#shield sharing husbands

[intromortal]

ꕥ NICE N' FULL ⸝⸝⸝ six different scenarios in which the enhypen members breed the fuck out of you !

⚠︎ smut. mdni. breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, p in v, dirty talking, pet names, more warnings listed for each member. total wc 4k. ⸻ rules ⋆ m.list

✷ NIA — not exactly what bae @vampsol asked for bc i went a little au-ish here :p but it's me so what did we expect. shoutout to my goat @karinasbaby for sharing a braincell with me and helping me w the ideas <3

ꕥ LEE HEESEUNG

arranged marriage, it's okay they're starting to be obsessed with each other, slight somno, oral (f. rec), cum eating

If you were to tell anyone Heeseung didn't as much as look you in the eyes about two months ago, they'd never believe you. Not if the way he's clinging to your lower half before he even opens his eyes fully is anything to go by. Still naked in bed, the wet sheets clinging to your bodies the only thing shielding you from the cool dawn air.

Marriages of convenience are rarely easy, especially for spirits as free as Heeseung, and he's made it clear to you how much he'd rather have married anyone else instead. They also come with burdensome expectations of heirs way too soon for his liking. Yet, something about your devotion to him in your most intimate moments despite your general indifference and coldness towards each other, brought the cold and hard as steel man down to his knees, a puddle of mush at your feet ready to fulfill any request.

"Hee," you mutter softly against your pillow as he parts your legs to make space for himself, and Heeseung's heart soars. A month ago it would've been 'Heeseung' or 'husband' with that venomous tone you seemed to only reserve for him, like his spot in your life was only a joke. It's different now, you're tender with him.

"Shh, pretty. Just lay here for me like this." It's still early, and Heeseung can barely see, but he wants the first thing he looks at in the morning to be your pretty hole, raw and sore from all the previous fucking, still gush his seed out. He parts your folds slowly, careful not to hurt you, and watches as his milky cum greets him, pouring out of you. It's a sight for sore eyes, and one he knows he will never get enough of. Even when he'll manage to put a child in you, he knows this is something he won't be able to let go of.

You shift, now more aware of your surroundings, but Hee is quick to keep you still. Your hand underneath your stomach faintly tingles because of its weird position, but it all fades in the background when Heeseung grabs your ass and spreads it, moving lap at where his cum is gushing out of you.

You're still sensitive from the night you spent together, but his touch is feather light and you don't really know if you want him to stop or you want more. He moans at the mixture of your tastes, pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt like he's trying to clean you, switching so soft kisses on your lips once he's satisfied.

He makes his way up to your face, littering your bottom and spine in kisses and playful nibbles, relishing in the little sounds you make in response. Your front is still pressed to the mattress, and not seeing him almost makes you believe this is not the Heeseung that was shooting you sharp glares throughout the entire wedding ceremony. His touch is warmer, so much more delicate than the way he held your end that first night. His kisses are slow and deliberate, not empty and forced anymore. It's like soul has find its way back into Heeseung's being, after months of being a cold slate. The change started out slowly, but now you're here, and you genuinely feel like you could really love this man. Maybe a part of you does already.

His voice is the same, but the tone makes him sound like a whole different person, the forever present irritation is gone, only a playful tilt to it left as he finally reaches your ear to whisper in it. "Slipped out while sleeping, all of our hard work gone… such a pity." Heeseung aligns his cock to your weeping cunt, rubbing his head a few times along your folds, then carefully pushes in. "We have to do it all over again."

He's gentle, showering you in soft praises, and his thrusts are even slower. You've never known anything other than fucking, but you think this is what lovemaking feels like.

"So good, baby. You'll be such a good mom, you've been so patient with me even when i didn't deserve it. You'll be wonderful," he whispers in your ear, raising goosebumps all over your skin at just how sweet he sounds. "You are wonderful. You're perfect."

ꕥ PARK JONGSEONG

husband!jay, semi-public, bulge kink, he's insatiable

What better way to spend your honeymoon trip if not by getting filled over and over again by your dear, newlywed husband?

You can't think of any, but maybe that's also because you can't really think about anything that's not the delicious drag of Jay's cock against your walls. So deep inside you, pushing more even when his balls are already flush to your skin. Like he can't get enough, like he could break any barrier and mold into you as one if he really put his mind to it. He needs more, you both do.

But one thing's for sure, he's giving you his all.

"So fucking good, my wife has the best pussy. So perfect for me," he pants hotly in your ear, his large warm hand cupping your breast and separating it from the frigid glass your front is pushed against. The view from your suite is breathtaking, emphasized by the huge transparent wall, right beside the queen sized bed. At the moment though, you're not really focused on it. Nor is Jay, too busy gawking at your beautiful figure caged between his chest and the glass. He could stare at you forever. "I'm gonna stuff you full, baby. Gonna fuck you so good all trip, there's no way you won't be pregnant by the end."

You believe it, because all he's done ever since you undid your luggage in the middle of the room once you arrived to your destination is pump you full of his cum, all day, all night. And then all over again. Only stopping to get you food. You aren't safe from him when showering, even worse when taking a bath, definitely not when you're lounging around the natural pool close to your suite. It's not his fault you look so good in the bathing suits you packed and the ones he picked out for you. Jay has always had good stamina, but ever since the wedding he's been downright feral.

His thrusts are slow, but intense, like he's trying to drag the pleasure out as long as he can, savoring the way his tip nudges just the right stop that has you mewling in his hold every single time. His breath is warm against your neck and so are his grunts of pleasure, your favorite sound in the whole world.

Jay twists your sensitive and sore nipples between his fingers, only smiling into your neck when you reward him with the cutest mewls he's ever heard in his life. "Fuck, baby. I'm the luckiest man alive. I can't believe you're mine forever."

"You too," you whine in response.

"Yes baby, I'm all yours, forever. I love you much."

"Love you too," you sob, throwing your head back into his shoulder, completely overtaken by the pleasure he's giving you, allowing him more access to lick and suck on your sensitive neck.

"I know, baby. I know. You're doing so good, just a little more. My sweet girl, you'll be such a good mom. Can't wait to make you one. We'll have so many, so many cute kids running around. Doesn't that sound like a dream? Fuck, I can't wait."

The hand still playing with your tits slides down to your stomach, pushing down on it until Jay can feel his own cock thrusting into you. "Right here, you're gonna carry our baby here." He keeps fucking into you slowly, deliberately, so different from the speed of the circles he draws on your clit with the fingers that were soothing your hip just moments before. He drags out his own pleasure, but needs to give you so much more. "Come on my cock baby, milk it dry. We have so much more work to do."

ꕥ SIM JAEYUN

fwb!jake but he has feelings, he's down bad and a little subby in this one, dub-con (for jake), slight blood play (just his lip)

This is a series of mistakes. It's all Jake seems to be doing as of lately.

First of all, he's not even supposed to be in your bed again, the fourth time this week. Not when he finally came to terms with the fact that he has developed a raging crush on you and cannot keep his feelings at bay any longer, even when you two agreed this whole arrangement will only be sex and nothing else.

But he can't help it when you're so fucking addicting. You not liking him back is gonna break his heart, but at least he gets to fuck you, at least he gets a little piece of you, even if it's not exactly the one he wants.

Secondly, he should've refused to fuck you raw for the first time the moment you asked, even if the thought alone had his eyes crossing and rolling all the way to the back of his skull. But he's a weak man, for you especially, and he simply couldn't resist the temptation, not when you looked up at him with your big glossy eyes and with such a cute pout on your lip.

So here he is now, fucking you raw like his life is on the line, trying his hardest not to spill inside you too soon because if he does he might just die from embarrassment.

All he does, all he's ever done, is with the purpose of impressing you. It's like you have him chained up to this invisible leash he didn't even notice you put on him, and now it's too late to take it off. Jake means it when he says he would do anything for you.

His thrusts are shallow and quick, he's fucking you mostly with his tip, and you don't think you've ever seen him so worked up. It makes you feel things you didn't even know you needed. You like the feeling.

"You're so cute like this, Jakey," you giggle into the messy open mouthed kiss he's drowning you in, your fingers ghosting on the muscles of his back while his tremble on your waist. "Fuck me deeper, I want to feel all of you."

Jake's hips still for a second as he bites down on his bottom lip so hard he draws blood, but you don't mind at all. You even lick it clean, sighing dreamily at the iron taste overtaking your senses. Jake's eyes screw shut, and he's so close to cumming his eyes start to water. This is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him, and thinking that this might very well be the last time only makes his eyes wetter.

"I—fuck. I can't. I'll cum too soon."

"That's okay, we can go again," you say it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and a little piece of Jake's heart breaks. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

You sense his hesitation and wrap your legs around his hips, pushing them closer to your pelvis so his length fully sheaths inside you. It's so warm and big and throbbing to release his cum in you and there's not a single thing you want more. "Fill me up, Jakey. Claim me," you whisper in his ear. "Why don't you show everyone I belong to you?"

Jake resumes his movements, tentatively at first but steadily building a pace that feels good, his thrusts are deeper now, needier, and even if he were to try to pull out, you'd keep him right there. "I want to. I want you fully, fuck— please be mine," he sobs into the valley of your breasts, voice muffled as he licks and nips at your skin.

"Go on. Make me yours then. Show me how bad you want me."

And he does because fuck, he's weak. He's so fucking weak for you and he wouldn't have it any other way.

ꕥ PARK SUNGHOON

coworker!hoon, secret relationship, semi-public, degradation, jealousy, mentions of marriage

Something about the way Sunghoon's thick eyebrows were furrowed from the second he walked into the job that morning, or how his jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth whenever any of your colleagues as much as opened their mouths to say something, should've been your cue to behave for the day.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, he happens to look so damn hot when he's pissed.

And he's so filthy when he's jealous, pushing his buttons becomes your favorite challenge in times like these.

"Eyeing Jake all day like you want to bring him to the back and fuck him, are you not ashamed?" he spits, voice an octave lower than usual and barely slipping through his gritted teeth. "Bending over in front of him, touching him when you know I can see you. Do I have to mark you up for you to fucking behave for once?"

The roughness in his voice makes your eyes wet but your panties wetter, he doesn't bother to undress you, you don't have time for it anyway. You're just a few steps away from the lounge bar where some of your coworkers are surely taking a break right now. Anyone could walk in at any time, and maybe Sunghoon wishes for that to happen.

Instead Sunghoon just flips your skirt up and pushes your panties to the side, immediately rubbing his angry red tip on your folds to coat them in your own juices. He feels so incredibly hard against you, and that's how you know he must've been hiding a boner this entire time. As much as he loves to pretend he doesn't, it's little cues like this that let you know just how much he enjoys putting you back in your place. "Of course you're soaked." He barks a laugh devoid of humor but full of disdain.

"If it's my attention you want," he whispers more softly, and the switch in his attitude sends shivers down your spine, something that doesn't go unnoticed by Sunghoon, his lips curling into a smirk. "I'll give it to you. I'll give you so much of it you won't ever think about disrespecting me again."

He pushes his girth into you fully in one thrust, his rough fingers finding your clit within seconds, not even giving you enough time to savor the pleasurable sting that comes from his cock stretching you out so nicely. He grabs your jaw in his other hand, his smirk not turned into a snarl. "You'll cum, and you'll cum hard enough to milk all of me. You'll keep cumming around my cock no matter how much it hurts, until I fill you up. Is that clear?"

You would nod if you could, but his grip is too strong, so you do what you can: just stand there as he subjects you to anything his heart desires. He doesn't move his hips, doesn't give you that satisfaction, only rubs his fingers on your tiny bundle of nerves so hard it almost hurts, but you'd never ask him to stop it.

"You'll take all of my cum, until your belly is swollen by how much of it I fuck into you. I'll put a baby in you so no one else will ever mistake you for anything other than mine."

You clench around him, time and time again, just like he wants you to. Sunghoon has you under a spell, and the more he talks, the more he flicks your clit, the less you think about what's rational and what's not. You only know what he tells you, and to you that's the only truth you need to hear.

"I'll put a ring on your finger, make you my pretty little wife. Maybe even make you stop coming in, I'll take care of everything. Yeah, keep milking me like that, baby. Let me make you a mommy."

ꕥ KIM SUNOO

ewb, hate sex, degradation, marking, one singular 'slut', condom comes off!

"You're—mhh, such a bad fuck," you say over your shoulder, wanting to see Sunoo's reaction despite the uncomfortable position. You're lying through your teeth, of course. You know how much saying things like this riles Sunoo up, and the only times you feel anything akin to like towards him is when he's rough with you. It's why despite the mutual hatred that makes up the entirety of your relationship, you two keep finding yourselves skin to skin, tangled in bed sheets. You always thought you needed someone to fuck you like they hate you, turns out, what you really craved was someone to fuck you because they hate you. And the right man for the job is right behind you, thrusting into you like he wants to hurt you, his hands leaving bruises on your hips like it's their right to do so.

"Then why are you here, wetting my cock like no one's fucked you in years?" His moves are relentless, and you have to try your best to not collapse on the bed because of the sheer force behind every stroke. Your legs are shaking, but you hang on a thread just to not give him that satisfaction. Instead, you push him further.

"That guy from—mph, yesterday. He'd—" you gasp as he gives you a harsher thrust, so deep you're sure you can feel it in your guts. The angle he starts fucking you in knocks the air out of your lungs in the best way possible, and even if you're trembling under Sunoo's weight and clawing at the cotton fabric next to you, you refuse to back down. "He'd do a better job."

You don't need to see his face, you hear the smirk in his voice, and it's the kind that sends a shiver down your spine each time. "But you're here." Another sharp thrust. "You don't even remember his name."

"At least he las– lasted while fucking me raw." You feel him halt all movement, and you know this is enough to get what you want from him, but you just can't help it. "You could never."

"You're such a little fox, aren't you?" He speaks calmly, but you can feel the storm brewing under the facade. He drags his fingertips across your spine, barely touching you at all. It's embarrassing how that's enough to have you bend under his touch. He reaches the plush of your ass, grabbing a fistful of it so forcefully you can feel his nails break the skin. He doesn't stop when you complain, doesn't care for your pained moans. "You think you're so smart, but you're just a little slut. You want me to fuck you raw?"

You try to shake your head to deny it, but he knows better.

"Yes you do. Say it." His grip on your ass only gets stronger, and tears line your bottom lashes.

"I do," you whine, finally. "Please."

"Good." Sunoo releases the death grip on your skin, soothing over the red spot with his thumb lightly, like it's not him performing the action. The Sunoo you know has no time for care. "Then take the condom off of me."

Your head snaps back at his words, but he makes no sign of moving. So you do what he says, this once. You reach for this length, then carefully slide the rubber off of it. And right when he thinks you're finally behaving, you squeeze his cock so hard his hips stutter forward and you actually manage to steal a surprised yelp out of him.

Sunoo's reaction is immediate. He grabs both of your hands, uncaring for the way your elbows are uncomfortably bent, and brings your wrists together behind your back. He slides into you again in one swift motion, not giving you even a second to savor the feeling of his bare cock pushing into your heat for the first time. All of your nerves feel on fire, and as he sets a breakneck pace while keeping you down and unable to move.

"Do I have to fuck a baby into you for you to finally behave?" He gasps when you squeeze him in response to his words. "You'd like that yeah? You'd love for the man you hate to get you pregnant? Is that gonna make you shut the fuck up for once? Oh, I bet it will."

ꕥ YANG JUNGWON

fiancé!won, they're obsessed your honor, love on the floor

"You can't wait to get me pregnant, but what will you do when you won't be able to suck on my tits for months, mhh?" You giggle on Jungwon's lap, right in the middle of the empty room.

The new house still smells like new houses usually do, dry and woody, like the windows are never open. There's no furniture yet, but it doesn't stop your heart from pounding in your chest as you look around. Your home.

Jungwon's eyes never leave you though, and when you look back at him and find him smiling at you like you hold the world in your palm, you know you would be happy with every house, no matter the size or appearance, as long as he's the one you share it with.

"What makes you think that's gonna stop me?" Your fiance replies, shaking his head to move the bangs out of his eyes. "I'll even get something more out if it."

"Won!" you exclaim, hiding your face in your hands. Your heart melts a bit when you hear that familiar boyish giggle leave him, light as air, and for once in your life you feel like you've found the right spot in the world.

The warmth you feel spreads further as Jungwon starts caressing your bare thighs, until he's gripping your ass, using it as leverage to push you on his crotch.

You gasp at the feeling, and your hands find their rightful place on his broad shoulders so you can keep yourself steady as he starts to roll your hips against his.

"Won… we shouldn't—"

He shuts you up with a soft peck, resting his forehead against yours. "Why not? It's our place. We worked so hard for it, we should celebrate."

You bite your bottom lip as you think about it, but Won doesn't waste a minute and flips both of you over so you're caged between the floor and his chest. He nibbles on your ear, knowing better than anyone else how weak it makes you when he does that. "I'll make you feel so good, doll." It's like he's put a spell on you because you nod before he even manages to finish his sentence. "Just lay back and let me do all the work."

Your clothes are soon discarded everywhere around you, and your legs are wrapped around his hips as he fucks into you like he never has before. You're both a sweaty mess, panting in each other's mouths, exchanging spit any chance you get.

"Your pussy was made for me, doll. You're sucking me in so well." Jungwon moans against your lips, and you watch enamored as his eyes shut close and his eyebrows furrow, a droplet of sweat running down from his hairline. "Can't wait to take you on every surface of this house. Fuck— just leave it to me, baby. I have so many surprises for you."

"I'm so close, please," you whine, sliding a hand down his back to push his hips into you further. It makes Jungwon's pace faster, more desperate to give you exactly what you need.

"Let go, baby. Come all over my dick— yeah, just like that. You're taking me so fucking well. Such a perfect doll for me." His praise goes straight to your cunt, and you squeeze him impossibly hard as wakes of pleasure rack through your body.

"My perfect angel, you're gonna look so good swollen with our baby. Am gonna give you all of my cum, just a little more. We'll have so many kids running around the house we built. Our home forever," Jungwon babbles in your ear, and you're so fucked out you can even barely make out what he's telling you. You just know you need him to fuck you full, over and over.

His hips never stutter, despite how drenched and slippery everything is by now, a puddle of wetness pooling underneath you on the hard floor, getting bigger and bigger the more Jungwon fucks you, and you suspect the floor won't be the only surface you'll wet that day.

[maskedbyghost]

simon reciting his vows between your thighs. i had to write this, i'm not sorry guys. i mentioned it briefly here. enjoy! MDNI, SMUT

simon kneels between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips possessively. his eyes glimmer with mischief as he leans in, teasingly brushing his lips against your skin, igniting a fire within you.

“I kneel before you not just as your husband by arrangement, but as a man who can’t help but be mesmerized by everything you are,” he begins, his voice barely a whisper. his warm breath sends shivers racing along your body, heightening your desire as he places soft kisses along your inner thighs.

“I vow to cherish every moment we share, to honor the bond we’ve created, even if it started as part of a mission,” he continues, tracing his tongue over your skin, the sensation making your breath hitch in your throat. he glances up at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“I promise to be your shield, love, to guard you against any harm that might come your way, even if that means stepping into the line of fire—figuratively and literally,” he says, interrupting his speech with a teasing lick, his mouth just barely grazing your most sensitive spots.

“and I vow to always listen to your needs,” he adds, his tone playful. “even when you insist you want to sleep in separate rooms.” simon smirks, his lips brushing against your thighs as he leans in closer, teasing you with tantalizing kisses that leave you gasping for more.

“I’ll support your dreams, no matter how wild they may seem,” he murmurs, trailing soft kisses up your inner thigh. “whether it’s cooking that meal you love or taking on the world together, I’ll be right by your side.” his breath is hot against your skin, each word wrapped in a promise.

“and I vow to always make you laugh, to chase away your worries, and to be the man who brings a smile to your face at the end of every day,” he vows, his mouth moving closer, teasing you with his warmth as he licks a slow stripe down your thigh, drawing a soft gasp from your lips.

“and when the night falls, I’ll remind you that you’re not alone,” he whispers, his tongue flicking against your most sensitive spot, the sensation sending shockwaves through you. “I’ll hold you close because that’s where you belong—right here with me.”

his gaze locks onto yours, determination shining through. “you’re not just my wife by necessity; you’re my partner in every sense of the word. I may not have chosen this path willingly at first, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything now.”

with that, he leans in, his mouth capturing your most intimate parts, devouring you completely, his tongue working expertly to drive you wild with pleasure. every lick and kiss sends you spiraling deeper into ecstasy.

you lose yourself in the sensations, every teasing kiss and hungry lick pulling you closer to the edge, and as he continues to worship you, the world around you fades away. all that matters is simon, his devotion to you, and the bliss he brings.

--------------------------------------------

s(creaming)

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving

[miiyas]

“will you wait for me ?” is the last thing satoru gojo asks you before leaving. before leaving the kids, before leaving the school, and before leaving you. all to save a future that he knows he won’t be in.

you stand face front from your husband with shaking, numbing hands, heart too heavy to hold in your chest. your bottom lip trembles as tears stream past, you head shaking as you hold onto satoru’s forearms with cold, static hands, grip loose yet so numbingly tight, like a ghost of a chokehold.

“don’t go,” you whisper, choking on your tears as your glossy eyes stare up at his with desperation so deep gojo almost listened. “you’ll get yourself killed.” you emphasize the last word, clenching your jaw as it slips past your lips, like you regret saying it.

but satoru’s hands meet your reddened cheeks and a gentle caress of his thumb to your cheeks made you breakdown and sob. despite your vision clouding with foggy tears, your eyes never leave his now dim blue ones and his refuse to leave yours.

”will you wait for me ?” he asks again, but with more emphasis. more press with the words, like he’s forcing out a promise he knows he can’t keep. his heart aches to see you like this, but he can’t turn away now.

gojo feels you shutter and hiccup under his hands and he drags the lump down his throat, wiping away your tears with a thumb as he brings soft lips to kiss your forehead. he shields the back of your head and brings you close to his chest, letting you stain his clothes. your hands come up to throw weak punches to his chest, sobs echoing in the small of your shared home. you hit him because you know that satoru gojo belongs to the world, not to you.

gojo tilts his head down to your ear, placing a gentle kiss on the shell before asking again and you want to refuse. you want to say you won’t wait because you shouldn’t have to, because he should be here with you for as long as time allows. here where you can watch his snow white hair turn into light shades of gray and where you can rest easy with the comfort of having one another. but with a heart full with tears, mended with the string of a promise you know will be broken, you muffle out your cries, clenching your jaw tight with a reluctant nod.

you’ll wait. you’ll wait as long as you need to. and you’ll wait knowing that satoru gojo was only ever used as the strongest sorcerer in the modern era, not as your lover. not as your husband.

[femmeftal]

﹒`₊ 01  ┆︎  EMPEROR.

.   ݁pairings : emperor!mark x reader

.   ݁warnings : 18+ soft sex, pet names, biting, fem!reader, breeding, ( p in v ) mating press

EMPEROR!MARK who is bigger than all those years you have been together, muscles outlined in the new outfit that he is acquired to wear His new look made many viltrums look up to him finally claiming the title emperor finally successfully conquering

EMPEROR!MARK who is so much different behind those closed doors of your shared adorned bedroom, colors reminding you both of your old apartment you both had before all of the events placed. barely seeing that place from being booked with so much places to save, helping others, etc .

EMPEROR!MARK that is seen as a big scary ruler but truly is just a man who wants to protect his woman, to make her proud, make her worries go away just like how any other man would feel about theirs. of course he would want to make his queen safe .

EMPEROR!MARK that is always seen with his beautiful smaller mate, you looked so smaller than him when you guys stood next to each other. you didn’t mind one bit and sort of finding it attractive, your red tinted cheeks appearing every time that his arm wrapped around your waist to shield you.

EMPEROR!MARK whose libido starts to rise, brushing it off as just an hormonal thing and not bothering to take care of it. he didn’t want to bother his precious queen for stupid issues like this, when there could be more worse problems to take care of than just sex

EMPEROR!MARK that offers to take his queen to a space trip, wanting her to see how beautiful this galaxy truly is. smiling every time you guys star gaze at the multicolored sky, tinted with purples, blues, and harsh pinks. if he could store the galaxy in a jar for you he’d have done it so many times just to make you oh so happy.

EMPEROR!MARK who gets you a pet, chuckling when the puppy like creature jumps into your arms and licks your face covering it with sticky saliva. finally coming up with a name for the red creature, gaéya.

EMPEROR!MARK that goes away for atleast a day, handling missions to expand the planet viltrum. sending his wife messages on how much he misses her every single second, minute and hour and has a big surprise for her when he returns back to her.

EMPEROR!MARK when coming back has a big bouquet of flowers for you, exotic looking flowers being different color patterns than each others the wild colors colliding with the others. the scenery of the flowers being beautiful soon placing them into a decorated glass vase for flowers.

EMPEROR!MARK who wants to start a family with you, no matter how much children you give to him he would be so grateful for what he receives, being hesitant to bring up the subject he waits until the time is extremely perfect when your hormones are acting up again. he knows when too.

EMPEROR!MARK who finally talks to you about it in bed, your Lacey night gown revealing your soft beautiful skin. caressing your glowing face those eyes even looking up at him while he speaks his mind, you looked so.. sexy to him he couldn’t help but to release his stress onto you everything unwinding when your lips collide kissing.

“ my beautiful women.. my queen “ speaking between the breath taking kisses your tongues fought each other for dominance the taste of you reminding him back of your guys first time with each other, flipping you over to be on top of him he finally broke the kiss. the trail of saliva following you both soon seeing you lick your plump lips, the lewd scene made his soft member start growing erect under you. your sultry giggle egged him on the feeling on your nails massaging his chest “ oh emperor, if you were this hungry for me why wouldn’t you just take me then and there? “ your words were like a porn scene, you could feel your husbands hands trailing underneath your night gown raising it up to access your rear.

“ mm i’ve waited so long~ “ slowly reaching to the curve of his neck you began to place your kisses against the muscle of his neck, the remaining saliva that had sat on your lips smeared against his skin. softly sucking on the desired area you choose, you knew it wouldn’t do anything but the thought had count and that was all that matters. “ tell me when you want to do to me emperor “ whispering in his ear and tempting him, his grip on your ass slightly tightened and so did his pants he wore for sleeping, the space between you and your soulmate faltered soon only being entangled into each others body “ i want to do so much to you, give you my kids so little me’s would be running around “ hooking his rough fingers around the hem of your panties, wiggling your hips to help him achieve his goal of removing your panties. finally you felt the air hit your bare glistening cunt, gasping from the cold sudden air mark began his attacking on your neck making it his payback for yours. mewling the sensation had distracted you from the rustling of pants being undone, biting your bottom lip you’d slowly rock your hips against marks

“ mm..please emperor i need you to fill me”

the slap of his hard member had surprised you, feeling the skin on skin contact with his fat cock against your sopping pussy had you shying away. eyes slightly squinting from the sensational feeling of mark’s member sliding between your wet pussy lips making soft audible wet sounds, you and mark haven’t had intercourse in forever. so the exercises and yoga you’ve been doing in your free time when your lovely ruler was away has tightened you up, pressing your hips down to at least inter tip inside you could feel marks hand pulling you right back up trying to pry you away from his cock

“ wait for me princess, you can wait for me yea? “ his question sent you overboard trying to wiggle your hips back down, no way in hell you were gonna get blue balled from him trying to be all patient with you.

getting flipped over again on your back, the soft cushions bouncing you up and down vaguely. watching him stroke his cock made your patients fly out the window your eyes following the movement of his hand. precum trailing down his tip and sliding down all the way down to his base where he was slightly trimmed. “ mark.. do not tease me like this pleaase.. need you so badly my king “ your eyes were filled with desperation and lust.

he knew what he was doing making you watch him jack off to atleast prep himself before entering you, after what felt like minutes you could see him reach for your legs pulling them back to your shoulders you could feel your muscles stretch making it be slightly uncomfortable, you and mark

had made eye contact except his eyes had dominance filled in them his cock being painfully hard, every single time his member had pulsed it slapped against his lower abdomen. “ tell me you’re ready and prepared for me. “ he said softly the glimse in your eyes said everything, trying to stutter out a response oh so quickly “ m ready! just put it in please.. i want to mother your kids! “

grabbing onto the base of his cock and leading the tip between your folds, it had took multiple times to at least enter his tip inside of you. mark knew he was above average from the moment you told him he was, squealing when you guys last had sex.

you were already a moaning panting mess just from the tip, so when mark had started pushing his cock into your gummy velvet walls you were lost and brain dead. mouth opened to be agape into a “ O “ like shape preparing to mewl even more mark finally pushed in the most he could, not trying to break you from entering all if his inches into your small pussy. it was so nasty how he just stared down at your messy face, you could already feel the swell of tears blinding your eyes. “ ohh.. fuck it feels shoo good “

seeing you pant like a dog in heat had flipped a switch in mark like something told him to start pounding into you, and so he did grabbing onto your delicate frame giving it a grip that would atleast help with keeping you in place. pulling his hips out to atleast get his cock all the way out until the tip, he slowly but steadily pushed himself back in, grabbing anything he could that was on your body. caressing your soft plump breasts and imagining how soft and round they would look when your milk would produce for your heir that you’ll give him.

his hips would roll in a circular motion to hit all the spots he could find, it was effortlessly the best sex you’d ever had with him. he would ruin you for every man but him breaking you down just to build you up .

“ mm.. markk ouu mhm keep going.. “ your small mains and pleads encouraged him to continue his slow yet hard pounds, his sack meeting your wet plump cheeks. being covered in your messy arousal, marks torso bent down making your mating press get deeper. all for him to latch your nipples into his hungry mouth, sucking them like he was trying to pry milk from them. giving both of your breasts attention he left your legs hanging up to you, using his hand to tease and twirl your nipples in his fingers sometimes even squeezing then while he focused on pounding your pussy. “ mark m gonna cumm.. please god “ this was true love making, feeling your the middle of your chest having a wet patch of saliva getting licked all the way to your neck also sucking on it leaving small red marks that’d would be there for weeks. “ cum for me.. we will both … hughh fuck we will both cum “ he said groans and whimpers catching up to his words, the thrusts of his hips speeding up to chase you and his orgasm. quickly pulling you into a kiss he would grab your arms holding your delicate wrists, practically feeling the way his cock was getting squeezed by your tightening walls had indicated you were close. taking the opportunity to make you cum, the continuation of his hips circling made the band in your stomach snap and so did his, moaning into each other’s mouth you both came. mark still thrusting from his stuttering hips “ ohh.. markk “ his heavy body slightly collapsing onto yours to give each other a break.

all work owned by @femmeftal , requests open

[kathaelipwse]

The Bang Chan Husband Files | Headcanons

Warnings: Soft!Chan | Domestic fluff | Mild smut references | Overwhelming emotional support | Possible delusions of the perfect man | MDNI Trope: Husband Material™ | Soft Dom!Chan | Acts of Service + Touch Love Language | Overprotective but Gentle | Golden Retriever x Guard Dog hybrid energy

Dates

Thoughtful to the Core: Bang Chan doesn’t just take you on dates—he curates experiences. A picnic with your favorite snacks, a playlist he made just for the mood, fairy lights, and heartfelt conversation is his idea of perfect. Quality Time Lover: He values genuine connection. Watching your favorite movies with takeout and tangled limbs on the couch is his love language. Memory Maker: Keeps old movie tickets, dried flowers, and Polaroids in a memory box. Every anniversary, he shows you how far you’ve come. Surprise Artist: Plans spontaneous bookstore or museum dates where he pretends to be clueless but clearly researched the exhibits beforehand. Homebody at Heart (But For You, He’ll Step Out): Prefers quiet moments at home, but if you want a night out, he puts in effort—clean button-up, styled hair, hand always in yours. Says the Cutest Things: On casual dates, he’ll blurt things like: “I could do this forever with you. This—us.”

Protective

Silent Guardian Energy: He doesn’t need to say much—his stance, his gaze, and the way he subtly moves closer when someone makes you uncomfortable say it all. The “Step-Forward” Move: Whenever you're walking in a crowded place, he gently shifts his body in front of you to shield you, especially from pushy people or stares. Mild Jealousy, Major Control: If someone flirts, he won’t cause a scene. Just leans down and whispers, “Remind me later that you’re mine, yeah?” with that low, playful voice. Always Prepared: Makes you share your location for your safety, and if you don’t respond after a while, he calls—not to scold, but because he’s scared something happened. Protects You From Yourself Too: If you’re overthinking, insecure, or spiraling, he’ll stop everything and say, “You don’t get to talk about someone I love like that.” Gentle Shield: When things overwhelm you, he wraps his arms around you and says, “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Love Language: Acts of Service + Physical Touch

Acts of Service King: He notices the little things you hate doing—laundry, trash, bills—and does them before you can even ask. Fix-It Husband™: Will spend hours figuring out how to assemble something just to make your life easier. You’re always his priority. Can’t Keep His Hands to Himself: Always touching you—thigh squeezes, back rubs while you're cooking, brushing hair from your face. Sleeping Entangled: You wake up with his legs wrapped around yours, his face buried in your neck, and arms locked around your waist. Small, Sweet Gestures: Tucks your hair behind your ear, zips your dress, ties your laces, and kisses your temple like second nature. Handwritten Notes Guy: Leaves sticky notes in your lunch, on your laptop, on the mirror— “You’re stronger than you feel.” “Drink water or I’ll fight you.”

In Fights

When He’s Wrong: Withdraws Out of Guilt: Becomes quiet, not defensive. Hates that he hurt you, even unintentionally. Self-Reflects First: Gives you space so he can cool down, then comes back with a calm, genuine apology. Full Accountability: “You didn’t deserve that. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll do better, I promise.” Physical Apology: Offers a hug—not to escape consequences, but because he needs to feel close while fixing things. Words + Actions: Follows through on change. If the fight was about time, he makes time. If it was about communication, he listens better. Won’t Let You Go to Bed Upset: Even if it’s late, he’ll sit beside you, pinky out, whispering, “I love you. Let’s not sleep angry.” When You’re Wrong: Stays Calm: Doesn’t raise his voice. Just gets quiet and sad, which somehow hurts more. Still Respects You: Doesn’t insult or belittle. Instead, he says things like, “You know I love you, right? But that wasn’t okay.” Clear Boundaries: Tells you how it affected him—but never guilt-trips you. Waits for Your Growth: Won’t rush your apology but also won’t pretend nothing happened. Mature and grounded. Forgives Fully: Once it’s resolved, he doesn’t bring it up again. The past stays in the past. Reaffirms Love: Even in tension, you’ll hear: “I’m still yours. We’re okay, alright?”

Overworking

Workaholic Habits: Gets lost in producing, mixing, fixing—time vanishes until you show up like: “Chris. Have you eaten?” You = His Break Reminder: You have to pry him away with kisses or a snack in your hand, and he’ll act grumpy but follow you. Acts Tough, Is Mush: Once you get him on the couch, he immediately melts into you. Whispers, “You’re the only thing that can stop me, you know that?” When YOU Overwork: He notices. Instantly. Pulls you onto his lap, shuts your laptop, and tells you: “You can’t take care of everything if you burn out. Let me take care of you now.” Midnight Caregiver: If you’re working late, he’ll show up with a drink and rub your shoulders until you give in. Reluctantly Accepts Balance: Tries hard to make time for both his passion and you—because he knows you are his home.

Hypeman

Loudest Cheerleader: Doesn’t matter if you baked bread or landed a promotion—he hypes you like you just won an Oscar. Physical Praise Too: Sees you all dressed up and nearly drops whatever he’s holding: “You can’t be real. I married a goddess.” Social Media Stan: Posts blurry selfies with captions like: “She made me breakfast today. Wife material. Don’t be jealous.” Random Affection Attacks: Walks in, sees you doing dishes, and just hugs you from behind saying, “How are you so amazing all the time?” Annoyingly Obsessed (In the Best Way): Constantly brags about you to the members, staff, strangers. “My wife’s smarter than me. I’m not even ashamed.” Genuinely Inspired by You: Sees you chasing dreams and says, “You make me want to be better. Just by being you.”

In the Bedroom~

King of Build-Up: It always starts slow. Teasing touches, whispered praise, the kind of eye contact that sets your skin on fire. He savors the tension before he breaks it. Voice Gets Deep, Dirty, & Dangerous: When things heat up, his voice drops to a sinful growl—thick with that Aussie accent as he breathes, “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.” Dom But Tender: He’s in control, but not rough unless you want him to be. Holds your wrists gently. His commands sound like worship: “Let me take care of you. Just relax for me, baby.” Obsessed With Your Pleasure: He memorizes what you like, down to the sound you make when he kisses just below your ear. He’s not done until you're shaking and breathless. Eye Contact Demon: Doesn’t look away. He watches every reaction, chases it. And if you close your eyes? “Nah, don’t hide from me. Look at me when you fall apart.” Aftercare Legend: Warm towel. Water. Cuddles. He tucks you into his chest and strokes your hair, whispering, “You did so good. I’ve got you now, angel.”

When You’re on Your Period

Fully Trained, Zero Shame: He’s got the cycle tracked, your cravings memorized, and your go-to comfort movie queued up. “It’s day two, right? I made you soup and cleared the couch.” Zero Ick Factor: Buys pads and tampons without blinking. Talks about cramps and blood like it’s no big deal because it isn’t. “It’s your body being a badass. I respect that.” Snuggle Sandwich Mode: He sandwiches you between pillows and himself, rubbing your belly while muttering sweet things like, “If I could take the pain for you, I would.” On Call for Cravings: Midnight store runs? Done. Heating pad short-circuited? Already replaced. He stocks your favorite snacks before you even realize you want them. Comfort > Everything: Wraps you in his hoodie, tucks a blanket around you, and presses kisses to your temple like medicine. “Let’s just be soft today, baby.” Emotional Anchor: If your emotions spike or you start crying for no reason, he doesn’t flinch. “You don’t have to explain. I’m here. Just cry, I’ll hold you.”

Cooking (He Tries)

Effort 100%, Skill 60%: He watches cooking TikToks like they’re tutorials—but somehow always forgets something important like salt... or timing. Kitchen Chaos King: Expect mess. Flour on his cheeks, three pans going at once, and him muttering, “Why is it burning? I just looked away for two seconds!” Minho = Lifeline: Minho is his emergency contact during culinary crises. “Bro, she’s gonna wake up and the eggs are still moving. Help me.” Plates Like a Masterchef Contestant: No matter how it turns out, he garnishes with herbs, arranges the food perfectly, and says, “Bon appétit, my queen.” Needs Validation Desperately: He watches you chew like his life depends on it. “Do you hate it? Is it edible? Be honest. No, wait—lie to me. Just say it’s amazing.” Laughter Over Perfection: Even if the food’s mid, the love behind it makes it the best meal ever. And when you laugh at his mess, he grins and says, “Hey, at least I made you smile, yeah?”

When He’s Jealous

Silent but Deadly™ Jealousy: He doesn’t lash out—he broods. His jaw clenches, he goes quiet, and suddenly he’s glued to your side with his arm tight around your waist. Subtle Territorial Moves: Starts calling you “baby” louder than usual. Leans in to whisper things like, “You’re mine, yeah? Just so we’re clear.”—right when someone’s clearly checking you out. Polite but Frosty to the Offender™: He won’t be rude… unless the other guy really pushes. Then it’s a low-toned, “You need something, mate?” with the faintest smile and the darkest eyes. Pulls You Close Later: At home, he’ll kiss your shoulder and mutter, “I know it’s dumb, but I hate the idea of someone else looking at you like I do.” Jealous, Then Insecure: The moment fades and guilt kicks in. “You’re with me… but sometimes I wonder if you could do better.” Cue you reassuring him for 10 straight minutes. Jealousy-Fueled Spiciness™: …And then he kisses you like he’s proving something. “Mine. Say it.” (You're not complaining.)

When You Have Random Baby Fever

Soft Panic + Adoration™: The second you say “That baby is so cute,” he chokes on air and gives you a side glance like, “Wait. Are we doing this? Now?” Sudden Overthinking Mode: “Okay but… what if the kid gets your stubbornness and my insomnia? That’s chaos in a diaper.” Would Still Be the Best Dad™: Even while fake-panicking, he’s already imagining your future kid curled up on his chest. “Imagine if they had your eyes though… damn. I’m doomed.” Soft Daydreaming Moments: If he sees you holding a baby? He melts. Later whispers, “You’d be such a good mom. Like… you already take care of me.” Baby Fever Hits Him Too: One random night while brushing his teeth, he mumbles, “So… what if we had two? A girl and a boy?” Like sir. Calm down. “Practice” Time: “Wanna practice being a parent? Starting with… bedtime?” —And suddenly you forget about the baby and remember why Chan needs supervision.

Gaming Nights with the Boys (When You Call)

Hyper-Focused Gamer Mode: Headset on, yelling at Changbin about a grenade throw, fully immersed—until he sees your name light up his phone. Instant Soft Switch™: “Yo, pause—she’s calling.” Drops the controller mid-match just to answer with, “Hey, baby. You okay?” “Y/N Gets Priority” Rule: If it’s not an emergency but you want cuddles or food, he’s already logging off. “The game’ll be here tomorrow. She won’t sleep without me.” Boys Clown Him, But Respect It: Seungmin: “Whipped.” Chan: “Yeah. And?” Sneaks You Into the Headset: He’ll say, “Wanna say hi to the guys?” and hold the mic up for you. The boys greet you like you’re part of the crew already. Post-Game Snuggles Required: As soon as he’s off, he beelines to you on the couch, wraps his arms around you, and mumbles, “Missed you. Even if it was just two hours.”

Sick!Reader (Bang Chan as Caregiver)

Immediately Takes Over: The moment he hears you’re not feeling well, Chan’s brain switches into “nurturing mode.” He’s dropping everything—work, plans, socializing. You come first. “I’m canceling everything. You’re more important than any meeting.” The Ultimate Comforter™: Chan will text you all day long to check in. If you’re running a fever, he’ll cool down your skin with a cold compress, gently rubbing your temples and whispering, “You’re gonna be okay, baby. I’m right here.” Spoiling You with Comfort Food: He’s in the kitchen, whipping up soup (which is admittedly a bit burnt, but made with so much care). “I made this for you, baby. It’s not Michelin star, but it’s full of love.” Guilt Trip Chan™: If you try to say you’re okay when you’re clearly not, he gets a little pouty. “Baby, I told you to rest. You’re going to make me worry even more if you keep getting up like this.” He’ll gently push you back onto the couch, ready to pamper you some more. Cuddles & Rest: When you need sleep, he’s there, either lying with you or making sure you’re cozy. “I’m gonna stay here. You can sleep, and I’ll be right by your side.” He’s a giant teddy bear, making sure you’re not alone. He might even nap with you. “Tell Me What You Need” Mode: If you feel guilty for being “a burden,” he’ll reassure you with, “You’re never a burden. I love taking care of you. You’re my everything.” Even if he’s secretly a little tired, his focus is entirely on you and your recovery.

Anniversaries with Bang Chan

Memory Keeper™: For your anniversary, he remembers every little detail. He’ll bring up your first date, the first time you held hands, and how the two of you grew together. “You remember that day we stayed up all night talking? I’ll never forget that.” Romantic Surprise Planner: Chan doesn’t just get you flowers. He surprises you with a carefully planned day, like a picnic at your favorite park or a movie marathon of all the films you’ve talked about watching together. “I got the perfect spot ready. Thought we’d watch the sunset first.” Gifts with Meaning: He’s not the type to just buy a gift off the shelf. Everything he gets you has meaning. A necklace? It has a charm that represents a moment you both shared. A book? It's something you both love or something that holds sentimental value. “This is from the day we... It’s just a little reminder that every moment with you counts.” Sweet Love Notes: Chan’s a sucker for writing handwritten notes or love letters on anniversaries. He’ll leave them where you’ll find them—tucked in your bag, under your pillow, in your favorite book. “For every year, for every moment. I’ll love you more each day.” Anniversary “Us” Time: He loves nothing more than a quiet, intimate day with you. Even if the world is chaotic around you, he cherishes these peaceful moments with just the two of you. “No need to make it extravagant. Just you, me, and a whole lot of love.” Anniversary Reflections: Chan’s the type to reflect deeply on the year, especially when it comes to your relationship. At the end of the day, he’ll pull you close, whisper, “Look at how far we’ve come. I can’t wait to see what the next year holds for us.”

Jealous!Reader (Chan's Response to His "Jealous" Reader)

Instant Reassurance™: When you show signs of jealousy—whether it’s through an offhand comment or by getting possessive—Chan’s first instinct is to reassure you, showering you with affection. “You don’t have to worry about anyone but you. You’re the one I want. Always.” He’ll emphasize that your place in his life is irreplaceable. Gentle Confidence: Even if he sees you feeling a little insecure, he won’t let you feel inferior. He’ll gently touch your cheek, make eye contact, and say something sweet like, “I only have eyes for you. No one could ever compare to you, no matter what.” Playful Jealousy Back™: If he notices you getting jealous, he’ll tease you—flirting even more, giving you a taste of your own medicine. He’ll act like he’s enjoying the attention, just to make you a little crazy. “Oh, you want to fight for me? I guess I am pretty irresistible.” But it’s all in good fun, just to remind you that he’s the one who gets to claim your attention. Exclusively Yours™: He has no problem showing the world who you belong to. Whether it’s holding your hand in public or showing affection in front of others, Chan’s constant gestures say: “Yeah, she’s mine. And I’m proud of it.” Jealous? He’ll Handle It. If someone really crosses the line with you, Chan steps up in a way that’s both protective and respectful. “Hey, you got a problem with her? Take it up with me.” He won’t let anyone disrespect you, no matter how big or small the offense. Post-Jealousy Cuddles: After any jealousy moment, he’ll always come back to you with an extra dose of affection. He’ll cuddle you, whispering into your ear, “You’re all I want, baby. No one else comes close.”

When He’s Flirty

Innuendo Master™: Chan is full of playful comments that make you blush, like, “I’d say I’m not the jealous type… but if I was, you’d be the only one I’d be jealous of.” Teasing Touches: His hands are always close—resting on your lower back, brushing against your arm, or gently tugging you closer whenever you’re talking to someone else. The Whisper Game™: He’ll lean in close when you’re out in public and whisper something flirtatious in your ear, “You look so good, I might just have to take you home early.” His voice drops to that low, smooth tone that leaves you blushing. Proud Smirks: Whenever he catches you looking at him, he’ll send you a knowing, playful look, as if saying, “I know you’re thinking about me.” Subtle Challenges™: He’ll challenge you to make him blush or make him lose his cool, but deep down, he loves watching you try.

When the reader turns Chan on while he's away on tour~

Sultry Voice Notes™ While he’s away, you send him voice notes that are full of playful teasing and hints. You’ll whisper something like, “I miss you so much… I wish you were here to kiss me right now…” The low tone of your voice and the suggestiveness leave him desperately trying to keep his composure, especially during interviews or rehearsals. Spicy Texts™ You know just how to get under his skin—sending him texts with cheeky comments like, “I bet I’d look good on my knees for you right now…” or “I’ve been imagining how you’ll hold me when you get back…” The words hit him like a punch to the gut, making his thoughts drift away from his setlist or the choreography. He’ll be left biting his lip, trying not to blush when he reads them during breaks. Teasing Photos™ While he’s stuck in a hotel room or on the tour bus, you send him a photo of yourself in something that drives him wild—maybe it’s something you know he loves you in, like a cute but revealing outfit or you lying on the bed in your lingerie. He can’t stop staring at it, fighting the urge to touch himself while he's stuck on tour. “You know what you do to me, right?” he’ll text back, trying to focus on his performance but clearly distracted. Subtle Flirty Videos™ You send him a video of yourself, maybe something simple like you cooking dinner or getting dressed for the day, but you make sure to be extra flirty. A slow motion walk past the camera, a wink, or the way you bite your lip in the middle of your sentence will completely mess with his focus. He’ll be replaying that video on loop, trying to hide his reactions from the other guys. Erotic Daydreaming™ During an off-day or in-between interviews, you know exactly how to turn him on. You send a message saying, “I’ve been thinking about what I want to do to you when you get home… I can’t wait to have you in my arms and show you just how much I missed you…” It’ll catch him off-guard, making his heart race, palms sweat, and thoughts go straight to how he wants to have you when he returns. The Promise of What’s to Come™ You’ll make playful, suggestive promises like, “I’ll let you make up for all the teasing when you get home…” knowing how badly he’ll want to make those words come to life. It’s not just what you’re saying—it’s the anticipation of finally being alone together again. When he reads those texts, he can’t help but imagine all the ways he’ll take control once he's back with you.

-- The End --

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

You met your incubus!husband late one night during a thunderstorm. Usually he wouldn't be out feeding in a time like this, but he was hungry... and once he caught a whiff of your scent, it was all over for him.

He entered through your window, ready to go into your dreams...

That's when he spotted you curled up on your bed, hands over your ears as you tried to stifle your terrified sobs.

His first reaction was... intrigue. Why was this human crying in the middle of the night? Why was she curled up with a stuffed animal, wasn't that a thing only children did when they were afraid?

The incubus felt something strange while observing your trembling form... but he pushed those feelings away. You were too panicked and scared to feed from, so he'd have to find a meal somewhere else...

But he paused when you looked up at him. Not because he was afraid he had been caught, no, he froze because of the look you gave him.

Your lip was trembling, hair messy and cheeks covered in tears. When you looked at him, he almost felt compelled to rush forward and pull you into his arms, to comfort you with soft kisses and gently rocking.

But why did he feel this way? Why was he beginning to walk towards your bed and reach out to place a hand on your hair to soothe your fear?

The way you instantly began to relax, leaning into his touch made him... feel something. Something other than lust.

"Thank you.."

His eyes lit up at the soft gratitude you showed him.

Had anyone ever thanked him before?

Before he could even think, his arms were wrapped around your body, pulling you in closer so he could shield you from the thunder and lightening. The loud sounds and bright flashes of light became blurry and muffled... and you finally found yourself able to sleep peacefully.

His visits became nightly after that. There was something about you that drew him in. He couldn't feed on anyone anymore, his heart wouldn't allow him.

You became friends quickly, though it was obvious to most that he was pining after you terribly. Every waking moment was spent thinking of you and the next night he'd be able to visit...

You noticed he was getting pale one late evening, his eyes a bit dull.

“Are you feeling okay, Lulu?”

His name was Lucian, something you learned after his second visit.

“Ahh… I’m alright. I just… haven’t fed in a while.”

Lucian settled down next to you, his tail gently caressing your thigh. It wasn’t on purpose, his tail was moving on its own due to how hungry he was. To anyone other demon it would be clear how much Lucian wanted to mate with you…

“Fed? You haven’t… um…”

Your cheeks felt warm against his shoulder. He sighed softly, nuzzling against your hair. No other person he had bedded with had a scent like yours. It was intoxicating…

“I haven’t had sex since we met.”

This made you feel kind of… flattered. The way he gently reached for your hand and held it, the soft smile he had when looking at you…

Oh.

“Is it… because of me?”

His cheeks flushed a light pink, and she looked away. “… perhaps.”

His tail swayed before beginning to move up the skirt of your nightgown. He immediately looked embarrassed, trying to pull it away.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… it moves on its own when I’m…”

You shook your head, opening your legs a little to give his tail access.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re hungry, aren’t you? Well…”

You smiled shyly, squeezing his hand back. “I… wouldn’t mind providing you with a meal.”

He was gentle, his tail slipping under your panty line to play with your clit as the two of you shared your first kiss.

Lucian tasted like strawberries and honey, you couldn’t get enough. When he reached a clawed hand to hold onto your soft cheek, you instantly leaned into his touch.

He had never kissed someone like this before. Usually they were quick, heated with tongue and gnashing teeth…

But you slowly licked his bottom lip, and he felt his cock twitch in his pants as he explored your mouth. It was so sensual and tender that he could almost cry.

‘I… think I love her…’

With that revelation, his slit pupils expanded and he pinned you down, his tail rubbing your own slick against your pretty hole before plunging in.

“L-Lucian!”

You whines out in a mix of pleasure and discomfort, getting used to the feeling of his tail fucking in and it of your as his lips moved to your neck. His tail pumped aphrodisiacs into your body, making your head get fuzzy and your pussy throb with need.

It wasn’t long before he couldn’t take it anymore. Your cum was intoxicating, he was starving!

Lucian sank his cock into your, watching as you writhed and bucked your hips, your pussy gushing and clenching around him.

The two of you were a heated mess of needy kisses and cum, both unable to pull away. He had already had his fill, but continued to fuck into your fat cunt, watching as his cum spurted out of you with each thrust.

By the end of the night the two of you were clinging to each other, exhausted but happy. He had never been so worn out in his life… or as satisfied. As Lucian gazed down at your sleepy face, he knew then that you would be his wife soon enough.

He kissed your head and fell asleep too, leaving his life of being an incubus that slept with whoever he could behind.

Lucian would be your devoted husband now, until you died, and even beyond that. A demon’s love could last lifetimes…

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @midromiell @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog

[floatyflowers]

Dark Male Lord Tremaine X Cinderella's mother! Reader

You are living a life of luxury as Lord Tremaine's new wife, residing in his grand estate with servants at your feet doing whatever they can to please you.

On the surface, everything appears perfect, a fairytale come true.

Your daughter, Ella, is treated with respect, a stark contrast to the cruel treatment often endured by stepchildren in such tales.

She shares meals with her stepsisters, participates in family outings, and is included in social gatherings.

Lord Tremaine seems fond of her, often engaging her in conversation and praising her accomplishments.

However, this happy facade begins to crumble three months into your marriage. Your health takes a downturn, a weakness overtaking you.

The cause remains a mystery, baffling both you and the physician summoned to your bedside.

Your decline is gradual, yet relentless, stealing your vitality day by day.

What was once a vibrant bloom of health has now faded, leaving you feeling fragile and vulnerable.

Adding to your distress, your once attentive and caring husband, Lord Tremaine, insists on confining you to your chambers for the majority of the day.

He cites concern for your well-being, claiming that rest is important for your recovery.

While you are granted access to the estate's beautiful gardens for a short period each day, your movements are otherwise restricted.

Adding to your woes, your time with your beloved Ella lessened with each passing day.

Lord Tremaine, citing the importance of your rest and the need to shield you from unnecessary activities, limits your interactions with her.

What were once frequent visits and shared moments now occur only occasionally, leaving you yearning for your daughter's presence and worrying about her well-being under her stepfather's watchful eye.

One day, while your husband was on a business trip, the physician paid you a visit and revealed that you had been given a medicine that weakens your body.

Of course, when Lord Tremaine returned you faced him with the truth.

You know what he did?

He only smirked before grabbing your hands into his large ones.

"Don't worry, the medicine will not kill you; it will keep you in check." He places one of his hands on the side of your cheek.

"I don't want you slipping from under my grasp like my first wife. The poor woman passed away so young."

You want to pull away, to scream, to do anything but sit here and listen to his morbid confession.

Yet, you only continue to listen to him as he speaks.

"She didn't understand,"

"Didn't understand the importance of our bond, the necessity of my...guidance."

He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, his touch lingering too long.

"But you, my dear," his eyes lock onto yours, a strange intensity burning in their depths,

"You are different. You will understand."

Seeing you stay silent boosted his threats.

"Beautiful little Ella is my third daughter; imagine what will happen to the poor, sweet girl if you disobey me?"

"You wouldn't," you whisper, your voice trembling, though you know better. The cold calculation in his eyes tells you he would. He will.

"Of course not," he says smoothly, his tone almost soothing, as if he’s trying to calm a frightened child.

"Not if you remain compliant."

[lizzyiii]

Hey girl hey. Hope you are still alive and life is treating you well. Just checking in.

you're so sweet for this omg. so ive graduated from high school, have this whole summer, but I can't really enjoy it since a broke girl's got to work. got my very first job and it's sooo draining, but I've got to get that bag

Sevenmas

pairing | aemond x wife!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | amid the haunting ruins of harrenhal, aemond's pregnant wife senses the looming threat of alys rivers, a witch whose presence fuels her nightmares and aemond's growing distance.

determined to protect her husband and unborn child, she delves into the secrets of warding magic, reclaiming her bond with aemond as she invites him back into her bed and vows to stand against the witch’s dark influence.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pregnancy, magic, fluff, soft aemond, hubby aemond

a/n | it's summer, the heat is evident, yet I've only been at work or home. I needdd to leave my house!

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

My Dearest Babe,

It has been a full moon since your father and I arrived at these dreary halls of Harrenhal. It is bleak here, cold and damp, and the walls seem to hold the whispers of the dead.

I have not known a single night’s rest since we set foot in this cursed place. My sleep grew all the more restless when your father saw fit to move me into a separate chamber.

Harrenhal weighs heavily upon him. It has changed him in ways I cannot yet understand. He walks the halls as if hunted, and I see the shadows of his unrest in his eyes.

Each night, his dreams twist into dark things—visions that wrench him from sleep, leaving him gasping as though clawing his way back to wakefulness. He grows ever more volatile, as if the very stones of Harrenhal press upon his mind, threatening to drive him to madness.

One night, he woke from a nightmare so violent, I feared for him. I reached out to calm him, but he struck out, not knowing it was I. I do not hold it against him—he was deep within whatever horror plagued him.

But he looked upon the bruise on my wrist with such anguish, fearing for my health and yours. It was then he resolved to put me in another room, to shield us both from his torments.

Yet, my sleep has only worsened since he made this change. This keep holds no comfort, only shadows and sighs, and I feel that something - someone - wicked watches us, waiting.

The sixth day of Sevenmas dawned in Harrenhal, a day to honor the Crone, she who carried the lantern of wisdom and foresight. How you longed for that guidance now, caught in the maze of cold stone walls and shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The ancient keep, with its crumbling towers and halls seeped in ghosts of past horrors, gnawed at your spirit with every passing hour.

The days bled together, each as gray and listless as the last. Time itself felt suspended, and there was little to fill it but your prayers to the Seven and the slow, meticulous pull of thread and needle.

Embroidery was meant to calm the mind, but here it became another way for your thoughts to spiral into dark corners. How could you not let them when the halls echoed with whispers not your own and the air felt thick, laden with something unseen yet suffocating?

Your husband, Aemond, the prince with a fire in his blood and the shadow of the conqueror in his step, had become a stranger cloaked in duty.

Since Rhaenyra had laid siege to King's Landing, his days were consumed with strategy, flame-bright eyes scanning maps and murmuring with commanders until dawn kissed the horizon.

You would catch glimpses of him, his presence fierce and distant, a sword poised to strike. And still, there was one tether left—he would always return to break his fast with you, no matter the hour, as if the morning meal was a sacred pact he refused to break.

This shared ritual was a brief light in the gloom, a moment where his brow would smooth, and he would offer a small nod, as if to say, I am still here.

Yet even then, the weight of Harrenhal seemed to press upon him, creasing the corner of his eye and stealing the little warmth from his voice.

You wished for the strength of the Crone’s wisdom, to find words that could soothe whatever haunted him, whatever pulled him into those long, silent stretches where he barely met your gaze.

And so, with the sun’s first pale rays stretching over the stone battlements, you whispered a prayer to the Crone. Let me see what he cannot. Let me guard us in ways unseen.

There was another shadow cast over your time at Harrenhal, one that gnawed at your peace like a hound at a bone. Within the first week of your arrival, an attempt on Aemond’s life had been made, a sloppy affair that left more questions than answers.

Yet the mere notion of betrayal and blood sharpened Aemond’s already fierce nature into something perilously close to madness.

In his rage and paranoia, he swept through Harrenhal like a storm, burning and executing every male Strong—lords and bastards alike, sparing none.

The aftermath left the keep haunted by its own silence, populated mostly by women and children who dared not cross his path. Yet among the survivors, there was one who set your skin crawling like no other: Alys Rivers, the bastard daughter of Lionel Strong.

Her gaze, dark and knowing, seemed to pierce through you whenever it drifted your way. The keep’s old women, those who lingered in the kitchens and halls, were full of whispers, speaking in hushed tones about Alys and the tales that clung to her like a shroud.

They claimed she was a wet nurse with no babes of her own, that her cradle stayed empty because she offered her children to dark gods, drawing power from their sacrifices.

The word witch passed between toothless mouths with reverence and fear, a name that conjured images of blood and whispered spells in the dead of night.

You would catch Alys watching Aemond from the shadowed corners of the great hall, her green eyes glistening like the polished scales of a serpent.

There was something about the way she looked at him, a gaze that lingered too long, with a subtle curl to her lips that suggested she saw beyond what others did. Each time, a cold knot formed in your stomach, winding tighter with each day.

Aemond, for his part, seemed oblivious—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge her attention. He stalked the halls of Harrenhal like a restless dragon, his eyes always aflame with thoughts of war and vengeance.

But you, kept to the fringes and left with little to occupy your time, had learned to listen. You had overheard more than once the old wives’ tales, how the stones of Harrenhal bore witness to strange sights in the dark of night.

The morning light struggled to filter through the narrow, soot-streaked windows of Harrenhal’s great hall, casting long, somber shadows across the cold stone floor.

You sat at the grand table, an expanse of dark oak that seemed almost too vast with just the two of you seated at its head.

The hall’s emptiness swallowed the small noises of clinking silver and the rustle of fabric, leaving only the low crackle of a distant fire to break the silence.

You glanced at Aemond, his face severe and sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and distant as he picked at the bread before him. His hair, pale as moonlight, spilled over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of morning like polished silver.

You traced the line of his jaw with your gaze, noting the tautness there, the slight twitch that spoke of restless thoughts.

In truth, you did not know this man well—your husband, your prince, and yet a stranger in so many ways.

It had only been moons since you first met, and within days, the marriage vows were spoken, the ink on the alliance barely dry before you found yourself bound to him in name and in fate.

Your father’s fleet had been your dowry, a formidable power that the Greens could not afford to spurn. You understood your role, the politics and power that tethered you to Aemond, but understanding him was another matter entirely.

His silences were as deep and dark as the Blackwater, and he carried an anger that smoldered beneath his skin, an unquenchable flame that whispered of vengeance and old wounds.

But despite the cold armor of his demeanor, Aemond had never raised his voice nor his hand to you. He moved with a kind of carefulness in your presence, a restraint that bordered on gentleness.

He treated you with a respect that was rare among men of power, where wives were often little more than pawns on a board.

And though it was likely due to the child you carried beneath your heart, it kindled a small warmth within you to think that he had not left you behind when he marched to Harrenhal.

Instead, he had commanded that you come with him, a choice that puzzled you even as it comforted you.

Harrenhal was a desolate place, steeped in old, cracked stone and a history that groaned beneath every step. You despised it, with its drafty halls and the air that always seemed to taste of ashes.

Yet sitting here, across from Aemond as the thin light etched sharp lines across his face, you felt a reluctant flicker of gratitude.

The silence between you was not companionable, but it was not cruel either. It was a space where the two of you existed, tethered by duty and an unspoken understanding.

Your gaze lifted from your untouched plate to meet his. “You barely ate anything,” you ventured softly, the words almost swallowed by the great hall’s vastness.

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, just a moment of acknowledgment, before drifting back to the distant, unfocused point beyond the hall’s great hearth. “I have much on my mind,” he replied, his voice low and guarded, as always.

You lowered your gaze, the golden glint of your cup catching the flicker of the fire as you turned it in your hands. “Today is the day of the Crone,” you murmured, the soft words drifting into the vast emptiness of the hall.

Aemond’s eye settled on you again, this time with a sharper intensity, as if he were trying to read the thoughts that played behind your eyes. The violet of his gaze, stark and unyielding, seemed to see through flesh and bone.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but pushed on, lifting your head with a tentative, almost sheepish smile.

“I have been holding small celebratory suppers in my chambers for each of the Seven,” you said, the words trembling on the cusp of hope. “Perhaps you would join me tonight?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, carved from the same marble as the gods whose names you spoke. He was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line as he measured the request. You held your breath, bracing for the sting of rejection, but after a moment, he inclined his head with a slow, deliberate nod.

“I shall see if I am free to attend later, wife,” he replied, each syllable precise, as if spoken under a watchful eye.

A smile unfurled across your face, a small, fragile bloom that brightened the somber air. You nodded, your gratitude silent but deeply felt, and returned your attention to the meal before you.

The hall fell back into its familiar hush, but the silence seemed gentler, softened by the promise—no matter how uncertain—that he might sit with you as the evening drew near.

Throughout the day, you moved with a purpose that had been absent for some time. Excitement flickered within you, casting a rare warmth over the bleakness of Harrenhal’s cold stone walls.

You spent more time preparing yourself than you had in weeks, choosing a gown of deep violet, the color rich and regal, one you knew would match Aemond’s eye.

Your hands worked carefully as you braided your hair, fingers weaving strands with practiced precision. You wound the braids into a half-up style, securing them with thin silver pins, and threaded small pearls between the coils, their soft luster catching the waning light that seeped through the chamber’s narrow window slits.

As the sun dipped lower, you prepared the chamber for supper, eager to cast away the dreariness of Harrenhal’s stone embrace. The table, though small, was set with care.

You placed a modest arrangement of primroses at its center, their pale petals lending a touch of softness to the somber room.

Candles, thick and tapered, were placed with a meticulous eye, their wicks waiting to be lit and offer a warm glow that would banish the shadows lurking in the corners.

Tonight was meant to honor the Crone, a day of wisdom and reflection, yet you could not help but hope for something more—a chance to share a moment, however fleeting, with the man you called husband.

The hours had been long since you’d known any touch of intimacy, any whisper of companionship. The prospect of Aemond joining you, even for a brief supper, was enough to make your heart beat with anticipation.

Time stretched on, heavy and unyielding, as you sat alone at the small table in your chambers, a solitary figure in a room filled with muted light. The food before you, once steaming and fragrant, had grown cold, the sheen of oil on the meats congealing in the chill air.

The candles you had lit earlier had burned down to stubs, their light dwindling as shadows crept up the walls.

The fire in the hearth, once crackling with warmth, had reduced itself to a bed of glowing embers, the last vestiges of heat sputtering as they surrendered to the draft that snaked through the stones.

Your heart, which had quickened with hope earlier in the day, now felt leaden with disappointment. The silence pressed in around you, each passing moment a reminder that Aemond would not come. The anticipation that had kept your spirits aloft now left a hollow ache in its absence.

Pushing your untouched plate away, you rose from the table, your movements deliberate as anger stirred in your chest. It was not the hot, reckless kind, but the slow-burning indignation that came when expectation was met with silence.

You wrapped your cloak around your shoulders and slipped into the dim corridor, determined to find him, to seek an answer rather than stew in this quiet, stinging rejection.

Harrenhal’s halls were a maze of stone and shadow, empty and vast, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the cold. The castle held a thousand whispered secrets, and tonight, it seemed eager to keep its prince among them.

You turned corners and climbed staircases, the flicker of dying torches casting your shadow long against the walls, until the familiar paths grew strange and your resolve wavered.

Finally, as you entered a lesser hall that stretched toward a wing of old chambers, you spotted movement—a maidservant carrying linens, her head bent as if afraid to be seen. Relief mixed with frustration as you quickened your step.

“Excuse me,” you called out, your voice sharper than intended.

The servant started, nearly dropping her burden before bowing her head hastily, eyes fixed to the floor. It was a common sight in Harrenhal, the way they kept their gaze averted in your presence.

Word of your husband’s fierce reputation as Prince Regent and Kinslayer had traveled swiftly, and it seemed they feared that to slight you was to invite his wrath upon them.

With a lifted chin and a tone that brooked no disobedience, you asked, “Where is my husband?”

Before the maid could stammer out an answer, another voice cut through the dim hallway—a voice that chilled the blood in your veins and haunted your sleep with its whispers.

“I fear the prince is still occupied in the council chamber, my lady,” said Alys Rivers, her tone smooth and deceptively courteous, like the edge of a blade.

You turned slowly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she regarded you, taking in the sight of your tense shoulders, the protective way your hand drifted instinctively to your rounded stomach.

There was no warmth in her expression, only the sly amusement of a cat toying with a bird that dared to stray too far from its nest.

Your nostrils flared, and you straightened your back, eyes narrowing as you corrected her in a low, simmering murmur, “Princess.”

Alys tilted her head, feigning surprise, though her eyes betrayed nothing but a cold mirth. “Pardon me,” she said, her gaze sliding deliberately to your abdomen before flicking back up to meet yours, daring you to react.

“I am not your lady,” you hissed, “I am your princess.”

With a final, steely glare, you turned on your heel, the folds of your violet gown sweeping the floor as you made your way back through the shadowed hallways, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

The silence of Harrenhal enveloped you once more, and you did not pause until you reached the safety of your chambers, locking the door behind you and pressing your back against the cool, unyielding wood.

The echo of Alys’s smirk lingered in your mind, but you would not let her see your fear. Not tonight. Not ever.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, as the pain surged through you, tearing its way up your spine and scattering your senses. It felt as though your very body was being split apart, the agony sharper and deeper than any blade.

“Keep pushing, my princess; the babe is almost here,” urged the midwife, her voice steady but relentless.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to curse her, to scream at her to hold her tongue, but the pain stole all words from you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

It was a torment that came in relentless waves, each cresting higher than the last, only to drag you under when you thought you could surface for air. The burning, the stretching—unbearable, blinding.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, tears mingling with the sweat that drenched your brow. “Please… I can't,” you pleaded, your voice broken and desperate.

The pain surged again, stealing the air from your lungs, and then you felt it—a firm, familiar hand pressed gently to your cheek. Through the haze of pain, you turned your head, and your vision cleared just enough to see the sharp lines of Aemond’s face.

His single violet eye was intent, fierce, a rare expression of vulnerability breaking through his stoic mask. Relief, so profound it was nearly painful, swelled in your chest.

“Aemond,” you gasped, his name a lifeline, an anchor in the storm.

Husbands were not meant to be present for the birth, tradition forbade it. But he was there, and you did not care for any rule or rite that would keep him away.

“Just a few more pushes, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, a thread of steel woven through the gentleness.

You nodded weakly, mustering what remained of your strength. A deep groan escaped you as you pushed once more, the room spinning around you. The midwife’s voice rose above the roaring in your ears.

“The babe is crowning, my lady.”

But the tone was wrong. Too familiar, too cold. Alarm jolted you to consciousness, and you struggled to prop yourself on trembling elbows. Your eyes darted to the space at the foot of the birthing bed, and dread coiled tight in your gut.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, knelt Alys Rivers. Her dark hair framed eyes as green and sharp as glass, eyes that glimmered with a knowing, malevolent gleam. A smile curled at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze.

“No, no!” you screamed, panic twisting your voice. “Get away from me!”

With a surge of fear-driven strength, you tried to kick her away, your limbs thrashing wildly, but Aemond’s hands clamped down on you, firm and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” he commanded, his voice cool, steady as stone.

Alys turned her gaze up to him, a shadow of mock sympathy curving her lips. “You must choose, my prince,” she intoned, each word dripping with false solemnity. “The babe, or your wife.”

A sob wrenched from your chest as you felt your breath come in sharp, shallow gasps. “No. No!” The pain was drowned beneath the torrent of fear that flooded you.

Desperately, you looked up at Aemond, seeking the warmth, the fierce protection that once resided in his eye. But what you found was a gaze distant and unreadable, as though he stood apart, watching from some cold, unreachable place. His jaw tightened. “Save the babe.”

Time seemed to fracture around you. His words, so final, crashed over you like a wave of ice. Your eyes widened, disbelieving, as rough handmaids or shadows, you could not tell—pressed you back, holding you firm as you struggled.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice raw with betrayal and terror, limbs straining against the iron grip that pinned you.

Pain cleaved through you, and you felt the weight of the babe shift within. But your focus broke as Alys moved, no longer at the foot of the bed but gliding closer, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of a cruel, glinting blade.

The chamber seemed to darken around her, the faint cries of the midwives fading into an ominous silence. And all you could see were those green eyes, bearing down on you like a curse whispered in the dark.

You jolted upright, heart pounding and breath ragged, the remnants of your nightmare clinging to your skin like a shroud. A trembling hand reached up to brush the tears from your cheeks, the dampness proof of the terror that had gripped you in sleep.

Your eyes drifted down, catching the soft curve of your swollen belly under the covers, rising and falling with your shallow breaths. A shaky sigh escaped your lips, a bitter mix of relief and unease.

The babe was still safe within you—at least for now. You pressed your palm over it, as if to reassure yourself of its presence.

Beyond the thin light filtering through the shuttered window, the sky remained cloaked in the indigo of night.

The stillness told you it was not yet dawn, that liminal time when dreams and waking often blurred. But sleep would not find you again; not after that vision, nor for many nights to come, you were sure.

The memory of Aemond's cold, detached gaze as he spoke words that sealed your fate in your dream clung to you. It pierced deeper than any blade, a wound festering with fear and doubt.

Yet you forced yourself to swallow the sharp sting of betrayal, directing your thoughts toward another source of your unease—Alys Rivers.

The whispers, the eyes that followed, the dark air that seemed to shift when she was near. Your fears, your husband’s torment, the sense of something wicked gnawing at Harrenhal’s bones—it all traced back to her.

Resolve steeled your spine. You pushed back the covers and rose, the weight of your pregnancy making the motion slower, more deliberate.

Wrapping yourself in a heavy fur cloak, you reached for the candelabra on the nightstand. Its small flame sputtered in protest before catching steady, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls.

The corridors of Harrenhal, once alive with whispered conversations and the hurried footfalls of servants, now loomed around you in cold, watchful silence. The draft that crept through the ancient stones nipped at your cheeks and sent a shiver down your spine.

Clutching the fur tighter against your body, you moved forward, the warm light in your grasp flickering as it met the draft.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of your cloak and the creak of old floorboards beneath your weight.

At last, you reached the great doors of the library, their dark wood carved with sigils long forgotten and gnarled from centuries of use. Setting the candelabra down, you pushed against one of the doors, muscles straining with the effort.

It groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stillness and sending a cold gust rushing past you. Picking up the candelabra, you stepped inside and let the heavy door drift shut behind you with a thud.

The scent of old parchment and dust surrounded you, familiar and oddly comforting. Shelves stretched high, towering sentinels filled with the stories of old and the wisdom of those long gone.

On other nights, you would have lost yourself in the tales that wove through these tomes—myths and sagas that spoke of courage and triumph. But tonight, solace was not what you sought.

You moved through the rows with purpose, eyes scanning the spines until they found those few volumes that hinted at the arcane.

The lore of witches, their dark arts, the means by which they could twist men’s dreams and cloud their minds—it all lay within reach, hidden among dusty pages that no one dared speak of.

You placed the candelabra down, its light casting a golden glow that flickered across the cracked leather and faded titles.

With trembling hands, you opened the first book, its binding stiff with age. The parchment crackled as you turned the pages, your eyes drinking in the inked words.

If there was any way to guard yourself, to protect Aemond from the shadows that had seeped into your lives, you would find it here. No longer would you be haunted by that witch’s knowing gaze or the dread that coiled tight in your belly.

With each turn of the page, the flickering glow of the candelabra cast dancing shapes upon the stone walls, warding off the chill that seeped through Harrenhal’s blackened stones.

The words spoke of charms and tokens, of age-old rituals whispered by the smallfolk who feared the unseen.

Marking doors with protective sigils or crosses to ward off malevolent forces. The purifying strength of salt, said to bar dark spirits and their ilk. Rowan wood, revered for its protective properties, best used when tied with crimson thread to seal its potency.

The hours crept by, measured by the slow guttering of candle wax. You read, forgetting the passage of time as the nightmare’s claws loosened their grip on your heart.

Knowledge was your weapon now, and you wielded it with the silent promise that neither you nor Aemond would fall victim to powers unknown.

The day’s first light spilled through the high, narrow windows, a pale and hesitant glow that bled into the room and painted the bookshelves in muted gold.

It was the day of the Stranger, seldom celebrated, yet you paid it no heed. Lost in the pages, you missed the bells that tolled the hour and forgot the warmth of your usual morning meal shared with Aemond.

When at last you closed the final volume, a resolve settled in your chest, resolute and unyielding. You would need these items—symbols of protection—and that meant venturing beyond the castle’s shadowed halls and out into the market.

The fur-lined cloak wrapped snug around you, guarding against the bitter drafts that swept through the corridors as you made your way back to your chambers.

As you reached the windows, a rare sight unfolded before your eyes—snow, soft and unrelenting, blanketing the bleak spires of Harrenhal.

Snow was a rarity in King’s Landing, seldom seen during your girlhood there. For a moment, untouched by fear or doubt, you felt the stir of childish wonder rise within you.

Three knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks pristine even in the snow, flanked you as you ventured to the market. The square bustled despite the cold, vendors calling out their wares with voices hoarse from the chill. Your list of protective items, hastily scrawled in the early hours, guided your every step.

Surprisingly, the rowan wood was easy to find, its branches bundled tightly with red thread as per custom.

Charms of polished crystal and talismans wrought from iron and bronze were procured with little effort, their sellers eager to part with them for a handful of silver stags.

The murmured blessings from the old crones at their stalls made the hair on the back of your neck prickle, but you pressed on, their eyes shadowed with both reverence and suspicion.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting a gilded glow over the snow-draped stones of Harrenhal, your arms were laden with your newfound protections. You returned to your chambers with purpose, setting to work immediately.

With meticulous care, you bound the red thread around the twigs of rowan wood and placed them above each entrance.

Salt, precious and fine, was spread across the thresholds, each grain catching the firelight like scattered stars.

With charcoal from your writing desk, you etched intricate symbols—wards against dark magics—onto the cold, unyielding stone walls.

But it was not just your own safety you sought to secure. For Aemond, you had combed the market for a piece both practical and protective. After much haggling, you procured a leather eyepatch, supple and black, unmarred by wear.

Returning to your chamber, you carefully stitched shards of black tourmaline into its edge, each piece glinting with a subtle, protective gleam. Your needlework was steady, each pull of the thread imbued with silent prayers.

Lost in your task, you barely noted the soft knock at your door or the maidservant who entered, setting a tray of supper on the table near the hearth.

The aroma of roasted fowl and warm bread wafted through the chamber, but your focus remained fixed.

As you worked by the fire's glow, the shadows that had haunted your waking hours seemed to lessen, replaced by the steady rhythm of thread and needle, and the quiet resolve that this time, you would be ready.

You were so absorbed in your needlework, fingers deftly stitching the dark crystals onto a supple leather patch, that the sudden clearing of a throat startled you. Your gaze snapped up, eyes wide with surprise as they met the cool, familiar face of Aemond Targaryen.

“Husband,” you said, breathless as you hastily hid the finished eye patch beneath a velvet pillow. Rising to your feet, you inclined your head, though your heart thudded with residual tension.

He stood tall and imposing in the dim glow, the silver-white of his hair catching the light like a crown. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves pressed in with the weight of his presence.

“What brings you here?” you asked, voice touched with confusion and a hint of sharpness. Exhaustion dulled your sense of propriety, leaving the question more pointed than intended.

Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed, an unreadable glimmer within its depths. “To have supper with you,” he replied, as if such a thing were the most natural answer in the realm.

Your eyes flickered to the table, where two silver plates now sat, the steam rising lazily from the dishes set by the silent servant moments before.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and sighed, murmuring, “I believe my invitation was for yesterday.”

A shadow of regret crossed his face, so brief that another might have missed it, but you saw. As you moved past him to take your seat, you caught the soft murmur that slipped from his lips, “I deserved that.”

Aemond followed and took his place across from you, the creak of the chair echoing in the quiet chamber. For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearthfire. His gaze settled on you, sharp and searching.

“I have not seen you at all today,” he said at last, the words carrying a hint of something that might have been longing, tempered by pride.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of your gown. Remorse pricked at your heart—you had broken your shared morning ritual, the one part of the day reserved just for the two of you.

“I was very busy,” you replied softly, the excuse feeling thin on your tongue.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard. Visits to the market square,” he said.

You hesitated, holding back the details of the charms, the salt, the ancient warding sigils you had traced with trembling hands. He would only deem you foolish or worse, mad.

“I needed fresh air.”

His eye narrowed, a flicker of displeasure passing over his sharp features. “It is too dangerous for one in your condition to wander beyond these walls,” he said, the admonishment clear, though his tone held an undercurrent of concern.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “That is why I took three of your White Cloaks,” you retorted, the fire in your voice matching the spark in his eye.

For a heartbeat, the tension crackled between you, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a heavy cloak. Then, Aemond’s lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, as if some silent battle had been waged and resolved within him.

“Good,” he said at last, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are no fool, wife.”

The tautness in the room eased, and though unspoken, an accord was reached.

Aemond leaned forward, and placed a carved wooden box on the table between you. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, his voice a measured calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something softer. “An apology for last night.”

Your brows knit together, skepticism clear in your eyes. “My forgiveness cannot be bought with trinkets, husband,” you said, your tone edged with defiance. Yet even as you spoke, curiosity stirred within you.

One of his silver brows arched at your remark, and a small smile ghosted his lips. “Let us see if it is worthy,” you murmured, reluctant to give ground but unable to hide the intrigue that tugged at you.

With a careful hand, Aemond lifted the lid of the box, revealing a necklace of silver and sapphire. The deep blue stone glimmered like the sea under moonlight, capturing the room’s faint candle glow.

Your breath stilled for a moment, eyes tracing the intricate work of the silver links, each carved to mimic dragon scales.

Your fingertips brushed over the gem, the cool surface grounding you as warmth bloomed in your chest. Unbidden, a soft smile tugged at your lips, an expression so rare that even you felt its presence.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered, your voice softened by genuine gratitude.

Aemond’s face shifted, pride flickering across his sharp features. There was something triumphant in his half-smirk that you could not allow him to savor unchallenged. You rose from your seat, skirts rustling as you moved.

“I, too, have a gift for you,” you said, your tone now light with a note of playfulness.

“Oh?” he replied, one silver eyebrow lifting in surprise, though the glint in his lone violet eye revealed his interest.

“Mm,” you hummed, stepping to the chaise where a small cushion lay. Your fingers slipped beneath it, retrieving the item hidden there. Turning back to him, a touch of shyness colored your expression, a rare sight that softened the lines of your face.

With both hands, you presented him with an eye patch, the black leather supple and embroidered with fine strands of broken tourmaline crystals, catching the dim light with a subtle shimmer.

Aemond took it, surprise giving way to careful scrutiny. His fingers traced the delicate work, the weight of the crystals and their arrangement thoughtful.

“Black tourmaline,” you said quietly, watching his gaze flick between you and the patch. “It is said to have powerful protective qualities.”

You hesitated, unwilling to speak of how it was also believed to ward against dark energies and unseen dangers—of how it might shield him from threats both known and hidden.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Aemond’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, rare and genuine. “Thank you, wife. 'Tis a very thoughtful gift,” he said, voice low and sincere.

A moment passed, and you froze in silent shock as Aemond reached up to remove the eye patch he wore. Of course, you had seen what lay beneath—the striking sapphire set into the hollow of his missing eye—but Aemond was never keen on showing it.

In King’s Landing, he would only take it off moments before sleep and replace it the moment he awoke.

Before he could put on the new eye patch, you placed a hand over his arm. “You know you don’t have to wear it around me, yes? I have no issue with it, and you should not either.”

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. For a heartbeat, you feared you had overstepped, but then he nodded, leaving both eye patches on the table.

A small, victorious smile touched your lips as you felt the weight of this unspoken understanding between you. “Allow me to have the maids bring us some dessert,” you said, the tension lifting.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on you as you turned to the doors.

Stepping into the corridor, you quickly found a maid and requested something sweet to be brought to your chambers. When you returned, your heart faltered at the sight before you. Aemond stood at your desk, his tall frame hunched slightly as he leaned over an open book—your journal.

Panic surged within you, and you strode forward, slamming the book shut with a sharp motion. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended, eyes wide with both shock and alarm.

Aemond straightened, holding the closed journal in his hand. His expression was unreadable, though his eye bore into you with quiet intensity. “What is this?” he asked evenly, tilting the book slightly for emphasis.

“My private journal,” you answered quickly, reaching for it, but he lifted it just out of your grasp, his superior height giving him the advantage. “Give it back, husband. It is mine.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but carried an undertone of something raw, almost fragile. “Then why,” he began, his eye fixed on you, ignoring your protests, “do you write to our babe?” There was an ache in his tone, a depth of emotion he hadn’t yet voiced.

The question caught you unprepared, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your skirts, and your shoulders sagged as you avoided his penetrating gaze. “In case,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“In case of what?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with a demand for understanding.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could uncover your secrets by sheer will. Unable to face him, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “In case I’m not there,” you admitted at last, the words barely audible, like a confession carried on the wind.

Aemond’s brows drew together, confusion shadowing his features. “What do you mean if you’re not—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath catching as realization dawned. The tension in his posture shifted, his shoulders falling ever so slightly. “…There.”

His sharp features softened, a rare vulnerability settling over his face. “Women do survive the childbed,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter you.

“Not every time,” you countered, your tone edged with resignation. “And there’s also… that choice.” Your voice broke on the last word, and you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, Aemond reached out and cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“There can be more babes,” he said softly, his words a promise etched with fierce determination, “but there is only one you.”

His eye, a storm of violet and sapphire, held yours with such intensity that you felt as though he was laying his very soul bare. A tear escaped and traced down your cheek, but Aemond caught it with his thumb, his touch steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I would not choose otherwise,” he said firmly, the weight of his vow lingering in the air between you. “Not for all the heirs in the realm.”

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “You swear?”

“I swear it,” he replied, his voice low and resolute. “I will not lose my wife.”

The ache in your chest eased slightly, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a shield. You placed your hand over his, pressing it gently against your cheek.

With a soft breath, you tilted your head upward, letting your lips meet his in a gentle caress. The kiss was tender at first, a quiet exchange of affection that carried the weight of your unspoken fears and his unyielding promise.

Aemond responded eagerly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours as his hand slid from your cheek to cradle the nape of your neck.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you firmly as he pulled you closer, as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As his tongue met yours, the kiss deepened, a slow, fervent dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown.

Your hands moved up his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic, before curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

The world around you faded, leaving only the press of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the heat that built between you like the fire crackling in the hearth.

When the kiss broke, it was with a reluctance that lingered in the air between you. Your breaths came in shallow pants as you gazed up at him through hooded lashes, the corners of your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“My love,” you purred, your voice sultry and laced with affection, “you’ve left me wanting… again.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, the stormy hue of his violet eye smoldering with barely restrained desire. “Have I now?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then it seems I must remedy that, wife.”

You guided his hands lower, to the swell of your belly, then further down to the hem of your nightgown. “Will you show me how much you desire me?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper. “Make me forget everything but the feel of you inside me...”

A low growl rumbled in Aemond's throat as his hands moved beneath your gown, fingers tracing the curves of your swollen belly before dipping lower to find the damp heat of your core.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Of burying myself deep within you, feeling your walls clench around me...”

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head, throwing it aside, revealing your naked form.

His gaze devoured every inch of you, from the full breasts that rose and fell with each ragged breath, to the soft, rounded hips and the glistening folds of your sex.

“Tell me what you want, my queen,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran through you at Aemond's bold appraisal, your nipples hardening into tight peaks as his hungry gaze seared your skin. You reached for the fastenings of his breeches, your fingers fumbling with urgency to free his straining erection.

“I want you,” you murmured, your voice low, thick with a desire that lingered like a soft melody in the air. Your eyes never left his, the depth of your longing laid bare in the way your breath hitched.

Aemond’s violet gaze darkened, the flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. His head tilted ever so slightly, a predator’s grace, as though savoring your words before acting upon them.

You took a step back, your movements slow and deliberate, your footsteps light against the floor as you inched toward the bed. The flicker of the firelight cast a warm glow across the room, the shadows dancing across the carved posts of the bed.

As you reached its edge, you let yourself fall gracefully onto the soft mattress, your body sinking into the luxurious furs and silks. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gazed at him through lowered lashes, a sly smile curving your lips.

“You beckon me so boldly,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, the faintest edge of amusement laced within it. “Have a care, wife, for I am not a man to resist such temptation.”

Aemond watched, transfixed, as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. His cock throbbed in time with his racing heart, the tip already glistening with precum.

He shed his clothes the rest of the way, letting them fall carelessly to the floor as he stalked towards you, muscles rippling with each step. By the time he reached the bed, he was fully erect, his shaft jutting proudly from a nest of silver curls.

Lying beside you, he reached out to cup your breast, thumbing the sensitive peak before leaning in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss.

His free hand trailed over your round stomach, pausing to tease the edge of your slit before delving deeper, fingers probing your slick folds.

“You're so wet for me already.”

You gasped into the kiss as Aemond's fingers found your entrance, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his touch. “Please,” you whimpered, breaking away from his mouth to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you inside me. Fill me up, make me yours again.”

As if sensing your desperation, Aemond positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your opening. With a deep groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-pain crashed over you. It took a moment for your body to adjust, to relax and welcome the thick length filling you so completely.

Aemond's breath hitched as he bottomed out inside you, your velvety walls gripping him like a vice. For a moment, he simply savored the exquisite sensation, reveling in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

Then, with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace.

The bed frame creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but Aemond paid it no mind, lost in the primal rhythm of rutting his mate.

“Yes, just like that,” he growled, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Take my cock, my queen.”

You wrapped your legs around Aemond's waist, heels digging into his firm behind as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning shaft.

“Aemond!” You wailed, your nails raking down his back as you met his ferocious pace.

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by my wanton cries and Aemond's guttural grunts. You could feel the pressure building within you, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

Suddenly, you were hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name as your cunt clenched rhythmically around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Aemond's eye rolled back in his head as your velvet sheath spasmed around him, your climax triggering his own. With a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone, his seed erupting in thick, pulsing jets.

He continued to thrust through the aftershocks, prolonging your shared bliss until he was spent, collapsing beside you with a grunt. For a long moment, the two of you lay entwined, chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath.

The chamber was awash with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet hum of your contentment. As you lay entwined, your bodies barely a breath apart, your gaze lingered on Aemond’s face.

His sharp features, so often hardened by duty and war, were softened now, his violet eye fixed on you with a tenderness rarely seen.

Your noses brushed lightly, a quiet intimacy, as his hand rested possessively over your waist while yours splayed across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

Almost as if drawn by a spell, he leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, a gesture so gentle it felt like a whispered promise. When he pulled away, he settled back onto the pillow beside you, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

You shifted, nestling closer, your head finding solace in the crook of his neck. Your hand lay over his heart, its steady rise and fall a soothing cadence that began to lull you into slumber.

His breathing slowed, each exhale a soft brush against your hair, and soon, the quiet comfort of his presence drew you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the peace did not last.

You jolted awake, startled by the sudden thrashing of Aemond’s body beside you. His face, so serene moments ago, was now contorted in anguish, his brow slick with sweat.

His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets as if warding off some unseen terror.

Your heart clenched at the sight. He had spoken little of his nightmares, but you knew they haunted him—a torment born of battles fought, losses endured, and burdens carried.

Pushing yourself up, you moved with as much haste as your swollen belly would allow, the weight of your pregnancy slowing you only slightly.

Grabbing the robe draped over the chair, you wrapped it around yourself, its soft fabric barely warding off the chill of the room as you padded toward the small table where you had placed your new goods.

Your hands rummaged through the items with purpose, your fingers finally curling around a small vial. You held it up, peering at its contents even in the dim light. The faint, familiar scent already began to calm your racing heart.

Lavender oil.

You returned to the bed, the vial clutched firmly in your grasp. As you sat beside him, Aemond's thrashing began to subside, though his breaths were still ragged, and his jaw clenched tightly.

Carefully, you uncorked the vial, the soothing aroma of lavender wafting into the room. You poured a small amount onto your hands, warming the oil between your palms before leaning over him.

With gentle, deliberate movements, you began to anoint his temples, your touch light yet firm as you traced small, calming circles.

The oil left a faint sheen on his skin, its scent filling the space between you. "Aemond," you whispered softly, your voice low and steady, a tether pulling him back from the depths of his nightmare.

His breathing began to slow, the tension in his body easing under your ministrations. You moved to his wrists, massaging the oil into his pulse points, your hands steady despite the ache blooming in your lower back.

“You are safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. “I am here.”

You whispered a silent prayer under your breath, invoking the gods for protection and peace. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, your heart clenching as you watched his features begin to soften, the tension melting away.

You held your breath, waiting. When his form finally stilled, his breathing evening out, you let out a soft sigh of relief. The lavender and your quiet vigil had worked.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, and you slid back into bed beside him, pulling the covers over the both of you. But just as you were about to lay your head against Aemond’s chest, you froze.

A chill ran down your spine, and the hairs on your arms stood on end as an inexplicable sensation swept over you.

You were being watched.

Your eyes darted to the chamber doors, which you now noticed were slightly ajar. Beyond them, barely visible in the darkness, you caught the faint glimmer of glowing green eyes.

Your heart raced, a primal fear coursing through you. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with an unseen presence.

But you steadied yourself, your breathing slowing as you reminded yourself of the protections you had set in place earlier that day.

You had taken every precaution, warding the chamber with runes and incantations, ensuring that no ill intent could cross its threshold. Alys Rivers might wield her strange gifts, but she would not claim Aemond—not without a fight.

With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you tightened your arms around Aemond’s sleeping form, drawing strength from the warmth of his body against yours. Lifting your chin, you stared directly into the glowing eyes, refusing to show weakness.

“I won’t let you have him,” you whispered fiercely, your voice a low, steady vow. “Not without a fight, witch.”

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. The green eyes lingered for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before retreating into the darkness.

Only when the oppressive feeling lifted did you allow yourself to exhale. A trembling sigh escaped your lips as you lowered your head, nestling into Aemond’s chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear, became a soothing rhythm, lulling you out of your fear.

As the night enveloped you once more, you clung to him, your resolve unshaken. Whatever forces sought to disturb your peace, you would face them.

For Aemond, for your babe, for the family you were building together—you would fight.

Hope You Enjoyed!

[sigh-tofm]

when the power goes out one cold and rainy november evening…

… price

- goes full dad. pulls the grill up to the back veranda door and cooks up some mean steaks for you two. gets a fire going in the fireplace to keep the house heated. has half a mind to call the power company and tell them that they don’t need to hurry, he’s got everything covered here. actually, they don’t need to come at all, not for a few days. tells you his thoughts as he pulls the mattress off your bed and deposits it in the living room in front of the fireplace, so you both can keep warm tonight. you let him know in no uncertain terms that he will do no such thing. you’ll let him have is fun tonight, but you will need a hot shower and a working oven in 36 hours, no matter how much he wants to play boyscout. but as you sit in front of the roaring fireplace and your admittedly very rugged and handsome husband feeds you bits of grilled steak and holds a glass of red wine to your lips, a thick, warm blanket covering you both, you must admit that this isn’t bad either.

… kyle

- excitedly improvises. you know, it’s like this every day when we’re in the field, he beams as he brushes the dust off the firepit in the woodshed. doesn’t mean it has to be like this now though, does it, kyle. you pull your jacket tighter around yourself and watch as he finds the least rotten firewood in the shed and uses up eight matches before he can get a light. you almost tell him to leave it and come inside, that you’ll order in tonight, but he’s so engulfed in fanning the little flame to life that you can’t help but play along. you get an umbrella when the rain comes down harder and use it to shield both your boyfriend and his firepit from the weather. when you gently ask how he’s going to cook up the pizza you two were in the middle of preparing when the power went out, he wilts a little, but somehow manages to macgyver a cooking system for it that only leaves it slightly burnt. you know, he says while you two are standing under the awning, admiring your fire baby and nibbling on damp, blackened pizza, in the field we sometimes need to share sleeping bags too.

… johnny

- immediately relents. moans and groans about being off duty and that he shouldn’t be expected to fend for himself like this when he isn’t in an active war zone. you pull up the local takeaway menu on your phone and hand it to him. go get us some warm food, soldier, you prompt him and gather up some supplies while he’s away. the old scottish farmhouse you live in has a fireplace, of course, so you light a fire there and with some effort pull the couch up in front of it. blankets and pillows from the living room, old fair isle knit jumpers from the hallway closet, a sheepskin rug to warm your feet on. when he comes back with his arms full of steaming indian (best to get some extra, mo chridhe), his mood seems to have lightened a little too. especially when he sees you in thigh high knit stockings, wearing his jumper and laying on the sheepskin rug. okay, maybe this isn’t so bad. at least he’s not being shot at.

… simon

- is prepared. goes down to the basement and carries up box after box of emergency equipment. hands you a round little paraffin stove (which you have no idea how to work) and a matching aluminium pan, as well as a large variety of ready-made freeze dried stews and soups. just add water, he says unhelpfully, and continues pulling out equipment from his kit. amongst the various bags of tools and gadgets you can spot tent poles and emergency flares, and it’s obvious he’s been itching to use all this stuff for a while. you decide to entertain him and google your way around the stove, finally getting a light on it. you light candles and pull out your winter coats while the water boils, making it an overall cozy time. hav’ta be prepared, he mutters as he comes to sit with you when the food’s ready, the living room full of his unpacked catastrophe preparations. next time we’ll just go to a hotel, you gently request and serve him year-old mushroom stew, brought back to life with some warm water. he looks longingly at all his equipment. you yield. or camping.

[yourauthorjen]

| YOURS | — joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | a family was something you never thought could be a possible, but after joaquin torres you seemed to think differently.

| includes: | husband!joaquin x reader, a bunch of fluff, children, and chaos

| word count: | 1.6k

| a/n: | this was from this lovely request! thank you so much for your idea! the main headcanons i focused on were morning chaos and supportive husband and dad. also i feel like joaquin would be such a girl dad.

THE IDEA OF having a family always made you shiver.

Whether it was because of the stress from the children or the bone chilling possibility of not being good enough, you never wanted to consider that idea.

That was until Joaquin walked into your life, bright eyed and charming, stubborn but absolutely heart aching in a way that you could never forget. And ever since you two had been together, every night was spent with him mapping out the possibilities of the future. He'd lace his fingers with yours and he'd ramble on about all the different lives you could have together.

He'd tell you about the a house with a picket fence or maybe an apartment filled with toys and two small children with your eyes and his crooked grin.

The first time he had brought it up you listened to him in silence, heart thundering, and slightly terrified. You didn't know if you deserved all that but he made sure he believed enough for both of you. Joaquin never pressured you, he just smiled and held your hand tighter every time you wavered.

It took another three, four years before you agreed, and somewhere along the way — between sleepy kisses in the kitchen and long car rides where he sang off-key just to make you laugh — you stopped being afraid.

When you first felt your oldest stirring inside of you, you were consumed with cold terror and sleepless nights. It was always a string of "what-ifs" and "am I making the wrong choice?"

But Joaquin was always there, to kiss your knuckles when you couldn't sleep, or doing your share of chores when you were too exhausted to keep yourself awake.

Sam was there to help you as well, dropping by ever so often with Sarah who had made frozen dishes or to take you out shopping while Sam just teased you, joking about how you better hope that the baby didn't snore like Joaquin did.

Obviously, Joaquin's family came over too. The crowd of aunts and uncles as well as his mom all came over to gush about your new child while also bringing in enough diapers and baby food to last an entire apocalypse. They offered home cooked meals, clothing and obviously a long string of baby names, which was a whole other story.

It was bittersweet seeing his family squished into your apartment when your own deadbeat father couldn't even bother shooting you a text, but still, it was heartwarming having such a loving family in a way you always longed for.

And now, your life was different.

Shoes and toys littered the house, lying in every unoccupied corner of the house. Drawings full of crayoned scribbled were plastered across the fridge, taped to the wall and piled atop the coffee counters, all with stick figured drawings of the four of you, standing beside a house with a triangle for the roof.

This morning was no different than other mornings, you woke up to the soft scent of soap and cinnamon as soft kisses brushed your cheek then up to your forehead, before a chorus of sleepy giggles and hushed whispers barged into your room scrambling onto your bed as Joaquin groaned into your hair, his arm tightening lazily around your waist like he thought he could shield you from the onslaught.

But your oldest was determined, climbing right up onto the bed and tugging insistently at the blanket. Your youngest followed, less coordinated but no less enthusiastic, tripping over her own feet and landing in a heap at the foot of the bed, giggling uncontrollably.

"Get up," they both sang in sync as they bounced on the mattress eagerly.

Without loosening his grip on you, Joaquin turned slightly, catching your mouth in a slow, unhurried kiss. You could feel him smiling against your lips, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hip, completely unbothered by the chaos swirling around you.

"Your breath stinks," you snickered pulling away from him as the kids continued dancing around the bed— one trying to climb onto Joaquin’s back, the other flopping dramatically onto the pillows, narrowly missing your head.

He let out a chuckle as he rubbed his eyes, "I haven't brushed my teeth yet."

You rolled your eyes, "Really, Sherlock?"

"Who's Sherlock?" your youngest asked wriggling between the two of you, eyes wide and dark hair a mess. She was like a copy and paste of Joaquin, unrelentless energy and big innocent eyes with a headful of curls. Meanwhile your oldest had your eyes, but less energetic than your second, still she piled on top of her younger sister trying to squish between the three of you, determined to snuggle into your arms.

"Sherlock," Joaquin said, "Is my only chance for a few more minutes of sleep." He shifted slightly, trying to nestle back against you, but the kids were having none of it.

"Noooo!" your oldest protested, her hands pushing against his chest as she wriggled closer. "We want pancakes!"

"Pancakes!" echoed your youngest, her little face lighting up at the mention of food, her hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, demanding your attention.

Joaquin looked at you for help, but you just shrugged as if to say this is on you.

"You three have no mercy," Joaquin muttered. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to wrangle them back into some semblance of order.

You laughed, head tipping backwards as you hoisted yourself out of bed. "Okay then, I guess we're making pancakes today."

Joaquin groaned as you gently pulled yourself out of his grasp, his lips forming a pout as you picked up your youngest, placing her on your hip. "Traitor," he muttered under his breath, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

You grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead as you shifted your daughter higher on your hip. "Suck it up, soldier. You're on kitchen duty."

Joaquin groaned even louder as your oldest tried to pull him up. "C'mon dad, we can do them together."

"That's the spirit," you cheered making your way into the kitchen. The morning light had spilled onto the wooden tile of the floor casting a soft glow as you set your daughter down onto one of the stools, Joaquin and your oldest trailing behind you. Both looked as sleepy as the other but a wide smile was still stretched across their faces.

"Okay team," Joaquin yawned, "You're gonna get the pancake mix—" he pointed to your youngest then to your oldest, "You go get the eggs and you—" he paused staring at you his eyes entranced as you leaned against the counter, sunlight kissing your face as you tossed your hair into a bun.

"What do I do?" you teased, cinching your apron tighter around your waist as his jaw went slack.

He cleared his throat, "You," he said, pointing the spatula at you like a sword, "are on official supervision duty. And looking way too good while doing it."

You snorted, reaching over to flick a little bit of flour from the counter at him, laughing when he pretended to stagger back in pain.

Your youngest clapped her hands in glee, while your oldest rolled her eyes like she was already ten years older than she really was. "Dad's being weird again," she whispered loudly to her sister, who giggled into her hands.

"Hey, weird is a Torres family tradition," Joaquin defended, setting a bowl down on the counter with a clatter. "You're just lucky you inherited it, too."

Weird was correct, because not even ten minutes later the kitchen was already a mess. Your youngest insisted on stirring the batter, which mostly resulted in flour puffing up into a cloud around her and your oldest took her self-assigned job of "egg cracker" very seriously— which meant you fished out a few too many shells from the mixing bowl.

"Okay," you said briskly, "Now that that's done, Dad’s in charge of flipping, but he’s banned from stepping a foot away from the stove."

"It was one time," he whined, "I didn't mean it."

"Joaquin, you burned an entire batch of pancakes," you deadpanned, "In front of your own mother."

"It was an accident," he sputtered.

You snapped your fingers in front of his face, "Hey, eyes on the stove soldier, we are not setting the fire alarm off again."

He laughed while your youngest sang a made-up pancake song under her breath, swinging her legs from the stool, while your oldest stood proudly at Joaquin’s side, offering enthusiastic and very loud coaching advice on when to flip the pancake.

You didn't even realize you were smiling until Joaquin caught your eye across the stove, flipping a perfect pancake with a flourish just to make you laugh. His smile— soft but full of so much love it ached was aimed right at you, like it always had been.

This was the future Joaquin had spent his nights rambling on about, and somehow, against all odds, it was yours too. You wrapped your arms around Joaquin's waist, hugging him tightly as he hummed under his breath, then leaned down to press a kiss to your hair.

"See," he murmured, voice warm and low just for you. "Told you you'd make something good."

You closed your eyes for a second, breathing him in— sweet and clean and that unmistakable feeling of home you never thought you'd have. His arms tightened around you briefly before he pulled away just enough to resume flipping pancakes, your oldest still enthusiastically coaching him from the sidelines.

Your youngest started singing her song even louder, and off-key, leading Joaquin to joining in with a off-tune harmony that made both kids dissolve into giggles.

You leaned back against the counter, watching the the three people you cherished so much bubbling around the kitchen. You had made something good. It was painstakingly beautiful, and you loved it. It was something that you would do everything to protect, and it was something you wouldn't trade for the world.

[khunwriting]

[Visions of You]

Synopsis: Jade knew that he was going to have a land wedding when he first met you.

Genre: Angst

Pairing: Jade Leech x Reader

Weddings on land were vastly different compared to those of the sea. They were more extravagant and costly, but Jade knew he would eventually have a land wedding when he met you back at NRC. 

You, the little human from a world completely different to that of Twisted Wonderland. 

You, the magicless student that stayed in that dinky Ramshackle dorm during your school years.

You, the prefect who approached him after Azul’s overblot with a beaming smile and curious gaze. 

You, the one that took his shielded, beating heart and carried it gently in your loving hands.

Jade knew you were the one for him since that day. It was just a matter of how he should play his cards to make you fall in love with him, and the eel-mer would gleefully boast about how quick it was for you to fall for his charms. Though, you often joked that you would’ve fallen for him sooner if he didn’t kick you out of your dorm or harass your friends within your first few meetings—To which Jade sniffles with crocodile tears and begs you to forget about his barbaric actions. You always rolled your eyes at his jests, but he could still see the cute smile you poorly hid.

When the two of you started dating, it just felt right. It was as if two puzzle pieces slotted perfectly together, like a match made in heaven. You both complemented and balanced each other out, and even your skeptical friends warmed up to the relationship just as easily as his side did. You got along swimmingly with Azul, his parents absolutely adored you, and, more importantly (if Jade was being honest), Floyd had long accepted you as his new sibling-in-law; his family beyond elated upon hearing the news that Jade wanted a future with you. 

So, it took little time for Jade, a sudden romantic in his blooming relationship, to question the details of your wedding day. What color suit would he wear? Should he use that glittery eye makeup and have his hair done the same way as that one wedding you both attended in Sunshine Lands? What kind of makeup would you put on? What sort of hairstyle would you don? 

Oh, what would you wear? 

Just the thought of you dolled up on their wedding day was enough for Jade to collapse onto his bed with a dreamy sigh. Floyd was always sure to throw a pillow with expert precision at his head paired with a playfully disgusted groan.

His twin’s actions never stopped the daydreams that flitted about in his mind throughout his day. Even in class, he’d imagine himself standing across from you. His usual close-lipped smile would be replaced with a toothy grin as he celebrated their nuptials with friends and family, basking in the day in blissful euphoria.

Even when he's struggling on his broom during PE, Jade imagines how your cheeks would turn red as he dipped you low to grace his lips with yours before the officiant even finished the pronouncement that the husband (him!) could kiss you.

Even when he's carrying a tray full of dishes to a table during his shift, he imagines what the reception would be like. Jade was certain that you’d be swept up in a dance with his beloved twin before Floyd inevitably decided it was the groom’s turn to be spun around.

Needless to say, Jade was overly eager for his wedding day to come. 

Yet, as he stood at the altar, staring into the same colored eyes as yours were, Jade couldn’t find himself sharing the same love that reflected back at himself so brightly. Even as he stood across from his soon to be spouse, he envisioned it was you standing there instead.

The person in front of him had some similar features to you, same color hair and eyes though not as appealing. The skin tone was close, but blemishes you had were not in the same spots. Their eye shape and nose were comparable, but your lips were completely different. Unfortunately, he’ll take what he could get, even if it was barely enough to pretend that it was you. 

You both had broken up. Though, was it really a break up if neither of you ever said those words? Regardless, you were no longer with him, despite the tender love you both cultivated and nurtured throughout the years at NRC. Now that love, though still persisting in his heart, has wilted from your missing presence.

Unable to handle the aching void where you had once filled, Jade was forced to find something else to get rid of that gnawing emptiness. And the best stands across from him, a human that looked slightly like you with vaguely parallel mannerisms. They should’ve eased the pain, but it just feels like two puzzle pieces forced together, scraping at the edges and disfiguring the original shapes in the process.

It feels wrong. 

In fact, everything feels revoltingly wrong. Jade’s stomach churns and the disgusting feeling of his own suit and human flesh makes him want to scream. He wants to peel everything off, clawing deep streaks into his body. He wants to destroy the hideous altar beside him, break every expensive chair and table in sight, shred those ugly, stupid flowers till they crumple into the sand beneath his shoes. He wants to disappear back into the comfort of the Coral Sea and hide away in a dark cove with his brother at his side. 

But he can’t, so Jade forces the rising bile and deep rage back to the little caged box where his fractured heart sits next to the love and memories of you.

Instead, he’ll stand there, neat and gentlemanly as he always was. He’ll repeat the vows he doesn’t mean. He’ll slip the ring that was supposed to be yours onto somebody else's finger. He’ll lean in and kiss lips that make stomach acid crawl up his throat. Then he’ll walk down the aisle with his newly married partner, ignoring the grieving frowns his parents and Azul carry and opting to stare at his brother, who sat between his father and Azul, instead.

Floyd still doesn’t look at him, and that hurts more than Jade would like to admit. 

He knew his family wasn’t happy, but what could he do? It wasn’t like you were going to suddenly appear before them and demand the ceremony be stopped. You weren’t going to steal him away from this offensive wedding, grabbing his hand and running away like those silly dramas he used to watch with you. As much as he would’ve loved to see that happen, it wouldn’t. 

After all, nobody has seen you in years, not since his final year of NRC. You had up and disappeared with no goodbyes. Not to your friends. Not to Grim. Not to him. He was forced to hear that you returned back to your world by Crowley of all people. 

The headmage had been suspiciously tight-lipped about how he had returned you back home, and Jade was convinced that you were pushed into the mirror by Crowley—He was sure of it! You loved him as much as he loved you. You wouldn’t just leave him behind…Right?—Alas, there was no proof and no amount of tears shed will let you return. Not to mention, the decade-long research stint has continuously turned up empty and there’s only so many failures Jade could withstand. The day he gave up looking for you had led to the biggest fight Jade and Floyd had in their lifetime.

But again, Jade couldn’t take the pain anymore. He couldn’t stand waking up to a cold bed and wet tears every morning. He couldn’t go through his daily life by himself when everything reminded him of you. Since that day, you had left him alone. That day, his heart shattered into millions of pieces in front of that damn mirror with only recollections and once-vivid visions of your shared future as keepsakes from his time with you. 

Because he had given you his shielded, beating heart, Jade was forced to pick up each cracked piece with bleeding fingers and hoarse sobs. He was forced to reassemble as a broken man. He was forced to find comfort in another’s embrace with your name still filling his lungs and soul. Because you won’t come back, no matter how much he cries or begs. 

No, he’ll remain stuck in this loveless marriage on land because it reminded Jade of what could’ve been if you stayed home with him.

[oddlylovingaddiction]

; Coming Full Circle

Part 1: here , Part 2: here , Part 3: here , Part 4: You’re here! , Part 5: here

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don't have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family, Reader x Conner “Kon-El” Kent (romantic.). Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest

TW: Heavy Angst, a lot of crying, abuse in the form of neglect, pregnancy, Reader briefly expresses regret for existing

Theres a beat of silence after your husband came crashing through the window, minus the sound of your own sobs, you’re too overwhelmed to focus on the crash after all you just found out the people who neglected you, apparently they had done it all to protect you. Even when it wasn’t something you asked to be protected from. You missed out on so many things normal families did and now all it did was leave you scarred, untrusting with deep attachment issues and currently sobbing on the floor surrounded by glass that your husband shattered to get to you.

“CONNER?” Yells Tim in pure shock, which finally makes you finally look up and towards the crash. There, Conner Kent, your husband stood. He was clearly in shock, his soulmate who was pregnant with his child is kneeling on the floor, eyes a soft red and face all puffy as tears slip down. Meanwhile his best friend’s family is staring at said soulmate on the floor awkwardly.

When you see him you honestly cry harder, finally you’re not alone surrounded by people who supposedly loved you but someone who did truly care, and wouldn’t go fucking up your life, at least not without asking first.

“Please take me home Conner…” you sob choking on your own words as you stare at him desperately. Hearing you speak snaps him out of his shock, perhaps on autopilot he picks you up, making sure you are shielded away from your family. “Sorry dude, I’ll… text later. Maybe.” He says solemnly speaking to Tim but he still only looks at you. Tim goes to say something but before he can Conner is gone instantly, leaving behind one stunned bat family.

Conner flies through the sky still holding a sobbing you as he gently whispers “hey.. hey, it’s okay I’ve got you now. You’re safe.” in an attempt to soothe you and himself as well.

He knew you were like him, had family issues and weren’t loved quite right. Perhaps that’s how you guys bonded so fast, shared trauma is a powerful bonding agent. But he never knew who exactly they were, he knew you didn’t want to talk about it and he respected that. When he met you, you had your mother’s last name before taking his, so he never even had the slightest idea Bruce Wayne was your father. Also didn’t help Tim never once mentioned your name, unlike the other siblings he’d call by name, Tim referred to you only as “My other sibling.” on the rare occasions he did allude to you existing.

If he could get a headache right now he would, unfortunately(?) due to Kryptonian things he can’t. As he’s flying he thinks briefly before landing at your shared home ‘Damn what the hell is going on.’

You don’t remember what happened the rest of the night when you got home, you only remember continuously sobbing and a worried Conner trying his best to soothe you all for it to fail. It was so bad when Conner put you down on the couch to get you some water, when you tried to stand you just fell to your knees only able to lean on the couch as support, holding onto it like it’ll somehow save you. Perhaps all the suppressed emotions came flooding, a life time of being strong to have it crumble.

the years of watching your supposed siblings hanging out but it almost disbanding when you tried to join,

the months of drawings about your supposed father holding your small hand left unlooked,

the weeks of wondering if maybe you prayed hard enough someone would hug you

and the days of wondering if you would’ve been better off at the orphanage, or better yet never been born at all.

Now suddenly they did it for your sake? All the missed moments? You want to laugh and scream. The irony of thinking it’s better to neglected a child than to tell said child the truth. You feel Conner put a reassuring hand on your back gently rubbing when he hands you the glass of water, you push it away. You just need to cry, not water. He seems to understand putting it to the side on the hard wood floor and instead choosing to be a comforting presence while you cry.

You cry and sob for hours, unable to stop. Even when it slows down enough for Conner to finally get you to drink some water, urge you to change into your pjs because it was close to dawn now and you hadn’t slept a bit, you can still feel the tears rolling down. You think you must’ve passed out from crying because the last thing you remember seeing was Conner’s worried face like he would’ve cried too and now you’re looking at the sunrise peak through the blinds.

You sit up and sit on the edge of the bed looking down you feel dull and empty, like the entire world suddenly decided to drain itself of all joy and leave you with nothing. As you get up you pass the shared floor length mirror, when you look at yourself, all you can think of is how you look like a husk of a person. To be expected, you did go through something emotionally taxing and you did cry a lot so it makes sense your eyes look empty.

You can smell burnt pancakes. It seems Conner is trying to bake again…

As you enter the kitchen you can see the pile of burnt pancakes on a plate he prepared. Conner gives you an awkward smile as he looks at you and the pancakes, “In hindsight it’s a lot different to use heat vision than the stove.” You pause staring at him and then at the pancakes again, he looks nervous before he clarifies “they’re still edible I promise…”

A smile spreads across your face before you begin to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Somehow you laugh so hard it morphs into crying again when you threw your head back in a fit of laughter. Conner’s relieved face at you laughing turns to worry again as he floats over quickly to have you in his arms.

You cry your eyes out into Conner’s shirt as he holds you tight against him. “Hey, it’s okay, we are going to be okay.” Conner says gently rubbing your back supportively.

“I just can’t believe for such a stupid reason they shut me out!” You weep into your hands, the tears almost collecting in your palms as you finally start speaking. “But at the same time I.. I sort of get it? and it’s frustrating because… I don’t know! Cause it feels like now I don’t have the right to complain or just be upset anymore!” You shout frustrated by everything and all the emotions you’re feeling merging together to create one big storm. “Perhaps it’s somehow my fault—“ you mumble softly before you’re cut off by Conner.

Conner grabs you face and makes you look at him before you can finish, his face solemn as he speaks “You have every right to complain, even if they had good fucking intentions it still hurt. And that sucks.” His face scrunches a bit from sadness at frustration. “Don’t say stuff like it’s your fault. It’s not and I won’t let them demean the one good thing I have in my life.” He gently taps the side of your face before sadly smiling at you and your teary eyed face.

You chuckle softly. You want to cry more but you don’t feel like crying when you remember that Conner loves you and even if you don’t have a father or siblings like you wanted, you still have your adoring, handsome, funny, charismatic husband and an adorable child-to-be-born that’ll have your amazing looks and his personality. It may not have been the family you always wanted as a kid but it’s what you want and need now, and that’s all that matters.

“Hey, Let’s spend today in bed and order food the entire day.” You say smiling at him your face still feels a bit weird after all that crying.

“Sounds good… but are we not going to eat my pancakes?” He teases

“I love you, but not enough that I’d eat actual ash for you.”

“Oh wow so you don’t love me anymore?” Conner replies clutching his chest dramatically before taking a step back to lean himself the table like he’s dying. To which you roll your eyes.

“Okay that’s NOT what I said. Anyways I’m going to rest in bed, come join after you finished ordering breakfast and being dramatic.” You remarked before you walk away and into the bedroom to wait for him, you knew he wouldn’t be long.

Meanwhile the entire bat fam is FREAKING. Damian is arguing with both Tim and Grayson to which Barbara has to try and break it up, Bruce is sat on the couch (not having moved since last night) covering his face as he tries to ponder where it all went wrong, Stephanie is pacing around anxiously, Alfred is trying to repair the window which was supposedly shatterproof but unfortunately ‘shatterproof’ isn’t a concept that exists for the supers, Jason is shrugging and saying “I told you this would happen.” (He didn’t.) and everyone else is scattered about some watching the argument, trying to brainstorm to a silent brooding Bruce or trying to help fix the window.

Eventually they would all have to begin brainstorming on what to do next, how to repair it all and get you to forgive them. Right now is time for panic.

[yukkiji]

between sets and secrets

a year after secretly eloping with kageyama tobio, you return to japan for an international match—only for an ill-timed jumbotron zoom to expose your hidden marriage, proving that old habits die hard when it comes to keeping secrets... especially from your brother oikawa.

the other side of the net. haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kageyama tobio x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru, japan's national team, and seijoh vbc members

genre: fluff, romance, crack, older brother!oikawa, secret relationship, seijoh vbc always makes an appearance, siblings banter, eloping, iwaizumi being stressed

wc: 9.4k

author's note: i couldn't help myself not writing a part 2 so here it is and if you haven't read the first part yet please read it first to get the context of the story hehe

you always knew the truth would come out eventually.

not because you were careless—not exactly. not because you didn’t know how to keep a secret. and not even because kageyama tobio, your very literal husband, wore his wedding ring during official matches which, in hindsight, was probably tempting fate.

but maybe because that was just how the two of you were built.

you’d built your love on borrowed time and foreign cities—on tight schedules and layovers, hushed phone calls between time zones, and fleeting mornings where one of you was always leaving. your life together lived in the quiet places, the in-betweens. and maybe you kept it to yourselves because that’s what you had grown used to. not out of shame. never out of shame. but because sometimes it felt like things meant more when no one else knew.

your relationship was private, yes. but it was never a secret.

everyone knew you were dating kageyama tobio. it wasn’t a mystery, not to the press, not to the fans, and certainly not to the people who knew you best. he didn’t flaunt it, but he never hid it either. he’d hold your hand in the middle of the street like it was the most natural thing in the world. mention you in interviews with that same unfiltered honesty he applied to everything else (“i like when she watches my games. it makes me feel fast”). he’d stand behind you at the airport like a human shield, subtly positioning himself between you and any camera lens or overeager crowd.

he loved you in ways that were simple. consistent. certain.

but the engagement—that had been yours.

just yours. yours in the quietest, most sacred sense. a moment kept in soft candlelight, sealed between shared laughter and clumsy promises whispered in a hotel room in santorini. no cameras. no audience. just the glint of a diamond ring and the way he looked at you like he’d known, even back then, that there wouldn’t be anyone else.

you hadn’t expected a speech from him. he was never the speech kind.

but you had noticed the way he was fidgety all day—subtle things, barely noticeable to anyone else. the way he kept checking the time even when there was nowhere to be. how he seemed extra careful with your dinner reservation, how he trailed just a half-step behind you, like he didn’t want to miss a second of it. how he held your hand a little tighter when you walked along the shore after.

you’d thought maybe he was just being sentimental. it was your anniversary, after all. a whole string of years behind you, each one marked by flights, messages, short reunions, long silences, and somehow—still—constancy.

but when you got back to the room and he told you to sit down, his hand not quite steady, his voice a touch too casual, you knew.

he pulled out the ring box like he was pulling out something obvious. inevitable.

“i didn’t write anything down,” he’d admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he did when he missed a serve or forgot to text you back during training. “because i figured i’d just… say it.”

you didn’t say anything. just watched him kneel, the air still and warm, salt-softened by the mediterranean breeze slipping through the balcony doors.

“i’ve been thinking about this since middle school,” he said, voice quiet. “i didn’t know anything back then, but i knew i wanted to be with you.”

he’d opened the box, the diamond catching the low light.

then, like he couldn’t help himself, he reached out, took your hand, turned it gently in his own, and looked at your fingers like he was already picturing the rest of your lives.

“i know it’s not fancy. but it’s yours. and i want you to wear it. because you’ve always been… it. for me.”

your throat had gone tight. not because of the ring. not even because of the proposal. but because he meant every word—and he said it in the only way he knew how: plain, honest, true.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

that night with him changed everything—not in a loud, dramatic way, but in the way that mattered most. quietly, completely. like a door had been closed to the rest of the world, and all that remained was you and him. your yes wasn’t just an answer. it was a beginning. it meant you were his. that he was yours. that from here on out, there was no maybe, no almost, no eventually.

you were locked in. for good.

and just like everything that came before it—your long-distance calls, your early morning airport reunions, the barely-contained smiles exchanged across tournament hallways—it stayed yours. private. sacred. untouched.

there was no announcement. no post. no caption. just the two of you, keeping it where it felt the safest: between your hearts and the silence that knew better than to demand proof.

you wore the ring every day. slipped it on like second skin. and somehow, in all that time—nearly two years of wearing a diamond on your left hand—no one asked. no one noticed.

maybe it was because you always knew how to tuck it just so, how to angle your hand in photos, how to fold your fingers when your friends got too close. maybe it was because, when it came to hiding kageyama, you’d both become professionals or maybe—and this one made you laugh most of all—maybe your friends were just really bad at paying attention.

and so the secret held.

during those two quiet, surreal years of engagement, life went on. matches were won, seasons changed, bags were packed and unpacked in cities that blurred together. but one morning, you found yourself folding your clothes into a suitcase with more intention than usual, your heart a little louder than it had been in a while.

you were flying to denmark to visit your fiancé—who, for reasons yet unexplained, had arrived a full week earlier than planned. actually, two weeks earlier than the official schedule set by japan’s national team, who were supposed to fly out to spain the following week for their training camp.

you had blinked at his text when it first came through.

[tobio:] already here. [tobio:] in denmark. [tobio:] come if you can.

no explanation. no context. no elaboration.

typical.

and yet, even without the full story, you’d booked the flight.

you didn’t question it—not really. not after so many years of slipping between time zones just to be near him. not when it had always been like this: brief reunions in unfamiliar cities, crashing into each other like two people who had never stopped running.

you just packed. called off work. and went.

because wherever he was, that’s where you wanted to be.

you landed in denmark late in the afternoon, the air outside the terminal sharp with cold. the kind that bit at your fingers the moment you stepped outside sliding doors, your breath visible as fog. you scanned the small crowd past customs, half expecting him to be running late, maybe tucked behind a scarf or hidden under a baseball cap like he usually was when he didn’t want to be recognized.

but instead, you found him already there—waiting.

kageyama stood near the arrivals gate, hood down despite the cold, a heavy jacket zipped up to his chin, hands shoved deep into his pockets. his posture was stiff, almost tense, but it was his eyes that caught you. wide, steady, and locked on you like he’d been holding his breath since you left the plane. like he’d been standing there for hours just to make sure he didn’t miss your face in the crowd.

that was the first sign something was off.

you smiled anyway, dragging your luggage behind you, weaving through the last few arriving passengers.

“you’re early,” you said, stepping into his space.

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze dropped briefly to your suitcase, then back to your face, like he couldn’t believe you were really here.

then, a beat late, he said, “i know.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re two weeks early.”

“i know,” he repeated, quieter this time.

you tilted your head. “why?”

his fingers flexed in his coat pocket like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how. and then, with the most kageyama expression imaginable—equal parts serious and awkward, like he was bracing for a block—he said,

“…i was going to ask you something.”

that’s when your stomach did that quiet little somersault. not nervousness. not fear. just something soft and startled.

“in my hotel room,” he added quickly, as if that clarified things. “i thought… it should be somewhere warm.”

and that was all he said.

no elaborate excuse, no rehearsed speech—just that. just him, looking at you like he didn’t know how to say everything at once, so he settled for what he could manage.

when you arrived at his hotel, it looked like every other place he’d stayed in over the years—impersonal, functional, the kind of room that held little more than a bed, a desk, and whatever familiarity came from the scent of his cologne clinging to the hoodie tossed over a chair.

you set your bag down without a word and drifted toward the balcony. it was small, the kind of space barely meant to stand in, but it opened up to a skyline painted in soft gold. denmark in winter looked quieter, somehow—like the buildings themselves were huddled together for warmth.

you stepped outside, wrapped your arms around yourself, and took in the view. the cold kissed your cheeks, but it wasn’t biting. not really. not when you felt him just behind you.

kageyama joined you a moment later. his presence always announced itself quietly—warmth at your back, the subtle brush of his hand against yours before he leaned in, calloused fingers brushing against your cheek like he needed to be sure you were real.

then, a soft kiss. not on your lips, but your temple—gentle, familiar, steadying.

you smiled, turning slightly to face him. your noses almost touched. and before the moment slipped by, you gave him a short, sweet kiss. just enough to make him blink, startled. just enough to remind him you were here.

“is there something on your mind, tobio?” you asked, voice low with amusement.

he didn’t answer at first. instead, he took your hand in his, the one wearing the engagement ring. he didn’t say anything as he turned it over gently, as though he was still getting used to seeing it there, even after all this time.

his thumb brushed over the band, slow and deliberate.

“this still feels… not real,” he murmured.

you tilted your head. “it’s been almost two years.”

“i know,” he said. “but sometimes i look at it and… i don’t know. i feel like i’m going to mess it up.”

you opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, voice soft and steady in a way that was so uniquely him.

“but then i think about you wearing it. every day. and it’s like… maybe i’m not messing it up. maybe i’m doing something right.”

you stared at him for a moment, heart pressed up against your ribs.

his hand was still cradling yours, thumb tracing circles like it had nowhere else to be. like he was anchoring himself to you.

“i was going to ask you,” he said, eyes flickering to yours. “if you still wanted to marry me. for real. not just… secret engagement, secret ring, secret everything.”

he swallowed hard.

“i thought maybe now is the time. if you still want to.”

you didn’t say anything right away—not because you were unsure, but because your heart was trying to catch up to the softness of his words. because kageyama wasn’t the type to spill things carelessly, and when he did, it always landed somewhere deep. somewhere steady.

he was still holding your hand when he said it:

“i also… i bought the rings.”

your eyebrows rose slightly, lips parting. “you what?”

“the wedding rings,” he clarified, almost nervously. “i already bought them. a while ago.”

your breath hitched somewhere between a laugh and a question. “without me?”

he nodded, quickly. “they match. kind of. i tried not to make them weird. they’re just simple. i picked them out the same day i booked the hotel.”

he paused, eyes flicking down to your hand again.

“i was scared they wouldn’t fit you,” he admitted. “so i guessed. i based it off the engagement ring. i measured it when you left it on the nightstand one morning. with a pencil and paper. like… like a math problem.”

that made you laugh. warm and surprised and affectionate. it slipped from your chest like second nature.

he winced slightly, but there was something fond in his expression—relieved, maybe, that you hadn’t burst into flames.

“i almost asked your brother for help,” he added, quieter now.

your laugh deepened, disbelief soft around the edges. “you almost asked tooru?”

he nodded again, tragically sincere. “but then i didn’t. i thought it’d be weird.”

you grinned, leaning your head back against the balcony rail. “tobio, he doesn’t even know about the engagement.”

kageyama blinked. “oh. right.”

you shook your head, still smiling. “i love you, but you’re a terrible liar.”

he looked mildly panicked for a second, like he was processing just how thin the ice had been all along. but before he could say anything else, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

a brochure. folded. worn at the corners.

“there’s a chapel,” he said. “i found it online. it’s small. just… small. and quiet.”

your gaze dropped to the paper. a little building, tucked between old trees and red rooftops, sun spilling through stained glass windows.

“it’s not too far,” he added, watching you closely. “like, we don’t have to. it’s just—i saw it. and i thought… if we did it. if we ever did it, it should be there.”

you looked at him.

he was fidgeting again. not from nerves, not really, but from the sheer force of caring too much and not knowing how to contain it.

you weren’t shocked, exactly. but you were… breathless.

because of course he found a chapel. of course he’d been thinking about this longer than he let on. of course he wanted to do it like this—with just the two of you, no audience, no fuss. just a quiet promise in a place neither of you had ever been before.

you reached out, brushing your fingers against his wrist. “show me.”

and his eyes lit up like you’d said yes all over again.

you left the hotel with your fingers laced through his—gloved hand in gloved hand, your steps slow against the cobbled streets of copenhagen. the sky above was pale and soft, dusted with winter clouds that made everything seem quieter. more sacred.

kageyama walked half a step ahead, the way he always did when he didn’t want you to get lost, occasionally glancing back just to make sure you were still there, like you’d vanish if he blinked. he’d packed the rings in his coat pocket. no box. no ribbon. just wrapped carefully in tissue and zipped into the inside lining like a secret he was terrified of dropping.

when you reached the chapel, it was smaller than the photo had shown—but prettier. it sat tucked away on a quiet street, ivy curling around one side of the old stone, a carved wooden door standing crooked and proud. a hand-painted sign at the steps read: ceremonies welcome. bookings not required.

kageyama looked at you then, as if to say, this is it.

you nodded.

inside, it smelled like candlewax and winter dust. the light through the stained glass cast soft colors on the floor, pinks and golds and gentle greens. there were only ten pews. no altar. no priest yet. no flowers. just stillness. and you. and him.

you sat down in the last row for a moment, just to breathe.

he looked over at you, a little out of his depth, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them now.

"are you okay?" he asked.

you turned your head and smiled. “are you okay?”

“…i think so,” he said, and then frowned slightly. “my hands are cold.”

you reached for one and rubbed it between yours. “you’re nervous.”

“i’m not,” he argued.

you raised a brow.

“…okay. maybe a little.”

the officiant came out a few minutes later—a woman with silver hair tied back in a bun and eyes that crinkled when she saw the way kageyama was staring at you like he’d been hypnotized. she spoke softly, asked for your names, asked if this was what you both wanted.

kageyama nodded so fast it was almost funny. you just smiled and said, “yes.”

you wore the white dress you’d packed on a whim, never really intending to use it. it had stayed folded in your suitcase for months—a soft thing, simple and unassuming. like hope. he was still in his button-up shirt, black slacks, and that too-serious expression he always wore when he was trying not to mess up.

and when you stood at the front, hand in hand, the officiant asked if you had any words.

you looked at each other.

kageyama cleared his throat.

“…i didn’t write anything,” he said. “i forgot. or… i didn’t think i needed to.”

you squeezed his hand. “you don’t.”

he exhaled slowly. “just… i want this. every day. all the quiet parts. all the normal stuff. you. me. everything.”

you felt the warmth crawl up your chest, soft and overwhelming.

you answered him with your eyes before you ever said “i do.”

and when the time came, with hands still slightly shaking, under soft european daylight in a borrowed chapel—

you said it.

and so did he.

then he slid the ring onto your finger, right next to the one he’d given you in santorini, and kissed you like he was promising a thousand more mornings just like this one.

afterward, you left the chapel hand-in-hand, no announcement, no confetti, just two very married people who stopped at a nearby café for sandwiches and coffee like it was just another afternoon. like you hadn’t just made the biggest decision of your life. like forever wasn’t sitting quietly on both your hands.

you leaned your head on his shoulder as you waited for your drinks to arrive, and he tapped your ring with the tip of his finger like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“it fits,” he said.

you smiled. “of course it does.”

you were still in the café, tucked into a window seat with two half-eaten sandwiches between you, his hand resting palm-up on the table like it was meant to hold yours and yours alone. the light outside had dimmed slightly, winter dusk settling over copenhagen in soft blue tones, the kind that made everything look gentler, quieter.

kageyama kept glancing down at your hand. not subtly. like every few minutes, as if the sight of your wedding ring alongside your engagement band still needed to be double-checked for accuracy. like if he looked away too long, it might disappear.

you caught him staring again and let out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your coffee. “you’re going to wear a hole in that ring if you keep looking at it.”

he blinked, then flushed slightly, eyes darting back to his own cup. “it just looks… right,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “like it’s supposed to be there.”

your smile softened, settling into something warmer. “it is.”

a comfortable silence followed. not awkward—just the kind that came when you didn’t need to fill space anymore. when the person across from you already knew all the words you hadn’t said.

then, leaning back against the booth, you teased, “you know we’re still going to have to do a proper wedding at some point, right?”

he looked up so fast his hair bounced. “what?”

you laughed again, gently this time. “tobio, we got married in a tiny chapel in a city no one even knew we were in. there’s a very high chance my brother is going to launch himself into the sun when he finds out.”

he frowned thoughtfully, like this hadn’t quite occurred to him. “but we’re already married.”

“yes,” you said, reaching over to tug his hand into yours. “but you’re marrying into my friend group. and my family. and there will be consequences.”

he groaned softly, burying his face in his elbow for a moment like the mere idea of oikawa making a scene gave him immediate physical pain. “can we do it somewhere with no microphones?”

“we can do it somewhere with a fire extinguisher in case my brother tries to set you on fire.”

he looked at you, dead serious. “good idea.”

you squeezed his hand. “but yes, i want the dress. the cake. the dancing. and the people we love watching us do this properly. even if it’s just for show.”

kageyama didn’t hesitate this time. he nodded. “okay. if that’s what you want, we’ll do it.”

then, a pause. a softer tone.

“i don’t care how many times i have to marry you,” he added. “just as long as i always get to.”

and just like that, your heart did that quiet little stutter it always did around him. still. even now. even after everything.

you reached across the table again and ran your thumb over the ring on his hand—the one you’d slipped on just hours ago.

“good,” you said. “because the next one will need to come with a seating chart and maybe a taser for crowd control.”

he stared at you.

“…i’m serious.”

“i know.” he took another sip of his coffee. “and i believe you.”

you two spent your unofficial honeymoon like you had everything in the world and no need to tell it. it was a week of quiet joy, the kind that didn’t need documenting to be remembered. half of it was spent wandering through denmark’s crooked streets and quiet museums, sneaking kisses in doorways, splitting pastries in coffee shops, and curling up in bed while the snow dusted rooftops outside. the rest of it was in spain—sunlight, terraces, the sea humming in the distance. he wore sunglasses he didn’t need. you wore his jacket more than your own. it felt like your little pocket of time. a secret with a heartbeat.

and no one knew.

no cameras. no teammates. no siblings breathing down your neck.

just you and him, sharing the kind of silence only love could make comfortable.

well—that perfect silence was shattered, violently and without remorse, when reality hit.

or more accurately… when it rang. again. and again.

at three in the morning.

you groaned softly into the pillow, tangled in sheets with your leg draped over his hip, both of you a tangle of limbs and warmth. your ring glinted faintly under the moonlight that filtered through the blinds, the only reminder that yes, you had actually gone through with it. you were married.

and now, someone was ruining it.

kageyama shifted beneath you, groggy and frowning, blindly patting the nightstand until his fingers wrapped around his buzzing phone.

“who is it?” you murmured sleepily against his shoulder.

he squinted at the screen. “iwaizumi.”

that alone jolted both of you into semi-consciousness.

you sat up slowly, hair a mess, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders like a cape. “does he know?”

“i don’t know.” he stared at the screen like it was a bomb he wasn’t trained to defuse.

and then it rang again.

“pick up,” you whispered.

“what if he’s mad?”

“tobio, of course he’s mad. you left two weeks before the team.”

“…should i lie?”

you gave him a look.

he sighed, then finally answered. “…hello?”

there was a pause—half a second, maybe less—before iwaizumi's voice detonated through the speaker like a fire alarm.

“kageyama tobio, where the hell are you?”

you winced and tugged the blanket higher over your head like it might shield you from the sheer force of secondhand stress vibrating through the mattress.

“i’m in spain already,” kageyama mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep and—let’s be honest—panic.

there was a beat of silence. and then—

“you’re what?!”

kageyama flinched and instinctively yanked the phone an inch away from his ear. you could hear every syllable anyway. so could half the block.

“iwaizumi-san, i—”

“do you understand,” iwaizumi hissed, “that i am currently in tokyo, at narita airport, with ten grown men who can’t function without labeled boarding passes and adult supervision? sakusa’s arguing with customs over sanitizer. bokuto is missing. atsumu is trying to check in his hairdryer as a carry-on.”

you muffled a snort into the pillow.

“we fly out in two hours, and you are not here, kageyama. you didn’t check in. you’re not responding in the group chat. komori thought you were kidnapped. suna said he’d give it 24 hours before calling interpol. and you’re telling me you’re in spain already?!”

kageyama cleared his throat. “i… i told you. i sent it in the group chat.”

iwaizumi sounded like he aged ten years in real time. “you sent just landed airplane emoji with no context. how the hell was i supposed to know where you were?! you could’ve landed in okinawa for all i knew!”

“i thought it was clear…”

“it wasn’t.”

you were shaking with silent laughter now, curled under the sheets, as kageyama rubbed his temple and glanced helplessly in your direction.

“i went to denmark first,” he said, tone now sheepish. “before spain.”

a dangerous pause.

“…why denmark.”

“we got married.”

the sound iwaizumi made could only be described as a full-body malfunction. a strangled mix between a gasp, a growl, and someone trying not to rupture a blood vessel in public.

“you—married—?!”

“yeah.”

another pause. and then, flat and venomous: “does oikawa know?”

kageyama stiffened like a guilty schoolboy. “…not yet.”

on the other end, iwaizumi audibly inhaled, as if trying to summon every ounce of patience he’d ever had in his life. “and when were you going to tell me you weren’t flying out with the team?”

“well,” kageyama began, “we already sent the marriage certificate to the embassy. so i thought—”

“so you had time to arrange paperwork with a foreign government but not text me you were leaving the country early?!”

“…i sent it in the group chat.”

“do you think i read every ‘just landed’ message between memes and hinata’s live-updates on his snacks?!”

there was a thump, probably iwaizumi hitting a wall—or his own forehead.

“we’re going to be teammates for a month,” he muttered. “and you dropped this on me now. at the airport. in front of god and the vending machine.”

kageyama winced. “i can send a proper message.”

“you think?!”

you finally peeked out from under the covers, gently taking the phone from his hand. “hajime?”

iwaizumi groaned. “you too.”

“we’re very happy,” you said sweetly.

“i hate both of you,” he grumbled. “but fine. congratulations. don’t expect me to babysit you through this.”

you smiled. “oh, you already are.”

there was another sigh. long. exhausted. broken.

“if oikawa finds out before i land,” he muttered, “i’m pretending i don’t speak japanese.”

then the line clicked off.

kageyama stared at the screen. “…he didn’t even say goodbye.”

you shrugged. “he’ll survive.”

“…probably.”

kageyama sank back into the pillows like a man barely spared by fate, while your hand slipped into his, both your wedding rings catching the low morning light filtering in through the window.

and that was it.

well—that was it, until it wasn’t.

because that elopement?

the quiet, sacred thing just for the two of you? it stayed hidden for nearly a year.

miraculously.

because of iwaizumi hajime. professional trainer. national team’s unofficial handler. your shared confidant. and, as it turned out, an elite-level secret keeper under immense emotional duress.

he didn’t say a word.

not even when oikawa called him three times that week alone, trying to fish for details on why kageyama was “weirdly chipper” and asking if he’d “caught a new disease in europe.”

not even when bokuto found a photo of you and kageyama in matching coats from copenhagen and shouted, “this looks like honeymoon energy.”

not even when atsumu, bored and nosy, cornered iwaizumi with a protein shake and said, “you’re acting like you’re hiding something. is it drugs or a lovechild?”

iwaizumi kept his mouth shut through all of it.

but not without consequence, because you watched the man visibly age.

he developed three new forehead lines and started carrying around a stress ball that wasn’t there before. he muttered “i need a raise” to himself a lot, and once, when komori spilled pre-game smoothies all over the training mats, iwaizumi sat down on the floor and just stared into space for five solid minutes.

the guilt gnawed at you sometimes—especially when he glared at kageyama during warmups with the same expression a war general might give a soldier who’d accidentally detonated the strategy tent.

“we should tell them soon,” you said once, watching a livestream of a match where iwaizumi could clearly be seen shouting at the bench and pointing a clipboard like it was a weapon.

kageyama had only nodded, chewing his protein bar.

you felt bad. you did.

but…

there was still something sacred about the way your marriage belonged to just the two of you. something lovely in the quiet of it. it had been a promise whispered and signed in the hush of a european winter. something selfish and soft and yours.

and iwaizumi?

he’d kept that promise. never wavered. never slipped. never cracked—not even once.

you knew it cost him sleep. and years off his life. and probably a piece of his soul.

but still.

he’d kept it.

because that’s who iwaizumi hajime was—reliable to the bone, loyal past reason, and deeply, deeply tired of being surrounded by emotionally stunted athletes. but a keeper of your secret, all the same.

he’d sworn not to say anything, and he hadn’t. even when oikawa, calling in from argentina with the energy of someone who absolutely knew something was going on but didn’t have the receipts yet, tried to dig into him like a stubborn cat clawing at a locked cabinet.

“you’d tell me if something weird was going on with tobio, right?” oikawa had asked during one of their check-ins, mid-stretching and dripping sweat.

iwaizumi had stared into the camera like he was contemplating faking his own death. “define weird,” he said.

and that had somehow been enough to throw him off the trail—for a while.

and now, a year later, here you were.

back in japan. back in a packed stadium. seated in the plush, velvet-lined vip box of one of the biggest venues in tokyo.

the crowd was already roaring, the atmosphere electric with anticipation. flags waving, chants echoing, camera lights flickering like fireflies across the arena. and there you were, seated with hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—all blissfully unaware that they were sitting next to someone who had legally and emotionally committed herself to a man currently warming up on the court.

oikawa tooru—your brother—stood proudly on the other side of the net, representing argentina with that same swaggering confidence he carried since high school. across from him, in japan’s uniform, was kageyama tobio, stretching his shoulder like he wasn’t seconds from reigniting an international rivalry and a family feud.

“man, this is gonna be intense,” hanamaki murmured, sipping his soda. “oikawa’s looking extra dramatic today.”

“he always looks dramatic,” matsukawa replied.

“did you hear the commentator earlier?” kindaichi said, pointing to the massive jumbotron above the court. “they zoomed in on kageyama’s hand and were like, ‘is that a wedding band?’”

your body stilled. too still. the kind of stillness that made animals run.

“wedding band?” hanamaki blinked, then turned to look at you. “wait—that’s a wedding band too, isn’t it?”

your fingers instinctively curled inward on your lap, but it was too late.

kunimi blinked slowly. “…okay but who did you marry?”

there was a beat of silence before matsukawa groaned, exasperated.

“are you dumb? it’s obviously kageyama, dumbass. they’ve been together since middle school. remember when tooru found out and refused to speak for a week and a half? cold war era?”

you stared ahead, expression composed, neutral, elegant—despite the chaos brewing in the row behind you.

“wait—wait, so you’re married?” kindaichi practically screeched.

“when?!” hanamaki demanded.

“why didn’t we know?!”

“was there cake?” kunimi asked calmly.

but before you could respond, the jumbotron cut to oikawa.

your brother—sweaty, flushed, stretching his shoulders—froze mid-motion as his gaze zeroed in on kageyama’s ring, and then the camera panned to the vip box. to you.

and then he just—stopped moving.

completely.

as if time itself had paused.

his eye twitched.

iwaizumi, who you could barely see from your elevated spot, was already standing up from the team bench, shoulders squared like a man who had smelled smoke before the fire had even started.

on the court, oikawa dropped the ball he was warming up with. just let it fall. stared across the net like he was calculating the optimal trajectory for a murder.

“uh-oh,” matsukawa said.

“yep,” hanamaki muttered.

“what’s happening?” kindaichi asked.

“he figured it out,” kunimi said. “he definitely figured it out.”

and as oikawa took a step toward the net, iwaizumi appeared—not walked, not ran—appeared, grabbing him by the shoulder mid-lunge.

“not on live television,” you could imagine him saying. “please. not here.”

oikawa pointed at kageyama.

then at the jumbotron.

then—at you.

you gave him a little wave.

iwaizumi looked skyward, mouthing something that was either a prayer or a resignation letter.

and you? you just smiled.

because the truth was out. the rings were seen. the marriage was no longer a secret.

down on the court, chaos was brewing in slow motion.

oikawa, tooru, argentina’s number one, local menace and your older brother, was standing frozen in place. the warmup drill had gone completely forgotten—his arms limp, one knee bent like he’d been mid-step when the realization hit. his eyes hadn’t moved from the jumbotron in almost a full minute.

because on that screen, clear as day, were the two things he feared most:

tobio kageyama with a wedding band.your face in the vip box, smiling like you had no business being that calm while his world was collapsing.

iwaizumi saw it happen in real time.

and for a man who had taped a hundred ankles, mediated fifty shouting matches, and once convinced sakusa not to pepper spray a fan who got too close to the bench—he knew this was a code red situation.

“no,” he muttered under his breath, already walking.

by the time oikawa was marching toward the net, eyes blazing, hands clenched like he might throw the volleyball—or worse, launch it at kageyama’s face—iwaizumi was already on the court, cutting across warm-up zones like a soldier breaking formation.

“tooru,” he called out, calm and firm.

oikawa turned, wild-eyed, and pointed a furious finger across the court. “he married my sister, iwa-chan.”

“yes. and we’re live in seventy-two countries, so maybe don’t commit a felony on international television,” iwaizumi replied smoothly, one hand now gripping oikawa’s bicep like a leash.

“he didn’t even tell me!”

“neither did she,” iwaizumi muttered under his breath, tugging him away from the middle of the court.

“iwa-chan!”

“tooru,” iwaizumi hissed, low and sharp, “if you blow this up right now, you’re gonna be that guy—the guy who lost his cool on camera because of a ring. save it for after the match. yell all you want later. i’ll buy you a punching bag.”

“i don’t want a punching bag—i want to strangle tobio-chan.”

“you can’t strangle the setter from another country mid-tournament. it’s bad press.”

oikawa groaned and dragged a hand down his face like he was physically trying to wipe the betrayal off his skin. “iwa-chan, he stole my sister.”

iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “i’m pretty sure she walked, tooru. willingly.”

oikawa opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a fish gasping for one last comeback. but nothing came out.

so instead, he just slumped.

he crashed out, right there on the bench behind the court, head in his hands like he was back in high school discovering your middle school text messages to kageyama all over again.

“i’m going to be sick,” he muttered.

“you’ll be fine.”

“do you think there’s still time to annul something?!”

iwaizumi exhaled, pulling him up by the collar. “play the game first. destroy him on the court. then you can collapse in the locker room. we’ve practiced this routine before.”

“i can’t believe you knew.”

“i can’t believe you didn’t.”

“this is betrayal.”

“this is adulthood.”

“iwa-chan, my soul is cracking.”

“yeah? my spine’s been cracking since 2017. join the club.”

oikawa sulked, but he didn’t storm off the court. he didn't throw a ball at kageyama’s head. he didn’t demand security or scream into a mic. he just… went back to his team, defeated and muttering curses under his breath.

iwaizumi returned to the japan bench like nothing happened. smooth. silent. the man had the emotional composure of a seasoned trauma surgeon and the patience of a saint married to a coffee addiction.

he picked up his clipboard, scribbled something that might’ve been “kill me” in between tactical notes, and took a long sip of his water.

“sooo…” hinata leaned in from the end of the bench, eyes wide, voice hushed but clearly dying to know, “did oikawa find out?”

iwaizumi didn’t flinch. he didn’t blink. he just leaned back, set the water bottle down with a soft clunk, and said, dry as desert wind: “play the game. save the funeral for after.”

bokuto gasped dramatically. “oh my god, someone died?!”

atsumu squinted. “what kinda funeral we talkin’ about here—like actual or emotional? because i’m ready for both.”

suna, filming casually from the corner of the bench, zoomed in on iwaizumi’s exhausted face. “caption: ‘man realizes he raised twelve sons and one of them just married the other’s sister in secret.’”

“wait, hold up,” aran said, brows furrowing. “who got married?”

“kageyama,” sakusa deadpanned, not even looking up from his water bottle. “obviously.”

“wait—what?!” komori yelped.

hinata choked. “to who?!”

they all turned to look at kageyama, who was tying his shoelaces like nothing earth-shattering had just happened. like his life hadn’t just been blown open on the jumbotron in front of thousands.

kageyama looked up mid-knot. “…what?”

“bro, you’re married?!” bokuto nearly shouted. “you didn’t tell us?!”

“you guys didn’t know?” kageyama asked, blinking like they were the weird ones.

“no,” atsumu cried. “did we look like we knew?!”

“who did you even marry?” komori asked, baffled.

“his girlfriend,” sakusa said, like it was the most obvious answer on the planet.

“well, yeah, but which girlfriend?!” atsumu asked

“what do you mean ‘which’?” sakusa asked, narrowing his eyes. “he’s only had one.”

“yeah,” kageyama mumbled. “the same one since middle school.”

a pause.

“…wait.” hinata stood so fast his jersey wrinkled. “you mean—?”

atsumu’s jaw dropped so fast it was a miracle it didn’t dislocate. “oikawa’s sister?!”

iwaizumi rubbed his temples.

“i thought it was just a rumor you two were dating!” komori blurted, still visibly struggling with the mental whiplash.

“yeah,” aran agreed, frowning. “like—i thought oikawa made it up once to get under kageyama’s skin during nationals or something.”

“no,” suna said casually, still filming. “i thought it was real. i mean, you should’ve seen how kageyama looked whenever someone mentioned her name. classic pining face.”

“wait,” hinata turned to kageyama, squinting. “weren’t y’all, like… secret-secret?”

kageyama finally spoke, tone deadpan as he stood up and adjusted his knee pads.

“the world knows we’re dating,” he said, plain and matter-of-fact. “i always mention her during press conferences.”

a pause.

“…you do?” bokuto blinked.

kageyama nodded. “yeah. stuff like, ‘she helped me recover from an injury,’ or ‘she brings me food after training.’ last month i said, ‘i play better when she’s watching.’”

another pause.

“okay wow,” bokuto muttered, eyes wide. “i think i just thought you were talking about, like… a therapist.”

“didn’t you once call her ‘my most important person’ on live tv?” sakusa added, brow raised.

“he did,” komori confirmed.

“guys.” kageyama looked around at them, flat expression slowly melting into disbelief. “do you even notice anything?”

atsumu looked personally offended. “okay rude, i notice lots of things. like the time sakusa changed conditioner.”

“that was six months ago,” sakusa muttered.

“and unforgivable,” atsumu said.

“you’re literally always with him,” hinata added, pointing at kageyama. “how did we not put this together?”

iwaizumi, watching from a few feet away with crossed arms and the distinct look of someone who’d lost all faith in the team’s collective iq, let out a soundless laugh through his nose.

“you all have the memory retention of a wet sponge,” he muttered. “you’ve seen them together more times than i can count.”

suna stopped recording just long enough to deadpan, “so basically, kageyama had a girlfriend, a fiancée, and a wife… and we missed all three stages?”

“some best friends you are,” kageyama mumbled under his breath.

“we need a slideshow,” bokuto said. “like a timeline! ‘the secret love story of tobio and the one who got away but actually stayed!’”

“he married her,” sakusa muttered. “she didn’t get away.”

bokuto gasped. “even better! it’s like a plot twist!”

iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. “i need noise-cancelling earbuds. and possibly retirement.”

and as the referee whistled for the starting lineups, the japan national team jogged out onto the court— still slightly shaken, entirely too loud, and about to play a very high-stakes match…

while one of their own had just broken the biggest news of the year without even trying.

you, on the other hand, weren’t faring any better.

in the vip box, the interrogation hadn’t let up since the moment kageyama’s wedding band hit the jumbotron in high-definition glory. your friends—hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—had turned on you like you were the surprise twist in a murder mystery, except you weren’t even dead, just very secretly married.

“so you’re telling me,” hanamaki began, leaning in with the intensity of a seasoned detective, “you got engaged and married and never said a single word?”

“what happened to trust?” matsukawa added, clutching his chest like you’d betrayed him specifically.

“what happened to group chat loyalty?” kindaichi gasped.

kunimi just blinked slowly. “i literally stood next to you during a group photo last year. were you wearing the ring then?”

you didn’t even try to deny it. instead, you sipped your drink and said coolly, “maybe you should all pay more attention to the details.”

“we’re not the cia!” matsukawa cried. “we didn’t think we had to inspect your fingers for government-level secrecy!”

“i’m just saying,” you murmured with a small shrug, “you guys are surprisingly unobservant.”

“you literally posted a photo in santorini with a caption that said, ‘best trip ever,’” hanamaki said, squinting at you. “was that the engagement trip?”

you smiled sweetly. “no comment.”

“you smiled in the background of his press photos!” kindaichi pointed out, like the realization was physically painful. “and we just thought it was cute—not, you know, ‘secret wife’ level of cute!”

“how long?” kunimi asked, too calmly, and somehow that made it worse.

you looked up at the court, where kageyama stood in his ready position, laser-focused, completely unfazed by the worldwide bombshell he’d just dropped.

“almost a year,” you admitted.

hanamaki let out a strangled noise. “one. year.”

“how did oikawa not find out sooner?” matsukawa asked, as if that was the true miracle here.

you hummed. “because iwaizumi knows how to keep a secret. and also because we’re very good at sneaking around. old habits.”

“are you pregnant?” kunimi asked flatly.

you blinked. “…what?”

“that’s always how this goes. secret wedding, and then—bam. baby.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but the buzzer went off for the start of the match, drowning out the sound.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered as the teams lined up. “you’re totally pregnant.”

you didn’t confirm. you didn’t deny.

you just leaned back into your seat, eyes on the court, ring glinting under the stadium lights.

and in that exact moment, kageyama looked up—just for a second.

and he smiled.

once the game was over—japan victorious, oikawa dramatic, and the stadium still humming from the post-match adrenaline—you made your way down from the vip box, your four friends trailing behind you like a jury who had not yet reached a verdict.

“we’re not done talking about this,” hanamaki muttered as you led the group through a side corridor marked staff only.

“i feel lied to,” matsukawa added, hand dramatically pressed to his chest.

“i feel like i need to see the marriage license,” kindaichi said, half-joking. probably.

“i still feel like this is an elaborate prank,” kunimi deadpanned. “like, where are the cameras? is this a variety show?”

“you’re very loud for people who didn’t notice a literal diamond ring for two years,” you shot back over your shoulder.

“okay, rude,” hanamaki huffed.

a staff member nodded you through security with a knowing smile—apparently, “spouse of a national athlete” had its perks—and you slipped into the hallway that led to the locker rooms.

you knocked once on the door.

there was a beat of silence. then shuffling. then—

“is it her?” came bokuto’s unmistakably hopeful voice.

“don’t say it like that,” sakusa muttered from somewhere inside.

the door opened.

kageyama stood there, towel around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower, and wearing the most neutral expression he could muster.

which meant: he was trying to act normal but his ears were already turning pink.

you smiled up at him.

“hey, husband.”

“hey,” he murmured. then, after a beat, added: “they’re here too?”

you turned slightly, revealing the four trailing behind you like paparazzi with no cameras and too many questions.

matsukawa gave him a dry look. “you owe us a slideshow.”

kindaichi pointed. “and a proper explanation.”

“also, what the hell, kageyama,” hanamaki said, squinting. “you get married and don’t even blink through the whole match?”

“you’re emotionally constipated,” kunimi declared.

kageyama blinked once. “i’m fine.”

you rolled your eyes and pushed past him gently, tugging him by the wrist into the room. “we wanted to tell everyone eventually. just… you know.”

“eventually?!” matsukawa repeated. “it’s been a year.”

“yeah,” you said with a soft laugh. “and funny enough… we were gonna send out invitations. next week.”

everyone paused.

“invitations?” hanamaki asked. “to what?”

“to our proper wedding ceremony,” you said, grinning now. “for our first anniversary. nothing huge. just family, close friends…”

“you mean the second wedding?” kindaichi asked, still trying to keep up.

“more like the public one,” you corrected.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered. “i need to sit down.”

and as if the universe had a sense of timing, another voice echoed down the hallway:

“don’t tell me you’re also pregnant?!”

oikawa.

you winced. turned toward the source of the voice as he stormed dramatically into view, hair still damp, jersey slung over his shoulder, eyes wide with post-match betrayal.

your mouth opened. you considered lying. or deflecting. or maybe just fake-fainting.

but then you caught kageyama’s hand in yours and… sighed.

“…yes.”

oikawa screamed into his towel.

iwaizumi, appearing like clockwork from the opposite end of the hallway, placed a firm hand on his shoulder and steered him the other direction.

“not now,” iwaizumi said through gritted teeth. “not here. i swear, if you throw something again—”

“he got her pregnant!”

“you’re shouting in front of a baby.”

“the baby isn’t here yet.”

“well, it’s probably listening.” iwaizumi dragged him away like a bouncer at a wedding reception. “let them breathe. please. for once.”

you leaned your head against kageyama’s arm, both of you stifling a laugh as your friends stood behind you, stunned into silence.

finally, matsukawa exhaled. “well… at least we’re invited now.”

hanamaki groaned. “do we have to get gifts?”

“get diapers,” kageyama muttered.

“get therapy,” kunimi added, patting your shoulder.

“get me a drink,” iwaizumi called from down the hallway, voice distant but still filled with existential pain.

you looked up at your husband, your secret barely a secret anymore, your life unraveling in the loudest and most ridiculous way possible—and smiled.

“so,” you whispered, “how do you think he’s taking it?”

kageyama considered.

then, calmly, “he’s still alive. so… not that bad.”

oikawa crashed dramatically onto a bench just outside the locker room, towel thrown over his face like a fallen noble hero in a stage play, limbs splayed and sighs coming out in loud, theatrical bursts.

“i’m gonna die,” he moaned. “this is how it ends. death by betrayal. betrayed by my own sister and that guy.”

“you’re being overdramatic,” you said, crouching in front of him, patting his knee.

“overdramatic?!” he peeked out from under the towel with wild eyes. “you got married without telling me, you’re having a baby, and now i’m supposed to just go back to argentina and live like nothing happened?!”

“well… you shouldn’t book your return flight just yet,” you said lightly.

he sat up. “why.”

you smiled. “because you’re walking me down the aisle. the proper wedding’s in two months.”

there was a beat of stunned silence.

then: “i—i what?”

“you’re walking me,” you repeated. “down the aisle. at the ceremony. the one with everyone. flowers. music. seating arrangements. open bar.”

“why would you want me to do that?” he asked, still recovering.

you tilted your head, smiling softly now. “because you’re my brother. and even if you’re ridiculous ninety percent of the time, i still want you there. preferably not crying. or threatening the groom mid-ceremony.”

oikawa blinked. sniffled once. “…do i get to pick the aisle music?”

“not if it’s from your mixtape,” you said flatly.

behind you, the entire japan national team had gathered, half because they were nosy and half because they wanted front-row seats to the emotional soap opera unfolding in real time.

“can i come to the wedding too?” hinata piped up.

“same,” bokuto added, bouncing slightly. “can i give a speech? i’ve already started drafting one. it has metaphors.”

atsumu grinned. “can i mc? i promise to keep it under ten minutes.”

“that is absolutely a lie,” sakusa muttered.

“i’ll bring snacks,” komori offered cheerfully.

“you’re in the wedding party,” you reminded him.

“oh. i’ll still bring snacks.”

“i’ll livestream the whole thing,” suna deadpanned.

“no, you won’t,” you and kageyama said at the same time.

“so we’re really doing this, huh?” matsukawa said, exchanging a look with hanamaki.

“you sound surprised,” hanamaki replied. “our entire lives have been leading up to a kageyama-oikawa wedding showdown. this is fate.”

“i call dibs on sitting next to the cake,” kindaichi muttered.

“you can all come,” you said over the noise. “just… maybe no speeches from atsumu.”

“rude!” atsumu gasped.

kageyama stepped beside you then, hand gently settling on your lower back, quiet as ever. “everything okay?”

“getting there,” you said, glancing toward your brother, who was now muttering something about matching suit colors and learning how to do proper formal knots on youtube.

kageyama leaned in, voice low. “are you feeling sick?”

you blinked. “what?”

“you woke up looking pale,” he said, concern pulling gently at his brows. “and you’ve been standing a while.”

you blinked, then chuckled. “just a little queasy. probably because someone made me laugh while i was drinking juice this morning.”

he looked mildly guilty. “…you sprayed it everywhere.”

“yes, tobio, that’s what happens when someone says ‘what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude’ mid-sip.”

“…i still think it’s a valid concern.”

oikawa, who had just recovered enough to scroll through airbnb listings for dramatically expensive suites near the wedding venue, froze.

his head snapped up.

“wait—what did you say?!”

you and kageyama both turned toward him slowly, caught mid-conversation, like teenagers who’d been overheard saying something they shouldn’t have.

“what?” you said innocently.

“did you just say,” oikawa stood, towel falling off his shoulders like a cape, “what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude?!”

“ah,” kageyama muttered under his breath. “here we go.”

“excuse me?!” oikawa pointed dramatically, nearly tripping over his own gym bag. “my attitude is amazing. charismatic. charming. elite.”

“it’s emotionally volatile,” sakusa said from the side, not even looking up from his phone.

“thank you,” kageyama added helpfully.

“you’re just jealous,” oikawa snapped back, pacing now like a coach delivering a pep talk to an invisible team. “my personality has layers!”

“yeah,” matsukawa said, deadpan. “like an emotional onion.”

“and you willingly married someone who insults me in front of our child?” oikawa turned to you, clutching his chest. “our niece or nephew?!”

“we didn’t know you were listening,” you said calmly.

“i’m always listening!” he barked.

“which is the exact reason we got married in another continent,” kageyama muttered.

“what was that?!”

iwaizumi, still chewing his protein bar and visibly reconsidering his life choices, stepped in before anyone could escalate further.

he raised a hand with the weariness of a man who had been holding everyone’s lives together with ankle tape and sarcasm.

“technically,” iwaizumi said, voice flat, “they’re married in two countries.”

the hallway went dead quiet.

oikawa blinked once. “two?!”

“denmark,” you confirmed helpfully, trying not to laugh.

“and japan,” kageyama added, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “we filed the paperwork when we got back.”

iwaizumi nodded slowly, like a man who had already lost the will to argue. “they even mailed me copies in case someone ‘forgot where they put things.’”

“which was you, wasn’t it?” sakusa said without looking up.

iwaizumi ignored him.

oikawa groaned and sank into the bench again, dragging the towel back over his face. “so you’ve been internationally married this whole time, and i’m the last to know?”

iwaizumi sighed. “to be fair, i found out because i thought kageyama was missing and almost called the embassy.”

“you what?”

“he texted the team group chat ‘just landed,’” iwaizumi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “just landed, he said. how was i supposed to know he meant denmark? he said nothing else.”

“i thought it was obvious,” kageyama mumbled.

“nothing about that was obvious,” sakusa said.

“it’s like you want to shorten my life,” iwaizumi added. “and now you’ve dragged me into an international conspiracy.”

“oh please,” hanamaki chimed in. “you’re the one who kept the secret. you’re complicit.”

“you think i had a choice? do you know how many ice packs i went through that week? do you know what bokuto did when he found out someone replaced his pre-workout with orange juice?”

“it was delicious,” bokuto called out from down the hall.

iwaizumi just took another bite of his protein bar and stared at the ceiling like it might grant him early retirement.

“i’m surrounded by idiots,” he muttered.

and next to you, kageyama turned to you quietly, thumb brushing your hand.

“are you feeling sick again?” he asked, voice lowered.

you blinked. “a little. not bad. just queasy.”

his brows furrowed, concern flickering across his face. “do you want to sit down?”

“i am sitting down, tobio.”

“then sit more comfortably.”

you snorted, but leaned against his shoulder anyway. “you’re so weird.”

“you married me.”

you grinned. “twice.”

and technically—in two countries.

[bluudsucka]

august night - remmick x fem!reader (chapter I)

chapter I - chapter II - chapter III

summary: it's the middle of the night in august and your husband isn't home, most likely spending his night with one of his many mistresses. but that didn't bother you as tonight was one of the many nights your lover, remmick, comes and spend some 'quality time' with you.

word count: 5k

warnings: smut, female reader, religious undertones, vampire sex, infidelity, bloodkink, blood drinking, blood loss, spit kink, oral sex, squirting, praise kink, slight mention of the hive mind, slight fluff at the end, remmick is down bad fr

author's note: my first ever fic, i was bored and wanted to write somethin'. i envisioned his lover to be black while writing this, i'm open to criticism to improve on my work, thank you so much for reading! enjoy!

The buzzing choir of cicadas enraptured your thoughts peacefully as your forehead that glisten with sweat pressed against your clasped over worked hands. You always enjoyed hearing the insects sing their song, it brought calmness to your frenzied and sporadic thoughts, and somehow those thoughts worsened when you would recite your nightly prayer.

Your lips mouthed the words you knew since you were a child, though no sound escaped from your mouth. Bruised knees planted firmly onto the dark wooden floor boards that would creak and groan underneath the shuffling of your weight, your elbows placed on top of the soft bedding that you shared with your husband.

Your husband.

A strong Godfearing man - who so happened to be a preacher - he was an adequate protector and provider, always giving you want you needed. A home that shielded you from the dangers of man and beast that lurked within the countryside, barn animals to cultivate fresh provisions, and social standing within the tightknit community that the church provided. But the one thing your husband lacked was willpower.

He was a cheater.

Women was his weakness, he would be gone days at a time, entertaining whichever woman he decided to obsess over that week. At first it broke your heart, so much in fact that you'd became bedridden when you saw him fucking a woman after Sunday Service. Ironically the sermon that day was about protecting the sanctity of marriage. You wanted to leave him - truly you did - but the elders within your church convinced you not to.

'As man; we all suffer from sin. It is not the way, but forgive and pray for him, so that he may seek the right and righteous path.'

You cried after hearing their words, but you did as told.

You prayed.

Oh, God. Did you pray.

But nothing changed.

With a sigh you ended your nightly prayer with an airy 'amen' and rose up from the hard floor. Sweat clung to your body due to the heatwave that Mississippi had, it had been hot for days now, and it oddly seemed like the nights were hotter than the mornings. You made sure to take an extra long bath before bed, but with how much you're sweating you knew you'd have to take one again early in the morning.

Slinking yourself between the bedsheets, you rested your head onto the soft feathered filled pillow, your eyes staring straight into the water stained ceiling. You told your husband to fix the pipes that caused the stain, he assured you that he will.

That's been five weeks ago.

You didn't bother blowing out the candle that sat onto the mahogany end table, the flickering of the small fire casting shadows across the cream colored wallpaper, the shadows enhancing small cracks and tears within the thinly cheap plaster. Frenzied thoughts turned into worry as you tossed onto your side, staring out the grime covered window, the night was eerily black. No stars, no moon, nothing. The muffled cicadas chirping only made your heart ache more.

His side of the bed was empty, he should be here by now.

As if on cue, loud knocking reverberated through the small one story home, you couldn't help to adorn a toothy smile. Jumping from the bed like it was molten lava, you dashed towards your heavy front door, the floor creaked and squealed underneath your bare feet.

With nimble fingers you hastily unlocked the many locks that held your door shut, biting your lip as you squeezed your thighs together. You couldn't help it, this man was everything to you. He made you feel things no man ever could, not even your husband could achieve reaching you to nirvana like how this man could. With a turn of a knob you were face to face with your love.

Your one and only.

"Hello, pretty girl. ya' missed me?"

There he stood, tall and proud, his broad shoulders rolling as he mumbled those soft words to you. He wore something different tonight, a light baby blue button up shirt that wasn't buttoned to the top, showing a white wife-beater underneath the clean dress shirt. Black suspenders held up his thick dark wool trousers, and your eyes couldn't help to glance at his thick hand that hung lazily over the strap that connected to his banjo.

He always had that instrument on him, always strumming away on the metal strings, singing you songs that came from his homeland that was far, far away from Mississippi. The instrument was strapped tightly around his body, you hope he'd sing you a new tune tonight. Leaning forward, his dark eyes scanned your features, taking in your beauty just like the first night you'd invited him in.

But he didn't pass the threshold.

The golden chain that hung around his neck glisten underneath the warm ember light that enveloped your home, you loved twirling that chain with your fingertips after he made love to you, and you couldn't wait to do it again tonight.

"You gonna make me stand out here? Or do I gotta beg, like last time?" He smiled, the sight of his sharp canines made your heart skip a beat. You remembered a few nights ago Remmick upset you, greatly. He didn't mean to, but he did. You both had a rule when he would come visit.

Don't talk about your husband.

Remmick couldn't stand the man, often turning pictures of your husband around and out of his view when he would come over, but he never outwardly stated that he despised him.

But you knew.

One night as his ice cold hands raked over your body, touching you in places only he knew that'll make you squirm with delight, he whispered softly in your ear: "I wonder if that preacher knows his wife is sleeping with the devil?"

You pulled away quickly from his comment, reality and shame crashing into your core, it felt like you just been trampled by wild horses. Staring at him your face twisted in disgust, not at Remmick, not fully. But disgust at yourself. At the end of the day, you were a cheater too, and the worst kind.

You were fucking a vampire.

That night was cut short with you rushing him out of your home, stating that he should never speak about your husband in that way. Even though the love between you and your estranged spouse was wavering, the love was still there. And as badly as it hurt Remmick, he knew you'd always have some sort of soft spot for that preacher.

Pulling yourself together, you opened the door wider, making enough room for Remmick to enter. "N-No, come in."

And come in he did, the wooden floor groaned underneath his heavy steps as he waltz within the home casually, as if he lived here himself. He started his nightly routine: turning those pictures of your husband around, making them face the wall, if it was up to him he'd wait until that preacher came back from whoever he was with and drain all of the blood from his body, killing him in an agonizingly slow death. You shut the heavy wooden door, a loud thud echoed through the home as your fingers locked the door again, each click of locks turning made Remmick smile.

Nobody in their right mind would lock themselves in with a vampire, but you were his, and he was yours.

He'd never hurt you.

"You're late, I was worried about you." You whispered, walking towards the taller man, as your arms wrapped around his stocky shoulders. He was so cold, like a corpse, but that didn't bother you none. In fact you were fond of his icy touch, especially in this Mississippi heat. Resting your head onto his chest his hands worked over your body, squeezing each curve he possibly can until his hand rested on the back of your head. With a feather light touch, he began to stroke your hair as the both of you swayed side to side, content with finally being in each other's arms after a long day.

"I know sugar, I'm sorry. I had a few things to take care of..."

"A 'few things', Remmi are you--"

"It ain't nothin' like that, I was hungry. I know, I should've waited till I got here, but a man's gotta eat. And I don't wanna drain you dry, pretty girl." Remmick assured, he knew that your mind would wonder, that was one of your many quirks. He would never entertain the thought of forming this kind of relationship you both shared with someone else, Remmick had carried an indifference towards the living for centuries now, only using them for sustenance and knowledge.

Nothing else.

He wouldn't betray you, unlike that preacher.

Pulling away from his freezing embrace you glanced at his face. Scanning his beautiful features - you loved staring at him, you could do it for hours - maybe it was some sort of vampiric charm? You didn't know, but all you did know was the burning desire to taste him, and for him to taste you.

"Got room for dessert? Come 'ere." You sighed as your hands raced over his thick biceps, stopping for a beat to trace the abnormally blue veins that adorn his forearms, and then interlocking your finger with his. You guided him towards the bedroom, though he didn't need guidance, as he'd enter your bedchambers several times now.

His hungry eyes danced across your frame, you wore a dusty pink nightgown, his favorite one that you own. It was so thin that wearing it was useless, he could see each and every curve of your body. Not to mention your raised nipples poking the fabric, begging to be licked and suckled on. Once you both entered the bedroom, you placed Remmick onto his side of the bed, the one closest to the door. The one that's away from the window.

Even though you made sure to invest in thick blinds, you didn't want to risk it, you often use your body as a shield when rays of sunlight peeked through them. With a sigh he pulled the banjo off of his body, leaning the instrument against the nightstand. He waited for this moment all day, as drool began to form in his mouth.

He hated drooling in front of you, the worry of him freighting you always crossed his mind when he would drool, but you were never frightened.

In fact it turned you on. The thought of him drooling over you made the butterflies in your stomach intense, and the familiar ache in your loins grow stronger. Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, his dark eyes followed your movements. Your fingers opened the drawer of the nightstand, digging deep into it, pushing books and junk paper out of the way until you found what you've been looking for.

A sharp knife.

A switch blade to be precise, the kind that could slice through meat and possibly bone with enough force. Turning to face him again, you opened the palm of your hand that was covered in bruises and cuts. Your husband had questioned you about the sudden appearance of these flesh wounds, but you would tell him that you accidently cut yourself cooking or from doing chores around the house.

With a wince you slashed your hand open, crimson pearling from the wound as it slowly spilled out of the cut. Remmick held your hand within his as he looked up at you with reverence, as if you were an angel sent to absolve him of his sins. With quickness he placed his lips over the cut, his tongue lapping up the thick blood as if it was liquid gold. He tried his best not to sink his sharp teeth into your skin, he knew about your fear of being turned.

You weren't ready yet, and he understood.

So to circumvent this; you came up with the idea of him drinking you from an open wound, avoiding using his poisonous teeth in the process. He moaned against your palm as he sucked the gash on your hand, trying his best to get as much blood as he can. You tasted so sweet, and the memories that clung onto your blood tasted even sweeter.

Your memories and experiences swarmed his mind, pulling him deeper and deeper in ecstasy. He could see everything you've experienced, all the highs and lows, all the pain and happiness, all the heartbreak and love. He could feel everything, he could see everything.

The time that you skipped Sunday school as a teen to share your first kiss with a boy in a cornfield, that moment when you tasted alcohol for the first time, and that aching feeling of when you cried for days after you found your husband with another woman.

You ran your free hand through Remmick's thick and dark hair, your fingers separating each curl you could find as you watch him drink from you, your core growing wetter by the second.

"That's it, baby. Drink it all, drink all of it." You encouraged, which earned an eager nod from the man, his large hands squeezing yours tight. You winced at the pain of him holding your hand in a chilled vice grip, but you didn't pull away.

You'd never do that until he got his fill.

With a wet pop he pulled his lips from your hand, a string of saliva connected his bottom lip and your palm, his lips were stained red from your blood. His once dark eyes were now ruby red, the most beautiful shade of red you'd ever seen.

Remmick shot you a toothy smile, his fangs more prominent than ever and his eyes were glossy. It was as if he'd taken a hit of an intense drug, he couldn't help but to lull his head to the side, trying his best to catch his breath. You were breathy too. Watching him feed on you made you horny, so incredibly horny.

The cut on your hand was still bleeding, and with one final lick the man finally spoke: "Lemme patch you up, pretty girl."

Remmick reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a roll of bandages, with a lick of his lips he began to wrap the bandage around your hand tightly. The high of him feeding from your hand slowly washed away as the sting of the wound bit at your soft skin, you hissed when the bandage pressed against the wound.

"I know, sugar. I know. Thank you for this, baby. Thank you for feeding me."

You didn't reply, you didn't need to. He knew you'd gladly offer him your blood, but being the gentleman that he is, he had to verbalize his gratitude. You didn't need to do this - but you did.

He's forever in your debt.

Your eyes flicked between his chiseled pale face, his gentle hands that wrapped the bandage on your wound, and the growing bulge within his black pants. He was aching to be inside you, and you were aching for him to take you fully. Once he was done dressing your cut, you placed steady hands onto his strong shoulders, and without a second thought you planted a heated kiss onto his crimson lips.

He quickly kissed you back, his hands cupping your face as he pulled you closer towards his frame, making you straddle his lap in the process. The taste of iron filled your mouth as the kissed deepened, both of your tongues danced with each other as blood that stained his lips now stained yours. His sharp canines dragged against your lips, as he tried his best to savor the blood that clung to them.

He wanted to bite down - it took so much willpower to stop the urge to do so - his cold hands trailed down your cheeks towards your neck, he felt your pulse underneath his finger tips.

He couldn't wait for the day you finally let him sink his fangs into you, the day when the both of you could finally be together.

Forever.

But until that day comes, he settled on coming to you at night and fucking you before the sun would rise, and before your husband would come home. Leaning himself back onto the bed, your body pressed flush against his, caging him in. But he wouldn't dare leave you, not when you're so needy for him, not when he's so needy for you.

"Take these clothes off, Remmi." You whimpered out between fevered kisses, his cold lips cooling down your burning hot skin. Without a word, he did as he was told, leaning up again and shrugging the suspenders off of his shoulders.

His fingers skillfully unbuttoned his shirt, tossing the fabric to the side, your hands reached under his wife-beater that clung onto his lean body, feeling the cold yet well trained muscles under your fingertips. Remmick didn't like talking about his life before he'd turned, you always wondered what he did before. Was he carpenter? A farmer? A blacksmith? You wanted him to tell everything about his life, before turning and after.

With a chuckle he tossed the thin undershirt aside too, only wearing his pants now. You leaned in and kissed his neck, where his pulse would be. But there was nothing, you couldn't feel a heartbeat or the heat. He was dead, truly dead. But that didn't stop you from sucking on his neck, your lips grazing the gold chain that hung around his neck. You knew the mark you'd leave would rapidly heal, disappearing as if you hadn't kissed there at all.

Lightly, he moved you off of his lap, laying your body onto the soft plush of the bed. Causing you to whine from the sudden disappearance of his touch, Remmick shook his head playfully as he unzipped his pants, kicking his heavy boots off in the process. With swift movements he pulled his pants along with his boxers off of his lower half, freeing his dick from the tight confines of his pants.

You moaned in pleasure at the sight of him fully nude, your eyes gazing at his dark brown happy trail that lead towards his hard member. You then tucked your legs underneath yourself, your hands reached for him as you began to lightly stroke his thick shaft.

"Now it's my turn to taste you." You whispered, placing a light kiss on the flush tip of his cock, you filled your open and bloody mouth with him. The familiar and comforting taste of him sparked a carnal fire within you. Nimble fingers maneuvered up and down on the base of his cock, Remmick was thick, you could barely fit him in your mouth but that didn't stop you from trying. The twisting expression of pleasure that adorned his face sent shockwaves of fulfillment through your body.

Squeezing your thighs together to ease the ache of arousal between your legs, you pushed your mouth deeper onto his cock, tasting the precum that danced deliciously on your tongue. Remmick's toned body twitched above you from the sudden sensation, your tongue skillfully swirling the sensitive skin on the tip of his cock.

"Yes, yes...Just like that, baby." Remmick groaned, his calloused hand massaged your scalp as the other held onto your shoulder, his cold touch made your skin taunt with goosebumps. Looking down he made eye contact with you, his ruby eyes peering deep into yours as his bloodstained lips hung opened slack, you knew he was trying his best not to buck his hips into your mouth.

Long lashes blinking with each inch your bravely took into your mouth, gags reverberated from your lungs. The vibrations of them made Remmick choke out a strained moan, his hands ran through your hair, moving it out of the way as your soft tongue grazed the thick veins on his cock.

His cries of pleasure egged you to go deeper, pushing yourself pass your limits and with a gag, you pulled away from him. Catching your breath as tears streamed down your face, you continued pumping him as the slick sound of your hand working over his cock that was covered in your spit echoed through the scorching hot room. His calloused hand wiped away the tears that clung onto your warm cheeks.

"You did such a good job for me, darlin'. Don't hurt yourself, c'mere." Remmick praised, pulling you up by the arms as he planted a sloppy kiss onto your swollen lips, tasting himself on your tongue as he did so. Moaning into the kiss, you wrapped your arms around him, clinging onto the vampire as if he'd disappear at any moment. Slowly Remmick placed you onto your back on the soft bed, not breaking the passionate kiss as he hovered over you.

"My turn again." He chuckled as he laid on top of you, balancing his body weight to make sure that he didn't crush you, but even if he did - you wouldn't care. His lips kissed and sucked at your neck, focusing on the thick artery that pumped your blood through you, his tongue slowly licking the vein which earned a cry of approval from you.

A strong hand grabbed your breast through your nightgown, rolling the sensitive nipple between cold fingers. He lightly grazed his sharp teeth against the skin of your neck, teasing you as you shivered underneath the man. The scratching sensation of his teeth against your skin was quickly replaced with soft suckles.

"Baby, y-you can't leave any marks on me, he'll get upset with me." You breathlessly reminded Remmick, which earned you a disappointed sigh of defeat. Crawling down slowly, he left a trail of kisses on your clothed body, leaving behind bloodstain kisses on the gown. You know it'll be hard to wash out later, but that annoyance is for another time. Remmick paused his kisses and stopped at your dripping core.

"Why you ain't wearin' no panties?" He asked, a playful under tone laced within each word he spoke, hiking your nightgown up until your lower half was visible for him and you to see.

"I'm tired of you tearin' through them, I figured this'll be easier."

"Awe, but that's my favorite part."

"Hush up." You playfully chastised, a giggle fell from your lips as he shot you a bloody yet gorgeous smile. His rough hands held onto your thighs as he spread your legs, feeling his breath on your aching pussy made you shiver in anticipation, your hands ran though his dark brown hair, making his already messy hair even messier.

With a gentle lick Remmick ran his tongue slowly across your already soaking pussy, stopping to circle at your clit with his skilled tongue. Steadily he repeated his movements, taking in and savoring the sweet taste of your juices that replaced the delicious iron flavor of your blood. You were the sweetest girl he'd ever tasted in all his years of 'living' - and if you'd let him - he could eat your pussy until the sun came up, not caring about getting caught by your husband.

With a moan, you arched your back in pure bliss as Remmick sucked at your sensitive and swollen bud. His fingers slowly working their way inside you, he wanted to make sure you were ready for him; he wasn't the type of man to rush things like this.

"R-Remmi--Ah!" Your moans were muffled by your hand that covered your mouth, your teeth biting into your fingers as Remmick worked over your core. His mouth and tongue worked in tandem with each other which created a sensation that was slightly overbearing, but you enjoyed every last minute of it.

Remmick was a selfless lover.

Pulling away from your heat Remmick gently pushed two fingers inside of you, stopping at the middle of his fingers, just below the second joint of the thick digits. You squirmed underneath him, already feeling somewhat full by just his two fingers alone, and he hadn't even pushed them in all the way yet. Slowly, he moved his fingers in and out, the wet sound of your sex filled the bedroom which only aroused Remmick even more, but he knew to have patience.

Resting his head on your inner thigh, he looked up at you, and of course he was smiling like a fool. "Does that feel good?"

"Mhm, so good..." You moaned out a strained reply.

Remmick then pushed his fingers further until they were all the way in, his knuckles slightly grazing your swollen clit. Your legs were beginning to shake which only urge him to move his fingers faster, licking your clit between each thrust his fingers gave you. Sweaty hands were now gripping the bedsheets as your breathing quickened, the familiar feeling of a knot in your stomach began to bubble, you knew you were close.

With a heaving chest, you begged your Remmi to go faster, whimpering his nickname that you gave him through cries of pleasure. And with closed eyes and a racing heart you came.

Hard.

Your body shook as sweat clung onto your spent frame, your legs shaking as if you'd been running through thick swamp water. Remmick leaned back as he continued to rub your clit, earning a whine of pleasure from this action. Without fail that knot within your stomach quickly formed and quickly snapped, making you squirt all over the bedsheets and Remmick's heaving chest.

"Good job, pretty girl. Good job." Remmick praised, holding you steady as your body convulsed in pleasure mixed with overstimulation. Embarrassment soon then followed, never in your sheltered life have you squirted before, you didn't even know if you could do it. Crossing your legs to shield your pussy from Remmick's intense gaze - you blurted out an apology - hands covering your face as you did so.

"What're you apologizin' for?" Remmick asked, pulling your hands away from your face, licking his lips to savored the taste that danced on his tongue.

"I-I got carried away, I didn't mean to--I never--"

"Nonsense, sugar. It only means that I did somethin' right." He assured as he leaned down to kiss you on your lips, you could taste yourself as you sank deeper into the kiss, your hands holding onto Remmick's cold yet comforting body. This make-out session was more intense than the last, as you bit down on Remmick's swollen lips, this kiss felt as if it were a battle.

But both parties wouldn't mind losing.

"Fuck me, please..." You begged, your fingers playing with the golden necklace that hung across his neck. With an obedient nod he grabbed his cock at the base, lining himself towards your entrance. You looked down and watched as Remmick slowly entered you, his head resting in the crook of your neck as he did so. Shutting your eyes you grabbed onto Remmick, your nails digging into his pale skin.

He was stretching you out and the sting of pain and pleasure flooded your senses. Remmick moaned into your shoulder, his once southern drawl now melted into that of an Irish one, soft hymns from his homeland slipped pass his mouth as he rocked his hips back and forth, earning high-pitched grunts from you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, but he wouldn't dream of going anywhere. You were so wet, so soft, so warm. Your body felt like heaven, the pleasure he felt was undeniable - your pussy squeezed around him perfectly. It was as if you were made for him, or perhaps he was made for you.

Your nails scratched and dug into his back, leaving behind scars that'll quickly heal over as if nothing happened. Holding your face in his hand while the other one rubbed your thigh soothingly, easing the tense muscle as much as he can. Both of your eyes were locked onto each other, neither one of you dared to break eye contact as tears of pleasure fell from your hazy irises.

Drool crept down his chin and jaw, and without exchanging any words you open your mouth wide, just like last time. Holding your jaw firmly in his hand he let the trail of drool seep out of his mouth and into yours, earning a whimper of gratitude from you.

You loved the taste of his spit, it was like taking a sip of holy water, you couldn't resist begging him for a taste. Especially when he's fucking you so good like this. Wiping the tears that clung onto your face, Remmick whispered words in his native tongue that you couldn't understand. The language sounded so foreign to your untrained ear, but you knew each word he spoke was filled with adoration and love.

"F-Fuck, I'm almost there," Remmick mumbled switching back to English, although now he spoke in his thick Irish accent. He rested his cold forehead onto yours that was slick with sweat. You nodded in agreement as your words were now reduced to moans and grunts.

"Do you think you can came for me again, one more time?" He asked in between rapid thrust of his hips, his dick hitting the perfect spot within your core.

"Mhm!" You nodded, holding him flush against your body.

"Good..."

With a few more thrust of his hips Remmick sighed out a long 'fuck' as the feeling of come filled your pussy to the brim. Shaking you squeezed your legs in a vice grip, which earned a satisfied chuckle from Remmick. With heavy sighs, the high of reaching your orgasm subsided as your tired body went limp, releasing Remmick from your legs. With a kiss on the cheek and a light pat on your sore leg Remmick laid lazily next to you on the bed.

On his side of the bed.

The sound of cicadas buzzed through the midnight air as both of you stared into each others eyes, your hand reached for his, and he gladly held onto it which helped you anchor back into reality.

"I love you, Remmick." You whispered with a hushed voice, and with a squeeze of his hand he shot you a toothy bloody grin.

"I love you too."

[misswynters]

A Stark’s Fury

Cregan Stark x targ!wife! reader

[warning: blood, you getting cut in the arm

[synopsis: You are the wife of Cregan and younger sister of rhaenyra. You get cut in the arm and your son, Eddard, also gets hurt. Which makes cregan furious.

[note | here’s a lil something while i write the final chapter for winters embrace, just a short drabble :) also instead of rhae getting cut it’s you.

[requested: by anon

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting an amber glow across Driftmark. Laena Velaryon’s funeral was a somber affair, filled with the mournful silence of the assembled nobles and the soft lapping of waves against the shore. Among the gathered were you, the younger sister of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, your husband Cregan Stark, and your son Eddard, who clung to your skirts, his wide eyes taking in the solemnity of the occasion.

Your silver hair flowed down your back, and your violet eyes glistened with unshed tears as you stood beside Cregan. His strong arm encircled your waist, offering silent support. Despite the warmth of the setting sun, a chill hung in the air, a reflection of the grief that weighed heavily on your hearts.

As the ceremony proceeded, you noticed the tension simmering among the children. Your son, Eddard, stood with Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, trying to comfort them in their shared sorrow. Your heart ached for them, especially for Rhaena, who had just lost her mother.

When the time came for the family to pay their final respects, you and Cregan approached the bier. You whispered a prayer for Laena’s soul, your voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. Cregan squeezed your hand gently, his presence a solid rock amidst the turbulent sea of emotions.

After the funeral, you found yourself in the grand hall, where the tension between the Blacks and the Greens was palpable. You kept a watchful eye on Eddard, who was playing with the other children. However, the peace was shattered when a scuffle broke out between Aemond and Jace. The sight of Aemond taunting Jace, and the resulting fight, sent a shockwave through the hall.

Eddard tried to intervene, but in the chaos, he was struck and fell to the ground, crying out in pain. You rushed to his side, your heart pounding with fear and anger. Cregan was by your side in an instant, his protective instincts flaring as he assessed the situation.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Aemond taunted Jace, and then the fight started,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion as you cradled Eddard.

Cregan’s eyes darkened with anger. “This has gone too far.”

The confrontation escalated when Alicent Hightower, her face twisted with rage, advanced on Rhaenyra, who was defending her sons. You stepped between them, trying to defuse the situation, but Alicent’s fury was uncontrollable. She drew a knife, lunging at Rhaenyra, but you intercepted the blow.

The blade sliced across your arm, and you cried out in pain, clutching the wound. Cregan’s roar of fury echoed through the hall as he moved to shield you. He grabbed the knife from Alicent’s hand, his face a mask of rage.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “This madness ends now!”

King Viserys, looking frail and distressed, tried to intervene. “Peace! There must be peace!”

Cregan turned on the king, his eyes blazing. “Peace? Look at what your family has done! My wife is injured, my son is hurt, and for what? Petty squabbles and insults?”

Rhaenyra, tears streaming down her face, reached for you. “Sister, I’m so sorry.”

You managed a weak smile, despite the pain. “It’s not your fault, Rhaenyra. But something must change.”

As the maesters attended to your wound, Cregan kept a protective arm around you. He glared at the Greens, making it clear that any further aggression would not be tolerated. The hall was filled with a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken threats and unresolved grievances.

In the aftermath, Cregan insisted on returning to Winterfell with you and Eddard. “We’ll be safer there,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I won’t risk your lives any longer.”

You nodded, grateful for his unwavering support. “Thank you, Cregan.”

He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your cool skin. “I love you. I will always protect you.”

As you prepared to leave Driftmark, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the family you were leaving behind. You took a moment to say your farewells to Rhaenyra and her children.

“Please, take care of yourselves,” you whispered to Rhaenyra, holding her hands tightly. “We’ll be in touch, I promise.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Be safe, sister.”

With a final embrace, you and Cregan gathered Eddard and boarded your ship, setting sail for Winterfell. The journey was long, but Cregan’s presence and Eddard’s innocent chatter kept your spirits high.

Winterfell welcomed you with open arms. The cold, crisp air and the familiar sights brought a sense of comfort. As you settled back into your home, the events at Driftmark seemed like a distant nightmare.

Cregan, ever the doting husband, ensured you had everything you needed to recover from your injury. He personally oversaw the maesters’ treatments, and his protective nature brought you solace.

A few hours later, as you sat by the fire, Cregan wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders and handed you a cup of hot tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

“Better,” you replied, taking a sip. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled, sitting beside you. “I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

You leaned against him, finding comfort in his strength. “I know. And I’m grateful.”

Life in Winterfell slowly returned to normal. Eddard resumed his lessons and playtime with the other children, while you and Cregan focused on the responsibilities of ruling the North. Despite the distance from Driftmark, the shadow of that day lingered.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, you turned to Cregan. “Do you think things will ever be right again between the Blacks and the Greens?”

Cregan sighed, his brow furrowing in thought. “It’s hard to say. The wounds run deep. But we must try, for the sake of our family.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “I want Eddard to grow up in a world where he doesn’t have to choose sides.”

Cregan’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll do everything in our power to make that happen.”

Many moons have passed, and your wound healed, leaving only a faint scar as a reminder of the confrontation. The bond between you and Cregan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity. Winterfell thrived under your joint leadership, a beacon of stability and strength. In the morning, as the first snow of the season blanketed the ground, you stood on the battlements with Cregan, watching Eddard play with the other children.

“He’s so happy here,” you remarked, smiling at the sight of your son’s laughter.

Cregan wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Of course he is, this is our home. He’s meant to be here.”

You nodded silently, feeling a deep sense of peace. Your eyes went to the scar on your arm, being reminded of what happened. You looked at your husband, with sadness in your eyes.

“I hope my family will stop this infighting, i wish for all of this today end” Your thoughts began to wonder of all the possible outcomes this conflict can end with. This could very well mean that death will linger in your family. Something no one will ever be prepared for, war costs everything.

The quietness of Winterfell enveloped you as you drifted into a fitful sleep beside Cregan. The room was cold, and the memory of the somber events—the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon, the sharp sting of your wound—still weighed heavily on you.

In your dream, the landscape was bleak and foreboding. A storm raged over a desolate battlefield, its fury tearing at the very fabric of the sky. You wandered through the chaos, a spectral figure in the storm’s heart. Amidst the destruction, you saw a vision of a great dragon, its scales a dim and faded silver, bound by chains of ice that slowly constricted around its body. The dragon’s eyes were filled with a profound sorrow, as if it sensed the end drawing near.

A shadowy figure emerged from the storm—a man cloaked in shadows, his face obscured but his presence undeniably menacing. His voice cut through the tempest, speaking directly to your mind, “The chains of fate are not easily broken. A great loss is coming to your house.”

As you reached out to free the dragon, a dark prophecy formed in your mind, clear as day. “Cregan will face a treacherous choice,” you heard yourself say in the dream. “A betrayal will come from within. Death will follow.”

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering like a cold shiver down your spine. Your breathing was rapid and uneven, and a profound fear gripped you. You turned to Cregan, who was lying beside you, his face furrowed in concern.

The sudden movement and your distressed state had startled him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to steady you. His hand found yours, his grip warm and reassuring against your icy fingers.

“My dream,” you managed to stammer, your voice trembling. “I saw... I saw something terrible. A dragon in chains, and a warning about you—”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he quickly sat up, his arm wrapping protectively around you. “What did you see? Tell me everything,” he urged, his voice steady despite the worry etched on his face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I don’t know all the details, but it felt so real. I fear that something dark is coming, and it will bring pain to us and our house.”

Cregan nodded, his expression resolute despite the alarm in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his body. “For now, try to rest. You need it” He cradled your body as you leaned towards him, the warmth of his body bringing you comfort.

As you lay back down, you could feel the storm of fear inside you slowly ebbing, but the weight of the dream’s prophecy remained heavy in your heart.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @travelingmypassion @shoxji @thornsandtulips @spn-obession @giovanna-hyt @r-3dlips

banners: @cafekitsune

[wild-jackalope]

Ahhh your resent fix is amazing and I'm in love with it ❤️😭 your so talented 😍 would you do a HC with that fic like how was marriage life, any mini story with Mark being a dad and reader teaching him more human things I'm a sucker for stories like that 🥹

summary :: headcanons of your marriage with Viltrumite Mark, from this oneshot

warning :: general manipulation, having a child together, sex after marriage, home life with your superhero husband, kinda smut, lots of sex, angst, fem reader, Mark is quite literally his Dad, not 100% proof read

note :: so glad you asked for this because I really wanted to expand on this version of Mark a little more

★ Mark was far from the perfect partner, but he wasn’t the worst either.

freshly moved in

★ For one, he was surprisingly clean. Your home rarely saw a mess, mainly due to his occasional absences. When he was home, he folded his clothes neatly instead of tossing them about. He'd stack the dish washer after you made dinner. Which, granted, you had to teach him, but it stuck. He took pride in keeping your home tidy.

★ He was basically your personal heater during the cold months. He would wrap you up in his warm limbs and shielding you from the chill outside— but come summer, he was also your personal enemy. Mark loved to cuddle you, no matter the temperature. Some mornings you’d wake up to sticky skin, hair damp against your neck and your husband wrapped around you like burning rope, unwilling to let go.

★ He slowly began to melts into your affection, parting from his rigidness into your arms. It was a gradual change, but prominent. The Mark you first knew wouldn’t have dared to hug you back. He held you like he was trying to commit your shape to memory, his chest solid and warm against your squished body until you had to gently push at his shoulders to ease him off you.

★ You saved a lot of money on travelling expenses. No need for a thousand dollar plane ticket to see the world when your boyfriend's arms were just as—if not more—comfortable. “Rome tonight?” He’d ask, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I was thinking Turkey,” you’d respond.

★ Sex was a given constant. Once Mark finally moved in, it was practically every night—unless he came home too late into the night, or groaning from injuries sustained from missions. But when it happened it was like nothing you'd experienced with any other partner. Somehow, it had only gotten better over time as you both learned each other's bodies like your own.

★ The only thing he failed to grasp was sharing. The words “Mark, you can’t use that, it’s mine.” Never seemed to reach him. You’d groggily walk into the bathroom, bump his hip lightly before rubbing your eyes only to notice he was using your toothbrush. In reality, you didn’t care too much—after all, you two swapped spit almost every night— but it was more about the principle.

★ You had learned many things about him, mainly how to treat Viltrumite wounds. He would fly into your home with a myriad of injuries: sometimes light bruises, other times deep, angry gashes. Over time, you discovered that cold water and ice helped his healing along. So you kept a basin ready, towels stacked, and your hands steady—even when your heart wasn’t.

★ During lazy mornings, you’d wake up to him hovering over you. His brown eyes laxly gazing at your figure waking from your peaceful slumber. Was it romantic? Yes, but also startling.

★ The first time he said "I love you," was after a particularly rough fight. You'd patched up his wounds and pressed a longing kiss to his lips, slow and aching. The words didn't startle you, because it had felt as natural as hearing his heartbeat. But when you pulled back to look at him, you saw it in his eyes—that it had startled him.

fiancée

★ The proposal wasn’t some exquisite dream where he got on one knee as the sun setting behind him, asking you those three wonderful words. No— it was actually more of a battle. “Marriage.” He said bluntly, arm still lazily holding your bare waist, anchoring you to his chest. You blinked, an emotional shiver rising up your spine. “You want to get married?” “Yes.” Your breath caught, and you ran a hand through your hair. “Okay, well, you need a ring. Uhm, you need to get down on one knee—” “Why would I kneel to you?” He asked, suddenly rising from the bed to peer down at you. “To show devotion, I think," you said carefully. “Bending a knee is a sign of submission,” Mark corrected, his tone clipped with Viltrumite distaste. You grinned, tilting your head to the side, "and what, you'd never submit to me?" "No." You sat up with him, trailing a fingernail across his chest just like you did most nights before initiating sex. His body loosened, his eyes lidding as he leaned in to kiss you. "Get on one knee," you whispered, "and ask me to marry you." He huffed out something like a laugh—amused, a little exasperated—but still obeyed. Sliding off the bed, he dropped to one knee, took your chin between his fingers, and said: “Will you marry me?”

★ Mark never quite fixed his jealously issues. They had only been tamed by the looming label of husband and wife. He still stared with a dark, pointed gaze at people who looked at you in a way he deemed incorrect. You knew the look well. You would just tug his arm, fingers curling around his bicep. The grounding touch was usually enough to pull him from whatever scenario he'd imagined for them.

★ Something he never entirely understood was lingerie—at first. He was the type of man that wouldn't blink at the most delicate, lacy set, just peel it off you. It wasn’t until one night, when you sighed at his undressing and looked away from him that he asked why you were being huffy, that you explained: “I wore this for you, Mark, so you’d find me sexy.” He finally saw the appeal. The nights after that, he'd let his fingers run over the bumpy lace, watching the way you presented yourself and the intent behind it. After all, what’s more sexy than your partner wrapping their body just for you?

★ He never cared for all the planning that went into the wedding. Why not elope and have it done with? Bachelor parties, not seeing the bride before the wedding—he saw the traditions as useless. That they only served to distract him from the real reason of the union, to be with you. Everything else felt like noise.

★ A honeymoon, though? Now was something that enticed him. A week abroad, just the two of you doing nothing but spending time together, eating, talking, fucking and celebrating. He would surely be telling Cecil to fuck off if he asked for any favours during that week.

husband

★ He was not a fan of wedding rings, stating that it would be inevitably broken during one of his fights. But he was quickly swayed when you said “This ring is a promise, Mark, that we’ll stay together through anything,” and from then on he was sure to keep it in tact.

★ Occasionally, when you were dead asleep beside him, Mark would mutter confessions of his home planet. But he never told you anything of his home when you were awake.

★ Suddenly, your name got replaced with "My wife." You were always introduced proudly as his wife, to friends and other heroes whenever they asked Mark about his personal life. Even to family members, Mark would call you his wife, which some found a little annoying. But to him, it was a title of honour.

★ You came to learn he showed his anger through silence, the kind that manifests in tense jaws, clenched fists and intense stares at nothing specifically. Communication— even after years on earth— was something he never figured out. He never yelled, just kept things from you.

★ He never really grasped the concept of casual affection. Kisses would divulge into your back pressed against a cold wall, his hand keeping your jaw slack whilst memorising the cave of your mouth. As much as you loved to have a man utterly whipped by you, having quickies every morning because you gave his a goodbye peck often made you late for work.

★ Honestly, your relationship remained just as perfect as it was before you two tied the knot. Only now, it was forever secured in the title of husband and wife.

father

★ When you fell pregnant, it’s was a surprise to say the least— a stupid surprise considering you two would have sex all the time— but a surprise nonetheless.

★ You cried into him, unable to stop the utter flood of emotions. He was unable to react himself, cradling your face and attempting to discern if you were frightened or overjoyed. He could barely see past the tears in your eyes, so he just held you and allowed you to soak the front of his shirt.

★ When your baby bump became prominent, he hovered, literally. Always doing house tasks before you could and never allowing you to pick things up from the floor.

★ Never, in your years together, had you ever seen Mark shed tears—until he held his newborn daughter. She was quiet, having already been soothed by feeling your skin against her. Gently, he peeled back the blanket swaddling her and offered her his finger. Her minuscule hand closed around it without hesitation. That had been the final chink in his armour and the tears came.

★ You thought because you traveled the world with Mark, you’d seen all of life’s most beautiful sights. Golden sun rises in Greece, the glittering coasts of Australia, the hushed snowfall in England. But one late morning, you stepped into your shared bedroom and saw them: both him and your little girl asleep, her tiny body on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breaths. You decided that was it. The most beautiful thing you’d seen.

★ He would often just watch the two of you. The way your fingers would delicately swipe her baby-hairs away from her little face, the way you'd fuss over her even when she slept—always tucking her blanket tight to keep in her warm. You never noticed his gaze fixed on you but he could stare forever, struck by your combined love given form.

★ The moments you never wished to end were the ones where Mark held you from behind, both of you watching your daughter feed—his arms around you, your arms around her, all of you held in love.

★ He hardly slept in the weeks after her birth. Not because of her cries at night, but to watch over you. The way your fingers rested gently over her tiny chest, your sleeping breath in time with her's, soothed to sleep by one another's heartbeats.

★ He had been a beautiful father, kind, warm, steady.

and yet…

Yet.

Your daughter stirred painfully from her death-like sleep. Her lashes rising then closing in quick flutters, adjusting to the bright, white hospital lights. You—broken by shame, guilt and something darker—had been too lost in the unending chasm of your mind, crushed between memories and what ifs to notice. Not until the hand held by your own began to twitch.

You rose, as if her sign of wake brought life into your zombified mind.

She tried to speak— her jaw cracked, purple with bruises, too swollen with internal bleeding to move. Through her dry voice, you knew she was attempting to call for you— for Mum.

“Don’t try to talk,” you gently hushed, "you're going to be okay." Your hand reached her dishevelled black hair, gliding over it in a soothing motion that had become second nature during your seventeen years of motherhood.

Her hollow gaze drifted down to her body. Both her legs and pelvis were locked in a correcting plaster elevated by two slings. Her left arm hung too, bruised fingers peaking from the thick white cast. Her right arm, the only one left, was wrapped tightly in a gauze and only punished her with pain when she attempted to lift it.

Her horrified eyes then returned to you.

You smiled at her. Though your red, puffy eyes betrayed you. "You're safe now, it's all over." You took a nearby cup of water and brought the straw to her lips. "Here, drink."

She did—barely, coughing at the strain the liquid caused her raw throat.

"I'm so proud of you." You said, forcing the cancer rising up your throat to free your words of any trembling.

Wordlessly, she rejected your touch, turning her head away from your hand. Silent tears streaming down her face.

Your hand dropped, alongside your heart. “I’ll... let you rest.” You pressed a gentle kiss to her feverish temple, I love you so much, the kiss said.

And then you left.

The moment the door shut behind you, you collapsed—body wracked with sobs that tore from your chest. It felt as though your soul had split into two, one half with your daughter and her terrible wounds, the other, gone. With Mark.

You buried your face in your hands and for the first time since you found out Mark killed the guardians, you finally let yourself cry like a powerless parent who couldn’t protect their own child.