a tournament, you met wolf, a man marked by a dark past and an intensity that drew you in. at first, you saw him only as another sensei, someone who would give you the direction your father couldn’t offer. however, as weeks went by, an unexpected relationship began to form between you two. you faced the choice of continuing to be what others wanted you to be, or starting to define who you truly wanted to be. through wolf, you learned that invisible scars can also teach us how to heal.

status ; ongoing !!

— navigation ; OOO. OO1. OO2.

ONE ; the name of a shadow

The Sekai Taikai wasn’t just a tournament. For some, it was the chance to prove they belonged among the karate elite. For others, it was a stage where history was written through fists and kicks.

For you, it was a damn cage.

The stadium was packed with spectators, fighters, and senseis from all over the world. You walked through the crowd, your uniform perfectly fitted, your hair tied up in a high ponytail, feeling the weight of countless stares. Not because you were one of the strongest competitors, but because everyone knew who you were.

"Is that Y/N?"

"Yeah, Johnny Lawrence’s daughter."

"I heard she quit karate for a while."

"She probably came back because her dad convinced her."

You clenched your jaw. They weren’t wrong. You had quit karate for a while. After years of training, tournaments, and constantly being in the shadow of your last name, you had decided to walk away.

But Johnny didn’t allow it.

"Listen, this tournament isn’t just any tournament," he told you weeks ago, with that mix of enthusiasm and stubbornness so typical of him. "It’s the best chance to prove what you’re made of."

"Dad, I don’t need to prove anything to anyone," you replied, crossing your arms.

"It’s not about them. It’s about you. You’ve got talent, Y/N. It would be a waste not to use it."

You wanted to deny it. You wanted to say you were better off without karate. But deep down, a part of you longed for the adrenaline, the thrill of fighting, of winning. So you agreed.

And now you were here, surrounded by hundreds of competitors, trying to ignore the whispers and expectations.

"Stop frowning, you’ll get wrinkles," joked Ivy, your best friend, walking beside you.

"I’m not frowning."

"Yes, you are. It’s because of the comments, isn’t it?"

You sighed.

"I can’t help it. It’s like no one can look at me without thinking of my dad."

"Well, Johnny Lawrence is a legend," Ivy admitted, "but you can be one too."

You gave her a small smile. Ivy always knew what to say. That’s why you had made her come with you to Barcelona. Even though she’d only be in the stands and helping you train, she agreed without hesitation. Because she had always been there for you, ever since everything had gone to hell.

Before your match, you decided to stop by where the Miyagi-Do guys were. You hadn’t seen many of them in a long time, and while you weren’t close with all of them, you had always walked the same path in karate.

"Well, look who decided to get back in the game," Hawk joked as you arrived.

"And who let you in here with that hair, Hawk?" you shot back with a smirk.

Miguel was the first to approach you with a hug.

"It’s good to see you here, Y/N."

"You too, Miguel."

Demetri greeted you with a nervous smile, while Sam gave you a quick hug. But it was Robby’s stare that impacted you the most.

"I didn’t think you’d fight again," he said, arms crossed.

"Neither did I," you admitted.

Robby nodded, assessing you with his gaze. There was something in his expression that said he wasn’t sure whether this was good or bad.

"Good luck with your match," was all he said before walking away.

You felt a weight in your chest, but there was no time to dwell on it. You had a fight to win.

The tatami was ready. You stepped onto the center, adjusting your stance as you studied your opponent.

He was tall, with a relaxed attitude and a grin you disliked from the moment you saw it.

"Wow, what an honor to fight the karate princess," he sneered.

You didn’t react. You knew he was doing it to provoke you.

"I bet your dad’s watching this. Think he’ll be proud?"

A few chuckles echoed through the audience. You felt heat rise in your chest.

Ignore him.

The referee signaled the start, and the fight began.

Your opponent attacked first, launching a high kick that you blocked with ease. You countered with a quick strike to his side, making him step back.

The guy smirked.

"You’ve got good reflexes. Maybe you’re more than just a last name after all."

You rolled your eyes and attacked with a series of fast punches, pressing him hard. He blocked some, but others landed solidly on his torso.

"Maybe after this, I’ll ask your dad for advice. Maybe he actually knows how to win."

That was the last straw.

You charged at him with more speed, your movements turning aggressive. Your anger fueled you, each strike harder than the last.

And from a distance, someone was watching you closely.

In a corner of the arena, a man stood still, arms crossed. His eyes followed every single one of your movements with unsettling precision.

Wolf wasn’t like the other senseis. His dojo wasn’t known for honor or legacy. It was known for its brutality, for its ruthless approach to fighting.

But at that moment, he saw something in you that caught his attention.

It wasn’t your last name.

It was the fury in your strikes. The way you fought as if you were trying to shake off the expectations that chained you down.

Interesting.

With a final blow, you knocked your opponent to the ground. Your breath was heavy, your hands slightly trembling from the adrenaline.

The referee raised your hand, declaring your victory.

The stands erupted in applause, but you barely heard them. You walked off the tatami with your head held high, though your mind was elsewhere.

"You lost control," was the first thing Ivy said when you reached her.

"What are you talking about? I won."

"Yeah, but you were fighting with anger. That wasn’t strategy, that was emotion."

You opened your mouth to reply, but you had no excuses. Ivy was right.

Your gaze wandered around the arena, and that’s when you saw him.

Wolf was standing in the distance, watching you with an unreadable expression. His eyes were cold, calculating.

A shiver ran down your spine.

You didn’t know him, but something told you that man hadn’t just watched your fight.

He had seen something in you.

Something you didn’t even understand yourself.

And somehow, that unsettled you more than any comment about your father.

After your victory, which added points for your dojo, you couldn’t shake the discomfort Wolf’s gaze caused you. Throughout the rest of the tournament, every time your eyes met, there was something strange in the air. As if he could read you. As if he knew things about you that even you didn’t understand yet.

In the following rounds, you stayed focused, but something had changed in your approach. It was no longer just anger driving you—it was a sense of challenge that had ignited inside you.

Ivy noticed immediately.

"What’s going on with you?" she asked after a particularly tough fight. You had dominated your opponent, but your eyes didn’t show the satisfaction you usually felt after a victory.

"I don’t know. I feel like there’s something more here. Something I can’t control."

You breathed heavily, adrenaline still coursing through your veins after the fight. You had won, yes, but the feeling of satisfaction wasn’t there. Your fists still trembled—not from exertion, but from the frustration burning inside you.

Ivy watched you with a frown, crossing her arms.

"Is this about what that guy said before the match?"

You shook your head, but the tension in your jaw said otherwise. Your opponent had belittled you before the fight, calling you "a cheap copy of Johnny Lawrence," as if your entire identity was tied to your father.

"It's not just that," you finally said. "I'm tired of everyone seeing me that way. Like I'm only here because I'm Johnny Lawrence's daughter."

Ivy sighed, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"You've spent years proving you're more than that. You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

"Well, it doesn’t seem like enough," you muttered, looking away.

That’s when you felt it.

That sensation of being watched.

You frowned, turning your head to scan the area. And then you saw him.

A tall man with an imposing stance, his expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. Wolf.

You didn’t know him, but you had heard about him. A sensei with an intimidating reputation, known for his brutality in the dojo. But that wasn’t what unsettled you the most. It was the way he looked at you, as if he was analyzing you—seeing something in you that even you didn’t understand.

"Who’s that?" Ivy asked, following your gaze.

"Sensei Wolf. Iron Dragons."

Ivy let out a low whistle.

"I’ve heard of him. He’s tough. They say his dojo trains in… extreme ways."

You didn’t look away. Neither did he.

"Do you think he was watching my fight?" you asked in a low voice.

"He was definitely watching your fight," Ivy replied. "And if you ask me, I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice pulled you from your thoughts.

"Y/N!"

You turned to see Robby approaching, the Miyagi-Do crew right behind him. Miguel, Hawk, Demetri, and Sam all looked at you with mixed expressions—some proud, others a little concerned.

"Good fight," Robby said with a small smile. "Though it looked like you wanted to rip that guy’s head off."

"Maybe I did," you shrugged.

Miguel exchanged a glance with Sam before speaking.

"Hey, are you okay? We saw you fight and… I don’t know, you seemed different."

"I’m fine," you said immediately. "I just wanted to win."

You pressed your lips together. You knew they were asking because they cared, but the last thing you wanted right now was a lecture about control.

"I’m fine," you repeated more firmly. "Seriously."

Ivy, sensing the tension, quickly changed the subject.

"The important thing is that Y/N helped us score some points."

"And that Johnny is probably looking for his daughter to congratulate her," Demetri added with a grin.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.

"Yeah, I’m sure he’s out there saying this was all thanks to his training."

The others laughed, and for a moment, the unease faded. But when you glanced back to where Wolf had been standing, he was gone.

The feeling of being watched had vanished, yet something inside you told you this wouldn’t be the last time you'd feel his presence.

You tried to shake off the lingering unease his gaze had left you with, but even as your friends kept talking, your mind clung to the feeling of being analyzed with an intensity you weren’t used to. It wasn’t the usual judgment of someone who saw you as "Johnny Lawrence’s daughter"—it had been something deeper.

"I’m gonna go find Johnny," you said finally, needing to clear your head.

The others nodded, and you walked off, making your way through the tournament venue. The halls were crowded with competitors, senseis, and spectators, the air thick with excitement and adrenaline.

Finally, you spotted him.

Johnny stood with Chozen and Daniel, arms crossed as they spoke in low voices. He was the first to see you, breaking into a proud grin as he clapped a hand on your shoulder when you reached him.

"That was incredible, Y/N!" Johnny exclaimed. "Did you see that guy’s face when you took him down? Boom! Straight to the floor!"

You let out a small laugh.

"It wasn’t bad."

"Not bad?" Johnny repeated, feigning offense. "It was brutal. Maybe you do have some Lawrence DNA in you after all."

Daniel rolled his eyes.

"Or maybe it was the Miyagi-Do training."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Johnny huffed. "The important thing is that my daughter is kicking ass out there."

"But your mind is somewhere else."

A chill ran down your spine as you realized how quickly he had noticed.

"I don’t know. I just… felt different in that fight. Like I was fighting to prove something."

"Aren’t you?" Daniel asked gently. "We know it’s hard when people label you, but that doesn’t define who you are."

Johnny, despite not being one for deep conversations, nodded seriously.

"You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, Y/N. Just get out there and kick ass."

You smiled, but your thoughts drifted back to Wolf.

There was something in his gaze that made you feel like he saw more in you—something even your father, Chozen, or Daniel hadn’t pointed out.

And for some reason, that unsettled you more than you were willing to admit.

Later, you decided to clear your head, walking through the quieter hallways of the venue. You needed a moment of silence, away from the crowds and the expectations everyone seemed to place on you.

Then, you felt it again.

That presence.

You stopped, turning your head—and there he was.

Wolf, standing against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He didn’t move right away. He just watched you, the same intense gaze he had during your fight.

"You have an interesting style," he finally said, his voice low and steady.

You frowned.

"You were watching me?"

Wolf tilted his head slightly.

"Hard not to."

Your jaw tensed.

"And what about it?"

He didn’t answer immediately, but his eyes never left yours.

"Anger can be a weapon. Or a weakness. Depends on how you use it."

The words hit you in a way you didn’t expect. You crossed your arms, suddenly feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"What do you know about it?"

"More than you think."

His tone wasn’t arrogant or condescending, but there was something about it that challenged you.

"I’m not like my father," you blurted out.

Wolf studied you for a moment before replying.

"I know."

That caught you off guard.

He didn’t laugh, didn’t belittle you, didn’t mention Johnny Lawrence at all. He just watched you, like he truly saw something beyond the name you carried.

For the first time in a long while, you didn’t know what to say.

And without another word, Wolf pushed off the wall and walked away, leaving you standing there with a storm of thoughts you weren’t sure how to handle.

tags ; @imnoonejustapiramide @nina357 @wolfie07ss @justanotherkpopstanlol

[thisblogisaboutabook]

******Mad at Azriel headcanons******

Reader is Azriel’s pregnant mate that he committed an (almost) unforgivable act of betrayal against - if only he knew what the act was.

- This male. The Spymaster of the Night Court, the most observant male in Prythian, cannot figure out why his mate is upset with him.

- He betrayed you. Committing a completely unforgivable act.

- “Baby?” He stalks up behind you, carefully wrapping his arms around your waist, peppering your neck with soft kisses.

- A little kick nudges his hand away from your perfectly rounded belly.

- Not you too little one… Az thinks to himself.

- You huff. “I’m in the middle of something, Az.”

- You can’t see his face behind you but you know those brows are furrowed, trying to click the pieces together.

- Which makes you roll your eyes further back into your head.

- “Is there anything I can help with?”

- Oh no, there it is, he thinks to himself. The scoff. “I don’t need your help. Thanks.” He’s in deep shit.

- He stalks away. Knowing better than to sit idly, he begins tidying up around your home. Completely puzzled.

- His shadows swirl in agitation as if saying, “how have you not figured this out??”

- They’re definitely on your side

- A knock on the front door sounds before the door barges open and a boisterous “Honey!!! I’m here!!” fills the room.

- Mor enters holding a giant box of pastries… from your favorite bakery.

- “Shit.” He mouths as Mor gives him a taunting smirk.

- His shadows swirl in exasperation as if saying, “we told you, you were forgetting something!”

- “Mor!!!!” You shout. Running (waddling, but Az would never say that out loud) into her arms.

- Once Mor leaves, Azriel spends the rest of the evening begging every square inch of your body for forgiveness.

- He of course spends extra time kissing your belly, he’d never intentionally deprive his mate or their tiny little love of the sugar they were craving.

- When you wake up the next morning a fresh box of the pastries sits on your night stand along with a copy of the newest Sellyn Drake novel that you’d been dying to get your hands on.

- You guess you can forgive him… this time. 🥰

———————

I wrote this very quickly so I apologize for any potential typos! I have been hard at work on the next installments of “Cowboy Like Me” and “Ballad of the High Lady of Spring” and wanted to give you all something in the meantime!

Btw, this can be read as a headcanon companion to Ivy (Covered in You) and Solstice Tree Farm ❄️

[onmyyan]

Straight venomous CH 9 teaser

A/N: lil something to feed y'all thank you for your support I hope you enjoy this sneak peek, feedback welcome

Bruce couldn't remember the last time he felt as relaxed as he was right now.

Sure his chest ached from a nasty kick he couldn't block on last night's patrol, and his ribs still throbbed uncomfortably from his last tango with poison ivy, but he couldn't be more at ease.

Having you under his roof, under his care, took a bone-crushing weight off his shoulders, he craved this feeling, successfully keeping a vulnerable person like you safe, this itch to be a protector was being scratched in a dangerously pleasant way, his tired blue eyes watched the monitors, different angles of you reflected in his iris's.

Unbeknownst to you, Bruce was the one who spent the most time watching you, he liked to tackle all obstacles in his life with a tenacity and vigor that made him a fearsome man to be up against, and he was using those well-honed skills against you.

He rather enjoyed this side of his (y/n), it was a soft, genuine side only he got to see.

Now, Bruce wasn't delusional by any means not like the rest of his family seemed to be, he saw the way you tensed up whenever one of his sons entered your space, the way you seemed to shrink into yourself, curl against the farthest corner of your temporary room, far from what you perceived as a threat. 

He much preferred moments like now, the rare times when you believed you were truly alone, when your fists unclenched and your face softened in the sweetest way when you allowed yourself to relax, Bruce was there every time, enjoying the peace of the moment with you.

He couldn't wait to do this the right way, to relax with you, close enough to watch the steady rise and fall of your chest, to read to you, in his deepest fantasies your head rests in his lap, your eyes fighting to stay open as he lulls you to sleep, the hand not holding the book open, gently petting your hair, your lashes would flutter as you surrendered to the peace of the moment, to the protection he offered, to the fact that as long as he was there you had nothing to worry about.

But that had to wait, he had to wait. After all, you were still adjusting.

His thumb brushes over a small handheld remote, a green light repeatedly blinking, his eyes honed in on the flash, with this small device he was able to keep your dangerous companion at bay, he'd looked at the lab results from the aliens brief stint in Bludhaven, the scientists report from their time spent studying the symbiote gave him the information he needed to construct this little countermeasure of his, it kept a high pitched frequency playing lowly throughout your room, which in turn kept you on the leash he wanted you on, a leash held tightly in his fist.

He'd eventually turn it off, and reunite you with your alien friend, that is of course once you earned his trust. Once you understood your place was by his side, by his families side 

The house was full for the first time in a long time, Bruce loved having his sons under one roof, it was rare to gather them all here, even rarer for them to be getting along as well as they had been, you'd united them in a way that had never been done before and you had no idea, Bruce would be forever grateful to you for the fact. 

He watches you read a book smiling softly at the sight

[saphronethaleph]

Dans l'hotel

“Come on, guys,” Ash said, pointing. “It’s… uh… this way, I think? Yeah, down here!”

He paused, checked his phone, then turned around and pointed in a completely different direction.

“...we’re going to end up so lost,” Chloe sighed.

“Vee,” her Eevee said.

“I think we’re already lost,” Goh pointed out. “I don’t know my way around Lumiose. Do you know your way around Lumiose?”

“No,” Chloe conceded. “But I’m not sure Ash knows his way around Lumiose.”

Goh shrugged.

“Yeah, but… he did say he knew somewhere we could stay,” he said. “And we are getting a good look at the outskirts of Lumiose.”

Cinderace looked around, ostentatiously, and Chloe and Eevee both giggled.

“Come on, guys!” Ash called.

“Pika-kachuu!” Pikachu agreed, waving.

“Well, he’s stopped moving,” Chloe admitted, walking a bit faster. “I wonder if that means he found it?”

“So do I,” Goh said. “Let’s go and see – and see if there’s any good Pokémon around there!”

“You’re as bad as him, sometimes,” Chloe said, amused.

“Here we are!” Ash said, halting for a moment to wave up at the building, and both Goh and Chloe gave it a good look.

It was a seven-floors-high building, made of white stone and covered in a riot of ivy and other climbing plants, with verdant trees growing either side. It sat in the middle of a small court, almost by itself, though it seemed to have a connection to the other buildings on either side.

“This looks… kind of nice, actually,” Chloe conceded. “How did you know this was here, Ash?”

“I’ve been here before, I said!” Ash replied, walking up and pushing the door. “Come on in, guys!”

“Chuu!” Pikachu said, bouncing on Ash’s shoulder, then hopped down as the door opened. “Pi-ka! Pi-ka!”

Goh and Chloe followed, their Pokémon at their heels, and entered the hallway just in time to see an enormous man stand slowly up from behind the counter.

“Ash!” he said, sounding quietly pleased. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Thanks, heh,” Ash replied, blushing slightly.

“Is that man a giant?” Chloe mumbled, staring.

He looked… strange. He had a mane of white hair that stretched down almost to his knees, which made it over two metres tall, and he had a cane he was leaning on. His clothes were oddly patched together, as well, like they’d been made by combining multiple entire outfits to get the right length for the sleeves and trouser legs, and there was a Floette floating over his shoulder in colours that neither Chloe nor Goh had ever seen before.

Then the man folded himself down to a lower level, and gave Ash a hug.

“Look at you,” he said, warmly. “The World Monarch, no less!”

He chuckled. “I’m impressed, Ash.”

“Thanks, Dad!” Ash replied, hugging him back.

“...what?” Goh asked, startled. “Did you-”

“This is your dad!?” Chloe said. “But – uh – how?!”

“Oh, it’s kind of a long story, really,” Ash replied, breaking away from the hug a bit, as Pikachu and Floette exchanged a nod. “Actually, Dad, is it okay if I tell them?”

“Why not,” the man invited.

“So, this is my dad,” Ash explained. “His name’s A Z, spelled with just the two letters, and he’s three thousand years old!”

He grinned. “That’s actually how it is that I’ve looked like I’m ten years old for, you know, about six or seven years? I guess I inherited ageing really slowly from him, it’s kind of lucky it only kicked in once I was old enough to go on my Pokémon journey!”

“But he’s… three metres tall,” Goh objected. “He’s huge.”

“Wait, did you say you – he’s three thousand years old?” Chloe said, at about the same time.

“Yeah!” Ash agreed. “If you think about it, it kinda makes sense, because, once someone’s immortal it’s not like they’re going to get less immortal the older they get!”

He glanced at AZ. “And, we’ve met a couple of times, but – the way it is, is, because it looks like I’m immortal too then we’ll always have time for each other. And other friends are… the people who I have to enjoy time with while I can, right?”

“That…” Goh began, then stopped, and tried thinking about it. “Uhm… I don’t think I ever thought about that, before.”

“Ash knows several Legendary Pokémon,” AZ pointed out, with a chuckle. “I understand he’s talked to some of them about it.”

Ash nodded. “Yeah, it was really helpful talking to Darkrai about it, we kinda had a chance to work it out together… and Squishy, too. Squishy was really helpful.”

“I find that Squishy is always helpful, if you can persuade them to stick around long enough for a conversation,” AZ said, leaning on his cane and sitting back down. “They come around here, sometimes. So does your Greninja, Ash.”

“That’s great!” Ash decided. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Greninja will show up while we’re staying here – oh, yeah, I was going to say, I hoped that my friends and I could stay here? Is there space?”

“Of course,” AZ replied. “I’m sure you’ll get a better room here than anywhere else in Lumiose.”

“I have so many questions,” Chloe said, faintly.

[kheta]

Things I need in a Reverse Robins AU

-I don’t care what the order is but please let Duke and Jarro be adopted before Damian is taken in! I need Damian to be jealous of an alien starfish, my bones require it 😭

-Duke ans Damian make Jason and Dick’s lives so difficult… not as antagonist and purely because they snuck out and caused so much havock that Bruce now has a sixth sense for when his kids want to act up. They cannot even attempt stealth because Duke and Damian did it better.

-I want Duke and Damian to be those kid brothers that never got along. They used to regularly ‘spar’ (fist fight) but Dick, Cass and Jason don’t believe it because they get along so well now? Tim and Steph are obviously lying.

-A grown Dick Grayson being so mad because he went his whole life wanting to be taller than just one big brother, one! And he never gets it 🥰 (Him and Tim are the same height. He hates it w a passion) Technically he is taller than Jarro. But so is Ace and Tidus, that accounts for literally nothing.

-In contrasts to his big brother’s stealth and sneaking out shennanigans, Tim just straight up lies to Bruce when he wants to take off with YJ, vaguely saying their plans (baseball, trip to some histprical landmark, chilling on Bart’s new ride) So while Bruce blames Duke and Dami for his greys, he says that Tim is the only reason he isn’t fully grey because he’s so responsible and considerate and always tells Bruce everything. (Tim tells Bruce exactly three things, two are half-truths and one is the boldest lie in town 😇 Bruce is nonethewiser.)

-Running off of that, I want Tim to be the sneaky middle child always in chaos, but I want Dami to know this and point it out to Bruce and gst shut down (like Candace Flynn levels of bad)

-Dick is spoilt by his many older siblings. He knows and takes advantage. I’m talking like 18yo Dick Grayson showing up at 22yo Jason’s place when Jason is at College and Jason returns home to find his little brother wearing his robe, eating hia cereal and asking if he can borrow Jay’s car because Bruce is hiding his keys until Dick actually gets a drivers license, which he doesn’t need because he hardly ever drives anyway 🙄😒 Jason tells him to fuck off, kicks him for not throwing thw empty cereal box away and asks where tf he thinks he’s off to anyway??????

-I want Cass to be a bratty younger sister, but only to Jason. She’s happy to hangout and cherishes her time with all her brothers, but she terrorises Jason. Purposefully is quieter when walking near him to frighten him, steals every comfy, bright hoodie he owns, wiggles into his bed and leaves her stuff for him to pick up, clean. She happily helps with chores until Jason asks and suddenly, she did not hear him, she was ‘busy, calm down grumpy.’ I want her looking at his school work and making faces at him if he tries to help her. I want her to want nothing more than to bite Jason, but also have him be her secret favourite brother. I need them to be best friends but the sort who will sell each other out for a single corn chip.

-Dick convinces Damian to help him steal an elephant. If Damian weren’t so weak for his baby brother he’d think about how even tge manor is not large enough to comfortably house an elephant. Duke isn’t completely sure it’s a good idea, but he trusts his brother’s to be smart enough to think this through ☺️ (they have not and will not think the logistics of owning an elephant through) Tim is fully aware this is a bad plan, he’s just even worse at saying no to Dick 💀 Steph is so mad that she has to be the voice of reason among these idiots 😒

-Tim dropping out of High-school actually leads to a huge fight lol. Bc Duke and Damian have Masters and Jason is looking into Ivy Leagues and Cass adores you Tim you need to be a role model 😠 Tim moves to San Francisco and doesn’t talk to Bruce for months after that fight. He still regularly contacts his siblings though.

-Personally don’t love Jason dying in Reverse Robin AU’s, but you know if Joker killed him at 15 he’d be dead in two weeks tops. Oh you want to kill the baby brother of a trqined assassin and Tim, one bad hour away from villany, Drake-Wayne? You think Duke would stop them? Dick? You think wrong. Dick might even try to jump ahead of the line. Cass is perfectly happy to shut her eyes and pretend she cannot see her brothers planning 🫢 The Joker would die a slow and painful death. Steph and Duje would run Batman distraction. (Bruce actually has a support network and two kids younger than Jason who are grieving. He’d need to be a parent and help them with their grief. He’ll probably be shit at it, but he’d still need to try.)

-When Steph starts college she occasionally visits the manor, liberally fills her bag with spare socks, new towels and non-perishables. Alfred doesn’t mind. Bruce does, but only because he’s more than willing to buy it for her and she will kick him if he even glances at any of his credit cards or bank accounts while she is near.

- Barbara probably has a crush on Steph and Tim. Like not a serious, I want a romantic relationship crush. But like ‘Steph is so strong and pretty and she’s so smart Dick, she wants to be a Doctor that’s so cool!’ And Tim is that weird crush you can’t describe. Like Matthew Gray-Gubler. He looks sorta like a raccon and an addict, but he’s weirdly handsome and can work a computer like no one else, ‘isn’t he so smart Dick?’ Dick doesn’t know whether to be jealous or to laugh at her because. Like. Really??? That’s who you think is cute from all my amazing big brothers ans sisters?

-Dick, as youngest brother, probably has the most eclectic music taste. He listens to classical, trap music, K-Pop, scremo, RnB, showtunes. Just all genres. He doesn’t love all genres, bit he k ows enough to have a super weird road trip playlist.

-Dick also always has to deal with his friends, civvie and otherwise, having crushes on his siblings.

-Jarro barely spends holidays with the family, but he gets presents put aside for him and is the most patient, most fun big brother of the batfam. Damian still hates him, but will begrudgingly buy him gifts and invite him to family events because unfortunately, Jarro is his sibling. -Because he's never around, Jarro is the favourite older sibling, with Jason, Cass and Dick always making him projects from school. Duke, Dami and Tim see Jarro more, since they love going to see the JL or going to space and don't care that Bruce disapproves. They will either lie to Bruce or sneak out or just leave the manor 'Because I am a grown ass adult B, you can't ground me.' Steph does not like space or the JL half as much and is more busy studying/working than the other three losers. (affectionate)

-Gotham villains are in shock when, after having highly predictable vigilantes who just come in through the front/back door (Duke and Damian) they are faced with vigilantes who will in fact bazooka an entry way open (Jason and Cass)

[brights-place]

⋆˚࿔ 【 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞‼ - Ch.14 - 16】 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Read The full book on my wattpad

The group of four soon entered a dense bushland, swathed in tangled greenery and veiled in an unnatural hush. Though nature thrived in every corner, something about the atmosphere gnawed at the edges of their nerves. It was as if the trees themselves stood sentinel, their gnarled limbs creaking with unspoken warnings.

Towering trunks loomed like ancient pillars, reaching high into the canopy, where moonlight struggled to filter through the dense foliage. Shadows pooled along the narrow, uneven path, draping the forest floor in an eerie twilight. A stream wove between the roots, its waters gleaming like liquid sapphires. Wildflowers trembled in the breeze, their colors dulled under the somber light. Ivy strangled tree trunks and rocks alike, while the scent of wet soil clung heavily in the air. The silence was broken only by the faint chirr of unseen insects and the crunch of cautious footsteps.

In the heart of the woods stood a peculiar sight a small, vine-wrapped cottage cradled by the forest like a forgotten relic. Time had worn its bones, but the structure still clung to a fairy-tale charm, both inviting and sinister. Moss blanketed the shingled roof, tinged in deep crimson and green. The stone walls, once painted, now bore the faded streaks of ivy's claim. Its windows were clouded by age, spiderwebs curled in the corners like silver lace. Even in decay, the cottage had more grace than Ramshackle's so-called "rustic charm." Deuce scanned the area with quiet caution, his shoulders tense. "So this is the Dwarfs' Mine... Heard it used to be filled with magestones."

Grim wrinkled his nose, ears flicking. "Urgh... Creepy. Who knows what's living here now?" He kicked a pebble aside, trying to sound casual but clearly on edge. [Name] stepped forward, her boots brushing past ivy-coated roots, her deep e/c eyes narrowing as they locked onto the cottage. There was something strangely familiar about it. The ache of déjà vu tugged at her thoughts, but she remained silent, her expression composed and sharp. Ace, as bold as ever, placed his hands on his hips. "Look, it's just a house. Someone might still be living there," he said, already heading toward the crooked door. "No harm in checking."

[Name] drew a quiet breath, her gaze lingering on the warped wood of the door. She didn't notice Ace glance at her, then wordlessly reach over and slip his fingers around hers. With an unspoken tug, he led her forward, joined by Deuce and Grim.

They halted before the timeworn door. [Name] lifted her fist, rapping it against the wood with a measured firmness. Her stare was unwavering, face carved with a cool restraint. Only the sighing wind replied.

"Hello?" she called out, voice smooth yet laced with suspicion. "Is anyone home?" Deuce reached for the knob, only to pause as [Name] raised a brow at him. She nudged him aside with a silent flick of her fingers. "Right. Sorry," he mumbled, stepping back.

With elegant precision, [Name] placed her hand on the handle, her brows briefly furrowing. She muttered something under her breath, the words like a whisper of old magic: "From my toes to my chin, all I desire is for this gate to open and let us in."

The door creaked, then slammed open with an almost dramatic force. Ace flinched. Grim shrieked, diving behind [Name]'s leg, his fur on end. [Name] crossed the threshold first, only to sneeze abruptly from the dust thick in the air. She waved a hand in front of her face, eyes narrowing at the gloom. Deuce wordlessly offered her a napkin, which she accepted with a quiet "Thanks."

"...Looks abandoned," Deuce murmured. "What a mess." "Puwah! I got a spider web in my face! Peh! Peh!" Grim sputtered, desperately trying to clean himself. Ace peered around the cramped interior. "Aren't the chairs a little small? They look like they're made for kids." He counted quickly. "One, two... Seven. Really? Who needs that many chairs?"

"It's near the Dwarfs' Mine," [Name] replied evenly, brushing dust off a crooked chair. "Wouldn't be surprising if dwarfs lived here." Deuce nodded, running his finger along a dusty countertop. "This place must've been lively once. Especially when the mine was booming."

Amid the disarray, [Name] spotted something an untouched basket on the table, inside it a single, polished apple. Its sheen stood out starkly against the filth and decay. Her throat tightened. There was something haunting about how pristine it was, like a memory lingering just out of reach.

Grim gagged again. "Bwah! Another spider web—ptchoo!" Ace stepped forward. "Let's not waste time here. The magestone's probably in the mine. Come on."

The others began filing out, but [Name] lingered. Her gaze returned to the apple. It glowed with an unnatural luster. She stared at it with a subtle grimace, and a flicker of a memory of another girl, of bittersweet laughter flashed through her mind.

The mine entrance loomed ahead, jagged and dark. Moss clung to the rocks like a second skin. A frigid wind burst from its depths, making [Name] tense and curl her arms protectively around Grim, who clutched her chest like a scared kitten.

"Who knows what's in there?" Grim quivered. "It's pitch black!" Ace rolled his eyes, smirking. "What, afraid of the dark?" "Myah?! I'm not scared!" Grim huffed, wriggling free. "I'll go first, thank you very much!" He stomped into the mine with puffed-up bravado. "Grim, wait- !" [Name] sighed, exchanging a glance with Ace before following.

As they ventured deeper, Ace glanced sideways at her. "You cold?" [Name] smirked faintly. "Nah. Just getting Mother-goosebumps." The interior was worse than it looked. Damp air clung to their skin, and the wooden supports groaned with age. Yet even here, the mine sparkled with beauty gemstones of crimson, emerald, and sapphire shimmered faintly in the darkness. None of them were the magestones they needed, but still... [Name] allowed herself a rare smile even in places of ruin, there could still be brilliance. The soft glows of the crystals even in the dim cave shined onto her face. Ace is stare lingering onto her for a moment longer.

Deuce came to an abrupt halt halfway through the mine tunnel, his footsteps echoing across the stone floor before silence fell upon the group. "Huh? Hold up," he called out, causing Ace to groan and roll his head in frustration.

"What now?" Deuce pointed ahead, eyes narrowing. "There's something there." Immediately, [Name] snapped her head toward the darkened tunnel, the air growing heavier around her. Grim let out a startled yelp. "Myah?!" From the depths of the shadows, a series of giggles echoed like eerie wind chimes.

"Hee hee hee! Visitors! The first in ten years..."  All three students gasped, instinctively stepping back as another ghostly voice cooed, "Do make yourselves at home... you can stay forever!" Without warning, two pale ghosts swooped out of the darkness, their forms little more than streaks of flickering mist. They darted between [Name] and Ace, forcing them to stumble backward. Their chilling laughter echoed as they vanished down the tunnel again.

Ace flailed for balance, yelping. "[Name]—! Are you seeing this?!" She had caught herself just in time, heels digging into the dusty ground. Her narrowed eyes followed the retreating specters, amethyst gaze sharp with suspicion. "They're playing with us."

Ace groaned, loud and theatrical. "More ghosts?! Seriously? They're everywhere!"  Deuce stepped forward, trying to regain control. "If we stop to fight, we'll never get anywhere. Let's just keep moving." He strode past them, his jaw set. [Name] followed closely, her long coat swishing behind her with every purposeful step. Ace scoffed and hurried after them.

"Sure, but don't act like we elected you leader. We're only here 'cause of your dumb idea in the first place." Deuce glanced back with a smirk. "Oh? Pretty sure this all started when you tried skipping your punishment." Ace placed his hands on his hips, offended. "So now we're digging up ancient history? Fine. If we're pointing fingers, this all started when the furball torched the statue!"

Grim snapped his head back. "Myah?! Maybe you shouldn't have made fun of me then!"  [Name] pinched the bridge of her nose and glared at both of them. "For the love of fate... must we always resort to blame? You both lost your crowns and cast spells without a second thought. Spare me the wicked tantrums over spilled magic beans."

Her voice was calm yet cutting, dripping with a regal disdain that silenced them both. Grim pawed gently at her leg. "That's not fair..." he muttered. But the look she shot him made him go quiet instantly.

Deuce chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. "She's right. No time for this. Let's get the magestone and get out of here..." Ace grumbled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. Doesn't mean you get to order us around..." [Name] huffed, brushing her hair over her shoulder with a flick. A moment later, she felt a light tap on her shoulder Deuce.

"Um... [Name]? What did you mean earlier about flipping their crowns?" She blinked, then offered a small, knowing smile. "It's a metaphor. Think of it like losing your head... like the Queen of Hearts says. Or just... losing your mind." Deuce gave a slow, uncertain nod. Before anyone could say more, a new voice echoed down the tunnel.

"...iiivvv... ...oooouuu..." Deuce's brows furrowed. "Sounds like it's getting closer..." "Stooonesss... Stooonesss aaare miiiiine!" All three of them screamed as a figure emerged from the gloom. Floating, it wore tattered robes and a saggy brown hat. But its most disturbing feature was its head a glass vial filled with swirling black sludge, like ink or tar, pulsing as it moved.

[Name] froze in place, her eyes locked on the figure. Grim had already bolted, sprinting on all fours with a shriek of panic. Ace grabbed [Name]'s arm and yanked her forward, dragging her along the tunnel rails as they raced away. "What is that thing?!" Deuce shouted, glancing over his shoulder.

"No one said anything about monsters!" Grim cried. "We're getting outta here!" Ace's grip tightened when [Name] began to fall behind. "Creepy thing's talkin' about 'stones'! What does that mean?!" Grim skidded to a halt, confused. "Wait- what?!"  "Stooonesss... nevvva give stooonesss...!" "Eeeep!" And he was off again.

Deuce's eyes lit up with realization. "Then there are still magestones here!" Grim leapt over a fallen rock. "Even as a master sorcerer, I- I can't take that thing down!" They rounded a corner, pressing themselves flat against the stone wall, gasping for breath. [Name]'s chest heaved as her eyes darted around, calculating.

"We need a magestone, or we'll be expelled!" Deuce hissed. "I'm going in!" He raised his magic pen, determination blazing in his expression. "Are you outta your mind?!" Ace yelled. "I won't be expelled! No matter what!" Deuce shot back, before turning the corner and firing a burst of magic at the creature.

The monster reeled from the impact only to let out a furious growl and keep coming. Deuce fired again. And again. But nothing seemed to stop it. [Name] cursed sharply, then sprinted to Deuce's side. The monster loomed ever closer.

"Begone! Begone! Begooone!" it shrieked.  "Let's go!" [Name] shouted, lifting Deuce over her shoulder in one graceful motion. Ace was already moving, ready to bolt. But the monster swung its arm, striking them both down.

"Aw, crap! He's got Loosey-Deucey and N/N! Not on my watch!!" Ace cried out, aiming his pen at the creature. The monster roared in rage. Just as [Name] and Deuce scrambled back to their feet, Ace was knocked down, grunting in pain. The monster turned toward Grim. "Myaah! Stay away from me!" he shrieked, sending a blast of fire at its face. The flames hit dead-on yet it didn't flinch. It simply roared again and charged forward. "It's not even scratched!" Grim gasped, retreating quickly. But then, [Name] noticed something. Inside the monster's glass head, beneath the churning ink, a glow blue and pulsing, like a gem. A swirling spiral of magical color.

Her eyes widened, lips parting "Wait..." Ace beamed for a moment pointing before going back to a panicked tone "Behind the monster! There's something sparkling in the mineshaft!" Deuce whipped his head around. "Could that have been a magestone?!" He yelled hopefully. The monster seemed enraged at the mere mention of the stone. "GWAAAAAAAH! Nooo giiive yooouuu stooooooone!" The group yelped running off, trying to get to the exit. "[Name]," Grim panted, "we need to book it, and fast! That thing's gonna pound us into tuna paste!" [Name] nodded as the two other boys ran beside her and grim "THERE" Grim shouted the group escaping through the exit.

GRRRAAAWRRR!

The quartet burst out of the mine just as a monstrous roar echoed behind them. They had managed to put a fair distance between themselves and the entrance, though it still loomed within view. As soon as their feet hit grass, Grim collapsed face-first with a pitiful groan. [Name] dropped to her knees, hunched over with one hand bracing her weight against the ground, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath. Beside her, the two boys with card symbols on their faces flopped to the ground with matching groans, the exhaustion etched deep into their expressions.

“Owww... What was that thing? No one said there’d be anything like that!” Ace complained, clutching his side and panting. Deuce let out a huff, his brows drawn tight. “That was no normal ghost, that’s for sure.” Ace scowled and kicked at the dirt beneath his heel. “Let’s just give up and go home. I’ll happily take the expulsion if it means never having to fight that thing again.”

Deuce’s head whipped around, eyes wide in disbelief. “What?! Nuh-uh, not happenin’! I’d rather die than get expelled from Night Raven! How can you give up when the stone is right there?” he barked, glaring at Ace. Ace laughed bitterly. “Pfft. Big talk from someone who’s not even half the mage I am. You want that stone so bad, go get it yourself. I’m out.”

[Name] straightened, her brows furrowed in disapproval, the weight of her stare falling heavily on Ace. Deuce clenched his fists and stood up sharply, fury burning in his expression. “OH YEAH?! Fine, go back to your coop, you big chicken!” Ace’s head snapped around. “WHAT?? Who’re you callin’ chicken, huh?!”

[Name] groaned, standing upright with an air of cold annoyance while Grim flinched at the tension. “Whoa, Deuce… is it just me, or did you, like, turn into a totally different person just now?”  Caught off guard, Deuce coughed awkwardly into his gloved hand and looked away. “Sorry… lost my cool for a second there.”

[Name] sighed, crossing her arms. “So what do we do? The monster’s still in there.” Grim hesitated before speaking up, glancing between the tense group. “Can’t you guys just use magic?” Deuce shook his head, voice low and resigned. “The headmage said it himself… magic has limits. If you can’t strongly visualize your magic, it isn’t going to happen.”

[Name] nodded, placing a hand on her hip. “There can be limits, but you can surpass them.” Deuce’s voice was steadier as he continued. “Using magic at a greater scale, or using different types of magic those things require training.”

Ace, now leaning back on his palms, added with a shrug, “Yeah, that’s why magic academies exist. It takes a lot of training before you can snap your fingers and turn your thoughts into magic. And the more flustered you are, the more likely you are to make mistakes.”

[Name] fell silent for a moment, her gaze shifting to her hands. Memories flashed behind her eyes failed attempts to teleport, spells cast wrong at the worst times. Her fingers curled slightly as she remembered the chaos that always came when her emotions got in the way.

Deuce braced himself with one hand on the grass, determined. “Anyway, we need to find some way to defeat that creature and get the magestone.” Ace groaned dramatically, rolling his head back. “Yeaaaaah. Just like the time with the chandelier, right? You found some way, and now here we are. We just fought that thing and it creamed us. So what exactly is your plan here, genius? Because I sure don’t trust you to improvise!”

Deuce stood quickly, fists clenched at his sides. “What?! You’re the one who-" “Aaand they’re at it again,” Grim sighed. [Name] let out a long exhale, exasperated. “Did they both forget I fixed the chandelier? I can literally use my magic… if it decides to work,” she muttered, checking the ring on her finger. She glanced down at Grim, who nodded with understanding, his tail flicking.

With a harsh glare, [Name] turned back to the bickering boys. Her voice cracked like a whip, louder than both of theirs. “We have to work together, which sucks but we have to.” The boys flinched, clearly startled.

“Together? With him?!” Ace pointed accusingly at Deuce, who returned the glare in full. Ace scoffed. “No way—” “You said we’ll get that stone one way or another. This is our chance. We’re running out of time, but I need you guys to trust me.”

Ace and Deuce exchanged a look of mutual disgust. [Name] let out an exaggerated sigh, loud enough to get their attention again. She shook her head slowly, voice cold and dismissive. “So this is it, I guess. Let’s just get expelled, then.” The boys gasped in unison panicked as they flickered at the memory of the headmage threatening them in the cafeteria about the h/c girl with purple highlights.

“B-But [Name]—!” Deuce exclaimed in shock. Grim blinked, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Whoa, that was sudden. Where’d that come from?” [Name] sighed again, longer this time like a predator pretending to play victim. Her tone turned melancholic. “Well… if you guys won’t work together, then I don’t know what to do,” she murmured, lowering her eyes as if genuinely defeated.

Ace and Deuce visibly paled. She gestured faintly toward them, voice dripping with faux regret. “But I feel bad for you guys, too. It’s pretty lame to actually be accepted into an academy only to be kicked out the first day,” she added with a theatrical wince and a sharp inhale through her teeth.

Grim’s eyes widened in realization, catching on to her act faster than expected. He nodded along, trying to help sell it. “Yeah, gettin’ expelled on the first day… That is pretty lame too. Maybe even lamer that a girl also saved you guys with the chandelier-”

[Name] whipped her head toward Grim and gave his rear a light kick with her shoe. He yelped, tail puffing up as Ace scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “W-Well…” he muttered.

Deuce said nothing, but the gears were clearly turning behind his eyes. A sly smirk curled on [Name]’s lips. She’d snagged the bait. She released another dramatic sigh. “Totally uncool... Well! I guess that’s it. Darn... I really thought my plan was a good one, too which is rare.”

Ace groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine…” he grumbled. “Just this once, though! Let’s just get this over with, then. All right, N/N, what’s the plan?” [Name] grinned, the gleam of mischief returning to her eyes as she rubbed her hands together. “Well…”

⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝ Dictionary !!

Features!! Physical Appearances S/C: Skin Colour H/C: Hair Colour H/L: Hair Length E/C: Eye Colour

Other!! Other things that could be mentioned in chapter

Mage Stone: Magestones operate indiscriminately; they are used as everyday household appliance that anyone could use if they know how to operate the device to begin with.

Ace Trappola: A quick learner with an upbeat personality and a mischievous streak. Since he and are both freshmen in the same class, they regard one another with amicable antagonism.

Deuce Spade: An earnest young man who enrolled at Night Raven College with the singular aim of becoming a respectable mage.

Grim: A monster who aspires to be a great mage. He will eat anything and everything, and his tendency to get carried away often gets him and the main character into trouble.

Phrases/Sayings/Refrences/Quotes Ever after High dictionary/Rooms/ etc. from the show/or game!!

Gate Opening Spell: "From my toes to my chin, all I desire is for this gate to open and let us in" it's a spell to open gates, but can be used to open doors 

Good Godmothers: A phrase that means good god in ever after high used in a mildly blasphemous expression of surprise, outrage, or horror when used.

Lost Your Crown: Another word that means lost your mind but in this situation [Name] has used it have they lost their minds talking about the duo

Mother-goosebumps: Another word for goosebumps

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 / 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 【Hexes & Hushes — MASTERLIST】

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