#like i wish i could do something FOR everyone

[gifsbysimplysonia]

Hola. Long rambling feedback behind the cut as well as

When he meets you, he hasn’t even thought of picking up a pencil in years. Ever since you’ve been at the mansion though, Logan’s fingertips twitch with the urge to start sketching your features every time he’s with you. It gets hard to ignore after a few days.

I think this is so beautiful. Anyone who is a creative knows how difficult it can be to find a muse. So for this person to inspire a twitch in Logan after YEARS? That's just a very beautiful thing.

He waits until he’s known you a few weeks, there’s no way in hell he’d ask if he could draw you. He’d probably embarrass you by asking, and embarrass himself by admitting he’s into fucking art. That’s not him.  Except, well, sometimes it is, when he’s inspired. And you’re nothing if not inspiring. 

And this is for BOTH 1) thinking it's not ok to be into art??? OK BUT CAVEMEN CARVED INTO WALLS, SIR and 2) "you're nothing if not inspiring" *screamingggggggggggggggggggg*

The first few drawings are shit, he feels like they’re almost an insult to you. It’s not that he’s accidentally drawing you ugly, it just doesn’t look like you. So he practises.  Logan Howlett sits down at night to practise drawing. 

I love that this fits with the Logan I know, the demand on self for perfectionism and the refusal to accept anything but. But it's especially important cuz he wants to do right by YOU/HER. *swoon*

And he totally knows that you’d never go for someone as rugged as him, that’s for sure. You deserve much more. So much more. 

Sigh. Oh Logan. Always thinking he's not worthy while he holds everyone he cares about up on pedestals. I both adore him and wanna shake him for these habits.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing to him; you’ve got him using social media.

He gets Rogue to show him Instagram for reference photos. HOW CUTE!

Logan hates how drawing makes him overthink, but he loves how it feels to create something other than violence with his hands for once – something that may even be the opposite. 

This is soooooooooooooooo beautiful. It is just a loud beacon of what Logan's heart really is. It's also really precious that he finally produces a drawing of her that he's satisfied with which then produces ANGST in him. Cuz he can't leave it out cuz what if people see? But he doesn't want to hide it cuz what if it smudges? Watching him go back and forth about it and the STRESS shows how much it means to him not to mess it up but ALSO, I think, how much it means to him to be back drawing. As a creative who goes through the longest dry patches, when a period of productivity comes up? OH DO I WANT TO HANG ONTO IT. And probably try so hard that I make it slip through my fingers.

He finally lets himself think the thought that’s politely been waiting to be allowed into his brain from the moment he decided he might take up drawing again.  He could give it to you. 

DO IT LOGANNNNNNNN!

Logan knows his drawing isn’t objectively a masterpiece, but if he’s proud of it he has to acknowledge that that probably means it’s at least decent. And you’re definitely the type of person to appreciate something like this. It’s weird admitting to himself that he’s even proud of what he’s drawn; he’s done so much in this world, who cares about a little drawing? 

YOU care, sir! And people who love you will SEE that and care too!!! Don't we all wish he valued himself and his opinions more.

The only thing is that Logan isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to see this side of him.

It's so precious to me, how relatable this is. Anyone who is a creative can relate, I'm sure. How nervous creatives are before they publish or they post or they even just share with someone they are close to. I wanna hug him.

He knows it’s stupid to hide but he just can’t. He decides he’ll leave the drawing in your room in an envelope, maybe a pink one to show you it’s not a creepy threat but meant as a sign of adoration, from someone who couldn’t resist but try to recreate your beauty. He won’t write his name on it, he just wants you to have it.  Sappy motherfucker. 

Some day, someone needs to tell him he can give himself permission to BE sappy. Corny is part of life and it's a blessing.

He’d doubt himself even more if he pussied out – a grown man who can’t even slide an envelope under someone’s door.  So Logan mans up and, like an idiot, kisses the fucking drawing before he puts it into the envelope. He licks the edges of it to close it and writes your name in the most anonymous handwriting he can muster and adds a little heart.  It’s soo stupid. 

It's annoying to read Logan's antiquated views on masculinity here. Completely understand that it fits with his character and how he has aged and evolved but omggggggggggg, it's just frustrating lol

You’re a friend and nothing more, and that’s fine. You probably don’t like him like that and he can deal with that.

The way we can convince ourselves of the worst possible outcome, eh? *smh*

You have one of those clear phone cases, filled with a bunch of tiny pictures and stickers (and is that your credit card?). But wedged in front of all of those is Logan’s drawing.  You turn around, giggling, “No, I don’t draw. And anyway, I wouldn’t be drawing pictures of myself. I got it in an envelope under my door yesterday, photocopied it because I was scared it would bend in my phone case. I don’t know who drew it.” 

SHE IMMEDIATELY TREATED IT AS SOMETHING PRECIOUS!!! SHE WANTED TO PROTECT IT JUST LIKE LOGAN WANTED TO PROTECT IT!!! BUT SHE LOVES IT TO THE POINT SHE MADE HERSELF A COPY TO CARRY IT AROUND WITH HER AT ALL TIMES!!!!!

“I don’t know, just, so beautiful. I’m not saying I’m not pretty or anything, but this looks… I don’t look like that. I wish I did. I can’t believe someone actually sees me like that. It’s stupid but I….” You trail off and, conveniently, the toast is done at the same time and you move on to that.  But Logan won’t let you, “What’s stupid?”  You turn towards him with a shy smile, “I’m embarrassed.”

To see the similarities in how they DON'T see themselves fully is kind of sweet and makes me root for them.

“I cried when I first saw it yesterday. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. And it’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received, for someone to perceive me in such an artistic way.”  The problem is that it makes him want to draw more, his stupid heart melting at your reaction to something he made– no, created. 

He thinks he’s sappy for drawing it but he doesn’t think the same of you for enjoying the drawing. 

This is HILARIOUS and KILLING ME because I also make rules for MYSELF that are different from the rules I have for EVERYONE ELSE lmao

He’s usually more of a silent carer but maybe that’s why he likes this. He’s not making it a grand gesture, not making it a thing that he’s the one drawing for you. It’s just for you to enjoy. 

Logan being an Acts of Service person makes ALL the sense in the world to me.

But of course now that he knows it means something to you, he can’t get anything right. He draws your hair too curly, then not curly enough. He draws your nose too big, then too small. Your eyes end up crooked. He can’t erase too much because it’ll look sloppy, so even the drawing he gets almost perfect, he ruins with a few final additions at the end. 

The curse of the sequel! I think a lot of creatives can relate to this type of self induced pressure which means nothing you produce is good enough.

“Good?” you take the frame from his hands defensively, “It’s beautiful.” He chuckles, “Sorry, I don’t know much about this type of thing. It is beautiful though.” He’s looking at you instead of his drawing.

She already has a frame for the new drawing cuz the frames came in packs of 2 and she will NOT STAND for someone not absolutely FAWNING over it and I love that from her. It's doing Logan's heart SO good to see how much she adores what he's created.

If there’s someone who’s worth it, it’s you. Seeing your pleased smile at something he made for you, he decides he’s never going to stop drawing you.

It was the stupidest joke of all that made you really laugh, some dumb comparison between Xavier and Caillou. You probably wouldn’t even giggle at it anymore now, but in the moment it was so funny you almost spat out your drink from the deep belly laugh he drew from you, holding onto his bicep so you wouldn’t fall over as tears formed in your eyes from how hard you were laughing. He wanted to engrave the image on his soul. At least he got your smile on paper.

Our man is S-M-I-T-T-E-N and I love that for him. Cuz look what it's brought back into his life?

“I didn’t know you draw”, you say without taking your eyes off it. “No one else knows.” You pretend to zip your lips, smiling, “It’s our secret.” Logan can tell that you like that. He likes it too. It feels much better to share a secret with you than to be keeping one from you.

This is so intimate. And he's finally comfortable all the way with her. She knows it's him and he's fine with her knowing it's him.

You don’t know how to put your feelings into words, so you’re kissing him instead. He pulls you down so that you’re not hovering over but sitting on his lap, and the mood immediately shifts to something different. Logan doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but if you’re ready then he’ll take anything he can get.

I appreciate that Logan is just the tiniest bit "selfish" here because this has been such an emotionally taxing ordeal for him. And she really really admires his talent and is THRILLED that it's him and that he sees her the way that he does.

From here the story slips into the Rated R portion of the story which is both hot and very sweet. The buildup means that I feel a genuine connection and intimacy between the 2 that feels "earned," if that's the right word. Cuz it doesn't feel forced or rushed or like we skipped a whole bunch of stuff to get here.

I also love that there's open dialogue. Often, the only talk between lovers is dirty - which I am a big fan of and absolutely fine with - but that here we have sweet confessions, constant check ins, and reassurances; these all fit with the journey we've been on with these two and I just really enjoy that aspect.

There's also good dirty talk, balanced give and take and praaaaaaaaaaaaise which I enjoy thoroughly. Logan also tends to take the possessive "my girl" over and over which just melts my butter!

@selfcarecap thank you so much for creating and sharing this! Thank you for following YOUR muse through to the end of this tale and then being brave enough to slip it under all our doors *bad dum tss* I really loved this look at Logan, his vulnerabilities, his abilities and desires beyond his powers / "job" and what allowing himself to create ultimately gifted him with. Well done smut that I also very much enjoyed too.

And thank you to K for putting it on my dash!

MUSE [L.H.]

Logan Howlett x reader

summary: Logan would never admit it to anyone, but over the course of his long life he has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. He hasn’t done it in years, maybe even decades, but he’s struck by inspiration when he meets you. Of course, no one can know that Wolverine draws, so he does it in the dead of night, sliding anonymous envelopes with the finished drawings of you under your door. When he sees how much you love them, he wonders if you could also love the person behind them. 

warnings: smut 18+ but with an actual plot for once (brief m masturbation, oral f and m rec, unprotected piv sex, kind of accidental (but consensual obv) facial; pet names: bub, baby, good girl, princess), soft!Logan but he won’t admit it, also soft!reader, fluff (although the summary makes it sounds a bit more dramatic than it is tbh), implication that reader has curly hair, implied mutant/X-men!reader, (obviously the pic doesn’t represent the envelopes Logan uses lol he’s not doing all that)

word count: 7.3k

also i feel the need to say something about the fact that it’s Hugh Jackman’s birthday today lol so uh thanks for being huge jacked man and for giving us our Logan yay <3 | gorgeous divider by @plutism

It’s everything Logan is the opposite of – he would never tell a soul – but over the course of his long life, Logan has attempted to draw maybe once or twice. It’s not really him, but he did have a phase or two.

When he meets you, he hasn’t even thought of picking up a pencil in years. Ever since you’ve been at the mansion though, Logan’s fingertips twitch with the urge to start sketching your features every time he’s with you. It gets hard to ignore after a few days.

He waits until he’s known you a few weeks, there’s no way in hell he’d ask if he could draw you. He’d probably embarrass you by asking, and embarrass himself by admitting he’s into fucking art. That’s not him. 

Except, well, sometimes it is, when he’s inspired. And you’re nothing if not inspiring. 

He gives in to the urge to get out pencil and paper again, waiting until everyone else has gone to sleep. The first few drawings are shit, he feels like they’re almost an insult to you. It’s not that he’s accidentally drawing you ugly, it just doesn’t look like you. So he practises. 

Logan Howlett sits down at night to practise drawing. 

He picks out a few other things to draw then, to ease the pressure that comes with drawing the woman he… is friends with. Yeah, you’re a friend. And he totally knows that you’d never go for someone as rugged as him, that’s for sure. You deserve much more. So much more. 

But after a few nights he feels more confident in his drawing skills again, but still, as much as he can picture you in his mind – he can do that absolutely perfectly – he’s not too sure he could really draw you accurately.

So he gets Rogue to show him how goddamn fucking Instagram works so that he can look at some of your pictures and use them as a model. 

He doesn’t know what you’re doing to him; you’ve got him using social media.

He can’t believe it, but the first time he seriously attempts to draw you, it’s perfect. It’s a small drawing, not even as big as his palm, capturing your gorgeous face. He thinks of adding another few lines to your eyebrows, or to your hair or another small one to the outline of your lips, but he doesn’t want to mess with it. 

Logan hates how drawing makes him overthink, but he loves how it feels to create something other than violence with his hands for once – something that may even be the opposite. 

He hides the drawing in between the pages of a book, and hides the book under a pile of random clutter on his desk that not even he would normally spare a glance at. But when he lies down to go to sleep, he gets all the stuff out again and gets out the drawing. He wants to see it again. And he can’t leave it there anyway, what if the pressure from all the items on top of it smudges it? 

But he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He can’t really have a drawing of you sitting in his room. What if someone sees? Then what is he gonna do with it instead? 

He finally lets himself think the thought that’s politely been waiting to be allowed into his brain from the moment he decided he might take up drawing again. 

He could give it to you. 

Logan knows his drawing isn’t objectively a masterpiece, but if he’s proud of it he has to acknowledge that that probably means it’s at least decent. And you’re definitely the type of person to appreciate something like this. It’s weird admitting to himself that he’s even proud of what he’s drawn; he’s done so much in this world, who cares about a little drawing? 

The only thing is that Logan isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to see this side of him. To see the side that has him staying up until 3AM to finely trace the lines of someone’s eyelashes and cheekbones and lips, the side that makes him feel calm inside. 

He knows it’s stupid to hide but he just can’t. He decides he’ll leave the drawing in your room in an envelope, maybe a pink one to show you it’s not a creepy threat but meant as a sign of adoration, from someone who couldn’t resist but try to recreate your beauty. He won’t write his name on it, he just wants you to have it. 

Sappy motherfucker. 

He puts the small drawing back into the book and carefully pushes it between his mattress and the bedframe to protect it during the night. God, who even is he – protecting a tiny piece of paper? He groans at himself as he turns around to go to sleep. 

He dreams of making a thousand drawings of you, with you as his live model. His muse. 

You’re his girlfriend in his dream, he thinks. 

He’s sitting in a chair in your room, drawing you as you tell him about your day. You’re lying on your bed on your tummy, elbows propped up to support your head. You’re gently kicking your feet in the air behind you, wearing nothing but a t-shirt of Logan’s, some silly graphic socks, panties with little cherries on them, and a bright, bashful smile as Logan attempts to capture your glowing features in a sketch block he’s dedicated to drawings of you. 

He wakes up with morning wood. 

Logan is no stranger to jerking off with you on his mind, so he spits in his hand and slips it beneath his boxers, stroking himself as he thinks of you. He imagines you on top of him as he jerks his cock, imagines you under him, or with your legs around his head, or you between his knees on the floor. He cums quickly and hard, leaving his boxers wet and sticky.

He goes for a run after he’s dealt with it and picks up an envelope on his way. He’s doubting himself but he knows he has to just do it. He’d doubt himself even more if he pussied out – a grown man who can’t even slide an envelope under someone’s door. 

So Logan mans up and, like an idiot, kisses the fucking drawing before he puts it into the envelope. He licks the edges of it to close it and writes your name in the most anonymous handwriting he can muster and adds a little heart. 

It’s soo stupid. 

He makes sure no one is anywhere near your bedroom, walks up to your door, and slides the envelope underneath. Except he didn’t check if you were in your room. As soon as the envelope disappears beneath your door, he hears a short creak from your bed and your soft footsteps. 

He hears the small and adorable noise of curiosity you let out – a confused hm? – and then he quickly and quietly makes his way down the hallway. He hears your voice about ten seconds later, an intrigued hello? as you open the door, but you don’t investigate further, closing the door behind you. 

Logan’s heart is beating so fast. He’s never doing this shit again. 

He’s antsy all day, waiting for some type of reaction from you. Except you don’t know that the drawing is from him so he’s probably not even getting one, and he can’t conspicuously come to your room the same day you receive an anonymous drawing of yourself. 

It’s also when the insecurity settles in. Maybe he should have added a few more lines or started the entire drawing anew. Who does he think he is pretending to be an artist? 

He shakes those thoughts off as he starts training with the punching bag in the gym. It’s not something that he necessarily needs to train, but it gets rid of some of that pointless energy. This isn’t him, worried about some lines he drew on a piece of paper – a scrap of a paper, really. Who cares about something like that? Certainly not him. 

He sleeps dreamlessly and wakes up the next day disappointed that he didn’t get to dream about being your boyfriend again. God, what are you doing to him? Making him think about being boyfriend and girlfriend. He’s pathetic. You’re a friend and nothing more, and that’s fine. You probably don’t like him like that and he can deal with that.

-

He’s not even thinking of the drawing anymore, truly, when he walks into the kitchen the next morning. It only comes to mind when he sees you, alone in the kitchen, leaning over the counter to scroll on your phone, your weird green coffee (“it’s Matcha, Logan”) next to you as you stir it mindlessly with a metal straw. 

“Hi,” you look up with one of those sweet smiles of yours, but redirect your attention to your phone. 

At least you don’t immediately say something like hey, you know that drawing you slid under my door? It was so ugly I threw it away. Since when do you even draw? 

Not that he was worried you would or anything. He hasn’t been thinking about it. Obviously. Why would he? And he knows you would never expect that it’s him; that’s the only reason he did it. He never would have given you the drawing if he thought you could have even the slightest inkling that Logan would be someone who draws. But he still wants to know what you think of it. 

“You want some toast too?” You ask, putting your phone down and turning to get some bread. He sits down at the other side of the kitchen counter and as his eyes flicker to your green drink (he still doesn’t get it), he sees it. 

“Is that–” my drawing, he almost said, “What is that?” He pretends to be confused, drawing his eyebrows together, trying his best to look inquisitive, “No toast by the way, thanks.” 

You have one of those clear phone cases, filled with a bunch of tiny pictures and stickers (and is that your credit card?). But wedged in front of all of those is Logan’s drawing. 

“Did you draw it?” He asks. 

You turn around, giggling, “No, I don’t draw. And anyway, I wouldn’t be drawing pictures of myself. I got it in an envelope under my door yesterday, photocopied it because I was scared it would bend in my phone case. I don’t know who drew it.” 

“Secret admirer?” 

Smiling, you say, “I don’t know. I won’t get my hopes up. But the person must definitely be fond of me to draw me like that.” 

“Like what?” He asks, unsure if he’s about to be offended. 

“I don’t know, just, so beautiful. I’m not saying I’m not pretty or anything, but this looks… I don’t look like that. I wish I did. I can’t believe someone actually sees me like that. It’s stupid but I….” You trail off and, conveniently, the toast is done at the same time and you move on to that. 

But Logan won’t let you, “What’s stupid?” 

You turn towards him with a shy smile, “I’m embarrassed.”

Logan stays silent. He can’t seem too pushy and draw attention to himself, but his silence makes you confess.

“I cried when I first saw it yesterday. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. And it’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received, for someone to perceive me in such an artistic way.” 

Logan makes a noise of satisfaction and smiles, asking you to pass your phone so he can look at it more – pretending it’s his first time seeing it. If you think that way about it, maybe the three more lines he was going to add aren’t that important after all. 

The problem is that it makes him want to draw more, his stupid heart melting at your reaction to something he made– no, created. 

-

After a week, he figures he has to give in. Drawing another picture of you is on his mind twenty-four seven. 

It doesn’t help that he still catches you staring at the copy of it in your phone case lovingly more than once a day and you’ve put the original drawing in a special little frame on your nightstand. He thinks he’s sappy for drawing it but he doesn’t think the same of you for enjoying the drawing. 

This is for you. It’s not about him. He’s not an artist or anything like that, he’s just doing something kind for someone he cares about (which is honestly sappy enough but he tries to ignore that). He’s usually more of a silent carer but maybe that’s why he likes this. He’s not making it a grand gesture, not making it a thing that he’s the one drawing for you. It’s just for you to enjoy. 

He’ll just make this second drawing and silently put it in your room, and he’s the last person you’ll suspect. 

But of course now that he knows it means something to you, he can’t get anything right. He draws your hair too curly, then not curly enough. He draws your nose too big, then too small. Your eyes end up crooked. He can’t erase too much because it’ll look sloppy, so even the drawing he gets almost perfect, he ruins with a few final additions at the end. 

It takes him an entire month for the next drawing, and it feels more like him that it’s been making him so angry that he couldn’t get it right at first. Maybe he had the wrong picture of artists. They’re always talking about pain, aren’t they, and that’s what he experiences too (over a drawing. Who is he?). 

He takes another few days to keep track of your routine, to monitor when you’ll be in your room. He can’t have it be as close as last time. 

He ends up doing it in the evening. There’s a time after dinner when most of the team stays together to watch tv, just talk, or play some games. It’s normal for some of you to wander off, come back or stick around a bit longer. It won’t be suspicious if he leaves for a few minutes and comes back.

Logan wants nothing more than to follow you when you say that you’re going to your room for the night; he wants to see your reaction. But he can’t. All he can do is go up to his own bedroom fifteen minutes later, lingering in the hallway longer than he needs to.

Just as he’s about to give up and go to sleep, you walk down the hallway, coming back from the bathroom.

“Logan!” you call all excitedly when you see him, and his heart skips a beat. Do you know the drawing is from him? 

“Look,” you take his arm and pull him to your room, “I got another drawing!”

He breathes out in relief; you don’t know it’s from him. He smiles when you hold up the drawing, already framed.

“Were you expecting to get another drawing?” he teases.

“Noo, but the frames came in a pack of two. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Logan looks at how your eyes sparkle, how proudly you’re showing him this drawing. All the work he put into it was definitely worth it. It’s another picture of your face, this time from a new angle, and with your hair styled differently, curls coiled another way from last time.

Logan clears his throat, remembering to keep up his act. “It looks good.”

“Good?” you take the frame from his hands defensively, “It’s beautiful.”

He chuckles, “Sorry, I don’t know much about this type of thing. It is beautiful though.” He’s looking at you instead of his drawing.

“It is. And you don’t have to know much about art or drawing to see how pretty this is. I still can’t believe someone would take the time to make these for me.”

Logan remains silent instead of saying what he wants to tell you. Of course he would take that time for you – and you don’t even know how much time it really took him. If there’s someone who’s worth it, it’s you.

Seeing your pleased smile at something he made for you, he decides he’s never going to stop drawing you.

-

He’s on a roll for some time. He’s better at drawing again now that he’s getting in practice, and he makes five drawings of you within the next weeks. Logan watches the collection of them on your nightstand grow fuller, along with your smile that somehow gets bigger every time you tell him about a new drawing.

It’s a wonder you haven’t caught on yet, but you don’t seem particularly interested in snooping around to find out who it is. You respect the person’s privacy, but you’ve confessed to him that you’d still love to know. 

“I won’t try to find out who it is. I won’t push it if they don’t want me to know… but, I mean, anyone would want to know, wouldn’t they?”

You’ve adopted the nickname of ‘secret admirer’ for this mysterious ‘they’, after Logan used the term about ten times. You were reluctant at first, because the person isn’t calling themself a secret admirer – you’d just be putting words in their mouth. But after seeing how much more beautiful the drawings get each time, you’ve accepted and admitted that, okay, yes, the person must be an admirer.

Your secret admirer Logan is particularly proud of his latest drawing, excited to bring it up to your room tonight. 

But this time he’s sloppy. He’s stayed for a few post-dinner card games with the team, and it’s risky, because you’ve been saying that it’s your last game for the last two rounds. But he also knows that you always say that, and never mean it.

Logan gets up to leave, and he hears Scott convincing you to play just one more round.

It’s stupid, really, risking it like that. Even if he’s gone from your room in time before you come upstairs, you could easily guess that it’s Logan. He’s the first one leaving the round tonight, so your first assumption could be that it was him.

Maybe subconsciously he wants to get caught. He’s seen how you light up at every drawing, and no matter how much you respect your admirer’s anonymity, of course you want to know who’s dedicating so much time and work to drawings of you. Of course it’s crossed your mind that the person isn’t just doing this because they’re a good friend. They’re drawing your face because they think it’s beyond beautiful.

Logan doesn’t really know why he hasn’t told you yet that he likes you. He’s good at flirting, and he’s attractive – he’s not blind. But with you it’s different, there’s a bigger risk, for the both of you. The older he gets, the harder it is to open up to yet another person. You’re friends, and you talk about personal things, but confessing that he’s in love with you is different.

Not to mention this stupid recurring dream he keeps having, in which you find out it’s Logan who’s been drawing you, and suddenly your opinion of the drawings changes. You don’t like him back like that, and suddenly the drawings feel creepy if you think about him staying up late drawing your face.

He rolls his eyes at himself and gets the thought out of his head, taking the small envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans, smoothing his hand over it. He looks around, making sure no one sees him.

Logan bends down to slide the envelope under your door as usual, but one of the corners of the paper catches against the wall, and he quickly opens it to check the drawing isn’t damaged. His heart is beating so fast, he feels stupid. 

He can hear footsteps, still far away, but he can hear them. Logan messily licks the edges of the envelope to close it back up, but it’s not sticking. He can’t decide between shoving it under the door like this or leaving now and bringing it back the next day. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage now.

Then he hears it. He miscalculated how far the footsteps were.

“Logan?”

He turns around slowly, and it feels like the world has frozen.

You come closer, looking at him and then at the letter that he must’ve dropped. It hasn’t made it under your door yet.

He says something before you can, “I’m delivering for someone else.”

“Who?” you ask, bending down to pick up the envelope. If he wasn’t petrified, he’d enjoy the view of you bent over in front of him.

He breathes. He can’t have anyone taking credit for his work, for his art (you called it that recently, he would never). But his heart is beating so fast he doesn’t know what the fuck to do or say. 

This is exactly why he never wanted to do any of this. He’s making a fool out of himself and that doesn’t usually happen, especially not over a piece of paper. Logan is confident, cocky even, he can admit that, and has no idea how to deal with things like being nervous; he never has to. This really isn’t him.

You don’t wait for an answer and look at the envelope. You open it so carefully, gently taking the drawing out with your fingertips. You’re treating it with so much care he immediately feels better. Again, this isn’t for him, it’s for you. (Well, it’s for him too but it’ll take him a while to admit that). 

He’s drawn your smile this time. You were happy in most of the drawings before, but he focussed more on the eyes, and your lips only ever tugged up in a slight smile. 

This one is a full-toothed grin, mid-laugh. 

You two were drinking last weekend. He barely felt it but your tipsy, giggly mood was contagious. He couldn’t imagine himself feeling any other way but blissful when you’re happy around him. 

It started when Logan made a casual comment about something silly Scott was wearing that night, and he had you giggling. He wanted to immediately hear that angelic sound again, of course, and so he gave you every joke about your shared friends he could think of – all light-hearted, but he was still glad you two were alone. 

It was the stupidest joke of all that made you really laugh, some dumb comparison between Xavier and Caillou. You probably wouldn’t even giggle at it anymore now, but in the moment it was so funny you almost spat out your drink from the deep belly laugh he drew from you, holding onto his bicep so you wouldn’t fall over as tears formed in your eyes from how hard you were laughing. He wanted to engrave the image on his soul. At least he got your smile on paper.

You look up at him now, eyes filled with tears. 

“You drew this?” you ask.

He nods softly. He can’t say it but he hopes the drawings convey how in love with you he is. 

Suddenly, Logan feels like his heart has stopped beating.

You’re kissing him. 

You’ve leaped up, wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, and now your lips are on his. 

He feels your mouth falter, probably because he’s being a fucking idiot and not kissing you back. Logan places his hands on your waist to pull you further towards him. Then his brain finally catches up and he can do what he’s wanted to for so long. 

He takes your chin with two fingers and angles you so you can kiss him easier. He closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of your soft, warm lips against him. You’re soft and warm all over. Your top has slipped up over his fingertips at your sides, and he slides his hands further around your back to support you against him even better. 

Logan’s tongue pushes at your lower lip, and you let out the sexiest, tiny moan of surprise as you part your lips for him, granting him access. 

His tongue touches the tip of yours and from then on your cravings intensify. You feel your way over his muscular shoulders, his big biceps and over the hard planes of his chest. When you’ve had a good feel there, your hands grip his shirt in desperation and Logan gets even hungrier for you. He gently bites at your lower lip, but then you shriek into his mouth and squirm out of his grasp. He opens his eyes wide. 

You grip Logan’s forearm for support when you bend down in a panic, picking up the drawing you just dropped. You let out a big breath of relief when you see it hasn’t been damaged. 

“You made me drop it!” You slap a hand to his chest; it doesn’t actually hurt and it’s not meant to, but it leaves a pleasant tingle behind instead. 

“I didn’t do anything”, Logan laughs, and you shake your head at him with a smile.

You take him into your room where you make him sit on the bed while you stare at the new drawing in awe. “I didn’t know you draw”, you say without taking your eyes off it.

“No one else knows.”

You pretend to zip your lips, smiling, “It’s our secret.” Logan can tell that you like that. He likes it too. It feels much better to share a secret with you than to be keeping one from you.

“I’ll only draw for you anyway, so there’s no point in telling anyone else.”

“You’re really good. I love the drawings.”

Logan gives a satisfied hum at your words, “You inspired me. Can’t have you walking around all pretty and not expect me to try and recreate it.”

You straddle Logan and hover over his lap to hug him, “They’re the best thing anyone's ever given to me. Do I really look like that?” You say the last question more quietly, and Logan wraps his arms around your sides, careful not to bump your hand that’s still holding the drawing.

“You’re more gorgeous than anything I could ever capture, but I think it comes close. I didn’t change anything about you to make you more beautiful. I couldn’t if I tried. I just tried to draw you as accurately as possible, that’s why it’s so beautiful.”

“I really love it,” you say again, happily staring at the details of the drawing. Hearing you say the word love so much tempts Logan, but he doesn’t want to move too fast. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you. He does, however, want to kiss you again.

Logan carefully takes the framed drawing and puts it on your nightstand. You push your mouth against his before he can initiate the kiss, and he grins against your lips.

You don’t know how to put your feelings into words, so you’re kissing him instead. He pulls you down so that you’re not hovering over but sitting on his lap, and the mood immediately shifts to something different. Logan doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but if you’re ready then he’ll take anything he can get.

Your chest is pressed against Logan’s, and you can feel the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes. You may or may not be pressing your boobs against his body on purpose.

“God, baby, I’ve waited so long for this,” he says, already breathless, as his hands trail down your back, leaving goosebumps behind.

“You’ve waited long?” you raise your eyebrows, grinning, “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the day I met you.”

You see the look in Logan’s eyes changing as he bites his lip, “Who says I didn’t want the same?”

You giggle, “Why did it take us so long?”

Logan chuckles, readjusting you so that you’re even closer to him, “I was too busy to actually talk to you, just been starin’ at you so I could draw you.” His cheeks have the faintest red tint, and you kiss them, hugging him.

You whisper into his ear, “Then it was worth the wait. And anyway, it’s not talking that I’m interested in right now.”

He pulls you back to look into your eyes, then at your lips. “Where do you want me?” he asks. You giggle slightly helplessly; you weren’t entirely prepared to have a man like Logan at your mercy like this tonight.

“You can do whatever you want,” you say softly, kissing him.

Logan’s lips are hungry against yours, strings of spit falling between you two, but he pauses the kiss to lie you on your back. “Wanna eat you out,” he husks, “Been dying to know what you taste like forever, bub. Can I?” He reaches for the hem of your top, and you nod so that he can pull it off you, admiring what’s underneath. 

“Sometimes I make myself cum imagining that I’m going down on you,” you confess somewhat shyly, but you figure he’s been so vulnerable for you that you can share a secret too.

Logan smirks, and pulls off his shirt, “Maybe we can make your dream come true then.”

You move to sit up, but he insists on eating you out first. You both take off all your clothes, staring at each other with huge smiles on your faces for a few moments. You’ve never seen Logan this happy.

“Look at you, baby. So pretty,” he leans down to kiss your lips, then down your neck, all the way to your legs. He spreads them, lying down between them as he all but drools at the sight of your wet pussy.

You get nervous all of a sudden. “It’s been a while,” you tell him. He looks up, taking your hand, enveloping it completely in his much bigger one.

“You sure about this? We can wait,” he gently kisses your knuckles, and a warmth spreads in your chest, slowing your heartbeat down a little.

“I’m sure,” you nod, and Logan comes up again to kiss you. The head of his hard cock catches against the space above your clit, and you both look down between your bodies. When Logan looks back up at you, his eyes are desperately begging you. You place your hand on his head, threading your fingers through his hair as he moves down your body.

“Such a pretty fucking pussy,” he mumbles into your thigh, kissing you there. You giggle, getting comfortable, your hand never leaving his hair.

Logan starts eating you out, his tongue gentle but determined against your clit.

“Taste so good, baby. Even better than I imagined.” You hum at Logan’s words, already feeling yourself come undone with his mouth on your wet pussy.

You sink further into the mattress when he starts sucking on your clit, licking into your pussy like a man starved every few moments, and your thighs squeeze around Logan’s head, and it’s even better than in his fantasies.

“Feels really good,” you tell him, pulling on his hair to stop yourself from moving too much, and Logan moans against your skin. Hearing your words motivates him even more, and he pushes two fingers into your wet pussy. He curls his fingers, rubbing up against that spot that makes you see stars.

Your back arches as you cum, Logan’s lips wrapped around your clit as your legs push harder against his head, and all he does is moan, revelling in the feeling.

Logan doesn’t stop licking your pussy until you’re tugging his head away by his hair, and he comes up for air with a grin on his face. You smile back, pulling him up to kiss him. You give yourself only a few seconds of recovery time before you make him sit down. You know you’d never have enough strength to actually make him get into a different position, but he lets you.

You push him onto his back, getting between his legs. You’re blinking up at him all prettily when you ask, “Can I suck your dick? Please?”

Logan huffs to himself because he can’t believe how hot you are, can’t believe that this is really finally happening. He tells you yes – he has no more words to describe how badly he wants this – and he watches you wrap your pretty lips around his cock.

It’s hard to grasp that it’s really you doing this right now – the woman he’s been into for so long. His cock is in your mouth and you look so gorgeous with spit running down from your lips, and all he can think of is all the dirty drawings he can now make of you, if you’ll let him.

He closes his eyes when you take him deeper, enveloping him with your warm, wet mouth. “Good girl,” he whispers absent-mindedly, too gone to say much more.

You’re not using your hands as you suck his cock, your spit trailing down on him, and you’re so eager. But it’s also late, and he sees you getting tired, eyes blinking slower as you pause to catch your breath every few moments. He also sees the determination in your eyes, and the absolute want, but he doesn’t want you to exhaust yourself. 

You look so sexy all fucked out, strings of spit connecting your mouth to his cock as you pull away another time, giggling up at him shyly when you realise that he’s noticing you getting tired.

“Just need a second,” you wipe your mouth, out of breath, and it’s not that you’re not incredibly hot like this, but he still wants to fuck you tonight and he’s not sure that will happen if you keep going.

“C’mere, baby,” he says, reaching out his hand.

“Huh?” you ask, taking his hand nevertheless.

“Get back here, baby. I’m gonna fuck you now, alright? Don’t want you tiring yourself out.”

You let him lift you and put you on your back, but you pout, “Wanna taste you.”

Logan grins, “I’ll cum in your mouth, princess. Promise.”

You smile at his answer, satisfied, so you lie back down, pulling your legs up to your chest. His cock looks huge as he jerks himself off between your legs, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you squirm.

“Don’t know if I can take you,” you bite your lip. You’re not entirely sure if you mean it or not. You definitely want to try.

“We’ll make it fit, baby, we’ll make it fit,” Logan assures you, leaning down to press a kiss to your mouth, a mix of your wetness and his precum between your mouths. You feel his cock at your pussy, “You ready?”

“I’m ready,” you nod desperately, letting him push his cock into your pussy. He pauses after a few inches, but you wrap your legs around his waist more tightly, and he goes deeper.

“Y’okay, baby? You can take it, right?”

You nod, unable to form words with your pussy stretched like this, a combination of pleasure and pain between your legs – but it’s infinitely more pleasure.

“That’s right. You’re my good girl, hm?” He kisses along your neck as he bottoms out, and you both moan when he’s got his cock fully stuffed inside you for the first time. He pulls out slightly when you whine at the stretch, but you scratch down his back to get his attention.

“I can take it,” you tell him, and you watch the look in his eyes darken.

He begins to fuck you, the pain subsiding more with every thrust into your wet pussy. You can barely take him, but it feels good. With your slight tiredness, you feel like you’re floating on cloud nine. 

You can’t believe that Logan – your super hot friend Logan who you’ve been fantasising about for so long – is fucking you. He not only feels the same way about you, but he’s been your secret admirer this entire time, taking hours and hours out of his day to make you smile. You’re the only one he wants.

And now he’s fucking you, fucking you well, and you feel so warm inside, not just from the sex but you feel warm in your heart, because of Logan’s care.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking a hand down your face when he notices you’re not entirely present. You nod happily, smiling up at him, and you can’t talk because you feel so good.

“Good, that’s good, bub, but let me know if it gets too much,” he says as he starts rubbing your clit, watches you nod while he’s fucking you so well, and he’s so big and so deep inside of you, “Squeezing me so tight, baby, feel so fucking good.”

You cum suddenly, letting the warm pleasure flow through your body as Logan keeps fucking you through it, rubbing your clit in just the right rhythm.

“That’s my girl, taking it so well,” he moans, breaths stuttering. You slump against the pillow after a few moments, with a soft smile on your face, and Logan pulls out.

“Gonna make me cum, baby,” he jerks his cock, and you sit up on your elbows immediately, looking him in the eyes with a smile as you stick out your tongue for him. He promised.

Logan moans when he cums, painting your face in his release, jerking himself off. He holds your head in place with his other hand, aiming for your mouth but you’re making no effort to catch his cum there.

“Such a pretty fucking face, princess, ’m cumming all over it,” he rasps, shooting more ropes of his cum all over your cheeks, jacking off onto your face.

You open your eyes when he’s done and breathing heavily, and you smile up at him. You open your mouth, taking the head of his cock between your lips to suck off the last drops of cum.

“Look at you, baby. Look so fucking pretty with my cum all over your gorgeous face.”

You hum, pulling your mouth off him and licking your lips, tasting his salty release. You brush a finger over your cheek, sucking it into your mouth to taste him more. Logan kisses you then, the flavour of himself mixing between your mouths.

He cleans you up gently, carefully wiping your face with a baby wipe and kissing every inch of your cheeks afterwards. You take his face to kiss him properly, and if you didn’t seem so tired Logan would be ready for round two immediately.

“Next time you could try to actually cum in my mouth,” you tease, making Logan grin.

“Sorry, baby. Got too excited. Couldn’t focus on asking you again if it was okay.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your lips.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I liked it.”

Logan grins, “Oh I could tell you liked it, baby.” You lightly slap his chest as you giggle, pulling him in for another kiss.

You cuddle for a while, not saying much because you don’t have to. You’ve both waited for this for so long that you’re just enjoying the moment, enjoying that it finally happened.

You slip out of his arms to sit on top of him. You’re in nothing but panties, the blanket bunching around your hips. You lean your hands against his chest as you tell him more about how much the drawings delighted you. And Logan cares, of course he cares to hear that, but he’s also just a man seeing the woman he’s into naked for the first time still. 

You become quiet when you realise that he’s not listening, and you giggle, “Distracted?”

Logan grins, “Just a little fucking bit, baby.” His eyes don’t leave your body, and you laugh as you bend down to kiss him. He grabs your ass, kneading the flesh. When you slightly sit up again, your tits are near his face, and he can’t help himself. He cups your breasts, playing with your nipples, making you hum.

“I should draw these,” he looks up at you, “Should draw every perfect fucking inch of you.”

“You wanna?” You adjust how you’re seated in his lap, and you feel that he’s already half hard under you again.

“Maybe after I’ve fucked you again.”

You smile, feeling yourself growing wetter on top of him.

“Tomorrow,” he continues, and your smile drops.

“But you’ve got to get more familiar with the inspiration, right? If you’re going to draw me.”

“That’s true, baby. But I think you’re too tired.”

You smile bashfully, ignoring how your eyelids were drooping shut just a few seconds ago, “Okay, but then I’ll have more energy for tomorrow.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiles, pulling you off him to cuddle you again. He tucks you in and kisses your head. 

You turn to your side, taking one of the framed drawings and looking at it for a while. 

Logan watches you looking at it, and the sparkle in your eyes never fails to make him feel all warm inside. “Now that you actually know about it, I don’t have to draw you from memory anymore. I can study my muse in peace.”

“Aww, I’m your muse?” you beam.

“Of course you are, princess. You’re the only reason I’m drawing again.”

“I love your drawings so much.”

Logan clears his throat, and looks at you. “Well, I love you. So, I think that went into them.”

You look at him, pouting and then kissing him. “I love you too,” you say into his mouth. He grins against your lips, pulling you closer to kiss you some more. He can barely grasp that you just said that, but he’ll have enough time soon to comprehend how lucky he is. 

For now, he takes your hand, and asks, “The question might be redundant now, but do you wanna be mine? Be my girlfriend?”

“I’m already yours.”

Logan grins, takes you in his arms, and you’re still cuddling when you’re both drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

P.S. reblog with a comment and let me know your favourite moment/what you liked to get a drawing from Logan under your door tonight and a facial <33

gorgeous divider by @pommecita

[authorpanda15]

PROXIMITY

↳ katsuki bakugō x reader

a/n: this was just supposed to be a small blurb, but it turned into a whole ass fic halfway through!!! wtf!!!

imagine forced proximity with katsuki bakugō...

-> katsuki didn’t like you, and you didn’t like him; his abrasive attitude clashed with your personality. and yet, you were a recurring presence in each other’s lives...

-> the two of you often found yourselves butting heads whenever you had to work together. he wished he didn’t have to look at your face so often, but your agencies kept pairing you two together. “you work well together,” they said. katsuki didn’t miss his agent whispering that you’re “the only person who can reign him in.”

-> as he's wrapping up his shift, katsuki receives a text from eijirō— affectionately saved as “shitty hair” on his phone— inviting him out to drinks and food with the group and for once, he accepts. after the day he had, he could use a drink, or two. but as he steps into the restaurant and finds his friends extras, he thinks that he’ll need more drinks than that when he sees you sitting at the booth.

so not only do you two have to work together, you also have mutual friends. great.

the once lively atmosphere at the table had slowly simmered, with a terrifying tension taking its place. mina, denki, eijirō and hanta would have to be completely tone-deaf to not notice the way you and katsuki stared daggers at each other.

eijirō, always amicable, was the first to speak up. “so... I take it you and bakugō know each other?”

you confirmed with a small nod, making the conscious effort to keep your eyes trained on the redhead. “our agencies thought it would be a good idea to work together.”

“ooh, that must be fun,” denki added, glancing at you and katsuki, the latter scoffing at his enthusiasm.

“if by ‘fun,’ you mean ‘I need to take pain relievers at the end of every shift because a certain someone has never heard of an inside voice before’,” your eyes flickered towards the certain someone in question; he’s already glaring at you. “...then, yes; I’ve been having a swell time!”

“the only reason I yell is because you don’t listen to me,” katsuki said, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “I swear, it’s like you’re deaf.”

“hearing loss is often caused by loud noises— now, who’s fault would that be?”

“yours, because the second you get off shift, you shove your earbuds in and turn your music volume all the way to the max!”

“music is the only thing that soothes me after working a shift with you! maybe if you had something to calm you down after a day’s work, you wouldn’t have a stick up your ass.”

eijirō attempts to interject. “guys—!”

“what’d you say to me?”

“hey, I think the food’s coming!” hanta suddenly announces to the table, which turns everyone’s attention to the waiter coming their way, balancing multiple orders on a serving tray.

you and katsuki simultaneously slump back into your seats without another word, prompting the rest of the table to breathe a sigh of relief as the waiter starts placing down plates of food.

the rest of dinner was uneventful compared to earlier. thankfully, denki and eijirō managed to bring the mood up— bless their hearts. drinks were shared and stories from the past were recalled, all the while you and katsuki remained mostly silent.

once dinner came to a close, you followed the group out of the restaurant as they discussed each other’s schedules— possibly planning when they can all hang out again.

you can’t help but wonder if they’ll invite you next time. you’ve no doubt made a fool out of yourself, acting so hostile and vulgar at the dinner table. but it’s not your fault! it’s his... isn’t it...?

you feel a sudden weight on your shoulder.

“what’s up? you look bummed,” denki said, titling his head to the side as he leaned against you.

“I, uh, I didn’t mean to start shouting back there, it’s just...” bakugō gets me so riled up... is what you almost said, but you decided to hold your tongue after a second thought. “...nevermind. I just, I hope I didn’t make dinner uncomfortable for the rest of you.”

denki patted your back and offered his signature grin. “don’t be so uptight! it’s all good!”

you exhaled, relieved he didn’t cause you to make a fool out of yourself, when denki suddenly leaned in close and whispered in your ear, “between you and me, I also think kacchan is a bit of a prick...”

“you say somethin’, dunce face?” as if he sensed he was being talked about and materialized behind you, katsuki’s presence suddenly towered over your’s.

denki yelped and cowered behind you, partially hiding his face in your shoulder. “protect me...!”

you tilt your head upwards to look at the blond not currently clinging to you. “you’re paranoid. we were just talking about dinner, that’s all.”

katsuki rolled his eyes at your reply, but didn’t argue.

for once.

later that night, after you made it to the comforts of your home, you received a message.

[milkbobatyun]

des fleurs pour vous — some flowers for you

pairing: neuvillette x reader

genre: fluff

summary: with a little bit of help, maybe neuvillette can win your heart

word count: 812

a/n: first post of the new year! hope everything goes well for everyone this year :D just an fyi that i might be posting less this year cus i'm in my final year of school ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! (it's gone by so fast oml) and i need to prepare for the exams ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ )

neuvillette who doesn’t understand why he feels so nervous when he sees you. to this ancient dragon of old, he cannot fathom the reason why his mouth dries up and his palms become sweaty. every time he catches sight of you, the corners of his mouth twitch up involuntarily. butterflies brew a storm in his stomach as his heart dances erratically in his chest.

neuvillette who confides in the melusines about the foreign illness that has befallen him. in front of neuvillette, the melusines assure him, promising to do their best to cure him of this sickness that leaves his face burning and his ears flushed with red.

the moment his intimidating figure leaves the room, the melusines are huddling with their heads close together, whispering and brainstorming ideas.

“monseiur neuvillette has fallen in love!” menthe gasps dramatically, her tiny paws covering. the other melusines fawn over the notion, covering their mouths with their little paws, swooning over the fantasies their imagination has created. they’re overjoyed that the impartial iudex has found his other half, but without their help, this romance was heading nowhere.

after countless brainstorms and head whacks later, the melusines have a fool-proof plan. operation fleurs, they called it.

neuvillette who begins to think that he is losing his mind or getting too old for the job when he finds leaflets of local florist shops hidden between the legal files. when he’s pulling out books to consult, torn pages of various romance novels fall out, all citing love confessions, with one book on his desk even being swapped to “how to confess your love 101”.

neuvillette who after much coaxing from the melusines, decides to sit down at his desk, face impassive as he struggles to write a letter to convey his feelings. the melusines are ready to slam their heads on the table as they painfully watch the chief justice, who can hand down sanctions and orders without a moment of hesitation, is now terrified as he hopelessly stares at the blank pages, praying to the archons that he can express his feelings properly.

neuvillette who writes you such a formal letter stating that he wishes to meet you, that when you received it, you feared for the worst. as you stand beside the fontaine of lucine, anxiety gnaws at your stomach. did you do something wrong? were you about to lose your lawyer license? such thoughts chased each other in your mind, a silent mantra of your worst nightmares.

neuvillette who is so nervous about talking to you that he’s secretly mapping out 476 different escape routes and praying to the hydro archon that maybe today, at this exact moment, furina needs him for an urgent meeting.

your stomach drops when you see what could be described as neuvillette marching towards you, face set and stern, his arms held behind his back. somewhere in the back of your mind, your humour tries to throw light on the moment, silently commenting on how he looks like an old man eith his stance.

neuvillette, whose throat has dried up in fear and from the nerves that he has to awkwardly cough, but you’re so wound up by what is going on and end up jumping to conclusions, so you immediately begin bowing profusely and muttering apologies for some phantom mistake that you made.

neuvillette who gets so flustered he doesn't know what to respond and is reassuring you that you’re not in trouble. the melusines, who are very well hidden behind some bushes, are about to resort violence after hearing the both of you apologise to each other for the 500th time that day.

the melusines end up so frustrated with neuvillette’s lack of courage that they pop out from behind the bush and expose him to the whole of fontaine (there was only two other people there at the time)

a loud shout pierces through the tranquil barble of the fountain. 

“OH MY ARCHONS, HES SO STUPIDLY IN LOVE WITH YOU HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO FUNCTION WHEN HE SEES YOU!”

the outburst from the usually softly spoken and quiet melusines leaves the two of you in stunned silence. your face is one of confusion as you point to yourself, as though trying to confirm what your ears heard. 

when you look from the melusines to neuvillette to double check, scarlet red has coated his ears, warmth exploding over his face. hiding his face behind in embarrassment, neuvillette clears his throat before unveiling the bouquet of flowers he had hidden behind his back.

“well, it seems we started off with the wrong impressions, i sincerely wish that you forgive me for this. human emotion is…so difficult to grasp, but i believe this human tradition of giving flowers is meant to express… love? thus, i do hope that you may present me with the chance to court you?”

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2025 / づ ♡

[faithshouseofchaos]

Is it possible, if you’re comfortable with it, to request a reader with a service dog where some fans kinda mean about her needing it and her boyfriend stands up for her and offers some much needed comfort? For Max or whoever you feel like doing it for?

Bailey the dog||Max verstappen x fem!autistic!reader

Summary — after some negative comments about Max’s girlfriend and her service dog max puts his foot and put an end to it.

Word count-1027

Being with Max Verstappen was a dream, but it came with its challenges. The Formula One world champion lived his life under a microscope, and by extension, so did you. Dating him had brought you joy beyond measure, but it also opened you up to the scrutiny of millions of fans, most of whom didn’t know you beyond the curated snapshots of your life they saw online.

You tried not to let it bother you—most of the time, you could shrug off the judgmental comments and cruel assumptions. But sometimes, the weight of it all became too much.

Bailey, your golden retriever and service dog, had been with you for years. She was more than just a dog; she was your lifeline. Whether it was helping you manage your anxiety or providing physical assistance on tough days, Bailey was always by your side. Max had accepted her instantly, treating her like family from the very beginning.

But not everyone was so kind.The latest storm of negativity had started after you attended a recent Formula 1 event with Max. The cameras had captured you and Bailey by his side as you walked through the paddock together, and while most fans were supportive, a loud minority had taken it upon themselves to criticize you.

“She’s so desperate for attention. Why bring that dog everywhere?”

“She looks fine to me. What does she even need a service dog for?”

“Max could do so much better. She’s embarrassing him.”

The comments spiraled from there, turning into an avalanche of baseless accusations and unwarranted cruelty. You’d tried to avoid reading them, but curiosity—or maybe a self-destructive streak—got the better of you. By the time you closed your phone, the words felt like they were etched into your skin, impossible to forget.

You spent the rest of the day on the couch, Bailey’s head resting on your lap as if she could sense your distress. You stroked her soft fur absentmindedly, the repetitive motion soothing your frayed nerves.

When Max came home from the gym, he immediately noticed something was wrong.

“Hey, liefje,” he greeted, dropping his gym bag by the door. His usual smile faltered when he saw the look on your face. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a weak smile. “Just tired.”

Max’s brows furrowed, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides. Sitting down beside you, he gently tilted your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him.

“Don’t do that,” he said softly. “Don’t pretend. Talk to me.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you hesitated. You didn’t want to burden him with your insecurities, but Max’s concerned gaze broke down your walls.

“It’s the fans,” you admitted finally, your voice trembling. “They’re saying horrible things about me. About Bailey. They think I’m using her for attention or that I don’t really need her. And they’re saying I’m embarrassing you.”

Max’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he listened. “Who’s saying that?”

“Just… people online,” you said, shrugging weakly. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t let it get to me, but…”

“It’s not stupid,” Max said firmly. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close as you broke down against his chest. His hand stroked your hair, his voice a low, soothing murmur. “It’s not stupid at all. People don’t understand, and instead of trying to, they judge. It’s cruel, and it’s wrong. But you are not embarrassing me. Not ever.”

His words were a balm to your wounded heart, but the pain lingered. “I just wish they’d stop,” you whispered.

“They will,” Max said, his tone carrying a determination that made you pull back to look at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m going to say something,” he replied, grabbing his phone.

“Max, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he interrupted, his blue eyes blazing with conviction. “I’m not going to sit by and let people talk about you like that. You’re my girlfriend. You’re the strongest person I know, and Bailey is amazing. They need to know that.”

Before you could protest, Max opened Instagram and began typing. You watched as his fingers flew across the screen, his expression resolute.

A few minutes later, he showed you the post.

The photo was one of you and Bailey at the paddock, smiling at each other while Max stood beside you, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders. The caption read:

“This is Y/n and her service dog, Bailey. Bailey isn’t just a dog; she’s a trained professional who helps my girlfriend manage things you don’t see. If you think you have the right to judge her for needing Bailey, think again. Kindness is free. Maybe try using it. And to the majority of you who support us—thank you. Your love doesn’t go unnoticed.”

He hit “Post” before you could say anything, setting his phone aside and pulling you back into his arms.

“Max, you didn’t have to do that,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

“Yes, I did,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Because I love you. And no one has the right to make you feel like you’re anything less than incredible.”

The post went viral within hours. Fans flooded the comments with messages of support, sharing their own experiences with service dogs and calling out the cruelty of the original comments. Some even apologized, admitting they hadn’t understood before.

As you scrolled through the responses later that evening, tears filled your eyes again—this time from gratitude.

“You didn’t just stand up for me,” you said, looking at Max. “You stood up for everyone who’s ever needed someone like Bailey. Thank you.”

Max smiled, pulling you closer. “You deserve the world, liefje. And I’ll do everything I can to give it to you.”

Bailey barked softly, wagging her tail as if to agree. Max chuckled, ruffling her fur. “Looks like Bailey’s on my side.”

“She always is,” you said with a laugh, feeling lighter than you had in days.

With Max’s arms around you and Bailey by your side, you felt stronger than ever. No amount of negativity could take that away

[thisweknow]

I very much understand your frustration with the "you! are! valid!" Tumblr culture from the mid-2010s, that was something that honestly made me feel so isolated as a teenager. I hated hearing "it gets better!" and watching my life fall further and further apart with everyone telling me that it would all be fine one day. It felt hypocritical. It WAS hypocritical—to tell me my feelings and my experiences were valid and then to just absolutely steamroll me when I expressed my frustrations and fears.

I started to favor the phrase "everything changes" around the time I turned 16. I liked the idea of neutrality, it was something I'd seen as a suggestion relating to body positivity, which I struggle(d) with greatly. The basic premise was that if you couldn't say anything positive, try saying something neutral. Everything changes is neutral. It's not saying it'll get better necessarily, but not that it would be worse, either. It felt like the closest to a truth I could have. What I was dealing with in any given moment wouldn't last forever. Everything changes, my circumstances today are entirely different than my circumstances tomorrow, even if it doesn't always feel like it.

I've let that phrase carry me for years. In the bad moments I remind myself that everything changes, and the world parts that suck won't suck so immediately forever. In the good moments I remind myself that everything changes, and I should hold on to those and savor them for what they are, even if they're peppered in with the worst moments.

It's not to say that I don't remember the bad moments now—I very much do. I can remember a lot of the trauma of my childhood and if I let myself sit with it for too long I can feel what it was like to sit awake at 3 AM sobbing in my room wishing that I was no longer here. I don't think I will ever truly forget that. I can say that those parts aren't the part on my mind anymore. When I look back at my life I tend to look with rose colored glasses at the parts that were good. The moments I spent with my friends, the nights I'd sneak out to ride my bike in the peace and silence of the small town I lived in, the rehearsals for plays that I dreaded going to but loved being in, the way my dog would curl up at my feet and sleep there all night when I was sad—the list goes on. The bad parts are still very much remembered and acknowledged, but the good parts are the ones I think about and the ones I miss.

I know that I struggled for a long time with feeling guilty about having moments I looked back on that I didn't hate. This was especially true after leaving an abusive relationship. I knew the person I had left had been abusive and had done horrible things to me, that I had sustained damages that I wasn't sure I could recover from. Yet I still had moments I looked back on fondly. Moments where I had genuinely cared for my abuser, moments of sweetness and moments of joy, moments of calm and peace that I hadn't had with anyone else. I felt like looking at those moments somewhat fondly cheapened my experiences, as if it was somehow an admission of fraud to acknowledge that even the worst thing that had ever happened to me had its silver linings. It took years of therapy and dedicated self work to finally understand that abuse doesn't happen in a vacuum and that it's okay to miss those good moments, however many there might be, even when we know the overall situation was awful.

It's okay to savor the good things when they come your way. A journal entry from when I was about 17 sums it up really well: I don't want to be happy all of the time. If I was happy all of the time I wouldn't really feel happy anymore, would I? It would just be my normal, my neutral. I want to feel positive at least 75% of the time, that's my goal. I want to feel sad sometimes, too. I want to feel angry and hurt, I want to feel excited and happy and in love, too. I want to experience every emotion life has to offer, even the sucky ones. I don't think I would appreciate happiness if I didn't experience everything else, yknow?

btw you will miss this in 5 or 10 years. memory will smooth these circumstances down like a river stone, and you will find yourself longing for a shade of light or a moment of this particular innocence. you don't know about what happens next, and one day that will be the most alluring thing of all. don't leave it all for nostalgia. have a nice night now, whatever night it happens to be.

[bujlililu]

Day 8: yearning

[tldrthor]

five more minutes | steve rogers

Summary: Steve marvels at his sleepy girl // established relationship fluff, fem!reader, no use of (y/n) // word count: 1k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

Steve Rogers had never been a man who slept easily. It hadn’t been that way since he was a baby, keeping his poor mother awake through all hours of the night. As he grew, sleep never came easily — too many battles, too many scars, and the weight of the world on his shoulders from the moment he learned that to exist was to fight.

These days, the losses of everyone and everything pressed on him like a boulder, something he could never outrun. No, to sleep was to confront — and Steve had done enough confronting for a lifetime.

Most of his fellow Avengers knew the sting of restless nights. They understood that sleep, with its blank slate, was a risky thing — a place where the cruelest parts of their minds could take hold. Steve’s dreams were never kind. He often dreamed of Bucky falling from the train, of his mother lying on her deathbed, or of you — you, lying in a pool of crimson blood.

He flinched as that particular memory resurfaced. The day he thought he’d lose you. His eyes flicked to your sleeping form, cocooned in the duvet like a hibernating creature. Sometimes, he wondered if this was all real or if it was just a dream — a dream he was overdue to wake from.

You were so serene, so untouched by the world’s cruelty. It struck him again, how remarkable it was that after all you’d been through, sleep was still a sanctuary for you. He felt a pang of envy. You were able to rest in ways he couldn’t. Your face was peaceful, your breath slow and steady, while his thoughts raced like an out-of-control train.

Watching you fall asleep each night was like witnessing a miracle. You had this routine, a rhythm he had come to cherish. It was small, simple things — filling your water bottle, turning off the lights, and whispering “I love you, sleep well” before you sank into the comforting embrace of the night.

You had once asked him, “Does it bother you that I sleep so much when you don’t? Do you wish I joined you in the early hours of the morning?”

Even now, that question made him smile. He remembered you, stumbling out of bed hours after him, his oversized pajamas swallowing you whole. It made his chest swell with pride — this little thing with messy hair and a habit of stealing his clothes was his. He got to be there with you, cradling you while you slept, listening to your soft snores.

He could still feel the gentle pressure of his hands on your sleepy face, rubbing the exhaustion from your barely open eyes. He’d kissed the top of your messy hair, holding you close as he whispered, “I love you as you are, my sleepy girl.”

He was the luckiest man alive, and he knew it.

But sometimes, when the sun was just starting to rise, and he had to wake you up, that luck felt like a curse. He couldn’t help it. You were so peaceful, so content in your little cocoon of warmth and softness. The moment he dared disturb that tranquility, you became a beast to tame — his beast, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed. His fingers gently stroked your hair, watching you stir. “It’s time to wake up. We’ve got training in an hour.”

A soft, incoherent noise escaped you as you buried your face deeper into the pillow. “Five more minutes…”

He couldn’t help but laugh. Same script, same lines. “Angel,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’ve already had five more minutes than I should’ve given you.”

You leaned into his touch but didn’t open your eyes.

“I don’t want to go,” you groaned, wrapping yourself tighter in the duvet.

He sighed but grinned, moving to open the blinds. Sunlight poured into the room, bathing the bed in a warm, golden glow. You, of course, immediately buried your face deeper into the covers, a little mound of resistance.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed, gently pulling the duvet away from your eyes. “Come on, sweet girl. You know you have to get up.”

And then — the bargain. He saw it coming a mile away, heard the seductive lull of your voice as it lured him in.

“Come back to bed,” you coaxed, your voice thick with sleep. “We can cuddle.”

Damn you.

“Can’t, baby. You know how much I’d love to,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice strong as he planted soft kisses on your forehead, your temple, your cheek. “Come on, time to get up.”

A dramatic sigh came from beneath the covers. “You’re so mean.”

Ah, the anger phase. His least favourite.

“I know, sleepy girl,” he replied in a mock-somber tone, unable to resist the playful tease. “Open those pretty eyes for me. Let me see them.”

One eye cracked open, barely a slit. Success. “There she is.”

Before he could celebrate, that eye shut again. Of course. He checked the time—training was fast approaching, and he had promised you he’d give you enough time to get ready. But what could he do? The sleepy beauty before him was winning the fight — again.

He checked his phone, his impulsive fingers moving quicker than his rational, captain brain could stop them -- a quick text to Sam and an instant response:

Can you cover training this morning?

Sure thing. I’ll put them through their paces ;)

With a satisfied smile, Steve kicked off his boots and climbed over you, slipping back under the covers. You stirred slightly, one eye cracking open to assess the disruption.

“What doing?” you mumbled groggily.

“Shh, my sleepy girl,” he whispered, fitting himself into your warm space. You immediately relaxed, a grin spreading across your face at your unexpected victory. He pressed a kiss to your neck, pulling you closer. “Just five more minutes.”

This fic came to me suddenly even though it wasn't on my radar at all! Hope you all enjoy. Reminder you can join my taglist via the google form here <3

Masterlist

[hungermakesmonsters]

The Red Ribbon

Chapter Three

Plot Summary : By day you’re Billy Russo’s clumsy PA, but by night you’re a host at New York City’s most exclusive gentlemen's club. At The Red Ribbon everyone is anonymous and masks conceal the identities of patrons and hosts alike. But your two lives are about to collide and Billy Russo is about to see a whole new side of you without even realising it..

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R 

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Smutty behaviour. All chapters will deal with smutty themes and include mentions/suggestions of sex work/work at a gentlemen's club (don't like, don't read). Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 6.2k

A/N : I lied, this is definitely going to need 4 chapters. Also... sorry not sorry...

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO

Master List

Chapter Three

You felt like something had been taken from you, cruelly snatched away, and you felt its loss so acutely that the pain manifested itself as a physical ache in your chest. You felt bereft, like he’d reached into your chest, scooped out your heart with his bare hands and left a gaping hole in its place.

And that empty feeling had only grown with every step you took away from the ice rink. From him.

How and why you’d allowed yourself to care so much about a masked man, a fiction you’d only met twice, you didn’t know, but the loss of that idealised fantasy had an uncharacteristic rage simmering inside you.

How dare he.

How dare he do that to you.

How dare he make you feel something for him.

He’d almost made you -

- what?

As quick as the rage had started to burn inside you, it fizzled out and you deflated. You were blowing things out of proportion, assigning blame to things that were no one's fault. You’d told him yourself that it wasn’t real, so why were you now allowing yourself to grieve its loss as if it was?

You’d demanded that your mask stayed in place while he’d been the one to want to end the charade and turn it into something terrifyingly real.

It wasn’t some deliberate action of a spiteful man, he hadn’t done it to hurt you. He’d done it to know you.

Ultimately, you’d pretended and played make-belief just as much as he had, and you only had yourself to blame for the results.

Cold wind stung your eyes as you blinked back tears all the way back to your apartment. You hated that you knew and wished that you could turn back time and unsee it all. Ignorance had been bliss and, now, every memory of him felt tainted and wrong. Part of you even started to wonder if you could ignore it, pretend that you didn’t know, so you could have just one more night in his arms, seeing him smile and hearing his laugh.

But that was impossible. There was no pretending, no getting over the awkward knotting in your stomach when you remembered every sharp word and irritated look that he’d shot you while working at Anvil.

Still, you couldn’t help but grieve the loss of connection as you curled up in bed, hating that it was him or all people who’d managed to make you feel so happy, so wanted.

For the longest time you avoided the obvious question, not wanting to even think about it.

Why had he been at the ice rink in the first place?

It was simple; he’d been looking for you.

No, he’d been looking for Bunny.

He’d tried to find Bunny, despite everything you’d told him about your connection having an expiry date and everything you’d said to maintain a professional distance from him. He’d gone looking for you in the real world - why? Because he wanted something real.

You replayed it all, over and over, wondering how you’d been so blind and hating yourself for not being more careful. You weren’t supposed to feel any of it, you weren’t supposed to feel anything at all for him. He was a customer - a customer you’d only dealt with twice at that.

You felt like a stupid teenager mourning a crush but, no matter how you tried to rationalise it, there was no stopping the ache in your chest.

Even now, knowing who he really was beneath the mask, you felt something.

What, exactly, you weren’t sure, but if felt it could have become something more, something special.

And now it was gone.

As you choked back awkward sobs, you found yourself stuck on another infuriating question; which version of Billy was the real one? Was he the man who didn’t seem to care if he hurt your feelings, or was the man who’d been concerned for your wellbeing when he found out that you’d changed your limits at The Red Ribbon?

Eventually, you finally managed to fall into a fitful and restless sleep, that left you feeling exhausted when your alarm woke you a few hours later.

You had to force yourself to get out of bed and face the day, not knowing how you were going to deal with seeing him again.

But Mr Russo was nowhere to be seen when you reached your desk on the top floor of the Anvil building. The light in his office was on but, even after you’d been sitting at your desk for over an hour, you still hadn’t seen him.

The longer you sat, the worse you felt. Your mind started to race, imagining all kinds of terrible scenarios where he’d figured out that you were Bunny, and how he was just waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate and fire you.

More than once you started to draft a resignation email, wanting to beat him to the punch and be out of there until whatever cruel revenge he had planned started to unfold. But you couldn’t bring yourself to hit send, feeling sick at knowing just how much you needed the money.

Eventually, the waiting became too much to bear and you decided to take the initiative, leaving your desk and going to get him his morning coffee, not wanting to risk being yelled at for not following his usual schedule. When you got back from Starbucks, he was still holed up in his office and it didn’t seem like he’d left.

You knocked on his door, lightly at first and, when that didn’t get a response, again a little louder.

You expect to hear some barked and exasperated order, instead you got something else entirely.

“What?” 

It was soft, barely audible, so much so that when you started to open the door, you half-expected to be screamed at for just barging in. 

At the sight of him, you faltered, almost tripping over your own feet but managing to save yourself at the last second; he was sitting with his elbows braced on the desk and his head in his hands. Something swelled inside you, some feeling that you knew that you shouldn’t be having, something wrong given the circumstance. Something of Bunny bleeding into your real life and making you ache for the man in front of you.

“Mr Russo?” You asked softly, your voice trembling, scared you might give yourself away with just those two little words and the concern they carried.

And when he looked up - fuck, you wondered how you’d never noticed how tired he always looked, like he was carring the weight of the world on his shoulders. Seeing him made you think of every other time you’d seen him looking exhausted and drained, but had chosen to ignore it because he was being an asshole to you. But you couldn’t ignore it anymore. Not when you knew there was a softer side to him lurking just beneath the surface.

“Yes?” He asked, his tone betraying him even more than his appearance. 

For a few seconds all you could do was stare at him, looking into those dark and tired eyes, searching for a flicker of recognition. And there was nothing.

He still had no idea that you were Bunny.

It took a few moments to remember the coffee cup that was gripped tightly in your hand (the same hand that, less than forty-eight hours ago, had been wrapped around his cock, pulling the sweetest moans from his lips).

“I - I have your morning coffee,” you said, managing to swallow the lump in your throat as you stepped forwards.

The tired look of confusion on his face had your gaze dropping to his desk, feeling like you were seeing too much, seeing things he didn’t want to share. His desk was in the same state as he was; messy. As you placed the cup down, you scanned the papers strewn across the desk; financial documents and mission reports, some highlighted, others plastered with post-its and scrawled handwriting. 

And, when you stepped back, you noticed the thin blanket draped over the sofa in the corner of the office. 

He’d slept there.

Or, not slept there, as the dark circles under his eyes seemed to suggest. 

“Thank you,” he muttered, dispondantly, barely raising his eyes to look at you.

You took another step back, an uncomfortable sense of shame filling you. You knew that you weren’t supposed to see him like this, obviously struggling with something, while you held some secret knowledge over him. It felt like an invasion of his privacy, an even greater breach of his trust.

“Is -” you started, then hesitated, “- is everything okay, Mr Russo?”

As he finally looked up, you found yourself flinching, bracing for some cutting remark about minding your own damn business or  I don’t pay you to ask questions, but it never came.

“Everything’s fine.”

And that was that.

Billy Russo might have been a lot of things - very confusing things - but a world-class liar, he was not.

His attention dropped back to his desk, not even bothering to reach for the fresh, hot coffee in front of him, and you found yourself lingering, not wanting to leave. Actually, you wanted to move closer, wanting to wrap your arms around him and hold him. 

At that moment, you didn’t see Billy Russo, your boss, you saw Tall, Dark and Handsome, the man who’d made you feel seen, the man who’d made you laugh. You saw a man who needed comfort, and it made your heart ache that you couldn’t give him it.

“You can take the rest of the day,” he said when he realised you were still standing there, assuming that you were waiting for him to give you some work to do. “I won’t be needing you today.”

“But it’s only 10:30 -” you started to protest, not wanting to be sent away.

“I said I won’t be needing you.”

Even that sounded hollow, like he couldn’t muster his usual sharpness. He didn’t even look at you as you, finally, started to move back towards the door.

“Yes, Mr Russo,” you answered, making sure to softly close his office door behind you.

You grabbed your things quickly, your mind racing as you left the building. He’d never sent you home early before - hell, most days you were lucky if he even let you finish on time. If you hadn't gone for his coffee, would he have left you at your desk all day with nothing to do?

And why had he been sleeping in his office?

As much as you found yourself flitting between hating him for being an asshole and longing for the man you knew he could be, you would have welcomed his cold and cutting tone over whatever that had been in his office.

More than once on your way home, you found yourself slowing, glancing back over your shoulder and considering returning to the office to confront him, to comfort him, to tell him everything just so you didn’t have to contend with all of the unsettling what-ifs in your head anymore. Seeing another, unknown version of him was just too much for you to handle, and you wanted desperately to find a way to make sense of it all.

For the rest of the day, you were an anxious mess. You felt like you were waiting for something to happen but you didn’t know what. Not once did your phone ring or buzz with a demanding message from him, nor did any email notifications appear. 

He really didn’t need you.

The man who wouldn’t even walk across the street for his own Starbucks order most days, didn’t need you.

And, of course, that led you to darker thoughts; without you there, what was he going to do for lunch? Was he even going to eat? Should you order something for him and have it delivered should you -

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck. 

You were left worrying about a grown man who, you assumed, could take care of himself. (But, just because he could take care of himself, didn’t mean that he was taking care of himself.)

All the conflicting feelings inside you made you feel like you couldn’t even be certain what you were feeling anymore. It made you feel sick to your stomach knowing that there was really no way out of it.

You could tell him the truth and destroy your own life, or you could continue to lie to him and struggle to deal with the tsunami of emotions he inspired inside of you, and neither option was particularly appealing.

And if you continued the lie? He’d keep coming to see you at The Red Ribbon, until you found a way of stopping him and - well, that just presented more challenges.

Lost in thought, you also lost track of time, spending the whole day fretting until it was time to have dinner and race across town to get to The Red Ribbon in time for your shift to start. You changed quickly, storing your things in your locker, stopping by the mirror to make sure you were presentable and didn’t look as awful as you felt. Then you headed to the board, hoping that you’d have something good to distract you for a few hours, a bachelor party, a large group, something.

But it was all just wishful thinking.

There, beside your name in brackets, were those two little words again; by request.

He wanted to see you again. Already.

You wanted to refuse, to come up with some excuse why you couldn’t see that customer again so Val would send someone else in your place. But you couldn’t. You knew that you had to see him again, had to finally figure out just what the fuck was going on and what you were going to do about it, even if it meant coming clean and putting an end to everything.

He deserved that much, didn’t he?

But, once he knew, you were certain he’d give up on you, he’d give up on the fiction that you’d both had a hand in creating. Then you’d lose your job at Anvil and, as much as the thought stung, the more resigned you became to it. No matter what happened tonight, you were already starting to realise that you couldn’t continue working for him.

Your fingers trembled as you pulled on your mask and tied the red ribbon around your neck, the soft fabric feeling more like a noose just waiting to tighten.

You tried to force your anxiety away, to become Bunny and exude her confidence, but the spring in your step was gone and, for the first time since starting to work at The Red Ribbon, you felt an uncomfortable and roiling nervousness in the pit of your stomach. You shrugged it off when Rocky questioned you unusually reserved demeanour, telling him that you were just feeling a little tired.

And you hated that you were having to lie to someone you considered a friend just to get through it all.

Once you were in the private room, you started to pace, doing none of your usual checks, not caring that the cushions on the sofa were askew or even making sure that the bar was stocked. You just paced, trying to ignore your racing heart and the weight on your chest, all the while rehearsing what you might say to him if you could bring yourself to come clean.

I didn’t realise it was you until after I gave you the handjob. I wouldn’t’ve flirted if I knew it was you. I didn’t do it on purpose. I know you’re disappointed that it’s me. You’re the last person I wanted to know that I work here. Of course none of it was real and, even if it was, it doesn’t mean anything now.

If you weren’t such an asshole, maybe we -

The door opened, cutting off that line of thought before it spiralled too far out of control.

You turned to face him, the first syllable of your confession dying on your lips the moment you saw the state he was in.

Even with the mask, you could see the way that exhaustion clung to his features, the dark circles beneath his eyes looking even more pronounced than they had that morning. His shirt was creased beneath his tailored suit jacket, the top button open and his tie pulled loose, causing his collar to sit awkwardly. If there was one thing you knew - one thing anyone who knew him knew - it was that Billy Russo was a man who cared about appearances, so seeing him so dishevelled had your stomach knotting with concern.

Before you could think to say anything or even step forwards, he’d cleared the distance between you and had taken your face in his hands, urging your head up so he could kiss you.

And - oh, how easy it was to lose yourself in his kiss, to lose yourself in the way that he made you feel wanted.

Your arm wrapped around his waist of its own accord, holding him against you - not that he had any intention of pulling away from you. His tongue eagerly, desperately, ran along the seam of your lips and you parted for him, giving him what he needed. A soft whimper slipped from you at the taste of his lips and tongue, helping you forget all about being anything but his Bunny for the moment.

When the kiss finally broke, he didn’t pull back or pull away, instead he buried his face against your neck and held you tighter, hiding from the world.

The seconds started to tick by and... nothing.

He just held you. Saying nothing, doing nothing.

After a couple of minutes had passed, you cautiously lifted your head and ran your fingers through the back of his hair. He shuddered against you, holding you tighter, but not moving, not speaking.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

And it wasn’t the kind of wrong that you’d expected, the kind of wrong that came from him knowing the truth about you.

He was upset.

You weren’t sure why it bothered you, why it caused the knots in your stomach to pull tighter. Given the number of times he’d upset you over the last few months, you should have found some sick satisfaction in it, but there was nothing but worry and heartache to be found.

Another minute passed, tenderly stroking his hair, hoping he’d snap out of whatever was bothering him but he didn't and you were forced to take action.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, forcing yourself to speak in Bunny’s calm, reassuring voice.

He shook his head but continued to hide from you, and you quickly got the impression that he’d remain like that for the rest of the night if you let him. And, some part of you wanted to let him. If holding him was bringing him some much needed comfort, then you didn’t want to pull away. 

But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing between the pair of you was that simple.

“Hey,” you tried again, “what’s going on?”

His chest shuddered as he took an awkward breath. “Everything's fucked up.”

“Everything? What's everything?” You asked, desperate to understand what was happening in front of you.

You felt him huff another breath, his arm continuing to tighten around you to an almost uncomfortable degree. 

“My life... everything I’ve worked for...” he muttered despondently, “I could lose it all...”

There was a weight to his words that made your stomach coil tighter still. His life, what he’d worked for, surely that meant Anvil. And if he was faced with losing Anvil... well, that would certainly explain his behaviour around the office lately.

Again, it felt wrong, like you were learning things that you had no right to know, things he wouldn’t tell you if he knew the truth of who you were. But the way he was holding you left you feeling conflicted; he trusted Bunny with this information and wasn’t Bunny just a part of you?

“Come on,” you finally muttered, managing to pull back from him a little, “let’s sit down and have a drink, yeah?” 

He looked at you, his dark eyes catching on yours and, for a split-second, you were sure you caught a spark of recognition in his eyes. Dread filled you but amounted to nothing. You pulled away finally, ushering him towards the sofa while you headed to grab him a generously sized glass of scotch from the bar, hoping that a drink might settle him a little.

All the while, you could feel his gaze on you, like he was scared you’d vanish if he dared to look away even for a second. At any other time you might have basked in the feeling but, right then, it just made you feel worse.

Forcing a gentle smile, you headed back to him, taking a seat beside him, letting your leg rest against his as you handed him the glass. But he didn’t drink, he just stared at it for a few seconds before letting another sigh slip out.

“When was the last time you slept?” You asked, remembering that you’d asked him the same thing only a couple of nights ago.

And you remembered his answer.

It had been a rough couple of months.

Months. Perhaps even longer than you’d been working for Anvil.

“I don’t know,” he answered, finally taking a small sip of scotch. “I can’t sleep. Can’t rest. It’s like... like there’s a weight on my chest, something pushing down...”

“That sounds like anxiety.”

And you should know. Out in the real world you’d always been anxious - though for the longest time you’d been told you were just shy, that you’d grow out of worrying and assuming that the very worst was about to happen, and that you’d learn to put yourself out there more. But then something bad had happened and, for the longest time, it seemed to confirm all of your worst fears about yourself.

But this moment wasn’t about you.

“Anxiety?” He repeated, huffing as he shook his head. “No, that’s - that’s not me. I used to be a Marine. A sniper for fucks sakes. We don’t get anxious.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” you said softly, knowing that at least that was true, but Billy shook his head again. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Maybe it’d help to get it off your chest?”

With every moment that passed, you were digging yourself a deeper hole, putting yourself in a position you’d never be able to escape from, saying and doing things that would only make your deception seem worse when it was finally discovered.

Regardless, in an attempt to soothe him, you placed a hand on the back of his neck and started to play with the strands of hair at his nape. Billy leaned into your touch and let his eyes fall shut for a few seconds, allowing himself to almost relax.

“I never had anything,” he said quietly. “Had to fight for everything I ever got. Joined the Marines the moment I graduated high school, fought my way up to lieutenant, left with an honourable discharge. Everything I’ve ever done, I did it on my own.”

You listened intently, not sure how his past tied into his current problems, but you wanted to know because it was him, because you wanted to know him.

“I got the idea to start my company not long after I got back to New York, but everything I’d done, it - it didn’t count for anything to the banks. No one wanted to give me a loan, and I had no family to ask for help.”

He paused to take a drink, obviously putting off the next part of the story.

“There was this... guy. I met him while I was serving in Afghanistan, and he offered to front the cash I needed. Told me he’d just be a silent partner, that I’d do all the hard work and he’d get a cut of the profit.”

As he spoke, you continued to brush your fingers over the nape of his neck, trying to get him to relax a little.

“He lied to me, he -” he gave an angry huff, “- he’s been using my company to move drugs from the Middle East to the States, and he’s been laundering the money through the company accounts. I’ve suspected it for months now, but I finally put it all together last night...”

Fuck. That explained the documents you’d seen on his desk that morning and the fact that he’d slept in his office.

“The one time in my life I let someone help and...”

You felt tension fill his body and you felt so useless, so helpless. If what he was saying was true - and, honestly, you had no reason to doubt him - then everything finally made sense. It didn’t make up for the way he’d treated you, but the stress of going through all of that had to be taking its toll on him.

“I have over a hundred people working for me,” he continued, his voice an awkward mixture of anger and something else that you couldn’t quite pin down. Pain, you supposed. “I don’t know how many of them I can even trust. And if it comes out that this has happened, they could all lose their jobs, just because I was too fucking stupid to realise what was going on right under my nose.”

You didn’t expect the worry in his voice, the genuine care he seemed to have for the people who worked for him, because it was something you’d never seen or experienced before. But you were starting to realise that maybe it was because, in the few months you’d worked for him, he’d been struggling with all of this.

“You’re not stupid,” you told him firmly.

All you got was a grunt in response before he lifted his glass to his lips and drained it in one. 

“You’re not,” you told him again.

When he still didn’t respond, you took his empty glass and deposited it on the table. Then, in an act of absolute insanity, you straddled his lap and took his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

Your thumbs caressed his cheeks over the stubble that lined his jaw, and you allowed yourself to slowly drown in his dark eyes. Your expression softened and your heart stuttered, finally realising the one thing you’d been desperate to ignore; you didn’t want this to end.

“You. Are. Not. Stupid.” You repeated slowly, emphatically, still holding his gaze.

While there were lots of things you could say about him - several of which you had said about him beneath your breath over the last few months - you’d sat through enough meetings with him to know that Billy Russo was anything but stupid.

“Then how did this happen?” He asked. “How did I let this happen?”

Of course, you didn’t have an answer for him, but you didn’t let him look away. Your chest ached for him, hating that this was how you were learning about what he’d been struggling with. If you’d known sooner, if he’d trusted you with it at Anvil, maybe you could have helped him shoulder the burden, maybe you would have been more understanding when he’d been an asshole to you.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, “but I can tell that this isn’t what you wanted to happen and that you would have stopped it if you’d known.”

If only because he cared about his company, about the thing he’d built from scratch.

He didn’t answer, seeming to want to slip back into silence, but you weren’t going to let him.

“Why are you here?” You asked softly. “Shouldn’t you be trying to... I dunno, fix things?”

“I’ve been trying, I’ve got a friend - a lawyer - looking into it. I just -” he sighed, “- I wanted to see you. I know it sounds crazy and I barely know you, but when I’m with you, I don’t feel like my whole life is falling apart.”

You didn’t even notice his hand move, you were too caught up in the dark depths of his eyes to realise until it was pressed between your breasts, over your racing heart. For a moment he seemed to consider the way your heart was pounding and, then, realised that he was the cause.

“I don’t know why or how, but I feel like I can trust you, Bunny. You make everything feel better...” he said, a soft almost shy confession. “Even with the mask I - I feel like you see me better than anyone...”

Your chest shuddered, lungs refusing to draw breath in case he moved his hand away.

It was so fucked up but again - and again, and again, and again - you wanted so desperately to believe him. You ached for him to want you, to trust you, even though you knew that you didn’t deserve it and that it would all fall apart the moment he found out who you were.

You needed to tell him, but everything was already too far out of control. You wanted him to know, wanting him to choose you, but you knew that it was impossible. He wanted Bunny and Bunny was only a part of you, a tiny insignificant little part.

There was no telling who closed the distance, all you knew for certain was that his lips found yours again and forced aside any thought that wasn’t wanton, selfish or carnal in nature. He’d let you see so much of himself tonight, let you see that he was even more than you ever thought he was and, greedily, you only wanted more.

“Bunny,” he groaned against your lips.

It was almost enough to undo you just hearing the desperation and need in his voice.

A soft moan spilled from your mouth and into his as his hand slipped down your body, reaching between your thighs. You tensed as you felt the fabric of your body suit and panties pulled aside, but you didn’t break from the kiss, didn’t try to stop him.

He wanted you.

In some fucked up way you managed to lie to yourself, managed to convince yourself that he didn’t think you were worthless and useless. 

You were Bunny. 

You could be Bunny, for him.

Fingers, still cold from holding his glass, trailed through your arousal, and you moaned again. Even if you’d wanted to, even if you’d somehow managed to come to your senses, there was no stopping it. You needed his touch more than you needed the air in your lungs.

“Fuck, Bunny,” he muttered, barely pulling back from the kiss, “you’re so wet for me already.”

Heat licked across your cheeks and down your neck and chest, knowing that he was right. And your arousal only became more obvious as he continued to touch you, using his fingers to spread your folds, fingertips teasing at your entrance before moving up to your clit. It wasn’t long before you were trembling and desperate for more.

“Please,” you murmured against his lips, needing more, needing everything.

Your back arched, needily grinding yourself against his hand as a finger breached your walls and sank into you. His other hand wrapped around the back of your neck, keeping you in his kiss.

You felt his lips pull into a smile against yours and it was - fuck, it was incredible to know that you’d been able to make him smile again.

He set a slow pace to begin with, despite the needy shift of your hips, taking his time with you, letting you know that he was in control. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, clinging to him as he continued to kiss you, and continued to steal the last of your sanity. 

This shouldn’t be happening, but you didn’t want it to stop.

A second finger easily slipped into the heat of your body, causing your breath to catch and another eager moan to escape you.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You weren’t sure if you imagined the words, if you were hearing what you wanted to hear in order to convince yourself that this was, somehow, real, but you kissed him more fiercely because of it. 

He paid attention to every little gasp and the way your back arched every time his fingers grazed that sensitive spot inside of you, like he was learning what brought you the most pleasure. You’d never had a man take such an interest in what you needed, and it just pushed you deeper and deeper into denial, telling yourself that you could have your cake and eat it, that Billy never had to know who you really were.

You were Bunny.

You could be anything that he wanted you to be.

“Oh - fuck - god...” you whine as his fingers bent again, your lips tearing from his so you could gasp for breath.

Your head dropped back and you barely noticed his other hand pulling down the front of your body suit until he started to trail kisses down your neck and over the tops of your breasts. When you didn’t complain or make any sign you wanted him to stop, he pulled the fabric down further, revealing your lace strapless bra and popping one of your breasts from its cup.

You gripped his shoulders tighter, your knuckles aching as you held on for dear life, getting closer and closer to the edge. But you didn’t want to go over, you didn’t want the moment to end, so you fought against it, your body clamping tight around his fingers, and biting your lip as his tongue circled your nipple.

It took your last shred of sanity to keep yourself from screaming his name as you lost your battle. You came hard on his fingers, pleasure shooting up your spine, causing you to arch and press your breasts into his face - something that he seemed to appreciate.

His fingers kept moving, kept drawing out your pleasure until you were little more than a writhing mess on his lap.

Finally, you collapsed against him, pressing your face against his neck as you struggled to catch your breath, acutely aware that his fingers were still inside you and he seemed in no rush to change that fact.

“I want you,” he muttered into your ear.

Without thinking, your hand slipped between your bodies and came to rest on the prominent bulge in his pants, but you didn’t give him an answer. 

It was the point of no return - if you fucked him, there would be no getting over it, no moving past what you’d done.

“Please,” he groaned, his free hand covering yours, pressing your hand against his erection, “I need you, Bunny. I want to feel you fall apart while I’m inside you.”

To make his point, he flexed the fingers that were still buried inside the heat of your body, causing you to gasp, still sensitive from your orgasm. His lips pressed against your shoulder, his teeth lightly scraping the skin, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“I want to make you moan for me, Bunny.”

And, try as you might, you couldn’t fight it. You couldn’t be the decent and honest person that he deserved right then. You wanted him too much, and this would be your only chance to have him.

His hand moved a little, dragging your hand over his pants, guiding your touch so you were stroking him. 

“Can you feel how much I want you?” He asked.

“Yes,” you answered breathlessly, finally lifting your head.

Before you could second guess yourself, your lips crashed against his, kissing him hungrily, telling him without words how much you wanted this, wanted him. His fingers started to move again, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

“Tell me you want me,” he muttered against your lips.

“I want you - fuck, I want you.”

Quickly, you found yourself moved, laid out on your back beneath him, his fingers still thrusting in and out of your eager body, sending your arousal through the roof. Your own hands were awkwardly fumbling, undoing his belt and pants so you could get to his cock and finally feel him again.

His lips roamed your face and neck, seeming to worship you with every press of his lips. 

He groaned as your fingers wrapped around his cock and started to stroke him, wanting to give him some small taste of the pleasure he was giving you.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

It was everything and nothing all rolled into one.

His thumb pressed against your throbbing clit as he drove his fingers into you, and it was all over.

“Mr Russo!” you cried out as you came again, your body arching and shaking beneath him, only for your pleasure to crash and burn around you when you realised what you’d done, what you’d said.

“What the fuck?”

You couldn’t tell if he was shocked, angry, or some other third thing, but you were too frozen by panic to even think about stopping him as he reached for your mask, revealing not only your face but your lies as well.

A/N : Look... I know at this point no one is going to believe me, but it genuinely wasn't my intention to end this on an even worse cliffhanger than last time 😅 because I got carried away with the angst it got so long that I couldn't finish the plot in this chapter, so the final part will be out next week (or sometime between friday and monday, depending on how my week goes). Anyway, I'm loving how much everyone seems to be enjoying this and all your comments and reblogs have been an absolute joy to read, so thank you so much. And thanks for all the get well soon messages, I'm finally feeling back to normal now (the flu is awful i s2g).

Either later tonight or sometime tomorrow I'll be putting up a poll so you can all vote on my next Billy fic, I'll also probably mention a little something about the Bucky thing I'm planning next and throw around a few other random ideas because new year, new head full of ideas I desperately need to empty out 😂

Edit : the poll is here!!!

Hope you all have a great week!

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Tag List : @lincerad @xxxsweetcarolinexxx @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @dreadfulxives18 @shwnirwin

@ladyblacky @spitecrow @oliviaewl @snowkestrel @theendofthematerialgworl

@super-clearlysaltybouquet @danzer8705 @benbarnesprettygurl

[killerelysia]

Bro Luna's one of my fav OCs I wanted to write something for her. I legit love the OC please, Plus their art is chef's kiss! Do I need to say more?

Before the Disaster... (The kid at the back) Crowe x OC! (Not Sol, Sorry)

(The OC belongs to @kazueisaloser)

Happy belated birthday to Luna (Please give her a happy ending, Oh creator)

It was always another day.

Luna sat at her usual spot her eyes fixed on the horizon. The sunset painted the sky in breathtaking strokes of gold and crimson, but she felt none of its warmth. To her, it was just another sunset, another reminder that beauty existed in the world—just not in her.

Her fingers absentmindedly tugged at the hem of her oversized sweater, one that hung loose enough to hide everything she hated about herself. She didn’t even know why she wore it anymore; nothing ever seemed to help. Her reflection in the glass caught her eye, and her stomach twisted. The faint outline of her face felt like an accusation, like it was mocking her.

Her heart sank as a familiar wave of self-loathing began to creep in.

"Why can’t I just… look normal?" she thought bitterly, her nails digging into her palm. Her reflection stayed silent, staring back with empty, striking blue eyes that she could never bring herself to like. People often told her how beautiful they were, how beautiful she was, but the words fell flat. They didn’t see what she saw. They didn’t have to live in her skin.

The compliments always felt like lies, cruel little reminders of a world that refused to understand. Even when her friends laughed and joked with her, even when strangers turned their heads to admire her, Luna could only see flaws—glaring imperfections she couldn’t escape.

The sun dipped lower, and shadows began to spill into the room.

She let out a shaky sigh, resting her forehead against her knees. The room felt so cold, so unbearably quiet, save for the muted hum of her thoughts echoing louder than she could handle. She wanted to scream, to shatter the silence and tear apart the version of herself she couldn’t escape.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Instead, Luna stayed there, She clenched her fists tighter, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. She hated this—hated herself. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stop comparing herself to everyone else, couldn’t stop wishing she could tear herself apart and rebuild someone better. Someone worthy.

"Why can’t I be enough?"

The thought hit her like a punch to the chest, stealing what little air she had left. Her breathing hitched, and before she knew it, silent tears had begun to fall. They streaked down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting, like they’d been waiting all day for this moment to spill out.

And yet, even in her lowest moments, she bit her lip and swallowed her cries,

Determined to wear her soft smile again tomorrow.

After all, it was what everyone expected.

Crowe stood a short distance away, staring down at the bouquet of roses in his hands. The soft rustle of the petals as the evening breeze passed through them reminded him of her—delicate, beautiful, and entirely unaware of her own brilliance. The note, folded neatly between his fingers, felt heavier than it should have, its simple words carrying the weight of his unspoken feelings.

He sighed, glancing upward to the sky, where the faintest stars were beginning to dot the deepening blue. He had spent hours staring at them the night before, hoping for some kind of clarity. And then it hit him: the brightest, prettiest star wasn’t in the sky.

It had always been her.

Luna.

Crowe adjusted the collar of his shirt, brushing back a few loose strands of his dark hair. He wasn’t one for nerves, but this—this was different. For all his confidence, his charisma, he now felt like a lost boy, desperately hoping the roses would somehow speak the words his heart couldn’t seem to say.

He took a step forward, his polished shoes crunching softly against the gravel pathway outside the campus. He knew where she’d be—she always went there when the day felt too heavy, sitting quietly in her little corner to watch the sun sink beneath the horizon.

And there she was, just as he’d imagined.

Luna sat in her usual spot, her silhouette bathed in the golden glow of the fading sunlight. Her chin rested on her knees, and though her expression was soft, there was something undeniably sad about her. Crowe’s chest tightened at the sight, but it only strengthened his resolve.

He couldn’t keep pretending. Not anymore.

Drawing a steadying breath, he stepped onto the path that led to her. With each stride, his heartbeat thundered louder in his ears, drowning out everything but the thought of her—her shy smile, her quiet laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about the things she loved.

The distance closed between them, Crowe’s grip on the roses tightened. The note crinkled slightly under his fingers, but he didn’t care.

This time, he wouldn’t hold back.

This time, he would tell her.

Crowe walked toward her.

Crowe crept quietly behind Luna, his steps soft against the gravel path. His heart raced, not from the fear of startling her, but from the weight of the moment he had planned. As he reached her, he hesitated for just a second, his free hand clutching the hidden roses and the note tightly behind his back.

With a mischievous grin, he leaned in closer. “Boo,” he whispered softly near her ear.

Luna yelped, her body jerking slightly in surprise before she turned to see him. Her startled expression quickly melted into a sweet, familiar smile, one that tugged at something deep inside Crowe’s chest.

“Crowe,” she said warmly, her voice soft as her hand instinctively went to her chest, calming her racing heart.

Crowe chuckled, his grin widening. “Caught you off guard, huh?”

She playfully rolled her eyes but said nothing more, her gaze flickering back to the horizon where the last rays of sunlight were spilling over the earth. Crowe, still holding the bouquet and note behind him, moved to sit beside her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world seemed to shrink around them, the golden glow of the sunset cocooning them in a peaceful silence. Crowe finally broke it, his voice quieter than usual.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the horizon, though he glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

Luna nodded, her lips curling into a soft smile as she stared at the brilliant hues painting the sky. She didn’t need words to answer. Moments like these, surrounded by beauty and quiet, always felt sacred to her.

But this wasn’t just a moment for the sunset—it was Crowe. She didn’t have to put on a mask or pretend with him. Around Crowe, she could simply be. Still, the sunset held her tongue, its beauty too overwhelming for speech.

Crowe’s gaze lingered on her, watching as the light danced across her delicate features. His fingers tightened slightly around the roses behind his back as he spoke again, his tone softer this time.

“The sunset…” he began, his voice trailing off for a moment as he chose his words. “It’s kind of like you.”

Luna blinked, tearing her gaze from the horizon to glance at him, her cheeks flushing slightly. “What?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion.

Crowe smiled at her, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a way that made her heart skip. “It’s breathtaking,” he said simply.

Her blush deepened, and she quickly turned her face back toward the sunset to hide it. The compliment felt like too much, too overwhelming, and she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Her lips curved into a faint, almost sheepish smile. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head. “The sunset’s way prettier than me.”

Crowe’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t press. Instead, he shifted his focus back to the horizon, silently marveling at the girl sitting beside him who couldn’t see the radiance he saw so clearly. The roses and the note remained hidden for now.

Crowe’s expression softened, his voice gentle as he spoke. “I mean it, Luna,” he said firmly. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

Luna blinked, caught off guard by the seriousness in his tone. “What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Without a second thought, Crowe reached out and caught her hand in his, his touch warm and steady. Her eyes widened as she looked down at their joined hands, feeling the strength and sincerity in his grip.

“If you ever feel like doubting yourself again,” he said, his tone unwavering, “it’s okay. I don’t care if you believe me right now or not, but I’ll keep saying it anyway. Because I’ll always tell you the truth, Luna. Always.”

Before she could respond, Crowe brought the bouquet out from behind his back and held it out to her, the vibrant roses glowing faintly in the last light of the sunset. Nestled among the petals was the folded note.

Luna’s lips parted in surprise, her gaze shifting from the bouquet to him. “Crowe… what is this?” she asked, her voice tinged with both curiosity and disbelief.

Crowe’s smile was faint but genuine, his dark eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her heart skip. “It’s what I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time,” he said quietly. “I’m done hiding it.”

The realization hit her all at once, like a tidal wave. Her eyes flicked back to the bouquet, her mind racing as she pieced everything together. He was confessing. Crowe was confessing.

Her cheeks burned bright red, and she instinctively brought both hands up to cover her face, hoping to hide the blush spreading across her skin. Crowe chuckled softly, his voice rich with affection as he reached out and gently moved her hands away. His fingertips brushed against her cheeks, holding her face lightly, as if she might disappear.

“You don’t need to feel insecure around me, Luna,” he said, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity. “You don’t need to hide anything.”

His words left her breathless, but what truly undid her was the way he was looking at her—as if she was the most precious thing in the world. Her striking blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her cheeks glowed a soft pink. In that moment, she looked so vulnerable, so pure, that Crowe found himself unable to look away.

“Crowe…” she whispered, her voice trembling as her emotions welled up inside her.

He smiled gently, brushing a tear from the corner of her eye with his thumb. “I mean it, Luna,” he said softly. “You’re beautiful. Inside and out. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to show you that, if you’ll let me.”

Luna held the bouquet close to her chest, the soft fragrance of roses filling the air around her. Her cheeks were still flushed, and her lips curved into an uncontrollable smile as her heart raced with the realization of what had just happened. Crowe—her best friend, the one she had quietly admired for so long—had confessed to her.

She could hardly believe it. Someone like Crowe—kind, charming, and effortlessly cool—had feelings for her. The thought alone made her almost squeal, but she held it back, instead squeezing the bouquet in her arms like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Crowe’s phone buzzed, pulling him out of the moment. He frowned slightly as he checked the screen and let out a small sigh. “Duty calls,” he muttered, his tone tinged with reluctance.

He stood, brushing off his pants, and glanced down at her, his gaze softening when he saw how she clung to the flowers. “I hate to cut this short, Luna, but I’ve gotta go,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

Luna looked up at him, her smile still lingering. “It’s okay,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with a mix of shyness and contentment.

Crowe hesitated for a moment, then leaned down slightly, his expression earnest. “Tomorrow,” he said, his voice steady. “Let’s talk more about… this. About us.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, and she nodded, smiling softly. “Okay,” she whispered.

He returned the smile before stepping away, raising a hand in a casual wave. “Goodnight, Luna.”

“Goodnight, Crowe,” she called after him, watching as he disappeared down the path.

Once he was out of sight, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Hugging the bouquet even tighter, she allowed herself a small, delighted squeal, her cheeks burning as she thought about his confession.

Crowe… he really likes me, she thought, her mind racing as she imagined what the future might hold. The idea of them together felt almost too good to be true, yet she couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face.

But as she sat there, lost in her thoughts, a strange sensation began to creep over her. Her smile faltered, and she instinctively glanced around, her grip tightening on the bouquet.

The feeling was subtle at first, like the faint prickling of goosebumps on her skin. It was as if someone was watching her—someone just out of sight. The once-comforting quiet of the evening suddenly felt heavy, and the shadows around her seemed darker than before.

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. Slowly, she stood, clutching the flowers protectively as she cast another wary glance around the empty campus grounds.

The sunset’s glow had faded into twilight, and the world around her was eerily still. The sensation didn’t fade, though. If anything, it grew stronger, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on her with every passing moment.

“Hello?” she called out softly, her voice trembling as it broke the silence.

Luna’s gaze fell back to the roses in her arms, their deep crimson petals glistening faintly in the dim light. They were so beautiful—so alive in their vibrancy. Yet, as she stared at them, an unease began to crawl up her spine.

The red… it was striking, mesmerizing. Almost too much like… blood.

She leaned closer, the world around her fading into an oppressive stillness. The edges of her vision blurred as she focused on the roses, their once-delicate beauty now tinged with something ominous.

Then, the scene shifted.

The roses were gone, replaced by something far heavier in her arms. Her breath hitched, and a guttural sob escaped her lips as she looked down. Crowe’s almost-severed head rested in her hands, his lifeless eyes staring up at her. The dirt smeared on his face mixed with the vivid streaks of blood running from his neck, pooling onto the ground beneath her.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head in denial, her voice breaking. “This… this isn’t real. You’re not—”

Her hands trembled as she clutched his head tighter, her nails digging into her palms. The dirt beneath her knees felt cold and damp, grounding her in a horrifying reality she couldn’t escape.

“Crowe…” she whimpered, her tears falling freely now, splattering against his lifeless face. She pulled him closer, her sobs wracking her body as she cradled him like something fragile, something that could still be saved.

“This isn’t real,” she repeated desperately, her voice raw with grief. “You’re not dead. You’re not—”

Her words choked off as she noticed the blood staining her hands, the same shade of red as the roses he had given her yesterday. The memory of his gentle smile, his heartfelt confession, flashed through her mind, and she let out a cry of anguish.

“Who did this to you?!” she screamed, her voice echoing into the emptiness around her.

The once-comforting warmth of his presence was gone, replaced by the cold, cruel weight of his severed head in her arms. The world around her blurred and twisted, the line between reality and nightmare dissolving as her sobs filled the air.

She buried her face into his bloodied hair, holding him as tightly as she could, as if sheer force of will could bring him back. The scent of roses lingered faintly, mingling with the metallic tang of blood, a cruel reminder of what she had lost.

Luna cried harder, the sound of her heartbreak shattering the suffocating silence.

Luna screamed, her voice piercing the cold, unfeeling night. It was raw and broken, filled with anguish so deep it seemed to tear through her soul. She shook her head violently, as if denying the reality in front of her could somehow change it.

“This couldn’t have happened! This can’t be real!” she sobbed, clutching Crowe’s lifeless head to her chest.

Her tears poured freely now, blurring her vision as she rocked back and forth on the dirt. The blood smeared across her hands and clothes, its sticky warmth chilling her to the core.

“No… no, no, no…” she choked, her voice trembling with desperation. “Crowe, please, wake up! You’re okay! You’re not gone!”

But the lifeless weight in her arms offered no response. The vivid memory of his kind smile, his steady hands holding hers, and his soft words from just yesterday flashed through her mind like a cruel trick.

“Who did this to you?!” she screamed again, her voice hoarse and cracking under the strain. Her chest heaved with the force of her sobs, each breath feeling like a knife in her lungs.

Her fingers tightened around him as though holding him closer could keep him from slipping away completely. “You promised me… we were supposed to talk tomorrow. You said we’d talk! You lied!”

Her cries echoed into the night, carrying her heartbreak to the empty sky above. The stars, once so bright and beautiful, now felt mocking in their distant serenity.

She buried her face against his blood-matted hair, her tears soaking into his skin. “You can’t leave me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Not you, Crowe… not you.”

She heard a sound....

A pair of fiery red orbs grew wide like saucers as their owner beholds your slumped, blood-stained figure. His gaze reveals a mix of surprise, dread, and panic

"Luna..?"

"N-no... You shouldn't be here... You need to leave!"

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Instead, you stare at the bloody hand axe that he dropped, his equally bloody hands, and his dark shirt wet with red liquid.

He reeked of blood.

He killed Crowe.

The beginning of a nice friendship he said..?

It was only moments before disaster...

I'M SO SORRY FOR THIS. IT'S SO SHORT AND UGLY I DIDNT DO UR OC JUSTICE BUT PLS I WANTED TO WRITE SOMETHING.

Luna's moments before disaster... (⁠个⁠_⁠个⁠)

sol when I catch u sol 👿

[akutasoda]

my hated prince, let me rest

synopsis - you two bated each other. that was it, there was nothing more to your relationship...

includes - mydei

warnings - gn!reader, slight fluff, angst, mentions of injuries, maybe ooc as written before his release, wc - 1.1k

a/n: thanks to @starcharmed for proofreading ^^ the conversion will happen... slowly but surely... i have so many mydei drafts and i feel like half of them won't ever be completed-

it was pretty much common knowledge at this point that you and mydei were essentially lifelong rivals.

from your very first encounter with each other, it was mutually decided that the other person was detestable. even as children, the pair of you could be found constantly bickering when left alone - although most assumed it was just a childish rivalry and you two would grow out of it.

looking back, it was a bold assumption that never came true.

as throughout you're lives, you and mydei never grew out of that childish rivalry. if anything, it only amplified as you grew up alongside the other. the constant bickering and petty fights never ceased and now everyone abandoned all hope of them stopping, opting to assumed they would continue till the ends of time.

you were both very content to never even be in the other's presence ever again, which was a hopeless wish but a desperate one nonetheless. or when you were, which had to be forced most of the time, it was time spent in a very uncomfortable, hostile silence with sharp glares sent toward the other at all times.

from an outsider's view, it seemed more of a healthy rivalry in a way. those oblivious to the non-stop hostile quarrelling would assume that it was more friendly than anything, as if the two of you were friends who found it more amusing to fight with each other.

and maybe they knew correctly.

but from an insider's view, it was more assumed it was not as friendly as the others may view it.

your lives had been transformed into an endless battle of constantly being at each other's throat. there was no simple conversation between the two of you that didn't involve sly comments and vague threats.

the air when you two were around each other, which was nearly every day at this point, was constantly tense. cruel, snide words were always at the very tip of your tongue ready to be directed toward mydei at any minor inconvenience or simply if you felt like it.

and mydei was no different.

he spent most of his time trying to actively avoid you, and whenever he failed to do so he resorted to pretending you never existed. it was very childish but quite necessary in his opinion - alongside being enjoyable for him.

he delighted in watching how frustrated he could make you, especially when you got riled up due to his insistent incompetence paired with his irritating nature whenever you were around.

it was also amazing to watch how the usually intimidating, cunning prince could easily be reduced to a squabbling child simply due to the fact that you were with him, feeding that behaviour of his with your own.

he may have hated you, but he certainly didn't hate riling you up.

additionally, to nobody's surprise, your rivalry continued onto the battlefield as kremnos wasn't viewed as the city riven between chaos and war for nothing.

and it was no surprise that mydei was better than you when it came to that sort of stuff - something you would never admit to his face but it was definitely true. but even so, you still had your own place when it came to fighting on the battlefield.

that place however was always far from where mydei would be, which was something you both seemed to delight in. although, maybe pushing aside your rivalry and being nearer to mydei would've been a good thing.

some people had joked that mydei had the uncanny ability to always sense where you were, mainly due to how quickly he could be observed switching his personality to a much more hostile one before you even entered the vicinity, preparing to once again fight with you the very minute he saw you. and it must've been true.

otherwise there was no logical explanation for how mydei could constantly keep an eye on you, his gaze immediately being able to hone in on you no matter where you were or how far you were.

but there certainly wasn't a logical explanation to him for why his heart sank when he watched you get injured. or even for how he ran over toward you when he watched you drop to the ground, uncaring about his position in the field or the battle he was meant to be fighting.

his mind was racing, ears ringing and it felt as though everything else was blocked out from him, his sole focus was going to you.

but why should he care? he abhorred you.

so why should he even blink at the fact that you got injured? if this were any other time he would've claimed you deserved it, that you should've seen it coming or done something about it. but not this time.

as soon as he reached you, he crouched down next to your injured form.

mydei lifted you slowly, cradling the back of your head with his hand, using his other hand to bring your aching body into the protection of his own. he held you close, head buried into your shoulder.

you slowly, painfully, reached up to cup his face and push it away to look at him. you smiled.

mydei stared down at you with a grimace. how could you, off all people, be smiling at a time like this?

he hated it. that stupid smile of yours. it made his heart ache, filling his mind with thoughts of what could've been, eventually causing him to fight back tears that threatened to spill any time now.

“i hate you” he grimaced, words seething with an anger that was so familiar to him. he wanted to punch you or even yell at you - anything to get his anger out.

your smile only seemed to grow brighter, causing you to wince in pain, while once again you painfully extended your bloody and bruised arm to cup his face. pulling his head closer to you - although it was more him obliging and leaning down as you had no strength left in your body.

you kissed him. a brief moment of unspoken love. before you pulled away just as his tears hit your own cheek, your gaze showing nothing but sheer admiration with zero regrets.

“i know” you whispered, before closing your eyes.

mydei pulled your body impossibly closer to his as if he was hoping his own immortality would rub off on you and prevent the inevitable.

he hated you.

but he couldn't imagine his life without you.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn

[astralspen]

Something amazing about In Stars and Time is how it makes you feel what Siffrin feels.

And yes, when you go through Act 5 and everything breaks down that's cool.

But when Siffrin feels loved and safe, I think that's what's special. That's what makes this game and these characters so special to me.

As someone who, too, had a similar feeling of feeling unlovable for a very long time. This game really healed that part of me.

When the timeloops start, and Siffrin clings to being useful, you still feel little bits of love. Small, barely there, a little distanced, because Siffrin feels distanced. But it's still there. The party looks out for you, pays attention to you, makes stupid jokes with you.

As you go through, you feel love through Loop. Loop who despite all the teasing and bullying helps. Helps the person who they so wish they could be. The one who holds their own heart, who has the family they lost. Loop reaches out to you, reminds you, you're here, I see you. It hurts, but I see you. And I will always see you and sit with you. And I will keep you from becoming as detached as I did, whether that be by annoying you or having a heart to heart or just yapping in general.

You feel love from the head housemaiden. That cruel kind as she weeps for your situation, and crys tears you can not. As she apologizes over and over again. Euphrasies loves by showing you the painful kind of mercy, the one that stabs you in your heart and makes you want to scream, because she loves through pity. Through pitying you and your suffering. No matter how much it hurts it is love nonetheless.

And finally, in the end, after everything you've done, after everything you went through. You feel love again. This time in your face, so burning and bright that you can not ignore it, you feel loved from the very people you loved from the start. The party who runs in to save you, despite everything you said. Who tells you it's ok, you were going insane, we may be a little mad at what you said, but in the end that doesn't matter. Because we love you. And man, when they really showed the unconditional love, I was going to cry. Because a love like that, especially one with the party, is so hard to find. And it's so precious.

Finally, you see love, one more time. Twohats. The Loop fight. Loop, who is trying to kill you, Loop who is so jealous because that is the love they so wanted. They want their family back. Loop who despite everything. They still can't kill Siffrin. Siffrin, who despite being forced to fight again, who could drop dead at any moment because of his craft exhaustion, refuses to oblige Loops request. They both refuse to kill. Because they still love each other. Siffrin who pulls Loop into a hug, and apologizes. Apologizes to who they once were, the Siffrin who should've gotten this. The one who had their family and their heart stolen from them. The Siffrin who never got to feel love. He thanks who they are now, Loop. For sticking with them despite everything. Who watched Siffrin, guided them, gave them a shoulder to cry on, bantered with them so Siffrin did not lose himself. Who despite everything, still decided to help. Siffrin isn't mad at Loop, because Siffrin knows, he would do the same. Siffrin gives Loop back all the love they gave. He let's Loop move on, knowing they're loved. That they always have been. Loop accepts that their family is gone, that they loved them all the same. They learn that even with them gone, they were still loved. Loop is allowed to be happy as they leave.

And isn't that just what this game is about? That no matter what, everyone deserves to be loved. To know it too, and to be happy. And that's what healed me a bit. Because if even the King, who spent his days weeping for a kingdom long gone, who lost all his family and could not build a new one, who froze everything in time, was still able to know and remember the love he had in the end, then why can't I? Why can't anyone? If even the ones who hated and cried and destroyed everything, the ones who hid it all until they couldn't, who didn't understand their emotions and felt trapped within a construct, who didn't feel like them no matter how much they changed, then can't we, too, love and be loved?

This game shows that love does not have to be romantic, does not have to be displayed in any way, is not something earned, but is a basic right for all of us. And for that, I thank it.

[yoursweetheartsrevenge]

When You Were Mine

Summary: You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter, the proprietor of one of the most frequented pleasure houses on the street of silk. On Prince Aemond’s thirteenth name day, you strike up a friendship that is everlasting, developing into something far more sweeter as you grow into adults.

Read on Ao3

Warnings: smut (p in v sex, oral- f receiving, female masturbation), mentions of sex work, loss of virginity, angst, talk of character death, MINORS DNI, 18+

Word Count: 8K+

Author’s Note: First time writing in second person. I always felt a little unsettled on how Aemond lost his virginity. This is a more tender take on it. This also got a little away from me, so the length is just a bonus. I may write again in this world if anyone is interested! 

Dividers done by: @firefly-graphics

You are the daughter of the madam. 

Everyone in the pleasure house has respected the presence of your tender life running about the house asking for sweets and spinning about in your silk dresses. You have many mothers here who dote on you. You are a prize, a little sweet prize pulled from your mother’s womb when she was just aging out of tending to the needs of the gentlemen in this place of pleasure..

Your mother makes sure you are in bed before anything truly lewd begins during the evening, but as the years weigh on she can not keep you still. You are too curious about the work she does. Of course she keeps you safe in her chambers. Her services have not been called on for many many years, whatever that is to mean. 

You play alone at times, though the younger girls seem to be keen to keep you company between their little dances and performances. Your mother checks in on you making sure you are fed and well taken care of. That you have enough toys to play with or sheets to color on. 

You are brushing your doll’s hair under your mother’s bed. Sometimes the candlelight is too bright and warm. Underneath the bed feels like a little cave for you to hide yourself. 

The curtains flutter, you can see it from your cozy position. You can hear the soft music drift through. The curtains expose the darkness outside your mother’s room. Part of you wishes you could watch what happens outside these walls, but you know it isn’t safe. 

She has said it is not safe. 

The boots are heavy on the ground, dragging like the steps of boys. Your mother’s delicate laced up flat sandals also peak through, stopping steadily in the room.  

“I shall return soon, my prince.” You can see her lean close to the black clad leather studded feet. “Please make yourself comfortable.” 

The curtains flutter again as your mother’s quickened steps leave. You are left alone with the shifting boots and the prince attached to them. You lay on your stomach tucking the doll with pretty knotted hair close to your heart as if shielding her from the dirty feet. You try to control your breathing so as not to alert the boy who now is pacing back and forth at the side of the bed. He settles on the bed, close to you swinging his legs nearly hitting your forehead. 

You give out a small whimper when he does make contact with your curious skin. 

He stops. 

He settles to the floor. 

He looks under the bed lifting up every silken sheet. 

He is a Targaryen prince. 

He is the very definition in the stories the young women have told you when your mother is busy entertaining and you require a bedtime tale. 

He has pale freckle peppered skin. His hair is a blinding white blonde that is nearly silver. You can see one eye, a lucid liquidly blue, but the other eye is covered with a brown leather eye patch. 

This is Prince Aemond Targayen. 

“What are you doing under here?” He demands in a voice most princely. 

You are annoyed by how he is treating you in your home. 

“What are you doing here?” You hiss with narrow eyes. You hold your doll closer. 

Immediately you see him flush. His face reddens bright as the summer sun. He stammers, but can not seem to muster words that make sense. His grip on the sheets speaks for him. 

He is nervous. 

“Come under here. You can hide from her.” You say pulling at his shirt feeling only a little sorry for him. 

He folds into the suggestion quite quickly. 

You suspect he does not want to be here. 

He perhaps would like to be anywhere else in the world. 

The young Targayen prince shifts closer to you under the bed. His breath is hot and bothersome. It smells like cake, sweet strawberries and strong vanilla. It makes you wish you were a princess. They must get all sorts of sweet treats every day. 

“I didn’t want to come. He made me. My brother.” He nearly pouts, tucking his hands under his head as he lays on his side looking at you. “Is the madam your mother?” You merely nod. “Did she forget you were here?” 

You look over the prince. 

The young prince is your age. 

Perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age. 

You smile as you shake your head. 

“She knows I’m here. She never brings anyone here.” 

It takes a moment for him to realize what it all means because he does not know your mother as you do. 

He is meant to be your friend. 

“Hold, Nymeria.” You thrust your dark haired doll at the prince as you crawl further under the bed. 

There is a small stack of tomes you have kept here. You pull one forward tickling the well worn pages full of colorful illustrations about war, love, and dragons. You pull it to the princeling who is running his fingers through the doll’s knotted hair.

 “Will you read to me? Or better yet teach me to read for myself? I want to know what’s in these books.” 

His eye brightens, exchanging the doll for the tome. He struggles to open it under the bed, but manages. He thumbs through it as you watch with rapt curiosity. Many of the women that work here do not know how to read and make up tales from the pictures inside. You know this because the stories are different then when your mother opens the tomes. 

She can read quite well. 

“Yes, of course.” He looks over the words and begins to open his mouth. He squints at the page. “It is dark down here. Perhaps,” He looks upward then to you with a small glimmer of happiness in his bright eye. “We can read by candle light. Above?” 

The question is one of asking. He wants to know if it is safe to return to the world outside your secret cave. You are so desperate to hear the stories your mother has not told you yet that you scurry to leave the darkness and head into the light. 

You both settle on top of the bed. 

Sometimes you forget how hard the floor is when you are on the dipping mattress. The princling takes off his boots slowly, careful to put them side by side. Before he settles on top of the bouncing bed as you eagerly await him and the tome, he pauses. 

“I am Prince Aemond Targaryen.” He holds his hand out to you very formally. 

You shake it stating your name. When he hears it he smiles. 

Perhaps he would like a friend as well. 

He crawls to the bed, settling the book heavy between you, spread out wide in yellowed dog eared pages. He runs his fingers over the words indicating to you that it is a table of contents meaning it is a list of all the stories within the book. He reads out all the story titles to you, making sure you see each word and letter. He speaks slowly as well, not in a way that is to make you feel inferior, but a way to ensure that you may soon be able to read along. 

He is teaching you. 

He is allowing you to select a story to read, together. 

“That one!” You declare when he reads out a title about an ancient warrior queen. Your mother always told you that tale was too violent, but you always secretly looked at the pictures. They were red soaked images featuring bodies being ripped apart or drowning in sea battles. 

“I thought you may like that one.” He smiles as you hold your doll close to your chest, the namesake of the tale Prince Aemond is about to tell. 

He turns to the middle of the book. The pages are heavy, but he seems not to struggle. Perhaps he reads all the time. He seems very good at turning pages and reading the words on each page. Even the most difficult ones you do not know the meaning of and ask about each time. He seems to have an explanation ready at hand. He seems very happy to explain the words to you. 

You decide you like Prince Aemond very much when he does not mind explaining to you the meaning of ancient words for different weapons. You even grab some paper to allow him to draw what they look like. He seems very engaged and elated to draw you a morningstar. You decide that if you were going to go into battle that would be your weapon. It is very pointed. 

Page after page you are taken over by the story and transported to ancient times with long fought battles. The prince interjects his own insight as he has begun to train himself. You are convinced he will make a fine warrior someday. He down plays himself saying he is still learning. 

“I will not be as grand as Nymeria.” He flushes a bit running his fingers over the beautiful illustration of the fair and fierce queen. 

“But you have Vhagar.” You point out. “The largest, oldest dragon, nothing would stop you in battle. You have fire at your command.” 

He blinks at you swallowing. 

You wonder if you have said something wrong. 

Perhaps he does not want to be reminded of the dragon. Maybe he is afraid of the beast. She is quite large and fierce. She can not even be contained in the confines of the dragon pit; she is so cumbersome. 

You think that could easily be a lonely life for her. 

“Does Vhagar get lonely?” You ask tilting your head so your hair falls sideways. “Like us?” 

“I am not lonely!” He starts to close the tome, but you stop him. 

“Wait, apologies, my prince.” You pull the cover open. He does not stop you. “I didn’t mean to think you were lonely, I was merely wondering if . . . well . . . Vhagar is different. She is large, too large for the dragon pit so perhaps she is sad without other dragons.” 

“She has me.” The princling confirms pressing the pages flat. “And I have her. We are not lonely because we have each other.” 

You think that is sweet. That a dragon and a boy can find comfort in each other. You look to his eye, the one covered in leather. There is a rumor that the Gods took Prince Aemond’s eye and replaced it with a dragon. 

“Do you miss it? Your eye?” You are thirteen and do not care if you are asking too many questions. You are truly curious. 

“Sometimes, yes.” He shrugs. He runs his fingers over the bottom of the patch, over the reddened scar. “Hmmm,” He looks at you. “You won’t be scared I think.” 

You are not confused by what he means. You immediately know. He holds the patch itself. The prince hesitates as if thinking better of himself, but then continues. He pulls it off revealing the scar fully. It travels through the eye socket in a red meaty scar. In the eye’s place is a perfectly reflective blue sapphire. You blink, a smile spreading across your face as you shift closer. 

You do not think it grotesque as many maidens would. 

Instead you think it -

“It’s beautiful!” You say it louder than you meant to. Your heart warms at his tender and relieved smile. 

“You really think so?” Prince Aemond asks so tenderly you are sure they are the sweetest words any boy has ever formed together. 

“Of course. It suits you.” Your fingers twitch to feel. 

“Yes, please, go ahead.” His words stumble out. 

You are unsure. You suddenly remember yourself in this moment. 

You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter. 

You are not meant to intermingle with princes. To ask to be taught to read. To listen to his perfectly crafted voice. You are not meant to demand things like seeing his worst moment etched in a devilish scar. You are not meant to be so taken by the placement of the sapphire in his missing eye you feel giddy. 

You certainly should not be touching his face. 

But he asked. 

He begged you to touch his scar. 

So you do. 

Your fingers run softly like a ghost, a whispering wind over his brow. The wound is deep. It is healed in ridgid places feeling like little bumps and tears. The skin feels cool under your fingers. Your pads are about to fully trace the dip to his socket when the curtain flutters. 

Your mother says your name with a shout. 

“You should not be touching the prince!” Your mother pulls her robe tighter around herself marching to the bed. 

“I asked her too. She was only obeying me!” The prince is quick to defend you. 

His new friend. 

Your mother looks between you then at the book on the bed. There is a ghost of a smile that comes to life fully at seeing you and the prince behaving as children should. 

“Have you found friendship in each other?” Your mother sits in front of you on the bed looking at the pages of the story you should not be reading. You flush in apology, eyes downcast. “I am not mad. You are thirteen. You will know of violence in this world. That I can not shield you from my precious dove.” She plays with your hair, sharing a soft private moment with you. 

“Prince Aemond was teaching me to read.” You say fluttering your lashes innocently. Your mother continues to stroke your face, contentment on hers. 

“Is that so?” She asks and gives you, her precious daughter, a sweet kiss on the forehead. “It is the young prince’s birthday. He is now thirteen. His brother believes him to be a man today.” 

You see your mother purposely not looking at the prince, but you do. You see him look down shifting uncomfortably. He plays with his fingers, lacing them then unlacing them, together then apart. 

“Is that why you smell like cake?” You ask with a tilt. 

It seems to melt his nervousness. 

“The maids made me strawberry and vanilla. A small one just for me. Mother forgot I do not like chocolate. Aegon likes chocolate.” He is ready for an explanation. 

“I like strawberries and vanilla too.” You declare exchanging a smile with the prince. 

“Madam Sylvi?” The princling asks lacing his fingers together. 

“I will tell your brother lies. You only need to confirm it.” Your mother says. 

He nods. 

You are unsure what it all means, but you know you will understand this someday. 

“I shall stay with you two a while longer to keep up appearances, but please, my prince, continue to read to my darling daughter.” Your mother brushes her fingers through a chunk of your tangled hair. “She has a sharp mind that is not meant for this life.” 

There is a sadness in your mother’s voice as she looks upon you. 

She has always told you she wishes for a better life for you. 

She wants you to read, to explore, to be doted on by someone special who loves you. 

“What shall we read next, little dove?” Prince Aemond shifts closer to you. 

You smile at your new friend as he smiles back proudly showing his unclothed eye. 

“Read me a tale of dragons.” 

Aemond is a frequent visitor of your mother’s house of pleasure as the pair of you grow into adults. His brother thinks he has clung to the taker of his virginity when in truth the middle prince has not lost it. 

He did not lose it that night to your mother like so many whisper over. He does not lose it anytime he comes to the pleasure palace. The prince remains chaste and a gentleman. Instead he comes seeking a different kind of pleasure. 

He comes seeking you. 

His little dove. 

At first he would bring books and ancient tomes from the library in the Red Keep. He would read you stories about ancient battles and prophecies. He would teach you how to read out the simplest words aloud and sound out the more difficult titles. When you have mastered the skills of reading he listens to you read aloud. He is prone to putting his head in your lap as you play with his growing long straight strands. Most nights he falls asleep listening to you name dragons and their riders aloud sometimes sleepily listing them along with you. 

When you have mastered the common language, he begins to teach you High Valyrian, the ancient language of Old Valyria. It is a difficult language to learn especially since it takes you so long to learn how to roll your tongue with the exotic words. He has squeezed your face so many times to assist you in the language that your jaw has begun to hurt. 

You began to learn a few words and even some phrases.

Every time he hears you speak in the ancient lanaguage he swells with pride. 

It is much like every time you read a story to him. 

He has taken to removing his eye patch every time he enters the room, your mother’s room which she keeps you hidden away in. It has become your hide away with Aemond. He has only recently insisted you drop the prince title when referring to him. 

“The whole world sees me as a prince, little dove.” He touches your face as he says this. “With you I wish to be Aemond. Only Aemond if it pleases you.” 

You are not sure he knows, but it does please you. 

It pleases you greatly to be his friend.

It pleases you greatly that he wants to share his singular name with you. 

While Aemond has grown into a talented, well educated and well trained noble prince, you have developed into a lively beauty prone to intelligent conversations and feeling music enrapture you. Your body is now well settled from growing your lush curves and bountiful bosom. You know yourself greatly and have confidence in your looks. It causes some patrons to ask your mother for you. 

“My daughter is not a whore.” Your mother tells them. 

They keep asking hoping for a different answer. 

One day the prince hears someone ask for you. 

They offer a hefty sum, a giant coin purse. 

“She is mine.” Aemond tells the man asserting himself forward in a way you have never seen him.

He pulls you quickly into the privacy of your mother’s quarters. There is bubbling rage that makes his fists open and close. It is similar to when he was a boy, lacing and unlacing his fingers. 

“Aemond.” You call out settled on the bed. 

“No man will ever touch you.” He says through gritted teeth. 

He is pacing. The anger makes your body hum with gratitude. He has protected you. With his declaration he has ensured that no one will ever ask to bed you again. You are still pure. Your mother has made sure of that and now so has Aemond. Your prince. 

“Someone will touch me someday.” You inform him. 

His head snaps to you. His eye is wide with sudden realization. You are not an innocent little dove anymore. You are a woman grown. A beauty that is sure to bring a kind and gentle man to your door. If not your beauty, your beautiful curious nature is too sweet not to have a man falling in love with you so surely he would do anything for you. 

“Do you want to be touched?” He looks you over. There is a shiver that runs through your body to your core. 

You want to say you want him to touch you. 

“I want you to touch me, Aemond.” You were never good at keeping your thoughts to yourself. 

It is like the first time you met. 

You forget yourself. 

You are Madam Sylvi’s daughter. 

You can not demand to be touched by -

“Where?” You see him. You truly see him now. His living eye begins to tear. The joyous kind of an echo of a tear reflects in his eye. His sapphire eye nearly comes alive as well as he kneels before you. “Where do you want me to touch you?” It is a near panic as if you will change your mind. 

Your heart is caught in your throat as you hear his needy question. 

You do not know. 

You do not know the answer, yet it floods out of you like a possession. 

“Everywhere.” 

The panic rolls off of him still. He does not know either where he wants to touch you. You part your legs for him wearing a lovely white silk gown that looks nearly grey in the fiery candlelight. He slots his head and torso between your thighs. Aemond’s hand moves the soft fabric on your right thigh up to reveal plush dips and curves of your skin. 

He runs his hands over it squeezing you gently before he dips his lips to kiss you. 

There. 

On the softest part of your legs you feel a prince’s lips, your prince’s lips tickle you. 

They are wet. 

You are wet. 

“Aemond.” You say his name as his kisses trail upwards. He is giving your thigh open mouthed kisses as he kneads your flesh, hungry and thankful. 

“Ñuha jorrāelagon.” You are taken over by how good his kisses feel running up your thigh. It pierces straight to your core that your mind struggles to translate the phrase. 

My love.

It is not right. 

But it seems so very right. 

Feels so very right. 

His fingers tease the crease between your thigh and pelvis. He is so very hot and heavy in breath, licking at the peak of your mound. Your small clothes cover you there. You can not think if you prefer them clothed or if you would rather Aemond peel them away from your sweat drenched body. 

“Ñuha dārilaros.” My Prince.

Your pronunciation is not quite right as you feel so many emotions and physical sensations right now your High Valyrian pronunciation is the furthest thing from your mind. You are trying to stop from falling back to the bed, legs spread like the whore your mother claimed you not to be. 

Perhaps you are only a whore for Aemond Targaryen. 

“Renigon nyke.” It is better. It is desperate. 

Touch me. 

“I would spend the rest of my days obeying that order.” He says smoothing his hand on your upper thigh. He peers up at you. He watches you try to catch your breath. He watches how much you want him. How much you have always wanted him. 

You realize that now. 

There has been a growing infactuation starting from that very day he peered under your mother’s bed. It started out as simple friendship. Two lonely little children misunderstood by the overarching world. With the years, with understanding each other, it has churned into more. It has become something grand and wide spreading, a warm feeling in your chest that is now spreading between your legs. 

“Hmmm . . .you are wet.” He hums. 

“I am sorry -” You flush embarrassed but his lips are on your soaked small clothes suckling before you can respond. 

Instead you shutter and feel like someone has taken your breath from your body. 

You have never had so many goose pimples in your life. 

“Wet is good.” His fingers are now palming your core through the fabric of your small clothes.. “Wet means you enjoy what I am doing to you.” You nod. 

You remember a book he brought to you about bodies, sex, and arousal. You had been too nervous to read it in front of him, but he had kept it close to his chest. You realize now he probably studied it for a moment such as this. 

“Would you like to kiss me?” Your heart flutters at the question on your lips. 

Surely a prince would not like - 

He kisses you before you have a chance to change your mind. 

You never would. 

He holds the back of your neck threading his fingers through your beautiful locks. His lips are so soft and inviting. Your lips part in a little gasping breath. He moves his lips, opening and closing them to take you in. He’s so warm. His other hand remains on your trembling thigh as he kisses you with the need to never stop. You welcome him trying to meet his passion tenfold. 

It is not a prince you are kissing in this moment. 

It is your friend. 

It is your Aemond. 

Yours and yours alone. 

In that moment you belong to each other and nothing else matters. 

You welcome his small touches. 

The pair of you are not as intense as the night he claimed you as his, when he kissed your thigh and kissed you with such need and fury it made your lips ache and burn red. Both of you had kissed so hungrily that night your lips were too sore to do anything else. You and he just laid side by side watching each other, giggling at the giddiness of the moment. 

You hold hands as you read to one another. He takes care to stroke your cheek gently when he looks upon you. He whispers words you do not know but begin to learn in High Valyrian. 

Gevie. Beautiful.

Ñuha prūmia. My Heart.

Ñuhon. Mine.

You wonder if he has always been this taken with you. 

He tells you truthfully when you ask. 

“I have always loved you a little. It has grown so deeply since that first day.” 

Perhaps you understand this more than anyone. 

He leaves you in small chunks of time when he is overtraining his body to show off to his nephews who are to return. The nephews who belittled him and gifted him a pig as a dragon. You have not ever been teased, but can imagine his pain. You see his pain in the form of a missing eye. An eye one of those nephews took from him. 

You understand his desire to be as sharp as a knife. 

He wants his body to be ready should they ever try to belittle him again. 

You are happy to give him over to the training. 

But so very sad when you do not see him for months. 

You are more sad that you are missing his touch. 

Instead you experiment for the first time. You attempt to touch yourself as he touched you. You start by journeying up your thigh. You trail soft kneading touches. You imagine they are his hands. 

Where else would you want him? 

Everywhere. You remember saying

You can not fathom him on any other part of your body that would feel better than his lips sucking on your small clothes. Perhaps maybe on your core directly. You blush thinking as you stroke over your small clothes. You bring your fingers to your lips sucking on them. It will make it easier to pretend it is his tongue on your core. 

You dip your fingers under the fabric on your core laid back spread on the bed missing your friend, hoping the next time you see him you can ask for more. You stroke yourself, finding the wetness of your fingers causes you to sigh. You find a small bud between your core and tease it gently. 

You arch your back at the feeling it gives you. You leak wet hot arousal between your fingers. 

Your mother shouts your name entering through the curtains. 

Your face flushes embarrassed as gravity settles you down from your high. 

You wipe your wet fingers on your dress and squeeze your thighs together hoping it will ease the pulsing you still feel. 

It helps very little. 

“Do not be embarrassed of pleasuring yourself, daughter.” This perhaps makes you more embarrassed. “It is a natural thing to wish to feel pleasure.” 

You look down at your fingers slightly pruned from your desire. The release you felt was incredible and exhilarating. Perhaps she is right. Feeling good, as good as this, is a marvel. 

“I have come to share some news. Your prince is looking for Prince Aegon. He was just at the door now. He said he would visit soon.” She pauses looking at you, taking your hands softly. “There is a rumor the king is dead.” You feel saddened. Aemond did not speak much of his father, but the loss will surely devastate him in some way. “They speak of putting Aegon on the throne.” 

You slip your hands from your mother’s. You know what this means. There is to be a war. The king’s firstborn would not stand to see her half-brother on the throne. 

Battle lines will be drawn. 

Houses will be fought for. 

Marriage pacts . . .

He was not betrothed. 

Young, dashing Prince Aemond Targaryen was a free suitor.

A pawn to be used should houses need a push from one side to the other. 

It is not the thought of Aemond going to war that frightens you, but the idea that he may share a bed with another woman. 

That he may take a wife. 

“Oh my sweet girl.” Your mother wipes tears that you did not know were there from your face. “Come here, my little love.” She embraces you as silent tears fall from your sweet innocent face. “It is troublesome to fall in love with a prince.” 

You think this is true. 

Days after King Viserys’ death, Aemond arrives on a stormy night. 

You are on the bed propped up with pillows. You read through a book on Aegon the Conqueror considering how he took two wives, both sisters. He arrives in your mother’s chambers, to you, soaked to the bone, water running off his leathers and through his long flat hair. His eye patch is already abandoned, the sapphire reflects the flickering candles. 

“Aemond.” You whisper closing the book. 

You have known him too long not to notice the sad confusion in his face. 

“I did not mean it.” It is the boy you hear. The one who laid with you under your mother’s bed. The one who taught you how to read. That boy is scared. 

“Come here, my love.” You shift to welcome him onto your lap. He crawls onto the bed in damp clothes. 

“I did not mean it.” He grabs onto you as an anchor. The soft part of your thigh is so warm and welcoming that he nuzzled his face there. 

“What didn’t you mean? Tell me, ñuha jorrāelagon.” You are done chasing away how you feel about him. You love him, it is too plain to see. You stroke his hair in the most loving way you know how.

“Lucerys.” 

You already know what has happened. 

You already know blood has been drawn in such a short time. 

You do not pause as you pet his damp hair. He nuzzles you close. 

“It is alright. It will be alright.” You assure him. You must assure him. Not because it is your duty as a smallfolk to bluster your prince, but it is your honor as his friend, his love. Whatever he is to you. 

Your heart. 

“It will not be.” He holds onto your thigh as though you might stop your sweet embrace as he speaks. “I am to be married.” 

This causes pause. 

Lucerys’ death was not devastating to you. He had hurt your prince so you felt nothing for the boy but disdain. It is no matter to you that he is dead. 

But a marriage . . . 

Your heart grieves for a future you were never meant to have. 

“I do not wish it.” He says snuggling you close. He breathes in your scent. He clings to you for comfort in this miserable moment. You ease him. It is what you know how to do. It is what you want to do by petting his soft hair and pulling him closer to your body. “I want you. I only ever want you.” 

Out loud he appears to be a grieving boy in need of physical affection. 

In your heart, you hear it differently, you hear true undying desperation to have you. 

“I want it to be with you.” He turns to lay on his back looking up at you. “My first time. I do not want it to be with the Baratheon girl. I want it to be with you, ñuha prūmia.” He reaches up to stroke your face. His thumb trails over your lower lip, plump and ready for him. 

You could never deny him. 

You will never deny him. 

You are his heart. 

He is your heart. 

You reach down and kiss him. His lips are wet with need and hunger to finally take you as he wants. You want him too. You have envisioned this moment in your deep sleep. Dreams of Aemond nude and wanting before you make you wake with your hand between your aching thighs. He pushes upward, entangling his hand in your hair and one hand at your waist. 

You whisper his name, eyes floating over him as he kisses you lightly then deeply as if his survival depends on making you feel so incredibly good. He strokes your hip, lifting up the side of your pale green layered silk gown. His hand strokes your backside feeling the wide curve of your ass. He presses flush to you against the soft mattress and propped pillows. 

It is when you feel him. 

Between his legs is a sword at the ready. 

“You. Are. Hard.” You say each word with small gasps as he kisses your neck laying on top of you. 

“I am.” You can feel his lips curve into a smile at your collarbone. “It means I desire you.” 

You feel your body shiver at this thought. 

He wants you. 

You find his hand at your hip guiding it with yours to your aching core. It is as soaked as his heavy leather coat. 

“I want you too.” You show him. He strokes you there and you feel too much pleasure soaking you more. “Let me undress you.” 

His coat falls to the side. Your fingers slip against the buttons of his tunic. He helps you in frustration, nearly ripping them off in a harsh pull. You stifle a laugh at his eagerness. He lavishes you with kisses, open mouthed and needy. You feel his tongue slip inside your mouth. It is so hot and so is his skin. It is as if he is burning up from the inside with desire. 

“I need you, my darling dove.”  

Your hand palms his hardness through the leather pants. You admire his torso for a moment stroking the length of him. He is well toned, muscular. His wide pecs and deep abs make you gasp. He leans forward threatening to kiss you again, but you lean back marvelling at the site knelt before you on your mother’s bed. 

“You like what you see then? I have been hoping that when we were ready to make love that my body was to your liking. It is another reason I have been training so hard.” 

You feel a deep devotion to him in this moment. 

That he would spend so much time on his body to please you. 

Just you. 

“You were sculpted by the Gods.” You trace your fingers over his abs stroking along the dips of his hips. 

“I was sculpted for you and you alone, my little dove.” He cups your cheeks seeking your kiss again. He is sweet and well practiced now with how to kiss you. 

He is so happy now after being so taken with guilt over the death of his nephew you wonder if he is truly okay. 

You feel selfish kissing him back. 

You feel wrong for wanting him to never stop wanting you even if he is to marry another. 

“Say you want me ag-”

“I want you. Jaelan ao.” He says before you can finish. 

You press down his trousers. He stands to reveal his naked body to you. You have never seen a nude man before, but you are sure no other man looks as Aemond Targaryen does. He stands proudly as if he knows his body is a work of art. You have already been admiring his torso. 

Why not admire the rest of him? 

You sit on the bed letting your eyes fall to the part of him you had been too bashful to lay eyes on. You are in the midst of exploring him fully. You must look at that part. His hardness stands straight, long and thick. You see he is smooth at his base where his balls hang low. He strokes himself proudly, smirking. The tip of his cock is leaking. 

You think it is because his body needs you so badly it is weeping. 

On instinct, you spread your legs. 

He watches you nearly panting. 

“Would you like to see me?” 

It is a question you know the answer to. 

You watch his cock twitch, up and down as if an invisible force is causing him to stir. 

He steps forward eager, but cautious in case you are nervous about revealing yourself fully. You are nervous. You have never been naked in front of a man before. You ease yourself looking to his sapphire eye. He has exposed himself time and time again to you. 

Surely you can show him your tits and not flush? 

You stand and turn away from him. Your neck bends forward as you shift your hair exposing the clasp around your neck. You feel the pads of his fingers there. It is there you realize he is trembling. Uneasily with a few fumbled tries, he undoes the clasps letting the bodice of your gown fall forward exposing your tits to the cool air. 

Your nipples peak to life in the coldness. You instinctively go to cover them, but he stays your hands. He is easy with them, a gentle kind of ease. He moves to knead your breasts. You say nothing because his hands, while cold from the rain, are so good squeezing at your fleshy fat before rolling your peaked pink buds between his fingers. 

“Aemond,” You sigh, leaning back into him. You touch his face from behind bringing him closer as he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Take the rest off.” 

He kisses behind your ear, a lingering beautiful kiss. 

His hands move from your well massaged breasts down further. He glides them down your torso to your hips. They still hug the silk dark green dress with little gold lace. He pulls it down over your wide hips. He pushes himself at the curve of your bottom and you feel that he is harder than you remembered. 

The dress pools to the floor. 

You are as exposed as he is. 

You are the same in this moment.

You feel his face from behind you as he continues to kiss your neck and hold your body to his. 

“I want you to be my first too.” You tell him. It is a secret you have kept close to your chest. “I dream about you, Aemond. I . . .” You can not bring yourself to say it, but you do. If you do not say it now it will fester inside you until you leave this world. “I love you, Aemond Targaryen.” 

He does not stop kissing you. 

He only whispers. 

“Avy jorrāelan tolī.”

You turn in his arms. Tears edge his bottom eyelid. You kiss them away holding his face. You repeat the words in High Valyrian, the same tone and cadence as his confession. He leans forward kissing you. He can not stop telling you he loves you, in either language. 

“Make love to me.” You instruct him feeling that his kisses are suddenly not enough. You hold his face seeing how his desire matches your own. “I want you inside me.” 

He lays you down gently on the bed. His kisses press to your lips. His tongue continues to explore your mouth. Yours is eager to explore his. You are eager as you spread your legs for his member to slot between your thighs. You feel the leaking head caressing your core. 

“Will it hurt?” 

You do not like pain. You know that your core is tight and his thick throbbing length is supposed to fit inside you. 

“It may be uncomfortable.” He strokes your hair softly. “If you need to stop, just say so. I would never do anything to hurt you, my little dove.”

You believe him.

You nod feeling ready for him. 

“I . . .” He pauses looking down at your face, your body, your cunt. He teases you with long lithe fingers, stroking your slit making you whimper. “I should like you a bit wetter before I enter you.” 

His face moves downward trailing feathery kisses between your breasts then further down making you shudder with anticipation. He looks up from kissing your belly as if asking for approval to journey further. You bite your lip and nod. It takes all your power not to push his face where you need him. 

He is at your sex. 

He is between your legs. 

Aemond licks your slit long and slow. It has the desired effect. You grow wetter letting out tiny pleased gasps. Your sex pulses with need. He kisses you there where he is needed most. His tongue pushes past your folds letting his lips suckle and drink you in. The slurping noise is quite lewd, but it makes your body soak around his lip. Your hips dance upwards as his hands grip your thighs in place. He presses little circles on your soft inner thigh. 

“Aemond . . .” You grip the sheets never wanting him to stop. You have never felt this good or loved in your life. You fear you will never feel this good again. “Don’t stop.” You want to beg him to keep his tongue inside you, but instead he finds that bud. 

Your body quakes. The tip of his tongue swirls around the bud. You can nearly feel it throbbing. It needs friction. He wraps his lips around the little pearl suckling. 

You can not see. Your eyes screw shut. 

The pleasure. 

The pleasure rides through your body, from core to toes to head. You cry out to the Gods. You cry out in undeniable euphoria.You feel yourself come undone and back together again. Your legs shake. Aemond holds you to the bed, grounding you as if you might float away to the heavens. He continues despite the unending pleasure you feel. 

“You enjoyed that.” He is smiling proudly, his tongue still lapping against your core despite how you feel yourself coming down from the euphoric high. You simply nod. “I am glad. I believe you are ready for me.” 

You shift to rest your head more firmly on the pillows. Aemond helps. He fluffs the pillows and makes sure you are comfortable. He strokes your core making sure you are slick and continues to kiss your lips alternating between sweet and searing passion. 

You are ready. 

You want him.

You need him. 

His tip brushes the hairs at your core clustered wet in your arousal. You sigh feeling the girth of his tip. You know it may feel uncomfortable, but there is nothing more you have ever wanted in your life then Aemond Targaryen’s cock rutting itself to completion inside you. 

“Hold me for comfort. I am here for you always. You are mine. Ñuha jorrāelagon.” 

He is careful when he enters you. There is much discomfort, but no pain. The stretch is easy with how wet he has made you. His tip squeezes inside your core making you gasp with perfect desire. You hold under his pits to grasp his shoulders as he continues to push inside you. 

He watches your face to make sure you are alright before pushing in further. 

You feel him. 

Gods, do you feel him. 

He can not help, but ease himself further until he is flush with you. His magnificent well defined torso is crushed against your soft womanly figure. You hold him for dear life. He nuzzles his nose into your hair and neck. He bottoms out inside you. 

You feel all of him now. 

You nearly cry with how good it feels to smell him, to touch him, to taste him, to have him inside you. 

“I love you.” You say again. “Always.” 

“I love you.” He says looking upon your sweet face, innocent and in love. “I wish to move. To truly make love to you. Tell me if -” 

“Yes, please, fuck me.” Your words are not sweet, but desperate. 

You want him to know he can be a bit rough if he likes. 

You think you may want him to be. 

His thumb wipes across your bottom lip, a loving gesture. 

He begins. 

Aemond moves inside you thoughtfully. Out half way then easing back in. His eye is settled on your face, watching for any signs he should stop or signs of true pleasure. You know all he sees, all he hears is your pleasure settling inside you. His breath is soft and needy against your neck as he slowly fucks your cunt. 

Your hips rise to meet him. 

Want him. 

More. 

He takes the sign. Aemond begins to rock his hips deeper. His cock is moving at a much quicker pace. You stretch. You feel yourself expand around his cock. It feels like nothing else you have ever felt. You hold him close as his hips begin to snap, pounding into you. You can feel you may bruise, but you do not care. His breath is heavier now, panting as he fucks you. You cry out louder moans of pure bliss. 

“Yes! Please!” Gods, he feels good. So very good. 

His cock twitches inside you. 

He is moaning now. 

It is as if he has silenced himself this whole time, but now can not control it. 

“I am there.” He calls out with a grunt. 

You feel your core pulse pulling him in deeper. 

“Fuck, you are milking my cock! I can not hold on. I can not hold on!” He grunts out snapping his hips like the beating wings of a dragon. 

You cry out hearing him let out a loud noise, a mixture of your name and cries of passion.  

He spills his seed inside you. 

You feel warm as you rake your fingernails across his back feeling the wetness spill from you. You call out his name as you feel undone underneath him. 

His name is like a prayer. 

If you say it enough he will be yours. 

He tenderly says your name against the shell of your ear as you feel him grow soft inside you. 

You lay as one, he deep inside you. 

You draw circles across his back in comfort. 

He nuzzles against your hair. You can feel his wet lips against your neck in small kisses. 

“You are mine.” He whispers to you. “Even if I am to marry another. You will always be mine.” 

You think that is true. You think that has always been true. 

You have experienced something special with him. You have taken the virginity of Prince Aemond Targaryen. He has taken your flower. You will never forget this moment. 

As you lay there in each others’ arms you know soon you will part. Perhaps he will never return to your bed. Perhaps he will constantly return to you. He is to be married. He may be. He may break off the engagement. 

It is a future not yet set in stone. 

You know that you will savor this moment in time. 

When you were his and he was yours.

[hearts4hughes]

black - bsf!rafe cameron x fem!reader

(listen to black by pearl jam for the full experience)

warnings: pure yearning and desperate longing ; substance use ; angst angst angst

a/n: can you tell that i love yearning!pathetic!bsf!rafe? because i do and it consumes my thoughts.

he stalked you from across the room, his jaw clenched and his chest burnt with a green flame. every breath came out harsher than the one before.

you stood across the room, your white dress swaying as you moved your hips to the music. your perfectly manicured fingers clasped behind the blonde’s neck as you both danced. he leaned forward, bending over just enough to whisper sweet nothings in your ear.

rafe heard your precious giggles from his spot and he swallowed harshly, looking down at the glass in his hands. he swore he never felt pain like htis— the pain of seeing his best friend, his girl, flirting with some nobody at his party. someone could’ve stabbed him and he would’ve felt less pain than this.

that boy doesn’t deserve you. he doesn’t know how to treat you well, not like rafe does. you’re an empty canvas, an untouched piece of clay, the goddamn essence of pure in every sense of the word— something only rafe can trust himself to protect, everyone else was a potential threat.

his fingers tightened around the glass, the knuckles of his free hand whitening as he fought the urge to crush it. his eyes never left you, though— how could they? you were his center of gravity, the one constant in a world that never stopped spinning. but tonight, you felt farther away than ever.

he couldn’t stop the thoughts that crashed over him like violent waves, each one dragging him further under. did you laugh like that when he cracked a joke? did your eyes light up the same way when it was his arms around you, his voice low in your ear?

you weren’t his. not really. not in the way he wanted, not in the way he craved. that was the problem. he had been a coward for too long, hiding behind the mask of your best friend because it was safe because he thought it was enough. but it wasn’t— not when you looked at someone else the way he wished you’d look at him.

he hated how he noticed everything about you. how you tapped your fingers to the beat of the music when you were lost in thought; how you always tilted your head just slightly when you were teasing him; how your lips curved into the smallest, most beautiful smile when he called you his girl, even if he only said it as a joke. he noticed it all.

god, he wanted to pull you away from the blonde, to grab your wrist, and drag you outside where it was quiet. he wanted to press you against the wall, to tell you how he felt, to confess everything. confess how he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else touching you, how you were his, whether you realized it or not.

but he stayed rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the fear of ruining what you had. what if you didn’t feel the same? how could you love a disaster like him? what if he lost you completely? the thought alone made his stomach churn.

rafe downed the rest of his drink in one bitter gulp, the burn almost distracting him from how his body ached. he stood up suddenly, grabbing the packet of white powder from his back pocket. the very same powder that preoccupied his vicious thoughts for a while. this kept him sane.

but as he went to leave the room, your eyes met his. it was as if time stopped as you both gazed at each other. you gave him a weak smile, almost as if you could sense his pain. he returned the smile, giving you a wink before leaving the room. the second he looked away, his face dropped. he entered an empty room, poured the powder into thin lines, rolled up a $100 bill, and let the substance fill his nose. he wiped away the drop of blood that followed, smiling in contentment as his thoughts were silenced.

and yet, even as the numbness crept in, the ache of you lingered like an unbearable weightt he couldn’t shake. you were his comfort and his torment, the dream he’d never wake from, and the wound that refused to heal. no matter how much he tried to quiet his mind, you were always there, tattooed in black into his every thought, every breath, every broken piece of him. you weren’t his, not really, but god, you would always be the only thing he ever truly wanted.

[keepingitformyself]

older (and wiser): i

synopsis: in which time could have never undone what she left.

A/N: FIRST WANDA FIC!!! had this idea long ago when i was crushing hard on this girl from the theatre program at my uni; around that time i had also seen ‘past lives’ and i wanted to do something similar with that film. also at my core i know wanda maximoff would’ve totally been a theatre kid, this is me paying ode to that. while this specific part doesn’t go into that, i am gonna work on a sort of prequel to this Short Series…anyways enjoy!!!

pairings: wanda maximoff x reader

genre: angst?

warnings: it’s sad. but it gets hopeful…

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

it had been years.

wanda had finally decided to take a breather. she’d been working non-stop ever since she left for work all those years ago after college.

she didn’t think she’d get so lucky off that one job, that it’d immediately get her into another, or another, and so on and so forth.

she loved her work, sure, but now it was catching up to her. everyone in her life, her manager, her agent, her family had all begged her to slow down.

“take some time off, wanda.” her agent, daniel had said to her during a meeting. wanda’s eyes traveled between daniel and her manager, samara.

the meeting had all been a set up. what wanda thought was supposed to be a discussion on a new project, was actually a ploy. she had no idea the meeting was meant to convince her to take a break.

“yeah right.” she scoffed. not believing in what they were saying.

“we’re serious, wanda.” samara stated, her eyes stern but with genuine care. “when was the last time you had time for yourself?”

wanda remained silent at the words. all of a sudden she felt like a kid being scolded by their parents. and she wished to be anywhere else but in the room with them.

“really.” daniel starts. “go be a real person. smell the flowers, meet people, fall in love, take in the view—”

“i meet people all the time, daniel.” wanda quickly cut in.

all daniel could do was shake his head, a sigh escaping his lips as he tried his hardest to make the woman in front of him understand.

“you know that’s not what i meant, wanda.” he gives her a pointed look.

with a jaw clenched, she crossed her arms over her chest and looked off to the side. the windows overlooking los angeles now seeming more interesting than this conversation.

“we know how much it means for you to work, we know how much you enjoy it, but you’ve been doing it for so long. we just want you at your best.” she hears samara say. and as much as she hated to admit it, daniel and samara were right.

wanda hadn’t stopped working since she started. in fact, it’s all she can think to do. she didn’t have anyone outside of work—no partner, no obligations except to her family. why stop when there was nothing waiting for her?

wanda knew the answer but wouldn’t admit it. she might as well never have fully faced it.

the truth was, she’d loved someone once. she’d loved you. and no matter how much time had passed, the thought of you still gnawed at her.

though everything was perfect for a while, her career was well off, she was successful, and her family was proud.

but wanda couldn’t help asking, is this really it?

of course, she tried meeting people. she really tried. she didn't like being miserable over someone she hadn't been in contact with for years. but even that wasn't enough. it was honestly a bit pathetic. it had happened years ago. four years, to be exact. wanda should’ve been well moved on by now, but she isn’t. at least not entirely.

so, she poured everything into her work to distract her from that gnawing feeling inside her. the one that had been lit up all those years ago. the one that was tamable with you around.

but you’re not around, and wanda couldn’t help but throw herself into more work hoping she could get rid of it, get rid of you. but she hasn’t.

“listen, wanda,” daniel cuts her train of thought. “your work is important and people need it, but to keep it up to that degree, you need to go out and just be a human.” he finishes.

wanda sighs. she leans forward on her knees and drops her head into her hands. daniel was right. they were both so right.

wanda never properly dealt with things. maybe it's time she finally did.

she looks up from her hands, a look of defeat yet understanding, with pursed lips she finally says,

"fine."

and now, two months later, wanda finds herself back in los angeles, in an empty home, eating expensive sushi.

she had gotten off the phone with her brother, pietro, who had just joined her on the recent trip she’d been on.

a trip that he insisted he’d join her on to make sure wanda would do all the resting and touristy things she should.

she had done all the traveling she could do in the last two months, jumping from plane to plane. talking to strangers, being a tourist in european cities, and befriending random people in planes.

now, wanda actually had time for herself, time with her brain. a thing she honestly didn't want to face. because even thinking about anything made it even more real.

but now wanda was bored, and the movie playing on her eighty-inch television wasn't doing much to entertain her. and it also didn't help that it was eleven pm on a thursday night and all wanda could do was feel bad for herself.

so she does the next thing she had been really trying to avoid,

stalking your social media.

wanda herself wasn’t much active online these days. she had much to do day-to-day and week-to-week, rarely would she ever have the patience to sit down and scroll through her phone much. that and she honestly tried to stay off of it.

but now she has the time. and the patience. and honestly, she’s a little scared at what she could find.

she tells herself it doesn't have to mean anything. just a little check-in to see how you were, after that she'd really work on trying to forget about you altogether.

and with the simple type in of your name, wanda finds your instagram. your profile picture, a professional headshot of you, and a bio that reads,

editor in chief.

New York Times contributor.

something that shouldn't have made wanda's chest burst with joy, but it does. and as she scrolls further and further, she finds that you now reside in new york city, that you've moved on well without her and that you have a cat and a boyfriend.

boyfriend.

she shouldn't care so much, but she does.

you were living your best life. the one you had always wanted.

just not with her. not with wanda.

but she doesn't stop there, and she ignores the lump in her throat as she exits your profile and searches for your mother's name.

and maybe she feels her heart break a little when it turns out the boyfriend you had is actually your fiancé. she finds out through a photo your mother posted.

the picture shows you, and a handsome man next to you. you’re both sat outside some restaurant in the city, his arm is thrown over your shoulder while your right hand clutches his left, and there it is. in all its glory—with the diamond on it catching the suns light perfectly. the ring on your finger.

it doesn’t help that he looks so in love with you.

out for lunch with y/n and paul again! i promised them an engagement lunch and we were NOT disappointed. make sure you try Jack’s Wife Freda if you are ever in SoHo!!#motherinlaw #NYC #loveinnewyork

is what the caption reads.

wanda freezes at the fact and immediately throws her phone on the empty seat beside her. she stares at it like it had just offended her.

many things go through her brain. how did you meet him? was it shortly after you broke up? was it really him you wanted to spend forever with? how long did it take for him to ask?

wanda had always loved your mother. a sweet woman who always had your best interests in mind. she had always pushed you to do what you loved. and wanda had always seen that some of her favorite traits of yours had come from her.

after the break up, your mom made sure to check in on wanda. without you ever knowing, wanda and your mom kept in touch, until eventually wanda had cut her line for the sake of fully moving on.

though, she never really fully did.

wanda evaluates what to do next. was this her sign? she doesn’t want it to be sign.

wanda doesn’t want to admit that it seems like you had moved on so completely.

on impulse she looks up your fiancé’s name. “paul” is all she had to type out in your mother’s following before she found his account.

she finds that paul is just as successful as you are. he’s an investigative journalist, born in ireland. he briefly worked at a publication in london but transferred to a firm in new york after a year.

he’s gorgeous, she thinks. he has blue eyes, a kind smile, and he has an accent. it would make perfectly good sense why you would choose him.

wanda’s stomach twists with a mix of happiness and regret.

“fuck!” She whispers to herself.

“of course, you’re happy. of course the man you’re engaged with is actually a decent man! fuck.” wanda says to no one in particular. in frustration, she burries her hands in her hair.

wanda is annoyed at herself.

“i need a drink,” in an instant she’s on her legs making her way to the kitchen. she finds a bottle of wine that has been kept cool in the fridge and she wastes no time in popping it open, she pauses briefly, debating on whether she’d need or glass or not.

to hell with a glass. she thinks, and makes her way back to the couch, she holds the bottle by its neck and takes a long swig from it.

it’s all so perfectly miserable. wanda maximoff stalking her ex-girlfriend on social media while she gets wasted. the self loathing has got the best of her. she finds it all ironic.

wanda maximoff could have anyone she wanted. she knew this. she has everything she could ever want or need. she has credibility, a nice home, the luxury of traveling at any moment she wants.

yet, her mind kept coming back to one thing. the one thing she’d decided she’d leave behind all those years ago. it isn’t fair, she thinks. wanda was young and stupid back then, but she was so so in love. she knew that for sure.

but sometimes…sometimes she really wishes she had fought harder.

briefly, wanda wonders if your number was still the same. if you had ever changed it or at least tried calling her. she wouldn’t know, she had changed it years ago once she started getting more attention for her work.

wanda was really drunk at this point. her better judgment had gone away as soon as she’d picked that bottle out the fridge. there was no better time than now.

she taps on her phone until she lands on the number keypad. her fingers hover over it, would she regret it if she didn’t? probably. would she regret it if she did? probably.

but if there was one thing wanda had, it’s that she’s got nerve and audacity.

so she types in the number that she doesn’t think she could ever forget, and lets it ring.

your fiancé answers the call.

“hello?” an irish accent sounds through the speaker. paul. wanda’s blood runs cold and she stays silent for a moment. all of sudden she feels incredibly sober and regretting making the call.

“hi.” she pauses. “uhm, i’m looking for y/n?” wanda manages to squeak out.

“right! who is this? your number isn’t saved.” paul says,

“an old friend. i changed my number a while back.” wanda replies smoothly.

“oh! let me pass her to you, she’s just in the kitchen.” the line goes quiet for a few moments, and she’s able to hear a few words exchanged between you and paul.

“hello?”

wanda freezes again, a hand covers her mouth as she tries not to shake at the sound of your voice. it’d been so long. she grips her phone tighter.

“hey…” her voice shaky and unmistakable. you know it’s wanda.

“wanda?” your voice betrayed the surprise you felt. from the couch paul caught your eye, a raised eyebrow on his face. everything okay? he mouthed.

you shook your head.

“i wondered if your number was still the same.” wanda says after a moment. her tone light, but with an undercurrent of something else.

your mind raced. why was she calling you? why now? your fiance was in the other room, you were getting married soon. you’d built a life perfectly fine without her in it. so why was she calling you now?

“how have you been?” her voice cuts through the line again. wanda holds the phone close to her ear, wanting to make sure she could hear every word you say.

and all you can think of is how confused you were.

“i- i’m fine. i’m good. yeah.”

“that’s good—”

“i’m sorry, uh…why are you calling?” you find yourself cutting her off. your fingers press against your forehead in act of trying to understand what was happening.

wanda pauses. she realizes just how impulsive this whole thing was. she’s on the phone with her ex of four years, while your fiancé was probably in the other room. she goes silent again. her words have to be carefully measured.

she gulps,

“uhm…i just—i just wanted to know how you were. heard you’re based in new york now...so…” wanda trails off. you don’t miss the tone in her voice as she says those words. the familiar rasp, the lowness of her voice, she’d used it many times on you when she wanted something.

you close your eyes with a sigh, “yeah. yeah, i live in new york now, engaged and everything.”

wanda smiles through the phone, her eyes almost prick with tears at the corners.

“i saw," she says just above a whisper. "congratulations, you…you’ve always wanted that.” and she means it. she knows better than anyone how much you’ve wanted this.

suddenly a wave of nostalgia hits you, and you’re brought back to when you were both in college. so young, so dumb, but god, it was one of the best times of your life. you try not to let it affect you, how much this call seems to be doing for you. you haven’t yet figured out if it’s a good or bad thing.

“thank you." your voice softens. "how have you been?” you find yourself asking her next.

wanda smiles at your question, “life has been…insane, you know?” she pauses on the line. “still missing some pieces, but overall i’m doing well,” you pretend not to hear the sudden shift in her voice when she said that.

you exhaled quietly, unsure of what to say. the air between you felt charged with unspoken words, old memories stirring to the surface.

“can i see you?” she asks, her tone hesitant. “catch up in person? i’d really like to see you.”

with your bottom lip between your teeth, you contemplate your next words. paul notices your tick from the other his seat on the couch, despite you telling him it was okay he couldn’t help but worry. he’d heard enough of the call to know something was wrong. still he knows you had it down, so he waits until you need him.

you struggle to find your words for a moment, the question being so…why?

“oh, wanda, i don’t know if—”

but wanda ever the stubborn woman she is, doesn’t relent.

“please. Just for some coffee and conversation.”

your mind is torn between keeping your peace or taking wanda up on her offer. but you were curious.

with a sigh you finally decide.

“where and when?”

you can hear wanda’s smile through the phone,

“i can fly to new york anytime you’re free. you can pick a spot and i’ll be there.”

you think for a few moments.

“okay, meet at caffe reggio in greenwich.”

wanda’s heart stutters, something she hadn’t felt in a while. her eyes flutter closed, she breathes in— out. her eyes open again. and though you can’t see it, there’s a new look in her eyes.

“i’ll be there.”

[soldearestsoulmate]

Character + Prompt/Request:

Sol x GN!Reader, for the beginning, then Sol and GN!Reader (spoiler. you break up)

One angsty torturing of Sol coming right up! pfff <3 (More could of been added to this...A continuation? Maybe Reader comes back...Even after all the red flags there, and suspecting what was done...What if they still come back? Only time may tell. lol)

Warnings: Attempted drugging with sleeping pills, manipulation, toxic relationship.

“Why would you put so much hope in me? Things have clearly never worked out for me!”

Rarely he rose his voice at you, unless he really was affected by his emotions, which clearly he was right now.

You've heard him say this before though, done this before. Over and over again, things go well, then they fall, then you work to try to rebuild it all with him, for him.

You loved him, you did. Cared for him deeply. But everyone has their limits, and you finally reached yours.

"You're right...They haven't, and maybe it's a sign this won't work out after all." His eyes widened at your words. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out at first. Then he started to panic, you could see it clearly, he quickly grabbed your hands, with pleading eyes.

"NO! THIS WILL WORK! IT WILL! IT HAS TO! YOU'RE MY SOULMATE AFTER ALL! WE'RE MEANT TO BE!" You felt his hold tighten, it was starting to hurt...

"Sol...Maybe you've been wrong though? What kind of soulmate can't make their love truly happy?...Help them with their problems when needed most? Make them more happy than sad, and feel more love than sorrow? That's no soulmate...at least one you deserve. You deserve better."

"No no no please don't say that. Don't believe any of that. I'm sorry! I'm sorry I keep screwing this up! I keep making it hard for you, for us! But I'll try, I'm trying! I'll do better. I'll--I'll try therapy again. I'll talk to Hyugo and--"

"And what? We repeat this all over again? Sol...Please...You know we've been hanging on by a thread for too long...I love you, I really do but...I love you too much to keep making you suffer like this...I...I can't stand to see you hurt anymore...And I know I'm mostly to blame for it all..."

"NO! YOU'RE NOT! IT'S HIS FAULT! ALL ICHABOD'S FAULT! EVEN AFTER RIDDING OF HIM HE STILL--"

"...What?"

Sol let his grip go, taking a step back, realizing what he said. "I mean...I..."

"Sol...What about Crowe? What do you mean 'ridding of him'?"

"P-pumpkin...I can explain. Let me just--" Sol attempted to hold your hands again but you stepped back, moved away from him. Eyes widened in confusion and fear.

"...What happened to Crowe? Solivan, god help me if you did something to him--"

"Pumpkin please! I swear it's not like that! Just let me explain and--"

"Then explain right now what happened to him. Explain or I will call the cops." Sol felt his heart skip a beat and tighten from your threat. Yet he forced a smile, trying to act calm.

"Of course...But let me please make you a drink, some tea, it'll help calm you while I explain...Okay? Please..." Sol's pleading eyes never failed to have a affect on you...So you nodded and let him go get that drink for you.

As Sol left the room, he texted Hyugo, a simple text, saying "They found out." sent out and then he put the phone away to focus on you.

He went to the kitchen to prepare that tea he promised, but pulled out something he thought he'll never have to use again.

"...You just need some sleep, pumpkin. I promise you. It'll all be better soon." He softly said this as he mixed in the pills into your drink. Then looked at the drink in his hands. He knew this had to be done, but wished it didn't come to this again. "I'll make this better again. I promise..."

After a moment of making peace with this decision with himself, he made his way back to the room where you were at.

"Here you go, pumpkin. One warm cup of tea made with lov--" Sol froze as he entered the room, to see no sight of you. Then saw the window wide open, your one and only exit taken. He didn't even care about the cup of tea he dropped, that both shattered and spilled over his shoes.

All he was focused on now was running to the window, to look around outside, in hopes of seeing you but you were nowhere to be found.

"PUMPKIN?! Y/N!" His breathing quickened, his heart raced, he felt his panic rising more as he started to pace the room. Looking for a sign of where you could of went. He even flipped the house upside down for a possible chance of finding you, hoping you were just hiding but you weren't there. You were gone.

Then with trembling hands he grabbed his phone to try to call Hyugo but kept messing up. He was scared, not over you getting the cops after him though. He was scared of losing you, of you being away from him.

He wasn't thinking straight anymore. He left the house in a panic now to look for you, to find you and bring you back home. To make this all right, but you wouldn't be found...Not anytime soon that is...

So he'll just run, and search for you for hours, calling you out, begging and pleading for you to come back. All while he ignores Hyugo's panicked texts and calls...

[hederasgarden]

Hiya! David!clark with prompt 2 from your list pretty please w the juiciest cherry on top! SMOOCHES TO YOUUU

Smooches to you as well, anon!! This was such a cute drabble request!

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x F!Reader Word Count: 532 Rating: Gen. This is pure fluff with the prompt, Wait a minute. Are you jealous? A/N: Thank you to @ryebecca for looking this over! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Masterlist ♡ David Corenswet Characters Masterlist

“And, anyway,” Clark continues, fumbling with the stack of papers in his hands. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea to meet him alone. Someone should come with you. Just for safety, you know? You can never be too careful.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s a date, Clark. Not some shady source for a story. You’re acting like I’m meeting a criminal kingpin.”

He frowns, pushing his glasses back up his nose in a familiar gesture you’ve seen him do a hundred times. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’m just saying, you don’t know this guy. He could be anyone. He could be an axe murderer, for all we know.”

It’s only the worried crease between his brow and the genuine concern you see in his eyes that keep you from laughing at how seriously he’s taking this.

“He’s friends with Jimmy,” you remind him, giving his very firm, muscly shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

“How well does Jimmy actually know this guy?” Clark questions. “Are they actual friends, or more like ‘a friend of a friend’ kind of situation?”

“I think they play pickleball together?” you say, though you can’t fully remember. Jimmy tended to ramble a lot and well, truth be told, sometimes you tuned him out. “Or maybe it was D&D? I’m not sure which one it is, but he’s definitely not some random weirdo. Just a nerd.”

“I should talk to Jimmy,” Clark says with a nod like he hasn’t even heard you. 

Before he can walk past, you stop him with a firm hand on his chest, your fingertips grazing the crisp, starchy white shirt he’s wearing. 

“Wait a minute. What’s going on?” You question. 

Clark may have had the reputation of the office big brother, always looking out for everyone, but this was something else. It felt different. It felt like he liked you.

No.

That couldn’t be right. He was so wildly out of your league and that thought sounded insane, even to your own ears. But as you study his face, you catch the way his eyes flick away from yours for just a beat too long, the briefest hesitation, and how his hand tightens around the stack of papers, his knuckles whitening.

“Are you jealous?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You wince, wishing you could swallow them back up when you see the tips of Clark’s ears turn red. He opens his mouth, then closes it, before tugging on his collar. 

“Oh,” you whisper. 

“Is that a good oh?” Clark asks you, looking almost nervous. 

“Oh,” you say again like an idiot as your brain tries to catch up with the sharp left turn this conversation has taken. Clark Kent liked you. Like actually liked you. 

"I do," Clark murmurs, and it takes a second to realize you must have said that last part out loud.

“Well, I should probably cancel that date then,” you tell him.

“And I should probably ask you out,” he replies, glancing around the bullpen before stepping closer. 

“Yeah,” you agree, getting a little lost in how blue his eyes are. 

“Will you -”

“Yes,” you interrupt.

He laughs and you grin.

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