#sorry i feel like i need a tag for this but like its a one time thing for tonight

[arabellasleopardcoat]

You have no idea how your reblog made me cry. I had forgotten I had written this fic (It's the second I posted, and you can tell by the quality of it) and you caught me in an especially sensistive day. When I wrote it, the only thing I intended was to tackle consent issues in Westeros with a kind partner, and it was right after I watched the episode where Aemond went looking for Aegon in the brothels. The way my skin crawled! Of course men can suffer it too, and I was glad to see it on screen, but I knew they probably wouldn't do it justice, which prompted me to write this. The butchered treatment they gave it in S2 (One could argue the opposite point too, considering it may as well be him going back to his groomer, yet they didn't tell or show that, did they?) vindicated me.

I have never read the ASOIAF books, and I stopped watching the show after the first season, because it was that triggering to me. The amount of violence towards Dany, Brienne, the casual cruelty of men like Tywin and Joffrey, it was enough to kill me a little.

The start of HOTD wasn't promising either. While it depicts sexual violence in a subtler manner, it is still there. Aemma and the horrible opening scene, Alicent and even Helaena and Aemond at some points have made me cry. I have also cried reading fics from these fandoms (Fem!Jon Snow has so fiercely disgusted me sometimes by the things they do to her I have not stopped thinking of it for days) and I found I didn't have the heart to write violence that aligned so much with what I myself suffered. For some readers it can be interesting or freeing, the same for the writers, and I am not here to judge. But it is not for me. And it will never be. I am aware that my writing might not be for everyone either, it's why you will see my fics always properly tagged, and exageratedly so. It is also why I have left other fandoms, which are centered around violence even more than this one.

I just wanted to write what I needed to read at the time. It is also why I will always hold some degree of empathy for show Aemond, despite knowing he is a war criminal. I am interested to see how his relationship with Alys will develop.

To hear that my fic has touched your heart for its themes, and that you didn't think me silly or something for not portraying him as some sort of insensitive, evil person who is absolutely unfeeling means more than you know.

Anyway, sorry for traumadumping (More like ranting) on you. Thank you for reading and for feeling so touched by my words you decided to let me know.

Death in four moves (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Queen Alicent is starting to notice your lack of pregnancy. You discuss it with your husband, and come out a stronger marriage because of it.

A/N: No one dies in this one, guys. Just quoting Tyrion. For a more detailed warning, click read more and scroll until after the dots.

Warnings: Fluff. Discussions of SA, sex, erotic novels, infertility, miscarriages, and pregnancies (None actually happen in the fic)

Catapult /ˈkatəpʌlt/

noun

a forked stick with an elastic band fastened to the two prongs, used by children for shooting small stones.

In Cyvasse, a catapult can take out a dragon.

“It’s the third month you bleed.” Queen Alicent said, with a hint of disapproval. She had perfected just the right amount of passive aggressiveness when being nosy. Your eye twitched slightly. You understood now the resentment Princess Rhaenyra held for her, with your sheets being examined by the Queen daily, your moon’s blood carefully tracked and advised on when the best moment was to conceive. “When will you make me a grandmother?”

You sipped at your tea, buying yourself a few seconds to answer. You were having tea in Haelena’s chambers, a family meeting, if you will. More like an intervention, truly. Alicent sat next to Aegon, who was in his cups already and seemed uncaring about the discussion.

“Mother, you are already a grandmother.” Aemond pointed at the hostess herself, who was on her hands and knees showing a bug to her children. The twins blabbered to her, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sweetness of the scene. Seated next to Aemond, you gently squeezed his forearm in silent thanks. His lips barely curved up into a smile. Despite his kindness in helping you out, you knew what the Queen’s response would be. It was like you were actors in a well-rehearsed play, one that had been repeating for the past six weeks.

“Yes, but those are your brother’s children. I want you two to make me a grandmother, too.” The Queen explained, smiling at him. The first month, there had been relative peace. Aemond couldn’t have knocked you up that fast, everyone reasoned. Not while still attending to his duties in the way he did. But when the second month came, and the sheets were stained red once more, Alicent had been disappointed.

Being Aemond’s wife was not an easy task. At the rate it was going, you were starting to think it would have been easier, inheritance disputes aside, to be married to Aegon. It was not that Aemond was unkind. On the contrary, he was most amenable. He cared about you, treating you with respect and even making efforts to be friendly. His mother was the problem.

You see, when the time came for Aemond to be married, Queen Alicent had handpicked you, from all the eligible ladies in the realm. The bride for his favorite children had to be perfect. She had had, I kid you not, a list. The girl Aemond married had to be smart, to be able to match him and converse about the topics that interested him, but not too educated, less she had ideas about her role in society. Devout to the Seven, but not superstitious. Brave, but not brazen. Kind, but not overly so, less she was too familiar with those beneath her. Pretty, but not one of those intimidating beauties or too aware of it. A maiden, pure and sweet, but not innocent. And so on, the list went. You weren’t too sure what she had seen in you, but she had decided you were perfect for him.

Aemond, mother’s boy as he was, had been willing to try. And he was pleasantly surprised with you. Yours wasn’t the most passionate of marriages, but you were good friends. He enjoyed your sense of humor, and you two liked the same books. Marriages were built on less. But there was the issue of consummation. Or well. There was no issue, since it hadn’t happened yet.

Neither of you dared tell Alicent that the first night, when you had come to him in your wedding gown, shaking with fear, he had done you the kindness of sitting on the bed with a goblet of wine and pulling out a deck of cards. You remembered clearly the way he had drawled, so effortlessly self-assured “I was uncertain whether you knew how to play Cyvasse, but guessed this was a safe bet.” You had nearly laughed in relief, sitting next to him and explaining you didn’t know how to play it, but cards you could do.

It had gone like that, for three long months. Aemond came to your chambers once a week, and you two played cards or just sat down talking for the whole night. He had even started teaching you Cyvasse. You didn’t mind it. He was an attractive man, your Prince, but you two had been strangers before the wedding. It was sweet, and you were a practical woman. You had all the perks of marrying a prince, and none of the hardships. If this were what your entire life would be like, you could handle it. And you would have, were it not for your mother-in-law.

A knock on the heavy wooden doors jolted you out of your thoughts. The guards announced the Grand Maester.

“Just on time.” Queen Alicent muttered, and became him over with an imperious hand. The old man stepped closer, holding a jar with some dirt? At least to you, it looked like that. The Queen took it from his hands, and opened it, grabbing your tea cup and stirring it into the drink before you could protest.

“Hare liver, pulverized with salmon. I had the maester prepare it for you, dear girl! You will have it at every meal.” Alicent beamed. Your grip on Aemond’s forearm became deathly. Aegon started laughing, before flinching suddenly. You weren’t able to tell if the one who had kicked him under the table had been your husband or your mother-in-law.

“I truly think there is no…” Aemond started to say, before getting interrupted.

“It is said to aid conception.” The Grand Maester bowed. His tone showed he wanted to be anywhere else but here, trapped between Alicent’s hopeful look, Aegon’s amusement and your indignant glare. His urge to leave was evident, not even flinching at the glare Aemond directed him for interrupting.

“Thank you, my Queen.” You answered, graciously. “Thank you as well, Grand Maester.” The man bowed again and exited the room. You eyed your now ruined tea, and Alicent. Her smile didn’t waver. You could tell she was waiting for you to drink it, and so, you smiled back and brought it to your lips.

It had to be the most foul concoction you had ever tasted. It was fishy and oily and oh so salty. You nearly spat it out, but controlled yourself, digging your nails into Aemond’s arm until he squirmed in pain. Aegon laughed again, before nearly choking in his haste to speak.

“Hey, what are you doing?!” While he laughed, you quickly took his cup and intended to drink his wine to get the taste out of your mouth. He made a grab for the wine, but so did Alicent.

“I read wine could harm conception.” She explained, passing it back to Aegon, who gave you a superior smirk.

“Mother, please. She looks like she is about to throw up.” Aemond pleaded and took the cup again. Aegon protested, but he brought the cup to your lips, urging you to drink from it. “Let her have it.”

“Aemond, I’m trying to help you both.” Alicent huffed. You quickly drank, less she tried grabbing the cup again. “We should do all that the books said. I have been reading on the topic, and I assure you…”

“I read…” Aegon interrupted loudly, giving you a wink. You knew he was about to do something disruptive, and that he would hold it over both yours and Aemond’s head for letting you escape. “Female pleasure is of the utmost importance for the woman to fall pregnant. So tell me, brother. Have you been pleasuring our dear…”

“Aegon!” Alicent yelled, slamming a hand over his mouth. “How can you say such things, with your children in the room? By the Seven, what will your brother’s wife think? That we are a family of…”

Aemond grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the room.

“You have to tell her.” You said, as soon as you were outside. He was gently pulling you along towards the gardens. “I’m not drinking anymore of that stuff. And careful, or else I will ask her to give you some too.” It had been the last straw. Your sheets being checked, you could take. Her not so subtle nudges towards laying with your husband on certain days, you could too. But being prohibited wine, and forced to take the concoction with every meal, was not something you were willing to do. Not when it was not an issue of fertility, but of the lack of… Intimate relations between you two.

“I don’t want to disappoint her.” It was said quietly, but it broke your heart. You took his hand and squeezed. One of the things you disliked about your new life was the amount of pressure Aemond was under. He had quickly become your best friend, and you liked to think you were his too. It hurt you, to see how much he pushed himself and how the nerves and worries ate him away. You knew perhaps he didn’t return your feelings, which had been steadily growing since the chaste kiss you had shared in the Sept, and all the sleepless nights spent playing games and talking, but you loved him. And it always hurt, when those you loved were in pain.

“I doubt you will. She loves you. Just because you would rather not be a father yet…” You smiled at him, trying to sound sure of yourself. In truth, you knew the Queen would be disappointed. She so wanted Aemond to be a father. He was her favorite. A baby from him would be a dream come true.

“I do want to be a father.” It was said very quietly, almost a confession. You turned towards him, unable to believe your ears. Aemond was pointedly looking towards a bush of roses, not making eye contact. His posture, normally so perfect, was a bit slouched, as if trying to curl into himself. Ashamed. He was no fool, to not be aware of your feelings, so that meant…

“Oh.” You blinked. It felt like something shattered inside you. It was not children he disliked, but you. A few tears sprang to your eyes, but you blinked them back, determined. You wanted him to be happy, even if not with you. Lowering your eyes, so he didn’t see your heartbroken expression, you answered.“Oh. Well. I’m still a maiden. We could ask the High Septon for an annulment.”

Aemond turned to look at you, bewildered. Then, a scowl took over his face, purple eye narrowing in anger.

“Annulment? Why would I want that? Is that what you want, an annulment?” His voice was starting to raise, slightly. You shushed him, frantically. But he kept going, stepping closer, hands grasping roughly at your shoulders. Aemond forced you to look him in the eyes. “You dislike me that much?”

“No. No. But if you are not attracted to me…” A few tears fell down your cheeks. You hated it. You didn’t want him to think you were manipulating him. It was distasteful, your mother had always said. Crying for a man to stay, it was not behavior befitting of you. “A lady should never beg for any man to stay. Not even a Prince.” She had always said, and you tried to live by it. But she had clearly never met Aemond.

Aemond’s lips pursed in the way they did when he was thinking about something deeply. Was he actually considering your offer? The thought made more tears spring to your eyes. He looked torn. So, this was it, you were going back home. Annulment and ruin. No one would believe you a maiden with Alicent’s efforts, with how often Aemond visited your rooms. Who in their right mind would think two young newlyweds were spending their nights playing cards and board games? It stung, to think you had had one job, and you had failed. Bed your husband. Produce children. Any child, not even a boy. It was meant to be easy. You were a failure.

Before your thoughts could spiral even further, towards becoming a Septa and watching the man you loved marry another, Aemond surprised you. With a shaking hand, he brushed your tears away.

“It’s not that, either. I like you. I might even love you.” Aemond’s eye doesn’t meet yours, and it’s only that what halts your heart from roaring in happiness. You frown, rubbing at your temples. A headache is starting. Why must everything be so difficult? He is saying the words you have longed to hear for weeks, yet… Something is off.

“You can say that you don’t like me. It’s alright.” Perhaps it is dishonesty. Perhaps he is only saying it, so you don’t feel bad. Aemond is considerate like that, never wanting to upset your feelings.

Aemond glares, giving you a stern look, as if daring you to try to explain his own feelings to himself. You shrink slightly.

“No. I like you, truly. It’s just that….” He trails off, and you want to scream out in frustration. Your temper is starting to rise, too.

“What? If you are so attracted to me, you should find it easy to bed me.” You spit out, almost daring him to contradict you.

“Nothing is that simple.” Aemond says, rolling his eye. You feel the urge to shake him, but you don’t. You are a Princess now. A Princess would not shake her Prince husband, no matter how foolish he acts. You breathe in, then out. Your response comes out, tersely.

“Love is a simple thing. It’s us who insist on complicating everything.”

“It is not my love for you, what makes me hesitate. First times can be…” And at that, you almost laugh in relief. So, that is what makes him hesitate? Fear of hurting you?

“Painful? I know, but I trust you.” You grab his hands in yours and look up at him, trying to showcase your sincerity. Your eyes are wide and earnest. But Aemond pulls out of your grasp, frustrated.

“'Tis I, who doesn’t trust you.”

You recoil, immediately pulling back. Your mother had always said you were a kind girl if a bit self-centered. And it was showing. You had never thought yourself the source of his worries, or had you ever thought he could think you're capable of hurting him.

“Aemond…” It comes out in a broken little sob. You knew people said things in fits of anger they didn’t mean, but you could tell he meant this. He didn’t trust you with his body.

Aemond tangles his hands in his hair, messing it up.

“Not like that. Just… You come to me pure, but I’m not. I have laid with a woman before.” It only makes you more confused. You are trying not to make assumptions, but it is a strange thing to say. It’s expected, especially for a man of his station. You wouldn’t have dared demand purity from him, in the way men demanded it from their wives. It was natural, even. Your positions in life were different. No one, not even the Queen herself, chided a man for his lack of chastity.

“Alright. I don’t mind it.” You answer, tentatively. You really hope, this time, you get it right. But the silence that follows is defeating.

Aemond’s hands ball into fists by his side. He loosens them, before balling them again. He is trying to hide their trembling from you, you realize. A pit forms in your stomach, knowing that whatever he is about to tell you, it’s bad. Something so terrible it might be better to not even speak it aloud. You have seen this man get into fights with his nephews, spitting out the worst slurs. You have seen him defeated by Ser Criston, beaten up, bruised badly. You have seen him hurt by his father's lack of care, cast aside in favor of others. But never once, never once, shaking in the way he is now. It terrifies you.

You don’t dare touch him, or comfort him in any way, when he is trying to calm down so hard. His breath is shallow, posture hunched, as if trying to fight the instinct to flight.

“It was not a good experience. I… I fear it would be like that, between us, and taint our marriage.” Aemond says, very quietly. His eye looks watery, his mouth set into a grim line. As if about to cry. You can tell, that whatever happened, it was much worse than what he says.

“Oh.” It’s all you can say. It had not crossed your mind, that it wasn’t you what repelled him, but the act itself. You long to hug him, but can tell touch is not what he wants, right now. You remember then, all the times he evaded touches from others, so skillfully. The ducking of an arm when Aegon tries to hug him, turning it into play fighting and roughhousing. How he never initiates affection with the Queen or Haelena. How he has never touched you, apart from a pat on the arm or holding your hand. Or how his palms get so sweaty when he has to do it. How he has not kissed you since your wedding. Perhaps, even the fact that he is always dressed in clothes that cover him completely.

Never having thought about it before, his quirks start to make sense in a way you don’t want them to. It hurts, to think of him being hurt in such a way. It is not something you had thought could happen to a man, but it makes too much sense to ignore. Whatever cloud appears in your eyes, it’s too much for Aemond to handle.

“Oh.” He mocks you, chucking your chin. It’s a gesture meant to put your mind at ease, show you that this is not an unsavable obstacle. You are thankful to him for it, even if it comes at the cost of being the butt of the joke that’s not even funny, much less with the topic you are discussing. But you can pretend for him. You smile, softly.

“Do you wish to speak about it?”

“Perhaps some other day."

Dragon /ˈdraɡ(ə)n/

noun

a mythical monster resembling a giant reptile, sometimes shown as having wings. In European tradition, the dragon is typically fire-breathing and tends to symbolize chaos or evil, whereas in East Asia it is usually a beneficent symbol of fertility, associated with water and the heavens.

In Cyvasse, a dragon can remove elephants from the board.

Aemond pulls down the screen dividing the board. He gives you a smug little look, laying down on the bed only in his sleep shirt. You try hard not to stare, focusing instead on the pieces on the board.

Your catapults are gone, and only your elephants remain. He has captured your King with a Dragon. It’s an odd move. You either are not remembering right or he is cheating.

“That’s cheating! You said the dragon could only move…” You start to complain, frowning at him.

“Diagonally, which is right.” He answers very calmly, looking at you in expectation. You examine the board from all angles, noting that he is right, and he has not cheated. Unless playing with a greatly disadvantaged player is cheating because in that case, Aemond most definitely is.

You take a deep breath and lay down next to him, forgetting the board. Oh, you can feel his pride at having bested you, even without looking at him. And of course, he keeps shifting on the bed, jostling you, lest you forget what you have to do. It’s the customary price, after all. A way to encourage to actually pay attention to his instructions about how the game is played, but also a way for a young couple to start getting to know each other. Your cheeks heat up immediately, when you decide what you will say. You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly and mumble so low, it can barely be heard over the crackling fire that lights up the room.

“Fine. As a young girl, I used to steal my father’s dagger and make other children knights with it. I loved playing Queen.”

Aemond laughs, a deep, sincere laugh. His eye crinkles at the corner, a pair of tiny dimples making themselves known. You like how true laughter lights up his face, you decide. It’s cute, but not something that often happens.

“That must have been adorable, wife.” Aemond smiles at you, boyishly. He is about to tease you, you know it. Your heart melts just a little more. “I apologize for being but a lowly Prince.” You start to laugh, but the laughter dies in your throat with his next words. “Perhaps I can indulge you.”

You rush to correct the treasonous words, scared. Aemond is an ambitious man, you have known that from the start. Just as ambitious as he is dutiful, your husband. But you can’t help but wonder if in this case, ambition outweighs the duty he feels towards his family. You don’t know him enough to make a judgment yet. So very gently, with your pulse ringing loud in your ears, you speak.

“I like Aegon. No matter if he is a drunk fool, sometimes. And your father is pretty boring, but alright. And Princess Rhaenyra." You don't say anything positive about her, not when you had learned through this same technique she had demanded Aemond was punished after losing his eye. If you had a chance, you would strangle her. But only a little. Otherwise, it would be treason, and it would be setting the wrong example. Queen Alicent always told you it was best to lead with your actions, and not only your words.

Aemond smiles, pushing your shoulder lightly.

"Not like that.” He complains, but gives you a long look regardless. You know he has noticed your slip, referring to Rhaenyra as an afterthought and only after Aegon. He knows now, without you having told him, what your thoughts on succession are. He is perceptive like that. “I was thinking more along the lines of crowning you my Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“You never compete in tourneys, husband.”

“For you, I would. If you wished to be Queen, for you, I would.” And it feels like Aemond is promising something else, something more than just being the one to get a crown of pretty flowers. It scares you a little, to be the focus of such devotion. Such honeyed words, too, which you know are unusual for him. The urge to kiss him is strong, but his confession, a few days backs, still weighs heavily between you too. He has definitely noticed you are more careful with your touches now. Still playful, but giving ample time to pull away. Yet, you can’t leave him hanging either. Not when Aemond is trying so hard for you two to work.

“I would, too. You would look handsome, with a flower’s crown.” And thinking yourself so sly, you slide your hand underneath his, laughing. Aemond laughs too, and pulls you towards him, trying to get you to put your head on his chest. You do so eagerly, listening to his heartbeat. At first, it is rushed, and he remains stiff, despite being the one to initiate the embrace. But slowly, Aemond relaxes and starts carding a hand through your hair. You think it feels much like what heaven must feel like.

The motion lulls you to that state between sleep and consciousness, where your head feels fuzzy and full of cotton, and your movements are sluggish. It feels like a dream, the way the shadows dance on the wall, and how his heart pounds steadily under you. You wish you could sink into him, fuse the two of you, as the Maesters of old said soulmates were. Nestle close to his heart, curl around it with greedy little hands, protect him from the world. Your eyelids drop, despite your fight to stay awake. Aemond smiles down at you, amused, and runs his hand over the slope of your nose, tracing the contours of your face. You scrunch your face at him, about to scold him for disturbing you, when he speaks. At first, it doesn’t make sense to you. And then, you realize.

“I was thirteen. Aegon took me to a brothel. I…” It feels like being stabbed, over and over again, tiny sparks of pain in your chest. In your mind’s eye, you can see him. A slightly younger version of Daeron, perhaps with longer hair. A big, purple eye, the other side of his face freshly scarred. Tiny. Terrified. And that you know because you know his growth spurt didn’t hit until he was fifteen, courtesy of your cyvasse games. You also know he was painfully shy and quiet, the product of a childhood filled with mockery and neglect. That, too, he had shared, after a game you knew Aemond had lost deliberately, feeling you were losing more embarrassing stories than he was sharing. Still, you hadn’t minded.

It hurts to think of your awfully kind husband being taken against his will. You doubt, had you been him, you could have survived it. Being violated so… It aches so bad, tears start filling your eyes. But you do not speak, less you break the spell and Aemond clams back up.

“I… I didn't want you to think I was weak. You are one of the loveliest things I have had, in a long time.” He says, voice breaking slightly. You shift in his grip, and look him right in the eye.

“You are not weak.” You enunciate, clearly and slowly. And you hope your sincerity shines through your eyes because you do believe it. Unable to speak a word, silenced as he was by shame, you think you would have broken much earlier. That Aemond stands, whole, before you and speaks the words aloud after so much time, says leagues about his character.

“I was meant to come out of it a man. It went…wrong.” He tries explaining, but you shake your head.

“You were not in the wrong.” You make a mental note to try to strangle Aegon later. You had known he was a… Interesting character, to say it kindly. But this… This took the cake on reckless, thoughtless behavior. He was at least three years older than Aemond, yet he had not half the sense his brother posses. Perhaps, your husband is better suited to be king. After living three months with the Targaryens, you were starting to doubt their closeness to gods. You stomp down your personal grievances, knowing Aemond needs love, not rage.

“May I hug you?” You ask, softly. Aemond laughs, a little watery, and pulls you on top of him. He hides his face in your hair, sobbing softly. You fantasize of killing half the whores of Flea Bottom, Aegon, Viserys and perhaps Alicent, too. You fall asleep like that, limbs entangled with each other and forgoing your ritual of messing up the room and your appearances. Despite it, the next morning, the maids who find you are more convinced than ever before of your closeness.

Elephant /ˈɛlɪf(ə)nt/

noun

a very large plant-eating mammal with a prehensile trunk, long curved ivory tusks, and large ears, native to Africa and southern Asia. It is the largest living land animal.

In Cyvasse, each player has multiple elephants.

It takes you a few sleepless nights to try to find a solution to your problem. Despite being praised often for how learned and bright you were, you couldn’t find an answer to your questions. You see, you have always been a planner. You tackled your concerns by doing research about them and then coming up with an action plan. But there was no research to be done here. You had to work with the facts.

You knew Aemond was not willing to confess to his mother. Nor were you about to betray his trust. But she would keep pressuring, for you to fall pregnant. You could buy time, faking an illness or perhaps even a pregnancy followed with a miscarriage. Yet, you had been chosen not only as Aemond’s companion, but to bring the next generation of Targaryens to the world. And both of you wanted children. He was too proud for letting you get pregnant and pass the baby as his own. Not with the situation with his nephews.

So. You were back to square one. You had to find a way for both of you to have children, and not traumatize Aemond about it. And get Alicent off your back. Research. You could do research about how a lady ended up with a child.

You poured long hours over medicine treaties and concluded this: It was not his member that had to go inside you, but his seed. It would also be useful if you broke your maidenhead in some way, less you ended up trying to give birth still a virgin. So, in theory, Aemond didn’t need to enter you. Just collect his seed, and perhaps you could pour it inside you with a jar or something. Still, you put that thought on the back burner, as a plan b. Oftentimes, the best solution was not the most complex one, and so, you had to at least try to perform intimacy with you. But you didn’t want him to suffer, and so, you decided to approach one of your maids about it.

“Dyana.” You said, as the girls were unlacing your gown and unpinning your hair for bed. “Stay.”

It was low, what you were about to do. But you knew of none else who had gone through something similar. Dyana had been appointed as your maid after having the unwelcome attentions of Aegon on her. There was nothing that could be done, not when the King was so ill, Alicent had told you. She wouldn’t subject him to having to pass judgment on his own son, not in his state. And besides, there had been no harm done, with the girl not falling pregnant. At the time, you hadn’t questioned it. Now, it made you sick to think your brother-in-law, who was always supportive of you in front of his mother, could have hurt her in such a way.

Dyana stayed behind, brushing your hair in front of the vanity. The other maids scurried out in a flock of dresses and chatter. You met her eyes through the mirror, in low candlelight. She was the Targaryen kind of pretty, with hair so blonde it almost looked like theirs. Perhaps that had attracted Aegon.

“I understand you were forcefully subjected to Prince Aegon’s… Advances.” You said, once you were alone. Dyana was very tense, obviously reminding the last time she had been alone with a member of the royal family. You decided to spare her the anxiety over what you wanted, if any, to make this shameful act you were committing a bit less traumatizing. “I have questions about it, from woman to woman.”

The brush clattered to the floor. Dyana’s eyes turned from anxious to terrified. She was frozen, unable to bend down and pick it up. You turned in your stool, to reassure her.

“I'm not going to punish you. I don’t want to know about the act, or reprimand you or blame you.”

Dyana bent down to pick up the brush. Her shoulders remained tense.

“I only want to ask a question. And you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to… But if you do, I will reward you handsomely.” You tried putting her at ease, using a soft voice. Much like with Aemond, you stuck to not sudden moves and no touching. To show her that you were serious, you pulled a handful of gold dragons, letting them clatter on your vanity’s table, next to the bottles of expensive lotions and perfumes Aemond had bought you. “But my husband can never know. No one can ever know.”

Dyana raised her head at the sound. She looked at the gold, and stood, anxiously wringing her hands together.

“Milady… That’s a lot of gold for a question.” Dayna’s eyes were fixed on the ground.

“It’s an important question. It requires utmost secrecy.” You answered, handing her half. “For keeping this conversation private, even if you would rather not answer me.”

Dyana took the gold, quickly hiding it inside her pocket. She seemed to fear you were playing a joke on her and would take the gold away at any time. You didn’t blame her, with how badly she had been treated so far. Keeping her waiting would be even more cruel than what you had already done, and so, you asked.

“How do you trust again, after it?” It was a clumsily worded questions, asked in a rush and in a single breath. It came out more like “Howdoyoutrustagain, after… It.” Not the most dignified wording, either. You were supposed to be eloquent, smart. Yet, you were floundering as an overzealous child.

“I…” She had clearly understood, by the look on her face, but didn’t know what to say. How to approach it. Dayna stepped closer, scrutinizing your face. Searching. But for what?

“How can you lay with a man again?” You repeated, trying to sound a bit more self-assured and narrowing down your line of questioning. You knew she was currently in a relationship with a stable boy. He always picked her up on the nights you and Aemond were supposed to bed each other.

Dayna looked at you, expression doing a full one eighty. Her eyes stopped being frightened and turned sad. One of her hands went again to brush your hair, almost in comfort.

“It is not the same man. And. Um. Never in the same way, my lady. He asks. All the time. And not like…” She trailed off, concerned. You didn’t notice, too busy committing her advice to memory. “My lady, you should really speak to the Queen….”

At those words, your head jerked up. Why did she bring up Alicent? Did she really think you could ask her about intimate relationships? Unless… She thought Aemond was… Oh, by the Seven, that was even worse.

“Aemond is not mistreating me. But my cousin’s husband is. I just don’t know what to tell her, having been so lucky.” You lied, trying to sound as convincing as you could. But you knew she wasn’t believing a word out of your mouth.

“Can they mend things?” Dyana asked, and it was obvious she didn’t buy that you were asking for a friend.

“From what I gather.” You answered, tersely. Of that, you were certain. Aemond liked you enough to at least try. You would consult him first, making sure he was not uncomfortable with the idea, but you knew he felt the grains of sand on both your clocks draining, as you did. Time was something you didn’t have. But Dyana didn’t know any of that. She was asking you, even if covertly, if you thought your husband could not be a brute. It showed, in the way her eyes filled with pity.

“Tell her to ask him to be soft. And… Not that, right away.” Dyana blushed, lowering her eyes in embarrassment. You gave her a puzzled glance, confused. If not intimacy, right away, what did she mean? Kissing? “Go slow, do something else….”

“Like?” You tilted your head to the side, hoping for a clarification.

“Mouth. Fingers.” The girl looked like she was about to hide under the table from embarrassment. And truly, it was a bit strange. An unmarried maid teaching a lady about intimacy.

“Oh.” You frowned. Dayna squeezed your shoulder, with very soft hands. “Thank you.”

King /kɪŋ/

noun

the male ruler of an independent state, especially one who inherits the position by right of birth.

In Cyvasse, the goal is to kill the King.

Your research had led you to A Caution For Young Girls. A popular novel between the common folk and that had costed you great effort to acquire. The plan had included a horse, a chicken, Aegon, and a copy of the Seven Pointed Star you had had to defile. You prayed that the Seven forgave you, both for reading such dirty tales and for destroying a copy of their sacred book to hide the book you were really reading. That day, even Queen Alicent had mistaken your newfound devotion for the Seven for a lady praying for a child and had pointed to you as an example for Aegon. In truth, you had been on your knees before the effigy of the Mother begging for forgiveness, and not a child.

It had been for a better cause, you told yourself. If truly were the gods who gave the Targaryens their right to rule, it meant they were favored among the rest of the men. Surely, finding a way to procure a child to one of the most pious, gentle Princes the realm had to offer justified your actions. Surely, Aemond’s devotion made up for your sins, or at least, the seven prayers you had recited under each of their effigies did. Surely, right?

Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing something bad. Literature is meant to open the mind. That’s why yours and Aemond’s studies had been encouraged from a young age. And the novel had certainly opened your mind to new ways of being intimate. You had no clue there were so many ways one could use their mouth, fingers, and openings. And if you had felt aroused by reading it… Literature was meant to be enjoyed, too.

So, the next time you and Aemond were alone, you said there was something you needed to talk to him about. You brought out your notes, and took the Cyvasse board away from the table, placing your research there instead. Aemond’s eyebrows raised at seeing you pull out such an amount of parchment, yet he said nothing.

“You want to be a father. I want to be a mother. We are married. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I have researched for two possible ways of achieving it. Watch…” You pulled out a diagram, crudely drawn. You grabbed a stick, much like the one your Septa used to teach you when you were a child, and were about to start explaining, when Aemond interrupted.

“Is that supposed to be…” Aemond had the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. “A… Um… Is that…?”

“Yes, now shut up. I’m trying to explain my plan.” You answered, not even the slightest bit ashamed. Couldn’t he see you were explaining your research? “You see, we don’t actually need to have any kind of sexual contact for me to fall pregnant. We just need to insert your seed…” It was said in a very clinical manner, but Aemond interrupted, again.

“Wife, I know how conception works.” Now he was fully blushing, and you frowned. It was not your intention to make him uncomfortable, so you decided to go straight to the point.

“Alright, so we will skip that part. Fine. We have two options. You either pleasure yourself and spill in a jar, or we build up to intimacy. I researched the way to make that the least traumatizing for you as possible, too.”

Aemond looked at you, for one long second. The silence stretched, and you worried this was going to end up with losing him in the most painful way you could imagine. Your blooming relationship, dead by your tactless hand. Aemond stared some more, his eye narrowed. Then, he burst out laughing. You felt so embarrassed you hoped the earth would open up and swallow you whole.

The both of you stayed like that. Aemond laughing so hard tears sprang from his eyes, and you, diagram still in hand, with what Aemond would later swear was the cutest pout he had ever seen.

“This has to be both the sweetest and strangest thing someone has ever done for me.” He finally said, drying his tears.

“You are not mad? Or hurt?” You asked, eyeing him a bit suspiciously, but with a smile of your own.

“Come here.” Aemond widened his stance, and you stepped closer, giving in to his unspoken request for you to stand between his parted legs. With a touch so light, it might not even be there, Aemond tilted your head down and kissed you. You felt as if the world stopped, for a minute. The kiss was clumsy, with him sitting and you standing but you could swear it was the kind of kiss the poets wrote about. You let him lead you, reminding Dyana’s advice, and you could feel the way he smiled against your mouth for it.

“I made my decision.” Aemond said, as you pulled away to take some well-needed breaths of air. Your mind felt like mush, with how dizzying the kiss had been. You had not a single clue what he was talking about.

“Huh?”

“We will try to have the children the normal way. I can learn to trust you enough for it.” And it felt like your heart was singing, with how happy you were. You smiled brightly at him. It was an honor that he was willing to trust you that much, that he was willing to try. You knew, were you him, you would have hesitated more. Aemond was a brave man, you had to give it to him.

You wanted to kiss him silly. But you had promised yourself to keep things at his pace, were he to choose this path. And so, you asked.

“Hug?”

Aemond laughed, and pulled you closer, burying his face on your chest. You hugged back, holding him.

“So, what did your research say? About building up intimacy?” Aemond shifted, looking up at you, purple eye shining with mirth. You spluttered, slapping his shoulder. He laughed again. “You know, in all seriousness… The Seven have given me a strange woman. But I wouldn’t change you for anything.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

Detailed warning: Aemond confesses to the reader that the reason they haven’t had sex yet is not a lack of desire but a bit of fear, and describes what happened to him when he was thirteen. The reader does her research and presents it to him, crudely, but he is touched by her gesture.

As a fellow SA survivor, I hope I have managed to portray the struggle to trust a partner again in a manner that is both tasteful and fluffy, with an adequate dose of humor and awkwardness. Writing Honesty raised a few thoughts on the matter of consent in Westeros. I never got to finish GOT because of the same issue. My heart ached for Aemond during the brothel scene, and I wondered about it a lot. I have yet to see it portrayed in any fanfiction. I apologize in advance if it made anyone uncomfortable.

[parfaitblogs]

i NEED a angst fic (with a happy ending ofc) based on tolerate it by taylor swift please 🙏 big chance it’s been done before though and im just the most unoriginal bitch ever

tolerate it ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer reid gets out of prison, and you baselessly feel like your relationship is growing increasingly one sided.  pairing: spencer reid x reader genre: angst tags: post prison reid. neglectful bf spencer reid. happy (open) ending. communication yippee. themes of self doubt in reader. mentions of spencer not eating.  word count: 2k a/n: writers block isn't real you just need to watch criminal minds season 12 episode 13 'spencer' and then listen to tolerate it on repeat for three hours straight. iiii know human beings don't talk in long monologued speeches but for the sake of my sanity let us pretend i am shakespeare and spencer reid is my leontes. plzzzz tell me if u liked this or if u didn't yay thank u ily

i sit and watch you. i notice everything you do, or don't do. (lines 3–4)

A fork scrapes against ceramic. It emits a scratching sound that hurts your ears, and you're cringing from your curled up position on the couch as you hear it. Silverware shines beneath the bright, warm glow of his kitchen light, his food barely dented as he pushes it around his plate. 

He's been playing with it since he sat down to eat it. 

You're not too sure what's going through his head as he takes barely there bites of a meal you cooked. You don't think you want to know. But it takes him all of twenty three minutes to come to the same conclusion he made last night, and every other night before that. That he isn't going to eat any more of the food, and just like his fork, his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. 

He wraps the plate in aluminium foil, the crinkling of metal being your only indicator that he has plans to eat it later. At least, that's what you hope. 

When he disappears into the bedroom, you follow him. Like a lovesick puppy, you're trailing after him, and your chest feels hollow with how embarrassing it all is. 

He doesn't know you're watching him, though. 

At least, not to the extent you are. He's field trained enough to know that you're keeping an eye on him, but your silence is only indicative of you giving him the space he so politely asked for three days ago. He's not in his right mind to assume you're silent for any other reason, and you've battled to a loss with the thoughts of letting him into your disaster of a brain. 

He doesn't need to know that.

The ensuite door shuts behind him, and you hear the water turn on minutes later. You take the cue to curl up on your side of the bed, your fingers toying with the paper edges of a book you now had in your lap. The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, for you were rediscovering your love for children's novels amongst this trying time between you and Spencer. 

"Hey, did you buy me more shampoo?"

Your head lifts at the voice, the snowy Narnia world you had built in your brain shattering in an instant, as you're met with the dull colours of Spencer Reid's bedroom, and a showered and dressed Spencer Reid standing only a few feet away. His bedroom hadn't always been dull. Really, nothing had actually changed artistically within it to make it dull. But there's something about no longer laughing in a room once filled with so much love that mutes its vibrance. 

"Yeah," you say, dog-earing the page you were on and slipping it onto the nightstand. "I saw you were running low."

His lips part as he exhales, and you hate that you can tell he's pushing away something snippy. It wasn't that he was actively trying to start fights with you, but his temper has grown short, and he has more anger in his heart than before. 

"You didn't get the right one, that's all."

And though it isn't said rudely, your chest opens up like a black hole regardless, and a thick ball of emotion lodges in your throat.

"I'm sorry," you force past your lips, despising the hollow sound of your sad voice, and the fact that he notices it. His eyebrows frown towards each other at the sound of you, and he takes a step towards the bed.

It's pathetic, right? To be this upset over him letting you know the thing you bought him wasn't correct. In that almost fake sounding soft, kind voice he has when he is trying to keep his unnecessary frustration at bay. 

But it wasn't like this was the first time you'd done something for him in recent, and been told you did it wrong, instead of simply being thanked. Acts of service he was finding problems within no matter what they were, each new critique chipping away at the scales of your self confidence. You don't even think he's meaning to do it.

Every time this happens, memories of the other times flash violently in your head, reminding you that he could not find the beauty of being cared for by you the way he had before this. This, this thing you were barely even able to string the letters of together, because it seemed so foreign and faraway to you. Spencer Reid in prison is not a sentence that makes sense in this — or any other — timeline. You don't think it ever will. And yet.

You'd cooked him meals every single day since he got out. Meals he'd barely ever touch, wrap in foil, then put in the fridge for his work lunch the next day. You don't know if he's even eating them at work, or if he's just taking them there to throw them out. You've been too scared to reach out to any of his team members to ask. Knowledge is power, but knowledge makes his negligence all too real. 

There's a fear in calling it negligence. It isn't fair of you to expect the same man before and after prison, and you know he's dealing with more than you can fathom. You were prepared for distance. 

Just not this much.

The submerged sound of your name tugs you from your thoughts, and suddenly Spencer is closer than he was before, and he's repeating your name over and over in calling. Once you rapidly blink and shake your head, he determines you've returned to Earth, and he's falling silent again. There's concern knitting his eyebrows together, and he's got his hands hovering in the air, as if he's reaching for you, but second guessing himself at the same time. 

"Whats going on in your brain?" he asks you after a few beats of the two of you just staring at each other. 

Like a dam breaking, his question triggers an onslaught of emotions, and every fear and insecurity you've had inside you spills out.

"I feel like you suddenly hate me," your eyes rapidly search the duvet in front of you for your words. "Or—or I annoy you with my presence? Or my care? I mean, I try to do things for you and you barely even spare them a second glance, or thought. You barely talk to me anymore outside of updating me on your schedule. We sleep with miles of distance between us," you gesture to the bed beside you. "I cook you meals you don't eat, I wash your clothes you don't fold. Both of which are things that I'm fine with, because I can't imagine how skewed your appetite is, and I—I know laundry is a trigger now. But there is not even a slight hint of you—you being thankful. You know, appreciative. I feel like I'm following you around like a servant, and I'm doing things with no gratitude in return. I'm doing things I shouldn't have to, because I'm your girlfriend. Not your maid. But they are things that I want to do, because I care for you, and I love you," you pause, a self deprecating smile appearing on your face. "And—and you haven't even told me you love me since the day we got you home. Do you even love me, still? No, don't answer that. I don't think I want to know. I mean, I do. I don't know. God, Spencer, can you say something?"

He doesn't. For a long while, he stares at you, and you train your eyes on the pattern on the bedding you're currently sitting under. His gaze is pulverising, and every second that passes is another limb turning to dust beneath it. His silence should be enough of an answer for you. Yet, you hold onto groundless hope still.

It feels like eternity has passed you by, by the time you hear his voice again.

"I don't mean to make you think I don't love you," he says. "I do love you. Which feels meaningless to confess to you now, knowing how you feel, and I wish my expansive knowledge of words could come up with a confession that does justice to how you feel, but also makes you feel better. I can only hope you take it at face value, and don't assume I'm saying it because it's what you want me to say." 

He finds a seat on the bed in front of you, fingers fidgeting with each other as he fixates on the wooden flooring in front of him. 

"I am grateful for everything you've done for me recently. I'm sorry I haven't expressed that. I'm having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other, let alone stringing together sensical thoughts. I wish I could tell you what my mind sounds like without feeling guilty about it. It isn't nice, and every thought I have is far from positive," he lifts his eyes to you, and you watch in real time as they soften, for the first time since he came home. "I will tell you that there's you. Among every awful thought and feeling I have, there is you. I think I... I think I've been coming across as ungrateful because you are a breath of relief after every bad thought and feeling. Am I making sense?" you nod your head, and he sighs in, namely, relief. "I take a step back from processing my emotions and figuring out how I'm going to talk about them with that bureau therapist when I think about you, because you are the one good thing I have to hold on to. So I just bask in the thought of you, or the sight of you, and focus on nothing else."

You aren't sure when you began to cry, and you only realise it when you have to sniffle before speaking. "You can focus on so many things at once, though." 

"Not anymore," he admits, looking back down. "I don't know what's happened. I've gone from having a brain that works inhumanly — which is objectively an incorrect statement, but I digress — to one that cannot multitask on two separate things at once." 

"Oh," you whisper. "I see."

"I'm so sorry I've made you feel as though your efforts go unnoticed, honey," he murmurs. "They don't. This has just been really difficult."

"I know," you say, wiping your tear stained face with the back of your hand. 

There's a part of you that wants this to be the end of it. The end of self doubt, and distance, and instead the beginning of your relationship rebuilding itself alongside Spencer. 

There's a larger, more logical part of you, that knows you cannot just sweep every self conscious doubt under the rug and move on. 

"I just want some time," you tell him, and his shoulders tense as you speak. "Not to—not to break up. Or even for us to have a break. I don't want that. I've just felt very... unloved. Like you're merely tolerating my presence in your life. And now, I know you aren't. But I have to find my confidence in myself in this relationship again before I can move on."

"Okay," his voice is strained as he speaks, and you know he's not exactly content with your request for space.

You try not to focus on that, in order to stand firm in your decision. 

That is where the conversation ends. And just like every other night, he climbs into bed and leaves a considerable amount of distance between your two bodies. You choose not to dwell on it, because this is now him giving you the space you so politely requested. You were catastrophising, and you'd be damned if you let such a thing control your life any longer. 

It maybe wasn't all in your head, but you still had to take the self doubt shaped dagger from your stomach out.

now i'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life. (line 30)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[whoreforsexymen]

We need a part 2 for the jayce and viktor cuck fic😫

And now.... The fic you've all been waiting for.

Jayce Asking You To Cuck Him w/ Viktor | PT. 2

(Please feel free to read Part One if you haven't already <3)

Pairings: Jayce x Reader x Viktor

Pronouns: None used, can be read w/ whatever pronouns you prefer <3

Rating: NSFW, 18+, MDNI!! I am not responsible for your media consumption.

Word Count: 1.2k

Tags: Cucking, M/M/F, Slightly OOC Jayce + Viktor (if you squint?)

Summary: Jayce asks Viktor a burning question.

Notes: I'm so sorry this took me so long. I had no idea how to go about it. I know exactly how I wanna do the smut portion, but this conversation had me drawing blanks. There's no denying that Jayce and Viktor are gay as PHUCK for each other, and I was trying to figure out how to subtly include that in here. I hope I did it some justice.

STAY TUNED FOR PT. 3 WHICH WILL BE THE LONG-AWAITED SMUT <3

“Is it just because you want to see me naked?” Viktor teases, his voice a smooth blend of mirth and mischief, the words laced with just enough edge to leave Jayce floundering.

Jayce freezes, caught entirely off guard. 

“No!” he blurts out, his voice too loud, echoing off the walls with an almost comical desperation.

Viktor raises a brow, faintly offended in a way that feels deliberate, a glimmer of amusement playing beneath his cool façade.

“I mean—no, it’s not that,” Jayce stammers, his hands flying up in a flurry of aborted gestures. “It’s just… the principle.” He coughs, awkwardly pinching the bridge of his nose as though the motion might magically summon coherence from the chaos of his thoughts.

From his perch, Viktor observes him, leaning casually on his cane with a posture that seems both effortless and deliberate. The faintest curve of a smirk graces his lips—a secret smile, as though he’s already won a game Jayce doesn’t realize they’re playing.

“Should I assume that ___ is privy to this… fantasy of yours?” Viktor inquires, his tone so smooth it could pass for idle curiosity, though his sharp gaze betrays the humor he’s enjoying at Jayce’s expense.

Jayce’s head snaps up, his expression a poster-child of shock and indignation.

“No!” he protests, his voice breaking free in a frantic echo of his earlier outburst. “I mean… No… ____ doesn’t know.. Yet.” 

Viktor hums, the sound low and thoughtful, his golden eyes glinting like sunlight through smoked glass. 

“I must admit, Jayce, this is an… unusual request. I don’t often receive proposals like this—or, well, any of this nature, to be honest.” 

His voice is calm, his words so precisely measured they feel surgical, and yet they land like pinpricks of amusement on Jayce’s fraying composure.

“You can say no,” Jayce rushes out, his voice earnest, tumbling over itself in its haste.

“It doesn’t have to happen. I just—”

He falters as Viktor silences him with a single glance, a gaze weighted with unspoken possibilities.

“I am a man of reason, Jayce,” Viktor murmurs, his words deliberate, teasing out the tension like an artisan pulling silk from thread. 

“And it’s quite clear this is something you deeply desire. Besides…” He pauses, letting the moment stretch before delivering his conclusion with a faint, wicked curl of his lips.

“I never said no.”

Jayce’s face lights up with the unrestrained joy of a puppy hearing the word “treat.”

“Really? You mean it?” he exclaims, stumbling over his own excitement, his eyes alight with gratitude. “Viktor—that’s—I—”

Viktor interrupts with a wave of his hand, calm as ever despite the blush that blooms faintly at his cheeks—a rare and fleeting crack in his composure.

“I will… indulge your request,” he says, his voice steady, though tinged with something softer. “But only on one condition. ___ must be fully accepting of this arrangement as well. Since you have yet to mention it to (insert pronoun(s) here), I suggest you do so first. I may be a willing participant, but I am not the only one in this equation.”

Jayce nods fervently, stepping closer with an eagerness that borders on reverence.

“Of course—thank you, Viktor,” Jayce says, his voice warm with sincerity, the words spilling from him with such honesty that Viktor’s lips twitch, betraying a rare flicker of fondness beneath his usual aloofness.

“I’m not in need of thanks…” Viktor murmurs, his grip tightening around his cane as he uses it to push himself up from the chair with careful precision.

For a moment, he struggles, and when Jayce reaches out to help, Viktor waves him off with a gesture that mixes pride and playfulness.

“I’ve got it—thank you,” Viktor adds, his voice carrying that familiar edge of sass, a subtle challenge lingering in the air.

Jayce offers a quiet nod, watching with an understanding that speaks volumes, his gaze unwavering as Viktor stands tall and adjusts his clothes with an almost theatrical grace.

The two are now standing face-to-face, the height difference as pronounced as ever, Jayce’s gaze naturally falling downward as Viktor straightens himself, a silent tension building between them.

“Viktor, I—I feel like I need to thank you mo—”

“Please, don’t.” Viktor’s interruption is smooth, deliberate, and almost too quick. “After all, we’re partners.” His tone softens just slightly, but his eyes remain sharp, taking in the faintest shifts of Jayce’s expression, carefully examining the unspoken truths there.

Truthfully, Viktor hadn’t stood merely for the sake of formality. No, he had risen to peer into Jayce’s eyes, trying to read the true intentions behind such a request, to unravel the subtle mystery that now hung between them.

Jayce offers up yet another nod, a silent acceptance of Viktor’s independence. 

"Tell me, Jayce… What led you to choose me? Was it simply because we’re partners?" he asks, his gaze locking with the taller man’s once again, searching intently for any secrets concealed within those eyes.

Jayce swallowed hard, as he often did whenever Viktor looked at him like this—peering straight into his soul with unnerving clarity. By now, it had become almost routine. Every deep conversation seemed to culminate in moments like these.

"Well, yeah. But not just that—" Jayce pauses for a moment, his voice faltering slightly as his hand rose to rest on Viktor's shoulder.

"There’s no one I trust more than you," he finished, his gaze locking with Viktor’s, sincerity shining through the bond they had carefully cultivated over the years.

The silence between them stretched, heavy yet unspoken, as Jayce’s hand lingered on Viktor’s shoulder. Their eyes remained locked, a connection so intense it felt immovable—unbreakable, even if a stampede were to crash through the lab doors.

Viktor felt a tightness coiling in his gut, unfamiliar and unsettling. He struggled to keep his composure, almost appalled by how much effort it took to suppress the warmth threatening to bloom on his cheeks. 

Viktor had debated saying more, asking more, but he held his tongue. This moment was already overwhelming enough, and pushing further would only complicate it. He knew, deep down, that if he truly cared for Jayce—and he did—he would honor what his friend was asking of him. There was no room for hesitation in that resolve.

All Viktor could muster was a single nod, mirroring the ones Jayce had given him before.

"Much appreciated, Jayce," Viktor murmured, his partner’s name slipping from his lips like honey—thick and sweet, seeping into the air between them.

Before Jayce could respond, Viktor interjected for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon.

“Please—say no more. You need to go to ____,” he urged, his tone soft yet insistent.

Jayce hesitated, giving Viktor a puzzled glance that lingered just a second too long. For a fleeting moment, Viktor thought he saw something beneath the other man’s gaze, something he couldn’t quite place. But it vanished before he could decipher it, leaving behind only the tightening knot in his stomach. That flicker of hope had come and gone, like a wave retreating back into the sea, leaving him stranded on the shore.

Without another word, Jayce turned to leave, his fingers brushing against Viktor’s shoulder as if reluctant to part. The touch lingered until he pivoted fully, his back now to Viktor.

And then, just as quickly as he’d arrived, Jayce was gone—vanishing beyond the doorway, leaving Viktor alone once more.

PT. 3 COMING SOOOOOOOOOON. <3

[xylatox]

January 2025 Fic Recommendations!!

a/n: my first fic recommendation list for the year!! All these fics I have read and I have loved every single one of them; please show your love to the authors by reblogging, liking and even sharing your thoughts with them :). To the authors, I'm sorry for the tag!

Key - ☆ -series ♡ -one-shot

Tomorrow X Together

☆ Between Twilight Skies | @jjunbug ~ ongoing

wc - 7.5k+

pairing - choi yeonjun x 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, huening kai x 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾r

synopsis - in a world that's on its dying breath, the once green and lush landscapes get buried in more and more layers of ash. the once flourishing streets that were full of magic are now a dull hum. yet, there is still hope—and it lies in the hands of you and kai, the last people to possess magic. suddenly, you remember the story of a forest that watches, and a well of life that lies deep within. you're determined to save your bleak world in any way that you can, yet, you weren't expecting to end up in a brand new world entirely.

♡ Bloodbound | @beomiracles

w.c - 2.5k

pairing - vampire!taehyun x human!reader

synopsis - Oh, you. So pretty, young and alive. Blood flows within your veins, carrying all the way to your beating heart, the one he can hear from miles away. Your breath hitches when his sharp fangs brush against your neck, your eyes flutter before they widen in fear. — God it drove him insane

♡ The Scientist | @dawngyu

w.c - 21k

pairing - popular hueningkai x deaf fem!reader

synopsis - Kai, who thrived in sound. Loud noise, vibrant conversations, the hum of life. And the quiet girl that sits prettily by the window—had begun to haunt his mind—stirring his heart the way only music ever had.

There must be some scientific explanation for this... right?

♡ The Last Safe Space | @dawngyu

w.c - 30k

pairing - idol!beomgyu x fem!soldier reader

synopsis - The world didn’t end with a bang. It ended with a whisper, a deadly virus creeping through the streets, turning the living into something… monstrous.

It was supposed to be a mission. Get in. Get out. Rescue the five a-list boys holed up deep in the city of Seoul. But nothing in this new, broken world is simple anymore.

The dead don’t scare you as much as his starry eyes do—deep brown eyes that make you question if you’re the one who needs saving, after all.

♡ When The Reaper Weeps | @gyu-tori

w.c - 12.4k

pairing - grim reaper!taehyun x fem mortal!reader

synopsis - The afterlife, where death waits in shadow, Taehyun walks the line between humanity and duty, a grim reaper bound by unyielding rules and a heart he has long denied. Cold and distant, he collects souls with precision—until one last wish changes everything.  

Y/N’s days are numbered, given seven days before the after life welcomes her. Her final mission is simple: mend the broken ties of her past.

As the days slip away, Taehyun’s carefully constructed world unravels. Y/N’s determination forces him to confront the emptiness in his existence. When choices arise—between rules, rebellion, and a love neither is prepared for—Taehyun must face the cost of defiance.  

Will he remain the Reaper, bound to his duty, or will he weep for the first time in centuries?

☆ Supermarket Flowers | @yunverie ~ ongoing

w.c - 15.5k+

pairing - taehyun x reader

synopsis - In the quiet corners of a bustling campus, Taehyun, a once-passionate artist, finds himself at odds with the canvas. Each brushstroke feels heavier, every color muted by the weight of personal battles he keeps locked away. Across the hall lives someone just as adrift— you, a musician whose melodies have grown somber since a breakup that shattered your rhythm and dimmed your spark. Two souls, dulled by life, separated by a thin wall but worlds apart in their own silence.

Fate weaves their paths together in an unassuming art supply room, where their individual searches for solace lead to an unexpected companionship. Amidst the scent of paint and the soft strum of guitar strings, they begin to fill the gaps in each other’s lives without even realizing it. Conversations spark over spilled paints and improvised melodies, and laughter starts to echo where silence once lingered. Slowly, they start to see colors they had forgotten and hear music they thought they'd lost.

And as life begins to take on new hues, they realize that perhaps, just perhaps, love might be worth taking a chance on again.

☆ To Someone From A Warm Climate | @hyukascampfire ~ ongoing

w.c - 93.3k+

pairing - faerie!taehyun x reader, faerie!yeonjun x reader

synopsis - a life lived as a human among the fae is one hard-earned. the folk are built of indescribable beauty, and of debauchery and mischief. for some, a life lived subservient to the folk is just fine; but to those who dream of something more, they would spend their lives clawing and biting to make it happen.

you, looking for a way to escape a life as a faerie’s human servant, put a new foot forward thinking that any life could be better than that. but, when your first assignment as a king’s spy is alongside a brooding, icy faerie man, you begin to wonder what your place in this foreign world really could be.

♡ Letters of Yesterday | @gyu-tori

w.c - 9.1k

pairing - cursed writer!hueningkai x fem artist!reader

synopsis - When love is as fragile as memory, Kai is cursed to forget everything—and everyone—he loves. No matter how deeply he feels, the magic erases him, leaving only blank pages where once there were memories. But Y/N refuses to give up, even when every day brings a new heartbreak. As she clings to the fleeting moments of their time together, she fights to keep their love alive, knowing that each day could be the last he remembers her.

In a cycle of forgotten smiles and vanished kisses, can love survive when memories are fleeting? Or will the price of holding on to Kai’s love be more than she can be

Seventeen

♡ Baby | @sailorsoons

w.c - 29k

pairing - Soongyoung x f. reader

synopsis - Soonyoung had been in your life for as long as you can remember. You haven’t spoken since your wedding to someone who isn’t him, but when you uncover your husband’s plans to turn against your family, you don’t know who else to call.  

♡ Cherry Picker | @gyuswhore

w.c - 19k

pairing - Hockey player! Seungcheol xfigure skater! reader

synopsis - [ice hockey]: a manoeuver in which a player, the floater, literally loafs (spends time in idleness) or casually skates behind the opposing team's unsuspecting defencemen while they are in their attacking zone.

There wasn't much you counted on in life; just your skates, your drive and how it felt to win. And of course, your local ice rink, that is now being colonised by an obnoxious hockey team in all their big, loud, stinking glory. Neither does it help that one particular red donned specimen forgets to leave his cherry picking on the ice.

♡ agrodolce | @amourcheol

w.c - 27.5k

pairing - dessert chef! mc x dessert chef! seungkwan

synopsis - one would expect being a dessert chef to be a life filled with sugary goodness, but nothing is sweet when working alongside boo seungkwan. when the two of you are forced to create a special dessert for the winter menu together, you think the restaurant will burn down. late night planning, shopping mall snooping, and a simple dessert might just save you from your expectations.

♡ Full Throttle pt1 - pt2 | @diamonddaze01

w.c - 20.6k + 16.7k

pairing - ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader

synopsis - jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.

Enhypen

♡ Faking It | @shy2-29

w.c - 12.5k

pairing - lee heeseung x reader

synopsis - You had never liked Heeseung, and he had never liked you either. Over the three years, both you and Heeseung had become the most popular student in the university. You barely spoke to each other, just exchanged the occasional spiteful look in the hallways. You had sworn never to speak to Heeseung again—until one day, he unexpectedly asked you to be his fake girlfriend.

♡ cross the line | @heegyukeluv

w.c - 14.5k

pairing - heeseung x afab!reader

synopsis - “How do you know if someone is flirting with you?”  It was Heeseung’s question to you, and you were left with no option other than to show how you do it.

♡ between you and me | @haologram

w.c - 40.4k

pairing - lee chan x fem!reader

synopsis - everything you've ever done, chan has been by your side - either egging you on or talking you off the ledge. after a rough year of studying, failed relationships and having chan be the insistent angel on your shoulder, the holidays roll around - and let's just say you're not too happy about it.

♡ Falling Alone | @babeyun

w.c - 39.5k

pairing - lieutenant!lee heeseung x therapist!housewife!reader

synopsis - cold cases were heeseung’s specialty, and he cracked every single one. cold hearts were your specialty, and you have yet to make a single chip in your husband’s.

♡ grocery store receipts | @paarksunghoon

w.c - 31.5k

pairing - sunghoon x reader

synopsis - your hot neighbor seems to have everything you don’t: charm, confidence, and a sense of direction in life. you’ve managed to keep to yourself in the time you’ve lived across from his apartment but the holiday season brings brings out unresolved feelings, and you find that the best present of all has always been standing right in front of you.

♡ do you think I'm fragile? | @just-nc-tea

w.c - 30k

pairing - hockey player heeseung x coach's daughter Y/N

synopsis - A car accident has turned your life upside down, leaving you with a knee and ankle that ache like they belong to someone three times your age. Navigating college with these setbacks is hard enough, but when your overprotective dad insists you take an internship with the men’s hockey team, you’re thrust back into the world you’ve spent years avoiding. The rink represents everything you’ve lost—and then there’s Heeseung, the captain whom you somehow cannot stop thinking about.

♡ iced americano season | @just-nc-tea

w.c - 39k

pairing - hockey player jay x radio host x influencer & barista Y/N

synopsis - A simple iced americano is about to ruin Jay’s entire season. Falling for the cute barista at his favorite café means free coffee, but it also comes with unexpected complications. Between her overprotective best friend stirring up drama and the internet’s relentless spotlight on his personal life, Jay quickly learns that some risks are worth taking—even if it means skating into uncharted territory. He regrets nothing

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Not a Word 4

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, violence, parental abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a life in hiding, away from your father and the world, until a man decides to drag you into the light. (non-verbal reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note:😻.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The cops wade in and out of the house as your world turns as dusky as the ocean depths. You sit at the table, staring as the smell of seasoned pork wafts in the air with the voices and the crackle of radios. Footsteps go back and forth down the hall as shadows loom over you.  

The one across from you says your name. Again. Officer Bolton has thinning gray hair but a thick mustache. You know him. He knew your dad and would stop by whenever his cruiser needed a top-up. 

“I need ya to write it down, miss,” he taps on the notepad in front of you. “Since ya can’t talk. Need a written statement anyway.” 

You blink at him. You feel sick. The smell of the cooking meat is making it worse. You frown and get up. You go to the stove and turn the dial off. It’s probably dried out anyway. 

“Miss,” Bolton calls after you. 

A sniff comes from behind you and you turn. Sy enters with another officer; Private West. He’s probably about your age. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen as many of us in one place,” West says in a tone brighter than the circumstance. 

“Well, it’s a sight to see, isn’t it? Old Don, crushed...” 

You wobble forward and latch onto the back of the chair. You can hear the impact of Sy’s fist over and over. You glance at him as his brow furrows. You just got to tell the same story he did. The one he went over before they got there. 

“It’s her daddy,” Sy says as he comes forward to help you into the chair. 

You sit and rub your throat. You don’t have much of a choice. If you tell the truth, it doesn’t get you much. Your dad is still gone. You don’t know that anyone would believe it anyway. He always told them all you were too stupid. 

“Sorry, miss,” West scratches the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean nothing.” 

You stare at the paper and pick up the pen. Your hand shakes as you hover it over the page. What happens after? What happens if you don’t listen? Will Sy hurt you too? 

You put the nib to the paper and lean forward. It’s like writing a story. You go through what he told you too. You were in the kitchen and you heard a loud noise... 

“Good girl,” Officer Bolton praises. “We just need that statement then we can go file the report. They’ll have that body down at the morgue by midnight.” 

“Awful stuff,” Sy shudders. You almost believe him. 

“Should we keep someone here?” West asks. 

“Ya think the engine’s got a mind of its own,” Bolton scoffs over the scratching of the pen. “Sy, you gon’ look after the girl? Don’t think she ever spent a night without her daddy.” 

Just like always, you’re not there. They talk about you like a thing. Like you can’t understand them. You’re just the same burden you always were. 

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Her daddy just gave us his blessing, like I was telling the Private. You know, I offered to help finish up that old Bronco so we could talk about the wedding...” 

“Blessing?” Bolton leans back and stretches his arms behind his head, “well, how about that? Syverson, you a good man. Knowing she need someone, huh?” 

“She’s a nice woman,” he puts his hand on the back of your chair. “Quiet. And she makes a hell of a dinner. Seeing as you and the boys came all the way out, I’m sure you can help out with the roast she was slavin’ over. Can’t have it goin’ to waste.” 

You put the pen down. That’s it. The lies are in ink. 

You stand up and go to the stove. This is how it will be. Same as it ever was but it’s Sy now. You open the oven door and put on the mitts to take out the pan. 

“Does smell good,” Bolton says. “My old lady always overheats the damn thing and she got not taste for flavourings.” 

“If you don’t mind,” West adds. “I usually just pop a frozen pizza in after my shift.” 

“Y’all been so good about Don and there’s lots to go around.” Sy affirms as you carve up the tender meat. Not dry at all though to you, the smell is sickening. 

“It is late, past dinner, ain’t it?” Bolton grumbles. 

“We’ll get some plates down. Least we can do is feed y’all,” Sy drawls. 

You keep your head down and obey his indirect orders. You blood is a flow of ice. You’re trembling as you scoop the gravy and potatoes over the roast.  

Your dad’s dead. It’s a startling reality that hasn’t quite sunk in. That’s not what has you unnerved. No, it’s that new truth that you’re struggling to accept. Sy. He’s not going anywhere. 

You understand now what he was asking your dad. He wants to marry you, but why? Why you? Your dad wasn’t wrong. You’re boring. You’re dull. There’s something wrong with you. So why would anyone want you when your only family could never even stand you? 

💍

When the house is quiet, you don’t know what to do. When it was you and your dad, he ignored you. It was just like being alone. But with Sy, everything is different. Nothing can be like it once was. Like it always was. 

He calls your name from down the hall. You haven’t moved from the kitchen table since you served up the roast to the men invading your home. You didn’t kill your dad but you feel like you helped. 

If you could just speak up and tell Sy to go home before everything turned bad. No, you just stood there and listened. You put your back to it all and then... 

You get up and peek around the corner. His silhouette is like a cloud of gloom at the end. You shuffle toward him, hands fold, feet heavy. He flips on the light and you squint. 

“Hey, sugar, you tired? It’s real late, isn’t it?” 

You shrug and look at your bedroom door then back to him. You flinch as his large hand lands on your shoulder. You pout up at him and hold back a quiver of fear. You can feel how easily he hurt your dad. 

“I’m gonna have a shower, wash the day off,” he says. You notice his tie is undone. “You go on and lay down. You deserve a rest.” 

You lower your chin and he catches it in his hand. You bat your lashes and stare up at him. You move your hands behind you and bunch your fingers until your nails jab your palms. He leans in as you stand rigid and terrified. 

His lips meet yours and his coarse beard tickles you. He hums as he kisses you softly. You squeeze your eyes shut as your heart thumps. You’ve never been kissed before. Never even thought of it because it was just never something that would happen to you. 

You feel as if you might tip over as he pulls away. You stay like that as his hand falls away and he clears his throat. You open your eyes and blink. 

“Was that... okay?” He drags his hand over his beard. “Ahh, probably scratchy,” he combs his finger through the hair. “I’ma get nice and fresh for ya, sugar.” 

Your lips are tingly and hot. You turn and push through your bedroom door. He’s watching you but you’re too afraid to look back. 

You close the door but don’t latch it. You don’t want to make him angry. He exhales and his weight creaks in the floor. The bathroom door clicks and the shower buzzes shortly after. 

You turn on the light and glance around. You sit at the folding table. The small beads lay in their clusters, sorted by colour, but you can’t bring yourself to put them into the grid. Your vision blurs as you languish in the aftermath. 

You should cry. Your dad is gone. You should be sad. You’re scared, you’re confused, you’re lost, but there’s nothing in your heart missing.  

The air ripples and Sy’s yawn frightens you. His shadow moves into the room behind you. He grunts as you watch his arms stretch above him in his grey silhouette. Even then, he is huge. 

“You should come to bed, sugar,” he girds as he sits and tests the frame of your bed with a bounce. “Come ‘ere.” 

You look down at your hands and splay your fingers over your legs. You slowly stand and turn to him. He tuts as you gape at his shirtless form. He wears only a pair of plaid boxers. You gulp. You’ve never seen a man like that. Through the fabric, you can’t even trace... well... 

“You can’t sleep in that, can ya?” He says. 

You peer down and up again. You jump into action and go to your dresser. You take out a loose pair of linen pants and a bulkier tee. Before he can react or you can think, you flit out. 

You lock yourself in the bathroom and change. The familiar task keeps your panic from flowing over. When you’re done, you hesitate. You gather up your clothes and face the door. You have to go back now. 

You shudder and leave the bathroom. You enter your room and go straight to the basket of dirty clothes. You drop in the day’s outfit and stay facing the corner. He coughs. 

“Turn the light off, sug.” 

You keep your gaze averted as you obey. You turn off the light and tiptoe to the bed. You linger before it. You wince as he locks onto your wrist and tugs you closer. Your knees hit the frame and you let him bring you down next to him. It’s a small bed, narrow just for him, crowded with both of you. 

He nestles you against him as you curl up on your side. He brings the blanket over both of you and hugs you snugly. He nuzzles your hair and drones in content. 

“Isn’t this nice, huh?” He asks. 

You can’t move. If you had a voice to speak, you couldn’t. You just give in to his power. That’s what always kept you safe. To appease is to survive. 

You close your eyes and he yawns again, “I’m beat too,” he rasps. “But I’ll be all too happy to wake up next to you.” 

His breath puffs into your hair and swathes your scalp in damp heat. As each intake and exhale slows and steadies, he snores like rumbling thunder. It isn’t the noise that keeps you awake though. 

The night wears on with the subtle movement of shadows through the window. You listen to the house and its creaks and cracks. Even with Sy wrapped around you, you feel alone. Desolate. You wallow with the whirling winds as they swim through the leaves. 

Morning slowly peeks over the window sill but your world is no brighter. You grow restless and squirm beneath his arm. You turn on your back as you try to peel it away. He grunts and draws his hand back, cupping your chest to your horror. 

You clasp onto his hand and he purrs, “so soft.” 

You pinch his forearm then slap his bicep. He can’t touch you like that! You didn’t say he could. His eyes snap open and he leans back against the wall with a grunt. 

“Hmph, sugar, what’s going on?” He asks groggily. 

You sit up and cross your arms over your chest. You put your chin down and scowl. He reaches for you again, this time he strokes your arm, and you swat him away. He took your dad, he made you lie, and now he’s just touching you! Kissing you! 

You turn quickly and hop off the bed. He calls your name and you wave at him dismissively. You hurry from the room without looking back. Your heart races as you listen for his pursuit. You don’t hear it, even as you get to the kitchen. 

You stop on the tile and take a breath. Coffee. You can handle that. He drinks it, just like your dad. You remember. If men are all alike, then all you need to do is cook and clean and keep to yourself. 

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 2: "The one with the purring traitor" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader

Chapter summary: You and Frankie hash out the details of your fabricated story, all while enduring the blatant betrayal of your own cat and your brother’s relentless teasing. WC: 8.4K

A/N: Hi everyone! I'm so happy to see how much you enjoyed the first chapter of TBA! Your comments mean the world to me—I absolutely love reading them, and I hope you love this part just as much <3 let me know what u think ;) Don't forget to lmk if u want to be added to the tag list, and follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications <3

Friday, August 9th. One day before the party.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound breaking the quiet of your bedroom. You set your book down, its pages splaying open across the blanket, and rolled onto your side to grab your phone. The screen lit up.

[Unknown number]: Outside.

You exhaled sharply, a breath that sounded louder than it needed to. Your stomach twisted, a faint ripple of nerves spreading through you. 

Five minutes later, Frankie stood in the center of your living room, his hands planted firmly on his hips. His brows were drawn together, his expression impatient as he watched you move around the kitchen. The faint smell of tea leaves and honey filled the air as you poured hot water into your mug.

“You don’t seem to be in much of a rush,” he said finally, his voice carrying the faintest edge of irritation.

You glanced at him briefly, your hand stirring the tea as if to say he could wait.

“What’s the rush? The party isn’t until tomorrow.”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked around the room, his eyes flicking to the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket draped haphazardly over the arm of the couch, the quiet clutter of a space lived in but not always tidy. He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing lightly against the floor, the impatience practically radiating off him.

You blew on your tea, meeting his gaze over the rim of your mug.

“You look like you’re about to explode. Sit down, you’re making me nervous pacing around like that,” you said as you walked past him, your hand cradling the warm mug. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

Frankie hesitated for a moment, then dropped into the couch across from you. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, making it stick up at odd angles.

“What do you have that isn’t hot?”

You settled into the couch, the mug resting on the coffee table in front of you. The surface was cluttered with your used stickynotes, a few receipts, coasters, and an old pen you didn’t remember leaving there.

“Water, iced tea, a couple of cans of soda.”

Frankie leaned back, only to be interrupted by Mr. Darcy, your perpetually attention-seeking cat. The tabby appeared from the side of the couch, his soft meow high-pitched and delicate as he rubbed himself against Frankie’s leg. You frowned, betrayed.

Frankie leaned down, his hand immediately stroking the cat’s fur, and Mr. Darcy responded with a loud purr.

“What kind of soda?” 

You rolled your eyes.

“Sorry, I didn’t know my guest was royalty. Next time, send a list of your preferences in advance, princess.”

He lifted his head and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning closer with an expression that was almost amused. Almost.

“I just asked what fucking flavor. Relax.”

“Coke.”

“I’ll take one.”

You stood with an exaggerated sigh, letting it linger in the air, but refrained from commenting on his lack of manners. The word please seemed allergic to his vocabulary, but you didn’t feel like pointing it out. Not today.

When you returned, you set the can of Coke down on the glass coaster on the table and took your seat again. Frankie reached for the drink, his fingers brushing the cold metal as he popped it open. The hiss of carbonation filled the quiet, mingling with the soft hum of Mr. Darcy’s purring at his feet.

“Okay, tell me about them,” you said, your tone clipped and businesslike, as if the two of you were about to negotiate the terms of a merger. You folded your hands neatly on your lap and fixed your gaze on him. Frankie, meanwhile, was focused on the can of Coke he’d just opened. He tilted it to his lips, taking a long sip. The way his throat moved as he swallowed made you glance away, irritated for no good reason.

When he finally set the can down on the coaster, he looked up at you.

“My mother’s name is Helena. She’s kind, easygoing. And observant. She’ll be watching us like a hawk the entire time. She already has her doubts about... all this.” He gestured vaguely, as if to encompass the entirety of the situation. “So we can’t get sloppy.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms over your chest.

“That’s going to be difficult, don’t you think?”

“Well, you’ll have to cooperate.”

You scoffed, an expression of mock offense crossing your face.

“I have to cooperate?”

“Yes. You.”

“Believe it or not, Francisco,” you said, leaning forward ,“I’m very nice. Easy to get along with. Mothers adore me.”

Frankie raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was suppressing a laugh.

“That may be,” he said, his tone skeptical. “But I can’t risk even one slip in this... circus. If we let our mutual... our mutual thing show, she’ll catch on immediately. Believe me.”

You mirrored his arched eyebrow, matching his energy.

“Fine. Just be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you. I promise.” You let the words hang for a moment, watching as he relaxed just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. Then you added, sweetly, “I just want you to remember, at all times, that no matter how nice and lovely I am, it’s all a lie.”

Frankie leaned back, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Noted.”

The he exhaled heavily, rolling his eyes as if to physically expel his frustration. His hand moved to his neck, fingers brushing the skin in an absentminded gesture, like he was trying to ground himself. Mr. Darcy, ever the opportunist, leapt onto the couch beside him, his sleek tail flicking against Frankie’s arm. The cat’s head butted into him in what looked like a gentle plea for attention. You watched the scene for a moment, torn between amusement and suspicion, your lips pressed into a thin line.

“Just get a grip, okay? You can’t react to everything I say like it’s a personal attack.”

You arched an eyebrow, leaning back slightly with your cup in hand.

“And what about you?”

“What about me?” He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together like he was preparing for some kind of intervention.

“You have to behave yourself too. Sometimes, you don’t even realize how nasty you’re being. Maybe it flies under the radar for most people, but if your mom is as observant as you claim—and she’s your mother, so obviously she knows you well—she’s going to pick up on all those little micro-attitudes. Immediately.”

You delivered the last word like a verdict, your tone carrying the weight of someone speaking to a particularly stubborn child. To your surprise, Frankie didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded slowly, his expression calm, even thoughtful.  

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Good,” you replied, watching him carefully as you lifted your cup to your mouth, the faint steam curling around your face. You let the warm liquid sit on your tongue, satisfied—for now—that you might have just come to an agreement with the most impossible person you’d ever met.

Frankie began describing his family in broad strokes, filling in the blanks with enough detail that you felt as if you were piecing together a portrait of his life. You listened intently, committing everything to memory like a student preparing for a crucial exam. 

Helena, his mother, was the first to come up. She was fifty-nine, a literature teacher with a reputation for being kind but quietly persuasive. Frankie mentioned that she had a particular way of asking questions that felt more like peeling back layers than making polite conversation. She still lived in Austin, sharing a house with his youngest sister, Maia, ever since his father passed away almost two years ago. That detail hung in the air for a beat longer than the others, but he moved on quickly.

Luna, his oldest sister, was next. She was forty, an interior designer based in Boston, and from Frankie’s tone, it was clear she had a strong presence in the family. “Kind, funny, a little overbearing,” he said, his mouth twitching slightly, as if recalling an incident that perfectly illustrated her character. She was married to Henry, a wealthy architect fifteen years her senior. Frankie made a point to say that Henry was a good man—honest and big-hearted—and seemed to mean it. Together, they had a ten-year-old son named Jamie.

Sofía came next, the middle sister. She was thirty-eight and owned a flower shop. Frankie described her as friendly and warm but also hinted at a guardedness beneath her cheerful exterior. She lived in Austin with her sixteen-year-old daughter, Grace, a name that carried an air of quiet reverence when he said it. You wondered what Grace was like, if she carried more of her mother’s warmth or her uncle’s sharp edges. For the sake of her, you hoped for the first option.

Finally, there was Maia. Twenty-nine, a graphic designer, and still living at home with Helena. Frankie hesitated before speaking about her, his expression shifting slightly. “Of all of them,” he said, almost reluctantly, “she’s the most complicated.” Not because she was difficult or unpleasant—quite the opposite. Maia, he explained, was the kind of person who could see through walls, so perceptive it was almost unnerving. “She’ll figure us out if we’re not careful,” he warned, his tone heavy with certainty. 

By the time he finished, you felt like you’d been handed a dossier. Each name and detail was a thread you knew you’d need to hold tightly. You nodded as he spoke, mentally sorting the names and faces into a map of relationships you’d need to navigate. This was going to be more than a performance—it was going to be a test.

Frankie exhaled, slapping his palm against his thigh with a finality that felt rehearsed, like he was drawing a line under the conversation.

“That’s it, I think,” he said, his tone flat as his eyes lingered on you. 

But you weren’t ready to let him off the hook. Squinting slightly, you folded your arms across your chest and leaned back into the couch.

“And what about you?” you asked, tilting your head as if that might give you a different angle on him. 

He raised an eyebrow.

“You know me,” he replied with unearned confidence. 

You clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, letting the sound punctuate the silence before glancing away. Amusement tugged at the corners of your lips as you brought your gaze back to him.

“I don’t know anything about you. All I know is what little Santi’s told me, what I’ve overheard here and there... that’s it.”

“That’s something,” Frankie interjected, leaning back slightly as he crossed his arms, lifting his chin with a smugness that made your fingers itch to knock him down a peg. “Go on, then. Tell me what you know.”

His expression dared you, and you met it with a smirk of your own.

“Fine,” you said, sitting up straighter and pressing your lips together in mock seriousness. “You’re in your thirties, you live alone, you’re a pilot, you like beer... Oh, and apparently, you can devour a whole burger and fries in under ten minutes.”

Frankie snorted, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or call you ridiculous. He held your gaze, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to wait you out. But the smirk stayed on your face, unwavering, and eventually, he sighed. 

“I’m thirty-five,” he said finally, his voice measured and calm, as though reciting facts from a resume. “I live alone, yeah. Used to be in the CAG, but I retired a few years ago. Personal reasons. Now I’m teaching pilots-in-training over at the JPA.”

“Oh, right, I already knew that. That’s where you met Santi, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“And what were you doing there? He never told me much.”

“I’ll tell you some other time,” he said, sounding either annoyed or uncomfortable—it was hard to tell. “Do you know what CAG stands for?”

"Tell me."

“Combat Application Group,” Frankie said, his tone steady, measured. “Do you know what that is?”

You arched an eyebrow, shaking your head. 

His lips curled into a faint, humorless smile.

“Then they’re doing their job right. They change the name every so often. Some people know it as Delta Force.” He paused, his eyes searching yours, as if testing how much you could handle. “I was part of the CAG for most of my military career.”

For the first time, you found yourself leaning forward, your interest genuine, your usual quips momentarily silenced. Frankie seemed to notice, his expression softening slightly, though the seriousness never left his face. 

“Why did you retire? What happened?”

For a fleeting second, his eyebrows twitched.

“Personal issues,” he said again.

You exhaled through your nose, sitting back slightly.

“I’m supposed to be your girlfriend. Shouldn’t I know that?” 

He sighed. Shaking his head just enough to let you know he wasn’t budging, he replied:

“No one in my family is going to ask you about it.”

You studied him, your eyes narrowing slightly, searching for any crack in the armor he wore so carefully. But Frankie didn’t flinch. His shoulders remained squared, his gaze firm, the set of his mouth resolute. Whatever lay behind the personal thing was locked away, and it was clear he wasn’t going to hand you the key. 

After a few more seconds of silence, you nodded, more to yourself than to him.

"Okay, I get it,” you said with a sigh, letting your gaze fall to your hands resting in your lap. For a moment, you traced invisible patterns on your palm, your tone edging toward resignation. “What do you want me to tell you about me?” 

“Nothing. I know enough.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” 

“I’m not trying to be mean. Santi has told me what’s necessary. I know enough to get by.”

“Oh, really? Enlighten me,” you said, folding your arms across your chest, your tone daring. 

Frankie gave you a slow, confident smile, as if he’d been preparing for this moment.

“You’re twenty-nine years old. Santi’s your only brother. You studied Literature, and you’ve been running your dad’s bookshop for, what, six years now?” He paused briefly, letting the words settle before continuing. “You like cats. Movies—especially horror movies. You love the cold, which is ironic since you’re from Austin, where it’s basically summer all year. And you’re... well, I wouldn’t describe you as outdoorsy or... or adventurous.” 

He glanced at you with a faint smirk just as your expression twisted in a mixture of surprise and mild disgust. His hand dropped to pet Mr. Darcy, who had curled up beside him, purring softly. “Oh, and your cat’s name is Darcy.”

“Mr. Darcy," you corrected him. "Santi told you all that?” 

Frankie shook his head, his focus still on your pet, his hand moving in lazy strokes along Mr. Darcy’s back.

“He didn’t tell me outright. But he let it be known. You just have to listen.” 

There was something about his tone that irked you—a subtle but undeniable air of superiority, as if he’d decoded your entire existence from a handful of anecdotes. You studied him for a moment longer, debating whether to challenge him further, but Mr. Darcy’s contented purring seemed to deflate your frustration. For now. 

“Well, I… Well,” you faltered, unsure of what to say. "Okay, I was thinking, what should I wear to the party?"

“Something nice. Not too fancy. But cute. You know, approachable."

"Sure," you muttered, feeling the weight of his gaze on you as he smoothed a hand over the cat’s fur.

"You have to make a good impression. But not too good. You need to seem... normal. Forgettable, even. Be nice, but don’t go overboard."

"What’s the point, then? I thought my job was to be the awesome girlfriend. Isn’t that what you wanted?"

Frankie leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out, and gave a slow shake of his head like you’d just said something profoundly silly.

"Yes, but don’t overdo it. I don’t need my family asking me about you for weeks after. Tomorrow’s the first and only time they’ll see you, so what’s the point?"

"What a waste," you whispered to yourself, but loud enough for him to catch. “But fine, your family, your rules. So, what should I bring your mom as a gift?”

Frankie waved his hand dismissively.

"Don’t worry about it. I’ve got that covered."

“So you’ve thought of everything, huh?” you said, letting a touch of mockery creep into your voice. “I didn’t realize this was such a big deal to you.”

Frankie snorted. "If this is what it takes to stop them from setting me up with every woman they know, trust me, I’m going all in. No room for half-measures here."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, his eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the familiar clutter of your living space, before a long yawn interrupted the silence.

“But why do they even care so much about you having a girlfriend? I mean, I get it—you’re, let’s say, not the easiest person to tolerate, and small talk probably feels like torture for you. But I didn’t have you pegged as the kind of guy who needs his mom to play matchmaker,” you said, voice dripping with just the right mix of sarcasm and curiosity as you tilted your head.

“That’s a bold comment coming from someone who had to invent a fake boyfriend because her ex, who dumped her for someone else, invited her to his wedding.”

Fair. That stung, but you couldn't bring yourself to be genuinely angry. Instead, you let out a small, wry smile, your ego only slightly bruised.

Frankie continued, unfazed by the fact that he had clearly made his point. “And I have no problem getting someone,” he said, stretching his legs out casually. “I just don’t want to. I don’t feel like dating anyone, much less getting romantically involved. But of course, they don’t get that. They think I need to settle down, find a woman, all that ‘commitment’ shit.”

For a brief moment, you let your mind wander, imagining Frankie next to someone. His type, you wondered. What would she look like? Would she resemble you in any way? Definitely not, you thought. You hoped that wouldn’t be a problem.

You cleared your throat, shifting in your seat, and then asked, trying to sound nonchalant, though a part of you was genuinely curious.

“And why don’t you want to date anyone? You’re not one of those guys with an eternal commitment problem, are you?”

Frankie took a moment to think about it. He leaned back, looking almost lost in thought, his eyes distant for a second. Then, in a flash, Mr. Darcy leapt onto his lap, pulling him back into the present moment with his typical disregard for anything that resembled personal space. Frankie shifted a little, adjusting the cat so it was comfortably curled on him.

“My last relationship didn’t end well,” he said suddenly, his voice unexpectedly serious. “We were together for about a year and a half. She broke up with me a little over a year ago. It wasn’t exactly my best moment, but her reason was that I wasn’t what she needed.” He paused, his gaze unfocused for a second, as if reliving the memory. “I tried to tell her I’d make the changes, that I really wanted to, but she didn’t care. So we broke up. And then, like two weeks later, I found out she’d been cheating on me with some guy from work—does that sound good enough for you?”

You blinked, processing it all, and felt a slight pang of sympathy, which you hadn’t expected.

“Well, that sucks,” you said, glancing down at the floor, feeling a bit awkward. You bit your lower lip, then looked back at him, unable to hide the trace of empathy in your voice. “But it makes sense now... I think."

Mr. Darcy, seemingly done with his intrusion, hopped off Frankie’s lap and sprawled on the floor instead, rolling onto his back in that exaggerated, dramatic way cats do when they’re probably overheating. His belly was exposed, a show of complete vulnerability.

"Yeah. Well. I guess," Frankie said, leaning forward as if the weight of his own words had just fully settled in. He rested his elbows on his knees and interlocked his fingers, his hands becoming a tight knot as if trying to physically hold everything together. Then something seemed to click in his mind. He looked up at you, the shift in his expression almost imperceptible. “Have you talked to Santi about this?”

You furrowed your brow, a little thrown off by the question.

"No, I thought you were going to tell him."

Frankie shook his head. "I didn’t tell him anything. I thought you were going to tell him."

You clicked your tongue, trying to shake the odd tension settling in your chest.

"We should tell him, don’t you think?" Your voice was sharper than you intended, but you couldn’t help it. "Although I'm sure he'll think this is a bad idea."

When you opened the door, Santi’s smile appeared instantly, like the sun breaking through clouds. He pulled you into a hug, enveloping you in that unmistakable warmth only a brother could give. It was absurd how much you’d missed him, considering you’d seen him just two days ago. But that was the thing about Santi—he had this way of making you feel like everything was fine, or at least like it could be.

When he let go, his smile lingered. But then his gaze shifted past you, toward the living room, where Frankie stood by the couch, arms awkwardly crossed, caught somewhere between waiting and retreating.

Santi’s expression changed so fast it was almost comical—his smile collapsed into confusion, his eyebrows pulling together, eyes widening like someone had yanked a curtain back too quickly.

“Frankie?” he said, his voice pitching upward in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” His gaze flicked from Frankie to you and back again, his tone laced with the unspoken demand for an explanation. “What happened?” He stepped forward, clapping a hand on Frankie’s shoulder, nudging him as if to make sure he was real.

“Hey, man,” Frankie said, managing a small smile as he accepted Santi’s hug. His voice was casual, but you could feel the tension beneath it, like a thread pulled too tight.

Your stomach knotted, the weight of the moment pressing into you. This was a mistake. You shouldn’t have agreed to Frankie’s deal, not like this, not without more thought. But it was too late to undo it now, wasn’t it? The pieces were already in motion, and there was no way to unring a bell.

Half an hour later, Santiago was sitting in the couch across from the two of you, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his expression shifting between disbelief and reluctant curiosity. He hadn’t spoken in a while, too busy digesting everything you’d just explained. When he finally did, his words cut through the silence like a whip.

“That’s fucking ridiculous. Are you crazy?” he asked, though his incredulous smile suggested he thought maybe you were joking.

You and Frankie were perched on opposite ends of the couch, as if a force field separated you, like your bodies were mutually allergic to the idea of being any closer. Frankie had his arms resting on his knees, his hands clasped together, his gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. You sat with your elbow propped on the armrest, your cheek resting against your hand, trying to look nonchalant.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” Santiago asked, shaking his head.

“It’s going to work,” you said, the firmness in your voice at odds with the knot of uncertainty in your stomach. “It’s not that complicated. Harry’s already met Frankie, so that part’s fine. We go to the wedding, stay a little while, and then leave. Tomorrow? Same thing. We show up, I do my forgettable bit, and then we’re out. Easy.”

Santiago raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“¿Easy? Your mom knows me, man,” he said, turning to Frankie with an accusatory tilt of his head. “You don’t think it’s going to be complicated if she thinks you’re dating my sister?”

“I’m not planning on telling her she’s your sister,” Frankie said. He sat up straighter, his hands tightening into fists briefly before he relaxed them again. “This is a one-time thing. I promise you, it’s not going to lead to trouble. It’s just a favor. A transaction. Nothing more.”

“And what happens when they run into each other again?” Santiago asked, his voice rising slightly as he gestured between the two of you.

“How likely is that, Santi?” you shot back, your brow furrowing in irritation.

He clicked his tongue, leaning forward like he had you cornered.

“My wedding is in a few months, smartass. Frankie’s mom is invited. What’s your plan then?”

The room fell into a charged silence. Oh.

You hadn’t thought of that. Neither had Frankie, apparently, because when you turned your head, you found him looking at you for the first time since this entire mess had started. For one fleeting moment, your eyes met, a shared look of complicity—and, more importantly, desperation.

“Of course, you didn’t think of that,” Santi said, his voice cutting through the growing tension like a whip. He dragged a hand across his forehead, closing his eyes as if summoning the patience to deal with you both. When he looked up again, his expression was pure exasperation.

“God, you guys seriously make me desperate. Are you two ever going to be normal with each other? First, I have to put up with years of your petty, hateful attitudes, and now this?” He gestured between you and Frankie as if the very sight of you sitting there made him tired. “Do you want to kill me? Is that the plan? Seriously, I’m asking—do you both want me dead?”

The sheer absurdity of his words made you laugh, even though you tried to swallow it.

“Oh my God, Santi, you’re so dramatic,” you said, shaking your head, though you were half-smiling.

“Dramatic?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Hey, man, look,” Frankie cut in, like someone trying to defuse a bomb. He leaned forward slightly, his hands open, his tone edging toward apologetic. “I promise I’ll fix it. I’ll tell them she’s your sister—no big deal. And then I’ll come up with something to explain how we ‘broke up’ on the best possible terms. No drama, no mess, okay? I swear.”

You nodded quickly, eager to latch onto his plan.

“Exactly. This can stay simple, we’ll just say we broke up over something normal. Totally amicable, decided to stay friends. Easy.” Your tone softened as you leaned toward him, more pleading now. “Really, Santi. Please, please don’t get mad.”

Santi let out a heavy, theatrical sigh, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just tipped his head back and closed his eyes like he was praying for patience.

“I’m not mad,” he said finally, though his tone suggested he might not be entirely convinced of that. His eyes opened, and he looked at you with something between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “I’m just surprised. Out of all the people in the world, you and Frankie are the ones pretending to date?” He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”

“Well,” you said, rolling your eyes as the irritation bubbled up. “It’s not like we planned this. I never thought I’d run into Harry in the middle of fucking nowhere. Besides, this wouldn’t have even happened if you—” you jabbed a finger in Santi’s direction, “—had gone looking for me in Dallas instead of sending Frankie. Or, I don’t know, if you’d given me a proper warning. I could’ve found another way home.”

Santi’s eyebrows shot up, his hand flying to his chest as if you’d physically shoved him.

“Oh, now this is my fault?” he asked, his voice dripping with incredulity. He pointed to himself for emphasis, his jaw tightening like he was trying not to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the accusation.

Next to you, Frankie snorted, shaking his head in that infuriatingly smug way he did when he thought he was being clever. You turned sharply toward him, glaring.

“Do you have something to say, Francisco?” 

Santiago let out a breathy, humorless laugh, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Frankie, meanwhile, scratched his chin, clearly deliberating how to phrase whatever was on his mind without making things worse. Or maybe he was just stalling, dragging out the moment for the fun of it.

“Yeah. First of all, I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove to this Harry guy. He’s marrying someone else, isn’t he? I doubt he cares whether or not you have a boyfriend.”

“Ah, right, 'cause you’re the paragon of honesty, aren’t you?” you shot back, the heat rising in your chest now threatening to spill out.

“Sure,” Frankie said with an infuriating nod, leaning back slightly as if to make room for whatever you were about to throw at him next.

You leaned toward him, unable to resist. “It’s not like you made up a girlfriend or anything, right? Tell me, Francisco, wouldn’t it have been easier to just act like a real man and tell your mom you don’t want to be with anyone? Instead of, you know, lying like a coward? Or is that too scary for you?”

Frankie laughed then, a low, sarcastic sound that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. He shifted closer, leaning in until his face was just inches from yours, his dark eyes gleaming with something sharp and taunting.

“He’s with someone else. He doesn't care about you. Get over it—”

“No one loves you—"

“Okay, fuckin' stop it!” Santiago shot up from his seat, his hands landing firmly on his hips as he stared at you with an expression that teetered between disbelief and outright despair. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. That’s how you’re going to convince people you’re together? What’s the plan tomorrow, huh? What are you going to do when people actually talk to you? This isn’t even remotely believable.”

“I know how to act,” you shot back, crossing your arms as you leaned into the challenge. You tilted your head, trying for a smug expression, though the heat rising to your cheeks probably undermined it.

Frankie let out a laugh beside you.

“No, you don’t.” 

“Sure I do,” you retorted, fixing him with a defiant look. “You’ll see tomorrow, Francisco. I’ll be super—”

“You almost shit yourself at the diner the other day, what are you even talking about? I saved you—”

“Oh my God, stop!” Santi cut in, throwing his hands up in a desperate plea for silence. He made a horizontal motion with his hands, like a referee calling a foul. “Stand up. Now.”

“Why?” you asked, your eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“Just. Stand. Up.” Santi said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitated, glancing at Frankie as if he might somehow explain what was going on. He was already on his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, like he didn’t particularly want to comply but knew better than to argue.

With a resigned sigh, you rose from your spot, the tension in your shoulders apparent even in the way you stood. The second you moved, Mr.Darcy wasted no time, sliding into the space you’d just vacated.

Santiago leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression unnervingly calm. He watched you both like he was observing a particularly amusing experiment, his lips twitching as if he were holding back a smirk.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, his tone almost conversational. “Kiss each other.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “What?”

Frankie, equally caught off guard, tilted his head toward Santi. “Sorry, what did you just say?”

“Kiss,” Santi repeated, his voice louder this time, like he was explaining something to a particularly dense child. He gestured between the two of you. “Frankie, kiss her.”

“Absolutely not,” you said immediately.

“Are you crazy?” Frankie added, shaking his head vehemently, his face scrunching up like the very idea was offensive.

Santiago raised his eyebrows, his calm demeanor giving way to something more pointed.

“What, you didn’t think this through? How the fuck are you planning to convince anyone you’re dating if you can’t even manage a little kiss?”

You stared at him, dumbfounded, your brain struggling to process the absurdity of what he was suggesting. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Frankie’s jaw tighten, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Meanwhile, Santi seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. There was an unmistakable glint of amusement in his eyes, his gaze darting between you and Frankie like he was watching the climax of a particularly entertaining play.

He was savoring this—your awkwardness, your obvious discomfort. To him, this wasn’t just funny; it was justice. A kind of poetic payback for the years of chaos and petty feuding you and Frankie had inflicted on him. The sheer satisfaction on his face was infuriating, but also, somehow, undeniably deserved.

“Well?” he prompted, raising his hands in mock encouragement. “Go on, lovebirds. Show me how convincing this great plan of yours is.”

You glanced at Frankie, hoping for some sign he was going to end this absurdity. But he wasn’t looking at you, or at Santiago, or even at the floor like a normal person. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his teeth dragging over his bottom lip like he was physically restraining himself from speaking. His hands rested on his hips, fingers tapping idly against his belt, while his foot shifted incessantly, a nervous rhythm you couldn’t unhear.

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms.

“Is this fun for you?” you asked Santi, your voice sharp enough to cut through his amusement.

He barely suppressed a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he gave a little shrug.

“Of course it is. Look at you two. You can’t even conceive of the idea of a teeny, tiny, innocent little kiss.” He paused, his expression shifting into something mockingly thoughtful. “You know, Fish,” he added, turning his attention to Frankie, “your mom invited me to her birthday tomorrow.”

That got Frankie’s attention. His head snapped toward Santiago, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“It’s a shame,” Santi continued, raising his eyebrows in exaggerated regret. “But I can’t go. I’d love to see the two of you embarrass yourselves in front of an audience. That would’ve been a real treat.”

Frankie clicked his tongue, clearly irritated. “Come on, man, don’t start.”

But before Santiago could respond, you interrupted.

“Kiss me,” you said, turning to Frankie with a tone that was less a request and more a threat.

Santiago let out a breathy laugh, stifling the full force of his amusement but not entirely succeeding.

Frankie looked at you like you’d just suggested a double homicide, his brows lifting high enough to crease his forehead.

“Come on,” you repeated, stepping closer to him. You let your arms drop to your sides in what you hoped was a disarming gesture, but Frankie didn’t budge. His expression didn’t soften, either—in fact, it somehow got worse. He was looking at you like you’d offered him a plate of raw sewage.

“Come on, Fish,” Santi chimed in, his voice laced with mock encouragement. “One little kiss and that’s it. What’s the big deal?”

You stayed where you were, holding Frankie’s gaze, your jaw tightening as you willed him to just get this over with. But he remained firmly rooted in place, his face still twisted in disgust.

And then something shifted in your chest. It was small at first, but it grew quickly—an anger, sharp and undeniable. What the hell was wrong with him? Was the idea of kissing you that horrifying? It wasn’t like this was real. It wasn’t like it meant anything.

You snorted, shaking your head as determination overtook you. Without giving it another second of thought, you crossed the space between you in a single, decisive motion.

“Wait, what the fuck are you—” Frankie started, but his words cut off as your hands gripped the sides of his face and your lips crashed against his.

The kiss lasted no more than three seconds, but it felt like an eternity. His lips were softer than you’d expected, warm and surprisingly still. Your eyes stayed firmly shut, as if that could somehow make the situation less mortifying.

When you pulled back, it was abrupt, almost violent. You jerked away from him and immediately crossed your arms again, your defenses snapping back into place.

Frankie stood there, completely still, his face frozen in an expression of shock. His eyebrows were furrowed, his mouth slightly open, and his eyes were unfocused, like he couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

“It’s not that hard, Francisco,” you said, your tone clipped as you turned away and sat back down on the couch, this time right next to Mr. Darcy. “I’m a woman, not an alien. It’s not so terrible.”

Your brother was staring at you, his expression a mixture of delight and disbelief. For a moment, he said nothing, just taking in the scene like it was the best entertainment he’d had in years. Then, with a wide grin, he walked over to Frankie and delivered a solid punch to his stomach.

Frankie clicked his tongue in annoyance, snapping out of his daze with a low groan.

"I’m already regretting this," he muttered then, his voice low but sharp, as he turned his back to you and Santi. 

“You can’t regret it now,” you called after him, your tone sharper than you meant. It was enough to stop him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see his face. He didn’t look angry, not exactly. There was no sharpness, no fire. Just this quiet disappointment.

“A deal’s a deal,” you said. "You were the one who insisted. Or have you forgotten that already?”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly, his eyes flicking to the ground. “Of course not. I just—” He paused, rubbed the back of his neck. “We didn’t think it through.”

From his spot against the wall, Santi let out a low whistle, arms crossed as he watched the exchange unfold like it was a show he’d seen before.

“Yeah we did,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “The issue isn’t that. The issue is you chickening out. You were fine until Santi showed up.”

“Oh, now it’s my fault again?” Santi asked.

You shrugged, noncommittal.

“Okay, well,” Santi said, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. “Do what you want. It’s none of my business. Just—” he gestured vaguely, like he was brushing something away, “be a grown-up about it. And don’t screw it up, yeah? Because, honestly, of the three of us, I’m the one who has to deal with your shit.”

“We won’t cause trouble,” Frankie said, his voice quieter now but clear. He glanced at you, then at his best friend. “You have my word. I’ll keep it together. I'll be respectful. No bullshit. I promise.”

Santi nodded, his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. He reached out and clapped Frankie on the shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Sure, man. I trust you. Just—” He laughed lightly, his smile widening. “Don’t be such a child.”

He turned to you then, something knowing in his gaze, before looking back at Frankie. His laugh came deeper this time, warm and unguarded.

“Oh, I know exactly how this is going to end,” he said, shaking his head.

He didn’t stay much longer, mentioning something about dinner plans with Yovanna and promising to call tomorrow. The air felt lighter as he left, like he’d taken the weight of the moment with him, leaving only the two of you standing in its wake.

A few moment later, Frankie was ready to go too, or at least he looked like he was. He sat across from you now, his posture relaxed in a way that felt calculated, like he was trying to project a calm he didn’t entirely feel. Your cat, utterly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension in the room, rubbed insistently up and down his leg, purring loud enough to fill the silence. Frankie absentmindedly ran his fingers along his fur, the gesture soft, almost tender.

From where you sat on the opposite end of the couch, you shifted slightly, trying to tread carefully. Your voice, when it came out, was low, calculated even—an attempt not to poke at the fragile truce that had settled between you.

"You know Santi’s right, don’t you?" you asked, watching as Frankie’s head lifted immediately, his gaze locking onto yours. "I mean, I don’t know how you are with your actual girlfriends—if you’re, like, affectionate, or into, you know, public displays of affection or whatever. But if we’re going to do this, you’ve got to get over it."

"I don’t have anything to get over. We just need to stick to the basics."

"Aha, the basics," you echoed, leaning forward slightly. "Sure, okay. But you couldn’t even kiss me without looking like it was physically painful."

"That’s not fair. You caught me off guard, that’s all. The context was weird. Santi was watching—it threw me off." He shook his head, his discomfort practically radiating off of him.

You leaned back, crossing your arms as you let out a short laugh, the sound more exasperated than amused.

"Your whole family is going to be watching tomorrow."

You stood abruptly, the movement carrying your frustration with it, and crossed the room in a few quick steps. You didn’t look back as you walked into the open kitchen, heading straight for the sink and grabbing a glass from the counter. The sound of water filling the glass was the only noise for a moment, the silence stretching uncomfortably.

Frankie didn’t say anything right away. When you turned around, your glass now empty in your hand, he was still in the living room, his focus firmly on your cat. He scratched behind his ears like he hadn’t just been called out, like he could stay there indefinitely and avoid the conversation entirely.

But then he stood, moving toward you with an unhurried calm that didn’t quite match the unease in his eyes. He stopped a few feet from you, leaning one hip against the kitchen island as if he needed something to ground himself.

"Your mother," you said, setting the glass down on the counter with more force than you intended, "your sisters, your aunts and uncles, your mom’s friends—they’re all going to be watching."

Frankie sighed. "It’s different." 

"Different how?"

"Because Santi’s my best friend. And you’re his sister. It was weird."

"And this is all fake, Francisco," you said, gesturing vaguely with your hand, like you were pointing out something so glaringly obvious it hardly needed to be said. "How old are you again? Forty?"

"Thirty-five," he replied, deadpan.

"Right. Almost forty. And you can’t do something as simple as kiss a woman. Yes, I’m your best friend’s sister. Yes, you clearly dislike me. And yes, I clearly dislike you too. But it’s just a kiss," you said, your tone sharp, cutting. Like you were explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow child. "A fucking—"

The word caught in your throat mid-sentence, stolen by the sudden, startling pressure of Frankie’s hands on your face.

Before you could react—before you could even think—he was there. Close, impossibly close, his fingers firm but steady as they cupped your jaw, his palms warm against your skin. His eyes barely met yours before his mouth was on yours, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that one unexpected point of contact.

His lips moved against yours with a precision that felt calculated, like he wasn’t rushing, but he wasn’t holding back either. They parted yours gently, and his breath mingled with yours, each second stretching into something that felt far longer.

Three seconds. Four, maybe five. It was enough for you to notice, to feel how his thumb brushed against the side of your face, to register the faint scent of his cologne. Enough for it to completely throw you.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

He released you, stepping back without ceremony. For a moment, he just stood there, looking down at you from his full height, his expression unreadable. Then he clicked his tongue, a sound so small but so maddeningly smug it made your blood simmer.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were rooted to the spot, your thoughts a scrambled mess as you tried to catch up with what had just happened. Your breathing was uneven now, a shallow rhythm you couldn’t quite control.

Frankie turned away, shaking his head slowly as if he were frustrated—with you, with himself, with the entire situation. His hands flexed at his sides, his gaze fixed on the floor.

When he finally looked back up at you, his scowl was sharp enough to cut. There was something accusatory in the way his eyes narrowed, as if he were blaming you for... what? Letting him kiss you? Letting him prove a point?

“I can do that, no problem,” Frankie said, his voice dripping with confidence, his expression so self-assured it almost felt rehearsed. He stood tall, chest slightly puffed, radiating an air of someone entirely too pleased with himself. “Stop being so fucking insufferable all the time, and maybe this whole thing would be easier.”

The words stung more than you cared to admit. You wanted to hit back, to say something sharp and cutting that would wipe that smug look off his face. Insult him, rattle him—anything to remind him that if this situation was unbearable, it wasn’t because of you alone.

But no words came.

Your throat tightened, and you couldn’t force yourself to speak. It wasn’t just that you were angry—though you were. It was that he was watching you now, not with his usual indifference but with something sharper, something closer to scrutiny. Like he was waiting for your reaction, ready to pounce on it, to use it against you.

Frankie leaned back against the kitchen island, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, it felt like the room itself had shrunk, like the air had turned heavy and suffocating. The silence between you was uncomfortable in a way it had never been before.

You swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness, and forced yourself to meet his eyes.

"Thank God you’re not my real boyfriend," you said finally, your voice breaking the tension. You tilted your head, letting a sly smile curve your lips as you arched a single eyebrow. "I’d rather kiss a toad."

The corner of Frankie’s mouth twitched, and for a second, you thought he was going to brush off your jab entirely. But then he let out a quiet laugh, one he didn’t even try to hide, his expression softening into something teasing.

"You’ve got a lot of experience with those, don’t you?" 

You rolled your eyes, letting out a soft, incredulous snort. Your gaze drifted to the empty glass of water sitting on the counter, the condensation forming a faint ring beneath it. You should’ve said something else, something sharp to cut through the tension still lingering in the air, but you didn’t.

Frankie straightened up, peeling himself away from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen island. He stretched slightly, his movements unhurried, one hand brushing absently over his stomach like he was just waking up from a nap. Then he reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around something—his keys, you realized—as if confirming they were still there.

He turned without a word and walked over to the couch, where Mr. Darcy had curled up in his usual spot. Frankie gave the cat a quick pat on the head, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, then straightened again. When he turned back to you, there was something almost playful in his expression, a teasing glint in his eyes that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.

"I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow," he said, his voice casual but firm, like it was already decided. "Don’t keep me waiting."

You blinked at him, disbelief washing over your face. From your spot leaning against the counter, you tilted your head slightly, trying to gauge if he was serious—or if he was just trying to get a rise out of you.

"Or what?" you shot back, your voice dripping with mockery. "You’re going to leave without me?"

Frankie paused at your door, his hand hovering over the handle. He turned his head, his eyes locking onto yours.

"I’ll come up and get you," he said, his tone low and almost threatening.

Before you could reply, he pulled the door open, stepping out into the hallway and closing the door with a gesture that felt vaguely theatrical.

You stood there for a moment, motionless, your eyes drifting aimlessly around the room. It was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the corner.

Then a sharp, high-pitched meow broke through your thoughts.

You glanced down to see Mr. Darcy padding toward you, his tail held high like a little banner, the picture of feline confidence. He stopped just short of your feet, looking up at you with wide, expectant eyes. The kind of look that demanded attention.

“Oh, so now you’re coming back to me?” you asked, crouching down to run your fingers over the soft fur on his head. He tilted his chin upward, leaning into the touch like he hadn’t just spent the last hour fawning over Frankie.

"Of course, you traitor," you muttered, scratching behind his ears. "Now that he’s gone, you’ve suddenly remembered I exist."

Mr. Darcy purred in response, his tail curling slightly as he rubbed against your hand, but you snorted softly, the sound carrying a faint edge of betrayal.

"You’re lucky I love you," you said, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. "But don’t think I’ve forgotten how easily you switched sides. I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you just yet."

He blinked at you, unbothered, and you couldn’t help but laugh under your breath. Still crouched, you rested your elbow on your knee, glancing toward the closed door where Frankie had disappeared. 

Mr. Darcy meowed again, drawing your attention back, as if reminding you of where your loyalty should lie. For now, you decided, he was forgiven. Just barely.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti (some tags aren't working apparently sorry!)

[agathasfamiliar]

you better make me better (pt. 4)

agatha harkness x fem!reader (+ rio is here now)

A strange woman, who clearly shares a sorted history with Agatha, interrupts your moment together. Agatha asks for your help to deal with Death, and you're more than happy to oblige.

other parts: 1 2 3 4

word count: ~4800

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dehumanization/objectification, exhibitionism/voyeurism, fingering, "good girl" and "pet", tiny bit of degradation and praise, jealousy, mention of death, brief description of a corpse, smut

author's note: it has been a bit! sorry for the delay but i hope you enjoy this part and let me know if you'd like more. also thank you for all your help, you know who you are.

tag list: @lanfear-is-my-darkmistress

You’re still catching your breath, Agatha’s eyes making a meal of your every coy adjustment, when a sudden strident sound overwhelms your senses from all sides.

It’s akin to a ringing in your ears, but with a bassier root noise that vibrates your jaw in its sockets. The higher pitches seem to claw the inside of your brain causing every hair on your body that isn’t already at attention due to the chill in the air, to stand on end. Punishing blares somehow surround you while also feeling like they are coming from inside your skull, making it clear that this isn’t simply some terrible musical instrument foreign to your ears, but rather something of an otherworldly origin.

Confirmation that you’re not alone in this strange experience comes with Agatha’s head whipping to face the clearing behind her. Her long curls sting your cheek with the force that they slap against your face in the proximity, but you don’t mind. The scent of her hair meets your nose fully in the process and you inhale the biting of a citrus peel that teeters on bitterness, but remains mouthwatering, mixed with something deep and earthy like black tea leaves with a hint of peppercorn.

Another rush of wind disrupts your analysis as it carries the overpowering smell of juniper into your nostrils that causes you to chase after the retreating scent of the woman before you. Juniper, you find odd, as you hadn’t observed any such trees in your trek through these woods.

“Shit!” Agatha swears, eyes scrunching up as if suddenly remembering, upon arriving home from the market, that she’d forgotten to buy the milk she needed.

“What is it?” You ask worriedly, trying to draw the woman’s attention back to you, to no avail.

Rather than a proper answer, you instead see the feminine silhouette of a figure clad in a long black bombazine mourning dress, trimmed in a deep green shade. She steps from the treeline opposite the two of you, a long torch in hand that roils with bright green flame, casting harsh shadows against the delicate features of her face. 

Some preternatural awareness tells you that the ringing in your ears, which has only minorly subsided, as well as the new scent added to the already woody air, has come from her. A pit settles in your stomach as you scan black hair and dark eyes from a rapidly closing distance. You can’t put your finger on what about this seemingly innocent woman, witch rather, if her colorful flame and entrance “music” was any indication to go by, is sending such bolts of doom into the core of you with a single glance. 

A glance from you, that is, as this woman, in all her approaching, has not spared a flicker of her vision for anything but the one that still brackets you against the tree.

Just as the awareness of Agatha’s maintaining hold crosses your mind, she is releasing you, instead turning to face the other witch head on, as she now only stands feet from you both. You glower to yourself at the loss of contact for a split second before Agatha’s hand comes up to hold your left hip in place, as if making sure you stay behind her. The small gesture of protectiveness sends a thrill through you as well as worry at the prospect of what could possibly cause Agatha Harkness to show any measure of fear.

“Agatha,” the green clad woman speaks her name like a blessing and a curse.

“Fancy seeing you here. Not like you to stick around at the scene of the crime…anymore, that is.” The black haired woman says like the two are sharing a secret you are definitely not privy to. 

Though you can’t see Agatha’s face, you can feel the slight twitch of her fingers against your hip at the final phrase before she speaks back.

“Seems I lost track of time, you know how that is.” She returns in a ridiculing tone you’d watched her use with your coven, though now with a more personal intent that stabs the words into the air.

The woman holding the torch nearly pouts at the response, completely nonplussed by whatever secret message is being communicated.

“Shame, here I was thinking you wanted to have a bit of fun.” The stranger replies teasingly, such that you feel both a twinge of jealousy in your gut and utter fascination at the history between the two witches.

“Ha! Actually, we’ve already had quite a lot of fun.” Agatha retorts with a laugh, the hand not holding you gesturing playfully over her shoulder to where you stand. You flush with pride at what borders close enough to praise, as well as the thought of her using you as some sort of brag to this woman she clearly has some significant past with.

Your mouth runs dry as you move your eyes from where they have been fixed at Agatha’s back to gaze at the woman whose name you still haven’t caught up close. She’s looking over you like she truly hadn’t even noticed there was a third living person in the general vicinity, though you find that hard to believe.

Her eyes case you in an instant, running over every visible inch and lingering for a moment over what you know is an already forming bruise that sits in the dip of your right collarbone from Agatha’s earlier exploration. The spot almost burns at the attention and you wonder if it’s just in your head or truly some magical product of the other woman’s glare. In all her searching though, deep brown pools never lock to yours. Not in a shy or anxious way, but rather in the way one might not think to look into the eyes of an animal, feeling no need to address it as conscious. 

With every near pass of her gaze to yours, your heart pumps faster in your chest and you’re not entirely sure why. Part of you wants desperately for this woman you don’t even know, to acknowledge your personhood, while another loathes the potential loss of the tension forming around her continued neglect. 

“What is this?” The woman asks, clearly referring to you, but looking to Agatha as she starts to further close the already small distance. Her eyes, which you haven’t been able to look away from, blaze slightly and nostrils flare in resentment as she does. 

“Not of your concern. She’s alive.” Agatha fires back pointedly and the statement causes you to internally quirk an eyebrow, trying to deduce the exact implication in it. She gives a half step to her left in order to guard you more fully from the other woman’s advance. 

This doesn’t seem to deter the darkly dressed witch at all as she steps up to Agatha and peers over the shorter woman’s shoulder to get a better look at you, her face now only inches from yours. A tickle spreads along your hairline and cheek where she scans your features, though she does not touch you. One hand remains at her side while the other extends behind her to keep the flamed torch at bay.

“Hm,” she starts thoughtfully, “it’s pretty.” The sweet word takes the shape of an insult in her mouth.

“Don’t you have a job you’re supposed to be doing?” Agatha asks accusatory, once again causing your mind to run wild chasing after its meaning.

“Can’t shirk your duties now.” She continues, the words being spit out like poison in her mouth.

The final word is heavy as lead and files itself away in your head as a possible piece in the boundless puzzle that is the dynamic between these two women. Two dark eyebrows lace together for a split second in what looks like a hurt expression on the stranger's face before she schools her features back to that of contempt and shifts to her heels to meet Agatha’s gaze again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Especially after you’ve left such a gracious offering.” She replies with a wink and a wicked smile that you feel causes Agatha to tense even more in response to.

An offering, you wonder to yourself, images of altar gifts and tithe collections spring to your mind along with the memory from minutes ago of that purple halo surrounding Agatha’s head. You’re unsure how long you’re lost in thought, but before you know it the odd woman is stepping away from the two of you and approaching the splayed, grey-ish corpse of your coven leader at a casual stroll.

“What’s she-” Your question is cut off by Agatha’s interjection and another squeeze to your hip, still not having turned from her position facing away from you.

“Quiet, pet. You’ll see.” She responds in a tone that is half harsh and half very far away, gaze following the black-haired woman’s movements as she stoops down to the face of your former superior and traces the sharp, black nails of her free hand along the side of her hollow cheek, lazily.

From this angle, you can no longer see the faces of your coven leader or the one who leans down to touch her, but your breath seizes in your throat as a stirring starts to come from the body that has been lying still and lifeless for some time now.

Her crooked limbs twitch and spring to life as though waking from a fitful dream; it’s all you can do not to let out a yelp of fear at the apparent resurrection. Agatha’s nails digging into your hip are no longer enough to ground you to the situation, and before you can decide otherwise you are wrapping your arms around her waist from behind and burying your face into her left shoulder blade to shield you from the horrible sight.

A grateful calm washes over you when the witch doesn’t push you away and even relaxes marginally into your embrace, especially after her previous chiding. The irony isn’t lost on you that this image is somehow more frightening than that of all the bodies of those you’d known most of your life dropping motionless to the grass not too long prior. 

It isn’t until the previously diminished oppressive sound creeps back into your senses that you’re able to tear your eyes back open and peer over Agatha’s shoulder at the view before you again. The reverberating noise that rattles your skull and presses on your eardrums blocks out the details of the conversation that is clearly being had between the two witches who now stand several yards away. Even from this distance you can see your coven leader’s face has been returned to its former health and fullness. She doesn’t seem to notice you, despite you standing in her direct eyeline. 

All of this feels suddenly surreal again, as if you’re moments from waking from a dream due to your realizing its falsehood. That is until your eyes travel down the bodies of the pair to the ground below, where you see the clear image of your coven leader’s form still drained and stiff in the same position you’d remembered her in.

Your breath starts to come quicker as your eyes flick rapidly between the version talking to the darkly dressed woman and the one with sallow, sunken features unmoving in its permanent rest. Panic starts to well up within you and stinging tears brim at your eyes in your confusion, that growing sound turning from a droning to a screeching in your ears that you would claw at if you thought it might help. The burn you feel growing across your brain might very well be your neurons firing in succession to try to make sense of what it is you are looking at.

The answer doesn’t snap into place until a darkened doorway appears between two trees at the wave of the strange woman’s hand, spilling fog the color of jade onto the ground in front of it. She sends one last glance over to Agatha before stepping through it after the retreating lively version of the inexplicably dead woman who once led you and your fellow witches. 

Your panicked breaths cease completely at the reveal of the sudden change in her visage as she turns. What was just moments ago the elegant, if slightly languished features of a woman have now been replaced by a shadowy and vacant skeletal structure; bone white brow and cheekbones protrude over exposed teeth and a jaw that fixes her expression into an unrelenting mockery of a grin that strikes the identity of the formerly nameless woman into your heart.

The ringing in your ears reaches a fervor that seems will not let up until you admit what it is you now know to be true. The words leave you without your express permission, but as if breathing and releasing them are cosmically tied actions.

“She is Death.”

“Yes, very good.” Agatha responds, louder now that Death and the ghostly figure have vanished into the summoned portal, or perhaps it just seems that way with the sudden pause in the ambient noises that seem to follow the primordial being. 

The way she draws out the vowel on the confirmation brings a condescending tone to the perceived praise at your deduction skills, as if she’d been waiting impatiently for you to put two and two together. This interaction feels completely divorced from before, when she’d lit up at your realization of what she wanted, your pleading. It takes the wind out of your sails momentarily as you cast your eyes down to the dirt in shame.

“Oh, come on, don’t pout. It doesn’t look good on you.” She twists in your grasp before placing a hand on either side of your cheeks to roughly raise your face back to look at hers. You reluctantly meet her eyes and find them still slightly put-upon, but more satisfied with your following of instructions. They search you with a consideration, as if weighing her options. 

“You want to help me with something?” She asks, almost patronizingly in the way she clearly already knows the answer. You would feel shame if it weren’t overridden by just how much you do want to be useful to her. You nod, measured and desperate, and the smile she gives you melts away your fears and is well worth whatever it is she’s going to demand.

“Good girl.” She admires, hands supporting the weight of you melting into them at the title. Maybe, you think, you can endure the bite of her admonishments for how much sweeter they make the taste of her following commendations.

Her hands release your head once you’ve gained your composure back enough to return to an upright posture. Luckily, there’s not even enough time for you to mourn the loss before they have grazed down your sides and are maneuvering you around by the waist.

Agatha silently walks you the few paces back over to the center of the clearing where you had shared your first kiss such a short time ago. The determination on her face is fascinating but you think better than to ask her too many questions, especially after her response to the latest one. 

You stand with your arms awkwardly at your sides, letting her shift you a step to the left or right, a glance over your shoulder allowing you to deduce that she’s trying to find the perfect angle directly in view of the still-swirling doorway that Death has left behind. The witch hums in delight when she’s found the perfect spot for you; you bite your tongue in favor of mentioning that you’re almost certain this is the spot you started in. 

“Perfect!” She declares, clapping once to seemingly applaud her own curious work. 

“Now, lay down.” 

“What?” Your mouth asks before your brain can remember to nix any questions. 

Jumping into action before she can answer, or more likely scold you for the inquiry, you drop to the soft grass and fan your skirt around you to cover your legs from the chill of the blades swiping along them. You try to maneuver your hair to do the same, but the poking sod snakes its way along your neck and face and you already feel somewhat itchy. You push the need to fidget away and focus every thought on being still, being good.

Agatha watches you get comfortable with a smug sort of grin and you can tell the pieces of whatever plan she has brewed up are coming together.

You admire her for a moment from your worm's-eye view. The contrasting light cast by the starry night and sickly green magical fog strikingly paint her already stunning features and that fear you’d noticed at Death’s arrival has somewhat quelled with the giddiness in her at this mysterious plan. You’re happy for it, even if you have no idea what to expect next. 

She must catch your trailing stare that now dances shamelessly along the taut column of her neck, because the toe of her right shoe starts to playfully ghosts along your ankle to shift your legs further apart and ride up the hem of your dress just slightly. It’s an innocent enough action, but so soon after the previous events of the evening makes it enough to send shockwaves through your core in anticipation. It does little to tamp down the improper thoughts that the image of her long, exposed neck have already started brewing as well.

Your eyes drag up to Agatha’s face in delighted curiosity, only to find her staring off into the portal. It’s almost as if she hasn’t even noticed her own toying movement against your leg. 

She looks like she’s waiting for something, and you’re about to ask her what it is when your train of thought is cut off by action behind and in front of you. 

Having thought her request for help would involve some sort of ritual or spell, you’d been silently mourning the more pleasant section of the evening that seemingly came to an end with the arrival of the lady of Death. However, when said umbra-clad woman finally steps back into view through the magical vessel just ten feet from your head and Agatha drops to her knees between your spread legs at the arrival, you know it has only just begun. 

The facial expression upon the returning woman’s face, whether it’s surprised or even there at all, is lost to you as your gaze is locked on the one kneeling between your legs and the way that the cloth covering you ripples as her cool, searching hands crawl up your body from beneath it. The chill of her fingers causes you to inhale sharply through gritted teeth, your lower half still damp with sweat and furnace-hot from your earlier activities. Your eyes flick between Agatha’s face and her moving hands in delighted confusion, whatever she is doing now at least taking the shape of something you desire. 

Perhaps, you think, you do hear the faintest intake of breath from behind you at the obvious bulge in the fabric as Agatha’s left hand briefly hovers just over where you want her most, and it’s the only sign of this display having any effect on your newfound company until she speaks. It won’t dawn on you until much later that Death herself taking a breath is probably about as shocked of a reaction as they come. 

“Agatha.” Death uses her name now as a warning, as if cautioning a child from playing a cruel trick. 

Does that make you the trick? 

The thought of it should, you know, breed a certain amount of indignity in your heart. The way Agatha’s looking at you, however, like you’re just the suit she needed to pull in a high-stakes game of cards, causes any humiliation you’d have about the scenario to evaporate. While she may be using you, she's using you.

“Rio…” Agatha’s mocking return of the woman’s name trails off, so pointedly not looking at your only other living company, if you can call her that. Instead, her eyes rake over your body as your muscles tense and roll against both her hands that finally settle to grip your bare hips beneath your clothing. Her strong fingers work to still the slight rocking against nothing that you hadn’t even realized you’d started doing.

Rio, you think. At learning what you assume is the more human name used by the entity, you can’t help but turn over your shoulder to finally take her in once again with your new knowledge in mind. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief at the confirmation that you’re not being met with exposed bone, but a very human face looking on to the scene before her in intrigue mixed with simmering fury. 

The fact that she still actively avoids meeting your eye as you lay before her makes you run both hot and cold at once. She surveys you like one might regard a piece of furniture in a room and her gaze only reaches as far as your exposed, flushed neck before making a path right back down your supine form. It’s a level of supposed disinterest that can only be achieved through truthfully great curiosity.

“You don’t w-” You hear the beginning of Rio’s continued attempts at reasoning but they are lost to the sound of your own loud gasp that tears from you unexpectedly. 

Before you know it, there are two fingers buried in your wet heat for the second time tonight, the remnants of your first orgasm still enough to allow little resistance for Agatha’s reentry. You hadn’t even noticed her left hand leave your hip in your contemplation over the spectator in your midst, giving you no time to brace for the intrusion or try to stifle the loud noise that came of it. 

Her fingers don’t let up as they set a slow, but deep, curling pace that has you making a concerted effort not to instantly start writhing on the ground beneath you. A hot blush fills your cheeks when you find Agatha grinning at you as her hands work you over, your brows knit up and teeth sink into your bottom lip in your effort to keep some semblance of your composure. 

Of course you’d realized some aspect of Agatha’s intentions moments ago, but the actual experience of having her buried up to the last knuckle inside you as a near perfect stranger watched on, was something else entirely. Especially when that stranger was Death herself. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Agatha cheerily asks Rio, finally turning to meet her eyes as if she is simply knitting a sweater and not dragging you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy with every thrust of her hand. 

“Couldn’t hear you over the…” The casual chuckle in her voice and the way she raises her eyebrows once in emphasis as if to say ‘you know’ almost makes you want to laugh right along with her in your delirious state, having gone from quiet contemplation to whimpering mess in mere moments.

“Oh, my mistake! Should I talk louder!?” Rio replies, much louder now and with a naked anger in her voice.

Agatha’s pace quickens right along with the volume of the other woman’s exclamation, slamming that spot inside you in such rapid succession that you can’t help but let out another loud moan that trails on longer than you intend. This only seems to delight the woman fucking you all the more.

“That was a bit too much, honey!” Agatha fires back amusedly, matching Rio’s theatrical shouting. For a moment you think she’s referring to your moans and you flush with embarrassment before realizing her true intent.

Something about watching the two of them argue, both with focus locked on the other so intently that Agatha’s ministrations between your legs are the only indication that either of them even know you’re there, has somehow brought you hurtling towards climax much faster than before. She isn’t even touching your clit, but that doesn’t seem to matter at the moment. A little bit more of this and you’ll be gone.

The thought of coming apart around Agatha’s fingers like this, while she might not even notice it’s happening, somehow strikes both a feeling of dread and carnality through every inch of you. 

“Oh, you think?” The woman standing just a few yards behind you questions with irritation that now meets your ears with an undeniable elation laced within it. This is thrilling Death. 

You rock your hips even harder at the thought, partially involuntarily and partially to try to signal to the otherwise engrossed women that you’re moments from release. You’re torn at the concept of interrupting the display, canines digging so deeply into your lip to stifle your moans that you taste iron on your tongue. 

Agatha’s earlier teaching also springs to the front of your mind, but you can’t muster any “please”s at the moment. In fact, you’d rather drag this out longer than beg for more. The dark haired witch driving into you clearly has other plans, though, ones that involve her yanking you down even harder onto her fingers by your right hip all while she continues looking past you and maintaining her conversation. 

Your eyes roll and your head drops back at the somehow redoubled pleasure coursing through you. You can’t even moan now, mouth open in a silent scream. If this isn’t Agatha giving you the signal of her permission then you’re not sure of anything anymore.

“Yeah, I do.” She says with a sarcastic pitying tone and nod of the head.

The way she drags in and out of you, her rhythm and angle never faltering in her performed passivity, feels almost too good. The growing pressure below your belly is going to snap at any second. As much as you want to hold onto this deliciously sinful feeling for a while longer, with Agatha’s permission granted and your body screaming at you for its much needed release, you give yourself over to its whims.

“Better than not enough.” Rio bites back in a way that you know is meant to strike you, despite your back being to the woman. 

And it does, a spike of shame lances your heart in the exact same moment that you utterly come undone. If your first orgasm crashed over you, this one tears out of you. You can do nothing else but let the warm liquid that gushes from you to coat Agatha’s waiting hand as you release a string of guttural groans and high pitched gasps of pleasure, as well as embarrassment, that mingle in your brain to create an intoxicating concoction. 

Agatha’s fingers don’t cease for several more seconds, aftershocks causing your hips to jump and force her even further into you for a moment. You start squirming at the overwhelming sensation, words failing you as you bat her hand weakly. She stops her movements, but leaves the digits within you for the time being as you come down.

This is not an out of body experience like before, but a thoroughly grounded one. You feel a heaviness of satiation in every limb like gravity has suddenly become stronger around you and you figure if you weren’t already laying down you would’ve collapsed by now in pure fulfillment.

“See, it’s done already. Shame.” Death tuts dismissively down at you, eyes floating somewhere around your middle.

“Don’t worry, Agatha. I’ll just get finished up here and we can have some real fun.” She continues.

Agatha laughs darkly at that, but even you can hear the thread of longing within that threatens to rear its head.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You go ahead and do your “work”, we’ll manage just fine.” Agatha starts, releasing your hip to make air quotes with her right hand while the other remains inside you.

At Rio’s assumption of your inadequacy and Agatha’s signal for more, you find a renewed vigor throughout your body and push up on your elbows into a more upright position.

“Please.” You plead in the most desperate voice you can muster, and you know from the look on Agatha’s face that you’ve done the right thing. 

Just out of the corner of your eye you can see Rio, who must’ve taken a few paces forward in the time you were otherwise occupied with your waves of euphoria, as her eyes flare at your word and Agatha’s gleeful reaction to it. She turns pointedly away and starts towards one of the other five bodies. 

It sends a chill down your spine, that in this moment, Death is jealous of you.

[valkyrieromanoff]

🎀YOU AS PADMÉ X HAYDEN CHRISTENSE: THE LOVE STORY🎀

SECOND

synopsis: the last day of filming begins and your story with Hayden takes the first step towards your future together.

words:  2.6k

warning: not based on real events, fluffy, hint of romance

a/n: hello there, I’m so happy and grateful for all your comments 🥹💕. It seriously makes my day to see your reactions! I hope you enjoy this chapter—I had so much fun writing it, and I’m so excited to hear what you think! Sorry for the delay 🫠—I didn’t have my computer, but we’re back now! Thank you for your patience 😘. Feel free to like, reblog, and comment—I love hearing from you! 🫶💌

🌟 Tagging those lovely people: @notantou, @barnes70stark, @writtenbyhollywood and @majathepapaya🌸

CHAPTER 3: SPARKIN’ FEELINGS

Filming was in full swing, with deadlines looming and the epic ending of the film drawing near. Your character, Padmé, was embroiled in her role as a senator of the Galactic Republic, while Anakin faced his own trials as a Jedi. As a result, you and Hayden barely saw each other on set that week. His schedule was packed with lightsaber training, while yours was consumed by Senate scenes.

Still, you found small ways to connect. More than once, you stopped by his training sessions, ostensibly to watch, though you always brought lunch with you. Hayden would grin when he saw you, pausing mid-swing to jog over and take the food from your hands with an exaggerated sigh of relief, as if you’d saved him from starvation.

When it came time to record the scenes on Tatooine, you finally had more opportunities to be together, though the sequences were emotionally heavy. Between takes, you both made a conscious effort to lighten the mood, filling the quiet desert set with laughter. You’d brought a pack of sour candies, and soon it turned into a full-blown competition to see who could keep a straight face. So far, it was a tie, but each time one of you pulled a particularly exaggerated grimace, your shared laughter cut through the tension of the day.

Ewan, ever the observant bystander, watched the growing connection between you and Hayden with quiet amusement—and a touch of frustration. From the moment you both arrived on set, it was as if a magnetic pull kept drawing you together. Hayden’s hand would inevitably find its way to the small of your back, guiding you down steps or helping you navigate the uneven terrain. Your head would rest against his shoulder as you whispered conspiratorially, or you’d walk hand-in-hand, fingers intertwined as if it were second nature.

Ewan also noticed the more intimate moments, like the countless times you and Hayden shared a pair of headphones, listening to the playlist you’d created together for Anidala. It was impossible not to see the way you smiled when a certain song played, or the way Hayden would hum softly along, his gaze lingering on you.

One moment stood out in Ewan’s mind—a particularly cold day filming an outdoor scene. The icy wind bit at your exposed skin, thanks to Padmé’s sleeveless costume. You tried to hide your discomfort, but it was clear in the way you shivered between takes. Hayden, always attuned to your needs, noticed immediately.

Without hesitation, he opened his Jedi cloak and wrapped you inside, pulling you close. The heavy fabric was warm and carried his scent, a mix of leather and something uniquely him. You smiled softly, leaning into his touch as he rubbed your arms to chase away the chill. Then, with a playful grin, he took your cold hands in his and pressed soft kisses to your fingertips, murmuring something about keeping you warm.

Ewan shook his head at the memory, amused but exasperated. The two of you were clearly smitten, yet you danced around it like children, never quite acknowledging what everyone else could plainly see. You weren’t fooling anyone—except maybe yourselves.

Being friends with both of you, Ewan felt a mixture of affection and impatience. You were like a little sister to him, someone he felt protective over. Hayden, on the other hand, was like a brother—a younger one in desperate need of a nudge in the right direction. Ewan knew it wasn’t his place to interfere, but the situation was maddening. If neither of you was going to make the first move, maybe a little guidance wouldn’t hurt.

As he headed toward lightsaber training with Hayden, Ewan began formulating a plan. He’d find a way to bring it up casually, no pressure, no fanfare. Just a friendly conversation. After all, he thought with a smirk, someone had to knock some sense into those two before they drove everyone else on set crazy.

The training session for the Geonosis arena fight was in full swing. The clatter of training sabers echoed through the rehearsal space as Ewan and Hayden worked through the choreography under the supervision of the stunt coordinator. It wasn’t an especially complicated sequence, but the combination of precise movements and the physical demands of the fight kept them both focused. Or at least, that was the case until Ewan decided it was time to put his plan into action.

The conversation started harmlessly enough—Ewan’s usual mix of casual chatter and dry humor. They joked about how the weather in Tunisia felt like Tatooine itself and debated the best lunch options nearby.

“Could’ve sworn I signed up for acting, not boot camp,” Ewan quipped, spinning his saber and blocking Hayden’s strike with ease.

“Guess they don’t tell you that when you sign the contract,” Hayden replied with a grin, wiping sweat from his brow.

The two danced around each other in the choreography, their steps fluid and practiced. As they reset for another run-through, Ewan steered the conversation toward the topic he’d been waiting to broach.

“You and her have become good friends, huh?” Ewan said casually, delivering his line as he feigned a wide sweep toward Hayden’s side.

Hayden easily sidestepped the attack, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Uh-huh. It’s easy to feel comfortable around her,” he admitted, his tone softening as he parried Ewan’s next move. “We clicked pretty quickly.”

Ewan raised a brow, leaning into his next attack just enough to keep Hayden engaged. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You two are practically inseparable.” He paused, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “Almost like soulmates.”

Hayden’s step faltered slightly, though he quickly recovered. His blue eyes flicked to Ewan, searching his expression for any trace of mockery. Finding none, he hesitated, his movements slowing as he processed the comment.

“Something like that,” Hayden murmured eventually, his voice quiet but thoughtful.

Ewan saw his opening and pressed further, his tone more earnest now. “You ever think about what that means?”

Hayden blinked, lowering his saber as he stepped back to reset the sequence. “What do you mean?”

Ewan shrugged, leaning casually on his saber hilt. “I mean… it’s obvious you care about her. Everyone on set sees it. Hell, even the crew’s rooting for you two. But have you stopped to ask yourself why?”

Hayden’s brows furrowed as he looked away, his jaw tightening. Ewan’s words lingered, pressing into thoughts he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on too long. Of course, he cared about you—that much was undeniable. But the idea of why...

“Well, she’s... she’s easy to talk to,” Hayden started, his voice halting as he fumbled for the right words. “She makes me laugh. And... it’s like she gets me, you know? Like she sees me for me—not just this guy playing Anakin Skywalker.”

Ewan nodded, letting him speak, knowing this wasn’t the kind of thing Hayden would open up about if pressed too hard.

Hayden ran a hand through his hair, letting out a soft chuckle. “And then there’s the way she looks at me sometimes, like she’s really listening, like I’m the only person in the room. It’s... it’s hard to describe.” He paused, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his saber. “It’s more than friendship, isn’t it?”

Ewan smiled knowingly, giving his friend a firm pat on the shoulder. “Sounds like you already know the answer to that.”

For a moment, Hayden stood still, the weight of Ewan’s words settling over him. The realization crept in slowly, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Was it love? He didn’t know for sure, but the thought of you—the sound of your laugh, the way your hand fit so perfectly in his—was enough to make his chest tighten.

“Come on, mate,” Ewan said, breaking the silence with a grin. “Let’s run it again before the stunt coordinator starts yelling at us.”

Hayden nodded, snapping back to reality as he took his position. But even as they resumed the fight choreography, his thoughts remained elsewhere.

Did you like him as much as he liked you? The question gnawed at Hayden, its weight growing heavier with every passing day. He didn’t want to open his heart to you only to have it shattered. But then there were moments—those fleeting, electric moments—that made the idea of unrequited love seem almost impossible. The way your face lit up whenever he walked into a room, how your eyes softened when they met his, or the comfortable silence that settled between you, where words weren’t needed to understand each other. All of it made him believe there might be something more, something mutual.

When training wrapped, Hayden didn’t bother gathering his things. He bolted off the set, his heart pounding with urgency. He had nearly two kilometers to cover to reach the set where you were filming your last scenes of the day. He’d memorized your schedule—he couldn’t help it, really. If his timing was right—and he was almost certain it was—you’d just be finishing a scene with Padmé’s handmaidens.

He ran, his boots pounding against the ground. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and the exhaustion from the grueling training session earlier started to creep into his legs, making each step feel heavier. But he didn’t care. He pushed himself harder, fueled by the need to see you.

When Hayden finally reached the set, he stopped short, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. The space was dim, most of the lights already turned off. A few members of the set crew were busy adjusting props, and the cleaning staff was tidying up, the hum of vacuums and the faint clatter of equipment filling the otherwise quiet room.

He scanned the area frantically, his blue eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for any sign of you. But you weren’t there.

“Looking for someone?”

Hayden turned, startled by the voice. One of the cleaning staff, an older woman with a kind smile, was standing nearby, a broom in her hands. She seemed to recognize him instantly.

“She just left,” the woman said, her tone warm. “Maybe if you run, you can catch her at the gate.”

Hope flared in his chest as he nodded his thanks, a quick but heartfelt, “Thank you!” escaping his lips before he took off running again.

When he reached the gate, the sight that greeted him made his steps falter. A car was pulling away, and through the window, he caught a glimpse of you. Your head rested against the glass, your eyes closed in peaceful slumber, exhaustion etched into your features from the long day of filming.

He opened his mouth to call your name, his hand lifting instinctively, but the sound caught in his throat. He knew it was useless—you wouldn’t hear him. For a moment, he stood there, watching as the car disappeared into the night, taking you further away with each passing second.

A sigh escaped his lips, and he ran a hand through his damp hair, a mix of frustration and resignation settling over him.

“Not tonight,” he muttered to himself, his voice low.

Even as disappointment clawed at him, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was okay. It didn’t happen this time, but there would be another chance—he was sure of it. And next time, he’d be ready. He’d find the right words to say, the courage to finally tell you what he felt.

As he turned back toward the set, his steps slower now, a quiet determination began to replace the lingering doubt. Hayden knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to let another moment slip away.

The weeks flew by, and before you knew it, the final day of filming had arrived. What once felt like a distant moment was now here, unfolding beneath the setting sun. The warm golden light bathed the hillside where the last scene was set: Anakin and Padmé’s secret wedding.

As the scene began, Hayden caught sight of you dressed as a bride, and for a moment, everything around him seemed to blur. You looked radiant in white, the delicate lace of your gown catching the sunlight, your shy smile playing on your pink lips. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat echoing louder than the last.

“You look beautiful,” Hayden said softly, his voice unsteady as he fumbled for the right words. “I mean, you are beautiful, but… you look more beautiful than ever.” His cheeks flushed a faint shade of pink as the words tumbled out.

You smiled back at him, warmth flooding your expression. “You look lovely too, Hayden,” you replied, your gaze sweeping over him. His dark Jedi robes suited him perfectly, and the way his hair caught the light made your stomach flutter.

The scene had no lines, leaving the two of you to simply exist in the moment together. It felt almost surreal, the weight of the story you’d spent months telling pressing gently against you. Between takes, you made small talk—lighthearted jokes, shared laughs, and quiet gratitude for the journey you’d taken together.

When the cameras rolled, the energy shifted. Hayden held your face, his fingers brushing against your skin as if you were something precious. His thumb traced a slow, tender arc across your cheek. The touch sent a shiver through you, your breath catching as his gaze locked onto yours. Then, ever so slowly, he leaned in.

His lips found yours, soft yet confident, and the kiss unfolded like it had always been meant to happen. There was an unspoken harmony in the way your mouths moved together, as if the universe itself had been waiting for this moment. It was more than a kiss—it was connection, destiny, a bridge between reality and fiction.

Anakin and Padmé’s love story seemed to blur with your own, the lines between characters and actors dissolving. While the love they shared on screen was fraught with tragedy, what bloomed between you and Hayden felt genuine, hopeful, and intense.

When the kiss ended, you opened your eyes, your breath mingling in the space between you. Your gazes met, and for a moment, the world stood still. Smiles formed on both your lips—real, unguarded smiles that carried the weight of feelings neither of you had yet put into words.

“Cut!” the director’s voice rang out, breaking the spell.

Hayden didn’t let go immediately. Instead, he pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping tightly around you. You sank into him, burying your face against his chest. A rush of emotions swirled between you: love, relief, fear, and a bittersweet ache knowing that this chapter was closing. Tears welled in your eyes and slipped down your cheeks, but you didn’t wipe them away.

The end of a movie was more than just a wrap—it was the end of a process, a journey. There was a sense of mourning that came with knowing it was over. But in the way Hayden held you, and the way you clung to him, it was clear: your story wasn’t ending here.

Hayden opened his mouth, wanting to say something, to tell you how he felt. The words hovered on the edge of his tongue, but he held them back. This wasn’t the right moment—at least, not yet.

You pulled away slowly, your fingers lingering on his arm before stepping back. There were so many people to thank, so many goodbyes to say. As you moved through the crowd, greeting cast and crew, Hayden watched you, his gaze never straying far. And even when you spoke to others, smiling warmly and sharing memories, your eyes would always drift back to him.

In those glances, unspoken promises lingered. The film might have ended, but whatever had grown between you and Hayden was far from over.

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[just-null]

Do you ever do requests? If so, do you ever plan on drawing some Yandere with the Hantengu clones? :D hope you have a good day/night!!!

Mentioning an unfamiliar name

yes!! I love yanderes.. and these guys.. these guys are such good material...... nods nods..

I'm not sure about requests..I assume you mean drawing requests? I suppose if it REALLY catches my interest enough, I'd do it, but it'd probably just be line art/sketches.

[nokmietarchive]

another really fantastic detail from the s2 finale regarding Leo's powers... I've always loved the hell out of what they did cinematically with it, it looks and feels incredible and kicks total ass. initially I was under the impression that he was replacing his portals with his swords; that he was "traveling through" them per-say. but here --

...we can actually see Leo materializing SEPARATELY from his sword! you can see in the following frame he actually dissipates again and his sword continues flying along the same path untouched, inertia unaffected.

...and then he materializes again to properly align with it and catch it!

he's entirely not in contact with it but is implied to have already crossed spacetime. which means Leo can just... Do That. he's rapidly bending space to transmit his goddamn subatomic particles to a new location. the purpose of the swords isn't to do the portaling; it's to work as a landing pad. it's a vector point by which he re-solidifies the mass he's transporting. a familiar homing beacon he can align himself with on the fly.

[elizabethzoopzoop986]

I hate this fucking manga how am I supposed to have a life and write essays about shit when I sit down start to think and all that comes to mind is some gay little toilet freaks istg it’s a hard knock life

[lemongogo]

sry i dont know what 2 draw anymore T_T . elendira portrait #999

[boughclan-clangen]

moon 0, page 7

>air thick with dread.

PREVIOUS || NEXT FIRST

[crybaby-bkg]

Trainer Bakugou who you're a little terrified of the first day you're paired with him. when asking for a trainer at the gym, you had expected the friendly redhead who always looked so sweet and encouraging and cut as hell. you weren't expecting his grumpy looking blond counterpart, who was all glares and shouts for his clients to keep pushing themselves.

you were hesitant at first, before you quickly realized that it was all a ruse, for the most part. he pushed those who needed that extra encouragement, but was more lenient to people like you who simply wanted a professionals guidance. so, after a few weeks, you liked him for the most part, and his looks damn sure made it easier to cozy up to the big guy.

the only issue you've been having with Bakugou though are the...coregasms, as you've seen them been named on social media, that you keep experiencing. the first time, you weren't sure what it was, why your stomach and pelvis kept tightening up. you couldn't have...climaxed, or anything. you hadn't even been touched!

but, as the weeks go by, and the workouts get more strenuous, they've become harder and harder to subside and ignore, and so had Bakugou's commands to keep going when you suddenly stopped. you can only lie and say its cramps so many times before he realizes that something is up.

you're midway through a good morning, when that familiar feeling starts tightening in the pit of your gut. you clench your eyes shut, shaking your head a little, as if you could ward off the impending feeling. bakugou notices though, frowning at your almost pained expression in the mirror, walking up behind you to stop you as you pull yourself back up. his hands are on your waist, and as you come up, you feel his bulge glide over the curve of your ass, and something in you snaps.

you gasp, buckling over, one hand on your knee as the other reaches back for bakugou's hand to keep you up as your thighs shake. you can feel yourself spasming, clenching and unclenching around nothing, secretly wishing you had something that could fill you up, something that you felt throb against you as bakugou leaned over your form.

"Another coregasm, huh?" he asks you lowly, his lips brushing your ear as you bite your bottom lip to hold back your moan. your eyes buck open though, when his words sink in, head tipping back to look at him in the mirror, only to find his gaze already on you.

"You knew every time?" you ask quietly, panting now that its finally starting to pass over you. but bakugou doesn't let you up from this position, especially since the area you're in seems to be desolate for now.

"It's hard to ignore how pretty you look when you cum, sweetheart." Bakugou seals his words with a firm press to your ass, his cock rubbing the seam, and you can practically feel the heat and veins of it through your thin bottoms. you groan under your breath, getting lost in the feeling of him grinding against you, when he suddenly speaks again.

"You still feel it?" he asks, voice low as he looks at you through his lashes. you nod, biting at your bottom lip as you meet the steady rock of his hips, watching how he smiles before slotting his lips against your ear.

"Want me to help make it go away?" and he does, in the employee locker room after hours. he makes it go away, and rebuild, and go away again and again until you're hoarse and your legs are weaker than they typically are on leg day. bakugou helps the ache go away, but not for that sweet redheaded coworker of his, whose fists have fucked his cock the entire time of watching bakugou rail you over the locker room bench again and again.

[dreamsy990]

some of the less nice thoughts about being aroace

extras below the cut

sketch

closeups on my favorite panels

bonus: adios