#open petals (answered asks)

[hollypies]

Redrawing/remaking my HLVRAI flowercrown au!! Benrey and Gordon are up first!! (If anyone's curious you can go looking for my old flowercrown au stuff, just be noted its was made four years ago LOL and all the old info is completely irrelevant) click for better quality, tumblr killed it 💀

Up next, Tommy and Gman Coolatta!

In the old version of the plot for this au, it had a lot to do with it being a game and such. However over the years it's changed! No longer a game, instead the Rescas explosion seemed to have had a .. strange affect on Gordon, due to him being right next to it. At least, that's what they all believe at first.

[punkshort]

Have A Good Night

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Every week like clockwork, the same devastatingly handsome man comes into the grocery store where you work to buy flowers. It's not until he asks you out when you realize the flowers aren't for his wife or girlfriend.

Warnings: no outbreak AU, language, flirting, alcohol and food consumption, smut (18+ MDNI), protected piv sex, size kink, shy!joel, fluff, mutual pining, cringy/embarrassing crush interactions

WC: 7.9K

Written for @morallyinept's Flora & Fauna Challenge (masterlist here)

dividers by the one and only @saradika-graphics

It was never roses that he bought. That should have been your first clue.

Every Friday he came through your checkout lane with a beautiful flower arrangement. Sometimes it was lilies, sometimes it was daffodils, but never roses.

He hardly spared you a glance when he slid his card through the machine. Occasionally he would comment about the weather or how busy the store was, but he rarely ever made eye contact.

It wasn't unusual and it didn't offend you. Most customers had other things on their minds and they preferred to get in and out of the store as quickly as possible. But this particular customer, the one with dark hair and eyes, broad shoulders and patchy beard always caught your eye. It was the best part of your week. You never had the nerve to say anything to him, but your friend Andy noticed the way you always got nervous when you saw him standing in line, how your demeanor shifted and your hands shook just a little bit.

He's not wearing a ring, Andy pointed out one day as you counted your drawer. You rolled your eyes.

That doesn't mean anything, you replied. Why else would he be buying flowers?

Then one day, as you scanned your handsome stranger's flowers, you noticed a few of the daisies were wilting.

"Do you want to pick out a different bouquet?" you had mustered up the courage to ask. The store was quiet, no one was lined up behind him. There was a big football game that night and it kept most people at home.

His eyes snapped up to yours and he froze like a deer in the headlights. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for an answer while trying to think if you said something stupid to warrant such a delayed reaction. "A few of these flowers are already dying. See?" You tilted the bouquet in his direction so he could see the flowers with the petals that were turning brown.

"Oh," he finally said, then nodded his head. "Y-yeah, thanks. D'you mind if I just-" he jutted his thumb over his shoulder.

"It's no big deal, I'll wait."

He gave you a crooked grin and disappeared back into the store. The florist department wasn't far from the registers but it was enough time for Andy to lock eyes with you from customer service and give you a look. You rolled your eyes at him and turned back around just as the hot flower guy was returning with a new selection.

"Thanks," he said again once you handed him his receipt. He didn't make a move to leave.

"Don't mention it," you replied, feeling Andy's stupid grin burning into the back of your head the longer hot flower guy stood there.

"Have you worked here long?" he asked after a brief silence that was bordering on uncomfortable. You blinked, taken aback at the random question and tried to ignore your heart fluttering excitedly in your chest.

"Um, just over four years," you replied. His beautiful dark eyes drifted over your face as he nodded and swallowed before looking back down at his flowers.

"You work most Fridays?"

You could feel your cheeks warming up and you wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole. How can someone be embarrassed for being embarrassed? Jesus, you were such a mess.

"Yep," you said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear and praying he didn't notice how flushed you were.

He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight. If you weren't so absorbed in your own uneasiness you might have noticed he was acting just as uncomfortable as you.

When he opened his mouth to say something else, a middle aged woman pushed her cart up behind him and began to unload her groceries onto the belt. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and nervously swiped his palm over his mouth.

"Have a good night," he told you abruptly, and before you had a chance to reply he was halfway to the front door.

The following week was busier and you lost track of time. Typically, as your shift dragged on, you began to anticipate his arrival but on that particular day, you were distracted. Andy ended up having to help out on another register, it was so busy.

"You wanna come out with us tonight?" Andy asked you over his shoulder. He was closing down the extra register while you were finishing up with a young mom who had her hands full wrangling her toddler away from the candy.

"Uh, yeah, sure," you agreed absentmindedly, lifting the last paper bag into the cart. You tapped a key on your register so she could slide her card through the reader and looked over at Andy. "Where are you guys going?"

"Murray's," he replied immediately, his focus still on counting the coins in the drawer. You rolled your eyes and grinned.

"Why am I not surprised?"

It was well known Andy harbored a huge crush on a bartender there and he had been trying to work up the courage for months to ask for her number.

"Thank you, have a good night," you told the young woman, handing over her receipt with a smile. When you glanced up to greet your next customer, you felt your heart skip a beat when you were met with those dark brown eyes you had grown so enamored with.

"It must be later than I thought," you said, without even thinking twice. Surprise passed over his beautiful features as you scanned his flowers and then your nerves finally caught up with you. "I-I mean, you usually come in around the same time every week," you explained hurriedly. Andy was smirking at you from behind hot flower guy's broad shoulder and you made a mental note to punch him later.

"I didn't realize you noticed," he replied after he cleared his throat.

Oh, you idiot. You could tell you made him uncomfortable with your comment and you just prayed he didn't figure out you had been lusting after him all these months with the little observation you made.

"You always pick out the best flower arrangements, it's hard not to," Andy piped up. Relief flooded your veins for the save. Maybe you should rethink that punch. "Must be one lucky girl," he added with a mischievous wink in your direction before picking up the drawer and walking towards the office, leaving just the two of you with Andy's loaded comment hanging heavy in the air.

He took his time pulling his credit card out of his wallet, wracking his brain for something to say. His cheeks dusted with pink the longer he took to formulate a sentence.

"So... Murray's, huh?" he asked, cringing inwardly at the stupid question as he swiped his card.

You blinked, confused at the change in topic until it clicked. "Oh, yeah. He drags a bunch of us out after work sometimes because he's got a thing for a girl who works there." You gave the man behind hot flower guy a smile as he unloaded his groceries on the belt.

Your handsome stranger froze, his hand still holding the receipt midair while the gears turned in his head.

"So, you two aren't-"

"Oh, sorry, excuse me," the customer behind him mumbled when he accidentally bumped into him with his cart.

"Have a good night," you told him with a sweet smile, then quickly turned away, hoping your hair would hide your embarrassment.

"I am not playing darts with her! Don't you remember last time? She almost took my eye out!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" you laughed, shoving Courtney, another co-worker of yours, in the shoulder. There were only five of you that night, Courtney being the only other girl in your group, but you were fine with that. Over the past few years you all bonded over the shared trauma of nasty customers and terrible management to the point where you were like family, and nights where you blew off steam only brought you closer together.

"Anyone need anything? I'm heading up," Andy shouted over the live band.

"Didn't you just get a water a minute ago?" you teased, knowing full well he was looking for an excuse to talk to the bartender.

"What can I say? I'm thirsty," Andy replied with a smirk before pushing his way through the crowd to get to the bar.

"When the hell's he just gonna ask her out? We've been coming here for months," Courtney said, turning away from the bar to look at you. You took a sip from your mixed drink and shrugged.

"Probably for the best. You know if he makes things weird then we'll need to find a new spot to hang out."

She giggled and winced when the band began to sing Journey off-key. "God, these guys are... not it."

"I think it's the owner's way of making us drink more!" James shouted from across the table, the four of you dissolving into laughter. He had a good point because your drink was nearly empty.

"Why didn't you just have Andy get you one?" Courtney asked when you slid down from your barstool.

"If I did, there was, like, a one percent chance he would bring it back to me within the hour," you told her, nodding towards Andy setting up shop against the bar, his eyes trailing after the cute bartender.

It took several minutes but you were finally able to wedge yourself between other patrons and secure a refill of your drink, but when you turned around to walk back to your table you nearly ran right into someone's chest.

"Oh! Sorry, I - " your eyes widened when you tilted your head up to find those familiar brown eyes staring down at you. "It-it's you!" you finally said as the shock began to wear off. He gave you a lopsided grin and nodded.

"Joel," he offered, sticking his hand out. Joel. Joel. Joel. You rolled his name around in your head like a ping pong ball. It suited him.

You took his hand, his long fingers dwarfing yours. "I'm-"

Then he cut you off and said your name and once again, you struggled to keep the shock from your face. "Your nametag," he explained, letting your hand go and gesturing towards his own chest where a nametag would sit. "I remember."

"Yeah," you said breathlessly with a smile. You glanced around the room while people shoved past you to get to the bar. "What are you doing here?"

His smile faltered a bit and he rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't live too far. Had the night to myself so I came out with my brother. He's over there," Joel pointed to the opposite corner of the bar but it was impossible to see him through all the people.

"Oh, cool," you nodded and took a sip from your glass. His eyes drifted to your lips, getting lost in the way they puckered around the straw. "Do you guys come here a lot?"

He chuckled and dropped his chin shyly to his chest before shaking his head. "No, um," he cleared his throat and looked back up at you. "Was hopin' I would run into you, actually."

"Me?" you squeaked and your heart began to race. He nodded and grinned.

"Yeah. Wondered if maybe you'd-"

A huge, burly man who definitely had too much to drink shouldered past you, accidentally shoving you into Joel's chest. His arms immediately wrapped around your ribs to steady you and somehow you didn't spill anything on his clothes.

"God, I'm sorry," you mumbled, his scent making you dizzy. You always had a register between you. Never before had you been that close, noticing he smelled like he had just gotten out of the shower and it was instantly overwhelming.

"It's alright," he said, his arms still loosely wrapped around your midsection. "But I gotta get this out before I lose my nerve, darlin'."

Darlin'. Your brows furrowed and before you could reply, he spoke. "I wondered if you wanted to go out on a date sometime? Maybe a movie or somethin'? I know you work alotta nights but I -"

"You want to go out with me?" you asked in disbelief. He looked at you like you had two heads.

"'Course I do. Wasn't it obvious?" he could feel the heat creeping up his neck.

"No! I thought... nevermind, it doesn't matter," you told him, a smile pulling across your lips. "Yes, I would love to. God, if you only knew-" you stopped yourself by slapping your hand over your mouth and he quirked a playful eyebrow at you but he was too excited that you agreed to go out with him to ask you to finish your thought. He handed you his phone as you shakily typed in your number, hoping your trembling fingers didn't mess it up before giving it back to him.

"I'm gonna text you tomorrow, set somethin' up, yeah?" he asked and you nodded numbly, your mind reeling as you tried to process everything that was happening. He grinned and slid his phone back into his pocket. "Have a good night," he said, the familiar phrase making you smile before disappearing into the crowd.

"Um, who the hell was that?" Courtney questioned the second you arrived back at your table.

"I need a fucking shot first and then I'll tell you, holy shit," you said, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves with no success. She laughed and got you each tequila shots, then you spent the rest of the night telling her all about Joel the hot flower guy.

The next morning, you paid for your crimes. Your head throbbed and your mouth was dry as sand as you stumbled into your bathroom to scoop water from the faucet, desperately trying to quench your thirst. You weren't normally a huge drinker, but after your run-in with Joel, you were so nervous that you found yourself tossing back a few extra drinks than normal. Fortunately, you didn't work until late afternoon, so after you fumbled around your cupboards for some crackers, you fell back into bed. Your eyes widened when you saw a missed text from an unsaved number an hour ago.

Hey, it's Joel. It was great running into you last night. I was thinking we could go to dinner this week, if you're still up for it. What nights are you free?

"Shit," you muttered, running a hand anxiously through your hair. Now that you were sober, the prospect of seeing hot flower guy outside of work made you inexplicably nervous.

You must have typed out and deleted fifteen responses before going with I would love to! I'm free Sunday, Monday and Wednesday nights. Or we could do something after I get out of work, we close at nine.

Did you sound too desperate? You chewed on your fingernail as you read your sent text over and over, then shrugged and put your phone down. Too late now, anyway.

It took a while to get his response, but to be fair, you didn't reply to him for an hour.

I can make Sunday work.

Sunday? As in, tomorrow?

"Oh, fuck," you groaned, fully not expecting him to set something up so quickly. You needed time to mentally prepare, but of course you agreed, then quickly texted Courtney, begging for her help on what to wear and how to do your hair.

Yay!! We can talk about it at work tonight!

After you ironed out a time and restaurant with Joel, you popped two pain relievers and chugged some water, hoping to get rid of your hangover before work.

"Okay, so where's he taking you?" Courtney asked excitedly as you stocked cereal together.

"This Italian place on Westwood. Here, I looked it up," you said, pulling out your phone and showing her the menu. "Have you been there before? What do I wear?"

She squinted at your screen and shook her head. "I haven't been there but we can figure this out. It doesn't look that fancy, but you should probably wear a dress or skirt."

"Ooo, do you finally have yourself a date?" Andy asked from halfway down the aisle, clearly overhearing part of your conversation. "Hot flower guy is going to be so disappointed."

You laughed and pocketed your phone. "It's with hot flower guy," you said triumphantly. Andy's eyes bugged out of his head, confused, until you and Courtney explained what happened the night before when he was busy staring at the bartender.

"You should have told me last night! So I guess that means he really is single."

You paused and cocked your head to the side, realizing all of the sudden you still didn't know why he bought flowers every Friday.

"Uh, yeah, I guess so," you replied, turning your attention back to the cereal. Andy and Courtney exchanged worried glances behind your back.

"I'm sure he's not stupid enough to buy flowers from you for another woman every week and then ask you out," Courtney said, glaring at Andy. He cleared his throat and nodded.

"Y-yeah, I mean, maybe they're for a grave or something."

You both turned to him and gave him an incredulous look.

"Hey, I'm just trying to help," he said, throwing up his hands and walking away. You bit your lip and glanced at Courtney.

"Don't worry about it. There's tons of reasons why guys would buy flowers weekly... maybe he just likes to have fresh flowers in the house. Maybe they're for his mom!"

"Yeah, good point. I bet they're for his mom," you agreed, feeling a little better as you ripped open the next cardboard box full of cereal boxes.

When you woke on Sunday morning, you were already nervous. You could have sworn your heart was slamming in your chest from the moment you opened your eyes, already overthinking your date with Joel.

You spent the afternoon texting Courtney pictures of outfits you hauled out of your closet and tossed on your bed, then decided you needed to try them on for her to get the full effect. You were sitting on your bed, wearing a light blue sundress, the last outfit you had tried on as you gathered your pictures. Your thumb quickly tapped all of the photos of you modeling your options and typed out what one looks the best? then hit send.

As you were unzipping your dress and sliding it down your legs, you heard your phone ping from your bed. You hung up the dress and pulled your sweats back on before reaching for your phone, hesitating when you saw Joel's name pop up. You felt a pit in your stomach, worried that he came to his senses and was asking to cancel, so you sat down on the bed before sliding your thumb over the screen to open his text.

You look great in everything, but I really like the pink one.

Your palms instantly broke out into a sweat and you felt lightheaded.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," you mumbled, scrolling up in your text chain before cursing and throwing yourself into your pillows to scream. In your rush to send your text, you accidentally sent the pictures to Joel instead of Courtney. You waited until you got your bearings and tried to convince yourself it wasn't really that bad, that it definitely could have been worse, before replying.

Ha, sorry. I meant to send those to a friend, but if you like the pink one, then I guess that answers my question

You stared down at your phone, anxiously waiting for his answer, which didn't take very long at all.

You could wear a paper sack and you would still look beautiful.

The grin that stretched across your face was massive. He was probably just sweet talking you and trying to make you feel better about making such a stupid mistake, but damn, it worked.

Looking forward to tonight :) you said in response, then bit your lip and flung yourself backwards on your bed. Your eyes drifted to the light pink dress hanging in your closet and you smiled.

As it turned out, the Italian restaurant was owned by Joel's brother, Tommy. You met the younger man at the host stand when you walked in the door. He had a huge grin plastered across his face and although you were an only child, you could still tell when someone was itching to tease their sibling. Tommy's eyes flickered back and forth between you and Joel, silently communicating with his brother as you introduced yourself. You managed to catch Joel shooting Tommy a warning glare before nervously resting his hand on your lower back and guiding you through the restaurant to an empty booth in the back.

"Have I told you how beautiful you look?" Joel asked, his dark eyes sparkling even under the dim mood lighting. You giggled and shyly looked down at your lap.

"A couple times."

Joel smiled warmly and leaned forward, his eyes trailing over the soft curves of your jaw and the way your plush lips stretched when he made you smile.

Before the food arrived, you learned a little more about him. He worked in construction, doing mostly residential but some commercial property work. He was trying to go into business for himself, which he told you was difficult but he already had years of experience and contacts in the area. He preferred to do most jobs himself or with as little help as possible because he only trusted his own work, but sometimes he did hire Tommy for a job to help his brother earn extra money.

"And in return, he lets me eat here for free," Joel finished, wiping the small smudge of red sauce from the corner of his mouth.

"That sounds like a win-win," you joked, and Joel chuckled.

"Tell me 'bout yourself. You said you been workin' at the store for four years?"

"Yeah," you nodded, pushing your empty plate to the side. "It's just meant to be temporary. I'm going to community college three days a week. Trying to get my degree so I can get a job with normal hours."

Joel hummed and leaned back in the booth. "What'dya wanna do?"

You shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. Hoping I figure that out as I go. I just know being a cashier for the rest of my life isn't for me, you know?"

"Yeah, sure," he agreed. "I could ask 'round if you want. Maybe some place is hirin' a receptionist or somethin'?"

"Oh, it's okay," you waved him off with a smile. "I appreciate it, though."

Afterwards, he took you for ice cream. You sat together outside the ice cream stand on a bench. The temperature outside was perfect and the place was mobbed. Kids ran around playing tag while other families gathered around picnic tables, laughing and telling each other about their days while you tried not to stare at Joel licking his ice cream and fantasizing about what that would look like between your legs.

"I wouldn't've pegged you for a strawberry girl," he said, nodding towards your rapidly melting ice cream.

"It reminds me of when I was a kid. My grandma liked to take me out for ice cream when she babysat me and strawberry was her favorite."

He smiled, listening to you talk about your family, getting a brief glimpse into your life, leaving him wanting more.

You thought everything was going so well. The date went perfectly. There wasn't as much awkwardness as you originally thought there would be and Joel was very easy to talk to. So when he dropped you off at your door and you invited him inside, you were surprised and somewhat hurt when he declined after a quick glance at his watch. He only kissed your cheek before telling you have a good night and backing out of your driveway, leaving you confused and a little self-conscious.

"He's probably just a gentleman," Courtney assured you the following day, "wants to take things slow and all that."

And you agreed. Once you had time to process everything, that seemed like exactly what it was, and you began to feel better.

But then Joel took you on a second date, and then a third, and he still hadn't tried to kiss you or make a move whatsoever.

"Maybe he's just rusty," Courtney offered after the fourth date and still finding yourself being shot down. "He wouldn't keep going out with you if he didn't like you."

Once again, Courtney made sense and you agreed he just liked to take things slower than you were used to.

But on your fifth date, where he took you to a baseball game, you misjudged the size of the beers they sold and you found yourself tipsier than you expected. Joel seemed really into the game but turned his focus on you whenever you searched for it, which, as the night wore on and the alcohol buzzed in your veins, became more and more frequent. You would ask him questions about how the game was played, even though your father watched baseball your whole life, just so you could listen to him talk. You looped your arm through his when the game was over and you both shuffled out of the stadium with a whole herd of drunk fans, back out into the parking lot. You tightly held onto his bicep, the feeling of his muscles under you fingertips more intoxicating than the beer, as he escorted you to his truck.

On the drive back to your place, you could feel your confidence building. Maybe he's just shy and doesn't know how to make a move. Maybe he just needs a clearer sign. Maybe he's waiting for you to make a move.

So, when he walked you to your door and he leaned in to kiss your cheek, you turned your face at the last second and locked your lips with his.

You could feel his surprise when your lips met. He froze and stopped breathing as he tried to figure out what to do, so you decided to make things easier for him and draped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and massaging your lips over his, urging him to reciprocate.

And finally, his hands flew up to your waist and tugged you against him. His mouth began to move and he crowded you up against your door. When your back made contact with the wood and his large palms squeezed gently at your hips, you moaned into his mouth. You had been dying for this for weeks and you would be damned it you were going to let it stop too soon.

Without even asking this time, you reached behind you and fumbled with your doorknob, twisting it blindly without breaking the kiss so you could both stumble inside. He kicked the door shut behind him, tongue licking at the seam of your lips while he brought one of his hands up to cup the back of your head. You granted him access, parting your lips and tangling your tongues together as he continued to walk you backwards. He opened his eyes and glanced around the dark living room quickly before pulling away and whispering one word: bedroom?

The way he said it made your knees weak and your heart flutter excitedly in your chest. You pulled him down for one more kiss before grabbing his hand and practically dragging him down the hall. About halfway to your room, his lips latched onto the crook of your neck and you slowed down, closing your eyes and twisting around in his arms so you could kiss him again. He pinned you against the wall with a groan, his thumb and forefinger clutching your jaw, prying it open so he could devour you. You hooked one leg over his hips and he let go of your jaw so he could grab the backs of your thighs and haul you off the ground.

You tugged at his hair impatiently, then gasped when he ground himself against your core, your body jolting in his arms and knocking a canvas print off the wall.

"Shit," he muttered, barely sparing the picture a glance before peeling you off the wall and carrying you towards your bedroom with your ankles hooked together at his lower back. You giggled against his mouth then squealed when he tossed you onto your bed. His hands glided underneath your dress and up your legs, slipping his fingers around the the waistband of your panties and tugging them down, pausing once he got to your knees. He blinked a few times like he was snapping out of a stupor and glanced up at you.

"Is this okay?"

"God, yes," you said, reaching behind you to tug at your zipper. You tried to shrug off your dress but his lips found yours and you quickly got distracted. You nibbled at his bottom lip while simultaneously tugging at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up over his soft stomach and stopping at his broad shoulders. He broke away just long enough to lean back and toss the shirt over his head and he was back on top of you before you could even drink him in.

You dragged your mouth over his chin, biting and nipping as you went. He groaned as you left open mouthed kisses across his jaw, his prickly beard tickling your tongue. "My dress," you whispered against his cheek before mouthing at the skin there, "take it off."

His palms slid over your shoulders, pushing the straps of your dress down while you wiggled a bit, helping move the fabric down your body. You arched your back so he could pull your dress all the way off, his breath getting caught in this throat when your nipples brushed against his bare chest.

He couldn't resist. When your dress was discarded on the floor, he sat back between your legs to admire your naked body, completely transfixed. Too much time had passed without him saying anything and you grew self-conscious, so you slowly began to cross your arms over your chest, but he stopped you.

"No," he rasped with a shake of his head. "You're so beautiful, just wanna look at you another minute."

Your cheeks flared with heat but you dropped your hands and gazed up at him, watching his eyes flicker excitedly over your body, memorizing every curve and freckle he could find. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a twitch in his pants and you glanced down at the outline of his cock through his jeans. You bit your lip and he followed your gaze, palming his erection briefly before undoing his pants.

"Oh," you whispered to yourself when you saw his cock spring free. He wrapped his hand around his thick shaft and glanced up at you as he crawled back up the mattress on his knees. "You're big," you added, unable to look away. He blushed but didn't reply. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed you, this time slower. You shuddered in anticipation when you felt the tip of his leaking cock brush against your pussy and he froze.

"Shit, wait," he grumbled, sitting back on his heels before reaching for his wallet, which was still stuffed inside his jeans. You figured out the problem and leaned over to your nightstand, fishing around in the drawer until you found a condom and held it out for him. He looked relieved when he saw the little foil square and tossed his wallet back onto the ground before ripping open the condom and rolling it on.

"Sorry. It's... been a while. Wasn't exactly prepared," he explained, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. The endearing confession just made you want him even more.

"It's okay, come here," you murmured, reaching your arms out for him. He grinned and fell down onto his elbows, kissing you slow and deep. When you felt him rest his tip at your entrance, you tensed up.

"Relax," he whispered in your ear. You slid your eyes shut and snaked your arms around his shoulders, gasping sharply when he pressed forward. When he sunk his teeth into your shoulder, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, the pain mixing with the pleasure in a way that made you dizzy.

"Oh, fuck, Joel," you whimpered when he bottomed out, your body stretching around his girth, the sting setting your nerves on fire.

He groaned against your neck and began to rock his hips steadily, making sure to not go too fast. He could tell you were still getting adjusted but it had just been so fucking long and he liked you so much, it was difficult to hold back. He could feel the sweat collecting between his shoulder blades as he focused all his energy on going slow, and when he felt your thighs relax around his waist and your back arch underneath him, he sighed with relief.

"More," you moaned, pressing your body against his, trying to get as close as possible. He growled and dipped his mouth down to capture one of your nipples, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud, releasing it with a wet pop and reveling in the sweet noises you made for him.

He wanted to tell you everything. He wanted to tell you how much he thought about you, how long he wanted to ask you out, how he wanted to know everything about you, how nervous you made him with just a simple glance. But he didn't say any of that. It had been so long since he had gone on a date that he wasn't even sure what women liked anymore. So he remained silent, focusing on not coming too soon while paying close attention to your cues, memorizing what you liked based on the breathy whines in his ear and the way your fingers clutched frantically at his hair. You, however, took his silence to mean he wasn't enjoying himself and you really, really didn't want that, so you pushed gently on his shoulder, drawing his attention.

"Let's switch," you murmured, and he gave you a quizzical look. "Why don't you lay back and let me do some of the work?" you explained, nipping playfully at his jaw.

When his head settled into your pillows, watching with heavy lidded eyes as you straddled him before catching his gaze and slowly sinking down, taking every inch of his cock with a low moan, he thought for sure it would be the death of him. You looked so beautiful all spread out and full of him that he had to squeeze his eyes shut so he wouldn't come just looking at you.

Then you started riding him and his eyes flew open, his chest heaving as he watched your tits bounce and your head tip back in ecstasy and he knew he was done for.

"Wait," he rasped, grabbing your waist and stilling your hips. You stopped, swollen lips parted as you panted for air and looked down at him.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothin'," he stammered, taking a few deep breaths in before chuckling. "I'm just... I need a minute, is all."

You could see the red beginning to stain his cheeks and the look of embarrassment flicker across his face, melting your heart. Leaning down, you cupped his jaw and kissed him tenderly.

"Is that why you've been so quiet?" you asked softly, leaning back so you could look into his eyes but still holding his cheek in the palm of your hand. He nodded, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrist.

"I'm sorry. I haven't been with anyone in years and I've been tryin' to take things slow with you but I think all the buildup just made it worse." You grinned and took his other hand.

"Don't be sorry. I think it's hot," you whispered, pulling his free hand down between your bodies. He splayed his hand out across your lower abdomen and you took his thumb between your fingers, pulling it down so it made direct contact with your clit. You sucked in a sharp breath when you felt the pressure and a slow smile spread across his face when he realized what you were doing.

"Yeah? Why's it hot?" he asked, drawing slow circles over your clit and watching your jaw fall open and your eyes flutter shut. Both your hands dropped to his chest, holding yourself up.

"Because," you began, then bit your lip and moaned when he picked up the pace. "Because it's l-like you c-can't control yourself. Like y-you need me so badly, you can't hold back." You knew it sounded pathetic but you didn't care. His touch was intoxicating and you needed more.

"I can't," he admitted, his eyes glued to your face, taking pride in how good he made you feel. "I can't control myself. Wanted you for so long. Been thinkin' about this for months."

You gasped and your eyes snapped open, locking onto his. "Me, too. I never thought, shit, never thought you noticed me."

"Are you kiddin' me? I noticed you the first day." Now that the truth was out there, the words wouldn't stop coming. "You were wearin' a yellow shirt and I saw these perfect fuckin' tits when you bent over. Went home that night and-"

He stopped himself, wondering if he was going too far, but you dug your fingers into his chest and urged him to continue, desperately gasping for air as his thumb applied more pressure.

"Say it," you whispered. His cock pulsed angrily inside you, begging for release.

"Went home and fucked my fist thinkin' 'bout you."

You groaned loudly and leaned back, grabbing your breasts and playing with your nipples. "Fuck, I'm close, Joel."

"Yeah? Can you ride me, baby? Wanna come with you," he begged, his voice strained. Immediately, you resumed bouncing on his cock, letting go of your tits so you could brace yourself on his chest once again.

He watched in awe as you gasped and squeezed your eyes shut, stilling for just a moment, pulsing around his length as you came, his name and curses tumbling from your lips.

He couldn't hold back any longer.

He grabbed your hips with both hands and slammed up into you, grunting louder and louder each time. And it didn't take long. You had barely recovered from your own orgasm before he groaned, his eyes trained on where you were connected, thrusting as deep as he could go while his cock throbbed inside you.

"Fuck," he whispered, his head falling back limply onto your pillow. You slumped forward and buried your face against his neck, each of you trying to regulate your breathing.

"That was..." you began, trailing off when you realized your brain was still a pile of mush.

"Better than I ever imagined," Joel finished for you, wrapping his arms around your ribs.

Regrettably, he eventually pulled out, making you both wince. You rolled over onto your back and watched as he made his way to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. If you had any energy left, you might have shot off a quick text to Courtney, but you were barely coherent by the time he slipped back into your bed.

You didn't even need to ask if he was staying the night. He pulled you into his arms, his chest pressed up against your back when you fell asleep, completely at ease.

It could have been the beer or the sex, but you didn't hear his phone go off in the middle of the night. You didn't feel him slip his arm out from under you so he could answer the call in your living room, and you definitely didn't hear him quickly dress and leave.

It was finally Friday and you were moments away from calling off from work. The thought of facing him again made your stomach roll and your head swim.

You hadn't heard from Joel since he left in the middle of the night after you slept together, days ago. You foolishly texted and called him multiple times, but he never answered. Eventually, you got the message.

Countless hours were spent crying, then more were spent stalking around your place angrily, and a mixture of the two happened at work when either Courtney or Andy asked you about hot flower guy.

They eventually learned not to ask.

As badly as you wanted to call off, you dragged yourself into work. Andy offered to take over the registers so you could hide in the aisles stocking shelves during the hour Joel typically showed up, and you shamefully took him up on it. But when it was close to closing time and you made your way back to the front, Andy shrugged his shoulders.

"He never came."

You had a moment where you worried that something happened to him and you considered texting him just one more time, but when you got into your car that night and opened your text chain to a long list of unanswered texts, you changed your mind.

However, the next morning you awoke to a handful of texts from Joel. At first, your heart raced in your chest, but then your anger crept up and you had half a mind to just delete them. After you had some coffee and a chance to think clearly, your curiosity won and you opened the texts.

I'm so sorry

Something came up

Can you call me back?

Please let me explain

Your fingers hovered over your screen as you debated on what to say. Then you decided to leave the messages unanswered. At least for a little while. If he left you hanging for almost a week, he could wait a few hours, right?

What you didn't expect, however, was for him to show up at the store on a Saturday. He only ever came on Friday evenings. You were cashing out a customer, zoning out a bit, grateful for the distraction. When you reached for the receipt, your eyes locked with his and your pulse began to race. He was holding a bouquet of white roses and looking at you with a guilty expression. Your fingers froze around the paper momentarily until the little old lady in front of him cleared her throat and you blinked, snapping out of it and handing her the receipt with an apologetic smile.

"Hey," he said, but you kept your gaze trained down at the scanner.

"Hi."

Your hands shook as you scanned his flowers, doing your best to get the interaction over with as quickly as possible. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Andy at customer service notice Joel in line, watching from a distance in case you needed rescuing.

"You didn't respond to my texts," he said quietly. You shrugged.

"I've been busy," was all you said, tapping the button on the register for credit.

After he paid, you handed him his receipt and forced yourself to look at him. You could see in his eyes he looked exhausted and run down and despite how upset you were, you felt bad. But you felt even worse after he pocketed the receipt and handed you the flowers.

"They're for you."

"Oh," you said, surprised, as you looked down at the roses. "T-thank you."

Joel looked over his shoulder when a young couple began to unload their groceries on the belt. You panicked, not sure what to do or say, and then you felt a tap on your shoulder.

"Why don't you take your break?" Andy offered, "I'll cover."

You gave him a shaky smile, both of you knowing full well you already had your break. "Yeah, okay." Glancing over at Joel, you tilted your head towards the front door and he nodded.

"I'm so sorry I left without sayin' anythin'," he began when you sat down together on a bench outside the store. "There was an emergency and I had to go."

"You could have texted me or left a note," you said sadly, looking down at the flowers clutched in your hands.

"I know, and I was gonna, but my damn phone died and I was in the hospital for days. I was outta town, couldn't leave, I even wore the same clothes the whole time," he rubbed his face and sighed. "And once we got back home, I wanted to explain in person what happened."

"We?" you questioned. He dropped his chin to his chest and nodded solemnly.

"I have a daughter," he confessed, and your jaw dropped in surprise.

"W-what?" you whispered softly, "why didn't you tell me, Joel?"

His eyebrows pinched together, still avoiding your gaze.

"I don't know. In the past, women haven't exactly been thrilled findin' out I come with baggage and I guess I was bein' selfish." He finally looked up and you could see the pain behind his eyes. "I was tryin' to find the right way to tell you but I was so scared of losin' you."

You shook your head in disbelief. "It doesn't bother me at all that you have a daughter, Joel," you told him, "it bothers me that you lied."

He inched forward on the bench and put his hand on your knee. "I know. I'm so sorry. It was stupid. If you gimme another chance, I promise I'll never lie to you again."

Your chest tightened and you had to look away. He was so sincere, you could feel your resolve crumbling. After a moment, you dragged your eyes back up to him and you could swear he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

"Is she okay?"

He blinked rapidly for a moment, surprised by your question, then nodded.

"Yeah. She's okay now. She had appendicitis. She was with her mom last week. She lives an hour outside Austin and I just went right there from your place. Scared the shit outta me," he finished with a dry chuckle. Then something clicked.

"Your daughter..."

"Sarah."

"Sarah," you repeated. "The flowers you bought every week. Were they for her?"

He smiled shyly and nodded. "Yeah. She gets nervous goin' to her mom's still. The situation is a little rocky so I always get her flowers. Whether she's goin' there or comin' back. They make her smile," he said with a little shrug, and your heart melted.

"That's... that's really sweet," you said, looking down once again at the roses he bought you. He watched you closely for a moment then sat back on the bench, scratching his chin and trying to read your mind. Everything was out in the open now. He should have listened to Tommy and just told you the truth from the first date, but he couldn't remember the last time he ever felt so strongly about someone else before.

Just when he was about to leave, wanting to give you your space to think things over, you spoke again.

"So when are you free next?"

Joel exhaled in relief, then laughed. "Tomorrow?"

You bit your lip and nodded, then leaned forward and cupped his jaw, giving him a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"It's a date," you whispered before standing up. He watched you from the bench as you walked towards the front doors. At the last moment you turned around, the white roses clutched against your chest, and called out, "have a good night."

He grinned.

"Have a good night."

[fcthots]

You’re sitting on the couch of your shared apartment when Jason climbs in through the window, finally done with patrol. His entrance makes you look up from your phone. He reaches up and tugs his helmet off. His hair looks a little funny, but it also made him look good. He didn’t need the ego boost though. You can tell he had an eventful patrol by the smile on his face.

He walks towards you and drops his hand onto your arm. He lets it slide down until his hand rests on yours. He pulls your hand to his lips in greeting. “Hey, princess.” He squeezes your hand before giving it back to you.

“How was patrol?” You watch as he strips off his outer layers of gear. The display never gets old.

“Good.” He laughs. “But I have got to tell you what happened. Red Robin, Tim, smacked into Red Robin, the restaurant. It was completely by accident too. I begged Babs to get me the camera footage. She’s searching as we speak.”

You laugh at his enthusiasm and the way he laughed before he even finished the story. You ask him questions, he answers them. It continues until he goes to take his shower.

You turn back to your phone. This is where it all goes wrong, because you see a post that ruins your day. It reads, “the first time most men receive flowers is at their funeral.”

Evil. Illegal. Unacceptable. Had you really never given Jason flowers before? You swore you did but your memory came up empty. By the time you finished your existential flower crisis, Jason finished showering and called you to bed. He’s exhausted and falls asleep quickly. You, however, stay awake and plan. You will get the love of your life flowers. You will not let the first time he receives flowers to be at his funeral. You fall asleep trying to decide what flowers he would like best.

You wake up before him, getting up as gently as possible. If he wakes up with you, he’ll trap you for cuddles in his huge beefy inescapable arms, so you must be careful. You wouldn’t have been able to do it if you didn’t know Jason as well as you do.

You get ready as silently and as quickly as possible before sliding out the door. The nearest flower shop isn’t too far. You make it there and back in 30 minutes, and most of that time was spent deciding what flowers you wanted to get Jason.

You walk home with a bouquet of simple red roses with some baby’s breath sprinkled in. It’s wrapped in black paper with a read bow, a color combination you’re sure he’ll love.

You walk home a little slower, careful not to disturb the flowers cradled in your arms. The long walk leaves you to your thoughts. You wonder how Jason will react.

And then you get worried. What if he thinks it’s weird? Jason has never called you weird unaffectionately before, but what if this is what does it? Or, even worse, what if he pretends to like them but actually thinks it’s weird? You spiral a little and panic. You eventually walk head first into your door on muscle memory.

You make sure the flowers are okay before opening the door. You hide the bouquet behind your back. To your surprise, Jason is awake and in the kitchen. His morning voice greets you with a smile. “Did you just walk into the door?”

Your worry begins to fade and a smile crawls its way onto your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs and the sound makes you blush. You love him. “You did!”

“And to think I was out getting you a present.” You shake your head.

“You got me a present?” He looks a like an excited puppy.

“I got my loving boyfriend a present. Let me know if you see him.” You pretend as if you’re about to walk out.

Jason rushes over to you smiling. “Wait, no! He’s right here! Please! I want my present!”

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you thrust the flowers at him. He takes them from you, his smile softening. “Do you like them?”

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. “What are these for? They’re beautiful. I love them.” You watch him feel the petals with a gentle smile that he can’t seem to help.

You tell him about the post you saw, and how you couldn’t let the first time he got flowers be at his funeral. He pauses. “Babe. I really love the flowers. Seriously. Best gift ever. But um. The first time I got flowers was at my funeral.” He watches your face.

You lift a hand and cover your mouth. “Oh my god.” He laughs and uses one had to hug to you to his chest.

“I really love the sentiment! It means a lot! I love them so much!” He smiles into your hair as you wrap your arms around him.

“That’s why I remember buying you flowers before but couldn’t remember giving them to you. I feel terrible.”

“Don’t. This was so sweet, seriously. If it wasn’t the ass crack of dawn, I would cry.”

You laugh. “It’s past noon.”

He huffs. “Same thing. We were up until like 4.”

“This is true,” you say. “I still feel so bad though. I can’t believe I forgot you had a funeral already.”

He laughs and you can feel it in his chest. “The idea was really sweet, princess. I love the flowers. You just made my day. Nay, my week.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, you running into the door really sealed the deal.”

You push on his chest. “I hate you.”

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Trinkets

Five presents Jason brought you back from his adventures and one you asked for. (+ one) ~1.2k words of fluff

Jason Todd brings you home gifts from his missions, which wouldn't be a problem, but he never really explains what they are.

The first time it happened, you had laughed at the green ring with a lantern symbol in the middle. It looked cheesy, like one of the fake ones you can buy from the superhero merch stores littered around malls and outlets.

You'd kissed his cheek in thanks, put it on your shelf, and never gave it a second thought.

At least you didn't, until a bright green glow woke you up from your sleep. You'd sat up immediately, jaw practically dropping to the sheets as the ring lifted itself off your shelf and flew out the window.

Jason barely budged, his arm still thrown over your waist. He let out yawn and cuddled closer before speaking, voice groggy and heavy, "Huh. Didn't think they noticed that one was gone."

"They," You half yell, voice pitching as you stare at his outline, hidden in the shadows of the room.

"The Guardians, babe," he yawns out, "They're in charge of the space cops. Just go back to sleep."

Naturally, you do not go back to sleep. You drag him to the kitchen, make tea, and demand he explains why a Green Lantern ring was in your apartment. (He's very happy to)

The second time it happens, you're much more wary of the gift he brings home. But to be fair, he can't really pass off an Amazonian steel sword as something he just picked up.

It doesn't take as much convincing as it should for you to let him mount it on your wall. But it's a sword! No one can blame you for thinking it looks cool in your living room.

It turns out keeping it around is pretty useful, because a few weeks later, your boyfriend crawls through your window, dressed head to toe in armor.

"Hey, doll," he drawls, "Can I borrow your sword?"

"Sure," You chirp back, more preoccupied with your book as he saunters over to the sword, "what for?"

"Artie's got confiscated, and we haven't gotten to steal it back yet," he supplies, stopping long enough to pull his helmet up and kiss your head.

"Oh, that sucks," You answer, offhandedly, "Give her and Bizzaro my love."

"You got it, babe," he chirps already halfway out your window.

He does bring your sword back, covered in green blood, but no worse for wear. It still looks great on your wall.

He brings you a box next. It's kind of ugly looking, but you thank him nonetheless.

"Be careful with it," he tells you as you flip it over in your hands, "It opens boom tubes."

You almost drop it, and if you hadn't already experienced the power ring, you would have shrieked at him. Instead, you manage to put it down very carefully and calmly ask, "It does what?"

"Open boom tubes," he answers, which clears absolutely nothing up, "I figured we could use it to country hop for our next date night. You know, dinner in Paris, drinks in Dubai, dessert in LA."

"Okay," You answer slowly, as if that makes complete sense.

It turns out, it does. Date night is lovely, and making out with your boyfriend on a random beach in Spain is very, very nice.

Batman waiting in your apartment to take back the boom box isn't so nice, though.

Jason tells you it was worth it. He's absolutely right.

The third thing Jason brings you is a plant. Flowers aren't a rare show of affection from him, but ones that move are.

"Uh, thank you, Jason," You start, prodding at the moving petals, they nuzzle your fingers the same way a kitten would, "But I don't know how to take care of these."

"Same way you take care of any other plant, water, fertilizer, nutrients, all that fun stuff," he says fondly, stroking a few of the petals.

"What if it gets sick," You ask, uncertain.

"We'll call Ivy," he says, unbothered.

"Right. Ivy. Poison Ivy. Who you know," You mumble, but the little plant is already worming its way into your heart. (You affectionately name it Daisy, for no other reason then it sways happily when you say that name)

The fourth thing Jason brings you makes you laugh because you know exactly what it is, "Jason, we can't keep this."

"Why not," he pleads, shaking the bright green quiver filled with arrows at you.

You giggled harder, smiling wide as you shake your head at him, "We don't even know what those do. Don't some of those explode?"

"So what," he huffs, practically pouting, "We can ask Roy. And it's not like I don't know my way around explosives."

"I guess so," You relent, trying to stifle your laughs as you inspect the bright green arrows, "How did you even get this?"

His eyes light up mischievously, "Do you really want to know?"

You stop short and narrow your eyes at him, "I would lose my plausible deniability."

"But you wanna know," he says, sly and playful.

You do. (It involves mutated chickens, tar, and one distracted Oliver Queen. You hang the quiver next to the sword)

Jason's getting ready to leave, bags packed and helmet lazy held under his arm, "Can I bring you back anything specific, doll" he asks, his free hand resting comfortably against your cheek, "Lasso of Truth? Maybe something with magic?"

You grin at him, leaning into his touch, "I actually do have something in mind."

"Oh," he prompts, eyes glinting with excitement.

"I want to complete my batarang collection."

He falters, "Your– what?"

"No one has," You exclaim, pulling away to showcase your collection, "I have Nightwings, Batgirls, Batmans, yours, of course, one of Robin's. But I'm missing Spoilers, Batwomans, Signals, and Red Robins."

He blinks at you, "That's– if that's what you want."

You giggle at how dumbfounded he looks, practically bouncing back over to him to kiss him, "Thank you, Jason."

He catches your waist and pulls you back in for another, longer kiss that leaves you both breathless and panting. His voice lowers, like it's a secret, "I'll bring you back some batarangs. See you in a few days?"

"See you in a few days," You echo, and he winks at you as he tugs on his helmet, leaving out your window.

Sure enough, you get your batarangs when he gets home. It takes some convincing, a few kisses that leave you senseless, but you get Jason to help you mount your batarang collection alongside the sword and quiver.

"I should get you a plasma rifle next," he drawls, admiring your growing wall of weapons.

"I think I'd fall over if I tried to shoot one of those," You point out, all smiles.

"I'll teach you," he tells you, hooking an arm around your waist to draw you closer.

Jason's a man of his word, and sure enough, he brings you home a plasma cannon after his next mission.

You only destroy most of the shooting range in the batcave when he lets you try it out.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Foxglove and Oleander.

Pairing: Yandere!Sukuna x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 6.0k

Commissioned by the very lovely @letstalktea.

TW: Heian Era AU, Wildly Unbalanced Power Dynamics, Blood + Violence, Deliberate Manipulation, Obsessive Behavior, and Implied Cannibalism.

Sukuna first arrived the night your chrysanthemums bloomed.

That was the only reason you weren’t in the temple when the fire reached it. Against your better judgement and the wishes of your superiors, you’d committed yourself to spending the night in the courtyard, carefully monitoring each delicate bud as they slowly unfurled and stained your garden with scattered blotches of bright, bleeding scarlet. In the morning, it would be your responsibility to gather each flower, dry their petals, and deliver them to the temple’s healers to use as medicinal herbs before you were allowed to get to your less seasonal chores, but tonight, the chrysanthemum belonged to you.

From your little corner of the courtyard, you watched as flames climbed the side of the side of the mountain, consuming the forest that surrounded your home before latching onto the servants’ barracks, then the outer sanctuaries, before finally reaching the main body of the temple. There were a few screams to accompany the fire’s first arrival, but they were quickly drowned out by the fire’s deafening roar, by the sound of buildings already mostly burnt away collapsing into themselves and putting their unfortunate occupants out of their misery. You could feel the heat, hear the others begin to flee, but it was only as the fire reached the peak of its gluttony that he emerged, entirely unscathed and painted with the blood of those you supposed you may have cared about, if you’d had more time. Sukuna, although you wouldn’t know to call him by that name, just yet.

It went without saying that he was hideous. Too many limbs, too many eyes, too many mouths – every part of him distorted with bulk and muscle and ink. His teeth struck you first, bared and glinting in the blinding firelight, then his clothing, the tattered and charred remains of what appeared to be a once fine kimono tied around his waist. He was carrying a spear, but he drove it into the ground as he stepped out of the inferno. There was something slung over his shoulder, too – a corpse, male and burnt beyond the point of recognizability – but that was abandoned just as thoughtlessly, left to rot on the outskirts of your garden. You were glad. Your chrysanthemums wouldn’t survive being crushed by such dead weight.

He didn’t notice you immediately. You stayed where you were, kneeling in the dirt, as he turned in either direction, taking in the devastation with a full-chested laugh. The noise was, in kinship with his appearance, unspeakably gruesome.  

Finally, he turned to face you, his eyes lighting up in spite of the stark shadows cast over his face. His spear was still within arm’s reach, but he made no attempt to retrieve it – holding out an open hand to you, instead. “Are you a monk or a maiden?” he asked, his voice more of a growl than anything proper, anything human. “I’ve already had my fill of the former, tonight.”

“A servant,” you answered, bowing your head by way of greeting. “I tend the gardens, among other things. Are you the one killing all the acolytes?”

“Among other things.” His tone had a mocking lilt, although he seemed far from vicious. You’d been warned about that, once, by someone very dear to you. You couldn’t remember the specifics, but the sentiment was still clear enough. ‘Do not fear the animal that bares its teeth, but the creature who lures you closer before it lunges’, or something like that. “I’m afraid I only have a taste for holy meat, tonight. Although, if you run, I’ll certainly take more enjoyment in striking you down.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but—”

“Lord,” he corrected. “Make that mistake again and it’ll be the last time I allow you the privilege of using your tongue.”

“My apologies, my lord.” Again, you bowed your head. “The high priest can be harsh with his discipline. My ankle is still healing, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to move quickly enough for either of us to get very much out of it.”

He grinned, and the fire raged on behind him. “Grovel, then. Perhaps, if you manage to please me, I’ll be merciful and kill you quickly.”

He was clearly a man (man? monster? beast?) of great ego. You pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth, trying to block out the taste of something harsh and acidic rising up from the back of your throat. “If it’s all the same to you,” you managed, eventually, sparing one last glance towards your chrysanthemums. They really were beautiful. You could only regret that you’d never get to see them in the light of day. “I’d really rather not. It seems like it be easier, to just… uh, let you get the job done, as it were.”

In his defense, his pride overshadowed his shock. That, or you simply weren’t the first person he’d met to pay your own life such little regard. “I’ve cut down braver men for bolder suggestions.”

“But you cut them down all the same.” You swallowed, dryly. It’d been a while since you’d last had anything to eat or drink – the better part of a day, at least – but you supposed you wouldn’t have to worry about that for much longer. “I’m sorry, my lord. I would try to run, but my ankle really does make things difficult.”

He regarded you for a moment, as yet another wing of the temple buckled under its own weight. You decided, as you stared back at him, that his eyes weren’t so terrible – the pair he was supposed to have, at least. Although currently narrowed and creased around the edges, they had a pleasant color, a unique shade of red that seemed to glow when it caught the firelight. At least one part of him was bearable to look at.

Finally, he broke the silence, his resonant voice taking on a more authoritative cadence. “Come.”

He didn’t extend a hand, or gesture for you to follow, only trekking onward – towards the temple’s gates, left open in the panic of the exodus.  Gingerly, weary of your injured ankle, you pushed yourself to your feet and hastened to his side. Sukuna only paid you glance by way of acknowledgement, but you didn’t mind. “Are you going to kill me in the woods, instead?”

“Uraume’s been asking for another set of hands.” You weren’t sure what he was talking about, but you nodded as if you understood entirely. He spared you a small, thoughtless smile, and you decided that he was also the type of man who often enjoyed the luxury of never being questioned. “If they don’t care for you, I’ll kill you wherever I wish.”

“Ah.” You passed under the temple gates by his side. Not long after that, you heard the great crash of stone into earth, and knew that those, too, had collapsed. “I hope it’s somewhere with lots of flowers. I’ve always wanted to die somewhere beautiful.”

His only answer was another, more lingering glance in your direction, a low bark of a laugh. Satisfied, you let the conversation lapse into silence and walked into the night by the side of a monster.

~

“How do you choose where to go?”

He didn’t respond, not immediately. Instead, one of his spare hands brought yet another grape to your lips, and with a pleased hum, you accepted it, savoring the sour tinge that accompanied the sweetness. From what you gathered, he preferred savory to sweetness, sweetness to bitterness, and bitterness to all other flavors that followed. He rarely ate anything that wasn’t the strange, ambiguous meat prepared by Uraume, his ever-smiling mastress of rituals, but the last village you’d passed through had a surplus of fruit. It’d seemed like a waste to let all of it rot, now that there was no one left to enjoy it.

It was strange – traveling with Sukuna and Uraume. They seemed to be on a pilgrimage of sorts, the destination unknown and the purpose one of endless carnage. Not that either of them expected you to participate in the devastation. No, as far as you could tell, you were regarded more as a servant, meant to be of aid to Sukuna when Uraume was otherwise occupied. Except, Uraume never seemed to be very occupied at all, and Sukuna very rarely needed aid, and you were often left in a position more akin to that of a pet than anything else – kept around predominantly because Sukuna found it entertaining to do so. Not that you minded. Pets were cherished and coddled. Pets never went hungry. Pets weren’t expected to be anything other than endearing and obedient, which wasn’t totally dissimilar to the things you were always expected to be, regardless of what you were supposed to call yourself.

Currently, you were taking shelter in an abandoned shrine not quite dilapidated enough to be considered unlivable, Uraume tending the hearth while Sukuna stared absent-mindedly at a map pilfered from the shine’s stockroom, the colored ink nearly too faded to read. You paid little mind to either of them – content enough to remain sprawled across Sukuna’s lap, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your waist. This was the first time you’d spoken in minutes, reluctant to break the comfortable silence. Sukuna didn’t seem to mind the sound of your voice, and you didn’t want that to change. “I don’t,” he admitted, eventually. He only spoke for himself, but it was given that you and Uraume would follow. “I go where I please. I only like to know that, when I arrive, there’ll be something worth my time waiting to receive me.”

“So particular, my lord.” You felt something tap against your bottom lip, and opened your mouth to accept a perfectly sweet, perfectly ripe strawberry. “Tell me, then – what would please you?”

He seemed to think for a long moment. Finally, he asked, “What village were you born to?”

His intention went unspoken, but the implication was clear. Sukuna’s sole pastime was destruction, with the target of his ire being any person, town, or creature unfortunate enough to cross his path. Although you’d never seen him go out of his way to find prey before, you were sure willingly pointing him in the direction of vulnerable quarry would result in a predictable outcome.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. Things like that can be so hard to remember,” you said, which wasn’t untrue. Your memory was a fickle thing – uncooperative on your best days and deliberately misleading on your worst. “You know, being a baby at the time and all.”

His fingers drummed thoughtfully against your side. “You must have family somewhere, servant.”

“Not necessarily.” You shut your eyes to stop yourself from squirming, sighing as you rested your head against his shoulder. “My parents abandoned me before I was old enough to learn their names. A scrap collector took me in some time after that, but he traveled quite often, and I lost track of him years ago.” You paused, shook your head. “Like I said, things like this can be difficult to remember. I’m sorry, my lord.”

There was a slight hum, a momentary lapse. Abruptly, you felt his hands shift to your waist, Sukuna repositioning your smaller form with all of the strength and all of the thought it might’ve taken an ordinary person to right a toppled-over doll. Your back came to rest against his chest as one of his spare hands cupped your chin, directing your attention towards the yellowed map. “Pick somewhere,” he muttered, his voice low and his lips close enough to ghost over the shell of your ear. “Anywhere. Before I pull your unhelpful little tongue out of your throat.”

“Of course, my lord.” Acquiesce came first, a real answer second. Your gaze fell to the map in front of you. It took a second, but you found what you were looking for quickly enough. “Here,” you said, pointing to an area north of your current location. “There’s a village in the eastern corner of this valley with a small population of young farmers and very little in the way of redeeming qualities. But, in the town square, there grows a cherry blossom tree tall enough to scrap against the belly of the sky with branches that stretch as far as the eye can seem. When it blooms, its petals are great enough in volume to carpet the surrounding acre in pink.” You straightened your back, decisively avoiding sinking back into his chest. “I… I wouldn’t mind visiting it again, if it would please my lord.”

It was a dangerous thing to do – showing your hand so plainly. You’d grown so used to keeping your cards tucked snuggly against your chest, even talking this openly felt as if you’d been stripped bare and put on exhibition in front of him.

But, if Sukuna realized that he was the audience to your performer, he neglected to acknowledge it. He only looked toward Uraume, who perked to attention immediately. They were good at that – pretending not to listen. Not as talented as you, of course, but good nonetheless. “We start traveling east tomorrow,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m adding another leg to our journey.”

His primary attention remained on them, but a few of his unblinking secondary eyes – repulsive in their lack of necessity – darted to you, watching for any signs of satisfaction, of pleasure. You only schooled your expression, retreating into your own mind to count the days until the cherry blossoms bloomed.

~

It took a surprising amount of time for you to catch Uraume in the act. Not overly long, but more time than you would’ve expected with them making no particular effort to hide the evidence of their ‘ritual preparation’ and you making no exceptional attempt to avoid finding out why their snow-white sleeves were so often stained red. If allowed to, you might’ve gone on living in the bliss of plausible deniability until your time with Sukuna and his chosen companionship came to an end, but he was not so kind, and there was little entertainment to be had in such a passive participant.

Still, you would’ve liked another week, another month, another season. You’d never cared for kitchens, but you cared for them least when they reeked of rotting meat.

The stench was almost worse than the sight – almost, but not quite. Then again, you were struggling to think of something worse than Uraume, all practiced tranquility and iced-over smiles, elbow-deep in the cavity a long dead middle-aged man, his body bare and spread over the stone countertop. You recognized him not by his face, but by his features – his wealth-fattened face, his uncalloused hands, the lack of definition to his legs that those who toiled could rarely afford to go without. He must’ve been the lord who owned the palace you currently found yourself residing in – a sprawling, decadent structure that it’d taken hours to clean after the massacre. Sukuna would survive wherever his whims lead, but he preferred to be comfortable. You didn’t mind. You preferred it when Sukuna was comfortable, too.

 It was clear they hadn’t been expecting you, either. Their dark eyes bored into you where you lingered in the doorway, a wicker basket on your hip and your robes still dusted with soil. Most of your day had been spent in the palace gardens. Its former caretaker had planted their shiso along the garden wall, where it would only receive partial sun in the best season – a common enough mistake, for how easy it was to mistake for basil, and a tricky one to correct. An experienced caretaker should’ve known better, but as the herbs were still alive while their keeper was very much not, you could consider their negligence repaid.

You made the first move –bowing at the waist by way of greeting. “Lord Sukuna asked me to fetch his tea,” you explained, as you straightened your back. You didn’t feel the need to mention that’d he’d sought you out in your gardens to do so. “I thought I’d bring you a few herbs in the same trip. My apologies, it wasn’t my intention to disturb you.”

The corner of their lips quirked downward. It wasn’t quite a frown, but it was the closest thing to one that you’d ever earned from them. You weren’t upset. Even glowering, they would’ve been breath-taking. “He wanted you to see my—” They paid a glance toward the dismembered lord, their arm still buried in his chest. “My preparations.”

“It would seem so.”

“And he wanted to know how you’d react. There’s a good chance he’ll ask me about this, later on.”

“I’d say it’s more of a certainty.”

“I’d understand it, if you wanted to leave. I know there are few ordinary humans who can stomach tasks so—” Another pause, this one longer than the first. Clearly, they were making an attempt to watch their tongue. “—needlessly visceral.”

“If I did try, how long would you give me before telling Sukuna?” This time, they choose to hold their tongue entirely, their slight frown deepening into a full-blown scowl. It took everything you had not to let your own satisfaction shine through.

Rather, you paid them another shallow bow before the threshold and setting down your basket on the nearest length of empty counter. “It’s mostly shiso, but I found some usable ginger and garlic, too, and a few stalks of parsley. Is there anything I can do to help?”

After a moment of consideration, Uraume shook their head. It only took a few minutes to make the tea you’d been sent to fetch, but they were minutes passed in silence, undisturbed save for the quiet chime of ceramic against ceramic. They didn’t start their own work again until you’d left the kitchen entirely, which you were thankful for. They’d been right. There were few humans with stomachs so strong as to withstand such grisly tasks, and you’d never counted yourself among them.

Sukuna had claimed the master’s chambers for himself, of course. You let yourself in without knocking, immediately finding Sukuna sprawled across the wonderfully ornate futon that dominated most of the floorspace. He smiled when he saw you, but his expression fell as soon as you returned the gesture.

He didn’t mention Uraume, or the kitchens, or the thick stench of iron-tinged blood that now seemed to fill every corner of the vast estate. You hummed as you poured his tea, and remained at his bedside as he took a long drink, followed shortly by an approving nod. You tried to make your escape quickly, already fantasizing about retreating back to your secluded garden, but Sukuna caught you before you could so much as turn towards the door. “Attend to what you must,” he started, his tone simultaneously dismissive and attention-seeking. “But return here, when you’re done. Bring your belongings, too – you won’t be going back to your bedroom again.”

You didn’t falter, but not for lack of reason to. You’d chosen your bedroom carefully, surveyed the better half of the residential wing before finding quarters that suited you. It was sparse by way of comforts and furniture, but the sole window looked over the mountainside, the landscape stretching on for miles upon miles without interruption. You would’ve been pressed to think of a finer view.

“As you wish.” And then, with a chirp of a laugh, “You know, we spend so much time with one another while traveling. I thought you would’ve taken our stationary periods as an excuse to get away from Uraume and I.”

“If I had a weaker will, maybe.” He reclined, let his head lull to the side, as if inviting you to counter, to protest – or worse, to step closer. “Why? Do you have something to say, servant?”

“Only how pleased I am to be of service to my lord.” You could’ve bowed, but decided against it. This time, when you took your leave, Sukuna was kind enough not to get in your way. Then again, he didn’t have a reason to.

He must’ve known that you were always going to come back.

~

“Who gave you permission to leave, servant?”

No one, but you’d hoped he wouldn’t notice until you were already gone. Stifling the urge to cringe, you turned on your heel and retreated back to the riverbank, not far from where Sukuna had left his robes, deliberately keeping your eyes on the ground. He rarely let you leave his side, but having you remain within eyeshot while he bathed was a newer development – and a tricker one to justify to yourself, at that. You were still allowed to remain more of a voyeur than a participant, but you weren’t naive enough to believe that he’d allow there to be such a great distance between you for much longer.

“I’m sorry, my lord.” Your eyes may have been downcast, but your voice was a light and as upbeat as ever. “I only hoped to catch Uraume before they finished. Servants have to bathe too, you know, and those of us with no limbs to spare can be rather hesitant to do so alone so deep into the forest.”

“Join me, then.”

Ah.

You should’ve been expecting that, honestly. You had no one but yourself to blame.

“My lord,” you managed with an airy laugh, feigning disbelief. “I’m just not sure if someone of my position should—”

Considering Sukuna’s size, he could move impressively fast. You’d only managed to take half a step back before you felt a hand curling around your wrist, pulling you off of the bank and into the river. You managed to take all of two stumbling steps forward before your foot caught on a slick river stone and you fell to your knees, ice-cold water immediately soaking through your thin robes. Sukuna made no effort to catch you, laughing as you tripped over yourself. He’d always seemed terrible to you, but you couldn’t remember the sound of his voice ever being so vile.

Biting back a sigh or some other, more telling show of displeasure, you started to push yourself to your feet, but stopped as soon as you felt Sukuna’s fist curl around your collar, another finding the back of your head. In a brief moment of blissful obliviousness, you thought he meant to help you – or, to restrain you and savor your humiliation for a few seconds longer, at the very worst. You almost thanked him, as little as your gratitude meant to Sukuna.

Then, your head was forced below the water, and you thought better of it.

It happened too suddenly to brace yourself. Your first reaction, operating purely out of instinct, was to open your mouth and try to breathe in – an idea as primal as it was unhelpful. Frigid water flooded into your mouth, your throat, liberating you from any amount of air you might’ve been able to hold onto and filling the now-vacant space with a chill that seemed to bite into your throat and leave everything it touched throbbing, numb. Your second was to thrash against Sukuna’s hold – which was, predictably, equally as useless. He was stronger than you could ever hope to be, than any real human being ever should be. Thick fingers threaded themselves into your hair, the hand holding the collar of your robes falling away only to find the nape of your neck, cementing your place at his mercy.

You tried to be rational, to exhale, to not panic, but something thick and solid seemed to be lodged at the base of your throat, and you couldn’t think about breathing without choking, and it was hard not to panic when you were hyper-aware that you were going to be drowned in some godforsaken river in some heartless forest at the hands of an unlovable monster. You were running out of air too quickly – you were supposed to have more time. He couldn’t have dragged you down any longer than a minute ago, but you could already feel an acute throbbing in your temples, make out dark spots dancing in the corners of your vision. Your body thrashed and stiffened in turns, but it was only when your form went limp in his hold that Sukuna jerked you back to the surface – hauling you back to the shore and letting you collapse onto the welcoming sand. He stood by, his grin the embodiment of mirth, as you hacked up acid-tinged water and blinked back tears, sucking in shallow breaths between coughing fits. Every inhale left your chest tense and aching, though, and every exhale felt like you were giving up something precious, something irreplaceable. You did your best to ignore the strain, to put it out of your mind. You had a feeling it would be some time before you could breathe painlessly again.

It took long, agonizing minutes for you to so much as begin to recover, but Sukuna remained by your side, waiting patiently. At some point, he lowered himself to your height – falling into a crouch and bringing a hand up to your back, rubbing circles into the apex of your spine as you coughed and clawed at the shore. He didn’t hum, or speak, or apologize, but you hadn’t expected him to. To initiate would be to taint what he sought so violently: your reaction. He wouldn’t do anything to spoil his prize, not so close to victory.

No, he wouldn’t dare.

The responsibility of denying him fell solely to you.

“My—”You tried to raise your head, to look at him, only to cut yourself off – another lungful of brackish water forcing its way past your lips before you could find your voice again. “My lord,” you managed, eventually. “If you’d like to bathe together, please give me a moment to undress, first. You know how long it can take cotton to dry.”

To his credit, his composure held. There was another throaty laugh, a sudden edge to his smile. “You should be more careful, songbird. One day, I’m going to eat you alive, and your last words to me are going to how glad you are to serve your master one last meal.”

“There would be no greater honor.” You managed an unsteady smile before dropping your head low, curling into yourself, and coughing up until your throat burnt and your rib cage seemed ready to burst. Sukuna only shook his head, taking you by the shoulders and leaning you against his chest, ensuring your stability before his attention shifted to your robes. With a surprising delicacy, he undid the sash bound around your waist, shrugging off your ruined yukata and carrying you back into the water. Your nails bit into his chest, but if he felt your involuntary resistance, it wasn’t enough to deter him.

Your body was lowered gingerly into one of the river’s shallower portions, and Sukuna kneeled behind you, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek. You shut your eyes, but you could still feel his thumb tracing idly over your cheek, his chest reverberating against your back as he all but purred in delight. “I could hear your heart racing as I pushed you under.” And then, with a feather-light kiss to the top of your head, “It’s a relief to know there’s at least one part of you I can trust to be honest with me.”

You didn’t answer – only smiling as you melted into his palm.

~

The cherry blossom tree was larger than you’d remembered.

The village that surrounded it had grown, too. That made sense – it’d been years since you last passed through this area, and such a lovely corner of the world was bound to attract merchants and traveling warriors and those who, like yourself, simply found themselves drawn to beautiful things. You’d been able to see its wonderous branches rising above the horizon days before you were supposed to reach the village, started catching sakura petals on the breeze while you were still hours away from the nearest scrap of civilization, and a small part of you died upon being told that you would have to wait until after sunrise for your reunion, until Sukuna had finished glutting himself on blood and death and misery. Not that you listened. Uraume was tasked with looking after you, but they weren’t difficult to slip away from. They seemed to be fond of you – or, at least, surprisingly sympathetic to their master’s newest pet. Either way, they let you go without much of a struggle.

An hour or so after midnight, you made your way through fleeing crowds, maneuvering around mounds of disembodied extremities and between flame-eaten farmhouses, still in the early stages of burning down. Wherever Sukuna went, the fire seemed to follow, so you tried to stay where the light seemed the dimmest, where the smoke seemed the thinnest, focused solely on finding your way to the center of town – to the cherry blossom. You couldn’t make out its silhouette against the pitch-black landscape, but you didn’t need to. You would’ve been able to find your way to it on instinct alone.

That being said, now that you stood before it, you found it hard to believe that you’d come to the right village, let alone the right tree.

You didn’t remember your cherry blossom looking quite so… absent.

It was as if some great and wrathful deity had broken your sakura off at the base and spirited its body away, leaving only a charred stump behind. There was evidence that there had been more, at some point – pale pink petals littering the ground, a rope fence that had to have once guarded more than desecrated remains – but the cherry blossom was gone, as the village built around it would be by sunrise. It was cruel, really, when you could put your own despair aside long enough to use such tame vernacular. It was monstrous.

Speaking of monsters – yours was quick to rear his ugly head.

He’d never looked more terrible. Ash tainted the pale color of his hair, blood and gore staining his chest, his face, his hands. As always, he carried no weapon, and as always, he was entirely uninjured, untouched save for the byproduct of the devastation he’d wrought. You watched him approach in your peripheral, bracing yourself a moment before four arms wrapped around your smaller body and pulled you into a stone-hard chest. You knew better than to attempt to resist Sukuna, but this might have been the first time you were tempted to try.

“Songbird,” he muttered, the petname salt to a fresh wound. If he was surprised, let alone angry that you’d snuck away from Uraume, your disobedience caused him no strife. “I come bearing gifts.”

The upper of his two left hands uncurled, revealing a long, stick-like object. A hairpin, you realized, after a moment, the prong of a fine dark mahogany. It boasted only a single ornament: a small, expertly made glass flower. A cherry blossom, to be more specific.

You’d never been quick to anger. For as long as you could remember, in fact, you’d never found yourself angered by much of anything before.

You tasted blood before you realized you were biting your tongue; swallowing back a scream, or howl, or some other unsightly noise. It took you longer than you would’ve liked to regain your composure, but Sukuna was preoccupied, his attention dedicated solely to burying his face in the crook of your neck, to clutching onto you so tightly, you had to wonder how he’d ever managed to let go. It’d been inane to ever compare yourself to a pet, to something so cherished. It’d been inane to ever believe you were anything more than the favored plaything of a drooling, overgrown mutt.

With trembling hands, you plucked the hairpin out of his palm and held it up appraisingly. When Sukuna raised his head, his pointed teeth still lingering against your throat, you did the only thing you could think to – smiling as you leaned into him. “It’s beautiful.” And then, with a sigh, “It’s only a shame to have missed the real thing.”

For all of Sukuna’s faults, you could only be thankful that pride was among them.

“You don’t have to worry.” A hand found your jaw, holding you in place as he pressed a kiss into your temple. “I had more than my fill before you arrived.”

As you watched the village burn in his arms, you thought only of the color of chrysanthemums and the taste of iron, heavy on your tongue.

~

Someone had told you, once, that all the loveliest flowers bloomed under moonlight.

You watched the sky as you waited – your eyes never leaving the sliver of it you could see through small, barred window built into the opposing wall. He’d taken you to another vacant temple, tonight, claimed the head priest’s chambers as his den, and you’d followed lovingly, never uttering so much as a word of complaint. You’d let him rest his head in your lap, raked your fingers through his hair, and brought a cask of sweet wine laced with bitter herbs to his lips whenever he threatened to stir. Eventually, his eyes eased shut, his pulse slowing and his expression dulling into something calm, something docile. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve started to doubt that he was a monster at all.

You didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t make a run for the door. You only reached into your sleeve, fetching the cherry blossom hairpin he’d gifted you weeks ago, now, the hairpin you carried dutifully ever since. You waited for him to turn onto his side, revealing the unarmored half of his face, before aligning the pointed tip with his ear, raising it above your head, and plunging it—

You felt his fingers dig into your thigh, another hand latching onto your hip. Your back slammed into the stiff futon with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs – leaving you breathless and paralyzed in an instant. When you recovered enough to think, you found Sukuna above you, straddling your waist, a hand planted on either side of your head. He was breathing heavily, as if excited. You knew it was impossible, but you found yourself wishing that he’d find a way to regurgitate his own lungs and choke on them.

“My lord,” you started, each word measured. You were careful to keep your voice low, your smile perfectly saccharine. “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

 His response was a manic smile, a bark of a laugh. “It’s too late to play innocent.” He lowered himself that much closer to you, his chest a hair’s width from making contact with yours. “How many times have you poisoned my wine, songbird?”

“Poisoned? Never.” You’d let go of your hairpin in the collision. Currently, it was lying against the wall to your right – just an inch or so out of your reach. There were other, more accessible weapons closer to you, but if you were going to kill Sukuna, you wanted it to be with that abomination. “If my lord is asking how many times I’ve treated his wine with herbs and spices, then twice. Once to see how he handled his drink, and tonight.”

You’d done him a disservice – writing him off as simply monstrous. He was more beast-like than anything, with his back arched and his talons dug into the bedding, with eyes so wide and so vibrant you believed, if only for a second, that he would manage to burn holes through your skull. “A day will come,” His anticipation was palpable. It was a wonder how such a glutton could ever sound so starved. “Where nothing will fall from you sweet lips but my praises, and I will know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you mean every last word.”

For once, you could only say what you meant. “I’d rather fucking die.”

There was a change to his animal posture, a glint of white teeth in moonlight, and then his mouth was crashing into yours – all fangs and tongue and intensity. Mindlessly, operating off of your own sort of base impulse, you reached out, your fingertips just barely brushing against the prong of your hairpin.

It was only as you curled your fist around it that you kissed him back, unable to suppress your grin.

[moyazaika]

“honey, i’m home!” except your husband is (slightly) homicidal ❤️

"hello, darling." your husband greets you so sweetly on the porch, a cloying smile plastered on his lips, and a mismatched bouquet of multicoloured daisies, valerians and dying hyacinths clutched in his hands, stained with crimson. "i'm home."

"and what sort of time do you call this, my love?" you return his smile with one of your own. there is something dark and deep in his shallow eyes as he watches you delicately reach for the beautiful, bloodied flowers. "it's well past midnight."

"sorry, sweetheart, i promise i tried to be back before dinner." the soft light of the moon above drapes him in an eerie, haunting glow; illuminating his beautiful features. his eyelashes form soft, dark shadows across his cheeks, looking like long, long scratches.

humming in response to his statement, you bring the mismatched bouquet of flowers closer to your chest, only barely grazing the petals painted in shades of vermillion with the tips of your fingers; a pleased little glint in your own gaze as you watch him, standing still in the doorframe, eyes closed.

"but you must know how hard it is," your husband’s gorgeous eyes flutter open, glittering with mirth. "to climb out of your own grave, right?"

a laugh spills past lips that stretch into a smile as you lean in and softly press a lingering kiss to his jaw. "oh, you absolute angel! if you think climbing out was hard—"

your husband reaches his hand out to gently wipe the blood from your own lips with the back of his bruised hand, raw, scraped knuckles brushing over your skin with a gentleness he reserves solely for you, as you let the flowers fall from your hands; the pretty petals he’d picked out for you curl in on themselves, as this time, his lips find yours first.

"—then you weren't there when i dug it."

his amusement comes in the sound of a deep, low laughter that has you pushing all the parts of your body you know he loves most right up and against him. he welcomes the feeling, greedy hands reaching out to grab you in all the right places; the facade of a gentler man all but forgotten with the way he looks down at you, like a man long starved.

“you could dig a thousand graves for me,” he confesses with a whisper, “and i’d still crawl out and find my way back home to you, my love.”

you roll your eyes, throw your arms over his shoulders and bat your lashes; you revel in the way he tenses at the sight, wonder whose blood is all over his handsome face and wandering hands tonight, before deciding you don’t quite care enough to ask.

instead, another question leaves your lips, and it’s definitely one he’s all too willing to answer, “oh, will you just kiss me already, you horrid man?”

and because your darling husband can never quite bring himself to say no to you; he’s all too happy to oblige.

[brokenmenswhore]

potions | regulus black

pairing: regulus black x fem!reader

summary: regulus invites his potions partner over to his family home to “help her practice”

warnings: DUBCON (MDNI 18+), choking, smut, rough sex

────── ☾ ──────

When Regulus invited you into his home to use his in-house potions lab, you were suspicious. Regulus always had a darkness to him, and as your potions partner, he was never cruel to you, but he wasn’t the type to make such a kind gesture.

You accepted, knowing you could really use the extra practice. Regulus was talented at potions, and you felt bad that you were barely any help in class. As strange as it may be, you figured some extra time would benefit you, and Regulus could teach you and thing or two, if he felt kind enough to do so.

“Come on in,” he said, gesturing you through the door.

You smiled as you followed him through the house, the lighting almost as dark as his all-black outfit.

“I keep my potions stuff in here,” he said, pushing open the door to his bedroom.

“In your bedroom?”

“Mhm,” he responded, completely nonchalant about the fact you were in his personal space, while you felt it was a little strange. You didn’t know him too well, though you were attracted to him, and now you were only a few feet away from his bed.

He walked over to the table. “You coming?”

You swallowed and approached him, looking at the large collection of jars and ingredients spread out on the table.

“Should we maybe let your parents know I’m here? That there’s someone else in the house?”

Regulus chuckled. “The only other person here is my brother.”

“Sirius is here?”

Regulus shot you a look. You and Sirius had a weird past- you hooked up a few times at parties, you caught feelings and he didn’t, and you never spoke again. It was all ancient history, but you still tried to avoid being around him at all costs.

“Why does it matter?” Regulus asked.

“It doesn’t,” you spoke in a small voice, drifting your attention to the table, “so? What first?”

“Figured we could maybe just make sure you’re set on ingredients,” Regulus said. Everything he said was so dry, low, and monotone, and it sometimes made conversation hard.

“I think I’m comfortable with the ingredients side of things,” you told him.

“You’re not.”

You furrowed your brow and looked at him. “Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes I am!” you fought, “I know my own skill levels, Regulus.”

“I don’t think you do.”

He was so nonchalant about everything, reorganizing ingredients and setting up potion recipes as he spoke, as if anything he said didn’t matter.

You sighed and gave up fighting it, letting him take control and decide where to go from here. There was no point in going back and forth on the same thing over and over again.

“How about we just start with Shrinking Solution?” Regulus asked.

“Fine by me,” you answered.

Regulus backed away from the table, watching you do nothing. You looked back at him. Did he expect you to just do it?

“Well?” he said, “make the potion.”

You sighed. Sometimes he was so annoying and condescending. You looked at the unlabeled recipe and removed 7 red rose petals from a case of singular petals.

You began to drop them one-by-one in the boiling water. You looked at Regulus, who nodded at you to keep going. “How difficult,” you said sarcastically.

Remus folded his arms in front of his chest, watching you carefully.

You added five drops of essence of violet, stirring counterclockwise exactly twelve times.

“I don’t remember shrinking solution having essence of violet,” you told Regulus.

“Are you claiming my recipes are wrong?”

“No, I’m just saying.” You sighed and continued with the recipe, counting out 4 cloves and prepping canary flight feathers.

He didn’t say a word, just watching you make the potion, until you had completed the instructions.

“I also don’t remember it being pink,” you pouted, looking confused at the pot.

“I could have sworn this potion had daisy roots somewhere-“

“Would you relax?” Regulus questioned.

“Something just feels off about it,” you said, inspecting the liquid.

“Does it smell right?” he asked.

You leaned in and sniffed. The potion smelt like lavender, vanilla, freshly cut grass, and all your favorite smells.

The smell maintained throughout the smoke that you breathed in, overtaking your senses and filling your lungs. “Fuck that smells good,” you giggled.

Regulus crept behind you as silently as he could. When you stood up, he was directly behind you, your back almost banging into his torso.

You spun around to meet his gaze. “Can I help you with something?” you asked.

“I don’t know, can you?”

Your eyes locked for a moment, and you were suddenly overtaken with adoration.

“I think I probably can,” you said, all logic going out the window as the potion took over your emotions, your focus completely on Regulus.

“Atta girl,” he tsked, gripping your waist as he looked down at you. “How you feelin’, pretty girl?”

You were overcome with intense emotion, but you fought to remain grounded in reality. “You motherfucker,” you said, letting Regulus know that you were aware he had you make the wrong potion. This was not Shrinking Solution, this was Amortentia.

“No idea what you’re referring to,” he said.

“You know,” you started, twirling his already wavy hair in your fingers, “you could have just asked if you wanted me.”

“Now could I?” he asked, intrigued and eager to hear you continue talking.

“Mhm.”

“I thought I wasn’t your type.”

“Why?”

“You slept with my brother, did you not?”

Your eyes widened a bit. “And you know that how?”

“He’s my brother,” he said, holding you closer to him, his tone finally lifting to a bit lighter of a place, “and I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

You giggled. “Have not.”

“I have been,” he admitted, “had to make sure you weren’t fucking anyone who didn’t deserve you.”

“I haven’t been fucking anyone,” you told him honestly.

“I know.”

“You wanna know why?”

His gaze darkened.

You sighed, “the only person I’ve wanted to fuck is standing right in front of me.”

Regulus growled, gripping your waist even harder and pulling you even closer. “Then what did I do all this work for? Getting you over here, the Amortentia, you’re telling me I worked for it for nothing?”

“Maybe,” you giggled, amused at how much thought and planning went into getting you here. You weren’t obvious about your attraction to him, but it couldn’t be that hard to notice.

“I feel drunk on you,” you admitted.

Regulus smiled. You had never ever seen him smile before. You didn’t even know he was capable.

“You’re so pretty when you smile,” you said genuinely, a hand moving upward so you could run a thumb over his cheek.

He couldn’t help himself anymore, he crashed his lips onto yours. Your hand found it’s way to the back of his head, holding him closer. You whimpered into the kiss, desperation overtaking your body. You couldn’t help it, the scent of the potion was still filling the room, and you were consumed in Regulus.

“I want you,” you said in between kisses, eager to finally get what you wanted.

Regulus didn’t break the kiss or loosen his grip on your waist, but instead inched you closer and closer to the bed. You felt the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you jumped up, attempting to land on the mattress, but Regulus caught you, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

He leaned over you, your back touching the mattress as you kept your legs around Regulus. He remained standing, the small of your back at the edge of the side of the bed.

Regulus finally broke the kiss, running his hands all over your body and inspecting every single inch of you. “I’m gonna make you scream so loud that Sirius will realize what he’s missing.”

You couldn’t help it, you started laughing. Your heightened emotions won, and the more you tried to stay quiet, the more hysterical your laugh became.

Regulus slapped your thigh. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“You.”

“Shut up,” Regulus demanded, kissing you to distract you from the hysterics in your brain. You melted back into him, forgetting why you were even laughing in the first place.

You were still having too much fun to let him win so easy, and you liked watching him work for it. “Make me.”

Regulus cocked his head to the side. “What did you just say?”

A giggle threatened to leave your lips. “I said make me.”

A hand suddenly squeezed around your throat, not completely cutting off your breath, but stopping your giggling.

Regulus flashed you a wicked smile. “That seemed to work, didn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” you squeaked out.

Regulus moved a hand in between your bodies, cupping your heat from on top of your underwear. You inhaled sharply, desperate for any sort of friction.

Regulus tucked his fingers into the band of your underwear, collecting your wetness with his middle finger as he traced it in between your folds. A sigh of pleasure escapes your lips, and Regulus watched your face intently.

You thought he was going to continue on like this, slowly working you up until you were ready for him, but Regulus had other ideas. Without warning, he shoved two long fingers inside of you, his palm resting on your clit and circling, as his fingers pumped in and out of you.

Your body responded, back arching off the bed, a hand still around your throat. You squirmed a bit, unable to stay still from the sensation.

Regulus watched your chest rise and fall as your back arched and fell, his cock hardening as he watched what he did to you.

He curled his fingers, hitting that gummy sweet spot within you, causing your walls to convulse around his fingers. “That’s it, pretty girl,” he cooed, “come for me.”

His words undid you, the coil of tension within you breaking as you came on his fingers, whines and whimpers constantly filling the room as you calmed down from your high. He pulled his fingers out of you, never breaking eye contact as he sucked your juices off of them.

Once his fingers were licked clean, he unwrapped your legs from his waist, removing his hand from your throat.

“Stay,” he commanded as he untied his pants, pushing them, along with his underwear, down enough to free his hard and swollen cock.

You let out an audible gasp at the size.

“What? Too much for you?”

“How-“ you didn’t even know what to say, “how is that gonna fit in me?”

“I think you’ll be fine, pretty girl.”

Regulus held his palm in front of your mouth. “Spit.”

You did as he said, and he used your spit to wet his cock, lining up his tip with your entrance.

“You want this?” he asked.

“Yes, Reg,” you replied.

Regulus almost showed you mercy when he heard the nickname, it just sounded so pretty coming from you, but he still didn’t. “Beg for it.”

You nodded your head no in protest.

A hand grabbed your face, pushing your lips out and positioning your head so that you had no choice but to look him in the eye. “Beg. For. It.”

“P-please, Regulus I n-“

Regulus slapped your cheek, hard. You gasped at the pain, almost stunned that he did such a thing.

“Use that pretty little nickname you called me.”

“Please, Reg, I need it, p-please-“

Regulus shoved his length into you, a moan of his name leaving your lips.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Regulus growled, setting a steady pace as he pumped in and out of you. He tugged at the bottom of your dress. “Off.”

You did your best to pull your dress off without interrupting his pace, struggling for a minute but eventually succeeding. Regulus leaned in and bit at your bra strap, snapping it back onto your body. He kisses the top of your breasts, shoving your nipples out of the cups, his tongue immediately sucking on one of them.

“Fuck!” you cried out, the pleasure of his mouth on your breasts and his cock splitting you open, and the scent of the potion still filled your nose, almost feeling like too much.

“Louder,” he demanded, serious when he said he would make you scream so loud that Sirius could hear you.

“Fuck, Reg!” you screamed at the top of your lungs, his pace quickening as you did so.

“Good girl,” he praised.

He sucked a sweet spot on your neck, your head rolling to the side to give him even more access.

He was slamming into you, the bed squeaking as your body rocked back and forth. Your legs were weak as they fell off the side of the bed, but Regulus didn’t want the position to change. He grabbed both of your legs, positioning them over his shoulders and fucking into you even deeper.

You squeaked and whined, not even capable of any genuine moans anymore.

“You gonna come again, huh? All over my cock?” Regulus gasped out.

“Mhm.”

“Words, pretty girl.”

“Y- yes!” you squealed, your high hitting you again as you squeezed his cock, a groan leaving Regulus’s mouth as he fucked you while you came, pace never faltering as you attempted to come down from your high.

Regulus was still chasing his own, his lips enveloping yours in a heated kiss as he snapped his hips as fast as he could until he came inside of you, erratic breaths and sighs spilling into the kiss.

“Fuck,” he said, running his fingers through his hair that was sweat slicked and falling in front of his face.

“God, I needed that,” you said, attempting to catch your breath as Regulus laid down next to you.

Regulus didn’t respond, he just stared at the ceiling, calming himself down.

“Reg?” you asked.

“Mhm?”

“You didn’t bring me here just to fuck me and piss your brother off, right?” you asked.

Regulus turned to you. “Do you think that low of me?”

“No. I’m just curious,” you explained.

“No, I didn’t bring you here to piss my brother off,” he answered, “it’s just a massive, massive plus.” He rolled over the placed a kiss on your lips.

[khioneee]

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐃.

simon makes weekly visits to your flower shop, leaving you curious about the person he’s mourning.

pairing. simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader

word count. 4.2k

Every Tuesday, exactly at three in the afternoon—never a minute early, never a minute late—he walks into the shop. Simon always looks the same: tired and drained, pale skin stark against the bruised shadows under his eyes. The cracked red of his lips stands out like a wound, and the way he moves, slow and heavy, makes it seem like sorrow clings to him, weighing him down like an old coat that doesn’t quite fit. Among the bright flowers and soft light of the shop, he stands out like a dark cloud against a summer sky.

"Just a bouquet," he mutters, his voice rough, as though speaking is a struggle.

You grip the counter a little tighter, his presence unsettling yet familiar by now. "Any flowers in particular?" you ask, knowing what the answer will be.

"Doesn’t matter," he says, shaking his head. "Whatever works. I’m not staying long."

He avoids your gaze, as he always does, like looking at you would be too much. The question lingers at the edge of your tongue—Who are the flowers for? Why every week?—but you hold it back. The weight that surrounds him warns against prying too deep, like a thin layer of ice ready to crack.

Instead, you turn away and begin gathering the flowers. You choose yellow and orange roses, soft lilies, daisies, and carnations—delicate blooms that contrast with his rough edges. For some reason, the usual kraft paper wrap feels wrong today, so you arrange them in a small white basket instead.

He always drops more than enough money into the animal shelter’s donation bucket by the door, so you add a few extra roses—your own small gesture to a man who seems to be carrying too much on his back.

When you finish, you find him standing at the far end of the store, idly turning over small trinkets in his large hands. His fingers brush the edges of old picture frames and porcelain figurines, movements careful, almost reverent, like he’s touching something that once meant something.

You approach him quietly, the bouquet in hand. "Will you be back next week?" you ask softly as you hold the flowers out to him.

Your fingers brush his—just for a second—and it’s enough to make him freeze in place. His breath catches, and something shifts in him, like a fault line trembling just beneath the surface. His expression flickers, the tired vacancy in his eyes replaced by a sharp, aching sorrow.

"I… I shouldn’t be here," he mutters under his breath, as if he’s only now realizing it. His hand retreats from the bouquet, and for a moment, he stands there, lost, as though the ground beneath him has crumbled.

Before you can say anything, he takes a step back, stiff and disoriented, his shoulders weighed down by something unseen. "Sorry…" he mumbles, though you’re not sure who the apology is meant for.

Then, without another word, he turns and strides toward the door. The bells jingle softly as it swings open, letting in a gust of cold, rain-scented air. You watch as he disappears into the storm, swallowed by the rain, leaving only the faint scent of flowers—and the feeling that he’s carrying far more than anyone ever should.

You don’t see Simon for three long weeks. And when he returns, it’s not inside the shop—but at three in the morning, under the flickering glow of a streetlamp outside.

He stands there like a shadow—silent, worn, and distant, as if he exists somewhere far from this moment. His hood is pulled low over his unkempt hair, and his black jacket, torn across the chest, looks like it’s been through just as much as he has. One hand rests in the pocket of his jeans, the other dangles at his side, knuckles split and raw, as if he’s been fighting battles no one else can see.

At his feet lies a crushed rose, its petals scattered near the bushes where it must have fallen. And for a moment, you wonder if his heart lies there too—shattered and discarded among the ruins.

You step out into the quiet street, the cold biting your skin as you approach. Words linger on the tip of your tongue, but you’re not sure if anything you say will be enough. The silence between you is thick, oppressive, as if the night itself is holding its breath.

A distant siren wails through the empty streets, and a group of strangers staggers past, their drunken laughter too loud for the hour. One bumps into your shoulder, and the force sends you off-balance—straight into Simon.

He catches you easily, his grip steady and firm. But he doesn’t react. No flicker of emotion, no sound—just the same vacant stare, his gaze lost somewhere you can’t follow.

"Does any of this even matter?" His voice is low, frayed, and cold, as if it’s been left out too long, ready to snap.

You crouch down, gathering the crushed petals by his feet. "What do you mean?" you ask softly, trimming away the thorns with the small scissors always tucked in your work bag.

"Buying flowers for someone who’s gone…" He pauses, his words falling heavily from his lips. "What’s the point? They’ll never see them. They’ll never know they were meant for them."

The crack in his voice is small, but it slices through the night, sharp and raw. You know that kind of grief—the kind that lingers beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to break free.

"Maybe it’s not for them," you say gently. "Maybe it’s for… the ones left behind. Trying to find something beautiful in the loss."

For a moment, his gaze softens. Just slightly. Just enough for you to see the exhaustion hidden beneath the rough edges.

"Do you need a ride home?" you offer, voice careful, trying not to push too hard.

He shakes his head, glancing down the empty street, his expression slipping back into something unreadable. "I shouldn’t have come here," he mutters, raking a hand through his tangled hair, frustration bleeding into his tone.

"You called," you remind him quietly. "Don’t you remember?"

You must be insane, coming after a man this massive. When his call came, you answered without hesitation, not stopping to think how reckless it was to trust a customer you knew nothing about. Rationality had left you somewhere along the way.

“Such a savior you are.” A bitter laugh escapes him, more a sigh than sound. "You shouldn’t waste your kindness on someone like me."

After months of quiet visits and fleeting conversations, it’s hard to believe he was ever a stranger. You’ve learned the way he pulls away just before he opens up, the way sorrow clings to him like an old wound that refuses to heal.

Simon flicks open a lighter, the tiny flame flickering between his fingers. The cigarette at his lips glows faintly as he inhales, the smoke curling into the cold air.

"You shouldn’t try to save me," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I’m already lost."

You don’t push him for answers, knowing he won’t give them. "I’ll call a cab," you say gently.

"Why?" His voice cracks, raw and tired. The cigarette trembles slightly between his fingers. "Why are you being kind to me?"

Your heart tightens with the weight of everything you can’t explain. There’s no logic to how you feel—no clear reason for the pull that keeps drawing you to him. All you know is that ever since Simon walked into your shop, something within you shifted, and the thought of letting him slip away now feels unbearable.

"I don’t have anywhere to go," he admits quietly, his voice breaking under the weight of the confession. "She’s gone. There’s no one left."

The way he says it. It’s not just a statement. It’s a confession, a truth too heavy to carry alone.

"Loving someone that much…" You search for the right words, careful not to tread too heavily. "It’s not something you just let go of. It stays with you because it mattered."

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting toward the sky where the moon hides behind thick clouds. The weight of the night presses down on both of you, but you stand there with him, sharing the quiet until it feels just a little less overwhelming.

And this time, Simon doesn’t walk away.

Simon’s frame fills the entrance, broad and imposing, but the way he stands, rigid and hesitant, makes him seem smaller somehow—weighed down by something invisible yet heavy.

"Hi, Simon," you greet him gently, already sensing the weight he carries. "Visiting her grave today?"

For a moment, his expression flickers, as if your words pulled him back from somewhere far away. "Who—?" He catches himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah… yeah, I am."

You nod, knowing better than to press. Some things are only said when the time is right. "Anything specific you’d like for the bouquet?"

He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Whatever you think is nice… something you’d like."

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, unexpectedly personal. Your breath hitches, but you hide it behind a small smile. You step behind the counter and begin gathering flowers: soft pink roses, delicate white lilies, and sprigs of lavender. Something light, hopeful, but not too much—a bouquet that balances beauty and sorrow without overwhelming either.

The silence stretches between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid. You can feel his gaze following your hands, watching as you arrange the flowers with practiced care. You wonder what it must be like for him, visiting her grave week after week, carrying a grief that never really leaves.

"It can’t be easy, coming by this often," you say gently, your voice soft as you focus on the bouquet. "That must be hard."

He shifts slightly, his shoulders sagging under the weight of something invisible. "No… it’s not," he admits, his voice low and rough, as if the words scrape on the way out. "But it feels right. I’ll do anything to see her."

You pause, heart aching at the rawness in his voice. As you finish tying the bouquet with a soft ribbon, you hand it to him. "She must have been lucky to have you," you whisper. "If you’ve been giving her flowers this often."

Simon’s hand hovers over the bouquet for a second, the compliment hitting him deeper than you expected. He shakes his head slowly, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Not as lucky as I was to have her," he murmurs, voice quiet but filled with something raw and unguarded.

For a moment, the world narrows to the two of you. His hand brushing against yours as he takes the bouquet, the warmth of his fingers a sharp contrast to the cold weight of his words.

"I'm sorry, by the way," he mutters, glancing down at the flowers, then back at you. "For disturbing you the other night."

His apology catches you off guard, not because it’s needed, but because it’s so unexpected coming from him.

"It’s alright," you say softly, offering a small smile. "You didn’t disturb me."

Simon gives you a subtle nod, as if the exchange carries more meaning than either of you will say aloud. Then, with the bouquet cradled gently in his hands, he turns toward the door.

The bell chimes softly as he steps out into the night, vanishing into the shadows beyond the streetlamp’s flickering glow. You stand there for a moment longer, heart heavy with something unnameable.

Simon’s presence was different today—darker, heavier. The quiet energy that usually followed him had given way to something more burdensome. His broad shoulders sagged as if carrying the world, and his gaze was distant, clouded with thoughts too deep to share.

You offered him a small smile, though you could feel the tension radiating from him. “Hey, Simon.”

He tried to return the gesture, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey,” he muttered, voice thin and tired, like it barely crossed the space between you.

Concern stirred in your chest, tugging you away from the counter. “You seem… off today. Wanna get out of here for a bit?”

He blinked, surprised by the suggestion, but didn’t protest. Maybe he was too tired to refuse.

“Come on,” you said, grabbing your jacket from the hook by the door. “I’ve got a place I think you’ll like.”

The drive was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Simon sat beside you, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, lost in thoughts he wasn’t ready to share. You didn’t press him. The hum of the tires on the road filled the silence, carrying the two of you away from the noise of town and into somewhere softer, quieter.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time you arrived, casting the field ahead of you in warm hues of gold and lavender. Wildflowers swayed gently beneath the breeze, stretching out toward the horizon as if they could touch the fading light.

Simon stepped out of the car slowly, his breath catching slightly as he took in the sight before him. The field seemed endless, open and free—a stark contrast to the burdens he carried.

You sat cross-legged among the flowers, and Simon followed, settling beside you with his arms draped over his knees, staring out at the horizon like he was searching for something lost in the past.

For a long time, neither of you spoke, the breeze carrying the scent of flowers and filling the silence between you. Eventually, Simon’s voice broke through, low and rough like a confession.

“It’s been a year… since she passed.”

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of deep, unrelenting grief. His gaze stayed fixed on the sunset, as if watching the sun disappear beneath the earth brought him closer to her.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” you whispered, wishing there was more you could offer him. “What was she like?”

At first, he stayed quiet, and you wondered if you had asked too much. But then, in a voice soft with nostalgia, he said, “A lot like you.”

The simplicity of the statement caught you off guard.

“How so?” you asked, glancing toward him.

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“She loved flowers,” he murmured. “Used to fill the apartment with them, even though I told her it was too much. She’d just laugh and say there was no such thing as too many flowers.”

You could see it clearly—a home bursting with blooms, her laughter filling every corner, her presence bringing life to everything she touched. Now, it made sense why he returned to your shop so often.

Hoping to ease the heaviness in the air, you plucked a dandelion from the ground and held it toward him with a playful grin.

“Make a wish.”

Simon eyed the dandelion, a tired chuckle slipping from his lips.

“Wishes don’t work like that,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Maybe not,” you said, twirling the stem between your fingers. “But it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

He huffed another quiet laugh, the sound brief but genuine.

“Any chance you got a whole field of these somewhere?”

You tilted your head in mock consideration. “Not yet,” you teased. “But we’ve got this one, and I’d say that’s a good start.”

He shakes his head lightly, but the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly. It’s a small smile—barely there—but it’s something, and that’s enough for now.

After that quiet evening in the field of flowers, something shifted between you and Simon. His visits became longer, lingering beyond the brief exchanges of bouquets. What had once been fleeting moments stretched into hours—sometimes the entire day—as if your presence gave him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years.

But Simon didn’t just idle. He threw himself into the heavy work around the shop without a word. If there were heavy pots to lift or supplies to haul, Simon was already on it before you could even ask.

"I’ve got it," he would mutter whenever you tried to help, brushing you off with that quiet determination. He lifted bags of soil with ease, rearranged displays as if it was nothing, and hauled boxes of supplies like they weighed no more than feathers. He’d even repair things you hadn’t realized were broken—fixing wobbly shelves or leaky faucets without waiting to be asked.

He worked with an intensity that didn’t match the simplicity of the tasks, as if lifting heavy things or rearranging displays was more than just helping—it was his way of staying close to you. The repetition, the quiet rhythm of it, seemed to steady something deep inside him, keeping him grounded. If exhausting himself with work meant he could be near you a little longer, he’d do it without a second thought.

Some days, the two of you would talk as you worked side by side. You’d tell him the little frustrations of the shop—how the clippers were always dull, or how the ribbon spools always seemed to run out at the worst time. You’d walk him through the same explanations, over and over again, with the same quiet enthusiasm every time. And every time, Simon would listen. Closely. Intently. Like your words were something invaluable.

But the truth was, it wasn’t new to him.

He knew the rhythm of your voice, the way you moved effortlessly between tasks, your hands brushing over scissors, twine, and ribbons with ease. It was too familiar, a life he once knew—now distant, fragmented, slipping through his fingers.

And every time you smiled at him, he had to remind himself: She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t know me.

You weren’t the same woman who had once filled his life with flowers and light. The way you arranged bouquets, the way you laughed, the way you tilted your head when you talked—it was all a little different now. Not enough for most to notice, but to Simon, the subtle differences were glaring.

And still, the pull of familiarity was there, undeniable.

There were moments when he stood too close, lingering a little too long, as if searching your face for something lost to time. When the memories became too sharp, he’d force himself to remember: She’s not her. She’s not the same.

But the words didn’t stop the way his heart softened toward you.

The quiet comfort of your presence, the sound of your voice filling the shop like sunlight through the windows—he found himself craving it. If he could stay busy hauling heavy pots, rearranging shelves, or carrying supplies just to stay close, then that was what he would do.

You weren’t the same woman he’d lost. But in ways that scared him more than anything, you were becoming just as important.

“Here,” you said, holding the flower out to him.

Hyuck blinked, caught off guard. “For me?”

You nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. It suits you.”

He stared at the rose in your hand, hesitant at first, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it. But then, with a small, uncertain smile, he reached out and took it. His fingers brushed against yours in the exchange—soft, fleeting, but enough to make something stir quietly between you.

“Why a rose?” he asked, twirling the stem between his fingers.

You shrugged, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Because it’s beautiful, obviously.”

He gave a short laugh, the kind that carried both amusement and disbelief. “Did it remind you of me?”

“Maybe,” you teased, your grin widening. “Or maybe you just needed one. Ever think of that?”

He looked down at the rose in his hands, the smile lingering on his lips. For a moment, the usual shadows behind his eyes seemed to lift, replaced by something softer.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice quiet but sincere.

You leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. “Roses are special, you know. They mean different things depending on who gives them.”

He glanced at you, curious. “And what does it mean when you give one to me?”

You smiled, the answer slipping out before you could stop it. “It means I want you to keep coming back.”

For a moment, Simon just looked at you, his expression unreadable. His breath hitched, and the weight of your words settled between you like the scent of roses on a warm breeze. Something flickered in his eyes, something that looked almost like recognition, but not quite.

He gave the rose a little twirl between his fingers before tucking it carefully into the pocket of his jacket, as if it were something precious.

"I’ll keep coming back," he whispered, the words low like a vow meant only for the two of you.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by flowers and the slow hum of the day, something shifted between you—something delicate, like the first petals of a rose unfurling under the warmth of spring. You felt it bloom, soft and new, even though you couldn’t fully name it.

But Simon knew.

Because as much as he tried to convince himself that you weren’t the same woman he had once loved—weren’t the same person who had filled his world with light—this moment, the way you smiled at him, felt like a memory he had been chasing for years.

And as he stood there, with a rose tucked safely in his jacket and the sound of your voice lingering in the air, he knew he was already lost to you—just as he had been once before.

And this time, no matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t sure he could let go.

So, Simon stayed—lifting, moving, fixing—working himself to the bone, not because the tasks needed doing, but because he needed this. Needed you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, even if you couldn’t remember the life you once shared, he remembered enough for both of you.

And being near you, no matter how different things were, was better than being without you at all.

The evening settled over the quiet town, the cool air thick with the scents of late autumn and flowers nearing the end of their bloom. Simon's steps dragged as he made his way toward your flower shop, exhaustion settling deep in his bones from weeks away on deployment. His body was used to this kind of weariness, but the heaviness in his chest, that was something else entirely.

Between his fingers, he toyed with the rose. The one you’d given him weeks ago, now dry and brittle, its once-vibrant petals curled and shriveled. He had carried it with him everywhere, like a lifeline, as if holding onto it might somehow keep him connected to you.

As he approached the familiar glow of the shop’s windows, Simon slowed. When he peered through the glass, he froze.

You were inside, dancing under the soft overhead lights—not alone, but with another man. His hands rested at your waist, and your smile was radiant, carefree in a way Simon hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. Even through the glass, he could see the happiness in your face. Happiness that used to belong to the two of you.

The knot in his chest twisted painfully. He knew things had changed. People moved on, especially when left with no answers, no promises. But seeing you like this, with someone else, felt like a knife to the gut he wasn’t ready for.

He thought of the accident—the one that had shattered your life and stolen your memories. The memory was jagged and relentless, lodged in his mind like a blade he couldn’t pull out. He could still hear the screech of tires, the shatter of glass, and your voice, soft and afraid, just before everything went dark.

You had been with him that night. Trusted him. And he had failed. The guilt twisted in his chest, blooming like thorns, sharp and unforgiving. If he had been more careful, maybe you wouldn’t have ended up in that hospital bed, lost to the world. Lost to him.

Inside, the man twirled you effortlessly, your laughter filling the shop with warmth. To you, the accident, the hospital, and everything you shared with Simon had never happened. But for Simon, it was a moment he could never escape. A scar that bled every time he thought of it.

He remembered sitting at your bedside in the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling the room. Your body had been bruised and broken beneath the white sheets, and your mom’s sharp voice echoed in his mind.

“You prick yourself because you don’t know how to take care of flowers,” she had said, her words as cold as the machines keeping you alive.

Simon hadn’t argued because she was right. He didn’t know how to care for flowers—or for you, not without breaking something delicate in the process. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. But trying hadn’t been enough. And now, he stood outside your shop, watching you dance with someone else—watching you live a life where he no longer had a place.

If it were before—before the accident, before the memories slipped away—he might have begged for more time. A proper goodbye. Maybe even a lifetime spent loving you until the flowers grew over his grave, the weeds plucked away so only beauty remained.

But now, he stood outside, a ghost at the edge of your new beginning.

The worst part wasn’t seeing you in someone else’s arms. It was knowing that you had no idea what you once meant to him. That every time you’d asked, "Visiting someone special?" you never realized it was you—your memory—he was mourning.

You didn’t remember the nights when your fingers ran gently through his hair, quieting his restless thoughts. You didn’t remember the mornings tangled in bedsheets that smelled like the roses from your shop, or the lazy afternoons when you’d hold up dandelions with that teasing grin of yours.

"Make a wish, Si," you’d say, eyes bright with playful mischief.

And every time, he’d push the flower back toward you with a soft, knowing smile. "I don’t need to. I already have everything I need."

And back then, it had been true.

But now, standing outside your shop with the brittle rose clutched between his fingers, Simon realized just how much he had lost. Not just you, but the version of himself who once believed love could be enough.

He knelt slowly at the threshold, placing the dried rose among the wilted petals and fallen leaves scattered near the entrance. The petals cracked under his touch, their fragility mirroring the ache in his chest. He didn’t bother plucking the petals—didn’t need to play the old game of ‘she loves me, she loves me not.’ Love, he knew, didn’t need an answer. It just was, even if it went unremembered.

Through the window, he watched you again, the man spinning you under the soft light, your laughter carrying in a way that felt like a distant memory.

And despite the sharp ache in his heart, Simon smiled—a small, sad thing, but genuine.

He had loved you once. More deeply than words could ever express. He still did. Even if you didn’t remember. Even if you never would.

Maybe that had to be enough.

With a deep breath, Simon tucked his hands into his pockets and turned away from the shop, his boots heavy against the pavement as he walked into the night. Behind him, the dried rose rested among the dead petals and brittle leaves, marking the spot where he let you go—not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.

The cool night air wrapped around him as he walked down the empty street. He thought of those dandelion afternoons, how you used to hold the flowers up to him with a grin, urging him to make a wish.

And for the first time, Simon let himself wonder what he would wish for now, if given the chance. But deep down, he knew the truth. No wish could bring back the version of you who had once loved him.

With your laugh still lingering in his mind, Simon kept walking.

It wasn’t the ending he wanted, but it was the one he had.

And this time, he would learn to live with it.

[lavenderprose]

Emmrich is a morning person and Rook is only a morning person under duress, which becomes only a minor issue after the gods are finally dead because Rook's ideal wake up time is roughly noon, and Emmrich's up at the asscrack of dawn every day whether he works or not.

It's six thirty AM and Rook's face-down on the bed, titties out and hair splayed across three pillows, and Elgar'nan breathed this last breath less than a week ago. Emmrich gave the various factions of Thedas exactly three days to demand Rook's attention and, on the morning of the fourth day, grabbed Rook with one hand and Manfred with the other and asked the Caretaker if there was an Eluvian that might deposit one anywhere in the area of the Cumberland countryside.

Emmrich apparently maintains a small country house here, for 'Whatever occassion might arise' (demented) and it's modest but pretty. Manfred trampled straight into the rose garden when they got here and hasn't emerged since, but Emmrich claims that's normal for him. Rook personally believes that Manfred, even, is still processing their mutual ordeal, but she's content to let him do it with the caterpillars and the rose petals. Not like a skeleton can be pricked by a thorn.

The moment they arrived, Emmrich sought out the housekeeper and told her that her services would not be required for the coming week, and to stand by on the subject of next week as well.

"Go celebrate the world not ending, Helga!" he'd said, maybe a bit too loud and manic, as he closed what was surely much more than a week's salary into her hand. Knowing Emmrich, there was already a very robust system in place to assure that his housekeeper received her generous salary every week--this was merely some sort of consolation pay for the very difficult task of being given a week of vacation.

Helga was Elven, at least as old as Emmrich and blinked at him like a vaguely surprised cat. She swept her gaze over Rook as well before leaving. She'd been smirking, Rook thought, as the door closed behind her.

Thus, they've been alone in the house, and Rook has been sleeping, staring vaguely into the distance, sleeping, reading from Emmrich's extensive collection, looking at the ceiling while trying to forget the sight of Bellara's blighted eyes, sleeping, bouncing on Emmrich's dick like it's her job, and sleeping sleeping sleeping.

They've been here for two days, more or less 48 hours, and many of those hours were spent in his lap. Fucking him, yes, but also just clinging onto him like an extra limb because right now, she feels like she might disintegrate if he isn't touching her. He reads to her. Smiles and laughs through so many stories from his life. She thinks about Solas disappearing into the Fade, maybe never to be seen again. The last God of her people.

When she goes too quiet, sometimes he tells her a joke or puts a little chocolate in her mouth. Once, he ate her out while humming the Nevarran national anthem and she laughed as she came. Sometimes he joins her in melancholy and they lay together and cope. Sometimes she cries, mostly from exhaustion and relief and grief, and he kisses her face. Sometimes he cries. From exhaustion and relief and grief, probably. She tucks her head under his chin and rubs her small hand up and down his broad back, and then she swipes the snot and tears out of his mustache with her very own thumb because she loves him, she loves him.

This morning, she flutters her eyes open and enjoys the texture of the silk sheets against her bare body (Last night, and for lack of a better term, Emmrich fucked her to sleep--apparently, when the world isn't in active peril, he's very into the whole tantric thing. Hours of crazy hot, dragging sex that destroys braincells, but only the ones she's better off not having.) and she does that for about thirty seconds before she realizes it's just barely light outside, blue and cool. Then she starts wondering why the fuck she's awake right now.

The answer becomes apparent immediately: Emmrich is in the ensuite bath, running water and making the weirdest, loudest noises. She thinks at first that he's managed to gag himself with his own toothbrush, but then he sneezes, blows his nose with a honking noise like a malfunctioning horn, and clears his throat so thunderously that Rook thinks he must somehow be drowning.

She rolls out of bed and wobbles into the bathroom, birthday suit and all, because clearly he's become sick in the night and it's now up to her to guide him back to bed and care for him. She's surprised, then, to find him looking hale and healthy in front of the sink. He's wearing nothing but silk pajama pants and down slippers. He's making an absurd clicking sound and swirling a finger inside his ear.

"Are you okay?" Rook demands, propped on the doorjamb.

Emmrich jumps a foot on the air, winces as he jabs his own eardrum, and says, "Ow! Darling, please don't sneak up on--"

"You are being so loud," she says, because the polite section of her brain hasn't woken up. "Are you choking? Are you sick?"

"No," Emmrich says slowly. "I just--oh, the door must have fallen open. The floor isn't terribly even here. I'm sorry, darling--sound does carry in this old house." He twirls a finger behind his ear and clinks again. "I fear I suffer seasonal allergies, dearest, and it's been a long while since I slept more than a night or two outside of the Necropolis or the Fade. There's quite a bit of...mucus..." He clears his throat.

"Gross," says Rook, and then, "It's dawn, Emmrich."

"Mm-hm." Emmrich is now leaning across the counter, two inches from the mirror and examining his mustache like a jewel appraiser.

"Why are you making heinous old man noises at dawn?"

His eyes veer towards her reflection in the mirror, and they make eye contact in the glass. Very neatly, and with a raised eyebrow, he says, "Heinous old man noises."

Rook starts making hawking, gutteral noises in the back of her throat. It's a pretty faithful imitation.

"Dearest," he yells over the sound. "I apologize for waking you--"

"I cannot believe," says Rook, "that I'm going to spend the rest of my life being woken up at dawn by the hacks and sneezes of a man who wears wing tip shoes."

She's halfway through a half-asleep snicker at the hilarity of her own statement when Emmrich fixes her with a surprised look in his wet eyes and she realizes she's never actually voiced the idea that has become an unspoken certainty in her mind: That he's the love of her life, and her life may not be as short as she was thinking it might be this time last week, and that she wants nothing more than to spend the rest of her ambiguously-numbered mornings waking up to him.

She also realizes the truth of the situation. The baths in the Lighthouse were communal, and one never knew which companion they might encounter during their morning routine. Emmrich is fastidious and spends a great deal of his energy in broadcasting the image of a man who is utterly put together in everything he does. Never a hair out of place or a thread loose. It's a privilege of the highest order to witness him this way. Sleep-mused hair, shadow on his jaw. The bleariness of sleep in his eyes and, yes, even the throat-clearing and nose blowing.

Emmrich clears his throat and whispers, "Forgive me. I've...lived alone. For a very long time."

Rook's eyes water as she croaks, "Not anymore. I don't...want you to."

A smile spreads his face. It is wobbly, boyish, and so so beautiful. The absurdity of the situation finally reaches her--she is very naked and he's only slightly more dressed and there is a perfectly warm, perfectly comfortable bed steps away.

"Come back to bed," Rook says. "Please?"

He does.

[acciotaitlynn]

“The big bad head of Onychinus, reduced to putty for my pussy,” you murmur before playfully adding, “What would your enemies say if they could see you now?” Sylus growls and nips at your inner thigh before answering with a kiss to your clit. “They’d say I’m one lucky bastard to have a woman like you,” he says before slipping his tongue inside you again. “And they’d be right. You’re mine, kitten... All mine.” 

⟢ sylus×fem!reader

⟢ sexual content, 18+, anniversary sex, light bondage, face fucking, pussy eating, toys, teasing, squirting, kitten/sweetie used, pure smut, it's super soft

⟢ 2.3k wc

Your face lights up as you hear Sylus’s comforting footsteps approaching you in the hallway, a giggle escaping your lips when he enters the room and wraps you in a warm embrace. His strong hands glide down your body, pulling you closer for a kiss. You can hardly breathe when his forehead rests against yours, his voice affectionate as he murmurs, “Happy Anniversary, kitten.” 

With a smile, he leads you to the bedroom, his arm around your waist and a secret surprise waiting. Whispering in your ear to close your eyes, he guides you to the center of the room. He holds you close, his voice hot and playful in your ear. “Alright, you can open them now…” 

The space is bathed in soft candlelight, casting romantic shadows across the walls and floors. The scent of roses fills the air, their crimson petals scattered everywhere. Sylus’s record player softly spins a romantic tune, the gentle melody making your heart race. Your gaze falls on your bed, adorned with luxurious ties and bindings made from silk and leather. 

Sylus’s hands slide up your sides, drawing you closer as he kisses your neck. “When did you even have time to do all this?” you ask breathlessly. 

“I have my ways, kitten,” he murmurs, a sly smirk playing on his lips. “I wanted to make tonight special for us.” He turns you around in his arms, cupping your face in his hands and gazing into your eyes. “You deserve to be worshipped,” he says, his tone husky and simmering with emotion. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do...” 

Capturing your lips in a soft kiss, he takes your chin between his fingers, guiding your gaze to the sheer black lace lingerie on the bed. He crafted it to trace every curve of your body, with a plunging neckline connecting to an elegant choker adorned with a single crimson gemstone—the same shade as Sylus’s piercing eyes. “Like what you see, sweetie?” he murmurs, his voice dripping with desire as his hands grasp your hips, giving your ass a playful squeeze. “Why don’t you go try it on for me?” 

Excitement courses through your veins as you slip into the delicate lingerie. Sylus’s eyes follow your every move, hungrily taking in every inch of your body. With a seductive sway of your hips, you comply with his request to show off the back. His gaze roams from the crimson corset, hugging your curves to the way your ass moves beneath the fabric. A soft groan escapes his lips as he pulls you closer, his arousal evident against your lower back. 

“I can’t wait to rip this thing off you,” he growls, nipping at your ear before trailing kisses down your neck. “I just put it on and you already want it off? You paid a pretty penny for this thing,” you tease, grinning up at him, adoration shining brightly in your eyes. 

Chuckling, he leans down to capture your lips in a tender kiss, his hand sliding up to cup your breast. “I’d pay any price for you,” he murmurs against your lips. His other hand trails down your body, brushing over the dampened lace covering your core. “Besides,” he says with a smirk, “I made sure to give myself easy access.” He flicks open the crimson buttons that cover you, exposing your soaked sex to him entirely. 

Silk restraints wrap tightly around your wrists and ankles, holding you firmly in place as he kneels between your legs. His hot breath tickles your inner thigh before his tongue starts a painfully slow trail toward your pussy. A sly grin spreads across his face when you squirm in your restraints, spreading yourself wider for him.

“Put that pretty tongue inside me, baby? Please?” you whine, your hips jerking toward his mouth. But instead of fulfilling your request, Sylus blows a cool breeze across your flushed skin. “Patient is key, kitten…” he teases before tenderly kissing your clit, his tongue trailing down to your entrance to tease you with light flicks. 

“I could spend all night devouring this pussy of yours,” he growls softly, sliding his tongue inside you and eagerly drinking up your juices. Your head falls back, a desperate whimper escaping you as you grind shamelessly against his mouth. “It’s all for you, Sy,” you moan, causing Sylus to groan in response, his cock throbbing in his pants. “I love how your body reacts to my touch,” he muses, pulling back to admire your trembling form and glistening folds. 

Leaning back in, he captures your clit between his lips and sucks gently, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. You can hardly catch your breath as you watch him pleasure you under the glow of the candlelight, his sharp features standing out and his crimson eyes glowing back at you from between your thighs. A frustrated groan escapes you as you throw your head back, hitting the pillow with a sigh. 

“You’re way too pretty, Sylus… it’s infuriating,” you complain, grinding your hips harder against his mouth. A gasp escapes your lips as his teeth lightly graze your clit, and you whimper, “It’s not fair to tease me like this… to keep me from having you…” Sylus chuckles before gazing at your flushed face and heaving chest. 

“You have no idea how much I want those pretty hands of yours on me right now,” he murmurs, his own hands sliding up to grasp your hips. “But I’m not done with you yet. Tonight, I want to hear you beg for my cock.” You watch as he teases your clit with lazy circles of his tongue, his slow smile against your slick heat causing your body to tremble. 

“The big bad head of Onychinus, reduced to putty for my pussy,” you murmur before playfully adding, “What would your enemies say if they could see you now?” Sylus growls and nips at your inner thigh before answering with a kiss to your clit. “They’d say I’m one lucky bastard to have a woman like you,” he says before slipping his tongue inside you again. “And they’d be right. You’re mine, kitten. All mine.” 

He groans, watching your empty pussy clench around nothing at his words. Reaching for the nightstand, he retrieves a sparkly crimson dildo, its size and shape familiar to both of you. He gives a satisfied smirk when he sees your look of disbelief. “What can I say, kitten? I wanted to leave a piece of myself with you, even when I’m not here,” he murmurs, teasing your entrance with the tip of the toy. 

“You want this inside you? Want me to fill you up with my cock?” he growls softly, his eyes darkening with lust. You spread your legs wider, your pussy grasping at air. “Yes, baby… please?” Chuckling, he slowly inserts the toy into you inch by inch, his own arousal growing as he watches the dildo disappear inside you. 

With a soft kiss on your inner thigh, Sylus whispers, “How does it feel? Having me inside you?” as he begins to pump the toy in and out of your pussy. “I like it, but it’s not as good as when it’s really you,” you pout. 

He smirks, leaning in for a soft kiss. “It’s torture to not be inside you, kitten. But I want to hear you scream my name first,” he confesses against your lips, his hand still working the toy inside you. You can’t help but watch the toy glisten as it stretches you wide.  

“Even your cock is beautiful, Sy,” you murmur in a dreamy voice, completely drunk on the pleasure he’s giving you. Chuckling at your admiring gaze, he gently kisses your forehead. “Only you could make a compliment about my cock sound so sweet, kitten,” he teases softly, pushing the toy in deeper inside you with a grin. 

“You’re so tight… I can’t wait to feel that around my cock,” he groans, his own excitement growing with each passing moment. When he senses your body tensing up, he takes your clit between his teeth. The toy deepens inside you, pulled even further by your tightening walls as waves of pleasure crash over you. 

“That’s it, kitten… Let go for me,” Sylus whispers, thrusting faster and lapping at your sensitive bud with his tongue. Your orgasm rocks through you, exploding behind closed eyelids and leaving you breathless and trembling. With a soft, desperate voice, all you can think is, “I want to taste you too…” 

Sylus releases a groan as he pulls the toy from your body, tossing it aside. Swiftly freeing his throbbing cock, he sits on your chest, positioning himself at your lips. “You don’t have to beg for that,” he murmurs, guiding the leaking tip into your waiting mouth. 

“Open wide for me… Let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours,” he growls softly, his fingers tangling in your hair. Pleasure courses through both of you as he begins to move his hips. “Your mouth feels so good,” he whispers as he watches his cock disappear between your lips, his gaze locked with yours. 

Your heart swells with happiness at pleasing him like this, at being used by him in such an intimate way. When he pulls out, giving you a chance to catch your breath, you smile sweetly, your fucked-out expression only adding to his grin. “You fuck so good, Sylus… Is there anything you can’t do? I’m about to come again just watching you take me like this.” 

“Flattery like that will get you anywhere, kitten,” he chuckles, sliding himself back into your mouth and thrusting deeply down your throat. “You take my cock so well.” His grip tightens on your hair as he quickens his pace, fucking your face with abandon. 

His other hand finds your clit, tracing firm circles, sending you over the edge in an instant as you choke around his cock. He groans, cursing softly as your throat tightens around him during your climax, the sensation hurting him toward his own release. With a final thrust, he empties himself deep inside you before pulling out and stroking his shaft. 

The last drops of his cum land on your lips before he captures them in a passionate kiss, savoring the mixture of his taste with yours. As soon as he releases you from your restraints, you climb on top of him, straddling him as your lips find his once again. The strangled sound he makes when you take him inside of you sends shivers down your spine. 

His hands grip your hips tightly, grounding you as you begin to ride him. Your fingers trace the contours of his face as you whisper, “You are my safe haven, Sylus.” With a soft kiss, you add, “Thank you.” A tender smile graces Sylus’s face as he gazes up at you. “I’ll always keep you safe, kitten,” he promises before kissing you again. With a satisfied smile, you balance on the balls of your feet, bouncing on top of him. Entranced by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you, Sylus growls with pleasure.  “I fucking love watching you take my cock,” he growls, meeting your thrusts with his own. 

“Good… because I’m pretty sure I was made to take it,” you breathe out in bliss. The sound of skin slapping together echoes in the room as Sylus groans, his cock pulsing at your words. “Fuck… Keep talking like that, and I’m gonna…” he trails off. 

As his groans grow louder, his cock pulsating within you, Sylus guides your hips faster and faster. “You want my cum, kitten? Want me to fill this tight little pussy?” Your answer is breathless but certain: “More than anything.” He pulls you close, holding you tightly as he buries his face in your neck, releasing a hoarse shout. 

His hot cum fills you up, leaking around his shaft as his hips continue to thrust long after his pleasure subsides. “That’s it, kitten. Take every last drop,” he murmurs before flipping you onto your back and driving into you with even more force. 

His mouth greedily captures your moans and whimpers with a smile. “I love you,” he whispers against your lips, never breaking eye contact as he relentlessly fucks you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you match his movements, tears streaming down your face from the overwhelming pleasure. 

Your release drenches both Sylus and the sheets beneath you, spurring him on to take you even harder. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come,” he breathes in awe, watching as you writhe under him. 

With one final thrust, he empties himself inside of you again, his hot release mingling with yours. You admire the sweat and slickness on his abs and can’t help but whisper, “...Holy fuck that’s hot.” 

Sylus chuckles, gently kissing your forehead before flipping you back onto his lap. “Ready for round two?” he teases, his arousal quickly returning. 

This time, you make love slowly, savoring each touch and kiss between sighs of pleasure. In between whispered words of love and appreciation, you thank him for the unforgettable night. 

Sylus gives you a warm smile, holding you close as your bodies move together. “I’m happy I could give it to you,” he murmurs before capturing your lips again. “Unfortunately, I have to leave for business tomorrow morning,” he adds regretfully. 

You hum in understanding, leaning in to kiss him as his hands grip your ass tighter, urging you to ride him harder. Breaking the kiss, his whisper is hot against your lips, “I hope you weren’t planning on getting any sleep tonight, kitten...”

[always-just-red]

@lunariadew asked: 'Can you write a poly fic maby like a feel good fic or date night or something with all the boys! I’m greedy and I think there’s not enough poly fics as there should be'

Nothing profound this time around! Just some good old-fashioned shenanigans. I've wanted to do a fic with all the boys for SO long (Infold, hire me to write a sitcom-style show for the guys, PLEASE) I've kept it platonic since it's early stages; it's open to interpretation about how many sparks are flying and between whom exactly..... 👀 But if ppl want more of this, I'm all over it. Platonic or romantic? I'll play it by ear!

Game Night

L&DS Boys X Reader

Summary: The most important men in your life can manage one evening together, right? For you? Please? Pretty please?

Genre: Fluff + humour

Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, some swearing, a lil conflict, non-canon (I know some of the guys probably know each-other but we're pretending they don't 😇)

| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Rafayel… what do you think this is?”

The artist stands at your open door, wearing a self-assured smile and one of the flashier outfits you’ve seen him in, and that’s really saying something. Between you is a bouquet of lilies, petals curled like frozen licks of fire that compliment— deliberately, if you had to guess— the warmer fires within his eyes. Those eyes narrow at your question.

“What do you think it is?” he says suspiciously, lowering the flowers.

“…Game night?”

You’re not sure why you phrase it so tentatively. You know what it is; you’re the host. You open your door wider, stepping aside to give Rafayel a better view of the apartment behind you, and the remainder of his smile sinks.

“Hi,” Xavier calls out, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s giving a wholesome sort of wave.

“Hi…” Rafayel answers, barely more than a whisper as his eyes flit between everyone else in the room, because he’s the last to arrive. “Game night, yeah,” he nods assertively, “I knew that.” Then a deep breath: “Can I, like, put these somewhere—”

“Kitchen counter,” you gesture.

“Got it.” He doesn’t have to be told twice.

Closing the door behind him, you watch as he skirts past the lounge and makes for your kitchen, where another bouquet already lies waiting. He zeroes in on it. “Looks like mine’s not the only heart you’re breaking tonight, huh, cutie? What are these—” he pokes at a petal— “daturas?”

“They’re her favourite,” speaks a distinctly low voice.

Rafayel doesn’t look up. He plonks his bouquet on top of the other and winces: “They’re really not, though.”

“He’s right,” you chip in, giving Sylus a sheepish smile, and now Rafayel looks up, beaming.

“She likes roses,” Zayne says, with the calm confidence he’d quote a medical journal. On the sofa beside him, Xavier nods, and you grin at them both.

“Noted,” Sylus chuckles.

Rafayel’s less convinced. “Since when?!”

“Since forever, Raf. I like lilies too, so I didn’t say anything, ‘kay?” You beckon him back to the lounge, ignoring his splutters of disbelief. “C’mere, let me introduce you to everyone.”

The man slinks to your side like a reluctant shadow, and your hands find your hips. “This is Zayne. Xavier,” you point out, putting faces to names; Rafayel’s heard stories about each. Then you nod towards Sylus. “Over there’s Skye.”

From his place by the window, Sylus lifts a hand in greeting.

“So… yeah,” you finish. Oh, wait! “Guys, this is—”

“They know who I am,” Rafayel shrugs, his fame apparently heavy on his shoulders. He glances around the room for validation, but he gets none, so he tries again. “You do know who I am, right?”

“Sorry,” Xavier admits with an awkward smile, glancing back at Sylus: you?

The man has to think about it. You know for a fact he’s traded more than one of Rafayel’s paintings for a profit, but he smirks and gives an even more exaggerated shrug than the artist himself.

Really?

“You’re Rafayel,” Zayne states plainly.

“Yeah! See, I told you, cutie—”

“You slipped on a paintbrush and checked yourself into Akso, right? The nurses still talk about it.”

Rafayel’s enthusiasm drains. He looks conflicted as he mulls over the additional information. “In, like, a good way?” he hazards.

Zayne stares back at him, wielding silence like a scalpel before cutting deeper with a: “…sure.”

You bite back a smile. Leaving the two to discuss the finer details of Rafayel’s notoriety at the hospital, you wander over to the kitchen, where you fish out a vase from the back of a cupboard. You fill it, set it down on the counter, then reach for Sylus’s bouquet. There’s a black satin ribbon; you untie it.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, sweetie?” asks the man himself, joining you discreetly.

The others can’t really hear you— they’re still talking. “What,” you smirk, retrieving your scissors from a drawer, “you worried Xavier’s gonna arrest you?”

Sylus laughs lowly, quietly. “That’s adorable.”

“Good.” You pick up a flower and trim a leaf from the stem. “Because even if he wanted to—” you wave it, just short of his face— “I’d protect you, ok?”

He regards the flower beneath his nose. Smiles smugly. “These can be toxic, sweetie.”

“Really? Whoops.” You put it down, then snatch up a lily from Rafayel’s bouquet. “En Garde!”

“These too.”

“What the hell?”

The flame-red flower drops from your fingers, and Sylus laughs more sincerely. “Stick to roses, kitten. Or…” He moves his hand over his deconstructed bouquet, his Evol pruning the rest of the leaves from the stems. A tendril of it gathers the flowers, delivering them to him so he can hold them out to you with a flourish. “Live dangerously. Who am I to judge?”

You take them, then plop them into the vase. “Cute.”

“I’m here all week,” he grins. “You’d better wash your hands, hmm?”

With a hmph of agreement, you turn to the sink. You spend half a minute, rubbing soap and warm water over your hands, and when you turn back around— still drying them— something is different. The lilies are gone. Sylus is looking at you, innocuous.

“Real mature, Skye.”

He makes no effort to defend himself. You’re about to tell him that his magic better extend to making flowers reappear when your attention is whipped back to the lounge. The voices from that side have raised, so you lean forward on your kitchen island, watching their owners in a sort of stakeout.

“I take it you have a plan,” Sylus whispers, leaning with you.        

You look at him. He looks back. “The plan is for hosts,” you scold, “not guests.” He’s much too close so you step away, reaching for the vase of daturas and holding them threateningly out, like you’re not afraid to use them. “Go back to the guests, deserter.”

Sylus lifts his hands in surrender, smirking in a way that says he knows he’s met his match. You shoo him further, back into enemy lines, then resume your stakeout. Xavier is sharing his own “embarrassing” medical story— talking about a time where he once passed out from exhaustion while fighting at your side, and you think it’s supposed to make Rafayel feel better.

It doesn’t, of course, and even Zayne is gazing down at the floor, self-conscious.

Sylus meets your eyes across the room, signals with a tip of his head: now's a good time for that master plan, sweetie.

Right. Your plan. Your master plan, yeah.

…

“You should have picked the doctor.”

Sylus’s words are near-silent: for you, not anyone else, and you pretend you don’t hear them. “But no,” he carries on, because he knows you can, “you just had to have the artist.”

“It’s Pictionary!” you snap, drawing all eyes in the room.

Lounging beside you, Sylus feigns an amused surprise, as though he hasn’t just been trying to elicit that exact reaction. On the other sofa, Zayne and Xavier stare, taken more genuinely aback. You give a smile of apology.

“Guys, concentrate!” Rafayel clicks his fingers at you. He’s stood in the centre of the space by a large drawing pad, and he goes back to frantically sketching on it. The drawing is… interesting. Abstract. Maybe even beautiful? But you don’t have a clue what it is.

“Thirty seconds,” warns Zayne, studying the little egg-timer he’s guarding.

You tilt your head at the drawing. There’s maybe a— wait, where did those extra colours come from? Where did he even get those pens? Anyway… there’s a circle. “A globe?” you guess. “Earth! No? Umm… oh! The sun! The moon!”

Rafayel shakes his head with every suggestion, adding even more intricate, unhelpful scribbles. Is that a fifth pen?! You nudge your other teammate, calling for back-up.

Sylus regards the drawing listlessly. “A unicorn.”

“What?!” Rafayel’s tone has reached a pitch that almost makes you wince. “No! C’mon, are you even trying?”

“No,” Sylus lilts with a pleasant smile, lifting the drink he’s been nursing to his lips.

You kick his foot. “A bowl of fruit!” you exclaim, determined to make up for the lack of enthusiasm. “A plate? A plate with food? Breakfast! Lunch! Dinner!”

“Time’s up,” Zayne interrupts, and it’s a mercy, really; you deflate with a sigh.

Rafayel puts his hands on his hips as he takes a step back to observe his work. He tucks four fine-liners back into his pocket— purses his lips as though he really can’t see a problem— and he’s keeping you all in suspense.

Sylus is up in an instant, stealing a card from where it’s been discarded on the coffee table. He reads the answer, then rolls his eyes. The original pen was also abandoned, so he plucks it up, then strides to the drawing pad.

He draws an oval. Then a triangle.

“A fish! A fish!” you cry out.

“You’re good at this, sweetie,” Sylus grins. He puts the lid on the pen with a click before dropping it into Rafayel’s hand.

“Is it my turn?” Xavier asks, trying to relieve the tension of the room. He gets up and smiles as Rafayel passes him the pen. “Your drawing is pretty. The composition is really—”

“Don’t,” Rafayel says. “Like, thanks? But don’t.”

“Fair enough,” Xavier chuckles.

You all prepare for the next round: Zayne handing you the egg-timer, Xavier re-organising the stack of prompt cards. Sylus takes a photo of the drawing pad before ambling back over— a moping Rafayel in tow— and they both sink down either side of you. You glance at the latter, giggling. “A fish, Raf? Really?”

“So I didn’t just wanna draw you some basic fish, ok?” The artist crosses his arms with a pout. “But fine, enjoy mediocrity, I guess.”

To your left, Sylus raises his glass in toast to the notion. There’s a noise: Xavier tearing the used page from the pad. You look up. “Xavier, can I have that?”

“Sure.” He brings it over to you.

You look at the drawing again, holding it at arm’s length and rotating it experimentally. You’re seeing a lot, but nothing that screams ‘fish’. There’s a circle, still. Oh! “It’s a fish bowl! Wait, wait, wait— is that Reddie?”

“Yeah!” Rafayel beams.

“Aww!”

The renewed team spirit drops off with Sylus; he’s on his phone, not paying attention. He seems to sense your scrutiny because he peers up, gives a ghost of a smile, then returns to whatever he’s doing. Meanwhile, Xavier is ready for his turn, so he signals for you to start the timer. You give him a thumbs up as you turn it over. “Go!”

He starts drawing.

“A car,” Zayne guesses after all of five seconds. Correct. Next. “A river? No. Oh. A snake.” Yes. “A cupcake?” Also yes. (In fairness, he was never going to struggle with that one.) “A person? Ok. Oh, a scientist, no? Ah, a doctor.” Yes again, and really— what?

Zayne continues to list correct answers, though thankfully, that’s the last of the coincidences. You watch on, vaguely in awe, until you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. You check it casually, aware that Sylus is next to you, looking down at it too.

It’s a text from him: The drawing… Can I have it?

You glance up at him subtly, meeting his eyes and giving a discreet yet firm shake of your head. He frowns. You’re not having this debate here, now, so you let your gaze return to the drawing pad while idly retrieving your drink.

A few seconds later, there’s another text: Found buyer

Then another: Quarter of a mil

You almost choke on that drink.

“Umm… cutie?” Rafayel asks, poking you. He points at the timer you’ve left on the coffee table, and the top half is empty.

“Shit, yeah. That’s time!” you call.

Xavier stops drawing. The small, crude sketches behind him have reached double digits. He looks really proud. “Great! How many was that?”

His eyes find you. Zayne and Rafayel’s, too. Were you supposed to be counting? Uh—

“Eleven,” says Sylus, and it’s way too smug to be a lie.

“Awesome!” Xavier flips the drawing pad over to where you’ve been tallying point totals. He adds eleven marks to one side. “That’s—” he counts both— “ah, thirty-three to nine.”

A silence falls over the room. Unsure of what else to do, you give a half-hearted round of applause and Xavier laughs awkwardly, still humble, despite it all. “I think we’re kinda done with Pictionary, yeah?” you suggest, rising from your seat. “I should probably get started on food, anyway.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.”

The insistence came from Xavier, and you freeze suspiciously; he’s never turned down free food.

“You’ve already done so much,” he explains, “setting this all up for us. You should relax, really! Leave it to me.”

The word ‘relax’ is not synonymous with the image of Xavier anywhere near your kitchen, but he’s looking at you so earnestly, blue eyes brimming with warmth, and what are you supposed to say? No thanks, Xavier— I value my life? Everyone’s watching you. Gods help you. “That’s really sweet, Xavier. Thanks.”

Your fellow Hunter’s smile widens even more. He heads off to the kitchen, a spring to his step that makes your heart sink with dread. “Actually—” you glance at your ex-teammates— “could you two go help him? Zayne and I’ll tidy up over here.”

Rafayel and Sylus do as they’re asked, even though their expressions remind you that cooking is not, typically, a three-man job. It’s tactical, though. You wanted a moment alone with Zayne. “Are you ok?” you ask, once the others are out of earshot. “I know this must all be a lot. The guys can be, well… yeah.”

He knows what you mean, right?

Zayne has slipped away from the couch; he’s crouched on the floor, collecting a few prompt cards that have wandered astray. He glances up at you, pushing his glasses back on his nose. “I’m ok,” he assures with a fond smile. “Thank you, though.”

“You’re welcome.” He hands you the cards and you slot them back into their deck. Then you turn to the drawing pad. “You and Xavier make a good team, huh?”

The doctor straightens to his full height. “Mmm. It helped that we didn’t spend the entire game comparing the size of our… drawing abilities.” 

You laugh unashamedly. The pen’s still at-hand, so you pick it up— reward another point.

Zayne chuckles.

“Food’s gonna be a while.”

You both turn, following the voice back to Sylus, who has apparently decided he’s had his fill of kitchen duty. What was that— a minute? He seems to have anticipated your dissatisfaction, because he’s brought a bribe with him: the box of chocolates that had come with his bouquet. It’s already open and he holds it out, tempting you.

He’s right— you don’t know when you’ll next be eating— so you select a heart-shaped chocolate, popping it into your mouth with a smile and a muffled: “thanks.”

Sylus smiles back. Then he holds the box out to Zayne. “Doctor?”

It takes a nod of encouragement from you to prompt Zayne into taking something. He chooses a white chocolate truffle, mumbles his own thanks, but Sylus doesn’t relent— not yet. He shakes the box slightly, incitingly, and he doesn’t move it away until Zayne takes two more.

Your physician shoots you a surreptitious smile as Sylus falls back onto the couch, content he’s won your hearts, and that he won’t be sent back to the kitchen anytime soon. His long fingers lift another chocolate from the box, and he meets your eyes as he slips it slowly past his lips, humming like he’s enjoying himself.

You cross your arms, unimpressed. He gives you the least convincing look of innocence you’ve ever seen.

There’s an exclamation from the kitchen: “Hey, where did my flowers go!?” 

Shit. You hastily push the drawing pad aside then scurry over to assist Rafayel. You don’t have a plan, exactly; it’s not like you can help him look for them. “Umm… they’re around, Raf. I moved them somewhere safer, that’s all.”

“Where?”

“Uh—”

“Does it matter?” Sylus speaks from behind you, because he and Zayne are close at your heels. “She said they’re somewhere safe.” He leans on the kitchen island. “Don’t you trust her?”

Rafayel scoffs. “I trust her plenty.”

“So prove it. Drop it.”

“Skye,” you caution, “stop.”

Sylus does stop, but not because you asked. He’s done enough already, hasn’t he? Rafayel is bristling with indignance— a lit fuse— and behind him, Xavier sneakily checks the trash can, looking relieved at what he doesn’t find. He gives you a subtle glance: Where actually are the flowers?

You lift a shoulder an inch: Beats me!

There’s a soft, almost imperceptible crackle, and it draws your eyes to the vase of daturas between you all. They’ve caught light— their petals twisting, darkening, within larger flowers of fire.

“Rafayel!” you gasp. “No, no, no, the fire alarm!”

The torched flowers are encased, all of a sudden, in a fine layer of shimmering frost. Sylus blinks down at them, unmoved by their destruction. Zayne’s hand is still outstretched, snowflakes etched over his palm. Then something… odd happens. The ice doesn’t stop. It spreads over the rest of the kitchen island, to all of your bewilderment.

“Zayne?” Your voice is fraught with worry, but you don’t give a damn about your kitchen.

The man winces, and you so rarely see him out of control. The silver-white patterns have crawled up his wrist, and the ice continues to spread; even Sylus steps back. Sharp, jagged crystals start to form— inching out towards everyone.

“Zayne!” you try again.

His chest rises as he drags air through his teeth; it looks like it hurts, but the ice does stop. The others are still, suspended by momentary uncertainty, and you rush to Zayne’s side, taking his hand.

“What the hell was that?” Rafayel remarks, shaking away his surprise and thawing an icicle that’s way too close for comfort.

“He wouldn’t have needed to use his Evol if you hadn’t used yours.”

It’s Xavier, strangely— you would have expected Sylus. The Hunter’s tone is gentle as always, but there’s something behind it, this time: a frustration that lends an edge.

Rafayel hears it too. “Hey, I’m not the one who started this!” He points to Sylus. “He—”

“Has been lighting fires all evening,” Xavier finishes. “But at least his were only figurative.”

Sylus laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh where you just know he’s vying to make things worse. “Look at that,” he says, “the boy next door can bite.”

Xavier’s eyes sharpen. Beside you, Zayne slips his hand from yours. It’s an instinct you know well. This moment is volatile, and you have to be ready. It could go a dozen different ways; it’s just waiting for a spark.

“Guys,” you manage to get out, “please, just… everyone, take a breath, ok? Everything’s fine, we just have to—”

A spark.

There’s smoke. Actual smoke. “Xavier, behind you!” Zayne alerts.

It’s creeping out of the oven and Xavier turns— eyes wide— to open its door before any of you can stop him. Thicker smoke billows out, filling the air, and you all scramble away from it. The fire alarm triggers. You think Rafayel’s shouting something, but you can’t really hear him. Then Sylus is shouting. Maybe even Zayne. The alarm is piercing your ears and making you dizzy— or is it the smoke?

You feel a hand on your shoulder and suddenly everything changes.

There’s cool air, brushing over your skin, and it’s dark; you’re outside the building. You can still hear the alarm, shrill but further away, and your window is easy to spot: there’s a red light flashing behind it. Sylus leans into your vision, saying your name.

“Stay here,” he tells you, “alright?”

He’s gone in another moment, lost to a flicker of crimson-black darkness.

Gods, you’re so stupid.

…

You sit on a short wall outside of your building, and the street is full of people. You recognise most of them: neighbours. Every single one is mad at you. You’re all waiting for the alarm to cut out— for the all-clear to be given. The fire wasn’t that serious in the end, but there’s still a procedure. You would know; this isn’t exactly your first evacuation.

The guys are safe, which is good, because it means you can kill them later. They’ve all gotten lost in the throng, and your neighbours can keep them. Maybe they’ll kill them for you.  

“Hey, cutie.”

You were staring down at your feet, but you look up at Rafayel’s voice. He’s coming towards you, evoking a sense of déjà vu, because he’s clutching a bouquet of flame lilies. That’s… the bouquet of flame lilies. How?

“Skye gave ‘em back to me,” he explains, chuckling at your expression, and he’s close enough now to hold the flowers out to you. “I don’t know where he was keeping them. His Evol’s weird, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say timidly, taking the bouquet and gazing down into the petals; they still smell sweet.

Rafayel sits next to you, shuffling close, and he leans his head on your shoulder with a tired sigh. You want to be mad at him. You really, really do— but you’re suddenly not.

“I’m sorry, Rafayel.” The admission barely makes it out of your throat.

You feel his head lift. “You’re sorry?”

“I know it was just a misunderstanding,” you speak into the flowers, “but tonight… wasn’t what you were expecting, I get it. I mean, I kinda threw you into the deep end with all this. You didn’t know you were gonna be around other people, and I—”

“Whoa— cut that out, yeah? You’re killing me, cutie. I spend the whole evening causing trouble, and you’re gonna take all the blame? Nope. Not happening. It was a collaborative effort at least, ok?”

You giggle. “Ok.”  

“Good.” His head slumps back down on your shoulder, and yours tilts to rest against it. “Thanks, though. Really,” he whispers, so quiet you almost don’t notice.

Footsteps and familiar voices draw you from the intimacy of the moment. The others are wandering back to you, having finally escaped the veritable mob of your neighbours. They all look tired.

Xavier settles down on the other side of you, and Zayne sits beside him. Sylus takes a seat next to Rafayel with a huff, but he’s not half as unhappy as he’s pretending to be.

All of you sit in silence, gazes flitting between your window— where there are still glimpses of moving figures— and everyone else who’s been evacuated. For the first time all evening, the quiet isn’t tense. It’s peaceful. Easy.

“We’ll do better next time,” Zayne speaks softly.

Next time? You scoff. “Do any of you actually want there to be a next time?”

“I had fun,” Sylus chuckles. He’s taken his coin from his pocket, and he flips it, amusing himself.

“I had fun too,” Xavier grins.

“Cooking again, Xavier?” quips one of your neighbours, as they happen to pass by.

The man beside you laughs, but you can tell it’s forced. Your hand finds his; you give it a little squeeze, letting him know that it wasn’t his fault. His heart was in the right place. It’s always in the right place.

You nudge Rafayel away from you so you can sit up straighter, your free hand rubbing your arm, caressing prickled skin. You’re about to ask for a jacket when something heavy drapes over your shoulders. It’s a coat— still warm— and its owner is stood behind you; you didn’t even notice him get up.

“Thanks, Sylus,” you smile.

All eyes turn to you. What are they—?

Oh.

[okwonyo]

UNCONDTIONAL, 或 𓈒𓈒 giving you princess treatment.

❛ 𝖻𝗎𝗒 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂’𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾𓈒𓈒 ❜

𝒾 ⠀⦂ ⠀ 엔하이픈 막내 ୨୧ 𝑓 ╱ r 6OO fluff ── non idol au skinship mention of blood⠀ ｡⠀( 𝑜𝑜𝑒𝑢𝑣𝑟𝑒𝑠 ) & 형선𝐕𝐄𝐑.

지아 ⠀⦂ ⠀because i stand to my words ! enjoy maknae line girlies ><

reblogs ˊᗜˋ +feedbacks · C𝑙𝑖CK

SUNOO

ever since you two started dating, there are things that he does now that he would have never done in the past. 

more precisely, things that he does for you when he knows the thought of doing it for anyone else would have never crossed his mind. because you are his dear lover. 

the most evident instance would be how he lets you use his laps as a chair whenever you need it— or whenever he needs to feel you close.

whenever you are outside together and feel the need to sit down, he is there. he sits on the closest surface he can find, no matter how cold it can be, and taps on his thigh as he manspread. 

he usually puts his hand on your stomach, pressing your back against his chest or embraces your waist as you wrap yours around his neck. 

“are you comfortable, honey?” he whispers, breathing hot on your skin. 

﹙ᵕ ᵕ⠀look under the cut ! ♡

JUNGWON

one of the best things in the world, for him, is holding your soft hand in his. he is in awe of how perfectly they fit in each other, how easily your fingers next to one another— intertwining. 

he loves to squeeze your hand to get your attention, he loves to kiss the back of it when he feels like it.

so, yes, it does bother him a lot when the stuff you hold in your hands keeps him away from enjoying it. 

“you know what?” he tells you, snatching the drink off your hand before you can even guess. “i’ll hold it for you.”

then he is all happy when you finally hold hands, not planning on letting it go no matter how sweaty his palms can become, no matter how many obstacles there are in the streets.  and he will accept whatever it takes to do it, even if it means holding all your stuff for you; and he is happy to help you, anyway.

RIKI

heart buzzing for affection when his gaze at you, he is ready to give his blood for you if you ask, and even if you don’t. 

most of the time, words are way too little to explain the way he feels about you. his love creeps in his chest, making a knot in your throat. 

sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he imagines coughing all his tenderness, he sees his devotion falling on your skin like petals falling on the surface of a river. 

sometimes, all the time, he feels the urge to buy you flower. he studies the meaning of all of them, he learns what they mean together and he makes a bouquet for you. 

at first, the idea of giving it to you directly made him sweat, so he decided to send the flowers to your house with a card saying, “all flowers die, but my love never does,” and he didn’t answer your calls for an hour— way too nervous. 

he brings at least one flower whenever you hang out together. your cheeks hurt from smiling too much now.

ㅤ𓈒ㅤㅤ𓈒 taglist open

[floralscented]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ━ㅤ ㅤ dean winchester.

the tale of the king of hell and the sweet angel with flowers in her hair.

a hades & persephone retelling through the veiled, handcrafted lens of demon!dean and angel!reader, addressed as persephone, fem pronouns.

content warnings. sexual implications and elusions. that's it lol it's relatively tame!

word count. 6.1k

the woods were always a safe space for him. they existed in every location on the mortal plane; some big, some small, some haunting, some inviting. it brought him great comfort that something could be so vast and sometimes vitriolic and still be loved and adorned by someone by the likes of her.

she was the manifestations of everything innocent. she was a daydream; wisps of wind carrying flower petals of creams and teals, of pinks and violets. all of which stemmed from the plucked flowers tangled and vined in her hair.

she was always alone, this girl of flowers. dropped down from heaven itself, he knew ━ in the same way that he knew her woods were the big, inviting kind. inviting to everyone but himself.

the underworld was dark and icy, so cold sometimes that blue flames licked upon skin and burned it raw, frostbite staining each orifice blue in its wake. but here, with her, it was always so warm. he did not understand the phrase burn in hell when all he wanted, really, was to burn with her.

he watched her for a long time. every day, the same spot, all by her lonesome. he could see her wings even as they were tucked beneath the skin of her shoulder blades, her entire being painted in an innocence that longed to be scorned.

in the end, it was not him that approached her, but rather her that approached him. cream colored fabric caught in the pollen-scented air that wafted through the branches and got caught in the leaves. strands of her hair tangled in front of her eyes, petals dancing behind her like a trail of pure magic.

"what is it that you long for?" she asked him, and it was such a strange question, such a strange scenario. a creature made of darkness and corruption and everything vile did not often get asked what it was that they longed for, and it was even less often that such things that they wanted were women with buried themselves in flower fields and made friends with the bees.

as such, he did not answer her. he chose to bypass her question entirely and take it upon himself to ask her something. his hand reaches out to grasp a stray petal from the silky hive that was her hair. "it is not smart to approach strangers in secluded places."

"it is hardly secluded," she said as fast, her lips forming a soft 'o' as she blew the delicate magenta petal from his two fingers. "no part of the woods is ever solitary."

she is naive, he thinks, and the naive ones are always the most fun. but there is a part of him that does not long to break her spirit, so long as he can instead nurture it and make it grow. if he was capable of such things. "i suppose you mean the creatures that lurk in the bushes?"

"the wind," she corrects, her head tilting up to absorb the impact of it. again, it tosses her hair, knocks the flower petals woven in the strands loose. her silken dress is one with the wind itself, the fabric catching the gusts and bottling them as it dances in its fingers. "it carries secrets, if you listen close enough to hear them."

and he could not help himself. "what does the wind tell you of me?"

her head tilts to the side. his world, spun on its axis, watching him right back. "that we are alike."

she could not be more wrong. she was made of clouds and goodness, constructed in the very nature of virtue. he was of sin and shadows, dark and broken, feasting off of the innocence that she radiated like a pheromone. he opens his mouth to say so, but she does not let him.

"i know you are not of this world," she continues, slowly, as if she's convinced that this is information that should frighten him that she knows; not something that intrigues him greatly. "like i imagine you know that of me, too."

he does not give a solid answer, but the slightest quirk of his lips is enough to bring a flicker of mischief into her eyes. "what is it like?"

what a peculiar question from a girl made of stardust and glitter, drawing every bit of light toward her like a beacon. he could not play naive to this, or act innocent in the terms of her question, because she had already taken those roles and embodied them perfectly.

"dark," he says, leaning ever-so-slightly closer with each word, "foreboding. lifeless."

he expects that word to drown her spirits. he expects to see the hope floating away in the river's stream, swallowed whole as it glittered beneath the water's surface. instead, she sparkles brighter, her smile wider. "do you believe in fate?"

he balks. "i believe in nothing at all."

"perhaps you should take me there," she says, tugging the loose petals from her hair and letting them rain on the grass. she still looks as wild and free as ever, perhaps even more so, without the reins of life and nature holding her back. "and i will give you something to believe in."

try as she might, it was all for naught. he believed in her so desperately already that he might as well be the drowning thing in the river. perhaps that was why it did not glitter at all.

she called herself persephone, and she called him dean, though that was not what the servants of the underworld and the demons beneath him called him. they called him hades ━ master of cruelty, harbinger of the dead.

it meant justice, where she was from, high above in the clouds with the other things crafted from perfection and innocence. it was not a name out of love, but one out of duty. he told himself this, because there was no chance that someone like her could ever reach into his heart and cradle it between her palms.

persephone had a room, closest to his, and he hated to admit that he considered locking it with a chain every night, lest she realize her mistake and want to go back to her life of oak trees and soft-petaled flowers.

but the heavy door never nudged in the days that she stayed alongside him, and the darkness seemed to hold its breath around her.

"does it not get dreary?" persephone asks upon waking up, her eyes glittering so brightly in the bleak underworld that she stood out like the beacon he believed her to be. always calling him to her.

dean's eyebrows raise a fraction. her mind formulates thoughts that she does not share, until her mouth splits open to speak questions he does not know the context of. "is death not supposed to be dreary?"

he is very good at giving her the answers she does not want. her lips contort into a blatant frown, puffed in a pout of rose petals, and her eyebrows furrow like aggravated caterpillars on her face. "it is a necessity in the life cycle. all things necessary are beautiful."

"you are a dreamer, persephone," he says dismissively, because there's an odd feeling warming his cheeks and the back of his neck. warmth. how odd it was to feel warmth that didn't scald or burn, but soothed. "i await the day that your dreams shatter to pieces."

the pout deepens. angry pink petals curled downward enough to wrinkle her smooth skin. "that is an awful thing to say."

"i would pick up every shard," dean interrupts, their eyes finally locking, "and i would put them back together, no matter how long it takes."

"i have many dreams, dean."

dean does not back down, still. "and i have many centuries."

their stares do not falter. they hold and they hold, like hands tightly woven together in secret, clutching like they might be ripped apart at any point. dean was certain nothing could take persephone from him now, what with how desperate he was for the life she brought.

"your world is cold," she says simply after what feels like eternities in of itself, "and incapable of fostering life."

an astute observation. the words fell from her lips with icy breaths punctuating between them. "i did warn you," he speaks slowly, like this time it is she that needs to have it explained to her, "that this was not a place for angels like you."

he did not warn her of such directly, no. but is scaring off someone and warning someone not the same?

"i am not the life that needs fostered," she waves her hand, her eyes dancing around her surroundings mindlessly. the blackstone countertops of his housing chambers, the metal chairs that did nothing but breed discomfort. all of it was dysfunctional ━ display pieces, in a way, so that he may feel an ounce of humanity again in his dead soul.

her finger reaches out to poke his chest. firm in her movements and her judgements. "it is you." persephone's chin tilts up in her defiant arrogance. "and how lucky you are to have me to guide you."

dean forgot, in his haste to keep persephone, that other people were capable of loving her just as vehemently as he did. it was only a matter of time before something went awry in your absence, and people began to wonder where the angel dusted in pollen and petals had floated away to.

he just did not expect it to be so soon.

a month passes, and suddenly his home is littered in gold. she is a radiant light, everything she touches bursts into life ━ and so the dark home that he'd come to know, with its dim sconces and brooding towers, has become one with light through the gaps of the windows. fresh candles that smell like daisies and lavender are placed in the caged sconces.

maybe he should be angry that she is turning his kingdom of darkness into something so alive. but all dean has ever wanted was a touch of life, and not so much death. it was something that he only began to crave when he spotted her in the woods, surrounded by living things that responded to her touch.

there is an angel at his door, and it is not the one he wishes for.

he senses it like a sixth sense; something amiss in his territory. the wind before a storm, twisting and twisting and setting everything off balance. and the silence is unlike anything he's heard before, in a place as damnable as his home.

dean exits his room with his spine rigid, booted steps heavy on the hollow stone. acts like this are not taken lightly. acts so disrespectful are met with wings hung over his throne, bloodied muscle still attached to their delicate bones.

"persephone," the angel says from the center of his throne room, without turning over their shoulder to look at him. another act of disrespect. "is... where?"

dean's steps echo in the empty room as he circles the angel. predator and prey. neither of which give any indication on who they believe the other to be, in that manner. "is none of your concern."

"you have taken an angel from a place of life and virtue and thrown her into a dungeon of death and decay," the angel snaps back at him, their teeth bared in a harsh snarl. their true form threatens beneath the surface of the vessel they wear. down here, it is much harder to keep up appearances. "it is obvious that it is our concern."

the idea of persephone being locked away sent his stomach churning. how dare anyone think that he would ever try and stifle her light? not when she is cultivating her craft and turning his home into something that is alive.

dean drops into the throne in the center of the room. flames lick to life at the first contact between him and the granite. the angel does not falter at the sight, and dean's jaw ticks because of it. "if you think she is unsafe, find her."

the angel's eyes narrow. "is this a game to you?"

"i guarantee it is not." how could he ever imagine this situation as a game, when the very root of his life is being threatened to be stolen back from him? "find her."

dean knows where she is. in her room, across the narrow hallway from his. her door is shut, but he could smell the flickering flames smelting in her fireplace, warming her from the underworld's pitch black coldness. dean knows she is safe, writing on the parchment he'd gotten for her, detailing her days and thoughts into permanence.

the angel flickers away, out of his sight. dean is left alone with his own thoughts. his, he does not want to memorialize. his stay in the creeping corners of his mind, tucked away to keep his persephone safe. not that he did not believe she could handle a little darkness; she was the one that asked him to come here, after all.

it feels like an eternity that the angel is gone. dean fears, in the very depths of his soul, that they have taken her without a warning or a trace. he'd burn them. all of them. he'd take their wings and decorate the halls of his kingdom with their feathers. he'd . . .

flickering into view is the angel, with persephone clutched between their grip. her face is contorted into that fiery expression he'd come to expect from her, defiance born in her very blood.

it was no wonder that the angels wanted to leash her. she was not like them. she was composed of flame and fury, and radiated it like she was the sun itself. dean was always so captivated by her, but it was times like this when he could not look away.

"what have you done to her?" the angel tosses the accusation dean's way like the words sicken them. again, their true form flickers just behind their eyes. at least dean was a beast that wore his skin without the skin of a lamb atop of it.

dean's fingers steeple beneath his chin. "explain."

"she does not want to come back." the angel's eyes narrow onto him, unspoken allegations swimming in their expression. "there is no reason that someone so full of life would want to bury their feet into the death and darkness of your home."

it is selfish that his heart swells at those words. does not want to leave his home. his initial worries that he would have to say goodbye to her melt away like the ice frosting over his stone walls.

"that is not true," persephone interjects, and dean stills. waits for the clarification on what wasn't true. "i do want to go home."

they say that if you love something, you must let it go. dean did not understand it. never before had he loved anything, and the prospect of releasing this precious jewel to the real world has him feeling like he's about to burst from his skin. how was he supposed to let her go? how was he supposed to . . .

panic flares the fire surrounding his throne, his fists curled into tight balls against his palms. "then you may leave."

persephone's expression shifts, her eyes flicking over to dean. hurt mares that beautiful face, her eyebrows furrow deeply, valleys between them, lines burnt into the stone. "you do not listen."

"you have made it clear," dean cannot keep the hurt from his own voice, either, "that is what you want."

it was foolish for someone like him to be irate that someone like her did not want to be around him. persephone were gold and he was ash; she were fire and he was stone.

but perhaps he'd grown used to having someone lively around amongst all of this death. perhaps the prospect of her being in his space had begun to feel less like an invasion and more like laws of nature.

death could not exist without life. life could not continue without death. it was as natural for him to crave persephone like the moon longed for the sun.

"i want choice," persephone says loudly, her voice carrying throughout the hollow throne room. "i want to not be contained."

dean straightens in his seat. "and have you felt that i've been containing you, persephone?"

she holds his gaze for a long while. so long that he sees the fire in her eyes, watches it dwindle to ash in the shore of her irises. "you have never done anything awful to me."

"i do not believe such words," the angel interrupts, their lips curled into a sneer. "manipulation is part of who he is, persephone, and you are caught right in his snare."

dean is about to lunge. his nails bite into his skin, blood pools in four glossy red crescents on his palms, with the effort it takes to not bury his fists into the cheekbones of the angel's face.

it is her eyes that keep him steady. persephone's eyes, always so open and honest. he'd mistaken her for naive when what he really saw, initially, strength. warm, like a hug. burning, like passion.

he slumps back into the throne again, his curled fists breaking open and shattering like they'd never been built for violence at all.

"he has no snare," persephone's voice is soft. flower petals brushing across his calloused knuckles, a lover's caress. "he is a product of the underworld, an image crafted to maintain his reputation. you do not know him like i have come to."

dean did not believe a lot of what she said, himself. he was not just an image of violence and cruelty; it was who he was, still, with everyone but her. his persephone.

"your mistake is that you think i am vulnerable enough to get caught in any trap," she continues, and those eyes reignite and burn as they land on the angel that clasps her wrist. "i am not a damsel, or a lamb. i am a fire burning, and you are in my way."

persephone was a fire burning. those were the two words that she'd picked for herself, when she began to acclimate to the life below the surface. she burnt trees and flowers, singed them to ash and blew them away like the seeds of a dandelion.

she had it all, up above. life burst from her fingers, the sun beat down on her and made her burst. flowers wove themselves into her hair, stems tangled in the strands, her fingertips always smelled of pollen, and she could taste the season changes on her tongue with how familiar their flavors were.

but someone that was made of life was never truly alive. she only saw things grow, cultivated them, and where was the satisfaction in it, if she never got to see them die? what was the point of life if it never ended?

the god of death had been watching her for a long while. she felt the decay long before she ever saw him, her flowers wilting and the grass turning wheat brown and crunchy beneath her green-stained knees.

life was always intrigued by death. death always craved life. she found herself drifting up to him without an ounce of fear, even as his eyes swirled with a darkness beyond her knowledge. angels were naturally contemptuous of demons like he was, but she was no typical angel, and he was no typical demon.

it'd been her plan, really, from the moment that she first sensed the burn of his gaze upon her, threatening to drain her life source from its very core, to get him to steal her away. she was exhausted with giving life to everything around her, and not ever getting to feel that thrill of something new and exciting herself.

the god did not put up much of a fight to her troublesome idea, and that was the moment that persephone realized that she had chosen right. it took nothing for him to be convinced of her purpose and her potential, whereas there was not a soul that paid her any mind unless her efforts began to slip.

she'd never felt as alive as she did walking amongst the dead, and not only because of the obvious, but because it was new. a purpose. the souls that were trapped beneath the mortal grounds did not need to live like they were entombed in eternal winter.

persephone was a fire burning in the icy pits of hell, daring to melt away its harsh exterior and warm it, starting with the man that believed her capable of such.

"what is this?" she asks upon entering into his throne room, her eyes bursting open like blooming flowers at the sight. his throne, a towering mass of obsidian once in the center of the room, was now shifted. and next to it was... "for me?"

a granite throne of smaller stature, engraved with vines and thorned flowers. lesser demons worked on it without stirring at her arrival, though their rigid backs gave way that they sensed her. she was the sole thing with a heartbeat in this kingdom, it was impossible not to.

her beloved dean sat on the big arm of his own throne, eyes narrowed and scrutinizing on the working demons, lips curled in utter focus. but the moment her voice rang out, the black depths of his eyes melted into the green she'd gotten to familiarize herself with. the green just for her. "if you wish it to be," he says nonchalantly, as if having a throne built just for her was some idle task.

"you do not have to go to such lengths for me," persephone insists, "i am merely a guest in your home."

his eyes narrow. not long ago had that angel invaded the underworld and tried to drag her away. spouting nonsense about the god's manipulation of her, turning her vision rose-tinted and blind. the angels did not know that she had manipulated the god into bending to her will. "you are not merely a guest if you wish to be more."

"that is a bold offer," and she almost calls him dean, but she refrains in front of his subjects. that name is reserved for them and them only. his vulnerability is hers to cherish.

dean's head nods once. "and you are a bold girl."

her heart swells. the hollow thud of tools on stone echoes throughout the room for endless moments while she watches him, stares into those eyes that only deepen for her.

"leave at once," he commands, his voice cold and crafted of ice. dean's eyes, though, do not freeze over into black as they stay locked with hers.

the subjects scramble to their feet and disappear into the open archway of the throne room, out of sight. in a blink, it is just persephone and the devil, his gaze crafted of marble and as warm as a hearth.

no, he is not capable of manipulating her or breaking her. but she is capable of shattering him. he is lucky she would never want to hurt him. she is lucky that his heart thaws just for her.

"i will tell them to dispose of it if you do not want it," dean says, his voice like warm honey compared to the frosty interior. "i only thought that it would be nice. to have you around when i am not available to keep you company."

persephone shakes her head. "i love it," she answers, her eyes falling back onto it. it is everything she loves at once. the harshest flowers, the cruelest thorns ━ blackstone carvings of the balance between life and death.

dean can read her like a book. his eyes stay locked onto hers for any flicker of change in them. "there is something else." his jaw ticks. "say it."

"i am afraid."

the words come so easily that she does not feel the need to sugarcoat them, or to bury the truth beneath flowery words. though his reaction is unexpected. a flinch mars his expression.

she feels guilty at once.

"oh," is all he says, and the soft utter of the one syllable alone has her reeling to make this right.

"not of you," she says quickly, desperate to get the hurt out of his beautiful eyes. "never of you." dean stays looking unconvinced. "i am afraid," she starts again, backtracking on her words so that they might sound better this time, "of how a throne for me will be perceived."

dean's expression hardens and tightens. it takes seconds for him to become a man of marble ━ harsh lines deepen the contours of his face, expression unyielding and unmoving. he is the god hades, then, and not her dean.

instead of responding, his head jerks in gesture to the throne. not hers, but his. the one that he sits on the arm of, and not in. the one that does not belong to her, and that has probably never felt the presence besides its god's.

persephone's feet carry her to it, anyways, as if her body has not realized, yet, the implications of it all. her fingers dance along the glossy stone of the empty arm, expecting it to be icy and finding it warm.

she sits upon it, and it bursts into flame.

dean does not flinch away from the wisps of fire, though. they do not touch him. as she thought, the fire adheres to him, the throne answers to him ━ and it appears to answer to her, too.

"you are as much of a queen," he mutters as his head dips down, lips brushing on the curve of her ear, "as i am a king."

persephone cannot move, stuck in the trance that was the burning in his eyes. dean leans closer, and she does not move. his breath is warm and full of life on her skin. "it is yours if you want it to be. all of this is yours."

she has never wanted something more than to mean something. to have a place amongst death as life always should. her lips part to say so, but three words interrupt her, stopping her heart in between her ribs. "i am yours."

it is incredible, persephone thinks, to be loved. to not feel too inadequate to deserve it. to be herself, and to be enough.

his hand falls on her cheek, and hers lifts to trap it there, caging his love before it can run out of her like sand in an hourglass. and before she knows it, she's leaned up enough to kiss him.

his mouth tastes like frosted pomegranate and sin. his tongue breaks through the barrier of her lips like he's craved her for so long that he knows exactly what to do now that she is here.

life unto death. life undoes death.

he keeps her face between his palms like she is something precious as he makes the moves to stand. he is between her legs, then, his fingers trailing up the dress she wears, tucking beneath its hem.

she does not stop him. his fingers land on her inner thighs. she does not stop him. he sinks to his knees in front of her, a king bowing at his own throne, surrendering.

persephone's mouth parts in blooming anticipation. his hands push her knees apart, the thin fabric of her dress's skirt pooling in between the open space. and there dean is, her dean, as warm as he is frozen, thawing at the touch of her.

"i know you do not fear fire, my beauty," he whispers, his voice as rough as gravel as he looks up at her through his eyelashes, "so burn for me."

and then he buries his face between her legs, and she bursts into flames.

"i had this made for you," dean says upon entering their shared space. she is sprawled underneath silken burgundy sheets, completely bare, still, from the previous night. and the one before that. she has not left his bed or made any attempt to.

all he wears is a wrap of black cloth around his waist, hair damp from a shower, the smell of soap billowing around the room like smoke. and in his hands is a crown.

ruby red roses wrap around the base. the sharp points are thorns. deep green vines wrap around it in its entirety. it is sharp, deadly, and it is beautiful.

the sheets pool at her lap as she sits up, her lips parted in her awe. it is beautiful. it is everything he views her as, she knows, because he does not let her forget that she is as fierce as she is soft. she is thorns and she is roses.

dean crosses the space to nestle the crown into her hair. his knuckles trail down her cheek, a soft caress, softness that stays reserved for them.

"you look beautiful wearing your power atop your head," he mumbles mindlessly, his eyes searching her expression for any sort of reaction. but she is struck wordless. there is no magic in a crown made of thorns and bloody petals, but there is magic within her now that she wears it. an irrevocable strength that does not waver.

she reaches up to touch it, fingertips dancing along the jagged points of the thorns. her finger pricks, the sting making her blink in her surprise. how long had it been since she'd dealt with pain? since she'd seen it in her very eyes?

"when you are presented tonight, to my court," dean continues, his knuckle locking beneath her chin and tilting it up higher so she may meet his eyes, "you will wear it."

the fear of being rejected by his people and his subjects is now nothing but a wobbly line pretending to be a towering wall. she had broken past those worries, shattered them into rubble and dust, the moment that he'd kissed her.

like he knows that such an act will solidify her and her feelings, he presses his mouth to hers. warm, as always. everything in the underworld, now, is becoming warm and hearty.

persephone grabs at the cloth wrapped around his waist to drag him in closer. her hands slide around the expanse of his thighs and pull, pull until his knees meet the feathery soft mattress and he is atop her.

"i will never take it off," she vows on his lips, letting him swallow their truth.

dean's lips quirk into the kiss. "already fitting perfectly into your role."

━

persephone's throne is collecting dust, now, from the disuse. dean has insisted that she sit in his lap on his throne from the very moment that they'd first gotten together, and persephone was never one to argue with what he wanted when it was what she, too, did.

his people do not like her. it is evident in their sneers and their irritation. but it is not her job to make them accept her. it is theirs to come to terms with, when she stays.

dean's hand trails up her thigh, his palm leaving shivers with each pass, raising higher beneath the hem of her black satin dress. thorned vines wrap around her legs, thorns blossoming down the center path of the room from each step she took.

she is life and she is death. and most importantly, to her, she has found a purpose within his courts.

"you must not falter if they speak ill to you," he whispers into her ear, peppering the words along her skin in between kisses, "you must show them the queen that i know you to be."

it was reassurances that persephone did not need. she was not afraid of the dead. she craved death like it starved for her.

every harsh stare toward her was met with her own sneer. it was hard to fear her above, when flowers bloomed beneath her feet and branches curled toward her, wishing to listen in on what she had to say, and the wind whispered its secrets into her ears.

here, she was fire. here, she'd never felt so alive.

persephone could feel dean's eyes on her. when she turns to meet his gaze, there is pride in his green eyes. green, just for her. green, like the leaves and the grass. she lifts her hand to smudge the wrinkles in the corners of them, the gesture a silent question and an act of affection.

"you do not have to hide from me," she promises under her breath, the pad of her thumb massaging the age lines over his stubbled face. "show me how dark you can burn."

and when his eyes blacken, she is certain that love can conquer all. it certainly has brought a king to his knees.

the warm months were dawning. persephone knew, because her veins ached with the need to be above again. spring was upon them. it was time for her to return. just as dean had his duties, she had her own. it would not be fair to throw them to the wind just because she'd found a home, now, and was no longer wandering mindlessly through the woods.

dean stands before her, a grim expression on his face. in his hands is a pomegranate, torn in two. the juice runs down his hands like blood.

from his face, she knows that he must feel, too, like he is bleeding out.

persephone steps forward to press her forehead against his, on the tips of her toes to reach him. his arms wrap tightly around her, staining the white of her flowing gown pink with the blood on his hands.

she does not make any move to pull from him, though. she has waited as long as she possibly could already, but she does not want to abandon him again to his kingdom of cold isolation. does not want to see how much he falls apart without her; not when she will shatter just as violently.

"i will be back when the wind begins to chill," she promises, slipping from his arms just enough to steal a pomegranate half from his hands. she plucks a seed from its pieces, popping it between her lips. "i will be back at the very first reddening of the leaves, i swear it."

it does not loosen his clenched jaw. dean has never doubted any of her promises, but he does doubt himself, falling into a pit of his own destruction. she does not want to leave him and see how many shards she will have to pick up upon her return.

dean's fingers reach out to steal one of her seeds. "i would never take away your ability to choose," he says softly, placing the seed on his tongue as she had, like an unspoken vow between them in the shared gestures, "but i wish that you will continue to choose me."

"always."

her eyes close, and it's like she can already hear the crying of the birds in the sky, the nymphs in the trees crying for her to return, her mother wailing. it overwhelms her. she opens her eyes again to find solace in the black swirls of his.

"i will count the days until you come," he swears, his stained fingers brushing streaks of red along her cheekbone as he cups her face against his palm. "and i will burn the world if you are kept away from me."

persephone knew he would, too. just as she would tear through it all to get back to him.

it is with great effort that she crosses the gate between the underworld and the real world. her strength crumbles the moment her feet touch the grass, tears streaming down her face, the first signification of spring being the pouring rain that starts the moment her tears do.

but she was strong, and now much stronger, now that she holds place in someone's heart and she has found solace in a home that welcomes her just as she wants to be. as a queen, not just an angel, as a girl who wants to burn as much as she wants to light.

and true to his word, the depths of hell are aflame the moment the gate closes. the ice melted and thawed, in its place, flames and fire and heat, grieving the angel of death until she makes her way home to its king again.

tags. @sthefferrete @cevansbaby-dove @titsout4nicholas @cosmicanakin @bluestrd

@ultravi0lence14 @mccartneyqp @poughkeepsie99 @depressionbarbie2023 @im-bili

@ariasong11 @chevroletdean @angelblqde @ostaramoon @deansbite

@lyarr24 @jasvtsc @deanswidow @figthoughts

click here if u want added!

[surielstea]

Dancing With Fate

Original request.

Pairing: Nyx Archeron x Tamlin’s Daughter!Reader

Summary: While struggling with her relationship with her father, Reader goes to her first ball and stumbles upon a male she has never met, but feels a distinct connection to.

Warnings: slight angst with a parent, mostly fluff between Reader and Nyx

A.Note: I apologize for how long this took me to get out, I really struggled with how to format her back story but I ended up fairly happy with it, let me know if y’all want more of these two I’d be happy to write a few one shots of their dynamic as well as all the family drama since I’m such a sucker for the forbidden love trope ;)

6.4k word count.

"Can you do that again for me, my sweet?" my mother whispered, her voice trembling as she crouched down to my height. I watched her eyes fill with a glassy shine that I didn't understand. She reached out, her hands shaking as they wrapped around my small wrists. I blinked up at her, wide-eyed and oblivious, only feeling the warmth of her touch and the tremor of her fingers.

I balled my hands into tiny fists, scrunching my face with all the concentration I could muster. I wanted so badly to make her proud, to show her what I could do. I willed the claws beneath my skin to surface, squeezing my fists tighter until, with a soft tearing, they slid out, small and sharp, shining like new silver. Her breath caught, and her eyes went even wider as she stared at the claws that had split through my knuckles. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and I tilted my head, wondering why she was sad. I reached out, my claws joining the action as I moved, but she stumbled back, evading the sharp silver, her hand pressed over her mouth.

"What's wrong, Momma?" I asked, my voice tiny. I tried to reach for her cheek, to wipe the tear away like she'd done for me so many times, but she shook her head, forcing a small, shaky smile.

"Nothing, it's alright, my sweet," she whispered, her voice soft and a little broken. "I just... didn't think you'd be able to do this so soon." Her fingers lingered on my cheek, warm and tender. She looked at me like she was memorizing my face, like every part of me mattered.

I gave her a proud smile, lifting my hands. "Isn't it cool?" I grinned widely, my innocence unbroken. I had no idea what my claws really meant, or the sorrow that darkened her gaze as she watched me slash the air with them, filling the quiet night with soft, sharp swishes. She just sat there, quiet and sad, holding her own hands close to her chest as if they couldn't bear to let me go.

It was a late night, much too late for me to be awake. I clung tightly to my mother's hand as she led me through a garden filled with roses that gleamed under the moonlight. The flowers were tall and beautiful, and I wanted to reach out to touch them, but my mother's grip kept me close. She moved so fast, her cloak wrapped tightly around her, like she was hiding from something.

"Where are we going, Mom?" I asked in a small voice, but she didn't answer, her steps quickening as she pulled me along. The roses seemed to shiver in the breeze, their petals brushing against us as we passed, and the moon above us was high and cold, casting everything in a silver glow.

Ahead of us was a huge mansion, bigger than any house I'd ever seen. It loomed in the night, dark and quiet, like it was waiting for us. My mother slowed as we neared the porch, her breathing heavy as she crouched down in front of me, her face serious in a way that made my heart beat faster.

She pressed a folded piece of paper into my hands, her fingers cold and firm around mine. "We're going to play a game, okay?" she said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her fingers brushed my cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

I nodded eagerly, happy that she wanted to play. Games with Momma were always fun. She pointed to the paper, her hand gentle but urgent. "Whoever opens that door," she said, her voice steady but quiet, "you give them this paper, okay?" Her gaze held mine, as if she was trying to pour a message into me with her eyes. "And, my sweet," she paused, swallowing hard, "I'm going to hide now. And no matter what they ask you, you can't tell them I was with you. It's a big secret."

I blinked up at her, not fully understanding, but I nodded anyway, like a good girl. She reached out, her fingers lingering on my cheek again, her eyes shimmering with something I couldn't name. "I'll meet you at the window, okay?" Her voice cracked, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "It'll be fun, I promise."

I reached up to brush the tear away, but she was already rising. Before I could say anything else, she knocked on the tall doors, and with a last, lingering look, she turned and melted into the shadows. Just like that, she was gone.

Suddenly, the night felt enormous and empty, the shadows stretching out around me, dark and cold. The noises from the forest grew louder, like the trees and animals and everything hidden within the dark were whispering all around me. My heart pounded, and I almost wanted to cry out, to beg for her to come back and take me home. But before I could make a sound, the massive doors creaked open, casting a sliver of light onto the porch.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and fierce, with wild red hair and eyes that seemed to cut through the darkness. One of his eyes gleamed gold, like a piece of metal, and he looked down at me with a frown, his expression stern and sleepy. "Excuse me, Mister," I squeaked, trying to remember my mother's instructions.

His gaze softened just a bit as he took in my tiny figure. "And who might you be?" he asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

"I'm supposed to give this to you." I held up the paper, my hands trembling as I waited for him to take it. He knelt down, eyeing me carefully as he unfolded the note, his expression unreadable. I gave him a polite smile, remembering my mother's lessons, but his gaze flicked from the note back to me, his eyes narrowing.

"Where's your mother?" he asked, his voice soft but sharp.

I shrugged, fidgeting under his gaze. "I don't know," I whispered, my heart thudding in my chest.

"But she brought you here, didn't she?" he pressed, his gaze steady. I swallowed, unsure of how my mother would want me to answer. After a long, quiet moment, he sighed, opening the door wider. "Come inside. You shouldn't be out here alone."

I followed him into the mansion, the silence thick and heavy as he led me up a grand staircase. My shoes clicked against the cold, polished floor as we climbed up and up, stopping finally at a pair of wooden doors wrapped in ivy. I was too small to open them, so I just waited, feeling very small in the middle of the enormous hallway.

"Wait here a moment," he said, giving me a nod before stepping through the door. I looked around, mesmerized by the golden chandelier hanging above me, its glow casting strange, twisting shadows that moved as the lights flickered.

"I already told you I'm not in the mood to talk, Lucien." A deep, heavy voice sounded from beyond the door, and I jumped, hugging my cloak tighter around me.

"It's not that," Lucien replied, his tone shifting in a way that sounded unsure, even a little nervous. "You have a visitor."

The other voice was silent for a moment, and my stomach knotted up as I realized they were talking about me. "Tell them to leave," the man said finally, his tone cold and final.

Lucien sighed, and I heard the soft rustling of paper. The silence felt like it stretched forever, but then footsteps approached. The door swung open, and I looked up to see a tall man with golden hair, his eyes dark and sharp as they fell on me. I could tell by the way he looked at me that he wasn't used to children, that maybe he didn't know what to do with me.

But he crouched down slowly, his gaze softening just a bit as he held his hands up, like he wanted me to know he wasn't going to hurt me. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

I told him, my voice a quiet whisper, but he nodded as if he'd heard every word. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, tilting his head, and I shook my head, looking down at my hands.

"I'm the High Lord of the Spring Court," he said softly, his tone proud but his eyes sad. My eyes widened, a little smile pulling at my lips. I'd heard of a High Lord in my mother's stories, someone powerful and magical.

"But, more importantly," he continued, his gaze searching my face, "I'm your father."

I blinked up at him, the words hanging in the air like they were something heavy, something I didn't yet understand. I wanted to ask him what it all meant, but all I could do was stare up at him, my fingers curling around the edge of my cloak, wishing I was safe in my mother's arms again.

———

Ever since that night, I've been confined to this estate on every special occasion, under the watchful eyes of my father's maids, lest I sneak away the moment I'm alone. Tonight, like many others, I'm left looking out the window of my bedroom—the same spot where I'd waited endlessly as a child, hoping my mother would come back for me.

But tonight was going to be different. I'd make sure of it.

I storm out of my room, my heels clicking with determined steps as I march down the hall. I swing open the doors to my father's study without knocking. He looks up from his papers, brow creased, clearly taken aback by my abrupt entrance.

"I'm going to the Dawn Court tonight," I say, my tone leaving no room for discussion.

"Absolutely not," he replies, shaking his head and dipping his quill back in the ink, dismissing me with the kind of finality he's used to exerting over me.

"All the courts are invited," I argue, stepping forward. "I'm obligated to go."

"No," he says again, his tone colder. "It's a high-profile ball. You're not ready."

I draw in a sharp breath, struggling to keep my temper in check. "Not ready? Father, I'm nineteen. If not now, then when?" This age had been difficult for him for some reason, I don't know why but ever since my birthday he's been acting strangely, started keeping me shut out and less involved—I may as well have just been imagining it or it was a coincidence it started happening after I turned nineteen, but once I got the thought in my head it was hard to get it out.

His expression hardens, his voice annoyingly calm. "Just, not now."

A chill spreads through my hands, and I have to resist the urge to bear the claws that hide beneath my skin. "I'm so tired of having every decision made for me," I say, pressing my palms to my temples as frustration wells up. "Of being treated like a prisoner in this house."

He stands, his temper fraying. "And I'm sick of you thinking you know best," His voice rises, echoing in the silence of the study. "You don't understand half of what's at stake."

"No, maybe I don't. But neither do you, apparently," I snap back. "Or maybe it's just that you're afraid to lose the only company you have left in this house. Is that it, Father?"

His hands ball into fists, metal-like claws gleaming from his knuckles. Mine slid out as well, a metallic gleam in the dim light.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he snarls, eyes darkening.

"Maybe I do," I bite back. "I hate this house." It came out as more of a confession than a retort, but his face falters, pain flickering through his eyes before he regains his composure.

"You don't mean that."

"I do," I insist, voice shaking with anger. "I hate this house, and I wish my mother never abandoned me here." The words are barely out of my mouth before I turn on my heel and stride out, slamming the door behind me so hard the walls shudder, my claws snagging on the wood of the door and scraping the paint off, revealing the bare, slightly rotted wood beneath. It felt like a metaphor, in a strange way.

I make my way to the garden, desperate for air. The night breeze is cool as I step out onto the deck, and I close the glass doors behind me a little more gently this time. Taking a few deep breaths, I walk along the garden path, letting the silence and cold soothe my frayed nerves. Winter's grip is finally loosening, and the garden is starting to come alive with buds and leaves. My favorite time of year.

I reach for one of the rosebuds, my claws retracting ever so slowly, my skin morphing over the hideous metal that gleamed in the moonlight. I forget the feeling of the power my father gifted me and remember the feeling and comforting warmth of my mother's power flickering beneath my fingertips. The flower blooms in my palm, reaching out toward me, and I smile faintly as I coax the other buds open along the path. Flower by flower my frustrating emotions ebb, and by the time I've reached the stone bench, my anger has cooled, replaced by something heavier, more complicated.

I sit, feeling the familiar weight of regret settle over me. I don't hate this house, not really. I hate the way I'm trapped in it.

The glass door opens, and I know without looking that it's him. My father takes a seat beside me on the bench, and I shift away, making it clear I'm not ready to forgive him just yet. We sit in silence, watching the newly-bloomed flowers sway in the night breeze. Finally, he sighs.

"You can go to the Dawn Court tonight," he says quietly.

I turn to him, my eyes wide with surprise.

He hesitates, looking down at his hands. "I'm..." He struggles around the word. "Sorry that you feel like you can't make your own choices," he mutters, his voice filled with a vulnerability I haven't heard ever before. "I'm trying to do better. And, you're right. I am afraid."

My heart softens, and the walls I've built up slowly crumble. "Afraid of what?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Of losing you, in turn losing everything." He looks up, his eyes—a shade of green I've always found comfort in—filled with an emotion that makes my heart ache.

Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me close, his hand gently stroking my back. "I'm sorry, too," I murmur into his shoulder.

He shakes his head. "Don't be. You're my daughter. You're allowed to be angry with me." He pulls back to look at me. "Just promise me one thing," he says. "Promise you won't run away tonight."

I give him a small smile, the request so obscene that u couldn't help it. "I'll be perfect. Thank you, Father." I reassure.

He nods, satisfied, and rises from the bench. "We leave in an hour. You'd better start getting ready."

———

My dress is a soft lavender that hugs my waist and fans out into a beautiful, flowing skirt, the slit running up my thigh edged in delicate embroidered flowers. The open back crisscrosses with delicate ties, and the neckline is just low enough to be elegant without being too revealing. One of the maids has styled my hair in a half-up, half-down look, a few braided strands framing my face. For once, I feel exactly how I want to feel—elegant, feminine, and free.

I leave my bedroom and make my way down the hall to the marble staircase, where my father waits at the base. As I descend, his eyes widen, his mouth opening slightly as he takes in my appearance.

"Well?" I do a small spin, laughing at his awestruck expression.

He swallows, a proud smile slowly spreading across his face. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, pulling me into a hug.

I hug him back, letting him hold me close, and in that moment, it feels as if all the tension of our earlier argument melts away. We're just father and daughter again.

———

The Dawn Court ballroom is bathed in golden light, warm and inviting. I've barely stepped inside when a tall, dark-skinned man in white robes approaches, a halo of gold atop his head.

"And who is this lovely lady?" he asks, his voice rich with curiosity.

"My daughter," my father answers gruffly, his protective tone unmistakable.

The man blinks in surprise before offering a sheepish smile. "Ah, well then." He turns and makes a quick exit.

"Who was that?" I ask, amused by his reaction.

"High Lord of Day," my father mutters, a hint of irritation in his voice. "He has a reputation."

I raise an eyebrow, smiling as I unlink my arm from his. "Are all High Lords so... pretty?"

"Careful," he growls in warning.

A cheeky smile appears on my lips as I unhook my arm from his. "Only observations." I shrug. "I'm going to get a drink." I take a step away and he takes it with me. "Father, I'm only going to the refreshments table, not war. I'll be fine." I promise and he solicits a sigh.

"No wine." He demands and I shake my head in disbelief.

"Yes sir." I mock salute before spinning on my heel and walking across the ballroom, I make my way to the refreshment table and pour myself a glass from the fountain of cider, admiring the way the bubbles shimmer in the golden light. My father had said no wine but mentioned nothing about spiked cider. I take a long sip and begin to explore the ballroom, watching dancers swirl in gowns of blue and pink that mirror the sunset outside.

Lost in thought, I wander past an indoor garden filled with gardenias and evergreens. I couldn't help myself but slip inside, a few guests were inside, admiring the flowers just as I wished to do, so I deemed I was allowed to. I approached an arch of budded flowers, standing beneath the green vines that soon would be sprouted in color. I reached out, gently brushing a bud with my fingertips, watching as it blooms in reply.

"Your touch has improved since the last time I saw you," a familiar voice murmurs from behind me.

I turn, eyes lighting up as they land on a tan-skinned male with striking red hair. "Lucien!" I throw my arms around him, grinning.

He chuckles, pulling me into a warm hug. "You look stunning, little Fawn," he says, holding me at arm's length to take in my dress. "How did you manage to get out of the house?"

I smirk with a casual shrug. "Whipped out the claws."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Like father, like daughter." He mused and I chuckled, looking down at the flowers reaching towards me, asking for my attention again.

"You want to dance?" His hand comes to my shoulder and I shake my head.

"You go ahead, I think I'll need a few more glasses before I step foot on the dance floor." I scoff and he shakes his head.

"Nonsense, you're a terrific dancer." He bumps my shoulder.

"I'm okay uncle, really," I reassured and he clamped his lips shut.

"Okay, find me if you need me." He presses a kiss to my temple and I nod.

He saunters away towards a group of friends I didn't recognize and I continue exploring, sipping my champagne as I wander through the crowd.

My gaze is caught by a group of strangers dressed in dark clothing. There's a woman in deep maroon, a honey brunette who smiles at me softly, and beside her, a tall man wearing a black-jeweled crown. I study them curiously, trying to place who they might be.

Distracted, I accidentally walk straight into someone's chest.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I stammer, stumbling back. I trip over my heels, but a pair of strong hands catches me, steadying me before I fall.

"You alright?" an unfamiliar voice asks, deep and soothing.

I look up—and up—and up—at a broad-shouldered man with rugged features and half of his shoulder-length hair tied back. He has a friendly, easy-going smile that immediately puts me at ease.

"Yeah, sorry," I mutter, flushing slightly.

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "No need to apologize. I should have been watching where I was going. You'd think five centuries would be enough time to figure that out." He snorts, red siphons gleaming on his chest and hands.

I blink in surprise. "Five centuries?"

He grins, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, no need to make me sound ancient."

I laugh, feeling unexpectedly comfortable around him. "Right. Apologies again." I clamp my lips shut, embarrassed.

"Who's the lucky person that brought you here tonight?" He asks, sensing my embarrassment and switching the topic, shifting to face towards the crowd.

"Couldn't I have come on my own?" I counter, crossing my arms.

He laughs again. "Touché. But I'll bet that doesn't mean you'll be lacking for dance partners." He gestures to the dance floor.

"Maybe," I say with a smile, "but that depends on who asks."

"Well, I would, but my mate would probably have my head if I danced with anyone else," he says, feigning a solemn look.

"Pity," I replied playfully. "But it's alright—you don't seem all that familiar with your feet anyway."

He gasps, feigning insult. "Hey! I'll have you know I'm a world-class dancer!"

"Oh, really?" I raise an eyebrow. "Shame, then. You missed your chance."

He chuckles, backing away. "Well, it was nice talking to you—mystery lady."

"Likewise," I call after him with a smile, watching as he disappears into the crowd.

The music is lively, filling the ballroom with a vibrant energy as dancers swirl and laugh under the golden chandeliers. I sip the last of my cider, feeling a pleasant warmth spread through me. For the first time in ages, I feel, free. Maybe my father had been right to keep me close all these years; maybe I wasn't ready for this world of strangers and their sharp eyes. But as I watch the colors and movement around me, I know I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

Lost in my thoughts, I wander past the terrace doors and step outside, onto a balcony that overlooks a sprawling garden filled with glistening fountains and delicate white flowers. I take a deep breath, savoring the crisp night air, and let my fingers trace the cool stone railing wrapped in ivy.

Then I hear it—a quiet, amused hum from just behind me. I turn, startled, and my gaze falls on a young man leaning casually against the doorway, watching me with a slight, crooked smile.

He's tall, with jet-black hair that falls in tousled waves, and eyes that are strikingly, disarmingly blue. He wears a dark, impeccably tailored suit, with a midnight-blue shirt beneath, the top buttons undone enough to reveal tan skin beneath. There's an effortless elegance to him, a quiet confidence, like he belongs in every corner of this glittering world.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says, stepping forward with a charming half-smile. "But I had to wonder what you were doing all by yourself out here. Parties like these are hardly tolerable alone."

I raise an eyebrow, feeling my cheeks warm under his gaze. "And yet here you are, all by yourself."

He chuckles, eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. "Fair, though technically, I'm not alone anymore, am I?"

I laugh, feeling my earlier irritation with my father melt away as I look at him. "I suppose not. Though I doubt you're here to keep me company."

He raises a hand in mock innocence. "You wound me. I've been nothing but kind since we met."

"Have we met?" I ask, tilting my head. "I think I would've remembered," I say with an angled head and something flickers in his sapphire gaze that I can't quite place.

He seems to consider this, tilting his head thoughtfully. "No, we haven't officially met," he concedes. "Which feels like a shame, honestly."

The corners of my mouth lift in a smile. "So, are you going to introduce yourself, or are we just going to continue being strangers?"

His eyes sparkle with something like amusement as he extends a hand. "Strangers sounds nice," I say flippantly, looking out at the Dawn Courts skyline, a sliver of the sun barely visible. This party was supposed to last until dawn, until the sun returned and the entire court could watch the outmatched sunrise of this court.

I wasn't ready to commit to making any friends, I had just gained my freedom, I wished to revel in it for a few moments longer, nameless was my way of doing it.

He laughs, a rich, genuine sound that makes my heart skip. "Alright, stranger," he says, leaning casually against the railing beside me. "What brings you out to the edge of the ballroom?"

"Some air," I reply with a shrug, looking out over the garden. "I hadn't expected to feel so claustrophobic."

He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Parties can be exhausting. All the faces, all the names. It's nice to step away."

I glance at him. "You sound like you've been to one too many of these."

"Oh, you have no idea," he says with a grin. "I think I've been to so many I could navigate them in my sleep."

"And here I thought you looked like you were having fun," I tease.

"Maybe I'm a good actor," he says, his tone playful. "Or maybe I just needed a reason to enjoy it."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "Does that line actually work for you?"

"More often than you'd think," he says, laughing. "But since you're clearly immune to charm, let me try a different approach." He holds out a hand, bowing slightly. "Would you do me the honor of a dance, stranger?"

I hesitate, glancing back at the ballroom, but something about his easy smile, the spark of humor in his eyes, makes me want to take his hand. I place mine in his, letting him lead me closer.

The music inside changes as his lithe fingers make contact with my waist, shifting to a slower, softer melody. He adjusts my stance, guiding me with a gentleness that surprises me. There's a warmth in his gaze that makes my heart pound just a little faster as I look up at him.

"So, princess," he murmurs as we begin to move, his voice barely audible over the music echoing from inside. "Are you here with family? Or did you sneak away to attend the most boring ball of the season?"

I laugh, looking up at him with feigned offense. "Boring? I'll have you know I'm having a wonderful time."

"Are you?" he asks, eyes twinkling. "Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Maybe a little of both," I admit, a smile tugging at my lips. "And you? Do you always call balls like these boring?"

"Only when my mother's not here to overhear," he replies, grinning. "But tell me, how did you get here?"

I hesitate, wondering how much to tell him, but there's something about his gaze that makes it feel safe, to be honest. "My father brought me," I say, keeping it vague. "He doesn't let me out much."

"Really?" The stranger's eyebrows lift in surprise. "I would've pegged you for someone who went wherever they pleased."

"I'd like to think so," I reply, laughing. "But apparently, my father has other ideas."

He raises an eyebrow, curiosity in his eyes. "What does he think you'll do? Start a rebellion?"

"Maybe," I say with a shrug, a playful glint in my eyes. "He's probably right."

His laughter is warm, and he holds me a little closer as we spin across the marbled balcony floor. "Well, if you ever need a partner in crime, let me know. I'm an excellent accomplice."

I arch an eyebrow, smirking. "How do I know you're any good at sneaking out?"

He grins, leaning down until his voice is a soft murmur in my ear. "Trust me, princess. You don't survive my family without learning how to slip away now and then."

I glance up, meeting his gaze, intrigued by the way his words hold a hidden depth, a story he's not telling. "Your family sounds, interesting."

"That's one way to put it," he says with a chuckle, eyes flickering with a momentary shadow. But it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his easy charm. "Let's just say they have certain expectations."

"Well, then maybe we have more in common than I thought," I say, softening.

"Seems that way," he murmurs, his voice softening too. There's a gentleness in his gaze now, and I feel his hands hold me just a little more securely as if he's anchoring me.

We dance like this, quietly, for a few moments, simply enjoying the music and each other's company. He spins me once, drawing a soft laugh from me, and when he pulls me back, I'm closer than I realized, his breath warm on my cheek.

"Do you think we'd have met otherwise?" he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I blink, a little caught off guard by the question. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Fate has a funny way of working, doesn't it?" He's still holding me close, his gaze warm and thoughtful, and I feel the world fade away a little as we look at each other.

"It does," I reply, almost breathless, my heart pounding in my chest.

He's quiet for a moment, his eyes glimmering with something I couldn't place. "I hope—I hope fate lets us meet again."

For a moment, I forget about the ballroom, about my father's rules, about everything except him. I don't know who he is, or why he's here, but something about him feels achingly familiar, like we're old friends, like I've known him in some other life.

When the music fades, he slowly lets me go, and I feel the loss of his warmth, his presence. He steps back, bowing with a playful, courtly gesture.

I scoff a laugh and give my best attempt at a curtsy. "You're a natural," He muses as the music dies down and I sidle closer to the balcony, eager to look out at the world beyond that I had never witnessed before.

The balcony feels almost timeless as we stand there, his presence beside me grounding in a way I hadn't expected. We talk as if there are no constraints, just the night around us, a quiet space carved out in the world. His words flow easily, a mix of humor and teasing, sometimes dipping into moments of gentleness that make my chest tighten.

I can't help but keep stealing glances at him, trying to memorize the sharp line of his jaw and the warm, playful gleam in his eyes. And every time I meet that gaze, I feel the strange, unshakable familiarity tugging at me—a whisper in the back of my mind that insists I know him, that maybe I've known him far longer than this one night. But I can't let myself get swept away in that feeling. Not yet.

We talk for hours about anything and everything, I tell him about the flowers below us, and what they symbolize, and in return, he tells me of the stars in the sky, the constellations, and each of their names.

We talked about things that I never voiced before, but there was a steady comfort in his presence that made me feel like I could confess even my deepest mistakes and he'd nod with understanding in his eyes, not a flicker of judgment.

We didn't go into the ballroom the entire night, had taken up the small seating area that curved around the side of the building I hadn't noticed before.

"So, princess," he says, smirking as he leans his back into his chair, arms folded in a lazy, practiced ease, "if you weren't here, what kind of trouble would you be getting yourself into?"

I think for a moment, letting my fingers graze the ivy-covered stone. "Trouble? I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I'm sure you don't." He smirks, an amused glint in his eyes. "I pegged you for the rebellious type the moment I set eyes on you." He goes on.

I shrug, glancing out over the shadowed garden below. "Well, clearly you don't know me very well," I reply in a snarky tone, my lips curling into a teasing smile. "Perhaps I'm a perfectly obedient daughter who follows all the rules."

His laugh is low and rich, sending a pleasant shiver through me. "Now, I find that hard to believe," he murmurs, tilting his head to meet my gaze. "A wildflower like you, growing in a gilded cage? No, I think you're meant to be out there—" he gestures to the dark mountains beyond the garden, "—living on your own terms."

My cheeks warm under his gaze, but I lift my chin. "And you? What about you, oh wise stranger? Surely you're not the type to follow anyone's rules but your own."

"Oh, I'd follow them," he says, his voice dropping to a playful murmur, "if you were the one making them."

I feel my face flush at his words, but I can't resist matching his grin. "Be careful what you wish for. I'd hate to ruin that roguish charm with a few boundaries."

"Boundaries?" He raises an eyebrow, laughing. "I don't believe you’re the kind of girl to put them in place, life's far more interesting without them, don't you think?" He cocks his head in an all too demeaning fashion, as if he knows me better than to even suggest such a thing. I can’t help but smile at the familiarity, of being truly seen and known, it was foreign, but welcomed. “More than you know,” I reply, a softer atmosphere taking over with the tenderness in my voice.

"So, what does someone like you dream of seeing?"

It's a simple enough question, but I find myself hesitating, surprised by how much I want to answer, how easy it feels to open up to him. "I want to see everything," I admit, my voice almost a whisper. "Every corner of the world. The mountains, the seas. I want to taste the air in different places and feel the ground under my feet where no one else has walked. I want to be free."

It's more than I've ever shared with anyone, especially someone who doesn't even know my name. I swallow, feeling suddenly vulnerable, but when I glance at him, his gaze is warm, and understanding. As if he knows exactly what I mean.

"I think freedom suits you," he says softly like he's revealing a secret. "It's in your eyes—the way they look past this place, like you're already somewhere else entirely."

His words send a shiver through me, and for a moment, I can't find any words at all. So instead, I look away, watching as the sky shifts from deep indigo to a paler shade, hinting at the dawn. "Maybe one day I'll get to see it all," I say, more to myself than to him.

"I have a feeling you will." His voice is quiet, almost wistful, and I glance back to find him watching me with that same, unsettling familiarity, as if he, too, feels this strange pull between us.

We fall into an easy silence after that, leaning against the railing side by side as the stars start to fade. Occasionally, he says something that makes me laugh, and I find myself telling him things I'd never tell anyone else—about the books I love, the dreams I've buried, the way I crave a life that's different from the one set out for me.

He listens, really listens, his attention never wavering. And in return, he shares pieces of himself, though I sense he's careful, holding back just as much as I am. He speaks of a family that has expectations, a life lived beneath a weight that isn't always visible. I don't pry, but I nod, letting him know I understand.

The sky lightens, a faint glow spreading over the horizon, and I can't help but feel a pang of regret as the world around us starts to wake.

"You know," he murmurs, his voice low, "I think this might be one of the best conversations I've ever had."

I laugh softly, though my heart aches a little at the thought of this night ending. "You don't get many opportunities to talk with strangers on balconies?"

"Not like this," he says, glancing down at me, his expression unreadable. "Not with someone like you."

There's something so earnest in his gaze that I feel my resolve waver. I want to tell him who I am, to share every piece of myself, but a part of me resists, clinging to this fleeting anonymity.

"Thank you," I say softly, and I mean it more than he could ever know.

"For what?" he asks, his tone warm.

"For reminding me that people can be kind. That they can listen." I smile up at him, feeling a strange mixture of sadness and hope. "I think I needed that."

The first light of dawn glimmers on the horizon, casting a soft glow over the garden. Slowly, he reaches out, taking my hand in his, his touch warm and steady. I feel his thumb brush gently over my knuckles, and it sends a wave of warmth through me, a silent promise in his touch.

"Maybe one day," he says softly, his voice barely a whisper, "we'll meet again. Maybe fate will give us that."

I can't bring myself to say anything, so I simply nod, letting myself savor the feel of his hand in mine for just a moment longer.

As the first rays of sunlight touch the garden below, he releases my hand, stepping back with a soft smile. He gives me one last, lingering look before turning, disappearing through the terrace doors and back into the world from which he came.

I stay there, watching as the light fills the sky, feeling like I've lost something precious and found something rare all at once.

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[servicpop]

CAN SOMEONE BE MY ADRIEN RN 😭 !! Anyways, what if Adrien asked Y/N to their prom?! isn't that the cutest thing?! is up to you if you gonna make it nsfw! I REALLY NEED HIM !! 🥲 AHHHH (love your page! so glad I found it 🫶🏻)

had so little time cus of work so let me write up something quick !

NSFW ; fingering & overstim

"Who are you taking out to prom, Adrien?" It was a question Adrien never really thought about. The obvious answer was... you, so he had completely forgotten the fact that you two weren't exclusive, or public yet. "Dunno, might just skip it," Adrien shrugged, pushing himself off the cobble pavement and brushed off the dirt from his clothes. The guys just laughed, nudging him with their elbows and patting him on the back, typical Adrien, they all remarked. Now came the complicated part, actually asking you out and playing it off so you won't get found out.

He decided a few weeks before prom day to ask you out. It was a Saturday evening, you were in your room filling out some paperwork for the school. It was crazy how much of a burden the school dumped onto you just because you were the student president. Your phone buzzed on your table, causing you to flinch from the unexpected notification from Adrien.

Look outside ur window I got a surprise for u

It has become normal for Adrien to sneak in through your window. You didn't know how your parents would react to seeing someone like Adrien, and you sure didn't want to risk it so you never actually asked them if Adrien could come in. The chair creaked as it rolled, allowing you to get up and walk to your window. You peered through the glass to look down at your yard, seeing Adrien standing on the grass with flowers in his hand and a large cardboard cut out with poorly drawn glittery words that were practically ineligible from his handwriting. You could tell he used glue and threw glitter on it from the way the letters drooped and melted.

You turned away from the window and went back to work.

You had barely gotten back on your chair until you heard your window slam open and Adrien jump in. How did he get into your room on the 2nd floor? Who knows. A few petals scattered onto your floor and Adrien dropped the cardboard cutout onto the floor, striding to where you were standing. "I'm not leaving until I hear a yes," Adrien grinned, placing the bruised flowers onto your desk and wrapping his arms around your waist, hoisting you up into the air and placing you back down onto your bed.

You don't know how long he's been at it. He has you laying ontop of him, back to his chest and three fingers slowly pumping in and out of you. There was already white all over your abdomen from your previous orgasms. His left hand is working on your spent cock, rubbing the tip over and over again. His fingers are sodden with your pre-cum that continued to leak out your slit despite how many times you've cum. "Adrien— please I can't take anymore," Your whole body screams with pleasure but your mind is so blank you can't even think a full sentence.

"Not stopping till you say yes," Adrien cooed, rubbing circles along your cockhead that sent shivers down your spine. He knew exactly all the spots you're weak in and all the spots that would drive you insane. Your pride wouldn't let you say yes, how could he even attend prom with you without it being a huge give away to their relationship? But now, all you could think of was his calloused hands rubbing so sweetly at all your spots. His fingers squelched as they pushed deeper, pressing against your prostate once more.

"C'mon just tell me you'll go to prom will me, I'll work double shift to buy you a suit if you want—" "I'll go to prom with you." "I'll even rent a car— huh?" Adrien paused, instantly sitting up to look at your face. It took a moment of pause before a toothy smile spread across Adrien's face, "Really?" You barely nod, your body as so spent from Adrien's torture. Adrien slides his fingers out of you, and wraps his arms around your shoulders in a bear hug. He basically tackles you on your own bed, rolling you around with a hearty laugh, "Fuck I really thought you'd reject me," he smiled against your shoulder, pulling you to lay ontop of him again but now both your chests were brushing against eachother.

"Does this mean we're dating—" "No."

[lovebugism]

shy! reader request: eddie & reader having their first sleepover? reader bein all cautious about her actions and if it’s ok and eddie seeing this just lifts up the blankets to the bed to welcome her in to snuggle :)

love love love this request! hope you enjoy :D — eddie tries to make his shy!gf feel at home in his trailer (fluff, new relationship hijinks, 2k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Despite what people say, Eddie Munson does not drive like a maniac.

Correction— Eddie Munson doesn’t drive like a maniac when there’s a pretty girl in his van.

Even though you’re pretty much the first girl to be in his van period (and even though you wouldn’t consider yourself all that pretty), you’re glad to be an exception to the rule. Your panoply of anxieties couldn’t have handled anything more than the passably steady car ride from Benny’s Burgers to Forest Hills.

You don’t mean to let out a sigh of relief when he parks in his driveway.

Eddie grins and unlatches his seatbelt with a soft click at the same time you do. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks with eyes just as wild as his hair.

You shake your head with your lips pursed to the side, then peer at him from beneath your lashes. “After everything Steve said, I was expecting a lot worse,” you confess. And even though you duck away from him, Eddie can still see the small smile on your petaled mouth. Just as quiet as you are.

“Well, one, don’t listen to anything Steve says, okay? Like, ever,” Eddie cajoles lightheartedly. “And two, I don’t drive crazy when I have precious cargo sitting next to me, alright? Stevie’s just jealous ‘cause I think you’re prettier than he is.”

Your nose scrunches as you try to worm your way out of his compliment. “So you think Steve’s pretty?” you tease, already knowing the answer.

He scoffs. “Totally! Just not pretty like you. And don’t tell him I said that either— It’ll just go to his hair.”

The incorrect turn of phrase makes you giggle.

He turns his knees towards the door and curls his fingers around the latch. “Wait for me a second, will ya?” you hear him mumble before he hops to the ground. He slams the door shut behind him and rounds the hood on his way to you — sneakers crunching against the gravel, momentarily aglow with yellow headlights.

He’d done this before at the diner. You wait patiently for his arrival like you did then, even though you feel a bit silly doing so. You’re more than capable of getting out yourself, but Eddie always insists. 

He opens the passenger side door for you with a tightlipped, lopsided grin and holds his free hand out towards you. His fingers are larger and much warmer than yours as they wrap around your palm to guide you out. 

The van isn’t that high up off the ground, really. He just likes to hold your hand.

You don’t mind it, though. You’ll take any opportunity to hold him back.

He leads you up the driveway and inside the trailer with his hand entwined with yours. “Wayne’s not here?” you murmur when you’re finally inside, noticing how quiet and empty the place is. 

Though maybe empty’s not the right word. The place is filled with stuff — old furniture, a collection of mugs, and various other necessities. Not a mess, just an organized chaos of miscellaneous clutter. It feels like a home. Like a place that’s been lived in.

“No. He’s at work. Graveyard shift,” Eddie answers, tossing his keys onto the coffee table with a high-pitched clack. 

He starts to shrug off his leather jacket and notices how squirrelly you seem, all skittish with your face twisted with a distant worry. Your neck twitches softly, head tilting once to the side and back up again. Your quiet concern becomes his own.

His brows raise, hidden beneath his curly bangs, as he slides the fabric down his tattooed arms. “Is that okay?” he wonders, eyes wide and twinkling with apprehension.

“Yeah!” you answer, louder and quicker than you mean to. You’re obviously overcompensating, but you shrug it off anyway. You smile sweetly at him, even though it wavers at the edges, and tilt your cheek to your shoulder. “I was just— It was just a question.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“‘Cause it’s okay if you don’t wanna stay the night,” Eddie assures you, giving you an out so you don’t have to make one yourself. “It’s whatever, you know? Give me the word, and I’ll take you back home. I’ll just spend the night all alone… In an empty trailer… In bed all by myself…”

His quiet smirk widens to a broader beam when he nears you. His pale hands curl around your arms, the faded bats below his thumb sitting neatly outside your elbow. 

He’s joking, of course. Well, not about the taking you home part, but about all the rest of it. 

He thinks he’d die if he ever made you feel anything less than totally safe. Dying would feel easier, at least. He’d never make you feel bad about being anxious, or coerce you into hiding your feelings for his sake. He cares about you far too much for any of that.

So his tense heart rests a bit when you smile.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, quiet but still sincere. 

The boy brightens all at once. Excited in such an innocent, boyish way. “So I get to kiss you all night long?” he wonders in a disbelieving murmur.

“Only if you want,” you answer with burning cheeks and clammy hands.

“Well, I do want… I want very much…”

He kisses you then, until your lungs run out of air. Standing together in the middle of his living room, lit by so many yellow lamps, with the croaking of frogs and the chittering of crickets sounding in the navy blue night.

He pulls away sometime after. Maybe a second. Maybe an eon or more. He recovers from being so ardently kissed much quicker than you do and guides you down the short hallway to the single bedroom. You still feel the imprint of his mouth against yours, like he’s still there. 

Your lips tingle with longing, grieving the lack of him.

You still make him turn around before you change, though.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he teases from the very center of his mattress, right before turning onto his stomach and shoving his face into the pillow.

“It’s different,” you murmur, mostly to yourself, as you slide the sleeves of your dress down your shoulders. The fabric falls to the carpeted floor in a puddle at your feet. You make quick work of redressing, as though there were some kinda time limit to what you had asked of him.

“I know,” he replies, muffled into the cushion his cheek is smushed against. “You’re still pretty, though.”

“You can’t even see me,” you argue and slide a pair of frilly sleep shorts over your thighs.

“I’d still think you were pretty even if I never saw you again.”

“Jeez,” you laugh, shoving your head through the neckline of a band-tee older than you are.

“…That sounded kinda morbid, huh?”

You giggle again. This time because his voice is still smothered into the pillow, stifled and utterly faint. “Just a little,” you answer.

“Well, it was supposed to be a compliment.”

“I know. You can turn around now.”

Eddie lifts his wild head and peeks at you over his shoulder, one eye squinted shut just in case he heard you wrong.

You’re less dressed up than before, but still as pretty as you were ten minutes ago. 

The subtle domesticity of seeing you in pajamas makes his chest ache. It’s like doing laundry or making a shopping list — something so utterly mundane that’s so strikingly tender.

“Pretty,” Eddie mumbles some moments later, when his brain forgets every word but that one.

“Shut up.”

Your hands wring together as you idle at his bedside, like you need some kinda invitation to come closer. Your head tilts again, a gentle swaying of your head that seems almost involuntary.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Eddie wonders with a soft pink, inquisitive grin. 

‘Cause this isn’t the first time you’ve done it. You did it earlier, when you first walked in, and a couple times at the dinner. Like when you catch him staring or after he’s complimented you. It’s almost like you have some genuine aversion to his affection.

“Doing what?” you murmur, all innocent.

Eddie swings his legs off the side of the mattress, socked feet melting into the carpet. His parted thighs are enough of an invitation as you settle intently between them. 

“That thing with your neck,” he answers when he’s fully upright. “The uh…” He replicates it for you, drops his cheek to his shoulder and brings it back up again. He doubts he looks nearly as cute as you do doing it.

You get so self-aware that your stomach starts to ache. “I don’t know,” you answer through the frog in your throat. “I do that sometimes, I guess— When I get nervous. I can’t really help it.”

“Nervous?” Eddie echoes, face twisted with sudden anguish. His hands reach for your wringing ones. He musters a shaking smile up at you. “Babe— Why are you nervous?”

You dig your bare feet into the carpet, shifting your weight and ducking your gaze like a nervous child. “‘Cause I haven’t slept over before. And I don’t really know what to… do. Like, what if I snore really loud? Or drool a lot? What if I accidentally punch you in my sleep or something?”

Eddie doesn’t mean to laugh in the face of your genuine worries, but it spills out before he can stop it. It’s so like you to stress yourself sick over something that’s about as likely to happen as getting struck by lightning.

“I’d probably like you more, honestly,” he answers, giving your clammy hands a gentle squeeze. His nose scrunches until the edges of his eyes crinkle. “You’re too perfect. You need something to humble you.”

“Don’t be nice to me, I’m being serious.”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I can sleep on the couch. Or on the floor or something—”

“It’s your house, Eds.”

“Well, I’m not making you sleep on the couch, and especially not on the floor. Even if I was that big of an asshole, I think Uncle Wayne would kill me.” He grows suddenly serious a second later. Still smiling, but with something more earnest in his eyes. “But… I do think we’d be more comfortable, you know, in a bed. Together.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t mean you’re happy about it. Not because you don’t want to sleep in the same bed as him, but because you’re too anxious to let yourself enjoy a good thing.

“I’m just bad at sleepovers, I think,” you confess in a tiny voice, like that fact isn’t utterly obvious now. “Like, one time, I was at a friend’s house in middle school, and I used a poster as a blanket ‘cause I was too scared to ask for a real one.”

Eddie’s smile widens. The rose petal expression blooms so large it makes his cheeks hurt. 

“Of course, you did,” the boy says with a shake of his head, frizzy curls swaying around the outsides of his jaw. “You’re so damn cute, you know that?”

You make a vague, grumbly noise of disdain right before Eddie wraps you in his arms. He pulls you softly down until you’re sitting on his jean-clad thighs, then buries his face into your shoulder. You smell like the soap you showered with and the burgers you ate and the perfume you put on just for him.

Eddie presses his lips there, to your collarbone, where the neckline of your shirt has dipped slightly down. He lingers there for a moment, then pulls away with a soft smack.

“I promise to make this the best damn sleepover you’ve ever had in your life,” he promises, muffled from where his nose is smushed into your neck.

“Yeah?” you mumble into the curls tickling your chin.

He nods, still pressed against you. “And I promise to tuck you in before bed so you don’t have to go using my posters as blankets, either.”

You push him away with a half-hearted hand. His boyish laughter paints the tiny bedroom golden. He pulls you back a second later, and you melt into him without thinking twice.