#my third eye is having its third eye open

[dissociativewriter]

short fluff/crack bit based on this post by @memephi (fat mephisto has consumed at least 70% of my thoughts on a daily basis. i love him dearly. genuinely has become one of my favorite blogs in a matter of weeks)

i was laughing writing this. it’s probably a bit ooc for sylus but i think its funny so i don’t care

Your fingers were starting to cramp and the ache in your back was only growing from your hunched over position, but the pile before you kept getting larger and larger.

“Mephie, I can only work so fast,” you murmured.

With a quiet caw, Mephisto nudged another soda can tab towards your hand. You took it with a quiet thanks, attaching it onto the chain you’d already created.

It had been a quiet night with just you and Mephisto. Sylus was off doing who-knows-what, so when Mephisto took advantage of your boredom and shoved one of his ‘precious vaults’ towards you, you took the hint. It had been over an hour at this point, the lights of Onychinus’s base dimmed and the only sound the clinking of can tabs.

You were on your third bracelet when Sylus came in. His shoulders were tense as he shrugged of his coat, jaw clenched and eyes fiery. When he caught sight of you and Mephisto at the table, a deep sigh rumbled through his chest, crimson eyes flashing with disappointment.

“You’re really feeding his addictions, aren’t you, sweetie?” He raised an eyebrow, gliding over to the table.

“Addiction? What do you mean?” you asked, looking up at him.

“These tab bracelets,” he picked one up, flipping it between his fingers. “I already told him he shouldn’t make anymore, he got too addicted last time.”

An angry squawk from the mechanical crow.

“It’s an addiction and you know it!” Sylus snapped. “And now you’ve roped our little Miss Hunter into it, too. As if we don’t have enough already. I have an entire drawer full of these!”

“Aw, Sylus, I think it’s cute.” You grinned.

“Of course you would,” Sylus muttered. “You can’t say no to him. You’re the reason he’s overweight, too.”

“Don’t bodyshame my Mephie!” you gasped. “He’s not overweight.”

“He can barely fly!”

Another caw.

Yours and Sylus’s gaze snapped back to Mephisto, who was now waddling towards you, bracelet clasped in his beak.

You took it from him, slipping it over your wrist. “See? It’s cute,” you whispered as you grabbed another, fastening it around Sylus’s wrist this time. “It’s like friendship bracelets!”

Sylus hummed, considering. “I don’t think I have enough friends for all the bracelets I have.”

Mephisto chirped happily on the table, proudly wearing his own tab bracelet around his neck. “Truly, a bird of prey.” Sylus looked at him unimpressed before flicking a bottle cap in his direction. “For the bottle cap toll.”

You giggled. “You entertain his addictions, too.”

“I’m just helping him grow his vaults.” Sylus shrugged. “It’s an investment, really.”

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open! <3

masterlist

taglist: @dolledbunnytail @sleepykittyenergy @orbitraiden @coffeedragonhobbyist @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusgworl @angelkazusstuff

[sourkiki]

THE BOY WHO STAYED.

VOL. 15: jungwon had enough of you going on many failed blind dates, when he's right in front of you the entire time.

wc: 1535 𑁛 friends to lovers non-idol au 양정원 x fem! reader mentions of m*n being m*n failed blind dates ⪩⪨ jungwon's smitten with reader confession tooth-rotting fluff ❀ catalogue

note. idk why but jungwon is meant for the friends to lovers troupe and i asked moot aka @emisluvr to pick so this is how this drabble is born. i have another fluff drabble coming soon hehe (coughs its for riki coughs)

Another failed blind date. Another arrow fired at your chest, mocking you for your horrible taste in men. You weren’t sure why you were in the wrong. You did everything perfectly: dressing nicely, planning the venue to meet your blind date and even going as far by checking whether the other has any food allergies or not. You had texted your best friend; Jungwon, informing him that you were heading out for your date. The first sign was when your blind date arrived thirty minutes later than the agreed time, not bothering to apologize for his lateness. 

But that was only the beginning. 

The second sign was when he didn’t care about you at all. He didn’t ask questions about your hobbies, your future or anything that’s about you. The third sign was he wasn’t keen on engaging in any conversations, mostly either humming, scrolling through his phone or looking out the window, paying you no mind. The fourth sign was when he made you pay for the date and at that point, you were done. You wanted to leave as soon as possible. 

And here you are, standing in front of Jungwon’s home, hesitant to knock on the door. You were about to leave, only for the door to open, revealing him standing on the other side. All he needed was one look to your face and that was enough to tell you everything. Jungwon wordlessly moved aside, letting you enter his home.He stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants after closing the door. You didn’t turn around to face him, not yet. Or maybe, you didn’t have the courage to face him. 

Sniff, sniff. 

Jungwon’s eyes widened, crossed arms dropping to his sides. “(Name)..” 

You slowly turned, showing your teary eyes with tear droplets trickling down your face. Your eyes were already swollen but to Jungwon however, you’re the most gorgeous person he has seen. He closed the distance, pulling you into his chest without hesitation. At first, you stiffened up. But you relaxed in his gentle, loving hold when he ran his hand through your hair and rested his chin on your head. 

“Shh, it’s alright. Let it out, don’t try to hide from me,” he murmured, whispering sugar-coated words to you. 

And just like that, the waterfall broke. You cried your eyes out, bawling like a newborn child into Jungwon’s shirt, not caring about how you’re soaking the fabric with your tears and snot. Besides, it’s not like he will complain. After all, he’s too smitten to tell you off. He gently rocked you side to side, like how a mother does to her child while comfortingly patting your back. It took you a while to calm down and he led you to the couch, disappearing into the kitchen to pour you a glass of water. 

Jungwon sat beside you, leaving some distance between you, your clothed knees brushing against one another. None of you said a word, until you broke the silence with your small, trembling voice. 

“Am I that unloveable?” You asked.

Jungwon’s breath hitched, heart shattering into pieces at how insecure you sound. “What makes you think that?” Instead, he forces himself to ask, despite how he was tempted to say something else. 

You weakly shrugged your shoulders, tightening your grip around the half-empty glass. “I don’t know. It’s just.. all these blind dates I went, none of them are interested. It’s like they see me as a joke. I tried my best to appeal to them but they ignored me, treating me like I’m invisible. Some even mocked me.” 

Jungwon clenched his fists, jaw tightening at the mere thought of them laughing at you, insulting you when they don’t even deserve to be in the same room as you. To breathe in the same air as you. To even lay their eyes on you, they aren’t worth it. They were not worth the effort and time you put aside for them in the first place. 

Swallowing, he inched closer so he could place his hand on your shoulder. Jungwon gave you his signature warm, dimple smile that cutely peeks out from his cheeks. “Don’t think too little of yourself. It’s not your fault they can’t see how pretty you are and how you deserve someone better.” 

He didn’t know what he said until he saw your eyes widened slightly and he knew he had fucked up, causing something that had ruined your long-term friendship. Jungwon withdrew his hand, about to splutter some random, flimsy excuse but you were faster. 

“..Wonie, do you have feelings for me?” You asked. 

His mind blanked out.

Out of everything and anything he had thought of, he didn’t expect you to directly ask him that question, face-to-face without any fear. That was one thing why Jungwon fell in love with you. You were fearless, not afraid to step out of your comfort zone and try new things, even if it might put your life in danger. He would have started spiralling if you didn’t cup his face with your bare hands. Just the simple contact was enough to make his head spin. 

Time paused when you leaned in closer, not close enough to kiss him but close enough to give him a heart attack. He’s able to get a whiff of your signature perfume—the very same perfume he had gifted you when you turned eighteen. That was three years ago and you still used it on a daily basis. 

“Wonie? Are you alright?” You asked again, furrowing your eyebrows with your lips curled down in a pout. 

Fuck. 

That’s all he could think of. Jungwon awkwardly cleared his throat, eyes averted to the side. “I—uh, yea, I do have feelings for you. In fact, I’ve fallen in love with you when we were young.” 

“..Why didn’t you say anything?” You murmured, thumb drawing invisible lines on his cheeks. It takes all of his will to not lean into your touch, his eyelids fluttering shut as he savors it. The sweet, little moment he has with you before it’s forever gone. 

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. I hated having to see you cry over someone who doesn’t deserve you. I hated watching you shed tears over someone who doesn’t care about you,” he confessed, words slipping from his mouth like water. It was like you had unlocked Pharaoh's Box and he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t give you time to reply as he continued rambling. 

“Do you know how painful it is, watching you from afar as you go on blind dates, one after another, when I’m right here? I loved you the day I met you. You’re my whole world. My everything and it pains me to see you going on blind dates,” he said, now clutching onto your hands that cupped his face. 

You were rendered speechless. You knew Jungwon sees you differently but to hear him admit it out loud caught you off-guard. You didn’t know what to say, only staring at him with a dumbfounded look. To Jungwon however, your silence says everything you didn’t have to say. He let out a long, heavy sigh and was about to pull away when you tugged him towards you. 

“Wha—!?” 

He exclaimed, only for him to be cut off by your lips firmly pressed against his. Jungwon went as still as a statue, eyes wide open while yours were squeezed shut. He didn’t even get to kiss you back when you pulled away, looking at him with a familiar feeling. The feeling of love. 

“Jungwon, I love you. I really do. I’m sorry it took me this long to realise it,” you murmured, saying his name like a prayer when it should be the opposite. To Jungwon, you’re more of a Goddess that has blessed him with your presence. 

He didn’t speak, pulling you closer until you ended up on his lap and kissed you again. Unlike before, the kiss was intense as he focused on pouring his pent-up feelings towards you. Jungwon swallowed your startled gasp, tongue sliding in to explore your mouth, greedily drinking your breathless mewls and whimpers that you had to offer him. He swore he could get addicted to the taste of your soft, pillowy lips. If he could, he wished to spend the rest of his life kissing you. 

Unfortunately, the dire need of oxygen pulled him away. A string of saliva snapped into half when Jungwon leans back to get a clear look at you. Your lips were swollen, makeup slightly smudged and your eyes were already dazed, like he had kissed you breathless. Seeing the effect he has on you made his stomach tightened. However, he didn’t want to push you. Instead, he hugged you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he kissed your skin, sending shivers down your spine. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of this,” he mumbled, voice slightly muffled. 

You smiled, wrapping your arms around him and rested your cheek on his head. “I think I do. But we’re together now. And I think your wait is worth it.” 

Jungwon chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, it is.”

tags list: @chuhees, @byshens, @hoonstqr, @doucious, @emisluvr, @riqomi, @onlyywwon, @jjung-v, @jun2ki, @rikisoup, @i-love-hannah-more-than-chan.

[syrecjh]

──★ ˙📚 ̟!! Late Night Library

He didn’t know your name, not at first. But he knew the sound of your steps before he ever heard your voice.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

The library wasn’t his usual haunt. Too quiet. Too still. Katsuki Bakugo wasn’t made for silence—he was built from blast and blaze, shaped by noise and motion. But lately, some part of him—maybe the part that still clenched when Deku pulled ahead, or that softened when the noise got too loud—had found its way here. Not for the books. Not for the history. Not even for the study.

For you.

You, the girl from the general studies course. He didn’t know much—just that you were quiet, focused, the type to tuck yourself behind the same third-row bookshelf every evening like clockwork, always with a stack of highlighters and notebooks, always chewing on the end of your pen like it held the secret to the universe. He’d noticed you once—by accident, really—when he’d been wandering in, looking for solitude after a rough spar. You hadn’t even looked up. Just kept working, oblivious to the storm of a boy standing two tables away.

But he had looked. And stayed. And when he left, he found himself wondering when you’d be back.

So he came again. And again.

At first, he pretended it was coincidence. Just proximity. Just… peace. But the truth sat heavy in his chest every night he walked into that hushed cathedral of pages and caught the flicker of you beneath lamplight. It only became obvious to him the first time you didn’t show up.

The library felt colder that night. Bigger. And he sat there, arms crossed, fuming at the open book in front of him—not because the words were dense, but because they weren’t you.

Where the hell were you? Sick? Busy? Tired? He didn’t even know your name, damn it. But he waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. The librarian gave him a suspicious look as he slammed the book shut and muttered a curse under his breath.

He still came the next night.

And the next.

Until finally—finally—you reappeared, breezing through the tall glass doors with your usual calm and that pen still tucked behind your ear like a badge. And something in him unclenched, though his scowl remained.

That’s the night you caught him.

The halls of U.A. at night felt sacred somehow—lonely but not unloved. You liked the library best in these hours, when the world whispered instead of roared. What you didn’t expect, as you turned into your usual aisle, was him.

Katsuki Bakugo. The boy with grenade hands and a scowl sharp enough to cut glass. Slouched under the reading lamps, arms crossed, shoulders hulking, a massive volume open in front of him.

Upside down.

You blink. He doesn’t even glance up, though you’re certain he hears you.

“What,” he mutters, voice gravel-low, “never seen someone study before?”

You arch a brow, stepping around to your usual seat. “Sure I have. Just not like that.”

His eyes flick to the book. Then back to you. Then back to the book.

“Tch.” He flips it. “Was testin’ your observation skills.”

“You’re not my teacher.”

“And you’re not funny.”

You smile. “You’re not subtle.”

It makes something twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a grin, but the ghost of one. You slide into your chair, start pulling out your things, pretending not to notice the way his elbow shifts—closer to you, just slightly. The air crackles, but gently, like kindling waiting to catch.

“You come here every night?” he asks, low.

You glance up. “When I can’t sleep.”

He nods. “Same.”

You pause. That surprises you.

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to.

After that, something changes.

He starts showing up more often—sometimes before you. Sometimes already sitting, feigning interest in the same damn upside-down textbook like it’s a shield he refuses to put down. You never ask why. He never offers. But you both settle into the rhythm of shared silence, night after night.

Sometimes, you wonder if he even realizes how he looks at you. Like you’re something rare. Something complicated and quiet and worth studying more than any history book ever could be.

And one night—just one—you don’t show.

Midterms. Sickness. A hero course fire drill. It doesn’t matter.

He sits there.

Waits.

Twenty minutes.

Thirty.

He stares at the door, flicks the corner of a page, checks the time, mutters “Dumbass probably forgot her pen or some shit,” but his chest tightens in that stupid, unfamiliar way he can’t name. The librarian glares at him again as he slams the book shut and storms out.

The next night, you return.

And he’s already there, upside-down book in hand, mask of indifference firmly in place.

Tonight, when your fingers brush his—accidentally, maybe not—he doesn’t flinch. He just lets it happen. Lets it linger.

“Hey,” he says gruffly, voice low and dry, “if you’re gonna keep showin’ up, save me a seat.”

Your lips quirk. “Only if you bring a book that’s right-side up.”

He snorts, but you swear there’s a hint of pink near his ears.

And as you pack up and leave, your steps light, you feel his gaze follow you all the way to the door.

He watches until the quiet eats your silhouette.

He never liked libraries. Still doesn’t.

But he’ll keep coming back.

Because he’s already read the same book a hundred times—and none of them ever made his chest ache quite like the sound of your laugh.

[heliosunny]

hiii can i ask for more jingyuan fanfic?

(you're my fav writer:3)

Carnivore’s Hour

Yan!Lion Hybrid!Jing Yuan x Human!Reader

The subway car rattled as it slowed toward the final stop. The lights flickered weakly. It was almost midnight, and only two people remained inside. One of them was sleeping.

A woman in a coat slumped against Jing Yuan’s shoulder, her neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. He didn’t shift away. Dressed in a sharp suit with his tie slightly undone, he sat motionless, his amber eyes fixed on the window’s reflection. His lion ears flicked at the sound of the final stop announcement.

She stirred. The woman blinked herself awake, startled to find her head resting against a stranger’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry—!”

“It’s fine.” Jing Yuan said calmly.

She laughed nervously, brushing her hair back. “Did I sleep the whole ride?”

“You did.” he replied, standing when the doors hissed open. He tilted his head toward the exit. “It’s not safe this late.”

He walked her out slowly. The station was empty. Vending machines buzzed quietly, and far-off footsteps echoed on the tiles. The cold clung to them.

“You waiting for someone to pick you up?” Jing Yuan asked.

She shook her head. “No. I live on the other side of town. Missed my stop, actually... Guess I’ll call for a cab.”

He pretended to check his watch. “It’s well past curfew hours to cross certain districts. Cabs won’t run through the Border Line after eleven.”

She frowned. “Seriously?”

“I live nearby.” he offered, “I have a spare room. You can stay the night and head back in the morning.”

The woman hesitated, gaze flickering over him. Handsome, tall. Expensive watch. He looked too polished to be dangerous.

“…Are you sure? I mean, I’d hate to impose.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.”

And with that, she nodded. “Thank you… That’s really kind.”

Jing Yuan smiled. “Not at all.”

He didn’t mention this was routine for him. That she was the third woman this season.

----

Across the city, a small clinic stayed open late. Wedged between a bakery and an antique shop, its lights glowed steadily. Inside, you bent over your desk, fingers stained with ink, the lamp casting a warm halo on your hair. The door chimed, but you didn’t glance up.

“Clinic’s closed.”

“I don’t need treatment.” Jing Yuan’s voice rumbled warmly as he stepped inside, his familiar cologne drifting with him.

“Didn’t I tell you not to show up so late?”

He shrugged off his coat, letting it hang on the back of your chair before perching on the windowsill. “It’s the only time I’m free.”

“I don’t care.” you said flatly, but you didn’t kick him out. “What if someone sees?”

He smirked. “No one dares question me.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

But he was already watching you. His gold eyes flicked to the faint bags under yours, the fatigue in your posture, the slight smell of antiseptic and coffee. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“And you’ve been eating well.” you replied coldly, eyeing the trace of blood under his nails.

“Accidents happen.” he said.

You didn’t reply. You just turned back to your files.

He used to be your best friend. Before he became something else—wealthy, influential, but with something wild beneath the surface. Something that wouldn’t have frightened you before. Now, it did.

And yet, you never locked the door when he came by.

“I worry about you.”

Jing Yuan tilted his head.

“No you don’t.” he said quietly. “You worry about the parts of me you still recognize.”

And he left before you could respond, the bell over the door chiming softly behind him.

----

There were days when you wondered. What if he never changed? What if the boy you once knew was still in there?

Jing Yuan used to be barefoot and grinning, scraped knees and dirty hands, swearing he'd keep you safe.

But memory was not always kind. Especially the memory of that night.

It was winter. You had closed the clinic early to hike out for herbs beyond the city’s boundaries. You weren’t expecting snow, let alone the quiet hush of frost clinging to trees. You weren’t expecting him, either.

You found him hunched in the brush - barefoot, shirtless, steam curling off his skin in the winter air. His tangled hair framed a face that wasn't quite his anymore.

Beneath him, a deer thrashed.

You called out to him before you even realized what was happening.

His teeth had already sunk in. He tore through it like it was instinct. Your legs refused to move. He looked up only once, mouth and chin slick with red.

“…It’s just food.”

You never spoke of that night again.

The memory shattered when the clinic door slammed open.

“Emergency! Please—!” A man stumbled in, clutching his side. You glanced at the clock. Not even seven yet. The “Open” sign hadn’t even been flipped.

Still, your instincts kicked in. You rose from your desk. “What happened??”

His hand shot forward, grabbing your wrist.

“Don’t scream.” he hissed, pulling something from his coat.

But someone else moved faster.

A heavy thud echoed as the man was slammed into the wall.

“You picked the wrong place to mess with.”

Jing Yuan stood over the man, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other curled into a tight fist. He didn’t look angry. He looked… bored.

“Don’t—this isn’t the place.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Then he let go, letting the man collapse like discarded trash.

“Apologies.” Jing Yuan said, dusting his sleeves as though it were all a minor inconvenience. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Thanks. That was fast…”

He gave you a soft smile. “I came to bring your breakfast. Guess my timing’s perfect, as usual.”

But behind that smile, his eyes followed the man who was now limping toward the exit.

As the man stumbled out the door, Jing Yuan leaned slightly toward his coat pocket, pressing something beneath the fabric of his suit.

“Follow him. Don’t kill him yet.”

You said nothing. But you knew.

By the time you turned back toward him, he was already holding out a paper bag with congee and soy milk.

“Still warm.” he said. “You should eat before the next emergency.”

You stared at the bag. Stared at him. And somewhere, deep down, you wondered how long you could keep pretending this was the same boy who used to let you bandage his scraped knees.

----

A few days passed. No calls. No sudden visits.

You thought it might feel peaceful.

Life ticked on, but your hands kept remembering the pressure on your wrist from that attacker, and the ease with which Jing Yuan had shattered him against your clinic wall.

You kept staring at that spot.

The sun was still low when you walked toward the corner store to restock gauze. That’s when you saw her again, leaning against the alley brick, arms crossed over her pristine blazer, lips painted the color of dried berries.

“Slept well, I hope?”

You stopped.

“…Hello, Meiren.”

Meiren Tzai. VP of Strategic Operations at Jing Yuan’s company. A serval hybrid, if you remembered correctly. Always dressed like she came from a board meeting and headed straight to a runway.

“I was beginning to think you’d taken my advice.” she said, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve.

“Which one? The part where I should die quietly or the part where I’m not his type?”

She laughed.“I said ‘stay away.’ I didn’t say die. You’re imagining things.”

“If he chooses to show up, that’s on him.”

Her smile stiffened for half a second.

You had dealt with worse.

Jing Yuan once offered to deal with her.

“If she bothers you again, I’ll have her pulled from my board.”

You’d waved him off. You didn’t want him involved. The thought of Jing Yuan “handling” someone made your stomach knot in ways you couldn’t explain.

So you told him, “Don’t do anything.”

And so, here you were again.

Meiren narrowed her eyes slightly, something unreadable flickering behind her cool facade. “You must think I’m just some jealous colleague.”

“I don’t think about you that much.” you replied.

Her smile faltered. But she recovered fast. “You know, the thing about Jing Yuan is... he's complicated. You wouldn’t understand someone like him.”

You stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “No. I suppose I wouldn’t.”

She smiled like she won something.

You didn’t tell her that Jing Yuan once nearly tore a stag in half with his bare hands. That the same man she spoke of with such shallow pride had blood under his nails when he handed you breakfast.

Maybe it was better that way. Because if Meiren Tzai ever got a glimpse of what Jing Yuan truly was, her shallow threats would shrivel on her tongue.

She walked past you then, her tail flicking once as she passed. “Take care. Try not to play in a league you can’t survive in.”

You let her go without responding.

----

Your phone buzzed while you were halfway through organizing medicine cabinets.

Jing Yuan: Come to my office. Jing Yuan: I want to see you.

You stared at the message. No explanation. No appointment scheduled. Not even his usual lazy “I’ll pick you up” or “Are you busy?”

Something felt off.

The towering headquarters of Xianzhou Consortium was a sleek beast of glass and steel. You walked in wearing your neutral clinic clothes, already attracting glances from sharply dressed interns and hybrids in tailored suits.

You approached the main reception desk, adjusting your satchel.

“Excuse me. I’m here to see Jing Yuan.”

The receptionist barely glanced at you, tapping something into his system. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I—”

“I’m sorry, no access without clearance or a formal appointment.” the man cut you off smoothly.

“Oh?” came a familiar voice.

You turned.

Meiren approached you. “Still letting the stray walk in through the front, I see.” she murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear. “How quaint.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. Because just then, the elevator behind her opened with a low ding—and Jing Yuan stepped out.

His ears twitched once before locking eyes with you. The minute he saw Meiren standing near, he was definitely not pleased.

“I’ve been waiting.”

You didn’t look at Meiren when you passed her, but you could feel her expression burning into your back.

Inside the office, the doors shut with a quiet click. The glass walls were darkened for privacy, and a mild scent—something deep and warm like musk—lingered faintly in the air.

“What’s going on?”

Jing Yuan leaned against the edge of his desk. “I missed you.”

“You.. missed me?”

He smiled.

“You—” You stepped back. “You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere. I thought there was a crisis. I closed the clinic early!”

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widened a little. “Are you—wait, are you serious?”

He stepped forward.

“Wait.” You raised a hand. “Don’t come closer. What’s really going on?”

Jing Yuan’s breath hitched, and for the first time in days, the carefully groomed facade of control cracked just slightly.

“…It’s that time again.”

You knew what he meant.

Hybrid physiology was complicated, especially in carnivore bloodlines. Every few months, Jing Yuan's instincts kicked in: sharper senses, shorter temper, hunger. And you weren't naive enough to think he just wanted steak.

“Suppressants..” you muttered, pressing your fingers to your temple. “I didn’t bring any.”

He didn’t answer. He simply stepped closer. You could hear his breathing. His pupils were dilated now, the gold around his irises glowing faintly. Then he tilted his head toward you and inhaled slowly.

“Don’t!” you said quickly. “Don’t do that.”

He froze, but his hands had gripped the edge of the desk behind you.

You heard footsteps. Someone was approaching the hallway.

And just like that, he pulled back. His face returned to its usual mask of calm, only the faintest sheen of sweat betraying the war he was fighting with himself.

He turned toward the comm unit on his desk.

“Xing.” he said into it. “Escort our guest out safely.”

A second later, the door opened, and one of the secretaries entered with a bow of the head. “Understood, sir.”

You hesitated, but Jing Yuan gave you a nod. “Go. Please.”

“…I’ll get you something.” you said. “Just hold it together.”

“I’ll try.”

You followed the secretary out of the office, your mind already racing through ingredients, pills, injectable doses. The city blurred past the windows of the shuttle on the way back. You didn’t care. You needed to get back to the clinic.

The message came just after sunset.

Jing Yuan: Come to my house. Tonight.

You already had the suppressant ready—three small pills, pale grey, formulated from your own trials. Stronger than the last batch.

At the same time, elsewhere in the city, Meiren sat alone, reviewing internal reports with fingers tapping her pen in an offbeat rhythm. Her eyes narrowed at a series of logs: shift anomalies, missing staff check-ins, discreet cleaning crew invoices submitted under Jing Yuan’s direct authorization.

Something wasn’t right.

She knew Jing Yuan liked to work off-grid at times, but lately, he’d been too private. And then there was you, a clinic worker with no business being around someone like him.

She’d find out what he was hiding. One way or another.

The gates of Jing Yuan’s estate opened, letting you in. The house loomed ahead, modern architecture with curved stone and a glass exterior that concealed more than it showed.

But what caught your eye was the pool.

A body floated in it.

That was the man who attacked you.

Rotting now. Facedown in his private pool.

You didn’t run. You just turned and walked up the marble steps to the door.

He was already there.

His white shirt was unbuttoned halfway, sleeves rolled up. He looked disheveled, like he’d either just woken from a nightmare.

“I brought the pills.”

Inside, the house was dim. Cool air swept through the open layout, but something felt wrong.

There was a soung. A dull, rhythmic bang. Like someone throwing themselves at a door.

“…What is that?”

Jing Yuan’s shoulders tensed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You stared at him. “There’s someone in there.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“It is if you’re keeping someone alive like that.” You tried to move toward the noise.

He stepped in front of you, blocking the hall.

“I took the suppressant,” he said, “I did what you asked. But it’s not enough.”

“Then let me—”

“No,” he said sharply. “The only thing you can do now…”

He exhaled, and his hands came up to grip your arms.

“…is stay with me. That’s all I need right now.”

You met his gaze.

His breathing was shallow. He was holding back something monstrous—but only barely. The way his fingers curled ever so slightly, like he wanted to dig into your skin and keep you there forever.

Behind you, the banging continued.

“…I’ll stay,” you said. “But not like this.”

His expression flickered.

Then softened. Just barely.

The banging had stopped.

You waited for a while.

Jing Yuan’s gaze followed you like a slow tide. “It’s fine now.”

“I just want to see.”

He didn’t stop you this time.

You padded down the hall, passing quiet doors and expensive decor. The sound had come from the room at the end, you believed so. You turned the knob carefully.

Empty.

Pristine, even.

Nothing was out of place. No scratches. No scent of blood.

“Are you reassured now?”

You turned. He was standing there calmly.

“…Yeah” you murmured, unsure if you were lying.

Later, in the kitchen, you made something simple. Steamed rice. Boiled greens. Egg, ginger, and broth. He didn’t ask for meat. He didn’t touch the meat drawer at all. Just sat at the counter, eyes half-closed as he watched you move like you were the last quiet thing left in the world.

He ate everything.

“You should sleep.” you said after he finished.

“Only if you stay.”

You hesitated. But in the end, you stayed. You told yourself it was to monitor his status. To ensure the suppressant was working.

You fell asleep in the guest room, lights off, his scent clinging faintly to the pillow.

And while you slept, he left.

Meiren should’ve known better.

She’d slipped past outer surveillance. Used her clearance, slinking across Jing Yuan’s private property like she owned a right to his secrets.

She didn’t expect him to be standing there, barefoot, silent in the garden fog, waiting.

“I didn’t mean anything by it..” she said. “Just checking up. You've been distant.”

“You’ve always been very curious.”

“You really let that clinic thing get into your head, huh?”

That was her last mistake.

Morning came.

You woke up to warmth at your side.

Not the sun.

Him.

You were half-pinned to the bed, head sunk into the pillow, and Jing Yuan’s arm was wrapped firmly around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.

You stiffened.

“Jing—?”

You tried to shift.

He didn’t budge.

So you turned slightly, just enough to slip free, when his hand reflexively tightened. You let out a startled yelp and nearly rolled off the bed, but he caught your wrist with perfect reflex.

His eyes opened slowly.

“…Good morning”

“I thought you were in your room—!”

“I changed my mind,” he said. “You were warm.”

He pulled you gently back into place, as though the interruption never happened.

“Sleep more.”

----

You were just pulling on your hoodie when your phone buzzed.

[Clinic Alert]: URGENT – Full staff required.

The sender was your supervisor.

You rushed out of the guest room, barely pulling your bag over your shoulder when you found Jing Yuan at the stove, humming faintly to himself as he turned over scallion pancakes on a hot iron pan.

“Leaving so early?”

“WHAT THE- HOW?? Anyway, I got an emergency message from the clinic.”

He turned the flame off immediately, setting the spatula aside. “I’ll have someone else handle it.”

“No,” you said, already moving toward the door. “It’s serious.”

“I can drive you.”

You hesitated, then nodded. It was faster than public transport.

The car was already running by the time you stepped outside. As you climbed into the passenger seat, the scent inside washed over you. Familiar, but stronger than before.

The day was long.

Blood, screaming,.. you worked through it all, trying to keep the breathing steady and the damage controlled.

At sunset, your boss found you leaning against the back sink.

“You disappeared for a full day. This isn’t a hobby. You can’t come and go.”

“I responded to an emergency—”

“You’re not the only one with patients. You want to play doctor part-time, find another clinic.”

You didn’t respond.

You just nodded, held your tongue, and walked out without looking back.

The sky had already turned deep purple by the time you stepped outside.

And Jing Yuan was there. Waiting in his car across the street, leaning back in the seat, one hand draped over the steering wheel.

You got in without a word.

He glanced at you. “Bad day?”

You didn’t answer right away. He didn’t push.

But halfway into the drive, he broke the silence.

“You could stop doing this.” he said. “Let me take care of you.”

You looked at him.

“I mean it. You don’t have to work. Or, if you want, I can make space in my company. You could lead a whole department. Or oversee our hybrid wellness programs.”

You stared at the city lights bleeding through the windows.

“You think I don’t want to help people?”

“I think you’re tired,” he replied. “And wasted in that clinic.”

“…I want to do this” you said. “I chose this.”

He was quiet for a beat.

“But wasn’t this all because of me?”

You turned to him.

He glanced at you briefly. “You said so.”

Your chest tightened at the memory.

The hospital hallway. The blood down his neck. Your hands shaking so hard you couldn’t even hold a compress.

“If I’d known more,” you’d said back then, crying into your palms, “I could’ve done something. I’ll learn how to take care of you next time. I promise.”

“Back then, it was just you. My whole world was you.” You muttered.

Jing Yuan didn’t reply.

So you added, “But it’s not like that anymore. You’re still important. But not everything.”

You didn’t notice that he’d stopped driving toward your home.

He pulled into the underground garage of his estate instead. You blinked as the car descended the smooth ramp into dim, private lighting.

“Hey—this isn’t—” You frowned, trying to argue, but you barely managed a few more words before your body felt suddenly heavy. Like your limbs were melting into the seat. A slow warmth spread through your chest.

That scent again. Thicker now.

It wasn’t just cologne.

“…What’s in the car” you murmured, slurring slightly. “Jing…”

“It helps calm my instincts.” he said. “Usually.”

You tried to sit up, but your head lolled.

“You need rest.” he whispered, reaching across you to unbuckle the seatbelt.

You woke up, but you weren’t in a bed.

Your arms were bound behind you, wrists aching slightly against thick restraints, and your ankles were tied to the legs of a heavy chair. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the lingering fog in your head.

A soft click echoed nearby.

“Jing Yuan,” you croaked. “Let me go.”

He tilted his head as if you were being unreasonable.

You yanked against the restraints. “This isn’t a joke.”

He walked past you, reaching into a locked cabinet across the room. You heard the rattle of glass vials. You saw the gleam of metal.

“Of all the people I’ve taken before—for meat, for coin, for… other uses—I always knew I couldn’t treat you the same. That was unfair of me. You were special.”

He turned, syringe in hand, “But it’s also unfair that I crave you this much, and you… don’t.”

You froze.

“I don’t want to make you suffer,” he said gently, kneeling beside you. “I just want you to understand. To feel what I feel.”

The needle sank into your arm so fast you barely felt the sting.

Your vision swam immediately.

“You—!” You tried to speak, but the words dissolved.

Warmth flooded your body. Your skin prickled like heat lightning had erupted beneath it.

“Your system’s a bit weaker than mine,” Jing Yuan said thoughtfully, brushing hair from your face. “But that’s okay. I’ve adjusted the dose.”

You tried to focus on him. His outline blurred. Then your restraints came loose. The rope dropped to the floor. You slumped forward and landed in his arms. He caught you without effort, cradling your weight against his chest.

“Now we’re more even, aren’t we?”

You woke again.

A bed. Silk sheets. Pillows that smelled like him.

You sat up slowly. Your body felt too light and too heavy at once. Everything beneath your skin thrummed. Your thoughts were cloudy like something in you had been rewired. You touched your chest. No visible wounds. But something inside… burned.

A knock echoed on the other side of the door.

“I’ll be in shortly.”

Jing Yuan soon stepped in.

Sunlight spilled around him in a soft halo, his hair down, loose around his shoulders.

You sat up on the edge of the bed.

“I want to get out of here.”

“You just woke up. Are you feeling well?”

“I’m fine.”

You stood, legs trembling slightly, not from exhaustion, but from something else. You clenched your fists.

He took a step closer.

That’s when it hit you.

The scent.

It wasn’t cologne. Not even the suppressant that lingered faintly around his clothes.

It came off him, seeped into your lungs and curled up inside you. You hadn’t noticed it before. Not with this clarity. You felt your knees weaken again. Your mouth went dry. Your heart pounded like it wanted to leap toward him. You couldn’t stop inhaling.

Your body wanted to be closer.

More.

“Stop it.” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything.

You stumbled forward, but instead of running, your hands landed against his chest. You felt his warmth through the shirt. The rhythmic thump of his heartbeat. Your forehead nearly brushed his collarbone.

You hated it. You craved it. You couldn’t breathe without it.

“I said stop!” you shouted.

And pushed him away.

He didn’t resist, only staggered back slightly, arms loose at his sides. His expression remained calm, but the flicker in his eyes said everything. A quiet pain. Or disappointment.

You ran past him, down the hall, through the open door he didn’t bother locking this time.

The sun burned your eyes as you stepped out into the city. The wind stung your cheeks.

You didn’t look back.

By the time you reached your clinic, your breathing was ragged. Your hands trembled as you dug through your drawers, scanning for anything to slow your racing pulse. You didn’t even know what he injected into you.

You collapsed into the rolling chair.

You could still smell him. On your sleeves. In your hair.

You pressed a cloth over your nose and mouth, desperate to shut it out.

You injected yourself with the suppressant. If it worked on him, then maybe—just maybe—it would work on you, too.

Your body didn’t spiral like it had yesterday. The craving was dulled. But it never vanished. Even now, seated stiffly at your desk, typing up reports and updating patient records, you could still feel it.

Every time someone walked past with a faint cologne, your nose twitched, disappointed.

It wasn’t his scent.

You forced yourself to finish the day anyway. You didn't want him to know how much it still controlled you.

But of course, he came anyway.

It was already dark outside when you locked up the clinic and stepped out onto the quiet street.

He was waiting beside his car.

You didn’t speak.

He opened the passenger door with practiced ease. You got in without a word. The drive was silent.

But your heartbeat wasn’t.

The moment you inhaled the air in the car, your restraint trembled. His scent was there - natural, unfiltered, saturating the space. It reached into your lungs, curled around your nerves.

You pressed your nails into your palms and kept your mouth shut the entire way back to your apartment.

When you arrived, he walked you to your door.

You fumbled with the keys, struggling to fit them in the lock, hands shaking from something you couldn’t name. He reached over, brushing your hand aside gently to help.

That was it.

The second his hand touched yours, the last thread snapped.

You turned and crashed into him, arms wrapping around his torso, your face burying itself into the crook of his neck. You inhaled.

And then you kissed him.

Once. Twice.

Lips brushing against his cheek, jaw, the edge of his mouth.

It wasn’t loving.

It was need.

His palms cradled your face. “Take it slow,” he murmured. “Go inside first. Breathe.”

But the moment the door clicked open, you couldn’t hold it back anymore. Yanking him in, kicking the door shut, crushing your mouth to his. He yielded, tilting his head, letting you take like he knew this hunger would devour you both.

You broke for air. Then kissed him again.

And again.

Each time you stopped, it wasn’t by will. It was because you needed to breathe. Each time you returned, it was like your body was starving all over again.

His hands held you steady. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he already knew this would happen.

Your nails scraped his shoulders. Teeth found his throat. You bit. Not hard, but enough to feel his pulse. He didn’t stop you. He barely flinched.

You fell asleep not long after that, your body giving in.

When you woke, you were tucked into your bed.

In another room, Jing Yuan stood over your notes.

He flipped through the test logs with one hand, the other brushing the bandage over his neck where you’d bitten him.

Your handwriting trembled by the third page.

“…if this suppressant doesn’t work, I might lose myself completely.”

He closed the folder.

Satisfied.

Because now, finally— you needed him just as much as he needed you.

[superbpiratesandwich]

Better For You

tags: John Walker x fem!reader, MENTIONS OF UNALIVING, (please dont read if you struggle with those thoughts even a little, its only like two sentences, but seriously, theres help if you need it cutie), ANGST (because im me and i just like being sad i guess), mention of alcohol/alcoholism/drinking to be okay, lots of cussing, cheating reader (you are the villain in this i guess *shrugs* what can you do about it), SMUT: dirty talk, mentions of choking, p in v, oral (fem!recieving), fingering, IF I MISSED ANY PLEASE TELL ME!! 

a/n: holy cow, firstly, i think i was possessed by the ghost of Angst past while writing this, or it may have just been me listening to Pushing It Down and Praying, potato, potato. SECONDLY, as i said in the tags, PLEASE DONT READ IF YOU STRUGGLE WITH UNALIVING MENTIONS, yes it is only two sentences, but still, i care about you cuties, so please please heed the warning. And THIRDLY... everyone clap for me, i wrote smut without laughing at the word ‘cock’ too much. I still laughed alot, it just looks so funny to me, cock. Anywho... enjoy this 10.2k words of heartbreak, laughter, and of course, some good ol’ fashioned smut. Love you cuties, thanks for the love on my posts, and as always criticism is welcomed! Happy (not so happy) reading! 

10.2k words (please dont look at me like that, i have too many words in my head, now you cuties suffer the consequences of said words) 

You kiss your boyfriend goodbye, shutting your eyes and imagining him. Your boyfriend doesn't seem to notice anything different about the kiss. Doesn't notice how you move your lips a little more against his, how your eyes flutter shut, the way your hands reach up to feel for dog tags that aren't there.  

You pull away, giving him a loving smile as you whisper a soft, almost non-existent “I love you,” only then do you open your eyes. You keep the smile on your face as you turn away from him, walking towards your car, not looking back, not wanting to see if he still wasn't him. 

You hated Saturday nights, not because of the busy bar, not even because of the grabby hands from the older men. No, you hated Saturday nights because of how they remind you about just how depraved this stupid fucking town is. The older men eye-fucking the waitresses as they pass, forgetting that there's at least a twenty-year age gap between them and their objects of affection.  

It was the same every weekend, stupid patrons that reeked of the whiskey you were pouring. They all told the same story “I loved her, I was good to her, and what did I get in return? ‘Not tonight honey I have a headache,’ and a bitchy attitude.” All of it accompanied by the same round of ‘Here, here's’ that just rammed it into your head, all men are the same.  

You poured another whiskey sour, placing a slice of lemon on the rim when you heard him. 

“Hey, honey, can I get a whiskey, neat, maybe with one of those lemons on the rim?” The nickname hit an exposed nerve ending, that's what every patron in this bar called you, and there was another man acting like your nametag wasn't splayed on your chest. But the twitch in your eye was calmed by the tone of his voice, something almost baritone to it made you want to fall into a trance. 

You got into your car, placing the key in the ignition and turning the key, the small Nissan Rogue engine rumbling to life, headlights flicking on, illuminating your boyfriends house. You give him another small wave, your hand resting on the ‘12’ of the steering wheel.  

John Walker had a different story as you poured his drink,  

“I shouldn't be here honestly,” He had commented with a rough laugh, staring at the glass as you fill it two thirds of the way with the amber colored liquid. “I couldn't take care of my own son,” He gave you a wave as if to offer up the information specifically to you. “Got drunk constantly, just scrolled on my phone and tried to forget about how much of a loser I was—am, I'm still a fucking loser.” 

You hesitated as you handed him his glass, usually you would zone out and stand there, listening to the same sob story repeatedly, hoping that your ‘listening’ ear would get you a better tip. But part of you wanted to listen to him, to hear his tale. He was admitting that he was the problem... 

And dammit you should've heeded the warning. 

The street leading out of your boyfriend's house is quiet as you drive with the windows down, Lizzy McAlpine coming softly through your speakers. You get onto the highway, zoning out as you drive, your mind thinking about everything, about how you feel so on edge around your boyfriend, the way he doesn't get your jokes, how he doesn't listen to you during sex, just kind of feeling around until he thinks you're satisfied then getting off in two minutes. Thinking about it all makes you grip the wheel harder, knuckles turning white, because he's not perfect, but he's stable.  

After an hour or two of talking on and off with John, you had realized you enjoyed his presence across the bar, something that rarely ever happened...more like never happened. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, he laughed at yours as well. The two of you ping ponging in the conversation, seemingly feeding off the other’s energy, causing the words to just flow.  

You found yourself a little disappointed when he pressed his large palm to the bar, standing up as he looked around at the empty establishment.  

“I guess I'm holding you up, huh?” he gave you a crooked grin, the gesture emphasizing the slight crow's feet around the corners of his eyes.  

You leaned against the bar across from him, looked around for a moment, before you sighed softly, “Yeah, yeah probably should close up or something.” You grabbed the towel off your shoulder and started wiping down the laminated wooden counter, the fingerprint smudges wiped away just like how the conversation seemed to dissipate.  

He laughed, pulled out his wallet, “Well don't sound so enthusiastic about me leaving.” you heard the cocky grin on his face before you looked up to see the evidence.  

“Well, I mean, I do have to close,” you shrugged, palms flat on the bar as you lean on it, dirtying the just cleaned bar. “But that doesn't mean we have to stop talking,” you cocked an eyebrow at him.  

His blonde eyebrows shot up, his blue eyes looked you up and down before his grin widened into a toothy smile as he set down a twenty on the bar, “Yeah? Y’wanna keep talking, honey?” you'd never admit how much you liked him calling you that. 

Your zoning out had made your body going on autopilot, taking an exit that isn’t the one to your apartment complex. You have a millisecond of confusion before you realize where you’re going, a feeling of guilt creeps up into your throat, you start to grab at your phone to get you turned around, back on the main highway.  

Instead of leading you straight back to the main road, it shows you a way that you don't know if you trust yourself enough to take without derailing from your current mission to get home. You keep driving, following the gps as it takes you down the familiar roads, each streetlight leading you closer and closer to something that seems to pull at you like a fly to a sticky trap. 

John insisted on taking you out on a proper first date, not wanting to call the two of you talking while you worked, a first date. He’d shown up to your apartment with a small bouquet of flowers, dressed in a button up and suit jacket, beard trimmed, and that same soft smile you admired so much. He’s a gentleman, you found out quickly, opening doors for you, paying for your food, holding your heels at the end of the night when your feet started to ache, giving you his suit jacket.  

“I'm simply saying that old westerns are cinematic masterpieces,” His hands moved as he emphasized his point.  

You snorted, pulling his jacket tighter around your shoulders, “And I'm simply saying that that sounds like something my father would say,” you shook your head, looked over at him.  

“Your dad has good taste. The apple obviously has fallen very far from the tree, unfortunately,”  

You zoned out a little, looking at him, the way his button up was taut over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up showing off his thick forearms. The way his beard covered up the sharp line of his jaw, his thick waist, not completely flat, and if you had to guess, he didn't have a glistening six pack, probably just a thick line of muscle there, a thin layer of fat over it. But dammit all if that didn't make you want to just claw your nails down it— 

“Honey, you're staring,” he didn't even look over at you, just kept walking as he grabbed your hand to keep you from running into a pole.  

“I am not” you rolled your eyes, interlocked your fingers with his as he walked on the side closest to the street.  

“Mmhmm... I know I'm ugly honey you ain’t gotta remind me of that,” it almost sounds like he's joking, like he's trying to get you to join in on the self-deprecating joke, but you didn't, you simply cocked your head at him, pulled him to a stop.  

“What?” he asked softly as the two of you stopped walking under a streetlight.  

“You’re handsome, you know that right?”  

You would've thought you had suddenly grown five heads with the way he looked at you. He quickly schooled his expression into a neutral one, shrugged, “Yeah, yeah I know,”  

His words may have claimed to be self-assured, but the way the tips of his ears went red, his eyes dodging yours, it all pointed to a hidden insecurity you had just prodded at.  

“I mean it, you're very handsome, I'm surprised you don't hear that often.” 

He looked down at you, taking a small step towards you. His free hand not holding yours found the side of your neck, his thumb brushed against your pulse, “Thank you honey,” his eyes found yours, blue irises making an involuntary smile bloom your face. 

“You sure like calling me honey, don't you?”  

“Because you're warm,” he leaned down, his nose bumped against yours, “and I bet you taste even sweeter than honey, so maybe I should give you a new nickname,” his lips brushed against yours, your own parting a little as your hands found his sides. 

“How about sugar?” he asked quietly, his eyes searched yours, almost silently asking for permission to kiss you.  

You nodded, “Sugar is nice,” you leaned up on your tip toes and pressed your lips against his. 

You tap the steering wheel as you drive, ‘Pushing It Down and Praying’ by Lizzy McAlpine blasting louder in your speakers, almost making them distort the tune. The roads twist and curve, you missed the turn eleven miles ago and can't bring yourself to turn around. You keep driving, almost willing the road to not lead where you know you it will. 

Tears stung at your eyes, you couldn't understand why he did this. Why he pushed you away when he was obviously struggling. It was the third time you had tried calling him, you eventually gave up and headed over to his apartment. You knocked on the door until you heard the soft click of a lock being undone.  

He looked like shit, eye bags more defined, an olive-green shirt taut over his shoulders and chest. He reeked of the whiskey he was probably drowning himself in. “I told you, you shouldn't come over,” 

You shook your head, pressed a palm against the door, “I'm not letting you drink yourself to death, John.”  

He rolled his eyes, the usual vibrant blue now dulled by the alcohol and thoughts chewing him up from the inside out. “I'm not drinking myself to death, it's only a few drinks, just- just leave,” he attempted to shut the door, your shoe wedged itself between the frame and the wooden door.  

“John... don't shut me out, don't do this again.” you pleaded with him, big doe eyes watery with tears. The door creaked open until his arm rested flat against the back side of it, his broad frame filling the doorway.  

“You need to leave.” his voice, rough and lifeless, no longer holding the smooth, baritone tonality that you loved so much, grated your ears. He sounded like he was one more shot of whiskey away from grabbing the firearm beneath his pillow and making sure you wouldn't have a reason to come back here again.  

“I'm not leaving, and one day, maybe you'll be smart and get it through your thick head that I'm not going to just leave when you're struggling, john, because I care about you, I-” 

He held his hand up, palm facing you, “Stop, stop talking,” the words carrying more bite than he had meant for them to. John got like that whenever you attempted to get more than just the shallow part of him, he got snappy. Like a dog that's been in a kennel far too long, biting at hands that try to pet it. It's why it'll never be adopted, never be loved fully. It's been left in a cage to rot and believes anyone who tries to get it out, simply wants to bribe it out into open air, only to shut it back in.  

“Don't say you love me, please honey, you don't love me, you don't care about me, you don't—” 

“You can't tell me what I feel John; you can't tell me that I don't care about you because i do—” 

You felt his hand wrap around your wrist, easily pulling you into his apartment. The door slammed shut behind you, “You don't! You don't care about me! You shouldn't! I'm an asshole! I'm a fucking loser! I drink when I'm angry, I get angrier and I snap, and dammit sugar I don't wanna snap at you—so please- please just leave.” his words started loud, getting quieter as he continued to speak.  

You stared up at him, he’d heard you talk about how you react to yelling, especially in close quarters. Your eyes glassy, shoulders hunched in on yourself, your lip trembled.  

His expression softened at you, his eyes shut for a moment, he looked away from you, “I'm sorry sugar, I’m- fuck.” he shook his head.  

You sniffled, blinked away the inevitable tears, “No, no it’s okay,” you attempted to assure him, your voice shook, but he kept shaking his head. 

“No baby, it's not okay, look at you, fuck, I'm- I'm a fucking terrible person, you- you should leave,” he pulled away from you.  

In your emotional turmoil, you reached for him. You reached for him like you would a lifeline when you're drowning at sea, hoping, praying, you can wrap your fingers around it.  

He pulled away. 

When your car is placed into park, your mind seems to come back into your body. Your hands fall off the steering wheel, your head turning as you look at the door of the apartment complex. You shouldn't be here, this is wrong, you have a loving boyfriend just a short drive away. You could drive back and spend the night at his house. Youve never stayed over at his house, and you don't think you ever will. You can't stand the thought of waking up to someone that isn't him, not when you know what it's like to. 

You felt his beard at the back of your neck. He was always extra touchy the days after a big fight, almost like a silent apology for his stupidity. Thats what John claimed it was, the way he always snapped when you tried to get too close, tried to break down the walls around his heart. How he always pushed you away when all you wanted was to bury yourself beneath his skin, become a part of him. 

You stretched beneath his dark comforter; a soft groan left your lips. His strong arms wrapped tighter around your middle, his nose laid on the side of your neck, inhaled as if he was trying to huff your scent.  

“G’mornin’ sugar,” his voice made you shiver, the rough tone of it made thicker by the haze of sleep.  

You reached behind you, carded your fingers through his blonde hair, “Mornin’ baby,” 

His lips found your pulse, slowly moving over it, his tongue lying flat against the skin there, like he was trying to memorize how fast your heart had beat when he started to move his right hand up under his shirt on your frame. All of it was uncharacteristically soft of him, the way he slowly moved you until you were on your back, your hands tangled in his soft hair as he pushed the material up until it was hitched up above your breasts, your doe eyes soft and wide up at him, still a little groggy with sleep.  

“John,” you'd whisper his name softly, tried to assure him he didn't need to make apologies like this, the teary eyed ‘I'm sorry’s last night were enough. But he wouldn't listen, continuing to kiss down your body, you swear you can hear him whispering against your soft skin. 

“So sweet t’me,” 

“Don't deserve you honey,” 

“Too good t’me, my pretty girl,” 

You wouldn't stop him, just continuing to sigh and moan his name quietly, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue found the aching spot between your thighs, still sore from the last night’s ‘apology’. His tongue found your clit like a heat seeking missile finding its target, slowly circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, each time mumbling “I'm sorry,” or “So sweet, pretty girl,”  

Your sneakers hardly made any noise as you walked up the stone staircase to his door, you take your time, looking around as you ascend the stairs, almost scared someone might see you, see you crawling back, your hand glides over the black metal railing, trying to ground yourself in the moment. You know this is wrong, you know you should turn around, but the memories keep bombarding you, forcing your feet to continue up the stairs until your stalking down the concrete floor to his door.  

John knew you weren't the best cook, so he’d always pick you up and bring you grocery shopping with him. Showed you the best type of beef to get for whatever the two of you planned to cook that night. He had a weird (cute) habit of spinning you in the ice cream aisle, every time the two of you were walking down it. You were walking down the cold freezer section, the slight squeaking of the wheels behind you indicated he was still following you as you stopped in front of the pints of ice cream.  

His large hands found your waist and you smiled, “You always do this,” you rolled your eyes, he just smiled right back at you. He moved his head over your shoulder so he could look at you, “And you love it.”  

As if on cue, he grabbed your right hand and pulled it until you were hand in hand, outstretched, almost reaching for him. He slowly pulled your hand above your head, twirling it, forcing you into a soft spin.  

You were almost tempted to forget about the screaming match the two of you had a few days prior... 

Almost 

You lift your fist to the wood, hovering it in front of the wooden door. You swallow, mind racing as your head tries to connect with your heart, trying to force your feet back down the steps and into your car. Have you ever wanted something that you knew was bad for you? You know you could just text your boyfriend, call him, be reminded of the loving arms waiting for you, just a short fifteen-minute drive on the highway away. 

The door opens without you knocking on it.  

It hurt, hurt more than any shot you would get from the doctor, any scrape or cut you had gotten. Nothing could compare to the day you had to make the decision to leave him, to cut it off, to pull the roots that Jonathan F. Walker had planted in your heart. You cried, a lot, before you even talked to him about it.  

The two of you had been having an off few weeks, not just days, weeks. Weeks of no communication, weeks of hot then cold, one morning he wants nothing to do with you, then the next he's begging you for just five more minutes. You had had enough, you couldn't take it, your mental health deteriorating with each swing of the pendulum,  

You sat in his living room, eyes already teary as you heard his key insert itself into his lock. He just looked at you for a few moments, before he clocked the bleary look in your eyes. His expression slowly dropped, almost like he could sense what this was, what was about to happen. “Can we talk?” you had asked softly.  

John wasn't a quitter, he bickered with you about it, claiming this to just be another ‘dip in the line of your relationship’ that it would pass, everyone goes through this. But you explained to him how much hurt you were going through, how with every dip, your mental wellbeing seemed to get worse. It all made you question your self-worth. 

And oh god when you said that he nearly dropped to his knees in front of the chair you sat in. What he had been doing was making you feel worthless? He had made you feel worthless? All he wanted to do was jump out of the window, ensuring you would never feel worthless again. He wanted to take away the pain so fast, make sure you only ever felt good things, especially coming from him.  

You cried as you dug the heels of your palms into your eyes, shaking your head as he tried to beg you to stay.  

“I promise I'll get better, baby, I never meant to hurt you, I swear honey, please,” he had asked begged you. You forced yourself up from the chair, sniffling as you wiped your nose on your sleeve, “This is for both of us, baby, I'm sorry,” you sobbed because promises were just words.  

The apartment was quieter without you in it, brightening the space in a way only you could. John never forgave himself for hurting you, he promised himself if he ever got the chance to have you again, he would rather die than hurt you like that again. But if he was being honest with himself, he wouldn't have blamed you if you never wanted to see him again. The gun under his pillow looked more and more tempting each night that passed.  

Then he got the notification of movement near his door.  

You stare up into his blue eyes, for a split-second thinking ‘Why did I ever break up with him?’ until the memories wash over you like an ice-cold shower. But it leaves you shivering, wanting to curl up with him. He’s wearing a tight navy shirt, grey sweatpants, he stares down at you, eyes briefly flicking over your appearance.  

The way your shirt collar has been stretched so it shows off your shoulder, the necklace with an initial on it, ‘B’, his jaw clenches at seeing the letter. He doesn't say a word, he just opens the door a little wider, silently inviting you in.  

You walk in without thinking, your feet moving as if on autopilot, walking into the familiar apartment. You hated yourself a little more each time you came over, even if it was only for a night. You look to your right, seeing the small kitchen, white tiles, a bottle of Jack Daniels open with a glass next to it. He walks past you towards the bottle, grabbing out another glass. You start to shake your head, “I don't-” he turns his head, arching an eyebrow at you as if to silently ask “really?” you sigh, nodding as you walk over to the kitchen. You lean against the counter, hip pressing into the cold tile.  

“What was it?” he pours the amber liquid into the two glasses.  

You cock your head, “What was what?” 

“Did he make a shitty joke? Not laugh at yours? Say something only a douchebag would say?” he clarifies, “Why are you here again?”  

You feel immediate guilt, you shouldn't be here, none of that happened, you're just greedy needing him like oxygen. “I- I shouldn't be here.” you mutter, taking the glass from him. 

He leans against the counter across from you, holding the other glass in his hand as he watches you, “You shouldn't.” he repeats, “But you are.” 

You look at him, giving him a look that he can decipher as ‘please don't’. “I don't know why I'm here—” you sling the glass back, gulping the entire drink in one shot.  

“I do.” he grabs the empty glass from you, your fingers brushing against his, neither of you pull away. “You need more,” he hands you his still full glass, pouring more of the amber liquid into the empty one. “You need more than just stable, that’s why you come over here,” 

He says it like it's a fact, just as easily known as the fact that the sky is blue. You don't correct him; you don't argue that you don't need him. You just stare at him, this time taking a sip of the whiskey, the liquid bitter on your tongue.  

“I don't wanna have sex,” you couldn't tell if you believed the words as you said them, but you said them anyways, “I just need to talk,” 

He gives you a sincere look, setting down his glass, “I’d never force you to do anything, sugar,”  

Dammit, those words made you want him more. 

You shake your head, “Stop saying that, sugar, and stop talking like that.” 

He simply raises his eyebrow, “Like what? Say that I'm not going to force you to do anything with me? Treat you with human decency—” 

“I mean when you say things like that, when you call me sugar, it makes me want to have sex with you and we both know how that always ends up.”  

The words hang in silence for a moment, both of you staring at each other like you’re one accidental touch from combusting.  

“You feel guilty as hell in the morning, and I feel like shit for making you feel like that.” his hands rest on either side of his thick waist, clutching the counter behind him.  

You lean back against the counter across from him, eyes trailing down to stare at the wall, “Fuck,” the word comes out as a whisper, your head lulling back, exposing your throat.  

He watches the silver initial gleam against your throat, ‘B’, even the image of that thing on your neck makes him want to scream.  

“He doesn't know you prefer gold.” the statement should be phrased as a question, but it’s more so a fact.  

He grabs the glass next to him, taking a small sip of the whiskey as you respond, not straightening your neck to look at him. “I wear both—” 

“But you prefer gold—” 

“Dammit just drop it okay?” 

John sits in silence, staring at the initial, his mind racing with what he could've done differently to make there be a ‘J’ hanging from your neck. 

“I don't know what to do.” you admit softly, bringing your head up a little to make eye contact with him. 

“You should leave,” he doesn't say it with malice, there's no bite in the words, just a simple offer-up of advice. 

You look at him, your eyes starting to sting with tears, “I don't want to,” you whisper, putting down the glass and gripping the counter behind you.  

His expression softens at you, “Don't cry sugar, you know I hate seeing you cry,” he pushes off the counter, taking a small step towards you. His large hands find your face and cup your cheeks, wiping the few tears that have already tracked down them.  

You sniffle, looking up at him, “I know, I just- dammit, why couldn't you be him?” the words make his hands freeze on your face. He’s tempted to get angry with you, to ask why you're trying to compare him to some fantasy picture of him as a stable constant in your life. Something you proudly display on your neck, instead, he's reduced to late night conversations, watching you cry over the guilt of being in love with someone you can never fully have.  

“I’ll never be him, sugar, you know that. There’s no use in crying over it.” his voice is soft, his thumbs rubbing over your soft cheeks. “I'm too far gone, I drink too much, I snap at you, sugar. You know I don't wanna hurt you like I already have.” 

More tears spill over your cheeks as you listen to him, because you know has right, you know he’ll forever be the angry drunk ex-captain America. And yet you can't help but want him, you know he's bad for you, you know it'll hurt all over again, but you can't stop yourself as you close your eyes.  

His lips press against the tear stains on your cheeks, gently moving over the salty tracks on your skin, before he moves up to your forehead, “So pretty, even when you cry.” you let out a soft laugh 

“Shut up, I'm an ugly crier.” you blink up at him.  

“You’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, even when you cry. Don't you dare call yourself an ugly crier.” his lips press against your nose.  

You tilt your head up just enough to meet his lips, he pulls away by a centimeter, “Sugar... you're gonna regret this.” you know he's right, but you can't stop the whisper from leaving your lips, “Just one kiss?” you look up at him. 

He stares down at your doe eyes, the way they're glassy with tears, how plump your lips look, how your cheeks are flushed from crying.  

“Just one.” 

His lips meet yours in a soft kiss, moving against your mouth in a way that only he knows how to. Your hand reaches up and grasps the dog tags around his neck, your thumb gliding over the steel, feeling the engravement of his name on it. Your other hand slides up his chest, carding through the hair just above his neck. He starts to pull away, his hands sliding down from your cheeks to your waist. 

“Sugar—” 

“Just one more.”  

You pull him down to your level, lips moving a little more against his. He kisses your back, he never was able to say no to you, especially when you seemed so needy.  

The kiss starts to devolve, his fingers digging into your waist, crumpling your shirt. His broad frame pushes you back against the counter, your lower back pressing against the tile. Your nails scratch gently at his scalp, causing a low grunt to make its way out of his throat. You take advantage of his open mouth and delve your tongue in between his lips, tasting the bitter liquid on his tongue.  

He grunts a little louder, bending down, without breaking the kiss, and grabbing your thighs. He sets you onto the tiled counter, his hands massaging the fat of your thighs, greedy to feel the skin not concealed by your shorts. He pulls away from your lips, moving his mouth down to your jaw as you shove your hips forward to meet his. He mumbles something intelligible against your neck before his hands are leaving your thighs and coming up behind your neck.  

You feel your necklace come unclasped as he moves his lips up to your ear “As fun as it sounds to fuck you with another man’s initial around your neck, I think we’d both prefer my hand over this stupid fucking necklace.” your head lulls back as you nod, giving him a weak “mmhmm,” 

He tosses the silver pendant to the kitchen floor, a small clink letting the both of you know it hit the ground. His lips are back on your neck, moving over your pulse, his tongue laving over the skin, like he’s addicted to the taste of you. You feel his teeth start to graze against your soft skin and you push a little at his shoulders, “No marks, no marks, baby,”  

He laughs against your neck, “Can't call me baby and ask me to not leave marks in the same sentence, sugar,”  

You try to come up with an excuse to get him to not leave marks, but your thoughts are interrupted as you feel him start to create a hickey in your skin, just under your jaw. The sensation of his teeth biting softly at the junction makes your head spin. You push his head a little more into your neck, “Mm you seem awfully needy for someone who doesn't want me to leave my mark on her, honey” 

You whine, pushing your hips forward against his, he grunts against your neck, pulling away just enough to stare at the mark, “You always look so pretty with my teeth marks on you, sugar.” you tug at his hair, forcing him against your lips again.  

He grabs at the undersides of your thighs, lifting you off the counter and walking towards his bedroom, acting like you weighed nothing. You detach from his lips, kissing down his jaw and neck, “Fuck, I bet you don't act like this with that pretty boy, huh? Bet you're not as needy for him as you are f’me honey.”  

You nip at the soft spot beneath his ear, “Could never be this needy for anyone but you, John,” he nearly buckles, shoving you up against the wall on his way to his room. “Baby... you can't, fuck I'm trying to focus on not dropping you.” 

You laugh against his skin, letting your tongue run over the mark, soothing the skin and him at the same time, “Sorry,” you pull back a little, giving him a soft smile.  

“You’re too pretty to be saying sorry about anything,” one of his hands comes up to rest against your cheek, his eyes half-lidded as they stare down at you.  

He carries you down the hallway, your forehead resting against his shoulder, hand wrapped around the back of his neck. You hear a soft thud of the door as he closes it with his foot, before you're deposited onto the bed. You lean back on your hands, looking up at him with your lip pulled between your teeth.  

He looks like he’s about to lose it, “Oh fuck you for using that face right now.” 

You let out a giggle, “I wish you would,” you feign ignorance, your smile making his heart do backflips while simultaneously pumping all his blood down south.  

John pokes his tongue into his cheek, “Don't get cheeky with me, sugar, I can see right through you,”  

You lean up, sitting up on your knees so you're almost eye-level with him, “Yeah?” you ask softly before reaching down and pulling off your shirt. You don't break eye contact with him as you lean down and pull off your shorts, leaving you in a flimsy sleep bra and plain cotton panties that are already bearing the evidence of your arousal.  

“Oh, fuck yeah,” his blue eyes darken as they trail down your form, staring at your chest for a moment before he's leaning forward, forcing you onto your back. You smile up at him as your hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to yours. He kisses you like you might lead him to salvation, like in this very moment, nothing exists outside of the two of you. 

You feel his calloused hands start to wander, moving down to your ribs, fingers sliding under the material of your bra. He only pulls away to tug off the fabric, eyes immediately dragging down to the bare skin of your breasts. He hands cup the sides of your rib cage, thumbs brushing over the outsides of them. “So fucking perfect, you're telling me he doesn't want to make sure this isn't properly taken care of?” it's a rhetorical question but you still answer with a head shake, big doe eyes trained on his, pink bottom lip jutting out a little.  

“Oh god bless it, honey, I hope you never stop coming to me.” his voice drops a few octaves before his mouth is back on you, quickly pressing a kiss to your lips before moving down. His mouth leaves a pretty trail of hickeys down your neck, to your collarbone, before he starts to give special attention to your tits. You gasp as his mouth encircles one of your nipples, making it harden into a peak. Your back arches and he smiles, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as his hands rub up and down your sides. 

You tug at his hair, letting out a soft, “John, baby,” he seems to double down, lips moving over your chest with adoration, seemingly worshipping you through his mouth.  

His lips move to your other breast, nipple now painfully hardening into a peak, you hear a soft, “Gotta make sure this one gets some lovin’ too, pretty girl.” before his mouth is on you. His hands press and massage at your sides, thumbs pressing against your hip bones as he finally detaches from your chest, kissing down further onto your stomach. 

He leaves hickeys on the pudge of your tummy, making sure to look up at you as he does so. “Perfect everywhere, sugar.” 

Your hand cards through his hair as he moves towards your cotton panties, his eyes land on the damp patch of material, blue irises flicking up to you. “Is this all for me, honey?” you pull your lip between your teeth, looking down at him as you nod. He presses his mouth against the wet spot, tongue laving at the material. Your legs tense as you feel his hot breath over you, even with the barrier of cotton between his mouth and your pussy.  

His tongue moves against the cotton, trying to get any sort of taste of you from it. You tug at his hair, “John... baby please,” he smiles against the fabric, calloused fingers moving to pull your panties down. He sits up, pulling the material all the way down, his eyes never leaving yours, until he tosses the cotton aside, leaving your thighs bare, and your wet entrance on display for him. “I will never understand how a man could see this and not want you to feel the most earth-shattering pleasure.” he says the words mostly to himself, his mouth already watering at the sight.  

He scoots down until your legs are over his shoulders, the sensitive skin of your thighs twitching as his beard rubs against them, his mouth leaving soft kisses against the now-irritated skin as a silent apology. His eyes find yours, your lip still pulled between your teeth, eyes staring down at him, “Thats it, sugar, you just keep those pretty eyes on me,” his eyes seem to get glassier as he gets closer to your core.  

Your hips jolt a little as you feel the coarse hair of his beard brush up against your sensitive entrance. The way he's lavishing your thighs with kisses has already made you more wet than you have ever felt with your boyfriend. The thought makes a quick pang of guilt shoot through you, and, almost as if on cue, his mouth finds your aching cunt.  

John aced almost every category in the military and in high school, including marksmanship. He could see the target from a half mile away and get a bullseye without breaking a sweat. So, the fact that he could find your clit the first time he went down on you wasn't surprising. But even now, he used that knowledge against you. His tongue sweeping over your weeping entrance, you clench around nothing, “Fuck, john,” he loves to hear his name from your lips, even if it is in annoyance that he won't give you what you so desperately want. 

The tip of his tongue moves over your slit, his nose bumping against the sensitive bundle of nerves. “Oh my god, holy shit-” you gasp, thighs clenching around his head, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He smiles as he starts to push his tongue into your dripping core, your nails scratching against his scalp. His beard scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but that is the last thing on your find as his tongue starts to gently move in and out of your entrance.  

He can't hear anything, your thighs flush against his ears, his big hands splaying on the outsides of them as he whispers nothing but praise into you, “Taste so fucking good sugar, swear to fuck, never tasted anything better,” his tongue moves up and circles around your clit, a cocky smile gracing his face as you jolt. Your hips shift against his face as he works the sensitive bud, making his tongue move faster.  

“John, fuck baby, I'm getting there. Shit, please don't stop.” You plead, not wanting to be left on edge like you were just a few hours ago by your boyfriend.  

He just shakes his head, lips detaching from your clit just long enough to gasp out a quick, “Wouldn't dream of it, honey,” before he's back, eating you out like a man starved. You could swear he enjoys this more than you do. The way his eyes flutter shut as his tongue laps at your core, how he grunts and groans into you each time you tighten your thighs around his head, or the way his hips grind into his mattress beneath him when you tug at his hair.  

You feel the familiar knot start to tighten in your stomach as you shift your hips against his face, he lets you use his mouth to get off, letting you tug and pull at his hair, he’d let you ride his face until he couldn't breathe if you asked. 

Because the truth is, John needs this, more than you do, he craves being used, being needed like this. The way you moan and mewl his name so softly into the air of his bedroom makes his chest fill with pride, pride that he is the one making you feel good, he's the one that's getting you off with just his tongue. The way you taste is just one of the many perks he loves about eating you out.  

Your back arches as the knot tightens further, you squeeze your thighs around his head, your hand getting tighter in his hair. “John, John baby fuck—please im-” you don't get to warn him properly, cumming on his tongue in the next moment. His name becomes a prayer on your lips, the only thing you can think of. He takes every last bit of you, not letting anything leak down onto his sheets.  

Only when you're pushing at his forehead, pleading with him, “Baby, fuck—’s too much,” and his vision is tunneling from the lack of oxygen, does he pull away. He leans up, letting your legs fall from his shoulders, his beard is soaked through with your release. You lay back, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he leans back onto his haunches, you hear the bed creak as he moves. When you bring your head up, your met with the sight of a blissed-out John, staring directly at your soaked pussy, now leaking with your fluids. He catches your eye, giving you a half smile, “She’s so pretty like this, honey,”  

He was always a master at dirty talking. You swear he could get you off with his words alone.  

You feel his fingers run up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, you let out a soft groan, your back arching, “John,” you stare down at him, he doesn't look at you, his eyes still stuck on the way your thighs shake a little as he presses his middle finger up against your slit. You jolt, eyes fluttering shut, “Damn, sugar, I know it's been a month or two since the last time, but you really... really tightened up while you were away, didn't you?” 

He talks about the time between your late-night visits to him like you were simply on vacation, not creating a whole other life with someone else. Because if he thought about it too much, he’d go find the ‘B’ of your necklace, (although, he already knows where the guy went to preschool, he couldn’t just let you date anyone), and make sure he never contacted you again.  

His middle finger sinks in slowly, just to the first knuckle, your back arches. “Was it being on edge around him the whole time? Hmm?” he pushes the digit deeper. He can't decide if he wants to watch your face, or the way your entrance is nearly pulling his finger in, “Maybe it was having to fake it every time the two of you had sex,” you squeeze around him at that, “Ohh it was that wasn't it baby?” he pauses, leaning over you as he pushes just a little more until he reaches the base of his finger. 

“Don't you worry, honey, you won't have to fake it with me,” he assures you, his free hand gripping the pillow near your head as he pulls his finger out, pushing it back in. His eyes trail down your frame, his head bowing as he looks between your legs, he pushes another finger in. Your legs scoot wider, allowing his thick frame to sit between them, “Oh look at her, so sweet, so needy for me, is that it?” he coos softly, his nose bumping against your cheek.  

You stare up at him, your hands interlocked behind his head, “John, baby, fuck-” you shudder as he pulls his fingers out of you, leaning back onto his haunches. You follow him, leaning up and pressing your lips against his.  

He’s taken by surprise at your initiative, his lips moving instinctively against yours. You tug at his shirt, hands sliding under the material, feeling the slightly pudgy area of his waist. You’ve always loved that area on him, the way he didn't have a six-pack, but you knew he was strong. The way it looked in a suit, all of him, broad, thick, and muscled, dammit you loved all of it.  

He tugs off his shirt, his dog tags hitting his chest with a soft clink, you grab at them, your thumb sliding over the bumps that display his name and rank. He pushes you back onto the bed and you whine, reaching for his sweatpants. 

“Sugar, you gotta wait, I was serious about you being tighter than usual, I'm not lying when I say you're uptight,” he comments, his fingers sliding back down between your legs. You relax into the bed, letting out a soft moan as he slides his digits into you again, finding you less tight than earlier. “Did my pretty girl just need to relax a little?” he asks quietly, sliding his fingers in and out of you at a moderate pace. You nod, relaxing more and more around his digits.  

“So- so good baby, fuck- you always treat me so good,” your back arches a little as he curls his fingers inside of you, finding the spongy spot you could never find by yourself. You stare up at him, doe eyed and blissed out, the flush on your cheeks still present from your last orgasm.  

He stares down at you for a moment, his fingers freezing their movement, his brain short-circuits, and he pulls them out of you.  

“So fucking gorgeous, swear to fuck, best thing I've ever seen,” he's over your body in a second, big frame encasing you on the bed as his lips find yours again. The kiss is hungrier, more desperate, like he's been starving for you and you've just given him permission to take what he wants.  

He pushes down his sweatpants, his cock hitting his stomach, already hard and leaking. He winces at the way it almost hurts to not be inside of you at that very moment, he reaches over for a condom, but you stop him, “I trust you,” your eyes are filled with nothing but sincerity, but even so... 

“I know you do honey, and it's really sweet that you wanna take me raw, but I gotta be honest, with how fucking good you look right now, and how painfully hard I am, I don't trust myself to pull out without getting you pregnant, so we’re gonna use a condom, mkay? Mkay.” he leans down and kisses your cheek as he grabs the small foil packet from his nightstand.  

You shift on the bed, feeling the way your release has leaked down to the sheets, causing your thighs to stick to them. He hovers back over you, his arm braced next to your head. You reach up and grab his bicep, nails softly digging into the skin as you stare down between your two bodies. He wraps a hand around himself, letting out a soft grunt as he pushes the head of his cock up against your entrance. “Dammit honey, I'm not gonna last long, just- just a warning,”  

He hates how warm he feels when you smile up at him, “Neither am I, baby,” 

John pushes in slowly, letting your weeping cunt surround him, he can feel every inch of you. You’re a little surprised with how easily you're taking him, your pussy not tightening in anticipation or nerves, just enveloping him easily.  

“Oh, you take it so good, honey, so good,” his nose bumps against yours as he gets you to look up at him, “Just been waitin’ for me, haven't you, sugar?” he lets out a soft laugh, not to mock, more in amazement. He slides in fully, and you feel it, he fills you up in a way no other man could, and as guilty as you felt for having the thought, that feeling is replaced by pleasure as he pulls out and slams back in.  

“Cmon, sugar, lost you there for a second, I want your attention on me, yeah that's it,” he pulls out slowly, pushing all his length back in at once, making the air leave your lungs in one quick gasp.  

“John,” 

“Thats my name sugar, be sure to wear it out.” 

You look up to see his cocky smile above you, his eyes soften a little as they look down at yours, his thrusts getting a little faster. You let out a soft grunt with each hit of his pelvic bone against your clit, the coarse hair of his happy trail overstimulating it. Your nails digging deeper into his bicep as he pulls his other arm up to brace next to you, his hips moving quicker, deeper into you. You can tell he's starting to get lost, the glassy look he gets in his blue eyes, the way he starts talking without even realizing what he's saying. 

“Wish- fuck- wish I could be better for you, honey.” 

“Wanna be so much better, just for you, get to have this every night,” 

“Wanna be the one to fuck you into oblivion, not some fucking pretty boy.” 

His thrusts get angrier, his nose scrunching up as he grunts, hiding his face next to yours, his forehead pressing against the sheets next to your head. “Fuck this- you feel so fucking good, haven't- dammit- haven't fucked no one else since you, sugar, nothing, nothing, can compare to how you feel,” he's rambling, his mouth not shutting up, as much as he wishes it would. 

You whimper into his neck, your eyes squeezing shut as you tighten around him. That earns a loud groan from him, one of his hands coming up to brace against the headboard as he changes the angle of his hips. His cock starts to bully your cervix, you throw your head back, moaning his name as you see stars, “John, baby, fuck- that feels so good,”  

“That’s right honey, fuck- fucking squeeze me, god you feel so good around me, so damn good, making me lose my fucking mind.” he moves even faster, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room.  

You tense around him as you start to feel the knot in your stomach tighten again, you scratch at his back, “John, baby- I'm gonna cum,” you whine, your chest heaving. He takes the hint, still moving at a fast pace, but making sure to roll his hips into yours, letting your clit feel his pelvic bone, his cock reaching a place inside of you, you never thought possible.  

“Oh, there she is, there's my pretty girl,” his voice is muffled as your eyes roll back into your head, you start babbling his name, repeatedly. You can't think of anything else, can't think of the guilt you'll surely feel tomorrow morning, how you have a boyfriend who could never make you feel this good, you can only think of his cock and how deep he is and how good his praise is making you feel.  

“Take it, fuck- take it all, sugar, you can-” only after you arch your back, squeezing around him so hard it forces him to slow down by a fraction, does he start to chase his own high. His hips move at an erratic pace, slamming into you with so much force, it makes the bed creak with every thrust. “I'm gonna- fuck- I'm gonna-” if it weren't for the haze of two orgasms, or the fact that you could feel your cervix being bruised by the head of his cock, you could swear you hear him say a quick, quiet, “God I love you,” as he cums.  

You both pant as he tries to keep his weight off you, keeping his cock inside of you for a few moments. You hold each other, his thick arms wrapped around your back, your arms wrapped around his neck, holding his face into your shoulder.  

Your entire body feels like jello as he pulls out, leaning back on his haunches and staring down at you. Your eyes are half-lidded as he rubs his palms over your thighs, “You okay, honey? Did I get too rough?” you laugh softly, knowing that is a fraction of how rough he can be. “No baby, you didn't hurt me, I'm okay.” you nod, assuring him.  

The bed creaks as he gets up, walking to the bathroom, you hear the sink turn on, then off. Your head turns as you watch him pick up his boxers, pulling them on before grabbing his shirt and tossing it next to you on the bed. You start to try and sit up, letting out a small grunt. “Hey, sugar, don't try and move right now, I just fucked you into oblivion.” you can hear the cocky grin in his voice.  

You look up at him as he drags a soft, damp, wash cloth down your thighs. You groan softly, “John, baby,” he nods,  

“I know sugar, I know, but I gotta clean y’up, or you're gonna get sticky, then you're gonna get irritated, and I don't want either of those things,” you laugh because you know he's right.  

After cleaning you up, he pulls his shirt over your head, helping you get into a more comfortable position against his chest, your leg hiked up over his abdomen as his arm is wrapped around your shoulder. His free hand cups the outside of your thigh on his stomach, his thumb swiping across the skin.  

You can already feel the guilt start to creep into the edges of your mind, and as if he can read it, his hand leaves your thigh to tuck your hair behind your ear, “Hey... sugar, don't go getting all fuzzy-headed on me now,” you nod, “I'm okay, just... thinking,” 

“Thats never good,” 

You swat softly at his chest, “Loser,”  

He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips, and kissing it before mumbling against the skin, “How about you get some sleep, loser” he suggests, guiding your hand to his dog tags as he reaches over and flicks off the light.  

You fall asleep quickly to the sound of his heartbeat in your ears, the way the steel of his dog tags feel beneath your palm lulls you to sleep. John holds you through the night, his eyes reluctantly falling shut, he doesn't want this to be over, doesn't want this to be possibly the last night you come over, but he knows better than to get his hopes up.  

Your phone ringing jolts you out of bed, you quickly crawl to the end of the bed, grabbing at your shorts to find it. You hit answer before looking at the caller ID.  

“Hello?” your voice is hoarse, the night before taking a toll on your vocal cords, along with it being almost 7 in the morning.  

“Hey... baby? Yeah, I'm at your place and you're not here. I was gonna see if you wanted to go out to breakfast or something, y’know, since you never really stay over.”  

A bucket of cold ice water might as well have been dumped on your head. You stay stock still, not knowing what to say, the bitter feeling is back in your throat, the guilt gnawing away at your conscience.  

“Baby?” your boyfriend calls your pet name again, it makes you nauseous.  

“Yeah, yeah, sorry Beau, I'm at a friend's house, accidentally took the wrong exit and figured I'd just stay the night, we had some catching up to do.” all technically the truth. You glance back at John, expecting him to still be asleep, but that man was awake before you ever even opened your eyes.  

His blue eyes bore into yours, almost silently asking you to hang up and forget about the plans, forget about your boyfriend and stay here.  

“Oh, okay, well I know you have work tonight, so I'll see you tomorrow maybe?” your boyfriend sounds hopeful it all makes you just wanna cry. You just give him a small, almost silent, “Mmhmm,” and hang up. Your eyes don't leave john’s as you put your phone down, sitting up on your knees.  

He should be angry, should be pissed off that he's technically the ‘other woman’ in this scenario, but the way your eyes well up with tears. It makes him want to call your boyfriend back and tell him to never call you again. It's too early for you to already be crying, he finds himself wanting to comfort you, “Don't cry sugar, hey, you're too pretty to cry.” he grabs at your arm, pulling you into a hug. You press your face into his chest, sniffling as the tears threaten to drown you, “I'm a terrible fucking person,” your voice is shaky. He shakes his head, “No you're not honey, I should've told you to leave last night and I didn't, because I'm a selfish bastard who wants you and only you.”  

He cups your cheek with his warm palm, looking down at you, you sniffle, “I shouldn't be here,”  

He nods, “I know, but you always find your way back here and if I'm being honest, sugar, i don't want you to stop coming back to me.” John is an honest man, he can't help telling you the truth, even if it makes you want to crawl into him and never see your boyfriend ever again.  

You stare up at him, swallowing hard before asking, “Why couldn't you be better?”  

You felt the love for him, it would always cause an ache in your heart, but you knew, you knew this would always fall apart, even if it did feel good as it crumbled.  

He shakes his head, “I'm not what you need honey, as bad as I wanna be all you could ever want or need, I'm not. You deserve so much better,” he pauses, kissing your nose, “But as long as you keep coming back, I'll never turn you away, and if that's my fault or yours, I'll take the blame every time.” 

You cry into his chest for another hour, until you fall asleep. When you wake up again at 10am, the sun has risen, birds chirp as if it's any other day, and your eyes are puffy from crying yourself to sleep a few hours ago.  

You lean up, feeling his arms fall from around you. He stayed awake, now looking up at you as you sit up, looking over your shoulder at him. You move in silence as you get out of his bed, legs wobbly, your insides throbbing with an ache that would only ever be filled by him. He doesn't say a word as you walk out of his bedroom with his shirt on, he just silently follows you, ignoring the way your perfume lingers for a few moments behind you.  

You grab your keys off the counter, where two untouched glasses of whiskey sit, you don't know it, but he's going to tear up pouring the glass with the lip gloss stain on it out into the sink like it's just another day. His hand hovers over your lower back as he leads you to his front door, opening it for you. You step out into the warm summer air of the morning, grimacing despite the pleasant day. As you walk down the concrete slab of flooring, you look back, aching to see him just one more time.  

There he stands, John Walker, leaning against his doorframe, bare chested, boxers low on his hips, a few love bites littering his neck, nothing compared to how you look, acting as if your heart isn't actively breaking with each step you take away from him. What you'll never know, never realize, is that his hear is aching more than yours... 

Wanting, but never having, wishing, but it never coming true, that if he could be better for anyone, even if just for a few minutes, that he could be better for you.  

========================================================================= 

p.s. sorry for the long ahh authors note and tag. 

[beggamoth]

Dragon courtship rituals in post-war environment

summary | aemond targaryen survives after the battle above the god’s eye thanks to the little trinket you gave him. he dismissed you to remove the temptation but your exile didn't last till the supper. now, he makes you do maths, patch up his underthings and probably subconsciously displays dragonlike hoarding behaviour patterns towards his little unsuspecting servant

technically a third part to the things that cannot be unsaid and the most loyal servant and their blue-balled prince

characters | aemond targaryen x servant!gn!reader, aegon II and jaehaera (briefly)

notes | TEAM GREEN sort of WINS here. if you don't like it - don't read it. another lil piece i wrote during my exam period in june in my notes and forgot about. actually proofread. im getting really confused on readers lore here, probably it would be better if i turned it into OC... anyways gonna make a masterlist and also open requests if anyone's interested because its summer break and im bored asf! stay tuned yall����wordcount | 2,3 k

any kind of feedback is highly appreciated!

History may be written by the victors, so one could simply say the Greens won the Dance of the Dragons and be done with it. Aegon II sits the throne. Sunfyre is still picking Rhaenyra's bones and gristle from his teeth. The garish banners of the Blacks are good for nothing but kindling now.

BUT. We're not talking about historical footnotes here, but actual people – nuanced, contradictory, real. A Green victory tastes as foul as their cause in this war, fought by a bunch of inbred, spectacularly spoiled brats handed unrestricted access to medieval versions of nukes.

SO.

Aegon II sits the throne only in theory. Yes, he can walk – haltingly, leaning heavily on a cane. His burns have scarred over. But he's shed the crown like an ill-fitting helmet. He's a man who never truly wanted this war, and he certainly never wanted the aftermath: the endless politicking, the tedious rebuilding.

He signs what he must. He shows up when dragged out. But increasingly, everything gets dumped onto his brother. The former Prince Regent is now the Hand of the King.

'Ask Aemond.'

'See to it with my Hand.'

'I don't care – let Aemond decide.'

It isn’t uncommon for the entire councils to meet without Aegon present. For proclamations to be sealed by the Hand’s ring. For ambassadors to return to distant courts and murmur: ‘The one-eyed prince rules now.’

And Aemond knows it.

He relishes it.

But it eats at him, too. Because while the world calls him Hand, it still bows to a withered, lecherous, half-absent king. His strategies saved the realm from bleeding out. His negotiations turned back the Riverlords. His name keeps the realm afraid enough to be stable.

Yet he is still, on parchment, the spare son. The shadow.

He is, privately, beginning to resent it.

And you? Meek little servant, whose little trinket stuck in the prince’s breastplate halted a chain of events and brought the Green Cause to a win?

You’re not his consort.

And yet... you’re not not.

Aegon was wrong about giving your exile a week. He learned about his miscalculation while he was holding court from his mountain of pillows in the chambers. His audience: Princess Jaehaera, perched silently on a stool beside his bed, methodically shredding a piece of dried lavender. She didn't look at him. She rarely looked directly at anyone. Her focus was intense, internal, absorbed in the crumbling purple petals falling onto the rug.

Aegon, however, was feeling sharp. Dangerously sharp. He was in the mood to direct all his harmless malice to reassert itself. And his favorite subject? His perpetually constipated brother’s romantic (non-)life.

“– dismissed them! Can you believe it? Said he practically roared at the poor wretch to get out!”

Jaehaera tilted her head, her large eyes shifting slowly from the tapestry to her father. “But he called [name] back,” she stated, her voice flat and clear as a bell. “Later.”

Aegon’s laughter choked off mid-wheeze. He stared at his daughter. “...What?”

“Uncle Aemond called them back,” Jaehaera repeated, patiently, as if explaining that the sky was indeed blue. “After. Not long.” She blinked slowly, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Ser Willis told Ser Tyland. Three hours, Ser Tyland said. Maybe less.” She turned her attention back to the flower, carefully plucking a loose petal.

“Three HOURS?!” Aegon shrieked between wheezes, his face purpling. “Not even a full fucking afternoon?!” He slammed a fist weakly onto the mattress, sending a tremor through the bedding. “Oh, gods! The resolve! The princely fucking dignity! Shattered faster than a chamber pot dropped from the Maidenvault!”

He reached out blindly, grabbing Jaehaera’s arm to steady himself. “Did you hear that, sweetling? Three hours! Your uncle Aemond, the Realm’s Terror, couldn’t manage three hours without his–“ He dissolved into another fit of laughter, pulling Jaehaera slightly off balance.

The little princess remained impassive, her expression unchanging as her father used her arm like a laughing-staff.

“Careful, Your Grace!” came the alarmed voice of a nursemaid from inside the room, rushing forward as Aegon’s laughter threatened to topple him sideways, nearly pulling Jaehaera onto the bed with him. He flailed, still gasping, accidentally knocking over a cup of herbal tea that soaked into the bandages around his ribs.

“Ah! Fuck! Hot! But worth it!” Aegon gasped, clutching his side but still grinning. “Three hours! I give him nothing! Less than nothing! He’s utterly, pathetically doomed! The blushing maiden couldn't stand it! The mighty Vhagar-rider needs his… his button-polisher!” He wheezed, wiping tears. “Oh, this is too rich! Too perfect! Wait until I—" He dissolved into another fit, gasping for air.

Jaehaera watched him dispassionately. When the worst of the laughter subsided into pained chuckles, she calmly slid off the stool, avoiding the puddle of tea and shards. She picked up her small pile of shredded lavender petals from her lap and carefully placed them on Aegon’s blanket-covered knee. A silent offering. Or perhaps just efficient disposal.

“He has given them things,” she stated, her voice still flat. “Shiny things. A scroll. A stone.” She paused, thinking. “A chair.”

Aegon’s chuckles died, replaced by wide-eyed, gleeful disbelief. “He's what? Giving presents? Like a courting knight? Aemond?!” The image was too ludicrous. The laughter threatened to bubble up again, but the ache in his ribs won out. He groaned, sinking back into the pillows, a huge, triumphant grin splitting his face despite the pain. “Oh, this is better than a mummer’s farce. Better than a tourney! The One-Eyed Terror… playing the lovelorn fool with trinkets and furniture!” He let out another weak chuckle. “I give it a fortnight before we hear about hatchlings!”

Jaehaera simply stared at the pile of lavender petals on his knee, then turned and drifted silently out of the room, leaving her father to his triumphant, painful mirth and the slowly spreading tea stain on the rug. The war, the pain, the crown – momentarily forgotten in the sheer, glorious absurdity of his brother’s unwitting draconic courtship.

Three hours. He’d have to commission a plaque. Here marks the duration of Prince Aemond Targaryen's resolve: Shorter than a whore's promise.

Perfect.

Peace lasted three hours.

A terrified page hauled you from the soap vats to Aemond’s solar. "The Hand requires." So, you arrived, sudsy and bewildered, to be commanded to fetch reports, read reports, add numbers (correctly, then incorrectly, then correctly again for princely satisfaction). Then ordered back after supper. For "cross-referencing."

Sometimes, you dared to defy him, albeit meekly and still somewhat sulking: “My prince, I’m assigned to the laundry—"

“Your assignment,” Aemond cut in, unimpressed, “is where I put you. Fetch. The. Reports.”

So, you fetched. They read dry accounts of grain yields and tax revenues in a clear, steady voice, trying to ignore the prince’s unnerving stare. When finished, he grunted. “The numbers on the Reach. Add them. Quickly.”

You added. Announced the sum.

“Wrong,” Aemond snapped. “Do it again. Slower.”

It wasn't wrong. You know maths. But you added again, slower, enunciating each figure. He listened, brow furrowed, then waved a dismissive hand.

“Acceptable. Go.” A pause. “Return after supper. The reports from Dragonstone need… cross-referencing.”

And so it began. The Great Summoning Charade. Prince Aemond, Conqueror of Pain and Patron Saint of Thin Pretexts, found endless reasons to haul you from the laundry room or kennels.

“This translation of Lyseni trade agreements is inept. You know Low Valyrian dialects. Fix it.”

(You knew some marketplace curses and basic haggling terms, hardly scholarly fluency).

“The stitching on this jerkin is substandard. Re-do it.”

(It was perfectly adequate stitching. You re-did it under his watchful eye).

“The air in here is stale. Open the window. Then fetch water. Then… remain. I may require dictation.”

(He dictated nothing. He just scowled at maps while you stood awkwardly by the now-open window).

It was baffling. Exhausting. And accompanied by… things.

The Great Summoning Charade was exhausting. But worse than the exhaustion was the sheer, suffocating weirdness that followed you like a particularly malodorous shadow.

First, Aemond hovered. It wasn't subtle. If you were sorting scrolls, his shadow would fall across the parchment, a looming, silent presence radiating heat and vague disapproval. If you were fetching water, he’d suddenly be right there by the pitcher, as if checking its quality but mostly just… looming.

Second, the intercepting. Gods, the intercepting. Try asking Ser Steffon about the stable rota while delivering Aemond’s sharpened daggers? Before the first syllable left your lips, a cool, clipped voice sliced through the air: “You. The inventory lists for the Stormlands garrison. Now.” Need to confirm a laundry schedule with a washerwoman? Aemond would materialize, demanding immediate clarification on the utterly irrelevant migratory patterns of wild dragons last winter, conveniently pulling you away from any non-Aemond-related communication. It was less princely command, more territorial dragon intercepting a rival sniffing near its… hoard?

Third, the food. This was particularly bizarre. Sharing a platter? Unheard of for a prince, especially this specimen. But suddenly, during your increasingly frequent ‘dictation’ sessions (which involved mostly silence and looming), Aemond would push a plate towards you. Not scraps. The best bits. The crispiest skin off the roast rabbit. The juiciest slice of venison. The sweetest honeyed fig. Once, he silently slid his own untouched goblet of Arbor Gold towards you after you’d coughed. You stared at it, then at him. He stared back, impassive, then pointedly looked back at his map.

“Eat. Drink. You look like you’re two sneezes away from Stranger’s lap from malnutrition. It’s unbecoming.”

But it felt less like generosity, more like… provisioning. Like Vhagar nudging a particularly scrawny goat towards her favorite spot before settling down.

Anyways, you ate the fig. It was delicious.

Fourth, the GIFTS. Oh, the gifts. They escalated. Rapidly. Beyond the initial pilfered trinkets (the spoon, the buckle, the feather), things got… specific. And weirdly thoughtful, in a terrifyingly Aemond way.

A perfectly preserved, obsidian-black Vhagar scale the size of your hand. Cold to the touch, humming faintly with ancient power. He dropped it on the scroll you were ‘cross-referencing’ with a dull thunk. “Found it near the Dragonpit. Pointless clutter.” You clutched it, feeling the sheer weight of history and potential violence. Pointless clutter? Right.

A beautifully illustrated, albeit slightly singed, copy of ‘On the Anatomy of Wyverns and Lesser Drakes’ by Maester Hogivzafak. You had once, months ago, sighed over its rarity in the Citadel archives. How did he even…?

A small, dead, perfectly intact blue lizard. Placed meticulously on your pallet. “Vhagar snapped at it. Wasteful.” You buried it respectfully in a potted plant, wondering if this was a threat, a snack suggestion, or just draconic gift-giving logic.

A delicate silver chain with a tiny, intricate dragon clasp. No explanation. Just appeared beside the lizard's grave site (the plant pot). You pocketed it, heart pounding. This was moving beyond rubbish disposal.

You stared at the growing collection on their shelf: scale, book, feather, buckle, spoon, tile, now jewelry. They thought of the hovering, the intercepting, the best bits of venison shoved their way. It was a pattern. A bizarre, terrifying pattern. Dragon hoarding? The thought flickered. But that was just… collecting shiny things, right? Instinctual clutter? This felt… more. Purposeful. Possessive. Like marking territory not just with objects, but with presence and provisions.

Then came the scroll. Sorting Aemond’s war-table chaos, you uncovered it, shoved beneath tactical reports like an embarrassing secret: "Observations on the Instinctual Drives of the Draconis Magnificus..." Your street-smarts and patchwork education you enough High Valyrian to grasp the critical passages, their finger tracing the faded ink:

“...the gathering of resources – luminous objects, sustenance, items of perceived value – serves a dual purpose beyond mere hoarding...”

“...it is a courtship display, demonstrating the male's capacity to provide for and protect a potential mate and offspring...”

“...the selection and fortification of a nesting site is paramount... constant proximity to the chosen mate is enforced...”

“...gifts often reflect both the giver's preferences (displaying strength/unique resources) and perceived desires of the recipient (demonstrating observational skill)... defense against rivals is vigorous and often disproportionate...”

Your blood ran cold, then hot, then just sort of… fizzed with horrified, hysterical understanding. It wasn't just hoarding.

It was courting.

It was providing.

It was protecting.

It was… marking territory for possible offspring?!

Your eyes snapped up from the damning scroll. Across the room, Aemond was meticulously cleaning his dagger, radiating focused, lethal grace. The hovering gargoyle. The interceptor of stable rota conversations. The giver of dead lizards and rare books. The shover of roast. The defender against mildly flirtatious knights. The insister on constant proximity.

This? Your mind screamed, the sheer, catastrophic absurdity of it hitting like Vhagar’s tail. THIS?! Prince Aemond "I-Will-Take-Your-Eye-For-A-Grudge " Targaryen? The One-Eyed Terror of the Riverlands? Was unknowingly, instinctively, performing a full draconic courtship ritual… on you? A broke, overqualified servant who happened to know too much about dragon defecation patterns? Possible offspring?! You nearly choked on their own spit. What, did he already envisioned little pale-haired scholars? The mental image was both horrifying and hysterical.

Aemond chose that moment to look up. He caught you staring, wide-eyed, likely pale as milk, clutching the scroll like a lifeline. His single violet eye narrowed, sharp and assessing. He tilted his head, a fraction. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just… curious.

“What?” Though Aemond remained stoically silent, his expression seemed to say in pure confusion. “Why are you looking at me like I’ve grown a second head? I’m just cleaning my apocalyptic murder-sword. Get back to work.”

You quickly looked down, shoving the scroll back under the map, their heart hammering against their ribs like a caged bird. Holy. Seven. Fucking. Hells.

Did he have any clue? Probably not. He might have over-rationalized every act in his smart princely head. Signed it off as efficient.

You clutched at your head, sinking into a plush chair near his desk, his cloak draped over it was weirdly but discouragingly comfortable. Small mercies, huh. Or perhaps just part of the future nest.

[lucysarah1875]

Mounting Spring Ch.1

Summary: Paradis has opened its doors to the world, and the Rumbling has not yet occurred. The military board insists, "We need more Ackermans!" to avoid ruining Mikasa's life. Levi agrees. Arranged marriage, explicit consent, Omegaverse. Alpha! Levi x Omega! Y/N. Mentions of underage marriage but it doesn't happen, the reader is over 21. Age gap but they are both adults.(I would say enemys to lover but they don't even know eachother to be enemys lol.)

Warnings: Omegaverse, age gap, arrangemarriage.

Ao3 link to the whole work.

The papers were passed around the Military board members, each set handed off in tense silence. The room’s air had cooled quickly as the sun dipped below the horizon, making Levi’s coat, almost too heavy to bear earlier, feel suddenly necessary. The chill seeped through the old walls, hinting that a bit of heating might soon be in order.  

With methodical precision, Levi slammed the stack of reports against the wooden table to align them perfectly, every edge sharp and in place. He moved aside the sticky notes he’d scribbled on hours before, crossing off the last item on his to-do list with finality. Job done for the day—  

“Well, that’s it,” he muttered, eager to leave the stale room behind.  

A pointed clearing of someone’s throat halted him, making him glance up slowly. Levi’s senses flared; he wasn’t done after all. The tension thickened, and the air shifted to something more ominous. His gaze travelled around the table, landing on each board member’s face. Some looked uncomfortable, others entertained, as if they’d been anticipating this moment. Hange, seated beside him despite their role as Commander now, avoided his eye, their head lowered in apparent resignation. Recent meetings had seen the appearance of new, vaguely unsettling faces, like Kiyomi's, who now looked across the table with a subtle smile.  

“Captain,” Zackly’s voice rasped as he cleared his throat yet again.  

“The day’s agenda is finished,” Levi stated, irritation biting at his words. The official telegram had detailed the topics to be discussed, all of which they’d already addressed. Anything beyond that, he knew, was meant to be cleared with the entire board beforehand.  

“This was a last-minute matter,” a Military Police officer interjected, though the smirk twitching at his lips betrayed more amusement than urgency.  

“Captain,” Zackly called again, knitting his fingers together. “You know we’ve always valued your dedication to Paradis.”  

The pause was rehearsed, the words strangely formal, making Levi’s eyes narrow. “What the hell is going on?” cutting through the man’s attempt at civility.  

“Let the Commander finish,” Kiyomi insisted, her voice smooth and elegant, though tinged with a superiority that grated on him.  

“We wouldn’t have managed to retake Wall Maria without your bravery—”  

“A lot of people sacrificed themselves for that,” Levi replied sharply, cutting off the praise that felt, at best, patronizing. “Including the previous Commander, Erwin. No need to thank me.”  

“Nevertheless,” Zackly forged on, tiring of the interruptions, “without your skill, all those sacrifices might have been in vain. Not only did you dare to fight for Eren’s retrieval from the Female Titan and against the former tyrannical regime, but—”  

“It wasn’t just me. My squad and the brat over there were in it too.”  

The tone of the conversation was growing increasingly uneasy, the excessive praise no longer just annoying him but setting off alarms.  

“Quite right. You and Mikasa were essential in humanity’s progress,” Kiyomi added, eyeing Levi with a calculating gaze. As her look shifted back to Zackly, Levi’s own attention followed.  

“What we mean to say is… even if Paradis positions itself favourably in the new world, more capable individuals like you and Mikasa would be ideal assets for our success.” Zackly straightened in his chair, clearing his throat for the third time, making Levi wonder if the man needed water—or to finally give up smoking like a chimney. “Have you ever considered marriage, Captain?”  

The question hit him like a bucket of ice water. It was so absurd Levi could only scoff. “What?”  

“How old are you now?” Zackly continued, feigning casual curiosity. “Thirty-three? Thirty-four? A prime age, I’m sure. And for a high-breed alpha like you—”  

Behind him, low chuckles began to echo from the MPs, each one making Levi’s grip on the chair’s arm tighten.  

‘This is a trap.’  

“Whatever it is you’re implying, I I suggest you rethink it,” Levi spat, the weight of their words starting to settle.  

“Let’s be frank,” Kiyomi leaned forward, hands placed firmly on the table. “Captain, we once thought the Ackermans extinct, only to discover Paradis has not one but two. Even Zeke couldn’t deny that meeting you at Shiganshina was... less than pleasant.”  

“Of course,” Levi replied dryly. “I beat that monkey’s ass.”  

“Exactly.” The dark-haired woman showed no amusement, her voice all business. “To the point, then: we intend to provide you with a suitable wife to ensure that you bless this island with as many Ackermans as she’s capable of bearing.”  

Levi shot to his feet. “You must be out of your damned mind if you think I’d agree to this. I’m not here to be used as a breeding tool.”  

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be the one doing the birthing,” an MP remarked with a smirk as the rest of the board broke their facades, amusement flashing in their eyes. All but Hange, who looked as if they might vanish into their seat.  

“You’re insane,” Levi snarled, preparing to leave, feeling insulted to his core. “You can use Historia as your political pawn as much as you want, but I’m not some 17-year-old girl at your disposal—”  

“Think of it as a service to your country,” Zackly replied coolly.  

“I serve this island every damned day,” Levi snapped, baring his teeth. With a sharp slap, he pressed his papers against the table and strode toward the door, signaling his utter rejection of the idea.  

“If you won’t consider it…” Kiyomi's calm, piercing voice halted him at the door, the threat clear. “Then we’ll turn to the only other Ackerman left.”  

Levi stilled, staring at the golden knob in his hand, fury boiling in his veins. He wasn’t about to fall for this.  

“Mikasa is too valuable to be reduced to a broodmare.”  

“She’s a girl of duty,” Kiyomi replied, a note of satisfaction in her voice. “Something you seem to lack. And she’s an alpha. I’m certain she could bear at least one healthy child before returning to the battlefield.”  

Levi clicked his tongue, pushing open the door with disdain. ‘ Who the hell do they think I am?’ Hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, he stormed down the royal city’s military headquarters hallways, curses slipping from his lips. The whole idea was absurd; they’d lost their minds if they thought he’d even consider it.  

As Levi stormed down the dim corridor, every step sharp and swift, he couldn’t shake the rancor rising within him. The brazenness of it all, to drag him into their twisted ambitions with such flippant disregard for his will—and then to threaten Mikasa. The audacity alone made his fists clench.  

He barely noticed Hange keeping pace with him until their arm was outstretched, catching him by the shoulder.  

“Levi,” Hange began softly. Their usual spark was subdued, gaze serious, and voice almost apologetic. “I know you’re furious. I knew this would be hell to hear, but I didn’t know how else to—”  

“Save it.” Levi shrugged their hand off, glowering. “You knew, didn’t you? That they were going to bring this shit up?”  

Hange hissed, as if asking them to confessed was almost painful. “Yes… I knew.”  

Levi gritted his teeth, eyes dark with betrayal. “You agreed to this?” Both of them whispering on the empty cold halls of the building.  

“I… didn’t agree,” Hange answered carefully. “But I was there when the discussion happened. Look, Zackly and the others—” Hange hesitated, running a hand through their hair. “They’re dead set on this idea. They think they’re planning for a stronger Paradis, and if they think that means Ackerman bloodlines—”  

“Save the speech.” Levi’s tone was sharp. “They can be dead set on whatever they please, but I'd like to see them drag the entire MP battalion if they want to force me into this.”  

The past year had hardly been easy on either of them, especially Hange with their new title as Commander. Levi was well aware of this��yet the sense of betrayal cut deep. “For fuck’s sake, Hange, you could’ve warned me.”  

A tense silence hung between them, until Hange finally sighed and adjusted their glasses, pressing on the bridge of their nose. “You think I had a say in this? Kiyomi's paying for the entire coastal expansion and the railway. She thought it was a decent idea, and with her money backing it, she’s got the final word on everything.”  

Levi clicked his tongue, crossing his arms in exasperation. “Those bastards in the upper ranks are just itching to get on my last nerve since we changed the policies.”  

“Look, I know it sounds—insane. But maybe… if we don’t try to protect the future of the island, there won’t be one. And if there’s a way to keep the Ackerman bloodline alive, maybe there’s value in that…”  

“Don’t give me that bloodline nonsense.” Levi’s tone was ice-cold, his gaze sharp. “This is some harebrained scheme they’ve cooked up. And let me guess: it reeks of Zeke. That bearded bastard’s across the ocean, and he’s still screwing with my life.”  

Hange pressed their lips together, saying nothing. The silence was confirmation enough.  

“That son of a bitch,” Levi cursed under his breath. “He’s the one with royal blood, not me.”  

Hange’s lips twitched in something close to sympathy.  

“Well, since you two are such good friends these days, feel free to let him know he can kiss my ass.”  

“Levi…” Hange sighed, not because they disagreed but because Levi’s sense of betrayal cut both ways. They were the last two left of the original veterans—family in all but name. It wasn’t just an argument; it felt like a wound between them.  

Convincing Levi? Impossible. But convincing her? That possibility hung in the air, lingering like a storm on the horizon. Levi paced with conviction at first, then with dread. They both knew it, and, worse, Zeke likely knew it too. Mikasa had just turned seventeen, still almost a child, recently visited by someone claiming kinship with her clan. Levi couldn’t care less about all the ancestral politics, but he was all too aware of how they worked.  

“You can choose whoever you wish for the father,” they had told her, as if it was some generous offer. And, step by step, he watched Mikasa’s face transform from disgust to something akin to acceptance. Perhaps it was because she, too, held a certain pedigree; perhaps she felt duty-bound. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care what methods they used to sway her.  

‘She’s smarter than that,’ he tried to tell himself.  

But then he overheard Historia, almost childishly enthusiastic, whispering to Mikasa, “See? I told you—we’re girls with responsibilities.” The blood drained from his face. If they’d managed to convince Historia, to make her some kind of pawn in their twisted ambitions, what was stopping them from pulling Mikasa down the same path?  

‘It’s disgusting,’ he thought bitterly. ‘Maybe this is how those classist bastards operate. They talk little girls into this like they’re just trading dolls for something more ‘exciting.’’  

That night, back in his office, Levi was a restless storm, pacing the room with his suit jacket hanging loose, fingers curled around his glass of whiskey, his movements sharp and frustrated. The glow of his cigarette flared in the dark room as he took a deep drag, gritting his teeth.  

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”  

Slouched in his chair, forearm draped over his eyes, his mind circled back to Mikasa’s hesitant, almost innocent blush—her teenage imagination painting a faint, rosy tint over whatever twisted future she thought she might face. And in his mind, as if staring him down, were Eren’s haunted eyes, that deadened look of someone who already knew more than he could say. Maybe the brat already knew Levi wouldn’t let it happen.  

“She’s a damn kid,” he muttered. The thought of Mikasa shouldering this burden felt like a betrayal of his own values.  

Though technically, she was not much younger than many girls who’d borne children before. But this felt different, disturbing— He let out a humourless chuckle, as a man that waits for getting hang. “Those bastards knew… I wouldn’t let them ruin her life like that.”  

And like a cursed prophecy that tightened its grip the more one tried to escape it, Levi found himself back in that same damned office, slouched in his chair as if seated at a poker table. Bargaining his future.  

Levi sat stiffly across from the military board, his expression a blend of frustration and disgust as they spoke. Zackly lounged in his chair, lazily smoking as the other officials presented folders adorned with detailed painted portraits, lists of family properties, and who knows what else. As they laid the offers on the table, a random thought clouded Levi’s mind: It feels like searching for a button that matches at the notions store.  

He was reminded of long strips of fabric with various buttons sewn onto them, each one a potential fit. “Many of the noble families are eager to show their loyalty to the new government,” one officer stated with a practiced calmness. “Some have offered up alliances in exchange for the return of their territories and titles. This includes a number of unclaimed young omegas. You’ll have ample choices.”  

Levi’s jaw clenched. He knew they expected him to appear grateful for the options lined up before him, as if he were selecting a new weapon. Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms tightly. “I’ll be imposing some conditions.”  

They paused, exchanging glances. “Naturally, Captain,” one of the men replied, steepling his fingers.  

“No fancy bullshit,” Levi declared. “The wedding will be plain. Just a civil ceremony. I have no intention of making a spectacle out of this.”  

The room fell silent, the officers exchanging looks that spoke volumes. One of them cleared his throat, hesitating before responding. “Captain, you should consider—”  

“I’m not considering anything,” Levi interrupted, his tone sharper than before. “This is a plain arrangement, and it will remain exactly that. I don’t need fanfare or ceremonies—just a quiet signing of papers.”  

The officers shifted uncomfortably, their discomfort palpable as they struggled to reconcile Levi’s cold practicality with their expectations. “Think of the girl. Many young omegas dream of their wedding day, waiting for it their whole lives. It’s—” a female alpha soldier attempted to be the voice of reason, but Levi was clearly listening to none of it.  

“No buts,” Levi said, his patience wearing thin. “If I’m going to go through with this ridiculous arrangement, it will be on my terms. I’m not dragging this girl through some overblown ceremony when neither of us wants to be there.”  

With a loud sigh, Levi lifted himself slightly from his seat to grab the portfolios. He barely looked at them, frowning deeply. “Don’t you have pictures where they look— I don’t know—human?” he spat out sarcastically, noting how overly produced their painted portraits appeared.  

“That’s what’s in fashion,” one officer muttered defensively.  

Groaning in disinterest, Levi rolled his eyes. “Nobles and their weird tastes.” But as he turned the next page to examine the descriptions, it was as if the world had tilted off its axis. “Sixteen,” he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice. He looked up, venom lacing his words. “You’re offering me sixteen-year-old girls? Girls who could be my damn daughters?”  

“It’s common, you know—”  

“I don’t care what’s common. Twenty-five,” Levi interjected. “At least twenty-five. I’m not getting tied to a child.”  

“Come on,” an exhausted soldier exclaimed, “some are seventeen, eighteen—”  

“Twenty-five,” Levi snapped, his eyes blazing. “I’m not interested in any of this unless you bring me someone who isn’t still in their childhood.”  

“Be realistic,” Zackly finally spoke up, looking weary and disinterested. “How many omegas do you know that aren’t claimed by twenty-five?”  

“Fuck if I know; that’s your job to find out, not mine.” Levi’s anger flared, echoing in the sterile room. “Weren’t you the one telling me to think of the girl? Don’t you think of her?”  

“Why? Are you planning on hurting her?” Zackly questioned, raising an eyebrow.  

“Fuck no.”  

“Then I’m not concerned. Choose one and stop being a pain in the ass.”  

It was clear they were not going to reach any middle ground like this. Amid the hastily scribbled notes, he noticed a name: Y/N, age twenty-one. He pointed decisively at the line, cutting through the cacophony of voices. “That one.”  

There was no picture, no description—nothing. Perhaps it should have raised suspicions, but Levi was too tired for this cheap drama.  

“Why her?” one member scoffed, glancing at the paper. “We have better offers on the table.”  

Levi didn’t hesitate. “She’s the oldest.” He placed both hands on the table, pushing himself upward. He had made up his mind the night before; he just needed this to be over. Striding toward the door, he exited without allowing anyone to stop him. As he walked out of the conference room, he could hear the murmurs behind him.  

As the door shut firmly, one of the cadets held the papers against his chest, confusion written all over his face. Slowly, he turned to the higher-ranking officer. “Shouldn’t we tell him that she’s scheduled to marry this weekend to her childhood fiancé?”  

Zackly chuckled, flicking the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray. Between coughs, he said, “Oh well, he can find out from her once they’re both married. It’s no longer my problem.”  

Masterlist for all the following parts.

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Also, I added an option on the taglist to "Remove yourself" from it. If you no longer want to be tagged for X reason, just fill up the form again but choose the option to be taken out! Like that I will just do exactly that! Don't worry, I really don't mind it!

[borkunlimited]

Wonder Cat Rosmontis - 1

Cat Hybrid! Reader x Dragon Hybrid! Sylus Summary: A police lieutenant and a crime boss her CI with unproven crimes looks after a little cat hybrid suffering from amnesia with telepathic abilities she can't control just yet.

Author's Notes: I am actually a found family trope enthusiast. I am glad @blessdunrest asked me about this last time and while there is no concrete outline, I figured I should post little snippets here and there until I am ready. Unofficial title as well because there is a high chance I will turn this into a series. I just really love Rosmontis from Arknights and I have been enabled by @cygnuusss on this (Thank you also for reading the original draft!) Word Count: 1,032

“You look pathetic, Sylus.”

“Am I pathetic enough to be invited inside, sweetie?”

“You’re already on the balcony. What more do you want?”

Sporting bruises, cuts, and a black eye, he still managed to grin when you opened the door wider for him to step inside despite your words and you didn’t ask where he got those injuries, knowing he will give you vague answers and will do anything to dodge your questions.

As long as he isn’t bleeding, no interrogation is necessary.

Sylus made his way inside your apartment. Small because you stared him down when he pointed out rather extravagant ones located in the upper district but this is better compared to the old one, a good distance from your assigned precinct, a grocery story three blocks away and the main selling point that convinced you to move here is-

-You can also walk your kitty cat to pre-school before going to work.

“Where’s kitty cat?”, he asked, moving the frog stuffed toy on his lap before sitting down on the couch, watching you move to the kitchen with your tail swaying lazily, a ribbon tied around it and he is sure kitty cat has once again managed to convince you to reenact the mother cat from her favorite film.

As much as he quietly enjoys observing you, his gaze is always pulled on the surroundings of your new home even when he has been here countless of times, always welcoming himself and sending away any babysitters you hired for kitty cat so he can spend more time with her.

Labels. Kitty cat has a bad memory recall but on her way to recovery and each item in the household has a label to remind her what it is called. Some labels written by her own hand, taped to a household item with a sticker from the sticker pad she managed to convince Luke and Kieran to buy.

Drawings. Her first drawing from her first day in pre-school is still in its frame. Stick figures of you, him, kitty cat, the twins and she even included Mephisto and an imaginary friend she calls her ‘brother’. She always corrects both of you that her ‘brother’ is real yet when asked where he is, she always replies he is in the same room as she is.

Walls. Still intact. Kitty cat is having less and less incidents recently on causing destruction every time she blacks out from being unable to control overwhelming emotions.

A frame from the Aristocats is on pause in the television, an old one you refuse to replace until you get promoted as captain, and Sylus doesn’t need to play it to know the lines spoken by the white kitten, kitty cat’s favorite character.

“Ladies do not start fights but they can finish them.”

He is sure kitty cat managed to convince you again to run this film for the nth time.

“She fell asleep after I played the film for the third time tonight,” you answered from the counter, pouring a glass of cold water for him after throwing a bag of frozen peas in his direction that he caught, immediately letting out a sigh of relief as he pressed it on his black eye.

“What happened to introducing her to new films, Miss Lieutenant Hissy Cat?”

“What happened to not buying her new  toys, Linkon’s Most Wanted?”

“Kitty cat brings a test with a perfect score, she gets a new friend. That’s my agreement with her, sweetie.”

“Buy her a boat with her name while we are at it,” you rolled your eyes but you know you have given him an idea when you recognized that familiar glint in his eyes.

One opportunistic dragon he is.

But before he can even confirm that he can and he will the next time the kitty cat does bring a test with a perfect score, both of your heads immediately turn towards the sound of small feet shuffling towards you.

“Papa?”

Small, still a little frail, and hair the same color as Sylus’, his gaze softened as she rubbed her eyes, blinking out sleep and each step she took, a yawn followed by the sound of her little shark dragged at the wooden floor.

“Mama said you won’t be able to go here tonight,” she said slowly and Sylus reached out to pat her head, his little kitty cat letting out a small purr, pushing her head against his touch.

“Well, I told my friends I don’t want to miss my kitty cat’s favorite film.”

“They don’t mind?”

“Oh, papa’s a very convincing man.”

Friday night. His usual poker game ended early but his new opponents weren’t too pleased with the results coupled with him wanting to leave in a haste that resulted in a brawl and yet, he still stood by his word.

If anything, he will have that poker game rescheduled just so he can have a guarantee not to miss this night with you and his kitty cat in this small home where a police and a criminal is playing house to a little girl from nowhere.

“Oh my, sweetie, sleeping with the enemy? Your superiors will not be so pleased.”

“I’ll kick you out of this bed if I ever hear you say that again.”

“No arguing allowed,” your kitty cat grumbled, burying her face on your chest and you gave him one last glare while he gave you a smirk in return, his arm around the kitty cat as the two of you settled with her in between on her small bed.

He will be gone by tomorrow morning once he is sure kitty cat is snoring softly and that usual crease that forms in between your brows is gone but before he leaves through the balcony, he does a little ritual.

A kiss on the forehead for kitty cat and-

-His eyes will linger on your peaceful face, his favorite lieutenant, always the enforcer of the law, and even when you are close, you are always out of reach of the likes of a man such as him.

If only you know the lengths he is willing to go through to make this little charade permanent.

Author's Notes: Rosmontis is an actual character in Arknights. One of my favorites, actually and I supposed a very tragic character (but we will change that here). I like giving orphaned children in the games I play parents they deserve which is why I am writing this. (Also, I supposed I am very inspired by Spy x Family and Buddy Daddies.) Thanks for reading!

[linipikk]

They really spent a lot of time pointing to the second coming for Apolaypse 2 electric boogaloo

all 3 minisodes are about ... humans dying and being brought back to life, or more like, how that is not possible...and how Heaven and Hell have worked around that

In A Companion to Owls, Job kids never died even when they should have, Heaven didn't know enough to distinguish that they were the same children and Sitis quickly got that the miracle was... that their children didn't die to begin with. Once they are dead it is game over and Crowley and Aziraphale refused to let them die

In The Resurrectionists (it is literally called The Resurrectionists!!) and it is how one girl is shot and they can't do anything once she is dead. And Crowley still goes off of his way to make sure the other one doesn't kill herself, risking everything. And we know hell's extreme sanctions are probably what makes him ask for insurance, for holy water. On the other hand, this episode is called The ResurrectionistS, plural, but we meet only one of them ..while in the other side of the sign is Christ himself.

THEN in 1941, we have ZOMBIES, the literal living dead walking around, and Furfur states that he can't make them living people again due to a clause and just leave them as zombies to roam the earth. We see how cursed they are, rotting and bound to eat brains but not human.

EVEN! From episode 1, we get a big Clue: miracles are measured in lazarii, and resurrecting someone is no easy feat. They were telling us to watch out about coming back to life... and how only the mightiest of archangels are able to use that amount of power (or an angel and a demon holding hands...)

and I do want to point out that part of the things Gabriel remembered was this line

Job kids didn't die, in victorian england Wee Morag died falling in the hands of a resurrectionist, and the Germans died and came back- just not quite alive. Every day it is getting closer,

... they are telling us that the second coming is afoot, but they are also showing us that there is no second opportunity on this earth. Once you are dead, you are dead.

and Crowley, in the direst time when Aziraphale is breaking his little demonic heart, says

And now, the plan to resurrect one human to make the end of the world happen is in Aziraphale's hands.

[hinamie]

spiraling

[feketeribizli]

inspired by whatever sidequest 463 is having right now

[beachwavez]

MY 24/7 COMMISSIONS ARE FINALLY OPEN!!! 🔛 ALWAYS OPEN TO NEW COMMISSIONS, NEVER ENDING QUEUE!!!

this week my boyfriend and i have been faced with a handful of unfortunately timed, high-priced issues that need to be taken care of (car maintenance, new bills, and our cat has conjunctivitis and will be going to the vet for an eye exam and meds later this week) and we are in need of a little more money to get us through all these extra expenses + our currently allotted for groceries and current bills.

if you’d like to commission me, please feel free to dm me here, on discord (@/splatzones), or on bsky (@/romeo.smokes.lol)!!! 📥🌾🐯

[maldupay]

people are of course free to feel how they want about things regarding isat and what parts of the story/characters/gameplay etc they like and dislike.. Hell i sure have things i dislike along with all my love for the game. but i feel like a lot of the grievances i've seen about the artbook are just taking something that's clearly a joke too seriously, in an extra content book that's just meant to show some behind the scenes and creators thoughts. Like komaeda's in this book ok lets chill out

[acts-of-paul-and-thecla]

Hey ik we never talked but it truly makes me happy to see that you're getting better. That's hard and you're doing it. I'm so proud of you and I only wish you the best in life. It really gives me hope that all of us can recover eventually <3

<33 im glad that i could help in that way, at least a little

i know its what everyone says, but recovery is the most brilliant and life changing thing in the world. it was very difficult in the beginning, but it gets easier and easier - i hope you are doing well, and that you keep on fighting and that one day it will all be alright for you

[compacflt]

question: how do you find your research/sources? yours and dancing disasters' icemav fics are so inside baseball i love it, but how do you go about doing research?

I just read a lot & google stuff I don't know & am curious about. not that hard to start learning. and in terms of reading I've been interested in military history & milfiction my whole life. mostly related to the US army, actually--im extremely new to naval history and naval literature; all of that interest was driven by top gun. I've also been fortunate enough to visit a lot of the places I write about--ive been to Pearl Harbor a couple times & San Diego MANY times, for instance, and I've toured a few aircraft carriers and military bases. I've also finally bitten the bullet and kinda shifted my career path towards aerospace, so I've been learning a lot just by working in the aerospace & defense sector/spending a lot of time with people who do.

that's obviously not to say that I am somehow Educated in all this stuff. im pretty open on this blog about me being young & naive & wrong much of the time about how the real world works. so, you know, a lot of shit I just Make Up according to my preconceived notions of the military & the world.

here is my recommended military/navy reading list, some fiction and some nonfiction.

someone also asked recently if I had read anything good in the last 6 months--yes!! three new additions to my reading list: a) Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain. So goddamn good. If you have to read only one novel about the Iraq War, make it this one. It's more about America than it is about Iraq. b) Redeployment by Phil Klay. This one is a collection of short stories about Marines in Iraq, written by a USMC vet, talk about inside baseball. Crazy amounts of jargon in here, basically a "to-google" list. won the national book award which idk if it deserved, but it's good. c) No true glory: A Frontline Account of the Battle of Fallujah by Bing West. currently reading this one, really well done so far, talks a lot about how fucked the US strategy was in Iraq with Fallujah serving as a metonymy/case study for the war itself.

again... this is all mostly close-quarters-combat (infantry) literature, I really am not that interested in the navy/Air Force that much outside of top gun lol

though I did recently remember that in early 2022, before I was into top gun, I read "Wingmen" by Ensan Case, which is actually a gay US naval aviator romance set in WWII published in 1979! it's really authentic and kind of sad, obviously, since it was a 1940s navy gay love story published in 1979. I don't actually think Wingmen influenced how I wrote wwgattai or how I think of TG/TGM but I just remembered that I read that book in February 2022 and going "oh my god they were wingmen" so maybe you might find that book interesting.

[angelicdonuts]

Nene and girlfriend this time :3 !!

Grhghvhhg the girls... the shawty baes..

(Still more!! Next post is gonna be boyfriend focused [with a little bit of Pico too ^_^] !!)