#staining your hands so your loved ones don’t have to

[aikuwrld]

men who are DEVOTED munchers becoming a stuttering mess when you ask to give them head… they look at you like you just asked the most incredulous question in existence. you? give him head? right now? he’s so used to servicing you— the thought of you giving him head already had him shamefully twitching in his pants and dizzy with need.

“are you sure, my love? no, i mean, you don’t need to… i mean—”

poor baby can barely put a sentence together even before the touching has even happened. don’t get him wrong, it’s not that he doesn’t want it. he’s indulged— matter of fact, he’s stroked a few ones out at the thought of you sucking him off. on your knees, pretty glossy doe eyes looking up at him while you struggle to take all of him in your mouth. it’s just that he’s always been a little shy. too embarrassed to ask you. it’s pathetic— hilarious even that a burly, bulking man of his stature couldn’t bring himself to ask his darling little wife something so simple. he was devoted to you. the man worshipped you. he knew his purpose. it was clear as day in fact. to service and care for you. to follow you like the smitten fool he was. he knew that he was meant for nothing else the moment he had laid his eyes on you. he was yours.

your husband’s putty once you begin leaving behind the softest of kisses down his chest and trembling stomach. the smell of his skin and the hushed whimpers every once in a while leaving his pretty lips dulling your senses. you had to pull away to admire the sight— your hungry eyes drinking in the mesmerizing sight of your man. the contour of his prominent muscles; the number of ruthless hours he’d managed to put into training never failed to impress you. the tank he wore now bunched up and resting on the swell of his pecs; buds glossed over with drool while his chest heaved with every shuddering breath he took, and god, the trail of thick hair leading down to his veiny lower abdomen.

he’s practically a pathetic puddle of moans and drool while you attempt to push another inch of his twitching length down your throat minutes later, the tuft of hair on his abdomen tickling your nose as your mouth painfully stretches to take in his fat girth. your tousled hair not going unnoticed as he begins to comb it back, chivalrous as ever while he holds it back with one shaky hand, the other draped over his burning face.

“ah, hnng..! fuuuuck… just—just like that, pretty…”

he drools out, a fucked out mess of groans and praises just for you as he bucks his shaky hips into your mouth involuntarily, apologizing hastily at the sound of your gagging. but oh, how you could practically live off this rare sight. your panties soaking wet at the sight of your husband selfishly chasing his high. you suck in your tear stained cheeks, hallowing them out as his fat leaky tip hits the back of your throat. you were no better than him; a slobbering, gagging perverted mess as you begin to massage and stroke the base of his wet cock.

“gonna… oh— oh, god… don’t… please, baby, i’m gonna…”

he strains out, his hips twitching up as his head presses back against the arm of the couch, his bulging biceps flexing from the iron grip he has on your hair as he thrusts into your mouth once more. you pull away from his thick girth to catch your breath, eliciting a whine that you swear had you ascending. sticky gloss and spit trailing down his cock and connecting from your lips as you push his cock against his tense stomach to lick at the veiny underside. you allow the tip of your tongue to massage against a vein before leaving behind sloppy kisses at the thick shaft down to his twitching balls. he jolts forward in shock, heels digging into the plush surface of the couch. the veins straining underneath the thin skin of his large hands, almost like they were ready to burst with how tight he fingers were interlocked with the roots of your hair.

he can barely control himself, at this point mindlessly babbling on about how lucky he is to have you, how much he loves you, how close he is to cumming. you begin to massage the base of his sticky cock once more before sliding the wet shaft past your lips, slurping shamelessly as you begin to bob your head back up and down. it doesn’t take another second before he shoots his thick load right down your warm, wet cavern. riding out his orgasm as you massage and you pull your head up with a pop, gasping for air as he begins to wipe at your mouth, praising you for taking him so well. he definitely didn’t mind a bit of spoiling here and there. especially from you.

⟢ reiner, erwin, choso, nanami, sendou, niou, noel, tokimitsu, yukimiya, diluc, sanji, zack, aki, vash, sanemi + your favs . . (〃ω〃)

[notjustjavierpena]

Applied Physics

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Long awaited smutty piece with a planned sequel. I hope you enjoy, ya filthy animal 💅🎀💖

Summary: It’s the 60s, you’re three weeks behind on a deadline, and your professor, Doctor Reed Richards, makes you face the consequences. 

Pairing: Reed Richards x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: College student/teacher relationship, science talk, Reed has powers, dub con, spanking, dom/sub dynamics, implied dacryphilia, dirty talking, sub drop, aftercare, stern Reed 🥵

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62948440/chapters/161199763

Applied Physics

Dr. Reed N. Richards always wears a tweed jacket with elbow patches that show off his broad shoulders and give him an irresistible swagger. He teaches physics at your college part-time - when he is not out saving the world - and he is equally terrifying as he is warm, a combination of traits that you have learned can actually coexist but only after meeting him. 

You have been wanting him since he walked into the classroom that morning many months ago, carrying a black leather binder seemingly filled with little to nothing since everything appears to be stored in his brain. 

He has standards, you find, and traditional ways of doing things that somehow emphasize his love for the delicacy of science. For instance, he only grades papers with a fountain pen and therefore expects every assignment to be handwritten instead of done on a typewriter which is tedious and difficult for those who don’t possess a steady hand. The scary part of him comes out when he says he simply won’t grade the papers that aren’t turned in as he wants them to be. The warm part shows itself when he later makes a self-deprecating joke about knocking over whiskey during his grading. 

The idea of the paper smelling like his cologne or even, if you are lucky, has a stain of his favorite liquor, makes you hand in each assignment whilst the ink is still drying on the paper. Perhaps you will be the first one to receive notes and feedback from him if you turn in your work before its deadline.

You imagine him hunched over a desk, pen barely able to fit in his rough hand. He wears something casual, maybe even has taken off that jacket, scratching his beard and sipping his drink whilst smiling to himself as he reads words that come from your mind. Your mind makes him smile to himself, makes him single you out from the rest of your class because you are special and he knows this. It’s the image you imagine the first time you come whilst thinking about him, shower head between your thighs and legs against the tiled wall in the shared bathroom at the boarding house you reside in. 

When you do finally get your first essay back from him, you read all the comments in the margins during your lunch. You lick a drop of juice from an apple away from your lower lip as your eyes skim over a scribbled good or well done, trying to find an excuse to read more into the way he looks at you when you talk during class. You made him laugh once, that must mean something, right? He clearly has your sense of humor, the same ways of applying theory and reasoning. 

You know that it is hardly rational what you are doing, projecting all these things onto him when, in reality, you only know of him what you have seen during his lectures and office hours. Yet you have found yourself noticing the way he smiles faintly when you correct one of your fellow students during group work, and it has spurred you on to become even more insufferable to your classmates only to get his attention. His approval too, if you are lucky. 

Yet despite all this, here you are with an assignment running three weeks late, your procrastination having reached its limits and your excuses to your professor wearing thin. It’s a challenging state to be in when you’re so used to ranking your popularity with Dr. Richards higher than everyone else on this course. Sure, his attention is nice when it is rooted in praise but you don’t know if the kind that will follow this lecture, the deadline you’d agreed upon for your paper being yesterday, is the kind that will satisfy something in you like the small smiles have. 

You keep bouncing your leg beneath your desk as you wait for Dr. Richards to enter the lecture hall with that cool aura about him and let the fast-paced lecture begin. If anyone sees you, they will recognize it as an itching to suck up to him once more but in reality, it is the first time you’ve been in the room with a nervous tic. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he greets as he finally arrives and you find yourself jolting with nerves at the fact that he is finally here and inevitable doom is just around the corner. It doesn’t make it better that his brown eyes sweep over the crowd in a hurry until he spots you, his gaze full of concentration until he gains eye contact with you for less than a second. You sit up straighter at the way he measures you and the subconscious movement of your leg stills completely. Frustratingly, the man keeps talking as if nothing happened. 

After several attempts to regain your composure, you realize that you have completely missed his introduction to today’s lecture and while trying to ignore the thrill that is simmering beneath your anxiety, you scramble to start taking notes. It’s not to show him that you can go back to being his favorite student but rather a necessity to keep yourself from being three weeks further behind.

You power through the lecture even with your fuzzy mind, scribbling things down and making sure to appreciate the privilege it is to be taught by one of the greatest minds to ever live. This is even if he, multiple times, falls into the usual pattern of diving headfirst into multi-layered explanations of different phenomena and concepts, droning on as if none of you and the rest of your classmates exist to him anymore. 

You pretend to keep up when he does this but even you must admit that he loses you. However, you know for a fact that it is not out of disinterest that you stop listening but rather your mind focusing on something else when his words become too difficult to follow. Instead, you end up mapping out the length of his gorgeous neck, the beauty spot where his collar ends. It is enough to leave your mouth dry, but not enough to drag your mind off the scolding you’ll get soon.

When the lecture comes to an end, you have psyched yourself enough to stupidly get up and try to follow the rest of the students out. They trickle out hurriedly though and you find yourself at the back of the school of people heading for the door. 

“Hold it right there,” Reed’s voice travels through the room and hits you right in the back, making you falter in your step. Your last name rolls off his tongue with the same kind of confidence and composure that you’d tried to conjure up just an hour ago. 

“Sir, I was just—“ you rest your hand on the doorknob to signal that you are leaving but you know already that you have lost the fight to exit the room. 

You hear it before you see it; the faint and strange rustling of fabric as something wooshes closer. Suddenly, your teacher’s stretched-out arm moves past you like you have seen it do on television and then his hand attached to said arm splays flat on the door. He closes it with a soft click while you hold your breath. 

Slowly, it retracts back to normal and you follow it with your eyes by glancing over your shoulder. Time stands still for a moment at the sight because while Reed Richards has stretched his body multiple times in the past, without much thought behind it and much to his students' shock, he never puts anyone in the position to experience it firsthand. 

“Sir, I—“

“Come here,” he says quietly. 

You grab the strap of your bag tightly and make your way to the desk where he sits. You decide to beat him to his reprimand, talking even if your voice shakes at his disapproving stare, “I’m sorry I missed this week’s deadline.”

“This week? Try the last three,” he calmly corrects you, “You have done your research on force, impact, and energy transfer in non-elastic collisions, have you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you’ve still not turned anything in? Why?”

“I've been overwhelmed with coursework and–” You trail off when he raises a brow. He is still sitting down but even so, you feel like you are shrinking underneath his authority. You find it hard to believe that anything out your mouth right now will be taken seriously when you have let him down three times already but you try to reassure him anyway, “It won’t happen again, I promise,”

“No, it won’t,” he agrees as he pushes himself to stand. He drags the chair away from the table as if he thinks it is in his way, “You’re brighter than most, so I don’t believe I need to remind you what happens if you keep slacking.”

“No, sir, I’m aware.”

“I mean, we’ve already moved way past force dynamics and energy exchange on this year’s curriculum, so you’re wasting my time,” he goes on with an annoyed sigh that tells you he has better things to do, “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” you stare at the flooring.

“Come closer,” he orders calmly. He lets his gaze flick down to your hand clutching your bag of books, “Take out your book on core concepts.”

You follow his eyes and pull out the right book before gently letting the strap of your bag slide off your shoulder until the bag hits the floor with a soft thud. Something tells you that you’re not leaving anytime soon.

“Place it on the desk and find the pages on Newton’s Laws,” he continues and your heart slams against your ribs at the thought of an impromptu pop quiz instead of a handed-in paper. Yes, you know these pages but in the presence of him, you’re not so sure. 

Behind you, Reed has shrugged off his jacket while you were flipping through the book. He folds it neatly and hangs it over the back of the chair he was displeased with a moment ago, making sure not to crease the fabric. Then he reaches for the sleeves of the white shirt that he is wearing and rolls them up to his elbows, revealing the slightly visible veins of his forearms. Your head swims and you subtly press your thighs together, images of what you’d like him to do to you flooding your mind.

“Bend over,” he says suddenly, murmuring it almost as if he knows he shouldn’t have said it. 

Your eyes widen and you glance in the door’s direction. There are so many people on the outside of this room right now but the chances of someone walking in are slim since lectures are rarely started at this hour of the afternoon, “I don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to understand anything. I want you to put your palms on either side of the book and bend over,” he elaborates and clearly notices your hesitation, the direction of your eyes. His arm stretches out in front of you again, snaking its way past the rows of chairs until it reaches the door once more. He locks it, the soft click of it mixing with your unsteady breathing, and then he pulls down the curtain in the window at the top. 

When the arm smoothly retracts once more, you naturally think it will stop at his side but instead, you feel his palm on the back of your neck. His other hand joins to lay on the small of your back and then he pushes down gently to maneuver you into the position that he wants. 

You exhale shakily as you place your hands on the desk, feeling the smooth wood underneath your fingertips as a way to ground yourself in a moment so electric. Your body is way ahead of you, reacting to the anticipation of his next move by making a dull ache settle right between your legs. Your clit throbs, your walls flutter. 

“Your paper was supposed to use Newton’s Laws as a foundation, let me make sure you know them properly,” Reed says simply while removing his hand from your lower back. His other hand, the one on the back of your neck, slips down your spine to take the previous one’s spot, leaving fire in its wake, “Recite them.”

You swallow thickly, “Newton’s First Law states that a body at rest—”

Smack. 

A loud gasp leaves you at the surprise of Reed’s free hand coming down on your backside, heat spreading out underneath the fabric of your skirt where it has struck you. Your head whips around to stare at him in disbelief at what he has just done, your mouth hanging open in shock.

“Eyes on the book,” he commands sternly, curling his fingers slightly into the hem of your shirt, “Go on. Newton’s First Law.”

You count three whole breaths before you will yourself to face forward again, looking down at the text in front of you and trying to regain your ability to read. You swallow the lump in your throat, the letters jumbled on the page, “Uhh…”

“Concentrate,” he adds and gives you another blow, one that makes you jolt forward on the desk and send the book almost over the edge. You frantically reach for it, noticing the way your heart leaps into your throat when you consider what would have happened if it had fallen off. 

You drag the book back down and try to act cool but your voice tells on you as you start to read out loud, “A-a body at rest stays at rest, and a body in motion stays in motion—”

He spanks you again and elicits another gasp but you seem to have expected it since you don’t go flying forward. This is even if his palm leaves behind a much more painful sting this time and makes your toes curl in your shoes. 

“Until…” He sounds impatient. 

You act immediately like a dog who is learning about action and consequences, “Until acted upon by an external force.”

“Good girl,” he praises and you don’t know why the softness of his voice makes you tear up. His broad palm traces over the spot that is warming up already and you make a show out of sighing with content. 

However, the soothing touch is short-lived and you start struggling just slightly as Reed’s hand descends until he can grab the hem of your pencil skirt and roughly tug it up. He settles it just above the plumpness of your ass, swatting you to make you focus and stop squirming. 

“I’m not going to fuck you so stop moving around,” he scolds and surprises you with yet another smack. It feels different now that each slap is skin-on-skin contact, sounds different too as the noise echoes through the empty lecture hall. You whine in slight disappointment, even if you have inappropriately imagined his cock in you during circumstances so different so many times. 

“Second Law,” he murmurs, occupied briefly by the bruise forming on your cheek and scraping his nails across it. 

“W-what?” You let out a whimper, your thighs pressing together to soothe your pulsing clit. In theory, you know what he has said but it just isn’t registering since your mind is occupied by you knowing exactly what you will be doing back home if he won’t touch you. In fact, a thrill goes through you at the thought of another blow to recall in your bed with your hand stuffed into your underwear.

“Newton’s Second Law,” he repeats with a smaller swat following. You suck in a breath to calm yourself. 

“Newton’s Second Law states that the net force on an object is equal to its mass times its acceleration,” you say somewhat confidently, a sense of calm settling over you as you finally feel like you are getting a handle on the situation. 

“Apply it to the situation you’re in right now,” he tests you. You feel your face grow hot and hesitation seizes you for a second. It takes a moment too long for him and a much sharper smack lands right on the jiggliest part of your ass, the sharpness of the pain making you moan for the first time and the noise of the blow bouncing off the walls. You almost even swear in your professor’s presence, and you would have if it weren’t for the way tears in your eyes take off the edge.

“You’ll get one more if you don’t open your mouth soon,” he adds. You’re just about to speak, about to follow orders, when he takes a step closer and presses his cock into your hip. You freeze at the size of him, a sound that can only be described as pathetic leaving you. Reed huffs out a chuckle and smacks you once more albeit slightly less maliciously.

“Y–you’re applying a force to me. Your hand is the mass and the acceleration is essentially the swing of your arm. The shorter the time and the greater the velocity of the impact, the bigger the force I feel,” you try not to hiccup through the whole explanation but the words take a longer time to come to you and your backside is hypersensitive, warm, and sore. Your pulse rings in your ears too, and you swear you can almost taste the adrenaline in your mouth from how it is coursing through your body. It might just be salt from your tears though which you realize will simply give you an excuse as to why you stayed behind after class. If you really try, you might be able to conjure up an act of a student who got some terrible feedback.

“Still with me?” You hear him ask, feel him soothe your burning flesh. You wonder if his palm is imprinted on your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble with a sniffle, your palms sticking to the desk from how clammy they have become. 

“Speak up,” he corrects you and his palm leaves you long enough for you to start anticipating another strike. No hands on your body makes it harder to abstain from feeling his hard cock resting against your hip, the heaviness of it making you even wetter and oh God, aching to be filled.

“Yes, sir,” you enunciate without coming off as bratty. The next strike doesn’t come and relief washes over you, allowing you to relish in the cool air brushing your tingling and bruised skin.

“Last but not least. Newton’s Third Law?” 

“F-for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” you say and rest your forehead on the book that has absorbed a few teardrops, He doesn't give you praise or a soothing touch. It bewilders you, makes you question if your scatterbrained state has accidentally made you say something that is wrong. You go quiet except for your rapid breathing as you go over your answer in your head but nothing comes to mi–

The sudden smack instantly makes you realize where you went wrong, landing across the exact spot that’s already stinging and causing you to hiss and whine through your teeth. Quickly, you scramble to relate Newton to what Reed is doing to you, “If… if you strike me, my body exerts a force back on your hand.”

“Mhm, good,” he hums while your head swims, “And I bet you’re feeling that force right now.”

“It hurts,” you whimper feebly and turn your head to the side. Yes, it’s the truth but your body can’t tell if it’s supposed to register this as pain or pleasure, the sensations overlapping intensely.

“That’s part of the lesson,” Reed’s hand returns in a gentle touch, his large palm settling carefully over the same spot he has just mercilessly spanked, “Why does it hurt?”

You wish he’d move his hand down between your legs and make you come when he realizes how soaked-through your panties are, “B-because when you spank me your hand transfers kinetic energy into my skin. The force and the friction cause heat to build. The tissues and blood vessels react, and it—”

“Gives you that glow. Precisely,” he finishes your sentence and curls his hand around your hip firmly. He sounds enthralled by his work, “And I respond with arousal, meaning it makes me so goddamn hard. Now, hold still. These last three are for the three missed deadlines.”

You know he means business when his finger slips underneath the waistband of your panties. He pulls them down just enough to settle them underneath the globes of your ass without exposing your needy cunt, the elastic of them digging slightly into sore skin. His other hand lifts and you brace yourself even if you know that any human can suffer through even uncontrollable pain if they know there’s an end to it. 

The first of three strikes lands right on the curve of your backside, harder than any of the several ones before it and making your entire body seize up. He isn’t playing around this time, your skin immediately blooming with newfound heat and fiery pain. It makes you moan out loud and squeeze your eyes shut until fireworks go off behind your eyelids.

“Count,” he says calmly. 

“O-one,” you manage to say in a voice that makes it sound like an apology instead. 

The second one makes it feel like there’s a clap of thunder going through your bones. You jolt forward on the desk enough to finally send the damn book flying off the edge to the floor. Reed tightens his grip on your hip to steady you, dragging you back to him again as if to remind you that despite everything he’s got you. 

“Two,” you say shakily, “I’m sorry, Professor Richards.”

He rubs the spot to soothe your burning flesh and by now, a part of you wants to crawl into his lap and be held. He coos softly at you and gently squeezes the roundness of your ass, making you bite down on your bottom lip and exhale a needy whine through your nose. 

“No need to bring me apologies,” he tells you, “We’ll see if you’ve learned your lesson. Last one.”

He lets you wait for the final smack, but when his hand lands on your skin, a sharp cry rips from your throat. Tears start flowing freely from your eyes now - even if you’re still not fully crying as emotions have not caught up with you yet - but it’s not solely from the pain, but also from the swirl of adrenaline and arousal that tightens below your belly button. You wonder if you should reach up to wipe your eyes but you can’t make yourself let go of the desk underneath you, clutching it in an iron grip because of how wobbly your legs are.

“Three,” you hiccup as Reed loosens his grip on you. You feel the ache of your behind with every heartbeat and want to sob now that it is over. You’re hyper-aware of what is happening in your body which is the adrenaline starting to crash, and the emotions, coming in like a wave, are just about to overwhelm you when—

“Sit up on the desk for me,” Reed says gently. 

“But the book,” you glance toward the textbook that you sent flying not long ago. It is a silly thing to cling onto but there’s an emotional wavering in your voice as you say it which Reed seems to catch onto. 

“Leave it,” he murmurs, an order but not like the previous ones, “Sit. I need to make sure you’re alright.”

The task seems impossible. You barely manage to push yourself fully upright, your shaking legs nearly not able to hold you up, and when you turn around to lift yourself onto the desk, you feel the edge dig into your sore behind in a way that forces a hiss out of you. A tear that you have no control over rolls slowly down your cheek.

“Easy,” Reed is beside you, catching onto your motive when you get ready to jump up onto the surface in a hurry due to his earlier lack of patience. He has previously had a hovering hand nearby but now, he grabs a hold of you to still you, “Do it carefully.”

When you’re finally perched on the desk, you’re not sure if the calming cool sensation of the wood beneath your thighs outweighs the pressure against your smarting skin. What you are sure of though is the storm of emotions inside your chest, a raging one made up of an overwhelming mix of new pain, embarrassment, and vulnerability, all of which makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage. 

“I’m okay,” you lie but you hear yourself and know it isn’t very convincing. He gives you a raised eyebrow. 

“Seems like you’re experiencing what is known as a drop. Come on, deep breaths,” he guides you gently when he spots the way your bottom lip wobbles, “If you have to cry, let it out. No one’s going to see you.”

From his words, you realize that your breathing has become unsteady and hitched in very little time. Your shoulders shake and your chest has a ball of unleashed feelings in it that nearly makes you feel sick. It unravels when the tears that you hoped would subside resurface at the permission to let them flow. You feel them brimming at the corners of your eyes. 

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing,” you say shakily when they finally spill over even if the tension in your torso slowly ebbs away as you let go. 

“You’re alright. Just breathe for me,” he says softly. He brings his hands to your thighs and rubs them in an attempt to soothe and ground you, “Slow and steady in through the nose and out the mouth. Right now, you don’t have to do anything but calm down, and then I can take a look at you.”

The room around you seems distant as you try to breathe more steadily but you’re lightheaded, feeling almost as if you’re wrapped in a woolen, fuzzy blanket that blocks everything out besides him. You aren’t sure if it is the adrenaline crash anymore or the way that your whole body is so tightly wound for pleasure that won’t come but you crave his touch, crave him taking care of you.

“You’re okay,” he says over and over, drowning out the static in your ears, “No more crying, sweet angel. I’d rather not see you leave here like this.”

The nickname makes you snap out of it. Angel? Did he just call you an angel? Your tears go on hold when you continuously blink up at him from your seat on the desk, pawing at his chest without knowing what to do with all your longing. He makes you feel all the things you have felt since you met him all at once now, a dizzying flurry of thoughts and feelings. 

“That’s better,” he smiles genuinely for the first time and you melt right then and there. He looks so damn handsome when he does it that you go ridiculously doe-eyed at the sight. 

“Thank you,” you mumble while playing with the buttons on his white shirt. The butterflies in your belly have nearly made the pulsing ache of your backside disappear. 

“Stand up,” he says and removes your hands from his chest which you probably make a much bigger deal out of than him, “I need to take a look at you.” 

You stand on wobbly legs. Slowly and carefully, he skims his fingers over the inflamed skin and notes out loud that it is warm. It’s not a soothing caress for the sake of tenderness, but rather a deliberate check-in to take note of how much damage he’s done. He works methodically, like a man who daily works with scientific research and experiments, going over each part of you while humming at his discoveries. 

“Right. Cool compress when you get home for the swelling, ten-fifteen minutes on and off. Frozen peas will do,” he instructs in the exact same tone as when he gives out science homework, “The skin is still intact but you’ll be sore if you don’t treat yourself with a little kindness. Lotion if it is too much to bear and loose clothing. Not a pencil skirt like this one, we clear?” 

You nod with the hint of a pout.

“And,” he adds and grabs lightly at your chin, his tone suddenly playful, “Try not to miss any more deadlines.”

It’s a joke, you realize, something to lighten the atmosphere in the lecture hall and you barely register it from the way his fingers hold your head in place. Despite your watery eyes and racing heartbeat, you huff out a little laugh.

“There we go,” he coos at the sound of your chuckle, “Not so gloomy anymore.”

With gentle hands, he reaches just below your hips to pull your underwear up over the curve of your ass again, careful not to let the waistband tug at the sensitive skin. He does the same with your skirt, tugging the hem down over your thighs until you look decent once more. 

Your lips part slightly as your eyes slide up to look at his face, feeling dumbstruck by his brown intelligent eyes and his aquiline nose straight out of the statues from Ancient Rome. You admire the column of his neck, the mentioned beauty mark just above his collar, and the dip that you want to kiss. 

After a moment, you realize that you have gone quiet and when you look back at his eyes, you are dizzyingly meeting his suddenly intense gaze. It is as if he has calculated that you are back with him, lingering with desire albeit still a little shaken by your tears. His eyes are burning into yours and you can feel the restraint behind them. It is as if you can sense the electricity in the air, the warmth that prickles in your cheeks, and the heat that radiates from him. 

Without a word, he reaches to tuck your shirt into your skirt until it hugs your figure tightly, a fashion choice different from how you had arrived in his classroom earlier. The dominance of styling your clothes as he prefers it makes you press your thighs together, the dull ache returning between your legs. 

“I’ve noticed, seen it all. That’s why I did it,” he says cryptically as he stuffs your shirt down at the back, fingertips brushing the dip of your spine until heat racks up it. 

“Noticed what?” You ask foolishly but had you stopped to think, you would have figured it out already. 

“All the energy you’ve put into getting me to notice you and getting my undivided attention. Congratulations, you’ve finally got it,” he clarifies and lets both his hands rest on the small of your back for the briefest of moments. When he lets go of you, you follow his touch by leaning in to close the distance with a kiss. 

He places a hand on your chest, holding you back just when you are pressing the ghost of a kiss to his lips. He has given you so much by now. Why not this? A ball of frustration settles in your chest and comes out as a little whine of impatience, “Why can’t we?”

He doesn’t pull away, simply speaks less than an inch from your face so you can feel his breath on your mouth, “Because you need to learn restraint, sweet angel. I can’t have you missing your deadlines three weeks in a row - or at all really - due to some little crush.”

You want to defend yourself, say that it has nothing to do with him but deep down, you know it would be a lie straight to his face. So instead, you swallow thickly, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I saw you.”

“And you will have me,” he kisses you so softly that you want to sink to your knees, “Just not until I say so, and certainly not before you’ve been a good girl and turned in that paper.”

“Sir,” you try one last time.

“I’ll teach you to be patient, to have restraint,” he tells you and makes you realize your attempt was to no avail, “Whether you like it or not.”

You give in, buzzing with the need for more, “I can turn my paper in on Monday. Would that suffice?” 

“I’ll hold you to that, but no late nights and last-minute scrambling. If I find you’ve rushed through it…” he lets the sentence drift off, letting your imagination figure out the consequence, “And it best be your best work yet.”

“Yes, sir,” you reluctantly pull back when nothing seems to work, “Whatever you want.”

“Hand it to me during office hours before class,” he instructs to which you nod.

“But what now?” You ask with a tiny impatient noise, letting him know just how much you’ve got against his reluctance to touch you. 

His hand flexes by his side, “Now you go home. You lock your door and you touch that pretty thing between your thighs just how you like it most. I want you to come for me until you’re hoarse. Three times for three weeks but no more than that, not until we see each other again.”

It is Wednesday and you won’t see him until Monday. How on Earth are you going to survive on only three orgasms after this? Your mind races with protests but you don’t get to voice your concern about the limit he has set because he has already stepped back to pick up his jacket from his desk chair. 

You decide to circle the table to pick up your book and stuff it into your bag. Behind you, Reed’s eyes are definitely on you as you lean forward with a hand on the desk. He is fixing the cuffs of his sleeves and putting on his tweed jacket, trying to come off as if letting you have a private moment to compose yourself.

“Monday,” he reminds you when you stand upright again. His arm stretches out between the rows of chairs and tables once more so he can unlock the door for you. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer obediently. 

You swing your bag over your shoulder and then you leave.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[sexlapis]

one shot. angst & fluff.

“Don’t even look at me!” You spit at Nanami. “You don’t even fucking love me anymore.”

Nanami sighs. “Baby, that’s not-“”

“No, no,” you storm away from, going back to furiously washing the dishes like you were doing before he arrived home from work, “seriously. Just go back to your coworkers and have fun with them instead of me. Go have drinks with them or something. Since that’s clearly what you want.”

Nanami gulps. He watches you angrily scrub at a dish, fireing away at an annoying stain.

He takes off his suit jacket.

“Sweetheart.” He walks up behind you, like you’re a skittish, feral cat about to pounce. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, an act which you surprisingly accept. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t give you your kisses.” Nanami kisses your temple. “I was just in a hurry.”

You and Nanami had a routine - he gives you one kiss in the morning, your voice croaky and the crust still caked in the corners of your eyes and one kiss before he leaves for work.

He seems to have forgotten this, much to your dismay.

You huff, not facing him. “…I’m not being ‘sensitive’ or ‘crazy’. They’re important things and you forgot.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.”

You turn your head to face him this time. “Just sensitive?”

“Well…yes.”

Rolling your eyes, you whip back around to continue washing the dishes.

“Wait. Wait.” Nanami prevents you from turning away from him again. He asks his next question softly. “Is it really just two kisses you’re upset about?”

“Because it’s not fair, Kento!” You shout. The sudden outburst stuns him a little, his heart jumping. “You can’t just leave without saying goodbye!”

Your last word is choked out in a sob and Nanami is quick to pull you to his chest.

He thought you were only joking, being light-hearted and would go back to your usual self after a few kisses, but now? He doesn’t think so.

How long have you been feeling like this? Carrying all of these feelings of worry and distress inside of you, keeping them all stored inside of you until, inevitably, all would be revealed anyway.

It pains him that you didn’t tell him almost as much as the fact that you’re feeling like this in the first place.

It makes him even more resolute in his decision.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?”

You sniffle. “Because of your stupid job and your stupid long hours and your stupid-“”

“Okay, okay.” He shushes you, cupping the base of your head. “Alright”.

You groan. You’ve seemingly come to the realisation that you’ve been acting unreasonably.

“Kenny, I-“”

“I’m going to quit.”

You pause. You look at him, teary eyes wide. “What?”

“I’m going to quit. Do something else. Something…safe.”

“But…but what about when you said-“”

“Forget about what I said. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I can’t do this forever. And…I want you to…I don’t want you to always be worrying about me. Especially if it makes you so stressed out.”

“Kenny…”

A few seconds later, your face is being cradled in big, rough hands. Nanami makes sure you’re looking at him. “You’re my number one priority, okay? Not my coworkers. Not my job.”

Waters ripples in your eyes once more. “Kento…”

“Don’t cry.” He wipes a stray tear away with his thumb. His eyes are soft. The weight of the job is already being lifted off of his shoulders. “I love you. I love you.”

You hiccup. “I love you too.”

Nanami can’t help but smile at your wet face, red nose and runny nostrils. He cradles the back of your head with his hand. “You’re so silly, angel.”

You whine into his chest and he knows everything will be alright.

[dumbgoondog]

Sukuna NSFW Alphabet

MDNI +18 NSFW

Cw/Tw - cannibalism, blood, pregnancy

(A)ftercare - Your brains are mush, you’re covered in bruises, tears stain your face, wrists sore, bleeding in places from nails and biting, voice hoarse and dry. Then here he is, the disgraced one, the fallen, the king of curses, the man who fucked you like he hated you! Here he is gently scooping you up, massaging you, purring, his stomach mouth affectionately licking at any wounds. Carrying you to the bath, holding you to himself in the water, washing you gently, your body and hair. Using RCT output to ease any pain and aches. Praising you and treasuring you. PLEASE remember that your dom needs aftercare too. He needs to know you love him, that he wasn’t too rough, that he isn’t a monster to you. Please let him be gentle with you and you acknowledge it.

(B)ody Part - your hands. Not because it’s sexual but because if he goes blind he’ll know the gentle touch of your hands, he’ll know how you feel. How your hands don’t shy away from him, how you don’t hesitate to hold his hands. But also yes, he loves your hands grabbing at him, holding his face, stroking him, pinned beneath one of his hands.

(C)um - inside. Bella that your mouth or your hole(s). There’s a LOT so it will spill out and get every where. He likes watching it overflow

(D)irty Secret - this man has no dirty secrets. He tells it to you like it is and how he wants it… there is one thing tho. He wants to eat you. Like a religious act of worship and devotion to himself. You thought I was gonna say you yeah? Nah, that bitch has an ego. He will heal you after tho so no worries!

(E)xperience - None. Ryomen No Bitches Sukuna. I do not think he took any concubines, or consorts or anything of the sort. Pleasures of the mortal flesh… you think anyone could find pleasure in his visage without being batshit or forced? (Yorozu.) he would never force anyone too and would rather not be aware that they’re doing it for power but think he’s repulsive. that is until you.

(F)avorite Position - riding, facing him, on his throne. He likes watching you, and his stomach mouth likes licking you. This giant grabs you with all four arms and is using you like a fleshlight.

(G)oofy - He’s goofy. I see to many people make him so deadpan and stoic and “ooo I’m such a cool and sadistic top”. Bro bffr, this bitch incarnated and came out kicking his feet giggling goin “Women and children!!! Maggots for the slaughter!!!” And ripped. Off. His. Shirt. He was dancing dodging Fushiguro in their first fight. He took a bow when fighting Maharaga. He’s so silly. He praises and encourages his opponents in battle even! If something dumb happens or there’s a funny noise he’s gonna laugh. He wants you to laugh at him if he does something stupid too!

(H)air - thick messy pink hair, happy trail, and a trail down his balls too. Washed, semi groomed, smells pretty okay tbh. Light metallic undertone tho. It’s the blood of his foes.

(I)ntimacy - he fucks you like a wild beast. Growling, snarling, no words, biting, grunting. The moment you use a safe word? The moment somethings wrong? He’s stopping to make sure he hasn’t gone too far.

He’s also secretly a romantic. He knows flower language very well, and gets you flowers often(regardless of gender.) flower language and symbolism was big in the heian era, so was poetry. Sometimes he writes you poems never show anyone tho. They’re just for you.

(J)ack off - sometimes. Great stress reliever, passes time, helps when he’s bored, thinks it’s funny when he does it on his throne and there are his servants just having to stand on standby. What a power move.

(K)ink - blood, obviously. Biting and marking, duh. But hear me out on this. Primal. I’m talking hunt chase, both of you acting feral, like prey and predator. ABO that shit I guess. Submit to baser instincts, no talking just raw noises. Yeah I’m so right y’all don’t even know it(now you do tho)

(L)ocation - the throne is to obvious, the bed is a classic…and honestly I think it’s the bed. I got no reasons, just is how it is.

(M)otivation - working out, sparring, or after eating a big meal. Something about those activities puts him in the mood.

(N)o - He will not involve Uraume, he found them when they were a young kid and has helped raise them. Even if not related he was a late teen/young adult and he raised them from bein little

(O)ral - No, he HATES putting you in his mouth cause you taste baaaaddd. Fuck he loves eating, sucking, licking, he’s a hungry man. A big hungry man. Any position, anytime, let him use his stomach mouth. He knows it’s big and his teeth are sharp but god he loves having you ride his tongue and kiss you, watch you squirm.

(P)ace - he’s rough, hard, and a medium pace. Fast isn’t always good, especially when he likes being precise with every thrust. Feeling you squeeze and his tip bullying into you.

(Q)uicky - sometimes, it only if he’s getting to eat or suck you off. Quickys don’t work when you’re as big as him, you need prepping! He wishes though. He’s kinda a perv cuz he wants you smell like him and full of his cum often.

(R)isk - he’s up to try new things! There are some things he doesn’t understand and might make fun of tho. Like feet. He feels like a guy who mocks feet lovers. He doesn’t want to try it, he doesn’t care he “might” like it, he thinks it’s stupid.(his loss tbh)

(S)tamina - Much to the horror of everyone, like Kenjaku, he hasn’t tapped out ever. Despite his sweating and panting he isn’t done. Tbh he might have more stamina than Kenjaku. I need Sukuna bitching Kenjaku…

(T)oys - he fucking loves watching you use toys on yourself, not much on himself tho. He’s a freak fr fr cuz he got you plugs so after he’s cum in you he’ll plug you up. You better believe they’re custom too, it’s his blood as a jewel on the end. He’s so smug about it.

(U)nfair - as much as he loved teasing or you being a brat, he’s pretty patient but once he’s ready to go it all stops. He does like teasing you in public and some light humiliation in front of friends!

(V)olume - Growls. Grunts. Groans. Feral noises. He’s not loud loud, but he ain’t quiet. For any passing by it sounds like an animal is fighting someone in there.

(W)ild Card - he doesn’t have a pregnancy kink. Let me make that very clear. However. If he can get you pregnant expect his hands on you constantly. He’s super protective and clingy, always needs to be touching your belly. It will get annoying, cause he won’t let you piss alone. He’s also stealing titty milk. He says it’s to help you and the baby but you know he’s just a little freak. Back to the baby tho. He genuinely might start hiding the bad that he does because for once he’s like “I’m not destroying or cursing, I’m creating life, something precious.” He does have some outbursts tho and might go on rampages cuz he’s so stressed, scared, and full of emotions. He NEVER takes it out on you tho.

(X)-ray - it’s that ancient Japanese thong. He refused anything else. It’s comfortable, breathable, and one of the one things that doesn’t squeeze the life out of his dicks.

(Y)es - Worship roleplay, sacrifice roleplay, he likes it! Him being THE Ryomen Sukuna, and getting to play into that is fun! He’d be up for a “captured the king of curses and having your way with him” roleplay too.

(Z)zz - Cuddle up after a bath, eat a bit, and then he’s snoring. Or is he practicing his bear impression? Either way get comfy, if you’re not sleeping, you sure as hell aren’t leaving.

[jazz-writer]

The Jersey Debate

this just a short one shot I wrote because the idea is just so cute!! Enjoy!!

summary: James and regulus fighting over whose jersey will y/n wear

Requests are open btw!!! please please send in some ideas

It was a typical Saturday morning in the Gryffindor common room, and as usual, a familiar argument was going between you, James and Regulus .

"You're wearing mine today," James said, flashing you a mischievous grin as he tossed a worn-out, but well-loved, Quidditch jersey in your direction.

You shot a look toward Regulus, who was lounging on the arm of the couch, arms crossed, staring at you like he was already considering how best to claim victory in the battle of the jerseys.

"No, she's wearing mine," Regulus interjected smoothly, holding up his own sleek, black-and-silver Quidditch jersey. "It's more… refined."

You rolled your eyes and held up both jerseys, considering your options. "I’m not a walking billboard for either of your houses, thank you very much. I’ll wear whatever I want."

James chuckled, leaning forward. "Yeah, but you look good in mine."

"You said that last time," you replied back, rolling your eyes. "It’s not even a good fit, Potter. It’s too big on me."

"You’re supposed to look like you’re wearing a boyfriend’s jersey. It’s the whole point," James teased, giving you a cheeky wink.

"More like an oversized boyfriend’s jersey," Regulus muttered under his breath, earning a pointed glare from James.

Before you could respond, you reached for your coffee mug and took a sip, trying to ignore the growing tension between the two boys.

James, , was determined. "Just wear mine today. Come on, it'll make your day so much easier."

You opened your mouth to respond, but that’s when disaster struck.

In the process of getting your cofffee, your elbow knocked the mug in your hand, sending the hot coffee splashing all over Regulus’s Quidditch jersey.

Regulus froze, his eyes narrowing at the coffee stain spreading across his jersey.

"Are you serious?" he hissed, staring down at the dark spot with absolute horror.

"Ugh!" You groaned, quickly grabbingfor a napkin to try to salvage the damage, but the coffee had already seeped into the fabric. "I— I’m so sorry!"

Regulus’s face was almost comically dramatic as he stood up, holding his jersey out in front of him like it was a precious artifact ruined . "Do you have any idea what this is worth, Y/N? This was a limited edition!"

"Guess you won’t be wearing it today," James snickered, watching Regulus’s reaction with barely contained amusement.

You sighed, flopping back into your seat. "Great. Now I have to pick between two equally obnoxious jerseys."

Regulus glared at James, who was clearly enjoying himself. "This is why you should’ve just let me pick," Regulus muttered.

James smirked. "What? You mean, let you dictate the entire day? I don't think so. You are just a huge meanie.”

You finally stood up, holding the two jerseys. "Well, now I have no choice. Since I ruined yours, Reg, kI guess I’m wearing James’s today."

James’s grin widened, and he leaned back, clearly satisfied with the turn of events. "I’m always happy to help out."

Regulus shot him a look, frustration evident in his eyes. "You better not get too comfortable, Potter. This won’t be the last time we fight over her jersey."

James raised an eyebrow, teasingly. "Oh, I think I’m winning the jersey war, Black. Don’t worry, she’ll wear mine every time from now on."

Regulus crossed his arms, stepping back. "We’ll see about that, Potter. This isn’t over."

You shook your head at the two of them, "Alright, alright, I’ll wear your jersey, James. But you’re both ridiculous."

James winked at you and threw his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a playful side hug. "Come on, we both know who you’ll be rooting for today."

[dunzella]

Hii!! I don’t know if you do this but I was wondering if you could write a continuation of the Yandere!Serial killer story! I loved it so much and I was super curious on how things would play out after the events of the original. You’re an amazing writer and I hope you have a great day/night!!

I'm so happy you liked it!! lol sure I can do a mini continuation.

Stitches

Doll pt.1

Yandere! Serial Killer

Ever since he showed his true colors his personality did a 180 or maybe… this was his real personality all along, and you had just grown too used to "Cassidy". The soft-spoken girl with shy smiles and delicate hands—the one who blushed when you complimented her. The one who trembled when you held her hand. The one who had never existed.

Now, the sweet, blushing girl was gone—replaced by him, a predator lurking beneath delicate skin and soft-spoken words.

Your body was wrapped in layers of pastel pink—lace, silk, and too many frills to move properly. Puffy sleeves, ribbons, skirts so stuffed with tulle they swallowed your legs whole. You weren’t a person anymore. Just another doll in his collection, albeit a special one.

Because, unlike the others, you were still alive.

But you weren’t free. Not when he was always watching. Not when they were always watching.

The glassy, lifeless eyes of his dolls followed you wherever you went. Propped up on dainty pink shelves, slumped in corners, lying stiffly on his pink armchair like someone had just tucked them in for a nap. Their mutilated faces were forever contorted in pain. Some didn’t even have mouths.

The room he kept you in was a nursery disguised as a shared bedroom—filled with ripped stuffed animals their torn seams and missing limbs resembling his victims.

Powder-pink walls, plush carpeting, and an ornate canopy bed that looked stolen from a princess’s fairytale. A vanity with combs you weren’t allowed to use yourself, bottles of perfume he dabbed onto your wrists like you were some fragile doll in need of upkeep.

Everything was pink, suffocating, saccharine.

And when your stitches came undone from all your struggling, his long eyelashes fluttered, cigarette dangling between his fingers as he pressed his mismatched gaze onto you—disappointed, but not surprised.

"Tch, didn't I say stop touching it." His pink skirt swayed as he stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the blood staining your wrists. The delicate fabric of his matching tank top was splattered with tiny droplets, but he didn’t seem to mind. Without hesitation, he scooped you up, cradling you in his arms like a groom carrying his bride.

The pain was unbearable. The sting of raw, reopened wounds mixed with the eerie tingle of skin held together by thread. You felt like a broken marionette, no like some fucked-up Frankenstein experiment pieced together with love and lace.

He wasn’t gentle because he was kind. He was gentle because he was careful. He handled you. Fixed you. He cooed at you while he worked, stitching your wounds back together with an almost maternal sort of patience.

“There we go, bunny,” he murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead as he tightened the thread. You whimpered. His lips curled. "All better.”

When the news played reports of pretty corpses found throughout the city, he hummed, running his fingers through his short blonde hair. His victims—faceless, lifeless dolls, all stitched up and dressed in pastels. The media had given him a name.

The Dollmaker.

But the moment you showed discomfort, he clicked his tongue and changed the channel—to something softer. Something girly.

"All that negativity will rot your pretty little brain," he hums. "You should be focusing on me instead, don’t you think?"

Your body tensed against his. His arms wrapped around you, snug, possessive. The longer you were trapped, the more fragmented your memories became.

But during your captivity you remembered him from high school his name is Cassius Morrow, the shy introverted sophomore at high school. Always blushing, always looking away when spoken to.

If he hadn’t been so meek, you might have realized he was watching you back then, too.

Now, the contrast was baffling.

A man who spoke in sweet whispers, who dressed in pastel pinks and frills, yet stitched your body together like one of his playthings... You were convinced he must have a Jekyll and Hyde situation.

Any autonomy you had over your body, vanished.

Your limbs weren’t your own anymore. Stiff, aching, pulled together by Cassius's careful, loving hands. Every movement sent a dull throb up your arms, your legs. When you walked, your joints creaked—not with age, but with tension, stitches straining against fragile skin.

He basically did everything for you.

Doing your hair. Dressing you. Feeding you. Lifting you onto his lap whenever he wanted to coddle you—which was often.

He carried you everywhere. Even when you could walk, he insisted.

"Shh, no fussing. Little dolls don’t strain themselves."

You were sick of it so you formulated a plan. You had been on your best behavior lately. So obedient, so sweet, so good for him. But that was because you were waiting.

Waiting for the moment he got too comfortable.

Waiting for the moment he left you alone just long enough.

That moment came one evening when you heard the screams.

They echoed from the basement—wet, raw, desperate. You had heard them before, muffled beneath layers of walls, but this time, he had left the door open just a crack.

You could hear the squelching sounds. The butchering and guts are being torn apart. His hums of nursery rhymes in content.

Cassius was busy with his latest victim, The loud, relentless sawing meant he wouldn’t hear you.

So you made your way towards the window, something subtle so he wouldn't notice your absence immediately.

Ignoring the pain burning through your joints, you pushed open the window. And fell through.

The cool night air kissed your raw skin, and for the first time in so long, you breathed.

You were outside.

For a moment, you thought you'd done it. You’d escaped.

But then you realized—there was no one here.

He had lived somewhere secluded, hidden. The road stretched on endlessly, lined with skeletal trees that loomed like watching figures. No lights. No houses. No passing cars.

Still, you ran.

Your stitches screamed, skin tearing where the thread pulled too tightly, but you ran.

You ran for what felt like hours—your body quickly tiring, tearing from the movement. You never let yourself fully heal, always ripping apart.

But none of that mattered.

You would find a town. You would find help.

You would be free—

~

Your vision swam in and out of focus as you came to, a heavy fog clouding your thoughts. Something was wrong. The air smelled different—cloying, metallic, laced with chemicals that burned your nostrils.

Not the perfume. Not the suffocating scent of rosewater and sugar that clung to his dollhouse prison. No, this was sharp. Bitter.

Your body felt weightless, yet impossibly heavy.

Then the cold set in. A hard surface beneath you. Restraints biting into your wrists and ankles. The dim hum of a fluorescent light buzzed above, flickering in and out.

And then—then you saw him. Biting his lip bouncing in place; he was standing over you, mismatched green and pink eyes twinkling in amusement, wearing nothing but pink panties and a white shirt as he tapped a syringe with two fingers, the liquid inside an eerie shade of pink.

Not pastel pink. No, this was deeper, unnatural.

"Ah, you're awake~" he cooed, his voice honey-sweet but with a hint of something else—excitement. "You had me worried, bunny. Running off like that? So reckless."

His fingers trailed along your cheek, his touch cold despite the warmth of his body.

"I was gonna fix you up nice and neat in our room like always, but…" He giggled—soft, airy, girlish. The sound sent ice crawling up your spine. "Since you wanna act like a broken little toy, I figured… I should make some improvements."

Your breath hitched. Your limbs twitched, but they refused to move.

Cassius noticed.

"Aww, feeling stiff? Don't worry, that’s just a little something I gave you earlier. Can’t have you squirming while I work, can I?" He sighed, feigning disappointment. "I really didn’t wanna do this, y’know. I love my bunny just the way she is. But you keep misbehaving."

His grip on your chin tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel small.

"I’ll be gentle," he promised, raising the dirty needle.

Liar.

You tried to thrash, to scream, but your body betrayed you. He had paralyzed you. You could barely breathe, let alone move.

He pressed his forehead against yours, sighing in bliss. "Shh… just let me take care of you. You don’t need legs to be a pretty little doll, do you?"

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

No.

No, no, no—

The needle pierced your skin.

And everything faded to black.

Don't worry Cassius always takes care of his dolls. ♡

[wendichester]

I would like to request a story/one-shot of Dean. Please, my idea is to have the reader come back from trying to have a normal life after 2 years but being saved by Dean from the reader's abusive ex-boyfriend, who was possessed by a demon. The reader calls him from a motel after being attacked and almost killed. The reader would be the same age as Dean. I love angst, fluff, smut, action. I can't wait to read it.

ִֶָ་༘࿐ back to you,

summary. you left hunting behind for a normal life, but normal almost killed you. and when you call dean for help, he comes without hesitation.

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 739

warnings. abuse, violence, blood, angsty and slightly smutty ; mdni!

notes. hope i managed to do your idea justice! thank you for the request hun 🩷

You don’t know why you dial his number.

Maybe it’s instinct—something buried deep, something you thought you let go of years ago.

Or maybe it’s because you know, without a doubt, that if you call, he’ll come.

The motel room is dimly lit, the air thick with copper and fear. Your hands shake as you press the ice pack to your ribs, wincing at the deep bruising beneath your shirt. The bedspread is stained with your blood—your ex’s blood, too, but it’s black, inky, curling in places it shouldn’t.

You knew something was wrong when he changed. When the apologies stopped coming, when the anger started twisting into something unnatural, something cruel. But you kept telling yourself this was what you wanted—a normal life. Stability. Something different than hunting.

Now, you’re paying the price.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Then—"Y/N?"

You almost sob at the sound of his voice. "Dean."

His tone sharpens immediately. "Where are you?"

You swallow hard. "Pinewood Motel, off Highway 6. Room 14."

"Are you hurt?"

"Yeah," you whisper, voice shaking. "I—he—" Your throat closes, bile rising at the memory of hands wrapped around your neck, snarled threats spilling from a mouth that wasn’t his.

Dean doesn’t need you to say it. "Stay put. I’m coming."

Then the line goes dead.

You barely register the roar of the Impala pulling in. By the time the knock comes—loud, insistent—you’re already up, crossing the room.

When you open the door, Dean is standing there, eyes wild, breath heavy like he broke every speed limit to get to you. He takes one look at you—swollen lip, bruised cheek, the dark stains on your shirt—and his jaw clenches, something lethal flashing in his eyes.

"Son of a bitch," he breathes, stepping inside.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until he reaches for you, fingers brushing over your arms, your shoulders, his touch careful, reverent. "Did he—?"

"He’s dead," you say quietly. "It wasn’t just him, Dean. He was possessed."

Dean’s grip tightens. His eyes flicker over you again, checking, cataloging. "You sure it’s over?"

You nod, but your voice wavers. "I think so."

Dean exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before pulling you into his chest. It’s automatic—the way you fit against him, the way his arms wrap around you like he can hold you together.

"Jesus, sweetheart," he mutters. "What the hell were you thinking?"

You let out a choked laugh. "That I could have a normal life."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, fingers tilting your chin up. "And how’d that work out?"

"Really fucking bad."

His lips press together, something softer, sadder settling in his gaze. "You should’ve never left."

The weight of those words settle deep in your chest, guilt threading through your ribs. "I thought I wanted to."

Dean’s thumb brushes over your cheek, barely ghosting over the bruise there. His voice lowers, rough, but there’s something unbearably tender beneath it. "And now?"

You look up at him, at the concern carved into his face, the way his hands still tremble slightly where they hold you.

"I don’t want normal," you whisper. "I want you."

Something breaks in him at that. He breathes out your name like a prayer before his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s desperate, consuming. His fingers tangle in your hair, his other hand slipping under your shirt, tracing over bruises like he can erase them. Your hands pull at his jacket, needing him closer, needing him to ground you.

When he backs you against the bed, you go easily, gasping as he lowers you down. His lips never leave yours, not as his hands work your clothes off, not as he presses kisses down your neck, over your shoulder, mapping every place that hurts with his mouth.

"Mine," he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse, possessive. "No one gets to touch you like this. No one but me."

And you don’t want anyone else.

The night is slow, filled with whispered apologies, soft moans, the warmth of him sinking deep into your bones. He doesn’t let go of you—not once. Even after, when the adrenaline fades and exhaustion crashes over you, he holds you tight, fingers laced with yours, his lips pressed to your temple.

"You’re coming back with me," he murmurs. "Not gonna let you go again. Nothing bad's ever gonna happen to you again."

You sigh, sinking into him, into home.

"Not going anywhere."

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[andy-15-07]

hiii, hope you’re doing well! i was wondering if you could write something where y/n is an actress and meets aaron at some awards or maybe the met gala? i’d appreciate it soo much, i love your writing! thankss

Champagne & Fate

pairing: Aaron Taylor Johnson x female!reader

word count: 1031 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Aaron Taylor Johnson Masterlist

The cacophony of the Met Gala pressed in on y/n, a rising starlet still navigating the treacherous waters of Hollywood’s elite. Her emerald green gown, a daring choice, felt both like armor and a spotlight. She’d just finished a slightly awkward interview about her latest indie film, her nerves making her responses sound stilted. Sighing internally, she snagged a glass of champagne, hoping to blend into the glittering backdrop. That's when disaster struck. A sudden jostle from a passing waiter sent her bubbly cascading down the front of someone’s impeccably tailored tuxedo.

“Oh my god, I am so incredibly sorry!” y/n gasped, mortified. She dabbed uselessly at the spreading stain with a napkin. “I’m such a klutz.”

The man turned, and y/n’s breath hitched. It was Aaron Taylor-Johnson. Up close, he was even more striking than in photographs. His green eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, a disarming gesture that eased some of her panic.

“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckled, his voice surprisingly warm. “Champagne showers are practically a Met Gala tradition. Consider yourself initiated.”

“Still,” y/n stammered, feeling her cheeks flush. “I’m y/n.”

“Aaron,” he replied, extending a hand. His grip was firm and warm. “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

They stood there for a moment, the spilled champagne forming a small puddle at their feet. y/n, still reeling from the embarrassment (and the proximity to him), blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I loved ‘Kick-Ass’!”

Aaron laughed. “Thanks. That feels like a lifetime ago. These days, I’m trying to graduate from superhero vigilantes to something a little more… nuanced.”

“Like what?” y/n asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m working on a psychological thriller at the moment,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “It’s dark, twisty, and completely messed up. I’m having a blast.”

“That sounds amazing,” y/n said. “I’m a sucker for anything dark and twisty.”

They talked for the next hour, oblivious to the swirling crowd around them. y/n was surprised by how easy it was to talk to him. He was intelligent, witty, and refreshingly down-to-earth. He didn’t treat her like some starstruck ingenue, but like a fellow artist. They discussed their shared passion for film, their favorite directors, and even debated the merits of method acting (he was for it, she was skeptical).

“You know,” Aaron said, leaning closer, his voice a low rumble, “I’d love to hear more about your indie film. The one you were talking about earlier.”

y/n’s heart fluttered. “It’s a small project, but I’m really proud of it. It’s a coming-of-age story, set against the backdrop of… well, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated is good,” Aaron said with a grin. “I like complicated.”

As the evening drew to a close, Aaron pulled out his phone. “I’d hate for our champagne-soaked conversation to end here. Would you mind if I got your number?”

y/n, trying to play it cool, but failing miserably, rattled off her digits.

“Great,” Aaron said. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Maybe we could grab coffee and talk more about… complicated things.”

“I’d like that,” y/n replied, her smile mirroring his.

The next day, a text arrived: “Aaron T-J: Coffee tomorrow? My treat. And maybe we can discuss the proper etiquette for champagne spills.”

y/n’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “y/n: Deal. But I’m warning you, I’m a terrible influence. Prepare for more accidental beverage-related incidents.”

Their coffee date turned into dinner, which turned into late-night talks on his apartment balcony overlooking the city. They discovered a shared love for old vinyl records, a mutual disdain for reality TV, and a surprisingly compatible sense of humor. The whirlwind romance that followed was a blur of stolen kisses, whispered secrets, and a growing sense of connection that neither of them could deny.

One rainy Saturday afternoon, they were curled up on Aaron's couch, watching an old black and white movie. A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the crackling of the fireplace. y/n felt a sense of belonging she hadn't experienced before. She looked at Aaron, his face illuminated by the flickering light, and a warmth spread through her chest.

He turned, catching her gaze. He smiled, a soft, intimate smile that made her heart skip a beat. He reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers.

"y/n," he said, his voice quiet, "I know things have moved quickly between us, but... I can't imagine my life without you in it."

y/n's breath hitched. She knew what was coming, and her heart pounded in her chest.

"I love spending time with you," he continued, his eyes searching hers. "You make me laugh, you challenge me, and you make me happier than I've ever been. I was wondering... would you want to move in with me?"

y/n's mind raced. Moving in together was a big step, but it felt right. It felt natural. She loved being with Aaron. She loved their late-night talks, their shared laughter, and the way he made her feel.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. "Yes, I would love to."

Aaron's smile widened. He pulled her closer, kissing her softly. "I can't wait," he murmured against her lips.

The next few weeks were a flurry of packing, organizing, and merging their lives together. y/n's apartment felt empty without her, but her new home with Aaron felt full of promise. They painted the spare room a warm, inviting shade of blue, turning it into y/n's writing room. They rearranged the furniture in the living room, creating a cozy space where they could relax and unwind after a long day.

One evening, after they had finished unpacking, they stood in the doorway of their apartment, looking around at their shared space. y/n leaned against Aaron, her head resting on his shoulder.

"It feels like home," she said softly.

Aaron wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer. "It does," he agreed. "It feels like we're finally where we're supposed to be."

And as they stood there, surrounded by the quiet comfort of their new home, y/n knew that she had made the right decision. She had spilled champagne on her future, and it had led her to a place where she truly belonged.

[teslasucks37]

CW: NSFW under the cut (MDNI), tsundere-ish!Reader, afab!reader (no pronouns tho), dom!Charlie, spanking (Reader Recieving), Canon Divergent, Slight classism from Reader? (If u like really squint and read between the lines (the longing to be touched by a hardworking man))

A/N: Heavily inspired by the beautiful dredge playthrough we’ve been blessed! (I imagined this taking place in the dredge world without any of the past memory stuff cause I came up for this idea before I finished the playthrough afterward…) This is a weird mashup of a headcannon format with actual fic content, while still remaining a little vague for artistic purposes. (Also yes I made a visual depiction of the reader above but their appearance doesn’t come up) This is nearly 2.5k words… I got a little carried away… Also if it’s bad or I missed a typo no I did not it is 5:16 am 🤨

Fisherman!Charlie x Reader

Love and Kisses

When he first came to your small little cottage by the rocks, you were less than happy to see him.

Much less than happy.

All you wanted was to be left alone.

But no, him and his stupid boat had to come bobbing over the horizon.

“What do you want?” You called out to him from the dock in a harsh tone.

He stood up after finishing tying off his boat with insane speed, seeming surprised at your prickly greeting. “Uh, do you need help with anything?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What? No?”

You weren’t like the other people he’d met around this place, instead abrasive and reclusive.

Not jumping at the chance for someone’s help like the rest of them.

“Your dock is looking pretty rough.”

You looked to the planks of wood beneath your feet, practically falling apart from lack of use.

“Well, I don’t need help from the likes of you.” You barked, crossing your arms.

“What, a fisherman?” He cocked his head, glancing down at his attire, his shirt slightly dirty with miscellaneous scales, fins, smears, and stains.

“From anyone!” You shouted, turning to walk back up the stony steps to your cottage. “Just go away!”

He stood there for a moment, taking one more look at the deteriorating dock, before unwrapping his boat and sailing away.

You watched him go from high atop your cottage, hoping that would be the last you saw of him, of anyone for a long time.

But the next time he came back was only a day or so later.

He tied off his boat to your rickety dock, before stepping back onto the deck of his vessel and hauling out armfuls of planks.

You’d been out on your front lawn, basking in the sun, when you glanced below at the dock to see it being ripped up by that same damn fisherman from the day before.

“Hey!” You shouted to him as you raced down your stone steps toward him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He glanced up at you, before turning back to destroying the planks beneath him. “I’m fixing your dock.”

“Well it seems more like you’re breaking it…” You crossed your arms. “I could have you arrested for destruction of property.”

“I’m Charlie.” He stood up, dusting off his hands, then holding one out to you. “Just so you know whose name to put on the police report.”

“You smell like fish.” You glared at his outstretched hand, causing him to retract it with an awkward grin, before he continued his work.

“Well, I do fish for a living.” He joked, a smile etching on his face.

Your frown deepened at his smile, watching as he just kept working. “What if I don’t want it fixed?”

“Well, I think that’s a shame.” Charlie grabbed a nail, hammering it into another board and jostling it all to make sure it stayed in place. “Cause this happens to be a mighty fine spot for a dock.”

Your glare was simply met with a soft smile. “Just… Don’t come past the dock. Or you’re trespassing.”

He nodded in agreement, watching you walk back up the steps into the cottage.

You watched him from your living room window, doing nothing for days but rebuilding your dock for you.

Your disdain for him shrank, if only a little bit.

“I can’t give you any kind of compensation.” You called out to him from the stone steps as he finished hammering down the last plank.

“That’s okay.” Charlie just shrugged, wiping the sweat from his brow as he stood up. “I wasn’t expecting any.”

You narrowed a brow at him.

There was no way that was true.

Everyone always wanted something.

That’s just the way the world was.

You’d accepted that long ago.

But even after he finished the dock, he came back the next day.

It didn’t make any sense.

There was nothing there for him, no trading, no shops, no interesting artifacts.

Just you.

Every time he came, he just wanted to see you.

You two would chat about nothing and everything while sitting on the dock he’d built with his bare hands, despite his jokes that he wasn’t cut out for “rough handed” work, whatever that meant.

It wasn’t until around then that you felt comfortable telling him your name.

One day he asked you how you’d wound up on these rocks, in this cottage.

“It was my grandparents’ before they died. They left the house in my name and… Anywhere was better than living with my parents any longer…” You trailed off, not mentioning anything more on the subject.

He wondered if that was why you were always alone, if that’s why your dock had been so neglected.

You were still stewing in anger.

Charlie wanted to help, obviously.

Perhaps the dock was just the start, maybe the real quest was making you see the world in a better light again.

Not that you were an objective to be completed or something, but the thought of making you believe in humanity again did fill him with a sense of hope.

And so he tried.

He would show up at various times, in the peacefulness of the morning, in the dead of night, and you would wake up for him every time.

Charlie would always honk the horn when he was coming or going, which you complained about, claiming that it was too loud and would wake up the wildlife.

But of course, every time he even hinted at stopping the practice, you backtracked, saying that if he didn’t announce his presence, he might run into a resting animal close to the dock.

You both knew it was a bullshit excuse, but neither of you ever dared to say it.

He would always do it in a special little pattern too.

Hooonk hooonk honk honk honk, honk honk honk hooonk hooonk.

He said that it was Morse code for 73, a way that people would say “best regards” through telegrams and ham radios.

You found it endearing, though you’d never say that to his face.

But then one day he changed it.

Hooonk hooonk hooonk honk honk, hooonk hooonk hooonk honk honk.

You asked him what it meant, and he just shrugged, a sly grin on his face.

You searched your grandparents’ small library for something, anything regarding Morse code, but you found nothing.

Any time you brought it up he would move to a new topic immediately, a shit eating grin on his face.

You would talk to him about the new things you were growing in your garden and he would talk to you about the fish he’d caught that day, even inviting you aboard one time to view the fish in the cooler.

“Is it… Supposed to look like that?”

“Uh… I don’t really know. The fish look kinda different around here.”

“And that one?”

“Oh that one’s actually rotting, let me throw that out.”

“Oh, ew ew ew-“

You didn’t end up going back in there for a while.

It got to the point that he was tying his boat to your dock every other day consistently for nearly three months.

So when he didn’t show up for nearly a week, you were worried.

Insanely worried.

Like stay up all night tossing and turning imagining the worst worried.

One day, at around dinner time, a horn honked out in a pattern you recognized so well across the horizon.

You practically knocked your dining room chair over at how fast you stood up and sprinted out the door, racing down the stone steps to meet him.

Charlie had just finished tying his boat to your dock as you wrapped him in a hug.

He stumbled lightly, not expecting the sudden contact.

“Where were you?” You mumbled into his shoulder, despite the faint fish smell.

Behind it, he smelled like the ocean breeze, salty and warm.

“I’m sorry.” Charlie whispered against the crown of your head, your hair tickling his face as he pulled you closer. “I was helping a friend. It took longer than I thought it would.”

“I thought that you…”

Drowned? Died? Lost interest?

He seemed to understand every thought in your head immediately, pulling away from you just far enough to tilt your chin up with a hooked finger and kiss you.

Your eyes fluttered closed at the touch, even as he pulled away, you struggled to open them again.

“It’ll take more than a few sea beasts to sink me.” He joked with a lopsided smile, even though the prospect wasn’t very funny.

“Don’t do that again.” You mumbled, deadly serious despite the soft look in your eyes.

Charlie pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I won’t, I promise.”

From then on he never left for longer than a day without letting you know ahead of time.

It only took a few more visits for you to finally invite him to come up and see the house.

But that wasn’t your only intention.

“You know, I never did thank you properly for rebuilding my dock… But I think I have a little something that you’d like~”

But first you forced him to hose off the fish smell before he stepped inside.

It didn’t take long before you were on him, to his absolute delight.

After all, you hadn’t had someone in your house for a long time, so you weren’t about to waste it.

It took only moments until he had you face down and ass up on the bed.

You’d been so rude to him when he’d first arrived, he wanted to be a little mean back.

And there was absolutely no way you were thinking of stopping him.

He caressed your waist like he hadn’t touched anyone like this in years.

And being as secluded out at sea as he was, he probably hadn’t.

His fingers kneaded the bare skin on your waist, thighs, ass, everything covering the important bits discarded already on your bedroom floor.

When he slipped inside you for the first time it practically made you see stars.

“Oh, fuck!”

It already reached so fucking deep inside you.

Your eyes rolled back for a moment, before fluttering closed at the sensations zipping through your synapses and corrupting your brain into a hazy state of complete pleasure.

His speed was anything but slow, his desperation obvious in how he stretched you out, not waiting for you at all.

It hurt in just the right way to feel so good, especially when it was Charlie doing it to you.

“Fuck, feels so good…” He slurred out, his mind mush at the sight of your body combined with the feeling of your velvety walls pulsing around him.

You gasped slightly as he landed a light slap on your ass, so soft it couldn’t even be considered a slap, maybe just a harsh motion to make your ass jiggle for him.

Wiggling your ass involuntarily in response led to him grabbing your ass, slapping it again just to make it move.

A moan fell from your lips at the contact, making him grin and slap harder.

“Oh fuck…” He mumbled, busy admiring your reactions to his spanking. “So good for me~”

His voice was breathy, like he was fighting to hold himself back.

“Please~” You weren’t even exactly sure what you were asking for, but it was the only word you managed to choke out before you sobbed in pleasure at his increase in speed.

Charlie pressed your hips into the mattress with his own, the pure force of his thrusts bouncing you back onto his cock. “That’s it, baby~”

God, you were gonna cum.

You were gonna cum on a fisherman’s cock.

You were gonna cum on Charlie’s cock.

You gasped as you squirted around him, dripping all over the bed, running down your thighs and his balls.

His hips ground against you, shoving his cock all the way in to kiss at your cervix, making you groan in pleasured pain at the feeling.

“Yeah? You like that?”

“Uh huh!” You moaned against the mattress, grasping your sheets desperately for some kind of purchase to recover from your orgasm, but he didn’t give you that.

Charlie gripped your ass, pulling you back onto his cock again, making you shout out and arch your back.

“Hah~ Hah~ Hah~” You panted and groaned and shook within his mighty grip, completely helpless.

“I’m gonna come home to you every fucking night…” He mumbled between thrusts, profanities spilling from his mouth under his breath. “And I’m gonna fill you up every fucking night.”

Your walls clenched at the thought of Charlie calling your home his, your body his, you his.

He felt it around him, making him pound harder, faster, if that was even possible.

You could tell he was purely trying to cum, absolutely thrilled at even the notion that it would be inside you, so much so you whispered to him. “Please… Cum inside meee~” You whined, Charlie responding with a light groan and a tighter readjustment of his grip on your ass.

He pounded into you with wild abandon, the wetness from your previous orgasm letting him glide freely in and out of you.

“Fuck~” Charlie moaned headily at the sensation, your walls fluttering around him in overstimulation.

His fingertips gripped your waist hard as he rocked inside you a few more times, slowing to a stop as he twitched and panted, emptying his load inside you.

You both practically collapsed into each other, breathing and shivering, absolutely exhausted.

It wasn’t until you were in his arms and he was playing with your hair, letting the strands fall through his fingers, that he let his big secret slip.

“It’s 88.”

“What?” You asked groggily, glancing up from his chest.

“The Morse code. I changed it to 88.”

You said nothing, waiting for him to continue on his own.

He bit the inside of his flushed cheek, shy for the first time in his life. “It means… Love and kisses.”

You had to hold back a grin.

“Love and kisses?” You repeated back with a teasing smirk.

He nodded triumphantly, as if he had won a game. “I know, I’m a genius.”

You chuckle, smacking him lightly on the chest.

He grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You raised a finger, tapping it rhythmically on his arm.

Press press press tap tap, press press press tap tap.

Charlie smiled, pulling you tighter as he repeated the pattern against your back.

The two of you fell asleep together, pressing “love and kisses” into each others’ skin.

[hisfavegirl]

Endless Battle Of Love- Modern!Jacaerys Velaryon x Female.

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4.

Word Count : 6.7k

Jacaerys Velaryon Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

and also big thanks to @zaldritzosrose ose for let me using yours beautiful dividers 🫶🏻.

Cregan stiffened as the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his skull. His jaw clenched, his hands instinctively tightening around your wrist before he was suddenly yanked backward.

"Let her go," a familiar voice growled.

Jace.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Cregan turned his head slightly, his expression dark. "You think you’ve won, man?" he sneered. "You have no idea how deep this goes—"

The pilot behind him cocked the gun. "Shut up," he ordered coldly. "Move."

Cregan let out a sharp breath, his muscles tensed, but he had no choice. He released you with a rough shove, and your already weak body collapsed forward.

Strong arms caught you before you could hit the ground.

"I got you," Jace murmured, his voice raw, filled with relief and barely contained rage.

Your fingers instinctively gripped his shirt, your entire body trembling. "Jace..."

His hold on you tightened. "I’m here, love. I’ve got you now."

Tears welled in your eyes. You had spent what felt like an eternity believing you’d never see him again, that Cregan would take you somewhere no one could ever find you. But Jace had come. He had found you.

"Jace," you choked out, your voice breaking.

He pulled back slightly to cup your face, his gaze scanning over you, taking in every bruise, every tear-stained mark on your skin. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he might break his own teeth.

"What did he do to you?" he whispered, his voice trembling with fury.

"We need to go," Aemond’s voice cut in. "Now."

Jace didn’t hesitate. He scooped you into his arms effortlessly, holding you close to his chest as he turned toward his uncles. Aegon was already dealing with Cregan, his knuckles bloody from the blows he had landed.

"Let me kill him," Aegon snarled, lifting Cregan by the collar. "Let me put a bullet through his skull—"

"No," Jace interrupted, his grip on you tightening. "He’s not worth it. We take her home first. That’s what matters."

Cregan let out a bitter laugh despite the blood dripping from his nose. "You think she’s safe?" he rasped, looking at you even as Aegon shoved him back against the tarmac. "This isn’t over, princess. Not even close."

Jace turned away from him, ignoring his words.

"Let’s go," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Let’s get you out of here."

And for the first time since this nightmare began, you felt like you could finally breathe.

"Oh come on princess, tell him" Cregan's voice cut through the chaos like a blade, venomous and taunting.

Jace froze.

"Tell him, princess," Cregan sneered, spitting blood onto the tarmac. "Tell your precious Jacaerys how good you were for me. How we recreated those videos of yours—"

A violent shudder tore through your body.

Jace turned slowly, his eyes dark and unreadable. But you could feel the rage radiating from him, pulsing like a living thing. His fingers twitched, itching to tear Cregan apart.

"Aegon, take her," Jace said, his voice dangerously low.

Aegon hesitated only for a second before nodding. He stepped forward and gently pried you from Jace’s arms. You whimpered, clinging weakly to Jace’s shirt, but Aegon carefully scooped you up, holding you close against his chest.

"I don’t want you to leave—" your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"Shh, you’re safe now," Aegon murmured, adjusting his hold on you. "Close your eyes, sweetheart. Let Jace handle this."

But you knew what handle meant.

Jace slowly rolled up his sleeves, his breathing measured but dangerously controlled. His gaze locked onto Cregan like a predator finally granted permission to kill.

"You shouldn’t have said that," Jace said quietly, his voice eerily calm.

Cregan smirked, even with his split lip and bruised jaw. "Why? Did it hurt to hear? That your precious girl wasn't thinking about you when I had my hands on her—"

Jace moved faster than anyone could react.

One second, Cregan was smirking. The next, Jace’s fist collided with his face, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the air.

Cregan stumbled back, blood spraying from his mouth, but Jace didn’t let up. He grabbed him by the collar and slammed him onto the concrete, delivering punch after punch, each one fueled by unrelenting fury.

"She is mine!" Jace roared between blows. "You never touch her! You never talk about her—"

"Jace, stop!" Helaena’s voice cut through the chaos.

But Jace didn’t stop.

Not when Cregan spat blood in his face. Not when his knuckles split open from the force of his punches. Not when Cregan let out a choked laugh, whispering, "She liked it—"

Jace grabbed him by the throat, slamming his head against the ground so hard it cracked.

"Say that again," he hissed, tightening his grip. "I dare you."

Cregan coughed, struggling for breath, his hands clawing weakly at Jace’s arm. The fight was draining from him, his cocky demeanor slipping into something closer to fear.

Aemond stepped forward, placing a hand on Jace’s shoulder. "That’s enough."

Jace’s breathing was ragged, his grip tightening for a moment before he finally let go. Cregan collapsed, gasping for air, blood pooling beneath him.

Jace wiped his mouth, his face blank, detached. Then he turned on his heel and walked straight toward you.

Aegon was still holding you, but as soon as Jace reached you, you reached out for him, your fingers trembling.

"Jace..."

He gently took you from Aegon’s arms, cradling you against his chest as if you were made of glass. His breath was shaky as he pressed his forehead against yours.

"You're safe now," he whispered.

You let out a choked sob, burying your face in his shoulder.

Jace turned to Aemond. "Make sure he never gets up again."

Aemond smirked. "With pleasure."

And as Jace carried you away from that nightmare, you finally let yourself believe it was over.

Jace held you tightly as sobs wracked your fragile body. The warmth of his embrace should have been comforting, but the darkness of your nightmares kept dragging you under, pulling you back into the horror you thought you had escaped.

"Shh, love," Jace murmured against your hair, his fingers threading through the strands, trying to ground you. "You're safe. I'm here. He'll never touch you again."

But you weren’t responding, not really. You trembled violently in his arms, your breathing uneven as if you were still trapped in that plane, still hearing Cregan’s voice, still feeling his hands on your skin.

Jace clenched his jaw, the muscles in his arms tightening around you. His own mind was drowning in rage. The thought of him—that bastard—touching you, whispering filthy things in your ear, forcing you to endure his presence, his kiss—

Jace exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down before he shattered completely. This wasn’t about his anger. It was about you.

"Look at me, please," he whispered, his fingers gently tilting your chin up.

Your tear-filled eyes finally met his, and his heart clenched painfully at the sight of your raw fear.

"He’s gone," Jace promised, his voice rough with emotion. "He’ll never hurt you again. I swear it on my life."

You let out a broken sob, your body collapsing fully against his, and Jace held you even closer, shielding you from the world, from everything that had happened.

Aegon and Aemond were silent in the front seats, but the tension in the car was suffocating. They had seen Jace angry before, but this was something else. This wasn’t just rage—it was a storm waiting to explode.

Aegon glanced at Jace through the rearview mirror. "We’ll handle it," he said quietly. "He will pay for this. Every single one of them."

Jace didn’t respond. His focus was on you, on your fragile breaths, on the way your fingers clutched his shirt like a lifeline.

"He touched her," Jace finally muttered, his voice laced with something dark. "He dared to lay his hands on her, to kiss her—"

Aemond exhaled through his nose. "Then we make him suffer."

Jace’s grip on you tightened, his lips brushing against the top of your head in a gesture so soft it almost didn’t belong in this moment.

"I’ll kill him myself," he murmured, but you were already slipping into exhausted sleep against his chest, unaware of the storm that was brewing inside the man who held you.

Jace closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against yours.

You’re mine.

And I’ll never let anyone take you from me again.

Jace felt your body tense even in sleep, your small whimpers slicing through the heavy silence of the car. He adjusted his grip on you, his arms tightening protectively around your trembling form.

“She’s still scared,” Aemond muttered from the front, his voice unusually quiet. It wasn’t a question.

Jace didn’t answer immediately. He just held you closer, resting his chin atop your head, inhaling the faint scent of you, searching for any way to ground himself when his fury threatened to consume him whole.

“She always is,” Jace finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every night.”

Aegon’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel. “But she—she looks…” He trailed off, eyes darting to the rearview mirror.

You were curled against Jace’s chest, your body stiff even as sleep kept its hold on you. Then suddenly, a broken whimper escaped your lips, followed by a sharp, shallow breath.

And then another.

And another.

Your body jerked slightly, hands gripping Jace’s shirt with an almost painful desperation.

“No, please—” The words left your lips in a soft, pained whisper, barely audible but enough to make Jace’s heart drop.

Aemond and Aegon were frozen, watching in stunned silence as your nightmare unfolded before them.

Jace, however, wasn’t frozen. He’d seen this before. He had held you through this countless times.

“I got you,” he murmured against your hair, rocking you slightly. “It’s not real, love. It’s just a dream. Just a dream.”

But you didn’t wake up. Your breaths grew erratic, and your grip on him only tightened. A full-blown panic attack was starting, while you were still asleep.

“She—she’s panicking,” Aegon said, his voice laced with disbelief.

“I know,” Jace gritted out, his hand running up and down your back, trying to soothe you.

“She does this every night?” Aemond asked, his tone unreadable.

Jace swallowed hard, nodding once. “Almost.”

“Fuck.” Aegon exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel tighter.

Your small frame jolted again, and Jace instantly cupped your cheek, whispering reassurances that you couldn’t even hear.

“Breathe, baby,” he urged softly. “Just breathe. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Your breath hitched again—then, finally, you let out a shaky exhale.

Your body, while still trembling, sagged slightly against him.

Jace pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his fingers threading through your hair. He knew you weren’t fine. He knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

But he would be here.

Every night, every time, for as long as it took.

Aemond and Aegon shared a look, unspoken understanding passing between them. They had seen you fight, they had seen you stand strong despite everything that had happened.

But this? This was different. This was what Jace had been dealing with alone.

And now, neither of them could ignore just how broken you had become.

Jace flinched at the sheer terror in your voice.

“No—no, it’s me, love,” he whispered, his hands raised in surrender, his heart pounding in his chest. “It’s Jace. I swear it’s me.”

But you didn’t hear him.

You had woken up in a different world, one where the hands that held you were still his—not Jace’s, but his.

Your body was curled into itself, trembling violently as you pressed yourself against the car door, as far away from him as possible. Your arms wrapped around yourself like a shield, as if they could protect you from something only you could see.

“Don’t touch me!” you sobbed, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “Don’t—please, please, don’t touch me!”

Jace’s blood ran cold.

“Fuck,” Aegon muttered from the front, twisting around in his seat. “She’s not awake—she’s still in it.”

Aemond swore under his breath, but Jace barely heard them.

His world had shrunk to just you.

“I’m not touching you,” Jace said softly, his voice laced with pain. “I won’t touch you, I promise. Just—just breathe, okay?”

But your eyes weren’t seeing him.

“He touched me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “In the car. In the plane. He—he—” You choked on your words, your hands tightening around yourself.

Jace’s stomach twisted into knots.

He clenched his fists, trying to push down the blinding rage clawing at his insides. That bastard had touched you, and now Jace was paying the price.

Not that he cared about that.

He cared about you.

“I swear, I won’t come closer,” he whispered. “But you need to breathe, love. You’re safe now. He’s not here. I swear to you—he’s gone.”

But you shook your head furiously, rocking yourself as sobs wracked your body.

“He’s not gone,” you gasped. “He’s—he’s everywhere. I can still feel him—I can still feel his hands—”

Jace’s heart shattered.

He glanced at Aemond and Aegon, desperation flickering in his eyes.

“Do something,” Aemond muttered, jaw clenched.

Jace exhaled shakily and forced himself to stay calm. He had done this before. He had pulled you out of this before.

“Look at me,” he pleaded. “Just look at me, love. Focus on me.”

But you wouldn’t.

You couldn’t.

Your sobs only grew louder, your panic overwhelming every part of you and Jace—Jace felt helpless.

“She’s not coming back from this,” Aegon said, his voice quiet, his usual arrogance completely gone. “Not like this.” Jace knew he was right.

So he made a decision.

“I need to touch you,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Just—just for a second, love. Just to bring you back. Will you let me?”

You flinched at his words, shaking your head violently. Jace swallowed hard. He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. He reached forward slowly—so, so slowly—until his fingertips barely grazed your wrist.

“It’s me,” he whispered again. “It’s Jace.”

You gasped sharply.

For a moment, your breathing hitched.

And then—

Then your eyes finally, finally met his.

And in that moment, Jace saw you break.

A strangled sob left your lips as you launched yourself at him, your body collapsing into his arms. Jace caught you instantly, his hands cradling you as he pressed his lips to your hair.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I got you. I got you, baby. I swear, I’ll never let him near you again.”

You clung to him, shaking uncontrollably, your sobs muffled against his chest and Jace just held you.

Because right now, that was all he could do.

Alicent and Rhaenyra had been waiting. The moment Jace carried you through the door, they rushed toward him, their eyes filled with worry.

“Take her upstairs,” Alicent said immediately, her voice unusually soft.

Rhaenyra reached out, brushing the hair away from your face. Your eyes were barely open, exhaustion pulling you under. The panic attack had drained you completely, leaving you a trembling, fragile mess in Jace’s arms.

“The room is ready,” Rhaenyra added. “Take her there, now.”

Jace didn’t hesitate.

His grip on you tightened as he strode past them, heading straight upstairs. Aemond and Aegon followed, their usual smug expressions replaced with grim determination.

The bedroom was quiet, the sheets freshly changed, the scent of lavender lingering in the air. They had been preparing for this—they had known you would need this.

Jace placed you down carefully, as if you would shatter beneath his touch.

You didn’t move.

Not even when Rhaenyra knelt beside you, tucking the blankets around your shaking body. Not even when Alicent sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers brushing lightly over your forehead.

“She’s freezing,” Alicent murmured, her worry evident.

Jace clenched his jaw. Of course you were.

You had spent hours trapped in hell. And now, you were barely holding on.

“What did he do to her?” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice filled with fury.

Jace didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because if he did, he would lose whatever control he had left.

Aegon, standing by the doorway, was the one who finally spoke. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “He’s dead next time we see him.”

Alicent shot him a sharp look, but she didn’t disagree.

Jace sat on the bed beside you, his fingers ghosting over your wrist.

“Love?” he whispered.

Nothing. You were there, but you weren’t there.

Jace swallowed hard.

“She needs rest,” Alicent said, her voice softer now.

“She needs more than that,” Jace muttered.

Rhaenyra reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “We will help her,” she promised.

Jace nodded, but his eyes never left you.

You were safe now.

But Jace knew—this wasn’t over yet.

Jace sat at the edge of the bed, hands clenched into fists as he watched your exhausted body barely move beneath the sheets. Your breathing was slow, uneven, and the sight of you like this made his chest ache.

Alicent moved carefully, unbuttoning your blouse, wanting to clean you up properly. But the moment the fabric peeled away from your skin, her breath hitched.

Bruises.

Dark, angry marks bloomed across your sides, your ribs, your waist-ugly reminders of what had been done to you.

Rhaenyra gasped softly behind her, covering her mouth, her eyes filled with unshed tears. Alicent, normally composed, reached out to touch your bruised skin but hesitated, her fingers shaking slightly. "Oh sweet girl, what he do to you?"

Jace didn't move for a long time.

Then, his eyes squeezed shut.

His entire body trembled with rage.

Without a word, he stood up, his movements stiff and controlled, barely containing the fury coursing through his veins.

"Jace," Alicent called, sensing what he was about to do.

"Where are you going?" Rhaenyra asked, worry thick in her voice.

"I won't be long," Jace muttered darkly, already heading toward the door.

Aemond, leaning against the hallway wall, straightened when he saw his nephew storming out. "Don't do anything stupid," he warned.

Jace ignored him.

Aegon exhaled sharply, pushing off from his seat. "Let him go."

Jace didn't need permission. He was already out of the house.

The warehouse smelled of blood and metal.

Cregan was tied to a chair, his head slumped forward, his shirt ripped open, revealing bruises and cuts from the conversation he had earlier with Daemon's men.

Jace entered the room like a storm, his footsteps heavy, his rage barely contained. The men standing guard stepped back, knowing better than to get in his way.

Daemon, standing in the shadows, merely raised an eyebrow. "Finally decided to join us?"

Jace didn't reply.

Instead, he walked straight to Cregan and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up. Cregan groaned, his bloodied lip curling into a smirk despite his condition. "Took you long enough, man."

Jace's knuckles connected with Cregan's face before the bastard could say another word.

A sickening crack echoed through the room as his head snapped to the side, blood splattering onto the cold concrete floor.

Cregan coughed, his smirk faltering.

"You're still breathing?" Jace seethed, his voice low, dangerous. "That's disappointing."

Cregan chuckled weakly, spitting blood to the ground. "You're mad because I had her first, aren't you?"

Jace saw red.

He punched him again. And again. And again.

Cregan's smirk disappeared.

Daemon stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Jace's shoulder. "Easy, boy. Don't kill him yet. We still need information."

Jace was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with rage. His knuckles were raw, but he didn't care.

"He doesn't get to walk away from this," Jace growled.

Daemon smirked. "Oh, don't worry. He won't."

Cregan coughed, glaring up at them with whatever defiance he had left. "You think she'll be okay after this?" he rasped. "She's already broken. You'll never fix her."

Jace grabbed the knife from Daemon's belt without hesitation and pressed the blade against Cregan's throat.

"Say another word about her," Jace whispered,

"and I'll make sure you die screaming." Cregan chuckled darkly, but he didn't speak again.

Jace didn't lower the knife.

Not yet.

Because for the first time in his life, he wanted to kill a man and he wasn't sure if anyone could stop him.

Jace's grip on the knife tightened as Cregan leaned in just enough to whisper, his voice raspy but filled with cruel amusement.

"She begged me, you know," Cregan murmured, lips curling into a twisted smile. "Begged me to stop. But god, she looked so pretty when she cried—"

Jace lost it.

With a snarl, he lunged, driving the knife downward, ready to slit Cregan's throat wide open.

But before he could, Daemon's hand shot out, grabbing Jace's wrist in an iron grip.

"Enough!" Daemon snapped, yanking Jace back with force.

Jace thrashed violently in his uncle's grasp, his vision red, his breath ragged. "Let me go! Let me fucking go!"

Cregan, despite his bloodied face and split lip, only laughed. "Hit a nerve, didn't i ?" he rasped. "You're mad because you weren't there. Because you were too late to save her. Too late to stop me."

Jace roared, trying to lunge again, but this time, Daemon shoved him back, slamming him against the warehouse wall.

"You're no use to her if you lose your damn mind!" Daemon hissed, pinning Jace in place. "Think, boy! He wants you to kill him-wants you to make this quick! Don't give him what he wants."

Jace struggled, his chest heaving. His hands shook with rage. "You didn't see her," he growled through clenched teeth. "You didn't see the bruises on her body, the way she cried in her sleep _"

His voice cracked.

"I saw her," he whispered, his throat tightening. "And I can't fucking fix it."

Daemon's grip on him loosened slightly, his sharp eyes scanning Jace's face.

Before either of them could move, Aegon and Aemond burst into the warehouse, their expressions grim.

Aemond was the first to react, striding forward and grabbing Jace by the collar, shoving him back roughly.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Aemond hissed, shoving him again. "You think killing him will erase what happened? That it'll make her better?"

Jace shoved Aemond off. "I don't care about that -I just want him dead!"

"No!" Aegon snapped, stepping between them before they started fighting each other. "Not like this!"

Cregan chuckled again. "How pathetic," he mused. "Fighting over a broken girl-"

Aemond struck him so fast that no one saw it coming.

The sharp crack of bone echoed through the warehouse as Cregan's head snapped to the side.

Blood dripped from his nose, his smirk finally gone.

"You're still talking?" Aemond sneered, his single eye burning with fury.

Jace breathed heavily, his fists clenching at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. Aegon exhaled sharply. "He's done talking. Get what we need out of him, then we decide what to do with him."

Daemon nodded approvingly. But Jace?

Jace could only think of one thing.

You.

He turned sharply, shoving past them all as he stormed toward the exit.

"Where the hell are you going?" Aegon called after him.

Jace didn't turn back.

"To her."

Jace’s hands were still stained with blood as he walked through the dimly lit halls of Alicent’s house, his breathing uneven. He could still hear Cregan’s laughter in his head, still feel the way Daemon had held him back, the way Aemond had stopped him from tearing the bastard apart with his bare hands.

But none of it mattered.

Not right now.

Right now, he just needed to see you.

When he reached your door, he hesitated for just a moment before pushing it open carefully. The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. You were still asleep, curled up beneath the blankets, your breathing steady but fragile, as if even in rest, your body couldn’t fully let go of the terror.

Jace let out a slow, shaky breath.

He moved toward the bed, careful not to make a sound, and lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress. His hand reached out before he could stop himself, fingers threading gently through your hair.

You looked peaceful like this. But he knew it was a lie.

Because all he could see was the bruises.

The dark, ugly marks he had caught a glimpse of when Alicent had helped you change. The ones Cregan had left on you. The ones Jace should have prevented.

His stomach twisted violently.

Guilt clawed at his insides, thick and suffocating.

"I should’ve been there sooner," he whispered, his fingers still running through your hair.

You stirred slightly, shifting against the pillow but not waking. Jace swallowed hard, his free hand clenching against his thigh.

He should’ve killed Cregan.

Daemon had stopped him, Aemond and Aegon had held him back—but he should’ve killed him.

Jace closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to focus on your breathing, on the soft rise and fall of your chest.

"I’ll fix this," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

"I swear to you, I’ll make this right."

Even if it killed him.

Jace felt his chest tighten when he heard you whimper in your sleep, your body shifting restlessly under the blankets. He knew you weren’t awake—not completely—but the pain you were trapped in was real.

"No, no, please—" your voice was soft, fragile, broken. It made Jace feel sick.

His jaw clenched, and he immediately moved closer, his hand slipping into your hair again. "Shh, it’s okay," he whispered, his voice low and gentle. "It’s me. You’re safe."

You twitched, curling in on yourself as though trying to shield yourself from something unseen. Jace swallowed hard and carefully brushed your hair away from your damp forehead.

"I’m here," he murmured, pressing a light kiss to your temple. "He’s gone. He can’t touch you anymore."

But your face twisted with fear, your body trembling. You were still caught in it.

"Jace—" his name left your lips in a sob, and that nearly shattered him.

"I’m right here, love," he promised, his fingers trailing gently down the side of your face. "I’m not going anywhere."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought you might wake up, but then your body sagged again, your muscles still tense even in unconsciousness.

Jace closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. What else could he do?

He wasn’t a healer. He couldn’t take away the bruises, the pain, the memories that haunted you.

But he could stay.

So, carefully, he shifted onto the bed, lying beside you without touching you too much. His arm draped lightly over your waist, his forehead pressing against your shoulder.

"Sleep, love," he whispered, his lips brushing against your skin. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

And even if he had to stay awake all night, he’d make sure of it.

Your head pounded as you slowly opened your eyes. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm shadows against the walls. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the fogginess in your mind.

When you turned your head, you found Jace beside you, his breathing slow and steady. He was asleep, his face softened from the usual tension he carried. It was the first time you’d seen him like this in a while—peaceful, unguarded.

A small smile tugged at your lips. But when your gaze drifted down, it vanished instantly.

There was dried blood on his hands.

Your chest tightened. Carefully, you reached out, your fingers hovering over the darkened stains on his skin. Did he get hurt? Your stomach twisted at the thought.

You barely let out a soft sigh before Jace stirred. His body tensed slightly before his eyes fluttered open, locking onto you almost instantly. His expression shifted from groggy to alert in a second.

"You're awake," he murmured, his voice raspy from sleep.

You nodded, still staring at his hands. "Jace…" your voice was barely above a whisper, laced with concern. "Your hands."

Jace followed your gaze, and for a brief moment, his expression darkened. He flexed his fingers before clenching them into fists, as if suddenly aware of the mess he hadn’t cleaned off.

"It’s nothing," he said quickly, sitting up. "You should rest."

You shook your head. "That’s not nothing." Your hand hesitantly reached for his, but he pulled away before you could touch him.

"It’s not yours to worry about." His voice was firmer now, but not unkind.

"Jace." You frowned. "What did you do?"

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. "I did what I should've done the moment he touched you."

Your heart pounded at the implication. "Cregan…?"

Jace's jaw clenched, and his silence was enough of an answer.

Your breath hitched, but before you could say anything, he turned back to you, his eyes softer now, but still burning with something deep and unresolved. "Don’t ask me about him."

You swallowed, still shaken, but the exhaustion in his face made your chest ache. He looked like he had been carrying a war on his shoulders, and in a way, he had.

Slowly, you reached out again, this time managing to take his wrist in your grasp. He stiffened but didn’t pull away.

"You don’t have to do this alone," you whispered.

Jace studied you for a long moment before he finally let out a slow exhale. He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours.

"Neither do you," he murmured, squeezing your hand.

For the first time in a long while, you felt like you could breathe again.

Jace sat stiffly beside you, his hand still holding yours, but his grip tightened slightly as he watched you struggle to speak. His eyes, usually warm when they looked at you, now burned with something raw and dangerous.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep going. You had to tell him.

"He made me watch them, Jace." Your voice trembled, and you couldn’t meet his eyes. "Over and over again. The videos. The ones my ex took."

Jace’s entire body tensed. His grip on your hand became painfully tight for a second before he abruptly let go, as if afraid of hurting you. His jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch.

"And he—" You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers digging into the sheets. "He didn’t just make me watch, Jace. He... he made me relive them."

Jace inhaled sharply through his nose. He didn’t say anything, but his hands curled into fists on his lap. His shoulders rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths, as if he was fighting to keep himself in check.

"He whispered to me while he touched me," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. You felt sick saying it out loud, but if you didn’t, it would stay inside you, rotting you from within. "He said he could do it better. That he wouldn’t have needed to force me like my ex did, because I would’ve begged for him eventually."

Jace shot up from the bed so fast the chair he had been sitting on tipped over. He took a few steps away, his back to you, his hands gripping the edges of the dresser like he needed to hold onto something solid. His shoulders were shaking.

"He told me you’d never find me," you whispered, staring at his broad back. "That as long as he was breathing, you’d never see me again."

Jace slammed his fist against the dresser, the loud crack of wood splitting making you flinch. His breaths came out in short, harsh bursts, his entire body rigid with fury.

"Jace—"

"He’s still breathing." Jace's voice was low, almost too calm, but you knew better.

"Jace, please." You sat up, your arms wrapping around yourself. "Don’t let him take more from us."

He turned around slowly, his eyes locking onto yours. They were dark, full of so much rage it made your breath hitch. But beneath that, there was something else—something broken.

"You think I can just let this go?" His voice was hoarse, raw. "You think I can just—just sit here knowing what he did? What he was going to do?"

You shook your head, biting your lip. "No. But you don’t have to let it consume you either."

Jace let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his curls. "How the fuck am I supposed to sleep at night knowing that he touched you, that he—" His voice broke off, and he turned away again, gripping the edge of the dresser like he was about to tear it apart.

"I only want you, Jace." Your voice was small, but it made him stop. "No matter what he did or what he said. I never stopped believing you’d find me."

His breath hitched. Slowly, he turned back around, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to believe your words.

After a moment, he took slow, hesitant steps toward you before finally sitting back down on the bed. His hands found yours again, and this time, he held them gently.

"I’ll make sure he never touches you again." His voice was a quiet promise.

You nodded, your fingers tightening around his. "Just don’t lose yourself in the process."

He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to yours. "You’re the only thing keeping me together."

And for the first time that night, you felt safe again.

Jace hesitated, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers trembled slightly where they rested on your jaw, his touch careful, hesitant. His eyes searched yours, as if waiting for you to pull away, to flinch, to show even the slightest discomfort.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned closer, your hands gripping the front of his shirt. A silent plea. A reassurance.

"I need this, Jace." Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything you had been through. "I need you."

Jace inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he warred with himself. He wanted to—God, he wanted to—but he was terrified.

Terrified of pushing you too far.

Terrified of hurting you when all he ever wanted was to protect you.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, strained.

Instead of answering, you closed the distance yourself, pressing your lips to his. It was soft, tentative, but you didn’t pull away. And neither did he.

Jace let out a quiet, shaky breath against your lips before finally kissing you back. Slowly, carefully, like he was afraid you would break. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs tracing soothing circles against your skin.

You tugged him closer, needing to feel him, needing to remind yourself that you were safe now. That he had found you. That you were home.

But just as the kiss began to deepen, Jace pulled away with a sharp breath, resting his forehead against yours. His hands were still on your face, his touch grounding, steady.

"I can’t," he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "Not yet."

You frowned, your fingers tightening around his shirt. "Jace—"

"You’ve been through too much." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes filled with something deeper than just desire. "I won’t take advantage of that."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes silenced you. He wasn’t rejecting you. He was protecting you.

"I don’t want to be afraid forever." Your voice was small, vulnerable.

Jace exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing through your hair before resting on the back of your neck. "And I will be here for you through every step of that. But not like this."

You swallowed, your heart aching at the tenderness in his voice. He wanted you—there was no doubt about that—but he wanted you to heal more.

So you nodded, leaning into his touch. "Okay."

Jace kissed your forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Get some rest."

And even though your body still ached and the ghosts of your past still lingered, for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could.

Jace ran a hand through his disheveled hair as he stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The house was eerily silent, the only sound coming from the faint murmuring of voices in the living room. As he made his way downstairs, his steps light to avoid waking you, he saw them—Rhaenyra and Alicent, both sitting tensely on the couch, their faces illuminated by the glow of Alicent’s phone screen.

Alicent was speaking in a hushed but firm voice, her free hand gripping the edge of the coffee table tightly. Rhaenyra sat beside her, arms crossed, her expression set in deep contemplation. The tension between them had always been palpable, but tonight, it was different. There was no hostility, only a shared concern that neither of them needed to voice.

Jace cleared his throat, making his presence known. Both women turned to look at him, their expressions shifting the moment they saw him.

"How is she?" Rhaenyra asked softly, breaking the silence first.

Jace exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "Asleep, finally. She... she had another panic attack earlier."

Alicent pressed her lips together, her eyes filled with something Jace couldn’t quite place—guilt, sorrow, regret. "I should have stayed with her."

"No," Jace shook his head. "She needed space."

Alicent nodded, but she didn’t seem convinced.

"What about Cregan?" Jace’s voice darkened as he turned toward Alicent’s phone, hearing the faint sound of Daemon’s voice on the other end. "Tell me you didn’t let him get away."

Alicent handed the phone to him without a word, allowing Daemon’s voice to fill the room.

"He’s still alive. For now." Daemon’s tone was cold, devoid of any amusement. "But if you’re asking whether he’ll be breathing by sunrise... that depends on you, boy."

Jace’s grip on the phone tightened. "I want to see him."

"Not yet," Daemon said simply. "You’re too emotional. You’ll kill him before I get what I need from him."

Jace clenched his jaw. "You think he deserves to keep breathing?"

Daemon chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, I don’t. But I have questions that need answering. How he got through our security. Who helped him. How long he’s been planning this." There was a pause, then Daemon’s voice dropped lower. "I know you want blood, boy. But trust me—revenge is best served cold."

Jace swallowed the lump in his throat. He wanted to argue, to demand that Daemon let him go there and end this himself, but he knew his uncle was right. If Jace saw Cregan now, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. And then, they’d never get the answers they needed.

"Fine," Jace forced out. "But when you’re done with him—he’s mine."

Another low chuckle. "We’ll see."

Jace handed the phone back to Alicent, his hands still shaking from the sheer force of the rage boiling inside him.

"What if he has more people working with him?" Rhaenyra’s voice broke the silence again, her concern evident. "What if this isn’t over?"

Jace’s stomach twisted at the thought. "Then we finish it before they get another chance."

Alicent sighed, rubbing her temple. "I want guards at every entrance. No one gets in or out without my permission."

Jace nodded. He didn’t care how many precautions they had to take—he wasn’t letting anything happen to you again.

"Jace," Rhaenyra said gently, watching him carefully. "You need to rest, too."

He scoffed. "I’ll rest when this is over."

But Rhaenyra shook her head. "She needs you. And if you’re running on nothing but anger, you won’t be able to help her."

Jace knew she was right. But how could he possibly sleep when the thought of what Cregan had done to you was burned into his mind?

"I’ll stay with her," Alicent offered. "If she wakes up, she won’t be alone."

Jace hesitated, then finally nodded. He needed to be strong for you. And to do that, he needed to clear his mind.

But one thing was certain—Cregan would not leave this alive.

Tag List : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @callsignwidow @searatarg @vaelry @ashblooddragons

[cherry-smokes]

My Strange Lady ch. II

Steve begins to learn more about the strange woman who works at the local library. He might even be beginning to call her a friend. ch. I Paring: Single dad!Steve Harrington x oddball!reader Word Count: 3.1K Note: this is a reader insert, I just don't really use y/n in my work so instead the reader goes by the nickname Birdie here. Also, a slowwwwww burn. Sorry y'all I love to yearn.

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The library garden is beautiful. Steve had never really bothered to check it out before. It’s a small thing. Two benches with a few small trees and flower bushes. There’s a small swing set as well. It’s sun bleached and Steve is willing to bet it creaks like crazy. The trees are decorated with bird houses. Simple ones, probably a little unstable but the wood is engraved beautifully. He can’t help but wonder if you had anything to do with that.

All last night Steve’s tossing and turning had nothing to do with the looming distress that came with loving someone more than yourself. Instead, his mind was clouded with ideas of you. He could hear your bird call in his dreams. The way his name slipped from your lips as if you had known him much longer than you really did. He can’t help but feel that you might be that kind of person. The kind that immediately knows everything someone is hiding behind their eyes. He wonders what you might have seen behind his.

He can’t tell if that fills him with dread or excitement.

As he walks hand in hand with Robbie, approaching you on one of the benches, he thinks it might be excitement. You’re wearing a long skirt today. Big worn leather boots and a tube top along with another cardigan. You must get cold easily. He wishes he could will the cool breeze to stop for you.

“Hi Miss Birdie!”

You look up from your lap revealing a sketchbook where you’ve begun drawing a bird.

“Good morning Robert.”

You look behind the child and right at Steve. You stare for a bit and he thinks you might be checking him out. He feels himself stand a little taller, shoulders rolling back with a small rush of confidence.

“Good morning Steve. There’s a stain on your shirt.”

Not checking him out, got it. He looks down and finds a rogue ketchup stain from the hash browns they had that morning. He was so caught up on making sure Robbie didn’t ruin his nice outfit he hadn’t even looked at his own.

“Oh sh-ooot.”

You lean over into your bag. You’re starting to remind him of Mary Poppins with that thing, even more so when you pull out a small pack of wet wipes. "I get stains all the time." You hand it over to him and he gives you a small nod as a thank you. Robbie takes it upon himself to sit right next to you. Pressing against your side and looking past your arm at your drawing.

“What kind of bird is that?”

“It’s a Robin. There was one on that branch over there a bit ago. It left. Maybe it’ll come back.”

Robbie begins giggling. He leans into Steve’s side when he finally joins them on the bench, wet wipe shoved into his pocket.

“What are you laughing about bud?”

Robbie covers his face like he’s about to share a secret. It wouldn’t be a good one considering how loud he says it through his giggles.

“It’s a Robbie. It’s a Robbie bird.”

“It’s a Robin.”

Your voice lacks any malice. Like you’re genuinely convinced the kid just heard you wrong. Robbie just shakes his head no.

“I’m gonna call it a Robbie bird.”

You look perplexed. Eyes moving back and forth from your drawing to the kid.

“Okay.”

The boy just giggles louder. Steve notices the way you can’t help but smile a bit too. It’s contagious, he knows the feeling.

Eventually Robbie does grow bored of bird watching. Which apparently to you, means waiting for birds to come around so you can watch them. The boy runs off to the creaky swings, leaving Steve alone with you.

“I’ve never been out here. You were right it’s nice.”

You don’t look up at him as you finish up your drawing. You reach up to the tree behind you both and pull a small berry from it. Crushing it on the bench to rub the pigment onto your page. It shades the Robins chest a dull red.

“I know it is.”

He’s hitting a dead end here. He thinks for a second you might not be interested in talking to him but you glance at him like you’re expecting him to continue the conversation.

“Do you come out here often?”

He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. They sound more like a bad pick up line than a genuine question and he technically already knows the answer. You at least come every Sunday morning. He’s sure you’ll tell him that too.

“Sort of. The first two weeks I was working here I spent inside rebinding all the damaged books and reorganizing some of the shelves. Deborah’s got me up front now, I think she wants to retire soon.”

Well. That kind of answered his question. He thinks.

“Would you take her job if she did?”

You shrug.

“Well, do you like your job?”

“I like the clicking sounds the keyboard makes. I like this garden, and the shelves look much nicer than they did before I fixed them...I think I like parts of my job.”

Steve nods.

“I think I get what you mean. I kind of feel the same way.”

“Where do you work?”

He leans back into the bench. Making himself a little more comfortable as he keeps an eye on Robbie.

“Uh, the hospital.”

"Are you a doctor?"

"No I uh-I work the front desk."

“Like a receptionist?”

He breaths out through his nose. “Yeah. Like a receptionist.”

It’s not what he expected to be. He knows it’s not the most impressive job. It doesn’t really scream ‘I’m financially stable and successful enough to provide for two people and maybe a third if anyone is interested!’

“Hm…I wonder what sound your keyboard makes…”

He’d like to start looking at you with a look other than confusion on his face. The more you talk to him the further from that goal he gets.

“What parts do you like about your job?”

He really thinks about it. He shows up doesn’t he? He hasn’t gone totally insane sitting behind the desk so there must be something.

“Uhm…well I like…talking to people. Most of them show up in bad moods, or in pain. It’s nice to try to make them feel better I guess. I know I’m not the one helping them but it’s nice to at least send them to the right door. Plus the kids always get super excited when I pull out the candy jar.”

You hum. For a moment you don’t say anything. Sitting in comfortable silence. Which Steve has never enjoyed, there’s nothing comfortable about silence to him. He feels it in this moment though. He hears the breeze, the creaky swing set, and the sound of pencil against paper.

“What does Roberts mom do for work?”

Suddenly the silence is daunting again. He doesn’t want to tell you about how much of a mess that part of his life was. He loved Mandy-Amanda. At least he thought he did. After she left he realized that wasn’t the kind of love he was looking for. Amanda was a lot like the people his parents like to hang out with. Steve felt like he fit in with her well enough until he realized he wasn’t fitting in, he was shoving himself into a suit that wasn’t his size. Then she got pregnant and he thought that maybe they could make something work. Amanda and Steve weren't totally different. You could say they came from similar backgrounds. While Steve tried to avoid becoming his parents by raising Robbie differently, Amanda avoided becoming her parents by not becoming one at all. He’d be lying if he said he wasn't still angry at her. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t understand why she left too. Love is weird.

“I’m not sure.”

You catch the look in his eyes. Steve thinks his theory was right when he sees the way your own soften. Like you know everything he’s trying to avoid saying, and you’re letting him believe you don’t know otherwise. You pretend you’re changing the topic for your own sake and not his.

“Before I moved here I had this friend. Well kind of. We spent a lot of time together at least. I knew a lot about her. She talked a lot. I never knew what she did for work though. I convinced myself she worked at a salon because her hair always looked nice and she was always giving me recommendations of what to do to my hair but she could have just been really into hair. Who knows.”

“Why didn’t you ask her?”

You shrug. “It never came up.”

“You still talk to her?”

You shake your head no. It doesn’t seem to bother you the way it would bother him.

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“No, I’ve got Theodore. He’s great company.”

He should have known you had someone. That’s always how it goes right? Steve starts making up this fantasy in his head that maybe he still has a shot at meeting someone special and then they hit him with the whole ‘my boyfriend would love you! Please come over for drinks so you can witness what true love looks like!’ thing.

“Oh! How long have you been together?”

“Two years. I think he might be getting lonely though. I’m thinking about getting him a friend.”

Steve wouldn’t need you to find him a friend. He can make his own. He’s a grown man. What’s Theodore doing with his life if he’s sending you out to find friends for him?

“Can’t he do that himself?”

You look at him like he’s an idiot. “There aren’t really rats in my apartment for him to find Steve. Unless they’re hiding in my walls.”

“Theodore’s a rat? Like…a real one?”

You nod your head and reach into your bag once more. Pulling out various objects before settling on a small stack of Polaroids of Theodore. The rat. He’s dark brown with black beady eyes and pink ears. He’s honestly kind of ugly, though Steve doesn't have the heart to tell you. He can’t wrap his head around why someone would want a pet rat.

“Of course you have a rat.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to implicate but I feel like you’re trying to implicate something.”

He’s glad you don’t seem to get offended easily, you have this air of confidence around you that he’s kind of jealous of. “I just mean that you don’t seem like the kind of woman who would have a conventional pet.”

You smile at him like he just told you the ground you walk on is golden. “Thank you Steve.”

─────────── · 𓅫 · ───────────

Steve and Robbie have begun a nice routine with you. Weekends are being spent at the library and Steve can’t complain. Not only is Robbie tearing through books like never before, but he’s also gotten to know you better.

You get cold easy, as he guessed. Your best friend is your rat. Who you adopted on a whim whilst at the animal shelter. Originally you had gone in looking for a cat. However, you felt terrible thinking that Theodore would never be adopted and that he was probably terrified being surrounded by so many predators. Birds aren't the only think you know too much about. You know everything. It doesn't matter what random comment Robbie makes, somehow you're able to turn it into a full conversation. Steve loves it. He never cared too much for school but he thinks he would have been valedictorian had you been teaching him instead.

You've become a friend. A constant in not only Steve's life but Robbie's as well. Which is why Steve was quick to agree with his son about inviting you to his birthday party on Friday. He was in the middle of making the invitations. With Robins help, although she was mostly just sealing the envelopes. The invitations are a formality. Everyone who matters already knows when to show up. Most of these are going to be handed out to Robbie’s classmates tomorrow anyways.

"Dad! Can we make one for Miss Birdie!?"

"Of course we can, I don't have her address but I could drop it off at the library tomorrow before school okay?"

His son nods enthusiastically, messing around with his crayons as he doodles on some of the invitations. Adding his own personal touch to them.

"Who's Miss Birdie?"

Steve realizes now that he's had you all to himself. Well, him and Robbie have. He's kept his friendship with you private. He'd like to think it wasn't intentional but it kind of was. He couldn't help but notice that his feelings have become a little more than friendly. His chest tightens when he thinks about you. It's worse when he sees you. He finds you so endearing. The way you disarm him, how honest you can be without any fear of judgement. When he's typing away at his work computer all he can think about is how you like the sound of your own. How maybe you're both typing at the same keys in different places. When he sleeps his heart aches at the thought of you sleeping under the same moon, hoping that you're warm under piles of blankets. If he so much as mentions you he's scared Robin will see the way his pupils practically turn into hearts. He hasn't felt this way since he was a teenager.

"She's our bird watch buddy!"

"....since when do you guys watch birds?"

Steve sets the invitation he was working on aside. "We started a while ago. Miss Birdie runs it, she works at the library and Robbie wanted to join her club."

Steve is grateful that his son has the same affinity for talking as his aunt because Robbie takes the attention off Steve as he begins telling her everything he's learned about birds from you. Robin is so busy entertaining her nephew she doesn't see Steve's smile as he writes out your invitation.

─────────── · 𓅫 · ───────────

The next morning Steve wakes up late. In his rush to get Robbie dressed and fed he overlooks his own appearance. Robbie looks as presentable as ever. Hair done neatly, a nice long sleeved stripped shirt and little overalls. Steve however, pulled on whatever wrinkled sweater he found in the clean pile he had forgotten to fold and his tried and true jeans. He forgoes his own breakfast as he rushes to put some Eggo's in the toaster for his son. It isn't the most nutritious breakfast so he packs a few extra snacks in Robbie's lunch box to make up for it. He can't help the guilt that eats at him this morning.

The guilt dissipates, if only a little as he walks Robbie up to his classroom. Just in the nick of time. Robbie is flustered as his dad gives him a hug and a kiss on the forehead.

"You won't forget right? You're gonna go right now?"

"Yes Robbie, I pinkie swear I will drop the invitation off right now."

Robbie furrows his brows as Steve holds out his pinkie. He interlocks his small one with his fathers as they both lean in to kiss their thumbs.

"See. I promise. I love you, be good today okay?"

"Mhm, love you dad."

Steve knows stopping by the library will make him late for work. He tells himself he'll do it anyways because a pinkie swear is sacred. Technically, Robbie would never know whether Steve dropped off the invitation before or after work but he has morals okay! It totally isn't because he thinks seeing you might make his morning a little less shitty.

If that was the case he would have been right. His day somehow feels brighter when he walks in and sees you standing by one of the shelves. You're in your own world, too busy neatly organizing the books to notice him until he's right by you. You don't flinch, but you do a double take and suddenly you don't look so stoic. A soft smile decorates your face when you realize its him. It makes him all gooey inside.

"This is new."

He looks down at himself. Not exactly sure what you're talking about. "What is?"

"You don't usually come in on weekdays. Or without Robert."

You turn towards him now. Books forgotten in the cart behind you.

"Well I'm just trying to keep you on your toes. Can't have you getting bored of us."

Your hand reaches up and suddenly any air of coolness he had is gone. You brush his wild hair down, he remembers he didn't even get a chance to look at himself in the mirror this morning. He can't imagine what his hair must look like if you feel the need to fix it for him. It's been a really long time since someone has touched him like this. He lets you do it until you feel content.

"I'd never get bored of you."

When you become a parent you get used to always being considered a team. An entity. For years now it's been 'Steve and Robbie.' He loves it that way don't get him wrong. Loves his son more than anything, but he can't help but beam at the fact that you said you'd never get bored of him.

"...Oh! Yeah...uhm-well I-I was just stopping by to drop this off."

He sounds like a dork. He feels more silly than when he was striking out in a sailors uniform at the mall.

You take the envelope from his hands. The words 'For Miss Birdie' are written in his neatest handwriting.

"Robbie's birthday is this Friday and we wanted to invite you. You totally don't have to go if you don't want to. It's not going to be anything crazy but- y'know I-we like you and we wanted to extend the invitation."

You look up at him with this look he can't really describe. You hold the envelope like its something precious in both hands and press it against your chest.

"Thank you Steve. I would really like to go. I-thank you."

"Great!" He responds a little too eagerly, he clears his throat before speaking again. "Yeah no, that's great. We'll see you then."

You nod at him and he waves at you before turning around to leave. He looks back at you once to wave again. A second time just to look at you. You've turned back to your books, but you don't move to grab them. Instead you bring the envelope up to your face, covering your smile with it.

Steve shows up to work thirty minutes late. His coworker Sally makes a face at his appearance. "Rough morning?"

Steve smiles as he sits behind the reception desk.

"Great actually."

─────────── · 𓅫 · ───────────

[stylespresleyhearted]

any mota fanfic recs?

OH MY GOODNESS DO I EVER 🗣️🗣️

the *amount* of talent found in the mota fandom alone is insane, it blows my mind. i read these pieces and my mind can’t comprehend that someone wrote something so beautifully heartwarming or heart-wrenching and is allowing me to read it for FREE on the internet. it belongs in an archive of beautiful literature. (I think i meant a library …)

of course i got to start w marina (mommy 🫶🏻) : @precious-little-scoundrel

dear john - of course i gotta be biased it was part of my yelling and the beginning of john egan stealing my heart. john writes a letter to lana tierney, a famous actress, who writes back and slips in a gift to raise the major’s spirits 😉 (also coming up with the acornym A.C.O.R.N was so fun)

she’s also got a phenomenon currently ongoing Those Who Can - I support all these characters and Marina beautifully juggles so many sensitive, delicate topics and does so with the respect and understanding needed to do so.

But in all seriousness I followed Marina from the Elvis fandom (where we were also in cahoots) to MOTA fandom & she’s so lovely, supportive, protective, and in many ways has become a rock for me. what i don’t see in myself she manages to bring out and encourages me to keep trying my hand at writing so i’m grateful for her always ♥️

@joeyalohadream her cooler-verse fics oh my gooodnesssss i am NOT exaggerating when i say i have reread like at least 13 times. i love love love to read them late at night or early in the morning it’s comfort reading to me and the love language displayed between john and gale in her stories resonates deeply with my love language so i think it helps me further invest into the story. so heartbreakingly good. it truly only hurts because they love each other SO MUCH.

- at this point i’d be lying if i said i haven’t read everything she has written though. let your heart be light currently occupies my time, thoughts, and soul. there’s one portion in it’s different with you and me that has made me reread a handful of times: She eyes him in his uniform and he sees the way the night could go. The way it should go.

But all it makes him think about is Gale.

Gale, who doesn’t watch the girls at the pub, but who watches John.

Gale, who tenses up when the guys crowd him, but melts under John’s arm like it’s the most comfortable place in the world for him to be.

Gale, who went a whole day and a half giving him the cold shoulder after John came back to their room painted in red lipstick stains and smelling of cheap perfume.

So, he chats and he smiles, but he doesn’t flirt and he doesn’t touch. Because if there’s even a possibility in this world that there’s a chance Gale is like him and that he likes him, he’s not blowing it for anymore nights of chasing a fleeting good feeling.

@johnslittlespoon i stumbled upon their tough and sweet universe and ohhhhh myyyy looordddd. Yes pls. Age gap. Younger bucky. Biker gale. Biker Gale who is so tender and gentle and caring and sensitive to all of Bucky’s emotions and helps stabalize him. Gale who asks him what he wants to do and how his day was and respects his boundaries and cares for him. brb gonna go cry. so soft for them. (Im secretly hoping benny and brady are gay in this fic but idk lmao) also marge is awesome but we all knew that. and paulina’s a bad ass every fic.

@swifty-fox geez louiseee where do i even start!!! i just reread wormwood today (retaliation has been promised 🥵) and one thing that continuously draws me in is the backstory they manage to create. obsessed w little beasts it’s burnout! John and pastor! Gale and i wish i had the words to talk about how amazing it is. we were left on such a cliff hanger and they’ve been brought into each other’s family now (kinda) and gale said this line: only me? that i haven’t been able to stop thinking about. i can’t believe (and also can’t wait) that these two are gonna date and be a couple and hold hands and kiss and cuddle and - 🤯 most recently there is cicada season and i don’t want to go into that one i just want everyone to read it. their way of writing human complexity, sin, acceptance, grief, anger, insecurity — everything is so raw and cutting and beautiful. i wanna poke swifty’s brain bc they are so smart and knowledgeable but alas i want to remain unblocked.

I feel like I’m missing SO MANYYYYY GAHHH there are so many one shots i’m sure i’ll probably reblog to add 😭😭

[captainsy-cookiemonster]

The Emperor's Mistress

Summary: Even an emperor has needs that have to be satisfied. 

Pairing: Emhyr Var Emreis (Netflix) x  Iphra (OFC; first person pov)

Warnings: SEX; MDNI!; kinda FwB, lust not love; power imbalance; ring kissing; blowjob, forced deepthroat; condescending; mock sympathy; m multiple orgasm; f orgasm denial; edging; if i missed anything, please let me know

A/N: A huge thank you to @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @thelastsock @the-soot-sprite @littlefreya and @luna-aestas for motivating me through this nearly 2 year process!!! Love you girls so much!!💗💗💗 Netflix Emhyr is a Dilf and he probably has some needs so… I'm not saying this is supposed to be canon, just something my horny brain came up with. Also yes I know he’s evil. But if evil, why sexy? Yeah totally thought of this bc in a class we learned how much influence king’s mistresses had at court. Totally selfindulgent. Fuck, I’m rusty…  Enjoy 😊

Word Count: 3k

Title: The Emperor’s Mistress

Writers live off validation. If you liked it please like, comment and reblog 💕 thank you for reading 💖

I hadn’t seen him around court all day. Not surprising, given the current situation, the preparations in full swing. Through a servant, he had let me know that he is not to be disturbed all day. It is my job, then, to dismiss all the courtiers asking to speak with him. I already knew then that he would come to me tonight.

The light of the setting sun is reflecting in the mirror atop the vanity of where I sit, making my jewellery cast little specks of light to the smooth stone walls of my room. Softest silk caresses my skin as I fix myself up. It could only be a matter of time now until he knocks.

Late this afternoon, the Emperor had then sent the much expected servant to inform me he would visit me tonight. I spent the last two hours getting ready for his Imperial Majesty, bathing in scented oils, dressing in a fine gown, all for his Majesty’s enjoyment. 

I made certain everything would be flawless for his arrival, I even sent for a servant to bring a pitcher of the Emperor’s favourite wine to my quarters. He has been… tense lately, overly stressed, though he does not tell me why. I only see him at night, requiring my presence more often than usual in order to relax. And even then it seemed as if his mind was somewhere far away. But what else was to be expected? He is commanding a war after all.

A knock - the knock -  on my door echoes through my room. The attendant’s way of letting me know his Imperial Majesty would be arriving soon. With a pounding heart, I stand by a table with the wine, ready to welcome Emhyr once he arrives. I wonder about his mood tonight. But I don’t have to wonder for long, as shortly after the attendant knocked, the door flies open. 

Emhyr marches in, and I drop into a deep curtsey.

“My lord.”

But he doesn’t answer. I hold out a goblet to him and he takes it, downing the wine in just a few gulps.

Bad mood.

“How are the preparations going, my lord?” I try to get at least some reaction from him. Anything but this tense silence. “I heard you will be departing in the morning?”

“Iphra,” he sighs, frustration clear in his voice. “This is nothing you should worry your pretty head about.” 

A pause. He holds out the goblet and I refill it. He drinks from it, then sets it down with another sigh. Once he looks back up at me, it’s like he’s a man changed

“Come here.” His voice is calm, cold and commanding. He holds out a hand and when I take it, he tugs me in, so that I almost stumble into him. He pushes my hair out the way and starts to mouthe at my neck, sucking, nipping me occasionally. His breath smells of the wine, his lips leaving a red stain on my skin. One of his hands is splayed out on the small of my back, pulling me in closer, while the other is tugging at the shoulder strap of my dress to free my chest to him. He leaves a trail of wet, open mouthed kisses down my breasts, all while slowly walking me backwards to the bed. 

My back meets the bedpost and I reach behind me to hold onto it, allowing Emhyr to devour my neck, untouched. He doesn’t like it when I hold onto him or even give the slightest indication of where to go. All of this is for his pleasure, not mine. Still, I moan and gasp softly each time his lips find a sweet spot, each time he sucks or nips on it.

Eventually, he pulls back, and takes a step back. He’s breathing heavily, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen. It is an image of the White Flame only the fewest possess the privilege to see. Not the stern and regal ruler, not the rightful heir who killed the usurper, but a simple man looking for what we all seek: pleasure. 

And then I watch as he begins to unbuckle his belt.

“Allow me,” I purr, getting on my knees in one fluid motion. My hands come up to unbuckle his belt for him, as well as untying his trousers and his boots. Looking up, I see him unfastening his vest, shrugging it off and tossing it to a nearby divan, along with his tunic. I take off his boots, and slide his trousers down, setting them aside on the floor as I look up at him. Bared before me in all his imperial glory, I cannot help but reach to touch his thighs. But he tuts me. I let my hands fall into my lap and cast my eyes down. I know, my eagerness will have consequences.

“You know what to do,” he says, in that calm voice laden with authority, though there is mocking disappointment in it as well.

I only look up again once I feel his left hand outstretched and close to my face. Without question, I take it into both of mine, almost reverently, and touch my lips to the large signet ring, my eyes fluttering shut. It is warm beneath my lips, the gold warmed by his body heat. 

I release a shuddering breath when I pull back. My hands reach for his thighs and this time, he doesn't stop me when they come to rest at their sides. 

"See? You know your place." 

Still that slight mocking in his voice. His hand, the one I had just kissed, touches my chin softly, tilting it up, making me look at him. His fingers continue into my hair as I lean closer to him until my lips meet the tip of his length. 

"Open up, my dear." 

And I do. I open my mouth, just slightly, giving his tip a sloppy kiss and kissing down his length before I come up and take him into my mouth. I start to suckle, humming when he groans. I want to take him deeper, needing to hear him again, but he pulls me back by the hair.

“Patience,” he tuts, and I nod, with his cock in my mouth. I return to suckling him again, just taking the tip and bobbing my head a little, never taking more than half of him. His groans are music to my ears, a reminder why I do this. To please him.

Had I kept my eyes open, I would have seen his hungry look, that suddenly turned into a sinister smirk. But I haven’t. So it takes me by surprise when he yanks me forward by my hair, making me take all of him down my throat. Still, I suck at him devotedly, even if it was getting harder to breathe. My grip on his thighs tightens, nails digging into skin and muscle.

“Is this not what you wanted?” he sneers, holding me in place by my hair. My eyes fill with tears as I look up at him, gagging around his cock. “Did you not want all of me in that greedy mouth of yours?”

I nod, whining. There’s a flicker in his eyes. Something that could almost be interpreted as sympathy. Almost. 

“Is that too much for my little whore?” 

His other hand comes up to pat my cheek, wipe away my tears. But his eyes? Despite the softness of his brow, his eyes remain sinister. He’s mocking me, punishing me for my lack of patience earlier, maybe even for the behaviour of his advisors today. It’s hard to tell, but it is likely.

Finally, he lets go of my hair and I pull back, taking deep gulps of air, my chest heaving with every breath.

But I am leaning in again just as quickly, taking him down my throat while I look up at him.

“You really are a greedy whore, my dear,” Emhyr smirks down at me, tangling his fingers into my hair again, but lets me go at my pace this time. He groans again, and a warm feeling spreads in my belly. 

I hum around him, and feel him twitch on my tongue. 

"I want you to take it all, then. Every drop." 

His thighs tense beneath my fingertips, I know it won't be long now. So I double my efforts, bobbing my head, my tongue toying with his tip. With a groan, he finds his release, and pulls my head in by my hair, so I'm taking all of him, all the way down my throat. I swallow around him, drinking him in, everything he gives me. 

His heavy breaths are music to my ears as I keep licking at him, suckling softly until he's entirely spent. He tugs my head away from his cock by my hair, a hint of a sated smile on his lips. 

"Did I please you, my Lord?” I purr, gazing up at him through my lashes.

“Get up,” comes his response, voice softer now, now that some of his tension has been… relieved. 

I take his graciously offered hand to get on my feet. I should have known. With my hand in his, it is easy for him to push me back against the bedpost, his hands finding my hips, and his lips my chest.

His nimble fingers easily undo the fastening, a single knot, that held my dress together. The fabric pools around my feet, and he steps away, with a satisfied smile. Emhyr walks back over to the table with the wine and pours himself another glass, his eyes wandering over my naked body as he drinks, savouring — so it seems — both the view and the wine. 

After a moment, he must have finished about half of the glass, he starts to move again. But not towards me. I tilt my head slightly, watching him walk straight to the side of the bed. He sets the wine down at the bedside table and moves to lie down in the centre of the bed. Another moment of silence passes, I watch him stroke his cock lazily. 

"Come," he instructs. 

I don't need to be told twice. I push away from the bedpost and crawl up his body, coming to a halt once I'm straddling his hips. Wordless, I lean forward and pepper his chest with kisses, and further up, to his neck. Maybe I forget myself for a moment, but I only stop when I'm just about to kiss his lips, and he puts a finger on mine, just a breath apart. 

"No, Iphra," he whispers.

Right. No kissing. No love, just lust. 

I pull back. "Forgive me, your majesty," I mumble. 

He waves his hand dismissively, before it comes down on my ass with a sting that he soothes by kneading the cheek. My sign to continue. So I do. I get up on my knees and settle on his lap. Tossing my hair behind my back, before I take hold of his cock and stroke it a few times, before I lift my hips and sink down on his shaft. 

We both let out a groan as he fills me, letting out heavy breaths once he's seated in me so perfectly. With his hands on my hips, I begin to move, rocking, feeling the delicious friction he provides. 

“Oh, my lord,” I moan, my hands finding his wrist as I begin to pick up my pace, riding him harder. Looking down at him, I see him watching the spot where we  are joined, the base of his cock glistening with my juices every time I lift my hips. I let go of him, and let myself fall forward, my hands on either side of his ribs now as I double my efforts, a coil already building in my core. His hand moves from my hips up my spine, making me shiver and clench around him, breathy moans leaving my lips as I meet his eyes, his pupils lust-blown, his hair a mess. Beautiful and rare.

His hand finds my hair, gripping a fistful and pulling my head back. Nearly effortlessly, he sits up, pulling me further back as he shifts until I’m on his lap and he’s kneeling below me. I let out a quiet gasp. He’s always in control when we are together. But usually, he would give orders, not take action. It makes my head spin a bit. And then his lips find my neck again, leaving rough, open-mouthed kisses along my sensitive skin. I’m his, for all of the court to see. The mark of my privilege. 

In this new position, his thrusts are even deeper as he rolls his hips up into mine, pulling breathless whimpers from my lips. His groans are hot puffs of air against my neck. 

And then, suddenly, the room spins and I squeal, only to find myself on my back seconds later, feeling the soft bed beneath me. The pillow dips on either side of my head, his hands supporting his weight as he hovers above me. I look up at him, a little out of breath, to find that sexy, sinister smirk on his lips again. And then he starts to move. Deep, long thrusts, the kind he has learned I love. The kind that makes me shatter within minutes; when he grinds his base against my clit, his cock stroking every nerve perfectly. My moans rise in pitch.

“My lord… Emhyr… Oh.”

I am nearing the edge, the coil in my belly tightening. He keeps this pace, my arms wrapping around him, my nails leaving my very own mark on his back.

“Are you close, dear Iphra?” he asks, a bit out of breath himself, but there is something smug in his voice. I can only muster a nod in response, mewling as my walls flutter around him.

“And do you have my permission?”

No.

I gasp, and whine when he pulls back, changing to an even slower pace, his thrusts now shallow. I feel my high slipping away. There’s that smug grin on his face again. Weren’t I so frustrated… He’s a vision, slightly flushed from exhaustion, his hair falling into his face.

He alternates between slow and shallow thrusts, and hard and deep ones. Just enough to make the coil in my belly tighten, only to fade again. I don’t know how long he keeps that up. Sweat is beading on his handsome brow, and I am close to sobbing from this inconsistent, bordering cruel, stimulation.

“Aww, what is it, dear Iphra?” Though he is mocking sympathy, it is obvious in his voice that his restraint is slipping. He’s suffering from this denial just as much as I am. “If you want to come, all you need to do is ask.”

I let out a sob. All this time? I had assumed this was his punishment for trying to kiss his lips - maybe it is…

“Please,” I gasp, nearly unable to form coherent words. 

I can see in his eyes that he wants to say something more, tease me, but he does not. He doesn’t have any patience left for it, to keep up with this. Instead, he shifts to be kneeling more, strong hands lifting my thighs to sit against his sides.

“My lord…” I moan again, my mind unable to muster any other word.

My eyes roll back when he finally moves again, deep thrusts, long, and coming at a fast pace. His movements are so powerful, they make the large four poster bed creak quietly - not that it could be heard between my moans and Emhyr’s groans. The coil in my core is tightening again, growing and burning hotter with every of his thrusts. Not long now. My walls are fluttering around him, clenching, sucking his twitching cock deeper.

It’s all too much. It’s been too long. It’s… It’s… 

“Oh, Emhyr!” I cry out when I finally fall over the edge, my body trembling beneath him. It feels like I’m floating, my ears are ringing. 

He’s relentless, plowing me through my orgasm, desperate to reach his own peak. I can hear it in his groans, he’s close. I let my hands slide down his back, my nails leaving a light trail, and up his chest. I feel him shiver, his hips stutter, and then, with a throaty moan, he spills himself inside of me.

“Ha ha, you, my dear Iphra, you are… incredible,” he rasps between pants as he rides out his high with a few more thrusts, his spent leaking out of me and dripping onto the sheets.

“I aim to please,” I whisper into the quiet room, the silence only disturbed by our heavy breathing. 

Emhyr leans down to rest on his elbows for a moment, his sweaty body covering mine, letting me feel that delicious weight on top of my body. He tucks his face into my neck.

“You smell so sweet.”

It almost feels like he shakes his head, before he lifts himself up and pulls out of me. I whine softly at the loss of fullness, and settle on my side as he lies down, facing me. Both of us are silent for a long moment. It’s what he needs before  his departure in the morning. Blissed-out silence.

There is rarely any softness when we are done. Often, he just gets dressed and leaves. But now, we lie together, still sweaty and out of breath, looking at each other. I let my hand ghost over his chest in a gentle caress.

“Will you ever tell me how you got this scar?” My whisper breaks the silence as I softly touch the jagged scar stretching from his temple to his cheekbone.

I don’t receive an answer. He just smiles; that secretive smile of his, before he turns onto his back and stretches. Once he speaks, it’s like he forgot I ever even asked.

 “I should take you with me. It is a long way to Cintra. I surely could use your… services.”

[velvet-apricots]

A series of Codexs i wrote about my Rook. Taken from this post.

Note found in Rook’s pocket

A note of poetry with deep creases indicating its been folded and unfolded many times. The lettering is written in a neat, loopy cursive in emerald green ink

Eyes of spring beheld by my eyes of winter

Hair of autumn betwixt my weathered fingers

Lips like berries and all for me to devour

My clever bird, my darling Rook

May your hands forever more hold my heart

For as long as it remains beating

E.V

An entry from Rook’s journal

I dreamed about Weisshaupt the other night. All those Wardens we couldn’t help. Davrin said there were a thousand of them. Now there are only a quarter of that. Solas said it was a victory. I don’t know what to think.

Varric said it helps to say or write out what did go right so-

I got to punch the First Warden in the face

An Archdemon is dead. 

Davrin is alive. 

Ghilan’nain is mortal. 

That's four good things. I am particularly glad that Davrin is alright. 

Solas also said that I may have to sacrifice someone to win. I said that I was ready… But I am not. I refuse to let that happen. No one in my team will die. Call it childish, but I won’t be like him. I am already on the right track, given Davrin somehow got out not dead. No idea why, but Bellara says it probably has to do with Ghilan’nain being out of the fade and back in the real world. Something about the soul and stuff.

I don’t remember. I’m not smart like her.

Rook's Shopping List

A list written in a messy scrawl that drifts downward across the page.

Lucanis, please buy these for me. I have to go somewhere with Bellara. No time to get it myself. I left some money to pay for it.

Lipstick. Cherry red. (For me. Last pot was dropped into blighted water. Davrin said I should throw it away.)

Pistachios. Roasted and salted (for me to snack on)

Chocolate (also for me. I need it)

Honey (to make honey roasted almonds as we have way to many of them now)

Beans (for Emmrich. He can't just eat yams and fruit)

Several sacks of Flour (also for Emmrich. Needed for Seitan)

Jam, preferably cherry or apple (for Harding, wants me to try her ham and jam slams again with “proper jam”. Pray for me.)

Spicy Peppers (For Taash to add to their food)

A message between two companions about Rook

A series of messages written in Davrin and Neve’s handwriting.

Should we be worried about Rook? She keeps talking about Varric like he’s still around. - Davrin

What do you mean by “like he’s still around”? - Neve

I mean she’s saying stuff like “I am going to go talk to Varric” then she goes and talks at his stuff like he's actually there. But he's not. He’s dead. Doesn’t that bother you? - Davrin

I have seen people react to loss in similar ways in my work. They talk to the person they lost like there are there. To help them sort their thoughts. It’s a form of coping with grief. I am sure Emmrich would be able to explain it better than I can. - Neve

And watch him fuss over her like a mother hen at dinner? Not a chance. - Davrin

Letter from Rook to their love interest

Emmrich,

Amatus. That's all I want to call you. It's all I chant in my head (along with your name). I feel like a little girl gushing over a boy who shoved mud in her face (not that you ever would).

I can’t write poetry but I can tell you that I want to call you Amatus. Do you know what that means? It means beloved. That is what you are to me.

When we next meet in private. I want you to leave with my name chanting in your head too. Not Rook. But my real name. I think you will like my name. It’s a flower, and you like flowers. 

- The letter is signed with a lipstick mark.

A letter to Rook from a family member or close friend

A letter lost in the chaos of Elgar’nan’s attack on Minrathous. Stained with blood and blight, sealed with the wax seal of Legatus Charon Mercar

My Sweet Rabbit,

Never apologize. You did what you had to.

I will be waiting for you in Ventus. Do not die. You are not allowed to. Not until I see you again.

Love, 

Papa

A note/letter that Rook never sent

An unsent, unfinished letter. Crumpled up and left near the fireplace.

Dear Hawke,

I hope this letter finds you well. You do not know me, but I knew Varric, and you through him. I am Rook, and I traveled with him to stop Solas. I knew him for only six months, but I considered him a wonderful friend and a great mentor.

I send you this letter to tell you that 

I regret to inform you 

I am grieved to say 

Harding probably already told you that

He meant a lot to me

 I have his belongings still and 

The remainder of the letter carries on the same way until there is no more room to write.

[mangyraccooon]

Dragon isn’t sure what to make of his life currently, every meal time he is on the sunny, bow to Elbow with his sons crew. Sabo seems to be operating the revs out of his spare bedroom and now red hair shanks is handing him a bottle of what he assumes is hard liquor.

It’s been a long week

That’s mostly the reason he takes the bottle and without much thought puts his lips to the rim and swallows several long pulls.

Shanks looks delighted.

Makino less so.

The tiny bartender gives a Dragon a wap with her broom. “Dragon, you aren’t supposed to be mixing alcohol with your medications. You know that.”

Dragon tried and failed to look repentant

This didn’t even make the top three of the worst things he had done to his body

“Leave him be makino.” Shank laughs. “If a man wishes to spend the last of his time enjoying life’s pleasures then we should let him.”

“You consider this one of life’s pleasures?” Dragon scoffs, his voice echoing around the small bar.

Shanks takes his scorn as an invitation and slides into the stool beside him. He leans in his hair gleaming with the telltale sign of a sailor who’s gonna perhaps a tad too long without a bath. “You don’t?”

His voice is low smooth, like a wooden flute of a snake charmer.

Dragon takes another drink. “No.”

He content to let the conversation die there but Shanks hasn’t received the message.

“So what would you consider life’s pleasures.”

He’s even closer and Dragon has no idea why shanks wants his attention so bad.

He may not mind it as much if the man didn’t smell like stale air and salt brine.

“Love, companionship,” a pause. “Regular bathing.”

“Are you trying to tell me I smell?”

Dragon looks the redhead dead in the eyes. “Yes.”

Shanks throws back his head in laughter. “Alright alright I can take a hint.”

What hint, I told you directly you smell. Thought Dragon a tad concerned for shanks mental performance.

But the redheads attention is no longer on him, instead he seems more focused on fixing a room for himself to stay at.

Dragon leaves the bar (taking the bottle of what seems to be moonshine judging by the burn) with him.

He also makes some vague promise to see Shanks at dinner on the Sunny.

He finds himself making a path down to the beach, not for the death thing, he just wants to see the sunset.

He’s suicidal not stupid enough to kill himself while his sons are here.

He plops down on a piece of softer looking driftwood, and looks out at the water.

After a few minutes and a few more sips, he pulls out the folded photo from his breast pocket.

The photo isn’t that old realistically but looking at it he feels ancient. The picture is stained by time. By the slow crawl of weeks stretching into years merging into decades that now mark lines on Dragons face.

It was a beautiful photo once, Dragon thinks it still is in a way.

Two youthful faces peer out at him full of hope and joy. One is his own, though seemingly unrecognizable to even him at this point. The other..

He sighs and fold the photo with care back into his breast pocket.

“Dad?”

Sabo was coming towards him, his face concerningly calm and neutral.

Dragon could already tell where this conversation was heading and raised a hand. “Not tryin to kill myself.” He grunted, right now at least he mentally added.

But the look on his adoptive kids face said that if dragon so much as whispered that sort of thing. There would be hell to pay.

As much as Dragon loved his kid he worried for how Sabo acted when it came to the sort of thing. He didn’t seem to understand. Not that Dragon would ever want him to experience this.

But Sabo seemed to operate on the notion that he had to whatever it be.

Getting up, eating, running missions. Sabo did not have a choice, even on days where his eyes were blank.

Who was he kidding, Sabo knew exactly what Dragon was going through because, Dragon had done the exact same thing for years.

The only difference is Dragon couldn’t do it anymore.

“Iva needs you to hold out till April.” Sabo states.

Dragon is nonplussed “April?“

“They can’t visit sooner.”

Well then he was sticking round till April, he owed his oldest and dearest friend that much. But Dragon couldn’t help but wonder why it would take several months.

(More to come I promise :3) (maybe an actual fic lol))

Monkey D Dragon and the auDHD/depression/vocal cord paralysis induced curse of “I need to eat, but I don’t want to”.

Oh it’s the worst, the only effective method they have found is if Sabo or one of the younger members asks him if he can make some food

Then he’ll wander into the kitchen and make something and end up joining in the eating out of habit.

At his worst kuma had to hold him down while Iva shoved a tube down his throat (it only happened a couple times but still those weren’t good times)

Dragon had been brought kicking and screaming back from near death multiple times and it is the biggest tragedy that it doesn’t bother him whatsoever

[maircries]

Opened a pomegranate for the first time, I finally understand love and religion